by S. S. Segran
“No,” Gareth jumped in. “No, Marshall. There are many reasons why you may not be able to sense him. Vic’s a tough fellow. He’s pulled through rough situations before.”
“I don’t know too many reasons why someone would go black, Gareth.”
“Reyor’s learned the trick of hiding from the novasphere,” Deverell said, trying not to come across anxious. “Maybe Vic has just now mastered it too?”
“Maybe.” Marshall didn’t sound convinced. “There’s something else. He called me Mars.”
Deverell glanced at his brother sharply. “He stopped calling you that since you guys fell out a while ago, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. I think he’s really up the creek.”
“What was the message?”
“Mars—cure. Dr. Deol. Moscow. Kids not . . . Someone watching.”
“That doesn’t sound intelligible.”
“I know, and that’s word for word. It was broken. Like I said, the connection was weak. What could cause that?”
Deverell traced the top of his ear, thinking hard. “The brain functions through synaptic transmissions, right? If those impulses were interrupted somehow—”
“—by extreme pain or alcohol or drugs—” Gareth added.
“—that might explain the broken message. His abilities may be suppressed but he could still be alive.”
Marshall grunted. “That beats the other prospect. He was hot on Reyor’s trail, so that’s bound to be a lot dicier than anything we’ve ever done. He might’ve gotten caught. Whatever it is, he’s in trouble.”
“So are you and the others, I think.” Deverell motioned for Gareth to follow him; the brothers headed up to the kitchen to brew some coffee. “That last part, something about the kids and someone watching. Or is someone watching Vic?”
“Believe me, I’ve been on a whole new level of alertness since I got the message,” Marshall said. “I’m looking out for the kids. But I’m worried about Colback. If only that stubborn son of a gun had at least told me where he was headed . . .”
The brothers looked at each other, grimacing.
“You tell him,” Deverell mouthed to Gareth, who mouthed back indignantly with a firm shake of his finger. Deverell darted to the other side of the kitchen and promptly stuck his head in the fridge. He could hear his brother exhaling curses at him before clearing his throat and saying, “Actually, mate, we . . . uh, we do have an idea where he went. He called us on his drive to the airport when he left the Lodge.”
Marshall paused. “Oh.”
Deverell winced. God, he sounds hurt.
“He told us that he had evidence pointing to a hydroelectric project in Kazakhstan,” Gareth continued. “We don’t know where exactly, but we could dig it up. What I’m curious about is that bit about Dr. Deol. Does this man, or woman, know about a cure? It would make sense, wouldn’t it? They’d need some big brains to concoct this pathogen, which means those same brains could have the formula for the cure. I think they’d’ve inoculated their people, including the SONEs in the Sanctuaries.”
“If what Colback said meant that this doctor really has the cure,” Marshall said, “it would be a good move to grab it. If you two could look into it, that’d be great. Hope you weren’t about to go on a mission or anything?”
“We were planning to catch a flight to Brazil in the evening, actually.”
“Brazil?”
“Aye. We’ve been monitoring the escalating riots, the disease, and the nanomite incursions since you left yesterday, trying to figure out where we’re most needed. Turns out the Sentries in Brazil are having a huge issue getting the nanomites under control. The buggers have begun attacking coffee bean farms on top of maize and rice crops.”
Marshall blew out a breath. “Come again?”
“It’s brilliant, really. A third of the world’s coffee supply comes from Brazil. It’s another effective way to crush any remaining semblance of normalcy. Look at America. Over eighty percent of adults need coffee just to get started in the morning.”
“So the Sentries in South America decide to call for help when the coffee supply slows to a drip?”
Gareth drummed his knuckles on the countertop. “Ha! No, we’d gotten calls for help prior to that but with our limited resources, it’s been a challenge to assign more support there.”
Deverell removed the coffee pot and poured the steaming dark liquid into two mugs. “But we’ll have to put that on hold,” he said. “We have a situation with Vic. If he did stumble onto a lead for a cure, this will have to take precedence. Speaking of cures, are you any closer to finding the box of seeds?”
The twins listened as Marshall recounted the events in Israel, intrigued at first and then horrified.
“You are so lucky Jag made that split-second decision,” Gareth whispered. “We could have lost you, Marshall.”
“I owe the kid my life, literally,” Marshall said, sounding almost weary. “But as it is, we’ve got no more leads and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think of something.”
“You scoured all the caves, yeah? Not just the one with the crescent mark?”
“Yeah, but the box wasn’t in any of them.”
Deverell leaned on the counter across from his twin and took a careful sip of his drink. “I’m sorry, Marshall. There’s nothing much we can offer. When you left, we did more research and called different contacts, but no one’s even heard of our box.”
“What if the box was removed soon after it was buried?” Marshall asked.
“The Elders would have been told if it was dug up.”
“Maybe it wasn’t one of our people who did it.”
“You reckon the Romans had a hand in this?” Gareth asked.
“It’s all in theory, but yes. Maybe.”
“So assuming the Romans did have a role and the artifact did survive, where in the world would it be today? Italy?”
Deverell grabbed the phone from Gareth and scrolled through the contacts list. “Marshall, there’s a good man we know in Israel. A friend. He’s a collector of sorts and is incredibly knowledgeable of the history of the region. He’s the only one left of our contacts who we haven’t been able to get in touch with. Doesn’t like phones very much. He works in Haifa as a landscaper at the Bahá’í Gardens. I’m sending you his contact info and address. Hopefully you’ll get to meet him personally. Just mention that the Welsh brothers sent you.”
“You think he has answers?” Marshall asked.
“I think you need a lead. This is all we’ve got right now. Let Gareth and me worry about this Dr. Deol character and Victor, okay?”
“Right, yeah. Okay. And listen, I just . . . I’m really glad you’re both around.”
The brothers gave each other small smiles. “Likewise,” Deverell said. “Take care of yourself, mate. And good luck with our historian friend in Haifa.”
“Thanks, Dev. You two be good.”
“When are we not?” Gareth quipped.
“Hah.”
Deverell ended the call and looked at his twin through the steam swirling from his mug. “Shall we?”
They left the kitchen and went downstairs to the tech room, turning on two computers. Within seconds, all that was to be heard were clacking keyboards with the occasional pause as the pair jotted notes on legal pads.
Deverell yawned loudly and poured the rest of his coffee down his throat. Bugger. There are at least a dozen major dams in Kazakhstan. Where to begin . . . He rolled his chair over to Gareth, who was staring at Russia’s White Pages. “Any luck?”
Gareth pushed back his shaggy brown hair. “Seems that Deol is an East Indian name. You’d think there’d only be one or two in Moscow, but no, there are seven. Four men, three women. None of them are listed as doctors, and a couple don’t have any jobs tagged under them. Looking at two of the men’s profiles, though, I don’t think either is our target.”
“Why not?”
“It says they own a grocery store. Unless they’re hatc
hing nefarious plans from behind the counter, they’re not who we’re looking for.”
“At least you’re narrowing it down.”
“Mmph. What about you? Found anything?”
Deverell sighed. “There are a number of dams. It could be any one of them.”
“Are they all operational?”
“Most are. One is being refitted as part of a modernization plan and two are under construction.”
“Hmm. Have you tried looking up the stakeholders in the project? Information about contractors, sub-contractor, suppliers . . . Might lend a clue.”
Deverell snapped up, suddenly more awake. “No! That was the next thing I was about to do, I swear!”
Gareth rolled his eyes. “Suuure. As usual, I come up with a solution, you swoop in and take the credit.”
“Pisho bant.”
“Oi! Don’t you tell me to piss off!”
Deverell rolled back to his computer. “You’re too chopsy for your own good sometimes. And don’t pretend to be miffed. I’ve definitely heard worse come out of your mouth. Mum would have a heart attack if she heard you the last time the Swans lost a match.”
“I’m a thirty-year-old man. If you think I’m terrified of Mum—”
“I’ll call her, then. You can tell her exactly what you said that day.”
“Shh. Go do your research.”
Deverell clicked his mouse furiously, scanning different pages of Kazakhstan’s hydroelectric dams. All of them were commissioned in the last century . . . except for the two that are under construction. Hmm. One’s being built by a Chinese contractor and the other by what appears to be a local builder. The Chinese firm is based out of—ah, here it is. Guangzhou. Been around for nearly forty years, too. I think we can rule that out. And this local contractor, Izdenw . . . what, did a cat walk across the keyboard when they were naming the company? Alright, let’s see what we can find.
His fingers darted across the keys. Huh. A relatively young outfit that sprang up three years ago. How does a fledgling business win a bidding war for a massive project like this? It doesn’t smell right. This could be the one. But why call it ‘Izdenw’?
He keyed the name into an online translator but couldn’t find a direct definition. He sat back, contemplative. If that really is a Phoenix subsidiary, wouldn’t they name it Quest, like Quest Mining and Quest Biotech? That seems to be their modus operandi elsewhere. He paused briefly, a smile forming on his face. But what if . . .
He typed in ‘quest’ and translated it to Kazakh. Beside the English word, six letters appeared: Izdenw.
Deverell nearly wrenched his neck from laughing so hard. “Oh, come on. Couldn’t they be more creative?”
“What?” Gareth asked.
“Nothing. I just found the dam.”
“Fantastic. Meanwhile, it looks like I’ve got some scouting to do in Moscow. I’ve ruled out all the men, which leaves the women. I haven’t been able to find anything on them yet. Their social media profiles aren’t giving much, either.”
“Whoa, who said you were going to Moscow?”
“I did, just now. What? You want to go?”
“Maybe.”
Gareth rummaged through the drawers of the desk and found a coin. “We’ll do a toss, then. Heads or tails?”
“Tails.”
Gareth flicked the coin upward and slapped it onto the back of his hand. It landed heads-up. He grinned. “Maybe next time, Dev. In all honesty, I think your abilities may be better suited at the Kazakh Sanctuary. Also, we need to cancel our flight to Brazil. Can you do that while I get new tickets for us?”
“I’ll do it now, in a minute.” Deverell grabbed his mug. “I think there’s still some coffee left in the pot. Want more?”
“Nah.”
Deverell headed back up to the kitchen and got his refill. He sipped his drink, watching hefty snowflakes fall slowly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. Despite the serenity of the empty Lodge, he felt a sudden burst of agitation. His short nails scratched the ceramic mug feverishly.
Vic may very well be at the mercy of someone bent on throwing the world into a forge and reshaping it into an entirely new realm, and I’m going to one-man it?
He gulped the rest of his coffee in one swig.
Steady, Dev, steady. You’ve got this. It’s not the first time you’ve had to get someone out of trouble by yourself. You’ll be fine. Hang tight, Vic. I’m coming.
30
The sun was already setting by the time Gareth slipped into his rental car in Moscow. Stroke of luck, getting the last seat on that plane, he thought, especially with the travel restrictions. He looked down at a list of names and corresponding addresses in his phone, then keyed the first into the vehicle’s navigation screen. With three women to investigate in different districts in Russia’s sprawling capital city, he had no time to waste.
Despite Moscow’s less than friendly facade, Gareth loved the cityscape. Gorgeous skyscrapers intermingled with a host of Imperial and Soviet-era architecture with parks splayed out in between. The only thing he detested were the traffic jams; they were among the worst in the world. Despite the disease ravaging portions of the population and an ongoing war in the eastern provinces, a sizeable number of vehicles still occupied the roads. Gareth looked at his watch. Maybe I should’ve just taken the metro. If it’s still functioning, that is.
Convoys of military trucks and tanks rumbled down the streets, forcing civilian traffic to pull aside every so often. Gareth felt the ground shake as one of the tanks passed him. He turned to watch it, unable to shrug off the image of it as a beast patrolling the city.
Once free of the gridlock, he stepped on the gas and headed west. Within a half hour he found himself on a quiet suburban street with a heavily wooded green belt on one side and two large mansions on the other. The houses sat on spacious acreages and were separated by a long masonry wall. He parked across from one of the buildings, an elegant property. An extensive stone walkway coiled between two rows of frosted firs toward the terrace of the mansard-roofed manor.
Gareth pulled on a surgical mask. Almost everyone he’d seen in the airports and in Moscow wore one, so he thought it best to play the part of a normal citizen worried about the disease.
It’s like the SARS outbreak all over again, he thought. He grabbed a bouquet of flowers from the backseat and stepped out of the car. Been a while since I’ve had to use the flower-delivery routine . . .
Commotion erupted from the house. A streak of orange zipped over the front lawn and across the street, barely giving the Sentry enough time to jump out of the way as it shot past him. Agh! Watch it, cat!
A sudden cry came from the house. Gareth spun around. A woman ran after a small girl who’d given chase to the animal. Shrieking excitedly, the child darted onto the street as a car barreled down the icy asphalt, headlights flooding onto her.
Gareth threw down the flowers and raced toward the girl. He dove, grabbing her, and rolled out of the way just as the car sped past, blaring its horn. The Sentry glared at the vehicle, then looked down at the child pressed to his chest. She seemed perfectly unfazed and blinked up at him, grinning. He got up, taking her by the hand, and led her back to her mother. The woman was almost in hysterics as she knelt down to pick up her daughter.
“Thank you,” she whispered in Russian. “She . . . she’s deaf. It’s hard to tell her—to explain to her . . .”
Gareth smiled softly. “No worries.” He felt something trickle down his temple and wiped it with his fingers, surprised to see a thin trail of blood. Must’ve gotten scraped on the road. When he saw the woman looking at him with concern, he winked and said, “It’s just a cut. I’ve had worse on the playground growing up.”
As she looked him up and down, he took stock of her. He reckoned she was probably a few years older than himself, and quite fit. Her black hair flowed loosely in waves around her shoulders. His eyes drifted to her full lips but he quickly caught himself and looked bac
k up.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.
“No,” Gareth admitted, “but I’m not unfamiliar with the place. And if I may be so bold to assume, you’re not from around here either.”
“No. I moved to Moscow from New Delhi years ago. It’s kind of become home ever since.”
“Haven’t really heard of many people moving to Moscow.”
“I moved here to get married.”
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s alright. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing all the way out here?”
“I’m on an errand. I’ve got something for a Ms. Ina Deol.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “That’s me.”
“In that case . . .” Gareth loped over to the flowers he’d dropped, straightened them, and passed them to her. “A few of them are a little bent. Sorry about that.”
She took the flowers in one hand, bewildered. “These are beautiful, but what are they for? Who are they from?”
“As I said, I’m just doing a delivery.”
“Well, thank you. And I apologize if I sound brusque. It’s just . . . with all the worry about this disease and the war, people here have been even less open to one another than usual. It’s nice—and surprising—to see kindness survive.”
Gareth reached out to pull a piece of leaf stuck in the young girl’s hair. She wiggled around in her mother’s arms and beamed at him. He smiled back, then glanced at the manor and let out a low whistle. “This is an amazing property you have. You’ve done really well for yourself here.”
The woman bashfully waved the bouquet at the house behind her. “Oh, this is all inheritance. Anya and I have been fortunate that way.”
Inheritance . . . from her parents? Or perhaps a late husband. She’s using ‘Ms.’ instead of ‘Mrs.’, after all. Deciding to risk it, he offered another smile and said, “Undeniably. I’m sure you and your husband must enjoy raising your little girl here.”
The woman turned away from him. “My husband passed.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
