VECTOR

Chapter 8 Lies

CHAPTER 8

Lies

“TUBERCULOSIS”

Claire stared at the word.

“ANTIBIOTIC-RESISTANT TUBERCULOSIS”

The next line stared back at her. Jasmine’s email read like some convoluted plea for an action Claire was not all that willing to take. If she had read it correctly, Jasmine's husband was on his way to Rome, and he was unaware of his illness. Jasmine was justifiably too frightened to alert the Italian authorities herself, so she thought Claire could do it through her U.S. contacts. That was the gist of the email. Simple. All Claire had to do was call Oliver and drop the dime on Jasmine's husband. Oliver would pass the info to the Italians who would grab Ravi as he stepped off the plane and either quarantine him until his condition could be verified or send right back home.

Simple.

Claire had once seen a sign on a co-worker’s desk…”Nothing is difficult for the person who doesn't have to do it.”

That was how Claire saw the request. It was a piece of cake for Jasmine. She didn't have to make the calls or take the heat. Just hand the ball to Claire and let her run with it. Certainly, Claire knew that Jasmine didn't have much of a marriage or home life, but that didn't mean Jasmine could take advantage of their fledgling friendship. And Claire was certain that she was being used. How did she know that Davi-Ravi-Navi, whatever his name was, suffered the ailment Jasmine named? As far as Claire was concerned, it might be simply Jasmine's revenge, a way to get back at her tormenter. Not that Claire wasn't sympathetic. If Ravi-Tivi-Tavi was half as bad as Jasmine claimed, then he deserved some pain and suffering.

But if indeed infected with antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis, he would pose a grave danger to the people of Rome and Italy. Tuberculosis was easily spread, and once entrenched, very difficult to dislodge, especially if resistant to antibiotics. Damn, Jasmine had Claire over a barrel, and there wasn't a whole lot Claire could do about it. Certainly, she could trade emails for a while, try to gather more information, but there was a time element. Even with the speed of modern communications, she would be hard pressed to warn Rome in time to intercept Yavi-Bavi-Ravi in time. The ten hour difference between their times worked to Claire's advantage. Everyone would be arriving at work in D.C., and it would be the middle of the afternoon in Rome. At least, she wouldn't be getting anyone out of bed, always a plus.

She pulled up her travel app and worked out the timing. According to the computer, Savi-Revi-Mavi had been in the air approximately one hour. It was a thirteen hour flight to Rome, so she had roughly twelve hours to play with. If she spent one hour convincing Oliver that the threat was imminent and real, that would give him eleven hours to alert Rome. Plenty of time—provided Oliver was as convincing as he needed to be. But then, Claire was pretty sure these kinds of alerts happened on a regular basis. Amber alerts, silver alerts, and now the TB alert. She didn't know why there wasn't an app for that. She texted Oliver and convinced him he needed to meet her for coffee, and he couldn't say no. Would that pique his interest? She hoped. And she chose coffee for a reason. She didn't want to send him a message or mail. That would leave residue, and she didn't want to leave fingerprints. She ran to the shower. Speed would serve her interests.

Oliver had already secured a table by the time Claire arrived. The Grinder was her second favorite coffee house. It was second because it was just a bit seedier and a bit further off the beaten path than her favorite place. The Grinder Baristas didn’t know her by sight or name, and while Claire wasn’t given to paranoia, she saw no reason to leave too many bread crumbs lying around. As she slid into her seat, Oliver pushed across her coffee.

“Hearty blend with one cream and one sugar,” he said with a smile.

“You remembered.”

“We've had coffee a dozen times. How could I forget?”

“Yeah, well, I don't remember your coffee order.”

“Because I always buy.”

“You make more than I do.”

“I thought this was the age of the emancipated woman. You’re free to buy.”

“Now, you're being petty.”

“No, I'm being overly generous. You called me, remember? That doesn't mean I automatically pick up the tab.”

“Thank you, thank you very much. But I don't have much time. This is a workday.”

“For both of us. What's up?”

“Remember me telling you about my friend in Pakistan?”

“Jasmine?”

“Yes, Jasmine. I got an email from her, and she asked for a favor. Well, here.”

Claire opened up the email on her phone and handed it to Oliver. While he read, she sipped her coffee. The Grinder did have excellent coffee even if it wasn't in the middle of the hubbub. She turned her head to look over the room, since Oliver had chosen his usual place as far from the door as possible and near the kitchen. Sometimes, his penchant for secrecy bothered her.

“Hmmmm,” Oliver said, and she turned back. The room seemed devoid of any sinister types. “Is this antibiotic-resistant tuberculosis that contagious?”

He handed her the phone. “Yes, and no. I mean, it’s highly contagious, but if it were merely tuberculosis, it would be curable using standard antibiotics. Not guaranteed but pretty sure. Antibiotic-resistant, however, is another animal. If that gets loose in an unvaccinated population, it could wreak havoc.”

“And you want me to somehow give the heads up to the Italians?”

“That would be wonderful. I mean, aren't there protocols for sharing information like this?”

“How reliable is Jasmine?”

Claire knew he would ask that question, and she knew she would have a hard time answering. “I don't know her all that well,” Claire began. “I mean, it was a week in Paris and now a steady flow of email. As far as understanding the disease and its implications, she's absolutely rock solid. She probably understands pathogens better than I do. So, if she says he has incurable TB, he probably has it. But…”

Claire stopped, not sure she should reveal the details of Jasmine's domestic life.

“Go on,” Oliver prompted.

“Jasmine doesn't exactly love her husband.”

“A lot of women don't.”

“Yes, but most wives aren't beaten on a regular basis. Or r***d. Or degraded. If half of what she's said is true, she has a great motive to cause trouble for her husband.”

“Which is why she went through you.”

“Yes, if he found out who narced on him, he would be vindictive.”

Oliver smiled. “You're in luck. We do indeed have protocols for sharing information like this. Can I use Jasmine's name?”

Claire shook her head. “I rather you didn't. Nor mine. No one wants to be a rat.”

“Enough said. I'll run with this. How much time do I have?”

Claire looked at her phone. “Ten hours give or take. And it's not like they have to shoot him or something. He's not a terrorist. He's a man with a disease that shouldn't be allowed into the country.”

“Agreed. I'll pass it along as a friendly word to the wise.”

“Will that do it?”

“It will, I think. In a case like this, it's far better to cause the traveler a bit of inconvenience. If he tests negative, or wants to go home, it's no big deal. After all, he's not a citizen. They can treat him differently.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. Do you mind if I write back to Jasmine?”

“I don't mind, but tell her that you've set the wheels in motion. That's all. If I succeed in rousing the Italians, I'll message you. Then, you can relay the information.”

“And if you don't manage to goose the Italians?”

“We don't have jurisdiction in Italy. If they don't intercept him…” Oliver shrugged.

“They'll do it. You'll convince them, I know you will.”

Oliver grinned. “I wish my boss showed as much confidence in my abilities as you do.”

“Give him my number. I'll sing your praises.”

Oliver laughed.

The demands of work overwhelmed Claire's concern for Jasmine and her husband. That small problem had been passed, and a problem passed was a problem solved. It was after lunch before she heard from Oliver. The text was simple and to the point…ROME ALERTED .

That made Claire laugh. It wasn't often that Oliver added anything to his infrequent texts, not even a smiley. Perhaps he really did like her. She added his text to an email and sent it to Jasmine. That closed that loop. Everyone was in the know, and that was a good thing.

The commute home was every bit as long and awful as any other day, and she fumed just as much. She told herself that the anger was ill-considered and futile. No one heard; no one heeded. She was the lone sane person in the lunatic ward. She might have really exploded had she not remembered her good deed. She (with Oliver's help) had managed to keep a deadly germ from being passed along to unsuspecting victims. While she was not in the position to take a bow and accept a medal, she could find joy in her win. And it was a win. In the never-ending war between humans and germs, every little victory was to be celebrated. She held no illusions about winning the war, at least not in the near future, she did hope that health professionals and scientists could hold the line. In a way, she expected the germs to acknowledge the effort. In her mind, the bugs wouldn't respect her if she didn't try to annihilate them. And since they were trying their best to kill her, she thought the battle fair.

After parking her car and changing, Claire went for her run, well, jog. She held no false hopes about her prowess. She simply wanted to finish, to move her sore body through all thirteen miles. If she did that, it would be a big win. Even the app on her phone said that. When she finished a session, it actually played a medley of university fight songs. Her favorite was THE VICTORS, although she couldn't for the life of her remember what school owned the song, and she wasn't sure of the title. THE VICTORS. It had a nice ring to it.

After a shower, Claire pulled up her diet app to see what she could eat. The app specified what she should eat and when she should eat it. With the exact mix of protein and nutrients, the app projected her ideal weight and her maximum stamina. She was skeptical because all apps like this one were based on averages and clever algorithms. Plug in this number and that number and viola, the answer appeared on the screen with perfect certainty. It was better than any gold-ringed gypsy peering into a crystal ball, although the output was virtually the same. Neither the gypsy nor the app had enough data to predict with certainty. And it was insane to believe either could. Although most people put more faith in the app than the fortune teller.

Opening the fridge, Claire discovered that she did indeed have most of the ingredients needed for that recommended, muscle-building salad. She liked salads, but she was not a slave to them. Put a nice, juicy steak in front of her, and she reverted to her cowgirl roots. Well, her parents western roots. She could put away a nice hunk of meat in no time. As she concocted her salad, she wondered if she should search the Internet for a “steak and eggs” diet. She was certain she could find some wag nutritionist who recommended such a thing.

Claire was half finished with her salad when her phone dinged—Oliver. She glanced at the time. Yep, it was about the time Zavi-Bavi-Favi was landing. Good news. She wiped open the phone and his text stared out at her.

????????? RAVI NOT ON PLANE?????????????