Swordsman's Legacy

by Alex Archer

  “A child?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t have to be d’Artagnan.” Lambert splayed his hands before him as he paced. “Could be Louis XIV or someone more recognizable, like Einstein or George Washington. Those choices would fall to scholars and the educated, I’m sure. The more socially conscious of parents might choose a celebrity, such as Angelina Jolie or George Clooney. The possibilities are endless.”

  Still not following the man, Annja strained her thoughts. How did Angelina Jolie and Louis XIV fit into the same discussion? And a child who resembled either of the celebrities?

  And then it struck her. The research she’d done online. She hadn’t been able to fit this quest for a legendary sword to a company that did genetic research. Until now.

  “You were after the DNA evidence on the sword,” she concluded.

  “There was evidence?” His shoes tapped the floor in quick clicks as he approached her. “What did you do with it? Christ, I imagine the sample was contaminated beyond belief.”

  “There was a hair wrapped around the hilt, but the root was not intact. And I’ll thank you to have a little respect for my profession. I know how to handle an artifact without contaminating it.”

  Though she hadn’t handled it properly at the dig site, nor after the map had been stolen.

  “It could still be there. More of it. Something you overlooked.” Lambert again placed his foot on the couch. A bead of sweat clung to his forehead. His confidence had fallen a notch. “I must have that sword! Do you realize what a sample of DNA can become?”

  “A new kidney?”

  “Ha!” He gripped her by the shoulders, and Annja flexed her fingers to prepare. One wrong move, buddy. “A new life!”

  Lambert spun away and paced toward his desk.

  Annja stood and, though compelled to reach for her sword, she stilled the urge. She was on the verge of discovering something, and she didn’t want to push him back under the rock.

  “Life?” She remained standing before the love seat so he wouldn’t be tempted to call in his thugs. “Are you talking—” if therapeutic cloning could create a human organ, then what was to stop him from “—human cloning?”

  Glee danced in his bold eyes. A wicked, maniacal glee that cut into Annja’s gut as if a blade. He’s not all there. Otherwise he’d be keeping this information close to his vest. She had that thought, and then quickly switched tracks.

  “Human cloning is illegal,” she said.

  “Well.” He offered a shrug and a dismissive splay of fingers. “We haven’t actually cloned a human.”

  “But you’re trying?”

  “I cannot reveal BHDC’s inner workings. To do so may, or may not, incriminate me.”

  “You’ve given me quite the earful already. A few years ago there was an article in Scientific American supposing BHDC had already mastered therapeutic cloning.”

  “Ah, you have done your research. Points for you, Annja.”

  “How, exactly, does that work? I don’t understand anything beyond the basics.”

  “What? Therapeutic cloning?”

  She nodded. It would be a start, to turn a key that may open further discoveries about BHDC.

  “It’s all a bunch of scientific mumbo jumbo. But you must consider the possibilities should we develop the technology to create human organs. No longer would we need donor lists. Children now dying in wait of a donor organ would survive.”

  “And that’s all you’re using the DNA for?” she asked.

  “There is so much one can do with the code of life. Genetics can be traced through family bloodlines through the study of DNA. As you must know,” he said, “genetic archaeologists use the process. I find it is most useful in providing proof for claims to family fortunes and proving paternity. Finding a descendant for d’Artagnan’s sword? It is very possible. With today’s technological advancements we are able to literally trace one’s ancestors back to the days of the Romans, if we wish.”

  “Child’s play. Scientists are tracing DNA back to the seven daughters of Eve,” Annja said.

  “If you believe the theory of the original seven.”

  “It’s not a theory,” Annja said. “Belief or not, most police outfits have a connection to DNA labs for forensics testing.”

  “But not everyone can create a human organ for transplant. It’s a tricky but most satisfying accomplishment.”

  “Do you have…?” Ascher’s kidney growing in a jar, jumped to Annja’s tongue, but she didn’t speak it. It creeped her out to imagine a lab jar with a meaty kidney floating inside, awaiting transplant.

  On the other hand, to consider all the children and adults who would benefit from such a science truly was a wondrous thing. But wonders tended to be accompanied by hidden pitfalls, obsessions and evils.

  “As for cloning,” she prompted. “Beyond a mere organ. What about a whole human?”

  “Somatic cell nuclear transfer. No one has successfully cloned a human. And if they had, the laws today would keep them from making it public knowledge.”

  “I thought there was an announcement in the scientific community a few years ago?”

  “Ah, yes, that ridiculous Clonaid baby. The Raelian cult, if I recall correctly. They have not been able to produce scientific confirmation of the claim. It was a dupe on the entire world.”

  “But why—presuming you had the ability to create a clone—a historical figure?”

  “Ah. Well, wouldn’t you—if you could not have a child, and had decided to go the cloning route—want to be able to choose a historical figure? A little Marie Antoinette, for example. Or an Alfred Einstein or even Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Have you DNA evidence for all those people?” Annja asked.

  “Of course. Along with treasure hunters, I staff genetic archaeologists and an assortment of skilled medical personnel. We’re always on the lookout for viable samples.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Not at all. That is the future of biohistorical genetics.”

  “But…I obviously don’t understand cloning. Can you use dead DNA?”

  “Of course. I’ll forego the lengthy scientific explanation, but suffice to say, so long as the sample is viable we can work with it. It’s a process to extract the genetic material and synthesize a usable genetic code. But it is worth it.”

  “Really? There are a lot of customers for babies who resemble historical figures?”

  “You would be surprised.”

  Yes, I would be. What would be the purpose? Flaunting your miniature Marie Antoinette before your friends, when they may merely grin and wonder what you’re so proud of. Not many knew what historical figures looked like when they were children. On the other hand, she could imagine the twisted benefits of having a child who looked like a contemporary celebrity. If one were so vain as to wish their child looked like a movie star, would they then use that to profit from it?

  “What about the couple who desires a mini-Hitler romping about their feet?” she asked.

  “Oh, Annja.” Lambert’s chuckle rippled a chill along Annja’s shoulders. She felt no comfort standing alone in this room with him. Time to start scoping out an escape route.

  “You must understand,” he said, “that the cloning process would merely produce an identical subject in physicality and appearance. The human brain cannot be cloned. The personality of the subject would not be passed along to the clone. And those couples believing they can clone a lost loved one killed in a car accident will be sorely let down. We attempt to make that very clear in our literature.”

  “You have literature?”

  She had heard quite enough.

  The fact Lambert had been so free with his facts led her to believe the exit wasn’t going to be shown to her. And she could see no other means to escape unless she crashed through the plate-glass window. How many stories up were they?

  “So you’ll let me leave?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She lifted a cynical brow.
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br />   “If you take us to Ascher Vallois. While the sword is key, the treasure map must not be overlooked.”

  So he knew about the map.

  Ascher was probably following it right now. How to read the map? If it was of the underground tunnels, could she find a similar map online to compare it to? Had Ascher had that thought yet?

  “I knew it couldn’t be a mere sword that motivated you,” she said. “You’re a weekend treasure hunter, as well?”

  “It is hardly a hobby. The profit from our plunder finances BHDC.”

  “BioHistorical Design Corporation. I get it now. You steal DNA evidence, process it and sell it to the highest bidder. It’s—” the realization expanded like a nuclear mushroom in her chest “—identity theft at its most intimate and evasive.”

  “Oh come, Annja, they don’t mind. They’re all dead. A stolen hair here, a pilfered molar, perhaps a femur—though it is rather difficult to get viable DNA from bones.”

  “George Clooney isn’t dead,” she stated.

  “Yet, wherever he goes, he leaves DNA in his wake. A fingerprint, a fallen hair, saliva.”

  He strode the floor, swinging his arms now. “Besides, you are arguing an impossibility. We’re doing nothing wrong in the eyes of the law. Therapeutic cloning is completely aboveboard.”

  “In Britain. It’s still illegal in France.”

  “Yes, I did once have a lab in Britain, but they aren’t keen on pirates. I can’t return to that country.”

  He shrugged. The grin he gave her hid many secrets that she wanted to release. A self-proclaimed pirate?

  “Madmen always believe in their ideologies,” she said.

  “I’m not mad. I am a modern-day pirate, Annja. How else to finance our studies without plunder?”

  Now the connection between the map and the cloning was coming together. The treasure was required to finance what must be a cash-sucking foray into the maniacal dreams of a strange future of cloned historical figures socializing with replicated modern-day celebrities.

  “Even if I did hand over the map to you,” she said, “you’d never be able to navigate it. There’s no means to determine direction or even a starting point. A navigational device is missing.”

  Lambert brushed a finger across his lips as the most amused expression tickled his eyes. “So you are unaware of what you have?”

  “I know what I’m missing,” she said.

  “I see.” He turned and marched over to his desk. Annja was a little surprised that he simply left her standing, untied, able to dash away. Possibly he suspected little danger from a woman. Silly man. Hadn’t his thugs related their struggles by the river?

  A struggle that found you the captive, she chided herself.

  “I don’t need the map, Annja. I have a copy.”

  “A copy?” How many had Ascher made?

  He typed in some information on the laptop keyboard, and the image of a map appeared on the screen. Annja approached slowly, leaning in to study the image.

  “Look familiar?” he asked.

  She nodded. It was as if Ascher had scanned the map onto the screen. But he couldn’t have had time to do so since acquiring it yesterday morning. Could he?

  He’d had time to humidify, copy and laminate it.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “One of my researchers turned it up after an exhaustive search in the stacks of the Bibliothèque Nationale. I’m sure the source was Nicolas Fouquet’s journals, though that’s not immediately to mind right now. You know the financier kept copies of all Queen Anne’s correspondence. Though I am still a bit baffled as to the creator of the map. There is no signature on it, as was the custom.”

  “Not the queen?” Annja asked.

  “Do you think Anne of Austria took the time to scribble out something so elaborate as this?”

  Annja traced the jagged corner of the map on the screen. It had to be identical to the map Ascher held.

  “Missing the same corner, I presume, as the one you hold. I have to believe whoever designed it did so purposefully. It’s not torn, but rather cut. And only with the designer may lie the answers.”

  This copy was in color. Annja saw now the thick red line. The river or something else?

  “You see? We have both been walking the same path. I’m not sure how you got Vallois to side with you, without—”

  “Ripping out a kidney?”

  “Exactly. Though you are not hard on the eyes. Perhaps he’s sleeping with you.”

  She rolled her eyes at that comment.

  “I won’t settle for holding the bouquet,” Lambert said. “I will have that treasure.”

  “Who’s to say it’s even there still? Wherever there is. It’s been three centuries. The map has obviously been copied once. What proof have you there aren’t a dozen more copies lying around? Someone could have claimed the treasure centuries ago.”

  “You don’t seem particularly worried at that prospect. Nor am I,” he said.

  He slid to sit on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “This map here is a copy, more than likely made by Nicolas Fouquet. I wager he may have been as confused about how to navigate it as you are. But he did spend three years imprisoned with Charles Castelmore—the sword’s owner. Do you think he managed to discover how to read the map during those years?”

  Annja crossed her arms, her focus blurring on the laptop screen. Interesting question. And while she did not for one moment feel safe standing next to a man who had sent thugs after her and Ascher, right now it felt as if a colleague had posed a question.

  But Fouquet had eventually died imprisoned. Even if he had learned how to read the map, he was never free to follow it. Of course, that didn’t rule out lackeys or perhaps even Fouquet’s wife.

  “You know how to read the map,” she tried. “You know who created it?”

  “Ninety percent sure.” He curled long fingers over the edge of the desk. A little-boy smile dashed his mouth. One who had found many treasures and eagerly sought the next daring adventure. “And I must say, I’m quite surprised you haven’t stumbled upon it, as well. But that’s all I will say about that.”

  “Because…even though you know how to read it, you’re unable to,” she said, working out the possibilities as she spoke. “You’re missing the navigational key, as we are. But you know what that key is.”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Now you decide to keep incriminating evidence close? I don’t understand you, Mr. Lambert.”

  “That’s monsieur.”

  “You’re no more French than I am. What was wrong with the United States? Do they take particular offense to pirates, too?”

  “Monsieur.” A blond woman poked her head through the door and held out a business card. “There is a man here to see you. Urgent.”

  Lambert retrieved the business card and read it. “I’ve not heard of this person.”

  “He said he has an artifact you may be interested in viewing.”

  “Did he show you?”

  “No, but he’s carrying a small wooden box. He seems kind and elderly. A little hunched in the shoulders. Not a threat.”

  Lambert crossed the room and turned the laptop away from Annja. After a few keystrokes, and an intent observation of the screen, he said, “Very well. Bring him to the adjoining meeting room. I’ll be there momentarily.”

  After the woman left, Lambert crossed the room and pressed his forefinger to a small switch on the wall across from the desk, which Annja hadn’t noticed before. It was a biometric reader. A small green light flashed as it read his fingerprint. In response, a six-foot-wide portion of marble wall slid silently upward. Now there was an escape route.

  “Sit tight, Annja. There’s only one way out, and my pit bull is guarding the exit. I’ll return momentarily and we can resume our discussion, yes?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slid shut, and the wall appeared to seamlessly rejoin.

  Ann
ja turned around. The laptop, still powered up, displayed a view of what looked like a lobby, lined with white overstuffed chairs.

  The lobby of BHDC?

  She leaned in and touched the mouse.

  A secretary walked into camera range and sat down behind a desk, the same blonde who had just announced the visitor’s arrival.

  Annja hit the back arrow and up popped the image of the map on the monitor. Actual size, her spread hand almost covered it completely. It was an exact copy, even the fleur-de-lis showed at the end of the red line.

  But there, along the scanned margin where a black smear showed when the paper must have lifted from the scanner, was a scribble. Not on the actual map, but outside the edge. A notation made by Lambert? He’d wondered about a missing signature from the map’s designer, so this could not be it.

  Annja tilted her head to read the small, tight letters. “Ma—” She couldn’t make out the last letters. Could it be Maquet? As in Auguste Maquet, who cowrote with Alexandre Dumas?

  It made sense that Lambert had found a copy in Fouquet’s journals. Auguste Maquet, Dumas’s collaborator, had discovered that a map existed during his research. And the only way to know that would have been to see the actual map. Maquet very likely would have been researching Nicolas Fouquet for The Three Musketeers, as well as for The Man in the Iron Mask, which, literary scholars conjectured, was based on Fouquet’s imprisonment.

  That still didn’t answer the question of who had created the map. Someone Lambert obviously felt could provide the method to navigate the map.

  Moving the mouse, Annja clicked on the Internet browser icon. Checking the history tab, the browser opened up to the Chasing History’s Monsters’ Web site. Another click on the back browser brought her to Google, where her name had been entered in the search box.

  Lambert obviously hadn’t known about her until now. That was a good thing. But not for Ascher Vallois.

  Quickly clicking the other desktop icons, Annja searched the applications for incriminating files. She bet Lambert wouldn’t leave bait like that lying around. On the other hand, he had been very free with details of BHDC’s activities.

  Cloning historical figures? It seemed too out there. Bizarre. Morally wrong.