Cryptozoica

by Mark Ellis

  Byerson rolled his eyes in good-natured exasperation. “Shut up, Bill. Doc, how about we get some scenes of you sketching the skull? I understand you’re a superb scientific artist.”

  Honoré smiled self-consciously. “Nowadays, a detailed record of a dig is maintained by digital cameras.”

  “Yeah, but it’s an old tried and true technique dating back to Victorian-era paleontologists, right? I think our viewers would get a kick out of seeing how you guys used to do it.”

  Honoré’s smile vanished. “Just how old do you think I am, Mr. Byerson?”

  A chill gust of wind threw a pinch of dust into Byerson’s face and he grimaced. “To be honest, Doc, filling an hour of air time with one scene after another of college students digging in the dirt doesn’t make for good TV, not even on the Discovery Channel. But you’ve got a great speaking voice and you’d be majorly telegenic if you took off those damn glasses and put on some lipstick.”

  “Would you like me to flash some cleavage, as well?” Honoré asked coldly. “I could borrow a pair of low-riders from one of my interns and bend over more often than I have been.”

  Ryerson shrugged. “It might not be a bad idea, but I think a 30 second spot of you drawing pictures of a dinosaur skull, with the appropriate voice-over, ought break up some of the academic monotony.”

  Honoré sighed. “All right, then. Amanda—!”

  A brown-skinned girl standing at the rim of the excavation turned toward her. Her hair was a rat’s nest of dreadlocks and beaded braids. “Yes, Dr. Roxton?” Her voice held a strong Liverpudlian accent.

  “Would you mind fetching my sketchbook and a few pencils from the op center?”

  Amanda Redding formed an OK sign with her thumb and forefinger and jogged toward the main camp. For miles around it was basically flatland, with not even sproutings of scrub to relieve the sameness of the terrain. A lifeless and sere lake basin spread out like a vast bowl of desolation.

  There was nothing left of the lake, not even a few ponds. It looked as though an impossibly huge animal had stomped a hoof print into the center of the basin, sinking it well below the foothills of the mountain range.

  Mineral deposits in the rugged Andes range glittered dully with the reflected radiance of the sun. The jagged serrations of the white peaks resembled the points of diamonds.

  A dozen dust-filmed Land Rovers and a cluster of tents formed an uneven wall around the outer perimeter of the site. Rock hammers clicked, dental picks ticked and the little red marker flags fluttered in the constant breeze. Twenty people labored among four square-cut, sectionized pits, sifting through sedimentary gravel and carefully whittling away at stone with putty knives.

  Honoré Roxton glanced at the cameraman and sighed. She didn’t feel comfortable lecturing students in her paleontology classes at Oxford, so to look and sound at ease in front of a camera was a real stretch. But, she had learned that in order to acquire funding for her research projects, as well as guarantee her tenure, she had to present herself as something of the Jane Goodall of paleozoology, the attractive, fairly youthful public face of a largely misunderstood scientific discipline.

  If she had to give the impression that she was a cross between Lara Croft and Indiana Jones while she made the rounds of talk shows or served as the anchor of Discovery Channel specials, she had resigned herself to it.

  “Doctor Roxton!”

  Honoré turned in the direction of Amanda’s voice. She gestured to the big main operations tent that held most of their equipment. “London calling on the Wi-Fi!”

  Honoré frowned, confused. She glanced at her wristwatch. Not only was it very late in England, she had no immediate family in London and most of the people she considered friends were with her at the site.

  Quickly, she climbed out of the pit and crossed the open ground to the tent. As she reached Amanda, she asked, “Who is calling me out here?”

  The young woman mimed patting a child’s head at waist level and made a face as if she tasted something sour. “Himself the elf.”

  Honoré instantly knew to whom Amanda referred, and a shudder shook her frame. “Oh my God,” she murmured.

  Despite its size, the tent felt crowded, filled as it was with packing crates, drafting tables, toolboxes and three state-of-the-art computer consoles. By the time she had sat down in the camp chair before a monitor screen, taken off her hat, put on the headset and adjusted the video feed, she felt nominally prepared to speak to Dr. Aubrey Belleau.

  As one of the preeminent curators of London’s Natural History Museum as well as her self-appointed mentor, Belleau’s credentials were worthy of respect, even if his personal behavior had earned little more than contempt.

  The screen framed only Belleau’s head and shoulders but that view was sufficient exposure for Honoré. She had seen the man naked in a hot tub several years before, the memory of his gnarled, misshapen body still gave her occasional nightmares.

  Aubrey Belleau affected the kind of neatly trimmed beard once known as a Van Dyke. His dark blond hair was swept back from an exceptionally high forehead. Under level brows, big eyes of the clearest, cleanest blue, like the high sky on a cloudless summer’s day, regarded her intently. He wore a fawn-colored blazer. A silk foulard swirled at the open collar of his black shirt. A gold stickpin gleamed within its folds, topped by a tiny insignia resembling the Masonic all-seeing eye. Although she had never inquired, she assumed he held membership in a local lodge.

  Although his size was not apparent on the monitor screen, Dr. Aubrey Belleau could have been classified as a dwarf, since his height did not exceed four feet, even with lifts in his shoes.

  “Hello, Aubrey,” Honoré said into the mouthpiece. “You’re up early—or staying up very late.”

  The man showed the edges of his teeth in a perfunctory smile. He wore a headset identical to Honoré’s. “It’s worth losing a bit of sleep so I may see and speak with you, darlin’ Honoré.” He emphasized the last syllable of her name, drawing it out like taffy so it sounded like “Honor-raaaay.”

  “You didn’t make a satellite call at this hour just so you could get a peep at me, Aubrey.”

  His eyes widened in mock hurt. “Would it be so bad if I had?”

  Honoré sighed. “The last I heard, you had just exchanged vows with Mrs. Aubrey Belleau…version three point oh.”

  “Your information is out of date, darlin’. My divorce from that soddin’ cow became final last month.”

  Honoré smiled slightly at his use of vulgar slang. Despite his name, Belleau had been born in England fifty-three years before and she had never heard him so much as whisper a word of French, even to order wine.

  “Aubrey, I’m very busy.”

  He uttered a short, barking laugh. “I know. I arranged the whole Discovery Channel special, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said patronizingly. “You’re a grand arranger.”

  “Ain’t I just. Well, now I’m arranging something else.”

  “What might that be?”

  “The museum and the board of department directors at the school of Anthropology all agree you’re the best candidate—no, strike that. You’re the only candidate to carry through with this.”

  Trying to soften the sharp edge of impatience in her voice, she said, “I’m waiting, Aubrey.”

  Belleau paused. She didn’t know if he was doing so for dramatic effect or if it was due to a transmission lag in the wireless transmission. “Tell me…what do you know of Cryptozoica?”

  Honoré did not respond immediately. Wonder and conjecture wheeled through her mind as she flipped through her mental Rolodex. “Do you mean that fraudulent ecotourism business a year or so back?”

  “I do. And it was a bit over two years ago.”

  “I really don’t know anything specific about it,” she stated. “I do remember several universities were solicited to fund a scientific research station on an island somewhere in the South Seas. It all turned out to be some sort of elaborate
con perpetrated by an American multimillionaire, didn’t it? Howard somebody.”

  “Howard Philips Flitcroft,” Belleau said.

  “Right. A typical blustering Yank showman. Far too much money and too few brains as a balance.”

  “Perhaps. But Flitcroft didn’t perpetrate a fraud. If anything, he was the victim.”

  “As I recall, there were hucksters pushing a fantasy about an island spa where the rich received longevity therapies…it was supposed to be populated by prehistoric survivors and in return for outrageous fees, the hucksters would schedule and arrange scientific tours.”

  “It all depends upon your definition of outrageous fees, I suppose,” replied Belleau indifferently. “Thirty-five thousand pounds doesn’t seem too outrageous in exchange for observing and perhaps interacting with actual dinosaurs.”

  “True enough,” she said dismissively. “If there were truly dinosaurs on the island instead of moving models or some other mechanical replicas that can be found at any well-financed theme park or seaside holiday town. There are similar attractions in Brighton.”

  Belleau smiled. “I’d agree entirely, if the creatures in question were fabrications. However, in the instance of Cryptozoica, the dinosaurs were indeed real animals.”

  It required a few seconds for Honoré to fully comprehend the implications of Belleau’s comment. She demanded, “Are you implying that Cryptozoica wasn’t a fraud?”

  “Hardly,” he answered calmly. “I’m implying nothing of the sort. I am announcing to you without fear of repudiation that Cryptozoica is definitely not a fraud. It is the largest of a two-island chain recorded on the old seventeenth and eighteenth century charts as the Tamtungs. Dinosaurid survivors do exist upon it. How many, the actual genus and pedigree remains to be fully documented. Honoré, we want you to be instrumental in that documentation, to tell the world about it and legitimize the discovery.”

  Honoré stared unblinkingly at the image of the bearded man on the screen. Because of the fluttering pixels and grainy reception, it was impossible to tell if Belleau was joking or merely deranged.

  “Aubrey—” She broke off and angrily began to remove the headset. “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re trying to pull here, but I don’t appreciate it.”

  “I’m completely serious, Dr. Roxton.” Belleau’s voice came as sharp as a whip-crack over the earpiece, causing her to wince. “I can prove what I say. You bloody well know I don’t go in for practical jokes. Foolish waste of time and concentration.”

  Honoré knew he spoke the truth, but she said, “Perhaps not, but you could be the victim of one or fallen prey to a hoax. That was the general consensus of opinion in the scientific community about the Cryptozoica business, right—an elaborate hoax that didn’t quite come off? Who is reviving it now?”

  “No one, because it’s not a hoax.” Belleau exhaled a slow, weary breath. “I’ll be blunt with you…a handful of people have always known of Cryptozoica’s existence but they also knew that it could conceivably be the single most influential discovery in modern human culture. I know it sounds fantastic, but there it is.”

  ‘It sounds more than fantastic.” Very slowly, very deliberately enunciating each syllable, Honoré said, “It sounds im-pos-si-ble. It’s ridiculous for two scientists such as ourselves to even discuss such a thing.”

  Belleau nodded. “I once felt as you did. But I came to learn that living dinosaurs are not a zoological impossibility, particularly in areas that have been geologically stable for the past sixty million years. Larger ectothermic dinosaurs would have had a more successful chance of thriving in stable, warm, equatorial regions than warm-blooded animals with faster metabolic rates. Ectothermic creatures also require only ten percent of the amount of the food taken in by fully endothermic animals.”

  “I can’t argue that,” Honoré admitted. “But determining dinosaur energetics and thermal biology without studying living models is pure pseudo-scientific speculation, the realm of cryptozoologists, not paleontologists. There’s no evidence that humanity and dinosaurs coexisted, for even a short period of time. The Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction event occurred 65 million years ago, long before the appearance of the most primitive hominid.”

  “One with an open mind could argue that legends and ancient works of traditional art depict dinosaurs interacting with Man,” replied Belleau. “The Ica stones found in Peru bear carvings of both humans and dinosaurs, not to mention fossilized footprints of hominid and dinosaurid that were found imbedded in rock strata from the same era. There is the carving of an apparent Stegosaur stenops found on a column in Angkor Wat.

  “Less dramatically, there is the coelacanth, a fish believed to have died out even before the dinosaurs, that is still swimming off the coast of Africa, not to mention a wasp thought extinct for twenty-five million years was discovered to have survived in California, of all places.”

  Honoré brushed away Belleau’s remarks with an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes. It’s also been suggested that a species of plesiosaur account for tales of sea and lake monsters, such as the Loch Ness Monster. Sheerest eyewash.”

  “Entertain for a moment just the notion that you are wrong,” Belleau said. “That a group of dinosaurids from the late Cretaceous Period managed to survive the K-T extinction event and continued to breed and reproduce in virtual isolation for millions of years. What do you think the impact of this revelation would be on the world at large, let alone the scientific community?”

  “Before or after all scientists are tarred, feathered and our degrees burned at high noon in the village square?”

  Lines of irritation appeared on Belleau’s high forehead. “It’s a serious question.”

  Honoré considered the man’s words for a moment, then said quietly, “Possibly such a discovery could challenge everything, perhaps all of our beliefs about science and evolution and even our perception of the very process of creation. Such a finding would deal a crushing blow to the hypothesis of a unique evolutionary sequence. Darwinism might have to be re-evaluated…not to mention the boost it could give to creationists.”

  “Exactly! That is why we need completely trustworthy public principals to release the information, in a controlled, rational manner. A ridiculous holiday park endeavor would have completely discredited and destroyed the scientific and cultural value. Howard Flitcroft understands that now.”

  “That blowhard is still part of this?” she asked skeptically.

  “Minimally. Believe me, the highest authorities in scientific institutions around the globe are deeply involved. In return for your own involvement, we are willing to grant you exclusive rights to any and all developmental research that arises. You’ll have first right of refusal of anything in the zoological and paleontological fields connected to Cryptozoica. Your career, your fortune and future will be assured.”

  Honoré blinked, her thought processes alternately staggering and freezing in place. She shook her head. “I don’t quite…Aubrey, you’re serious? Really serious?”

  He grinned. “As the proverbial broken leg, darlin’. I need to meet you at the Buenos Aires airport no later than tomorrow noon. Transportation has already been dispatched to fetch you.”

  “But I haven’t agreed to anything!” she protested. “I don’t have enough information on which to base a decision. I’ve got to think this through.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to think it through. But while you’re doing so, please don’t let me—and yourself—down. This project is proceeding apace, regardless of your participation. Without you, there’s no way to ascertain its direction, but with you on board, everything will be validated. You’ll be supplied with all the information you require. I hope to see you in the lovely flesh very soon, Dr. Roxton.”

  The image of Aubrey Belleau faded from the screen. Slowly, Honoré took off the headset. She felt as if she were underwater, floundering in a sea of confusion and even madness.

  Amanda suddenly threw the tent flap aside, her ey
es wide with excitement. “Doctor!”

  “What?”

  Wordlessly, the young woman pointed to the helicopter that flew over the top of a ridgeline. Honoré rose and went to stand beside Amanda. The spinning rotors kicked up a cloud of dust as it landed on the far side of the perimeter. There was an insignia imprinted on the fuselage, a blue circle with the letters HFP overlapping in the center of it.

  Honoré muttered sourly, “Howard Philips Flitcroft. Minimal involvement.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The pinnacled towers of the Natural History Museum rose from the foggy heart of London like the ghost of a medieval cathedral. It wasn’t often that Aubrey Belleau had the opportunity to appreciate its ornate terracotta façade acrawl with the sculpted likenesses of apes, fish and human skulls in the blue-gray hours between midnight and dawn.

  Sitting in the back seat of his Rolls Royce Silver Spur limousine, Belleau eyed the arches and flying buttresses with appreciation. Heavy yellow fog wafting in from the Thames pressed against the windows. Still, the temperature was moderately warm for London at hard on three o’clock in the morning.

  He didn’t find the looming edifice of the museum at all intimidating. Rather, as he was the latest in a long line of Belleaus whose professional and personal life were inextricably linked to the fortunes of the institution, he found the sight inspiring.

  Oakshott swerved the Rolls Royce into the private parking lot at the rear of the Darwin Centre. The guard leaned out of his glass-walled booth, recognized the automobile and the ID sticker on the windshield and waved it through the checkpoint.

  As Oakshott braked the big car to a stop, Belleau made sure the computer and video uplink were disconnected. Honoré hadn’t asked him from where he was transmitting, nor would he have told her the truth if she had. Neither he nor any member of his family had ever violated the secrecy oath of the School of Night.

  Oakshott parked the car and turned off the engine. Quickly, he got out, placing the step stool down before he opened the rear door. A gigantic man in gray chauffeur’s livery, he stood over six and half feet tall and tipped the scales at three hundred pounds. His long face was dead white. In his uniform, complete with a peaked cap and jodhpurs, Oakshott looked like a store window manikin from the late nineteenth century.