The Gamma Sequence

by Dan Alatorre

  “We’ll be fine.” He winked. “You know me.”

  Camilla grumbled. “That’s what worries me.”

  An image of a laboratory appeared on the screen as the lecturer continued. “Workers pass through the first two rooms in this hallway for their decontamination process, and then they enter the labs in their cleanroom suits, through sealed airlocks. You will be permitted full access to the site, wearing the same protective gear and accompanied by members of our security team, as well as one of our geneticists who can answer any of your questions.”

  She slid her hands into her lab coat pockets and smiled as the Angelus Genetics logo reappeared on the screen. “As we said earlier, we wish to comply with all of your requests, and conclude your audit quickly and to the satisfaction of all.”

  Chapter 28

  The short, round man stopped his golf cart with a screech, jumping out and rushing to the open door of the large jet. “Welcome back, sir! All of Jakarta welcomes you!” The scorching heat lifted from the tarmac, casting mirage-like reflections over the runway and sending up heat ripples that distorted the view of anything further than fifty feet away. Behind him, a private team of baggage handlers pulled open the plane’s cargo hatch and unloaded suitcases.

  A brown-haired woman in ripped blue jeans stepped off the jet first. Standing in the shadow of the jet, she clutched a bottle of water and twisted back and forth, stretching. Next came a tall, muscular man, wearing a blue blazer and sunglasses.

  The tall man smiled and shook hands with his friend. “Thank you, temanku. Was it any trouble arranging for us to come in this plane?”

  “Oh yes.” The little man winced. “The Concorde has been banned here for many years. Much trouble has been caused by your loud arrival.” He put his hands over his ears and made a face. “Sonic booms over Jakarta are not popular.”

  “This isn’t a Concord.” The American patted the side of the big plane. “It’s better—a prototype from a company based out of Denver, and it flies at Mach 2.2. Knowing an investment banker or two has its privileges. They had one of these in New York, and four and a half hours later, here we are. Not too bad.”

  “Yes, but very loud.”

  “Well, our friends had a head start and I needed to catch up. How much money will it take to make anyone’s issues about the noise go away? One hundred thousand American dollars?” He walked to the baggage cart and pulled off a blue suitcase. One of the baggage handlers rushed forward, but he waved them away. “Thank you, it’s all right. I’ve got it.”

  His friend shrugged, massaging his hands. “That much money will most certainly take care of our friends in the government, but—”

  He looked away, scowling. “Two hundred thousand, then.”

  The man clasped his hands in front of his chest, bowing. “As you wish, sir.”

  As the other suitcases were loaded onto the baggage tram, the little man and the American seated themselves in the golf cart. The woman took a seat behind them.

  “Where is the helicopter?” the American asked.

  “Right this way, my friend.” He set the cart in motion, with the baggage tram following. They drove past several terminals and out toward the tree-lined edge of the airport property. Behind a chain link fence, a half dozen red Air Jakarta helicopters sat inside painted circles. Next to those stood another half dozen, in various colors. The golf cart came to a stop in front of a black six-seater. The pilot gave them a thumbs up, setting aside his clip board and moving his hands over the console. The whine of the shiny black turbojet quickly overwhelmed any other sounds nearby, as the big overhead blade crept into motion.

  The American leaned forward, shouting to his little round friend. “Teman, I have something for you.” He stepped out of the golf cart. The little man followed. Hefting the blue suitcase, the American placed it at the feet of his teman.

  “By dawn, I will need the helicopter refueled in Bali,” he shouted. “And this jet needs to be ready and waiting to leave again.”

  “It will be done. And I have something for you as well.” The little man walked to the golf cart and pulled out a small, polished wooden case, the size of a box that would contain expensive silverware. “As you instructed, a high intensity air pistol—extremely lethal at close range. From China, but high-quality, and very reliable. But . . .” He shook his head. “My friend, I’m afraid a second noise infraction so soon may take more than another two hundred thousand dollars to correct.”

  The American lifted the suitcase and shoved it into his friend’s chest, scowling. “There’s a million dollars in cash inside that. Make it happen!”

  “This is a mistake,” the woman said. “You’re throwing too much money around.”

  He grabbed the wooden case, glaring at her. “Get on the helicopter.”

  She climbed on board and sat in one of the plush blue seats, buckling herself in. The American threw the rest of the bags onto the floor in front of her, then grabbed the side rail and hauled himself into the cabin.

  “It’s my money.” He sat, heaving the door shut. “I’ll do what I want with it.”

  “It’s going to raise eyebrows. You’re putting the operation at risk like you did with that stunt in Canada.”

  He whipped around to face her, his eyes narrowing. “Maya, you disappoint me.” Heat rose in his cheeks. “First, you hold out about a new medicine by saying you can’t contact me. Then you get insubordinate with me in public and embarrass me in front of my friend.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “That is enough!” he shouted, his face growing redder with each breath. The veins throbbed in his neck. “One more outburst and I swear, I’ll . . .” His hands trembled.

  She backed away, pressing herself to the helicopter door, but also remaining defiant. “Stop it. You need me.”

  “Do I?”

  “The medicines. You—”

  “You told me you stole them and you had them made by private laboratories. It’s fair to say when I check the receipts for the many, many things you’ve purchased, I’ll get the names of those labs. Was there something else?”

  “You—you’re tired.” She spoke in a soothing tone. “From your trip. We both are. You don’t mean it.” She placed her hands at her sides. “It’s the new drugs. I—I told you, they contain steroids, but some of the new components are like steroids amplified—one of the side effects is being short tempered and irritable. They’ll come and go, but—”

  “I’ve never felt better.” He glared at her. “But I don’t kid myself, either. There’s not much time left. Your drugs are going to give me a week, maybe more, but I know what waits for me after that. This work needs to get finished, and if I have to spend a little bit of money to make it happen, I don’t want to hear about it from the likes of you. Do we understand each other?”

  “Excuse me,” the pilot said. “We are ready to depart for Bali. Please put on your headsets and make sure your seat belts are fastened.”

  The American took one of the headsets from the overhead clip, thrusting a second set at his companion. “Maya, I asked you a question,” he growled. “Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Tristan.”

  “See, that’s been part of our problem all along.” He gritted his teeth. “We’re too informal, too relaxed. We’re getting sloppy. ‘Tristan?’ This isn’t a friendly tea party, this is business—so maybe we need to start acting like employer and employee. Now, I’ll ask you again. Do we have an understanding?”

  She spoke softly, not taking her eyes off him. “Yes, Mr. Carerra.”

  Chapter 29

  Camilla looked at herself in the mirror as the other female agents changed. Clad in a white jumpsuit from head to foot, including sewn-in booties, and a hood that surrounded all but her eyes, she brushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead. “I should have opted for the three-piece set.”

  “It’s not better,” one of her agents said rising from the locker room bench. Wearing the white scrub pants and shirt
, similar booties, and a hood, she held out her arms and walked stiff-legged toward the mirror. “I look like a snowman.”

  “Well, Frosty.” Camilla stuffed her clothes into a locker. “It’s all for a good cause. Let’s go. I hear the next room is even more fun.” They passed several others coming from the showers.

  “Make sure you’re not entering the cleanroom with any cosmetics, lotions or sprays of any sort on your person,” the lecturer told them for the second time.

  Camilla and the agent walked around the corner to the locker room entry, a glass door with a large rectangular button next to it. Each entry they passed had a box of white latex gloves mounted on the wall, with hand sanitizer nearby. After they put on the gloves, they tucked them under their sleeves as they had been shown. Camilla elbowed the button to open the door. A whoosh of air blasted her head as they entered the small airlock. They waited for the door to shut behind them, then opened the second door. Another whoosh of air. On the other side, they passed a large bin labeled “Disposal for Gloves.” As long as they hadn’t touched anything in the airlock, they didn’t need to replace their gloves, but the bins were everywhere. As the second door shut, the airlock made a sucking sound.

  The gray-haired woman from the lecture stood at the front of the room. “You may sit anywhere. This room is completely sterilized every four hours.” She strolled in front of a row of chairs, moving toward the podium. “I apologize for these inconveniences, but we must preserve the integrity of the sterile laboratory environment.”

  Camilla stared at her white-gloved hands. “I’m sure you get used to it after a while.”

  “Indeed,” the woman said. “Only the front entry of every building contains the airlock, so all personnel must pass through the front entry to gain access to any building. Our workers joke that after they get home, they walk through the front door and reach for gloves they are not wearing, to throw them in the bin.” She picked up some papers from the podium and tapped the edges, lining them up. To her left, a row of windows gave a view of a long hallway. Beyond them, another set of windows allowed a look at the outside. The large blue buildings of the strange campus stood, one after the other, spotless and clean, next to the dirt road that separated them. Each had a red sign out front, “Cleanroom Suit Required For Entry.”

  “When the others join us, we will begin our tour,” the lecturer said. “And then you can return to your hotel to prepare for tonight’s reception.”

  “Actually, I’d just as soon miss the gala and shorten this tour.” Camilla approached the front of the room. “We have a lot of work to do, and we haven’t been provided the on-site financials yet. We can split my group into teams and have some of them do the tour while the rest of us—”

  The woman held up a hand. “The numbers will only make sense when you understand the facility and its many intricate functions. It’s best that you—” She glanced at the window to the hallway. “Oh, we have a special treat.”

  An old man in a business suit stood next to several people wearing cleanroom attire. The gray-haired woman walked to an intercom unit mounted by an emergency exit, and pressed the button. “Good afternoon, Dr. Hauser.”

  “Good afternoon.” He pointed his cane at the auditors passing through the airlock. “Are you treating our guests well?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Fine, fine.” His eyes passed across the men and women next to Camilla. “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you—and I welcome the opportunity to share the monumental scientific achievements we perform here on a daily basis. Angelus Genetics is truly changing the world. Enjoy the tour. I look forward to seeing you all tonight at the reception.”

  Camilla waved a hand. “Dr. Hauser—”

  He leaned on his cane with both hands, shaking his head, his eyes on the intercom. “Please. I’ll be happy to entertain any questions you have at the reception. Until then, you are in good hands. Thank you.”

  The intercom made a popping noise as he turned away, hobbling down the hallway.

  Camilla leaned toward the agent next to her. “Make a note. The lecturer specifically said cleanroom suits have to be worn everywhere in this building, no exceptions, and in all buildings marked with the red sign out front. Why does everyone else have to wear these moon suits when he doesn’t?”

  “Hmm,” the agent said. “So much for the integrity of the sterile environment.”

  “It’s just a hallway, but no exceptions means no exceptions. My trainer at the IRS once said, when people are doing what’s supposed to be their routine, pay attention to what varies. The things they don’t remember to do every time are being done as a show for you.”

  “Why would he not wear the cleanroom suit?” the agent asked. “Where’s he going, if this audit is allegedly the biggest thing in his life right now?”

  Camilla folded her arms.

  He’s going to check on whatever actually is the biggest thing.

  She sauntered to the glass, peering through the two sets of windows. The old man exited the building and climbed into a black golf cart. The others, still dressed from head to toe in white, joined him, and they drove away. In the distance, a few people dressed in full cleanroom attire entered the side door of another building with the red sign out front.

  They aren’t using the airlocks.

  She whispered to the agent, “Without drawing attention, get a male agent to bring DeShear over here. You go get Ms. Kim. They’re probably still in the locker rooms.”

  Let’s find out where Dr. Hauser goes.

  * * * * *

  The desk clerk at the Viceroy Bali smiled at The Greyhound. “Welcome back, Mr. Huntley. How was your flight?”

  “Fine.” He smiled back, stepping to the counter. “I’ve brought a guest.” He glanced at Maya, who sat on one of the overstuffed couches, her phone to her cheek. “I hope you’ll be able to accommodate her with her own room. Adjoining mine, if possible.”

  “Of course, sir.” The young man leaned over his computer keyboard. “We have a suite reserved for you, but if I may move sir to another floor, I can most certainly have your guest be next door.”

  The smile left The Greyhound’s lips. “We’re very tired, so I suppose that’ll have to do for now.”

  “Very good, sir.” The clerk typed for a moment, then placed the key cards on the counter. The Greyhound waved at Maya, who pushed herself up from the couch and walked over.

  “Here are the keys,” he said to her. “Go get settled in. I’ll be up in a moment.”

  She took the plastic cards as a bellman approached with their bags.

  The Greyhound turned back to the desk clerk. “And now I’d like to speak with the manager.”

  The clerk’s face fell. “Sir, I’m happy to—”

  “The manager. Now.”

  “Of course, sir.” The clerk nodded.

  Maya’s jaw dropped. “Tristan—”

  “It’s fine.” He turned to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Really, I’m not upset at all.” He lowered his voice, smiling. “Go upstairs and relax. Please. This will only take a few minutes.”

  She watched his face for a moment. “Okay.” Walking across the marble lobby with the bellman in tow, she pressed the elevator call button.

  An older man appeared at the counter. “Mr. Huntley, how good to see you again. I understand there is a problem. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Mister . . .” he read the manager’s nametag. “ . . . Rahmat, is it? Do you have an office where we can speak in private?”

  “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

  The manager led The Greyhound down a hallway, past a door that opened into the service area. Huge carts of towels awaited the laundry machines, and a man in blue coveralls folded cardboard boxes, stacking them near the dumpsters.

  “Here we are.” The manager stood beside an office door, holding his hand out.

  The Greyhound stepped inside and scanned the room, his hands going to his suitcoat pockets. A sturdy w
ooden desk and two chairs filled most of the space, along with several filing cabinets and a potted plant. There were no security cameras, and there hadn’t been any in the hallway, either.

  “Please sit.” The manager eased the door shut. “I’m sure whatever the issue, we can—”

  The Greyhound was upon him, handkerchief in his fist, thrusting it over the manager’s nose and mouth. The man pushed back, but was unable to break The Greyhound’s iron grip. Struggling until he needed a breath, the manager reluctantly inhaled the ether. His eyes rolled back in his head as his arms sagged; then his body went limp and he collapsed to the floor.

  The Greyhound held the cloth on the manager’s face until he was sure the man was unconscious, then rifled through the man’s pockets. Attached on a retracting belt lanyard, with a dozen metal keys attached, was a plastic card—the manager’s master room key.

  The Greyhound unclipped the lanyard from the belt, slipping it into his pocket.

  He stood, wiping his brow as he stared at the man on the floor. The Greyhound had no perspiration. A steady heartbeat. He stared at his hands—no trembling fingers.

  Stay in control.

  He nodded, taking a deep breath. The new version of the drugs had side effects, but now that he was aware of them, he could maintain his composure.

  He opened the door a crack and peered down the hallway. Nothing. The service area was vacant, too. Stooping to grab the manager under the shoulders, he dragged him to an empty laundry cart and dumped him in. After enough towels from another cart had covered the unconscious Mr. Rahmat, The Greyhound administered the Propofol.

  In six or eight hours when the manager woke up, he’d remember nothing.

  The Greyhound returned to the office, locked it from the inside, and pulled the door shut from the hallway. Straightening himself up, he smoothed out his jacket and walked through the service area and into the big lobby, heading for the elevators.

  * * * * *

  “Cammy,” DeShear whispered, his cleanroom suit covering everything but his eyes. “What’s up?”

  “The chairman of Angelus Genetics just went for a ride in a black golf cart,” Camilla said. “If you hurry, he’ll still be at whatever building he went into. I think you might use it as a starting point for your little side venture.”