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by Judith Reeves-Stevens

  “Of course. Dom’s in the hospital. I told her everything. Except about David. I told her my first talk with him was inconclusive but that I’d be following up.”

  Willem’s face clouded with concern.

  “What’s wrong now?” Jess asked.

  “It makes sense that I didn’t hear anything about last night. They could be trying to get word to me in Iceland. But for no one to have told me about what happened in Canada—Jessie, that’s almost a month ago. Any time there’s an attempt on a defender’s life, we all have to know. For our own safety.”

  “But . . . Su-Lin knew. I had helicopters following me in Zurich. Decoys.”

  Willem shook his head. “That’s standard for any of us there. Something’s wrong.” His eyes flicked to the side, caught by some movement at the back of the church.

  Reverend Enright was waving a hand at them, walking toward them. “Mr. Tasman?”

  Willem got to his feet. “Whatever you find out from this David Weir, tell me first. Not Su-Lin.”

  “Willem, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “We’re all supposed to know everything. The Twelve Restored. No secrets.” His eyes locked on hers. “Su-Lin’s holding something back.”

  Any solace that St. Paul’s had offered Jess evaporated.

  “Don’t trust her,” Willem said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “What happened?”

  Such a simple question. Such a complicated set of answers, none of them good.

  Su-Lin Rodrigues, Defender of São Paulo, considered the image on the small video conference screen on her desk. The huge window behind the Defender of New York was flooded with daylight. Andrew McCleary’s forty-fifth-floor view of Manhattan would be impressive today. Here in Zurich, her office had no windows. Only carbon-fiber-augmented, blast-proof walls. Individual defenders on their own, as Andrew was in New York, were well guarded, so elaborate security measures weren’t often needed. The MacCleirigh Foundation building, however, made a tempting target for the Family’s enemies.

  “You said our associate in the Ironwood organization wouldn’t fail a second time.”

  For that, at least, there was a straightforward explanation.

  “He didn’t. He subcontracted the assignment.”

  “We should have handled this ourselves.”

  Su-Lin preferred to have Andrew’s cooperation but, if necessary, she was prepared to act on her own. Even in the best of times the Family was a fragile construct. If a schism among the twelve defenders were even suspected, it was all but certain the Family would splinter into opposing factions. That, inevitably, would lead to the revelation of its existence and the collapse of the Foundation.

  “There’s no need to panic, Andrew. You and I eliminated Florian without direct involvement, and—”

  He interrupted. “But we needed to be rid of them both! Jessica is just as dangerous to us as Florian ever was. You know what will happen if more temples are found.”

  He was right. For generations the MacCleirigh Foundation had thrived because its members supported it with devout zeal and no thought of personal reward. The Foundation’s steadily accumulating wealth and influence were simply regarded as secular by-products of the Family’s holy mission, set by the First Gods themselves: to defend the First Gods’ Secret until their return.

  For generations that status quo existed undisturbed, and the flock in turn became gullible and easily led because, in truth, the Twelve Restored were no longer defending some mythical Secret. They were defending the Foundation’s assets. Then the first temple had been found, and what once had been myth became reality. Many within the Family now believed the discovery heralded the imminent return of the First Gods and the completion of the Family’s mission.

  To Su-Lin and her closest ally, Andrew, it heralded the potential end of the Foundation itself and, more importantly, control of the MacCleirigh billions.

  “No more temples will be found, Andrew. At least, none that’ll last long enough for the Family to examine.”

  “What about Havi Atoll?”

  “The demolition team is on-site. It’ll be dealt with by the end of the week.”

  “And if Ironwood finds another?”

  “Then our associate will inform us, and we’ll take care of that one, as well.” Su-Lin was losing patience. With the current state of the world economy, managing the Foundation’s holdings deserved her ongoing attention more than Andrew did. Four displays beside the video conference screen streamed disappointing data from New York, the NASDAQ, Toronto, and the Bolsa de Valores de São Paulo. It was another bad day. She was needed elsewhere.

  “Focus on the positive aspect of this, Andrew. As long as we destroy the temples whenever and wherever they’re found, the Foundation remains safe.”

  “Only if no one else finds out what we’ve done.”

  “How could they?”

  “A third attempt on Jessica can’t help but raise suspicion.”

  “There’s always confinement.”

  “That’s no longer an option.”

  Su-Lin’s voice sharpened. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “Willem’s in Boston. He was at the memorial. He spoke with Jessica.”

  “Why didn’t your people stop him?”

  “They never saw him. My source was the memorial officiant. She called the firm to inquire about Florian’s regular donations—if they’d be continuing.”

  Su-Lin shut off her financial displays. As a team, Willem and Florian had represented a real and present danger to the Foundation’s security. Given Florian’s penchant for fieldwork in remote and often dangerous areas, she’d been the less troublesome of the two to eliminate. Her death while on expedition had raised no questions. Her rebellious successor should just as easily have been terminated during a violent protest against a Canadian pipeline, with her death a regrettable coincidence. Instead, with Jessica still alive and Willem now in contact with her, it was as if nothing had changed: The Foundation was still in peril.

  “We have to assume they told each other everything.”

  “About his and Florian’s theories, the attempts on her life, yes, of course. But as yet they have no reason to suspect our involvement.”

  “Unless we do something foolish and confine Jessica to the Shop.”

  “I agree. Willem would ask too many questions.”

  “No more half measures, then.”

  “No more subcontracting.”

  “I’ll send someone I can trust. To bring her back to Zurich.”

  “How does that help?”

  “Her plane won’t make it.”

  “Expensive, but . . . for the best. And Willem?”

  “Use your firm’s people to find him. No Family involvement.”

  “And once they’ve found him?”

  “We have to know if he’s talked to anyone else. Especially Emil or Victoria. They’d be vulnerable to his theories.”

  “Knowing Willem, finding that out could be a lengthy affair.”

  “For the sake of the Family, cousin, we don’t have a choice.”

  “For the sake of the Family . . . What about Ironwood?”

  “Not our concern.”

  “Even if he keeps finding temples?”

  Su-Lin switched on the financial displays. This crisis, like others she’d dealt with before, now had its solution.

  “That’s over, Andrew. Our associate tells me that however Ironwood managed to make those discoveries, he won’t be making any more.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Armed with a 9 mm Glock and a new matte-black, KA-BAR Becker knife, Merrit exited the elevator, prepared to kill.

  He felt no more personal responsibility for what was going to happen than would the bullet he’d fire from his gun. Viewed rationally, the target had caused his own death, a marked man the instant he stole from the military and could link Ironwood to his actions.

  Merrit nodded to the security guard in the private elevator a
lcove and continued on his way. He had full access throughout the resort, even here. Most of the fortieth floor in the South Tower of Ironwood’s casino was reserved for whales—those gamblers who could be counted on to regularly lose millions, no matter how troubled the economy. There were twenty-two private suites on this level, each at least eighteen hundred square feet, some larger, with Jacuzzis and lap pools, screening rooms and fireplaces, gourmet kitchens and mirrored ceilings: as many pleasures and distractions as required to keep the whales from migrating along the boardwalk to the Taj Mahal or Caesars.

  It had only taken a few words to Ironwood about the attack on the warehouse lab—Merrit had been careful to call it an attempted robbery—and the target and his computers were promptly shifted to a safer location, within Encounters.

  Merrit straightened his sports coat and his shoulder holster, then pressed the call button on the suite’s door-entry panel.

  A moment longer than he liked, the door swung open.

  “Merrit.” David Weir’s surprise was an unspoken question.

  Merrit pushed past him, into the marble-tiled hallway, through to the great room. “Get packed.”

  “What’s up?”

  Weir closed the door and followed him into the high-ceilinged room. Here, black club chairs on thick white shag carpeting were angled toward a black-and-white-veined marble fireplace and a wall of windows that showcased the Atlantic. This time of night, though, even the ocean views were black. There was little to see but the navigation lights of passing ships and watercraft.

  Merrit walked to the windows, found their controls, and started the heavy blackout curtains along their track. At the same time, he scanned the room to confirm they were alone. The usual inhabitants of rooms like this were seldom on their own. Weir, it seemed, did not need company.

  “What’s going on?” Weir asked.

  “You’re getting an apartment in the Marina.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Weir gestured to the dining alcove. The large glass-topped table in the mirrored room was covered with new, high-end computer equipment. “This is all the room I need. No commute, and I get room service.”

  “Not anymore. The suite’s too expensive.” It was the perfect explanation for anyone who knew Ironwood. “Get your jacket.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  Weir didn’t look happy, but his shrug conveyed acceptance. “Okay, but I have to make a stop first.” He hit a few keys on his computer, then picked up something rectangular encased in shiny silver. A computer hard drive. “I found another cluster for him.”

  Merrit held out his hand. “I’ll deliver it.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.” Weir checked his watch. “He’s on some conference call to Hong Kong right now, and as soon as he’s done, he wants to see me.”

  Merrit adapted smoothly. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Weir stopped at the hall closet and pulled out a jacket.

  Merrit held the suite’s door open. “Don’t mention the Marina. He’s liable to change his mind and send you back to the sticks to save himself a few bucks.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Merrit closed the door behind him, his plan unchanged. Weir would still be dead by midnight.

  “England?”

  “Southwest tip,” David said. “About a thousand square kilometers.”

  “Cornwall!” Ironwood beamed. If this fourth cluster proved out like the last three, he’d have the new outpost’s location within a mile—without using any of his expensive toys.

  He paused as a new thought struck him, held up Dave’s shiny hard drive, its glossy metal case reflecting the Roswell Suite’s warm desert colors. A comfortable thirty-five hundred square feet, the penthouse was decked out in full Santa Fe style, complete with a two-hundred-strong cactus garden and a series of original Georgia O’Keeffes on faux adobe walls.

  “I seem to remember you saying you’d need a month or more to come up with this.”

  “The new database from Santa Cruz. It’s perfect for my kind of research—smaller, presorted. Saved me time.”

  “Okay, then . . . You boys want a drink?”

  “Sure,” David said.

  Merrit shook his head a touch too emphatically.

  Ironwood looked from one to the other and back again. “In the kitchen, Merrit. Diet cola. Lots of ice. Thanks so much.”

  Merrit disappeared down a long hallway bordered on either side by tall ficus trees in terra-cotta pots.

  “How’s he treating you?” Ironwood asked.

  “Fine.” David’s answer came a touch too quickly.

  “Un-huh.” It was time to have a talk with his security chief. David Weir was a valuable resource, to be handled with care. “Well, don’t forget you work for me, not him. I don’t want him interfering.”

  Ironwood picked up the phone and speed-dialed his son, who answered after one too many rings. A cacophony of sounds assaulted him. The gaming floor.

  “Get up here.” He disconnected without waiting for J.R.’s reply.

  Merrit was back from the kitchen, carrying two tall green glass tumblers, filled to the brim with cola and clinking ice.

  Ironwood took his and tapped it against David’s. “To truth.”

  David tapped back. “And justice and the American way.”

  Ironwood heard the cynicism in the young tech’s voice. “Still not buying it, are you?”

  “About aliens? No.”

  “Got a better theory yet?’

  “Yeah. The nonhuman polymorphisms are SINEs.”

  Ironwood grinned appreciatively and glanced at his security chief. “This boy just goes down fighting, doesn’t he?” Drink in hand, he ambled back to the huge, overstuffed couch and its mounds of canvas pillows worked in traditional Navajo designs. He swept the newspapers to the side and settled back.

  David took one of two matching chairs. Merrit stayed on his feet. “Someplace else you have to be?” Ironwood asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then take a load off.” Ironwood raised his glass as Merrit reluctantly sat down on the second chair. “So, SINEs . . .”

  “Short interspersed elements. Retroposons.”

  “Which tells me exactly nothing.”

  “A type of noncoding DNA.”

  Ironwood had no time for jargon, technical or otherwise, but he wanted to be sure he missed nothing of importance. “Meaning a little bit of DNA that doesn’t actually do anything.”

  “Not as far as we know,” David admitted. “But the interesting thing—depending on whose study you look at, of course—is that it accounts for anywhere between ninety-five to ninety-eight percent of human DNA. About fifty percent of that, in turn, is just endless repetitions of small sequences.”

  Ironwood took a sip of cola before answering. “I know all about junk DNA, Dave. It’s one of the best indications that something other than evolution’s been tinkering with human genes.”

  He took a moment to enjoy his young researcher’s instantly wary look. “In fact, I’ve been told that for every other animal species on the planet, junk DNA shows up in regularly spaced safety zones or some such . . . you know, separating the active genes from each other.”

  Ironwood used his free hand to indicate a series of building blocks. “Here’s an active gene, then bang—bang—bang—fifty thousand repetitions of pure junk and then—bang! Another active gene. Then another fifty thousand repetitions, and so on and so forth. Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I believe that uniform distribution is what you academic types call statistically smooth.

  “But now, if we’re talking human DNA? There’s nothing uniform about that. A bunch of ‘active’ genes strung all together, then a few hundred thousand repetitions, then another ‘active’ gene, then maybe only two thousand repeats. Whatever. It’s all a big mess. Completely random. Like someone got in there and moved things around willy-nilly. Like we were designed by committee, as the old joke goes.”
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  Predictably, David did not agree with him. “All of nature’s random. Evolution is fueled by random events.”

  “I know the standard screed, son. And I quote: ‘When a random mutation confers an advantage, that particular animal has more offspring, so the mutation expands through a population generation after generation.’ What you’re forgetting is that it’s only a mutation’s first appearance that’s random. As soon as it appears, and it’s useful, then random stops.” Ironwood snapped his fingers for effect. He glanced again at Merrit, but the security chief was checking something on his phone, his attention elsewhere. “Seems to me, Dave, you’re deliberately missing the whole point of what I’m saying: Natural evolution created a regular pattern in every animal’s genome—except for ours.”

  David took the bait. He was already shaking his head. “Look, what you’re forgetting is that we’re a pretty recent species. As far as anyone knows, modern humans have only been around about two hundred, two hundred fifty thousand years on the outside. Most geneticists would say that’s probably not long enough for a clear pattern to even show up in our genome.”

  “You’re missing a key point, son. I’m not talking humans. I’m talking hominins. All the species and variations that led to Homo sapiens. Going back two million years to Homo habilis. Heck, even further back, like about fifty million years ago, when our branch of mammals essentially stopped adding more of that noncoding junk DNA. But the rats? They’re still adding it. And what I want to know is: Why’s our DNA and our genetic development so much different from every other natural species on this planet? Answer me that, if you can.”

  He lifted his glass in a mock salute, then coughed as David surprised him.

  “I don’t have a problem with aliens visiting Earth. I’m just saying there’s no evidence yet that convinces me it’s already happened. But if you ever do get that kind of proof, it’s not going to be astonishing.

  “I bet the universe is filled with life. I think intelligence and tool using confer an advantage, so somewhere, yeah, there probably are other intelligent beings. And if they don’t blow themselves up, then traveling from one star to another is an engineering problem. In two or three hundred more years, maybe even a lot less, we’ll most likely know how to build machines that can operate for centuries in interstellar space and think for themselves. We’ll probably be able to freeze humans solid for centuries, too, so some of us can make the trip.”