“Dr. Brooks,” Julian said when he caught up, but Brooks didn’t stick around to hear what the grad student had to say.
He climbed upward, hand over hand, his mind driving his shaking body higher. His grip slipped as he pulled himself up onto the next ledge and for a moment he hung by a single hand over a horrible death.
His heart jackhammered and his shoulders ached as he crawled up into the hollow, well aware of his lack of caution and the consequences he’d narrowly averted. His professional curiosity had simply gotten the better of him. He struggled to shove the lid off of the wooden coffin. He fell to his haunches and rested his elbows on the lip. He experienced a sensation of vertigo as he stared down at the remains.
Another male of Caucasian descent. This one couldn’t have been out of his twenties. His body was significantly older than the previous two and his journey to decomposition was essentially complete. Only his bones remained, and they had taken on a manila cast. The man’s sweater was a sickly shade of gray and deteriorated to woolen swatches. His pants were baggy and tucked into ankle-high hobnail boots, the soles of which appeared uniformly rusted. There were no brand names on anything and Brooks hadn’t seen anyone use what looked like an ACE bandage to seal his pants to his boots outside of black and white photographs.
“Are you out of your freaking mind?” Julian clambered over the edge and shoved him farther away from the edge. “You see this?” He tugged on the rope that bound them together. “If you’d fallen, you would have taken me with you.”
Brooks looked into Julian’s wild eyes.
“You’re right. I got carried away.”
“Damn straight you did.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You’d better believe it won’t. Down there you’re in charge. But up here? Up here you’ll do exactly what I say or so help me I’ll…”
The screaming wind swept away his words.
Brooks crawled back to the coffin. He’d seen something metallic near the bottom right before Julian tackled him. It took him a moment to find it again, in the crust near the dead man’s thigh, where the disarticulated phalanges of his fingers and the carpals of his wrist were jumbled near the fractured end of his radius.
He reached in and extricated a ring from the dried sludge. It came a away with a single phalanx that fell out while he examined it.
It was silver and covered with the foul-smelling adipocere. He scraped at the surface with his thumbnail and revealed a triangular design with a backward N inside of it, beside which was a skull and crossbones.
“Dr. Brooks,” Julian said.
Brooks continued scraping, exposing a hexagonal design, then a circle inside of which were what looked like a lightning bolt and an arrow. No, it was more than that. It was a Gibor rune and a Bind rune. All of the designs were runes. The hexagon was the Hagal rune and the backward N was the Sig rune. He’d seen them all before. And the skull…
“Dr. Brooks, you really need to see this.”
There was no doubt about it. It was a Totenkopfring. The SS-Ehrenring bestowed upon members of Heinrich Himmler’s Shutzstaffel, one that couldn’t have been issued before the late 1930s and one no one on the planet would have been caught dead wearing after 1945.
“Son of a bitch,” Brooks said. “What else didn’t he tell me?”
“Dr. Brooks!”
He closed the ring in his fist and turned to find Julian lying on his belly at the back of the hollow, ducking underneath the lid Brooks had cast aside, which now leaned against the tapered rock wall.
“What is it, Julian?”
The grad student pushed the lid aside and gestured at the bare stone with an enormous grin on his face.
“What?”
“You have to come closer.”
Brooks tucked the ring in his pocket and crawled away from the edge, toward the deep shadows. He had to lower his head and shoulders. He was nearly right beside Julian when a shape resolved from the shadows, down near where the ceiling met the floor.
“Well, what do you know.”
Brooks flipped on the light mounted to the opposite side of his helmet from the camera and shined it into the hole, illuminating a dark passage leading deeper into the mountain.
Seventeen
Johann Brandt Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology
Chicago, Illinois
October 7th
Ten Days Ago
“Tell me about that initial expedition,” Brooks said.
“That was so long ago, my boy. Where do I start?”
“How about at the beginning?”
Brandt wheeled out from behind his desk and positioned himself in front of the window, his back to Brooks. Even in his diminished form, he struck a powerful silhouette against the gray skyline.
“There is never just one beginning to any story. You of all people should understand that. Any point in history is a random convergence of timelines that intersect for but the briefest of moments and from which an unlimited number of futures emanate like the rays of the sun. Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
Brooks thought about the plaster cast as it turned on its stand inside the climate-controlled case. He’d scrutinized every inch of it for the inconsistency that would prove it was a fake. There was just the right amount of asymmetry to the facial features and imperfections obviously caused by the application of the plaster. If it was a hoax, everything about it was perfect.
Brandt turned and looked at him with his fingers tented underneath his chin, his eyes alight with a youthful fire that seemed sorely out of place in his withering frame.
“Is it real?”
“Of course it’s real. Why else would I take you down there in the first place? I know how all of the rest of what you saw makes me look. I would have gladly taken the secrets of that room with me to the grave. But that’s not the question, or if it is, maybe you aren’t the man I thought you were.”
Brooks again thought of the plaster face. He’d committed every detail to memory. He recalled the wide, flared nostrils and the eyes that had been memorialized in such a way that he couldn’t tell if they were open or closed.
“Was it alive when you cast it?”
“Good heavens, no! Why don’t you take a moment to formulate your thoughts.”
“I didn’t come here to verbally spar with you. I’m in the process of putting together an expedition, which is easier said than done considering I’m not allowed to show any of them what I’ve seen. What I need to know, more than anything else, is if it’s real. And I need a straight answer.”
“You’ve evaluated it for yourself; what is your assessment?”
“If it’s a fake, then it’s the most elaborate one I’ve ever seen.”
“Instead of approaching this with the intention of disproving its authenticity, why not approach it from a purely scientific perspective? Treat it as you would any discovery in the field and go from there.”
“It’s just so fantastic.”
“Imagine how the man who first exhumed the skull of Tyrannosaurus rex must have felt. Did he spend all of his time trying to prove it was fake or did he rush out and tell the world?”
“That’s what bothers me most about this whole thing. Why didn’t you share your discovery with the entire world?”
“I already told you.”
“Try telling me again.”
“The answer is simple, my boy. The time simply wasn’t right.”
“When has any discovery of this magnitude ever been suppressed because of the timing?”
“You’d be amazed the truths the world is unprepared to accept. You can’t just shine a light in people’s eyes and expect them to accept that until that moment they’ve been blind. Imagine the religious implications.”
“This isn’t the Middle Ages. People are able to reason for themselves.”
“Not at the cost of their faith.” Brandt’s smile and tone of voice were patronizing, as though Brooks were a child. “Think
about the timing of my initial expedition. We were dispatched by the Ahnenerbe to trace our Aryan roots. Back then, it wasn’t the joke that it is now. People actually believed in the existence of a mythical race of Atlanteans and the nobility of the bloodline we, as Germans, inherited from them. Not just the masses, but educated men and women who believed with all of their hearts because they were desperate to believe in something, anything other than the demoralizing realities of our daily existence.”
Brandt again turned his chair so he could look down upon the hedge maze. He continued in a faraway voice.
“Ours was suddenly an impoverished country, fractured and dismantled by forces that didn’t just defeat us in the first Weltkrieg, they ground us beneath their heels like insects and demanded crippling reparations designed to make it so we could never reunite as a Germanic people, let alone rise from our ashes. You understand the power of belief, the feeling of being a part of something greater than yourself. It’s a euphoric feeling, one that galvanizes communities. Entire nations for that matter. We all needed to believe in something, no matter how fantastic, as you said. Even Himmler, arguably the second most powerful man in Germany, believed with such fervor that he was certain that not only would we find the proof of our superior lineage high in the Himalayas, we would return with it and show our oppressors once and for all through whose lineage the blood of kings flowed.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Imagine what would have happened if we returned from the mystical land of Tibet instead with proof that everyone was wrong, that their beliefs were misguided and not only were they not superior, they were inherently inferior. It would have been a crushing blow that derailed more than the war efforts. Our country was drunk with power and high on nationalism. God help me, I was, too. Our economy was stronger than it had ever been. It was like one big party we thought would never end. And those of us who’d seen in the flesh what you saw downstairs...we elected not to crash that party.”
“What about the others from your expedition? Surely at least one of them would have wanted to take credit for the discovery.”
“I was the only one who returned to Germany after we left Tibet. We had something of a falling out, I suppose you might say. And the prospect of returning to a country at war wasn’t necessarily appealing to all, especially while we still had carte blanche to pursue our individual research. So I guess you could say that I was the one who ultimately made the decision, and there was a juncture when I probably should have shared our discovery with the Ahnenerbe, but what do you think Himmler would have done with that knowledge? He would have twisted it to fit his narrative, making lie of scientific truth. Worse, he would have used it as a rallying cry to send more of our youth to be slaughtered on the front lines.”
“What about anytime during the intervening seventy years?”
“What can I say? I am a vain and selfish man. I’ve lived my entire life knowing the answer to a riddle few believe we will ever solve. Do you have any idea how powerful that can make a man feel?”
“So why share this now? Better yet, why share it with me?”
“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Brandt sighed and turned away from the window, beyond which a flock of starlings settled onto the hedge maze. “I am a man both out of time and out of synch with it. I no longer understand the world around me and, truth be told, would really rather not. There is no longer a sense of scientific wonder and enlightenment, but rather one of entitlement. The quest for answers has mutated into the determination to force the will of man onto everything in his dominion. If anyone else saw the plaster cast and recognized the implications, we would lay bare one of the last natural mysteries in the world and in our race to understand it would throw caution to the wind and experiment with forces man was never meant to command.”
“You mean we’d attempt to clone it.”
“You asked me why I chose you. In answer, allow me to pose a question of my own.” He wheeled back behind his desk and stared Brooks directly in the eyes for so long he became uncomfortable. “What is the significance of viruses of the Popovaviridae family?”
“Popovaviridae is an archaic term for a family of viruses known to cause neoplasms. It’s since been divided into two distinct families: Polyomaviridae and Papillomaviridae. As far as its significance to human genetics, one specific polyomavirus—the JC Virus—can be used to trace historical human migration patterns.”
“How so?”
The corner of Brandt’s mouth curled upward in an expression Brooks interpreted as one of amusement. They both knew Brooks could answer the question. The director was leading him toward an epiphany of some kind, but Brook was tired of speaking in code. If Brandt had something to say, he wished he’d just come out and say it.
“There are fourteen discrete subtypes of the virus, each corresponding to a specific geographic location, without more than transient overlap. Roughly three-quarters of the global population is infected with subtle variations upon what we consider to be the base genotype of the virus, variations we speculate were caused by mutations within the indigenous populations during the generations following the initial infection at a common site of origin, thus allowing us to trace the history of human expansion using the commonalities of their viral-coded DNA.”
“And how does that theory relate to population models?”
“That’s not my area of expertise.”
“Take a crack at it anyway. Just for fun.”
“Polyomaviruses are DNA based, unlike retroviruses, which utilize RNA to directly incorporate their genetic code into ours. As such, they require a much more complex process of transcription in order to insert their genetic code into the host cell’s DNA. They’re rather unique in the sense that their genome possesses both early and late genetic expression. Initial infection can cause immediate oncogenesis in immune-compromised individuals, or the infection can remain latent for many years before stimulating tumor growth. Once transcribed, the virus’ DNA is incorporated into our somatic cells, but not our germ line. Thus, as an exogenous infection, it continues to mutate within each host and through subsequent generations the farther one gets from its geographical site of origin. In a sense, you could say that its continued evolution as a subspecies not only mirrors, but corresponds with our own. As our gene pools become increasingly isolated around the world, our genomes continue to diverge considerably from one another, positing the debate for subspecies classification of the extant lineage of Homo sapiens.”
“Evolutionarily speaking, what else will you find if you go back far enough historically, to the point of common genomic expression?”
Brooks could sense where he was going with this line of thought.
“Related viruses of the same genus, species with similar physical and genetic makeup. Species like the Chimpanzee Polyomavirus and Simian Virus 40. Similar viruses that infect the cells of lower order primates in a nearly identical manner, all of which cause neoplastic growth in parallel evolutionary lines and become increasingly complex as the host and virus coevolve.”
And then it hit him where Brandt was leading him. He imagined the plaster cast and the microscopic imperfections in its surface.
“You were able to extract DNA.”
“If only that were the case. I’m afraid that a lifetime ago we never dreamed such things would ever be possible. And believe me, I’ve tried every available means of gathering viable samples from that plaster, but what little trace we could find was degraded to such an extent that it was beyond worthless.”
“So you want me because you believe I’ll be able to sample its DNA in the field and be able to recognize the viral patterns in the junk DNA that separates it from us and identify the causative viral infection?”
“If such a correlation exists. Or perhaps we’ll just find a random mutation of the proteins with no attributable cause. And if we do find a recognizable viral chain of proteins in its DNA, I have no doubt that you are the one man on the planet qua
lified to not only decipher its code, but isolate the virus itself.”
“You want me to find the virus?”
“For every virus there is a vector of transmission. If you can isolate the virus, I have complete confidence that you will be able to find the vector.”
“And what if I can’t? It’s one thing sampling your traditional array of vectors like mosquitoes and mites, but in a case like the JC Virus, they suspect the mode of transmission is something as benign as contaminated water. For all we know, the source could be an environmental reservoir in soil with a specific pH or on any random species of plant.”
“I’m sure I can find someone on staff qualified to evaluate such contingencies.”
“And you have to consider the possibility that even if such a virus exists, it could be long dead by now. The vast majority of our endogenous viral proteins were coded by species that have been extinct for millennia.”
“Perhaps that’s the case. If so, you’ll have invested nothing more than your time, and you’ll still return with the kind of discovery that will blow the doors off the establishment. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Brooks sighed and looked out the window. The sun peeked through the clouds, if only for a moment. The first snowflakes tapped against the glass before swirling off into oblivion. He stared into Brandt’s eyes and carefully formulated his thoughts.
“What I don’t get is what you intend to do with the virus. Let’s say we get lucky and we find the remains you left behind seventy years ago. And luckier still, we’re able to isolate its DNA, run a real-time PCR screening in the field, and isolate the vector…what do you expect me to do, collect it?”
“Exactly.”
“To what end? So we can be exposed to it and infect ourselves? So we can isolate the genes responsible for the physical expression and create more beings like it? Man was never meant to play God, and that’s exactly what you’re proposing we do.”
Fearful Symmetry: A Thriller Page 11