Indispensable Party

Book 4: Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller

by Melissa F. Miller

Genres: Financial Thrillers; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

In the name of science, an international team of researchers creates a deadly virus capable of killing untold millions. While the U.S. government quietly stockpiles a vaccine, a militaristic group of doomsday preppers begins to mobilize in response to the economic collapse they're convinced is coming.

Sasha McCandless has put danger and intrigue behind her to focus on her blessedly unexciting commercial litigation practice and couldn't be further removed from the escalating tension. That is, until her boyfriend, Leo Connelly, the new chief security officer for the vaccine manufacturer, discovers someone's been looting the cache.

Then the Doomsday virus is stolen and a researcher is murdered. Sasha and Leo have just three days to prevent the release of the ultimate biochemical weapon. Sasha's saved her share of innocent lives in the past. But this time can she really save the world?

Release date: January 27, 2013

Publisher: Brown Street Books

Print pages: 450

Sample

Chapter 1

 

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact: Office of Communications, CDC

KILLER FLU A REALITY, RESEARCHERS CLAIM

Modified H17N10 virus transmits efficiently from human to human.

 

The Center for Disease Control and Prevention today announced that an international team of researchers has successfully mutated the deadly Doomsday virus, the so-called “killer flu,” such that person-to-person transmission can now occur easily. The mutated influenza virus is now known as H17N10.

 

The CDC reports that the naturally occurring virus resulted from the combination of three highly virulent strains that, until now, have not posed a significant risk to humans. Lead researcher Jacques Bouchard, a virologist at the Pasteur Institute (Lyon), confirmed that the NIH-funded study, which included French and American research teams, was designed to determine whether the Doomsday virus could be genetically modified to allow for airborne transmission.

 

“Not only has the resultant mutation proven highly transmissible, the modifications have resulted in increased virulence. Our estimates are that a global pandemic of H17N10 could infect up to 50% of the global population, or up to 3.5 billion individuals, and could result in a 20% mortality rate, killing an estimated seven hundred million infected individuals,” Mr. Bouchard stated.

 

In an unusual move, the U.S. National Science Advisory Board for Biosecurity has forbidden the researchers from publishing their results for reasons of national security. No further details have been released.

 

 

*   *   *

 

GOVERNMENT TO STOCKPILE KILLER FLU VACCINE

 

Washington, D.C. (Newswire) – The government released plans to stockpile more than twenty-five million doses of an experimental vaccine against the Doomsday virus in an effort to prepare for the possibility of a deadly pandemic. The pandemic, if it were to occur, would be capable of wiping out more than twenty percent of the world population.

 

A spokesperson for the Department of Health and Human Services said that the government has already contracted with Serumceutical International, Inc., a pharmaceutical company, to manufacture and deliver the stockpile as early as this month. And, with flu season already underway, the government has asked Congress to fast track a bill that would appropriate money for additional doses.

 

With the U.S. population now exceeding 300 million people, a killer flu pandemic would shut down the economy, quarantining hundreds of millions of unvaccinated people to their homes for as long as two to three months.

 

In laboratory tests, the vaccine, which is reported to contain a small amount of a live, but weakened, strain of virus very similar to H17N10, provided immunity much more quickly than traditional flu vaccines. Serumceutical documents indicate full immunity can be achieved within seventy-two hours, rather than two weeks.

 

In response to questions about the existence of an effective antiviral, scientists said that, while research is underway, to date, no antiviral medication has proven effective against the Doomsday virus, although ViraGene Corp. is slated to release results of trials of its experimental AviEx antiviral later this month.

 

 

* * *

 

ViraGene Shares Gain 38% on Rumor of Antiviral Approval

 

BETHESDA, MD (AP) – ViraGene Corp. (VGN) shares rose on heavy trading in response to reports that the company’s AviEx antiviral NDA (New Drug Application) is being considered for accelerated approval in light of positive results from human trials. The company declined to comment on the status of its NDA, citing trade secret and national defense concerns, but CEO Colton Maxwell circulated an internal email message to officers and directors of the company congratulating his team “on this victory on the front lines of defense against the very real specter of a deadly killer flu pandemic.”

 

To date, the federal government has not publicly committed to the purchase of AviEx and is staying the course with its plans to stockpile millions of doses of a new vaccine being manufactured by Serumceutical International, Inc. (SRM).

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Friday evening

 

 

Celia Gerig’s hands shook. She removed the keys from the ignition and took a long, slow breath. She watched the snow fall and stick to the windshield of the dirty Civic.

 

Once her heart rate slowed, she returned the keys and tried to start the car again. The first time, the engine had whined, coughed, and then gone dead. This time, nothing happened.

 

She pounded a fist on the steering wheel and blinked back hot, frustrated tears. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. She searched the parking lot, looking for anyone, one of her coworkers, head bent against the wind, hurrying to get to his or her car and make it out to the bar at Chili’s before the happy hour specials ended. She saw no one.

 

It was after five on a Friday. Everyone was long gone, which had been the plan, after all. She’d lingered after the shift had ended, taking her time in the locker room, so she could avoid questions—about her weekend, what was in her bag, whatever. Because no matter what else she was, Celia knew she was a terrible liar.

 

But, now what? She couldn’t exactly call and say she couldn’t make the meeting. She’d just get an earful of angry blather about being prepared for emergencies, and responsibility, and a lot of other disappointed scolding that she knew she deserved. She let her head drop down to the steering wheel and sat there, deflated and helpless.

 

A sharp rap on the driver’s side window startled her. Outside, Ben Davenport’s tanned faced filled the glass. His green eyes were wide with concern under the knitted cap he’d pulled down tight to cover his balding head.

 

“Everything okay?” he mouthed.

 

It figured. Just her luck that the only person still around was her boss. The last person she wanted anywhere near her car. But she needed help. The handoff was supposed to be at eight o’clock. Even if she left right now, she’d have to speed for at least part of the drive to make it in time.

 

She lowered the window.

 

“My car won’t start.”

 

“Why don’t you hop out and let me take a look at her.”

 

“That would be great.”

 

He stepped back so she could open the door. As she slid out of the car, her eyes shifted to her oversized purse on the passenger seat to make sure it was still zippered shut. It was.

 

Ben got behind the wheel and placed his briefcase next to her purse. He turned the key in the ignition, but the only sound was the click click of the key itself. He reached up to switch on the dome light. Nothing.

 

“Battery’s dead,” he said through the open window. He reached for his briefcase and knocked her bag to the floor.

 

“Oops.”

 

He bent to pick up the purse, and Celia felt the panic rising in her throat.

 

“No! Leave it!”

 

He turned and looked up at her, a curious, confused expression on his face.

 

“Uh, I mean, it’s fine on the floor,” she said. Despite the fact that she was standing outside in the snow, sweat beaded up on her hairline.

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

He exited the car and said, “I can give you a jump. Do you have cables?”

 

“No, there’s nothing in my trunk,” she said quickly. She winced. Stupid. Why did she volunteer that her trunk was empty? He hadn’t asked.

 

He squinted at her, puzzled.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

She was very sure that she was not okay. She was scared, and worried, and nervous. But she swallowed and said, “I’m fine. I’m just running late, that’s all. But I don’t have jumper cables. What am I going to do?”

 

Ben gave her a kindly look and patted her on the arm. He was such a friendly old guy that Celia felt a momentary pang for what she’d done, for what she was about to do. Then she remembered what was at stake, and the pang disappeared.

 

“Don’t you worry. I should have a set in my car. Let me check, and I’ll be right back.”

 

He walked across the lot and around to the side of the building. Moments later, he returned, driving his Buick with the Florida plates, cautious, like an old guy, like a snowbird. He eased it into the spot next to hers. He popped his trunk and walked around to get the jumper cables. He raised his hood and motioned for Celia to do the same.

 

She fumbled with the little arm that held the hood up while he unwound the neatly coiled cables and hooked the red clip on one end of the cables to her positive battery terminal. He stretched the cable across the parking spots and clamped the other end onto his battery. Then he connected one black clip to his negative terminal and the other end to a bolt on the Civic’s engine block to ground it. He stepped back and brushed his hands, satisfied.

 

He returned to the Buick and started the engine. After a few moments, he raised his head and gave Celia a thumb’s up signal.

 

“All right. Start her up,” he called.

 

Celia got behind the wheel and offered up a silent prayer. She turned the key, and the engine roared to life. She saw Ben smile.

 

She said, “Thank you so much. You don’t even know.”

 

“No worries,” Ben said.

 

The snow clinging to his knit hat was starting to melt, and it dripped on to his face when he bent to remove the cables from the two batteries. He lowered her hood and then his, holding the cables in one hand. He wound the cables into a neat bundle and started back toward his trunk, and then he stopped like he’d thought the better of it.

 

“Why don’t you keep these until Monday? There’s a chance your battery’s gonna drain itself again when you get wherever you’re going. That way, you won’t be stuck until you get that in to get it looked at,” he said.

 

“No, please, it’ll be fine,” she insisted firmly. Mainly because she had no intention of opening her trunk for him. She figured the battery would die again, but she didn’t anticipate driving herself anywhere for a while. After tonight, she’d need to hole up anyway.

 

He searched her face and then said, “Okay, but you really ought to be prepared for something like this to happen.”

 

She couldn’t help it. She burst into loud nervous laughter. She clamped her mouth shut as he turned around from his trunk and eased the lid closed. He cocked his head at her.

 

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s not funny. It’s just … I was thinking the exact same thing is all.” She smiled broadly.

 

He stared at her for a few seconds, then he shrugged. “Okay, then. You have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

 

“Goodbye, Ben,” she said. Her words conveyed a finality she hadn’t meant to share.

 

She hurried into the car and slammed the door shut. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Then she put the car in reverse, exited the parking spot, and raced out of the lot, giving Ben a short beep in thanks as she passed him.

 

In her rearview mirror, she could see him standing there, looking after her as she pulled away.

 

If she had looked back when she reached the end of the drive, she’d have seen him walk over to his Buick, kill the engine, and lock his car door, then head back into the building with a thoughtful, concerned expression.

 

 

* * *

 

Michel Joubert held his breath as he swiped his key card to gain entrance to the lab. There was never any way to know when he would encounter one of his coworkers. After all, what they did was part science and part art. When inspiration struck during dinner, the researchers had been known to tuck their children into bed and return to their work afterward. Not to mention, some experiments took hours to run. Some people left their experiments unattended or assigned a student to watch them, but others preferred to hover over their work in progress like anxious parents.

 

If there was ever a time to sneak into the lab unnoticed, though, it was twelve-thirty in the morning on a Saturday. As much as the researchers loved their work, they were, after all, French. A few bottles of wine and a leisurely meal were every Frenchman’s due at the end of a long week. He expected that anyone still awake was in no condition to do anything but sit in front of a roaring fire and wax philosophical in the candlelight. He hoped so, at least.

 

He eased the door shut and crept down the darkened hallway. His rubber-soled, leather driving moccasins made virtually no noise on the tile floor. This pleased him because the safer move would have been to wear running shoes, but he’d dismissed that as an option. His views on appropriate attire for the laboratory were well known; if he did run into someone, sneakers on his feet would be a glaring announcement that something was out of place.

 

He reached the end of the hall and pressed his thumb against the reader. While the machine scanned his thumbprint, he stared at the biohazard sign that he’d seen a hundred times before without really looking at it and ran through the sequence again: get in; get what he needed; get out. It would be astonishingly easy.

 

To the public, he imagined the laboratory’s designation as a biosafety level 4 facility—the institute was the first in Europe to attain the highest level—conjured up visions of multiple levels of impregnable security designed to prevent precisely what he was about to do. That was, of course, a fiction. The strict standards and precautions in place in a level 4 facility were designed to prevent an accidental release of a dangerous biological agent and to contain such a release if one were to occur. It was as if the drafters of the rigorous standards had never entertained the notion that a person might want to waltz out the door with the Ebola virus or some smallpox tucked into his pocket.

 

The machine finished digesting his swirls and beeped its approval. He passed through the double doors and walked into the outer change room. Here, he hesitated. The usual procedure before entering the lab when the biological agents were not secured would be to strip naked and suit up in the underpants, shirt, pants, shoes, gloves, and personal pressure protective suit, then enter through the shower room. He would reverse this sequence when leaving the lab: take off the lab clothes; shower; dress in his street clothes; and exit the laboratory.

 

But he didn’t have that kind of time. And, currently, the virus was secured and the laboratory decontaminated. If he ran into anyone, he could explain away his appearance by saying he needed to check his station for some misplaced item. Besides, he thought, what difference did it make? Soon enough, he’d be toting the H17N10 virus around in a soft-sided cooler, for the love of the saints.

 

He shrugged and left the room, opting to enter the lab through the sealed airlock instead of the decontamination shower chamber. He pressed the pad on the wall to open the first airtight door to the passageway. Once inside, he pressed an identical pad to close the door. He felt the breeze from the HEPA filters blowing on him, something he never noticed while suited up. He stepped up to the second door. After the first door had sealed shut behind him, he pressed the pad to open the door leading to the laboratory.

 

Once inside, he breached protocol by leaving the door open. Then he ran across the gleaming, white tile floor to the glovebox that held the vials. Inside the box, a heavy, stainless steel container, shaped like a thermos, sat alone on a shelf. He reached for it, breathing hard, and twisted the top until the seal broke.

 

Michel had originally planned to take the entire container, but his buyer was interested in purchasing only a small amount of the virus. And he’d explicitly told Michel to leave the container behind as it would slow detection of the theft. Unless and until someone had a research need to open the container, no one would know the virus was missing. That was the buyer’s belief, at least.

 

Michel knew the buyer was mistaken. When he didn’t return to work on Monday, there would be concerns. By Tuesday morning—if not sooner—the supervisors would check the monitoring systems and see that he had swiped his card at twelve twenty-eight in the morning; pressed his thumb into the print reader at twelve thirty-four; and entered the airlock at twelve forty-five. And, then, they’d wonder what he’d been working on. They would open the glovebox and see that a sample of the H17N10 virus was missing. But, the Americans had a saying that the customer was always right, so he gingerly removed one sample and returned the thermos.

 

The tube was remarkably light considering the incredible weight its contents carried. In his hand, Michel held a weapon more powerful than any other yet made by man. A droplet or two sprinkled in a market could start a daisy chain of suffering, illness, and death that would stretch across the globe. A vision of moaning, dying children filled his eyes, and he blinked it away.

 

The buyer had promised he would not release the virus; he’d said he needed it for leverage, that was all. If the man had offered only money, Michel would have pressed for more details, better assurances. But, he hadn’t offered only money—money was changing hands, and quite a bit of it. More than money, though, the American had offered him priceless information: the address where that tramp Angeline had taken his Malia. Four years old, a jumble of wild blonde curls and elbows and knees, singing her silly songs, oceans away from her papa.

 

He felt his grip tighten on the bottle and took a long, steadying breath. Soon, Malia. Very soon your papa will come for you. He slid the cold vial into the front right pocket of his trousers and hurried back to the airlock.

 

He retraced his path out of the laboratory. His anxiety began to recede with each step closer to the exit. The soft bump of the vial against his thigh with each quick stride thumped out a beat: He’d done it. He’d done it!

 

The hard part was almost over. Soon he’d be in his pristine Smart, with the cooler on the seat beside him, driving carefully through the countryside to the prearranged drop spot. He’d split the sample among the three smaller vials the American had provided and leave the cooler behind. And then he would begin his journey to retrieve his daughter and begin his new life.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Leo’s cell phone came to life in his pocket, and he flushed with annoyance. He knew from the ring tone that the call was from Grace Roberts, his second in command. When he’d left the office at lunchtime to get an early start on the weekend, he’d instructed Grace not to bother him for anything short of a catastrophe.

 

Sasha’s head rested against Leo’s chest. She was reading some legal journal article about intellectual property rights in cyberspace. He tried to ignore the ringing in his pocket and continued stroking Sasha’s hair. The warm, gingery scent of her shampoo rose and enveloped him like a cloud.

 

Leo watched through the window overlooking the lake as the outdoor spotlights illuminated the fat, wet snowflakes that floated past in the darkness. He was perfectly content—the happiest he’d been in months—if not entirely relaxed. The truth was he was on his best behavior. The lake house, situated in Deep Creek, Maryland—a resort town halfway between Washington, D.C., and Pittsburgh—was both a compromise and an experiment. In the two months since he’d left Pittsburgh and the Department of Homeland Security to take a private sector job as the chief security officer for Serumceutical International, headquartered outside D.C., the situation with Sasha had been delicate.

 

In his view, he had left her with an open invitation; but in her view, it had been an ultimatum. To her credit, though, she’d been the one to pick up the phone and call him.

 

She’d agreed to try out a long-distance relationship with some reluctance, and he didn’t dare to revisit the issue of her moving to D.C. As an early Christmas gift to one another, they’d rented this lakefront vacation home for the season. The house was a place to spend time together on neutral territory while they figured out a long-term plan. Leo hoped that, by spring, she’d be willing to make a permanent move. But she was like a deer, liable to start at any moment and gallop away.

 

His cell phone rang a second time, and he felt Sasha stiffen. Great.

 

He caressed her arm and gently shifted her to the couch, then fished the phone from his pocket and answered on the third ring.

 

“What is it, Grace?” Leo said, keeping his voice even on the off-chance that she was calling about an actual emergency.

 

“Not on the phone,” Grace said immediately. Her voice was serious but calm.