On the fortieth floor of a gleaming office tower looming over Guangzhou, China, Violet Windsor flipped her hair over her shoulder before checking the final slide of her presentation. She faced the group seated at the teak table under halogen lights, tugged her pinstripe jacket down her trim frame, smoothed her pants, and concluded her speech. “Thus proving Windsor Pharmaceuticals can counter an engineered virus should anyone attempt such a heinous attack on China.”
The group applauded. She motioned to her assistant, who raised the boardroom’s halogen lights, sparkling the jade inlay on the teak table.
A shooting pain rose from the socket of her prosthetic leg. Dressing in a hurry was always a mistake with the new maid. The girl never got her stump sock smoothed out. She silently cursed the stupid peasant and pushed past the pain.
“Are there any questions?” she asked.
Her gaze fell on Chen Zhipeng. The thin man smoothed his few strands of gray hair without showing a hint of any emotion, good or bad.
“There was collateral damage or side effect?” Anatoly Mokin asked in his thick Russian accent. The short, square-jawed former commando leaned back in his seat with a smug look.
Violet fought the urge to say, Fuck you. Instead, she took a deep breath and glanced at the handsome American, Ed Cummings.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “there were a few unfortunate terminations. As I am sure you are aware, in a dress rehearsal for biological warfare, danger is the point, and side effects are unavoidable. However, I assure you, the local Kayan tribal elders have already accepted our generous restitution for their regrettable losses. In addition, they have signed confidentiality agreements. Nothing will point back to Windsor—” she looked at Chen “—or our investors.”
Violet’s phone buzzed on the table where she’d left it. The noise caught the group’s attention for a split second as everyone’s gaze fell to the incoming text lighting her screen. A second later, a buzz from Marco Verratti’s phone, then Ed Cummings’s, distracted the group.
Chen Zhipeng gave them each a contemptuous glance before addressing Violet in his clipped Chinese accent. “There were no intrusion by outsider or detection by authority?”
Chen’s inability to enunciate plurals grated on her nerves. “I understand one of our board members paid an unscheduled visit this morning.”
Chen counted heads around the table. She waited until he figured it out for himself. His gaze came back to her. “Wu Fang?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
“I will speak to him.”
Verratti, the portly Italian, held up a hand briefly. “This is a tremendous success, Signorina Windsor. I admit that I hesitated to invest the Collettivo’s resources in a woman so young, leading a company so new, but you’ve exceeded my expectations. Brava, young lady, bravissima!”
He rose to his feet and applauded. After a moment’s hesitation, the others stood and joined in. Last to rise was Chen, who applauded faintly as he cast a suspicious eye on Verratti.
Violet took a bow with a beaming smile. As the congratulations died down, the attendees—mostly Windsor’s senior staff plus Chen and his entourage—picked up their pads and tablets to leave.
She accepted congratulations at the door, shaking hands and thanking each person for his or her contribution.
When his turn came, Chen Zhipeng bowed slightly. “Very good, as your friend said, Ms. Windsor. Such excellent result impress me very much. In fact, I want to know all detail. Prepare a full report, including the ‘regrettable loss’, at your earliest convenience. Be in my Beijing office tomorrow at three.”
Chen strode out the door. His assistants nodded curtly and scurried after their boss.
Last to leave were Verratti and Cummings. They stood at the far end of the room, bent forward with their hands on the chrome railing, looking at the cityscape below. She picked up her Hermes purse and walked toward them, ignoring her stump-pain with every step.
She edged herself in between them, putting an arm around each. “Gentlemen, we’re about to make a whole lot of money.”
The two men straightened up and turned to form a triangle, their stern faces hardened.
“Element 42 is even better than expected,” she said. “It’s especially effective for people over sixty. The older they are, the faster it acts. As well as people with immune deficiencies or other pre-existing conditions.”
She studied their grave faces. The younger, leaner Cummings glanced sideways at Verratti. Neither man spoke.
“Why so glum, boys?”
“You haven’t read Teresa’s text,” Cummings said. “Take a look.”
Before she could read it, Verratti said, “Pia Sabel visited the test site a few hours ago.”
Violet staggered back, her face pale.
“I thought you gave Mukhtar strict orders to eliminate anyone who stumbled on them,” Cummings said. “I don’t know what went wrong, or why he didn’t—”
“Because he recognized her,” Verratti said.
“Why? Who is she?”
“Washington’s darling,” Violet said. “Everybody pities her because her parents were murdered, yet she went on to win a gold medal. Like she was some kind of inspiration. Big deal. They forget she was adopted by a billionaire.”
“Do you mean Alan Sabel? Sabel Industries, Capital, Technologies, Satellite, all those companies? So what? Why didn’t Mukhtar take care of it?”
Violet gave Cummings a disdainful look. “The search party would bring a tsunami of investigators.”
“Well, that’s the least of our worries,” Cummings said. “What the hell was Chen doing here? Who let him in?”
“I did,” Violet said. “He put more money into this venture than you ever dreamed of—and he might run China someday. He goes to any meeting he wants.”
“That’s the last thing we need right now.” Cummings clenched his teeth and scanned the room. “You’ve got to get rid of him.”
“I know. I know. But he wants me in Beijing tomorrow to deliver a full report.”
“Why? Do you think he knows?”
“You mean about Sabel or Philadelphia?”
“Either.”
“He has spies everywhere. He knows something. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” Violet paused and caught the gaze of each man. “I always do.”
“What about Wu Fang?” Verratti asked. “Why was he on Borneo?”
“I don’t know. I made damn sure he knew nothing about the field trial.”
“Looks like he found out. Did Sabel have anything to do with it?”
“She showed up hours after he left.”
“What about Mukhtar? Will he keep quiet?”
Violet texted Mokin’s lead security man. “There, I just promised him a big bonus to keep his mouth shut, but he works for Anatoly. So, your guess is as good as mine.”
“We should hold up the operation,” Verratti said.
“Absolutely not,” Cummings said. “We’ll deal with this, but we have to keep it moving forward.”
Violet’s phone buzzed with another text. A second later, Verratti and Cummings received the same text.
“Holy shit,” Violet said.
“What’s the big deal?” Cummings asked. “So what if we’re missing three vials? That’s nothing.”
“It could prove Element 42 existed before Philadelphia,” Verratti said. “They would figure out it’s not a natural occurrence.”
“Fucking Sabel,” Violet said. “Goddamn do-gooder’s probably taking them to the CDC or NIH to find a cure. She won’t let anything stand in her path to sainthood.”
“You know her?” Cummings asked.
“I know people who know her.”
“We need to get those back right away,” Verratti said.
“What should I do, call her up and say, ‘Hey Pia, did you run off with three vials of blood from a super-secret clinic where a whole bunch of people died?’”
Verratti ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Cummings glanced away and straightened his Harvard tie.
“I’m open to ideas, gentlemen.” No one spoke. “I don’t need to remind you, if anything leaks before Philly, we have to halt the operation. If we stop the operation, Windsor’s stock won’t soar, and if Windsor’s stock won’t soar, we won’t see the returns we need.”
“The Collettivo expects big returns. Very big.” Verratti scowled at her. “I have some friends in the US. I’ll have them take care of the vials.”
“Be careful, she’s dangerous. Her daddy gave her Sabel Security for a birthday present.”
“Here comes more trouble.” Cummings nodded toward the front of the boardroom.
Anatoly Mokin’s voice boomed across the space. “Ah, you have board meeting without me? You not have quorum.”
“We were just chatting,” Violet said. “Join us.”
Anatoly approached them with a swagger. “Were you chatting about bribing Mukhtar?”
Violet inhaled. Verratti and Cummings tensed.
“Whatever do you mean?” Violet smiled.
“Mukhtar is loyal. When someone tries to bribe my people, they call me. You should not do this. Very bad. By the way, Pia Sabel is pizda. Whore. You told Chen about her?”
“Not yet.”
“If you want good advice, hold nothing back from Chen.” Anatoly turned and walked away. Over his shoulder he said, “No bribing my people. You pay Mukhtar big bonus anyway.”
The three didn’t breathe until he left the room.
“I hate that guy,” Violet said.
“Hire someone else for security,” Cummings said.
“Find me an alternative. Who can poison aborigines in some godforsaken jungle without asking questions?”
Cummings watched Verratti.
“Not the Mafia,” Verratti said, spreading his hands wide. “I can get the vials back, not … the other thing.”
“I know some people,” Cummings said.
“Edwin Harold Cummings, IV—you ‘know people’?” Violet laughed. “Has the hedge fund business turned so rough that you need to ‘know people’?”
“CIA contractors. I got them capital after the fiasco in Iraq. They run top-secret, black-budget operations for the intelligence community.” He paused. “Their work comes with a certain amount of immunity from prosecution.”