Authors: Dorian Paul
***
Rain dimmed Claire's room on Sunday morning, in perfect harmony with her aching, drug-dulled body and brain. The only bright spot was the smell of coffee. She loosened the brace to let her arm breathe while she tried to remember her plan for today. Yes, see the lab first hand, get an idea of space and equipment, and identify additional resources. Bobby said everything would be at her disposal. Everything except the solution to Tivaz TB and Don Strong. She'd have to make do with Sandra Cook, even though a lung cancer vaccine expert wasn't her idea of hitting the jackpot.
She dressed in a pair of loose black exercise pants and a 'one size fits all' lime green sweater. A glance in the cheval mirror drew a stark contrast between her attire and the rich paneling of the dressing room. She closed her eyes to shut out the image, which only reminded her of last night's conversation with the owner of this house. She shouldn't have risen to the bait and let her anger show, but she was used to an exchange of ideas, a discussion between equals. David Ruskin operated in an alternate universe from hers. And people thought of science and medicine as doctrinaire. Ha!
She knew she had to make peace with him and stop wasting her energy on anything other than finding an antidote against Tivaz TB. Yet despite the lure of fresh coffee, she waited a few minutes to make sure she was composed enough to face him without another 'encounter.' When she heard the front door open and close, she ventured downstairs, her fingers crossed that he'd left. There she discovered Maggie greeting a petite fashionable woman in three-inch heels. Who was this pretty young woman about her age, with honey-colored hair in a stylish chin-length cut?
Chapter 12
"I'm Elizabeth Carlisle, David's cousin." She held a fall display of mums and seasonal foliage in one hand and large leather tote in the other. "You must be David's friend."
Friend?
"He told me you were coming. I thought I'd say hello before going to my shop. The plant is for you, Claire."
She knows my name. "Thank you."
"What do you think of Sherborne House? The Duchess decorates to the hilt, doesn't she?"
A pert smile wreathed Elizabeth's heart-shaped face, but she didn't know if she should agree or not. Elizabeth was, after all, a member of the family.
"Your opinions are safe with me. I adore the Duchess, but we hardly ever agree on colors. You know how it is."
No, she didn't.
"Maggie tells me David's already at his office. Whitehall can't live without him. But if he were here, he'd be hiding in his rooms. Hates girl talk."
Claire felt breathless just listening to this woman, as glib as her cousin was reticent.
"Mind you, he never objects to my talking when I make excuses to his family for him. For that alone, he owes me a million favors. I fully intend to receive battle pay one day. And how do you like London, my dear?"
Baffled by the torrent of words, and startled by the question, she said the first thing that popped into her head. "I don't really know London."
"Ah. I can help. Do you like to shop?"
Shopping was the farthest thing from her mind.
"Not a shopper?" Elizabeth looked her over. "I have a remedy; we'll go to my shop. I'm a designer."
"A designer?"
Elizabeth gave her an incredulous but merry look. "Right. I design clothes."
Claire shrank back and imagined herself in the eyes of a fashion designer, wearing nondescript functional clothing chosen by a stranger for a woman with a bum arm.
Elizabeth pointed at her brace. "Must you wear that?"
"For the time being, yes."
Elizabeth made a moue. "How depressing."
Not as depressing as being appraised by a chic designer.
"Nothing that can't be remedied at my shop. We can go right now."
Now? "I can't, I have to work."
"But today's Sunday."
"It's a high priority project. I'm sorry."
Elizabeth fluffed her perfect hair. "All right then, I'll bring a selection for you next week."
"That's not necessary."
"But it is. You're lovely. Leggy, thin, great hair and coloring. May as well use a bit of magic to keep up your spirits."
Elizabeth's opinion made her pleased and self-conscious. "I need practical things. Nothing too special."
"Every woman needs something special." Elizabeth tilted her chin. "And you'll be my test case. I'm about to go international with a shop in New York City."
"Really?" A businesswoman, and she's a relative of his?
"I'm convinced New York's perfect if I can find some cheeky European designers to carry. I'm making the rounds of Rome, Paris, Madrid to find the ideal mix." Elizabeth licked her lips. "Tell me about you? You're one of David's secret colleagues?"
"No, not at all. I'm a science researcher."
"What kind of research? David's never brought people here to stay before."
Uh, oh. She hated to lie, but caution was essential. If he wanted to tell his cousin what was going on, fine, but she wouldn't be caught in a trap. "I'm working on a joint project for our two governments."
Elizabeth cocked her head. "And?"
Why was Elizabeth so interested? "Space was at a premium," she answered evasively. "David offered to take someone."
"Right. Have it your way, but I know my cousin. My brother was in this line of work too."
So much for deception.
"Tell me, where's your secret lab?"
"The lab's at the Hampstead campus of University College London." How much hot water could she get in for that revelation?
"Hampstead, I know it well. Excellent restaurants," Elizabeth said, and mercifully launched off on another tangent. "Even some decent shops that vie for my customers. But the movie stars in Belsize Park just down the hill prefer my things."
Claire had to admit David's cousin was a breath of fresh air. How long had it been since she'd had a real girlfriend? She'd love to get to know Elizabeth Carlisle better, with her impish smile and big brown eyes. Life always brought her the right people at the wrong time.
She'd moved from grad school to a high-powered position at a famous lab, then on to marrying Ben, and too soon after, mourning him. While she was glad Don Strong had encouraged her to take advantage of Morocco as a fresh start, neither of them could have imagined it would lead to Tivaz TB, and now London, where her life would be put on hold once more while she confronted the most difficult challenge of her career . . . of her life.
***
"I'll take you directly to Dr. Cook's office," her MI6 escort, Ian Barker, said.
"No. I want to see where they're keeping Tivaz TB first."
After days cooped up with the deadly bug in Black's lab and nights speculating on its life cycle and survival preferences, the absence of the bacillus left a curious void and she longed to see her enemy more than she longed to meet Sandra Cook.
"Right then, this way."
The strapping young man led her through gray corridors, past dirty windows, and in front of doors marked by familiar scientific terms and symbols. She followed the biohazard path through the equivalent of Black's Tivaz kingdom – including showers, the suiting room, and finally to the air locked door of the negative pressure room. Each succeeding step led to the inner sanctum where her opponent waited. This scientific kingdom, soon to become hers, was every bit the equal of Dr. Black's. But did she have the brains to best him in an area of TB research she once believed she owned?
Finally Ian pointed to the reinforced glass window that sealed the outside gray zone from the negative pressure chamber where Tivaz TB dwelled. From inside the room, a figure in a bulky suit looked up and waved with both arms.
Roscoe. What's he doing here already?
His voice blasted through a speaker mounted in the corridor above her head.
"Claire, great to see you. This place's got everything we need. Awesome. And the helmets have mics so we can talk to each other."
She spoke into the wall-mounted microphone. "I didn't expect to see you here so soon."
"I dropped everything once I got word you'd picked me. I'm here since yesterday and hard at work on your behalf."
Her behalf, as if Roscoe Smartz does anything that's not in his own best interests. "I'm glad you're going to be part of the team." It wasn't a complete lie.
"I can come out now. We've got tons to talk about, Claire."
"Not right now. We'll talk later." Way later, after everyone else gets here.
But he wasn't so easily put off. "What a bug we've got! Really interesting. These folks haven't done squat 'cept culture it, and after an hour of that you know all you need to know about growth characteristics." He pumped his padded arms in pantomime of a jogger. "Fast bugger. Figured you'd want to know what makes our little guy tick, so I went ahead and started to map his DNA."
"Good, we need that as baseline." But clever as he was, she'd keep a tight lid on him. No going off half-cocked before the rest of the team knew what he was up to.
"Got enough of it done to run genotype matches against the TB database. Our critter shares the same IS6110 fingerprints as Strain W. You know what that means."
"Yes." She'd hoped never to hear the words Strain W again.
"I'm trying to identify a unique DNA strand, isolate it, pair it with a Toll receptor agonist, and make a vaccine in record time. What d' you think of my idea?"
She thought it was pure Roscoe, to take the work being done in Colorado, tweak it, and call it his own. But she also knew he worked the bench like nobody's business, and could stitch together a vaccine prototype in record time. Which was why he was here. "I think you should bring it up at our first team meeting, tomorrow, after the others arrive."
"Count me in."
She was certain she could.
"Can't wait to work with you on this, Claire. We were always a great team." He held one arm up in a mock cheer.
"It's going to take more than the two of us to succeed," she cautioned. "And Roscoe, be careful in there. Don't rush. I've seen this bug at work, and it's not pretty."
He saluted.
She followed her guard back down the corridors. Working with Roscoe again wouldn't be simple. As far as running experiments together, they clicked. But he always wanted more. The week after Ben's funeral he showed up on her doorstep with flowers and candy, like a teenager on a first date. He was a few years younger than her, but that still put him near 30, and he should've known better. She sighed. What he lacked in subtlety he made up for with brains and energy. Unfortunately, 'no' wasn't part of a vocabulary he shared with the human race. So, when he left Don's lab for California she was relieved to have him on the opposite coast. And now she had to supervise him.
"Dr. Cook's office," Ian said and knocked before opening the door like he owned the place.
A mature woman, maybe as old as seventy, sat at a computer, only vaguely registering she had company. She didn't look up until she finished typing.
"Dr. Cook. I'm Claire Ashe."
The woman pursed her lips as if to say, 'you think I haven't figured that out already.' She didn't rise from her ancient desk chair to formally introduce herself, or ask Claire to take a seat on the scratched wooden chair nearby. She simply picked up her phone, punched in two digits and said, "She's here."
Claire sat down without an invitation rather than tower above her. "Thank you for making room for us in your lab, Dr. Cook."
"Sandra. Call me Sandra."
"Sandra, our space requirements –"
"Space wasn't the issue. We've got space, the government needs it, and my price was acceptable to them."
Okay. Let's try a different tack. "Have they discussed my project with you?"
Sandra glanced at the computer screen, and deleted something before answering. "I must warn you, I'm no microbiologist. Cancer's my field."
"So I understand, and I hear you're first rate."
"You've read my papers?"
"Sorry, no."
"Well, withhold your compliments until you have."
Claire was relieved when the door opened.
"Ah, here's Francine now. Claire Ashe, Francine Berger," Sandra said without further explanation.
A timid bookish-looking woman with thin brown hair, perhaps forty-five years old, slipped inside the cramped office.
"Sit down, Francie." Sandra gestured toward the beat-up metal stool wedged between the radiator and desk and began to speak to no one in particular. "The government drove a hard bargain, they always do. James Warner was particularly keen I assign my best person as liaison to your team."
And this church mouse was the best you could do?
"Off with you now," Sandra said, a wave of dismissal encompassing both women. "Time's a wasting."
Francine scooted out but she hung back. "What do you think – ?"
"I've no advice to give other than what I'm sure you know already," Sandra said, as though clearing herself of personal responsibility.
Claire tried again. "I appreciate whatever advice you're willing to share."
"Line up your vaccine manufacturers before you start. Lawsuits in the States have chased all but a handful of players from the field. And the E.U. is very fussy about First-In-Man filings. That's all I have to say."
Sandra went back to typing, so she joined Francine outside. "Is she always like that?"
"You mean no nonsense? I'd say so, yes."
"Have you worked together long?"
"I was her grad student and have been here ever since." Francine's accent was unusual, difficult to place. "Dr. Cook works very hard. She feels she hasn't much time left. She's taught me so much."
Well, to each his own, but Sandra was a far cry from Don.
"If you need help with the science, you can rely on her. That's what you want from her, yes?"
Francine gave her a cursory tour of the lab. She noticed a suite set up for the study of primates. "Do you use this?"
"Not any more. Animal rights organizations make it very difficult in Europe. Our only consolation is that monkeys do not provide the best animal model for all human diseases."