“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.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The obsidian-colored, V12-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?”
“In our line of work, that’s salvation in a pill. We all do it. It’s not a stimulant, rather a class of drug called a wakefulness agent. The military has been using it with soldiers and pilots for years.”
“I was wondering why I was the only one who seemed to be dragging like a jet-lagged zombie.”