Nicolora was right; he knew the answer to his question. He had known it his entire life.
“Because if you want something done right, then you’d best do it yourself?”
“Exactly. In the beginning, we naively believed our charter was to provide a place where our clients could come for answers—solutions which they would go on to implement independently. We learned quickly that our clients not only have trouble problem solving, but they are equally dreadful at executing. Hence, our field resources were born.”
“Is The Think Tank tied to the U.S. government?”
“Around here, AJ, we just call it The Tank,” Nicolora corrected.
A chime sounded from the ceiling, interrupting the conversation. Nicolora looked up.
“Yes?”
A smooth, ethereal voice answered. “Mr. Nicolora, you have a priority call waiting.”
“Who is it, Coordinator? I’m in a meeting.”
“It’s Ms. Morley from Vyrogen Pharmaceuticals, Sir.”
Nicolora’s face hardened. “If you all would please excuse yourselves. I need to take this call. AJ, I’m sorry but I need to cut our Q & A short. Albane can handle any other questions during your orientation today.”
“Yes, Sir, thank you,” AJ replied.
“One more thing . . .”
“Sir?”
“Welcome to The Tank.” Nicolora smiled and then shot Briggs a knowing glance.
AJ nodded respectfully, stood up from his chair, and followed the others out of the room. Nicolora waited until the doors had shut and then pressed the flashing green Line 1 button on the conference room table phone.
“Hello, Meredith. What time should I send the plane?”
Chapter Eleven
Boston, Massachusetts
HER BEAUTY WAS gravity. Raven hair, milky smooth skin, full lips and a diva’s curves. Pulling his gaze from her took a physical effort. More than once she had admonished him with her eyes for his adolescent impropriety, but AJ could not help himself. He had never encountered a woman like Albane Mesnil before.
She was an enigma. He had spent the entire day with her and still knew nothing about her. Unlike most people, Albane’s favorite subject was not herself. In fact, she’d shrewdly coaxed him into talking volumes about “AJ” while defusing his attempts to learn reciprocal information about her. Still, it hadn’t stopped him from trying.
From outward appearance alone, it was impossible to guess her age, and he dare not ask. He imagined Albane could pass for a college girl of twenty-one just as easily as she could a business woman of thirty-five. She simply had one of those remarkable faces. Her demeanor betrayed what her skin belied. Poise and confidence like hers came only from years of experience. Albane was seasoned, of that much AJ was certain.
AJ was not alone in the category of those left to wonder about Albane and her shrouded past. Her private life was a carefully guarded secret she kept locked away. In the entire organization, only Nicolora knew something of her life before the Tank. He had taken a chance on Albane, and since her hire, she had yet to disappoint him. Occasionally she would say or do something to pique his curiosity, tempting him to lift a stone he knew better than to look under, but he always resisted.
The irony of it all was that Albane had nothing—at least as measured by modern tabloid standards—worthy of hiding. She was born in Paris, the only child of a doctor and a pastry chef. She attended an all girls’ school during her early years, which she loathed, and then later was accepted into the Sorbonne where she concentrated her study in language. When she was twenty-six, she moved to New York City and attended Columbia University to earn her MA in psychology.
As a child, Albane exhibited an unnatural proclivity for language, excelling in English at a level three years ahead of her peers, and learning Latin from her father and his collection of medical texts. She loved her father, and he returned her love unconditionally. Nine days after Albane’s fourteenth birthday, François Mesnil was mugged on the way home from the hospital and bled to death in the middle of the street, alone. For the next five years, Albane retreated into herself.
The impact on her mother was catastrophic. An intense woman, whose self-destructive tendencies were kept in check by the rock-solid presence of Dr. Mesnil, Albane’s mother fell into a dark depression after her husband’s death. One morning, Albane awoke to a silent and empty apartment. On the second day, she notified the police of her mother’s absence. On the third day, she was informed by a solemn man with a gray face and gray overcoat that her mother had committed suicide. The police had found her mother’s body floating face down in the Seine, bloated and waterlogged. At sixteen years old, she had to face the Parisian media alone, arrange the funeral, sell her mother’s patisserie, and take control of the family finances. All of these things she did, and did alone.
During the happy years, her parents loved to entertain, and threw lavish parties at their flat in the city. Already famous in Paris for her desserts, Noëlle Mesnil’s parties drew the crème de la crème of the Parisian elite. But by the end of the night, it was always young Albane, and not Noëlle, who had enchanted the room of intellectuals, socialites, and local politicians. The Mesnils would joke that Albane was the world’s only eight-year-old sophisticate, displaying the grace and wit of a seasoned hostess. When it was her bedtime, Dr. Mesnil would escort Albane up the stairs to her room, where his young daughter would tell him what she thought of every monsieur and madame she had met during the evening, all in exacting and vivid detail. “Her intuition and perceptiveness are uncanny,” he would tell his wife as they undressed for bed, “I think she is the best judge of character I’ve ever met.”
During primary school, her teachers observed that young Albane was fearless, cowing to neither challenge nor bully. Even so, she was shy around her classmates and preferred the company of her teachers and adults. Albane had a way of reaching inside adults to find the substance and purpose beneath the façade. From a ten minute interaction, sometimes less, she would know everything she needed to know about a person. Not in a historical sense, but rather in an intuitive way. She could read motives, sense emotional cues, detect intellectual profundity, parse through words and find purpose beneath, all without effort. Moreover, her moral compass was finally tuned, and in a blink of an eye she could accurately sense the character of any adult she met. But when it came to children, her gift failed her. So as a child, she kept to herself.
As a teenager, life hurled more challenges at her. At age fourteen, she experienced an aggressive pubescent growth spurt, her body lengthening six inches in one year. With the arrival of her new, longer arms and legs, came an embarrassing clumsiness that she did not grow out of until she reached university. At a time when blonde bombshells were plastered across the silver screen, Albane became acutely self-conscious of her dense, long black hair and rail thin physique. Even though she had gained twenty pounds with her growth spurt, her hips were still narrow and her bosom flat. While the other girls were dancing with boys, Albane was dancing alone with her self-loathing.
At seventeen, the swan inside her began to emerge. Her body blossomed, and suddenly her height and her raven black hair, qualities that had been a liability at fifteen, now gained her favor with maturing male peers. She quickly recognized the power that her physique gave her over men. Men of all ages stood up and took notice of her wherever she went. At first, it was disconcerting for her, but gradually the bold and captivating confidence she’d once possessed as a young child reemerged. During her university years, she became conscious of her gift for reading people. She was a good listener, a rarity that made people flock to her. Despite pressures to pursue graduate schooling in psychology, Albane yearned to see the world. For all the languages she had learned, she had never left France. She had been prudent and miserly with her parents’ small fortune, and she decided that the time had come for her to go on her first adventure. She would explore the world, meet its peoples, and embrace them in their native tongues. And
so on her twenty-third birthday, she left Paris, never to return.
• • •
“THIS IS FOR you,” Albane said, handing AJ a white business card.
AJ looked at it.
August Jameson Archer
Laboratory Director
Motion Genetics, LLC
“Therapeutic Genetic Solutions for the 21st Century”
[email protected]
“What is this?”
“Your business card . . . in case anybody asks,” she replied, and then added, “Remember the CA you signed this morning? We don’t talk with anyone outside the firm about the work we do in The Tank. Especially girlfriends.”
“It’s not a serious relationship; I’d describe it more like friends with benefits.”
“No matter,” she said, cutting him off. “You get my point.”
He recoiled at her curt response, but he didn’t argue. “Motion Genetics?” he said, his eyes flicking to the card. “What do we do at Motion Genetics?”
“At Motion Genetics, we develop therapeutic genetic solutions for the twenty-first century,” Albane said with the tone and inflection of a television spokeswoman.
“Anything else I should know about the company?”
“Motion Genetics is a start-up biotech firm that recently secured second-round venture capital funding. You have been hired as the lab director in charge of early-stage animal testing of a viral delivery mechanism for a promising gene therapy aimed at suppressing debilitating auto-immune diseases.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Expound complete bullshit so eloquently off the cuff like that?”
“I’m an RS:Social. That’s what we do.”
He smirked. “Point taken. Is orientation finished for today?”
Orientation, yes. Work, no,” she said. “We have a three-thirty briefing in the Founder’s Forum. And after that, I have a feeling it is going to be a long night.”
• • •
AJ GLANCED AT his watch, 3:53 PM, and the meeting still had not started.
“What is this briefing about?” AJ asked Albane, swiveling his chair to face her.
“I don’t know.”
“You have no idea?” he tried again, certain she knew more than she was letting on.
“No, AJ, I don’t.”
To his left, he heard the man who had tersely introduced himself only as “VanCleave, RS:Technical” snicker under his breath.
To his right sat Kalen Immel, the guy who had pickpocketed him in the Public Garden. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, Kalen quickly became lost in his handheld—furiously thumb-typing emails. Likewise, VanCleave was hard at work coding a simulation on his notebook computer for a client he chose not to divulge. This left only Albane to talk to, and AJ sensed she was beginning to grow weary of his company. He decided to stop trying to make small talk and just wait for something interesting to happen.
Ten minutes passed with only VanCleave’s keyboard strokes punctuating the silence. Then AJ heard the magnetic lock click on one of the large double doors at the opposite end of the Founders’ Forum. Nicolora walked in first, followed by a striking middle-aged woman with auburn hair.
VanCleave abruptly closed his laptop screen with a slap, drawing stares, while Kalen imperceptibly slid his handheld into his pocket. They all sat up straight in their chairs, except for Albane, who was already sitting tall. Nicolora gestured to an empty seat for his guest and then assumed his usual position at the head of the table, his fingertips touching in a steepled position.
“We’ll begin tonight’s meeting with introductions. Team, this is Ms. Meredith Morley of Vyrogen Pharmaceuticals. Ms. Morley is Director of Research & Development, and she just flew in from Vyrogen’s New Jersey campus,” Nicolora began.
“Hello, everyone.” Meredith said, nodding.
“On our side we have Mr. Kalen Immel, Mr. AJ Archer, Ms. Albane Mesnil, and Dr. VanCleave,” Nicolora said. He turned his body toward Meredith and added, “As is our custom in the Founder’s Forum—and since there is no better expert in your problem than you—I will turn the floor over to you, Meredith.”
Nicolora handed Meredith a remote control and pressed several buttons on the table—dimming the lights and revealing a massive OLED wall screen hidden behind mahogany paneling. On this cue, she got up from her chair and took station next to the illuminated screen.
“Thank you, Robért. I imagine my standing in front of you is the loudest statement of all, but I am here because I desperately need your help.” She pressed a button on the remote, turned toward the screen, and continued. “This is a list of the most virulent and deadly diseases known to man. The top five include smallpox, anthrax, plague, tularemia, and a class of pathogens known as viral hemorrhagic fevers. The viruses and bacteria on this list are naturally occurring pathogens, organisms that have been evolving alongside us, and within us, for millennia. Like all nature’s creatures, it is through the process of natural selection that these particular pathogens have risen to the top of the human disease hierarchy. But even within a single disease family, variability exists. For example, if I could somehow magically round up all of the anthrax bacteria in the world and analyze them, I would find some strains which are more virulent than others. Some strains which are more contagious than others. Some strains which are more resistant to antibiotics than others. Some strains which multiply faster than others. Etcetera, etcetera. Combine the genetic advantages of all these strains, and you create an über-strain.”
She paused for moment to let the power of her words sink in before continuing.
“What is so frightening about a biological weapon is not that it is made from anthrax bacteria per se, but rather that it is made from über-strains of anthrax refined in a laboratory to be a hundred times more virulent than any naturally occurring strain. Once the process is complete, these über-strains are then cultivated into a stockpile, and paired with an optimized delivery method—like aerosolization—to achieve weaponized status. All together, the process of weaponization ensures that anyone who is exposed to the pathogen becomes mortally infected. You can see the problem here—we’ve taken natural selection and traded in its walking shoes for a Ferrari. When pathogens are released in such a manner, a person’s immune system is quickly and completely overwhelmed. By the time the body has recognized something is wrong, it’s already too late; the disease has proliferated inside the body to a population too immense for the immune system to cope with.
“For the past ten years, Vyrogen and its subsidiaries have been working on developing vaccines and treatments for the diseases that can be used to create biological weapons. We are also searching for treatments for other global killers such as malaria, AIDS, ALS, etcetera. You name it, we want to find a way to treat it.”
Meredith paused and then changed the slide to a picture of Will Foster. “This man’s name is William Foster. A little over forty-eight hours ago, he managed to steal one of the most important products in Vyrogen’s drug pipeline—a breakthrough product so earth-shattering that we believe it will change the way medicine approaches disease treatment forever.”
“When you say product, are you referring to a therapeutic or a vaccine?” Dr. VanCleave asked.
Meredith’s nose crinkled with displeasure, as if someone had just squirted pickle juice in her mouth.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. The details of this product are highly confidential. We do not feel that divulging specific details of our product is necessary for you to successfully complete your task. The objective of this case is to find Will Foster and retrieve the Vyrogen property he has stolen before it falls into the hands of unscrupulous entities who will profit at our great expense.”
Meredith turned back to face the group at large. “To put it bluntly, Vyrogen is out of our league here. We are scientists, trained to unravel the mysteries of the human body; we are not equipped to deal with industrial espionage.”
“Have you consulted with the FBI?” Kalen asked.
“Federal law enforcement participation in this exercise would be problematic for several reasons. Number one, discretion is paramount. The last thing I need is a bunch of bureaucrats leaking the story to the media creating bad press for the company. Number two, time is of the essence. We believe Foster will attempt to turn over the formula to a buyer within the next twenty-four hours. The FBI can’t tie its shoes in twenty-four hours. And finally, number three, this entire exercise requires a sophisticated level of damage control. Last time I checked, that was not part of the Bureau’s mission statement.”
“Fine. Point taken,” Kalen replied. “Do you think that Foster was contracted by one of your competitors specifically to steal this breakthrough product?”
“We don’t know, but we suspect he has the backing of a highly capable financier—either an entity wanting to obtain our product or an intermediary who will sell it to the highest bidder.”
Meredith suddenly felt uneasy. She scanned the faces at the table, locking eyes with Albane. Albane’s blank expressionless stare was unnerving. Invasive. She was trying to catch a glimpse inside; Meredith would not permit that to happen. She could already tell that this woman was going to be a problem.
“Meredith, what other information can you share with the team about Foster, the events leading up to the theft, and his possible motives and whereabouts?” asked Nicolora.
“Mr. Foster came to us through one of our subsidiary companies. We believe this was intentional. Think of Foster as a human Trojan Horse. He followed the script right out of Homer’s Iliad and we never saw it coming.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” VanCleave said.
“I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. Five months ago, Foster signed up as a test subject for our fast-track H1N1—a.k.a swine flu—vaccine trial. Vyrogen was contracted by the U.S. government to fast-track a vaccine for a new H1N1 variant that has been cropping up in the Baltic countries and is associated with severe respiratory symptoms. The normal vaccine development timeline needed to be dramatically reduced. We started our first round of clinical trials about six months ago at one of our subsidiary companies, Leighton-Harris Pharmaceuticals. Foster applied to be a compensated test subject in the Leighton-Harris H1N1 attenuated live virus vaccine trial. This was his first step in infiltrating our organization.
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