Risking the World (27 page)

Precisely, and he was satisfied he'd made his point.

"Now, if you're done torturing me, I've got a bone to pick with you about Lizzie."

David fumed inside.  "My cousin is none of your business."

"I'm making her my business.  She's got no security guard at her place.  And I checked with James.  He says you vetoed it."

"She refused, and made it abundantly clear she wouldn't tolerate it."

"Since when has something like that stopped you?"

"You're not part of my family and its myriad complications."

"Yeah, well these are complicated times.  And if you're right 'bout this being personal for Varat, what better way for him to stick it to you than messing with Jeremy's sister?"

Chapter 33

"We call this the wine lake of Europe."  Anton Brun spread his arms in a wide arc, and David studied the vineyards blanketing the Languedoc hillsides.  There were dozens of growers in this region who produced inexpensive wine.  They employed North African labor to hold down costs, workers who often crossed the Mediterranean as he and Bobby had, without papers.

"You thinking what I am, pal?"

He certainly was.  Claire's team in London theorized the nanomolecules recovered from Paris were most likely brought into the country in a pressurized canister, rather than assembled on site in France.  It would be just like Varat, the epicure, to slip a canister of weaponized Tivaz TB inside a case of wine and ship it anywhere in the world.

"Most of the wine is exported from Marseille," Brun informed them.

Varat's plan was both ingenious and simple.  Innocuous looking cases of wine were trucked down the coast to the port city, where they were stacked in huge steel containers and hoisted into the cargo holds of waiting ships.  Hundreds of cases of wine passed through the docks every day, and E.U. and U.S. customs officials would see nothing amiss.  But some of those cases would likely include a canister or more of Tivaz TB that someone somewhere would be waiting for.

Bobby grimaced.  "Great.  How do we find out which cases had the Tivaz TB?  Like looking for a needle in a haystack.  Take a miracle to crack this."

"A miracle? 
Non.
  Hard work," Brun corrected.  "And not only your data searches and prized high tech scans. For this, old-fashioned police work is required . . . to knock on doors and speak to everyone.  In Paris and here in the Languedoc."

"Yeah, but it's not gonna be easy."  Bobby tapped his watch.  "Or quick."

"We do whatever it takes," David emphasized to Bobby and Brun.  "We are all aware of the time factor."

"Don't look at me, pal.  Just saying we don't know how many canisters Varat brought to France in this boat."

Brun shrugged in Gallic fashion, as if there were no situation the French could not handle.  He didn't share Brun's confidence, but hoped for once the man was correct.  "We seek until we find one whose hands are dirty," Brun said.  "And then do what we must to find out what he knows."

Bobby eyed Brun hastily before he looked away.

Like many in the intelligence community, he and Bobby were privy to rumors regarding French use of water-boarding to break the back of the Algerian resistance.  Neither was the least surprised by Brun's bravado, but given the international fracas over U.S. procedures at Guantanamo, David was more than a little pleased that Burn refrained from detailing interrogation methods, and Bobby seemed positively relieved to be kept in the dark.

However they did it, he hoped the French uncovered precisely how many canisters were in play.  Earlier the Dean's cousin related that Varat – who else could it be – carried an aluminum briefcase with him.  The other three men had a single medium-sized duffel bag between them, which could possibly hold as many as a dozen containers.

"In our favor is the complexity of the weaponization process.  They cannot mass-produce Tivaz TB rapidly.  That should limit the number of canisters," he told Bobby and Brun.

"Yeah, but one thing we do know is they got more than enough to do serious damage."

***

Most scientists organized their research papers by publication date or author, but when Claire accessed Sandra's lung cancer directory she found the articles grouped under intriguing titles that got at specific concepts.  'Starve the Little Buggers' contained studies designed to show what happened if you restricted blood flow to lung tumors.  'Pick the Lock' detailed work on monoclonal antibodies designed specifically for the patient's own tumor.  And then there was 'Rip Out Its Guts' whose lead article Sandra had highlighted in yellow.  It was an animal study entitled, "The Use of Vitamin Vectors to Deliver Cis-Platinum Within Tumor Cells."

Eureka!  What had been half-remembered now came clear:  as Sandra lay dying she'd told Claire and Francine, "You can't play games with this bug, girls.  Go inside and rip out its guts."  Too excited to wait till the article printed out, she started to read the study online and before she was halfway through knew this provided the clue she needed.

She stared at the backs of her hands poised above the keyboard.  A human hand was composed of millions of cells working in harmony unless something went awry.  When that happened, like with cancer, the body needed help to destroy the deviant cells.  Cytotoxic drugs like cis-platinum could kill cancer cells, but they killed healthy cells too.  The challenge was to deliver cis-platinum directly into cancer cells without hurting healthy cells. These researchers did it by attaching the cancer drug to vitamins.  The cancer cells sucked up the vitamins to fuel their out-of-control reproduction, and in the process cis-platinum entered the cells.  Once inside, cis-platinum ripped out the guts of the cancer cells without damaging the normal cells.

Could she adapt this approach to directly target Tivaz TB?

She'd yet to learn what precise genetic modifications Omar Messina made to create Tivaz TB.  But she was reasonably confident she'd isolated the protein kinase he used as his messenger molecule to switch it into permanent reproduction mode.  What if she used nanotechnology to link a bactericidal cell-killing drug with that specific protein kinase?  Would Tivaz TB recognize and welcome the protein kinase through the TB cell wall while at the same time allowing entry of a bactericidal drug that would rip out its guts?

Why not?

Her heart beat so fast she had to take a deep breath.  If she were right, a bactericidal nanomolecule might be just the thing to kill Tivaz TB.  How sweet it would be to take the nanotechnology principles Omar Messina used to weaponize Tivaz TB and use them in turn to eradicate his bug. Nanotechnology.  She wished she knew more about the techniques that would consume her waking hours for the foreseeable future.  And since none of her current team, including Roscoe, was a nanotechnology specialist, she had to add expertise in that area.

***

Brun, Bobby, and David were still debating options for how to proceed when David's phone buzzed, the display revealing Claire's lab number. He turned his back and walked down the pier to seek anonymity among rough men tending small boats and nets after a day's fishing.

"Darling," he greeted her.

"David, sorry to interrupt you."

The thrill of hearing her voice summoned memories of Thanksgiving night and their extended lovemaking.  "I've longed to hear from you."

"I feel so foolish."

"You are anything but foolish, darling."

"I should've told you sooner."

"No, I should have told you sooner."  Endless speculation about when and how to declare his love evaporated now that she was ready to hear his declaration.  The time was now.  "Claire, after our night together –"

"David, listen.  I just remembered something that might be significant."

And it obviously wasn't about 'them.'  "What is it?"

"I've been studying nanotechnology, and realized I met somebody in Morocco who was into this sort of thing."

"Where?  At the vaccine plant or Tivaz?"

"The plant.  I went to check on an assay and the technician introduced me to a friend of his who'd been trained in nanotechnology."

He perched on a wooden piling, cradled the phone on his shoulder and keyed his handheld computer to access the list of vaccine plant employees Bouchta had provided earlier.  "Start with the technician.  His name?"

"Sounded something like Chew-ba or Jew-ba.  I don't know his friend's name."

He scrolled down the list and there it was.  "I have it.  Juba.  Quality control technician?"

"Yes."

"His friend, the nanotechnologist.  Is there anything you recall about him?"

"Umm.  He wore a braided cap, indoors, and everybody laughed at his nickname . . . the Amazing Trotskyite."

"Amazing?  Are you sure?"

"I know it's weird.  Never made sense to me either."

"Claire, might they have been saying Amazigh?  As in, the Amazigh Trotskyite?"

She hesitated for a moment, and he could imagine her taming an escaped strand of her lovely hair behind her ear.  "Maybe.  I'm not sure.  Why?"

"The Berbers of North Africa prefer to be called by their traditional name, Amazigh.  And Omar Messina is Amazigh."

"Oh my God.  I'm so, so sorry.  I wish I remembered sooner."

"Apologies not necessary.  You were right to phone the moment you recalled the exchange."

"David, good luck with your work.  And . . ."

Beyond all reason, he hoped she'd return to their relationship.  "And what, darling?"

"Be careful."

Well, it was better than nothing . . . a kind of declaration.  And it would have to do for now since Claire's news brought a quick end to their quandary over next steps.  Brun would stay in the Languedoc looking for leads on the men who came here by boat with Tivaz TB, Bouchta would search for Juba and his Amazigh friend in Morocco, and Bobby was flying back to the States to obtain FISA approval for a search of voice and text messages for clues to suspicious wine shipments.  As for him, he'd return to London to coordinate the global search for Varat and assess development of the Tivaz TB antidote project by Claire and her group.

He keenly looked forward to seeing her.  It was time to make an open declaration and tell her how much she meant to him, even if he had to do it in the midst of a science lab.  But ten minutes after landing at Heathrow the next shoe dropped, and Jim pursued the sirens down Kings Road.  As the Bentley carried him away from Claire, he rang her lab to make certain outer and inner perimeters had been established.

"I want the lab in complete lock down," he instructed Ian Barker.  "No one is to enter or depart until I give leave."

"Sir, we need to deliver the vaccines –"

"We cannot hazard it at the moment.  They may plan an ambush of the scientists en route to the site.  Everyone stays in place until I verify the security situation in Chelsea, especially Dr. Ashe."

As they drew closer to the nursery school, the scene reminded him of drawings of the Bedlam madhouse he'd seen in history books.  A panicked populace fled in one direction, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and Tivaz TB as possible, whilst at the same time frantic parents and the media rushed in the opposite direction.  His heart called out if he'd had children inside he'd breach every barrier to hold them in his arms one last time, but his mind understood the need for order.  No risks could be taken with quarantine or protocol.  Zero tolerance.

He had to fight his way on foot to the command and control center, inching through throngs of official personnel until he had access to the lead MI5 man, who told him a medical team was in place.  Since none of the children were showing symptoms, they were being kept within the building until the area could be cleared and the hospital prepared for every contingency.

"Have any of your people gone in to have a look around?"

"We are awaiting clearance from the medical staff."

The attack was on British soil, which meant a case could be made it was the remit of MI5 and not MI6.  To avoid stepping on toes he phrased his request with circumspection, only to have his counterpart agree with alacrity.  Of course they would grant access to a colleague with direct experience of the Paris investigation.  And as David suited up, he had to admit he'd grown too familiar with the procedure, so much so he felt strangely normal making his way in a space suit inside another play school.  Alas, approaching the teacher felt anything but routine.

"My name's David Ruskin, Mrs. Rafferty.  You're doing a fine job with the children."

The middle-aged woman had a halo of red, curly hair.  Like Claire, freckles spanned the bridge of her nose, just many more than Claire had. Her kind, no nonsense approach with the youngsters maintained calm while doctors in Hazmat uniforms examined them.

"Children are inquisitive by nature but they have short attention spans, Mr. Ruskin.  I trust we can leave the building soon."

"Right.  As soon as practicable."  Poor woman had no idea what was coming next.  Or did she, and was simply maintaining a brave front.  In either case, God bless her.  "Now, when did you first realize there was a problem?"

"The loud booms."

"Loud booms, ma'am?"

"Shots rang out," she explained.

"Boom, boom, boom," a cute Indian child of about four, with gorgeous copper skin and a mop of dark hair, shouted.

"You heard the shots too, lad?  Show me where they came from."

The boy pointed to the floor, then the wall, then the ceiling, finally toward the door.  Regrettably, not very much help.

"Mrs. Rafferty, from where do you think the shots arose?"

"I don't rightly know.  The children were screaming and we could scarcely see for the fog."

"Fog?"

"I felt like I was smothering in a cloud, a mist really.  That's when I rang the authorities."

"Right.  Well done.  If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Rafferty."

He called and asked for a volunteer from the engineers to suit up and join him.  Together they began a building inspection from the bottom up.  In the basement they spied a river of water.  He'd never been explicitly instructed the suits were waterproof, so he instructed the engineer to wait while he waded in on his own, but the engineer followed directly behind him.