Lindsey got in and rubbed her hand over the pink plush upholstery. “That’s nice.”
“And kind of warm,” Ignatowski added.
“You need air-conditioning?” the driver asked.
“Yes, please,” Bishop answered, wiping his forehead. “I had almost forgotten how much I hated the tropic heat,” he said, sitting across from Lindsey and Ignatowski.
“Welcome to my limousine service,” the driver shouted while taking off, looking back over his shoulder. “Mr. Fawcett must like you very much since he booked you the only available limousine on the island. Where do you want to go first?”
“The museum or the hotel?” Bishop asked.
Ignatowski nodded to Lindsey.
“I think we better first visit the museum before dark. From there, we can check in at the hotel.”
“You heard the woman,” Bishop confirmed Lindsey’s suggestion.
“No problem,” the driver replied, as a honk from a car coming toward them sounded. The driver turned his head, and with a jolt to the wheel, he steered the limo back into its lane.
“I’m sorry, no problem. I haven’t had an accident in over a year,” he tried to reassure them.
“And before that?” Ignatowski asked.
“Forget that,” Bishop intervened before the driver could answer. “Just get us to Trinil in one piece, please.”
“Not a problem, sir. Please enjoy the ride.”
After a few minutes, they left the city, and the driver steered the Beetle onto the road, ‘Jalan, Bojonegoro-Ngawi.’ The road received its name from connecting the Bojonegoro district in the north to the Ngawi district south of it on Java. The old concrete road was filled with cracks, and although narrow bike lanes had been created on both sides of the road, bikes with and without motors swirled left and right across the street. The roadside scenery alternated between ceramic shops, palm trees and fields with corn and other crops.
“I guess that most of the time, people survive these trips,” Bishop remarked.
“I guess they do,” Lindsey answered. “How could they otherwise have survived all these years?” She smiled.
“Evolution,” Bishop answered. “Survival of the fittest.”
“Speaking of survival,” Ignatowski added, “you were going to tell us more about Haeckel and his theories.”
“Yes,” Bishop responded. “And I would already have if you hadn’t slept on the planes.” Bishop smiled, and Lindsey and Ignatowski gave him half-hearted smiles. “Where to start?” Bishop asked.
“Start with the T,” Ignatowski suggested.
“Trinil, yes. Darwin thought that the first modern men originated in the warmer climate of the tropics because, during evolution, from ape to men, the furry coat almost completely vanished. Thus, he placed the first form of modern men in Africa. On the other hand, at around the same time, Ernst Haeckel—and you must know that there were no fossilized remains recovered at the time—somehow figured Asia to be a more likely place for modern life to have originated and where we could probably find—”
“The missing link,” Ignatowski interrupted him. “You said so before, but why did he think it originated in Asia?”
“Nobody knows, but Haeckel described the remains of the Pithecanthropus Alalus in great detail, and that spoke to the imagination of a young Dutch paleoanthropologist named Eugène Dubois. Haeckel somehow convinced Dubois to travel to the Dutch East Indies—Java Island, to be precise—to do fieldwork in a small town called Sangiran. Again, it remains a mystery why Haeckel picked that specific place. Back in 1887, when Dubois visited the place, it was nothing more than a sandpit. Today, Sangiran is recognized as one of the most important archaeological excavation sites in the world, where over half of the world’s known hominid fossils were found. Dubois did some preliminary research, but when he didn’t find any fossils of interest, and against Haeckel’s direction, but on local advice, he traveled to Trinil, some fifty miles east.”
The driver suddenly shouted. “Look.” He slowed down and pointed outside. Next to the road, in the middle of nowhere, a coffee stand emerged. “You want coffee?” he asked Bishop. “Delicious specialty, Java coffee from the local Ijen volcano, grows at forty-five hundred feet on the mountainside. Very special.”
Bishop looked at the other two.
“I think we better stick to the plan and first visit the museum. Maybe get a cup of coffee there,” Lindsey said. “After that, we can check in to the hotel and get some rest and dinner.”
“Agreed,” Ignatowski said. “Let’s not waste any daylight.”
“Of course, to the museum,” the driver agreed.
“Where was I?” Bishop asked as the driver sped up.
“Dubois traveled to Trinil,” Lindsey reminded him.
“Yes, he did indeed. From 1887 to 1895, he dug in several places in Trinil. In 1891, he discovered a skullcap, thighbone and a few teeth. Until today these remains are among the oldest hominid ever. About half a million years old. He identified the remains with Haeckel’s Pithecanthropus label. Experts later reclassified them as Homo erectus, and now the remains are best known as the Java Man. Haeckel, on the other hand, was quite content with the find and published his paper on the finding of the Pithecanthropus Alalus. The missing link.”
“Amazing, and by that, completing Darwin’s theory of human evolution,” Ignatowski concluded.
“Exactly,” Bishop agreed. “Though not without debate at the time.”
“And now?” Lindsey asked.
“Now? Well, based on Darwin’s work, evolution was generally portrayed as a linear process, a straight line. Now we think, or know, that the evolution of men, over time, occurred much more spread over the world, like branches on a tree.”
“So, Darwin was wrong?” Ignatowski asked.
Bishop smiled. “Did you know Darwin, in his most famous work ‘On the Origin of Species,’ wrote but a single sentence about human evolution? ‘Light will be thrown on the origin of man and his history,’” he quoted.
“All very interesting,” Ignatowski murmured. “But what has this all got to do with disappearing tribes?”
Bishop grinned.
“You have an idea?” Lindsey asked.
Bishop tilted his head. “I think it’s your time to fulfill a promise.”
“Jennifer.” She sighed.
“Jennifer,” Bishop repeated.
“Soon,” Lindsey said.
Bishop shook his head.
For the next hour, the Beetle passed ox-pulled cars, dangerously heavily loaded motorcycles and small villages where houses were defined by a roof over wooden beams. Suddenly, the driver made a sharp right turn onto a small concrete road with large potholes, bouncing the passengers in their seats.
“Damn.” Ignatowski grabbed his head as it hit the car’s roof.
“I think we’re almost there.” Bishop glimpsed a concrete statue along the roadside depicting two naked figures—ancient man and woman—in front of a volcano. The man stood with what looked like a hunting knife in his hand, and the woman sat, leaning over a fire. Probably cooking, Bishop thought. Nothing ever changes. The car drove another quarter mile before it stopped at the end of the road.
“We’re here,” the driver called out.
Two open iron gates marked the entrance, but there were no signs. Next to the gates, two large bamboo sticks were placed with alternating red and white, triangular-shaped flags. Outside the iron gates were no fences, not even a wire, guarding the terrain.
“Those gates are pretty useless.” Ignatowski frowned, pointing at them.
“I guess they don’t need them,” Lindsey said.
“Are you sure we’re here?” Lindsey asked, looking for signs indicating this was the Trinil Museum.
“This is the museum and the original terrain where Eugene Dubois did his excavations?” Bishop asked.
“Sure,” the driver said. “Not a problem. Just walk inside. You will be joined. Please, I wait here.” He pointed at the small
security booth ten feet behind the gates.
“I think we better go,” Bishop suggested. After gathering their things, they got out. The sun burned hot, and from the look at the barren lands surrounding the museum, it burned hot most of the time. They approached the security booth, but there was no one inside.
“Just go on,” the driver yelled, leaning out of his car’s window.
As they made their way onto the path, the driver took out a satellite phone from the glove compartment and switched it on. After a moment, the screen read, ‘Ready for connection,’ and he punched in some numbers.
“Hello, Mr. F? Yes, it’s me. We’ve arrived at the museum.”
For a moment, he listened to the voice on the other end before answering. “I don’t think so, sir. They are just searching for something... What, no... I’m waiting by the car....”
The voice on the line grew louder.
“Yes, but... No, I understand... You’re the boss. I’ll try to find out more... Thank you, sir. I’ll keep you informed.”
The driver heard three short beeps as the call was disconnected, and he turned the phone off again, sighing.
After following the path for about fifty feet, the trio reached a small square.
“There.” Lindsey pointed to the right. On the other side of the square, a sign in huge fire red letters read: MUSEUM TRINIL, NGAWI.
“So far, so good,” Ignatowski remarked, while they walked up to the sign. Behind the stairs, a twenty-foot tall sculpture of an Indonesian temple marked the entrance. It was split in half, allowing visitors to walk through. Immediately behind the gate was a full-sized mammoth with huge ten-foot tusks.
“Selamat Siang. Welcome, welcome,” sounded from behind the temple entrance where a tanned, middle-aged Indonesian man emerged. “Good day,” the man said in remarkably good English. “I’ve been expecting you. Come, come.” He waved his arms to a small terrace. They followed him to a white plastic table with an orange-flowered tablecloth and plastic chairs. “My name is Kuwan Mansoer. Please sit down. I’m the curator of our lovely Trinil Museum.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bishop shook his hand, and the others introduced themselves.
“Can I get you some coffee, tea or something else?” Mansoer asked as a young woman joined them.
“Yes, coffee, please.” Lindsey folded her hands, begging.
The others nodded.
“Three coffees, it is. Tiga kopi,” he spoke to the young woman, who gave a small bow and left. “So, I understand you’re here searching for something? Some kind of investigation, yes? Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?”
They looked at each other, all three frowning.
“You know”—Bishop chewed his lips—“that’s probably an excellent question, which we are trying to answer ourselves right at this moment. If you give us some time to think and drink our coffee, maybe then you can help us.”
“Not a problem,” Mansoer replied.
The young woman carried a tray to their table.
Mansoer distributed the drinks on the table. “Milk, sugar.” He placed two Chinese porcelain cups on the table. “There you go. I’ll check up on you when you finish your coffee. You’re the only visitors today, so I’ve got all the time we need. I’ll be over there if you need me,” he said, pointing to the small bar.
“Thank you,” they said simultaneously.
“That’s a nice man,” Lindsey said. “And eager to help.”
“Indeed.” Bishop looked around the empty terrain. “From the looks of it, they don’t get many visitors, so I figure he’s most eager to help.”
Lindsey took a sip of her coffee. “Wonderful.”
“Yes, very good,” Bishop agreed. “Would now be a good time to continue your story about Jennifer?”
“Ah, yes,” Lindsey agreed. “Well, let me think about where to start. Okay, did you ever hear of race-based medicine?”
Bishop frowned, thought for a moment, and shook his head.
“I know, of course, there’s an evident controversy with using race as a method for classifying humans, and I know about your problems with that. But hear me out, please. I’m not a specialist and, Iggy, please help me if I get it wrong. Experts seem to think that thousands of genes that, if mutated, are responsible for human genetic diseases. Those genes seem to mutate differently in different regions of the world. For example, Cystic fibrosis is most common among people of Northern European heritage, Sickle cell anemia is mostly found in people with sub-Saharan African ancestry and Tay–Sachs disease, an autosomal recessive disorder, is most common among Ashkenazi Jews, French Canadians of Saguenay–Lac-Saint-Jean, the Old Order Amish of Pennsylvania and the Cajuns of Louisiana. I’ve been told there are a thousand more examples.”
Bishop thought for a long moment. “Okay, all true, I guess, but that could just as easily be explained by heredities as by classification through race. Where are you going with this, and what does this have to do with Jennifer?”
“All right.” Lindsey nodded. “You know we told you nobody had seen Jennifer for months when we started looking for her.”
“I know.”
“Shortly before her disappearance, Jennifer gave a presentation on an introduction day at Yale when, near the end, she collapsed and was brought to the hospital.”
“What?” Bishop almost popped a vein. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we thought you wouldn’t want to help us with finding out what happened to the missing tribes, but instead stay in the U.S. to look for Jennifer.”
“You’re damn right I would have.” Bishop slapped two hands on the table, shaking his head.
“Matthew, please listen,” Ignatowski pleaded. “I’m convinced that if we find the truth about the tribes, we will also find the truth about Jennifer.”
“And Jennifer herself,” Lindsey added.
Bishop took a moment to calm down. “Did you contact her mother? And I still don’t get where you’re going with your racial genetics story.”
“Yes, we contacted her mother,” Lindsey replied. “And she told us that Jennifer was taken to Yale hospital after her collapse, and then taken to Massachusetts General for specialized treatment.”
“What did she have?”
“She had an infectious brain disease. Her mother didn’t know much specifics, and when we queried the hospital, there was no record of her ever being treated there. Her mother did remember the name of the treating physician, but when we got there to question him, he didn’t work there and, according to the records, never did. We haven’t been able to locate him.”
Bishop’s eyes widened. “This is getting weirder and weirder.”
“Wait for it,” Lindsey added. “You know that when we were in Peru the first time, we took blood samples from the three natives. Those blood samples were tested on all kinds of abnormalities by ‘health and race’ specialists.”
“And did they find anything?”
Ignatowski took over. “These specialists work for a subdivision of the NRO. And, yes, they did. They found a strange genetic variation, as they called it, probably caused by genetic recombination between human and animal DNA. You know what recombination means?”
Bishop nodded. “The exchange of genetic material among different organisms. Basically, it creates offspring with combinations of specific traits. Like two parents giving each about fifty percent of their DNA to a child.”
“Exactly,” Lindsey said, taking over again. “And in your example, recombination happens naturally, but it can also be done artificially, by inserting, deleting, modifying or replacing in the genome of a living organism, and over different species.”
“I know,” Bishop interrupted. “I talked about it in my paper on evolution you referred to earlier.”
“Indeed you did,” Ignatowski agreed. “And I recently read it. Amazing, for the time it was written in. What was it, ten years ago?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “A lot has happened since. When you wrote the paper, one coul
d add or disable single genes in a cell, and now, with tools like CRISPR, they can cut and splice long stretches of DNA, whole chromosomes, creating unthinkable possibilities.”
“As far as I know, human trials are yet to be authorized,” Bishop said.
“True. But I think you’re missing the point,” Lindsey added.
“The point being?” Bishop snapped back.
Lindsey nodded at Ignatowski, who continued. “The point is, that although there’s no record of Jennifer being treated at Mass General, there was a report with her name on it listed at the hospital’s Center for Genomic Medicine. The report mentioned the discovery of a strange genetic variation in Jennifer’s blood.”
Bishop’s face turned white.
“Iggy had the good sense to cross examine the abnormalities in Jennifer’s blood with those found in the tribe members.”
“And?” Bishop asked anxiously.
“According to our experts, the abnormality in Jennifer’s blood was over ninety percent, the same as the blood taken from the tribe members.”
Chapter 11 – 5261
Mount Graham, AZ, The Present
Rising over ten thousand feet, Mount Graham was the highest peak in south Arizona, seventy miles northeast of Tucson. To the Apaches and other native peoples, the ‘Dził Nchaa Sí'an’—‘Big Seated Mountain’—was considered sacred. The mountain is home to the oldest conifer trees in the United States, and several rare and endangered species, like the Mount Graham Red Squirrel, live on its slopes.
Despite the outcry of the Western Apache Nation and other Native American groups, pleading the site to be sacred, the United States Congress, in 1988, authorized the creation of the Mount Graham International Observatory area. Now, multiple international organizations have set up large telescopes and observatories on top of the mountain.
In 1985, the Vatican decided to build a new observatory tucked into a forest of trees on top of the otherwise empty mountain when the telescope in Rome couldn’t function anymore because of the light pollution. The observatory now has one of the three most significant telescopes on the mountain.
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