Dr. Radic clicked to his first slide. Photos of refugee camps. Children with hollow eyes and distended bellies. “In my work with displaced populations across Southeast Asia, I have seen malnutrition rates that should not exist in the twenty-first century. Traditional approaches have failed. But what if I told you that we have developed supplements that can address multiple deficiencies simultaneously? Supplements derived from local plants that these populations already trust.”
Click.Chemical formulas filled the screen. Complex molecular structures that meant nothing to Chloe but everything to the medical professionals around her scribbling notes.
“The key breakthrough came when we learned to concentrate beneficial alkaloids from traditional medicinal plants. Solanaceous family compounds, specifically, which have been used for centuries in folk medicine but never in therapeutic doses.”
Chloe’s blood went cold.
Solanaceae.
Nightshade family?
She glanced at Skeet. He frowned at her, shook his head.
“These enhanced supplements can be distributed through existing food-supply chains,” Dr. Radic continued, confidence growing as he warmed to his subject, “mixed into traditional seasonings and spice blends that families use daily. The beauty is that we’re not asking people to change their eating habits—we’re simply improving the nutritional value of foods they already consume.”
Seasoning blends.Like the packets in Myanmarese villages?
Of course. Alkaloids that adults could tolerate in small doses would devastate a child’s nervous system.
Twenty more minutes. Graphs showing improved health outcomes. Testimonials from grateful families. If she hadn’t seen the bodies, hadn’t watched Dr. Tobias die from alkaloid poisoning, she might have been impressed.
Dr. Radic genuinely believed he was saving lives. And maybe he was. Maybe she’d gotten this all wrong.
He finished to applause and left the stage. Chloe was already moving, slipping out of her row, Skeet close behind, heading for the side exit near the speakers’ lounge.
Outside, the hallway was quieter, carpeted in deep blue with abstract art on the walls. Conference attendees clustered in small groups, discussing presentations over coffee and pastries.
Dr. Radic emerged from the Speakers Only room, still looking pale and shaky. He’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and his hands trembled as he reached for water from the catering table.
For a guy who probably spoke at conferences regularly, he had a severe case of stage fright.
“Dr. Radic?” Chloe approached with her most reassuring smile. “I’m Chloe Silver fromGlobal Health Quarterly. Iwas wondering if I could ask a few questions about your presentation?”
His face went white. “I... No. No interviews. I’m sorry, I cannot?—”
“Just a few quick questions about your work with refugee populations. Our readers are very interested in innovative approaches to malnutrition.”
“Please.” He backed away, bumping into a server carrying a fruit bowl. “I cannot talk about this. Not here.”
“Marko, my friend. There you are.”
The voice was smooth, cultured, a hint of an accent.
Russian or Ukrainian or Polish. Definitely Slavic. Chloe turned away, glanced at the man through her peripheral vision. The man approaching could have stepped out of a university brochure. Tall—maybe six-two—silver hair perfectly styled in the kind of cut that whispered expensive salon. Charcoal-gray suit tailored to accommodate a muscular build that suggested he hadn’t spent much time behind desks. Wire-rimmed glasses framed intelligent brown eyes. He held out his hand to Radic.
Dr. Radic’s face went from white to gray. “Dr. Volkov. I didn’t... I wasn’t expecting...” He met the doctor’s outstretched hand.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t miss hearing about your remarkable work.” Volkov didn’t release his hand but moved closer to Dr. Radic. The younger man seemed to shrink under his attention. “Your presentation was quite illuminating.”
Chloe pretended to examine the catering table while straining to hear every word. From the corner of her eye, she could see Skeet positioning himself for a clear sight line, camera hanging casually around his neck. He held his phone, as if reading it.
Hopefully snapping pictures.
Dr. Radic looked as if he wanted to disappear under the carpet. His eyes darted toward the exits, then back to Volkov’s face. “Leonid, I should get back to my room. The flight was long, and I’m quite tired.”
“Of course, of course. But first, I want to extend an invitation.” Volkov placed a hand on Dr. Radic’s shoulder—a gesture that might have looked paternal to casual observers but that made Radic flinch. “I’m hosting a small gathering this weekend at a resort in Phuket. Just a few colleagues discussing the future of nutritional-intervention research. Very informal, very productive. I think you would find it... educational.”
“I don’t know.” Dr. Radic’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I have commitments...”