VECTOR

Claire

CHAPTER 2

Claire

Traffic. Traffic was the bane of Claire's existence. Every year the northern Virginia suburbs of D.C. grew more crowded and congested. Her commute became longer and longer, and her patience grew shorter and shorter. Sitting still while stoplights cycled was maddening. She sometimes wondered why she stayed in this madhouse. It wasn't entirely for the money, although the money was fine. And it wasn't for the quality of life, although that was fine too. She didn’t have roots in Virginia; her parents lived in Florida. Unmarried, actually not really involved with anyone, she could move at a moment's notice. Her condo would sell as soon as she placed it on the market. Real estate in the area sold as soon as someone even intimated they wanted to sell. She had heard of bidding wars, which seemed insane to her. No place was worth that, was it?

Her car moved one car length and came to a stop. Maddening. She reached for the radio but stopped. She didn't really want to listen to some blabbermouth talk about the weather or the latest bombing in the Middle East or what Congress was going to do with the tax bill. Music might soothe her, but she didn't want to be soothed. She liked the righteous anger running through her veins. Railing against the status quo seemed fulfilling in some sense. She was an American, and she came from a long line of people who weren't satisfied with the way things were. She wanted and deserved better, and right now, better was moving more than twenty feet every two minutes. For a moment, she considered picking up her phone and calling city government to complain. She was pretty sure it wouldn't do any good, but it might make her feel better. Before she could dial, the light changed, and she made it through the intersection. She was moving. Her anger dropped a notch. With any luck, she would park at work in ten minutes.

Luck was not with her.

Twenty minutes later, Claire put on her lab coat and walked into the clean room. Because she sometimes worked with pathogens, her lab was always sterile and climate controlled. The air was filtered more times than she could count, and in effect, never left the room. It wasn't as if she handled the worst of the worst, but any leak would be problematic and embarrassing. If the leak were dangerous enough, it would cost her company millions. If people died… she didn't complete that thought. Nobody was going to die because she skipped a protocol. It was just that simple. It wouldn't happen on her watch. She felt for her phone and remembered that she had left it in her locker, per her personal rules. Germs didn't discriminate. They latched onto any surface they could find. Her phone wasn't going to become the equivalent of a kitchen sponge. Sliding on her safety glasses, she opened the laptop in front of her and studied the next actions in her test schedule.

Lunch arrived unexpectedly for Claire. She was deep into the DNA genome of a particular organism when the text message appeared on her laptop. Carlita would meet her at the front door in ten minutes, which was just enough time for Claire to tie down what needed to be tied down before she left the lab. Protocols, it was always protocols.

Claire's won ton soup came out hot and spicy, just the way she liked it. Across the table from her sat Carlita who, strictly speaking, wasn't a researcher. She was the writer who took the findings and turned them into papers and reports that detailed where the research was heading, the accomplishments that might one day make a difference in the world. Chubby, saddled with thickish glasses, Carlita loved to eat. Chinese food being cheap and abundant, Claire found herself in the Golden Dragon three days out of five. Still, it didn't bother her. Carlita was always talkative and informed. She supposed most writers were that way. How else could they write?

"Did you know that Janet Parker was the last person to die of smallpox?” Carlita asked.

“Why is that important?” Claire answered.

"It's not unless you know how she got the virus.”

“And you're going to tell me right?”

“It's fascinating, really. There was a researcher who actually used the live virus, but because time was against him, he bypassed some safety protocols. He and his staff were vaccinated on a regular schedule, so they didn't contract the disease. But poor Janet worked in the room above the main lab. No one knows how the virus migrated from one floor to the next, but that hardly matters. Janet thought she had the flu until the pustules manifested themselves. By that time, the disease had progressed. Her parents were quarantined, and things really went south. The head of the lab killed himself.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes, he went into his garden and cut his own throat. Can you imagine?”

“We're eating lunch, Carlita.”

“Oh, don't be a baby. You've seen your share of blood and whatever.”

“Not during lunch.”

“Anyway, poor Janet's father died of a heart attack, and her mother contracted the disease. While her mother recovered, poor Janet died. Isn't that a wonderful story?”

Claire shook her head. “That's a horrible story.”

“Of course it is.”

“Then, why are you telling me?”

“I've been tasked to write something for the next safety letter. What do you think?”

“Don't kill Janet?”

“Precisely.”

“I think you've found your niche.”

“Very funny. You think it will work?”

“How could it not?”

Carlita beamed. “I knew you'd like it.”

Janet Parker quickly left Claire's mind during her afternoon stint. She had results to log and data to input into the algorithm the techies guaranteed would produce the results she needed. The techies always promised more than they could deliver. It was all part of the game. When the results turned out to be utter garbage, the techies simply shrugged and told her to input her data again. She knew the game. While she busily re-input her data, they tweaked the algorithm to produce something she could use. But she was on to them. She waited awhile, told them she had input the data a second time, and they could run the system. Funny how the second run produced different results despite the same data. Of course, she knew that they knew she didn't put in more data. They knew every keystroke she made on the laptop. It was their little game of cat and mouse. Some day, she was going to figure out a way to fool them, but until then, she was content with the game.

Despite a feeling of disbelief, the evening commute was slower than the morning one. She supposed that while people arrived at work in staggered schedules, they all managed to leave at the same time. Everyone wanted to get home or to the gym or to the bar. They all had their little rituals, although they didn't consider them rituals. Creatures of habit, all creatures of habit. Claire believed in habits. Without them, the human brain would relearn every day. It was like one of those stories where a character forgot at night everything they had done during the day. Didn't someone make a movie like that? She couldn't remember, and it didn't make any difference.

When Claire walked into her apartment, the first thing she noticed was Pickles lying on the couch. Pickles was Oliver's cat, an orange thing Claire was not endeared to, although she was endeared to Oliver. Oliver was on temporary duty, TDY, for NSA, where he worked.

Did she know where he was?

No.

Did she know when he would be back?

No.

According to Oliver, his work was on the hush-hush side of everything done in Washington. And she believed him. He never talked about work, although she knew he had something to do with bio-terrorism because he understood her when she talked about the lab. She had met her fair share of men who rolled their eyes when she recounted what she did with viruses and infections. Oliver on the other hand knew exactly what she talked about. In some sense, that scared her. But then, when they were together, he was gentle and affectionate—except for the damn cat.

Pickles was decidedly not a dog. It didn't jump off the couch and rush, tail wagging, to be petted and hugged. No, generally, it merely regarded her with contempt and lazy attention, like a mouse scurrying next to a wall. Occasionally, it would climb down, stretch, and follow her into the kitchen (Pickles wasn't allowed in the bedroom) to see what she was going to produce anything sumptuous for dinner. Claire never shared. Pickles lived in denial.

In the kitchen, Claire started a dinner of chicken noodle soup and five vegetable salad. Chicken noodle to combat the sniffle she had acquired from somewhere and a salad from the deli outside where she worked. Then, she walked into her home office and fired up her computer. She had a one strict rule. She never mixed her personal concerns with her work ones. No email, no Twitter, no f*******:, no i********:, nothing invaded her work space. She did carry a personal phone, but she looked at it only at lunch. She wasn't about to run off to the lounge to answer a posting like Carlita did. Of course, Carlita also used her work computer to chat with her friends, and Claire reasoned that at some point, when Carlita's work was no longer needed, Carlita would find herself on the street.

What drew Claire's attention was a note from Jasmine. Claire had met Jasmine the year before at a conference in Pairs. The Pakistani woman had been a mouse in the beginning, a very pretty mouse it seemed. It didn't take more than one day before Jacques had hit on her in all his charming best. And Jacques’ charming best was right up there with Casanova. Claire was pretty sure that Jasmine spent the second night in Jacques’ bed, along with every other night during the conference. Claire figured that out because Jasmine pretty much ignored Jacques during the sessions and lunch. At dinner, Jasmine made sure to sit away from him although they chatted continually. Jasmine always begged off an after dinner drink although Jacques imbibed. And it was Jasmine's very aloofness that sold Claire, that and the fact that Jasmine didn't answer the phone in her room—not until morning. Claire hadn't been spying. She was just trying to get copies of a session Jasmine had attended. Funny, how things happen.

Jasmine's note described the latest brutality perpetrated by her husband, Ravi. It was more of the same as far as Claire was concerned. The ritualistic stripping, beating, and s*x read like something from a bodice ripper romance novel, straight from the dungeon. Claire had read it all before, although this time, Jasmine sounded more angry than before, more determined to do something. Claire had no idea what Jasmine might do. Escaping her husband would not be simple or easy. Muslim men kept tight reins on their wives, and Ravi was no exception. He allowed her to work because the government needed her expertise, and he needed the money, but Claire was pretty sure, Jasmine didn't control her passport. Claire had once counseled Jasmine to approach the U.S. embassy. She had managed to email a person Oliver had named, and that person had offered to help Jasmine leave the country—but only after she had produced intelligence for the U.S.. No one got a free ride.

Claire wrote back her usual encouragement. Jasmine needed to secure her passport, steal some money, and fly to England or Canada. Those countries would accept her until she could pitch her story to the Americans. Oliver couldn't guarantee that the U.S. spooks would snatch up Jasmine, but he was pretty sure they'd vet her.

The rest of her email consisted of some family chatter and spam. She didn't expect a note from Oliver, and she didn't get one. As she shut down her computer, she wondered if their relationship would ever make it. How could she trust a man who disappeared for weeks at a time, and when he came back wouldn't tell her where he had been? She had read stories of men who had two jobs, two houses, two families, two lives. She didn't believe Oliver had another relationship somewhere, but doubt was not a good foundation for the long term.

Pickles jumped atop the table as Claire ate her dinner. She didn't bother chasing off the cat as Oliver would have done. Let it sit and watch her eat.

“You're not coming in my bedroom,” Claire said out lout.

Pickles blinked and didn't even purr.