Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  He called the front desk, engaged in a terse exchange, and hung up with a grunt. "About twenty minutes ago, it appeared on the bellman's stand—he was in the loo."

  "How was it delivered?"

  "Adult male. Average. He wore a taxi driver's uniform. Bellman didn't know if he should bring it up tonight or wait until morning. He compromised, left it outside the door." Sweetheart moved quickly, efficiently, collecting what he needed; clean pillow case, scissors, tweezers, gloves.

  "I keep thinking about the anthrax letters," Sylvia said.

  "Don't breathe," Sweetheart shot back as he slid the scissors blade into a fold of brown sack wrapping, and she knew he was only half joking.

  It was a videotape.

  Typed on a square of plain white paper: OPERATION ALKAHEST.

  "Alkahest . . . an alchemical term, relating to the holy grail for alchemy," Sweetheart said slowly. "The philosopher's stone, the elixir—the element that makes transmutation and immortality possible."

  "Was Palmer working on another project at Porton Down?" Sylvia asked faintly.

  "Good question."

  "This looks like the tapes we saw at BioPort." She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. Her pupils were dilated; her irises, normally a golden brown looked almost silver in the artificial light.

  Without a word, Sweetheart slid the tape very gingerly into the hotel's VCR and pressed play.

  The image had been captured by a handheld camera; the film and sound quality appeared identical to that of the tape they had seen earlier, the one labeled 16-32R. But the story that unfolded was ominously different.

  A squirrel monkey, a tiny female with baleful eyes, stared back at the lens. A small sign on the glass cage read: SABRINA.

  Obviously healthy and familiar with the routine, Sabrina completed a series of neurological assessments demonstrating the animal's ability to successfully perform coordination and cognition exercises.

  The image blacked out, then jumped on-screen again—just as Sabrina was exposed to aerosol, delivered automatically, as in the case of the earlier video.

  The clock in the corner of the screen showed 0713 hours; the date was within the span of Palmer's Porton Down work, Project Nicander.

  The image jumped again. The clock now showed that over twenty-four hours had passed.

  This time the monkey was disoriented, passive, unable to stand. She stumbled, shivering, gazing up at the camera with glassy, unfocused eyes. Abruptly, she began to shake uncontrollably. She couldn't remain upright but slumped down on one side. Her mouth pulled back, teeth exposed.

  Another cut: the glass cage was empty. The clock showed 1603 hours; no date.

  It was impossible to discern whether the footage had been collected over hours, days, or weeks.

  A flash of fur attacked glass. The monkey hurled herself at the enclosure repeatedly, until she stunned herself with one particularly vicious blow and lay gasping, head lolling, eyes wide and filled with terror. Her fur was bloody where she had torn away pieces of her own skin with her claws. She was moaning, chattering, now struggling to rise. In seconds she began the self-brutalizing behavior again.

  "She's psychotic," Sylvia whispered. She forced herself not to turn away as the monkey slashed at her own face.

  Just as abruptly as it had begun, the tape ended and the screen went to blue.

  "My God, what was Palmer doing at Porton Down?" Sylvia said in a hoarse voice. "What kind of horror was she creating?"

  Just before dawn in Los Alamos, Special Agent Darrel Hoopai caught the flash of movement near the Target's light blue Jaguar XK8 sports coupe. The Target appeared abruptly, a blond bull's-eye in his surveillance lens. She was dressed in her pajamas. Barefoot. Carrying a newspaper up to the front door of her Los Alamos house.

  He bit off an expletive. Where the hell did she come from?

  And more important: Where the hell had she been?

  He notified his contact immediately. They held a brief conference.

  Procedure: surveillance had been uninterrupted; the Target had returned home at 2013 hours; she had dressed and prepared for bed at 2044 hours; she had turned off her bedroom light promptly at 0100 hours; at all times her Jaguar XK8 had remained in the driveway; all points were properly documented.

  Policy: sit tight; maybe she had insomnia again; maybe she really did step out to take a walk or get the paper.

  But why hadn't he seen her?

  If she'd managed to sneak out a window, if she'd had a change of clothes stashed in another car, if that car was parked a block away . . .

  S.A. Hoopai's belly churned. He shook his head.

  How would she have arranged for a car?

  He was stirring up trouble in his own mind.

  He'd been watching very closely.

  Yes, watching very closely.

  And now he had the nagging feeling he'd just missed the home run of the season. The Target had made a move, and yours truly had missed it.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Alchemist . . . I wish you were here with me . . . I can't wait much longer so I comfort myself thinking of you and how we'll be together soon.

  A dream last night: dead and dying everywhere, the aftermath of a biological holocaust, a ghost intoning, The alchemist devotes a lifetime to the study of impurity and imperfection, and the possibilities of transformation to purity, to perfection. The quest of transmutation-base metals to gold-was born in magic and mystery. Alchemy created chemistry as science.

  Alchemist I understand what you were made of before heat and light, and I understand what you will become when you are ready to transform.

  What a rare thing in this life to meet a kindred spirit. Do you understand what I am offering? Km.t. True partnership.

  CHAPTER

  14

  . . . have been rumors for years, Rikishi . . .

  The LED letters ran across the tiny face of Sweetheart's Palm Pilot. Toshiyori had news for Strong Man.

  Toshiyori had been characteristically brief in response to the encoded query, which translated to: Operation Alkahest?

  Sweetheart cued: More?

  He waited, scanning the London scene. Piccadilly Circus. The view of tacky flashing signs, street performers, and traffic was dulled by a light fog. Cars splashing water from puddles—and pedestrians dodging puddles and spray—flowed past him. But he was standing in another world, one governed by its own inviolable rules, where each "reality" could be cracked like the face of a mirror to reveal another "reality," and so on and so forth.

  He gazed down at the letters flowing across the face of the handheld device.

  . . . fear of substance coming out of Sodom . . . string of incidents never reached press . . . no trace, no taste, don't breathe, see for yourself, chumeia 8732, reach for salvation, psalms 0797,099,01,102,3,3 . . .

  With the use of a few keys, Sweetheart ran a search on the Web, pulling up the appropriate sites and articles according to the encoded directive. He put the pieces together.

  If Operation Alkahest had existed—at BioPort or anywhere else—it represented a highly classified project dedicated to the development of a new form of biotoxin, one that would be odorless, tasteless, invisible, untraceable. According to military standards it was the best possible bioweapon: its route of target delivery could be cutaneous, gastrointestional, or inhalational; it didn't kill—instead, it maimed by destroying its victims' central nervous system and brain function. In the world of asymmetrical warfare, it was a heavenly weapon because it not only affected the sick, it also placed a huge burden on the healthy by demanding invaluable resources, breaking down morale, and ultimately tearing apart the social fabric.

  In plain speak it simply meant that you had a better war when your enemies were maimed and psychotic than when they were dead. Dead was easy, maimed meant other living people acting as caretakers.

  Sweetheart already knew the title of the operation referred to the alkahest, a mythical alchemical elixir—a philosopher's st
one, the missing ingredient in the process of transmutation of elements into new elements by the alchemist; a mirror of atomic transmutation accomplished by the physicists. It was an obscene twist, elixir as death tool.

  Sweetheart was about to pocket his Palm Pilot when he noticed a final string of letters.

  . . . if rumor reality . . . avoid double cross . . . watch back, Rikishi . . .

  Using a black umbrella as a cane, Sweetheart crossed the street to enter a plain high-rise. He passed tourists bound for Ripley's Believe It or Not and a girl selling chestnuts. The pungent smoky scent of roasting nuts made his mouth water.

  On the eleventh floor, in a small corner office, he met with two gray-haired gentlemen in dark suits. They both sat across from him; his credentials were the only item on the polished walnut table. He said, "I appreciate your cooperation."

  The taller, older man addressed Sweetheart's request with a tight smile.

  The younger man intertwined his fingers behind his head and said, "We have no knowledge of any project of that name or designation."

  "You know that I've been in contact with the FBI's legal attaché in London," Sweetheart said quietly. "You should understand that this investigation goes to a level beyond our Federal Bureau of Investigation. It is multijurisdictional; it involves at least three nations, including Great Britain and the United States. An MI-6 analyst was involved in the initial investigation—"

  "If you're referring to Mr. Lang, we understand that he has been placed under restricted leave until further notice. Any files must be returned to our possession immediately."

  "Files? How can that be, on a project that doesn't exist?"

  "Mr. Lang has gained unauthorized access to classified documents."

  "Gentlemen, let's begin this meeting again," Sweetheart said, his voice very soft. "Mr. Lang interests us." He set the videotape on the table. "This will interest you."

  Sweetheart walked through the door of his suit at Claridge's and found Sylvia seated on the end of his bed. His skin formed goose bumps when he heard Christine Palmer say: " . . . years away, treatments might be found for Alzheimer's, epilepsy, stroke—a shopping list of neurologic—"

  The sound stopped abruptly as Sylvia raised her hand, the remote clutched in her fingers. Palmer's image froze on-screen.

  "What are you doing?" Sweetheart asked.

  "Watching the BBC documentary you had stashed in your underwear. Trying to glean, to understand, to empathize, to absorb, all that profiling mumbo jumbo." She shrugged, not in the mood for a temperamental encounter. "Luke called about twenty minutes ago."

  "You've made yourself at home."

  "You were supposed to check in with him. He has something for your ears only. Believe me, I tried to pry it out of him, but that man's not only hunky, he's incorruptible." She reached for the bedside tray, which contained the last few bites of a scone and a cup of Keemun tea, very black, barely lukewarm. She was surrounded by boxes; files and folders were piled on the bed, on the floor at her feet.

  "I see you helped yourself." He didn't look pleased. "Find anything interesting?"

  "Four new and very thick files. Are they from Lang?"

  "He had them sent over this morning—apparently they represent the bulk of his investigation."

  "Where was I?"

  "Sleeping."

  "Why would Lang give them away?"

  "Perhaps he realizes his days are numbered," Sweetheart murmured, crossing the room. "His days as they pertain to the investigation into Ms. Grayson's death."

  "Did you confront him about the videotape?"

  "I didn't see him. I haven't spoken to him." Sweetheart's face was smooth, blank paper. "The tape came from someone at BioPort—Cray, Jorgensen, Watley. Or it came from Paul Lang."

  "Why wouldn't he just give it to us directly? Why all the subterfuge?"

  "Paranoia."

  "When are we seeing him again?"

  "We aren't." Sweetheart glanced at his watch. "We have to be at Gatwick in four hours. You need to be packed and ready to go in forty-five minutes." His eyes were the color of steel and rust; they did not ask questions, they commanded.

  She stared at him, seeing only that he was withholding—but what? "What is it? You found out something new. Where did you go this morning?"

  "For a walk." His black hair, smoothed into a knot, was wet with rain. His lidded eyes were unfathomable.

  "I was worried."

  "I didn't think I'd be gone long," he said, too calm. He walked to the windows, pulled open the heavy drapes, and let gray, cold light into the room. "I stopped to have breakfast at a tea shop." He hadn't succeeded in banishing the edge of irritation from his tone. "All very quaint."

  "I thought something happened." She shook her head, surprised to find that she had felt both angry and frightened. "After last night, the tape—"

  "I decided to let you sleep, but I should've left you a note. I'm sorry." He shrugged off the apology, moving to the armchair opposite her, then poured himself a cup of tea in an empty water glass. His eyes stayed on Sylvia, his mind alert, his body apparently relaxed. Waiting.

  Abruptly the image that had been frozen on-screen shuddered into motion: once again Christine Palmer's voice was audible, her face filled the screen. On camera—as in real life—she exuded charisma, acumen, and subtle sexuality. There was a restless quality to her movements, an edge that added tension to everything she did.

  For the first time, Sylvia realized that Palmer's classic features were asymmetrical in one respect: her left eye was set just noticeably lower than her right.

  According to Palmer, her team was honing in on neurotoxic substances isolated from sea snails and dinoflagellates. She faced the interviewer, explaining, "While these diseases cause suffering today, revolutionary treatments are within reach, especially with the promise of our research, along with the ongoing stem cell breakthroughs—"

  Again Sylvia stopped the tape.

  "She makes you believe her," Sweetheart said. "She's that charismatic."

  "Please tell me you see through her," Sylvia countered. "She's lying. Not to the BBC, not to the viewer—she's lying to herself. Listen to the speech patterns on this next bit—watch her and listen."

  Palmer's image came to life, gazing at the BBC interviewer, then away, as she said, "The fact we could alleviate suffering in a profound way—that's what drives me to come to work each day."

  Freeze-frame. Sylvia felt excited as she said, "Hear the clipped speech—she's cutting herself off. Watch her body language. She's turning away, hiding her mouth; that's the only time she physically evades the viewer during the entire interview. And watch her microexpressions . . . when she turns back, eyelids raised—anger—inner eyebrows raised—distress. She doesn't believe her own script."

  Sweetheart took the remote from her hand. Without a word, he rewound, replayed the segment in slow motion. He let the tape play on.

  The BBC narrator noted that previously isolated toxins from cobra venom were being used to treat immune disorders. Ditto toxins from scorpion venom, already in clinical trials for the treatment of certain brain tumors. Compounds from fer-de-lance venom were destined for use as antibiotics.

  After a cut intended for commercial identification, the narrator delivered the standard cautionary segment: "Of course, there's a darker side to researching animal venom and other biotoxins. In the world of science it's known as 'NBC warfare'—nuclear, biological, chemical. And the use of biotoxins as weapons is nothing new. Poisoned arrows are mentioned in the Book of Job."

  He concluded with enthusiastic predictions for the future of medical miracles as the camera pulled back to allow a view of Dr. Palmer in her laboratory, alone—no sign of Samantha Grayson, Dr. Harris Cray, or other project members.

  "She's not like Adam Riker," Sylvia said slowly. "Riker had a single basic need, to control intimacy and relationship through power—that's what drove him to kill. Christine's more complex." She was so caught up in her train of thought, s
he didn't register the fact that she was using Palmer's first name, but she certainly would've been able to explain the process: the gap between profiler and target was narrowing.

  "Christine's in conflict with her work. My God, how could she not be conflicted? Even if she's supposedly developing antidotes—and cures—at the same time her research creates new toxins, new poisons, new bioweapons. How could she not be conflicted?" Her eyes cut to Sweetheart. They were dark with fear. "I thought our job was profiling a serial poisoner."

  "It is," he said sharply.

  "But I find out we're dealing with toxins, bioweapons—"

  "Sylvia."

  "—that are so horrific, and so classified, that all we're getting are lies, which taint any profile we might try to create."

  "Sylvia, stop." He moved to sit beside her. "You were right the first time. We are profiling a serial killer. Whatever went on at Porton Down or BioPort—whatever Project Nicander was about—that's not our business."

  She stared at him. "We can't just ignore it."

  "Yes, we can." His posture was rigid. "And we will."

  On the way to the airport, the cabbie stopped in the heart of the district known as Covent Garden.

  Bundled in an indigo slicker, Sylvia followed Sweetheart catty-corner to a narrow alley. Halfway down the alley, he came to a standstill in front of a heavily reinforced door. Water dripped off the overhead gutter, forming a puddle on the step. Sylvia read the faded sign printed on the wood: STAGE DOOR.

  Surprisingly, when Sweetheart pushed on the lock bar, it opened. It was dark inside the theater. He led the way up a short flight of stairs, along a passage to a worm-eaten reception desk, where he carried on a brief, whispered conversation with a uniformed man. After some nodding and gesturing, he continued along the dim hallway in the general direction of voices and lights.

  Sylvia caught her breath as they reached the wings, stage left, at the edge of the deepest-set scrim, where the world was dim and secretive. There they stood surrounded by shadowy figures: stagehands and actors awaiting cues.

  Suddenly, a man said, "Let her come in."