Risking the World (32 page)

She didn't have to ask, but she did.  "What's that, Roscoe?"

He took her hand once more.  This time he held it with both of his.  "An ability to assemble, direct, and motivate a team of scientists that's unsurpassed by anyone in the world – including Don Strong."

She ripped her hand away.  Her dream was to be as good as Don, but Roscoe's saying it didn't make it so.  She had to earn it.  And she hadn't yet, and wouldn't until this team defeated Tivaz TB.  And for that to happen, she had to get Roscoe back to work.

"Don's on his way to Dublin to get you what you want, Roscoe, somebody who knows nanotechnology and dendrimers inside out.  You've got to be ready for him, because when he gets here our team's going to build a bactericidal nanomolecule that'll rip the guts out of Tivaz TB.  When we do, you'll get a big part of the credit.  Enough to choose among all the offers sure to come your way.  And, Roscoe, you deserve it.  You really do.  I don't know what I would've done without you."

Part Four:

Regrets and Discoveries

"Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets."

– Arthur Miller

Chapter 39

It was Saturday, Shabbat, but the Mossad offices in Tel Aviv were running full tilt, and David knew Claire's lab would be as well.  He rang Ian Barker first.  He expected their discussion would start off somewhat awkwardly, but Barker was a professional and he wished to ask for his help.  In any case, talking to Ian would be easier than the second conversation facing him.

"I regret the necessity for your interrogation, Barker."

"Mr. Ruskin, I fully understand the need for a complete investigation."

"Right.  We both recognize things may not always be what they seem."  In Ian's case he was acquainted with Francine's lodger because the man called for her at the lab on occasion.  As for the caretaker in the laboratory hallway on the day Sandra was infected, he had been showing off his hand-carved chess pieces in hopes Ian would buy a set for Christmas.  "Nevertheless, I wish to reiterate you have my full confidence."

"Thank you, sir."

"May I assume you're with Dr. Ashe?"

"Yes sir, outside her office."

He cleared his throat.  "I must speak with her, and I wish you present when I do.  My news will be upsetting and she trusts you, Barker."

Far more than she trusted him at present, but could he blame her after the fracas over Francine's lodger and Ian?

"David," Claire answered guardedly.

"Thank you for alerting my office as soon as you learned Dr. Berger had decided to visit her family in Tel Aviv en route to Morocco."

"I knew you'd hunt her down," she replied impatiently.   "No point in a wasted trip to Morocco.  Have you talked to her?  Are you convinced yet that she's as innocent as Ian?"

He hesitated.  Her obvious hostility made his practiced speech unsuitable, but no words were adequate for what he had to impart.  "I'm afraid I have some very bad news.  I regret I am not with you to say this in person, but you need to know and I want you to hear it from me."  He braced himself, grateful to know Ian Barker stood beside her.  "Claire, Francine is dead."

He flinched at her scream, the cry of an animal in pain.

He wanted to force her into his arms for comfort, but barring that possibility, he plowed ahead.  "There was a confrontation at her nephew's bar mitzvah.  Things went afoul and, as I understand it, Francine became collateral damage."

She echoed his words with vicious precision:  "Collateral damage?"

Her contempt stung, and he prayed he could make her understand.  "The Mossad was surveilling some men who attended the bar mitzvah.  Two canisters were exchanged.  Francine must have grasped their significance.  In any event she followed the men outside just as the operation got underway and was caught in the crossfire."

"How could you allow this?" she shot back.

"I was not present.  Claire –"

"How could you?"

Her pain was so visceral he had to close his eyes.  She believed him responsible, and in a twisted sort of way perhaps he was.  His suspicions had led the Mossad to the bar mitzvah, even if the men with the canisters were guests, not Francine's blood relatives.

"Francine didn't deserve this.  She didn't," Claire roared.

"Yes, you're absolutely correct.  Her death is a tragedy.  I'm so very sorry, Claire.  Truly I am."

"Francine," she moaned.

She needed to realize Francine did not die in vain.  "The canisters appear to be Tivaz TB." 

"Francine," she repeated again, this time barely above a whisper.

And then a sharp crack startled him.

"Claire," he shouted.

"She's dropped the phone and left her office," Ian explained.  "I'm following her, sir.  On her way to the W.C."

"Give her some time Ian, but stay close by.  Dr. Berger is dead."

David explained the circumstances of the takedown to Ian, one professional to another, so Claire's questions might be answered truthfully, should she ask.  Then, because it was vital she know if Omar Messina had altered the TB from Tel Aviv to make it more lethal, he informed Ian of the steps he'd taken to expedite lab reports on the confiscated canisters.  He was determined Claire appreciate they were still in this together, even if she couldn't see it at the moment.  If he were in London he'd set things right between them.  But he wasn't and, debriefs and flight schedules being what they were, he'd be lucky to get there by tomorrow morning.

***

She sat on the stool facing the mirror in the Ladies Room and wiped her eyes yet again.  Francine was a hero, like Sandra before her. She would honor them by getting the job done, not crying.  She tried to summon images of her dead colleagues but they escaped her.  Alone, she and laid her head on the counter and wept.  As tears soaked the sleeve of her sweater she silently recited the twenty amino acids found in proteins.

Glycine, alanine, valine, leucine, isoleucine, methionine, phenylalanine, tryptophan, proline. 
Don's in Dublin when I really need him.  It isn't fair.  But I asked him to go.

Serine, threonine, cysteine, tyrosine, asparagine, glutamine.
  I could go see Elizabeth.  She's still my friend.  No, she's in New York City.

Aspartic acid, glutamic acid, lysine, arginine, histidine.
  I could go home.

She pounded the Formica counter and shrieked out loud, "But Sherborne House isn't my home!"

A half-hour later she left the Ladies Room, somewhat under control.  Ian nodded to her when she came out.  They didn't speak.  She wandered into Sandra's office, sat in her chair, and thought of her first day in this lab.  Sandra gave her the brush off then and it irritated her she was given lab space only because Sandra had no other choice.  Sandra needed funding for her lung cancer vaccine research and Claire's project was a source of grant money.  Who would do Sandra's work now?

Not Francine, Sandra's best theoretical researcher, the one Sandra hoped the Board would give a thumbs up to after she was gone.  That first day she'd seen Francine as little more than a hopeless church mouse who sat on the stool by the radiator and seconded everything her peculiar boss said.  But after going through Sandra's death together and carrying out a career altering mini-trial in Paris, the bond she shared with Francine was impossible to duplicate.

She couldn't have known how short a time she'd share with these exceptional scientists who turned out to be her biggest allies and true friends.  They willingly put their life's work on hold to help her find the keys to Tivaz TB, a decision that resulted in their deaths.  Now what?  She had to go on.  Sandra and Francine would expect her to.

At last she was able to call Don and speak of the unspeakable event in Tel Aviv.  Next she assembled her team in the smaller of the two conference rooms.  They'd be crowded, but better they should feel the body heat of life than the coldness of death.  Don was returning from Bio-Shamrock with a scientist experienced in nanotechnology and the use of dendrimers, but an immense amount of work lay ahead of them, and the outcome remained uncertain.  Wednesday loomed closer than ever.

***

The room emptied, but she stayed seated in one of the beat-up synthetic leather conference chairs.  Her sweater caught on the frayed armrest.  She picked stuffing from the torn covering.  God, these sorry chairs should've been tossed out years ago.  The lab equipment might be first-rate but the furniture needed serious upgrading.  She put her hands palms down on the conference table so she wouldn't scratch out every bit of stuffing on every chair in the room.  And there were a lot of chairs.

She knew he still sat at the conference table, but he didn't speak and she didn't look at him.  He was waiting.  But she didn't have anything to say.  No more words of solace or encouragement, no more brilliant ideas on where to go from here, no more stiff upper lip.  No more nothing.  In the end she was always alone.  Why did she waste emotion imagining life could be different?  Time she learned to be satisfied with crumbs of temporary connection.  It's better than being alone.

"Take me to dinner tonight, Roscoe?"

"Yes," he answered, his voice as subdued as hers.

"My turn to surprise you, huh?"

"My turn to show you I can be whatever you want me to be, Claire."

"A bottle of wine.  I think I'd like you to choose a bottle of wine for us."

"I will.  Do you want me to choose the restaurant and order for you too?"

"Yes, I'd like that.  I think you should make every decision for me tonight Roscoe."

"All of them, Claire?" he asked quietly.

"All, Roscoe."

Chapter 40

Elizabeth adored New York City as much as a kid in a candy shop.  Never more so than when Bobby Keane turned up in town, even though she continued unsettled about getting involved with a man in his line of work.  As yet she wasn't over Jeremy's death and a relationship with Bobby might prove a sad reminder of her loss.  She fretted that the pleasure of sex with such an attractive man, however tempting, would be fleeting.  Nonetheless she invited him to lunch, convincing herself that by treating him as thanks for his midtown Manhattan tip she could control the terms of their relationship.  The area he'd suggested for a boutique was perfect and she thrilled to find a street level space nestled close to First Avenue in the 50s in a small commercial building flanked by lovely townhouses.  A bakery had previously occupied what would become her New York shop and she swore a luscious hint of chocolate clung to the walls.

But not as luscious as Bobby Keane when she eyed him at a nearby French bistro.  They ordered Manhattans, and she swirled in the pleasure of a good-looking man whose butterscotch blonde hair, laser blue eyes, and wide smile were electrifying.

She raised her cocktail.  "To my new neighborhood."

"You found a storefront?"

"I have indeed.  Not far from here.  Precisely what I'm after."

He touched his glass to hers.  "Very happy for you, Lizzie.  And for me.  It was destiny, just like our attraction.  Wanna go to your hotel now or eat lunch first?" he teased.

Excitement coiled inside her and to be honest, her hotel appealed more.  But when his phone buzzed and he excused himself she was relieved to have a moment to mull it over.

"I wanna apologize," he said when he returned.  "I can't make this lunch too long."

Tension lines creased his brow and the mood was broken.  No, she didn't want to be involved in his world.  It would crush her in a heartbeat; still she tried for a light note.  "Ah well, you said you were in New York for business.  Such is life."

"Maybe for you, honey, but I hoped we wouldn't have to rush too much.  Look, I've got a proposition."

She didn't want to hear it, did she?  But he stared at her lips and such sexy attention was impossible to disregard.

"I've got lots going on, but listen Lizzie, how 'bout dinner tonight?  Where is it you're staying?"

"St. Regis, East 55th."

"Know it.  Meet you in the King Cole bar at eight?"

This was a man who wouldn't be denied.  Truth to tell, she no longer wished to deny him.  Hadn't she counseled Claire to take love wherever she could find it?  They finished lunch quickly and she slid her American Express card inside the faux leather bill sleeve.  She liked that he had no quarrel accepting her largesse.

And then he was gone . . . leaving behind the anticipation of spending a Saturday night in the Big Apple with him.

***

The agent from Homeland Security dropped Bobby off at his government-approved hotel.  He glanced at his watch.  Plenty of time to finish up work things before heading over to the swank area of the St. Regis and seeing Lizzie.

He began his report on the afternoon he'd spent at Port Newark interviewing Santiago Khalil.  The man was in charge of unloading the piers, where a pallet of wine was missing.  Khalil'd worked the docks for only three years before being promoted to foreman, which was pretty fast to rise in a place as complicated as the Port.  You had to ask yourself why put such a young kid in charge, even if he had smarts and zeal?  Or maybe just because he had smarts he was the perfect kinda guy.  The kid had a helluva grasp of what was going on at the huge piers.  And when he showed Khalil the shipping manifest the kid seemed as crazed over the missing wine as you could hope for, and seriously worried about losing his job.  You could fake that though. Especially if he was used to being bought off to look the other way by the bottom feeders in the mafia, disgruntled union guys, you name it, who siphoned goods out of the Port Terminal to sell on the black market for an easy buck.

Anyway, Homeland Security was digging under every rock and tree to find the missing wine, and with a little luck they'd succeed with or without the help of Santiago Khalil.  Only question was would they be in time to stop Tivaz TB?

He put it all in the write-up to his bosses, including both his hopes and doubts, and hit send.  Then he started in on today's e-mails.  Had to, otherwise tomorrow was gonna be a killer, especially if tonight turned out like he planned.  Lizzie was one hot ticket and he was as ready to get it on with her now as in London.  He sort of figured she would've lost interest with all those earls and lords to squire her around at home, but she called him as soon as she got to New York.  He patted his pocket, glad he'd stopped at a drug store for protection.  He had a feeling he'd need it tonight and got hard thinking about how she kissed him in her apartment – that kiss felt a helluva lot more like 'hello Bobby' than 'goodbye Mr. Keane.'