Silence in Washington.
“I'll take that as a yes. I believe you heard some rumors about the President's trip to Guatemala. And you're concerned. I would be too, if I was in your shoes. But here's the thing. You can't rely on rumors. Can't base decisions on them. In fact, in this case I think you'd be better off forgetting about them entirely. Memories are overrated anyway. I mean, you could easily forget this and I could easily forget General Surguvilli. That kind of thing. I trust you know what I mean.”
“I-I guess so.”
“No, William. You know so. I'll say goodbye now. I don't think we'll have to talk again. Do you?”
At the compound in Guatemala, Yum Cimil hung up his satellite phone. This problem would be eliminated momentarily. He'd debated even making the call, but what good was power if you couldn't use it? His mind shifted to the ritual scheduled for the following day, another of his weekly sacrifices.
With the Fifth World approaching, the gods would need more.
The man in Washington sat with the phone still to his ear, his true situation now undeniable. What could he do? He couldn't tell his wife. He had no options.
A loud honk brought his attention back to the road. He swerved left and then right, but managed to remain on the pavement. The parkway was no place to lose it. He'd just passed Goddard, leaving most of the construction behind him, but driving bumper-to-bumper at sixty-five still required concentration.
A few miles later, his breathing had returned to normal. Despair no longer threatened to engulf him, and he realized that he had one option after all. Say nothing. He hated it, but the alternative was worse. He could survive compromising his principles, as well as the fear that the caller would someday call and demand more. He couldn't survive either the government or his wife finding out about his extracurricular activities.
His car slid sideways.
He focused on keeping the vehicle under control, wondering who had hit his rear bumper. The left side of the car tore through the guardrail like tissue paper, and he screamed when the headlights revealed his location. Some part of his brain told him that being knocked off the road on one of the few bridges on this stretch of road couldn't be a coincidence.
The wheels left the ground and everything went quiet. He almost could have believed it was a dream … almost. He leaned his head back and braced his hands on the wheel, preparing for impact.
When it came, the seatbelt bit into the side of his neck, and his head jerked forward. Other than that, he felt thankful that it hadn't been worse. The car sank quickly, and the headlights seemed eerie in the murky water. The wheels struck the bottom and his body shook again.
He'd have to swim for it. Already water seeped around the edges of the window and under his feet. He reached to undo his seatbelt.
It wouldn't move.
He tried again, and tendrils of panic rose. He couldn't loosen the buckle. He grabbed the shoulder strap and started pulling it, but only succeeded in scraping his palms. He put both thumbs on the release button and pressed as hard as he could.
Nothing.
The water had risen to his waist, and he considered for the first time what might happen. He'd die if he didn't get loose.
He tugged at the buckle, which now lay under water. No matter what angle he tried, the metal flap didn't budge. He yelled, a cry of anguish and terror at his predicament.
The water reached his neck.
He stopped struggling. He thought of his wife and daughter, who'd mourn him but maybe would be better off without him. At least they'd never know of his depravity. Water filled his nose and he tried to relax, but he couldn't counter his survival instinct.
He coughed and choked, feeling the pain from the water filling his lungs. He'd never imagined anything could hurt this much.
A minute later, Secretary of State William Keane died.
September 9, 2012: Langley, Virginia
“It was Keane?” Simon looked down at Braxton, who'd given him the news. The Director nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“Sure seems like it. He got a call from Cimil right before he died. And we now know that he was one of General Surgulvilli's clients.”
“Surgulvilli's that Georgian general who was moonlighting as a pimp, right?”
“And an arms dealer, yeah. Keane liked boys I guess.”
Simon put the heels of his hands on the back of a chair and looked into the distance, remembering the events in Guatemala.
“That explains a few things. They seemed awfully ready for us. At the time, I put it down to Richards tying the hands of the Secret Service, but he probably had inside information. Anything more on Cimil?”
“Nope. We're tapping every line we can think of, but he knows we're onto him. We need to pressure the Georgians. Richards won't do it, though. I don't know why, but she's afraid of upsetting them.”
“Something's wrong with her, you know that?”
“I wouldn't go saying that too loud. You're right, but she's in charge.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Nothing ever changes, does it? Someone's gotta get through to her. Cimil's planning something big. If we don't stop him, it'll be a lot worse than some ruffled feathers. The next message we get from Cimil could take the form of a mushroom cloud.”
PART TWO: Aggression
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December 2nd, 2012: Boston, Massachusetts
Gabriella Riccio glanced at her watch as she walked into the lab. 8:25PM. This late on a Friday, she'd have the place to herself. She sighed and stretched her arms to the ceiling, then cracked her neck. Finally she could put the finishing touches on tomorrow's presentation.
It had been nearly six months since the discovery of Bella on the dig in Spain. A lot had happened, and tomorrow she would present her findings at a peer conference in Boston. She possessed enough evidence to convince all but the most cynical of her colleagues that Bella represented a new species in the homo genus. She turned on her computer, entered her password and took a sip of coffee while she waited for the files to pull up.
Opening the Powerpoint file, she made a few last minute corrections. Then she read it one more time to make sure it flowed properly and said everything she needed to say. Scientists were ruthless in a situation like this, and she needed to be perfect. Satisfied, or at least as satisfied as she would get, she went to open the DNA matching database.
It wouldn't accept her password.
She tried three times to no avail. She'd used the system only hours earlier, and she needed to check a couple last things.
“This can't be happening,” she thought to herself as she dug in the backpack for her cell phone.
She scrolled through her contacts, and found the number for Joe Balaga, the grad student who had developed the DNA database. No other person knew the truth about Bella, and she trusted him with her research. No one else could have changed the password. He picked up on the third ring with a groan.
“Joe, this is Gabby. You haven't changed the password on the DNA program, have you?”
“No, why?” His voice was a sleepy whisper.
“I can't seem to get on. When was the last time you were on?”
Balaga shook off his fatigue when he heard that his database might have a problem. “Sorry, I'm out of it, just trying to rest up for tomorrow. I was on this morning when I wrapped up the last details for your presentation.”
“I think sleepy time is over. Can you come down to the lab now? We need to get in there and get this stuff done and printed so we can both get some shut-eye”
“I'll be down in ten minutes.”
Riccio tossed the phone in her backpack. She gave the password a fourth try, and slammed her fist against the desk. She heard the door open behind her.
“That was quick, Joe. I'm sure it's—”
She stopped. She didn't recognize the man standing in the doorway. On a Friday night, she wouldn't have expected anyone, let alone a stranger. Her hand went towards her backpack, reaching for the small
twenty-two she carried on digs for protection. She realized that she didn't have the gun with her. She looked up and the man took a few steps towards her.
“Gabriella Riccio, I presume?”
“Maybe. Who's asking?”
The man took off his winter jacket and hat. Underneath them, he sported limp and damaged hair that failed to cover his hairline, and he wore a tweed jacket. Maybe fifty years old. A professor, Riccio surmised. And not Indiana Jones, either. She relaxed and took his outstretched hand.
“Alistair Hitchcock, at your service.” She detected a British accent, though not a strong one. He'd probably been in America for a while.
Riccio smiled. “Well, you know my name. What can I do for you on such a cold and—” She looked at her watch. “—late evening?”
Hitchcock clucked and shook his head. “Terribly sorry to bother you. But I had to find you before you speak tomorrow. I feared you might not see me before that if I simply called.”
“I think you figured that right.”
“The thing is, I have information about what you found. About Bella.”
Without conscious thought, Riccio clenched her fists. How the hell did he know the name? She hadn't told anyone except a handful of students on the dig, and even they didn't know what kind of breakthrough Bella represented. Only Joe knew all the details. She was gonna kill him.
“I'm not sure exactly what your point is.” She didn't quite growl but couldn't hide her agitation.
“What would you say if I told you I found another specimen that is the exact same species as yours?”
“I'd say two things. One, you're full of shit. Two, you better have good attorneys.”
Hitchcock's eyes gleamed with intensity. “Understandable. But what if the specimen in question died last month?”
Riccio opened her mouth and then closed it. “Where exactly did you say you're from?”
“I'm a professor in the cultural anthropology department at Western Regents University. My work is focused on indigenous peoples in the Amazon basin.”
Some understanding dawned on Riccio. As part of testing his DNA-matching system, Balaga had shared it with about two dozen other institutions, including Western Regents. She now recalled that the name Bella indeed could be found in that database. Her anger gave way to confusion, then curiosity.
“OK, let me see if I understand. You discovered a body last month that is the same species as the partial skeleton I found dating back over a million years. And these are the only two examples ever seen?”
“To be frightfully precise, we only found Julio—that's what we call him—ten days ago, but aside from that, yes. As you may know, there are still tribes in the Amazon region where many of the members have never seen a person of European descent. They are isolated, cut off. Our research has been fascinating, documenting one group in particular. With them as a starting point, we are gradually putting together some sort of history. Until now, though, they were all human. And none of the tribes we have dealt with could tell us where he came from, he just floated to the surface. The word they used to describe him means something like ‘underground’ in their language, which doesn't help us much. We felt certain we were looking at the discovery of the century, some lost branch of the genus homo that survived until this day.
“Most of my attempts to classify him resulted in indecision. Was he closer to homo habilis or homo erectus? But one of my colleagues who is focused on archaeology as opposed to modern cultures suggested I try the new system his department had been asked to test. That was three days ago, and I thought it would help narrow down the origins. Picture my shock when I found a match.”
“I can imagine.”
“So. What can you tell me about Bella?”
“Well, I don't know. I'm preparing my work for public consumption. To be honest, it hadn't occurred to me until now that the information was in Joe's database and other people would see it.”
He smiled at her, almost a conspiratorial wink around the eyes. “I can understand your hesitation. You don't know me, and this could be the find of the century.”
Riccio nodded. “Exactly”
“How about I tell you everything I know and you can confirm or deny what you want?”
“Sure, I've got nothing to lose with that.”
Hitchcock cleared his throat. “Well, your specimen suggests some intriguing things. At a minimum, it's a new species in the same family as man. And I'm sure you noticed the hyoid bone. This would be by far the oldest known primate capable of speech. I would guess you are of the opinion that you have found a dead-end species, one that petered out somewhere along the line. Certainly it does not fit any of the accepted paths for being an actual human ancestor.
“However, the existence of Julio throws all that into doubt. I'm sure you're aware of the rather outlandish theories that suggest that homo sapiens sapiens did not develop along one evolutionary path, but had multiple parallel paths that merged within the past hundred thousand years. This certainly would be consistent with such a viewpoint. Of course, there is another possibility.”
His voice trailed off.
“Come on now, don't leave me hanging. What else could it be?” Riccio thought she knew what he would say. And it was ridiculous. But so was the existence of these two samples over a million years apart.
“This could be an entirely separate species that has remained stable to this very day, hidden in the wilds of the Amazon.”
She could feel him watching her, measuring her reaction. She nodded slowly. “That's a possibility. Something tells me my current presentation would be tame compared to that.”
“I don't think it's wise to give your talk tomorrow.”
Riccio stood with her hands on her hips, a challenge in her posture. “Why the hell not? The mere existence of my find is more than enough. I can scale down the speculation about what it means.”
He grinned. “Oh, I have no doubt you could pull it off. But there's more I haven't told you. My lab has been broken into. Plus, I think I'm being followed.”
Riccio snorted. “Oh please. I can accept we may have a big deal here, but why would anyone do that?”
“I'm not sure. All my files on Julio were taken. Luckily, everything I have is scanned and backed up off site. But there's something strange going on.”
Riccio was about to respond, but he beat her to it. “Let me ask you this, have you had a problem getting into the database in the past few hours?”
She narrowed her eyes. “As a matter of fact—”
“Did I hear someone mention my database?” The door slammed and a man of about six foot four dressed in jeans and flannel came in. Riccio always teased him about his fashion sense, but it never seemed to bother him. His red beard looked like it hadn't been trimmed since the previous millennium, and a substantial gut threatened to burst at least four of the buttons on his shirt. But he moved with the ease of a much smaller man, and she'd worked with him enough to know that he was in better condition than he looked.
He offered a large hand to Hitchcock. “Joe Balaga. Bring me up to speed.”
“Mr. Balaga, we were just talking about you. We've been shut out of your database.”
Balaga walked over to a terminal and started typing. Over his shoulder, he said, “Let me see what I can track down. Why don't you tell me what I missed while I get us back in.”
His fingers flew over the keyboard. Riccio explained what Hitchcock had told her, with the Englishman adding a few clarifications. After five minutes, Balaga swiveled in his chair and faced them.
“Well, I think our new friend here is right. I'm locked out. Someone went in and changed the root password, so I can't see anything. We may have to get Sun Microsystems in to help us get it back unless of one the system admins back on campus has a bright idea. I swear a couple of those guys actually sleep with the box, so they know a lot more tricks than I do. But there's no way this happened by accident.”
Hitchcock didn't say anything, and Riccio se
nsed that he was holding something back.
“What is it?”
“I hesitate to say. It sounds far too crazy, but here goes. We found one thing on both your sample and ours that's intriguing: A section of DNA that is present only in a very small percentage of humans, less than one percent. Some say it controls hormones that allow the brain to better sense the electrical field in the brains of other people nearby, though most scientists do not accept that theory. Anyway, the most interesting part is that some of the people with this DNA claim to be able to tell what other people are thinking.”
“Mind-reading? You gotta be shitting me.”
“It's likely not real mind-reading. But those hormones do something. No reputable scientist will touch it, so no one's done definitive studies either way. I'm just saying that all the circumstances here make it quite interesting.”
Balaga said, “Wouldn't surprise me at all. Not some magic trick where I think of a color and you guess it, but the physical ability to sense the general direction of someone else's thoughts and emotions. I can buy that. So where exactly does that leave us?”
Riccio sighed and walked over to her desk. She sat with her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes as if somehow that would relieve the stress. The others watched her in silence. Then she dropped her hands and looked up.
“I don't believe this. Tomorrow was gonna be the biggest day of my life. But there's too many coincidences. Didn't James Bond say something about the line between coincidence and enemy action?”
Balaga laughed. “Hey, good memory. It was actually Goldfinger who said it.”
“Well, I was close. Either way, I think we've crossed the line. If I go full speed ahead tomorrow, we'll be in more danger, won't we?”
Hitchcock nodded with his mouth drawn in a tight line. “Indeed. But I don't think you should cancel entirely.”
“Ah, yeah, I see what you mean. Shouldn't be too hard. The program just says something about a new piece of the puzzle of human ancestry. We'll say the skeleton shows aspects of both homo habilis and homo erectus, so we think it's a unique transitional clue.”
The Mayan Legacy Page 12