Authors: Dorian Paul
That was beside the point. "Sandra, we don't have E.U. approval to test in humans. Even if we submitted our First-In-Man application now, you said the review process is slow at best."
"James Warner can expedite approval. He owes me a favor."
"You need treatment without delay," she insisted.
"I don't disagree. We'll start the vaccine as soon as I'm settled upstairs."
She froze. "Before approval?"
Sandra nodded. "As long as I stay in the animal lab, there's no need for the whole world to know. We already have a decent baseline because Francie drew blood once we realized I was exposed. And we've been working."
Francie waved a sheaf of papers. "Here's a list of criteria we thought should be evaluated."
"Our own clinical trial. We'll measure me from head to toe. I'm the perfect guinea pig for testing the efficacy of your DNA vaccine after a patient's been exposed."
"What about antibiotics?"
"Assessing the DNA vaccine as a single agent will be more useful. Anyway, from the antibiotic sensitivity data I've reviewed, there isn't a single drug that touches Tivaz TB. Your vaccine is the end of the road for me, Claire, and we both know it."
Nevertheless . . . "If we do this, it'll be hard to keep secret."
"At present this resides among we three," Francine said. "I haven't breathed a word to anyone, not even Roscoe."
Roscoe. If she told him they were treating Sandra before receiving official sanction and Ethics Committee approval, she'd put his career on the line along with hers. And while Sandra knew the inherent risks of this experimental therapy, she'd be asking Roscoe to act in direct violation of every medical regulatory body in the civilized world. And if she didn't tell him and he found out, what then?
The double steel locked door quaked beneath the hammer of David's fist. She couldn't hold him off much longer.
Sandra pressed her case. "What more could a scientist wish for than to observe herself being experimented on. I mean that. What else is there for me?"
And for me? Everybody I care about always dies. Don't die on me Sandra. Please don't.
"I didn't ask for this, my dear. But it happened. Grant me the opportunity to be useful till the end," Sandra implored as the safety frame around the outer door shuddered beneath David's pounding. Would the hinges bend next?
She left Sandra and Francine, decontaminated herself, and emerged to unlock the outer door and face David.
"Claire, Ian's coordinating with the bioterrorism unit. All personnel are on alert."
Could she persuade him to do as Sandra wished?
"Transportation to a qualified hospital is being arranged," David stated. He meant business every bit as much as Sandra had moments earlier.
"Tell them to stand down, David. Dr. Cook's remaining here."
He glared. "You must be joking. She needs to be in hospital."
Hearing practically the same words she'd said to Sandra gave her pause, but not enough to back down. "Not necessarily. This facility is expressly built to contain highly infectious microorganisms. The lab used for animal studies is better equipped than any infectious disease unit we could find. And –"
"And what?"
"And your group has already established security procedures and perimeters. Keeping her here will minimize the likelihood of mass panic. Hospital personnel always speculate. News of Tivaz TB will spread like wildfire."
He ran his fingers through his hair. "You speak as if there is no room for discussion."
"David, on this matter, there isn't."
He opened and closed his fists before asking again, "Are you absolutely confident this environment is suitable?"
This time she didn't hesitate. "Absolutely." When he still looked doubtful, she added, "Plus, you'll have access to her help in getting to the bottom of how the accident occurred." That turned the tide.
"We shall need hers and everyone's help. Complete debriefs are required. No exceptions will be allowed. Do you understand, Claire? Everyone with access to the lab will be questioned."
"Of course." Everyone but Roscoe Smartz. His time was spoken for.
Chapter 20
The Eurostar Express from London entered the Gare du Nord. An expectant buzz rose from passengers crowding the aisles, and Varat shared their excitement at arriving in the world's most beautiful city. He stretched out his legs in the comfort of his Premier Class seat and tilted the fedora over his brow. A rakish angle, nothing too extreme. He was a successful businessman in a fashionable double-breasted suit returning home to Paris . . . for one last time.
He waited for the throng to clear and reflected on his victory at the London auction, where he paid less for the shamshir than expected. The exquisite sword was worthy of Rostam, hero of the great Persian epic Shahnameh. The wonderfully instructive poem was his Grandfather's favorite and he would be pleased to see the first-born son of his first-born acting according to the warrior code of the Pahlawan. But recreating Grandfather's weapon collection was only the opening act in Varat's plan to restore family honor, a plan now firmly back on track.
Yes, he'd accomplished much on his trip to London, including confirmation of how much David Ruskin shared with the elitist French schoolboys who taunted him when the school kept Varat on as a charity case. After visiting the Wallace Collection to view the magnificent swords the Marquess of Hertford collected, he'd instructed the cabbie to drive through nearby Portman Square. There he inspected Tiger's family townhouse, whose ornate front door displayed a heraldic crest symbolic of his enemy's noble heritage. Varat's ancestors would be proud when he killed such a worthy opponent. And he would. Claire Ashe may have escaped the death he planned for her, but when he faced Tiger his own hand would control the blade.
He left the station and ignored the taxi queue to stroll down wide boulevards where he rubbed shoulders with the splendid Parisians ignorant of the death he carried in his sleek aluminum briefcase.
Why did he choose Paris to announce Tivaz TB to the world? Was it because a passing woman's perfume reminded him of the sweet cologne his French headmaster wore when telling him of his father's execution? Or the aroma of fresh baguettes that brought back memories of the shop where he read newspapers detailing the revolution that overthrew the Shah? Or perhaps the damp stones he trod upon that even now evoked the musty smell of his dormitory room?
He walked north, all the way to Seine-St.-Denis, a working-class Paris neighborhood crammed with impoverished immigrants from North Africa.
"Varat," Hakim greeted him. "Welcome to my home."
Home? Peeling paint, chilly Gallic air leaking through drafty casements, heating pipes silent instead of clanking with steam . . . this was the brilliant engineer's residence.
"You have something for me?" Hakim asked.
From his expensive briefcase he pulled a spray can of room deodorizer.
"So commonplace," Hakim said.
And so deadly.
"The canister permits survival for up to two weeks?"
"Yes. The contents are under pressure," Varat assured him.
"I have a suitable mask and equipment." Hakim rolled the can between his palms, as if admiring its realistic appearance. "Temperature requirements?"
"Cool," which shouldn't be a problem in this apartment. At least the money would help Hakim temporarily.
"Survival time after dispersal?"
"Perhaps forty-eight hours, maybe less."
Hakim placed the canister on a shelf above his janitor's uniform. How sad that a highly educated Algerian couldn't overcome French discrimination. But as he remembered too well, that had always been true. Ironic that this time death would come to them at the hands of one whose uniform rendered him invisible to privileged eyes.
He put his arm around Hakim's shoulders. "Shall we dine?"
Varat chose a restaurant that was unobtrusive, but excellent, and walked into the fragrance of fresh made
tarte tatin
. For others Paris was the city of light, but for him it would always be one of smells.
Paris . . . could he do this to her?
Chapter 21
"Take a look at the schematic," David said of the diagram he and Bobby were viewing over a secure server during their daily teleconference.
"All I see's spaghetti."
"The bits in blue show how the lab equipment is ventilated. See the exhaust pipe leading from the incubator. My cursor is directly over the frozen valve."
"Yeah, so a valve got stuck and pressure built up. Dr. Cook opens the incubator and wham – something pops and hits her mask. Could 'a just been an industrial accident."
"Perhaps, but might the valve have been tampered with?"
"Sure, pal, but ya gotta know which valve controls the incubator."
"Right, but see how the valve is designed for easy access?"
"Yeah, but c'mon, if somebody did it on purpose they'd have to be a freakin' engineer."
"Only a pair of pliers is required to tighten the valve beyond its limits, Bobby."
"Okay, okay. But whoever did it had to know the lab inside-out." Bobby paused, but only briefly. "That points to somebody like Francine Berger."
"Among others, but we continue to examine her background thoroughly." He heard the shuffle of papers on Bobby's end.
"Looking at Berger's file, those cousins of hers seem like folks with extreme views. Even the Israelis can't keep their settlers in line all the time"
"True, but at present Dr. Berger appears unconnected to her relatives' activities and Claire says Francine's devoted to Sandra. A motivation is lacking."
"Yeah, but she's next on tap to take over the lab after Sandra Cook, isn't she? Power's motivation enough, pal."
"Right, I considered that, but the woman is so distraught over Dr. Cook's condition."
"I dunno. Murderer's remorse maybe? Not that uncommon with impulsive killers. I'd be super careful. Berger's working hand-in-hand with Claire. Since we're coming up empty on Varat's whereabouts, we need Dr. Ashe big-time."
He drummed on the conference table. "I'm well aware and intend to inform Claire of Dr. Berger's background."
"Yeah. Do that. What about those background checks on the cleaning services? Did they turn up any unsavory characters?"
"Negative so far," David reported, as frustrated as Bobby.
"No under-employed ex-colonial scientists?"
"Do you not trust my thoroughness?"
Bobby sighed. "Look pal, it's just that we're outta leads."
Perhaps not entirely. "Here is one I want to run by you. Enclosed in my mail at Sherborne House was a circular from a new Middle Eastern restaurant with a handwritten note I believe expressively directed at me."
"You're kidding. What kind of note?"
"Try our couscous. It's to die for."
Bobby howled. "C'mon, sounds like a marketing ploy to me."
Maybe, maybe not. "I agree it's a long shot, but Varat knows couscous is my favorite. He served it in Tivaz as a demonstration of precisely how well he knew my preferences."
"D 'you really think there's more to this note than meets the eye?"
Clearly Bobby did not. "I've no hard evidence, of course, but instinct tells me this note is Varat's calling card."
"Pretty far-fetched, pal."
"Not if the accident that infected Dr. Cook was intended for Claire. If Claire had not decided at the last minute to work the weekend from home, she would have been doing that incubator check, not Sandra Cook."
"And Dr. Berger volunteered to cover for Claire . . . until she asked Sandra Cook to step in. I'd say keep your eye on Dr. Berger, pal. A helluva better bet than couscous to die for."
***
Claire stood aside and allowed Francine to pick up the lab report detailing Sandra's most recent blood tests.
"Read it aloud," Sandra ordered.
Francine complied, like a hostage asked to read a prepared statement with a gun pointed at her head. Mechanically she recited the concentration of neutrophils, cells sent by the immune system to break apart and digest foreign bacteria. "Still up from baseline."
"Francie, I'm not interested in baseline," Sandra wheezed. "What's happened to neutrophil production since your last measurement?"
Why did Sandra insist on the details? They all knew there was no hope. Sandra's neutrophils couldn't possibly consume all the Tivaz TB ravaging her.
"Flat, no change." Exactly like Francine's face.
"How high are my Tivaz TB levels?"
Francine stated the number, her voice disembodied, while Claire hid her anguish at the explosion of bacteria inside Sandra's body.
"Well, at least somebody thinks this old maid's a sweet morsel . . . even if it's only a damn bacillus."
Not true. After Sandra's suggestion she reallocate resources, Claire began to see the value of the woman's wisdom and sound counsel.
"How about my complement cascade, Francie?"
Francine perked up marginally when she reported, "Complement activity is off the charts."
"Hurrah," Sandra cheered. "My infection fighting proteins are giving it their all. Proteins are under-appreciated molecules, Francie. Ask Claire. She's spent her career studying protein kinases."
Sandra rubbed her eyes, as if allowing a moment's weary recognition that her own days spent chasing elusive scientific problems were over, but then she came right back. "Must forge ahead." Her keen eyes pierced the plastic bubble and she spoke with renewed energy. "Let's review what we've learned about the DNA vaccine. Francie, highlight the trend lines for us."
Francie started at her name, but responded to Sandra's demand as student to teacher. Fascinated, Claire watched, imagining what it would be like if she were in this situation with Don, her mentor. "Baseline blood drawn minutes after exposure showed no detectable TB. DNA vaccine was initiated three hours post-exposure. At that time TB, subsequently confirmed as Tivaz strain, was present in the serum."