“He says after they pulled her from the river, she was taken to a hospital.”
Tucker felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Has he seen her since?”
“No.”
Could she truly have survived?
He remembered the strong current, the icy water. He pictured Felice swimming or being pulled along by the flow, maybe finding a break in the ice, maybe radioing for rescue. If the Spetsnaz had found Felice quickly enough, there was a slight chance she could have made it.
Tucker took the Magnum away from Istvan’s knee and shoved it into his jacket pocket. The boy leaned back, gasping with relief.
Tucker was done here. As he turned away, he imagined that cunning huntress coming after him again, but he felt no fear, only certainty.
I killed you once, Felice. If I have to, I’ll do it again.
19
March 15, 1:15 P.M.
North of Volgograd, Russia
Back in the Peugeot, Tucker continued working his way south, staying off the main road. Utkin’s knowledge of the area came in very handy as he pointed to rutted tracks and cow paths that weren’t on any map.
Anya broke the exhausted silence and expressed a fear she had clearly been harboring. “What did you do with the young man from the trunk?”
“Are you asking me if I killed him?” Tucker said.
“I suppose I am.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Conditionally, he added silently. They had left Istvan duct-taped to a post at the old farmhouse. His parting words to the kid had been clear: This is your one free pass. Appear on the field of battle again and I’ll kill you.
“Please tell me you didn’t hurt him.”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
Tucker glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her blue eyes stared back at him in the reflection.
She finally turned away. “I believe you.”
Following Utkin’s directions, Tucker drove south for another thirty miles, reaching a farming community near the Volga’s banks.
“The village of Shcherbatovka,” Utkin announced.
If you say so . . .
Half the buildings were either boarded up or looked abandoned. At the far end, a narrow dirt road led in a series of sharp switchbacks from the top of a bluff to a dock that hugged the river.
They all unloaded at the foot of the pier, a ramshackle structure of oil-soaked pylons and gap-toothed wooden planks.
Utkin waved to a man seated in a lawn chair at the end. Floating listlessly beside him was what looked to be a rust-streaked houseboat. Or maybe tent boat was the better description. A blue tarpaulin stretched over the flat main deck.
Utkin talked with the man for a few minutes then returned to the car.
“He can take us to Volgograd. It will cost five thousand rubles, not including the fuel.”
The price wasn’t Tucker’s concern. “Can we trust him?”
“My friend, these people do not have telephones, televisions, or radios. Unless our pursuers plan to visit every fisherman personally between Saratov and Volgograd, I think we are safe. Besides, the people here do not like the government. Any government.”
“Fair enough.”
“In addition, I know this man well. He is a friend of my uncle. His name is Vadim. If you are in agreement, he says we can leave at nightfall.”
Tucker nodded. “Let’s do it.”
After storing their gear in the storage shed of Vadim’s boat, Tucker drove the Peugeot back toward Shcherbatovka. A mile past the village, following Utkin’s crude map, he reached a deep tributary to the Volga. He drove to the edge, put the car in neutral before turning it off, and climbed out.
Kane followed him, stretching, while searching the woods to either side.
Tucker quickly tossed the keys into the creek, got behind the car, and shouldered it into the water. He waited until the Peugeot sank sullenly out of view.
He then turned to Kane.
“Feel like a walk?”
8:30 P.M.
Captain Vadim stood on the dock, a glowing stub of a cigar clenched between his back molars. The stocky, hard man, with a week of beard scruff and hardly more stubble across his scalp, stood a head shorter than any of them. Though it was already growing colder following sunset, he wore only a shirt and a pair of stained jeans.
He waved Tucker and the others toward a plank that led from the pier to his boat. He grumbled something that Tucker took as Welcome aboard.
Anya helped Bukolov tiptoe warily across the gangplank. Kane trotted across next, followed by Tucker and Utkin.
Vadim yanked the mooring lines, hopped aboard, and pulled the gangplank back to the boat’s deck. He pointed to an outhouse-like structure that led below to the cabins and spoke rapidly.
Utkin grinned. “He says the first-class accommodations are below. Vadim has a sense of humor.”
If you could call it that, Tucker thought.
“I should take my father to his cabin,” Anya said. “He still needs some rest.”
Bukolov did look exhausted, still compromised by his concussion. He slapped at Anya’s hands as she tried to help him.
“Father, behave.”
“Quit calling me that! Makes me sound like an invalid. I can manage.”
Despite his grousing, he allowed himself to be helped below.
Tucker turned to find Kane standing at the blunted bowsprit, his nose high, taking in the scents.
That’s a happy dog.
To the west, the sun had set behind the bluffs. The afternoon’s brisk wind had died to a whisper, leaving the surface of the Volga calm. Still, underneath the surface, sluggish brown water swirled and eddied.
The Volga’s currents were notoriously dangerous.
Utkin noted his attention. “Don’t fall in. Vadim has no life rings. Also Vadim does not swim.”
“Good to know.”
With everyone aboard, Vadim hopped onto the afterdeck and took his place behind the wheel. With a rumble, the diesel engine started. Black smoke gushed from the exhaust manifolds. The captain steered the bow into the current, and they were off.
“How long to Volgograd?” Tucker asked.
Utkin glanced back to Vadim. “He says the current is faster than normal, so about ten hours or so.”
Tucker joined Kane, and after twenty minutes, Anya returned topside.
She stepped over to him. Chilled, she tugged her wool jacket tighter around her body, unconsciously accentuating her curves.
“How’s your father doing?” he asked.
“Finally sleeping.”
Together, they stared at the dark shoreline slipping past. Stars glinted crisply in the clear skies. Something brushed Tucker’s hand. He looked down to find Anya’s index finger resting atop his hand.
She noticed it and pulled her hand away, curling it in her lap. “Sorry, I did not mean to—”
“No problem,” he replied.
Tucker heard footsteps on the deck behind them. He turned as Utkin joined them at the rail.
“That’s where I grew up,” the man said, pointing downstream toward a set of lights along the west bank. “The village of Kolyshkino.”
Anya turned to him, surprised. “Your family were farmers? Truly?”
“Fishermen actually.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally.
Still, Tucker heard—and he was sure Utkin did, too—the slight note of disdain in her question and response. It was an echo of Bukolov’s similar blind condescension of the rich for the poor. Such sentiment had clearly come to bias Bukolov’s view of Utkin as a fellow colleague. Whether Anya truly felt this way, Tucker didn’t know, but parents often passed on their prejudices to their children.
Tucker considered his own upbringing. While his folks had died too young, some of his antisocial tendencies likely came from his grandfather, a man who lived alone on a ranch and was as stoic and cold as a North Dakota winter. Still, his grandfather treated hi
s cattle with a surprisingly warm touch, managing the animals with an unusual compassion. It was a lesson that struck Tucker deeply and led to many stern conversations with his grandfather about animal husbandry and responsibility.
In the end, perhaps it was only natural to walk the path trod by those who came before us. Still . . .
After a time, Anya drifted away and headed below to join her father.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tucker mumbled.
“It is not your fault,” Utkin said softly.
“I’m still sorry.”
9:22 P.M.
Belowdecks, Tucker lounged in what passed for the mess hall of the boat. It was simple and clean, with lacquered pine paneling, several green leatherette couches, and a small kitchenette, all brightly lit by bulkhead sconces.
Except for the captain, everyone had eventually wandered here, seeking the comfort of community. Even Bukolov joined them, looking brighter after his nap, more his old irascible self.
Tucker passed out snacks and drinks, including some jerky he’d found for Kane. The shepherd sat near the ladder, happily gnawing on a chunk.
Eventually, Tucker sat across from Bukolov and placed his palms on the dining table. “Doctor, it’s high time we had another chat.”
“About what? You’re not going to threaten us again, are you? I won’t stand for that.”
“What do you know about Artur Kharzin, a general tied to Russian military intelligence?”
“I don’t know anything about him. Should I?”
“He’s the one hunting us. Kharzin seems to think your work involves biological weapons. So convinced, in fact, he’s ordered all of us killed—except you, of course.” He turned to Anya. “What do you make of all of this?”
“You’ll have to ask my father.” She crossed her arms. “This is his discovery.”
“Then let’s start with a simpler question. Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“I know who you claim to be, but I also know you’ve been pumping me for information since we met. You’re very good at it, actually, but not good enough.”
Actually he wasn’t as confident on this last point as he pretended to be. While Anya had asked a lot of questions, such inquiries could just as easily be born of innocent curiosity and concern for her father.
“Why are you doing this?” Anya shot back. “I thought such suspicions were settled back in Dimitrovgrad.”
“And then we were ambushed. So tell me what I want to know—or I can take this discussion with your father in private. He won’t like that.”
She stared with raw-eyed concern and love toward Bukolov. Then with a shake of her head, she touched her father’s forearm, moving her hand down to his hand. She gripped it tightly, possessively.
Bukolov finally placed his hand over hers. “It’s okay. Tell him.”
Anya looked up at him, her eyes glassy with tears. “I’m not his daughter.”
Tucker had to force the shock not to show on his face. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.
“My name is Anya Malinov, but I’m not Doctor Bukolov’s daughter.”
“But why lie about it?” Tucker asked.
Anya glanced away, looking ashamed. “I suggested this ruse to Abram. I thought, if he told you that I was his daughter, you would be more inclined to take me with you.”
“You must understand,” Bukolov stressed. “Anya is critical to my work. I could not risk your refusing to bring her along.”
No wonder this part of the plan was kept from Harper.
“But I meant what I said before,” Bukolov pressed. “Anya is critical to my work.”
“And what is that work? I’m done with these lies. I want answers.”
Bukolov finally caved. “I suppose you have earned an explanation. But this is very complicated. You may not understand.”
“Try me.”
“Very well. What do you know about earth’s primordial history? Specifically about plant life that would have existed, say, seven hundred million years ago?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Understandable. For many decades, a hypothesis has been circulating in scientific communities about something called LUCA—Last Universal Common Ancestor. Essentially we’re talking about the earth’s first multicellular plant. In other words, the seed or genesis for each and every plant that has ever existed on the earth. If LUCA is real—and I believe it is—it is the progenitor of every plant form on this planet, from tomatoes and orchids, to dandelions and Venus flytraps.”
“You used the word hypothesis, not theory,” said Tucker. “No one has ever encountered LUCA before?”
“Yes and no. I’ll get to that shortly. But first consider stem cells. They are cells that hold the potential to become any other cell in the human body if coaxed just right. A blank genetic slate, so to speak. By manipulating stem cells, scientists have been able to grow an ear on a mouse’s back. They’ve grown an entire liver in a laboratory, as if from thin air. I think you can appreciate the significance of such a line of research. Stem cell research is already a multibillion-dollar industry. And will only escalate. It is the future of medicine.”
“Go on.”
“To simplify it to the basics, I believe LUCA is to plant life what stem cells are to animal life. But why is that important? I’ll give you an example. Say someone discovers a new form of flower in Brazil that treats prostate cancer. But the rain forests are almost gone. Or the flower is almost extinct. Or maybe the drug is prohibitively expensive to synthesize. With LUCA, those problems vanish. With LUCA, you simply carbon-copy the plant in question.”
Bukolov grew more animated and grandiose. “Or, better yet, you use LUCA to replenish the rain forest itself. Or use LUCA in combination with, say, soybeans, to turn barren wastelands into arable land. Do you see the potential now?”
Tucker leaned back. “Let me make sure I understand. If you’re right, LUCA can replicate any plant life because in the beginning, it was all plant life. It’s as much of a genetic blank slate as stem cells.”
“Yes, yes. I also believe it can accelerate growth. LUCA is not just a replicator species, but a booster as well.”
Anya nodded, chiming in. “We can make flora hardier. Imagine potatoes or rice that could thrive where only cacti could before.”
“All this sounds great, but didn’t you say this was all an unproven hypothesis?”
“It is,” Bukolov said, his eyes glinting. “But not for much longer. I’m about to change the world.”
20
March 15, 9:50 P.M.
The Volga River, Russia
Tucker turned the conversation from world-changing scientific discoveries to more practical questions. Like why someone was trying to kill them?
“Back to this General Kharzin,” Tucker said.
“Since we are done with the lies,” Bukolov said, “I do know him. Not personally, just by reputation. I’m sorry. I do not trust people easily. It took me many months before I even told Anya about LUCA.”
“What do you know about him? What’s his reputation?”
“In a word. He’s a monster. Back in the eighties, Kharzin was in charge of Arzamas-16, outside of Kazan. After that military weapons research facility was shut down, its archives were transferred to the Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics in Kazan.”
“And then, years later they were moved into storage vaults at the Kazan Kremlin,” Anya added.
“All along, Kharzin was a true believer in LUCA—though his scientists called it something different back then. But he only saw its destructive potential.”
“Which is?”
“What you must understand, the primordial world was once a much harsher place. In its original habitat, such a life-form would have been highly aggressive. It would have to be to survive. If let loose today, with no defenses against it, I believe—as did Kharzin—that it would be unstoppable.”
Tucker was beginning to see the danger.
Bukolov continued. “LUCA’s primary purpose is to hijack nearby plant cells and modify them to match its own, so it can reproduce—rapidly, much like a virus. It has the potential to be the world’s most deadly and relentless invasive species.”
Tucker understood how this could easily become a weapon. If released upon an enemy, it could wipe out the country’s entire agricultural industry, devastating the land without a single shot being fired.
“So how far along are you with this research?” he asked. “You and Kharzin?”
“In the past, we’ve been running parallel lines of research, trying to reverse-engineer plant life to create LUCA or a LUCA-like organism in the lab. My goal was to better the world. His was to turn LUCA into a weapon. But we both ran into two problems.”
“Which were what?”
“First, neither of us could create a viable specimen that was stable. Second, neither of us could figure out how to control such a life-form if we succeeded.”
Tucker nodded. “For Kharzin, his biological bomb needed an off switch.”
“Without it, he wouldn’t be able to control it. He couldn’t safely use it as a weapon. If it is released without safeguards in place, LUCA runs the risk of spreading globally, wiping out ecosystem after ecosystem. In the end, it could pose as much risk to Russia as Kharzin’s enemies.”
“So what suddenly changed?” Tucker asked. “What set this manhunt in motion? Why do you need to leave Russia so suddenly?”
Clearly the old impasse between the two of them had broken.
“Because I believe I know where to find a sample of LUCA . . . or at least its closest descendant.”
Tucker nodded. “And Kharzin learned of your discovery. He came after you.”
“I could not let him get to it first. You understand that, yes?”
He did. “But where is this sample? How did you learn about it?”
“From Paulos de Klerk. The answer has been under our noses for over a century.”
Tucker remembered Bukolov’s story about the Boer botanist, about his journals being prized throughout the academic world.
“You see, over the years, I’ve managed to collect portions of his diaries and journals. Most of it in secret. Not an easy process as the man created great volumes of papers and accounts, much of it scattered and lost or buried in unprocessed archives. But slowly I was able to start collating the most pertinent sections. Like those last papers Anya smuggled out of the Kremlin.”
Kill Switch (9780062135285) Page 16