by Dan Alatorre
Lanaya pressed herself into the wall, sliding to the floor. Her breath came in short spurts.
The woman looked up and down the hallway. “I’m not here to hurt you. Is that what you think?”
“What . . .” Lanaya shrugged. “What . . .”
“Come inside before someone sees us.” She held her hand out to Lanaya.
DeShear stood by, watching, unsure what to do. He swallowed hard. “I think it’s okay. If she had wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now.”
The woman kneeled by Lanaya, whispering. “I want what you want, Dara—the end of Angelus Genetics and its horrendous activities. But people are coming here to kill you, and if you don’t listen to me, the only thing that will be ended is you two. Now hurry. There isn’t much time.”
DeShear helped Lanaya from the floor and onto the couch in the room.
“Mr. DeShear, I’m Dominique Carerra. Lanaya is right, I’m on the board of directors at Angelus Genetics.”
DeShear cocked his head. “You called her Dara.”
“I know several of her aliases, and I know why you’re here. I’ve been following you through the black screen site.” Dominique bit her fingernail. “But now things have gotten . . . out of control. If you’re trying to expose Dr. Hauser with an audit, it won’t work.” She threw her hands out. “Did you think he wouldn’t protect his investment? This laboratory facility is the single most valuable asset Angelus Genetics owns. It’s worth hundreds of billions of dollars. This IRS situation you created has caused him to arrange for hundreds of armed killers to be here tomorrow. They’ll defend the laboratory and stall any inspections. You don’t know him. He’s not going to allow anything to jeopardize his work. My daughter and my husband were both lost because of his insidious vision, so I have to be careful while I protect what’s left of my family, but I can still help you bring him down.”
Dominique stared at them, both of them staring back.
“Hauser has grown rich and arrogant. He thought a few guns at the front gate of the facility here would be enough to keep its secrets safe—and for the most part, he’s been correct up until now. He’s only been untouchable because he seemed too powerful to oppose. Once that dynamic changes . . .” She shook her head, then peered at DeShear. “Do you still have your phone?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then take pictures. Bring them back to me and I will get them to the media. The drone rooms are the key. I would do it myself, but Hauser will be watching me. I got you these.” She dug into her hip pocket and handed them two green plastic cards with a gold-colored chip imbedded in each, and a green Angelus Genetics ID card. “Security will take your picture when you enter the lab. They’ll issue you a red temporary ID card for the duration of the IRS audit, which they think you’re with. A green ID is executive level access.”
DeShear took the ID. His driver’s license picture from the Florida DMV had been used for the image.
“These can’t get you into every building, but it’s the best I could do. The drone rooms require a yellow ID, a top security clearance. For that, use this.” She pulled up the leg of her sweat pants and unstrapped a long, thin, black metal case. She placed it on the coffee table.
DeShear picked it up. The case was about the size of two watch boxes laid end to end, and heavier than he expected. Velcro straps had been fitted to it.
“Inside is a strong electromagnet that will deactivate the locks on the far buildings—there, you’ll find the drone rooms. Wear it on your leg, Mr. DeShear, as I did. I don’t think they’re going to be frisking people on the IRS accounting team.”
She went to the door. “Wait here a few minutes after I leave, so we aren’t seen together. Remember, get the pictures, and get them to me. I will get them to the press.”
Holding the heavy case, DeShear looked at her. “I had a hard time believing all this, and I’ve been in the middle of it. Will the press take your word for it?”
Dominique’s face fell as she turned to him. “I’m on the board of directors for what’s about to become the most despised company in the history of the world. Trust me, if you bring back pictures of the drone rooms, every news agency on the planet will believe every word I say.”
“And the drone rooms?” he asked. “Is that where . . .”
“The drone rooms,” Dominique sighed. “Are where you will see the worst depravity the human mind is capable of creating.”
Chapter 27
DeShear walked to the cabs at the end of the long Kamandalu Ubud driveway. The first two were Toyota Camrys; the next was a Mercedes. “Hello.” He waved at a small cluster of men smoking under a pala tree, then pointed to the Mercedes. “Whose cab is this one?”
The closest driver stamped out his cigarette. “Please to go in order, sir.”
“Sorry.” DeShear shook his head. “I’d like this one. I’ll give the cars ahead of it ten American dollars to let the Mercedes go first.” He waved the bills at them. “Deal?”
Two of the men rushed forward to take the money. A third hurried to the Mercedes.
“Thank you.” DeShear clasped his hands together at his chest, bowing. “Terima kasih.”
He crouched down in the back seat as the Mercedes neared the front of the hotel. Lanaya walked out the front door and went quickly to the curb, gripping her hands in front of her. “Stop right here,” DeShear said to the cab driver. “Let this lady in, but don’t get out to open the door.”
She climbed into the back of the cab, rigid and shaking, staring straight ahead. The driver pulled the car around the curved driveway and back to the main road.
“Okay,” DeShear sat up. “When we get to the laboratory, Cammy’s group will have already gone in. Hopefully, the Mercedes will help us look a little important, and we’ll proceed as though we’re supposed to be arriving later than the others did. I’m sure someone will take us to them.”
Lanaya leaned to DeShear, whispering in his ear. “Should we talk openly in front of the driver?”
“They can’t all be spies for—” He stopped himself. “Well, they can’t all be spies.”
When the cab arrived at the gate, a short, thin man in a beige uniform approached. The driver rolled down his window, and the steamy jungle heat rolled in. A bronze plaque on the tall limestone columns bore the name Angelus Genetics.
Getting inside was the key to everything else. DeShear pretended to busy himself with his phone, watching carefully while trying not to appear to be watching at all. Next to him, Lanaya sat rigid, knitting her hands.
The attendant had a long, oval face, with narrow slits for eyes and a jaundiced complexion—not at all like the locals. He glanced at the Americans and nodded to the guards at the gate, saying nothing. Two men walked to the center of the entrance in silence and pulled the iron gates open.
As they passed, DeShear looked at them. The gate area was open to the sun, yet they seemed unfazed by the heat. They bore the same yellowish complexion as the attendant, but with rounder faces and an obvious underbite. Their jaws stuck out, not like a boxer getting ready to take on his opponent, but like a child pretending to be a chimpanzee. It gave them a dull, unthinking expression.
“They’re undernourished,” Lanaya whispered, as the cab passed through the gate. “Not well fed, by the look of them, and certainly not eating a balanced diet.”
That hadn’t been the case with most of the people they’d seen in the airport and hotels. Indonesians were noticeably skinnier than an average American, but these men would look gaunt compared to anyone DeShear had met in the country so far.
The cab bumped along a dirt road that was lined with banana trees. They swayed in the breeze as the Mercedes stirred up a dust cloud to greet them. Prior traffic had settled so much tan silt on the leaves, the roadway looked like a black and white movie of itself. Dark shadows cutting between dirt-coated palms were the only colors.
At the end of the road, the laboratory rose up out of the jungle—a giant, windowless blue steel rectangle ri
sing thirty feet into the air. A hundred feet long, it stood like a castle wall, imposing itself on the foliage and daring anything to try to pass. In the center, a large white sphere jutted upwards, an eye staring at the heavens.
The cab pulled in front of a pair of black doors. The sign mounted next to them was painted in red: “All visitors must pass through security.” Above the doors, a black sign contained the word “Security.”
From the front, the entire building appeared to have no other doors or windows. Behind it stood dozens of identical buildings. They spanned four across, and at least ten deep, separated by the wide ribbon of the dirt road. No weeds, not a single blade of grass, grew alongside the structures.
DeShear glanced at the meter and counted out some money. He handed the cash to the driver as Lanaya got out of the car.
As DeShear exited, the driver clasped his hands together at the chest, nodding. “Berhati-hatilah,” the man said. “Be safe, my friends.”
It was a friendly gesture, but it made the hairs on the back of Deshear’s neck stand up. He shut the door and the cab sped away, disappearing in a cloud of dust as the jungle swallowed it up. Facing the glass doors, an emptiness crept into DeShear’s stomach.
The worst depravity the human mind is capable of creating.
He stood next to Lanaya, staring at the entrance, not at all sure he wanted to see what waited inside.
A blast of cool air rushed over his face as he opened the door. The lobby inside was white and spotless, four gleaming walls and not much else. A stainless steel counter bearing several computers occupied one corner of the space, with a black glass door behind it. To the left was a camera on a tripod, with a series of colored screens next to it.
DeShear took a few steps into the cold room, his footsteps echoing off the empty walls. Across the room, stationed midway between the camera and the counter, was a large, black metal door marked, “Authorized personnel only.” In the door was a thin rectangular window with criss-cross wire mesh inside it.
Other than that, the room was empty—and completely silent.
The uneasy feeling intensified its grip on DeShear’s gut. He took a deep breath and tried to shrug it off. If he let himself appear bothered by the situation, Lanaya would get even more worked up. He looked at her and shrugged. “It’s security. Gotta be a security guy around here somewh—”
An overhead speaker announced a message in a woman’s voice. “Tunggu disini.” Her tone was calm and pleasant. “One moment.”
The speaker repeated the twin messages after about ten seconds. As it started a third time, the glass door behind the counter slid open, and the message stopped mid-sentence. A small, black-haired man entered the room and pointed to the camera. “Kamu berdiri di sana.”
A large Caucasian man with square shoulders and a square jaw appeared behind him. “Are you with the audit?” His accent was American.
“Yes, thank you,” DeShear said, approaching the counter.
The big man narrowed his eyes. “You’re late.”
“We had other business to attend to first. For the audit.”
“Like what?” The man glared at DeShear, not moving.
DeShear held his breath for a moment, searching for the way to deliver his words. He did not want a confrontation, but he didn’t want to explain further, either. “IRS business.” He said it flat and even, as though he was telling the man what the date was. Information, nothing more.
The man’s eyes went from DeShear to Lanaya, then back again. With a grunt, he nodded to his associate. The smaller man walked to the camera.
“Stand with your back against the red screen,” the American said.
DeShear nodded at Lanaya. She swallowed hard, massaging her hands as she followed the instructions.
“That’s good,” the big man said. The camera clicked twice. “Okay. Next.”
DeShear replaced Lanaya in front of the camera. Two clicks later, the small man returned to the counter. The glass door slid open and he went inside.
“Wait here,” the American said, going into the back room. The glass door quietly closed behind him.
The uneasiness tightened its grip on his gut. DeShear shoved his hands into his pockets and checked around the room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights was the only sound. Strolling to the large metal door on the far wall, he peeked through its tiny window.
DeShear jumped back, his heart in his throat.
On the other side of the glass was a large machine gun, held by a huge man in camouflage fatigues. The man held the gun to his chest, his eyes blank and cold, staring right at DeShear.
The security officer reappeared, carrying two red plastic IDs. He slinked a lanyard through each and tossed them onto the gleaming countertop. “Put these on. Step to the door.”
DeShear and Lanaya slipped the lanyards over their heads.
“Where do we find the others?” DeShear asked.
“Wait for the buzzer,” the security officer said. He called out over his shoulder. “Buka kunci pintu.”
A buzzer sounded from inside the metal door, and the lock opened. DeShear put his hand on the pull bar, ready to see the huge machine gun and the hard face of its owner on the other side. He took a breath and yanked the heavy door open.
Inside, the small, black-haired man from the security counter was alone in the room.
The windowless space was about twenty feet by twenty feet square, like a two-car garage, with opaque white walls—but without the intimidating man and his machine gun.
Odd.
The far side held another black steel door. Beside it, a silver-colored ball protruded from the wall.
The small man scowled and pointed at it. “Tunggu di sana.”
DeShear stared at him.
“Di sana.” He repeated sharply.
Lanaya crept toward the door. DeShear followed. A rectangle was etched on the metal ball, with the silhouette of a head and shoulders in the upper right corner. He lifted his ID card, keeping his eyes on the black-haired man.
“Iya nih, iya nih,” he growled. “Baik.”
DeShear slid his ID card across the ball. The lock tumblers in the second door clicked. He turned and pulled the second heavy metal door open, revealing a long, white hall with black flooring. As he walked through the doorway, Lanaya swiped her card over the reader and was right back on his heels.
The faint, sterile smell of cleaning solvents filled the hallway, the way they do in a doctor’s office. Halfway down the hallway, he stopped at a door and tried the knob. It was locked.
“What do we do?” Lanaya asked.
“They’re here somewhere, behind one of these doors.” He swallowed hard and walked another thirty or so feet to the next door, trying it.
Locked.
“What if they’re not here?” Lanaya whispered. “They could already be—”
“They’re here.”
As he approached the next room, a tall man in a white lab coat stepped out. He said nothing as he held the door open.
When DeShear reached the entry, he peeked inside. Camilla’s audit team was seated on folding chairs watching a presentation by a gray-haired woman in a lab jacket. At the back of the room, Camilla stood with her arms folded.
“Ah, there is the rest of the team,” the lecturer said. “Let us continue.” The lights dimmed as the screen behind her illuminated with the words Angelus Genetics in blue.
“As I explained earlier, the compound consists of a mere eight buildings, each connected to an airlock and each with its own security passcode. Our workers are put into sterile cleanroom suits, similar to hospital scrubs. They wear shirts, pants, masks, boots—like a surgical team, as will all of you. Our sites operate at 99.97 percent decontamination, the highest in the industry. Next question, please.”
An agent raised her hand. The woman pointed at her. “Yes?”
“We saw at least four more buildings when we arrived. What are the others?”
The lecturer smiled. “Dr. Hauser h
as generously leased some of the buildings on the site to a school for underprivileged children, an orphanage, a shelter for the homeless, and an animal rescue facility. Of course, these are done at no charge in order to assist the people of Indonesia in the greatest way possible.”
DeShear walked to Camila.
“Welcome back,” she whispered, keeping her eyes forward. “You missed over an hour of the most thrilling, paint-drying lectures I’ve ever had the displeasure to sit through—and I work for the IRS. Did you get what you were looking for?”
“Slight change in plans,” DeShear said.
“Do I want to know what?”
“We’re splitting from your team to get pictures. I think it’s better if you don’t know more at this point.”
A few rows in front of them, another agent raised his hand. “Do you work with living genetic tissue?”
“That’s a common misconception,” the lecturer said. “Our procedures are largely done with computer models.” A slide appeared on the screen—a young man with his face to the lens of a huge electron microscope. “We utilize a minimal amount of genetic material, as allowed to us by the World Health Organization, whose embryonic protocols were agreed to in Geneva in 1999 by . . .”
DeShear leaned to Camilla. “Did they count heads on the way in?”
“They don’t have to.” She held up her red plastic identification card. “We swiped these IDs through readers at the doors.”
“Okay.” He handed Camilla the cards they’d received a moment ago. “Take these and scan them for us on the way out.”
Camilla slipped them into her pocket. “How will you be able to get out, then?”
DeShear chewed his lip. “I don’t want to get into details and jeopardize what you’re up to. You have a legitimate function here, so the closer you stick to that, the better—but make sure those cards get scanned on the way out. We don’t want anyone to come looking for us. Are the FBI agents present?”
“Front row and back row.”
“Good. We’ll meet you at the reception tonight.”
“Listen, Dash—”