Risking the World (15 page)

"You have a different view of manners than we English."

Would her attempt to smooth things over be rewarded by a lecture on legendary American rudeness? 

"However, I rather like the candor of Americans," Andrew finished.

"Candor?"

"Yes, you informed me straight away of your interest in Thorn Hall."  Only then did she notice Andrew's shrewd eyes were thanking her for moving the conversation away from himself and his son.  "Now I can discuss my ancestral home without fear of boring you."

Later, when she was seated with the Ruskins at their mahogany dining table set with formal Wedgwood china, she continued her struggle to fathom the meaning of their strained family dynamics.  It seemed as though the antique silver epergne filled with hothouse lilies in the center of the table was positioned to obscure their view of each other.  Meanwhile she knew she'd give anything to share a single meal with her parents, and know them as more than a framed picture of two adults standing next to her as a child of five the Christmas before the car accident.  But even though she sat with David's family on needle-point chairs probably worked by earlier generations of Ruskin females at a table whose leaves had been removed to promote conversation, she thought the chances of family intimacy was nil.

She was so wrong.  Lunchtime conversation ranged from tales of his sister Anne's two children, about whom David asked lots of questions, to various aunts and uncles and cousins.  Then his father discussed the family's properties, and David showed particular interest in Forbes Castle in Scotland. By meal's end the earlier family strain had diffused, and she realized how little she knew about families, and how much she longed to know.

***

"I appreciate the effort you made to come out," David's father said to him once they were alone in the study.  "You must be busy these days.  Negotiations or something of the sort?"

"Something of the sort," he equivocated.  "I've only just returned from a trip with the man who'll be my U.S. counterpart when I assume the new position.  Bobby Keane."

"The fellow who visited you in Scotland after you were so badly hurt?"

And Jeremy was killed.  Say it, damn you.

"That was a difficult time for all of us in the family, David, but you showed resilience."

Only because Bobby stormed Forbes Castle, smashed his cache of Scotch, and beat him so hard he was forced to fight back.

"Was your trip with Mr. Keane related to your new responsibilities?"

"In a manner of speaking.  We're closing out some old business."

"I see."  His father paused, as was his habit.  "Do you mind discussing your work?"

Mind?

"I steered clear of it when you first entered the service, not certain what you were at liberty to discuss.  Afterwards it grew more awkward."

"Afterwards.  You mean after Jeremy was killed?"

"I do not hold you responsible for his death.  He admired you and announced his intent to join your profession even as a boy."

"And was I wrong not to stop him?"

"I never stopped you."

Not in so many words.  "You merely disapproved."

"I regret if you believe I disapproved.  Certainly I hoped to see you working with me on the family responsibilities."  He paused again.  "However, I always knew you had the wherewithal to succeed in whatever field you chose.  You were a leader, even as a boy at school, and I'm not at all surprised they tapped you for Warner's position."

He stared at his father, finding it hard to square this compliment with years of what he'd perceived as the man's censure.  He should offer an olive branch.  "Your work to maintain the family holdings intact is admirable."

"We should talk more."  His father cleared his throat, and hesitated again.

Was he about to acknowledge this opening gambit at reconciliation?  Discuss his cousin Jeremy's death outright? 

"Yes?" David prompted.

"Nothing."

Nothing . . . he's going to keep his own counsel.  Even during the years of his youthful rebellion his father never once commented on his behavior, wild as it was.  Now he realized this inclination to hold things close to the vest invited misunderstanding.  And that he shared this trait with his father.

His father stood up from the huge desk he used to play under as a child.  "There are additional papers to sign.  Shall I make the appointment with my solicitor?"

"I shall make the appointment myself in near future."

His father received the news with a curled lip, a raised eyebrow and a haughty nod, his way of setting expectations for his son.  But instead of disdaining these patrician manners, David took the first step toward acceptance.  Much remained for them to learn about one another.

***

They rejoined the ladies in the sitting room.  After coffee, his father took Claire off for a walking history of the house, and he made a point of telling his mother, "I signed the initial papers and shall make an appointment soon with the solicitor."

"Thank you, dear."

"I'm fully aware of the implications."

"Of course.  The estate will come to you in any event so it's only prudent to have the properties set up appropriately for taxes.  We know your other responsibilities take precedence."

"They do, mother."

He looked out the window at the landscaped park in the near distance and the lake beyond before returning his attention to her, and hoped he would soon reconcile himself to his birthright.  Today was a start.  But to create a future here, he had to resolve his business with Varat . . . and put Jeremy's death behind him.

"Your father and I plan to administer everything for the foreseeable future."

"Right.  I understand."  And quite honestly, he did as never before.  For him inheriting meant responsibilities yet to come. For his parents it acknowledged their mortality.

"Claire is a lovely young lady.  You should bring her back another time."

His mother's petition for a grandson, the next in line, was unambiguous.  He recognized the need to tread lightly here, and offered no reply.  Conveniently his phone squawked.  The ensuing conversation saved him from more questions, but at a price so high it was an effort to remain calm.  While it was unfortunate the visit had to be cut short, the certainty of the upcoming crisis was a massive tragedy.

In search of Claire, he followed the sound of boisterous laughter inside the long gallery where she and his father stood side by side waving their arms at his line of ancestors, doubled over with glee.  He couldn't recall ever laughing with his father, but he did remember riding his bike down this gallery as a boy.  He'd gotten a fine beating for it.  After that he saved his antics for out-of-doors, on horses, until the groom notified his father. He'd been grounded for a month.  Little did his sire know that was the start of a covert life, a high-stakes game played by a seven-year-old intent on outwitting both the groom and his father.

Now his father called out, "David, my boy, I was telling Claire the tale of your great, great, great grandfather playing a joke on Wellington during the Napoleonic wars."

"I didn't believe him, until he pointed out the proof right here in this picture."  Her finger hovered near the enormous oil painting.  "Your father missed his calling.  What a grand raconteur!  Not even the Boston Irish can tell stories like this."

His father, a raconteur?  Had someone else's family taken up residence in Thorn Hall?  No, he was seeing his father through Claire's eyes, a woman at ease with his father and having the time of her life.  It fell to him to destroy the mood.

"My apologies.  But something's come up and Claire and I must leave."

"Of course."  She tensed with concern – for him. "I'm sorry, Andrew."

"Not to worry, my dear.  We shall find a time to complete the tour in the near future."

Not bloody likely it would be anytime soon, he thought as Claire moved briskly to his side.  His hand stole to the small of her back as he led her to his MG, and she sat quietly inside the confined space of his tiny sports car waiting for him to speak.  He wished to protect her from the news, from what lay ahead, but knew she'd face it like she faced everything else . . . no holds barred.  Still, he waited till they cleared the gates of Thorn Hall before he stopped the car and said, "I'm afraid I have bad news."

She braced herself and he put one hand over hers.  "There's been an accident at the lab."

Chapter 19

"Roscoe?" she asked, jerking her hand away and shoving a fistful of loose hair behind her shoulder.

Who is Roscoe?
  "No.  Sandra Cook."

Her eyes widened.  "Sandra?"

"Right.  James Warner rang me."

"No, can't be.  It must be a mistake.  She's theoretical."

He didn't grasp the significance of her remark, but he had confidence in the accuracy of his facts.  "I'm sorry, Claire.  Sandra Cook has been infected."

She shook her head, still in denial.  "You must be wrong.  You're sure it's not Roscoe?"

"It's Sandra, Claire.  We'll soon be at the lab.  Ian Barker has established a perimeter.  Someone named Francine is handling quarantine."

"Francie," she murmured, absorbing the news at last.

He restarted the MG.  She pulled his hand away from the steering wheel and entwined her icy fingers with his.

"Not Sandra, please God, not Sandra.  Not Francine. Not Roscoe.  Not anybody," she whispered.  "Please God, not anybody."

***

"Dr. Berger tested the corridor and associated environs," Ian Barker told Claire as they headed into the Level 4 area.  "No sign of contamination."

She had to be absolutely sure the accident was confined.  "The negative pressure seal is intact?"

"Yes."

"And only Dr. Berger's been inside the room since then?"

Before Ian could answer, David interrupted.  "How did the accident occur?"

"You'd best ask Dr. Cook, Mr. Ruskin."

"Bloody hell, man.  You've had time enough to find out."

"The only one she'll speak to is Dr. Berger," Ian answered.

"Who is this Dr. Berger?"

"Francine," she told him.  "Sandra Cook's trusted colleague."

"No one can be trusted.  Take heed, both of you.  This is an issue of national security."

Ian unlocked the outer door to the Level 4 unit and David moved to be first through, but she grabbed him.  "Your questions can wait."

"Wait?"  His eyes blazed.  "If Varat's penetrated this facility, I need to know before the trail goes cold."

"If Sandra Cook's been exposed to Tivaz TB, she needs to be treated.  Immediately.  Your interrogation –"

"Debrief," he corrected.

"Call it what you will."  She'd experienced first hand the stress of answering the same questions over and over.  "You're in my domain.  I insist Sandra be treated as a patient first, and an intelligence asset later."

She shouldered past him and through the double-thick glass saw Francine keeping vigil with Sandra.  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she met the eyes of her unforeseen ally.  "Sandra, I'm so sorry."

"No use crying over spilt milk."  Sandra gestured to her shattered face shield.  "What's done is done."

"How can I help?"

"Ask those men to leave.  Then suit up and come in so Francie and I can speak to you in private."

"Claire, I cannot allow that," David hissed.  "I must hear what she says."

"You can debrief me afterwards.  Francine, too."

"That is not the same, as you are well aware."

"I'm sorry, it'll have to do."  She respected his need, but Sandra's was greater at the moment.  "She has rights, as a patient, to speak in confidence to her doctor."

"You are not a licensed physician.  You are a research specialist."

She threw her shoulders back.  "I know more about Tivaz TB than any practicing physician alive.  In my book that's qualification enough.  Now, would you and Mr. Barker please grant us a few moments of privacy?"

He relented with a curt nod, and she exhaled in relief as he followed Ian out the door.  Then she suited up.  As soon as she threw the safety airlock on the door, Sandra got right down to business.  "Francie and I have been talking things over."

"Good.  I've been thinking about the safest way to establish quarantine as we move you to a hospital."

"I don't intend to go to hospital.  I'm staying here, in the lab."

"Sandra, you need services only a hospital can offer."

"Everything I need is upstairs in the primate laboratory."  She cackled.  "We can thank those animal rights folks after all, can't we Francie?  They insisted on a state-of-the-art facility, and if it's good enough for chimpanzees it's good enough for Sandra Cook."

The thought of Sandra fighting for her life, cocooned in a laboratory containment bubble like Leila, was more than she could bear.  "You can't be serious?"

"I'm dead serious.  No sense exposing the general population.  Much easier to establish quarantine if we confine me here."

"But at the hospital –"

"They'll administer antibiotics you know won't work. Claire, Francie's told me about the girl in Morocco."

"But she was young, her immune system hadn't fully developed.  You might respond better."

Sandra shook her head.  "I doubt it.  I suffer from lupus."

Lupus, SLE, systemic lupus erythematosus.  An incurable autoimmune disease.  "How severe?"

"She's beyond systemic corticosteroids," Francie answered.  "She's been taking methotrexate for some time."

The news packed a wallop.  Methotrexate was a heavy-duty cancer drug given to lupus patients after other treatments failed.  It slowed the progression of lupus by suppressing the immune system, but that also made the patient more susceptible to infections.

"My white cell count's lower than low," Sandra stated.  "Don't be expecting a miracle response from this old bird."

"We must try something."

"I want to receive the DNA vaccine your team's developing."

"But we only have a prototype."

"Roscoe Smartz can scale up.  Francie says he's a wizard."