Authors: Dorian Paul
"Ya gotta know the right people." Like Aziz Bouchta, who not only came up with Omar Messina's name, but also convinced the Governor to lean on some people to get the low down on the Casablanca to NY courier. Good bet the Governor wasn't too keen about getting involved, but he did. "You buy the Moroccan's story?" Bobby asked.
"Totally."
Hmm. He wasn't so certain. Sure, the courier claimed he'd been smuggling stuff into the U.S. a long time. Started his career with dental powder made of ground up human bones used to implant teeth and reconstruct jaws. "Is there really that much dough in ground up bones?" he asked the DEA guy.
"Ten years ago a gram of dental powder was worth more than a gram of the best cocaine."
"No shit."
"The Russian mob smuggled it in like crazy from Bosnia." The director shrugged. "Pretty gruesome, if you know what I mean."
Yeah, and bones were easy enough to find if you knew where to look. Bobby'd seen plenty of buried bodies in Bosnia. "How come the Russian mob was so into this stuff?"
The guy rubbed the fingers of one of his hands together. "Lots of money. It was big-time expensive to buy a skeleton from a U.S. morgue back then. But once people started donating their bodies to science, anybody could buy bones and grind 'em at a decent price."
"So not likely the Moroccan brought in ground up bones this time."
"Nope. It's not where the money is these days. Soft tissue organs, that's what the Russian mafia is into now. Kidneys, livers, even your heart and lungs."
"But the courier claims nobody told him what he was bringing in."
"Sure, and he didn't ask . . . or look." The DEA Director winked. "Hey, if you were getting good money to carry in a liver, would you mess it up by playing around with the packaging?"
Bobby tried to picture a squishy human liver packed in dry ice, but the only liver he knew of came from a calf and got fried with onions and bacon. "Seems like a helluva lot of effort for one lousy organ."
"Not with waiting lists for livers a mile long. People with money pay anything to stay alive. And the CEO of this tissue bank knows that. He's filthy rich, and as dirty as they come. But we could never get anything on the SOB. Until now."
Then voices crackled over their earpieces and faint movement showed on the video feed in their van. The DEA planned to snatch the tissue bank executive as he left the building, and Bobby had no choice but to let them play it their way. He had no proof Tivaz TB was inside, so no way they'd let him call the shots. And as far as anybody knew the place wasn't equipped for Level 4 containment, and no one working there wore a pressurized suit. That was the good news. The bad news? Well, if Tivaz TB was inside, it was weaponized and could be shipped anywhere. So, once the DEA grabbed their man, the area would be cordoned off and his people would go in for a careful search.
"He's on the move."
The CEO came out, a prosperous-looking American businessman in a camel overcoat. Didn't look like a terrorist, but that didn't mean anything anymore. From the door to the prime spot where the CEO parked his Lexus was maybe ten paces. Those DEA folks didn't have much time. Bobby and his people would've swarmed by now. What the hell were they waiting for? He twitched, ready to hit the pavement himself. Then DEA guys with bulletproof vests and helmets materialized from the shadows.
Shit, the executive reached inside his coat. This wasn't going down the way Bobby hoped. The man got off a round at the DEA agents before they jumped him.
It was over as fast as a twister sucked up a house. The tissue bank boss was on the pavement and alive, but all Bobby could think about was the sick joke every cop knew. 'What's the difference between a criminal and a terrorist? The criminal puts his hands in the air when you catch him.' And the guy in the camel overcoat didn't.
Fuck. Only other possibility Bobby could picture was the CEO knew the Russian Mafia killed off their mistakes. How crazy was this? For once in his life, he came down on the side of the Russian mob.
Chapter 18
Late as it was, a light in the dressing room of the Duchess suite made David chance knocking on her door. He found her sitting at his mother's dressing table, which she'd commandeered into a makeshift desk. "You received my message that the Moroccan diplomatic pouch held a liver being smuggled into New York?"
"Yes. That was incredible, and lucky."
More than lucky and not to be counted on next time. She turned back to whatever she'd been working on when he arrived. He was disappointed. He noticed no hair contrivance imprisoned her thick, wavy hair and he simply wanted to be in her presence long enough to enjoy seeing her like this, but he couldn't stand there like an idiot. "Illegal organ trafficking is not uncommon, although the U.S. has a livelier and more profitable black market than most countries."
She looked up at his lame remark and tossed back an equally lame reply. "Better greed than terror."
"Right." He had no other news and why draw attention to the fact he lacked any leads. Considering the technical journals, notepads, and yellow magic markers strewn around her and the fact she too was burning the midnight oil, she could well be in the same desperate situation as he found himself. "I'll leave you to work."
Abruptly she shifted her chair around to face him and released a torrent of words. "I'm sorry to be rude. I thought being away from the lab might give me a fresh perspective, so I've set up shop here for the weekend. I need to realign my resources, change my plan of attack. There's so much I have to think about and I'm too exhausted to think straight."
He had no idea what to say but sought to be supportive. "I understand your dilemma. Sometimes everything seems a dead end. It must be a particularly challenging problem to keep you from the lab."
Her shoulders stiffened. "Is it a problem for you if I don't go to the lab? Elizabeth mentioned you'd be away tomorrow."
"Yes, I mean no, it's not a problem. I will be away tomorrow. I must call on my parents."
"Then I won't disturb you by working here, right?"
True, but her safety working alone in Sherborne House was a concern, and he'd have to set up a more robust detail. "I have a better idea. Perhaps you might accompany me to Thorn Hall tomorrow."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why? I have a lot of work to do. Besides, I understood from Elizabeth you've got family matters to take care of."
His cousin provided a fount of information that she had no business divulging to Claire. He shielded his irritation and opted for a more forthright approach. "Honestly, I prefer you not work here alone, Claire. Additional security would be required, but that can be managed. Nevertheless I thought perhaps instead you might consider accompanying me to Thorn Hall. It is a day trip. A few hours really. And I can set up a place for you to work there, if necessary."
She cocked her head. "That sounds like even more trouble for you."
True, but he also wanted her company. "Perhaps a change in routine might help you think more clearly?"
She sighed. "God knows I need all the help I can get."
"You'll come then?"
She gave him a curt nod. "All right."
Surprise gave way to pleasure at the thought of spending the day with her. And he knew her presence would divert his parents' attention away from him during the visit, another advantage. "Thank you for agreeing to come. It will be a help to me as well. And now I will excuse myself and leave you to your work."
"Wait. What time do I need to be ready tomorrow?"
"Nine."
She hesitated. What was his blunder now? "Too early?"
"No, I was wondering how I should dress. Are your parents casual or formal?"
No need to grope for an answer this time. Had he ever seen his father without a tie? "Strictly country formal." Strict. That described his father in every way.
She looked puzzled but asked nothing more, much to his relief. In any event, his thoughts weren't on how she'd dress tomorrow, but rather how he found himself thinking about undressing her tonight. He couldn't shake the memory of her half naked at the sink in Tivaz, where he watched her wash off Red's blood and wished he were the one doing it. Wholly inappropriate. He hoped it wasn't a mistake to take her to Thorn Hall. He hadn't brought a woman there since his marriage to Sarah ended, and his parents were sure to form their own conclusions.
Fool. You can't have it both ways.
***
Saturday dawned partly sunny, which he chose to take as an invitation to pleasure, despite the fact he was visiting family. Why not spin out of London in his vintage racing green MG with a beautiful woman?
"No Jim?" she asked, and he noticed she carried only a small tote bag with a notebook.
"Not today. We're on our own. Worried about my driving?" he teased. "I'm trained in evasive maneuvers. But if you'd prefer to drive –"
"No thank you. I hate to drive, especially on the wrong side of the road."
A good thing since he didn't trust anyone with his prize MG. Nevertheless, as they left the city behind and entered London's green belt, he realized that should he ever be forced to ask another to take the wheel she'd be a decent bet from what he'd seen of her general capabilities thus far.
"David, what should I expect at Thorn Hall today?"
"It's imposing, if a bit rambling. Added onto over centuries. Extensive grounds, lots of trees, a lake."
"Not the house. Your parents."
Difficult to say, and yet he wanted to talk about it with her. "I haven't been what they hoped for in an heir. Rebelled against the title and its trappings. I wanted to make a go of it on my own."
"But you've been successful in your own right? Parents accept their children no matter what."
He wished he felt as much conviction on both counts. With Varat still at large, he felt anything but successful in his profession. As for his parents' acceptance, in all these years his father never once discussed his career with him. Such behavior fit with his family's disapproval of his marriage to Sarah, subsequent divorce, and failure to remarry and produce an heir. Jeremy's death and his role in it was simply the icing on the cake.
They lapsed into silence. He stole a glance at her. She'd dressed up for the excursion in forest green wool slacks topped by a green tweed jacket. Nice of Claire to make the effort, but the day was unlikely to meet anyone's expectations.
They entered Kent. The sun shimmered off dry leaves that blanketed the roadside, and the dusty fragrance evoked long-buried memories of childhood when he brought school chums to his country home. "We're on Thorn Hall property now," he told her in his best tour guide voice. "This small village and the fields you see are all part of the estate. Land and farm management is shared between my family and those who do the farming."
He sped down the tree-lined drive toward Thorn Hall, a light chalk-brown structure, classically Palladian. A book on English country estates once described it as "grand in proportion but perfect in scale, with small hills framing it from behind." As a boy he played down its grandeur because he didn't wish to put off friends he brought here. But, to be honest, he had always been proud of this place and its history. Now he tried to see the house through Claire's eyes and wondered if, as an American, she resented those to the manor born. If so, how might she react when confronted with his father's inborn autocratic ways? He drove round to the family entrance, where his parents sat on a bench outside the kitchen garden. He tensed, unsure what the day would bring. His parents approached and, true to form, his father wasted no time asserting control of the introductions.
"Welcome to Thorn Hall, Miss Ashe. I'm Andrew Ruskin, my wife is Dorothy." His father captured Claire's hand and dedicated his attention to her. Just as well. "Shall we go in for sherry before lunch?"
David kissed his mother and then turned away to fetch his communication equipment from the boot.
"Tools of the trade?" his father asked.
He couldn't tell if the remark was inquiring or scornful. He reminded himself of his pledge to give his father the benefit of the doubt, and took a deep breath. "Why don't the three of you go in while I get the remainder of my things?" Then he said for Claire's ears only, "Is there anything I can bring in for you?"
"No thanks. I worked all night."
***
Claire watched his parents exchange a look she could only call apprehensive. If her parents were alive and she arrived in the company of a man they didn't know, would this be how they'd react? Impossible to know. She smiled at the Ruskins and asked about the house. "Thorn Hall is beautiful. I'd love to hear its history, see the nooks and crannies, if there's time."
Andrew all but jumped for joy. "Are you serious, my dear? I must warn you I'm a frustrated historian who's known to go on at length."
"I really would love to hear about it, and maybe have a tour."
"You shall have the grand tour, once David and I have concluded our bit of business."
In the family living room, his father seated his mother with a formality that gave legendary British reserve a run for its money. In contrast, David seemed positively laid-back when he strode into the room and dumped his communication gear on a side table. His mother winced. His father filled four glasses from a decanter of sherry.
"The new job requires constant contact then, does it David?"
"I haven't begun James Warner's job yet." He spoke with icy politeness, eyes trained on the side table instead of his father. "There's an issue with my last assignment and I must be available."
An issue? I guess that's one way of putting it.
"I see." Andrew straightened his tie. "You're juggling more than one responsibility?"
David's response was to scowl.
C'mon, your father's only trying to show interest in your work. Say something. But all three Ruskins sipped sherry silently. She stepped into the void. "Mr. Ruskin, David says you're an experienced businessman. How do you find doing business with Americans?"