by Ken Goddard
Chimera
Ken Goddard
Ken Goddard
Chimera
“Whoever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
Chimera: In Greek mythology, a fire-breathing animal with a lion's head and foreparts, a goat's middle, a dragon's rear, and a tail in the form of a snake; hence any apparent hybrid of two or more creatures.
— Tiscali, 2005
Part I: The Russian Connection
Prologue
A Cheap Hotel on the Outskirts of Bangkok, Thailand
An insistent ringing began to invade Dr. Sergei Arturovich Draganov subconscious, demanding his attention and dragging him out of a deep but restless sleep.
Confused and disoriented by his sudden awareness of the unfamiliar mattress and strange pungent smells of his equally-unfamiliar surroundings, and the fact that his head was throbbing painfully, he reached out for the bedside table alarm clock with eyes tightly shut, fumbling desperately to shut off the insistent noise… and then, when he failed to do so, opened his eyes and stared in confusion at the small blank clock face, barely visible in the almost completely dark room.
What…??
The suddenly familiar rang out again and he reached across the table top for his red-flashing cell phone — the only source of light in the room.
Where am I? he asked himself as he reflexively activated the phone and brought it to his ear, the effort magnifying the pain radiating across his forehead,
“Hello?” he rasped sleepily.
“You’d better get up, Dr. Draganov,” a deep unfamiliar voice spoke, “you’re going to be late.”
Late? Late for — ? Oh my God, the Symposium! What time is it?
A quick glance at digital clock on the glowing face of his cell phone caused him to snap upright on the hard mattress, tearing off the thin blankets as he lunged out of bed and stumbled into the tiny bathroom.
Barely twenty minutes after receiving the warning phone call, Dr. Sergei Draganov burst out of the narrow stairwell into the hotel’s small, dark and seemingly empty lobby, clutching a worn briefcase in one shaky hand as he struggled to pull on a ragged raincoat over his badly wrinkled suit and poorly knotted necktie.
He spent a futile three seconds scanning the lobby for the on-duty clerk, then — sensing the hopelessness of his situation, but desperate to try anyway because he had so much to lose — he ran for the main door leading out into the hotel’s shabby entryway, shoved the creaky door open… and stumbled out into a torrential rain and darkness lit only by the headlights of distant structures and vehicles. All of the immediate building, street and traffic lights were as dark as the surrounding sky.
Watching his steps as best he could to avoid tripping on the broken concrete sidewalk, he lurched across the hotel’s small, half-circle driveway — that, like the connecting front street, was mostly a ragged mixture of broken asphalt and mud — to a small leaky hut where the hotel’s single on-duty clerk and doorman sat crouched, looking cold and miserable.
“I asked for a wake-up call,” Draganov screamed. “Why didn’t you — ?”
“All power out,” the clerk interrupted, gesturing with his hands at the surrounding darkness, clearly in no mood to repeat the explanation he’d already given many times this morning. “Wake-up call list in computer. Computer down. Everything down. Nothing I can do until power back on. More important I watch for delivery truck. Then we all have hot breakfast.”
“But I don’t care about — ” Draganov started to argue, but then remembered that he had a much more important concern. “The early bus to the airport — where is it?!” he demanded.
“You too late for early bus. Already gone.”
Draganov sagged, his eyes bulging in dismay.
“Gone? But — when will it be back?”
“Two hours, maybe three. Traffic very bad now.”
“Two — ? No, I can’t wait that long. Call me a cab immediately!”
The clerk shook his head.
“No cab come here until street fixed. Get stuck. Only bus… and delivery truck,” he added, looking around hopefully.
“But, but — ”
“No cab come here. You want cab, must walk to St. James Hotel.”
The clerk pointed indifferently off into the darkness.
“How far away is that?”
“Not far.” The clerk shrugged. “Half hour maybe.”
Draganov glanced down at his wrist watch, sighed heavily, and then began picking his way along the broken sidewalk, cursing in Russian. In doing so, he failed to notice a man in an expensive-looking trench coat slip out of the hotel lobby’s side door and begin to follow his labored path.
A half hour later, a thoroughly wet, miserable and despondent Sergei Draganov was still cautiously picking his way through poorly illuminated mud and street debris, head down against the rain and cursing half-heartedly, when a loud clanking sound caught his attention. He stopped, looked up, and saw a Thai male thirty feet away holding a metal pipe.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Draganov demanded, trying to keep his rising fear out of his voice.
“Your money.”
Draganov laughed bitterly. “Can’t you see I have no money? Why else would I be walking in a morning like this?”
The thug shrugged, and then gestured with his head toward a nearby second thug and a third who had stepped out of the dark shadows behind Draganov. All three men were armed with pipes, and appeared poorly dressed for the bad weather.
“You will give us money — all you have — and briefcase too,” the first thug said confidently.
Draganov’s eyes widen in horror as he looks back and forth at the three men, and then shakes his head firmly.
“No, you can’t have my briefcase. My money, yes, but I must have — ”
“You took a wrong turn, Doctor.”
Draganov spun around and stared at a tall Caucasian man — wearing an expensive-looking trench coat — who was now standing calmly between him and the third thug.
Before Draganov could respond, the third thug lunged at the newcomer, who moved with deceptive casualness. As Draganov watched in disbelief, the thug crumbled to the ground with a gasp of pain as the pipe clattered away into the darkness.
“You wanted to take a left at that last stop sign,” the newcomer continued on as if his interaction with the thug hadn’t really happened. “Walk ten blocks and you’ll see the St. James off to the right. Can’t miss it.”
Draganov stared blankly at the newcomer, and then switched his attention to the other two thugs who were approaching warily.
“But they — ”
“- won’t be bothering you.”
“But — ”
“Hurry along now, doctor. You’re going to be late for your lecture. The lads and I will sort things out here just fine without your help.”
Finally understanding that he’d been rescued from a certain beating and the loss of his briefcase, Draganov hurried down the debris-strewn street. Behind him, in the darkness, he heard another agonized gasp and then the clattering sound of a metal pipe.
The Miracle Grand Convention Hotel Lounge, Bangkok, Thailand
His lecture completed, a less-despondent Dr. Sergei Draganov was sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the lounge, staring gloomily at an expensively-printed menu, when the sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar voice caused his head to snap up sharply.
“May I join you, doctor?”
“You — ?”
The tall newcomer pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table from Draganov, sat down, and then motioned for a waiter.
Draganov sta
rted to say something, but then sat in silence as an attentive waiter quickly appeared.
“Would you like some coffee, doctor? And perhaps a sweet roll?”
Draganov glanced down at the menu in his hand and then tossed it aside with a grimace. “No, it’s much too expensive here — ”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything all morning. It will be my treat.” The newcomer looked up at the waiter. “We’ll have coffee, fruit, and breakfast pastries, please.”
Draganov waited until the waiter disappeared and then leaned across the table toward the newcomer, looking scared.
“That was you who woke me up this morning… the voice on my cell phone?”
The newcomer nodded with a slight smile.
“Then I must know… who are you… why are you here… and why were you following me this morning?” Draganov demanded in a nervous whisper, looking around to see anyone at the surrounding tables was paying any attention to their conversation. No-one seemed to be.
“My name is Emerson. Marcus Emerson,” the newcomer — whose last name was actually Wallis — lied. “And I was at your hotel this morning to make sure you made it to your lecture. I didn’t want to miss it.”
Draganov blinked. “You were there, in the audience?”
“Yes, I was. Why, do you find that surprising?”
“No, not at all,” Draganov stammered quickly, “I mean, you just don’t… seem like a man who… uh… who would be interested in my work.”
“On the contrary, doctor, I find your work to be most fascinating.”
Draganov gulped nervously. “May I ask why?”
Wallis paused while the waiter set the coffee and food on the table, and then smiled as he observed Draganov staring hungrily at the platters filled with fruit and sweet rolls.
“Help yourself, doctor. You’ve had a busy morning. Time for you to relax, enjoy your breakfast, and allow me to do the talking.”
Wallis then sipped casually at his coffee as he watched Draganov fill a plate with fruit and rolls, and begin to eat hungrily. Then, a few moments later, he set his cup down and stared quietly at the Russian scientist until Draganov finally sensed the scrutiny and looked up.
“So tell me, doctor, given the huge potential of your research, and the amount of money your anonymous benefactor initially invested in your facilities, why are you having trouble getting funding?”
Draganov blinked.
“What do you know about my bro — my, uh, b-benefactor?” he stammered.
“Not a great deal.” Wallis shrugged. “Our paths happened to cross on a remote Southeast Asian island several months ago. At some point, you and your research became a topic of conversation.”
“My brother… talked to you — a complete stranger — about my research?” Draganov looked stunned.
Wallis smiled. “Glasses of expensive vodka and remote locations have a way of rapidly creating close friendships.”
“But — do you know where he is now? I haven’t heard from him in… many months.”
“Which is presumably why you’re making a desperate pitch to the investment crowd? Your brother’s money is about to run out?”
Draganov stared at Wallis, seemingly unable to speak.
“I must say I’m not surprised,” Wallis said calmly. “Your brother was clearly a man who took substantial risks in his ‘business endeavors’; risks not necessarily appreciated by the local law enforcement agencies, much less his competitors. I have every reason to think that he was in the process of quickly relocating his operation to a more friendly work environment when we happened to meet.”
Wallis stared directly into Draganov’s horrified eyes for a long moment. “For your sake, and his, I sincerely hope he made it, Dr. Draganov. But I would assume from your lack of communication with him over these past months that he probably… didn’t.”
An ashen-faced Draganov seemed to sink deeper into his chair.
“So is that the problem you’re having with the money crowd? They think you’re too much like your brother? Too willing to gamble against the odds?”
Draganov finally seemed to find his voice.
“The investors do think my approach involves too much risk,” he acknowledged in a raspy soft voice. “They want me to make progress in smaller steps… use a more defined and less variable virus as a transport vehicle… things like that.”
I understand they’re also concerned about your use of something you call ‘transition’ genetics?”
“Yes, that too,” Draganov conceded uneasily.
“Please explain.”
Draganov hesitated, and then began to speak, staring out at the far wall. “Genetic manipulation is traditionally done by altering genetic coding — genes, if you will — in a fertilized or unfertilized egg using precisely constructed segments of DNA. This is relatively easy to do, because you are only working with a single nucleus… the drawback being the length of time it takes for the altered egg to reach adulthood.”
“Yes, I understood that from your lecture.” Wallis nodded. “Go on.”
“Transitional genetics — the protocol I’m using — involves manipulation of that same genetic coding, but in a very young animal that is still in its primary growth stage. The advantage is the relatively short time it takes for the animal to reach adulthood whereupon it can be utilized.
“And the drawback?”
“The huge number of nuclei that must be altered — essentially the entire animal, which means billions of cells at the very least. The transition must be accomplished in a rapid, thorough and precise manner, which is why I use the cold virus and nano-tube technology to replicate and insert the altered DNA segments. That particular virus type is quite effective in its infection process.”
“So are your critics right? Is the procedure too risky?”
Draganov shook his head firmly, finally meeting Wallis’ cold gaze. “No, not at all. There’s been no evidence at all in any of the literature that nano-tube technology is dangerous. They are correct in saying the cold virus can evolve — which is to say, mutate — quite quickly under certain circumstances; but virus mechanisms are well understood. It’s simply a matter of taking all of the proper precautions. There are risks of uncontrolled growth, of course; but the relevant question should be: are the risk acceptable? I — ”
“I understand the concept of risk versus reward, doctor,” Wallis said calmly. “I want to know if the projects you described in your talk are doable.”
“In what respect?”
Wallis took a small notebook out of his coat pocket, wrote down a few words, and then showed the page to Draganov.
“A feline?”
“Actually, relatively rare feline.”
“Rarity doesn’t matter if I can get access to the young animals.”
“How difficult would that be?”
“More expensive than difficult — ”
Wallis wrote down a figure and silently showed it to Draganov. “Would an investment of this nature cover all of the necessary expenses?”
Draganov’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, yes, but — ”
“The funding would be in cash. Is that a problem?”
“You mean cash deposited into our bank account?”
“No, handed to you — packets of US hundred dollar bills. No banks. No government involvement whatsoever; a concept that your brother and I happen to agree on.”
“I suppose that would be okay.” Draganov nodded hesitantly.
“Understand, doctor, I view the feline project as a test of your work. What if I also wanted this?” Wallis wrote down one more word and showed it to Draganov.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am. Is it doable?”
“Yes, of course it is… but it would be much more difficult. My god, the magnitude alone — ”
“Would require a much larger investment, of course. I was thinking of adding another zero to the proposed funding.”
Draganov stared at Wall
is in open-mouthed disbelief.
“But before I put that much money at risk,” Wallis went on, “I’d have to see your lab and your products, first hand.”
Draganov quickly shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I–I really can’t allow anyone to visit my laboratory.”
“Like your brother, I’m sure a visit by governmental authorities is something you’re trying very hard to avoid… which presumably explains why your facilities are, shall we say, very remotely located
… and also why you don’t seem to be listed in any scientific research directory.”
“I, uh — ”
“This would not be an inspection, Dr. Draganov. I haven’t the slightest interest in how many scientific corners you chose to cut in your work. I’m only interested in the results; which is why I would only be visiting your facilities as an investor bearing cash.”
As Draganov sat in agonized silence, Wallis sat back into his chair and sipped at his coffee with his characteristic slight smile.
Part II: The Thai Disconnect
CHAPTER 1
One year later… on board the Muluku, off Westport, New Zealand
It was a moonless night, the seas were calm, and the nearby fog bank seemed to go on for miles. All in all, perfect conditions for the sixty-two foot Muluku — a poorly-maintained charter yacht turned sports fisher running at quarter-speed thirty nautical miles off the northwest coast of Westport — to perform the simple tasks for which she had been modified. But even so, the ship and her crew approached the fog bank with understandable caution.
The bridge radar screen was showing a big-target blip that should have been the rusting structure of a two-hundred-foot commercial fishing trawler — five hundred yards out and twenty degrees off the Muluku’s port beam; but there was no visible sign of anything on that heading except swirling fog.
Huang Kat-so, the captain of the converted smuggler, cursed as he brought the portable radio up to his mouth.
