by Ian Young
‘You have met the man who calls himself St John.’ The Triumvirát leader points towards Unsworth. I nod.
‘He suggested the record held within the DNA was not that of Earth, but of a different planet that we have simply copied. His theory gained some credence when we discovered life forms within the record that have not been replicated on Earth, and timescales that do not quite match our history. The number and frequency of mass extinction events is different, too. In short, Andreia, this is not a prediction of Earth’s lifecycle. It’s a record of past life, a solar system that existed here before ours.’
Now I can die. It doesn’t matter if no one else knows what I do. I was right. ‘So that turns your Bible into the biggest work of fiction in literary history.’
‘Perhaps. But we couldn’t quite understand the purpose of the sea of DNA and other genetic material suspended in the liquid. If this is about seeding life – passing the baton, if you like – why have a record of past life? Why use DNA as a storage medium? As we analysed further, courtesy of the late Doctor Kendrick, we learned more about our predecessors in this little bit of fertile space. And we now have the answer to these puzzling questions. Perhaps we can show you the fully sequenced DNA and the data it holds?’
Chapter 38
Alabama opens her eyes and peers at the unfamiliar room. She takes in the walls: the posters of American rock stars, the bits of computer technology lying around and, as she rolls her eyes across the room, they settle on the man lying next to her. OMG.
As though sensing the heat from Alabama’s reddened face, Tom rolls over and stares straight at her. A smile, that’s good. At least he isn’t alarmed at waking up next to her. Alabama desperately tries to bully her frail memory into recalling the event that led to this moment – the events that took place in this bed. But that’s going to take time, and someone needs to say something right now.
‘Hey,’ she manages at last.
‘Dobré …’ Tom checks the watch still on his wrist, ‘dobrý den. It’s ten a-m.’
‘Jeez.’ Alabama places a hand across her forehead and grimaces. ‘I haven’t been in bed past eight since I was a student. What the hell was I drinking last night?’
Tom laughs. ‘Pilsner, pretty strong, eh?’
‘You could’ve warned me!’
‘I did, several times.’ Tom stretches his arm over Alabama’s shoulder and pulls her in to a cuddle.
‘I need the bathroom,’ says Alabama, swiftly. There may still be some alcohol lingering in her bloodstream, but waking up in Tom’s bed was never on her agenda. It’s time to retrace her steps.
In the bathroom, Alabama stares into the mirror, stretching her eyelids down as though seeking a better view into her memory. The toilet is right beside her and she sits down, grabbing a handful of toilet paper at the same time. Well … it doesn’t hurt. There’s no chafing, aching or soreness. Either Tom is embarrassingly small or she was majorly into whatever he did. Of course she was! Alabama let out a small laugh; when had she not been game for a good-looking man’s bedroom skills?
Freshened up, she goes back into the bedroom and slips into bed with Tom. Doesn’t she owe it to herself to have a memory of what he has to offer? What’s the point of doing it if she walks away with no memory? Might as well do it twice and walk away with something to think about. With a bit of luck, she might walk away with a slight waddle. Alabama chuckles at herself.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Tom, frowning.
‘What? Oh, yeah … so, last night … refresh my memory.’
Tom, with little hesitation, rolls on top of Alabama and does as he is told.
After eating a breakfast of ham and cheese, Alabama washes up her plate and heads for the shower. There are only men’s toiletries to hand but, as she always suspects, it’s the same stuff just packaged differently. She cleanses herself and re-joins Tom. What would a proper FBI Agent do next? Alabama is a scientist first, an investigator second. She has do come up with something before Andreia kills herself. But the UCLA girl is made from strong stuff, especially with what she’s been through. Alabama takes little comfort from the thought, and it doesn’t bring her any closer to finding the woman she’s travelled halfway around the world to save. She’s lost one scientist, she doesn’t intend to lose another.
Tom has turned the TV on and is now watching a news programme. When Alabama comes in he looks up and shakes his head.
‘Nothing to report,’ he says, ‘which, I suppose, is good news.’
‘Sure. I’ve got an idea.’ There’s nothing better than a hot shower for clearing the mind. ‘I’m gonna call the Legat.’
‘The what?’
‘Legal Attaché, the FBI’s official representative at the embassy.’
‘Okaaay.’ Tom stretches the word out long enough to suggest some doubt.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Alabama stares at the TV for a moment then turns back to Tom. ‘The guy we saw in that little bar near the embassy yesterday, the one who drove off in the white Octavia, was probably CIA.’
‘That sounds deadly.’
‘Not for me. Whatever he’s up to isn’t US policy. I reckon the FBI would be all over this if they knew. The two services are hardly best buddies.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I’ll get the Legat’s direct line and give him a call. We need help, Tom.’
‘We?’
‘What the fuck? You dumping me now you’ve had—’
‘Calm down, Foxy, I just want to hear you include me in your plans.’
Alabama glares at the Czech. Obviously, she’s been called Foxy more times than she can remember, but to hear it from the mouth of someone who didn’t speak English as a first language brought it to a new level.
‘Call me Foxy again and you’ll be driving a taxi in Siberia by lunchtime.’
‘You obviously have no idea how far away Siberia is—’ Tom holds is hand up to silence Alabama. ‘But point taken … Scully.’
It’s a good job he can move quickly because Alabama is across the room before he can blink. It’s also a good job (for him) that Alabama has a sense of humour. But if he thinks the subsequent frolic on the bed is going to lead to another sexual encounter he’s mistaken. Alabama has other things on her mind and a phone call is first among them.
She liberates herself from Tom’s clutches and reaches for her cell phone. After just a few rings the phone is answered.
‘It’s me. Don’t ask questions, just get me the direct line to the Legat here.’
Seconds later she hangs up and dials the number her boss gave her.
‘John Stephens?’
‘Yeah, who is this?’
‘Special Agent Alabama Fox. I’m in Prague for a few days and I’d like to meet up.’
There’s silence from the other end, just a few seconds, then Stephens gives her a time and venue.
‘Yeah, I know it. Eleven a-m.’
It was easy. There was no need for subterfuge or deceit. Why wouldn’t a colleague wish to check in when overseas? She kicks Tom’s jeans at him and tells him to get dressed. ‘You’re giving me a ride.’
Alabama told Tom that this would have to be something she did alone. The Legat would be rightfully cautious discussing anything sensitive in front of a Czech national – hell, he ought to be cautious discussing anything in front of any non-FBI personnel.
She rehearses her lines over and over as she sits in the little café outside the embassy. But she’s run out of time.
‘Special Agent Fox?’ says a suited man. He takes his sunglasses off and squints at Alabama as though her complexion is too bright for him.
‘Morning, sir,’ she says, standing.
The Legat is with two other guys, both in dark suits. They don’t take their shades off, and Alabama notices
the earpieces both are wearing.
‘Who are your friends?’ she says, flicking her eyes beyond the Legat.
‘These two gentlemen will accompany you once you’ve told me everything you know.’
‘Everything I know about what?’
The Legat laughs. ‘May I?’ He points at the vacant chair at Alabama’s table.
‘Sure.’ Alabama knows John Stephens would have checked her out, but he seems to have discovered something more.
‘And where exactly will your friends accompany me?’
‘Well, to investigate.’ Stephens smiles, one of those oily smiles that suggest only one person has reason to smile. ‘So what have you got for me?’
Alabama checks her route to the door; it was an instinctive response, but she knows it’s useless. Even if she gets past the goons, she wouldn’t make it down the steps. What a fuck up this is.
The Legat spreads his hands across the table. ‘Let’s start with the whereabouts of Scott Mason, shall we?’
The question makes Alabama flinch. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about Scott Mason.’
‘Yes, I heard you had a proclivity for profanity.’ Stephens smiled, another oily one.
‘Done your homework?’
‘Haven’t you?’
Her heart sinks. She hasn’t done any homework.
One of the other men holds a finger to his earpiece for a second. ‘He’s here, sir.’
‘At the end of the day, Agent Fox,’ says Stephens, ‘it doesn’t matter what you know, but I’m pleased you handed yourself in.’ He flicks his head and the two goons move forward and seize Alabama.
They lead her down the steps towards the approaching white car, but there’s another car behind and, seconds later, gunfire.
Chapter 39
It’s time Hanzel hands himself in and faces the charges. Had this been his father’s day there would have been no charges. But it isn’t, and being complicit in assault on a police officer (not to mention theft of the officer’s firearm) is bound to have serious consequences for the Hanzel family. Right now his family is under house arrest, the children too. They’ll wait there as long as it takes, and he can’t put his family through that. He is convinced he’s doing the right thing by handing himself in. After Mason explained his theory as to why he believed Andreia was in danger, he insisted upon dropping Hanzel off at the BIS offices in Prague 5. But then Hanzel spotted the white Octavia.
Exactly why he pointed out the car remains a mystery to him. Mason wasted no time in halting their progress towards the BIS offices and tails the Škoda instead. There’s no way this is going to make matters better for Hanzel; it could only make them worse. They arrive at the bottom of Tržiště and Hanzel is relieved to see the soldiers are not standing guard. It isn’t a twenty-four-hour guard, though he suspects it would be only a matter of time before it is. Mason heads up the street towards the embassy.
‘There’s the girl from last night,’ says Mason, driving up to the back of the stopped Octavia. ‘The girl in the bar who clearly knows about Andi.’
‘Keep driving, Mason, this is out of control.’ Hanzel fidgets in his seat, alarmed by what appear to be American secret service agents flanking the woman. ‘Right now! We should get out of here.’
‘I think you’re right,’ says Mason, checking the rear-view mirror and wriggling his right arm around to find reverse gear.
‘Fucking hell!’ Mason ducks down as the windscreen shatters.
Another bullet blows the glass over Hanzel like a million tiny stars falling from the sky. Hanzel reached for his CZ 75. It’s time to prove Mason wrong. The two men rush round to Mason’s window, arms outstretched, guns pointing at the Englishman. Even they believe Mason to be the only threat. Hanzel has a surprise for them. He is the law in this town. He fires two bullets at each man, dropping them before they understand where the shots had come from. Mason is out of the car in a fraction of a second. If he’s shocked at Hanzel’s action, he doesn’t hang around to show it.
Mason has drawn his own gun, the CZ 75 he took from the policeman just across the road yesterday. He stands over the writhing men, kicking their guns away and scanning around for other threats. A policeman crouches behind a parked car, weapon drawn but not firing.
‘You!’ shouts Mason, pointing the gun at the man holding the woman. ‘Get on the floor, face down.’
Hanzel knows they have less than a minute to get out of there before Marines flood from the embassy. He is more fearful of US Marines than police reinforcements.
‘Do as he says,’ says Hanzel, flashing his BIS identity, and then to the cowering policeman, ‘Bezpečnostní Informační Služba.’
The policeman stands up and creeps forward, holding his weapon in front of him. He reaches for his radio and calls for backup, then picks up the firearms that belonged to the prone men. Mason bundles the woman into the car.
‘He comes too,’ she says, pointing at the prone man. ‘We need him.’
Mason doesn’t hesitate. He hauls the man to his feet and bundles him into the trunk.
‘Nice touch,’ says the woman. ‘But we’re gonna need him up front. He knows where she is.’
‘Later,’ says Mason, leaping into the driver’s seat.
They speed from the scene, hitting cars parked by the road like a pinball fired into the game.
‘Take it easy, Mason,’ yells Hanzel, immediately realising that the Englishman was deliberately hitting cars to litter the road with obstacles that would slow down the inevitable pursuers.
‘You’re the real deal, aren’t you, Mason?’ says the woman, patting his shoulder.
‘And you are?’
‘Alabama Fox, FBI. And you?’ she says, turning to Hanzel.
‘Zdeněk Hanzel, BIS.’
‘You’re pretty fucking awesome too,’ says Alabama, offering her hand. ‘Did you know those goons would be wearing vests?’
‘No, but I’m glad they were.’ Hanzel notes Mason’s smile. ‘When you come under fire, there’s no time to think of these things, you just have to fight.’
Mason’s smile gets broader and he nods as though a pupil has remembered a lesson. Hanzel has proved the Englishman wrong, and that feels pretty fucking awesome, as the American girl would say.
Chapter 40
They’ve brought me a chair. It feels like I’m settling down to watch someone’s holiday photos. The first picture is of a planet, an Earth-like planet that once revolved around a different sun. The image expands like one of those animations that zooms in on Earth – like Google Earth. Lines appear, spreading out from the poles; a representation of the planet’s magnetic field. Soon the viewpoint plunges into the ocean and settles at the ocean floor. I know how that feels. Hot thermal vents begin to spring through fissures in the rocks, and there it is again: Howie’s ball, resting in the sediment. Within seconds the ball begins to kick up dirt, a cloud of tiny particles fogging the image. I don’t have to see clearly to know the ball would soon open. The image changes to one I recognise instantly: the chemical structure of the simplest gases – methane, ammonia, carbon dioxide – all floating around in the ocean.
The ball opens, fills with water, and closes. The image zooms into the ball’s interior, still the simple gases suspended in the water. The ball begins to vibrate and sparks fly inside the ball, like a Van de Graaff generator, or one of those novelty glass balls that light up to the touch of a hand. I remember the electric shock Howie received when he reached in to grab the ball all those months ago.
The gases react together, forming more complex molecules. Chemical evolution. It’s well known that an electrical current would cause these gases to react in this way. This is the beginning of the road to life, though we’re a long way off yet.
I know what’s going to happen next: there will be pol
ymers then lipids and phosphates. As I watch, I recognise amino acids forming, and then this cocktail of complex organic molecules mixes with the DNA database inside the ball, and I wonder why. Nevertheless, there are no other surprises here; it’s a well understood process, and leads to the readily accepted theory about how life on our own planet got going. What scientists can’t figure out is where this process took place and under what power source. If the ball did this on our planet too, then it seems these questions have just been answered. But why are these people showing me all this? This has nothing to do with God.
As I watch, the ball opens once more and releases its cocktail of life into the ocean – an ejaculation. We are on familiar territory now, a scientifically established hypothesis for early life on Earth. Images of bacteria and mitochondria combine to form multi-cellular organisms; I think of Dad. Oh, Dad, you were so wrong. I really want to hold him, comfort him. The images come quickly, life form after life form, branching out from this first bacteria born in the thermal springs of some ocean on an alien planet, probably 8–9 billion years ago. In reality, it took hundreds of millions of years, but only seconds pass by as I watch evolution create the life we know. OK, a different planet, but it’s the same process. Life has grown elsewhere – no, not elsewhere, right here, before us – in exactly the same way as it has on Earth. Howie’s ball is a baton to be passed from planet to planet. So where does this leave the Pillars of Abraham and their notion of God?’
Just as I start to yawn (like I do watching someone’s holiday photos) the timeline of evolution ends, and new images appear, some we extracted back at Datalabs, like Vitruvian Man, and others—
Mother of God! A familiar image flashes up. Dad has a similar picture in his study, not quite the same, but close. A naked baby, lying on the ground, reaching out to an old man sprawled on a bed of white cloud. A spark connects their outstretched fingers. It isn’t exactly like the picture in Dad’s study, but it is unmistakably a representation of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam.
