Risking the World (25 page)

Only to see his family's irreplaceable soup tureen catch beneath the edge of the towel and tumble to the floor.  She scrambled on her knees and watched the broken ornate gold knob from the lid roll toward the sink, as if in slow motion, with a delicate handle following in its wake.

She couldn't move and sobbed uncontrollably.  This is how Maggie found her.

"Shh, luv.  It's only a soup tureen.  The two bits can be refitted."

"No, I've ruined it.  It can't be replaced."

"Nonsense.  Let Maggie take care of it.  Broken my share of the Duchess' things.  There's a shop that can fit it up right quick."

Still shaking, she took the tissue Maggie passed and blew her nose, trying to get a hold of herself.  "This is my responsibility. Give me the address.  I'll take it for repair on my way to the lab."

"Sure, luv?  Broken china isn't such a big problem."

Not to Maggie.  But to her it was the end of the world, which, for the briefest of time, she allowed herself to occupy inside Sherborne House.

Chapter 30

Varat insisted the meeting occur at the Pars Museum in Shiraz, south of Tehran, because the most famous Zand-period shamshir from his grandfather's collection was taken there for display following his execution. Photographs emphasized the gold-inlaid cartouche, the gilt hand guard, and the walrus tusk handle.  But the jawhar on the surface of the curved blade drew the connoisseur's eye.  These distinctive wave-like tracings were characteristic of the watered steel swords that subdued Christian Crusaders attempting to fight their way to Jerusalem.  Yes, the jawhar had become Varat's talisman for victory over his enemies . . . all of them.

European smiths couldn't reproduce this marvel of metallurgy.  Only secretive Persian craftsmen knew the combination of coral, borax, pomegranate rinds, oyster shells, orange peels and gall nuts which, when forged with base iron in a crucible, gave birth to a sword bearing the four attributes of the coveted shamshir:  it vibrated with a continuous true tone when struck, held an edge sharp enough to slice through silk, was supple enough to bend without breaking in battle, and strong enough to sever a bar of iron.

Now, like the pure ring of his grandfather's prized watered steel blade, Varat's voice proclaimed his mettle as he negotiated with his Revolutionary Guard sponsors in the Farsi language of his Persian ancestors, a tongue that resisted assaults from the Greeks, Huns, and at present, the Arabs.

"An attack on France was not part of our understanding," the lead man thrust.

Of course not because the French continued to trade goods and expertise with Iran in spite of U.S.-backed trade sanctions.  That, as much as the schoolyard taunts he endured as an orphan, hardened his heart against the city he loved.  "Paris was a good proof source, no?" he parried.

"You sent us a video as proof."

"Ah, but Paris showed the world Tivaz TB in full glory.  There can be no doubt about the power of what you're purchasing."

The lead man scowled.  "The element of surprise has been lost on our true targets."

"Widespread panic in the West because they couldn't save their children exceeds the value of surprise."

"However, not all of the children died," the man emphasized.  "And you haven't produced the quantity of bioweapon you promised."

"Do not concern yourself.  I can produce more."

"Where is the scientist?"

"He is safe."  Messina was hidden in the Rif Mountains, protected by his Amazigh countrymen.  "I have more than enough TB for what you most desire, and the means to deliver it."

"Without our help?"

"Trust me."

"Why should we?"

"I have recruited people within their own state.  Your hands will be clean."

He felt nothing but contempt for the men facing him in a tight semi-circle who smiled at the prospect of their enemy turning brother against brother.  How quickly they forgot Iran had once done so to the best of its own men, his father and grandfather among them.  They did not understand honor flowed from being true to those you swore allegiance to, even after their death.

"I will deliver Tivaz TB as agreed.  But first you must meet my full price."

They twitched with blood lust unsatisfied by rockets launched by Hamas and Hezbollah proxies, and in that moment Varat cut his deal and sold them Tivaz TB with the ease of Grandfather's blade slicing the head off of a common criminal.

Base price agreed upon, they moved on to discuss additional targets and argued briefly over a discount for America because they had sleeper cells to help with the operation.  The fools boasted of the communications, firearms, and explosives they'd planted within the belly of the Great Satan, unaware that what Varat prized most was how easily the pedigree of their sleeper cells could be traced back to Iran by the Americans, with only a little help from him.

He made a show of conceding in price, but minimally and grudgingly because he understood the higher the price the more his sponsors craved his offering.  Then he asked, "And the British?"

"Of no consequence.  Their power days are over."

"But they fight hand-in-hand with America.  Their will must be broken also."

"Only if you have enough material."

He did, and would reserve sufficient for his personal enemy in any event.  Payment details were reviewed next, and he threatened to renege on the deal unless the transfers occurred precisely as he outlined.  He was anxious, of course, but not at the prospect he wouldn't receive his money.  He wanted nothing to prevent David Ruskin from following the money trail back to these men.

Why did he need more money?  Grandfather's collection was essentially reconstituted, save for the few pieces, such as the one in this military museum, which hadn't been sold into the black market upon his family's destruction.  And now he was poised to complete his life's mission against his family's murderers, one he pledged to fulfill years ago as a schoolboy in Paris.  But to do so he must perform as one of Grandfather's watered steel swords, and bend in the stress of battle without snapping.

They brought him to the Admiral who presided over the museum.

"Varat.  I knew your father and grandfather."

And you stood to the side while they bravely faced death.

"Good men, but slow to see how the wind shifted direction."

And you smelled a change in course like the seasoned sailor and rode the storm of revolution to personal safety rather than honor your sacred duty as a Pahlawan warrior to obey your oath of loyalty to the Shah.

"Now you've returned home to work with us."

"It is my duty to restore the family honor," he said with honest humility.

"Yes."  The admiral smoothed his handlebar moustache.  "You wish to see the Shah of Tirbur's sword."

No, he wished to slay this man who'd deserted his father and grandfather and every muscle of his body contracted, making the effort to conceal his desire taxing.

"It is a marvelous example of our heritage."

A far better example than you, Admiral.

At last, a young subordinate officer led him down polished corridors where he beheld Grandfather's most sacred shamshir and fulfilled a dream as old as memory.

Yet he barely saw the dazzling weapon, for his mind's eye sketched every step of this undertaking he'd designed to redeem a prize more valuable than this earthly artifact – the good name and honor of the family Varat.  He imagined it unfolding as planned.  Jewish parents and children would cry out in the agony of Tivaz TB, and the world would blame Hamas and Hezbollah.  Darling Americans would blister in excruciating sores, choke on their own screams, and the mighty nation would clamor for retribution.  And Tiger – David Ruskin – would be powerless to prevent the extinction of his own heritage by the hand of Varat.  But Ruskin would know he, Varat, was the mastermind behind all this and be clever enough to find the clues leading back here . . . to the Revolutionary Guard.

The full vengeance of the West would then fall on Iran, on those who destroyed his family.

Yes, all would be served in turn as long as he saw this plot through with adamantine resolution, like a watered steel blade strong enough to sever a bar of iron without suffering a single nick.

Chapter 31

Claire was relieved to see Don seemed no worse for wear after the helicopter crash.  His thick black wavy hair, slicked straight back, looked unchanged except for the touch of gray around the temples that was absent the last time she'd seen him, nine months ago.  And he acted like the same old Don, hugging her and then getting right down to business.

"I finally remember how I know the name Messina.  He just missed the cut the year Carl Fantoro took me into his lab."  Don shook his head.  "I never met the guy, but I heard he stormed off in a huff, claiming Carl discriminated against him."

Long before the Nobel Committee sat up and took notice of his work, Carl Fantoro was a god in the world of vaccine research because he prized scientific creativity above all else.  But maybe Carl had discriminated against Omar Messina.  Why else would he pass on a man whose scientific genius was off the charts?

"Now this guy has the whole world's attention with his manipulation of TB into a bioweapon."  Don waved the preliminary report her analysis team did on the nanomolecules from the Paris school.  "Bastard even constructed Bucky-balls bigger than the C540 to deliver it."

She forced herself not to chew her cheek.  Never again would anyone doubt Messina's scientific prowess.  He'd wrapped his killer TB in a nanotechnology coating to protect it from the atmosphere, just like the hard chocolate shells around M&Ms kept them from melting in your hands.

"Where are you on this, Claire?"

Not as far as we need to be.  "Still figuring out how Messina's Bucky-balls are split to release his TB into the body."

"Enzymatic action?"

"My first thought too, but his Bucky-ball structure resists enzymes."

Dark eyes flashed above the strong hook of Don's nose.  "Think he put in a weak link somewhere?"

She did, but it wasn't easy to take a stand in front of her mentor and possibly be proven wrong.  He never suffered fools gladly.  "Definitely conceivable."

"If you can isolate it, you can block it."

"Yes, that's one of the strategies we're chasing."

He snapped his fingers.  She relaxed at this sign he thought she was on the right track.  But there was no guarantee they could keep Tivaz TB locked up in its Bucky-ball shell, and if it got out again they had to be ready to kill it.  "I've directed the team to focus on finding a way to deliver a cytotoxic substance directly into the TB bacillus."

"Terrific.  The direct bactericidal approach."  He snapped his fingers again.  "Combine it with your two vaccines and zap – you could have a real winner."

God, she hoped he was right.  She so wanted it to be true, and with him here they just might succeed.

Ian knocked and brought in two cups of dark Italian Espresso from the shiny machine he'd delivered to the lab's tearoom after Paris.  Sweet of him to provide for what he described as 'Yankee preferences.'  Yes, Ian had been an ally since the beginning . . . but her true bulwark sat across from her.

"Having you here means everything to me," she said when they were alone again.  "Thanks for coming, Don."

"No thanks needed.  It's all hands on deck.  The friggin' world's at risk."  He downed his espresso in a single gulp.  "Now, how can I help out?"

"Take charge," she all but begged.

His bushy eyebrows lifted at least an inch.

"Yes, lead the team.  They need you.  I need you."

He spun his empty cup in its saucer.

"Assess our strengths and weaknesses, then reallocate resources as you see fit.  Put me where you think I'll have the most impact."

"I know the answer to that already."

"Where?" she asked.

"Here."  He pointed at her chair.  "Right where you are.  In the group leader's seat."

"You don't have to stroke my ego."  He would've been chosen to spearhead the effort from the get-go if he hadn't been in the Congo. "You've got way more experience than me in leading development teams."

He shook his head deliberately.  "But I don't know Tivaz TB like you do.  And I don't know the history of this team.  Getting me up to speed would be a time waster."

"I can get you up to speed really fast."  She leapt from her chair and went to the file cabinet for her thickest folder. "I have a complete summary of our work to date along with a list of new ideas we're working on."

"No, Claire.  You're the best person for the job."

She trusted his judgment but she sure didn't like his answer.

"Now you tell me, kiddo, where can I help out the most?"

Like Jesus on the cross she was ready to plead once more, 'Father, take this cup from me.'  But she'd worked with Don long enough to know he'd refuse.  He'd evaluated the available evidence, made up his mind, and wouldn't be swayed unless she presented convincing proof he was better suited to be team leader . . . and she'd run out of arguments.

"I imagine Roscoe's a handful," he said.

He was, but she'd found a way to work with him and couldn't risk Roscoe getting into a turf war with Don.  "I've got him under control."

"Something I never managed to do."  He smiled at her.  "Then find another role for me."

"I think you'd be a big help in theoretical.  Look in on what Francine Berger's doing."

"Sandra Cook's right hand?  Is there a problem there?"

"No, just tons of data.  She's analyzing the treatment results from the Lycée Rue Barthel."

"Fifteen percent response rate, Claire.  Remarkable under the circumstances."

She swallowed the espresso dregs pooling in her cup and steeled herself to reveal the Paris mini-trial she and Francine swore to keep secret.  Would he be disappointed in her?  No, this was Don.  Like his own mentor, Carl Fantoro, he valued the science above all else.  And if she really wanted his help, she had to tell him the truth.

"Actually, it may be higher than that."