"I finished your sample. We were unable to find anything untoward or illegal. You tested clean."

Emma hadn't expected a negative test. Whatever was pumped into her had increased her athletic ability tenfold. There was no way she could have run as fast as she did and still felt as good as she had without some sort of chemical boost.

"That's not possible. No trace of steroids? EPO for blood doping?"

"Nothing. If you had won this race, no one would know you'd been on medication. Just how much of a boost did this injection give you?"

"A huge one. I ran the last two hours faster than I've ever run. I reduced my split time by thirty minutes, and that's after mile thirty-five."

"And you have no other symptoms?" Karen asked.

"Only an extreme anxiety reaction bordering on paranoia."

"You were just blown off your feet in a blast. I would think it's natural to have some anxiety after that. In fact, you'd be crazy not to be anxious. Umm, Emma?" Karen sounded hesitant. "Could you have imagined the injection? I mean, you told me you were dazed for a few minutes after you landed."

Emma considered Karen's comment a moment.

"Unfortunately, I don't think I imagined him. And to be honest, if it weren't for the increased ability, I might entertain the idea. But the race splits speak volumes. There is no way I could decrease my time so dramatically so late in the game without the boost that injection gave me. Especially considering the condition I was in right before the blast. My feet were failing, my head was pounding from the heat, and I could feel dehydration setting in, but I was having a terrible time keeping down the gel. Whatever he pumped into me was a miracle drug. Maybe I'll run a few more extensive tests of my own. Can I have access to your temporary facilities here?"

"Of course, but first, did you go to the police?"

"Yes. I gave them a report. Do you have a key card for the lab?"

"You'll need to ask Mr. Stark for that. Do you have his number?"

Richard Stark was the CEO of Price. Emma not only had his phone number, but she was placing the finishing touches on a report that Pure Chemistry had prepared for him regarding a Price drug. The report contained devastating news, and she had hoped to delay speaking with him until after they were back in the States. As it was, she needed his facility, so she had to run the risk that he'd take the opportunity to ask about the findings. She hung up and called him. He listened in silence while she tried to make light of the reason for her need to use the temporary facility. She didn't want him to object and demand she go to a hospital, as Karen had.

"I used some new supplements and had an outstanding race. Too outstanding, actually." She told him that she'd given a urine sample that had tested negative.

"A negative sample? I wouldn't worry, then," he said.

"I just want to run down some ideas I have. Clarify a couple of things."

"Fine. I'm going there now before I take the corporate jet to Nairobi. Meet me in, say, an hour?"

Emma got up and packed to go. She needed to figure out what had been pumped into her, and soon. Once she did, she wasn't staying an extra minute in Pietermaritzburg if she could help it.

She shrugged into a pair of jeans, pulled on a T-shirt, and covered that with a lightweight linen blazer. She slipped on soft-soled black athletic shoes. She'd expected to stay in Africa just long enough to run the race. As a result she'd brought only the bare minimum in a small duffel.

She had a tiny makeup bag, a wallet that fit in the interior breast pocket of her blazer, as well as a thin metal case. The case contained a circle of lipstick, a square of eyeliner, a pot of transparent cheek color, and a small wand prefilled with mascara. The sleek case was designed by a high-end makeup brand, for sale to women who travel. Emma had formulated the colors inside it at Pure Chemistry. She placed a travel toothbrush and paste into an outside pocket of the duffel. She used the express checkout feature to pay her hotel bill and headed to the temporary labs.

The Price lab was located in a sleek building in downtown Pietermaritzburg. A doorman stood behind the reception desk. He nodded at her after she explained why she was there.

"Mr. Stark is waiting for you. Just take one of those elevators."

Stark was standing in the hallway when she stepped out of the car. He looked haggard, but Emma was aware of his reputation as a chronic workaholic, so his appearance didn't surprise her. His dark hair was wet, as if he'd just showered. Only thirty-five years old, he was tall, with brown eyes and clean-cut dark hair. Handsome in an East Coast, well-bred way, he owed his meteoric rise in the business world to his ability to focus on work to the exclusion of all else. Married young and divorced three years later, Stark, Emma had heard, required only four hours of sleep a night, a trait that stood him in good stead as the head of one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world.

His dark chinos and blue b.u.t.ton-down shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows was one of the rare relaxed outfits she'd ever seen him wear. She was interested to note that the casual clothes became him. They took the edge off his usual aloof manner. He still wore his expensive Patek Philippe watch. If not for that, he could have been mistaken for a "regular" guy, not the multimillionaire CEO of a Fortune 500 company. His eyes settled on her, not with a smile, nor a frown, but with a reticent air. He held the door to the lab open.

"Ms. Caldridge, please, come in." He looked at his watch. "I should warn you that I need to leave for the airport in two hours." Stark turned right without hesitation. When he reached a door with the number 3 on it, he took out a key card that he placed on the magnetic reader. The door sprang open.

Stark flipped on the lights. The lamp reflected off the room's white walls, cabinets, and Formica countertops in a harsh glow, making Emma almost want to shield her eyes at first. The lab was large, but still a manageable size for one person to navigate, and laid out in a way that she thought was the most practical, with vials, pipettes, needles, and microscopes on long worktables within easy reach. Two Eppendorf microcentrifuges sat in the middle of each, along with test-tube holders. Emma headed to the nearest workstation, where labeled drawers itemized their contents. She removed surgical gloves, tubing, a needle with vials, alcohol swabs, and a Band-Aid and snapped on the gloves.

"What are you doing?" Stark asked.

"Drawing some blood."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

"Can you do that?"

"Yes. Unless you know how to do it?"

"No."

She handed him the tubing. "Wrap this around my arm, could you? I'll get the needle in, then you pull the plunger out. When the vial is full, you'll need to pop on another." She put three vials in a row.

Stark looked nervous. "Why are you drawing your own blood? The urine sample should have caught anything untoward."

Emma went for the truth. "I was injected with something. During the bombing."

Stark froze. Emma pulled open an alcohol swab to clean the inside of her elbow. When Stark still hadn't moved or said anything, she looked up. He was ashen. His face held a frightened look that was unlike any expression she'd ever seen on him.

"You look scared to death. What is it?" She was holding a needle in one gloved hand and a vial in the other. He reached out and gently took the needle from her. He placed it on the table.

"You didn't tell me someone had injected you. Tell me everything. Now."

Emma gave him a short version of the man with the pen.

"Could you have been dreaming it? You said you'd taken a pretty hard fall."

Emma was getting a little tired of people suggesting that she'd imagined the attacker.

"I still can't account for my results. My feet had been swollen; they shrank back down, practically in front of my eyes. I was at the last third of the race, but my endurance increased a hundredfold." Stark looked away. He appeared nervous-frightened, almost.

"Did you tell the authorities?"

Emma shook her head. "I told a police officer at the finish tent, but he was preoccupied with the bombing. He gave me an address and number to call in order to create a report. I did that, and I'll contact the race organizers to tell them what happened after I get these test results back. Maybe there's nothing there." And maybe it's a group targeting me from my last adventure, Emma thought. But there was no need to add that to the mix for Stark. That issue could be addressed best by Banner.

Stark nodded. "Sounds right. There's nothing that can be done immediately." He shifted on his feet. "Can you give me an idea of what's in your report on Cardovin? As I told you, I have some unexpected business in Nairobi, and I won't be able to attend the scheduled meeting." He grabbed a stool, rolled it close, and sat on it.

Emma tensed. She had known that this moment would come, but she wanted to avoid it a little longer, if possible. She hated to be the bearer of such bad news.

"It's in my report. You can read it when you finish in Nairobi."

"What are you going to say to us?" Stark's voice was flat and brooked no further delay.

Emma took a deep breath. No sense gilding the lily. Best be out with it fast and leave no room for doubt.

"Cardovin doesn't work."

Stark went still. All Emma could hear was the m.u.f.fled sound of a car alarm, somewhere in the distance. She shot a glance at his face. He stared at her with a look that was a combination of anger and disbelief.

"What do you mean?" Stark's voice was soft but held an intensity she hadn't heard from him before.

"It doesn't work."

"At all?" He sounded shocked.

"At all," Emma said. She felt some pity for him. The results were devastating. They would annihilate Price's profits for a long time to come. The stool squeaked as Stark leaned toward her, his motion followed by a faint whiff of his cologne.

"Do you realize you're telling me that a drug sold all over the world, that cardiovascular doctors in every teaching hospital in seventeen different countries prescribe every day, that represents over four billion dollars in sales for Price, doesn't work?" Now he sounded incredulous.

"Yes."

Stark shook his head. "You must be wrong."

Emma bit back a retort. "I am not wrong. My methodology will stand up to any scrutiny your scientists at Price wish to subject it to. The drug doesn't work. Period."

"If what you say is true, how do you explain the conclusions reached by Price's own scientists? Results that won us FDA approval? Clinical trials showing that not only does the drug work, but it works extremely well?"

Emma sighed. "Actually, at first I deliberately avoided reading their studies before undertaking my own, so as not to be swayed by their approach. Remember, you hired Pure Chemistry to test this drug and urged us to start from scratch. That's exactly what we did."

Stark nodded. "Go on."

"After, I went back and looked at every test with a positive finding. None of them tested Cardovin on its own. All of them tested it in combination with other, well-proven cardiovascular drugs, which is why Cardovin is approved only as an adjunct to those drugs. When it was combined in this manner, the results were slightly higher, but not as high as the marketing materials for Cardovin would suggest."

"And yours?"

"My study showed that it worked no better than a placebo." She returned to preparing to draw blood. Stark grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"No better than a placebo! Are you serious? Just what am I supposed to tell the board of directors? The shareholders? Price is due to report last quarter's earnings in a few days, and to project future sales. You expect me to tell them that our number-one seller doesn't work? Wall Street will eat us alive." Stark's eyes were hard, furious.

Emma shook off his hand. "How you reveal these findings is up to you. My job was to a.n.a.lyze the drug. I did that. But, to be honest, I'm a little surprised by the depth of your reaction. You knew over two months ago that Cardovin had problems. I saw the memo from your head scientist telling you that he felt further action was required to a.n.a.lyze Cardovin's efficacy. Price hired Pure Chemistry right after, so I a.s.sumed you were acting on the memo."

Stark was up and pacing. "I was told that the drug had some questionable results, but not that it was a complete waste!" He stopped prowling the room and straightened. He pinned her with a stare. "I want a copy of that report e-mailed to me at your earliest convenience. Until that time I wish to remind you that Pure Chemistry is subject to a confidentiality agreement. You are not to release these findings to any scholarly journals, or to anyone else, without our express consent." He delivered the order in a precise, clipped manner. It was all Emma could do to respond to him in a normal tone of voice.

"I'm aware of my responsibilities-and yours. Price cannot continue to sell a drug that it knows is worth no more than a sugar pill. Once your scientists review my findings and agree with them, Price will have to stop selling the drug. It's that simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple." Stark strode to the lab door. "Inform the guard when you're done here. The door will lock behind you." He was gone in an instant.

Emma sighed. The day was getting worse by the moment. She returned to the task at hand. She'd worry about Stark later. Right now she was far more concerned about herself. Filling the vials was much more difficult now that she was alone. She watched as the red plasma rose in each one. She still felt normal, which was impossible if she'd been injected with a chemical weapon on the level of what she suspected. Each hour she didn't react was further evidence that whatever had been pumped into her wasn't going to cause immediate, catastrophic harm. So not a fast-acting chemical weapon-then what?

Several street drugs caused some of the same symptoms she was having, absent the extreme endurance boost, but something told her that the EpiPen contained nothing so ubiquitous. The injecting device itself showed a level of sophistication that wouldn't be found in conjunction with a street drug. In that case one could simply hit her with a needle and achieve the same result. She finished, tossed the sharp into a hazardous-waste container on the wall, and applied the Band-Aid to the injection site. She took the vials to another workstation to begin testing.

Anxiety usually entailed a level of stress, this much she knew. Stress released chemicals into one's bloodstream; hormones triggered cortisol, cortisol triggered epinephrine. Too much of any of this would overwhelm her system, but one's body also had a mechanism in place to moderate the reaction. Hers, though, was charging ahead full bore. It was as if her moderating switch had been deactivated. An adjunct Rapidtest existed that could reveal the levels of stress chemicals circulating in her veins. She prepared to check for catecholamines: dopamine, norepinephrine, and epinephrine. She finished the test, then waited.

Forty-five minutes later, she had her answer. She was awash in epinephrine and dopamine. Her levels were so high that she was surprised she wasn't banging her body against the walls to try to alleviate the effects. In fact, she couldn't believe that such levels could exist without causing major physiological harm. One's body wasn't geared to accept this saturation of fight-or-flight chemicals. Had she been any less fit, she probably would have had a heart attack.

She labeled the remaining vials and brought them to a nearby workstation. A piece of paper taped to the wall above the station listed the name of one of the Price scientists that she knew. She tore off a Post-it to write a note, then hesitated, not sure just what she wanted. She scribbled on the pad, asking the chemist to test for ricin, anthrax, HIV, and botulinum toxin. She also requested information on dopamine uptake and wrote Banner's number as a contact.

Emma left the lab, making sure the door locked behind her. When the elevator doors shushed open, darkness greeted her. The soft African night held the sound of township music playing far in the distance. There was a pull about Africa that one was unable to ignore. Something vibrant, elemental, and dangerous all at the same time. Emma paused. She wanted to stay, to dance to the native music, let the magic take her. A post-race celebration was scheduled at a local nightspot, but she wasn't sure it was the safest place to be that evening. She unlocked her rental car, tossed the duffel into the trunk, and started her drive to the airport.

7.

SUMNER WATCHED THE PIRATES PREPARE TO FIRE.

"Hit them again," Wainwright said. The LRAD blared. The pirates were closer now, and its beam worked much better at close range. Sumner watched the pirate holding the grenade launcher lower it and shake his head, like a dog flapping its ears, attempting to ward off the unbearable noise. They'd bought themselves some time, but not much else. The emergency sirens blared throughout the ship. Sumner watched the pa.s.sengers surging onto the decks.

Wainwright snorted in disgust. "I'd love to know which idiot pulled the fire alarm. Carter"-he waved at a nearby officer-"tell the security detail to get those people into the center of the ship. They're sitting ducks on the decks." Carter nodded and jogged off the bridge. Wainwright turned to the other crew members. "I want this ship moving as fast as it can go, and I want it now."

Wainwright's crew responded with a calm that Sumner found impressive. The ship, all twenty-eight thousand tons of it, would never outrun the cigarette boats, but the added speed would help make it difficult to board.

"Why don't you just blow the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out of the water?" Block's voice held a note of hysteria.

Sumner gritted his teeth. The last thing he needed was a three-hundred-pound beef head panicking. Wainwright seemed to have the same concern, because he cut Block off at the knees.

"Mr. Block, maritime law does not allow us to carry heavy weapons. I asked you to leave. Don't add to my troubles here by asking stupid questions." Wainwright turned to Sumner. "Mr. Sumner? Any ideas?"

"You're asking a cabin boy what to do? What the h.e.l.l kind of captain are you?" Block's voice had risen an octave. His face was flushed with anger or fear-Sumner didn't know the man well enough to determine which-and he thrust it at Wainwright.

Sumner stepped between the two men and faced Wainwright. "I have a gun."

"Now you're talkin'," Block said.

Wainwright ignored him. "What kind of gun?"

Sumner hesitated. The gun was a sniper rifle and banned on board a cruise liner. Using it would be a last resort. Before he could respond, the ship's radio crackled.

"Kaiser Franz, this is the USS Redoubtable. We've received a distress signal. Please advise."

Wainwright grabbed the radio. "Captain Wainwright, Kaiser Franz. We're in a standoff attack. Two cigarette boats armed with RPGs are preparing to fire on the ship."

"We're on our way. Six hours."

"h.e.l.l, we'll be dead in six hours," Block said. "Let Sumner here shoot 'em!"

Sumner had his binoculars out. He watched the pirate put the RPG back on his shoulder. "They're getting ready to fire."