At a quarter past twelve, Miss Sophie hurried into the room with a terrified look on her face. She grabbed Will firmly by the upper arm and whispered to him in heavily accented English. “The taxi driver, Mikiel, warn me this could happen. Right now, men are at the door; they are looking for you. They show me your picture. They say they are police. This is lie. I know how police look. I tell them they can’t come in and I shut the door. But they will come in anyway. It will be bad for me and bad for you if they find you here. You must go now! Follow me.”
Without a word of protest, Will grabbed his new coat and followed her down a flight of stairs to a back door that opened into an alley. She unlocked the door and peeked outside, scanning first left and then right.
“It safe. Go now!”
Loud repetitive pounding from the entry door echoed down the first floor hallway.
He took a step across the threshold, then stopped. He looked her in the eyes, and she read his thoughts immediately.
“I take care of the American boys. You go now.”
He bowed his head to her. “Thank you, for everything,” he said and then sprinted off into the darkness.
Chapter Five
Briggs crossed his legs and shifted his weight in a fruitless effort to get comfortable. The chairs in Robért Nicolora’s office were nice enough to look at, but despite their solid walnut construction and crimson leather upholstery, they were abysmally uncomfortable. Nicolora liked it that way. He preferred to keep his office guests distracted while they were in conference with him. “As goes the body, so goes the mind,” he had once told Briggs.
Nicolora’s own chair, while similar in style, was contoured, soft, and supportive.
Though he was five years Briggs’ senior, Nicolora looked at least ten years younger than his longtime friend. His lean frame, olive complexion, and full head of hair belied his fifty-nine years. A naturalized U.S. citizen of twelve years, he had been born in a small town outside of Budapest, Hungary. His linguistic capabilities had always left friends and colleagues awestruck. At the age of thirty, he was fluent in seven languages: Hungarian, Czech, Russian, German, French, Spanish, and English. His current project was Mandarin. He spoke English with a perceptible and yet charming accent that came from a subtle mix of his Eastern European roots and Western European schooling. He could shed the accent when necessary for negotiation purposes, but he preferred the sound of his English to that of native British or American speakers. Most of the women he courted seemed to prefer it as well.
When he was a small child, Nicolora’s parents moved his sister and him to Madrid. On his eighteenth birthday, he left home to attend university in Barcelona. In his twenties, Nicolora lived and worked throughout Europe, spending time in Paris, Munich, Amsterdam, and London. It was during his time in London that he met an American named Bradley Wells. Over several months, the two men became close friends, and it was Wells who recruited Nicolora to join an elite think tank that served the U.S. government during the Cold War. Neither a government bureau nor a corporation, the brain trust did not officially exist on any government org-charts. Within the innermost circles of the State Department, however, the group was known as The Think Tank.
To its members, it was simply and affectionately referred to as The Tank.
In 1997, Nicolora was appointed Director. In December 2000, one month before President George W. Bush took office, the Think Tank Project was quietly disbanded and its members scattered to the wind.
In theory, The Tank had ceased to exist.
“Did he accept?” Nicolora asked, knowing the answer already.
“Yes.”
“Did he make a counteroffer?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” Nicolora rubbed his chin. “Do you think he can handle our type of fieldwork?”
Briggs shrugged. “Fifty-fifty. But McNamara assures me this kid is the real deal. A ‘tenacious technical mind’ were his exact words. Besides, you said it yourself, Archer’s dissertation practically is the case.”
“What do you have planned for him today?”
“I’m meeting him at eight in the Public Garden. Paperwork, followed by the standard tour.”
Nicolora smiled, expectantly. “Did you give him any location ciphers to figure out where to meet you?”
“No. We don’t have time for that bullshit. I can’t afford to waste a day picking him up somewhere ridiculous like Iceland.”
Nicolora laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re still sore about Reykjavik. That was ten years ago.” Briggs grunted.
“I seem to remember your first day being a little rough.” Nicolora winked.
“Not my fault. I was merely following your instructions,” Briggs said. “Your ciphers have always sucked.”
“Not true. You’ve just never been able to figure them out.” Nicolora reached for a pen on his desk. “Do you want me to write it down? I still remember it.”
“Bastard.” Briggs swiped the pen away and pretended to be angry. He squirmed again in his chair. “And have I mentioned that I hate these goddamn chairs?”
“Not since yesterday.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment like street toughs in rival gangs, then burst into laughter.
After he had caught his breath Briggs asked, “What did our contact in the Czech Ministry of Health have to say? Does the Czech government know anything yet?”
“Nothing. Meredith is keeping it very quiet. She’s in lockdown mode, holding everything back… even from me. But whatever went down, it was big.”
“Containment loss?”
“Not likely, or it would be all over CNN by now. Industrial espionage is my guess.”
“Or it could be a cover-up for a major league screw-up.”
“Always one of my personal favorites,” Nicolora chuckled.
“Has she decided what she wants to do?”
“Not yet.”
Briggs grunted again, this time with real disdain.
“I know you don’t like her Jack, and I don’t care,” Nicolora said. “If Meredith decides she needs our help, then we’re going to help her, damn it.”
“Even if it means taking down the Foundation in the process?”
Nicolora tensed, but quickly regained his composure. “Now you’re just being melodramatic.” He stood, walked around the corner of his desk, and stopped in front of the still-seated Briggs. Looking down at him, he added, “If our people do what they’re supposed to do — what they’re paid to do — then that will never happen. Regardless of the assignment.”
Briggs stood and put his hand on Nicolora’s shoulder.
“Be careful, old friend. If I recall correctly, it was you yourself who once said: That woman’s lips are hemlock.”
Chapter Six
Will sat alone on a cold stone curb, in a narrow deserted alley, his face buried in his hands. Visions of the two American college students from the youth hostel, writhing with fever and pain, flashed through his mind like snapshots in a grotesque photo album he could not bring himself to close. It was his fault they were dying. Did that make him a murderer?
He did not know whether it was exposure to the contents of the broken vial or contact with him that had infected them. They were exposed to two potential vectors. As far as Miss Sophie was concerned, when Will last saw her, she was not exhibiting signs of infection. That leant credence to the broken vial argument. Of course, that was hours ago. By now, she could be as sick as they were.