We'll Always Have Poison, page 16
“Sometimes, ma chérie, I wonder what it would be like if we both lived in France.”
I blink. My stomach bounces like a chair on a Ferris wheel that stops unexpectedly. What has gotten into JP? Such a fiercely independent man would never settle down with anyone. Even me.
“What are you saying?” I can hear the shake in my voice. So can he.
JP strokes my hair. “What I do for a living is all I have ever known.”
“You’ve told me many times you couldn’t imagine ever living a risk-free life.”
“When we were in Central Asia last year, I also told you I loved you, mais, could never possess you.”
My legs feel wobbly. I nod. “Of course, I remember. No woman can be possessed just as I could never possess you.”
“C’est vrai.”
“You said you were wed to this existence until you could no longer carry on. I think those were your exact words. Why are you bringing this up now, JP?” I bite my lower lip and stare into those blue-green eyes.
“After you almost died during our last mission, I felt responsible in many ways. Oui, it was Pixie Dust who brought you to our team, and you have performed admirably. Mais, you have rediscovered your daughter, and I have a cousin who knows nothing of me.” He stops and puts both hands on my shoulders.
“Are you telling me you would give this all up and return to Reims?”
“That is my birthplace, and I have an affinity for my home country.”
“But what about me? I live and work in Boston.”
“Je comprends. It has always been your choice, my Lily.”
Oh god. Why drop this all on me now? Is JP telling me he wants out of the business, and I can join him in France if I want to? “JP, I can’t talk about this now. I need to concentrate on what we are about to do.”
“Mais oui. I suppose I was moved by this beautiful place.”
For a time, we behave like tourists, walking hand in hand around Burg Square. A charming chocolate shop off a cobblestone path entices us as we look through the multipaned windows filled with chocolate craftsmanship. We enter and sample probably the finest chocolate in the world. Would the Swiss argue? Later, we satisfy our craving for coffee and a Liège waffle. Despite a short line at the takeout window, we are patient. Soon, a thick, sweet waffle piled with strawberries and fresh whipped cream sits in a small paper container. Two forks are all we need.
A small dollop of cream floats on the edge of JP’s cheek, and I take my thumb and wipe it off. He grabs my hand and takes my finger into his mouth. My chest heaves as my breathing deepens, and I feel I’ve missed a signal to this overt sexual gesture. His stare bores into me, and I sigh. What is going on with JP? When we are alone, he is affectionate. But in public? Is it a ruse so we look like tourists and not assassins? My heart beats wildly as the possibilities run through my mind.
Back on track, we leave our medieval refuge and drive toward the North Sea until we reach the NovoGeneOne facility, well-hidden beyond the main roads. JP manages to circumnavigate the compound for our first look. A sprawling three-story brick building with a bay of windows that run along the entire first floor stands at the end of the drive. There’s ample room for parking, but JP turns the car around and heads back out.
“Where are we going?”
“I wanted to see the main entrance, and now we go to where we saw the hangar.” JP drives round to the other side of the compound and pulls the car over just outside the fence near the airplane hangar. It is surrounded by a chain-link fence—nothing too imposing. In fact, the security seems less than robust, so I wonder if that means there’s nothing to hide or if everything is hidden in plain sight.
JP takes out a pair of field glasses. “There is a windsock over to the right. This facility definitely stores an airplane or two.”
“I’m not sure why we are making such a big deal about this. So what if they have a corporate jet. We’ve already agreed that’s no big deal.”
“Lily, you were the one extolling the virtues of the cookie-cutter shark—with its photophores making it nearly invisible to those viewing from below. You suggested the possibility of engineering a technical skin that could allow stealth aircraft to escape detection. What if NovoGeneOne has done that?”
“A cloaking device.”
“Oui. Science fiction meets reality.”
“If that were the case, then this technology could revolutionize the world. There are stealth planes already, but this would be a huge step ahead.” That phrase, the one about technology that could change the world, sticks in my mind. I’ve heard it before.
“We need to get into that hangar tomorrow.”
Once we are back at the hotel, we meet with Parker to discuss our options and see if Chad has obtained some documents allowing us to enter on the grounds of inspection.
Parker, a smile on his face, lets us into his room. “Glad you two tourists are back.” He raises an eyebrow at JP as I hand him a small box of chocolates. “I’ve got good news. Chad was able to pull some strings, and we’re going to be an inspection team tomorrow.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“Since JP speaks fluent French, he will be the team leader, and you and I, doc, will follow directions from the boss.” Parker pats JP on the shoulder.
“Oh, a nonscientist for the lead. We will all inspect the laboratory, but at some point, one of you will need to get into that hangar.” I smile broadly.
JP shares his thoughts about the cloaking skin with Parker.
“Shit, so you think the doc is right?” He turns to me. “You were obsessed with that cookie-cutter shark.”
JP rubs his chin. “America has led the field on low-observable aviation. There is the B-2 Spirit, and we have word that the U.S. Airforce’s Next Generation Air Dominance program seeks a replacement for the F-22 Raptor.”
Parker jumps in. “China and Russia are working on their own versions, for example, the Xian-H20, and the Tupolev PAK DA, respectively.”
“What makes these current planes stealthy?” I ask.
“These aircraft are planned to escape radar detection by virtue of their design and technology. For one, they reduce the reflection or emission of radar, infrared, and other signals. It is fairly complicated, and I do not intend to be the expert. Mais, you will also notice that they adhere to a basic shape, which helps limit radar cross-section.” JP points to an image of a stealth aircraft shaped like a triangle on his phone.
“I see. So, if they can take that virtual wing-shaped plane and coat it with reflective photophores embedded in shark-like skin, it could also be visibly undetectable. Basically, a Klingon ship.”
“Star Trek again?” Parker asks.
“Yes, Parker.” I turn to JP. “If what you say is true, it would confirm what we suspected. These scientists were not murdered because of their work on climate change.”
“Oui. I believe that in the course of Daniel Williams’s and Graham Harmon’s work, they uncovered evidence of this program’s existence. It is only a theory, mais, could explain why this has been so volatile.”
My lower lip trembles, thinking about the implication. “Who would have sanctioned such a project?”
A frown takes hold of Parker’s face. “Any global power.” He taps the picture several times.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“Doc, don’t be so naïve. Chad has his ear to the ground. There’s always background chatter about new threats. This could be it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the United States is interested.”
JP clears his throat. “Once we establish its existence, we can discuss next steps.”
Why do I feel a wave of anxiety cover me? I’ve been there before—my muscle memory of fear. “I hope Chad and OSH have come up with a viable complaint because if it’s true what you say, I don’t think for one minute these people would hesitate to kill us.”
“Chad took your lead, doc. The anonymous complaint has to do with ineffective biomonitoring.” Parker hands me his phone, where he’s pulled up what Chad has sent along.
“Great. We’ll assess if there are any ill health effects on their staff exposed to chemicals harvested from ocean organisms.” I pause to think. “For starters, we can ask what biomarkers they use and whether they are measured in blood or urine.”
“Let us work out the details tonight so we will be organized for tomorrow. Parker, how are we picking up identification badges?”
“Chad arranged for us to collect them in Ghent, so we’ll stop on our way.”
I leave my fear behind and switch to my clinical focus. “I’m going back to my room to familiarize myself with the OSH standards required for our visit.”
“Bon, Robinson. I will remain with Parker. We should meet for dinner tonight. Although it is already late.” He checks his fancy watch. “One cannot come to Brussels without eating frites.”
“That sounds good. Steak au poivre avec champignons et frites. I remember we served those arms dealers a modified version of that dish.”
JP laughs. “In that little bistro in Paris. Oui?”
“Nasty deaths, as I recall.”
Parker’s head shoots up. “What are you two going on about? And what are we having with the steak?”
“Oh, that was an early mission JP and I took in France, eliminating some arms dealers. We fed them toxic mushrooms, Amanita phalloides, with their peppered steak.”
“Oui, the Death Cap.”
“Christ, sometimes you two are just a shit load of fun.” Parker shakes his head.
JP and I laugh, and I excuse myself to go back to my room. If NovoGeneOne is building stealth aircraft, I assume the killer must be from that company. I was probably wrong about Holly Miller. Maybe Williams knew about her cloning work and was only trying to get background information. Her evasiveness may have more to do with her quirky personality than with killing Climate Council members.
Despite my earlier nap, I look forward to putting my feet up and calling Kelley. My watch says it’s late in Boston, but Kelley should still be up.
“Hi Kelley, I thought I would check in with you quickly. How is the consultation service?”
“Hey, Dr. Robinson. Funny you should ask. We’ve gotten slammed.”
“More fentanyl?”
“Not just fentanyl. It’s xylazine. Even when we bring them around with naloxone, the patients struggle with the toxic effects of xylazine.”
“Oh god, tranq—an effective animal tranquilizer. It’s making its way across the U.S.” Xylazine causes low blood pressure and slows the heart rate in addition to drowsiness. Add that to fentanyl, and you have a potent central nervous system cocktail.
“One more thing. Xylazine is causing necrotic wounds at the injection site. Reminds me of those necrotic fingers, toes, and ears we saw with levamisole-contaminated cocaine. We’re seeing all kinds of infections and dead tissue. The Infectious Disease team is all over this one.”
“Are we ever going to solve this opioid crisis? It only seems to be getting worse.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right. On a more positive note, Rose is doing well and enjoying her clinical rotations.”
My ears perk up. “That’s so good to hear, Kelley. I’m glad she hasn’t been turned off to medicine after everything she experienced last year. Has she indicated any subspecialty preferences?” I keep my fingers crossed because I would love to have her join Kelley and me in the field of pathology.
“You know Rose. She loves everything. I like to tell medical students that you can love all the disciplines and subspecialties, but then you have to pick one you will live with the rest of your life.”
“Or almost the rest of your life.”
“You know what I mean, Dr. Robinson. She’ll settle and then let us know. You have been a major influence in her life so far.”
I recall the irony of her telling me how she was excited by my presentation at student night when she was in high school. I didn’t even realize she was alive then. Funny how life’s twists and turns lead to paths unknown.
“So, tell me, Kelley, how is the relationship?”
“Solid. I think we both enjoy sharing science, and Rose is intuitive and sensitive at the same time.”
“Are you talking about what makes her a good doctor?”
“Well, yes. But it’s more than that. Surgical pathology, in particular, can take away the human interaction aspect of medicine. True, we occasionally see patients on our toxicology consultation service, but for the most part, we’re lab rats. We deal with facts and numbers, bits of tissue or body parts, without an introduction to the person. Rose brings medicine into focus. She has a true sense of what it means to be a healer. I admire that.”
“That is commendable. I’ll give her a call when I return. We can have lunch together.”
“She would like that.”
I hang up with Kelley and think about seeing Rose again. I’m comfortable being her mentor for now, but what would it be like to share the whole truth with her?
I’m prepared for a late-night dinner at a restaurant with JP and Parker. My blue flower print dress hugs my body, and I slip into a sleek pair of black stilettos. JP and Parker are waiting for me in the lobby.
“Nice dress,” Parker says.
JP raises his eyebrows.
“Thank you, Parker.” I give JP a smile.
We head to a restaurant on Rue Eugène Cattoir in Ixelles, not too far from the hotel. Subdued lighting and brick-lined walls with high arches create an untroubled atmosphere. We’re shown to a quiet table in the cellar—perfect for discreet conversation.
Parker puts down the menu. He wiggles the knot of his blue-striped tie, presumably to reduce the pressure at his neck. “I’m getting that big steak and French fries.”
JP nods. “I will have the same.” He turns to me. “Robinson?”
“Make that three, except I only want a petite filet.” Even Shakespeare recognized there was too much of a good thing.
JP gives the waiter our order and then reviews the wine list before picking out something flavorful to pair with our meal.
Our glasses, filled with a nice Cabernet, and petit pain in a basket covered with a crisp white linen cloth, arrive at the table. I butter a roll before the salad serving.
“Cheers,” I say to the others, picking up my glass and waiting to clink with theirs. “I’ve heard the custom of toasting began as a way to detect poisoning. Bumping full cups caused a splash of drink into each other’s goblets. Poison one, poison both.”
Parker laughs. “You can be sure I haven’t poisoned your glass, doc.”
“Are you letting us know that we need to be careful?” JP swirls his wine in his glass and sniffs the bouquet before drinking.
“Just making a little small talk.”
“It’s a lot better than your usual lectures.” Parker grins.
“You two have been very out of character on this trip. I don’t get it. I’m waiting for one of you to tell me there have been no deaths, and it was all a dream.”
“Unfortunately, it is not a dream. Tomorrow, we will go to NovoGeneOne and gather as much information as possible. I think during the inspection, Robinson, you should start wandering. Preferably near the hangar.”
“Why me again?”
“You are the least menacing to anyone who would stop you. A woman lost on the grounds, one who could easily be overpowered, does not appear threatening.”
“Ha. Little do they know.” Parker winks.
“Well, I’ll try not to get myself shot.” I roll my eyes. But JP has a point. I could play the innocent, although leaving the main facility and getting lost by the airplane hangar seems a stretch.
The meal is delicious, and we enjoy non-work-related conversation before heading back to the hotel. Our car is waiting, and once we are all in, JP takes us for a drive around the city, so we can appreciate the night lights. I feel relaxed, until…
The car slows.
“I think we are being followed,” JP says in a low tone.
I can see his eyes in the rearview mirror.
Parker slowly turns his head to get a better view. I duck so he can see past me.
“You’re right, JP. There’s a black sedan tailing us. How do you want to play this?”
JP nods.
He slows the car and pulls into the left lane as we approach the traffic light. We idle to see if the vehicle passes or holds its place behind us. It keeps its distance. The light turns yellow, and JP waits until it’s almost red before doing a dizzying U-turn at the intersection.
“Hold on.” The engine roars.
“Shit!” My head knocks against the back seat.
“Whoa, ol’ man. Make us fly.”
I see the black sedan across the divider still heading in the opposite direction. The person behind the wheel stares at us before he drives through the red light, tires screeching. Most of his face hides in the shadows, but he’s wearing a cap, and I am sure it is a man. There are no pretensions now.
We head south on R21—the Boulevard Géneral Jacques.
The tailing car makes progress.
I lean forward and yell into JP’s ear. “Go faster. He’s gaining on us.” My pulse races.
The black sedan pulls beside us and rams into our car. We veer from our lane onto the sidewalk.
Parker’s body slams against the door. “Shit, JP. Where is my fucking gun when I need it?”
“What the hell? We were out to dinner. Not in pursuit of one of our terrorists.” The next ram pushes the car hard to the side.
JP sends the gas pedal to the floor, and his right elbow darts into the air as he turns the steering wheel. Nausea creeps up to the back of my throat as I bounce from side to side. I see the woods ahead—the bois. We run the red light. Our car ditches the main road as we turn onto a smaller road within the Bois de la Cambre. Woods outline the way, and the trees are a blur. The car that’s been following us has dropped behind.
