Authors: Dorian Paul
"Mr. Ruskin, we've not isolated any TB droplets from our air samples," the techno wizard he'd sent earlier said.
He was not surprised. Claire's experiments proved that, unlike normal TB, the Tivaz strain died shortly after exposure to the atmosphere. Still, he was reassured. "You know not to alter any molecules you do isolate?"
"Right," the solemn young man replied. "We're following Dr. Ashe's protocol, but we haven't found anything out of the ordinary as yet, sir."
"Keep looking."
David took stock of the classroom. Indeed, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, excepting the lack of children. Along one wall an open toy box painted with pink and blue poodles beckoned and the floor in front of him was littered with stuffed animals, assorted spongy balls, and wooden puzzles with easy-to-fit pieces. Would any child touch these playthings again? In another corner, soft blankets were piled in a chest awaiting a naptime that would never come. An igloo built of sturdy plastic for kids to crawl around inside, and a bank of small stools where they might sit to recite letters and numbers . . . or suck their thumbs, occupied the middle of the room.
David froze. "Have you swabbed the surfaces?"
"That's scheduled for later," the technician informed him.
"Do it immediately."
"But standard protocol –"
Protocol be damned, he could see it as clear as day. Only children had been infected, not adults. Why? A child played with toys and put his hands in his mouth, but the women who supervised them were proper French ladies.
"Are you authorizing us to alter the collection sequence, sir?"
"Right. I take full responsibility." And the heat from the French if I must.
He surveyed the use of scientific technology far more sophisticated than the computers that put men in space. How unfortunate that man's ingenuity had to be employed to stop terrorists these days, rather than reach for the stars.
He turned his mind back to the playthings in the room. On the phone earlier today Claire repeated how lethal the Tivaz TB strain would be to young children with immature immune responses, but why had the attack been directed at these particular youngsters? This particular school in Paris? Why not London or New York or anywhere else?
"Mr. Ruskin. Here we go. Found some mighty unusual molecules."
At last, something to go on! He'd guessed right about the surfaces the children came in contact with. But eager as he was to reach the lab magician waving his high-tech wand over the toy box, he checked himself lest he trip and disturb the evidence. "Unusual? Show me."
The technician glided over with his laptop, and David envied the man's effortless movement in the cumbersome suit. "See?"
This was their foe? These rotating orange globes that might have been built from the tinker-toys of his childhood? And yet, he understood he peered into the invisible world where modern warfare was being waged. How much simpler to battle a man hand-to-hand with conventional arms. "Please, enlighten me."
"They look to be constructed of gigantic Bucky-balls."
"Bucky-balls?"
"They're round, hollow molecules built out of carbon atoms. Named after Bucky Fuller, the man who invented the geodesic dome."
"And you say they're constructed?" he asked his youthful tour guide to molecular firearms.
"Right, you build them using nanotechnology, a technique where you manipulate matter at the atomic level. Nanotechnology lets you string atoms together to create your own molecules."
"Then these weren't carried in on some child's nappy?"
The techie chuckled. "I very much doubt it, sir. The man who invented Bucky-balls got the Nobel Prize a few years back."
"I want these sent to Dr. Ashe's lab in London."
"I need to clear it with our French liaison."
"I shall obtain clearance."
He hurried, if such a word could be used to describe his deliberate progress, back to the perimeter where the controller told him they'd searched the second story and found no one. Then they patched Anton Brun through.
"Brun, we've found some molecules of interest in the nursery. I've instructed they be sent to London."
"
Non.
The attack occurred on French soil."
David grit his teeth. "Understood. But our London team's been working on the Tivaz strain all along. They're in the best position to analyze what's been found."
"You may not have access to all of the material. French laboratories will control its distribution."
"Look Brun, as we discussed, this is an international problem. London or New York could be hit next."
"I have reason to believe this is a French affair. Hakim, the school janitor. The address we have for him is false, and his work papers were forged."
"How long has this fellow been employed by the school?"
"More than five years. He is considered reliable for . . . an Algerian."
And an immigrant Algerian would be exactly the type of person Varat would use.
"Our foreign minister has a child who boards at the secondary school associated with Lycée Rue Barthel," Brun continued. "We are investigating this lead."
Interesting. "Monsieur Brun, I'd like to review the records of the students who've attended this school, especially the boarders."
"We are already doing so. We have obtained the names of every student currently enrolled."
He glanced at the walls of the old school, cut granite smoothly finished. A fine French veneer, much like the one Varat wore. "I'm interested in looking at students from an earlier period, in the range of fifteen to twenty-five years ago."
"I regret that is not possible."
Of course not, the French were insufferable when it came to privacy and regulations. "It is not necessary for you to expend your resources on the task, Brun. Provide me with the authorization, and I'll handle it."
"I cannot help. There is a large gap in the records."
"Sorry?"
"Most school records were destroyed when a pipe burst in the admissions office. Some years ago. Before the computers, you see."
"How long ago?" he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"More than a dozen years ago."
Precisely the time Varat entered the arms dealing game.
He'd been told these suits were air-conditioned, programmed to adjust to body temperature. Then why was his visor steaming? He punched his fist to the sky, only to watch it rise in slow motion toward the window where the ghost of Varat the boy stood earlier, taunting him. His nemesis had closed every loop yet again, erased all trace of himself. But he wouldn't let Varat beat him, not now, not ever again. He'd pursue him to the ends of the earth and back if required.
But where to begin?
By ridding himself of this blasted space suit and telling Claire what he'd found.
***
Claire' stomach took another churn. Agreeing to do this was a mistake, but also her duty. While children died she stood every hour with the hospital's chief of staff and PR director in the parents' chamber, as the PR person called it, to answer questions. Undoubtedly her answers were translated truthfully, as they must be to mitigate the inevitable lawsuits, but just as surely the words the translator chose cast the best possible light on the catastrophe unfolding on the TV monitors.
After this hour's ordeal, she shut herself back inside the ID unit barred to the parents and practiced yoga breaths to center herself. Another hour until the next briefing . . . unless a child died sooner and her trio had to deliver bad news to a different set of parents. Her own mother and father were killed when they were the age of most of these parents, and she always thought being an orphan was the worst fate imaginable. But viewed from today's vantage point, being an orphan made more sense than losing a child. Parents didn't expect to outlive their children. It was unnatural.
She snatched the latest batch of labs from Francine and found refuge in the numbers, losing herself in column upon column of lab values whose patterns were easy to discern. A rise in blood toxins prefigured death for 18 month-old Zoe. A rise in antibody titer meant three-year-old Alain might survive. But what about Michelle, Pierre, Adele, Emiline, Serge, Nadine, Yves, Vivie, and all the little scrunched up faces screaming for their mamas and papas? Was it better to drug them so the last image their parents saw was peaceful? Fortunately, the decision belonged to the pediatric Infectious Disease specialist who believed it better to keep their small bodies free of confounding factors to give the vaccines their best shot. Thank God he agreed to keep them covered. Parents didn't need to watch lesions erupt on the tiny velvet-soft chests of their children.
Zoe expired at 12:25. Fewer tear-stained eyes would gape at the impersonal monitors now. But Alain appeared to be holding his own, might even have turned the corner. His frightened family could still hope, but it was too soon to know for certain. Yet she and Francine were optimistic when two hours later Alain and several others continued to fight off Tivaz TB, their antibody titers rising to the challenge. The dosage randomization schedule they'd set up might be working. Using what they'd learned from Sandra's response, they'd established a dose range – low, medium, and high – within which they believed the combination of their two vaccines might succeed. Absent sufficient material to administer an effective dose to all children, they used Francine's stratification charts to separate the toddlers into two groups: the slightly older and healthy ones, and those who were younger or had some sort of health issue. And then they did what any good clinical researcher would, generated a random set of numbers to determine which children would receive the low, medium, or high vaccine doses . . . and which would be given a harmless saline injection.
She and Francine knew an Ethics Committee would have argued long and hard against denying any of the children access to the vaccines. Yet there wasn't enough to give all the children a fair shot, and there certainly wasn't time for debate. Since the parents had signed informed consent for experimental therapy if it were available, they decided to risk their careers in hopes some children might be saved. It appeared they'd judged correctly. Some of the high dose children would live.
They vowed knowledge of their mini-trial would remain between them and, luckily, other medical personnel left them alone since they knew virtually nothing about Tivaz TB or the vaccines. But what gave her the right to stage a lottery to determine which parents would go home without their children?
She was no philosopher, but the concept of right and wrong plagued her. At one time in her life the words represented distinct moral opposites. Now they seemed arbitrary. She no longer knew if her actions today were right . . . or wrong.
All she knew was she'd never betray Francine, or their secret.
***
David slipped in unnoticed and saw her absorbed in a discussion with Francine Berger. Her entire body vibrated with purpose – until she saw him and braced herself.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
Not the warm greeting he hoped for, but she'd been under considerable stress and it was the first time they'd been face to face since the terror attack . . . or since becoming lovers. "I came to relate progress at my end. I understand you've had a degree of success."
She shoved a wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. "Success?"
"They tell me some of the children are doing quite well on your vaccines and may live. You must be pleased." She looked more rattled than pleased. This could only be related to emotions over the children she'd failed to save. He took her hand. "You can't blame yourself for those who've died." She flinched like he'd singed her. "You did all you could, Claire. The rest is chance."
"It's not chance," she flared.
Her eyes darted left and right, up and down, anywhere but straight at him. And Francine didn't meet his eyes either. All she did was say to Claire, "I'll check on the analysis team, and add new parameters to the data stream so we have what we need when we get back to London."
On her way out Francine gestured to the columns of numbers on the paper she held, as if to punctuate the necessity of her errand. Still, she left behind a disquieting sense he'd interrupted them at a most inopportune time. Whatever they were discussing, his entrance made Claire fidget . . . and twist her wedding band. Could this disquiet have anything to do with becoming his lover? He took a chance. "I realize this may not be an appropriate time, but it is impossible to say when we might be private again. I want you to know what happened between us was extraordinary and I –"
She did not look at him when she interrupted him. "No need to apologize."
"I am not apologizing."
"It's better for us to forget what happened. We have to go on. And right now I have to get back to work."
"Claire, look at me. You are not listening. I'm trying to tell you it was fantastic between us."
She looked up then but only to stare at the huge clock on the wall. "David, not now."
Much as her indifference to his confession hurt him, she had a point. He'd bungled things again. Better to change course to the news he'd come to report.
"Bucky-balls . . . of course," she said. "That's how Omar Messina did it." Now her bright green eyes zeroed in on his. "Where are the samples?"
"The French are insisting on overall control of the material –"
"David, no, you can't let them. We need to study it."
"Right, I told them so and you'll be pleased they've agreed to provide you with a small sample."
She threw her arms around his neck with unbridled enthusiasm.
"It's being sent to your lab in London as we speak."
She kissed him like he'd given her a new lease on life. Maybe he had. But all the more pity her excitement had to do with Bucky's balls, not his. And yet he admired all facets of this fascinating woman. When the crisis passed he'd make a better case for the suitability of their relationship. Until then he'd remain focused on his mission, as no doubt she would.