by Mark Ellis
“Such as?” asked Crowe.
“After I dissolved the Cryptozoica corporations, my attorneys settled the wrongful death suits and managed to get all but one of the negligent homicide charges dismissed.”
“Which one?” Kavanaugh inquired, even though he knew the answer.
“The one the Jessup estate filed against you.” Flitcroft lifted his hands palm upward in an attitude of helpless resignation. “Sorry, Jack. You knew I had to give them somebody and you did fly Cranston, Jessup and Shah Nikwan in-country, against company rules.”
A flush of shame and anger warmed the back of Kavanaugh’s neck and unconsciously his body tensed, his fists clenching.
In a voice pitched low to disguise the tremor of building rage, he said, “I flew them there because they were my employers and they told me they’d fire me, Mouzi, and Augustus if I didn’t do it.”
“They wanted to shoot the animals,” Pendlebury interjected shrilly. “The product!”
Kavanaugh didn’t glance in his direction. He kept his eyes trained on Flitcroft’s face. “They told me they were going to shoot the animals with cameras. It wasn’t until they unloaded the chopper that I saw the rifles. I tried to talk them out of it, I told them we were in a restricted habitat. But no—it all boiled down to the fact that three of Cryptozoica’s five main investors wanted their own private safari so they could bag some Hadrosaurs and mount their heads over the mantle, to have trophies no other sportsman in the world could ever have.
“You knew damn well that’s what they had in mind all along—that’s why you conveniently went off to attend to pressing business in Java on that very day…Howie.”
Spots of red inflamed Flitcroft’s cheeks. “Even if I did know what they had planned, you knew the security protocols. You and Gus drafted them, with the input of that homegrown Dragon Lady of yours. Yeah, okay, Jack—maybe I had an idea what those three spoiled assholes intended and maybe that’s why I made myself scarce, so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility for telling them no. But you accepted the money to fly them there…I found the thirty grand in the chopper, that’s ten thousand apiece, right?”
Kavanaugh didn’t respond, but his jaw muscles bunched into tight knots.
“So, the end result of you taking a bribe is that two weeks before the Cryptozoica Island Spa officially opens for business, the main money-men are slaughtered, you’re gutted like a fish and the goddamn White Snake triad starts demanding their money back. Then it gets out that I’m doing business with the fucking Asian mafia and the SEC gets suspicious of me, and they drop a dime to the Financial Action Task Force. At about the same time I fly in a surgeon to sew up your intestines, the people we enticed to move here, to put up the storefronts and open businesses, see Cryptozoica Enterprises go belly-up before they make single sale to a single tourist.”
Flitcroft paused long enough to take a breath before he plunged on: “Oh, but wait—there’s more. The families of the three chewed-up dinosaur hunters file wrongful death lawsuits and enough civil charges to keep me in international court twenty-four seven for the next ten years. But let’s get back to you, Jack, because it’s all about you and your suffering, right?
“You’re responsible for raising tombstones over three men and a seven hundred-million dollar business deal, but you have your all medical bills paid and you get to hide out here, away from the reporters, the goddamn triads, the lawyers and the FATF. You get to keep the thirty grand in untaxable cash, a million buck helicopter and you live rent-free on a South Sea island and hang out at a whorehouse, drowning your sorrows in booze and hookers. Boo-hoo, Jack. You really got screwed with the shit-end of the stick, didn’t you? Boo-hoo.”
As Flitcroft spoke, Kavanaugh’s expression first went remote, as if he weren’t listening, then his face twisted into something dark and ugly. Tendons and veins swelled on his neck. The atmosphere in the office grew electric with tension. He took a step toward Flitcroft’s desk.
Alarmed, Pendlebury held out a restraining hand. “Jack, let’s not do anything foolish! You’re already skating on such thin ice—”
Kavanaugh’s blow landed like a steam-driven piston. Mewling, Pendlebury folded over, clutching at his stomach. Sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. He stumbled, knees sagging, and he would have fallen if Crowe hadn’t caught him and eased him into a chair.
Quietly, he said, “Kicking the asses of Bertram and Howie won’t do you any good, Jack.”
Between clenched teeth, Kavanaugh said, “It’s not supposed to do me any good. It’s supposed to help them, and that’s why I’m so tempted.”
By degrees the furious glint in his eyes faded and he unknotted his fists, flexing his fingers. “Howie, if you’re financing a TV show, then you must have reason to believe that you’ll triple your investment. You still go by the triple-minimum profit rule, right?”
Flitcroft nodded, relief that Kavanaugh wouldn’t surrender to temptation evident in his face. “You’re absolutely right. But I still need you guys.”
“To act as your transportation department?” inquired Crowe, straightening up from the gasping Pendlebury.
“Yeah, but also to keep any triad goons off my neck long enough for me to get everything done.”
“What’s everything entail?” Kavanaugh asked.
Flitcroft’s eyes glittered with sudden enthusiasm instead of anger or apprehension.
“The film project—a TV miniseries in the US and the UK and syndicated in the rest of the world. It’s going to bring out the whole truth about Cryptozoica, but from a scientific, National Geographic kind of approach. I should’ve gone that way in the first place, instead of going in the direction of a private resort so the rich could exploit the place.”
Crowe rolled his eyes ceilingward. “Give us a break. Cryptozoica all of a sudden has a new profit smell and you’re seeing a way to recoup your losses.”
“Even if that’s the case,” Flitcroft countered “so the hell what?”
“So,” said Kavanaugh, “neither you nor Cryptozoica has any credibility. It’s on your permanent record now and I don’t think it can ever be scratched off. You promoted the place as being a retreat where the secrets of life extension used by the Bible boys could be found. Your price tag was so high that only the elite of the world could afford the treatments, but still the story got out to the general public. Then you pulled it back, claiming it was all a practical joke, a harmless hoax.
The sad fact is, you’re known as Howard Flitflake, millionaire eccentric, a certified nut-job or just an ordinary scam artist. Take your pick, but whichever label you choose won’t make any difference once the press gets hold of this story. They’re not going to allow a do-over.”
Flitcroft’s lips tightened. “I’m going to keep a very low profile during the actual production. I’ll be at the bottom of five levels of intermediaries.”
“Whose profile will get the publicity?” Crowe asked. “Who’d you find who’s gullible enough to let themselves be ridiculed on a global scale?”
Flitcroft’s lips relaxed, curving into a smug smile. “None other than Honoré Roxton.”
“Who?” demanded Crowe and Kavanaugh, more or less simultaneously.
Still bent over in the chair, clutching at his middle, Pendlebury said haughtily, “Dr. Roxton is one of the world’s foremost paleontologists and experts on dinosaur behavior. She’s authored four books on the subject and she lectures all over the world. She’s on the Discovery and the Science Channels a lot.”
“Our TV reception is kind of hit or miss out here,” Crowe said dryly.
“Take my word for it,” Flitcroft said. “Honoré Roxton is extremely well-known and well-respected in scientific circles the world over. She’s even been allowed to oversee digs in the heart of Muslim countries.”
Kavanaugh smiled bleakly. “Which makes me wonder why she wants to get hooked up with you.”
Defensively, Flitcroft retorted, “Over the last eight months I’ve been corresponding with
an English zoologist, a curator of the National History museum in London, no less. He persuaded me that Cryptozoica was far too important a scientific discovery to be relegated to the pages of tabloid newspapers or Internet legend.”
Flitcroft spoke so precisely, both Crowe and Kavanaugh knew he was repeating by rote something he had heard numerous times.
“Does the Roxton woman know she’s going to be your shill?” Kavanaugh asked.
Pendlebury levered himself out of the chair and glared at Kavanaugh. “She won’t be a shill. This is a sincere scientific endeavor that needs to be shared with the world.”
Both Kavanaugh and Crowe laughed.
Flitcroft did not seem to be offended. “I’ve learned a lot in the last two years. One of the things is that you weren’t the first white man to set foot on Cryptozoica, Jack.”
“I don’t recall claiming that I was. I knew the Tamtungs were on the old eighteenth century charts, but like the Perhentians, they weren’t explored until the twentieth century. Somebody had noticed the Tamtungs and taken notes.”
Pendlebury drew himself up, massaging his midriff. “One of those somebodys was no less a personage than Charles Darwin. The Beagle made a stopover here in 1836.”
Crowe favored the smaller man with a scowl. “Bullshit. There’s no record of Darwin visiting the Tamtungs in any of the volumes or editions of Voyage of The Beagle or The Origin of Species.”
The three men glanced at him in silent surprise.
“I’ve read a few books, okay?” Crowe said self-consciously. “I studied to be a marine biologist after I got out of the Navy.”
Flitcroft chuckled. “Well, Gus, you’re right…there’s no record of Darwin’s visit here, because he was persuaded not to publish his account.”
“If he didn’t write about it,” demanded Kavanaugh, “how do you know he was here?”
“I didn’t say Darwin didn’t write about it, only that he didn’t publish his account. According to what I was told, he made extensive notes of his explorations on Cryptozoica, complete with drawings by the Beagle’s draftsman, Conrad Martens.”
“Drawings of what?” Crowe asked.
“Of the flora and fauna,” answered Pendlebury. “And that’s one reason a small group of naturalists have kept Darwin’s secret ever since.”
“Kept it a secret why?” Crowe arched his eyebrows. “Because an island populated with survivors from the Cretaceous doesn’t fit with Darwinian evolutionary theory?”
“Darwin and his colleagues were more afraid that the island would be exploited for material gain and not studied so as to advance the science of zoology and paleontology.” Flitcroft again sounded as if he were reciting from memory.
“Oh.” Kavanaugh nodded sagely, gesturing to the resin models and stuffed toys. “That’s so completely different from your own plans.”
Flitcroft blew out a sigh. “I forgot how badly you get on my nerves, Jack. I was even feeling a little bit sorry for you. The historical truth behind Cryptozoica is a lot more complicated that you know. This is going to be a painstaking project to bring it forward.
“You can be a part of it and at the end of it go back to the States without being arrested…or you can just go on sitting on your ass here, getting drunk, pitying yourself and smelling bad.”
“Nobody is going to believe your story,” Kavanaugh said.
“You’ve got a story of your own about Cryptozoica that needs to be told,” Flitcroft replied in a gentler tone. “Could be it’s finally time to tell it.”
Unconsciously, Kavanaugh’s his free hand went to his face and traced the line of scar tissue curving away from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “could be.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
May 10th
The C-21 Learjet knifed through the sky, following the corridor designated for commercial aircraft over the South China Sea. Looking out the window at the limitless expanse of the blue Pacific far below, Honoré Roxton reflected that only a few years ago the ocean would have been filled with rescue and relief craft, steaming toward tsunami devastated coastlines.
Now she saw only scraps of clouds and white-capped waves. A sense of the enormity of the world filled her, yet she still felt disoriented by the speed with which the far corners of the planet could be reached. Less than twelve hours before she had been washing Patagonian dust from her hair in a Buenos Aires hotel room.
The roomy cabin of the jet was decorated in beige trimmed with black. The front panel of the wet bar was engraved with the monogram of Howard Philips Flitcroft. Aubrey Belleau sat on one of the four stools, carefully mixing a Singapore Sling from the ridiculously well stocked liquor cabinet.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you, Honoré?” he asked, pouring a dash of Benedictine into the glass. “You’re supposed to keep hydrated on these long transcontinental flights, you know.”
“Alcohol actually dehydrates,” Honoré drawled. “You’ll be far thirstier after you imbibe that poison.”
“Really?” Belleau flashed her an impish smile. “Chemistry isn’t my field, you know.”
Honoré gestured to the rear of the cabin. “Perhaps your chauffeur will join you.”
Oakshott, impassive in his grey uniform, sat strapped into a very wide upholstered chair, hands resting upon his knees. His great bulk made it seem like a child’s bolster seat at a barbershop.
“Oakshott is teetotaler,” replied Belleau, mixing in a teaspoon of grenadine. “Aren’t you, old darlin’?” Oakshott did not reply.
“I’m sure Howard Flitcroft was happy to give you the loan of his jet,” Honoré said, “but do you think he’ll appreciate you draining his liquor cabinet? Or will that lighten the load?”
“The load?”
“I noticed at the airport that the cargo hold is filled to bursting…mainly with camera equipment.”
Belleau sipped at the drink and smacked his lips appreciatively. “It could use a thimbleful more pineapple juice.”
“You’re tart enough, Aubrey.”
Belleau angled his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “Look who’s talking.”
Honoré sat up straighter in her seat. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Belleau laughed self-consciously and climbed down from the stool, ice tinkling in the fluted glass. “No need to go all stiff and proper on me. We have both been through the broken marriage mill, so we should commiserate. We’re both professionals, colleagues and adults, are we not?”
“That last part remains to be seen,” Honoré countered, her voice cold but her cheeks flushed with hot anger and humiliation.
Belleau tipped the glass toward her in sardonic salute. “Adult colleagues can engage in adult pursuits, can they not? Why can't you join me in a drink?”
Honoré refused to acknowledge the inquiry, suspecting that Belleau already knew the answer and enjoyed baiting her. She had first met the little man nearly seven years ago at a faculty party, shortly after separating from her husband Lucien.
He had first complimented her on her doctoral thesis, then on the plunging neckline of her dress. Although she found his intellect intriguing, Belleau’s presence always made her distinctly uncomfortable. His high, refined forehead was that of the aesthete, the philosopher, but his eyes and the set of his jaw bespoke a ruthless nature. That, combined with his short stature, always reminded her of the so-called Napoleon complex.
As the man settled into the seat opposite her, Honoré said, “I agreed to all of this, leaving my dig and meeting you in Buenos Aires to fly to the Tamtungs, because your story interested me.”
“Not to mention the inducement of five thousand pounds,” Belleau retorted silkily. “Let’s not forget that.”
“The money made the proposition a little more attractive,” she admitted, “but it wasn’t the primary lure.”
“Of course not. You and I are two of a kind, Honoré, even if you are loath to recognize it. We’re hands-on scientists, not academics. We respond best to the
scent of a mystery, to the bugle call of adventure—”
“—Speak for yourself,” Honoré broke in impatiently. “I want to know what I’m getting into before I get into it.”
Belleau nodded. “Rightly so.” He raised his voice. “Oakshott, be a good fellow and fetch my valise.”
Unbuckling his seat belt, the big man stood up and opened the overhead luggage compartment. From it he pulled an old-fashioned black satchel and carried it down the aisle. Honoré winced at the deck vibrations caused by Oakshott’s heavy footfalls. She fancied the entire jet quivered with each of the giant’s steps.
Belleau took the satchel and rested it on his lap. “Thank you, old fellow. As you were.”
As Oakshott returned to his seat, Belleau opened the case and removed a leatherbound book that at first glance reminded her of a standard volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. He passed it over to Honoré saying, “Take a look. I’ve arranged the contents in more or less chronological order.”
Frowning, Honoré opened the book. Her frown deepened when she saw a sheet of ragged-edged paper, darkly yellowed with age and covered with copperplate, or English round hand, cursive handwriting. Thumbing through the sheaves, she saw ten sheets were sandwiched between sealed plastic sleeves. From a pocket of her blouse she took out a pair of square-rimmed eyeglasses and slipped them on.
The words, written in very faded ink, acquired a new clarity. HMS Beagle, Personal Log, C.R. Darwin, 5th May, 1836.
Honoré’s heartbeat sped up and a little electric thrill streaked up her spine, but still her mind filled with a surge of suspicion. Lifting her gaze, she stared challengingly at Belleau. “What is this supposed to be?”
Belleau sipped casually at his Singapore Sling. “Exactly what it looks like. As you know, Charles Darwin kept two journals, his public ‘A’ and his secret ‘B’. You might consider this to be an excerpt from the ‘B’ or perhaps even his double-secret ‘C’ log.”
Glancing at the page again, Honoré asked skeptically, “You’ve authenticated it?”
“Of course. I know its provenance. It was given to my great-great-grandfather for safekeeping by Darwin himself. Keep in mind this is a copy. I’ll show you the full, untruncated version after you’ve had a chance to think all of this over.”