“What about Vyrogen’s miracle product? Why would you offer something so experimental to him?”
“If you were in his shoes, staring death in the face, wouldn’t you take it? Even if it’s a long shot, it’s better than doing nothing at all,” she said, avoiding the heart of his question.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He paused, and then added. “Something else I don’t understand is what makes you suspect that Foster is the mastermind behind the espionage? We’ve performed a thorough investigation and background assessment on Foster, and to be perfectly blunt, the piece does not fit the puzzle. He was an advertising exec. Not even a very good one, I might add. Yes, he was down on his luck, but we found nothing in his profile to suggest that he’s capable of contemplating something of this magnitude, let alone capable of orchestrating it. Seriously, Meredith. We are perplexed. Foster has a bachelor’s degree in economics. A nontechnical background, with no experience in microbiology. He has no criminal record. No apparent ties to the pharmaceutical industry whatsoever. Your logic of implicating him escapes us.”
Her mind raced. He had brought up several points she had not considered before she briefed the team. She needed time to think of a proper rebuttal. He was horsing her into a corner. She decided to snarl at him and see if he backed down.
“He did steal the formula and sabotage the lab. That much is fact, Robért. Whether Foster is the mastermind of the plot is a separate matter. Let me remind you that I’ve never claimed to have the answers to this case. In fact, I’ve made it quite clear that my theories were only conjecture based on my extremely limited experience in such matters, and that I am relying on your expertise to unravel the case. That’s why I hired you. I should have never opened my mouth about Foster’s role in the espionage, because I set your team looking down a path that may not be the true path.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry I’m pressing you, but it’s only because you are the person closest to the heart of the case.” He squeezed her affectionately. “One more question?”
Her stomach churned. “Of course.”
“If we pursue the line of reasoning that Foster is not the mastermind behind the espionage, then we must assign a different role to him. Our hypothesis is that Foster was simply a mule to steal and deliver your intellectual property to a buyer.”
“Okay, but where is the question, Robért?” She laughed, awkwardly.
“Yes, yes. I’m getting there,” he said. “Now, assuming Foster is a mule, we can say with confidence that no mule works alone. So, this begs the question—who is Foster in collusion with?”
“One of our competitors, no doubt.”
“Yes, that was our initial inclination as well. However, shaking this tree has yielded no fruit. We can find no external connection, relationship, or even record of communication between Foster and persons of interest in the pharmaceutical industry.”
“Really, that’s surprising. Maybe your team needs to broaden their search,” she said.
He shook his head. “No, no. Certainly not. Our investigative capability is unrivaled. If a connection existed, my people would have sniffed it out. This leaves us only one place left to look. We have turned our investigation inward.”
“Inward?”
“Yes, inward. The logical hypothesis is that Foster is colluding with someone inside Vyrogen. Only an insider would know about the experimental product. Only an insider would know about the H1N1 vaccine trial. Only an insider would have access to Foster while he was in quarantine.”
He hugged her again. Tight.
Her heart pounded. Gooseflesh stood up on her arms. Her mouth went dry. He was squeezing her, literally and figuratively. Her mind stumbled over itself. She grasped for something to say. Anything. No words would come. Her mouth was a black hole, agape and devoid of all sound, and all potential for sound.
“Robért, I,” she stuttered, “I can’t imagine that someone on my staff would . . .” She stopped abruptly. The taught corners of her mouth curled into a wicked grin. He had opened a door for her. Not the exit she had expected, but an exit nonetheless, from her burning house of cards. “Actually, there is one person who is capable of such a thing.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. His name is Xavier Pope.”
• • •
“STOP LOOKING AT me that way,” Nicolora said to Briggs from across the white tablecloth and over the art deco stemware.
“What way?”
“You know exactly what way. Now wipe that smug look off your face and eat your damn soup.”
Briggs lowered his spoon and raised the napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “It’s not smugness; it’s lobster bisque,” he said. “You look flushed, Robért. Did you have to run to lunch? Is that why you were late?”
“I was working,” Nicolora said, suppressing a smile. “Gathering intelligence.”
“Is that what we’re calling it these days . . . I’ll have to remember that for my expense reports.” Briggs dropped his hands into his lap. “They still haven’t found Foster, have they?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Does Meredith?”
“No.”
Briggs grunted and turned back to his soup. He was about to press Nicolora about his one-time flame, but he had danced that dance enough times to know better. Best to keep quiet and let his friend talk.
“Don’t ask,” Nicolora said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it. I can see it in your beady little eyes.”
“I’ve never asked you about it before, and I see no reason this meal has to be any different.”
“Underneath that cover-girl façade and flowing mane of auburn hair is a deeply competitive and focused woman. I find her to be, in a word, irresistible.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t there, Jack.”
Briggs laughed, “I know, but I dined with the two of you in Boston several times.”
“Twice.”
“Fine, twice. But even then, she had you by the—” Briggs cupped his hands explicitly, finishing the sentence.
“I have things under control.”
“Do you trust her?”
“Absolutely not,” Nicolora said without pause.
“Do you think this is her deal, or is someone else pulling the strings?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? On the one hand, Meredith is certainly capable of something like this on her own. On the other, I can’t shake the feeling that this goes higher up. It just has the stink of Client One all over it. She’s implicated Xavier Pope as the mastermind. With CDC involvement, we can’t rule it out. What do you think Uncle Sam would be willing to pay for soldiers with absolute immunity to biological warfare agents?”
Briggs nodded as he stuffed half a dinner roll, slathered in white cream butter, into his mouth. “If you’re right,” Briggs mumbled over the food in his mouth, “It won’t be long until agency boys start showing up.”
“I know, I know. I’m surprised she’s had this long to clean up her mess. Patience has never been one of their defining characteristics.”
“It’s going to be the devil’s circus if that happens. We need to have a contingency plan in place.”
“I’m working on it. By the way, take it easy on the butter there, Chief. We don’t want to have to Roto-Root your arteries again any time soon.”
“Peck, peck, Mother Hen,” Briggs quipped. Then, rubbing his chin, he asked. “When we finally do locate Foster, you’re not really going to turn him over to her?”
“I haven’t decided. But one thing is certain, Foster is too valuable for us to let him slip away into the night.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
THE OBSIDIAN-COLORED, V12-POWERED, BMW 760Li sedan glided across the Austrian countryside effortlessly at 130 kilometers per hour. Somewhere, many kilometers ahead, Kalen was rocketing past Porsches and BMWs on his Ducati Diavel. A
J had never ridden a real motorcycle, only his scooter. He had asked Kalen what the allure of the Ducati was, fully expecting to hear a soliloquy on the exhilaration of wrangling raw power, or the rush of adrenaline from catapulting oneself from a standstill to a ludicrous velocity in a heartbeat. Instead, what he got was a nasal snort. “If you have to ask, then you’ll never get it, kid.”
Wearily, AJ glanced at his watch. “What is our ETA in Vienna?” he asked the driver.
“Approximately forty-five minutes, sir.”
He reclined his head against the headrest. He had not slept since they had arrived in Prague, and he was losing the battle against unconsciousness. In the rear passenger’s seat to his left, sat Albane. She looked at him, studying him in profile.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Tired would be an understatement,” he mumbled.
“Here, take this,” she said handing him a white pill.
The surface of the caplet was etched with the words: PROVIGIL—200 MG. “What’s Provigil?”
“In our line of work, that’s salvation in a pill. We all do it. It’s not a stimulant, rather a class of drug called a wakefulness agent. The military has been using it with soldiers and pilots for years.”
“I was wondering why I was the only one who seemed to be dragging like a jet-lagged zombie.”
He popped the pill in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of luke warm bottled water. Albane smiled at him, but her eyes showed a hint of melancholy, as if to say, “Another chemical convert, and I’m his maker.”
She pressed “0” on her phone and summoned a Coordinator. After several minutes of rapid-fire dialogue with C. Remy, she ended the call and grabbed her tablet computer. The screen sprang to life; images and files downloaded on command from the Think Tank servers.
“What’s going on?” AJ asked her.
She turned the tablet screen to show him.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who is he?” he asked, staring at the picture of a handsome gentleman in his midthirties on the screen.
“His name is Xavier Pope.”
“Meredith mentioned him in her brief. He’s the heavy hitter from the CDC, right?”
“Yes, but she didn’t tell us the whole story. Pope was at CDC, but then four months ago he suddenly left and went to work for . . .”
“Vyrogen Pharmaceuticals,” VanCleave said from the front seat.
“Precisely. Here is Pope photographed at a black-tie benefit dinner with Meredith Morley standing to his left, and the CEO of Vyrogen to his right, along with some other VIPs. This picture was published with an article from the New York Times and was taken ten days before Vyrogen announced Pope as their new Director of the Immunological Therapeutics Division. But, that’s not all. Are you ready for the bomb?”
“Hit me.”
“According to Founder One, Meredith has just implicated Xavier Pope as a possible mole trying to steal Vyrogen’s breakthrough research,” she said.
“Unlikely in my opinion,” AJ said. “Unless . . .”
“Go on.”
“It’s a stupid idea, a total conspiracy red herring.”
“In my experience, even suppositions we second-guess are still worthy of consideration. Tell me.”
“I was going to say, that seems highly unlikely unless Pope never really stopped working for the government. Maybe the military wants to get his hands on Vyrogen’s research, and Pope’s connection with the CDC made him the perfect mole. If Meredith is telling the truth, that’s one plausible explanation.”
“Interesting theory, but we know Meredith has been hiding things from us. Implicating Pope could also be a ruse. Especially if she suspects we were behind the Chiarek Norse surprise inspection. If I were in her position, I’d be getting nervous.”
“We could question him,” AJ said.
“Not a bad idea,” she said, pondering for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Right now, pursuing the Julie Ponte lead is our number one priority. We’ll keep Pope on the back burner.”
“If we don’t find Foster with Ponte, then what?”
Albane pulled up a map of Vienna on her tablet. AJ saw two dots—one static, one moving. She selected the two dots. Then, using a swiping motion with her finger, she connected them with a line. A pop-up window appeared with data.
“Kalen is only ten kilometers from Ponte’s apartment now. Keep your fingers crossed, and hopefully we won’t have to worry about a plan B.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Social, this is Physical. I’m standing outside Ponte’s apartment, and we’ve got a problem.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “I’m listening.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Ponte wasn’t here, but her roommate, Isabella, was. Unfortunately for Isabella, a goon squad got here before I did, and they broke every finger on her left hand.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Interrogation?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Roger that.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Will she talk to you?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Yes. She’s been very helpful.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “What alias did you use?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Special Agent Nelson. I told her I was with Justice. She bought it.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Good. Was she able to ID her torturers for you?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “No. Just physical descriptions. Two men, one with a shaved head, thirties or forties, of Austrian or German nationality.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Okay. Make a report to Founder One and have a Coordinator open a file. This changes things.”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “I know. We’ve got another player. Someone local, from the sound of it.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Did you call an ambulance for the roommate?”
K. Immel—RS:Physical: “No. Her injuries were painful, but not life threatening. I paid for a taxi and sent her to the ER. I’ll meet you in the nest in fifteen, and we can finish debriefing then.”
A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Roger. Social out.”
• • •
“SO THE ROOMMATE confirmed that Foster is with Ponte?” Albane asked Kalen as he walked in the door of their Vienna hotel suite.
“Yes, they were in the apartment when she arrived midday, but then left in a rush. She had no idea where they were going, but said that Ponte seemed very nervous,” Kalen said.
“What about the thugs that tortured her? What’s their story?”
“They showed up several hours later. Picked the lock and chloroformed her. When she woke up she was strapped in a chair. They broke all the fingers on her left hand questioning her about Ponte and Foster. She said she told them everything she told me. They left her bound to a chair in the kitchen. If I hadn’t shown up, she might have been trapped for days. It would have been real ugly.”
Albane pursed her lips. “Not exactly the scenario we were hoping for, but it’s progress. We’ve confirmed Foster is with Ponte. Now, it’s a matter of chasing them.”
Kalen smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Albane asked.
“Do you know what the problem is with chasing chickens?” Kalen said.
VanCleave, who was sitting at the table between Albane and AJ, looked up. “Excuse me?” he said, cocking an eyebrow at Kalen.
“The problem with chasing chickens is that they’re damn near impossible to catch. Have you ever tried to catch a chicken, VanCleave?”
“Are you speaking allegorically, Kalen, or are you talking about the actual bird? I don’t recall you ever using a metaphor before.”
Kalen winked at VanCleave and continued. “When I was a kid, I spent one summer working on my grandfather’s farm. One of my chores was to replace some rotting wooden slats in the fence around the chicken coop. I made so many trips in and out of the chicken coop that one time I forgot to latch the door, and a hen got out.”
“This story is relevant because?” VanCleave moaned.
&n
bsp; “I chased that damn hen around for hours. I tried sprinting after her, sneaking up on her, dive-bombing her. Hell, I even tried to chase her into a shed. I never could catch her. Chickens are just too fast. They always stay three paces ahead of you.”
“What did you do?” AJ asked.
“I stopped chasing it.”
“You gave up?”
“No. I just realized that I was never going to catch that chicken by chasing it all over the farm. To catch it, I had to outwit it. To do that, I had to figure out: ‘What is important to a chicken? What motivates a hen?’”
“Not getting plucked is what matters to a chicken,” VanCleave said. “I could have told you that.”
“Very insightful, Eugene, but I don’t think chickens possess that kind of foresight,” Albane quipped.
AJ looked at Albane and mouthed “EUGENE?” silently, with a schoolboy grin across his face.
She smiled impishly.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Kalen continued, “I realized that the only thing that motivates a chicken is chicken food. So, I laid a trail of kernels along the ground leading to a pile of feed under an old milk bottle crate that I propped up on one side with a stick. I tied a ten-foot length of string to the stick and hid around the corner. Then I waited. The hen pecked its way along the ground, following the feed trail all the way into the crate and then, WHAM, I pulled the stick out. That was that. Captive chicken, game over. The point I’m trying to make here is, I’m tired of chasing chickens.”
“Interesting analogy,” said Albane. “What sort of trap are you suggesting for Foster?”
“That’s for you guys to figure out. You’re the brains of this operation; I’m the biceps,” Kalen said, propping his feet up on an ottoman and clasping his hands behind his neck. “I know chickens want chicken feed, but I have no idea what Foster wants.”
Albane closed her eyes. “If a man is drowning?” she said to the ether.
“Then throw him a rope,” AJ answered.
“Exactly,” she said with a smile. “We’re going to offer Foster the one thing that nobody has offered him yet.”
“Which is?” asked VanCleave.
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