Running Dark (8 page)

BANNER CALLED STROMEYER TO TELL HER THAT EMMA CALDRIDGE
was on her way to Berbera, and then he braced himself. He expected a tongue-lashing. After the DOD meeting, they’d talked in her car. Stromeyer looked as angry as he’d ever seen her. She’d made no secret of the fact that she did not agree with his plan.

“You can’t send that woman into such a situation. Not so soon after Colombia. You know she’s suffering from post-traumatic stress and is in no position to take on yet another risky venture.” Banner had agreed, but he saw no other way.

“She has the expertise we need to analyze the vials, and she has a huge stake in the outcome.”

Stromeyer pointed a finger at him. “You’re using what you imagine to be her feelings for Sumner against her. You have no idea how she feels about him, and if she does care for him enough to do this, then she’s
really
the wrong person for the job. You know as well as I do that strong emotions often lead the person having them to make mistakes. People in love will try to save their loved one against all odds, and usually they die right along with them.”

“I agree in principle with what you’re saying, but not when we’re talking about Caldridge. She won’t let that happen. She’s tough and resourceful—Colombia’s proven that, and she’s already on the run. She’d be better off staying the hell out of the States for a while. And you know that none of these attackers will follow her to Somalia. They’d be insane.”

Stromeyer made a disgusted noise. “You’re insane for sending her there. You can’t seriously argue that she’s safer in Somalia than here. Go home and get some rest. I can only imagine that sleep deprivation has scrambled your brains.”

Now Banner listened to the phone ring and crossed his fingers that Stromeyer had altered her thinking on the subject. When Stromeyer picked up the phone, she dispensed with the usual hello and said, “Tell me you’ve seen the light now that you’ve rested.”

So much for a change of heart. “Caldridge just called me. She’s agreed to go help Sumner. I suggest we meet at Darkview to work out the rescue logistics. Want me to pick you up on the way?”

“Why the escort?”

“Caldridge said someone hit her with a strange medication after the bombing. I think there’s safety in numbers.”

“In that case, absolutely.”

Half an hour later, Banner arrived on a motorcycle in front of Stromeyer’s condominium building. He removed his helmet and looked around. She lived in the Georgetown area, a quiet, elegant neighborhood with tree-lined streets. Banner watched as several residents of the neighboring houses opened their doors to collect the morning paper. They were all women, and they all looked suspiciously alike. Each one glanced down the street, each one spotted him on his motorcycle, and each one frowned at him.

Stromeyer stepped out onto her porch. To Banner she looked different from the other women. More animated, less of a cookie cutout. She wore dark jeans and a short navy trench coat that she buttoned as she jogged down the steps. Her hair was loose. A triangular-shaped bag hung over her shoulder. Banner watched her take in the motorcycle.

“Planning on losing a tail?” she said.

“The women in your neighborhood all look alike. And every one of them frowned at me on this bike. Do I look disreputable?” He offered her a spare helmet.

She finished buttoning her trench, tied the belt, and did some magic with the bag’s straps that turned it into a backpack. She swung a leg over the cycle.

“This area isn’t known for its diversity, as you’ve noticed. A whole group of people here only ride in chauffeured limousines. Men on bikes are suspect.”

Banner prepared to start the engine. “Lacking diversity is one thing, but imitating each other is something else entirely. Why do they all look alike?”

“Beltway hair. Affectionately called ‘helmet hair.’ Designed to make the women look conservative. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it before now.”

Banner shrugged. “I haven’t really focused on it before.” The motorcycle roared to life. He merged onto the street and headed to Darkview’s offices.

He picked up the tail ten minutes into the ride. So must have Stromeyer. She leaned in to him at a stoplight.

“Brown Crown Vic.”

Banner just nodded. He accelerated through the next intersection, barely making a yellow light. The Crown Vic stayed with him by blowing the red light. He sped up, splitting lanes and zipping past a MINI Cooper. The Crown Vic got caught behind the Cooper and a Honda Civic in the left lane. Through his rearview mirror, he watched the car swerve back and forth in an attempt to pass. He took an abrupt right turn, accelerated through the first half of the street, then turned left onto another. He kept zigzagging, taking pains to keep within the speed limit. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over. At first he thought he’d lost the tail, but after a few minutes he saw it turn onto the street behind him. It was over a block away, but still in the game. Even more so after he hit a red light.

“Alicia has a motorcycle,” Stromeyer said. “I’ll call her.”

The light turned, and Banner concentrated on driving. Behind him he heard Stromeyer telling Alicia to lock the office door and
giving her their location. He pulled up to an empty parking space next to a coffee shop. Both he and Stromeyer stayed seated. The Crown Vic slowed as it passed them. The passenger, a man who appeared to be in his late thirties, with hard eyes and a menacing manner, glared at them through the glass. The car inched to the corner, crossed the street, then pulled to the right and parked.

Banner shifted a little to be able to see Stromeyer. “Did you get a look at the passenger? That was one rough character.”

“Can you hit the street and turn right? I told Alicia to meet us near the White House.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Divide and conquer. You’re going to park the cycle. Alicia is going to swing by and pick me up while you head off in another direction. We’ll meet back at the office.”

“What’s the point? Surely they know where we work.”

“Make them think we’re off to meet someone. It’ll give us a few minutes to speak freely at the office. Our latest sweep came up clean, but once they return and point a microphone at us, we’re back on tape.”

Banner fired up the cycle, swung into traffic, and blazed right at the corner. He shot down the street, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. The Crown Vic cruised along with them, easily keeping pace. Banner swayed through the cars, each time getting farther and farther away. He reached the corner of their appointed meeting place and idled, waiting for Alicia. She appeared a few minutes later on a battered yellow Suzuki. She pulled up and flashed a smile.

“We get to lose a tail, huh? I love this! I feel like a spy. So much better than answering phones.” Stromeyer crawled onto the back of the Suzuki. Banner glanced behind them. The Crown Vic turned a corner.

“Go,” Banner said to Alicia.

“See ya, boss.” Alicia revved the Suzuki out of the spot and back into traffic.

Banner sped off the other way. He was the lucky one that the
Crown Vic decided to follow. He swerved down streets and around corners. The sedan lost more and more ground. After twenty minutes he couldn’t see it at all. He changed course and headed to his office.

He entered the office and walked straight to the conference room, where he watched Stromeyer pace back and forth. Alicia sat at the table’s head, nervously eyeing first Stromeyer, then him. She mouthed, “She’s mad,” at Banner when Stromeyer wasn’t looking. Banner sighed. This much he knew. The phone on the conference room’s table rang twice before being abruptly cut off on the third ring.

“What did you do with the phones?” he asked.

“Forwarded them to your cell.”

Banner grimaced. Sure enough, his pocket started vibrating. He ignored it while Stromeyer continued to pace.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Alicia asked. “I try to never let them go to voice mail.”

“It’s tapped,” he said.

Alicia’s eyes grew large. “So cool. Can I text my boyfriend and tell him?”

“No!” Both Stromeyer and Banner spoke at once.

Alicia put up a hand. “I was just kidding. Jeez, you guys are on edge today.”

“Being hit with an investigation, audited by the IRS, followed by two goons, and having one’s phone tapped does that to a person,” Stromeyer said. She stopped wearing a path in the carpet and pointed a finger at Banner.

“Okay, I’m over it. She’s made her choice, and for better or worse she’ll need backup.”

The phone started ringing. Alicia reached over to answer.

“Leave it,” Banner said. “This is more important.” After two short rings, the phone went silent. Seconds later his pocket started vibrating again. He ignored it. Stromeyer raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Alicia pursed her lips. “What if it’s someone important? Like the president of the United States?”

Banner laughed. “The president would never call here. At best he’d have one of his assistants contact us.”

Alicia put her hands on her hips. “Even so. I’m taking Marketing 101, and the professor said that a company should endeavor to always have a living person answer its phones during business hours. Not to sends the wrong message.”

“Alicia.” Stromeyer’s voice held a note of warning.

Banner retrieved his phone and looked at the readout. “I’ll pick up this one.”

“Yes.” Alicia pumped a fist, waved at him, and swung out the glass doors, headed to her console.

“Just filing, no phone calls!” Stromeyer called after her.

Banner made an irritated sound and punched the green button. “Banner,” he barked into the phone.

“Is this the Mr. Banner who knows Emma Caldridge?” The female voice on the other end of the line was soft and spoke with a slight Asian accent.

“This is he.”

“I work for Price Pharmaceuticals. Ms. Caldridge asked me to analyze some vials of blood and to give you the results. May I proceed?”

“Certainly,” Banner said.

“The blood was negative for ricin, botulism, and anthrax. Also for HIV. As for her dopamine question, please tell her that people like her who engage in extreme sports will often exist in a state of continuously elevated dopamine levels.”

Banner wasn’t sure how to respond to this information. “Is that bad?”

The caller chuckled. “No. But it does reduce their sensitivity to certain stimuli. The body learns to accommodate the levels by forming a tolerance, much like that formed by individuals addicted to sub
stances. For example, a Formula One race-car driver may feel intense excitement during his first race, when his body dumps dopamine into his system, but over time he will lose the jittery feeling and adjust to the new levels. Likewise Ms. Caldridge, as an extreme runner, has probably grown used to the excess chemicals created when she runs. She is undoubtedly capable of functioning normally under higher blood-saturation levels than less acclimated people.”

“And what would happen to those less acclimated?”

“I’m sorry to say that these people would likely behave in a highly erratic and possibly dangerous fashion. Moreover, excessive amounts—say, in successive doses—could stress the heart to levels that can kill.”

Banner thanked the woman and hung up, not quite sure what to do with the information just given to him.

“That call was for Caldridge,” he said. He consulted his watch. “She should be landing in Nairobi soon. I told her to wait at the airport before heading to Berbera.”

“Good idea. We have a contact there. Ahmed. Remember him? I’ll let him know to look for her, and I’ll send Roducci to meet her in Nairobi.”

Giovanni Roducci was a disreputable Italian who ran around Europe pretending to be an entrepreneur distantly related to the Borgias. Roducci could produce fake documents, real weapons, and any number of vehicles on a moment’s notice. He fawned over Stromeyer. Whenever she called, they engaged in a spirited negotiation that usually ended with Roducci pretending bankruptcy and Stromeyer claiming she was robbed. Banner steered clear of these conversations. Roducci wore him out with his breezy gamesmanship.

“Roducci can get her whatever she might need to analyze the vials. He’s a notorious gossip, so I’ll keep him out of it until I can determine what she may require.” Stromeyer headed toward the glass doors, trench coat in her hand.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me about sending her?”

Stromeyer turned back. She shook her head. “Seems to me like she took matters into her own hands. It’s not what I would have done if I were her, but she’s proven she can take care of herself.”

“I doubt she has a Kenyan visa.”

Stromeyer halted. She held the door while she stood halfway in, halfway out. Banner could almost see her mind whirring. Working out the details.

“That’s not an insurmountable problem. I’ll get it arranged.”

Banner followed her out of the conference room, his thoughts on the task ahead. The idea that a chemical weapon could soon be in the hands of pirates disturbed him, as did the fact that he had no idea of its composition.

And that didn’t even take into consideration the ricin.

STARK ESCORTED EMMA THROUGH THE AIRPORT.

“Come on. We won’t need to go through security,” he told her.

Emma followed him to a private exit. Stark pushed open a metal door that led directly onto the tarmac. Jets lined up on both sides of them, glowing under the sodium lights. He walked toward a large, sleek number parked fifty feet away and proceeded up the ladder to the main door. The inside of the aircraft was plush but surprisingly compact. Each leather seat was the size of a commercial plane’s first-class seat, but there were only eight of them in two groups of four. Each grouping had a small coffee table in the center, and one had a tray with a laptop already up and running. Two men were in the cockpit, writing on clipboards. The first smiled when he saw Stark.

“We’re all set. Flight should be a breeze. We’ll be there in time for your meeting. Strap in. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

Stark put his bags in an overhead compartment and shut it. He lowered himself into a nearby chair. Emma did the same. True to the pilot’s word, they were in the air within ten minutes in a smooth takeoff.

Stark spent the first twenty minutes of the flight taking call after call on a hands-free unit. He talked to various Price executives, two organizers of the Comrades race, and to the main office in the States. He would hang up, and the phone would ring again immediately. After he was done with the calls, he turned to Emma.

“Let’s talk about Cardovin.”

Emma took a deep breath. She wouldn’t feel guilty about her findings, no matter how devastating they were. “You had some questions?”

Stark grimaced. “I have so many I don’t know where to start. You said Cardovin does nothing to clear one’s blood of the plaque that can form on arteries, but are there any conditions the drug can treat?”

Emma thought for a moment. She could see where he was heading, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to make any statements she couldn’t support.

“Are you thinking of an off-label effect?”

Stark nodded. “An off-label use would save us. We could still sell it, we wouldn’t need renewed FDA approval, and the drug would be beneficial to someone.”

Emma ran the clinical test results through her head. She didn’t see how any of them would support off-label use.

“I don’t think so. Most off-label benefits are noted anecdotally by the physicians who prescribe the drug for its approved use. I’m not aware of any for Cardovin.”

“But what if there were a disease that it could affect?”

To Emma it sounded as though Stark were grasping at straws. “Can I speak plainly?”

He shrugged. “You were exceedingly frank back there in the lab. Why change now?”

“Any off-label use you could find for Cardovin won’t fill a four-billion-dollar hole in your sales.”

Stark stared out the window, saying nothing for a while.

“Price can’t afford to lose billions in sales,” he said at last. “If the stock plummets, we’ll have to contract to conserve cash. Thousands will lose their jobs. Not to mention the loss to the shareholders. Price may never recover from the blow. It’s imperative that we find a use for Cardovin.”

“Price is constantly in research and development for new drugs.
Don’t you have some new products in the pipeline for approval that can pick up the slack?”

Stark sighed. “We do, actually, but they’re still in the clinical-trial stage. It could be two, maybe three years before the FDA approves the next one. We’ll need operating cash in the interim. Cash that Cardovin would provide.”

Emma saw his point. While she felt sorry for the loss of jobs, she saw no way to salvage the drug. If it didn’t work, it was unethical to pretend that it did. In fact, Emma wasn’t entirely certain that the prior sale of the drug wasn’t bordering on consumer fraud. Her results were in line with several other previous studies, yet Price’s marketing arm churned out glowing statistics regarding Cardovin’s efficacy. The marketing materials were careful to use terms like “in combination with other drugs” when discussing the results, but it still seemed to Emma like too much hype given the actual reports. She was glad she didn’t have to decide how to withdraw the drug. Price’s lawyers had that unenviable job. She stared out the window, feeling her eyelids becoming heavy. It had been a long, strange day. She stared into the darkness and struggled to stay awake. Stark reached out and pressed a button. The lights in the cabin dimmed.

“Tell me again why you’re going to Nairobi?” His voice helped revive her. Emma hesitated. Stark caught her pause. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.”

“Just on a business matter.”

“It’s pretty sudden business.”

“It’s for a company called Darkview. They tend to have sudden business.”

“Ah, so it’s for Banner.”

It was a statement. Emma was surprised he even knew the name.

“How do you know about him?”

“Wasn’t he the guy that rescued the Colombian hostages? He’s all over the news. Cooley’s committee is trying to bury him for blowing up the pipeline.”

“That’s him,” Emma said.

“You trust this man?”

“With my life.”

“Is he the only man you’d trust with your life?”

“In addition to my father, there’s one other. His name is Cameron Sumner.”

“Where’s he?”

“I have no idea.”

Stark gave her a searching look. She returned to gazing out the window. The low cabin lights and the hum of the engines calmed her. She stared at a reflective white area on the airplane’s wing. It reminded her of a song about the lines running along the freeway. She heard Stark shift in his seat.

“You seem worried about him.”

Emma sighed. “I am, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”

“What
are
you thinking?” Stark’s voice came out of the gloom.

Emma found the question surprising in its intimacy. At first she thought not to answer. But then decided she should. Something about being in the dark, heading toward a shared destination, made her feel less wary of him.

“I’m thinking about the words to that song. About the white lines on the freeway.”

“Joni Mitchell.”

“It is hers, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What are
you
thinking?” Emma asked.

Stark was silent a beat. “I’m thinking that no one has ever said that they’d trust their life to me.”

They subsided into silence. Emma looked away from Stark. She thought everyone needed to have one person believe in them, depend on them, and, if the chips were down, trust them implicitly. That Stark didn’t have such a person in his life made him seem isolated despite his outward success.

“Has anyone entrusted his life to you?” Stark said.

Emma nodded in the darkness. “I’d like to think that Patrick, my late fiancé, would have. And Cameron Sumner did in Colombia.”

“Late fiancé? Did he die?”

Emma felt her throat constrict, as it always seemed to when someone asked her about Patrick.

“Car accident. Over a year ago. He was hit by a drunken driver. I wasn’t with him when he died, but if I had been, I would have done everything in my power to save him.” She shook away the thought. Thinking too much of Patrick usually sent her down a road that she found too hard to step off.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“And Cameron Sumner, was he right?” Stark’s voice pulled her out of her melancholy thoughts.

“Right? What do you mean?”

“To trust you with his life?”

Emma nodded. “I think so.”

She saw Stark turn his head toward her. “Would you do it again?”

“You mean, would I save his life again?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

“This is someone you love, then,” Stark said.

Emma shook her head. “The man I love is dead.”

He looked at her. “Maybe no one has ever entrusted their life to me, but thousands have entrusted their jobs, money, and health to me. I don’t want to let them down. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Price afloat.”

Emma said nothing. Personally, she didn’t equate saving someone’s job or money to saving that person’s life, but Stark’s loyalty to Price was admirable, if a little extreme. Emma doubted she’d ever fight so hard for a corporation, but to men like Stark perhaps the company was everything.

They landed in Nairobi on an approach and touchdown that were as smooth as anything Emma had ever experienced. After a few minutes, the pilot emerged, looking tired. Stark conversed with him while his copilot opened the door.

Emma stuck a hand out. “Thanks for the flight. My first on a private plane.”

The copilot smiled. “Did you like it?”

She smiled back at him. “I loved it. The only way to fly.”

The copilot looked pleased.

Stark didn’t join in the conversation. He gazed out the jet’s door with a preoccupied expression on his face. Emma turned to see what he was watching, and her heart dropped. Two stoic-looking men in uniform stared back at her, their expressions grim. A third man, not in uniform but in dark jeans, a black sweater, and dark gym shoes, also peered up at them. He had curly black hair that hit just below his collar, a ring in his left ear, and a BlackBerry phone in his hand. He flashed a huge smile at Emma.

“Signorina Caldridge? It is I. Giovanni Roducci. Here to meet you!” Roducci spoke English with an Italian-laced accent and held his hands out in an expansive gesture.

Stark moved up behind her. “The two in uniform are from immigration, but who’s the gigolo?”

“He is Giovanni Roducci. Here to meet me,” Emma said. She gave Stark a warning look. “Please try to be cordial.”

“Why?”

“Something tells me I’m going to need his help.”

“Okay. But a bit of advice: Don’t trust
this
man with your life.”