by Ken Goddard
“I suppose that is true,” Draganov conceded.
“And besides,” Tsarovich went on, “if all goes well in the Maze, perhaps predator and prey will never cross paths.”
“But if they do manage to escape, what will they do for food? We can’t possibly carry enough food up there on foot to last them even a few days, much less through the entire winter; not even with Borya’s help.”
“The evergreens will provide some nourishment,” Tsarovich said. “But as soon as the weather clears, even for a few hours, I’ll arrange for air-drops of hay throughout the Maze. A hundred tons at least — enough to last all eight of them until spring — and I’ll make sure its spread out so that the mothers will be forced to hunt for the food, making little ones even more difficult to find. It is a good plan, I think.” The burly veterinarian nodded his head in satisfaction.
“Yes, I agree, it might work; but do we have enough time?” Draganov asked, suddenly looking panicked.
Aleksei nodded. “Yes, I believe so, if I begin now and pace myself.”
“But you can’t do all of that work yourself,” his brother protested. “You’ll need help, especially in this weather.”
Aleksei shook his head. “No, you have to stay at the lab and continue working on the reverse probes to save Tanya. The first set of cocktails slowed the structural changes down, certainly, and may even have stopped them for good; but Tanya cannot stay as she is forever. Her heart rate is dangerously elevated, and the changes in her liver chemistry are becoming more pronounced. You have to find a way to reverse the process.”
“Yes, I know.” Draganov nodded his head, the fatigue evident in his reddened eyes. “There has to be some aspect — a subset, perhaps — of the original switching processes that I’m missing; or simply not seeing.”
“Go back to work, Sergei,” Aleksei said, slapping his thick right hand on Draganov’s slumped shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll figure out the right sequences; you always do. And, in the meantime, while you are busy saving Tanya with your pipettes and probes, I will see how many of the little ones I can save with my tools.”
“And those would be?” Draganov asked, raising one tired eyebrow.
“The same one our forefathers have always used against far more powerful invading forces,” Tsarovich answered, “Russian stubbornness, guile, deceit and treachery.”
At the Khlong Preserve shooting site — later
It had started raining again, and the air was filled with the muted sounds of Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs and insects all watching uneasily as Narusan and the professor finish mounting the laser-transit onto the re-assembled shooting platform.
Then, as Narusan and two Rangers headed out into the brush, Captain Achara Kulawnit stretched out on the platform and began to stare through the transit scope at a distant clump of trees. She was covered by a long waterproof poncho.
After several minutes of slow and methodical searching, the image of recent impact damage to a distant tree filled the transit scope view-field. After activating the transit’s laser beam and setting the beam-point on the damaged area, she began calling out instructions to a Ranger who relayed them to the naval chief.
As Narusan began to climb the tree, Achara followed his progress with the scope. At the first impact point, she watched him pull out a belt knife and begin digging at the damaged area. Then, a few moments later, he held something up in his hand.
“Captain Kulawnit,” Narusan found a bullet,” the communications Ranger reported.
Smiling tiredly, Achara pushed the laser-transit aside and reached for her cell phone.
CHAPTER 31
San Francisco International Airport
The Eva Airways flight from Bangkok via Taipei was scheduled to land at San Francisco International Airport at three-forty-five in the afternoon; but the ever-unpredictable San Francisco fog had already forced the controllers in the tower to shut down one of the too-close-together SFO runways once that morning — thereby delaying and diverting landings — and it looked like the fog might be rolling in again at any moment.
“I should have had her land in Seattle,” Bulatt said into his cell phone. “If things get any worse out here, they’re either going to have her plane circling for an hour, or diverted to another airport.”
“I suggested that to her, Pete Younger said, “but the storm fronts in the northwest are growing in strength, which could have made SEA-TAC a worse choice. And, in any case, the airport switch would have added at least another eight hours to her flying and ground times, and she wasn’t willing to wait that long. She’s very anxious to get that bullet and cartridge case they found scanned into your NIBIN system. A very stubborn young woman. Reminds me a great deal of her father.”
“Speaking of whom, is there any more word on his condition?”
“Still in critical but stable condition, as before,” Younger said. “The bullet that pierced the side of his vest is lodged against his heart and aorta, and the surgeons are reluctant to go after it. If they can keep the internal bleeding stopped, they want to wait and go back in later when he’s stronger.”
“How’s Achara taking it? Did she say?” Bulatt asked, saddened by the vision of his Interpol friend lying helpless in an ICU ward.
“She’s convinced her father is strong, and that he will survive. She sounded groggy, and with bloody good reason. I understand she and the Chief spent the entire night digging through rainforest mud and vegetation at their two Phuket crime scenes; and that she only had a few hours to clean up, fly back to Bangkok, pack and get to the airport in time to catch her flight.”
Bulatt looked down at his watch. “That was a little over seventeen hours ago. I’m not sure if she’s still fourteen hours ahead of us out here, time-zone-wise; or if a few hours of sleep on a plane, over a forty-eight hour period, actually re-sets her body-clock back to zero.”
Younger laughed. “If you ever manage to figure that out, bloody well let me know. I’m guessing she’s going to be tired and grumpy when she finally lands; and in no mood to put up with anything that further delays her arrival to your forensics lab.”
“Good point.” Bulatt looked out the window at the gradually moving fog bank. “As things stand right now, we’re looking at a three-hour delay for our connecting flight to Medford. I think I’m going to make other arrangements.”
The International Terminal, San Francisco Airport — Customs and Immigration Arrivals
Captain Achara Kulawnit waited behind the designated line until the Customs Officer — a heavyset man in his late fifties with long graying hair combed back over his ears and a healthy paunch threatening the lower buttons on his white Custom’s shirt — motioned her forward.
“Welcome to the United States,” he said as he accepted her passport, opened it, compared her fatigued but still exquisite facial features against the photo imbedded in the passport, and then ran the open-faced document across his scanner. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“I’m here on official business,” she replied.
The Customs officer glanced at his screen, blinked, and then refocused his gaze on the young woman’s face.
“I see you’re listed as an international law enforcement officer. May I see your credentials, please?”
“Yes, of course.” Achara reached into her purse and handed over her badge case and credentials, which the officer examined closely before looking back up.
“Are you carrying any weapons with you, in your carry-on or checked luggage?”
“No.”
“Is this your first trip to the United States?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I understand you’re carrying items of evidence in your carry-on luggage?”
“Yes, I am.” She reached into her carry-on bag, and pulled out a shipping box bearing red Thai Forestry Division evidence tape wrapped tightly around all of the cardboard edges.
The Customs officer stared first at the box, and then at his computer screen before tu
rning his attention back to Achara.
“I’m going to have to take that box into custody for inspection.”
It was Achara Kulawnit’s turn to blink. “I’m sorry, officer, but I am not authorized to release this evidence into anyone’s custody except the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s crime lab,” she said emphatically. “And they specifically told me not to open it under any circumstances, for safety and security reasons.”
The Customs officer started to say something, hesitated, then reached for his phone. For approximately two minutes, he and someone at the other end of the line engaged in a serious if not heated discussion. Finally, the Customs officer hung up the phone and turned his attention back to Achara once again.
“I understand your concern about the chain-of-custody of your evidence,” he said, “but there are specific rules and regulations about potentially dangerous materials entering this country that must be observed.”
“Yes, I understand all of that; I was a customs inspector in my country. But — ”
The Customs officer turned and motioned to an armed and uniformed officer who was standing near the exit to come over to the booth.
“I’m going to ask this officer to escort you and your evidence package to the U.S. Marshall’s Office,” the Customs officer said as he stamped her passport and handed it back.
“But — ”
“I’m sure they’ll be able to assist you with your problem, Captain Kulawnit,” he said firmly, and then motioned for the next person in line.
U.S. Marshall’s Office, Customs and Immigration Arrivals, San Francisco Airport
Fifteen minutes later, under the watchful eye of the armed Customs officer, fatigued, and now more than a little grumpy, Captain Achara Kulawnit retrieved her suitcase from the slowly-moving carrousel, set it in the airport cart, walked over to the door marked U.S. Marshall’s office, gently pushed it open with one hand while she pushed her cart in with the other, stepped inside the office; and then immediately saw Bulatt.
“You’re here?” she said, her eyes widening with surprise.
“Yes, of course, I’m here.” Bulatt grinned. “Where did you expect me to be?”
Achara started to say something, hesitated, then quickly brought the palms of her hands together in a polite wai. “Khun-Ged,” she said, her cheeks visibly turning red, “I am happy to see you again. Thank you so much for meeting me here, instead of waiting for me at Medford. I–I — ”
Then, before Bulatt could say anything in response, she walked up to him, put her arms around his neck and shoulder, and hugged him tightly.
“I’m not just happy to see you,” she whispered against his ear, “I am delighted to see you; more than I can possibly tell you here.” Then she stepped back, stared into Bulatt’s widened and shocked eyes; and only then saw the lanky and deeply-tanned man out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting in chair at the opposite side of the room, wearing a nicely-tailored dark suit, cowboy boots and a bolo tie, and starring at her and Bulatt with a wide dimpled grin on his dark mustached face.
“Captain Achara Kulawnit,” Bulatt said once he was able to regain his composure, “I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine, U.S. Marshall Bill Clark.”
Still grinning, Clark stood up from his chair, paused a brief moment to savor the shared looks of embarrassment between Bulatt and the young woman, and then stepped forward and offered his hand.
“Captain Kulawnit, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a very long time.”
Achara cocked her head curiously as she took the federal law enforcement officer’s hand in a firm handshake. “Oh?”
Clark glanced down at his watch. “Well, for at least for thirty-seven minutes, anyway; but that can be a very long time for us impatient types.”
Achara’s eyebrows were now furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand — ”
The dimpled grin seemed to be a permanent fixture on Clark’s tanned face.
“Ma’am,” he said, “anytime my good buddy here starts looking vaguely embarrassed when he’s asking the U.S. Marshall Service for an official favor, I definitely want to meet the reason why.”
“A favor?” Achara looked over at Bulatt in confusion.
“Yes, ma’am,” Clark nodded. “I understand you’re running a bit late, and that you’ve got some anxious forensic scientists waiting to get their hands on that bullet and cartridge case you toted all this way; so I am going to do my buddy here a very official favor and see to it that you folks get to Ashland post-haste, U.S. Marshall Transport Service style.”
Outside the MAX facility at the Draganov Research Center
Sergei Draganov stood beside the rumbling Sno-Cat, trying to ignore the snowstorm that raged around him, as he anxiously watched Aleksei Tsarovich hurry out of the MAX facility.
“Did you find him?” Draganov demanded.
“No, he is nowhere in the facility, and he does not answer his pager.”
“Are the animals fed and watered?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Draganov said with a relieved sigh, and then hesitated. “We could be running out of time. I think I need to help you — to get everything done — before he returns.”
Tsarovich started to argue but Draganov shook his head. “Another two or three days won’t make any difference to Tanya. I have an approach that I think will work; but this must be done first, or we’ll all be dead.”
Tsarovich stared at his long-time associate for a long moment, and then reluctantly nodded his assent.
The two men quickly pulled themselves into the Sno-Cat and drove down to a mid-way point between MIN and the entrance to the Maze.
Then, as Draganov continued to guide the lurching heavy vehicle toward the distant Maze entrance, Aleksei Tsarovich stood in the attached trailer-sled with a sharp knife and began tossing bales of hay and pouring sacks of feed across the snow-covered ground.
On a snow-covered rock crag overlooking the lurching Sno-Cat
The green-glowing eyes of Borya watched the scene below.
CHAPTER 32
Criminalistics Examination Room, National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab
As Bulatt and Achara Kulawnit watched from the far side of the Criminalistics examination room, Donn Renwick, Steve Hager and Dr. Juliana Ferreira — who were now dressed in white lab coats and sitting across from each other at a table-height lab bench, with the shipping box bearing the red Thai Forestry Division evidence tape sitting between them in the middle of the table — began to record information from the evidence tag onto their individual examination note forms.
Once they finished their initial note-taking, all three forensic scientists put on pairs of white cotton gloves and masks. Then Ferreira picked up the colorfully wrapped and tagged box and walked over to the far opposite side of the room, followed closely by Hager and Renwick.
Stopping in front of a ‘glove box’ — a three-foot-wide-by-two-foot-deep-by-three-foot-high glass-faced box equipped with a sealable-door at one end, a double-door vacuum chamber at the other, and a pair of long rubber gloves that allowed an examiner to handle items inside the box without physical contact — Ferreira opened the side door, placed the box inside, and sealed the door shut.
Then, after slipping her arms into the long gloves, she used a scalpel to slowly and carefully cut open the box. A small manila envelope and a six-inch-square box, both sealed with evidence tape, slid out onto the floor of the glove box.
Ferreira used the scalpel to cut the envelope open; slid a clump of wrapped tissue out into her gloved hand; placed the tissue clump in a vial; filled the rest of the vial with a liquid from a squeeze bottle marked ‘PROBE DECON’; screwed on a cap; placed the vial inside the vacuum chamber; shut and locked the inside door; pulled her hands out of the gloves; made a few valve adjustments on the vacuum chamber console; pressed a button marked ‘DECON’; and waited thirty seconds.
Then, after walking around to the side of the glove box and
opening the outside door of the vacuum chamber, the three forensic scientists came back to the workbench, the vial in Ferreira’s hand and the evidence box in Hager’s.
“Can we watch what you’re doing, or should we be running for the door?” Bulatt asked.
“Sure, come on over, no problem,” Ferreira said as she sat back down at the workbench and began making adjustments to a low-power dissection microscope. Renwick and Hager took chairs on either side of the microscope station.
“Was all that glove-box business really necessary?” Bulatt asked as he and Achara cautiously approached the workbench.
“Probably not,” Ferreira said as she opened the vial, removed the now-soggy white tissue clump with a pair of plastic forceps, set it into a small glass Petri dish, placed the dish under the dissection microscope, and began to tease apart the wet tissue. “The nano-probes we found in those Clouded Leopard carcasses broke down real quick under UV light, once we isolated them from the lymphatic system, so exposure to air and sunlight at the Preserve in Thailand should have sterilized the bullet and the cartridge case. But there may be some completely isolated tissue under that peeled-back jacketing, and we’re still trying to figure out what the DNA segments attached to the nano-tubes do, so we don’t want to take any chances.”
“Appreciate that,” Bulatt muttered, eyeing the now-exposed mushroomed rifle bullet that Ferreira was slowly moving into the view-field of the microscope with a whole new appreciation for its lethal nature.
