kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller)

by Chesler, Rick

  In spite of the situation, Archer could not stop himself from laughing. “You know, if this job doesn’t work out for you, you might make a good manager somewhere. May have to rethink your incentives program though, it leaves something to be—”

  The captor rammed the Nansen bottle into Archer’s stomach. From his sitting position on a lab stool, he doubled over with the impact to the point that he fell off the stool onto the floor. He lay there in a crumpled heap as the three kidnappers filed out of the lab, their mechanical rasping the only sound, until one of them spoke just before the door slammed behind them.

  “Seven days.”

  …TTTG49TTCG...

  William Archer lay on the floor of his shipboard prison lab. He had recovered from the blow delivered to him, but still he did not get up. Nor had he lost his will to survive. The physical conditions to which he had been confined for the last three months were tolerable, even though in all that time he had not once seen the sun. It reminded him of his early post-doc days, when he lived in the lab by choice. He could no doubt exist in this manner indefinitely. He was fed well. But troublesome thoughts plagued his brain, ideas which would not dissipate.

  Archer had stalled his kidnappers as long as he could. This he knew as surely as he could read the labels on the bottom cabinets which were nearly at eye level with his awkward position on the floor. Erlenmeyer flasks...Beakers, 250 mL...

  For three months he had led his captors to believe he was perfecting GREENBACK, right here in the very lab they had so painstakingly created for him to toil in. But each “sample” he had them release to the ocean contained a coded S.O.S. message, and had nothing to do with GREENBACK, not that he didn’t know how to make it. He could give them what they wanted. Archer knew damn well how to make GREENBACK in this lab. In fact, he needed only forty-eight hours to do it. But would they kill him as soon as he handed it over? He wasn’t sure.

  One thing he was certain of was that the kidnappers’ patience would soon wear thin. With each passing day they risked detection by authorities. Even if they believed him—that he just hadn’t yet been able to get GREENBACK to work despite his best efforts—they could decide to cut their losses...

  Archer thought back to a K&R seminar he had attended at an upscale Los Angeles hotel where an ex-police hostage negotiator had made it clear that as a hostage, you do not want to outlive your perceived usefulness to your kidnappers.

  Titrators...Scales...Caustic-Reagents...Rubber-tubing... His eyes scanned cabinet labels as he lay there thinking.

  To inform your kidnappers that you are worth much less than what they had anticipated, or that you cannot produce what they expected of you, was to sign your own death warrant.

  “If this situation is unavoidable,” Archer remembered the K&R guy saying, “you will have no choice but to levy an escape attempt, regardless of your state of readiness. This is where your ongoing observations of your captive environment will come into play...”

  Archer’s eyes flicked back to a cabinet label: Caustic Reagents!

  He was of course sitting in the middle of a full service scientific lab, which meant that it was stocked with various chemical reagents. Some of these chemicals, in the hands of a highly trained professional, could be combined and directed in lethal ways.

  Archer pulled himself up from the floor by the stool, eyes suddenly alight with a devilish array of chemically driven escape possibilities. Some of these resulted in his surviving while his kidnappers did not. Others killed them all.

  He might be able to combine acids into a highly explosive concoction and blow up the ship, for example. He could start a fire. He could create a caustic cloud of acid vapors that would envelope his captors as they entered the lab—even their voice modulator masks might not protect them from that, and he did have a respirator for himself. A chemistry lab could be a very dangerous place indeed...

  But were there cameras in the lab by which they could monitor his preparations?

  He had looked early on, and didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. These days, high resolution, remote cameras the diameter of a pinhead would be available to men with his captors’ resources. Still, he hadn’t been able to detect any kind of optical surveillance equipment, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. The fact that there was no camera might mean that his kidnappers had not intended on keeping him for so long, Archer mused, studying a ceiling vent. He had been stalling on GREENBACK for months, letting them think he was still developing the methodology for it.

  But he could stall them no longer. It was time for a plan.

  Dr. Archer considered three broad categories of action: send messages for help, physically defeat his opponents, or flee the boat. Besides some kind of attack, perhaps chemical or incendiary, there was the avenue of communication—cry for help. The living DNA messages were exactly that, although he knew it was a long shot since the only person with any hope of receiving those messages was his daughter. It was worth a try though, since he had introduced her to the concept of DNA as a data storage medium many years earlier. Furthermore, he had to appear as though he was doing genetic engineering of some kind. There was a computer in the lab, to run statistical analyses, record results and to control machinery. His captors had been quick to point out, however, that it was not physically or wirelessly connected to any type of network. They had of course taken his cellular phone from him upon capture.

  That left the third option. Archer considered how he might escape undetected. Problem was, he had no idea of the boat’s current location. The vessel was now underway after being stationary, engines off, for a day. He’d tried to listen for sounds of an anchor chain being deployed, which would at least tell him they were in water shallow enough for anchoring—perhaps indicating proximity to land—but he had heard nothing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear the anchor being released from inside the lab, anyway.

  What if he was in fact close enough to swim for shore? Archer was a capable swimmer, with a healthy but not irrational fear of the ocean. A one-mile ocean swim was certainly doable for him, maybe even two, he thought, depending on sea conditions. He used to take thirty minute swims off the Tropic Sequence when the seas were calm and the weather fair.

  In order to determine if there was anywhere for him to swim to, he would need to have a look outside. Again, as he surveyed the lab, Archer’s mind categorized all of the ways this could possibly be accomplished. One, through the door. Two, through the blackened porthole, and three, through the room itself—walls or ceiling.

  He didn’t want to mess with the door locks. There might be a guard posted there, for one thing. Archer might possibly hang just inside the door the next time he heard them keying in, and then catch a glimpse outside as soon as the door was opened. They would see what he was up to, though, and the view might not be worth it, and for that he would be tasered and beaten.

  He might be able to drill a hole through the wall of the lab on the same side as the porthole, but this could be noisy and would leave a hole to cover up. Also, it would be a small aperture to look through, and then there would be the matter of improvising a drill.

  That left the porthole. He walked toward it as he appraised its construction. Like the rest of the yacht, it was quality, Archer decided as he stood facing the wall, eye level with the 12-inch diameter brass ring. No way could he simply remove it from the wall. Archer could see immediately that there was no hope of fitting his bear of a frame through the open porthole, either. The only thing it could afford him was a view, a view to an escape, the geneticist hoped.

  The porthole was designed to swing open on a hinge to provide fresh air into what had originally been a cabin or stateroom, but it had been modified with a large bolt to prevent it from being opened. The porthole’s glass had been painted with several coats of black from the outside, so there would be no way to scratch off a portion of the paint from where he stood.

  He could break the glass, but even if he used a blunt instrument wrapped in cloth to muffl
e the noise, he decided there was still a good chance of it being heard by one of the crew. Even supposing no one heard it, it would just be a matter of time before one of them visually noticed the shattered glass.

  If he could only open the porthole, have a quick peek outside, and then close it again. Archer studied the bolt. The porthole’s hinge was on the right side. On the left, top and bottom, were two large thumbscrews used for tightening the porthole closed or loosening it open. The grips of the screws were roughly triangular in shape, and hollow. Through these his captors had inserted a length of iron rod, and then welded it to the thumbscrews, preventing them from being turned.

  Archer looked around the lab. He had an iron ring stand, for holding glassware used in experiments, set up on a bench. He grabbed it and, after removing it from its base, carried the two-foot long metal rod back to the porthole. He wedged it underneath the porthole rod, and then pried with all his strength. The welded rod wasn’t budging. Archer redoubled his efforts. His hand felt like it was about to break. Still nothing. After several more tries, he gave up, exhausted, hands throbbing.

  There must be some other way, he thought, returning the ring stand to its position on the lab bench. Then he saw the acid cabinet. He went to it, opened it up, looked inside.

  It was stocked with bottles of hydrochloric, muriatic and sulfuric acid. He wondered why they would leave that for him, but realized that they probably had some kind of lab already, before they had reconfigured it to mirror his own, and so had just kept whatever supplies they’d had in there. Not to mention that there were myriad legitimate uses for acid in the lab. He was also outnumbered at least six to one, judging from the different men he’d been able to count.

  Not that Archer cared exactly why it was there. He grabbed a bottle of the highest concentration sulfuric he could find. Then he collected some rags, a roll of masking tape, and protective gear for working with toxic chemicals. He took it all over to the porthole.

  After donning a pair of latex gloves, plastic goggles and a cloth respirator mask, Archer poured some of the acid into a rag. Then he drizzled some acid directly onto the bolt that was keeping the porthole shut, before covering it with the acid soaked rag. He taped the rag into place around the porthole bolt. He repeated the procedure with a different acid-soaked rag for the other end of the captors’ bolt.

  Archer added a little more acid to give it a good soak. It would take hours to corrode the bolt to the point that he could pry it off—but it was only a matter of time. He would have to listen with extreme care for the sound of the door being opened, staying near the porthole in case he had to remove the rags in a hurry.

  Taking a seat at a nearby lab bench, Dr. William Archer settled in to wait.

  …TTGT50TTGC

  12:05 P.M.

  As she climbed into the cab, Tara contemplated what destination to give the driver. The field office? There she could research the latest message online. But she would also be required to fill out formal reports on all that’s happened in the case so far. Tara was known for sometimes being a by-the-book agent, and sometimes not. Something else ate at her conscious. This was turning out to be an important case. One in which she was completely in charge. To bring four case-related subjects—one of whom is an actual suspect—into the F.O. now meant to be assigned co-investigators. It also meant that Lance Archer would lawyer up and refuse to say anything further. Perhaps she could break the case open a little further with just a few more hours time. The F.O. wasn’t the only place to do online research.

  She heard Lance and Dave in the back talk about how they were starving. Then the cab driver repeated his question of “To where?” Tara told him to go “downtown,” not wanting to divulge their specific destination too early, lest the driver somehow be connected to the kidnappers, or run his mouth later to someone who was. The island of Oahu was not all that big.

  “So where are we going?” Kristen asked Tara.

  “You’ll see when we get there. I think you’ll all be quite pleased.”

  William Archer tore his eyes from the stereoscopic zoom microscope where he’d been working with a micro-manipulator to insert artificially arranged DNA sequences into the junk DNA of a bacterial cell. To facilitate this precision work, the microscope was fastened to a gyroscopic platform that automatically compensated for the boat’s motion to keep the microscope stage steady. He might as well create another message while he passed the time, Archer thought, but speaking of time, he needed to check on his little chemistry experiment.

  He got up from the ‘scope, donned his protective gear and walked to the porthole. Removing the rag from the top end of the bolt, Archer was pleased to see the results of accelerated corrosive action. The metal rod was still attached to the porthole’s thumbscrew, but only just. It was noticeably thinner where it had been exposed to the acid. Off came the second rag, with similar results.

  Archer hurried over to the lab bench with the ring stand. He grabbed the stand, removing it from its base as he’d done earlier. Then he froze as he heard footsteps approaching the lab door. He hadn’t yet disposed of the rags, which lay in plain sight on the floor under the porthole.

  The footfalls continued past the lab door to a location unknown. After breathing a sigh of relief, Archer brought the stand to the porthole. He wedged an end of the long iron bar underneath the bolt as he’d done earlier. Using the brass rim of the porthole as a fulcrum, Archer applied force.

  This time the bolt popped right off, clattering to the floor. Archer tensed, cursing himself for not having had the foresight to put more rags on the floor to dampen the bolt’s fall. Had anyone heard the noise? He quickly scooped the acid rags off the floor and dumped them—along with the bolt—in the back of a bottom level cabinet behind some infrequently needed supplies. He returned the ring stand to its usual position.

  Then he went back to the porthole.

  Taking a deep breath, Archer turned the top thumbscrew, loosening it. Then the bottom. He tugged at the porthole and felt it give, swinging toward him on its hinges.

  A sliver of daylight, as blinding as it was exciting, greeted his eyes which had seen nothing but fluorescent illumination for the past ninety-five days.

  Worried that the displacement might be seen from outside, he reset the little round window. He stood there, contemplating.

  The bolt, he realized. From the outside it was okay, but if his captors looked at the porthole close enough from the inside, they would notice the bolt was missing. Archer went back to the cabinet and retrieved it. He went to a different area and found a drawer with household items—small screwdrivers, a stapler, rubber bands, pens, pushpins, scotch tape...and superglue. Grabbing the tube of glue, he returned again to the porthole.

  He affixed the bolt superficially back in place with the adhesive, holding it there for a good five minutes before removing his hands. It held fast. He returned the glue to the drawer.

  He’d taken every precaution he could. It was time to have a look.

  Slowly, Archer swung open the porthole enough to see out of it.

  …TTAC51GAAA …

  Honolulu

  Tara, Kristen, Lance and Dave settled into a sofa in front of a low table in a crowded open air restaurant inside the Ala Moana shopping center. Flat screen televisions played surfing videos, while at one end of the restaurant a live band played reggae rhythms. The blue ocean was visible past Ala Moana Beach from this fourth level of the mall.

  Kristen opened her laptop on the table. She activated the wireless switch, smiling when a connection to the Internet was made. “Good idea to come here,” she said to Tara.

  “I wanted to give us a chance to see what we can figure out before I file formal reports,” Tara said, deliberately looking at Lance as she said the last two words. You know you’ve got to help me here in return for a reduced sentence for your involvement in the kidnapping. “Lots of people here, so we should be safe from attack, and can’t be easily overheard. Plus we can eat,” Tara finished.
>
  “Really good idea to come here,” Lance said, eyeing an attractive female server in a short, floral print skirt, carrying a tray of tropical drinks. Kristen cast him a disapproving glance.

  “Lance, can’t you remember for one minute that it was women and booze that got you into this mess in the first place?”

  “All I said was—”

  “Alright, you two, enough already,” Dave said, holding up a hand. He turned to Kristen. “What’s done is done. You’re going to need all the help you can get—including Lance’s—to get through this.”

  “And you,” he continued, turning to face Lance, who sat on his other side, “There shouldn’t be any getting drunk when we’re in the middle of a dangerous situation like this with a lot of unknown variables. That being said, I can understand wanting to have a couple of beers. I could use one myself right about now. But don’t push it. Okay?”

  Lance nodded solemnly as his three fellow travelers looked on. Then a waitress approached their table. Dave ordered three Primo beers. Tara took an iced tea.

  “Any pupus with that?” the waitress asked.

  “What are those?” Kristen asked, looking up from the laptop.

  “Appetizers,” Dave said. They ordered some ahi sushi and mango crab cakes, along with four mahi mahi sandwiches.

  Kristen was already busy typing into a search engine when the waitress left with their order. The look on Kristen’s face said she wasn’t finding what she wanted.

  “Find anything?” Tara asked.

  Kristen shrugged. “There’s a million different businesses and things that come up under ‘Nahoa’. When I search for Nahoa as a boat, I get pages that say it means “bold and defiant” in Hawaiian, and that it’s one of the most common Hawaiian boat names.”