Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (11 page)

“Is someone trying to export the
vaccines?” Sasha asked, her eyes wide.

“No. Someone’s trying to import
the live virus.” The words stuck in his throat.

“What live virus?”

“The killer flu. A man named
Michel Joubert, a French researcher on the Pasteur Institute team that mutated
the virus, was murdered in a village in the Loire Valley.”

Her eyes grew wider still at the
mention of murder, and her hands tensed in his.

Leo continued, “When the local
authorities found his body, they contacted the Pasteur Institute. The news
threw the institution into an uproar, and they quickly discovered the Doomsday
virus was missing. The working theory is this researcher sold the virus to
person or persons unknown. After the purchaser had the virus in hand, he or
they dispatched someone to kill Joubert.”

Leo felt her hands go cold. He
rubbed them in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

The room was silent, save for the
soft ticking of Naya’s wall clock and their breathing.

“And the French authorities think
the virus is on its way here, to the United States?” Sasha finally asked.

“Yes. Actually, they suspect it’s
probably already within the borders. Joubert’s body was found early this
morning, but he’d been dead for several hours—possibly a day. Joubert signed
into the building very late Friday evening, his time and didn’t stay long. So,
the time line goes like this: assuming he was involved, on Friday, he stole the
virus and handed it off to the purchaser—”

She interrupted him. “Why do they
think he sold it?”

“There was a large wire transfer
into his account from an off-shore bank on Saturday morning. It fits the theory.”

“Okay, sorry I interrupted. Go
on.”

“No, stop me if you need to,” Leo
said.

Laying it all out for her, step
by step, was enabling him to step back from the crisis and view it
analytically. It was helping to loosen the fear that gripped him.

He went on, “After the money hit
Joubert’s account, he stopped at a bank machine and withdrew his daily limit.
He did the same thing again, a few hours later. Judging by the locations of the
banks, he was making his way to the Loire Valley, where his family has an old
farmhouse they use for getaways. Apparently, he was going to hole up there. A
neighbor reports seeing him in the village market Saturday afternoon buying
groceries. That evening, he was found stabbed to death in the home by a friend
who’d heard he was in the village and stopped by for a glass of wine.”

“But, Homeland Security thinks
the virus is already here?”

 Leo realized it likely wasn’t
appropriate to pull one’s outside counsel onto one’s lap while discussing a
possible national crisis, but he did it anyway. He noted that she didn’t
resist.

“It’s just a theory. But, the
theft and the murder were both well-planned and organized. The smart way to do
it, if you were going to steal the virus and then kill the only person who
could link you to the theft would be to get the virus out of the country immediately
and then have a second, unrelated person kill Joubert. A cleaner. The CIA has a
team on the ground now, combing through the Pasteur Institute and the Marshal’s
Office is pulling all the flight manifests that left France today to look for
anyone that pops out as even remotely suspicious. The French authorities are
working the murder scene. The first priority, of course, it to determine if the
virus is stateside and to find it. Given the time difference, the scene is
already cold. Don’t forget, it’s already Sunday there.”

Sasha nodded. It was very early
Sunday morning in France, but Connelly was right: time was not on their side.

“Just out of curiosity, assuming
this theory’s correct, what’s the going rate for stealing a deadly virus?”

“The equivalent of four million
U.S. dollars was transferred into Joubert’s account,” Leo said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Sasha twisted around and pressed
her hands against his chest. She searched his face then said, “I don’t
understand how this all fits together, but it can’t possibly be a coincidence
that you’re missing vaccines.”

Leo nodded. “I know. I called
Tate and told him to schedule a videoconference board meeting for this
afternoon. He complained about it, but I told him he’s just going to have come
in from the slopes for half an hour.”

Sasha bit down on her lip for a
moment before asking her next question. Leo steeled himself, knowing what it
would be.

“What’s our worst case scenario?
If the virus is here and it gets released, how bad is it going to be?” she
asked.

Really bad
, Leo thought.
During his years at the Department of Homeland Security, he’d participated in
more national security disaster war game scenarios than he could count:
terrorists taking hostages; unhinged militia groups storming the Federal
Reserve; jihadists seizing control of nuclear power plants; the list went on.
The scenarios that had worried him the most were the natural
disasters—hurricanes, meteor strikes, and, most worrisome of all to him was the
pandemic. A government could stop a madman, or a dozen madmen, but one vial of
death slipped into a pocket and released on a New York subway car would have
unstoppable consequences that rippled across the country and, eventually, the globe.
In addition to the painful deaths those who were infected would suffer (which
he could now imagine in Technicolor detail, thanks to his time working at
Serumceutical), the infrastructure would break down quickly. The rule of thumb
was that it could take up to seventy-two hours for the government to respond to
an affected area. But in three days, the public would be hit with food and
medicine shortages, followed by rioting and looting, freeways clogged with
desperate residents fleeing urban areas, overcrowded hospitals, emptied banks,
corpses stacked like firewood on the roadside—the list of horribles was
virtually endless. And, human nature being what it was, Leo expected the
citizenry to turn on one another in a violent struggle pitting the strong against
the weak, the wealthy against the poor.

“Worse than you can imagine. End
of the world bad,” he said.

Sasha was silent. Her green eyes
narrowed as she considered the implications of what he’d said. Then she
straightened herself, squared her narrow shoulders, and nodded. As if she’d
imagined the end of the world and was now ready to move on to prevent it.

“So, what’s our first step?” she
asked. Her voice was clear and firm, without a hint of fear or hesitation.

“Well, the first step is to get the
board up to speed and see what Tate wants to do. Then tomorrow, you and I should
head to D.C. and try to set up a meeting with the task force for Monday.”

“There’s a task force?”

A chuckle surprised Leo by
bubbling up from his throat in the midst of his dread. “There’s always a task
force, Sasha.”

Colton did not appreciate
being kept waiting. Not by a pretend military officer, not by anyone. He
checked the time and stifled a sigh. It would be a weakness to show his
irritation, so he merely returned to his book.

The bartender must have sensed
his impatience, though, because he came over and swabbed the scarred bar in
front of Colton with a filthy rag. Without looking up, he said in a low voice, “The
captain’s on his way, sir. It shouldn’t be long now. Can I get you a refill?”

Colton marked his page with a
finger and declined the offer of a second glass of watered-down no-name
whiskey.

“I’m fine,” he said with a tight
smile.

The bartender nodded and returned
to staring vacantly at the football game on the television screen mounted above
the bar.

Colton tuned out his surroundings
and focused on Steve Jobs’ biography. He believed he could learn something from
any successful leader, although he had yet to find anything in Jobs’ story that
was new to him.

The door swung open and a tall
man with a crew-cut bustled in, bringing a burst of cold air with him. Colton
would have pegged the man for Bricker based on how he carried himself, but the
bartender’s posture confirmed it: he went from slouching against the bar to
ramrod straight in a flash.

“Sir,” the bartender said to
Bricker.

Bricker favored him with a flash
of white teeth. “Charlie.”

The bartender inclined his head
toward Colton, as if Bricker couldn’t figure it out himself. Colton wondered
which of the flannel-shirted roughnecks trading oil rigging stories over
bottles of beer the bartender thought Bricker might mistake for the CEO of a
publicly traded, international pharmaceutical corporation.

Colton closed his book and stood,
folding his tan cashmere overcoat with precision over his left arm. He approached
Bricker and extended his right hand.

“Captain Bricker?” he said,
managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice while he used the ridiculous
military honorific.

Bricker pumped his hand with a
too-firm grip. Typical.

“Mr. Maxwell. It’s a pleasure.”

Bricker caught the bartender’s
eye. “Is the back room free, Charlie?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bricker gestured with his hand
for Colton to follow him along the length of the dimly lit, narrow barroom.
Colton observed that The Hole in the Wall was an apt name for the establishment.
At the far end of the room, a windowless, steel door was set in the wall next
to a door that appeared to lead to the john.

Bricker opened the steel door and
flipped a light switch on the wall. He ushered Colton inside as the fluorescent
bar overhead buzzed and blinked to life.

Colton surveyed the dismal room
and selected an ugly green armchair whose stuffing was exposed in several
spots. Bricker sat across from him in an even uglier chair, with battered and
scratched brown leather worn almost white in spots.

Bricker unbuttoned his wool peacoat
and tugged the knot out of his scarf, then leaned back in the chair. He got
right to business, a trait Colton shared and appreciated.

“Do you have it?” Bricker asked.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Colton also appreciated the other
man’s economy with words. Although Bricker had insisted the dive bar was a safe
spot, Colton saw no reason to run any unnecessary risks: he’d seen “Casino.”

“The price we previously agreed
to,” Colton said, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes.

Bricker threw his hands up in a
gesture that said he meant no harm. “Of course. I just wanted to confirm you
aren’t interested in the trade I proposed.”

Colton snickered. The trade. This
pseudo-officer idiot had actually proposed bartering him doses of Serumceutical’s
vaccine for a vial of the virus. It had amused him at the time, but he wasn’t
interested in going over this again. He shook his head no.

“Suit yourself.” Bricker stood
and crossed the small room. He opened a cheap plywood closet to reveal a large
fireproof floor safe. He crouched and shielded the keypad from Colton’s view
while he keyed in the combination. He swung the door open and removed a stack
of silver bricks. He hefted them and dropped them heavily at Colton’s feet.

“Do you have a bag or something?
They’re heavy,” he said.

Colton reached into his pocket
and unfolded a reusable cloth shopping tote. He shook the creases out of the
fabric and piled the silver inside. Bricker watched him, his mouth curled in
mild amusement.

Colton didn’t care. He would look
out of place trudging around his luxury building with a duffle bag or rucksack.
He’d blend right in with a Trader Joe’s bag. Even a heavy one. He lifted the
bag by the handles, testing the bottom. It would hold. He let the bag fall to
the floor with a thud and reached into his breast pocket.

He removed one vial, which he’d
wrapped in a small rectangle of bubble wrap, and held it out to Bricker.

“You remember the terms of our
deal, I trust?”

Bricker took the vial gingerly
and unwrapped it. He turned it over in his hand, watching the thick liquid roll
around inside. Colton suspected he was marveling that something so small could
hold so much death.

Bricker met his eyes. “Yes. I
told you, your timetable isn’t a problem. Our people are getting vaccinated
now. We won’t have full immunity until Tuesday, at the earliest. And the
families, probably not until Wednesday or Thursday—”

Colton cut him off. “I don’t care
about the details. Just remember. Don’t release it any earlier than Thursday
morning. Beyond that, do what you like.”

Bricker pressed his lips together
in a white line but said nothing. Colton imagined he wasn’t used to taking
orders. Tough.

Colton put on his coat. He hefted
his Trader Joe’s bag and nodded to Bricker. Then he opened the door and walked
straight through the bar and out into the night without looking back.

Sasha ignored
Connelly’s grumbling and pulled on her winter running tights. As she stuck her
head through the opening of her SmartWool base layer, she saw him dig his own
running clothes out of his duffle bag, despite the steady stream of mumbling he
kept up.

She turned away so he wouldn’t
see her smile. Yes, it was nearly midnight. Yes, they’d had an emotionally
draining, mentally exhausting day. Yes, Tate had more or less jumped through
the phone and demanded that she file a temporary restraining order against
ViraGene immediately. All true.

But she knew what they needed. A
long, fast run in the raw December wind would take their breath away and clear
their minds. And, afterward she’d promised him an equally long, hot steamy
shower for two.

He glared at her and jammed his
wool cap down over his ears.

She pulled up her hood and
flashed him a smile.

“Let’s do it,” she said and
headed for the door. He trailed her down the corridor to the stairwell, down
the stairs, and through the lobby. She waved a gloved hand at the security
guard lazing near the Christmas tree and pushed the vestibule door open into
the gale.