“What are you doing?” Saleem pressed.
I cursed silently. Answering would at least keep him from talking more.
“The security cameras and alarm around the cryo chamber are completely enclosed inside the room, including their own power source,” I said as I stripped the rubberized covers off three of the coaxial cables within the box. “But keeping the two systems physically separate means that the chamber’s cameras are forced to transmit their images wirelessly. That’s hard to do through an entire building. Impossible with medical equipment around, and there’s a few tons of that downstairs. That’s why hospitals restrict cell phone use in some wards.”
I tapped a wireless transceiver below the cable. “So what Markham Protective does is send that wireless signal from the cameras here instead. The cryo chamber is right below us. This transceiver grabs the signal and feeds it into the main system. The guards see the image on the monitors. What we’re doing”—I connected my own fiber-optic band to the stripped cable—“is tapping into that same signal, copying the still image, and feeding that to the monitors instead.”
I wasn’t sure Saleem understood. But he stayed quiet as I opened a laptop and plugged it into the transmitter I’d taken from my storage unit. Markham liked a cookie-cutter approach to their systems. I’d soon know for sure if they used the same frequency for all their wireless cameras. A screen came to life on the laptop, allowing me to fine-tune the transmitter’s frequency using the keyboard.
And there it was. A full-color view of a plexiglass door, with a clear plastic bar handle and words stenciled in white on the surface. Only in reverse. We were looking at the image from the camera inside the room, pointed outward. The mirror-image words read: cryogenic facility—authorized admittance only—no phone, computer, or other electronic device use permitted.
Two other cameras on the same frequency broadcast images of different corners of the chamber. It was the work of a minute to capture the images and feed them to the cable I’d spliced into the system. The monitor downstairs would cycle through the three incoming feeds, showing each in turn. Now the guards would see a chamber as placidly unoccupied as it had been all night. So long as we could make it into the cryobank without being caught on the building’s hallway cameras, we’d be invisible. And I had a plan for that.
Saleem had regained his energy and squandered it by shifting from side to side. “We must go.”
“We begin after I’ve disabled the alarms,” I said. “If you’re bored, check the perimeter. Make sure the guards haven’t found our rope.”
The Ceres guards didn’t patrol outside, but Saleem didn’t know that. Watching me type was only increasing his stress. After a moment, he strode to the edge of the roof.
That’s it, you jackoff. Take your time.
I pulled up the output from a different network cable. Despite what I’d told Saleem, it wasn’t the cryo chamber alarms. Thanks to Willard’s homework, I already had a way past those. What I was working on now was something new to me.
Ceres Biotech boasted cutting-edge environmental controls, monitoring and fine-tuning every inch of their building’s climate via a central source. Green and clean, including the cryo chamber. And its fire-suppression system.
It took me twenty minutes before I was sure I had the functions tweaked to work the way I intended.
Reasonably sure. I’d never tried a stunt like this before, and there would be no rehearsal. Saleem was back at the shed.
My ruck was mostly empty now, save for some basic tools. The laptop would stay behind, happily fulfilling the tasks I’d set in motion. Eleven-twenty now. The guard should be done with his latest round of the fourth floor.
I texted Hollis. Confirm clear? A moment later the magic word Clear appeared on my phone.
The lock on the roof door offered less resistance than the one on the telecom shed, and it wasn’t alarmed. I reached out a hand to stop Saleem. “Not yet.”
My next text was to Willard: Ready for delivery.
The wait was longer this time. I ran the mental movie of what would be happening four flights below us.
Elana, dressed in a FedEx polo and probably one of her many wigs, walking up to the main door. The guard, seeing a delivery person dropping off a package at a late hour on a holiday—not unheard of in the age of twenty-four-seven service—and leaving his post to take receipt.
Saleem’s very short patience ended. He grabbed my shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong for a slender guy.
“Do not play games,” he said. “I know you are planning to betray us. I will leave you dead right here.”
“Your bosses promised I’d live.”
Delivery now, Willard’s text confirmed. Saleem eyed it suspiciously.
“Bilal will not weep for you. And I do not care what the woman says. Go.”
I opened the door and hurried down the stairs. Saleem followed. The cold-storage container in his backpack thumped lightly with every step.
His other hand rested inside his unzipped coat. Quick access to his machine pistol. Positively salivating to rip me to pieces, once my duty to his master was complete.
Twenty-Four
At the fourth-floor landing, I stuck my head out to check the surroundings. Branching hallways curved gently in three directions, each with its own array of conference rooms. Every second ceiling light was out, conserving energy after hours. I could make out the entrance to an atrium halfway down the center hall. That should be the fastest path to the cryo chamber. I ran toward it, Saleem on my heels.
Elana would detain the guard as long as she could manage, which was considerable given her looks and charm. She’d take her time ascertaining that Timothy Gorlick, MD, PhD, chief medical officer, did in fact work at Ceres Biotech. She would bid the guard to sign here, initial here and also here, and did his family have any plans for New Year’s Day?
I didn’t pause at the atrium, trusting my memory of the blueprint. Right, and then left, and the chamber should be at the far end. Yes, there was the clear glass door. We raced to it. The second guard would be returning to the lobby before much longer. One glance at the monitors and he was sure to notice Saleem and me, dashing around the halls like mice in a maze.
The black square of a standard RFID keycard reader waited beside the clear door, its light blinking red. I could beat the reader with only a few minutes’ work, but thanks to Willard’s intel on Markham Protective, I didn’t have to take the time. The keycard I’d programmed at my storage unit had Markham’s proprietary master code. One swipe to make the light flash green as the magnetic locks on the door opened with a satisfying clunk.
I stopped to take in the sight of the cryogenic chamber. Oblong tanks, each about thirty inches high and painted a dull olive green, squatted in loose rows. Tubes connected each tank to the power station and a central cooling unit, maintaining their interiors at far below freezing. The machinery gave off a rumble that got down to the bones, like the lowest note on a double bassoon, playing forever.
Stickers in four languages warned of extreme temperatures and danger to exposed skin. More signs on the walls prompted employees to follow safety procedures—masks, glasses, aprons. An eye-wash station occupied one corner.
On the western wall, air vents made a row of black meshed columns. That would be the hypoxic air generator. The chamber’s air smelled of something akin to menthol, maybe a byproduct of the constant adjustment to the oxygen levels.
I checked my watch. Eleven-thirty-eight.
Deep breath, Shaw. This would be close.
“You’re on,” I said. “Show me which tank.” Saleem reached into his pocket to remove what looked like a stun gun. My instinctive tension eased when he used the device to scan the bar code label under the lip of the closest tank. He moved on to the second, then a third.
“This one,” Saleem said. He stepped back to give me access to the tank. The lid read warning—pyroguard seal b-16—remove only with authorization. A list of instructions followed.
/> “I can remove it,” I said, “but there might be a failsafe inside. Don’t make any quick moves. One mistake and this thing will torch every microbe in the tank.”
He nodded irritably.
The truth was the lid was designed to activate in the event of breakage, not wired with an alarm like a combination safe. Removing it was just a matter of releasing the pressure seal in the proper order as indicated. But I didn’t let Saleem in on that. I took another deep inhalation, as if I were nervous that the entire room would explode any second, and began removing screws.
In another minute I had pried the lid loose. A swirl of white vapor escaped from under the lip, cold that made my fingertips tingle even through the gloves.
Under the red lid, around the lip of the cryo tank, were six numbered indentations, most of them holding a hook at the end of a slim metal rod that extended down into the vat of supercooled nitrogen.
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the tricky part. Show me which card is the queen.”
Saleem got the gist if not the reference. “Move over there,” he said.
“I have to check the inside of the tank—”
“I am not a fool. There is no other alarm. Stand by the wall.” He drew the Steyr to make his point.
I went, cursing to myself with every step. Would he finish me right here? Once Saleem found the right vial, once he was sure of what he had, my odds of leaving this room were as low as the core temperature in the tanks.
How much time would it take? It was already eleven-forty-four. I made myself relax. Tensing up was the last thing I wanted now.
Saleem holstered the pistol and opened his backpack to remove the CXS-3001 container. When he lifted the cap a translucent wisp rose along with the vacuum plug. He set the container aside to draw a rod out of the cryo tank. At the other end of the rod was a rack of metal trays, dripping with liquid nitrogen. Tendrils of vapor swirled around the exposed tray as if trying to draw it back down into the tank.
Using a pair of rubberized tongs, Saleem selected one slim vial—like a crystal straw—from the tray and slid it with infinite care into the container.
I felt a sharp pain like someone pressing the tip of a blunt pencil between my eyes. That was the first hint. The rest of the symptoms came fast on its heels. An unconscious quickening of my breath. A slight blurring of my vision around the edges.
I concentrated on Saleem. He managed to set the cryo container down before heeling to one side. I shoved off the wall to launch myself toward him. He heard me coming and turned. His hand drew the machine pistol.
Too slow. I caught his wrist in my left hand and gripped tight, pressing the pistol against his stomach. He had realized what was happening, and his eyes were insane with fury.
We stood locked for a moment as he strained to aim the gun and I fought equally hard to keep that from happening. I let go of his shoulder with my right hand and punched him in the solar plexus. It wasn’t a great punch. I was already weakening. But it was enough. Saleem grunted and his lungs expelled the last of his air.
My legs began to buckle. Saleem’s gave out first. He slumped to the floor, his brain shutting down from hypoxia. I clumsily grasped his gun and staggered with it toward the entrance to the room. Fell to one knee. Black rushed in from the sides of my eyes.
Come on. Move. It’s right there.
I crawled the final two yards and dropped Saleem’s gun to press both hands on the door and push it to one side. The plexiglass slid open a crack.
I fell with my face at the gap and drew in huge lungfuls of air. It was warm and stale, and nothing could have tasted better in that instant.
My plan had cut things too close. Almost fatally. But I’d had no chance to practice, just guessing at the direction the wheels I’d set spinning would roll. I’d used Ceres’s environment controls to override the hypoxic generator. At eleven-forty, my laptop had ordered the generator to make the chamber’s oxygen level plummet from its usual sixteen percent down to zero. Within five minutes, the chamber was lethal. Within ten, we’d have both been dead.
I couldn’t rest. Saleem might regain consciousness any second. I picked up his gun and stood, carefully, to walk with increasing confidence back to the open vat of liquid nitro. As good a place as any for the machine pistol. I dropped the gun into the foggy mix and watched as it sank to the bottom.
The cryo bottle waited on the counter. I glanced inside it, at the delicate vial that had led to all this trouble, before screwing the cap back on.
Saleem coughed and sat up. I hit him again, much harder this time, with an elbow to the side of his head. He crumpled back to the tiled floor.
I was tempted to leave him where he lay. But that would be shortsighted. He was a foreigner caught in a secure biotechnology facility. Homeland Security would grill him like a cheap steak, and maybe the NSA would have their turn, too. It wouldn’t take long before he gave up my name.
Instead I wadded up a pink protective glove from the counter to stuff into Saleem’s mouth, and I bound his wrists and ankles with electrical cord cut from peripheral equipment around the cryobank. When I was sure he couldn’t worm his way loose, I dialed a number on my burner phone and let it ring while I pocketed the phone again.
It would take about ten seconds. I hoisted Saleem over my shoulder. I waited an extra count of ten more, to be sure, before opening the door.
Downstairs, the package Elana had dropped off with the front desk would be hissing and smoking. The guards, if they had any sense, would get far, far away from it. And the monitors.
I ran for the north stairwell, Saleem over one shoulder and the cryo bottle tucked under my arm like a football.
It was a balancing act, moving as fast as I could down three flights without dropping either burden or falling ass over teakettle. At the very bottom of the stairs was a fire exit. I was past caring if I set off any alarms. I slammed the pushbar with my hip and ran for the water.
Hollis saw me coming. Before I had reached Ceres Biotech’s rear patio deck, I heard the muffled rumble of the speedboat’s engine and the splashes of water thrown up by her propeller as the boat surged forward.
Saleem had revived. He began to struggle madly against his bonds, and I let him drop. He landed on the slats of the deck with a pained grunt. He couldn’t talk with the wad of pink glove in his mouth. But the frenzied rage in his eyes spoke volumes.
The deck ended at the water. I stopped, gasping for the air that my body still seemed desperate for after the trauma of the chamber.
“Shaw!”
The shout came on the wind. I turned to see Bilal at the corner of the building, fifty yards away. Aura joined him, coming into view almost at a run herself.
She took in the sight of me, of the boat drawing near the dock, of the precious cryo bottle in my hand. She dropped her bag and sprinted toward the dock. Hollis drew alongside and I stepped aboard. Her scream of No! was as much lupine howl as human voice.
“Go,” I said. I could make out Bilal continuing to shout, maybe to his wife, maybe to me. Then the waves slapping the hull drowned them both out as we sped away.
To our port side, a salvo of brilliant, strobing explosions filled the shoreline. White first, then yellow and blue curlicues snaking upward. The delighted whoops and screams of spectators on their boats carried over the muffled bangs of the pyrotechnics. Midnight. The new year.
“Where to?” Hollis said over the growing cacophony. “Back to the Francesca?”
“No,” I said. “Call Doc Claybeck. Tell her we’re on our way.”
“What happened? Christ, are you shot?”
“I’m fine.” I hefted the thick bottle. Sudden starbursts of red and orange filling the sky gave its enameled sheen the look of a flaming torch. “I need a professional opinion. To confirm that what I just stole is as unique as I think it is.”
Twenty-Five
Hollis piloted the speedboat through the floating audience and billows of white smoke that drifted over the lake, taking us t
oward the locks. This night’s crossing to Paula Claybeck’s house was much faster than our previous trip and heralded by the explosive show. The highest rockets of the finale were visible as we exited the ship canal and entered the Sound.
Claybeck seemed no happier to see Hollis and me this time. We stood on the dock while her dogs sniffed us, until they were satisfied that we weren’t an immediate threat. Claybeck warned us that the hounds were jumpy given the late hour and the unfamiliar noise of the fireworks. They growled faintly as if in agreement. Hollis looked like he was about to lose his latest meal.
Twenty minutes later, we were all in Claybeck’s basement clinic—Hollis and me seated on the same bench where Saleem had held us at gunpoint, the two dogs sharing a padded bed, gnawing on chew bones that looked uncomfortably like human femurs. Claybeck’s tall frame arched over a microscope as she examined the frozen contents of the cryo tube.
“I can’t be certain without thawing them,” she said, “which I can’t do safely here.”
“Best guess,” I said.
Claybeck tapped the microscope. “Three mature human eggs. Unfertilized, and viable.”
“Eggs?” Hollis said. “Like, for pregnancy and such?”
I nodded. “Aura’s.”
“Then why in hell—” Hollis snorted his exasperation. “Van, why would her eggs be in a biotech company? And why would she have to steal them?”
“I think because these are her last,” I said. “Aura has a prescription for cancer cell inhibitors. The drug is most commonly used for cases of ovarian cancer.”
“That’s possible,” Dr. Claybeck said, frowning. “Malignancy requires removal of the ovaries in nearly all cases. She might have harvested her eggs beforehand, knowing the risk.”
“It’s a theory that matches what we know, with some guesswork,” I said. “Aura was married before Bilal. To a Timothy Gorlick, who happens to be the chief medical officer of Ceres Biotech. Maybe the divorce was an angry one. Maybe there’s a custody battle over her eggs. For some reason they wound up at Ceres’s secure facility rather than some easy-to-crack cryo facility somewhere.”
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