The God Gene: A Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  The first thing Rick did when they sat down was slip a hundred-dollar bill across her desk. How many of those had he brought?

  Bianca slid it back. “That isn’t necessary, sir. I’m here to help.”

  Rick reached around and slipped it under her keyboard. “I have a feeling you’re going to earn it. If you still want to return it after we’re done, I’ll accept.”

  She gave him a concerned look, but left the bill where it was. “How can I help you?”

  “Tell me about Morondava.”

  “On Madagascar?” Her face lit, making her even more beautiful. “I’ve been there. Very picturesque.”

  Good, Laura thought. “Does it have an airport?”

  She nodded. “A small one.”

  Better.

  Rick said, “Do you know if there’s a helicopter there we can charter?”

  “No, but I can find out. This may take a few moments. If you’d like to visit the bar…”

  Laura could have used a glass of wine, but drinks would have to wait.

  “We’ll just explore the place.”

  They strolled toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the lobby.

  “Do you really think you had to bribe her too?” Laura said.

  Rick shook his head. “I consider that a tip. In a very real sense I’ve asked her to act as our travel agent, which is probably outside the scope of her concierge duties. I’m banking on that nice piece of change to fix her focus on us and put anyone else on hold.”

  Laura glanced back. “I don’t know if you noticed, but she’s a stunner.”

  “Oh, I noticed. Reminds me of Josephine Baker.”

  She laughed. “You’re right! You’re full of surprises, aren’t you. How do you know about her?”

  “What’s so surprising?”

  “Well, neck deep in the clandestine services, as you’ve been all these years, I…” She shrugged. “I don’t see how you’d run across her. She’s not exactly in the news.”

  “There’s a place in the city where I grab dinner now and then. Called Chez Josephine. Supposedly run by one of her offspring. Paintings and photos of her in various stages of undress all around the place. Great risotto.”

  They stopped at the glass wall and looked out over the city to the blue waters of the Mozambique Channel. She glanced back and noticed Bianca waving to them.

  “Hey, she’s got something.”

  When they reached her desk she said, “There is someone with a four-seater helicopter who takes sightseeing charters along the coast.”

  Rick handed her a credit card and said, “Can you book him for tomorrow?”

  She nodded and began speaking French into the phone.

  “French?” Rick said, glancing at Laura.

  “After Malagasy, it’s the second official language of Madagascar,” Laura said. Before he could ask, she added, “I looked it up.”

  She’d been happy about that, since her French was fairly decent.

  “Done,” Bianca said, hanging up. “You are reserved. Most of his business is on weekends so he is glad to have a Wednesday charter. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes. Book us on the next flight to Morondava.”

  Her smile faded. “I have heard an American expression that applies to this: ‘You cannot get there from here.’ You have heard this?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. But the town’s right across the channel. There’s gotta be a way.”

  “Yes, via Johannesburg and Antananarivo.”

  Rick beat Laura to it: “Antananarivo? Where’s that?”

  “It is the capital of Madagascar.”

  Laura shook her head, dismayed. “So we’re talking four airports and three flights?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  Rick looked at Laura. “You need sleep. Stay here and I’ll go.”

  Like hell. She couldn’t count how many times she’d watched those Madagascar movies with Marissa, who absolutely loved King Julien. If she ever learned that her mother didn’t go there when she had the chance, she’d never forgive her.

  “I’ll sleep on the way.”

  Rick looked like he was about to say something, then thought better of it. He turned back to Bianca. “Okay. Can you get us there sometime tonight?”

  She pursed her lips. “I doubt that very much, but I’ll try my best.”

  It turned out she could get them to Johannesburg tonight, but they’d have to stay over before traveling to Madagascar. They decided to stay where they were and head out early tomorrow.

  They thanked her and wandered away. Bianca did not offer to return the hundred-dollar bill. Laura doubted Rick would have accepted it anyway. As they stepped into the elevator, she noticed a lost expression. She’d never seen that look on him before. It didn’t fit.

  “What? Something wrong?”

  He sighed. “So strange to care about my brother after all these years. Don’t think I thought about him once since I left home. Thought he’d rejected me, but you’ve made me see he was probably doing the best he could.”

  Watching this tough, macho guy, this trained killer, struggling with unaccustomed emotions, Laura felt a sudden urge to hug him and tell him everything would be all right—that together they’d make it all right.

  Oh, hell, why not?

  She threw her arms around him and squeezed. “He’ll be fine, Rick. Really. And so will you.”

  After a couple of heartbeats’ hesitation, he returned the hug. “If you say so.”

  “Let’s go to my room.”

  Did I just say that? she thought.

  Yes. She did. And she meant it.

  Rick looked flustered. “Um, Laura—”

  “Hush.”

  She watched the glowing numbers climb, her excitement, her need heating with every floor. When the doors slid open she half dragged him down the hall. She fumbled with her key and got the door open and pulled him inside. As it closed behind him …

  “Now, where were we?”

  “Laura?”

  She didn’t want to lose this momentum, couldn’t let this feeling peter out. She put her arms around him.

  “I believe I was like this and you were—go ahead.”

  He put his arms around her as before. “I…”

  “This is where you kiss me.”

  Please don’t say no.

  Rick hesitated a second. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He lowered his head and their lips met.

  Yes!

  She started unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s time, it’s time. It’s way, way past time.”

  5

  DAPI ISLAND

  Marten squatted by the Coleman stove and stirred the pot of matata.

  Amaury and the brothers had been frankly dubious when he volunteered to cook dinner for the group. Even more so when he produced cans of premade matata from his duffel—they actually made faces. But when he produced a pint of port wine and a bottle of extra-spicy peri-peri sauce, they changed their tune.

  The caldera had grown downright chilly with the loss of the direct sunlight—lava rock didn’t hold heat very well—and his fellow explorers seemed to relish the idea of a hot meal.

  He’d emptied the cans of the traditional stew of diced clams and crushed peanuts with spinach, garlic, onions, and olive oil into an aluminum pot. The fresh port wine he’d brought would give it extra flavor, and the peri-peri would add a spicy kick.

  He’d brought along some extra olive oil as well. The canned stew already had enough but the extra amount would mask the oiliness of the VX he was going to add at the end.

  No worry about the heat of the stew degrading the neurotoxin: Its boiling point was up near 600 degrees Fahrenheit. He wasn’t going to let the matata get too hot anyway. He wanted his hungry companions to spoon it in quickly, to make sure they each ingested a lethal dose before the effects started.

  He had an unlabeled six-ounce plastic bottle full of VX in his duffel, just inches away. He�
�d bought the bottle in a Maxixe drugstore on Saturday before his helicopter flight and transferred the leftover VX from the sprayer before boarding the Sorcière. An earlier plan had been to fill the port wine bottle with it, but VX was too clear to pass for port.

  When the time came, in a minute or so, he would add it to the stew—all six ounces. Why take chances? Even if one or two of his fellow travelers didn’t die, they’d be too sick and weak to pose any threat. Marten would be able to set about his tasks without worry of interference.

  Razi wandered over and sniffed the stew. Grinning and nodding, he said, “Bom!”

  Without asking he grabbed the bottle of port and took a swig.

  Oh, yes. A very, very good thing Marten hadn’t substituted VX for the wine.

  Giving a thumbs-up, Razi returned to the others where they sat near the tents, playing cards in the fading light. They’d thrown a blanket over the holding cage and the injured dapi within had gone quiet. The primate audience had either wandered off or gone into hiding.

  Continuously stirring the pot as he kept his eyes on the trio of card players, Marten slipped his free hand into the duffel and felt around for the VX. He’d chosen an opaque plastic model the size of a small mouthwash bottle, but with a sturdy twist-off cap. Leakage—or worse, breakage—would spell disaster. He found it, wriggled it free, and set it beside the Coleman, out of sight of the card players.

  Now the risky part. Now … gut-check time.

  Risky hardly seemed the proper term when his own agonizing death was a very real and proximate possibility, especially since he was going to have to open the bottle barehanded. With a human LD50 of only ten milligrams, a drop or two on one of his hands would not kill him, but would make him very, very sick. He had a syringe of atropine in the duffel for just such an eventuality. It would save his life, but all his secrets would come out, all his plans would be ruined.

  He glanced longingly at Bakari’s fireman gloves lying atop the covered holding cage. If only …

  Opening it would take two hands, so he stopped stirring and—

  Just then Laffite shot to his feet and stepped toward Marten. He nodded as he passed and picked up one of the battery-powered lanterns they’d brought along.

  “Getting so dark it is hard to see my cards,” he said as he turned it on and held it up.

  “What are you playing?” Marten asked, just to be friendly and seem more casual that he felt.

  “Poker. Five-card draw. You wish to play?”

  “I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “We raise one metical at a time.”

  “Maybe after dinner,” Marten said, secure in the knowledge that he’d be the only one standing by then.

  Laffite leaned closer and frowned. “You are well?”

  The question startled Marten. “Why … yes. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “You look … not well.”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s just that it’s … it’s been a long day and I’m not used to so much physical exertion. But I-I’m fine, really, and I’m sure I’ll feel even better once I get some of this delicious matata into me.”

  Laffite grinned. “Well, hurry up then. We are all hungry.”

  He returned to the brothers, set the lamp atop the cage next to the gloves, and resumed his card game.

  Well, the dim light would work to Marten’s advantage. He grabbed the bottle and gave the cap a slow, careful twist. It didn’t budge. Totally paranoid about a leak, he’d put extra effort into tightening it. Now he had to undo that effort. And be discreet about it.

  It didn’t help that his hands were sweating. He tightened his grip on the cap and strained, but his damp fingers slipped. He pulled out the tail of his shirt, wrapped it around the cap and tried again.

  Finally it gave. That was all he wanted right now. Just loose enough to unscrew when the coast was clear.

  He checked out the trio of card players … all concentrating on their hands.

  Now or never.

  Holding the bottle vertical and rock steady, he quickly unscrewed the cap. Cries of dismay from the card players—someone must have lost with a good hand. He risked another look—still clear—and upended the bottle over the stew while he resumed stirring. As the last of the VX disappeared into the mix, he heard Laffite’s voice.

  “What’s that you’re adding?” He was ambling toward Marten and the stove.

  Marten’s heart began hammering against his ribs.

  Oh-hell-oh-god-oh-shit!

  “Just a little more olive oil.”

  “Oh, well, one can never have enough—wait.” He pointed to a bottle standing next to the stove. “Isn’t that your olive oil?”

  SHIT!

  “Oh, yes, well, you caught me there. This is a secret ingredient I use whenever I—I mean, I use it to dress up canned matata.”

  Laffite’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? What exactly is it?”

  Marten kept stirring the pot to keep his hand from shaking. He forced a smile. “Well, now, if I told you it wouldn’t be a secret, would it.”

  “I am not finding this funny, Monsieur Jeukens. Why can you not tell me what you just poured in the stew you are about to serve us?”

  Bakari and Razi had risen and were now flanking Laffite. They looked just as suspicious as their boss.

  Marten dropped the empty bottle to the side.

  “All right, all right.” What to say? What was an innocent clear liquid he could add to matata? What? A liquor? Tipo Tinto rum sprang to mind, but it was the wrong color. But that gave him an idea. “Since you insist: It’s my … my own homemade rum.”

  “Oh, is it now?” Laffite said. “Is it really? And why did you not bring any on our search for this island? I might have enjoyed some. Or did you cook it up just over the weekend?”

  “I-I-I’ve been letting it age.” Damn, he wished he could stop stammering. “Wait till you taste it in the matata.” He kissed his fingertips like a clichéd French epicure. “Delicious!”

  “I am thinking that we do not want to taste anything that you do not taste first.” He glanced left and right. “Is that not right, mes amis?”

  The brothers crossed their arms over their broad chests and nodded.

  “Você primeiro,” said Razi, pointing to the pot.

  No! He didn’t dare touch the stew, let alone eat it.

  Marten shot to his feet. “This is insulting! You are implying that I am trying to harm you? Poison you? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Is it? Maybe you want all these dapis for yourself.”

  Marten waved his arms in genuine anger. Did they take him for a fool?

  “Now you insult my intelligence as well! If I meant to steal your dapis, I’d wait until you three did all the work of capturing them, then I’d poison you!”

  The obviousness of his blurted words seemed to give Laffite pause. Marten pushed the advantage.

  “The simple truth, Amaury, as I’ve told you all along, is I don’t want to sell the damn dapis, I want to study them! In fact, the book I am going to write about them will net me more than your profits from selling them, no matter how many you move.”

  Highly unlikely, but it sounded good and Laffite just might buy it. He had to buy it!

  But Laffite held firm. “So you say. But I want to see you eat your matata. If all is fine, then I will apologize and we will have a good laugh.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “But…” The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “You will eat it.”

  Marten returned the stare while his mind raced. What to do? What to do? If he ate, even half a spoonful might kill him, or at the very least make him ghastly ill. And if he refused, they might very well force some down his throat. Either way, they’d know he was trying to poison them, and they’d kill him. He saw no way out of this.

  Except …

  He steeled his knees and grabbed a small plastic bowl.

  “Very well. But I want apologies from all three of you after I prove my innocence.”
r />   He began spooning the matata into the bowl, careful to avoid getting any on his fingers. When it was half full, he flung it at the three, then grabbed the handles of the pot and hurled it.

  Without waiting to check his accuracy, Marten spun and darted for the brush. Even though the sky still held a faint red glow, light in the caldera had faded to the point where it was dark as night among the trees.

  Which meant he had to be careful. Running headlong into a baobab trunk and knocking himself out would make an already catastrophic situation worse. So he slowed his pace, lowered himself into a crouch, and eased through the underbrush with both hands stretched out ahead of him.

  From behind came angry shouts. Had he splashed them with enough of the doctored stew to stop them? Their clothes would protect them to some extent, and the ingredients would have absorbed a fair amount of the VX—which wouldn’t have mattered a damn bit if they’d ingested it, but it reduced effectiveness as a topical agent.

  His hands banged against something wide and hard. A baobab trunk. Keeping in contact, he slid around it and took the opportunity to check out the way he had come. Beams of light flickered through the foliage.

  Flashlights. They were coming after him.

  Which meant he hadn’t hit them with the stew—or at least not enough of it to matter.

  Fighting the almost overwhelming urge to break into a blind run, he took a breath and took stock. He’d left a trail through the undergrowth. Moving blindly through the dark, no way he could not. But could they follow it in the dark, even with flashlights? Laffite was an excellent seaman but that didn’t make him a good tracker. The brothers had grown up in a village in the western wilds of Mozambique but had spent much of their adult lives as city dwellers. If they’d ever had tracking skills, how much was left?

  Marten decided to take a chance: He reversed course, moving toward them for half a dozen paces, then he dropped to the ground and belly-crawled into a thick patch of undergrowth. At least it felt thick. He waited.

  Soon he heard them crashing through the brush, moving at a good speed, not trying to hide their passage. Damn, the stew hadn’t even slowed them down! How had he missed them so completely?

  He heard a murmur of voices, then started making out words.