Authors: Ken Goddard
Draganov waited until the waiter disappeared and then leaned across the table toward the newcomer, looking scared.
“That was you who woke me up this morning … the voice on my cell phone?”
The newcomer nodded with a slight smile.
“Then I must know … who are you … why are you here … and why were you following me this morning?” Draganov demanded in a nervous whisper, looking around to see anyone at the surrounding tables was paying any attention to their conversation. No-one seemed to be.
“My name is Emerson.
Marcus Emerson,” the newcomer — whose last name was actually Wallis — lied. “And I was at your hotel this morning to make sure you made it to your lecture.
I didn’t want to miss it.”
Draganov blinked. “You were there, in the audience?”
“Yes, I was.
Why, do you find that surprising?”
“No, not at all,” Draganov stammered quickly, “I mean, you just don’t … seem like a man who ... uh ... who would be interested in my work.”
“On the contrary, doctor, I find your work to be most fascinating.”
Draganov gulped nervously. “May I ask why?”
Wallis paused while the waiter set the coffee and food on the table, and then smiled as he observed Draganov staring hungrily at the platters filled with fruit and sweet rolls.
“Help yourself, doctor.
You’ve had a busy morning.
Time for you to relax, enjoy your breakfast, and allow me to do the talking.”
Wallis then sipped casually at his coffee as he watched Draganov fill a plate with fruit and rolls, and begin to eat hungrily.
Then, a few moments later, he set his cup down and stared quietly at the Russian scientist until Draganov finally sensed the scrutiny and looked up.
“So tell me, doctor, given the huge potential of your research, and the amount of money your anonymous benefactor initially invested in your facilities, why are you having trouble getting funding?”
Draganov blinked.
“What do you know about my bro — my, uh, b-benefactor?” he stammered.
“Not a great deal.” Wallis shrugged.
“Our paths happened to cross on a remote Southeast Asian island several months ago.
At some point, you and your research became a topic of conversation.”
“My brother … talked to you — a complete stranger — about my research?” Draganov looked stunned.
Wallis smiled. “Glasses of expensive vodka and remote locations have a way of rapidly creating close friendships.”
“But — do you know where he is now?
I haven’t heard from him in … many months.”
“Which is presumably why you’re making a desperate pitch to the investment crowd?
Your brother’s money is about to run out?”
Draganov stared at Wallis, seemingly unable to speak.
“I must say I’m not surprised,” Wallis said calmly. “Your brother was clearly a man who took substantial risks in his ‘business endeavors’; risks not necessarily appreciated by the local law enforcement agencies, much less his competitors. I have every reason to think that he was in the process of quickly relocating his operation to a more friendly work environment when we happened to meet.”
Wallis stared directly into Draganov’s horrified eyes for a long moment. “For your sake, and his, I sincerely hope he made it, Dr. Draganov.
But I would assume from your lack of communication with him over these past months that he probably … didn’t.”
An ashen-faced Draganov seemed to sink deeper into his chair.
“So is that the problem you’re having with the money crowd? They think you’re too much like your brother? Too willing to gamble against the odds?”
Draganov finally seemed to find his voice.
“The investors do think my approach involves too much risk,” he acknowledged in a raspy soft voice.
“They want me to make progress in smaller steps … use a more defined and less variable virus as a transport vehicle … things like that.”
I understand they’re also concerned about your use of something you call ‘transition’ genetics?”
“Yes, that too,” Draganov conceded uneasily.
“Please explain.”
Draganov hesitated, and then began to speak, staring out at the far wall.
“Genetic manipulation is traditionally done by altering genetic coding — genes, if you will — in a fertilized or unfertilized egg using precisely constructed segments of DNA.
This is relatively easy to do, because you are only working with a single nucleus … the drawback being the length of time it takes for the altered egg to reach adulthood.”
“Yes, I understood that from your lecture.”
Wallis nodded.
“Go on.”
“Transitional genetics — the protocol I’m using — involves manipulation of that same genetic coding, but in a very young animal that is still in its primary growth stage.
The advantage is the relatively short time it takes for the animal to reach adulthood whereupon it can be utilized.
“And the drawback?”
“The huge number of nuclei that must be altered — essentially the entire animal, which means billions of cells at the very least. The transition must be accomplished in a rapid, thorough and precise manner, which is why I use the cold virus and nano-tube technology to replicate and insert the altered DNA segments. That particular virus type is quite effective in its infection process.”
“So are your critics right?
Is the procedure too risky?”
Draganov shook his head firmly, finally meeting Wallis’ cold gaze.
“No, not at all.
There’s been no evidence at all in any of the literature that nano-tube technology is dangerous.
They
are
correct in saying the cold virus can evolve — which is to say, mutate — quite quickly under certain circumstances; but virus mechanisms are well understood.
It’s simply a matter of taking all of the proper precautions. There are risks of uncontrolled growth, of course; but the relevant question should be: are the risk acceptable?
I —”
“I understand the concept of risk versus reward, doctor,” Wallis said calmly. “I want to know if the projects you described in your talk are doable.”
“In what respect?”
Wallis took a small notebook out of his coat pocket, wrote down a few words, and then showed the page to Draganov.
“A feline?”
“Actually, relatively rare feline.”
“Rarity doesn’t matter if I can get access to the young animals.”
“How difficult would that be?”
“More expensive than difficult —”
Wallis wrote down a figure and silently showed it to Draganov. “Would an investment of this nature cover all of the necessary expenses?”
Draganov’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, yes, but —”
“The funding would be in cash.
Is that a problem?”
“You mean cash deposited into our bank account?”
“No, handed to you – packets of US hundred dollar bills.
No banks.
No government involvement whatsoever; a concept that your brother and I happen to agree on.”
“I suppose that would be okay.” Draganov nodded hesitantly.
“Understand, doctor, I view the feline project as a test of your work.
What if I also wanted this?”
Wallis wrote down one more word and showed it to Draganov.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am.
Is it doable?”
“Yes, of course it is … but it would be much more difficult.
My god, the magnitude alone —”
“Would require a much larger investment, of course.
I was thinking of adding another zero to the proposed funding.”
Draganov stared at Wallis in open-mouthed disbelief.
“But before I put that much money at risk,” Wallis went on, “I’d have to see your lab and your products, first hand.”
Draganov quickly shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I — I really can’t allow anyone to visit my laboratory.”
“Like your brother, I’m sure a visit by governmental authorities is something you’re trying very hard to avoid … which presumably explains why your facilities are, shall we say,
very
remotely located … and also why you don’t seem to be listed in any scientific research directory.”
“I, uh —”
“This would not be an inspection, Dr. Draganov.
I haven’t the slightest interest in how many scientific corners you chose to cut in your work. I’m only interested in the results; which is why I would only be visiting your facilities as an investor bearing cash.”
As Draganov sat in agonized silence, Wallis sat back into his chair and sipped at his coffee with his characteristic slight smile.
Part II: The Thai Disconnect
CHAPTER 1
One year later … on board the
Muluku
, off Westport, New Zealand
It was a moonless night, the seas were calm, and the nearby fog bank seemed to go on for miles.
All in all, perfect conditions for the sixty-two foot
Muluku
— a poorly-maintained charter yacht turned sports fisher running at quarter-speed thirty nautical miles off the northwest coast of Westport — to perform the simple tasks for which she had been modified.
But even so, the ship and her crew approached the fog bank with understandable caution.
The bridge radar screen was showing a big-target blip that should have been the rusting structure of a two-hundred-foot commercial fishing trawler — five hundred yards out and twenty degrees off the
Muluku’s
port beam; but there was no visible sign of anything on that heading except swirling fog.
Huang Kat-so, the captain of the converted smuggler, cursed as he brought the portable radio up to his mouth.
“Ged, do you see anything?” he demanded, speaking softly into the radio.
“Negative, Captain, no contact,” Gedimin Bulatt — a lanky muscular man in his late thirties ,
, dressed in rubber-soled boots, faded levis, a worn flannel shirt and stained windbreaker — replied into his radio as he stared out across the water from his position on the bow into the wispy darkness.
Bulatt had a Vietnam War vintage M16 rifle slung over his shoulder; and four 30-round rifle magazines, two 15-round pistol magazines, and a loaded 40-caliber Sig-Sauer semi-auto pistol in the ammo pouches and holster of his assault vest.
With his scraggly white beard and short white ponytail just barely visible from the bridge in the wispy fog now surrounding the boat, Bulatt provided a very appealing and soothing image to Huang: that of a tough and able seaman on bow watch, keeping an eye out trouble or treachery as well as imminent collisions.
“This damnable radar is useless!
We must be getting close.
Keep your eyes opened,” Huang Kat-so ordered as he dropped the speed of the
Muluku
down another notch.
“Aye, sir.”
Under anything resembling normal operating conditions, the linking-up of two ocean-going vessels in the middle of the night, thirty miles off shore in deep water, and under reasonably calm weather conditions, would have been an easy thing to accomplish, fog or no.
But both ships were purposefully operating ‘black’ — without any bridge, navigation or running lights — and
Muluku’s
long-outdated radar system was intermittently reliable at best; which meant the trawler might well be five hundred yards off the
Muluku’s
port beam … or fifty … or perhaps not even there at all.
Must be out of my mind, trusting these idiots to know what they’re doing at night out on the open water
, Bulatt thought as he strained to listen for some distant creak or clank of rusted steel that might reveal the trawler’s presence.
He’d already stored an inflated life vest near his bow station; and he was ready to strip off his armament, dive overboard with the inflated vest, and swim for his life the moment he spotted the bow of the big trawler coming out of the fog on a collision course.
It was a perfectly reasonable precaution on Bulatt’s part.
Huang Kat-so had a well-earned reputation among the Maui fishing boat community for his indifferent seamanship, casual maintenance schedules, and reluctance to spend much — if any — of his profits on his boat and bare-minimum crew; the outward impression being that the south-east Asian immigrant was just barely eking out a living off his occasional deep sea fishing clients.
Which probably isn’t far from the actual truth
, Bulatt reminded himself, wondering — with some vague degree of curiosity — how many clients in their right minds had ever chartered a second trip on the
Muluku
after spending an uneasy night on the leaky sports fisher; putting up with the erratically functioning galley, heads and bilge pumps, while the Captain and his two deck hands took turns steering their more-or-less seaworthy craft not too far offshore in a mostly fruitless effort to find a place where fish might actually be biting.
But Bulatt was also well aware that the disgruntled clients were only a cover for the high-six-figure incomes that Huang Kat-so was making off his illicit business ventures; the latest of which had caused him to go looking for a reasonably trustworthy bodyguard who could also function as a number two deck hand when the previous holder of that job suddenly found himself in serious trouble with the law.
A sudden screech of heavy rusted objects rubbing against each other out in the foggy darkness snapped Bulatt’s head around to the right.
“Audio contact, off the starboard bow!” Bulatt hissed into his radio, and then braced himself as Huang Kat-so quickly reversed both engines; bringing the
Muluku
around in a sweeping arc to starboard while the first deckhand — a small, wiry and darkly tanned man of indeterminate age and ethnic origin — ran forward to the bow with a grappling-iron gun.