However, OSI had forwarded the image to the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. By measuring the angle of shadows in the photo and the terrain elevations in the landscape, and, for all Lyle knew or cared, doing something that involved chicken bones and chanting at midnight, the image analysts had determined the exact place and date the photo had been taken: twenty-one years ago near Big Bear Lake, California, on July 2, at 14:24 hours, local time.
Alice Weir had spent that July Fourth weekend at a local lodge. David, listed on the hotel registry as “and son,” had been five. Nothing indicated that the date had any special significance to either, except for its proximity to the holiday weekend.
Lyle had had Roz make him a copy of the photo for his own office crime board. He was still trying to understand why the suspect had hung on to this specific image. Maybe it would explain a kid brazen enough to steal from the U.S. military for a traitorous billionaire who believed in wild government conspiracies straight from the tabloids.
The only additional personal effects in Weir’s work cubicle had been the non-work-related reading material on his bookshelf—mostly assorted car and motorcycle magazines, continually changing—and, like all his co-workers, the kid had his own coffee mug. White ceramic, with a drawing Roz identified as an X-Man named James Howlett, now called Logan and known as Wolverine. Apparently Wolverine was one of the most popular superheroes these days, had a bad temper, and wanted to know where he had come from.
“Don’t we all,” Lyle had said.
The end result of their search of the office cubicle was that Weir remained a complete cipher. That was informative in itself. In Lyle’s business, people who were ciphers were usually that way for one specific reason: They were deliberately hiding something.
“Last file,” Roz announced.
Colonel Kowinski looked over Roz’s shoulder. “Those are the files he was working with Friday night. He stayed late.”
“We know.” Lyle had been in the car that followed Weir to the Hay-Adams Hotel. He’d heard every word spoken in the bar, and in Ironwood’s suite.
Kowinski peered more closely at the screen. “Yes, that’s everything. Even his nonhuman data’s there.”
“His what data?” Lyle ignored the instant interest on his junior agent’s face.
“Nonhuman. He was doing comparison testing for a quality control program. At least, that’s what he said he was doing.”
“Define ‘nonhuman.’ ”
Roz’s grin widened. Lyle shook his head at her.
The colonel paused before answering, as if she sensed there was more to his question than just an investigator’s curiosity. There was, but he wasn’t telling. It was one thing for Ironwood to gab on about evidence of nonhuman DNA in Weir’s stolen files, but for a rational army colonel to say the same—that was worrisome.
“Neandertal DNA.”
Lyle remembered the kid telling Ironwood that he had downloaded that genetic information. “As in caveman?”
“We all lived in caves once upon a time.”
Lyle thought about Weir’s basement apartment, also thoroughly searched, also devoid of personal details. “Some still do.”
Roz hit the keyboard. “Heads up, boss. Here’re the files he copied to his magic keychain.”
This time, Lyle took a closer look at the screen data. These files were the evidence that would give him the leverage to have Weir choose between going to federal prison or becoming an informant against Holden Stennis Ironwood.
A drawer slid open on a piece of equipment under the desk. Roz removed a silver disk, signed and dated it with a marker, then put the disk into an evidence bag. “That’s everything.”
Kowinski gave Lyle a half-smile. “You know the Neandertal data can’t be evidence.”
Lyle understood. “Right. He got it from a public source, so it’s not government property.”
“And if he really was preparing a comparison program, there’s a chance none of the other files he was working with that night are government, either.”
Lyle realized the colonel was offering a warning. David Weir had given these files directly to Ironwood, perfectly ensnaring the billionaire in a conspiracy to steal government property. On the other hand, if the files the kid sold that night weren’t government files . . .
“Roz, can you still check the files Weir put onto his keychain Friday night?”
Roz battered away at the keyboard. “Here you go.” As simple as that.
Lyle looked to Kowinski. “Colonel?”
Kowinski reached past Roz to tap a few keys of her own. “This is exactly what he did with the other files he stole. He extracted family history, place-of-birth data, and genomes from personnel files.”
Lyle relaxed. He’d never been in danger of losing his case, but knowing Ironwood had taken possession of stolen property after all was going to make his life much easier.
Then Kowinski said, “That’s odd.”
“What?” In Lyle’s experience, nothing good ever resulted from those words.
“The Neandertal genome isn’t in any of those file names.”
Roz tapped at some keys, and eight files were highlighted. “Those are the ones he put onto the flash drive.” She looked to Kowinski. “Want to open them? In case he renamed them?”
Lyle stood back, and Roz did what she did best as he and Kowinski watched the screen change to show what looked to Lyle like X-rays of earthworms.
On the eighth file, Kowinski said, “There it is. That’s the one he told me was Neandertal. Definitely nonhuman mitochondria.” She pointed to some numbers off to the side of one of the earthworms. Then she frowned, sounding startled. “This was sequenced at this lab. That’s an employee-identifier code.”
“Have you worked with Neandertal DNA here?” Lyle asked.
“I’d love to, but the answer’s no.”
“Maybe Weir slipped a sample through without telling anyone?”
“You can’t do a cheek swab on a Neandertal. Just extracting DNA from a twenty-nine-thousand-year-old piece of bone is a painstaking process. The chances of contamination are—”
Lyle wasn’t interested in anything except his case. “Is it Neandertal, Colonel?”
Kowinski’s answer was anything but reassuring. “I can’t be sure exactly what species it is, but I am sure it’s not human. Close, but . . . not.” She leaned down to hit a few more keys. “The employee’s name should be right . . . Hmm.” She straightened up, lips pursed. “There isn’t one.”
Lyle definitely didn’t like the level of concern he was reading in her. “Is that important?”
“Leaving aside the issue of why Weir lied to me about the origin of the sample, it’s important because to do this, he circumvented all our collection protocols, and our privacy safeguards. It’s a significant breach of our operational standards.”
“Why would he—or anyone else, for that matter—do that?”
Kowinski looked at him for a long moment, obviously engaged in some inner debate. “Let me ask you a question instead.”
Lyle sighed. This was not turning into a good night.
“Why is the air force so interested in a petty espionage case that involves nonhuman DNA?” Before Lyle could even attempt to reply, the colonel continued, very seriously. “I can think of some answers for that, but I don’t like them. And I think whatever you’re investigating is way above my pay grade. Way above.”
Lyle savored the silence that followed. It made it easier for him to concentrate as he worked out the percentages of what to do next. Strength in numbers, he finally decided.
“Colonel, I find myself in need of a specialist in genetics. Rather than break operational security on my investigation by going to a third party, I’m inclined to ask you to serve as a consultant to my team.”
Kowinski’s lips thinned. “Just so we’re agreed. I will not allow the reputation of this lab to be sullied by having it involved in research that could be considered fringe, speculative, or . . . or lau
ghable.”
“Agreed. You accept?”
“Do you have the authority to give me the necessary clearance?”
“I do.”
“Then I’m in. Now what the hell is this all about?”
“What do you know about Holden Stennis Ironwood?”
Lyle was gratified to see that the colonel was thrown off guard by the unexpected question. “Wealthy. Very wealthy. Outspoken. I know he’s been in the news for government investigations. Something to do with buying newspapers and television stations. Oh, and he’s building a private rocket for tourist—” She stopped. Lyle guessed her mind had finally dragged up the one piece of information she had hoped wouldn’t be involved in this matter. “He believes in flying saucers.”
“Big-time,” Roz added, not helping.
Kowinski waved a hand at the screen, her shoulders not nearly as square as they had been. “Is that what that’s supposed to be? Alien DNA?”
“No,” Lyle said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “Ironwood is the focus of this investigation, but it has nothing to do with his various . . . let’s call them hobbies.”
“If it’s not alien DNA, and it’s not human DNA, then what is it?” Kowinski demanded. “And what is its connection to David Weir?”
“All very good questions,” Lyle said. “The exact ones I need your help to answer.”
SEVEN
Ironwood said something, but Merrit’s attention was elsewhere.
He was watching the lights of the Los Angeles skyline brighten against a twilight orange sky, but in his mind’s eye, he was picturing the sun-sparkled waters of the South Pacific, himself cutting easily through those warm turquoise waters, sharks slicing past on all sides, silent, effortless. It was where he’d been five days ago. Where he’d prefer to be. Now, however, in the confines of the lounge of a private observation rail car, Ironwood’s words merged with the rhythmic clack of steel wheels on steel tracks, disturbing Merrit’s perfect moment.
He turned from the window. “Sorry. A gift from what?”
Ironwood, in linen pants and a vintage silk Hawaiian shirt, cradled the Polynesian meteorite Merrit had retrieved for him.
“A gift from the Nommo.” Ironwood said the odd name with satisfaction. He held the meteorite up to the light as if it were fine crystal and not an eight-kilo lump of metal.
Merrit replayed that last word in his mind. Outside, the surprisingly small cluster of the city’s tall downtown buildings slid past the chrome-framed window as the train picked up speed, leaving Union Station. Merrit wasn’t looking forward to spending three days crossing the country. He didn’t understand why someone as rich as Ironwood wasted so much time, no matter how much he hated flying.
Ironwood was on the other side of the lounge, on a long green divan designed for much smaller frames. Each side of the mohair-wool-upholstered bench sported Streamline Moderne curves of pale blond wood striped in thin flashings of brushed nickel. A round glass and chrome table to the left held a polished steel lamp shaped like a cobra head. It cast a warm glow on the man and his newest treasure.
“Nommo. The aliens who gave us civilization. Probably jump-started our evolution, too.”
Merrit normally avoided discussing his employer’s crazy-ass beliefs. What did it matter where civilization had come from a billion or whatever years ago? What did it matter if aliens had been here if they weren’t around now?
Billionaires, however, enjoyed the luxury of indulging their obsessions and, as jet-lagged as Merrit was after his flight from Tahiti to Los Angeles, he knew from experience he’d be expected to take part in the conversation. Ironwood lived in his own private time zone, and that meant everyone in his employ did as well. No one slept until the top man did.
“The aliens have a name?” Merrit asked. Who knew?
“Nommo. ’Course, that’s probably not their real name, but that’s what the Dogon tribe call the amphibious beings who taught them astronomy. See here?” He motioned for Merrit to come closer.
Merrit took a moment to find the rhythm of the train, then crossed the lounge with a rolling gait. Two or three years ago, someone had told him how much it had cost to rebuild this car. A staggering amount, in the millions. And for what? It was still just an old train car, even if it was clad in gleaming sheets of fluted steel and had an upper deck with an observation dome that looked like something from a World War II bomber. The damn thing still rattled and bucked like a mine train. He dragged a low-slung armchair into position beside the sleek divan.
Ironwood held up the meteorite to show its engraved map of the solar system. “Just consider the knowledge this image represents.” He shook his head. “It’s got all the planets circling the sun. Jupiter with four moons. Saturn with a ring. Details that folks on this planet shouldn’t be able to know without some sophisticated math and some fine telescopes. But the Dogon knew all of it, and even more, thousands of years ago. Thousands.”
Merrit wouldn’t have cared if the Dogon had known all of it millions of years ago. Besides, he’d already heard this lecture from the MacClary woman.
“So you’re asking yourself . . . who are the Dogon?” Ironwood gave Merrit a sly grin, knowing full well he couldn’t care less about the Dogon. Not that that stopped him. It never did. “African tribe. Their territory’s a few hundred klicks south of Timbuktu. Real end-of-the-earth sort of place.”
Merrit suppressed the sudden and overwhelming desire to yawn. “Good place for aliens to land, then. Nobody to spot them.”
“Oh, I doubt they landed there. It’s more than likely the Dogon’s ancestors started out up to the Mediterranean. That’s where the Nommo—or whatever they really called themselves—landed and seeded the cultures that became Egyptian, Phoenician, Harappan, you name it. Then, when things went south—global flood, pole shift, whatever the heck happened to knock the stuffing out of the first civilizations—the Dogon migrated down into Africa, set up shop there.” He paused, as if in his enthusiasm he’d said more than he planned to. “Something like that.”
Merrit nodded as if any of this mattered to him. It didn’t. He did wonder, though, if his employer knew all this, why did no one else? The way Merrit looked at things, either there was evidence or there wasn’t. If the map on the meteorite was as important as Florian MacClary and Ironwood said, then why didn’t either side try to show it to the professors or scientists or whoever it was who decided such things? Merrit knew those weren’t questions to ask Ironwood. All that would get him would be another hour-long lecture on conspiracy theory and the evils of big government.
Ironwood regarded Merrit with open amusement. “Here’s something I guarantee won’t bore you.”
Merrit doubted that, but before he could reply, a young steward in a green corporate blazer approached with a black champagne bucket. Inside, packed in ice, was a large bottle of diet cola. She poured a glass for Ironwood, offered to pour another for Merrit. He asked for coffee instead.
Ironwood waited for the steward to return to the kitchen. He kept his hands on the meteorite still sitting on his ample lap. “You remember the boy from the army lab?”
Merrit shrugged. “Weir, David. Sure.”
“I hired him.”
It took Merrit a few seconds to process that. Weir was already on the payroll, so to speak. He brought Ironwood information from military records, and Ironwood paid him. Or, at least, Merrit did, acting as go-between. He decided Ironwood could mean only one thing.
“Full-time?”
“Dave tells me he can use other genetic databases to get me what I need, and he can work faster if he’s not trying to squirrel into government computers.”
Merrit didn’t care what Weir could or couldn’t do, but he was concerned by what Ironwood had just implied. “He told you? You spoke to him in person?”
“Some reason I shouldn’t have?”
“Your security is what you hire me for. Weir’s a mark I found on the Internet. He’s not supposed to know you’re the end buyer of
what he’s selling. You can’t trust him.”
“The boy’s come through for me. Besides, I looked him in the eye. He’s not a problem.”
Merrit persisted. “The boy’s breaking federal, state, and military law stealing files from a military computer system. When the CID catch him at it, and they’re going to, they’ll offer him immunity and a huge reward if they think he can lead them to you.”
“Then it’s a good thing the boy isn’t working for the military anymore, isn’t it?”
Merrit glanced at the meteorite in Ironwood’s lap. “You also hired me to keep you isolated from anything anyone might call . . . illegal.”
Ironwood’s eyes narrowed. “You telling me you did something you shouldn’t have? Something to do with this?” He held up the meteorite.
Merrit was taken by surprise. Where did that come from? “I told you I didn’t have permits for the dig site. And, technically, I should’ve reported anything that I took from it to the French authorities. But none of that’s—”
“You know I don’t give a rat’s backside about paperwork. Especially French paperwork. I’m asking if you ran into any trouble out there that you didn’t bother to tell me about.”
Merrit told the truth as he knew it. “Not for me.”
Ironwood didn’t look convinced. “Didn’t cross paths with any MacCleirighs, say?”
“Way ahead of them.”
Ironwood appeared to think that over. “Okay,” he said at last. The rich scent of fresh coffee filled the lounge as the steward returned. “Enjoy your coffee.”
Merrit sat back as the steward pushed down the mesh disk in the pot of café filtre on the side table. A new concern slippped into his mind. The moment the steward retreated to the kitchen, he voiced it.
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