started to spin from the lack of oxygen.
There was a printed label on the inner vial. The letters were tiny and difficult to read, so Peter practically had to press his nose against the outer Plexiglas cylinder in order to make them out.
VN11-H2.
Then below that, a name: DR. JULIA LACHAUX.
Peter reached into his go-bag, pulled out the laptop, and swiftly helped himself to the hotel’s overpriced Wi-Fi, searching for “Doctor Julia Lachaux.”
Bingo.
Lachaux was a scientist employed by the privately funded Center for Seizure Disorder Research. She was surprisingly photogenic for a scientist—a tall, leggy redhead with a curvy build and a warm smile.
And she was currently involved in a firestorm of controversy.
Doctor Lachaux was engaged in the development of a bioengineered retrovirus that supposedly held the key to a cure for epilepsy, a disorder from which she herself also suffered. There were several heartwarming stories about her tireless work to help kids with the debilitating condition they shared.
The controversy swirled around the rumor that the virus had been stolen. Reading that, Peter glanced at the vial.
“I think I can confirm it as true,” he muttered. Then he returned to reading. The posts were all infuriatingly vague about what the virus actually did, but one claimed that it “had the potential to overwrite DNA.”
He also found a post—about a week old—in which Lachaux denied the reports that her virus had been stolen, and assured the interviewer that even if it had been, there would be absolutely no danger to the public.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” The more he read of her vehement denials, the less believable they sounded. And with good reason.
He dug deeper, and found the official site for the Center for Seizure Disorder Research. Their facility was impressive—upscale and well appointed, with top-of-the-line equipment. A far cry from what his father had used at times over the years. It seemed to be funded primarily by some movie star with an epileptic kid. Most importantly—to Peter anyway—it looked as if they would have enough disposable funds to pay handsomely for the return of Doctor Lachaux’s precious virus.
Maybe there was a way for him to profit from this mishap, after all.
Now that he knew what to do with his accidental cargo, Peter had to figure out the how . In essence, how was he going to smuggle a potentially deadly virus out of Bangkok and into the United States? Granted, it was less than three ounces, and would fit in a plastic baggie, but on general principle the Department of Homeland Security tended to frown upon that sort of thing.
He knew he wasn’t a terrorist. They might not be so certain.
Of course, he might not have to bring it to Doctor Lachaux’s doorstep. He just had to get it somewhere close enough that it wouldn’t be out of the question for her to come meet him.
Still, he wanted to try to avoid getting the international agencies involved, if at all possible. So “close enough” still meant the States. He’d have to figure out how to slip in unnoticed, and in a situation like that, there was only one person he could think of who might be able to help him with this.
Peter dialed another number he knew by heart. She picked up on the first ring.
“Tess,” he said, then quickly added, “Don’t hang up…”
But she did.
Crap.
This was going to require some persistence and creativity, along with a healthy dose of charm. Luckily, convincing a hostile ex to do something dangerous was the kind of thing he did best.
PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
The Phnom Penh airport was pretty much like any major Asian airport. Really, like any airport anywhere.
Peter loved airports. Transitional places, full of strangers. Comfortable and anonymous. He could be anyone in an airport. And in that moment, anonymity was exactly what he needed.
He’d conveniently “forgiven” Jaruk, who’d claimed not to have known anything about the cops at the
There was a printed label on the inner vial. The letters were tiny and difficult to read, so Peter practically had to press his nose against the outer Plexiglas cylinder in order to make them out.
VN11-H2.
Then below that, a name: DR. JULIA LACHAUX.
Peter reached into his go-bag, pulled out the laptop, and swiftly helped himself to the hotel’s overpriced Wi-Fi, searching for “Doctor Julia Lachaux.”
Bingo.
Lachaux was a scientist employed by the privately funded Center for Seizure Disorder Research. She was surprisingly photogenic for a scientist—a tall, leggy redhead with a curvy build and a warm smile.
And she was currently involved in a firestorm of controversy.
Doctor Lachaux was engaged in the development of a bioengineered retrovirus that supposedly held the key to a cure for epilepsy, a disorder from which she herself also suffered. There were several heartwarming stories about her tireless work to help kids with the debilitating condition they shared.
The controversy swirled around the rumor that the virus had been stolen. Reading that, Peter glanced at the vial.
“I think I can confirm it as true,” he muttered. Then he returned to reading. The posts were all infuriatingly vague about what the virus actually did, but one claimed that it “had the potential to overwrite DNA.”
He also found a post—about a week old—in which Lachaux denied the reports that her virus had been stolen, and assured the interviewer that even if it had been, there would be absolutely no danger to the public.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” The more he read of her vehement denials, the less believable they sounded. And with good reason.
He dug deeper, and found the official site for the Center for Seizure Disorder Research. Their facility was impressive—upscale and well appointed, with top-of-the-line equipment. A far cry from what his father had used at times over the years. It seemed to be funded primarily by some movie star with an epileptic kid. Most importantly—to Peter anyway—it looked as if they would have enough disposable funds to pay handsomely for the return of Doctor Lachaux’s precious virus.
Maybe there was a way for him to profit from this mishap, after all.
Now that he knew what to do with his accidental cargo, Peter had to figure out the how . In essence, how was he going to smuggle a potentially deadly virus out of Bangkok and into the United States? Granted, it was less than three ounces, and would fit in a plastic baggie, but on general principle the Department of Homeland Security tended to frown upon that sort of thing.
He knew he wasn’t a terrorist. They might not be so certain.
Of course, he might not have to bring it to Doctor Lachaux’s doorstep. He just had to get it somewhere close enough that it wouldn’t be out of the question for her to come meet him.
Still, he wanted to try to avoid getting the international agencies involved, if at all possible. So “close enough” still meant the States. He’d have to figure out how to slip in unnoticed, and in a situation like that, there was only one person he could think of who might be able to help him with this.
Peter dialed another number he knew by heart. She picked up on the first ring.
“Tess,” he said, then quickly added, “Don’t hang up…”
But she did.
Crap.
This was going to require some persistence and creativity, along with a healthy dose of charm. Luckily, convincing a hostile ex to do something dangerous was the kind of thing he did best.
PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
The Phnom Penh airport was pretty much like any major Asian airport. Really, like any airport anywhere.
Peter loved airports. Transitional places, full of strangers. Comfortable and anonymous. He could be anyone in an airport. And in that moment, anonymity was exactly what he needed.
He’d conveniently “forgiven” Jaruk, who’d claimed not to have known anything about the cops at the
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