The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller

by A. G. Riddle

  CHAPTER 8

  Clocktower Station HQ

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  David peered at the pipe through the narrow window of the blast shield. Turning the cap on the pipe had taken forever with the manually operated arm. But he had to look inside. It was the weight — the pipe was too light to be a bomb. Nails, buckshot, and bee-bees would weigh a lot more.

  Finally, the end fell off, and David tipped the pipe to one side. A rolled up paper slid out. A thick, glossy page. A photo.

  David unrolled it. It was a satellite image of an iceberg floating in a deep blue sea. In the center of the iceberg, there was an oblong black object. A submarine, sticking out of the ice. On the back, a message read:

  ________________________

  Toba Protocol is real.

  4+12+47 = 4/5; Jones

  7+22+47 = 3/8; Anderson

  10+4+47 = 5/4; Ames

  ________________________

  David slipped the photo into a thick manila folder and walked over to the surveillance room. One of the two techs turned from the bank of screens. “No sign of him yet.”

  “Anything from the airports?” David asked.

  The man worked the keyboard, then looked up. “Yes, he landed a few minutes ago at Soekarno-Hatta. You want us to have him detained there?”

  “No. I need him here. Just make sure they can’t see him on surveillance upstairs. I’ll take it from there.”

  CHAPTER 9

  David was studying a map of Jakarta and Clocktower’s safe houses around the city when the surveillance tech walked in. “He’s here.”

  David folded the map up. “Good.”

  Josh Cohen walked toward the nondescript apartment building that housed Clocktower’s Jakarta Station Headquarters. The buildings around it were mostly abandoned — a mix of failed housing projects and dilapidated warehouses.

  He entered the building, walked down a long hallway, opened a heavy steel door and approached the shiny silver elevator doors. A panel beside the doors slid back, and he placed his hand on the reflective surface and said, “Josh Cohen. Verify my voice.”

  A second panel, this one level with his face, opened and a red beam scanned his face while he held his eyes open and head still.

  The elevator binged, opened, and began carrying Josh to the building’s middle floor. The elevator ascended silently, but Josh knew that elsewhere in the building a surveillance tech was reviewing a full body scan of him, verifying he had no bugs, bombs, or otherwise problematic items. If he was carrying anything, the elevator would fill with a colorless, odorless gas and he’d wake up in a holding cell. It would be the last room he’d ever see. If he passed, the elevator would take him to the fourth floor — his home for the last three years and the Jakarta headquarters of Clocktower.

  Clocktower was the world’s secret answer to state-less terror: a state-less counter terrorism agency. No red tape. No bureaucracy. Just good guys killing bad guys. It wasn’t quite that simple, but Clocktower was as close as the world would ever get.

  Clocktower was independent, a-political, anti-dogmatic, and most importantly, extremely effective. And for those reasons, the intelligence services of nations around the world supported Clocktower, despite knowing almost nothing about it. No one knew when it had started, who directed it, how it was funded, or where it was headquartered. When Josh had joined Clocktower three years ago, he assumed he would get answers to those questions as a Clocktower insider. He was wrong. He had risen through the ranks quickly, becoming Chief of Intelligence Analysis for Jakarta Station, but he still knew no more about Clocktower than the day he’d been recruited from the CIA’s Office of Terrorism Analysis. And they seemed to want it that way.

  Within Clocktower, information was strictly compartmentalized inside the independent cells. Everyone shared intel with Central, everyone got intel from Central, but no cell had the big picture or insight into the larger operation. And for that reason, Josh had been shocked to receive an invitation three days ago to a sort of “Summit Meeting” for the chief analysts of every Clocktower cell. He had confronted David Vale, the Jakarta station director, asking him if this was a joke. He’d said it wasn’t and that all the directors had been made aware of the meeting.

  Josh’s shock at the invitation was quickly trumped by the revelations at the conference. The first surprise was the number of attendees: 238. Josh had assumed Clocktower was relatively small, with maybe 50 or so cells in the world’s hot spots, but instead, the entire globe was represented. Assuming each cell was the size of Jakarta Station, about 50 agents, there could be over 10,000 people working in the cells, plus the central organization, which had to be at least a thousand people just to correlate and analyze the intel, not to mention coordinate the cells.

  The organization’s scale was shocking — it could be almost the size of the CIA, which had had around 20,000 total employees when he’d worked there. And many of those 20,000 worked in analysis in Langley, Virginia, not in the field. Clocktower was lean — it had none of the CIA’s bureaucracies and organization fat.

  Its specials ops capabilities likely dwarfed that of any government on Earth. Each Clocktower cell had three groups. One third of the staff were case officers, similar to the CIA’s National Clandestine service; they worked undercover in actual terror organizations, cartels, and other bad-guy-run groups or in places where they could develop sources: local government, banks, and police departments. Their goal was Human Intelligence, or HUMINT, first-hand intel.

  Another third of each cell worked as analysts. The analysts spent the vast majority of their time on two activities: hacking and guessing. They hacked everyone and everything: phone calls, emails, and texts. They combined that Signals Intelligence, or SIGINT, with the HUMINT and any other local intel and transmitted it to Central. Josh’s chief responsibility was to make sure Jakarta Station maximized its intelligence gathering and to draw conclusions about the intel. Drawing conclusion sounded better than guessing, but his job essentially came down to guessing and making recommendations to the Station Chief. The Station Chief, with council from Central, then authorized local operations, which were conducted by the cell’s covert operations group — the last third of the staff.

  Jakarta’s covert ops group had developed a reputation as one of Clocktower’s leading strike teams. That status had afforded Josh something of a celebrity status at the conference. Josh’s cell was the de facto leader of the Asia-Pacific region and everyone wanted to know what their tricks of the trade were.

  But not everyone was star-struck with Josh — he was glad to see many of his old friends at the conference. People he had worked with at the CIA or liaised with from other governments. It was incredible, he had been communicating with people he had known for years. Clocktower had a strict policy: every new member got a new name, your past was destroyed, and you couldn’t reveal your identity outside the cell. Outbound phone calls were computer voice-altered. In-person contact was strictly forbidden.

  A face-to-face meeting — with every chief analyst, of every cell — shattered that veil of secrecy. It went against every Clocktower operating protocol. Josh knew there must be a reason — something extremely compelling, and extremely urgent — to take the risk, but he never could have guessed the secret Central revealed at the conference. He still couldn’t believe it. And he had to tell David Vale, immediately.

  Josh walked to the front of the elevator and stood close to the doors, ready to make a bee line for the station chief’s office.

  It was 9 am, and Jakarta Station would be in full swing. The analysts pit would be lit up like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, with analysts crowded around banks of monitors pointing and arguing. Across the floor, the door to the field ops prep room would be wide open and likely full of operatives getting ready for the day. The late arrivals would be standing in front of their lockers, donning their body armor quickly and stuffing extra magazines in every pocket on their person. The early risers usually sat around on the
wood benches and talked about sports and weapons before the morning briefings, their camaraderie interrupted only by the occasional locker room prank.

  It was home, and Josh had to admit that he had missed it, although the conference was rewarding in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Knowing he was part of a larger community of chief analysts, people who shared the same life experience as he, people who had the same problems and fears as he did, was surprisingly comforting. In Jakarta, he was head of analysis, he had a team that worked for him, and he answered only to the Station Chief, but he had no real peers, no one to really talk to. Intelligence work was a lonely profession, especially for the people in charge. It had certainly taken its toll on some of his old friends. Many had aged well beyond their years. Others had become hardened and distant. After seeing them, Josh had wondered if he would end up that way. Everything had a price, but he believed in the work they were doing. No job was perfect.

  As his thoughts drifted back from the conference, he realized the elevator should have opened by now. When he turned his head to look around, the elevator lights blurred, like a video in slow motion. His body felt heavy. He could hardly breathe. He reached out to grab the elevator rail, but his hand wouldn’t close; it slipped off and he saw the steel floor rushing up.

  CHAPTER 10

  Interrogation Room C

  West Jakarta Police Detention Center

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  “Why won’t you listen to me? Why the hell aren’t you out looking for those two boys?” Kate Warner stood, leaned over the metal table and stared at the smug little interrogator who had already wasted twenty minutes of her time.

  “We are trying to find them. That is why we are asking you these questions, Miss Warner.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know anything.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” The little man tilted his head side-to-side as he said the words.

  “Maybe my ass. I’ll find them myself.” She stepped toward the steel door.

  “That door is locked, Miss Warner.”

  “So unlock it.”

  “Not possible. It must be locked while a suspect is questioned.”

  “Suspect? I want a lawyer, right now.”

  “You are in Jakarta, Miss Warner. No lawyer, no call to the American Embassy.” The man continued looking down, picking dirt off his boots. “We have many foreigners here, many visitors, many people who come here, who do not respect our country, our people. Before, we fear American Consulate, we give them lawyer, they always get away. We learn. Indonesians are not being as stupid as you think, Miss Warner. That is why you do your work here, is it not? You think we are too stupid to figure out what you are up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. I’m trying to cure autism.”

  “Why not do that in your own country, Miss Warner?”

  Kate would never, in a million years, tell this man why she had left America. Instead, she said, “America is the most expensive place in the world to conduct a clinical trial.”

  “Ah, then it is about the cost, yes? Here in Indonesia, you can buy babies to experiment on?”

  “I haven’t bought any babies!”

  “But your trial owns these children, does it not?” He turned the file around and pointed at it.

  Kate followed his finger.

  “Miss Warner, your trial is the legal guardian of both of these children, of all 103, is it not?”

  “Legal guardianship is not ownership.”

  “You use different words. So did the Dutch East India Corporation. Do you know of it? I am sure you do. They used the word colony, but they owned Indonesia for over two hundred years. A corporation owned my country and its people, and they treated us as their property, taking what they wanted. In 1947, we finally got our independence. But the memory is still raw for my people. A jury will see this as just the same. You did take these children, did you not? You said it yourself, you did not pay for them. And I see no record of the parents. They gave no consent to the adoption. Do they even know you have their children?”

  Kate stared at him.

  “I thought so. We are getting somewhere now. It is best to be honest. One last thing, Miss Warner. I see that your research is funded by Immari Jakarta — Research Division. It is probably only coincidence… but very unfortunate… Immari Holdings purchased many of the assets of the Dutch East India Corporation when they were driven out 65 years ago… So the money for your work came from…”

  The man stuffed the pages in the folder and stood, as if he were an Indonesian Perry Mason making his closing argument. “You can see how a jury might see this, Miss Warner. Your people leave, but return with a new name and continue to exploit us. Instead of sugar cane and coffee beans in the 1900s, now you want new drugs, you need new Guinea Pigs to experiment on. You take our children, run experiments you could not run in your own country, because you will not do this to your own children, and when something goes wrong, maybe a child gets sick or you think the authorities will find out, you get rid of these children. But something goes wrong. Maybe one of your technicians cannot kill these children. He knows it is wrong. He fights back, and he is killed in the struggle. You know the police will come, so you make up this story about the kidnapping? Yes. You can admit this; it will be better. Indonesia is a merciful place.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “It is the most logical story, Miss Warner. You give us no alternative. You ask for your lawyer. You insist we release you. Think about how this looks.”

  Kate stared at him.

  The man stood and made for the door. “Very well, Miss Warner. I must warn you, what follows will not be pleasant. It is best to cooperate, but of course, you clever Americans always know best.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Immari Corp. Research Complex

  Outside Burang, China

  Tibet Autonomous Region

  “Wake up, Jin, they’re calling your number.”

  Jin tried to open his eyes, but the light was blinding. His roommate was huddling over him, whispering something in his ear, but he couldn’t make it out. There was a booming voice in the background, a loud speaker. “204394, report immediately. 204394, report immediately. 204394. 204394. Report.”

  Jin leapt out of the small bed. How long had they been calling him? His eyes darted left and right, searching the 10x10 cell he shared with Wei. Pants, shirt? Please, no — if he was late and forgot his outfit, they would kick him out for sure. Where were they? Where— His roommate, sitting on his bunk, held up the white cloth pants and shirt. Jin snatched them and pulled them on, almost ripping the pants.

  Wei stared at the floor. “Sorry, Jin, I was asleep too. I didn’t hear.”

  Jin wanted to say something but there wasn’t time. He ran out of the room and down the hall. Several of the cells were empty and most had only one occupant. At the door to the wing, the orderly said “Arm.”

  Jin held out his arm. “204394.”

  “Quiet,” the man said. He waved a handheld device with a small screen over Jin’s arm. It beeped and the man turned his head and yelled “That’s it.” He opened the door for Jin. “Go ahead.”

  Jin joined about fifty other “residents”. Three orderlies escorted them to a large room with several long rows of chairs. The rows were separated by tall cubicle-like walls. The chairs looked almost like reclining beach chairs. Beside each chair, a tall silver pole held three bags of clear liquid, each with a tube hanging down. On the other side of each chair stood a machine with more readouts than a car dashboard and a bundle of wires hanging from the bottom, tied off on the right chair rail.

  Jin had never seen anything like it. It never happened like this. Since he had arrived at the facility six months ago, the daily routine had rarely changed: breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the exact same times, always the same meals; after each meal, blood draws from the valve-like device they had implanted in his right arm; and sometimes, exercise in the afternoon, monitored by electrodes on his chest. The rest of t
he time, they were confined to the 10x10 cells, with two beds and a toilet. Every few days or so they took a picture of him with a big machine that made a low droning sound. They were always saying for him to lie still.

  They showered once per week, in a large, co-ed group shower. That was by far the worst part — trying to control the urges in the shower. During his first month, a couple was caught fooling around. No one ever saw them again.

  Last month, Jin had tried to stay in his cell during shower time, but they had caught him. The supervisor had stormed into his cell. “We’ll kick you out if you disobey again,” he had said. Jin was scared to death. They were paying him $2 per day — a fortune, an absolute fortune. And he had no other options.

  His family had lost their farm near Burang. No one could afford the taxes on a small farm anymore; a larger farm, maybe. Land values were skyrocketing and the population was swelling throughout China. So his family did what many other farm families had done: sent their oldest for work in they city while the parents and younger children held on.

  His older brother found work in a factory making electronics. Jin and his parents visited him a month after he started. The conditions were much worse than here, and the work was already taking its toll — the strong, vibrant 21-year-old man who had left his family’s farm looked to have aged 20 years. He was pale, his hair was thinning, and he walked with a slight stoop. He coughed constantly. He said there had been a bug at the factory and everyone in his barracks had gotten it, but Jin didn’t believe him. His brother gave his parents $15 he had saved from his $.75/day salary. “Just think, in 5-10 years, I’ll have enough to buy us another farm. I’ll come home and we’ll start again.” They had all acted very excited. His parents had said they were so proud of him.

  On their way home, Jin’s father told them that tomorrow, he would go and find better work. That with his skills, he could surely make supervisor somewhere. He’d make good money. Jin and his mother simply nodded.

  That night, Jin heard his mother crying, and shortly after, his father shouting. They never fought.

  The next night, Jin slipped out of his room, wrote them a note, and left for Chongqing, the nearest major city. The city was filled with people looking for work, and they weren’t kind to newcomers. The lines were long, and assuming you were tough enough to muscle your way into line, you were rarely hired.

  Jin was turned down at the first seven places he applied. The eighth place was different. They had line monitors that made sure no one applying got beat up. They didn’t ask any questions. They put a cotton stick in his mouth and made him wait in a large holding room for an hour. Most of the people were dismissed. After another hour, they called his number — 204394 — and told him they could hire him at a medical research facility, for $2/day. He signed the forms so fast his hand cramped.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. He assumed the conditions were dire, but he couldn’t have been more wrong — it was a resort, like one of those American health spas in the magazines they sold in big cities. And now he had screwed it all up. Surely they were kicking him out. They had called his number.

  Maybe he had enough for a new farm. Or maybe he could find another research place. He’d heard that the big factories in China exchanged lists of bad workers. Those people couldn’t find work anywhere. That would be the kiss of death.

  “What the hell are you waiting for!” The man shouted. “Find a seat.”

  Jin and the other fifty or so white-clad, barefooted “workers” scrambled for chairs. Elbows flew, people pushed, and several people tripped. Everyone seemed to find a chair but Jin. Every time he reached a chair, someone would sink into it at the last second. What if he didn’t find a chair? Maybe it was a test. Maybe he should—

  “People. Relax, relax. Mind the equipment,” the man said. “Just find the closest chair.”

  Jin exhaled and walked to the next row. Full. In the last row, he found a seat.

  Another group of orderlies entered. They wore long white coats and carried tablet computers. A young-looking woman came over to him and hooked the bags to his arm valve and attached the round sensors to his body. She tapped a few times on her screen and moved to the chair beside him.

  Maybe it’s just a new test, he thought.

  He suddenly felt sleepy. He leaned his head back and…

  Jin woke in the same chair. The bags were detached, but the sensors were still connected. He felt groggy and stiff, like he had the flu. He tried to lift his head up. It was so heavy. A white coat came over, ran a flashlight across his eyes, then unhooked the sensors and told him to go and stand with the others by the door.

  When he stood, his legs almost buckled. He steadied himself on the arm of his chair, then hobbled over to the group. They all looked half asleep. There were maybe 25 of them, about half of the group that had entered. Where were the rest? Had he slept too long — again? Is this punishment? Would they tell him why? After