Authors: Dorian Paul
"
C'est possible
this word refers only to Pinot Noir, our excellent French Red wine," Brun said dryly, loath to miss an opportunity to tout the French.
"Why do you assume the TB has been sent to New York?" Yaniv demanded of Bobby. "Iran's paying for this. Why not divert all of it to Israel? Wipe out as many of us as they can."
"You're not their only enemy, pal," Bobby shot back. "The hawks are circling in my government, waiting on something, anything, they can hang around Iran's neck that's gonna let them justify military action. If we come up empty on this wine shipment, we're in deep do-do."
David broke in. "Iran's not the only player. The man they've hired has an ax of his own to grind."
"Your Mr. Varat?" Brun interjected.
"Right. I'm fully expecting Varat to release material in the U.K."
"What's your proof?" Yaniv asked.
"Messages that demonstrate he can pull something off in my own back yard."
"Restaurant menus and a knife?" the German scoffed.
Stated so baldly, he had to admit his contention sounded preposterous.
"He plays games with you," Yaniv insisted. "While you search the U.K., Varat strikes elsewhere."
He'd considered that, but every gut instinct told him Varat's personal motivations were central to the plot, even more so after he received the roster of Lycée Rue Barthel students from Brun last night, the one good turn he'd gotten from the Frenchman.
"You still believe the next attack will be Wednesday because your friend Varat sent you an ancient dagger that carries Woden's nickname?" Yaniv challenged. "The men we captured knew neither the time nor place of the attacks. The release could have been for yesterday, today or weeks from now. Why not keep us guessing?"
"Point taken," David conceded, although he completely disagreed and would continue his quest on his own.
James nodded. "More concrete evidence is required before our Prime Minister would authorize closure of schools for Wednesday. I assume the rest of our colleagues agree."
"Yep, the President's not gonna scare everybody shitless here unless we've got actionable intelligence and even then, not 'till we're down to the wire," Bobby added.
While he understood their concerns, David wasn't ready to let it drop. "Should we not at least agree on a decision point? When would be the latest for us to take a decision on closing the schools on Wednesday?"
Don Strong spoke up. "Why stop at the schools? They could release it in a pediatric hospital in a large city. Or a cancer center. Or a big burn hospital. Anyplace where large groups of patients are immunocompromised. If widespread infection is the aim, those places are better targets."
"Have you learned something new?" the representative from the European Medicines Agency asked. "Is Tivaz TB more contagious than we thought?"
Claire responded. "Bugs evolve, and while we've known from the beginning Tivaz TB is vulnerable in the atmosphere, we've never fully evaluated its ability to spread person to person."
Who would want to, other than Varat and Omar Messina?
"It didn't spread in Paris," Anton Brun reminded everyone.
"Only because quarantine was promptly and effectively established," Claire continued. "Sacrifices were made. Parents wore protective suits when they held their babies for the last time."
She bit her lips after those words. He knew how the children's deaths tormented her and wished he were by her side so he might give her support, but it was Don Strong who stepped in when she found it difficult to speak. "Remember, an alert nurse raised the alarm early that morning in Paris. What if those kids were infected late in the day and went home? Think of parents kissing them goodnight and going to work the next morning. Or the nanny who put a child to bed and then went to a crowded bar."
The room fell silent until the European Medicines Agency person spoke up again. "We've re-issued bulletins reinforcing quarantine procedures. And we're expediting review of your group's bactericidal nanomolecule, the one Dr. Smartz referred to earlier."
"Thank you," Claire said. "Just to let everyone know, we've requested approval to administer the nanomolecule in combination with the two vaccines used in Paris."
"Are you're confident this new combination will work?" Brun asked.
She didn't flinch under Brun's aggressive attitude and David's admiration for her deepened. "Unfortunately, there's no way to know for certain until we use the combination on an infected person."
"She is correct," the European Medicine Agency's person concurred. "All we have authorized under the circumstances is limited safety testing in healthy volunteers. On that front, so far so good. But we'd like assurances the material to be used on patients is identical to what we've tested."
"Dr. Smartz here. We're dedicating our London lab to nanomolecule production and have an in-house monitoring procedure. If we encounter variations between work stations, we'll set that material aside and ask for your guidance."
"Any regulatory questions should be forwarded to Dr. Strong," Claire said. "He'll be in London to obtain necessary approvals. Dr. Smartz will also be in London, in charge of ramping up our lab. He has my complete confidence."
For the first time since entering the room she looked directly at him. Why? Because she didn't have confidence in him.
"I'm leaving for Morocco to assume Francine Berger's responsibilities," Claire informed the group. "I'll oversee production of our vaccines in the plant there."
She still blamed him for Francine. And her obvious aversion to him smarted, even as he heard Bobby and others demanding to know when vaccine distribution would begin.
James called the meeting to order. "Dr. Ashe and I have discussed this at length. In point of fact, there is not enough material to distribute worldwide in advance of Wednesday, but we are developing contingency plans to treat victims in the event of multiple simultaneous attacks."
"What do you propose?" the German asked.
"The U.K. will maintain supersonic military aircraft on standby in England and Morocco, to transfer material to attack locations as they become known." He paused. "We believe we can handle this, but would welcome assistance in fueling, etcetera."
A chorus of volunteers came forward and a detailed schedule of checkpoints was hammered out before the videoconference ended.
Now was his chance to speak to Claire before she left, but the moment she stood, her band of men, Don Strong, Roscoe Smartz, and Ian Barker formed a phalanx around her, as though determined to protect her from him. And Roscoe's hand hovered at the small of her back, not exactly touching her, but entirely too cozy. What the bloody hell was that all about?
He muscled inside her inner circle, courtesy of Ian, the only one who gave him an opening. "I'd like to speak with you, Claire."
She looked in his direction but at some imaginary point in the distance. "Yes, what is it?"
"Privately Claire."
She gave him a blank stare. "I'm sorry. Now isn't the best time. Maybe later."
"Now is best for me." He hadn't meant to make it sound like an order. Or had he?
"Give the woman a break," Roscoe raised his voice in reply. "When she's got time to talk to you she will. Not before."
He wanted to smash the arrogant man's face. Don Strong stepped in front of David as though to block him. "Hey, everybody settle down. We're all stressed. Nobody's had much sleep."
"Yeah, we were up most of last night," Roscoe said.
The man's smarmy smile at Claire made his blood boil. "Varat was right," he snarled. "You need somebody like Red to keep you in line."
Her icy glare prompted instant regret. But already her men had closed ranks and she stormed past him.
Chapter 42
The Cairo Museum didn't display Persian swords and armor, but Varat studied the artifacts because they celebrated one of mankind's earliest attempts to defeat death. He disagreed with the passivity of Egyptian methods, but appreciated the concept. Their dead Pharaoh was mummified for posterity, and his well-being in the after-life guaranteed by entombing him with play miniature men and women, who baked his bread, brewed his beer, caught his fish, and sawed his timber. Varat had no need to incorporate himself within this reverent tradition. In a few days he would achieve on his own what the Pharaohs required an entire nation to accomplish. Soon the family name Varat would be known to the world and granted immortality as permanent as the Pharaonic cartouche carved on granite obelisks.
Yes, it was time to gather his grandfather's weapons, relics more sacred to a Pahlawan warrior than the bread of life. He left the museum for his suite at the Mena House Hotel, reclined on the luxuriously woven Egyptian cotton bedcover, and dialed his Swiss banker.
"I wish to arrange a transfer for my articles now housed with you for safe-keeping."
"Yes, sir. We have already acted on your orders."
The words stabbed at his chest, rending the shroud of his silk shirt.
"The last shipment left only an hour ago, sir."
Varat recoiled from this second slash, and the plush comforter threatened to bury him. "And where did you send it?"
"To the Wallace Collection in London, for curatorial assessment, as you instructed."
The razor edge of Tiger's blade, wielded through this ignorant bank intermediary, cut again – this time to the quick.
"We took the liberty of purchasing shipping insurance as a matter of prudence. However, you are under no obligation to compensate us because you did not specifically request –"
"How did my instructions reach you?" He kicked viciously at the twisted bedcover to set his feet free.
"A text message through your communication account, sir."
"You verified my pass code?"
"Of course. It is standard procedure."
His chest spasmed and his torso writhed like a warrior in his final throes.
"Is there a problem, sir?"
Problem? He commanded his rigid lungs to voluntarily inhale and exhale, for a Pahlawan warrior never showed weakness or exposed pain – even on point of death.
"Our ciphering system ensures complete privacy of pass codes. No one in our employ knows your code."
No one but Tiger!
He contemplated the great Pyramids towering beyond his hotel window. Three thousand years earlier their pinnacles sparked with eternal gold, but desecrating looters had shorn and left them in tatters . . . even as Tiger denied him the consolation of Grandfather's collection.
Tiger. He expected the scramasax from Christie's auction block would lead Tiger to the bank account that exposed the wire transfers from Iran, and set in motion the world's vengeance on those who destroyed his patrimony. He knew Tiger might also discover his grandfather's sword within that auction lot. But he never expected him to learn he'd been a student at Lycée Rue Barthel because he'd expunged those records more than a decade ago.
But then, hadn't he always known Tiger to be a worthy enemy? To remove his grandfather's weapons collection from a Swiss vault using a pass code known only to him, one that combined his grandfather's birth date with his dormitory room number on the day his father and grandfather were executed, demonstrated a rare blend of instinct and ability. Tiger may have upped the ante today, but Varat would have the last laugh when the world convulsed over Tivaz TB.
Alas, before the sky goddess Nut advanced Monday's blazing sun to the noon zenith, the electronic web brought Varat additional bad news. And by the time his trusted pilot lifted the nose of their chartered plane above the Nile's delta, he received confirmation three of his upcoming attacks had been foiled. Damn David Ruskin. The London failure infuriated him most. He'd warned his contacts an approach similar to the Paris school was risky, but they assured him exterminators were routinely called into ancient buildings in the heart of London because environmentally safe pesticides weren't reliable. No one would suspect the spray to contain Tivaz TB. They were disastrously wrong.
But the other two thwarted attacks?
He gazed down on Alexandria, the city where the great Greek who conquered the known universe sought to compile his world's knowledge in a single library. Alexander's city was sacked after his death, and the irreplaceable papyrus manuscripts burned. The plane hugged the North African coast high above the temples built by the Romans, bare ruined monuments where emperors once preened. The lost Alexandrian and Roman civilizations were a reminder victory never came easily, and once won, fate determined the ultimate ending. But true glory lay in striking blows until the last breath. And so he would.
***
By evening's indigo light on Monday Varat entered the sanctuary caves in the northern Rif Mountains of Morocco to review his counterattack.
"All is prepared." The dark beads of Omar Messina's eyes shined with purpose. "Everything is in readiness as you requested."
"You have proven yourself a trusted ally."
"Your diversion should make our task easier."
Yes, and provide an unbearably enticing trap – just the thing to net his Tiger.
"Our men await only your signal."
"Your men demonstrate the worth of their name. The West is wrong to call them Berbers, for they are not barbarians. They are truly Amazigh, noble men who will soon be free."
Messina squared his hunched shoulders. "If all succeeds we will be free."
"You, who created Tivaz TB and gave us the means to deliver it to our enemies, are more than equal to the task ahead of you. This is –"
"My dream."
"Yes." Varat embraced his comrade. "Soon, very soon, we shall both realize our dreams."
Chapter 43
"Conference call with Bobby," James announced to David. "Please join us in my office."
He checked his watch before leaving. Noon on Tuesday, 7 A.M. at Langley. When he got to James' office he began by asking Bobby the only question of importance, "You discovered the seventh canister?"