by Layton Green
If it is manmade, Jacques had said, then the fastest way to a vaccine is to find the prototype.
Get inside the manor, Viktor.
Find the lab we know is there.
Easier said than done. There was still no evidence tying Jans van Draker to a crime, and Interpol could not strong-arm the South African police, especially with van Draker’s political connections. Apartheid might be over, but the country’s wealth remained in the hands of the old regime. Jans possessed powerful friends.
Instead of marching into the van Draker manor, Viktor found himself watching the road behind his private car for signs of suspicious vehicles.
A glimpse at the world news on his smartphone revealed the beginnings of panic. What if thousands were already infected? Why did the mysterious disease, which the press had dubbed the gargoyle virus, only target people of certain phenotypes? Could it spread to other groups? Even if not, could it mutate? Should certain communities be segregated?
The questions—the fears—had polarized the public. White supremacists referred to the virus as the new Black Plague, calling it the work of God. The NAACP wondered why the government had waited so long to go public. More than one municipality was considering segregated restrooms and drinking fountains until more was known.
Viktor could only imagine what would happen if someone proved the virus was manufactured. It could spark a race war. Internment camps. Vigilante action on both sides.
He shuddered and wished the drive were shorter. He could have made phone calls but he wanted to conduct the interview in person. Witnesses, he knew, might be leery of discussing a man such as van Draker over the phone.
Doctor Ehlers lived in a sleepy seaside village marked by steep cobblestone roads and a line of cottages fronting a tidal pool. As the Mercedes pulled alongside a lemon-yellow bungalow just steps from the sea, Viktor got a text from Grey that caused a cold lump of unease to settle in his gut. The text was a seemingly innocuous message about a client invoice, but imbedded within the words was a code they had developed in times of distress. They had a number of codes, but this particular one had never been used before.
Grey’s message meant he was compromised but unable to discuss why, and that Viktor could not let on that he knew. Under any circumstance.
Viktor stared at the phone. Coming on the back of Nya’s death, he knew the news about Charlie must have sent Grey into a tailspin.
It also meant Charlie’s captors had something to fear from their investigation.
The professor didn’t know for sure what Grey’s message meant, but knowing his friend, he would not take the kidnapping lying down. After blowing out a long breath, Viktor straightened his tie and stepped onto the pebbled path. There was nothing to do but move forward.
The cries of seagulls filled the sky and the chimerical mist had lifted, the sky as sharp as cut glass. Viktor had told Dr. Ehlers only that he wanted to consult with her on a current case. He had chosen her because of her ties to van Draker, as well as her documented work with victims of “medical kidnapping,” the controversial practice of remanding children into government care for various reasons, usually involving child abuse or the parents’ failure to follow a doctor’s order.
According to Ehlers, the government and pharmaceutical companies used these children as subjects for medical trials for which they would not otherwise get approval. Even more sinister were the reports of homeless or severely disadvantaged children who disappeared while in state care.
Someone who cared about such causes, Viktor was hoping, would talk more freely.
Dr. Ehlers opened the front door with a pleasant but reserved greeting. She had short, coiffed auburn hair and age lines framing her mouth, which added to her stern demeanor. Viktor declined her offer of refreshments, and she led him into a sitting room with a grand piano and a view of the rocky shoreline.
“I assume the investigative matter on which you’re seeking my opinion,” she began, with a formal accent full of strong r’s and t’s, “involves medical kidnapping?”
“Actually, no,” Viktor said, causing her eyebrows to arch. “It involves your employment with the South African Medical Commission alongside Jans van Draker.”
Her tea paused halfway to her mouth.
“I realize it was only a short time,” Viktor said. “A year, if my research serves, before you were transferred to Cape Town.”
“I wasn’t transferred.”
“No?”
“I demanded that I be moved. And that an investigation be opened.”
“An investigation into what?”
Dr. Ehlers blinked twice. “My dear professor, you just said this matter does not involve medical kidnapping. Yet you wish to probe my time with Dr. van Draker?”
“And?”
“Why do you think I began my crusade?”
Viktor leaned back in his chair.
“Jans van Draker,” she continued methodically, as if discussing the chance of rain in the afternoon, “under the auspice of the medical commission, regularly took children out of their homes and performed tests on them while in government care. Tests for experimental drug trials and vaccine controls and a host of other unconscionable practices.”
“Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“Because it was legal. It still is, in many cases. It’s not just South Africa, either. The problem exists from America to Andorra to Australia. It’s often worse in developing countries, but not always.”
“Did children . . . disappear . . . under his care?”
“I suspect that they did. Of that I have no proof. Who did you say you were with?”
Viktor let out a deep breath and displayed his Interpol badge. “I assume you’ve heard the recent news? About the virus?”
“How could I not?” She set her tea down, her face draining of color. “You suspect he’s involved. That’s it’s manufactured.”
Viktor let a prolonged silence speak for itself. “I’m not in a position to divulge details.”
She looked dazed. “I’ll provide what I can, though we weren’t exactly social. What I can tell you is that he’s brilliant. Possibly the most brilliant medical mind I have ever encountered.”
“That’s high praise, coming from a neurosurgeon.”
“Unfortunately, his empathy was not so advanced. His pro-Apartheid stance is well-documented. And he was hardly alone,” she said bitterly.
“What about your own views? The government didn’t mind?”
“I was a doctor. No one ever asked me.” She wagged a finger. “Far more people opposed Apartheid than you might think. It’s easy to assume a majority view as an outsider.”
“Indeed.”
She looked down and smoothed the front of her blouse. “What is it you wish to know?”
Viktor thought about what he wanted to say, and what he was allowed to say, then chose his words carefully. “When you worked for the government, did you ever come across evidence of a virus or medical condition similar to what we’re seeing?”
“No,” she said slowly. “Though during that period, there were numerous studies that sought to . . . substantiate . . . the tenets of Apartheid.”
“You mean to establish the superiority of the white race.”
“Bunk science, of course. Modern genetics has taught us that nearly all living humans descended from a common group of ancestors in primitive Africa. But back then . . . many of the initiatives stemmed directly from experiments performed by the Nazis. Which, of course, were inspired by eugenics legislation passed in the United States.”
Viktor tensed at the mention of the Nazis. A potential connection between van Draker and the Ahnenerbe.
“Many of the Nazi experiments were carried out by doctors with no ethical restrictions. The testing might not have led to proof of racial uniqueness, but—and I can only speculate here—they might have led to an advanced understanding of genetics and structural biology in certain phenotypes.”
Viktor digested her words. “Are yo
u implying that the Nazi experiments were studied and improved upon by Apartheid doctors?”
“I’m saying that a similar . . . medical mindset . . . was in place during Apartheid. Especially during the latter years, when the regime felt threatened. I also heard talk of a cabal of doctors working on a top secret project.”
“Why keep it secret if it was government-sponsored? Because of backlash from the international community?”
“As I said, support for Apartheid was far from universal. It was known within the medical community who was supportive of such barbarisms, and the rest of us were kept in the dark. I don’t know much of anything about this project, except two rumors that cropped up about it. The first was that our most brilliant physician was the mastermind.”
“Van Draker.”
“The second,” she said, after a long sip of tea, “was that it involved biological warfare. Don’t bother asking for details, because that’s all I know. Whether it actually existed, how far it got or when it was discontinued, I’ve no idea.” Her face darkened. “But I have no doubt—I know—that victims of medical kidnappings were used as guinea pigs during this time.”
“Are there any doctors who might know more about this?” Viktor asked.
“No one who would talk to you. And it would be dangerous to ask.”
“An investigative journalist?”
“There were two close to the story. Both killed in house explosions.”
Viktor whistled out a long breath and thought about what he had learned. One thing he still didn’t understand was the relationship between the virus and Akhona’s alleged return from the grave.
“Let us speak in the abstract for a moment,” he said, thinking also of the bizarre appearance of van Draker’s butler, and the guard Naomi claimed had died years ago. “Let us imagine that a doctor wished to reanimate a human corpse.”
Her hand twitched against the chenille sofa. “I’m sorry?”
“I understand how it sounds. A tale of Gothic horror. I can’t go into specifics, but I’m sure you heard the news of the Xhosa boy’s return from the dead.”
She gave a curt nod.
“Is such a thing . . . possible?” he asked. “Theoretically?”
Dr. Ehlers wrinkled her face, as if physically dispelling her distaste of the topic. “Brain injury is the chief impediment to recovery after what physicians call clinical death. With modern advances in resuscitation techniques and recombinant DNA, limbs can be reattached, organs regrown. But the ischemic damage to the brain cells that results from loss of blood flow—that is irreversible. It depends, then, on what you are asking. Do you mean reanimation of a corpse shortly after death? Or recombining body parts in order to manufacture some type of life?”
“Both, I suppose.”
She forced a grin that fell flat. “Are you asking, professor, if the tale of Dr. Frankenstein might be plausible with today’s medical advances?”
Viktor crossed his arms. “I suppose I am.”
Dr. Ehlers’s gaze drifted out to the ocean. “Let me tell you a dirty little secret. Neuroscience teaches that the brain gives rise to consciousness, a computer spitting out complex bits of data. But that’s guesswork. We don’t really understand consciousness, the exact boundary between life and death. What if one day we could map the entire connectome of the human brain at a fixed point and regrow it in a lab? Is that consciousness? Could we do that over and over and live forever? I personally believe scientific thought has become myopic in its refusal to consider alternate theories of consciousness and self-awareness. We don’t know why love and long walks in nature can heal the brain. We don’t know why some NDEs—near death experiences—occur without a functioning neocortex. Quantum physics implies that reality is, at its deepest level, a vast number of impossibly small, impossibly complex, interconnected vibrations of energy. What if consciousness, rather than a byproduct of physical existence, is the source? Or even a medium: a way to bridge the gap between the spiritual plane and the natural world?”
“I’m beginning to think we have the same job,” Viktor said.
Dr. Ehlers shook her head. “Don’t mistake my intent. I’ve given my life to science. Yet just because questions concerning the soul and consciousness have proven elusive—perhaps impossible—to answer does not make them go away. To return to your question, our bodies are an energy field swimming in a universe of energy. While I don’t see how it’s possible to restore life after brain death has occurred,” she shrugged, “I suppose if one could reboot the ion channels, create a spark of energy that could jolt the brain back to life without destroying it, then it might be possible to reanimate a corpse.”
“I imagine ethical considerations would prohibit most studies,” Viktor said drily.
“Plenty of requests for research have been filed. Have there been explorations in China and other places with less rigorous oversight? I’d say without a doubt. As for your other question—recombining body parts—a cephalosomatic linkage was achieved between two monkeys in 1970.”
“Cephalosomatic?”
“Sorry—the head of a live monkey was severed and surgically attached to another.”
“And the monkey lived?” Viktor said, incredulous. It seemed like science fiction. “For how long?”
“Eight days. They didn’t have the ability to link the spinal cords, but, professor—1970 was almost fifty years ago. In technological terms, that’s eons in the past.”
Viktor felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He checked his watch and took a few moments to find his next words. “Assuming the science was possible, would a re-animated person be . . . normal? When they came back?”
“Ya, that is the question. How a delay in consciousness, in life as we know it, would affect the neurological structure. Or, in case of a cephalosomatic linkage, would the personality survive the transplant? Will it be the same human being, or will a completely new awareness be imparted? Another entity plucked from the well of souls?”
“And?” Viktor asked, when Dr. Ehlers seemed to lose her train of thought.
She shrugged and returned her gaze to the silver-tipped waves thumping against the rocks with a steady, languorous rhythm. “No one knows.”
-26-
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
Fabiana screamed her orgasm as she raked her nails down Jax’s chest. “Asi, mi amor, asi!” After she finished, the former national beauty queen collapsed beside the mercenary, her light brown hair a halo on the silk sheets.
God, Jax loved Venezuelan women. Feminine beauty was more prized than oil in the South American country, and those rare few women who actually won the competitions?
Royalty. Fawned upon by the entire country. Possessed of a finely honed spirit of entitlement that made conquest all the sweeter.
It wasn’t just the women or the staggering beauty of the landscape that drew the mercenary to the South American capital. In terms of plying his trade, Venezuela might be the most lawless country in the world, outside of a war zone. Right up there with the Horn of Africa.
Who was he kidding? Venezuela was a war zone. It was just a different kind of war. One waged by the hordes of drug lords, urban gang leaders, illegal exporters, oil barons, and other criminal despots who ran roughshod over the country in the waning years of Chavez’s regime, and who had blossomed like monstrous Chia pets under the dictator’s successor, a halfwit sycophant who ruled the country with the effectiveness of a discarded banana peel.
Fabiana stroked his clean-shaven cheek. “Again?” she asked, in that lilting Spanish accent that stirred his blood.
Jax sat with his back against the headboard and lit a cigarette. “Sure, love. Just give a man a moment to indulge.”
Fabiana was the mistress of one of the most powerful crime lords in Caracas, Diego Cabrera. Off to Maracaibo to oversee an oil deal, unable to trust his own people, Diego had hired Jax to protect his most precious possession. Jax had been in the country for months and developed a reputation as a rare hired gun who wou
ld keep his word and not flip sides.
Still, he thought, as his eyes roamed the horizon of Fabiana’s bare legs, every man had his limits.
And what kind of moron hired someone like Jax to watch his mistress?
He resisted the urge to light another cigarette. He was in his mid-thirties now, and had to watch his health. Forget that live fast and die young bullshit. Jax planned to live fast and smart, then die at ninety-five in perfect health, surrounded by women and good Scotch and a palatial estate with a view of the Aegean.
Which meant a few sacrifices here and there. This was the twenty-first century. Sustainable mercenary living.
Fabiana traced a finger across Jax’s lips and moved slowly down to his crotch. She took him in her hand as his cell buzzed. He swore and reached for his phone.
It was just a text, but the number had not been re-routed from one of his burners. It had come straight to his phone, from one of the few people in the world who knew his private number.
Dominic Grey.
The very name caused a flood of conflicting feelings. Annoyance. Respect. Fascination. Unease.
The message had said to call Grey immediately. Fabiana sensed Jax’s tension and removed her hand. “Who is it?”
Jax’s thoughts were elsewhere, to a dusty jeep flying across the Egyptian desert, an insane adventure with one of the few men alive Jax wouldn’t want to meet alone in a dark alley. “An old acquaintance.”
Her pillowy lips curled into a frown. “Your next conquest?”
“It’s a he, love. Not my vintage.”
“So you don’t have to call him back?”
Jax’s eyes drank in her curves. The Venezuelan ideal of feminine beauty did not include women who looked like ironing boards with legs. “Not in the next half hour.”
She stretched out on the bed, teasing. “Is he a man like you? A handsome, lone wolf mercenario?”
“He doesn’t think he is.”
“Que? What does that mean?”
“I do what I do for money. He does the same things for principle. It’s all a matter of justification.”