If, if, if.
Carter’s voice pulled him out of his self-pitying reflection. “You weren’t kidding about how tough this thing is.”
He glanced over and saw her struggling with the Lion skin. “The Lion’s own claws were the only thing Hercules found that could cut through it.”
“Hercules didn’t have a diamond-tipped scalpel,” she replied, holding up the tool she had used to remove a tiny slice of the preserved hide. “There’s no magic at work here, Dr. Pierce. Just things that we don’t understand yet.”
“Will you be able to extract any viable DNA from it?”
“I think so. I’m curious about one thing, though. How exactly will this help you find your friends?”
The question stung. “Honestly, I don’t know if it will. Kenner believes these chimeras originate from a specific source. I was hoping that you might be able to isolate whatever factor is responsible. A genetic footprint, if you will. A chemical agent or something like that. But that was before. Now…?” He shrugged.
“Well, you might be on to something. I don’t know about chemical agents, but identifying the genetic contributors may give us a geographical ballpark.”
“How so?”
She gestured to the skin. “For starters, this isn’t a lion.”
“I know. It’s a chimera. A lion and something else.”
She shook her head. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a chimera either. Not in the genetic sense at least. I think it’s actually a transgenic hybrid.”
“What’s the difference?”
“In biology, a chimera is an organism that has two or more distinctive cellular populations. A bone marrow transplant or tree grafting creates a chimera because the recipient now has two distinctive cell populations. Two different sets of DNA, coexisting in the same body. If you graft a lemon branch onto a lime tree, it doesn’t become a new organism. Just a lime tree that also gives you lemons. A hybrid is a combination of genetic material from two different sources, but it has only one cellular population—one set of DNA.”
“Like a mule.”
“Right. A mule doesn’t have horse DNA in some of its cells and donkey DNA in others. It only has mule DNA. With gene splicing, we can combine nucleotides from vastly different species to create transgenic hybrids. And I think that’s what this is.”
Pierce was not sure the semantic distinction mattered, but Carter’s expertise was the reason he had recruited her. “Okay. So it’s a hybrid of a lion and something else. Something that gives it nearly indestructible skin and fur. Is there anything like that in the natural world?”
She shrugged. “You’ve probably heard about how spider silk is stronger than steel wire, ounce for ounce. Nature has produced a lot of amazing things.”
“Why did you say it’s not a lion?”
“I’ve seen a lot of lions over the past couple of years, and this isn’t one. Not an African lion, at least.”
“There’s another kind?” Pierce examined the animal skin more closely. He knew that some large cats were mistakenly identified as ‘lions’—cougars, for example were often called ‘mountain lions’—but there were visible differences between the two species. The Nemean Lion, at least to Pierce’s untrained eye, appeared to be a member of the true lion family, albeit a monstrously large example of it.
“There are actually several different lion species that all fall under the umbrella term African lion,” Carter explained. “Some, like the Barbary lion, were only recently hunted to extinction—in the last two hundred years or so. But in ancient times, lion species could be found all over the world—the Middle East, Europe. I suspect this specimen may belong to one of those species.”
“Europe? Well, I guess that would explain the presence of a lion in Greece.”
She placed the tissue sample into a test-tube and carefully measured out drops of a reagent solution. “Lions were once fairly common all over Asia. I think they even show up in a couple Bible stories.”
“Right. David killed a lion with his sling, and Samson killed one with his bare hands.” The recollection triggered a painful memory of Fiona paraphrasing Ecclesiastes in the Labyrinth. Live dogs and dead lions. He grimaced.
“Those were probably Panthera leo persica, the Asiatic lion. The only place you’ll find them in the wild today is India. They once ranged as far west as Turkey. But I don’t think that’s what we’ve got here either. The Asiatic lion is even smaller than the African species, with a less developed mane. This specimen is considerably larger than an African lion. That could be the result of the contribution from the other species, but I don’t think so. Also, the fur is thicker, suggesting that this animal was adapted to colder climates. It might be a late extant European cave lion. Panthera leo spelaea.”
“One that survived to the first millennium BC?”
“Possibly. There are still a few pristine ecosystems where species long believed extinct are still alive and well.” She cast a knowing nod in Lazarus’s direction. “Or if your hypothesis about some kind of chemical agent is correct, it might have been a primitive cloning experiment involving DNA recovered from a fossilized specimen.
“The question of how may not be as important as where. If it is a P. spelaea, then there’s a good chance your source is somewhere in Europe. Hopefully, there’s still enough of the lion left in this hybrid for a match in the ADW genetic database.” She placed the test tube into one of the devices Pierce had provided for her in Liberia—a Pacific BioSciences SMRT—single molecule real-time—sequencer. As the machine hummed to life, Carter crossed her arms. “You know, if I’m going to work for you, I’m going to need better facilities. Preferably, somewhere not in a cave.”
“Are you going to work for me?”
“We’ll see.” Carter looked away from him, meeting Lazarus’s patient gaze. The big man gave her a reassuring nod.
Before Pierce could express his gratitude, a trilling sound from his computer signaled an incoming teleconference request from Dourado. Bracing himself against the possibility of yet another disappointment, he tapped the button to receive the call. “Please have good news, Cintia.”
Beneath a mane of cobalt blue curls, Dourado was grinning. “I do have good news, Dr. Pierce.” Excitement caused her words to blur together, exaggerating her distinctive Brazilian accent. “Cerberus has a jet. I compared airport data from the week of Van Der Hausen’s arrival in Monrovia against all the data from the last three days in Crete and Athens.”
“What data?”
“Everything. Customs. Passport control. Car rental agencies. Flight plans. There were no names in common, but that is not surprising. They must be using aliases. But I did discover a private aircraft—a Learjet 60—that arrived in Monrovia the day before Van Der Hausen flew in from Stockholm. It left three days later. That same plane was in Heraklion when you were there, and it was in Athens late last night. It arrived shortly before…ah…Dr. Gallo’s disappearance.”
Pierce was suddenly giddy with the possibility of tracking Cerberus to its lair, finding Gallo and Fiona. “Who owns it?”
“It belongs to one of the Cerberus shell companies, based in Grand Cayman Island.”
“Where’s the plane now? Is it still in Greece?”
“No. It took off again early this morning. It flew to Barcelona, then Rome. It was there for a few hours but it left again. They refueled in the Azores, but then took off again. It is in the air as we speak.”
“They have to file flight plans, right? Do you know where it’s headed now?”
Dourado’s excitement nearly matched Pierce’s for feverish intensity. “Yes. It is coming here.”
“To Brazil?”
“To Belem! They’ll be arriving in less than three hours.”
“Is that a stopover or a final destination?”
“No additional flight plans have been filed.”
Pierce processed the information for a moment. Belem, situated at the mouth of the Amazon, seemed an unlikely destination. G
iven Cerberus’s far-flung operations, there was no guarantee that the jet’s current destination had anything to do with what Kenner was after. If the incident in Liberia had indeed been a weapons test, then maybe the Amazon rainforest was intended to be the next phase of a different plan, unrelated to what Kenner was looking for. Perhaps Cerberus intended to employ the carnivorous vine against some of the native tribes who opposed development of their ancestral homeland. Or it might be something else entirely. His gut told him that where the plane had been was probably more important than where it was going.
But what if I’m wrong? What if Augustina and Fiona are aboard that plane?
“Cintia, we need to get eyes on that plane. Contact Aegis. See if they have any operatives in the region.”
“The nearest Aegis office is in Rio,” Dourado replied. “They will not be able to get someone here in time.”
Pierce frowned, wracking his brain to come up with an alternative. “Give them a call anyway. Maybe they can recommend someone local. A private eye or—”
“I will do it,” Dourado said. All of her earlier enthusiasm was gone. Her voice was now so small it was barely audible.
“Cintia—”
“There is no one else. Not that can be here in time.”
Pierce felt a pang of guilt for even considering the suggestion. Dourado was a computer jockey, not a field operative. Given the circumstances, the narrow window of opportunity and the lack of alternatives, he could not argue with her. But the idea of putting her in danger, even if the actual risk was minimal, made him sick to his stomach.
Being in charge really sucks.
“Just get eyes on. Don’t approach them. In fact, if Augustina and Fiona are there, don’t let them see you. Wear a…” He was about to say ‘hat’ then thought better of it. “A disguise of some kind. I don’t want you to put yourself in any danger.”
“I’m on it,” she said.
“Thank you, Cintia. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” He looked over at Carter. “How much longer?”
“Anywhere from twenty minutes to four hours.”
Four hours. Kenner might be on the ground in Belem before they could even leave Gorham’s Cave. Leaving Lazarus and Carter behind was not an option. He would need the big man’s help to rescue Gallo and Fiona, and he was not about to ask Carter to stay by herself.
“However,” Carter continued, as if sensing his inner turmoil. “I can access the results remotely. We could leave right now if you want.”
Perfect. “Cintia, be careful. Don’t do anything dangerous. We’re on our way.”
28
Cerberus Headquarters
The door opened and another tray slid across the threshold. It was the third such delivery and Fiona’s only contact with the world beyond the walls of her prison. She guessed the interval between meals to be about three hours—there was no way to tell for sure—which meant that about six hours had passed since her conversation with Gallo. In all that time, the television screen had remained dark. She assumed that she was being monitored by her unseen captors, which meant that what she was about to do now might be very dangerous, but still preferable to doing nothing at all.
As soon as the tray cleared the sweep of the door, she bolted into motion, crossing the room in three long strides, armed with a plastic fork. She slide the utensil between the door and its frame just before it could close. There was a faint tremor as the latch bolt struck the prongs of the fork. She held her breath, praying that her jailor wouldn’t test to make sure the bolt had seated properly.
A moment passed. Five seconds. Ten.
Nothing happened.
She let her breath out slowly. With painstaking caution, she relaxed her hold on the stem of the fork. The pressure of the spring-loaded latch bolt held it in place. Her plan, this much of it at least, was working.
She took a step back, dropping her hands to her hips in what she hoped would look like a display of frustration, and then picked up the tray and carried it back to the bed. If someone was watching, they would think that her escape attempt had been unsuccessful. That was what she hoped, anyway.
The meal was unremarkable—a bowl of unidentifiable instant noodles, still steaming hot. There were also some peanut butter-smeared crackers and a glass of milk. She took the convenience-store style meals as a sign that the Cerberus headquarters was not a large-scale operation. A fully-prepared meal would have indicated an onsite kitchen, maybe a cafeteria for guards and other personnel. Of course, it was also possible that her captors had merely elected not to waste good food on a doomed prisoner, but she tried not to think about that.
She ate methodically, staring at the walls and biding her time. The food was not the worst thing she’d ever eaten, and it would provide metabolic fuel for what she was about to do. The supply of insulin in her pump would not last forever—another twelve hours if she was lucky. And she wasn’t about to beg her captors for more, which meant that she had to succeed. If things went badly, it would probably be her last meal.
When she had siphoned the last drops of milk from the glass, she rose and carried the tray back to the door, kneeling to set it down with as much nonchalance as she could manage. Then, as she stood, she took hold of the plastic fork and gave the door a gentle tug.
As it swung open she braced herself for an alarm, expecting to be met by an armed guard, maybe even the big ugly giant, Rohn. Nothing happened. The door opened without any resistance, granting her a view of the hallway beyond. She took a cautious step forward, peering around the doorjamb, looking both ways.
No one there.
The hallway looked like something from a budget motel, except the doors on either side were unmarked and there were no signs to guide her toward an exit. There was what appeared to be an elevator door to her right, and further away to the left, a dead-end, or possibly a T-intersection; she couldn’t be sure which.
Elevator, she decided, though she was by no means confident in the choice.
The quiet was unnerving. No noise of outside traffic, televisions or vacuum cleaners. Either the walls were heavily insulated or she was alone on the floor. If not for her earlier meal delivery, she would have believed that the building had been abandoned.
Her curiosity got the better of her, and she tried the doorknob of the first room she came to. Locked. She pressed her ear to the door and listened, but the room was as quiet as a tomb. She kept moving.
When she reached the elevator door, she was confronted with a new problem. There was no call button. No way to summon the car or open the doors.
The predicament reminded her of being stuck in the Labyrinth, and that made her think about the inscription on Queen Hippolyte’s map-belt. She might not be able to decipher the Mother Tongue, but she recognized the words. They were the same words she had seen at the dead end in the Labyrinth, just before Kenner’s bomb had blown the whole place to Hell. If they meant what she thought they did, saying them correctly would have let her and Pierce walk right through that wall. There had actually been a few seconds where she thought she had gotten the words right, but it could have been her imagination.
Could she do the same thing now?
She tried to visualize the words, picturing them engraved on the blank metal door. The letters were no longer just unfamiliar squiggles to her, but comprehension remained just beyond her grasp.
Suddenly, the door slid open.
She jumped back, startled. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat sending a tremor through her entire body. She was about to turn and flee, even though there was nowhere to go, but before she could make another move, she realized that the car was empty. A moment later, the door closed.
“Okay, what just happened?” she muttered.
For a fleeting instant, she wondered if she had caused the door to open, perhaps merely by focusing on the Mother Tongue, but then a different thought occurred to her. She took a step toward the elevator, and it opened again.
A proximity sensor, just like a superm
arket door.
She stuck her head into the car and looked around. There was no control panel, no way to select a destination.
If the doors were programmed to respond to someone getting close, maybe the elevator would automatically take her somewhere else. But where?
Only one way to find out. It was not like she had a wide range of choices.
She stepped in. The doors closed, and there was a vibration as the car began to move. She couldn’t tell if it was moving up or down, but thirty seconds later, the sensation stopped. The elevator opened again.
She peeked around the door frame, but there was no one lurking in the hall beyond. She stepped out.
The corridor was so like the one she had just left that Fiona wondered if the elevator had actually moved at all—blank walls, blank doors, no signs. As she moved down the hallway, she tested doors at random. None opened, but she did see one distinctive difference between this floor of the building and the one where her prison cell had been located. There was a door at the far end, wooden and stained a dark walnut. There was no doorknob, but as she got close, the door swung inward.
Another motion sensor.
She felt a surge of hope as she stepped into the room beyond. She was in a museum, or possibly an art gallery. The room was arrayed with pedestals and display cases, exhibiting artifacts ranging from the Paleolithic era to the Renaissance. The pieces were beautiful, as if chosen specifically for their aesthetic value. Many appeared to have religious significance. Yet, as she progressed through the room, her initial optimism waned. This was not a public exhibition but rather a private collection kept solely for the enjoyment of her captor.
Still, there had to be a way out.
Herculean (Cerberus Group Book 1) Page 17
