“Seems very expensive,” Jeffrey commented, and the man shrugged.
“You can make your own on a computer and cut them with scissors.”
“No, I’ll take them. How long until they can be ready?”
The man regarded the clock on the wall, as if making difficult calculations in his head. “One hour.”
Jeffrey fished money out of his pocket and handed it to the clerk, who seemed annoyed that the high price and his indifferent treatment hadn’t rid him of the American. He counted the bills with studied detachment, then wrote out a ticket and stapled the hand-written card to it before opening a book of sample typefaces.
“Pick one for your name, and the other for the rest of the information. Also, choose a layout.”
Jeffrey did, and the man scribbled another few notes on the order and then closed the book.
“Bon. In an hour,” he said, and then spun and made his way to one of the tables in the rear work area, where an obese woman was typing on a computer. He handed her the order and she glanced at it without comment.
Back out on the street, Jeffrey wandered aimlessly for a few blocks, killing time while trying to avoid jarring his head with any sudden movements. He stopped at a small bakery for a croissant, and then sat at one of the sidewalk tables and watched the Parisian crowd go by. When he tired of the mindless pastime he found another internet café and logged onto his new email, confirming that there were no messages.
With another glance at his watch, he decided to try reaching the scientist on the phone, in the hopes that he could get an interview within the next few days. If that failed, he had no plan B, other than stalking the man and looking for an opportune time to effectively kidnap him.
A woman answered, and when he asked for Bertrand, he was connected to another extension that rang five times before a younger female voice came on the line.
“Allo?”
“Hello. Parlez-vous Anglais?” Jeffrey asked.
“Oui. Yes, I do. How may I help you?”
“I sent an email earlier. My name is James Stanley. I’m an investigative reporter doing a story on retroviruses. I’m in Paris, and I want to interview Dr. Bertrand.”
“An email,” she said. He heard fingers tapping at keys at blinding speed. “Mm, yes, here it is.” She took a moment to read it. “I will need to ask the doctor, Monsieur Stanley. When did you want to try to see him, and how long will you need?”
That was more positive than he’d hoped for — she hadn’t just completely shut him down.
“Anytime he can fit me in. And I don’t imagine I’ll need more than an hour. But he’s a central figure in my feature, and it’s very important that he has an opportunity to present his perspective.”
“One moment, please,” she said, and muzak drifted over the line. A man carrying two bags of groceries, one in each arm, nearly collided with him, and Jeffrey stepped out of the way, pressing closer to the building to present a smaller target while he waited. The pedestrians moved with the urgency of gazelles chased by a pride of lions, and Jeffrey was viewed as an undesirable impediment, an obstacle to timely passage. He had just about given up on the receptionist and was going to call back when she returned.
“The doctor can see you today at four, if you can make it. For forty-five minutes.”
“That’s perfect! At the Institute?”
“Yes, third floor. You will need to ask the guards for an escort. Just use the doctor’s name.”
“Excellent. Four o’clock. Thank you.”
“It is not I you should thank. The doctor always tries to be accommodating for the press,” she said, and then the phone went dead in Jeffrey’s ear.
Even the truculent look from the print shop attendant upon his return and the additional twenty minutes of waiting for his order to be processed couldn’t bring Jeffrey down from his high. He was going to see one of the top virologists in the world in five hours, and hopefully would be able to solve the riddle of his brother’s diagram and spreadsheet.
Whether that would be in time to save the planet was a different story, but he’d take the small wins when he got them.
FORTY
Dr. Bertrand
Jeffrey waited nervously in the outer waiting room of the Pasteur Institute’s third floor administrative offices, shifting on the leather couch as he inspected his shoes, trying to appear calm while his synapses tingled with adrenaline. He hadn’t dared go back to the hotel and risk detection, so he’d spent his afternoon meandering around Paris, with several breaks for coffee, which he was now paying for as the caffeine jangled his frayed nerves.
The room was modern, cold, the lines clean, the furniture contemporary; the few magazines on the table in front of him were French scientific journals, from what he could tell. He’d drawn a new version of the virus diagram and the bar charts, and was satisfied that his newest masterpiece was as detailed as the original. He had the spreadsheets and his handiwork in his jacket pocket. Another notepad and his French cell phone lay in a newly purchased a satchel, along with a recorder and a hundred business cards he would likely never need.
A tall, frosty woman with mannishly cut hair the color of smoke emerged from one of the doorways behind the reception counter, and after a brief, hushed discussion with the secretary, opened the small half door separating the area from where Jeffrey sat and approached him.
“Monsieur Stanley?”
“Yes,” Jeffrey said, rising from the sofa, taking her outstretched hand and shaking it. She had the grip of a longshoreman, he thought, and her cobalt eyes scrutinized him with the precision of a laser. For some reason he felt inadequate under her blistering gaze, but he shrugged it off.
“The doctor will see you. Please. Follow me, yes?” she said, the final word not so much a question as an order.
Jeffrey walked behind her, and once through the door found himself in an industrial hallway, sterile and lacking any furniture or art, painted a polar white that the overhead fluorescent lights imbued with an alien quality. She led him to the final door on the right, and paused just before she knocked on it.
“Forty-five minutes,” she said, her tone as playful as a marine sergeant’s barked drill, and then she rapped on the door three times, each percussive pop echoing in the hall like a firecracker.
A male voice called from inside and the door buzzed, a remote electric security latch presumably triggered by the occupant. She pushed the door open, her eyes never leaving his face as he nodded his thanks and edged by her. He could feel her stare boring holes in his back as he approached the inner office, where a pudgy man with oversized horn-rimmed glasses on his bald head sat behind a desk large enough to house a family of four.
“Dr. Bertrand. Thank you so much for meeting with me,” Jeffrey said, his feet sinking into the plush carpet in the scientist’s office as he moved toward the desk.
“My pleasure, Mr. Stanley, my pleasure. I’m sorry I have so little time for you, but I’m afraid my days are all like this — many hours of work, and not enough time to get everything I need done…” Bertrand said with a small, apologetic frown. “Your email says you are doing an article about retrovirology?”
“Yes, Doctor. Specifically, on lab-created retroviruses. And the potential for disaster if one of these experiments were ever to make it out of the laboratory and into the general population,” Jeffrey explained, pulling his recorder out of his bag and setting it onto the desk. “May I record this?”
“Certainly.”
Jeffrey activated the recorder and pushed it between them. “As I was saying, I’m doing a series about retrovirology, recent advances in science, and the possibility that something lab-generated could make it into the real world.”