Authors: Dorian Paul
Bastard.
She'd tried to disguise her curiosity by glancing beyond Black's close-cropped salt and pepper hair to Red, who stood at the lab's entrance. But she knew Black recognized her temptation to know what he'd figured out. Any scientist would be curious.
No! The price of knowledge is way too high.
"Nothing can persuade me."
"How unfortunate. Our collaboration would have been fruitful. Your most recent article, speculating on the role of protein kinase as the messenger molecule that allows TB to adapt its reproduction rate, was very perceptive."
His flattery caught her up short. So, not only did he know her research, but also he'd chosen her specifically to bulletproof his lethal strain. That meant he also understood her approach to curing TB was unique and that she represented competition. Once she helped him stabilize his lethal bug, she'd be dead in two seconds flat. "I won't help you."
Black waved Red over. "Get rid of her. I told Brown she'd refuse. So be it."
She watched Black swipe a hand across his oily brow and flick sweat from his fingertips while she fought her fear, aware that soon she'd discover how life ended, as up close and personal as Ben had, and her parents, and . . .
Then, through a window she caught sight of a little girl in a containment bubble and jerked to a halt. "Oh my God."
The small naked body lay on a full-sized hospital bed cocooned by sheer plastic that didn't conceal the festering sores on her pale chest. The girl's head was bald in patches and her dark eyes stared into another universe.
The mesmerizing horror even stopped Red in his tracks.
She shouted at Black, "What have you done to her?"
"She has become infected with my TB strain."
"Who is she?"
"Leila."
"What are you treating her with?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You have to try something. Anything."
"Treatment is useless, Dr. Ashe."
"You must do something for her!"
He came up to her, palms turned heavenward in a parody of supplication. "You are free to try. Consider her my special gift to you."
She blanched. "You infected her to prove something to me?"
He ignored the question, and continued speaking. "Go ahead. Attempt a cure. The resources of my lab are at your disposal. We are equipped for Level 4 containment." He pointed to protective suits hanging on the far wall. "Take precautions. Leila will show you death is not always easy."
She couldn't and didn't say no to his challenge. In fact, the Level 4 routine of showering and robing provided a touch of normalcy in this hostile environment where children were deliberately infected. She knew her Ph.D. in immunobiology wasn't the same thing as an M.D. in infectious disease, but she'd been blessed to work in Don Strong's lab and he always insisted his researchers spend clinic time to remind them their goal was to cure patients, not publish test tube results. And she was determined to help this child, who appeared to have no parents to protect her . . . just like the 5 year-old Claire on that awful day. She stashed her memories back in their lock box and refocused on the small girl in the bubble.
Right now the TB bacillus was destroying Leila's young life, the abscesses in her lungs literally erupting through her chest wall. Claire wished there weren't so many layers of rubber between her hands and the girl's tender frame as she inserted her arms in the sleeves of the bubble. If the plastic barriers hadn't been present, she was sure her own nostrils would protest the cheesy odor of the child's labored breathing. She'd smelled it on other kids near death during her aid mission to Zaire with Don Strong not so long ago.
Practicing what she'd observed in the best doctors, she told Leila everything she was about to do, though she'd no idea if the child understood English or could hear anything in her isolation.
"Leila, I'm opening your mouth. I'm going to put a swab on your tongue." The child's blank eyes showed no understanding, but Claire persisted. "It might tickle, but I'm doing this to help you get better."
She transferred the sample to where one of Black's assistants had stacked petri dishes and antibiotic-laden discs. Antibiotic sensitivity testing was automated these days, but there was nothing wrong with the old-fashioned methods. She brushed Leila's sample across the agar-laden petri dish and used tweezers to place antibiotic discs on top. The entire history of drug warfare against TB was present: streptomycin, PAS, contebin, rifampin, pyrazinamide, ethambutol, and isoniazid.
The test would demonstrate which of these antibiotics were effective against this particular TB strain. But Leila didn't have the luxury of time, and Claire couldn't wait for the results. Taking bottles of rifampin and isoniazid from the shelf, she studied the little girl's wasted, sore-ridden body with as much detachment as she could muster. Then she estimated Leila's body weight, made a rough calculation of dosage, and added the medicine to the IV line delivering saline.
Would these antibiotics be effective? Was the standard starting regimen the best place to begin? The sensitivity tests wouldn't reveal answers immediately, since TB was notoriously slow growing and it often took weeks for bacterial colonies to become visible. She returned to the incubator to double-check that the agar dishes were in an environment ideally suited to the bacteria's reproduction . . . and refused to believe her eyes.
Streaks of bacterial colonies were already visible on the surface of the growth medium. She checked the clock – less than half an hour.
Impossible. This couldn't be TB!
She extracted a sample and began the staining process. When she focused the microscope, she observed the characteristics of TB's waxy cell wall. Somewhat irregular, yes, but she was rushing. Why? Because nothing she knew of, in nature or science, was capable of moving fast enough to outpace this demon microbe. She looked at Leila. Her wheezing breaths were shorter and more rapid than just a few minutes ago. What chance did the child stand, even with the aid of all available antibiotics, against such a consumptive foe?
Claire stayed by Leila's side, speaking to her softly, trying to keep her own tears from fogging her helmet, knowing that every labored breath carried Leila toward death. It didn't help to know she'd done everything she could to rescue Leila. She'd failed. All she could do now was control her voice so what the child heard wasn't sobs. And she could give Leila drugs to make her death as comfortable as possible. It wasn't much. Would she ever be able to look at a little girl again without feeling the shame of not saving Leila?
Dr. Black was waiting outside for her after Leila died. Defeated, she acknowledged, "The tuberculosis progressed unbelievably rapidly."
"Now you've seen for yourself. My TB strain is unlike any other. Perhaps you'll reconsider?"
Mute, Claire watched lab assistants, also dressed in Level 4 protection, carefully collapse the containment bubble and remove Leila from the room for incineration. She bowed her head in a silent prayer of respect for the life of Leila. "You deliberately infected her," she accused him once more. When she looked up she saw he was still waiting for her to answer.
"She became ill. What else matters?"
"She was just a child, for God's sake."
"Yes, her immune system had not fully developed."
His scientific recitation of facts made her cringe inside. "I can't believe –"
"Do not trouble yourself. The girl was an orphan. She will not be missed, and what did life hold for her?"
She squeezed her fists. Who was he to prejudge the possibilities available to a young girl without a family? She was the one who'd awakened decades earlier strapped in the back of a wrecked auto, her parents unable to answer the screams of their little girl.
"Take some time to think," Black said. "I can promise you limitless intellectual challenge."
His beady eyes gored her in a cheeky dare, and if she could've spit on him over her facemask she would have.
When Red took her to the decontamination room outside the lab she noticed he kept his distance. She took her time in the cleansing shower, despite having undergone a heavy-duty version of the procedure in Black's lab. No wonder Mr. Brown insisted everyone go through this process before seeing him. One thing for sure, the TB Dr. Black had bioengineered was as rapid and lethal as any of the hemorrhagic viruses like Ebola. How had he done it? Her dream had been to solve the mystery of the TB replication center, a scientific breakthrough that could eradicate the scourge of TB. But Black had found the secret ahead of her, and would use his discovery to kill, not cure.
By the time she emerged from the cold spray her nipples had hardened to sharp points. She ignored Red's leer when he lobbed a towel in her direction. Slowly she lifted her arms and took time to dry her hair even though it kept her in his sights longer. Her decision was made. She'd live in this world of men who hid their identities behind a palette of colors, and discover everything she could about the killer TB strain sheltered at Tivaz. Tuberculosis was the study of academic laboratories, not bioterrorism sleuths. When Black's strain was unleashed, the world would be unprepared to respond unless she found a way to get outside these walls and give them a heads-up. And, she would, damn it.
She smoothed her black silk dress over her hips with steady hands.
"Take me to Mr. Brown."
Chapter 2
David Ruskin entered the corner office he was soon to occupy. The dark red oriental carpet and view over the River Thames would be his shortly, along with the responsibilities. "Has Bobby called with a word of congratulations, then?"
"We shall see." James Warner, his boss and mentor, punched a button to bring the secure speakerphone to life. "Hello, Bobby. David has joined us."
"Hi ya, pal. Glad to catch you in the office. Thought you might be at your club for a game of racquetball."
"It's racquets, Bobby. The game that gave us squash."
"Yep, like cricket gave baseball to America."
Odd for Bobby to start off with small talk. Even more peculiar to be openly agreeable. "I deem you haven't rung up to offer congratulations on my new position."
"Hey, you're not in charge yet. Meantime, I'm counting on you, Tiger, to help me out."
"My field days as Tiger are ended. Tiger's dead and buried, you know it as well as I."
"Hear me out, pal. A U.S. citizen's disappeared in Morocco. Top-flight microbiologist working there with a company gearing up to make vaccines –"
"A job for your embassy staff, not Tiger."
"Listen. She's important to us."
"Naturally. The lovely daughter of some Senator?"
"Yeah, you think so? Actually the lady's got squat for relations. She's significant because of who we think is holding her."
His cousin Jeremy's face materialized and the tight scar tissue that ran the length of David's right thigh burned. "Varat? You know his location?"
"Cool it, David. Here's what I've got. Aziz Bouchta, a local staff worker at our Moroccan embassy, is hearing rumors of a guy with a scar over his eye who's holed up with a bunch of scientists."
"Bloody hell, what's Varat doing in Morocco?"
"Since a microbiologist's missing, my hunch is he's running some kinda bioterror operation in the Atlas Mountains, and that place is more lawless than the tribal parts of Pakistan."
"The mission isn't about killing Varat," James cautioned him with a pointed look.
"Yep, can't go in with guns blazing, pal. Varat's been under the radar since our little dust up with him and the Kurds. Gotta believe this is a big deal."
David's mind raced through every weapon he'd use against Varat. He'd carry a damn arsenal, if he had to.
"Here's what I've got in mind. You go as Tiger, track Varat down and see who he's working for. Find out what they're up to, and then get the hell out of there. I'll have a team pick Varat up, unravel the network, and shut down whatever malarkey is going on."
James trained his eyes on him once more, as if to mark Bobby's right to set the operation's parameters, but David knew once he was in the field it would come down to him and Varat, with only one complication.
"And the woman?" he asked, curious who would answer first.
James fiddled with his pipe in silence. Perhaps he'd already moved on mentally to his next assignment as an ambassador, free of the daily life and death decisions that would become David's purview. For today James's role seemed to be principally to verify David was clear on the boundaries as far as Varat was concerned. How to handle the woman appeared to be Bobby's decision.
"Get her out," Bobby's voice finally rasped over the line. "That's if you can do it without compromising our ability to break this up. If these guys are cookin' up something bad, we're not talking a single life being at risk. We're talking mega folks unless we stop Varat."
Stop Varat.
David sniffed the fragrance of revenge, but held back a smile. "Do you have information on how long he's been residing in the mountains?"
"Bouchta thinks three or four months. Maybe more."
Varat would never rough it so long without an immense payday. "When was the doctor taken?"
"Last week."
Then Varat must be having difficulties and his reputation would be on the line. Depending on who was behind this plot, his life as well. "Varat's sponsors must be pushing him to speed the process."
"Yep, I'm thinking the same thing."
"I need a credible cover, Bobby. Perhaps a carrot to dangle in front of him . . . another bioweapon, one he can't pass up."
"Bingo, pal. We'll work up some options."
"Something very deadly." To worm his way back into Varat's presence, he'd need to tempt the devil himself. "And hard to come by."
"I'm on it."
"Send me material on the woman."
He studied Claire Ashe's dossier while his driver conveyed him to Sherborne House. He began with her photograph. She was eye-catching but dared the camera to show that by pulling her hair back severely. Thirty-three years old and widowed, she was unlike the women he'd consorted with since his marriage to Sarah had ended. He preferred pretty young females wanting a fling before settling down with someone else or married women on the prowl for a brief dalliance. Yet this doctor's dark green eyes, which gleamed with an indomitable spirit, drew him in.