Harper paused, digesting the information. Tucker pictured her removing her thick set of librarian glasses and rubbing her eyes. Finally she spoke again. “How confident are you about this kill switch, Doctor?”
“I’m sure I can develop it. Even De Klerk hinted at the possibility in his diary. I just need a sample.”
“From some lost cave in South Africa?” Harper added.
“Yes.”
“And you think you can find this cave?”
“I believe so. Before I burned the page that explained its location, I set it to memory. But De Klerk plainly feared this organism, even bestowing it with the ominous title Die Apokalips Saad. He was so frightened that he encrypted his words, couching the route to the cave in obscure terms.”
“Can you recite it now? Give us an example?”
“Here is how it starts.” Bukolov formed a steeple of his fingers as he concentrated. “ ‘From Grietje’s Well at Melkboschkuil . . . bear twenty-five degrees for a distance of 289,182 krags . . . there you find what is hidden beneath the Boar’s Head Waterval.’ ”
Harper didn’t speak immediately. Tucker could almost feel the frustration coming through the speakerphone. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a damned thing,” Bukolov said. “I tried for a solid week after finding this page. None of the locations are on any map. Not Grietje’s Well. Not Melkboschkuil. Not that Boar’s Head Waterfall. And as far as I could ascertain, there is no unit of measurement called a krag.”
Bukolov tossed his arms in the air. “It’s one of the reasons I called out to you all. Surely you’ve got cryptographers and map experts who could decipher it. Get us on the right path to that cave.”
“I will see what I can do,” Harper said. “Give me a couple of hours—let me do some research—and we’ll reconvene here.”
The line went dead.
As they all headed out, Anya reached an arm toward Bukolov, clearly wanting to talk, to smooth matters between them. When he ignored her, Tucker read the pain in her face, the crush of her posture. She stood in the hall for a long breath, watching the man stalk off.
When she turned away, he caught a glimpse of a single tear roll across a perfect cheekbone.
It seemed betrayal wore many faces.
10:22 A.M.
Tucker used the break to walk Kane amid the courtyards of the embassy. He had been ordered not to venture beyond its gates. The multilevel compound—with its industrial white walls and rows of cell-like windows—looked more like a maximum-security prison than a consulate.
Still, the small gardens inside were handsome, blooming with purplish-pink crocuses and tangled with roses. But best of all, the warm Turkish sun helped melt the residual Russian ice from his bones and thoughts.
Even Kane had more of a dance to his step as he sniffed every corner and bush.
But soon Tucker was back inside, back at the conference table.
“I may have a couple pieces of the puzzle worked out,” Harper announced as she came back on the line. “But I fear until we have boots on the ground in South Africa, the location of the cave will remain a mystery. From these obscure references, I believe De Klerk was trying to hide some meaning or significance that would only make sense to another Boer of his time.”
Bukolov leaned closer. “Understandable. The Boer were notorious xenophobes, suspicious of other people and races, and especially paranoid about the British. But you said you had a couple of the clues solved. What did you learn?”
“It took consulting with a handful of Smithsonian historians, but we may have figured out De Klerk’s reference to krag as a unit of measurement.”
“What is it?” Anya asked.
“During the fighting back then, a common weapon used widely by Boer troops was a Norwegian rifle called an M1894 Krag-Jørgensen. Over time, it became simply known as a krag. The rifle was thirty-nine inches long. If we assume that was De Klerk’s unit of measurement, the distance he described is around 178 miles.”
Bukolov sat straighter, some of his normal spunk returning. “So we now know the distance from Grietje’s Well to the Boar’s Head Waterfall!”
“And not much else,” Harper added, quickly popping that balloon. “I suspect the Boar’s Head Waterfall—where this cave is hidden—is not so much a name as what the place looks like, some local landmark that you have to see to recognize.”
“So obviously something that looks like the head of a boar,” Tucker said.
“And that’s why we’ll need boots on the ground. We need someone scouring that location, likely on foot or horseback.”
“To view the place from the same vantage as De Klerk did in the past,” Anya said.
“Exactly.” Harper shifted the topic. “But to even get there, we need to know where to start, where to set out from. Without that information, we’re nowhere.”
Bukolov nodded. “We must figure out what De Klerk meant by Grietje’s Well at Melkboschkuil.”
“Which brings me to the second piece of the puzzle we’ve solved. The historians determined that there once was a farm called Melkboschkuil, owned by the Cloete family, located in the Northern Cape province of South Africa. It’s historically significant because the farmstead eventually prospered and grew into the present-day city of Springbok.”
“Then that’s where we must go!” Bukolov slapped a palm on the table. “To Springbok . . . to find this Grietje’s Well. Then it’s a simple matter to measure out 178 miles at a compass bearing of twenty-five degrees, like De Klerk wrote, and look for this Boar’s Head near a waterfall. That’s where we’ll find the cave!”
Is that all we have to do? Tucker thought sourly.
Harper also lacked the good doctor’s confidence. “The only problem is I could find no reference to a place called Grietje’s Well. It’s likely a place known only to the locals of De Klerk’s time. All we’ve been able to determine is that Grietje is Dutch for ‘Wilma.’ ”
“So then we’re looking for Wilma’s Well,” Tucker said.
“That’s about it,” Harper conceded. “Like I said. We need boots on the ground.”
“And I intend to be a pair of those boots,” Bukolov said. “My knowledge of De Klerk may prove the difference between success and failure out there.”
Anya stirred, too, clearly wanting to go. Like the doctor, she was also well versed in De Klerk’s work—and if anything, more stable.
“Understood,” Harper said. “But all this presents one other problem.”
Tucker didn’t like the note of warning in the her tone; even her southern lilt grew heavier.
“If you draw a line from Springbok along De Klerk’s bearing, it puts you squarely into the Groot Karas Mountains—in the country of Namibia.”
Tucker took a deep breath and let it out audibly.
“What?” Anya asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Namibia is in the middle of a bloody war,” Tucker explained. “Between government forces and guerrillas.”
“And those guerrillas,” Harper added, “hold those mountains. They’re particularly fond of kidnapping foreigners and holding them for ransom.”
Bukolov puffed loudly, clearly frustrated. “There has to be a way. We cannot abandon the search now.”
“We’re not, but if you go, I wanted you to understand what you could be facing out there. I’ll arrange some local assets to assist you in Africa, but it’ll be far from safe.”
Bukolov shook his head. “I must go! We must try! Before Kharzin finds some other means to discover that cave. Utkin only saw that map page briefly before I burned it, but I don’t know how much he retained or shared. And maybe I inadvertently mentioned something to him. I simply don’t know.”
Anya spoke with more certainty. “What I do know is that General Kharzin won’t stop. Most everyone at the SVR detests him. He’s a Cold War–era warrior, a real dinosaur. He believes Russia’s brightest days died with Stalin. If Utkin has been feeding him intelligence all along, then he understand
s LUCA’s potential as a weapon. Properly introduced into an ecosystem—like a rice paddy in Japan—a single speck of LUCA would systematically destroy that ecosystem. And not just that rice paddy, but all of them.”
“That must not happen,” Bukolov pressed.
“I agree,” Harper said. “I’ll begin making arrangements.”
11:10 A.M.
After settling some minor issues, Harper asked to speak to Tucker alone.
“Have we made a devil’s deal here, Tucker? Part of me thinks we should just firebomb this cave if we find it.”
“It may come down to that. But you’ve also made one hell of an assumption.”
“Which is what?”
“That Kane and I are going to Africa.”
“What? After everything we just discussed, you’d consider bailing out?”
Tucker chuckled. “No, but a girl likes to be asked to the dance.”
Harper laughed in return. “Consider yourself asked. So what’s your assessment of Anya and Bukolov. He plainly doesn’t want her along.”
“I say that’s his problem. Anya’s earned her place on this mission.”
“I agree. She seems to know almost as much about LUCA as he does. And considering the stakes, it wouldn’t hurt to have a different perspective on things. But the good doctor will not like it.”
Tucker sighed. “The sooner Bukolov learns that his tantrums will get him nowhere, the better it will be for everyone once he reaches the United States.”
“How soon can you get me a list of supplies you’ll need?”
“A couple hours. I want to be under way tonight. In Springbok by noon.”
“Understood.”
“And I need to ask a couple of favors.”
“Name them.”
“First, find the family of the Beriev pilot.” Elena. “Make sure they know where to find her body and reimburse them for the Beriev.”
“And second?”
“Make sure Utkin’s body is returned to his family. They’re in a village called Kolyshkino on the Volga River.”
“Why? The man betrayed you—almost got you all killed.”
“But in the end, he saved us. And I respect that last act.”
Naive or not, Tucker wanted to believe that maybe Anya was right. That Utkin had been forced against his will to betray them. But he would never know for sure. And maybe it was better that way.
“Sounds as though you liked him.” Harper’s voice went unusually soft, as if sensing the depth of his regret.
“I suppose I did. It’s hard to explain.”
Thankfully she let it go at that.
“Okay, I’ll handle everything. But what about sending additional muscle your way, something beyond a few local assets?”
“I think small is better.”
Besides, Tucker had all the help he needed and trusted in the form of his four-legged partner.
“You may be right,” Harper agreed. “South Africa’s security agencies run a tight ship. You show up big and loud, and they’ll be all over you.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Now, I have to ask something difficult of you,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“If you get to that cave and things go sour, you make damned sure LUCA doesn’t see the light of day. No matter the cost. Or casualties. Is that understood?”
Tucker inhaled deeply. “I’ll get it done.”
3:34 P.M.
A soft knock on his door woke him out of a slight drowse. Kane lifted his head from Tucker’s chest as the two lay sprawled on the bed, napping in the day’s heat.
Tucker, still in his clothes, rolled to his feet and placed his face in his hands.
Who the hell . . .
Kane hopped down, sidled to the door, and sniffed along the bottom. His tail began to wag. Someone he knew.
“Tucker, are you awake?” a voice called through the door.
Anya.
He groaned, stepped over, and unlocked the door. He wiped his eyes blearily. “What’s wrong?”
Something better be wrong.
Anya stood in the doorway, wearing a peach-colored sundress. She smoothed it over her hips self-consciously with her good hand. “One of the consulate wives gave it to me. I’m sorry, you were sleeping, weren’t you?”
She began to step away.
“No. It’s all right. Come in.”
“I should probably be sleeping, too. But every time I lie down . . .” She walked over to the side chair across from the bed and sat down. “I’m frightened, Tucker.”
“Of going to South Africa?”
“Of course, that. But mostly about what happens after all this. Once we’re in America.”
“Anya, the government will give you a new identity, a new place to live. And with your background, you’ll have no trouble finding work. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be alone. Everything I know will be gone. Even Bukolov. You heard him. He’ll barely talk to me now.”
“Maybe he’ll calm down and eventually understand.”
She picked slightly at her cast, her voice growing pained. “He won’t. I know him.”
Tucker knew she was right. Bukolov was single-minded and emotionally inflexible. Now that he had De Klerk’s diary in hand, Anya was no longer indispensable to his work. And in addition she had proven herself untrustworthy. For Bukolov, both of these sins were unpardonable.
Anya was right. Once in America, she would be alone. Rudderless. She would need friends.
With a sigh, he reached across and squeezed her hand.
“You’ll know at least one person in the States,” he reassured her.
Kane thumped his tail.
“Make that two,” he added.
28
March 19, 12:02 P.M.
Cape Town, South Africa
As Tucker set foot off the plane’s stairway and onto the hot tarmac of Cape Town’s International Airport, a shout rose ahead. They had landed at a private terminal, shuttled here by corporate jet—a Gulfstream V—arranged by Harper.
“Mr. Wayne, sir! Over here!”
He turned to see a tall, thin black man in his midtwenties trotting toward him. He wore charcoal slacks and a starched white shirt. He gave Tucker a broad smile and stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Tucker Wayne, I presume.”
He took the man’s hand. “And you are?”
“Christopher Nkomo.”
Kane came trotting down behind him, sliding next to Tucker, sniffing at the stranger, sizing him up.
“My goodness,” the man said, “who is this fine animal?”
“That would be Kane.”
“He’s magnificent!”
No argument there.
Bukolov and Anya came next, shielding their eyes, as they joined him. Introductions were made all around.
“What tribe are you?” Anya asked, then blurted out, “Oh, is that impolite to ask? I’m sorry.”
“Not at all, missus. I am of the Ndebele tribe.”
“And your language?”
“We speak Xhosa.” He waved and guided them across the tarmac toward a nest of parked Cessnas and other smaller aircraft. “But I went to university here, studying business administration and English.”
“It shows,” said Tucker.
“Very kind of you.” He finally stopped before a single-engine plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan. It was already being serviced for flight. “With your patience, we will get all your baggage loaded quickly.”
Christopher was a man of his word. It was accomplished in a matter of minutes.
“Your pilot will be with you shortly,” he said, clambering up the short ladder and through the Cessna’s side door. A moment later, he hopped back out, his head now adorned with a blue pilot’s cap. “Welcome aboard. My name is Christopher Nkomo, and I will be your pilot today.”
Tucker matched his grin. “You’ll be flying us?”
“Myself and my older brother, Matthew.”
A
thin arm stuck out from the side window next to the copilot’s seat.
“No worries,” Christopher said. “I am a very good pilot and I know this land and its history like the palm of my hand. I hear you all are Boer historians, and that I am to assist you however I can.”
From the tone of the man’s voice, he knew they weren’t historians. Harper clearly must have debriefed Christopher about the goal of their mission here.
“I am especially familiar with Springbok. My cousin has a home there. So if we are all ready, let us get aboard.”
Bukolov and Anya needed no coaxing to climb out of the sun and into the dark, air-conditioned interior. Bukolov took the seat farthest from Anya. The doctor was not happy to have her along, but back in Istanbul, Tucker had left him no choice.
Tucker hung back with Christopher. “The supplies I asked for?”
“Come see.”
Christopher lifted a hatch to reveal a storage space neatly packed with supplies. He pulled out a clipboard and handed it to Tucker. It listed the contents: potable water, dehydrated meals, first-aid kits, maps and compasses, knives, hatchets, a small but well-stocked toolbox.
“As for weapons and ammunition,” the man said, “I was not able to provide all the exact models you requested. I took the liberty of using my own judgment.”
He pulled that list out of a back pocket and passed it over.
Tucker scanned it and nodded. “Nicely done. Hopefully we won’t need any of it.”
“God willing,” Christopher replied.
1:38 P.M.
Tucker stared at the passing landscape as the Cessna droned toward their destination. Buckled opposite Tucker, Kane matched his pose, his nose pressed to the window.
The scenery north of Cape Town was hypnotically beautiful: a dry moonscape of reddish-brown earth and savannah, broken up by saw-toothed hills. Tiny settlements dotted the countryside, surrounded by brighter patches of green scrub.
At last, Christopher swung the Cessna into a gentle bank that took them over Springbok. The town of nine thousand lay nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling granite peaks, called the Klein Koperberge, or Small Copper Mountains.
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