“To veer from the plan is to invite catastrophe,” he hissed. “My network is awaiting my command. Then we will unleash the poison globally, at the precise moment it is needed.”
Rambo met Baltasar’s increasingly hostile impatience with a preternatural calm. “U.S. policy is not to bargain with terrorists,” he said.
“We are not terrorists,” Baltasar snapped back. He had to end this meeting. It was souring the pleasure of his cognac. “The G-20 is seeking world peace. I am merely offering it to them.” He tried another sip, but it had more the texture of sandpaper than velvet. “Besides, government officials will only refuse to negotiate with terrorists if others’ lives are at stake. Now their lives will be threatened. They get sick enough and they’ll see the light, if not in this life, then the next.”
“We might have to give the antidote to one of them to prove our bargaining position.”
Baltasar searched Rambitskov’s enigmatic face. Part of him admired the man, one of the few still living who dared to challenge him. He wondered if he suspected that Baltasar didn’t have the antidote, or if he cared. No matter. He would have the antidote in time. Getting it was all part of the intricate plan that he had set in motion. History would remember him not as a villain, but a hero. “We’ll have more power over their lives than God, my dear Rambo, and more determination in our purpose than Satan. We will not have to bargain.”
CHAPTER 30
Christa turned on the desk lamp and checked her watch. It was 2:15 in the afternoon, but the greenhouse had taken on the veil of twilight. Dark clouds thickened the sky above. Thunder rumbled to the west, rattling the glass walls of the greenhouse. She had less than four hours before Contreras would call her and expect her to turn over Gabriella’s research, the Emerald and the Turquoise in exchange for Lucia’s life.
“Baltasar Contreras plans to poison the water supply?” Daniel said. “That’s insane.”
“True,” she said, “which is why it makes sense.” She’d given him the bare bones of her suspicions. “Contreras is desperate for Gabriella’s findings. He wants to be the sole provider of the antidote that she’s found.” She reached over to the small cage that rested on a nearby shelf. She peered into it, opened the door and scrabbled her fingers through the paper bedding. “Daniel, where is Algernon?”
“Algernon?”
“The field mouse,” she said. “He kept sneaking into the greenhouse when the weather turned cold. Gabriella put a box with bedding just outside so he wouldn’t keep coming in. She was worried he’d get hurt.” All three sisters had begged endlessly for a pet. They never had one, of course, not with their travelling to various digs around the world. So they adopted and promptly named everything from an injured dingo in the outback to an earthworm in the Amazon. “She told me he got sick. I got this cage for him from the biology department.” She’d been too busy grading essays to be too concerned.
“He’s gone,” Daniel said.
“Gone? Did he get better?”
Daniel hesitated. “He died,” he said. “The mouse was already in bad shape when I got here two days ago. I couldn’t get him to eat or drink anything. It was like he was terrified of the food, of everything. He started convulsing, and died. I buried him under that maple.” He nodded to the barren tree being bullied by a gust in the cold world outside.
Christa shivered. That did not bode well. She grabbed the journal, her eyes racing over the page. “Gabby found Algernon ten days ago, writhing on the desk. He had got hold of the belladonna, nibbled on a leaf.” Christa turned the page. “She was trying to find the antidote, different extracts from different plants.”
“There!” Daniel pointed to an entry underlined and followed by several exclamation points. “She found the antidote, an extract of papaver somniferum. Hold on, that’s the same plant that produces opium.”
“Algernon died, Daniel.” And she knew why. The mouse had recovered, but only for seven days.
“At least he died happy,” he said.
This would probably be the time to let him in on her meeting with Baltasar Contreras at the playground and tell him how Contreras had forced her to drink that capful of mystery liquid.
Percival’s car pulled up to the curb in front of the greenhouse. He pushed open the car door against a gust, snugged in his windbreaker and hurried up the walk. Donohue wasn’t with him. He practically tore the greenhouse door off its wonky hinges as he rushed in. “Did you find it?” he asked. “Did you find Gabby’s journal?”
She held up the journal to show him. He rushed over and grabbed the book, pressed it against his heart. “Thank God,” he said. “Donohue wanted it as a contingency. His plan is bold to say the least. I mean, he certainly talks like he knows what he’s doing. He’s served in three wars, after all.” He stepped back, just noticing Daniel’s presence. “Did Christa call you? Christa, you didn’t call him, did you?”
“He was here when I arrived,” she said. “Taking care of things. We found the plant specimen in the sketch, Percy. The Belladonna Conquistadorum. That’s the good news.” The only good news.
Percival flipped open the journal. “Here it is. Belladonna poison. Symptoms are dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, headache.” He swallowed, hard. “Confusion,” he read, “delirium, convulsions.”
Christa picked up a pencil from the desk. Carefully, she used the pencil point to look closer at the bright violet underside of a leaf. What was that old maxim about red bringing dread in nature? “If this is an adaptation, then its poison may be even more potent,” she said. As if delirium and convulsions weren’t potent enough.
“And the antidote?” asked Percival.
“That’s the bad news,” she said. “Gabriella extracted an antidote from a papaver, but it only lasts seven days. The Colombian papaver that she believes provides the permanent antidote has been extinct for five hundred years.”
“So that capful that Contreras forced you to drink,” Percival began.
“Gives me seven days,” said Christa, “before I go stark, raving mad.” If not before, given that Contreras kidnapped Lucia and may be tracking down Gabriella.
“Capful?” Daniel took off his tweed jacket. His face was flushed. “When did you meet Contreras? I didn’t think you even knew him.”
Percival pointed an accusatory finger at Daniel, as if he were somehow to blame. “But you know him. You worked for him.”
Daniel stepped back. “As an historian. I thought this was about the lost Breastplate of Aaron.”
“Maybe it is,” she said, “or Contreras wouldn’t be so obsessed about finding and restoring it. Daniel, did Gabriella say anything about an artifact when you were with her in Colombia?”
“Nothing,” Daniel said. He jabbed his fingers through his hair, yanking it off his forehead. “Well, probably nothing.” Percival advanced towards him, his expression completely out of character. He looked ready to throttle Daniel. “A canyon,” Daniel said. “Gabriella had me asking the locals about some legendary temple at the mouth of a canyon. Nobody had heard about it and, frankly, that old Muisca shaman she was working with was suffering from dementia. All I got from the locals was a dirty look, like I was the loco one.”
For a man who had studied to become a priest, Daniel was an ardent skeptic. It was one of his qualities she admired, usually. But she was beginning to rethink her own skepticism at this point. “Did you tell Contreras,” she asked, “about this temple?”
If Daniel was flushed before, now his cheeks turned nearly as red as the underside of the belladonna leaf. “That’s what he was paying me for,” he said. “He said the temple couldn’t be connected to the Breastplate.”
Percival shook a fist at him. “And you believed him.”
Daniel stood his ground. “Contreras is not a killer.”
“For my daughter’s sake, I pray you’re right.” But he did more than pray. “Contreras kidnapped my daughter. He gave Christa his demands, impossible demands. He threatened Lucia. He threatened all
of us.” Daniel looked physically ill. Despite his awkwardness around anyone younger than eighteen, he loved the kids. He actually seemed to enjoy going on the swings with them. On that evening two weeks back when they were cracking open their souls, he admitted that the children had revealed an emotion in him that he had accepted he would never feel, the joy of innocence, and he liked it.
“A temple,” she interrupted, before Percy could tell him about Salvatierra’s letter. This was ridiculous. She should trust Daniel. He could help them, if she could give him the chance. “Gabriella wrote about it,” she opened to a page covered with random notes. Salvatierra’s letter had referenced a temple, too, and a canyon. Oculto Canyon. But another name on Gabriella’s page was a far more promising lead. Gabby hadn’t only asked Donohue for help. Christa knew just where to go next. She returned the journal to Percy. “Donohue’s waiting for this,” she said. “And we have no time to waste.”
The door of the greenhouse burst open. A sudden frigid gust lanced into the greenhouse. It smelled of minerals, like before a snowstorm.
Helen stepped in, one hand clenched around the scruff of her brown wool coat, the other gripping Liam’s mitten-encased hand. Liam was naturally skinny, but he looked as round as a snowman in his puffy jacket and clunky black snow boots. His hood was pulled tightly around his face and his cheeks seemed to reflect its bright red hue. Helen, despite the chill air, looked paler than usual. She was older than Christa and would be pretty, if she didn’t downplay her looks in outfits better suited to a great aunt.
Percival rushed to Liam. He knelt awkwardly and encased him with a mighty hug. The greenhouse took on a complete if ephemeral hush. Helen swiped the handknit cabled hat from her head. “What’s going on?” she commanded. Her eyes strafed the room. “Where is Lucia? And why are you at the greenhouse?”
Percival did not relinquish his hug. It was as if he was afraid Liam would melt away should he let go.
“My head hurts, Daddy,” Liam said, speaking even more softly than usual.
Percival leaned back. He unsnapped Liam’s hood and slipped it off with the gentle touch. He wove his fingers through the boy’s scruffy brown hair and tenderly caressed his reddened cheeks. “Tell Daddy,” he said.
Liam sniffled. Helen extracted a tissue from her coat pocket and blotted his nose. “I was at the clinic here on campus when I got Christa’s text,” she said. “I don’t care if the doctor said it’s just a virus. He had so many sick kids waiting, he didn’t want to spend the time. Then two moms started arguing in the waiting room. I was afraid they were going to start hitting each other. I had to get out of there. It’s something serious. I know it is.”
A faint smile crossed Liam’s lips. “The nurse gave me a smiley face sticker,” he said.
Percival carefully unzipped the boy’s jacket. “Is he overheated?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He was feverish like this before we left home.”
Liam frowned, his gaze on Gabriella’s desk. “I want Mommy.”
Percival tugged down the crew neck of Liam’s striped knit top, revealing a smattering of tiny red bumps just below his neck. Percival’s face visibly paled. “Mommy will be home soon, Liam,” he said.
“Mommy is here now, Daddy.” Liam pointed his puppy mitten towards the empty desk chair. “She’s sitting right there.”
Percival, with trepidation, swiveled his neck towards the desk. His expression looked confused, doubtful. Helen reached down and pressed her palm against Liam’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” she said. “He’s hallucinating.”
“It’s not the fever,” he said. “Belladonna poisoning can cause hallucinations.”
Liam screamed. He struggled to run past Percival. “Mommy! That monster is after Mommy! Help her, Daddy. Help her!”
Percival hugged him tighter. “It’s okay, Liam.” Liam’s snow boots kicked wildly.
Helen knelt. Christa rushed towards them. Liam collapsed into Percy’s arms, unconscious, his limp legs dangling. A look a sheer panic crossed Percival’s face. He cradled Liam’s head in his hand. “Liam!” he shouted.
“I’ll call 911,” Daniel offered, barely finding his voice.
“No,” Helen said. “The clinic is two blocks away. He’ll receive care faster if we take him there. They have an emergency unit.”
Percival wrapped one arm around his son. Liam looked impossibly small in the arms of his father. “Give me Gabby’s journal, Christa,” he said. “I’ll get it to Donohue. You find those stones.”
CHAPTER 31
Baltasar Contreras repressed a scream of rage. Dubler’s text was short but clear. I know about poison. G’s antidote only lasts 7 days. Damn it. She hadn’t perfected the antidote yet. It would hold off the effects of the poison for seven days, then those who had ingested the poison would go mad and die as surely as those pathetic villagers in his ancestor’s time. He had to remain calm. All was not lost. He had to put his plan for this contingency into play.
Little Lucia Devlin was down on her hands and knees guiding a courageous and very frilly Barbie through the green fringes of the blanket of purple-flowered Vinca in the orangery. The doll’s pink glittery ball gown floated above the undergrowth. Is this what little girls dreamed of? He, too, had simple dreams at her age, to be beautiful, desirable, adventurous and, most of all, to be guided by someone else’s adoring, all powerful hand. Man truly did not want free will. Since history began, men have wanted a superior being to tell them what to do. This burden fell heavily on Baltasar’s shoulders, but he would soon have the means to communicate God’s wishes. And for that, he needed to bend Gabriella’s will. Break it, if necessary.
“She’s a fairy,” the little girl said, sensing Baltasar’s presence above her. She held the doll up towards him and rocked her back and forth, speaking in a high-pitched Barbie voice. “I’m looking for the fairy prince. Have you seen him?”
Baltasar smiled. Delightful girl. “The prince is in the anthurium.” He gestured to what he considered the most sexual of flowers with its erect spadix.
Lucia cocked her head, crinkled her nose and shrugged. She plunged the Barbie back into the Vinca jungle.
Fenton entered carrying an open laptop. “I have the video connection, sir,” he said, placing the laptop on the glass-topped table. He bowed and left, taking up his position just outside the inner door, ready to enter if Baltasar needed him. Baltasar had made a study of manipulating adults’ emotions, but he had found children’s emotional reactions frighteningly unpredictable.
Baltasar took a moment to admire his virtually connected portal to the other side of the world. On the computer screen was the real-life version of the ecological microcosm in his orangery. He heard a symphony in the variations of green, with hundreds of hues in harmony yet distinct. Groundcovers just inches high formed the bass of the oboes and cellos, ferns the melody of the violins, towering trees the high pitches of the flutes and piccolos.
His cadre of soldiers, dressed in khakis and mud, looked as though they were morphing into the jungle, which waited for them to slumber so it could slowly digest them.
They had hacked away just enough of the jungle for three dome tents and a campfire ringed with stones. The laptop, his portal to that world, sat on one of the two crude wooden tables.
Baltasar punched up the volume key. He could hear the noisy clicks and scrapes of the thousands of insects, the cacophony of bird songs, the occasional screech and chatter of a curious monkey. A face appeared on the screen before him, a beautiful, if drawn, face. Gabriella Devlin Hunter was a stunning woman, even with mud, not makeup, accentuating her high cheek bones. Her dark blonde hair was unwashed and tied back carelessly. Her skin was tanned, her tank top revealing impressive biceps and an intriguing cleavage. She didn’t only look like she could survive a week in a jungle with only a canteen and a cookpot, then shower and dress for a state dinner in the evening. Baltasar had seen her do it.
A man stood behind her, but all that was visible on the scr
een was his mud-stained khaki shirt and pants and his dirty fingers grasping his Uzi. Baltasar recognized him as Mendoza, by his signature ring and his missing pinky.
Baltasar sat before the laptop and leaned forward. The woman facing him pushed back, an expression of anger darkening her face as surely and swiftly as a summer squall. She grabbed the edges of the laptop as if to throw the computer, Baltasar along with it, out of her world. Mendoza’s beefy hand grappled her shoulder and yanked her back, holding her petite but feisty frame firmly in check. Baltasar smiled. “Hello, Doctor Hunter,” he said.
She struggled ineffectively against Mendoza’s grip. Contreras watched his man slide his Uzi out of the way and bend down to position his face within the webcam’s shot. “She’s still not cooperating, Mister Contreras. Keeps claiming that it’s not possible to find a plant that’s been extinct for five centuries.”
A cold bile rose in Baltasar’s throat. He fought it down. He refused to believe this. If he did, all would be in vain. “What did the Muisca medicine man tell you?” he growled.
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