Authors: Dorian Paul
"Take a look at this."
She wanted to refuse but there was no point to obstinacy. "What are you showing me?"
"A feed from the Chelsea play school." He paused the video and enlarged one of the faces. "Do you know this man?"
"No."
"He is Francine Berger's lodger."
"And?"
"I told you her family was involved in the Israeli Zionist movement. Those people are hard-liners who oppose dismantling settlements in the West Bank and Gaza."
"So you've said."
"Her lodger is a well-known activist. He's been linked to past plots against people in his own government who wish to trade land for peace."
She stood toe to toe with him, literally. "And are you saying therefore Francine's lodger was involved in the steam explosion? That makes no sense David. It wasn't a terror attack."
"I'm saying her associations are a definite concern. More than that when I see who's with her lodger. Take a closer look, Claire."
He pressed a key and the image shifted so rapidly she had to blink. Then the screen filled with an enlargement of Francine's lodger and the man he was talking to – Ian Barker.
Fear choked her and it took a moment to speak. "Where's Ian now?"
"He's been taken to Headquarters for questioning."
"Just because he was talking to Francine's lodger?" She jabbed her finger at the screen. "This doesn't prove anything."
"Were you aware Ian knew Francine's lodger?"
"No." But seeing the two men together on screen she remembered the man waving Ian over in the Chelsea schoolyard when David was engrossed in his own conversation with Meg. "Even if Ian knows Francine's lodger, it doesn't prove anything."
"Here's something else I want you to view."
David was proving more than competent in the role of arrogant bastard.
"Security camera footage from this very lab. You need to look at it, Claire. I'm sorry, but you must."
He wasn't sorry at all, damn him.
But she still had to look. Even from a distance she recognized the corridors outside the Level 4 containment unit. The time stamp changed and she saw a cleaning cart being pushed down the hallway. Ian was talking to the cleaner. They exchanged something. She couldn't identify what passed between the men, but the date stamp confirmed it was the very day Sandra was infected. She began to tremble. There had to be an explanation.
"I regret having to show this to you Claire. I know you're fond of Ian."
"It could be a mistake." She continued to reject the conclusion he was forcing on her.
"Right. That is always possible. In any event, we shall get to the bottom of it."
"His wife's in America," she heard herself all but wail. "Who will take care of his little boy, Oliver?"
"Sit down, Claire. Let's have Francine in and talk to her."
"She's not here."
"We'll go to her home then. Her lodger is being sought as we speak."
"She's left."
He raised his eyebrows. "Left?"
"She went to Morocco yesterday to the vaccine plant where I worked. Don knows people there and they've agreed to help us ramp up production of Roscoe's vaccines. The ones we used in . . ." she trailed off, wondering if she made any sense. "Those are the best we've got so far. We don't have enough for the possibility of . . ."
"Wednesday," he finished.
She collapsed into her chair and folded her hands on her lap so he wouldn't see them shaking.
***
"Got a minute?"
Don stood at her door. Why didn't she close it the instant David left, or better yet, lock it?
"Is this a bad time, Claire?"
What did he think? Her allies were evaporating . . . Sandra, Francine, even Ian.
"How're you holding up?"
Did she look that bad? "I have a headache."
"This'll only take a minute." Don plunked down in her extra chair. At least Roscoe knew enough to make himself scarce sometimes. "We know why some of the Paris children survived and others didn't."
The answer no longer seemed as important as it once did.
"It's related to the MHC," Don said. "MHC's got the greatest diversity of any human gene sequence."
Like she didn't know. And she wasn't in any mood for a lecture from her old professor. "Yes, yes, but what
new
did you find?"
"Bottom line, the vaccines won't give us what we need. The kids who responded positively had consistent sets of HLA Class I and II antigens. Those without the markers, died."
She wasn't totally surprised; Francine had theorized as much.
"Our best hope is the bactericidal nanomolecule the team is focused on."
"Our only hope, Don."
He nodded. "I completely agree. That's why I'm here. How's Roscoe coming along?"
"You know Roscoe. Give him a problem to solve and he jumps on it." She yanked a few annoying wisps of hair away from her cheeks and corralled them into her ponytail.
"So you're confident he's isolated the correct protein kinase?"
Nobody would know better than her. She'd spent her career deciphering the mystery of protein kinase communication to the TB replication center. The challenge she really faced was following behind Omar Messina's groundbreaking footsteps, and so far it hadn't been easy. But as far as the protein kinase, she trusted herself and Roscoe . . . well, as much as she trusted anything. "I think Roscoe has the right protein."
Don snapped his fingers. "Good, then you're set to use that protein kinase as the Trojan horse to get the cytotoxic substance inside Tivaz TB. Has Roscoe started on the prototype?"
"Early stages. He's incredible at recombinant techniques, but he's never worked with nanotechnology."
"He's gonna need help, but you know he won't like playing second fiddle. If you want, I'll speak to him."
Did he think she wasn't up to facing Roscoe? "I can handle Roscoe."
He leaned forward. "Claire, it's not a sign of weakness if I help you on this."
She crossed her legs and a familiar spasm announced she'd gotten her period. At least that was one less thing to worry about. "I do need your help, but somewhere else. I want you to go to Dublin and come back with the right person to help Roscoe with the nanotechnology."
She passed him a file folder and watched him open it. The instant he identified the Bio-Shamrock corporate logo he snapped the file shut and handed it back to her.
"You know who these people are?" His usually calm voice was more than a little agitated.
"I do. An Irish biotech firm."
"And you know they were after me to join their Board."
She nodded affirmatively.
"And I refused –"
"Because you thought they played fast and loose with some pre-clinical data."
He grabbed the folder on the desk and waved it this time. "You're not serious."
"If you won't approach them, I'll do it myself."
"Why Bio-Shamrock, Claire?"
"Because they have three scientists on staff experienced in working with nanotechnology, and in particular the type of dendrimer we plan to use to hook together the protein kinase and our cytotoxic drug. You'll find their names and background highlighted."
He tossed the folder on her desk again and ran his hands through his slicked back hair, mussing its style. "Why not just pick one? Why send me?"
"Because I may pick the wrong one. The one with inflated credentials." She took the folder and opened it to a third party QC and QA assessment. "Somebody there is doing real work. I just don't know who."
"You want me to find that person and bring him back here," he stated flatly.
"Somebody has to and they won't be able to pull the wool over your eyes. But if you think it's my place to do it as team leader, I will."
She held her breath while he grabbed the file from her and scanned the Quality Control and Quality Assurance assessment. A few minutes earlier David had taken Francine off her team. Was she about to lose Don too? At last he answered, "When do you want me to leave?"
Thank God. "An hour ago."
"All I gotta say is you're a taskmaster, kiddo, but I like working for you."
"I learned from the best."
He snapped his fingers. "Then I'm off." But he paused in the doorway. "All the same, Claire, and just between us . . . good luck with Roscoe."
Right. She'd need it. Roscoe knew she'd treated Sandra Cook illegally, without the sanction of a First-In-Man approval, and she guessed he'd figured out what happened in Paris, just like Don did. If he pushed back and threatened her if she insisted on bringing in outsiders to help him, it could get ugly.
But before dealing with Roscoe she really did have to visit the Ladies Room. She dug inside her purse for a tampon. Frustrated she couldn't put her hands on it right away she dumped the entire contents on her desk. The shiny white wrapping stood out with no trouble. She stared at the little white package distressed that her regret over getting her period equaled her relief. She would never have David's child. Her destiny was to be a widow and an orphan . . . and the best damn team leader any lab could have.
***
Claire was convinced she'd find Roscoe in his work area. He seemed to be in the lab 24/7 and the funny thing was it never occurred to her to ask where he was staying in London. For all she knew he might've slept here on a cot from day one. She had to admit he worked harder and longer than mostly everybody. She owed him big time, but their personal history made it difficult to acknowledge. And now she was going to ask him to give up what he most craved – the glory for himself.
"Claire," he greeted her. "I got our protein kinase."
Our?
Well at least he was still into sharing credit. "And you're sure it's the correct one?"
"Absolutely. Worked out just like we predicted."
A break, but she was all too aware daunting nanotechnology work faced them and Roscoe would be forced to share credit with someone besides her.
"Have you looked into dendrimers?"
He grinned. "Interesting little critters. We want to work with one that's uncharged and likes water. That way they can circulate in the bloodstream for a good twenty four hours before the liver tries to get rid of them."
Go Roscoe. He'd stuck his nose into nanotechnology deep enough to appreciate the plan of attack. Was it too much to hope he hadn't already assumed pride of ownership?
"We can build a dendrimer with lots of hooks, stick the protein kinase on some of them, and a bactericidal agent on the others. Your concept might work, Claire."
Of course, it was 'her' concept if there was any chance of failure. Unfortunately there was more than a chance, but it was the best idea they had to work with so they'd go with it. She crossed her fingers automatically.
"It's wild what these nano-cats can do with synthetic polymers." Roscoe formed pyramids and squares in the air with his hands. "They build and repeat the structure like they're working with an atomic tinker-toy set."
Yes, just like he was in his mind. Nanotechnology was a state-of-the-art toy box that very few scientists in the world knew how to play with, and even fewer knew how to build.
"The only thing is, I'm not sure how big to build the dendrimer tree structure."
Roscoe? Unsure? This was her chance.
"Roscoe, I've been thinking –"
"Me too."
Uh-oh. Maybe she guessed wrong. Was Roscoe gearing up to ask for what he forever wanted, his name listed first in whatever publications resulted from any shared work?
"Claire, we've got to add somebody to our team who knows this nanotechnology stuff cold. Or we could blow it. Big time."
She reeled, near giddy with relief. After every punch she'd taken today, for Roscoe to be on board was . . .
"Did I surprise you?"
Surprise? He astounded her.
"Hey, I'm ambitious, but I'm not stupid. A smart man knows his limits."
Roscoe . . . pragmatic . . . accommodating?
"Ha!" He jabbed a finger at her. "You thought I'd insist on taking all the credit. But I figure why risk failure when my future's already secure?" He took a step toward her. "And the way you lead this team? Claire, your reputation's made too."
She backed away but he grasped one of her cold hands in his, which was as warm as her flushed cheeks.
"We can write our own ticket anywhere in the world with what we've done here. Together. We were meant to be a team. Our work on Tivaz TB proves it. You conceived of every molecular design we required, Claire –"
"And you built them all, Roscoe."
"See?" His chest expanded. "I start the sentence, and you finish it. We're great together, Claire. People see that. The whole staff talks about us. We're a legend already."
She swallowed hard. "You're a brilliant scientist, Roscoe." She sincerely believed that, but success was not yet theirs . . . his or hers.
"Together we're way beyond brilliant. Why squander it? We can have our own lab."
While he talked she slowly disengaged her hand, but she discovered the chill of freedom was lonely and not entirely welcome.
"They'll fall all over themselves to fund us. I bet the Gates Foundation would pony up. Can't you see it?" He raised his hands as if pointing to a banner. "Vaccines the world needs, built by Roscoe and Claire."
He painted this picture because, as a scientist, he recognized its indisputable appeal.
"People will flock to work with us. We can set up shop wherever we want. Pick a place, Claire. Southern California? Weather's great."
And worlds away from London . . . and the memory of Tivaz TB . . . and David.
"Here's how I see it." Never at a loss, Roscoe pressed on. "What will you do after we've conquered Tivaz TB? Go back to Morocco? C'mon? And as for TB, its replication secret's out in the open now. Been there, done that."
Thanks to Omar Messina, not Claire Ashe.
"You'd never be content reworking a played out vein. You need challenge."
Scary how well he knew her.
"You need something commensurate with what you've demonstrated here."