CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Director

"IT's still looking pretty much like an assassination," Alex Brenton said, speaking into his phone.

'Have you met with the Director, yet?' his boss asked as Brenton detected a kind of eagerness with little regard of what he had just told him.

"I know you said I have clearance but the man is kind of out of reach at the moment, unless you want me to break into his-"

"No. You have to maintain your new identity. We can't alert the organization about the agency just yet."

Brenton then got another call from an unknown number.

"Okay, I'm gonna have to call you back, sir."

'I'll work on a way to get you close to the Director. In the meantime, you're gonna have to stick with Dr. Avery Lincoln and get more intel from the organization.'

Hanging up, Brenton switched to the unknown number.

'Dr. Lincoln?'

"Who is this?"

Brenton got the answer after making his way to the precinct at the Police Cantonale de Genève.

Detective Colette Laflamme had already spotted him through the window of her office door as she gestured at him.

"Ah," the detective started after Brenton stepped inside her office under the alias of Dr.Lincoln, "you're here."

"How did you get my num-"

"Take a look at this," Detective Laflamme cut him short, her red hair dancing a few inches over her shoulders as she handed Lincoln a file.

"What-"

"Just open it, Doctor!"

A little annoyed and confused, Brenton turned away from the detective's eyes and checked through the document.

There were reports on the WHO murder case, particularly about the bullet that had been recovered from the crime scene.

"The results came in this morning from the lab," said Laflamme, closely watching the criminal scientific consultant.

Brenton perused the pages, reading through the details.

"I've seen this bullet before," he said, "back when I was. . ." he stopped himself before he could say military and in other numerous covert operations that he had been on.

"Yes," Detective Laflamme said, narrowing her green eyes at the consultant, "that's from a .500 S&W Magnum."

"A .50 caliber revolver as the weapon of choice," added Brenton, biting his lower lip, "makes you wonder why the killer couldn't think of using something else that would be harder to trace."

Brenton was still eyeing the picture of the bullet in the file and his mind momentarily drifted back to a time when he was out on the field.

He was no longer Dr. Lincoln in black satin but Brenton in full combat gear, running over the dirt with his boots as enemy fire raged behind him. He could hear his comrades yelling for him to hurry up over the sound of rotor blades that raised a ton of dust in the air.

He could have gotten there faster had it not been for the other man he was dragging with him. The man had been terribly shot across the chest, with a chunk of flesh showing.

"Leave me, Lieutenant," he whispered hoarsely into Brenton's ear.

"Not an option, Sarge!"

The chopper was visible now as thick clouds of dust swirled madly around it. Brenton was almost there. He could now clearly hear the sounds of his teammates, encouraging him to hurry while covering him and the seargent from enemy troops that were fast closing in.

Taking another look at the wounded seargent, Brenton had just made it inside the chopper when. . .

". . .Dr. Lincoln! Dr. Lincoln!"

Brenton turned to find the detective staring at him.

"Are you alright?"

"What? Yes. I just. . ." he stopped himself, immediately realizing why he had drifted off in the first place-why his mind had gone back to that day when the sergeant had been hit by that type of bullet.

"Have you started tracing it? ," he asked, turning back to the picture in the file.

"Yes," replied Laflamme, "the forensics already analyzed the bullet and a location of its manufacturer should be identified anytime from now, though I don't think it will really be of much help, seeing as to how common this type of weapon is."

"Well, I still insist on the trace," Brenton said, still looking at the bullet, "something tells me that whoever this killer is; they must have known what they were doing when they chose that specific gun."

"Okay, what if the manufacturer happens to live in, I don't know. . . Australia?" Laflamme asked, "then what?"

"Then we'll fly to Australia," Brenton replied evenly.

Laflamme sighed, looking up at Brenton. "What is it with you Americans and being always so overly ambitious?"

"Yeah, well," Brenton chuckled than added with a sigh, "we tend to act that way when there's a world killer pandemic and an assassination that is allegedly tied to the director of the WHO whom I still haven't been able to make contact with, yet."

"And I thought I had a lot of homework to deal with," Detective Laflamme shook her head, looking down at the incredible amount of paperwork on her desk.

"Call me when the results come in, " Brenton returned the file and was turning to leave.

"Wait," the detective said, doing something on her computer, "you said you're having trouble talking to the director, oui?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, there's an exclusive event that he is hosting at his quarters. Something to do with the assassination and other political nonsense that these people like to mumble on about."

"Think you can get me in?"

"Of course I can. Since you shed new light on the case, only best I return the favor."

Watching Laflamme work her magic, Brenton continued to wonder what kind of detective this one was. Maybe she really was Jessica Chastain and was having a go at him.

"You should receive an invitation on your phone soon."

"That was quick."

"See you soon, Doctor."

Still perplexed, Brenton turned to leave and was already halfway opening the door before turning back to the detective.

"You still haven't told me how you got my number."

"You're the criminal specialist. You figure it out."

No, I'm a covert CIA agent who just happened to have his contact signature tracked down by some local Swiss police detective.

With that in mind, Alex Brenton left the detective's office and began to plan Dr. Avery Lincoln's next move.

It was twelve minutes past six in the evening, nearly eight hours since his talk with the detective as Brenton made his way into the director's quarters-a high-rise building in downtown Geneva-just a few miles away from the WHO.

Brenton passed through security where his ID was run through the system, confirming him to be Dr. Avery Lincoln, specifically invited to be the only external party to ask the director any questions. No reporters or the police were allowed near the premises.

Brenton also noticed how strict security was on ensuring everyone had on their vaccination bracelet-the new war against the virus that had been put in effect by the same person he was going to meet soon.

He had taken the vaccine a year ago as a legal requirement for someone already working in the agency, otherwise the idea had not pleased him as much.

The guests, two dozens of them, were led into a wide spacious hall equipped with a large round table topped with desserts and chairs aligned all around the table. It was the conference room where the director usually held his most solemn of discussions about matters affecting the world, or, most recently, about the WHO incident.

Brenton found his seat together with the rest, taking time to look up at the golden lit chandeliers that hung from under the domed ceiling like an orchard of lights, illuminating the white marble walls and floor.

He then brought his attention to the people around him, taking note of their diversity: a dark-skinned man on his right, probably West African, given his traditionally formal attire; a white woman on his left; a group of Orients; an Arab and another set of Europeans and Americans.

Brenton had been briefed by the agency on who they all were but was not at all interested in any of them, at least not until his eyes doubled back to one of the Europeans and he immediately recognized him, seated next to the only empty chair in the room.

He had seen him before on multiple occasions but most recently, at the WHO on his first day in Switzerland when he was at the crime scene.

The man caught him looking at him and before Brenton knew it, had walked right over to him.

He was just as tall as him, except older, leaner and with thicker dark hair wizened at the temples that Brenton found surprisingly amazing at how much chemical had been used to flatten it as it shone sleekly in the light.

"Hector Marconi," he introduced himself, extending a hand that had a silver signet ring around the middle finger.

The introduction was a little bit unnecessary as Brenton knew who he was, of course. The assistant director of the WHO.

"Dr. Lincoln," Brenton said, shaking his hand.

"I don't think we've met before," Hector Marconi's tone was so deep and calm that one could almost forget that there was a slightly detectable Spanish accent.

"I'm the scientific consultant."

"Oh, that was you?" Marconi smiled, his dark eyes glinting, "I had no idea they were sending in an American."

"That's why it's called an emergency."

"Well, I hope you enjoy our fine wine, Dr. Lincoln," Marconi said then left to get back to his seat just as waiters filled in the room, carrying tumblers, wine bottles in ice buckets and caviare.

Moments later, the entire room grew silent when the director finally walked in and stopped behind his seat next to his assistant.

Darius Shakir was looking quite sharp despite being in his late sixties with a bulky appearance that gave him a sort of an overly buffed-up shape in his grey three-piece suit. His face was spotted and ashen but still commanding an air of authority and wisdom with his thinning hair, having served as the director of the World Health Organization for four years now.

"Ah, quite a turn-out, I see," the Egyptian official addressed the room, his small grey eyes shifting from guest to guest.

"You all know why we are here, so I will not waste any time with ridiculous introductions and whatnot. We are yet again caught up in a political squabble that is disrupting our normal operations which is to ensure our planet is safe from the dangers of disease-from COVID."

I know that word has been going around that this was an assassination and that we were somehow involved in it and yet I fail to wonder why we would oust our own. The very people who put in hard work to develop cures, vaccines to rid our world of sickness."

"It has to be the Americans," Brenton turned to see one of the guests, a Japanese man, speak.

"Remember they denied the organization money when they cut off their financial contribution."

"But that was under President Donald Trump," countered an American official.

"Yes," the Japanese official added, "after which President Biden uplifted the financial ban and resumed funding, obviously annoying some of their own people who had been siding with Trump."

"Money," the director chimed in, silencing everyone, "if it were about money, then the world could easily have shut us down and taken everything, I mean, there is the CDC. We're not the only ones who deal with world health in the front line."

"That is true," the African next to Brenton spoke, "the CDC is well established all over the world and there's also China, the first country to discover COVID-19."

"Whose quickness in alerting the world will always remain commendable," the director said with a nod to a Chinese official at the table.

"We've managed to control the pandemic," an American said, "thanks to the bracelets. We can now monitor the spread of the virus and even contain it-"

"You created a weapon, that's what you did!" the woman next to Brenton cut in. He guessed from her accent that she was from Switzerland.

"We've been through this before," the director said, silencing the murmurs that had been raised by the Swiss official, "the bracelets have a fail-safe; as you are all very much aware, so that only those vaccinated can wear them, otherwise it would all be pointless."

"They still remain the most remarkable idea we have ever come up with," Marconi spoke for the first time since the start of the meeting, "the virus is still spreading, mutating. We need all hands on deck if we are going to fight this and the world must take this seriously in order to save our species."

"What if the world actually is taking all of this seriously?" a new voice spoke and all eyes turned to the American named Dr. Avery Lincoln.

"What do you mean?" Marconi asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Well, you did create an immunization verification ornament that can blow up people and maybe someone out there began to think just how much damage such a thing could cause," Brenton paused, looking around the room, "or it could even be someone in here."

There were gasps, murmurs and other intelligible comments, following Brenton's statement.

Marconi was about to respond before the director raised a hand, stopping him and, once again, silencing everyone simultaneously.

"Dr. Lincoln, I presume?" he said, looking directly at him.

Brenton nodded.

"You believe it was an assassination?"

"I believe someone important in your organization died while working on something important."

"Your judgement bases on the fact that it could either be someone from outside or within the organization and from that deduction, you imply that in one of the options that we-all who are seated here-could have partaken in the assassination?"

"Yes," Brenton replied shortly, stirring up quite a handful of reactions.

It took a dinner and some more wine for Brenton and the director to talk face to face, following an overly annoyed assistant director Hector Marconi.

"This man doesn't even belong in the organization, sir," Marconi was arguing when it was just him, the director and Brenton at one of the dinner tables. "He dare tries to come in here and accuse you of such an absurdity!"

"I haven't accused anybody, just stating what is plainly out there," Brenton said, a little taken at the guarded behavior of the assistant director who had seemed so cool not so long ago.

"That is enough, Marconi," the director turned to him, then back at Brenton, "Dr. Lincoln here is only doing his job just like everyone else here."

"Yes," Brenton added, "just like everyone at your organization. The victim was a lead research scientist in the organization, having partaken in the fabrication of the new vaccine, right?"

"Dr. Akshay Minajri, yes. Hardworking man, indeed. Always in his lab."

"Ony this time he was using a common computer moments before his death, possibly trying to send something or communicate with someone outside the organization."

"The geneticist had no family, no friends. He worked alone," Marconi said.

"And yet his last activity happened to be email."

"Everyone here has their own way of working, Dr. Lincoln."

"Clearly, because others seem to have been designated to the murdering line of work."

Marconi clenched his right fist with the signet ring, glaring daggers at Brenton but Shakir maintained his cool, which made Brenton want to question the latter even more. He was hiding something and his stubborn assistant was either too hard-headed or too loyal to see it.

"I said I won't be meeting any of the authorities right now but you are really beginning to irk me, Doctor," the director said with an overtone that suggested Brenton's time was up.

"You can only hide for so long behind your people, Director," Brenton got up, locking eyes with him, "it's only a matter of time."

The director did not add anything else and let the criminal scientific consultant leave the room.

"Just say the word and I can have him out of the country right now!" Marconi offered.

"No, he is just doing his job. Besides, we haven't done anything wrong. Doing that now would only stain the organization's name further."

"But sir-"

"Give it a rest, will you? I'm going to bed before this wine gets to my brain, as if I don't have enough to deal with already."

With that, the director left his assistant skulking in his own thoughts like a child who'd been denied PlayStation 5™ privileges, and was escorted by security out of the conference building.

Leaning against a tree, Alex Brenton eyed the director get inside his car, and just like Marconi, had his own thoughts.

The agency clearly had something going on against the director. The only problem of course was that Brenton thought he had an idea but was not quite sure, yet, except for one thing-the director had to be tied to that assassination.