Calypso Directive (35 page)

“You paint me with your touch. This must be how the stones of the Sistine Chapel felt beneath Michelangelo's brush,” Meredith mused.

“Michelangelo considered himself a sculptor, first and foremost. Painting was conscription labor, for the Pope. Forget about the brush. If you were made of stone, which we can debate later, you would be my David. But hewn as Michelangelo should have hewn it. As a woman,” Nicolora replied, his voice baritone and seductive.

Meredith rolled to her side, and inched toward him. He drifted onto his back, propping himself up slightly, and then extended his arm outward to cradle her. She nuzzled close, pressing her right breast softly against his bare chest, and depositing her cheek in the comfortable depression between his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

“You've been a naughty boy, Robért,” she whispered. “Very naughty.”

“And you've been a naughty girl, Meredith. Especially about thirty minutes ago.”

“Don't be cheeky, you know
what
I'm talking about,” she mewed.

After a pause he said, “If you're referring to Countess Carlysle, then you should consider the discussion tabled, because I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“I'm not talking about another woman, you stupid lout; I'm talking about you sending your minions to spy on me.” Then, punctuating each word with a bite she moved her mouth across the span of his chest, and said, “
I . . . don't . . . appreciate . . . that
.”

“I'm sure . . .” he said, devoting considerable effort not to flinch with each new and painful nibble, “that I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Meredith sat up abruptly, facing him. Chest puffing, face flushed, nipples erect.

“Don't play coy with me, Robért Nicolora! I know it was you.”

He did not answer, nor did he look her in the eyes, but rather let his gaze linger on her nakedness.

“Oh, you men are so pathetic,” she huffed, as she turned abruptly to exit the bed.

He caught her by her trailing arm before she was completely off the mattress and pulled her forcefully on top of him. “Now wait a minute, Meredith. Don't do that,” he implored. “I did not mean to offend.”

“Let go of me, you wretch. I never should have come to you.” She squirmed to free herself from his iron grip. “And I never should have trusted you.”

He held her tight. After a halfhearted struggle, she collapsed onto him.

“The team is making steady progress on locating Foster. But this is not an ordinary assignment. You've handed me a hornet's nest, Meredith, and I'm trying to manage it without getting stung,” he said, his eastern European accent emerging, charged by the emotion she had ignited in him.

“I know. It's just that I'm anxious, Robért. We have to find Foster soon, before more innocent people get hurt by him,” she mumbled, her face pressed tight against his chest.

“I know we do.” They laid together in silence for several minutes and then he said. “I have concerns, Meredith.”

“Like what?”

“First, why did you keep Foster in-house? Why didn't you hand him over to the CDC or a proper hospital for quarantine and treatment? It seems a tremendous liability for you, and for your company, to accept for the sake of one man in a vaccine trial.”

Meredith grinned unfettered, knowing her face was hidden, buried against his chest. It had required one of her best theatrical performances, but she had finally managed to win the upper hand.

“Do you think I'm heartless, Robért?
Those
bureaucrats would have argued over treatment protocols, insurance coverage, public safety, and God knows what other red tape for weeks. Meanwhile, poor Will would have been dying inside a giant inflatable Ziploc bag. Someone had to act. Someone had to do the responsible thing. I felt had a duty to try to help him, using any and all means at my disposal.”

“What about Vyrogen's miracle product? Why would you offer something so experimental to him?”

“If you were in his shoes, staring death in the face, wouldn't you take it? Even if it's a long shot, it's better than doing nothing at all,” she said, avoiding the heart of his question.

“Yes, I suppose you're right.” He paused, and then added. “Something else I don't understand is what makes you suspect that Foster is the mastermind behind the espionage? We've performed a thorough investigation and background assessment on Foster, and to be perfectly blunt, the piece does not fit the puzzle. He was an advertising exec. Not even a very good one, I might add. Yes, he was down on his luck, but we found nothing in his profile to suggest that he's capable of contemplating something of this magnitude, let alone capable of orchestrating it. Seriously, Meredith. We are perplexed. Foster has a bachelor's degree in economics. A nontechnical background, with no experience in microbiology. He has no criminal record. No apparent ties to the pharmaceutical industry whatsoever. Your logic of implicating him escapes us.”

Her mind raced. He had brought up several points she had not considered before she briefed the team. She needed time to think of a proper rebuttal. He was horsing her into a corner. She decided to snarl at him and see if he backed down.

“He
did
steal the formula and sabotage the lab. That much is fact, Robért. Whether Foster is the mastermind of the plot is a separate matter. Let me remind you that I've never claimed to have the answers to this case. In fact, I've made it quite clear that my theories were only conjecture based on my extremely limited experience in such matters, and that I am relying on your expertise to unravel the case. That's why I hired you. I should have never opened my mouth about Foster's role in the espionage, because I set your team looking down a path that may not be the true path.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry I'm pressing you, but it's only because you are the person closest to the heart of the case.” He squeezed her affectionately. “One more question?”

Her stomach churned. “Of course.”

“If we pursue the line of reasoning that Foster is
not
the mastermind behind the espionage, then we must assign a different role to him. Our hypothesis is that Foster was simply a mule to steal and deliver your intellectual property to a buyer.”

“Okay, but where is the question, Robért?” She laughed, awkwardly.

“Yes, yes. I'm getting there,” he said. “Now, assuming Foster is a mule, we can say with confidence that no mule works alone. So, this begs the question—who is Foster in collusion with?”

“One of our competitors, no doubt.”

“Yes, that was our initial inclination as well. However, shaking this tree has yielded no fruit. We can find no external connection, relationship, or even record of communication between Foster and persons of interest in the pharmaceutical industry.”

“Really, that's surprising. Maybe your team needs to broaden their search,” she said.

He shook his head. “No, no. Certainly not. Our investigative capability is unrivaled. If a connection existed, my people would have sniffed it out. This leaves us only one place left to look. We have turned our investigation inward.”

“Inward?”

“Yes, inward. The logical hypothesis is that Foster is colluding with someone inside Vyrogen. Only an insider would know about the experimental product. Only an insider would know about the H1N1 vaccine trial. Only an insider would have access to Foster while he was in quarantine.”

He hugged her again. Tight.

Her heart pounded. Gooseflesh stood up on her arms. Her mouth went dry. He was squeezing her, literally and figuratively. Her mind stumbled over itself. She grasped for something to say. Anything. No words would come. Her mouth was a black hole, agape and devoid of all sound, and all potential for sound.

“Robért, I,” she stuttered, “I can't imagine that someone on my staff would . . .” She stopped abruptly. The taught corners of her mouth curled into a wicked grin. He had opened a door for her. Not the exit she had expected, but an exit nonetheless, from her burning house of cards. “Actually, there
is
one person who is capable of such a thing.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. His name is Xavier Pope.”

•     •     •

“
STOP LOOKING AT
me that way,” Nicolora said to Briggs from across the white tablecloth and over the art deco stemware.

“What way?”

“You know exactly what way. Now wipe that smug look off your face and eat your damn soup.”

Briggs lowered his spoon and raised the napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “It's not smugness; it's lobster bisque,” he said. “You look flushed, Robért. Did you have to run to lunch? Is that why you were late?”

“I was working,” Nicolora said, suppressing a smile. “Gathering intelligence.”

“Is that what we're calling it these days . . . I'll have to remember that for my expense reports.” Briggs dropped his hands into his lap. “They still haven't found Foster, have they?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“Does Meredith?”

“No.”

Briggs grunted and turned back to his soup. He was about to press Nicolora about his one-time flame, but he had danced that dance enough times to know better. Best to keep quiet and let his friend talk.

“Don't ask,” Nicolora said.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking it. I can see it in your beady little eyes.”

“I've never asked you about it before, and I see no reason this meal has to be any different.”

“Underneath that cover-girl façade and flowing mane of auburn hair is a deeply competitive and focused woman. I find her to be, in a word, irresistible.”

“I know.”

“You weren't there, Jack.”

Briggs laughed, “I know, but I dined with the two of you in Boston several times.”

“Twice.”

“Fine, twice. But even then, she had you by the—” Briggs cupped his hands explicitly, finishing the sentence.

“I have things under control.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Absolutely not,” Nicolora said without pause.

“Do you think this is her deal, or is someone else pulling the strings?”

“That is
the
question, isn't it? On the one hand, Meredith is certainly capable of something like this on her own. On the other, I can't shake the feeling that this goes higher up. It just has the stink of Client One all over it. She's implicated Xavier Pope as the mastermind. With CDC involvement, we can't rule it out. What do you think Uncle Sam would be willing to pay for soldiers with absolute immunity to biological warfare agents?”

Briggs nodded as he stuffed half a dinner roll, slathered in white cream butter, into his mouth. “If you're right,” Briggs mumbled over the food in his mouth, “It won't be long until agency boys start showing up.”

“I know, I know. I'm surprised she's had this long to clean up her mess. Patience has never been one of their defining characteristics.”

“It's going to be the devil's circus if that happens. We need to have a contingency plan in place.”

“I'm working on it. By the way, take it easy on the butter there, Chief. We don't want to have to Roto-Root your arteries again any time soon.”

“Peck, peck, Mother Hen,” Briggs quipped. Then, rubbing his chin, he asked. “When we finally do locate Foster, you're not really going to turn him over to her?”

“I haven't decided. But one thing is certain, Foster is too valuable for us to let him slip away into the night.”

T
HE OBSIDIAN-COLORED, V
12-
POWERED
, BMW 760Li sedan glided across the Austrian countryside effortlessly at 130 kilometers per hour. Somewhere, many kilometers ahead, Kalen was rocketing past Porsches and BMWs on his Ducati Diavel. AJ had never ridden a real motorcycle, only his scooter. He had asked Kalen what the allure of the Ducati was, fully expecting to hear a soliloquy on the exhilaration of wrangling raw power, or the rush of adrenaline from catapulting oneself from a standstill to a ludicrous velocity in a heartbeat. Instead, what he got was a nasal snort. “If you have to ask, then you'll never get it, kid.”

Wearily, AJ glanced at his watch. “What is our ETA in Vienna?” he asked the driver.

“Approximately forty-five minutes, sir.”

He reclined his head against the headrest. He had not slept since they had arrived in Prague, and he was losing the battle against unconsciousness. In the rear passenger's seat to his left, sat Albane. She looked at him, studying him in profile.

“Tired?” she asked.

“Tired would be an understatement,” he mumbled.

“Here, take this,” she said handing him a white pill.

The surface of the caplet was etched with the words: PROVIGIL—200 MG. “What's Provigil?”