No One Lives Forever (15 page)

All eyes went back to Phillips. The facility director looked for a reprieve from the police captain, but none came.

"I suppose . . . maybe a quick tour." The man stood and buttoned his suit coat.

Duarte let Jasmine and the doctor pass, but held an arm across the door when Christian approached. He leaned in, his voice low.

"When you are done wasting your time here, stop by my office. I am curious why you failed to report your hit and run outside the hotel last night."

"I figured you already knew about it, Captain."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Christian didn't hesitate. "You said it yourself, this is your town. Nothing gets by you."

"And still, you believe you can hide things from me. A blood sacrifice in your penthouse suite?"

"Hey, when in Rome . . ." Christian shrugged, then reconsidered. "I can explain . . ."

"Yes, you will."

Duarte didn't look impressed by his sense of humor. And now the captain eyed the bag he had slung over his shoulder, the Macumba paraphernalia and the dead snake.
Please . . . don't ask.
The man narrowed his eyes. Hoping for the best, Christian raised his chin and waited to see what the cop would do.
When steeped in hot water up to your pie hole, what's ten more degrees?

Duarte furrowed his brow and heaved a sigh. "My office, after your tour. And you'd better have answers to my questions, Mr. Delacorte."

The man dropped his arm to let him pass. With his footsteps echoing down the hall, Christian replayed the cop's words in his head from the night they'd met.
Never underestimate the necessity to protect yourself against evil. The curse of the evil eye has its power.

Pure insight or subtle threat? With every face-to-face, the answer to that question took shape.

Plus, the man knew his next moves even before he did. How had the captain found out about their visit to Genotech Labs . . . and so soon? He'd barely sat down before Duarte made his appearance. Had Dr. Phillips told him, or did Duarte have another informant inside the lab?

Clearly, there were reasons for his growing paranoia. Even now, he didn't have to look over his shoulder to know Duarte stared a hole in his back. He felt the searing heat of it.

"What we've gained from human genome-mapping is a better understanding of how certain diseases act on a molecular and cellular level, the brain's pathways associated with the affliction." In his element, Dr. Phillips grinned as he ushered Christian and Jasmine through another massive lab.

Pointing to a microscope, the doctor added, "And with advances in atomic force microscopy, we have improved our DNA mapping and sequencing techniques. Cell tissue yields its secrets when explored under high-resolution imaging. It may not be long before we can predict, with pinpoint accuracy, what risk a person may have for certain ailments. Then we can tailor a remedy specific to them, one without the usual side effects."

The man beamed with pride, hands on his hips. "And there are so many other gains to be made. It's an exciting field, I can assure you."

Lab technicians in white coats barely looked up from their work. A sea of white and stainless steel blended with high-tech equipment Christian had never seen before. A medicinal smell remained a constant in the air. And despite the hot temperature outside, the indoor rooms were maintained at a chilly level, probably for the benefit of all the pricey computers utilized across the expansive facility.

"Quite impressive, Doctor." Christian returned his smile, sneaking a glance toward Jasmine, who had not changed her expression. "Would this research help with natural addictions, such as overeating, addition to gambling, or . . ." He winked at Jasmine. ". . . compulsive shopping?" That finally got a rise out of her, her usual poise replaced by a threatening glare.

"Yes, yes, you're right, Mr. Delacorte." Phillips seemed pleased. "We have scientific evidence that supports this theory. I'm delighted you understand."

"Tell me how it works." His sole objective was to keep the man talking, especially as he maneuvered the doctor toward the subject he really wanted to chat about.

"The cerebral cortex of the brain stores and processes such things as language, math, and strategies. It's the 'thinking' part of you. And buried deep within the cerebral cortex is the limbic system, which is responsible for survival and human emotion. It remembers and creates an appetite for the things that keep you alive, such as good food and the company of other human beings."

Phillips used his hands to point to the areas of the brain he spoke about.

"I've heard the limbic system controls the four F's— fleeing, fighting, feeding, and fu—" Christian stopped himself, catching a look at Jasmine. "—hooking up."

Jasmine rolled her eyes but didn't say a word.

"Yes, I suppose that describes it." The doctor raised an eyebrow and paused for effect. "Since natural pleasures are necessary for survival, the limbic system creates an appetite that drives human beings to seek them out. And when someone experiences unnaturally intense feelings of pleasure, the limbic system is flooded with dopamine. So the behavior is reinforced."

The doctor walked slowly down the aisle as he explained the complex topic.

"So we believe the brain circuits regulate a person's responses to food, sex, or certain risky behaviors, and acts like a natural reinforcement for survival. Well, what if this natural order is somehow commandeered from its usual path? If this happens, it's conceivable a person might become addicted to overeating, for example."

"And I suppose this also explains how drug addiction works, right?" Christian asked. "The drug high signals the brain to release the dopamine and the behavior is reinforced, time and time again, at greater and greater levels."

The facility director stopped walking, losing his enthusiasm for the subject. The eye contact he'd been exchanging vanished, replaced by a glare tinged with caution. The man stuffed his hands in his slacks.

"Yes, the principle works for all types of addictions," he said, picking up his pace through the laboratory. "A person's genetic makeup probably plays a role, but after enough doses, an addict's limbic system craves the drug. And dependency is made worse over time. Without a dose of the drug, dopamine levels in the abuser's brain are low. They feel flat, lifeless, and depressed. So the addict needs drugs to overcome these feelings. Larger amounts are needed to create a dopamine flood or high, an effect known as tolerance. And so the cycle goes."

A flurry of familiar questions bombarded Christian, but one stood out. Why would a man associated with drug trafficking in the States be involved with a genetics lab committed to curing the disease in South America? His gut wrenched as he followed Dr. Phillips. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

When they exited the lab and turned toward the offices, he knew the tour was almost over. Even though his body felt stiff, his mind churned with questions, perhaps stemming from his need to procrastinate.

"With the rain forest nearby, does your research include a broader scope? A search for new medicines, for example?"

The doctor brightened, thankful for the change in topic. "It is one of the very reasons this facility has achieved what it has. Our close proximity to Mother Nature's own pantry has afforded us great opportunities."

Phillips directed them into another room. A climate-controlled structure stood in the center of the floor. Technicians in white coats blurred behind opaque walls. The usual high-tech gear and computers lined the walls of the room, but the main focus was the arboretum.

"Can we see inside?" Christian asked.

Phillips was getting tired of accommodating him, but the man complied after a quick glance at his watch, "Certainly. I suppose I can spare a little more time."

Stifling heat stemmed his next breath as Christian walked inside the conservatory. The temperature shift from chilly to hot made him want to sneeze. He fought the sensation, but Jasmine wasn't so lucky. She suppressed a set of three sneezes.

"Bless you." He responded on pure reflex, but had second thoughts about blessing an assassin. Somehow, it went against the grain.

The interior of the greenhouse was set up like a mini-rain forest, complete with artificial light. Butterflies fluttered amidst the flowers, and small colorful birds chirped in the trees. Man-made streams and fountains provided a soothing white noise. And water misters purged their contents onto the picturesque setting at timed intervals. In a perfect world, nothing was left to chance. Someone had an eye for style over function. Even Jasmine appreciated it. She walked next to him, brushing his arm as she lost her balance looking into the lush trees, her eyes wicie with wonder.

"Did you have a hand in this, Dr. Phillips? It's beautiful." Christian meant it.

"Yes, I did. Rather proud of it, actually." The man smiled. "I sometimes eat my lunch here. It's quiet. Peaceful."

Christian appreciated the need for a quiet mind. His own demons rarely cooperated.

A female technician hunched over a small shrub ahead, digging at the yellow-tinted root bark. The vivid color combination of the exotic plant caught his attention. He hadn't seen anything like it. Small green leaves set off delicate white flowers with bright pink spots. And elongated oval-shaped fruit, the color of an orange, hung from its stems. The lab tech extracted clippings from the root system.

"What is she doing, Doctor?"

"Ah, Tabernanthe Iboga, also known as black bug-bane, or simply the Iboga. It's a perennial, more plentiful in western Africa. Although it's found in our rain forests, it is not as common, so we cultivate a crop of it here." Phillips's eyes wandered around the room and he kept looking at his watch, making sure Christian got the message that he wanted this tour to be over. "But we've also discovered a similar plant that's showing great promise. It grows near the base of the Chapada dos Guimarães foothills that overlook the Pantanal near the Paraguay River. The local tribes have been .. . generous to the efforts of this research facility. We have a great deal more research to do, but our initial studies show amazing similarities without the same downside in side effects."

Phillips turned around, directing them away, but Christian had another question.

"With all the exotic vegetation in this country, why the fascination with this plant and the one in the foothills?"

The man stopped short and sighed. He let a long moment pass before he replied, "The Iboga and its distant cousin stimulate the central nervous system. Under scientific testing conditions, Ibogaine has been found to be effective in stopping addiction to hard drugs such as heroin or cocaine. It may also help interrupt chemical dependency to alcohol and nicotine. We are simply studying this aspect to see if there is a genetic correlation. Standard procedure, really."

The facility director dismissed his curiosity once again. Even Jasmine gave him the stink eye. But Christian was having none of it.

"This doesn't sound like something the FDA would approve."

"No, unfortunately not." Dr. Phillips let out a loud sigh, making a show of his impatience. "Even though the pharmaceutical aspects have been extolled in countless peer reviews and position papers, no formal clinical studies have been completed."

With a grin, the man added, "But there is growing support in the U.S. for legislation making it permissible for Ibogaine—and perhaps other derivative plants not yet on their legal radar—to be used for medicinal purposes, similar to marijuana."

"No harm, no foul, just as long as no one inhales?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ah, nothing." Christian shook his head. "So Charboneau and the backers of this facility would be ahead of the game if a worldwide Ibogaine market opened up ... or some derivation of that by-product that might be uncovered through your studies. Operating in a country that allows such research would give them an edge."

For what purpose, he still had no idea. His speculation sounded like a legitimate business enterprise, but curing adciiction wasn't much of a game plan for a drug lord bent on world domination.

"Yes, I suppose. And you are right. We have discovered other plants similar to the Iboga that are not banned in the U.S." The doctor shrugged. "We're making strides."

Strides? Strides in their agenda. Maybe that was the point. Interesting that Phillips was more concerned by a U.S. ban than the therapeutic aspects. Finding a way around U.S. laws and international borders handed them a get-out-of-jail card in case they needed it. Making strides around the law on a global scale could be quite lucrative until they were deterred by legal measures. And with enough distribution infrastructures, they could operate for a long time before they were shut down, country by country. The arm of the law moved slowly across jurisdictions. But he realized he had to know more about the plant itself.

"You said the Iboga stimulates the nervous system. How does it work exactly?"

Phillips appeared uneasy by his interrogation.

"When taken in small doses, it reduces sleep, makes it possible to resist hunger and fatigue, and activates circulation and respiration. The root material has an astringent bitter taste when chewed, causing an anesthetic sensation in the mouth and numbness to the skin," the doctor explained. "Local natives use it in rituals and tribal dances to stimulate spiritual hallucinations, particularly at night. Apparently, darkness accentuates the haunting experience. And because it's not addictive, they consider it quite harmless. Now I really must be going."

"Yeah, but human nature being what it is . . ." Christian touched the man's arm to grab his attention. ". . . someone always pushes the limit. What happens when the dose is upped to overload, Doc?"

He knew he pushed the guy's buttons, but his mind was filled with questions. Jasmine, impatient as well, stood behind Phillips and glared at him, arms crossed and foot tapping. Some forms of communication needed no translation.

A concerned look shadowed the doctor's face, an uneasy fear. "In massive doses, it can cause death by paralysis of the respiratory muscles. Not a pleasant way to go, I'm afraid. The victim suffers extensive hallucinations in a frenzied state. And they endure profound paranoia before they simply suffocate, strangled by the failure of their crippled lungs. Agonizing."