Authors: David McLeod
Malone was amazed at Daniel's knowledge.
'On another subject, I had a look at the news clippings in Russia and China around the same time as Mary Salinas' disappearance, and came up with another hit in Moscow. There was a girl who was abducted in a similar way. The strange thing about the Russian girl is that the news item was dropped. There was quite a big piece when she first went missing, but then nothing. It was like the story was a mistake or something. Anyway, I also tried to see if the reporter had gone on to bigger and better stories, but once again nothing. He seems to have stopped writing for the paper. There's definitely something going on, I'm sure of it. Nothing in China as yet. I also tried around the same time as your daughter Mary's disappearance five years ago, both in Russia and Germany, and so far nothing. I'm sorry.'
Malone waved it away. 'What do we have so far?' he asked rhetorically as he walked to the whiteboard, cleaned it and picked up a marker. 'We've got missing relics.' He wrote this at the top of the board. 'Missing girls in Russia, Germany, and here in Los Angeles.'
He added these to the list. 'We have a cloning experiment website and cloning houses in Germany, Russia, and LA.' He added the cloning houses directly under the girls, and drew small connecting lines between them. 'Then we've got a suspect, Mr Dale Galbraith, who at first glance seems pretty clean, but so far he's our only suspect.' He wrote Dale's name in the centre of the board. 'Well, it seems all roads lead to our friend Mr Galbraith,' Malone said.
'Like I said, he seems to be clean, but everyone has a dark side to them. Maybe he's into devil worship.' Daniel was smiling as he said it, but they both considered it a possibility.
'We need to keep digging,' Malone said.
'I think we need to find out who his friends are. How do you feel about following someone?' Daniel asked.
For a few days Aloysha, Viktor and the tramp lived quite happily together. The house had a few basic supplies — tinned meat, and vegetables
— and the woodshed was well stocked. Aloysha, however, was still in dire need of his special processed nutrition, containing essential substances that Viktor couldn't hope to provide under these circumstances.
There were impromptu counselling sessions. Whenever the boy wanted to talk about his dreams, or anything else, they stopped what they were doing and moved to the living room couch. Viktor was keen to draw more information from him, but only if he wanted to talk. He desperately wanted to know who or what the young man was; every time he looked at him, he heard the question echoing still in his mind: is he the Son of God? He felt frustrated by the lack of equipment, and angry that he'd been made to flee the laboratory for the sake of
Aloysha's health.
'I had another dream about those people, Viktor.' Aloysha's tone was almost apologetic.
'Okay, let's talk about it. What happened?' They took their positions,
Viktor in the armchair, and the boy stretched out on the couch
— crude, but effective.
'I'm in a dark place. I can't move my hands or feet, they feel tied down, or just really heavy. Every time I move there's a clinking sound, like chains. My eyes are struggling with the light, and I can feel things scurrying around on the floor by my feet. But the worst thing is the smell, it's putrid. It's the smell of . . . . I'm not sure what the smell is.
No wait, it's a mixture of smells: faeces and urine, sweat and vomit
— it's unbearable.'
Aloysha popped out of his dream and back into reality. They discussed what the dream seemed to represent and decided he was in some form of jail.
'But what does it mean? Why was I there? I haven't done anything wrong.'
Viktor had thought very hard over the past twenty-four hours.
Should he tell the boy about his genetic heritage? He wondered if it would help or hinder his mental or physical health. He finally decided it was still too soon. 'It could just mean that you felt trapped in the old facility, and now that you're out, your past seems dark and dirty.'
This answer seemed feasible to both of them, and they concluded the session there.
The sessions were full of tiny snippets of information, situational and general rather than specific. Aloysha spoke of the land and seeing goats and mud-brick buildings, rivers and hillsides in his dreams.
A few times the tramp, who told them his name was Oleg, joined in their therapy sessions, and he shared some of his own life experiences, things the boy would not have seen on TV, including experiences that raised even Viktor's eyebrows. Eating out of garbage cans and sleeping on park benches was as far as his knowledge of the homeless took him, and as the stories unfolded one in particular of the tramp's tales stuck in his mind.
'There was this day, about six months ago. It started off pretty well. I was begging outside a coffee shop in Moscow, picking up the usual small change. A man came past who looked like a tourist. He seemed to take particular interest in me — you know, stood around a while; I'm sure he was trying to figure out why I was there. Anyway, he returned from the coffee shop with a piping hot coffee for me.
It was such a kind gesture that I was stunned. All I could say was,
"sugar?" '
Oleg smiled at his own stupidity.
'Anyway, he went back in to get me some sugar, and that's when it happened . . . A guy wearing a ski mask and carrying a shotgun rushed past me and into the coffee shop. I just couldn't believe it. I turned around to look through the window; people were screaming and running all over the place, terrified. The robber must have banged into a woman as he pushed through the customers because she started to fall. My guy reached out to catch her. The robber must have thought he was going for the gun, and he blasted him. Even outside the noise was deafening, and the mess . . .' Oleg was silent for a moment. 'The robber grabbed the money from the till and ran. No one else in the cafe got even a graze, only my guy. He was just a man trying to help someone out, doing a good deed. I came to a couple of conclusions there and then, one of which was to get out of Moscow; the other was that if you help someone out, chances are, you're going to get hurt.
It's not worth it.'
Viktor and Aloysha looked at Oleg, and then at each other. It was a hell of a story, and a hell of a crappy moral to take from it.
It had only been a few days, but the lack of decent and substantial food had started to take its toll; the boy was beginning to get sick. His face was ashen and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. The bounce had left his step, and Viktor knew he had to get him to a hospital soon.
He decided that dusk would be the best time to leave — just light enough to see, and dark enough to hide. After packing the Lada with what little they had, Viktor and Aloysha said goodbye to Oleg.
It had started to snow again, and the flakes were settling on the boy's hair and eyelashes; as they melted, it must have looked to Oleg as if he was crying. 'All right, all right. If you're going to be like that,
I'll come with you.' He laughed.
Viktor looked at him. 'You know we are . . .'
'In trouble and on the run, of course I do. How stupid do you think
I am? Maybe you shouldn't answer that.'
The three of them hugged each other and they all got into the car.
Although sluggish, the engine turned over and grumbled into life.
Grinding the gears, Viktor got them moving and they set off along the country road. Oleg told them he knew of a small town not far away that had a nursing home. 'It's hobo friendly', he said. He'd been given soup there a few times, and he was sure they'd be discreet.
The road was icy and treacherous, and the Lada's wheels fought for traction. The wipers smeared snow across the windscreen and the heater barely demisted the fog. Viktor was having a hell of a time controlling the vehicle. His hands were cold and his eyes wide open, looking for any sign of the military or the police.
'Tough going!' Oleg muttered.
Viktor looked at the boy. He was fast asleep, but dreaming again.
His arms and legs were moving in little spasms.
'Looks like we're going to need another counselling session soon,
Doc,' Oleg said as he sank back in the seat, squeezing his frozen hands between his legs.
'How much further is this place?' Viktor asked, wiping the windscreen his sleeve.
'The town might be another twenty kilometres, and the home is a couple of k's the other side.'
They drove in silence for the rest of the journey.
The wheels spun as the Lada made its way up the driveway to the nursing home. It was much smaller than Viktor had expected, but beggars can't be choosers he told himself. The porch light came on as they pulled up outside the front door. Viktor thought he'd offload the boy first, and then hide the car around the back. The front door opened, and a tiny waif of a woman stood in the light. She was hunched over, leaning on a stick.
'Remember me?' Oleg called. 'I've brought a couple of friends . . .
I hope you don't mind.'
The woman looked at them and moved aside, ushering them in as she did. 'Come on in quickly before you let the heat out!' she instructed. Her voice was strong, at odds with her advanced age and slight frame.
The three of them entered the house, stamping their feet to dislodge the excess snow. Viktor dropped his bag and turned to go out again.
'I'm just going to move the car to a safer place. I'll be right back.'
The woman closed the door after him, and led Aloysha and the tramp to the dining room. 'You both look starved. I have some goulash on the stove. Take a seat by the heater and I'll bring you some.'
They watched her shuffle off to the kitchen, then removed their coats and sat at a table near to the heater. It felt good to get some warmth and circulation back.
A few minutes later the woman returned, pushing a trolley with three bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread on it. Aloysha and Oleg wasted no time. The beef, carrots, and potatoes seemed like the finest food they'd ever eaten. As he mopped the last of the thick gravy from his plate with a piece of bread Oleg said, 'Viktor is taking his time.'
But as he stood to go and check on him, the door burst open. Viktor, his face beaten and bloodied, a gun to his head, was manhandled through the door. Behind him were several military troopers in full white and grey camouflage gear. Oleg instinctively reached for his dinner knife to defend the boy, but he didn't make it. The gunfire lasted only a second or two, but it tore him into unrecognizable shreds. The old woman shrieked and fainted, almost certainly breaking her hip on the table as she fell. The boy froze with fear, his eyes never leaving
Viktor. The troopers moved into the room and were joined by another team coming in through the kitchen; the house was secured, and upon the sergeant's orders, they all lowered their weapons.
A medic arrived and sedated the old lady. Oleg was zipped into a body bag for disposal. Viktor and the boy were bundled out to a truck and driven off into the darkness.
Dale took the elevator to the top floor. He walked briskly toward
Taylor's desk. All day he'd been concerned about who it was he'd seen hanging around his house the night before. But he hadn't been able to reschedule any of his day's appointments and late afternoon was the earliest he could leave his office. He made small talk with Taylor to hide his anxiety, and then he said Mr Travis was expecting him. She announced his arrival via the intercom and told him to go straight in.
Travis' office always took Dale's breath away. The sheer size of the room and its altitude made him feel like he was on top of the world. His mood changed immediately, and he felt calm and mellow as though he'd risen above his troubles. Travis came from behind his desk to shake hands. As usual, Dale's attention was drawn to the large model of the USS
Enterprise
. Not just because it reminded him of their joint interest in Star Trek, but because it was so meticulously constructed.
It had obviously taken months to complete, maybe longer, and considering Travis' obsession with time it seemed out of place.
'I've always wanted to know, where did you buy this?' Dale asked.
He'd moved towards the model and stared into the case. The intricate pieces were lovingly moulded and fixed together. There were no glue smears and the paintwork was flawless. No wonder it was housed in a lavish display cabinet; it was truly a work of art.
'It came from a world far, far away,' Travis replied, his voice slightly distant.
Dale admired the model a little while longer, until Taylor delivered coffee and they were left alone.
Both men sat on the leather couch, and Dale took a quick sip. He winced as it burned his lip. 'I don't like this —' he started to say.
'Well, don't drink it then,' Travis shot back.
'Not the coffee, the project.'
'Ah. What's not to like? I'm paying you, handsomely I might add, to coordinate the communication between a few parties, a job so simple I could've had Taylor do it. And, if it weren't for the lawyer-client privilege bullshit, I probably would have.'
Travis had raised his voice. 'The subject matter of the whole thing shouldn't concern you; you are, to all intents and purposes, just a messenger. Just keep feeding the information I give you to the groups you're in correspondence with and everything will be fine.'
Dale felt completely shattered. Not only had he been attacked by
Malone, but now his client — his boss, and his friend — had verbally assaulted him. He was not having a good week.
'Well, that put me in my place, didn't it,' he said, smarting.
'You can't all of a sudden get a fit of the guilts and come to me saying you've had a change of heart. You knew what we were up to from the first day I called you. Let me say it to you one more time, so we're clear. We're trying to get the whole cloning industry to share its secrets with each other because we do not have all the science in our stable. Globally, there are some great minds out there, and collectively
I know we can solve our issues and achieve my dream. Bringing a two-thousand-year-old man, whoever he was, back to life, I thought was just science fiction. I can't believe it's turning into science fact.
'We need this part of the puzzle to work in order for the whole teletransporting project to be a success. In fact, it's absolutely crucial — for a couple of reasons: first, the clones are a great source of volunteers; no one will miss them if anything goes wrong — they're already forgotten.
Second, and possibly more important, they serve as a fail-safe. If, after we get the technology working, it screws up down the line, we can recreate any traveller from any time — no harm done.'
Dale let the explanation sink in. It was information they'd gone over in depth before, and it was information he'd struggled with for several days before agreeing to be a part of the whole thing. It all sounded so right, so logical. Then he had a vision of the irate Malone in his office; how could any of this be related to the missing priest's daughter?
'It's not that . . .' Dale began. 'I had a meeting yesterday with a guy named Michael Malone.'
Travis looked puzzled. 'Who's he, and what did he want?'
'I had no idea, so I did some checking after he left. He's a priest, or at least he was. Some years ago, his daughter was abducted, and she was never found . . .' Dale detailed the meeting for Travis.
'That's not all. I think I saw him outside my house last night. I'm sure I saw him going past in a cab.'
There was a quiet moment as Travis digested the information.
'I have no idea what this guy could be looking for. We're not in the business of abducting little girls. You don't think he has some valid reason to come and see you, do you?'
Dale's face went red as Travis continued. 'You think I had something to do with it, don't you! Listen to me! Even if we were the kind of twisted fucks who abduct little girls for experiments, his girl went missing years ago.' Travis was storming around the office, and he'd raised his voice again. 'We started this challenge only a few months ago — and to my knowledge, there's nothing going on in LA . . . unless you can tell me otherwise.'
Dale was confused; he didn't know what to think. 'He just made things sound so . . . I don't know, believable.'
Travis returned to the couch. 'Are you sure it was this Malone guy outside your house? Maybe you're getting a little paranoid? The guy has come to you for whatever reason; you've given him a more than plausible explanation as to the origin of the website; that should be it. All she wrote, as they say.' He paused for a moment, thinking, then continued: 'I'll tell you what, just to be sure he gets the message to leave you alone, get the Twin Towers to go and see him; they'll discourage him from making any further contact with you.' He spoke simply and softly.
Dale was taken aback; he wasn't expecting that sort of response.
'Seems a bit excessive, doesn't it?'
'Never you mind. I can't have your loyalty being swayed by the babblings of a madman. His daughter has nothing to do with this, and it wouldn't hurt for him to be sure of that himself. Now, who's left in the challenge? Has anyone other than the Scottish group had a problem?'
Dale was stunned at the implications of getting the Twins involved, but Travis changing the subject made him switch gears before he could give it any more thought. 'Well, there are two companies left in play:
Plasmid Systems in Germany, and an offshoot of a government research facility in Russia. They're both very serious contenders with excellent facilities. And no, the Scots are the only casualties.'
Travis nodded, thinking about his own clone, Probandi, and his part in the challenge. Then he turned his attention back to Dale.
'How are they both going? How far along are they? Are either of them sure yet what they've created?' Travis was firing questions at
Dale in rapid succession. He was excited, and his thirst for information needed quenching.
'As far as I know, they've both got their projects past adolescence, but neither of them are putting their hands up yet to claim the prize.
Which brings me to another point. How will you be sure they've been successful?'
The question was a valid one — and one Travis had been waiting for.
'Leave that to me,' he said with a broad smile. Standing up, he went to his desk and slid open a drawer. He pulled out a disk and a couple sheets of paper. Returning to Dale, he handed them over.
'What's this?'
'I was going to courier this to you later today, but since you're here you might as well take it with you. It's another update for the website.
I need you to send this to everyone involved.'
Dale turned the paper over and began to read:
Greetings my fellow creators,
By now your projects will be well under way, and you will, without doubt, be learning a considerable amount about the subject you have created — and the science that has brought you to this point.
I have decided to set a deadline for the challenge to be completed, and for your studies and curiosity to be fulfilled.
Your target date is Easter; it seems to me to be a very apt time. I'm sure you'll agree. Details of time and place will be forwarded to you in due course.
On another matter, I wish to relieve you of your concerns regarding what becomes of your creations once they have served their purpose.
In addition to the $25 million R&D fund, I am now in a position to offer a hideaway for the true Jesus, and indeed for any of the other creations. A mansion has been adapted to cater for the King of Kings, and his lifestyle from that point onwards will truly be magnificent. We will keep you informed as to the progress of your creation, and visiting rights will be granted subject to mutually convenient times.
Good luck with the remainder of your work.
Dale folded the paper and looked at Travis. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he settled on just one.
'What do you intend to do with a clone of Jesus?'
Travis mulled over the question for a moment and then replied,
'Show him some good old-fashioned Californian hospitality of course!'
It wasn't the answer Dale had been expecting and he wanted to delve deeper, but Travis took a quick look at his watch and Dale knew it was time for him to leave.
As Dale passed through the reception area, he smiled at Taylor.
He'd sometimes fantasized about her, but had never managed to pluck up the courage to ask her out. He had a fear of rejection, and he also thought it probably wouldn't be the best thing to date your only client's secretary.
He replayed the meeting in his head as he rode a cab back to his office. He was sure now Travis had nothing to do with the priest's daughter going missing. Maybe he should pay him a visit himself and just tell him face-to-face. But then there was the possibility he could be swayed by the man's story, and with the challenge rapidly becoming a reality he didn't need any extra stress. Also, he was certain it was Malone he'd seen cruising past his house last night. He'd ducked down when he knew he'd been spotted, and the cab had sped off.
Having some nutter hanging around his home was not something he relished. No, the best thing would be to get the Twins to handle this.
He also decided that once he'd delivered the new website information to the contractors and contacted the Twins, he'd take the rest of the day off. He had the cabbie pull over at the next phone booth and called the Twins — he wanted to be sure the call couldn't be traced back to him.
The Twin Towers, Terry and Tony, were man-mountains and almost impossible to tell apart. They did the jobs he didn't want to think about doing. Whenever Dale thought about them, he'd hum
AC/DC's 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'. Although he could hum the tune he could never remember the lyrics except that it was all about nagging wives, explosives, concrete shoes, and a heap of other nasty things, all done dirt cheap.
Not that they were cheap. They were on the payroll and did very well for themselves but, he had to admit, they were very effective.
He thought back to his first experience. They'd been recommended to him more than five years ago by a private investigator his law firm used. Dale had been new to the partnership and still struggling to fill his billing hours so he took on jobs that, with the benefit of hindsight, he probably shouldn't have. One case, in particular, that should have been quite simple turned out to be very messy. A small company in the
Midwest had copied the design — both the bottle and the labelling — of his client's mouthwash. Intellectual property law had been introduced to protect companies from this type of thing, and that was something
Dale's education had qualified him to know a lot about. So he was thrown in as lead council.
'Don't worry,' one of the partners told him as he waited nervously for his client. 'You'll be fine.'
At the meeting Dale had pulled out his legal pad to take detailed notes; he was going to woo the client with in-depth questioning and insightful knowledge. 'IP law means that copying a company's trademarked designs or logo is illegal,' he started to tell the client. Unfortunately, his mind jammed up at that point. He went as blank as the notepad in front of him. If it weren't for the timely intervention of one of the partners they would have lost the client completely.
Dale had set to work on the case, but despite numerous letters demanding they cease and desist, the CEO of the offending company wouldn't change their design or stop selling their product.
So Dale's new brief was to negotiate a deal without going to court and incurring unnecessary costs. But the company had already guessed that Dale's client would want to go that route. They were holding out for a big payoff. The private investigator working for Dales' partnership believed that the company intended to take them all the way, so he introduced him to the Twins.
'They can be very persuasive,' the PI had said. He'd been correct; after one call to the Twins, the case just went away. He billed their services through the PI, and the relationship had grown from there.
The good thing about the Twins was you told them your dilemma, advised them as to the extent of force needed, and then forgot about it. They had two simple rules: you never asked what happened to the problem, and you always paid on time. They were also well connected in other areas; if you needed anything — from stolen stereos to AK-47s
— they could get it. Once he'd asked if they knew where to come by a cruise missile. 'Yes, of course!' was the reply. Dale thought, or maybe he just hoped, they were kidding.
Dale had told Travis about the Twins a few years back, and Travis had asked for their number. He said he liked the idea of having a couple of heavies at his beck and call. Dale didn't think Travis had actually used them, but that was something else he didn't care to think about.
Dale dialled a cellphone number, and kicked a cigarette butt nervously around the floor while he waited for the response.
A gruff voice answered the phone. 'This had better be good.
Waddaya want?'
'Hi, Dale here. I have an assignment for you.'