She opened her eyes, and her jaw dropped.
She was lying in the clouds.
They were pillowy, luxurious clouds, a distant light outlining them in gold. She reached out to touch them, and they were just as she’d dreamed clouds would be when she was a girl—softer than cotton, lighter than air, yet substantial enough to hold her up.
She sat and looked upward. The sky was that rare summer blue. She couldn’t see the sun itself, but its beams were all around her. It was fantastic.
Jaime laughed, in spite of herself. She fell down onto her stomach and watched the clouds part and billow, adjusting to her form. From there, she looked down. She could see the Aegean Sea, far below. She could pick out the island of Patmos, the harbor at Skala, populated with what seemed to be toy boats, and she could see the huge dark monastery on its majestic mountaintop.
Wow.
Then the music started. The same trumpet tones that had greeted Geri and a choir of voices that could only be described as angelic.
Then she heard it. A voice, full of authority, began, “Grace and peace to you from him who is, and who was, and who is to come!”
And Jaime was being propelled forward, closer and closer to a glimmering, bejeweled city that was descending from the higher clouds.
“Wow,” she said.
And she knew exactly where she was.
February 26, 2006, 2:17 p.m.
The Gerianne
Skala Harbor, Patmos
* * *
She came upon them post-coital, although barely.
Nestor and the woman were in bed in guest cabin one. Geri did appreciate that about her husband—he always brought his mistresses somewhere outside Geri’s own life trajectory, so that she wouldn’t have bad memories of them, in her own bed, say.
And with this one, since she ran the yacht’s spa and workout facilities, he could have done her in the spa—but that would have ruined that part of the ship for Geri.
So cabin one was a pretty good choice.
The woman went the haughty route—“he loves me, not you; if you gave him what he needed,” blah, blah, blah, “right, Nestor, darling?”
“Shut up,” Nestor said to her gruffly. “Get dressed and get out.”
The young woman’s jaw dropped. She was either late twenties or early thirties, hardbody, of course, and thought she was pretty smart.
“But Nestor—”
“I said shut up,” he said, not breaking eye contact with his wife. “I’m telling you to go, put your clothes on, and get to your quarters.”
The mistress read the situation, and quickly. “You can’t fire me,” she snarled. “If you fire me, I’ll charge sexual harassment so fast, it’ll be splashed over every paper in the world.”
“No one said you were fired,” Nestor said. “Just get the hell out.”
It took only minutes for the young woman to vanish into the bathroom, pull on a skirt and top, and grab the rest of her things.
Geri knew she would never be seen on the yacht again after today. She’d be transferred and paid on the condition that she kept quiet. Along with so many others.
“You,” Geri said to Nestor. “Our quarters. Now. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
Geri turned and left the cabin.
Her business meeting with her husband had just begun.
February 26, 2006, 2:17 p.m.
Lillistra Estate, Tranholmen Island
Stockholm, Sweden
* * *
Britta Sunmark stared into the fire as she sipped a hot cup of herb tea, trying to regain her focus after the troubling call from Constantine.
She knew this day would come—they couldn’t keep prisoners forever, and yet. . . . Didn’t Villella understand what was at stake, how much more difficult and complex the continued progress would be if she did not have access to the actual subjects?
Only last night Britta had spent an hour watching helplessly as her son, Eric, writhed in pain, waiting for his migraine headache medicine to take effect. Finally, mercifully, he had fallen asleep.
Now, bare feet propped on a hand-carved wooden coffee table, she looked through the flames and remembered a similar scene, but with another young man, strapped into a hospital bed, straining against his bonds and screaming.
“Britta, you must protect me!” His head quivered against the straps but could not move. “The men with the drugs, I know they’re coming. They’ll take me away and do horrible things to me! Please, Britta, unstrap me; hide me!”
In his moments of lucidity, the young man understood that the drugs he feared were the only thing to ease his pain. But at 22 years of age, the battered shell of a man resembled little of what had been Britta’s vibrant, loving brother, and his reality did not coincide with hers. All young Britta could do was watch, powerlessly, and pray for a miracle—or his death. And then, when praying didn’t help, she stopped.
No one should have to suffer like that. Even though she’d only been a teenager at the time, she knew there had to be a way to stop the suffering—and if no one else would bother to figure it out, she would. She would do whatever it took to find the cure.
Britta had little idea what future events she would set in motion with that pledge. Her brother had died from his disorder, which was called MELAS, short for Mitochondrial Encephalopathy, Lactic Acidosis, and Stroke-like episodes. MELAS results from problems in the gene structure of the mitochondria, and so she had dedicated her education, her life, to research on mitochondrial DNA.
But the cruel hand of fate had not finished with Britta. Genetic structure of the mitochondria is passed from a mother to her children, and Britta’s son, Eric, had inherited the disease from her. She had devoted her entire career to developing a cure for MELAS and now was racing against time to heal her son. She could not lose him the same way she had lost her brother. She would not.
The fire was now reduced to embers, giving off a fine red glow but little warmth. She replayed her teenage words once again: “I will do whatever it takes to find a cure.” Britta wondered if her younger self would have found kidnapping an acceptable means to her goal.
Damn the consequences, Britta didn’t care! Here she was, on the verge of a breakthrough that would, in public circles, have meant a Nobel Prize. The genetic Band-Aid she was creating to splice into a patient’s mitochondrial DNA not only would heal MELAS, which was her goal, but could potentially extend a person’s life well beyond today’s norms—which she knew full well was the goal of Witgard and his foundation.
Over the last year, she admitted she had moments when she had doubted the rantings of her mentor, Jorgen Edders. As he lay dying, he had revealed in one of his weaker moments that there existed a hidden race of humans whose DNA patterns were so strong they lived inordinately long lives. Now, finally, she had found that to be true, had isolated the strands. If she continued to work with it, it would provide the perfect genetic Band-Aid. This Band-Aid would provide the closest thing to immortality humanity had ever attained.
Britta had known all along that the source of her funding and the method in which the subjects were attained were such that her results could not be made public, at least not in the near future, and certainly not under her name. Britta would receive no accolades, publish no papers. But her career, her accomplishments, meant nothing if Eric suffered the same fate as her brother.
Enough reflecting, time to head back to the lab. She had taken as much blood as she dared. She would have to use the mysterious sequences locked therein to re-create the mitochondrial strand synthetically. The scientist stood and closed the glass fireplace doors, then padded barefoot into the kitchen to rinse out her mug.
She had never met the assassin who had kidnapped these children, and she certainly did not ever want to. How would she know when the person arrived? Should she just get Eric and barricade him with her inside the estate today?
But Witgard had said she had only until Tuesday to make her presentation. And, for now, her subjects were s
till close at hand.
Britta slipped on her boots, grabbed a heavy coat, and headed out into the cold Scandinavian air.
February 26, 2006, 2:17 p.m.
Tranholmen Island
Stockholm, Sweden
* * *
Come on! There’s gotta be something here that can cut through chain link, the boy thought.
Eric was digging through a tool room at the back of a large wooden garage detached from the estate house. The garage, which was big enough to hold four large vehicles, currently housed two snowmobiles, a 40-foot motorboat on a trailer, and a snowblower. In the back was a workbench with Peg-Board hanging above, multiple toolboxes and storage bins stacked beneath, and a large vise clamped on one end.
The garage was not heated, and the cold was beginning to seep through his protective clothing. He stomped his feet on the concrete floor and started looking back through drawers and boxes he had already tried.
He found multiple sets of pruning shears, screwdrivers, hammers, saws, and even an ice pick. But nothing like the bolt cutters he had hoped to find. Eric picked up a hacksaw, considered it for a moment, but couldn’t picture how he might angle it to cut the fence, so he flung it down in frustration.
He had to find something. That boy, Daniel, needed him. It was not very often that someone needed him. In fact, it seemed he spent most of his life needing others. But this was his opportunity to help, and he wanted to do his part.
There had been one other time when Eric had the opportunity to help others. It was during the aftermath of a hurricane in Honduras. All normal communications out of that country had been down, and amateur radio operators around the world were helping send emergency messages to families. He had picked up a few of those messages and passed them on. He would never meet the people he helped, but deep down inside he knew he had made a difference.
This was what he wanted to do now. Eric Carlson needed to make a difference, for Daniel, for that baby, for himself.
He pulled out every toolbox he could find, looked at every implement hanging on the Peg-Board. Nothing. No bolt cutters. Not even a heavy pair of wire cutters.
“Master Eric.” He jumped as a voice came from behind. “You shouldn’t be out here in the cold.” He turned to see his nurse looming in the doorway, all six feet of him. He didn’t look the least bit cold, in spite of the fact that he was dressed only in T-shirt and jeans.
How did he always show up like that, out of the blue? It was creepy.
Think fast. “I need some tools for my radio. Have to do some work on the wiring. Thought I could find something out here.”
“After your headache last night I think you should be resting. You can work on the radio some other day.”
The man reached out to guide Eric toward the door.
“Wait, here’s something I might be able to use.” He had spied a small set of wire cutters on the workbench. Not very heavy, but they were his only option at the moment. He grabbed them and stuck them in his waistband as the nurse ushered him toward the door.
They crossed a snow-covered path between garage and house and entered the mudroom on the first floor of the estate. Eric removed his coat and gloves, hanging them on pegs, and then stripped off his snow pants. All the while his mind was racing, wondering how he would sneak out later without the nurse seeing him.
How could he distract the nurse? It would have to be something good… something to keep him occupied, keep him from checking in to see how his young charge was doing.
Eric trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.
“You’re probably right,” he called back over his shoulder to the nurse standing at the bottom of the staircase. “I do need some rest. I will do just a little tinkering on my radio, then I plan to take a long nap this afternoon.”
The nurse nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll be in the family room watching TV if you need anything,” he said as he turned and headed down the hall.
Eric smiled to himself as he closed his bedroom door, clutching the wire cutters to his side.
February 26, 2006, 2:35 p.m.
The Gerianne
Skala Harbor, Patmos
* * *
“Geri, I’m sorry,” Nestor Allende said again. He knew it sounded hollow. He said it every time.
The president and CEO of Allende International lay on the bed of the master quarters of his yacht, waiting for his wife to speak. His hands and feet were each tied with strong silk scarves to the nearest bedpost. He was lying naked on his stomach, three pillows stacked beneath his pelvis.
Geri had quit giving the “I’m very disappointed in you” speech long ago. Now she always got right to the terms of his punishment and subsequent forgiveness.
“I will not sleep with you again until you’ve been tested for STDs,” she said.
“All right,” he said.
“You must accept your punishment and make restitution,” she said.
“All right,” he said, his voice meek.
She walked to the bed stand and put down a small tray where he could see it. On it were a wooden hairbrush—oh, this was serious—and, even worse, much worse, a glass of ice water that also contained a peeled and whittled piece of ginger root.
His heart raced. Awww, no …
“Geri,” he pleaded, “I love you. I’m sorry! How much do you want? Just tell me how much!”
His wife sighed. “I want you to understand that this isn’t a game, Nestor. I want you to stop this, for real.”
“I will. I will! Any amount, just name it!”
“We’ll get to that. And whatever amount it is, I want it wired to me, into my account, today,” was all she said.
Her voice was full of authority and firm decision. And Nestor steeled himself for a very unpleasant half hour to come.
February 26, 2006, 2:35 p.m.
Beneath the Monastery of St. John
Chora, Patmos
* * *
She was in a state-of-the-art virtual reality room. That was the most plausible—in fact, the only—explanation. Jaime sat up in the clouds and wished for a brief moment that she had time to experience and enjoy it.
That moment passed, and she snapped back to the fact she had a very limited amount of time to make her exit. First thing, she had to get out of the equipment she was undoubtedly wearing.
Jaime looked at her hands and saw… her hands. OK. She knew she was almost certainly wearing a very high-tech pair of gloves. But since she couldn’t see them, it was going to be a trick to get them off. Or, as Yani would say, a challenge.
She used one hand to feel the other but met with only frustration. Not only could she not see the gloves; she couldn’t feel them. She tried pulling them off but couldn’t. They were almost certainly fastened on somehow.
Assuming they were there.
Oy.
She pulled at the invisible gloves again, and again met with no success.
Maybe she’d need to go for the headgear first, so she could see what she was actually dealing with. Jaime wondered if it was a helmet or just glasses of some sort.
She was doing her best to keep her train of thought, knowing that she was still slightly woozy—and there was a whole Technicolor drama being played out all around her. In fact, she was now below a throne from which light shone so brightly she had to squint.
Jaime put her hand to her head and pulled at the place where glasses would be. This time, she could feel some kind of elastic pinching at her head. She tried grasping the glasses and pulling straight up.
It worked.
She sat, clouds no longer around her, holding a pair of very expensive high-tech goggles. Out-of-focus colors, images, and sounds continued around her—and she even felt a wind blowing when something was happening at the throne—but she concentrated on removing the gloves. They were thick, with a metal wire conductor running down each hand. Upon closer inspection, Jaime saw they were latched on with a sort of industrial-strength Velcro at the wrist.
It took longer to
remove the first one, since her other hand was still gloved. Once it was free, the other one came off easily.
Her thoughts were becoming clear.
Jaime reached into her back pocket. To her great relief, her handheld was still there, still tethered to her belt.
That meant she still had all the information she’d scanned in the file room.
It meant she knew where Britta Sunmark was.
It meant she was at least one step closer to getting to the kidnap victims.
But it was no good if she couldn’t get out.
Jaime flipped on the phone function. For the first time, she got no signal. It made sense. She was in a cave inside a larger cave surrounded by powerful electronics. She doubted anything short of the actual angel Gabriel could get a message through.
She had to get out, to get the information to Yani.
Free of her electronic tethers, she looked around.
The most recent virtual reality technology with which she was familiar was a setup called, appropriately enough, the Cave. Whatever she was in was a seriously upgraded version. For one thing, the floor panels were raised and served as a fourth wall projecting the images. She looked around to determine the location of the door. She couldn’t see it at first. Even the corners were fully projected. Impressive.
She could still tell that the throne, where the subject’s attention would be focused, was at the front of the box and assumed the door was at the back. She dropped to her knees on the ground and began to crawl back. It didn’t seem anyone was watching her closely on a monitor or she’d be busted already. But she didn’t want to go walking around without the gear inside the box in case someone glanced at the monitor she’d seen in the other room. She stopped crawling a yard from the back wall and studied it. From there, it was easy to find the outline of the door. She noted with interest the metal plate that identified the manufacturer: Allende International.
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