by M. G. Harris
“You’re staying here too?” Jackson was somewhat confused. He’d seen no sign of DiCanio or Priya at the hotel earlier that evening. Surely DiCanio would have a home nearby?
DiCanio didn’t reply. Instead she guided Jackson to a cozy nook opposite the bar. A leather sofa stood next to a low table, opposite two heavy chairs of smooth, worn pine. DiCanio slid into the sofa and nodded at Jackson. “Jackson. C’mon, darlin’. Let’s talk.”
In silence, Priya took a seat next to Jackson. DiCanio ignored her completely. Jackson watched the young woman for a minute. He signaled to the bartender. Apart from the same trio of elderly smokers who had now moved inside to the bar, the place was deserted. Jackson ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino for himself and chamomile tea for Priya. DiCanio seemed amused by Jackson’s gesture. She added a large French brandy to the order.
DiCanio sank contentedly into the deep sofa chair. She turned to him with a smile. Jackson watched, wincing slightly as the staples in his leg pulled against the flesh.
“Something wrong?” DiCanio asked, politely concerned.
“I took a bit of an injury, in Mexico. Running away from Runig’s people.”
Her face fell. The transformation was rapid and rather astonishing. It was the second time he’d seen mention of Hans Runig turn DiCanio almost white. “Runig actually found you?”
Jackson was surprised; he thought he’d already told DiCanio about this.
“Well sure, one of his people did. They sent a guy to meet me, dressed as Simon Reyes, from PJ’s lab.”
“How did you get away?”
A sardonic laugh escaped his lips. “I ran!”
“You got back to Mexico City? How?”
There didn’t seem to be any harm in telling DiCanio at least part of the story.
“I managed to get down to the road. I hitched a ride back to Mexico.”
DiCanio was appreciative. “Some luck!”
Jackson remained silent. Marie-Carmen’s identity would be his secret, he’d decided, from everyone. That and PJ’s DNA sample, which he’d mailed to friends in San Francisco, would hopefully prove to be a shrewd insurance policy.
“So far, this whole thing feels more like bad luck.”
“You think maybe PJ told them something which led them to you?”
“Yes. I still don’t know what.”
“My guess is that Runig thinks you have Pedro Juan’s joust-like sequence.”
He concentrated hard on keeping his expression bland, his voice mild as he appeared to take this on board for deep consideration. “Could be.”
“Have you, Jackson?”
“No.” Jackson could not quite meet her eye as he said this. Instead, he glanced at Priya. DiCanio didn’t seem to care that she was entirely excluding her from this discussion, just as she had earlier ignored him.
“Maybe you do, but you don’t know it yet?”
Jackson only nodded. DiCanio seemed keen to know exactly what PJ had told him. It made him wonder – what was really going on between DiCanio and Runig? Ever since her enigmatic statement at the dinner table, DiCanio’s business dealings were now of rather less interest.
“This ancient chamber in Iraq – is there more to tell?”
DiCanio smiled. “Ah. That. It’s in southern Iraq, near the ruined city of Eridu. Not far from the site of the ancient biblical city, Ur of the Chaldees.”
“That was the inspiration for your company’s name, Chaldexx?”
“We’ve always suspected that the hypnoticin-response gene may have originated in the region. There’s a cluster of people with the gene, who originate in the Mid-East.”
“Really? I didn’t see too many mid-eastern types at dinner tonight.”
“Jackson, my mother is Lebanese,” DiCanio said with just the hint of a chastising tone. “It’s not always obvious. Now, the discovery of this chamber, which I’m told dates back at least to three thousand BC. We’re learning a lot about ourselves; who and where we are, just what we can do under the influence of hypnoticin. There are so many more questions, mysteries which remain a puzzle. Where did all this begin? Why would such an ability develop at all? How would it be used? Without an injection of hypnoticin, we’re just like anyone else. Did hypnoticin occur naturally in something our ancestors consumed . . . is that how the ability was originally discovered and used?”
“Melissa,” he interrupted, “what the hell is in this for Chaldexx? I’m assuming that your shareholders aren’t all carriers of the gene. How does this make you any money?”
“What it gives us,” she told him, “is a model system for looking into drugs which can suppress behavior. I can’t go into details; it’s all under confidential disclosure. What I can say is this: we’ve been able to come up with several promising drug candidates. They can modify behaviors linked with obsessive compulsive disorders, Tourette syndrome and other disorders thought to be associated with ‘free will’.”
Jackson thought this over. No wonder Chaldexx were doing so well. With secret tools like hypnoticin and its genetically-rare response protein, they would be well ahead of the competition.
“The ancient chamber in Iraq,” DiCanio repeated, determined to finish her soliloquy, “could be a significant part of the puzzle. As I said, we have someone inside the UN, Jackson, someone feeding us information.”
Only now did Jackson begin to see how powerful DiCanio’s network of gene-carrying associates might actually be. If they could get someone with the highest level of security clearance required to give them this kind of information, the must have not only money but also, some highly-motivated operators.
“This society of yours: how many are you?”
“Almost two hundred. I can’t tell you any more, Jackson. Our rules are very strict. To join, one must not only have the gene, but be of the right background, education and inclination. Then, a candidate must demonstrate loyalty and potential usefulness, by accepting a mission. It might be a small thing, like giving someone help with their professional life. Or something bigger, like feeding us classified information.”
Priya sat in absorbed silence, listening. She seemed very young to be part of an influential society. Was DiCanio in the business of recruiting members on the way up in their careers, maybe helping them along the way? It wouldn’t be a bad strategy.
Except that DiCanio’s society had the potential for an advantage even greater than money and connections than the exclusive university societies which boasted prime ministers and presidents amongst their former members. The more Jackson thought about it, the more he realized: a society like hers might actually acquire enough power and influence to change the world.
“Pardon me for saying this, Melissa, but your society is beginning to sound kind of ominous. Genetic exclusivity, nepotism, tests of loyalty?”
DiCanio seemed momentarily thrown. Within seconds the expression of irritation that flashed across her face was replaced by a resigned chuckle. “I can see how you’d think that. The genetic exclusivity is by necessity; without that there’s no advantage to using hypnoticin. Pure motivations; well frankly, Jackson, that’s why we don’t take people like Hans Runig. Only people who are prepared to demonstrate their commitment to the well-being of the planet. For example, each and every one of us has seen the evidence of the global warming threat, and is determined to take what steps we can to reverse the trend. We are not a military organization. We do not use violence, only subterfuge.”
“So, you want me to join?”
“I knew you’d see it.”
He could see the next move too; suddenly the pieces were beginning to fit.
“Because of my twin brother, Connor.”
DiCanio produced a slow smile. “Because of Captain Connor Bennett, yes.”
“Why didn’t you just ask him?”
DiCanio’s candor was almost disconcerting: “Oh, we did.”
“But he’s loyal to the US Air Force?”
She nodded, gave a sad little shrug. “Even approach
ing him was a risk. It required a great deal of exposure of ourselves, as with you.”
“You expect me to help you, when my own twin brother wouldn’t?”
“You aren’t like him, Jackson, though, are you? You’re not a creature of the US military. Perhaps more importantly, you’re not – yet – part of Hans Runig’s organization.”
“And Connor is?”
“He won’t even be aware of it, but yes. Runig’s companies have huge contracts with the US Department of Defense. Like most of the US military in Iraq, Connor himself probably has no idea what the US was really doing there.
“Apart from ‘protecting US oil interests’?” Jackson challenged, quoting DiCanio’s claim earlier that evening.
“That isn’t all. When those UN weapons inspectors found something in Eridu, the order to begin the bombing of Iraq was given the very next day.”
DiCanio stood. Her face was slightly flushed from the brandy.
“That’s enough for tonight. There’s something you can do for us. It is risky, but only you can do it. You’ll have the advantage of using hypnoticin. You won’t have to kill anyone. If you do this, it will be a major favor for the society and will be taken as your acceptance of our offer to join us. Once you join us, I promise you, your life will change. We will keep you safe from Hans Runig. Opportunities you may not have dreamt of will open to you. I’m prepared to be specific and promise you this: two million dollars for your own research. You’ll be totally set up to start your own group.”
Jackson’s mouth fell open. DiCanio had fallen silent.
“OK, Melissa. You got my attention, definitely.”
“We need you to impersonate your brother. Connor has access to the burial chamber at Abu Shahrain. We need you to retrieve an ancient artifact from the chamber. You walk in as Captain Connor Bennett, walk out and bring us the artifact. That’s it.”
They faced each other in silence. Jackson steadied himself for a moment. He glanced with longing at DiCanio’s glass of brandy.
Treason. That was what DiCanio was asking of him.
He breathed out slowly and forced a smile. “I’m gonna need to sleep on it.”
The Bodyguard
DiCanio left him with Priya, making an excuse about a call to one of her associates in Oxford. Jackson hesitated for a second, then offered to see Priya to her room. It really was looking as if she’d been sent to sweeten the deal. But even if not for Marie-Carmen, he would have had his doubts. The girl was beautiful, but she’d scarcely said two dozen words to him all evening. He suspected she’d drunk a little too much – it would certainly explain her recent silence. He wondered how much pressure DiCanio had exerted. Was this to be Priya’s favor, the price of her admission to DiCanio’s exclusive society?
“No,” she corrected him, with a sultry giggle. “I’ll see you to your room, dearest Jackson Bennett, new favorite of the queen.”
He edged backwards in his seat. Priya rose to her feet and held out a hand to him. “Come on. I’ll see that no-one harms you.”
“You’ll what?”
Priya blinked, slowly and with beguiling innocence. “I’ll protect you. That’s what Melissa wants. Runig’s people could be anywhere. I’ll sleep in your room tonight, be your bodyguard.”
He could scarcely get the words out. “My bodyguard?”
“You needn’t look so shocked, yah? I’m a sixth dan in taekwon-do.” She leaned over Jackson, her cleavage inches from his face. “That’s just in case things get personal. As well as that, I have a gun.”
He found it hard to suppress a grin. “Hey, I’ve done a little kick-boxing in my time too, but seriously? You’re my bodyguard?”
She stretched to her full height. “You doubt it?”
He stood up, nodding. “A little bit, yeah.”
Priya replied with just one word. “Upstairs.”
Jackson had to take the steps two at a time to keep up with her. Outside the door to his bedroom, she eyed him hungrily. The second he was inside she gave one rapid-fire warning, “Protect yourself!” before launching herself at him, a flying tangle of rock-hard, spinning kicks. He managed to dodge the first, parry the second, but was swiftly overwhelmed with her speed. In less than five seconds he was on his back on the rug, breathless, with Priya’s foot lodged against his neck.
Smiling, she stepped back and watched Jackson stumble to his feet. He rubbed his neck, thoughtfully. Amazing how even the residual desire he’d felt for the girl had absolutely vanished. Brilliant and deadly was supposed to be irresistible. Now he knew that it wasn’t. He suppressed the impulse to tell her to get out, there and then.
“All right, I believe you.”
“Are you hurt?”
Jackson fingered his ribs. She’d delivered a couple of blows there but he felt sure there was only minor bruising. “I’m OK. Did Melissa tell you to do that?”
“No; Melissa told me to protect you.”
“Good start.”
“It’s amazing how patronizing some men can be.”
“Well, you sure showed me.”
Priya rearranged her sari, which had come loose around one shoulder. “Don’t be bitter, Jackson. It’s not an attractive quality in a man. Nor is self-pity.”
He thought about Marie-Carmen, what she’d say, angry with Priya for the unnecessary humiliation. To think he’d wasted a single chivalrous thought on her. “I’d like to go to sleep now. Is there any chance you can actually leave me alone?”
“There’s an inflatable mattress in my room. I’ll bring it in here.”
When she’d left, Jackson bent low and straightened out the rug next to the double bed. If that was what Priya was capable of when she was slightly tipsy, he guessed she’d be formidable at the height of her powers.
That’s when he noticed that his cell phone was on his pillow. It wasn’t where he remembered leaving the device. Electricity surged through him; he rushed to examine the sports bag he’d brought from Mexico. The contents had been moved, discreetly. While he’d been out at dinner with DiCanio and her associates from the society, his room had been discreetly searched.
Runig’s people were still hunting for the vial. Jackson’s skin crawled as he flicked through the record of telephone numbers. Marie-Carmen’s cell phone number was the last number he had dialed.
Jackson locked the door and grabbed his laptop. The screen was password-protected, unlike his stupid cell phone, so there was a chance that whoever had searched the room hadn’t been able to get in. He checked his browser history, groaning. Hans Runig’s website was there, as well as Facebook.
There was a knock at the door. After three more knocks, Jackson called out; “Priya, I don’t need you in the room. If you want to protect me, fine. But you’re gonna have to stay outside.”
He could hear her hesitation. “Don’t be unreasonable.”
“Please – go away. I’m fine. I’ll keep the door locked. See you at breakfast.”
He waited for several minutes until he heard her leave. Then he checked his email. There were two messages in his inbox. One was from Marie-Carmen. The other had the subject line: I Know Her Name.
The sender had routed the email via an anonymous email address. Jackson opened the email. Dread swept through him, once again.
Dr. Marie-Carmen Valencia. I’m right, aren’t I? I know her name, I know her telephone number, and I know that she’s not at home. I’ll find her soon. If you’d like to make a deal, let’s meet tomorrow, 8.30am, Restaurant Bahnhof, Kleine Scheidegg.
The second message was from Marie-Carmen.
Jackson,
I’ve spent the day walking along the beach. Guess what? I find that you’re in my thoughts as I stroll past the couples sitting together at the bars, the restaurants; at night as I look out from the balcony into the night lights glowing on the paths around the golf course; at sunrise as I watch the mist roll back, distant velvet mountains revealed by unfurling layers of cloud.
It’s late and I haven’t heard f
rom you; I guess your dinner with DiCanio went on too late? Maybe you’ve gone to bed already and I won’t hear until tomorrow morning. Which brings another melancholy. I wanted that morning of ours, wanted to waken exhausted by you, still craving you.
Forgive me for making us leave so quickly? Even another hour would have been worth the risk.
Write back – I know you’ll be tired, but send something short, so I’ll know you’ve read this.
Your Marie-Carmen
Jackson felt a rush of tenderness towards Marie-Carmen. He’d never written or received a letter like it in his life. Somehow, he had to find the words to respond in a similar vein. He pressed the reply button and wrote:
Marie-Carmen,
Being with you was like jumping out of a plane without a parachute and discovering you can fly. So no, I’m not too tired to reply, if you were here now I’d spend the whole night making you feel as good as you make me feel.
I’m not used to things happening this fast; I’ve gone to some effort to guard against it. I love to think that your thoughts are of me. I can only dream of the luxury of mental space to do the same about you. DiCanio is keeping me occupied every minute I have. She invited me to join the society, to go on a mission for them to Abu Shahrain in Iraq. I don’t know if I can bring myself to accept. Meanwhile, Hans Runig sent me a message: you were right about him being onto you, they got hold of your name and cell phone number.
Turn off your cell, in case there’s a way they can trace you. It’s time you got out of there. Find someplace else that is safe. Keep me posted. I NEED to know you’re OK.
J x
He re-read the message, pausing a second before sending it. He couldn’t think of an appropriate way of finishing the letter, so left it simple yet obvious.
