Authors: Dorian Paul
He'd barely gotten into clearing his inbox when his cell rang. "Keane, what's up?"
"Your mother called," his assistant told him. "Said it's important and you should call her."
He rubbed his eyes and pushed away from his computer. "Anything else?"
"Nothing that isn't in your e-mails."
"Okay. I'm on the first shuttle tomorrow morning." Whatever happened tonight with Lizzie, he had to get back. "Schedule a ride for me to the office in time for the Tivaz TB videoconference."
He tried to refocus on his e-mails, gave up, and paced his postage-stamp room. He was in New York and should call his mother. But the last thing he wanted right now was to listen to more crap about 'poor' Johnny and how he had to help him. He already got beat up for him and put his DEA guy on the case. What more could he do?
He stripped, took a long shower, and tried to work out a new series of kinks in his neck. Shit, Mom and Johnny were the sum total of his family. If he could make time for Lizzie, couldn't he take a minute to call his mother?
"Bobby honey. You gotta help Johnny."
Did he know his mother or what?
"He says they're gonna kill him. I mean really kill him this time."
"When did ya talk to him?"
"Lunch time."
"Where was he?"
"His apartment. I told him, 'Johnny, you get your ass over here, now. They're not gonna kill you in front of your Mama."
"Mom, these guys don't give a shit about anybody's old lady." His DEA pal figured Johnny'd crossed the Russians, and they'd kill their own mother if she owed them. "Look, if he shows up, both of you get outta there. You gotta have a friend somewhere."
"Can't you send one of your men to go get him?"
"No can do, Mom. They're government employees. Don't work for me." He swore under his breath. "Why don't you try callin' Johnny again?"
"He won't answer. You gotta do something."
His laptop beeped, a signal it was going to sleep to save batteries, and a reminder of what he really should be doing.
"Bobby honey, Johnny should 'a been here by now."
If she thinks that 'Bobby honey' stuff works after all these years, she's nuts. No way. But he still let her bitch until his teeth ached from clenching his jaw. Shit. "Lemme see what I can do. I'll get back to you."
This time he had the brains to bribe the cab driver to wait and got out a few blocks early so he could case the neighborhood. Same junkers on the street, same scumbags on the corner but it felt almost too quiet and laid back. Maybe he was being paranoid 'cause he stuck out, dressed in a suit and heading into a cheap dive apartment building. Or maybe it was just that folks around here kept a low profile because being invisible to the cops was a full time occupation in Johnny's neighborhood.
He listened closely at Johnny's door while he took out a handkerchief before testing the knob. Johnny's door wasn't locked this time either. He stared at the door, so chipped he could see every coat of paint slapped on it over the years – red, green, yellow, white, and black. And as he did he remembered a detail from the FISA data mining report that might be a clue to tracing the missing wine shipment. But instead of phoning the analysts, he readied his gun, and in a single fluid motion opened the door in shooting stance, ready for anything.
Or nothing. A sixth sense told him nobody was home, but he didn't let down his guard. Possible Johnny was hiding . . . or one of the Russians. The place wasn't big. He checked out behind the sagging sofa, then in the kitchen where a half-drunk paper cup of cold coffee sat solo on the scratched counter. In the bathroom a giant water bug scuttled across the cracked tile. The fire escape was off the bedroom, and was probably his biggest risk. He jumped the corner and threw open the bedroom closet door to shield himself in case somebody took a shot from the fire escape. Total silence. He stepped into the room.
Johnny's bedroom all right. Complete clutter, but not because somebody'd torn it up. Bobby and Johnny might be identical twins, but the tidy gene somehow got messed up and Bobby got the neat part. When they were kids, they fought over the few clothes they had to share. But when they were teenagers they went their own ways when it came to shoes. Bobby wore sneakers. Johnny fancied big-buck Italian loafers. How he afforded them Bobby didn't want to know, even back then.
He crossed to the far side of the bed and stared down. So, Johnny'd graduated to wingtips. Dark brown. Well, it went with their blonde coloring better than black, he supposed.
Was this what he'd look like dead? No, probably there'd be lots of blood with him, but he could see this was a professional job too. Once the jugular veins were compressed it was maybe a minute to unconsciousness, ten seconds if they closed off the carotid arteries. Well, at least it was quick and he was glad for Johnny's sake.
He sank onto the shag rug and bent closer to his brother. Johnny'd lost weight since the last time he saw him. His swollen face couldn't hide the fact he had the body of a scarecrow. Gently he turned over his brother's arm. Yep. Needle marks.
"Son of a bitch," he shouted. It didn't have to be this way. "Who my gonna butt heads with now? Who my gonna bully? Hate?"
Love?
He closed Johnny's eyes before he shut his own. Johnny was his other half. Hell, they were the same person when you came right down to it. But he needed to think he was different. He laughed out loud. Sure, he took the high road, Johnny the low. And probably both their lives were destined to end in violence. All he could hope was his end had some meaning. Was he bull-shitting himself?
He called the cops first, so somebody could come for Johnny. Then he called his guys in Newark with the data-mining clue he'd thought of earlier. Next he paid a visit to his mother. It was down to the two of them now and he wanted to give her the news in person. She'd be broken-up. Hell, wasn't he?
He did what he could to make his mother feel better, and only told her the details if she insisted. It was close to ten o'clock when he left her place in Spanish Harlem. He was glad at least she was living with a Hispanic taxi driver who kept a roof over her head and didn't ask too many questions. Her neighborhood was full of life, but he wondered if she would be the next to be six feet under. Or maybe him? He supposed it depended on how he lived the rest of his life, but right now odds were he'd die alone and Mom would live to bury both her kids.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and the foil packet of condoms jabbed him. Lizzie. Their rendezvous. He should've called her.
Was it too late to go to the St. Regis? The worst she could do was tell him to take a hike, and if she didn't maybe they had some possibilities for the future.
"Lizzie, did I wake you?"
"Where are you?"
"Downstairs."
"At the King Cole bar? I waited until nine-thirty."
She didn't exactly recriminate, which was good, but she didn't encourage him either.
"I'm not accustomed to being stood up, Bobby."
"It's not like that."
"Would you care to explain?"
What could he say, my brother's dead and I don't wanna be alone? "Something came up, but I should've called."
"Right. You should have," she said.
"Can I come up anyway? What room are you in?"
"Bobby, not tonight."
"Yep. I know. I screwed up. But I could use some company. To talk a little, Lizzie. Just that."
She didn't answer.
Yeah, that said it all. He'd end up like Johnny. Alone. "Well, my own fault. Should've called."
"Room 1219."
"On my way."
Chapter 41
"Dr. Ashe and her team have arrived in the building," James announced at the scheduled start of the Sunday videoconference. "I judge it best we wait until they join us."
The intelligence officers and health authorities that waited around the world agreed Claire's participation was key, but none looked forward to her appearance more than David. They hadn't spoken since he relayed news of Francine Berger's unfortunate death, and he hoped today she'd give him some signal she accepted it for the accident it was. But her eyes held their own counsel when she marched into the London conference room flanked by Don Strong and Roscoe Smartz. The only glance that came his way was Ian Barker's as he swept the room with professional care and then assumed position behind Claire.
"Shall we begin with operations," James said. "Mr. Ruskin will update us on significant developments in Israel and Morocco."
He encouraged Yaniv to brief the team since the Mossad had handled the takedown, and he wanted someone other than himself to emphasize that the facts left no doubt the apprehended Zionists acted outside of Francine's knowledge. He watched Claire's face across the table from him throughout, but she kept her eyes fixed on the Israeli intelligence officer on screen.
Afterwards David reemphasized, "Dr. Berger's presence at the scene was entirely coincidental. There is no evidence linking her to the plot."
Claire's pale countenance grew even more inscrutable at this public acknowledgement of Francine's innocence. She wore a fashionable black dress and jacket, probably from Elizabeth, but the color coupled with her demeanor said she was in mourning. God, he longed for forgiveness for whatever role she believed he'd played in Francine's death.
He directed his next words to her in particular. "From what we can discern, Dr. Berger overheard a conversation about special fire extinguishers which would inflame Israeli parents with grief. Preliminary tests bear out the confiscated canisters contained Tivaz TB." Still she did not respond.
But his German counterpart did. "They planned to deliver it in the guise of fire extinguishers?" his colleague asked in a thick accent. "Are we to assume this has become the preferred delivery method?"
When Claire looked down, he answered for her. "Any number of devices can be used, as long as the bioweapon is stored under pressure. Possible delivery methods are limited only by the imagination of our enemy. Dr. Ashe can confirm this to be the case."
At last she glanced up at the sound of her name but stared straight ahead, beyond him. "Correct. If we learn anything that alters our opinion, we'll communicate it promptly."
He thought he might catch her eye when she finished, but no. He had little choice but to move on. "While we don't know the precise delivery mechanism for the next release of Tivaz TB, we do know how many canisters we're looking for – thanks to our friends in Morocco."
Animated congratulations and nods ensued.
He called on Aziz Bouchta to relay developments in Casablanca. Claire's tip about the man known as the Amazigh Trotskyite had led to his apprehension. He confessed to using nanotechnology to wrap Tivaz TB in a protective molecular shell for Omar Messina. Then with an expansive gesture Bouchta revealed the precise number of canisters the Amazigh Trotskyite prepared with weaponized Tivaz TB.
"Seven."
"The math is simple," David summarized. "One canister released in Paris, two taken into custody in Israel. That leaves us with as many as four potential attacks to avert before Wednesday."
"There may be more than four canisters." Claire's declaration chilled the room.
Aziz Bouchta protested. "I swear we've found the only scientist involved. He worked alone. He's telling the truth. I can provide the interrogation tapes –"
"Not necessary," David interjected. No one in attendance wanted to know specifically what the Moroccans did to achieve the scientist's cooperation. "We do not doubt your information, Mr. Bouchta. Dr. Ashe, please elaborate."
Again without meeting his eyes she said, "We haven't inspected the actual Israeli canisters, but the data suggest they're only storage vessels intended to transport the bioweapon. A scientist or bioengineer with the right know-how could divide the available material into more than one delivery device."
Yaniv spoke up. "The men we captured allege they planned to use two fire extinguishers, which we have taken possession of."
"That doesn't prevent another group from dividing the material they're given," Claire pointed out, and he had to agree with her. "And another possibility exists. Omar Messina might do his own dirty work."
"But he cannot. The man who did the weaponization is under our control," Bouchta objected.
"You took him into custody after he demonstrated the technique in front of Dr. Messina." Claire turned to the irksome man beside her who referred to David as her 'Government boyfriend.' "Dr. Smartz, would you please explain?" Claire instructed her colleague.
David had never seen this guy in anything other than a space suit or dress down lab clothes before, and admittedly the fellow appeared rather impressive in jacket and tie when he stood up to enlighten them all. "I never had direct experience with nanotechnology before this week when our Irish colleague showed me the technique." Smartz paused as if for effect. "Now I've established an assembly line to produce a bactericidal nanomolecule designed to kill Tivaz TB directly."
"Do you believe Omar Messina is capable of weaponizing Tivaz TB on his own?" James asked, determined to get a definitive answer.
The people on screen and present in the room held their collective breath.
"If he's capable of figuring out the replication secret of TB and inserting it into a multi-drug resistant strain," Roscoe Smartz said, "Then it's a good bet he's able to weaponize it after a show and tell."
This was bad news indeed.
"Which means we can't rule out the possibility." Claire inclined her head toward Smartz, a bit too intimately for David's comfort. "Even if Omar Messina's not quite as good at the bench as our own Dr. Smartz, he's damn good."
Bobby grunted. "Great. We don't know how much of this crap is out there – and we've got two days to find it."
"Any progress on the import front?" David asked.
"Still hunting down those missing cases of wine. The shipper checks out and the dock foreman seems clean, but we might've caught a break with an e-mail intercept. Something about Noir's package arriving. Noir, as in Dr. Black, Messina's code-name. So, could be something there and we're on it."