Текст книги "The Kill Switch"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
20
March 15, 9:50 P.M.
The Volga River, Russia
Tucker turned the conversation from world-changing scientific discoveries to more practical questions. Like why someone was trying to kill them?
“Back to this General Kharzin,” Tucker said.
“Since we are done with the lies,” Bukolov said, “I do know him. Not personally, just by reputation. I’m sorry. I do not trust people easily. It took me many months before I even told Anya about LUCA.”
“What do you know about him? What’s his reputation?”
“In a word. He’s a monster. Back in the eighties, Kharzin was in charge of Arzamas-16, outside of Kazan. After that military weapons research facility was shut down, its archives were transferred to the Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics in Kazan.”
“And then, years later they were moved into storage vaults at the Kazan Kremlin,” Anya added.
“All along, Kharzin was a true believer in LUCA—though his scientists called it something different back then. But he only saw its destructive potential.”
“Which is?”
“What you must understand, the primordial world was once a much harsher place. In its original habitat, such a life-form would have been highly aggressive. It would have to be to survive. If let loose today, with no defenses against it, I believe—as did Kharzin—that it would be unstoppable.”
Tucker was beginning to see the danger.
Bukolov continued. “LUCA’s primary purpose is to hijack nearby plant cells and modify them to match its own, so it can reproduce—rapidly, much like a virus. It has the potential to be the world’s most deadly and relentless invasive species.”
Tucker understood how this could easily become a weapon. If released upon an enemy, it could wipe out the country’s entire agricultural industry, devastating the land without a single shot being fired.
“So how far along are you with this research?” he asked. “You and Kharzin?”
“In the past, we’ve been running parallel lines of research, trying to reverse-engineer plant life to create LUCA or a LUCA-like organism in the lab. My goal was to better the world. His was to turn LUCA into a weapon. But we both ran into two problems.”
“Which were what?”
“First, neither of us could create a viable specimen that was stable. Second, neither of us could figure out how to control such a life-form if we succeeded.”
Tucker nodded. “For Kharzin, his biological bomb needed an off switch.”
“Without it, he wouldn’t be able to control it. He couldn’t safely use it as a weapon. If it is released without safeguards in place, LUCA runs the risk of spreading globally, wiping out ecosystem after ecosystem. In the end, it could pose as much risk to Russia as Kharzin’s enemies.”
“So what suddenly changed?” Tucker asked. “What set this manhunt in motion? Why do you need to leave Russia so suddenly?”
Clearly the old impasse between the two of them had broken.
“Because I believe I know where to find a sample of LUCA . . . or at least its closest descendant.”
Tucker nodded. “And Kharzin learned of your discovery. He came after you.”
“I could not let him get to it first. You understand that, yes?”
He did. “But where is this sample? How did you learn about it?”
“From Paulos de Klerk. The answer has been under our noses for over a century.”
Tucker remembered Bukolov’s story about the Boer botanist, about his journals being prized throughout the academic world.
“You see, over the years, I’ve managed to collect portions of his diaries and journals. Most of it in secret. Not an easy process as the man created great volumes of papers and accounts, much of it scattered and lost or buried in unprocessed archives. But slowly I was able to start collating the most pertinent sections. Like those last papers Anya smuggled out of the Kremlin.”
Tucker pictured the giant Prada bag clutched to her chest.
“He kept a diary for decades, from the time he was a teenager until he died. Most of it is filled with the mundane details of life, but there was one journal—during the Second Boer War—that described a most fascinating and frightening observation. From the few drawings I could find, from his detailed research notes, I was sure he had discovered either a cluster of living LUCA or something that acted just like the hypothetical life-form.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It wasn’t just me. In one page I found at a museum in Amsterdam, he described his discovery as die oorsprong van die lewe. In Afrikaans, that means the origin of life.”
“So what became of this sample? Where did he find it?”
“Some cave in the Transvaal. Someplace he and his Boer unit retreated to. They were pinned down there by British forces. It was during this siege that De Klerk found the cluster of LUCA. As a botanist and medical doctor, he was understandably intrigued. I don’t have the complete story about what happened in that cave. It’s like reading a novel with half the pages missing. But he hints at some great misery that befell their forces.”
“What happened to him?”
“Sadly, he would die in that cave, killed as the siege broke. The British troops eventually returned his belongings, including his journals and diary, to his widow. But past that we know nothing. I’m still studying the documents Anya found. Perhaps some of the blanks will be filled in.”
“Is there any indication that De Klerk understood what he found?”
“No, not fully,” Anya replied. “But in the papers I was collecting when you came for me in the Kremlin, he finally named his discovery: Die Apokalips Saad.”
“The Apocalypse Seed,” Bukolov translated. “Whatever he found scared him, but he was also intrigued. Which explains his map.”
“What map?”
“To the location of the cave. It’s encrypted in his diary. I suspect De Klerk hoped he’d survive the siege and have a chance to return later to continue his research. Sadly that wasn’t to be.”
“And you have this map?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
Bukolov tapped his skull. “In here. I burned the original.”
Tucker gaped at the doctor.
No wonder everyone is after you.
10:18 P.M.
After the discussion, Tucker needed some fresh air to clear his head.
He and Kane stepped up on deck and waved to Vadim, who continued to man the boat’s wheel. In return, he got a salute with the glowing tip of his cigar.
Settled into the bow, Tucker listened to the waves slap the hull and stared longingly at the pinpricks of lights marking homes and farmsteads, life continuing simply. He considered calling Ruth Harper. But after all that had happened, he was wary. His satellite phone was supposed to be secure, but was any communication truly safe? He decided to err on the side of caution until he got to Volgograd.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Kane stirred, then settled again.
“May I join you?” Anya asked.
Tucker gestured to the deck beside him. She sat down, then scooted away a few inches. “I’m sorry we lied to you,” she said.
“Water under the boat.”
“Don’t you mean under the bridge?”
“Context,” Tucker said, getting a nervous laugh out of the woman. “It’s nice to see that.”
“Me laughing? I’ll have you know, I laugh all the time. You just haven’t seen me at my best as of late.” She hesitated. “And I’m afraid I’m about to make that worse.”
He glanced over to her. “What is it?”
“Do you promise not to shoot me or throw me off the boat?”
“I can’t promise that. But out with it, Anya. I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
“I’m SVR,” she said.
Tucker blew his breath out slowly, trying to wrap his head around this.
“It stands for—”
“I know what it stands for.”
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. It was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, their equivalent of the CIA.
“Agent or officer?” he asked.
“Agent. For the last six years. But I do have a degree in biochemistry. That’s real enough. It’s why they sent me.”
“Sent you to get close to Bukolov.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re pretty,” Tucker added. “Perfect bait for the older, widowed professor.”
“It was never like that,” Anya snapped. “They told me to seduce him if necessary, but I . . . I couldn’t do it. Besides, it proved unnecessary. The doctor is consumed with his work. My interest and aid was enough to gain his trust.”
Tucker decided he believed her. “What was the SVR after? LUCA?”
“No, not exactly. We knew Abram was working on something important. That he was close to a breakthrough. And given who he is, they wanted to know more about what he was working on.”
“And now they do,” Tucker replied. “When are they coming? Where’s the ambush point?”
“That’s just it. They’re not coming. I’ve strung them along. Believe this or not, but I believe in what he is doing. When I found out what he was trying to accomplish, I changed my mind. I’m still a scientist at heart. He genuinely wants to use LUCA for good. Months ago, I decided I wasn’t about to hand over something that important. Since then I’ve been feeding my superiors false information.”
“Does Bukolov know?”
“No. It is a distraction he does not need. Completing his work must come first.”
“What do you know about Kharzin?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of his involvement here, but I do know his reputation. He’s ruthless, very old school, surrounds himself with like-minded ideologues. All Soviet hard-liners.”
“What about your superiors? Have you been in contact with them since I got you out of the Kremlin?”
“No. You took our phones.”
“What about in Dimitrovgrad . . . when you disappeared?”
“Tea,” Anya replied. “I really was just getting tea. I didn’t break communication silence, I swear.”
“Why should I believe you? About any of this?”
“I can’t offer any concrete proof. But ask yourself this: If I were still in contact with the SVR and my loyalties had not changed, why aren’t they here?”
Tucker conceded her argument was solid.
“My real name is Anya Averin. You can have your superiors confirm what I’m saying. When we reach Volgograd, turn me over to your people. Let them debrief me. I’ve told you the truth!” Anya’s voice took on a pleading but determined tone. “Only Abram knows where De Klerk’s cave is. He never told me. Ask him. Once you get Abram out of the country and under U.S. protection, LUCA is safe from everyone—the SVR, General Kharzin—all of them.”
Tucker stared across the waters at the small slumbering homesteads along the banks, free of such skullduggery. How did spies live in this world and keep their sanity?
“What are you going to do?” Anya asked.
“I’ll keep your secret from Bukolov for now, but only until we reach the border.”
She gave him a nod of thanks. For a second, he considered throwing her overboard anyway, but quashed the impulse.
After she left, Tucker grabbed a sleeping bag and a blanket and found a nook on the boat’s forecastle. Kane curled up on the blanket and closed his eyes. Tucker tried to do the same but failed.
He stared at the passing view, watched the moonrise above the banks. Kane had a dream, making soft noises and twitching his back legs.
Tucker tried to picture their destination.
Volgograd.
He knew the city’s infamous history, when it used to be called Stalingrad. During World War II, a major battle occurred there between the German Wehrmacht and the Soviet Red Army. It lasted five months, leaving Stalingrad in rubble and two million dead or wounded.
And that’s where I hope to find salvation.
No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
21
March 16, 6:05 A.M.
The Volga River, Russia
With sunrise still two hours away, the river remained dark, mottled with patches of fog, but a distant glow rising ahead, at the horizon line, marked their approach toward Volgograd. As they motored along the current, the lights of the city slowly appeared, spreading across the banks of the river to either side, then spilling out into the surrounding steppes.
Tucker checked his watch, then retrieved his satellite phone and dialed Sigma. Once Harper was on the line, Tucker brought her up to speed about everything, including Anya’s confession from last night.
“I’ll look into her,” Harper promised.
“We should be in the city proper in another hour or so. What do you have waiting for us?”
Harper hesitated a moment. “Try to keep an open mind about this.”
“Whenever a sentence starts that way, I get nervous.”
“What do you know about ecotourism?”
“Next to nothing.”
“Well, that area of Russia has become something of a mecca for it—especially the Volga. Apparently the huge river is home to plant and animal life that’s found in few other places. Consequently, a cottage business has sprung up in Volgograd—submarine ecotours.”
“You’re kidding. The Russians don’t strike me as the ecofriendly type.”
“Still, at last count, there are eleven companies that offer such tours. They make up a fleet of about forty electric minisubs. Each holds six passengers and one pilot. With a depth rating of thirty feet. Aside from conducting monthly safety checks, the government is hands-off. The subs come and go as they please.”
“I like the sound of that.”
Tucker could guess the rest. Sigma must have found a tour company that was strapped for cash and was willing to take a private party on an extended tour of the Volga.
After she passed on the details, Tucker hung up and went aft to speak with Vadim.
“Do you speak English?” Tucker asked.
“Yes. Some. If speak slow.”
Tucker explained as best he could, much of it involving pantomiming. He should have woken Utkin to help with the translation.
But finally Vadim grinned and nodded. “Ah! The Volga-Don canal. Yes, I know it. I find the boat you meet. Three hours, da?”
“Da.”
“We make it. No worry. You and dog go now.”
It seemed Tucker had been dismissed. He went below to find everyone awake and eating a simple breakfast of tea, black bread, and hard cheese.
Bukolov asked, “So, Tucker, what is your plan? How are you going to get me out of the country?”
“It’s all been arranged.” He held off mentioning the unusual means of transportation—not because of fear that the information might leak to the wrong ears, but simply to avoid a mutiny. Instead, he bucked up as much confidence as he could muster and said, “We’re almost home free.”
8:13 A.M.
Ninety minutes later, Vadim called down the ladder, “We are here.”
Tucker led the group topside, where they found the world had been whitewashed away, swallowed by a thick, dense fog. To the east the sun was a dull disk in the overcast sky. All around, out of the mists, buoys clanged and horns blew. Flowing dark shadows marked passing boats, gliding up and down the Volga.
Vadim had them anchored near the shore, the engine in neutral.
“It is eerie, all this fog,” Anya said.
“But good for us, yes?” Bukolov asked.
Tucker nodded.
Vadim resumed his post at the wheel and said something to Utkin.
“He says your friends are late.”
Tucker checked his watch. “Not by much. They’ll be here.”
They stood in the fog, not talking, waiting.
Then an engine with an angry pitch grew louder, coming toward them. A moment later, the sharp nose of a speedboat glided out of the fog off the port bow. The speedboat drew abeam and a gaff hook appeared and latched on to their gunwale.
With a hand on his pocketed Magnum, Tucker crossed to the port side and cautiously peeked over the rail.
A bald, round-faced man with two gold front teeth smiled and handed a slip of paper up to Tucker. Nine alphanumeric characters had been scrawled on it. Tucker checked them carefully, then handed across his own slip of paper with a similar string of symbols, which the stranger studied before nodding.
It was a coded means of verifying each other, arranged by Harper.
“You are Tucker?” the man asked.
“I am. That must mean you are Misha?”
He got another gold-tinged smile, and Misha stepped back and waved his hand to the speedboat. “Thank you for choosing Wild Volga Tours.”
Tucker collected the others, paid Vadim, then herded everyone onto the other boat.
Misha eyed Kane skeptically as Tucker hauled him down.
“Is he wolf?”
“He thinks so sometimes. But he’s well trained.”
And all the more dangerous for it, Tucker added silently.
His reassurance seemed to satisfy the boatman. “Come. Follow me.”
They set off into the fog, seeming to go much faster than was wise considering the visibility. They wove in and around the river traffic. Even Tucker found himself clinging tightly to one of the boat’s handgrips.
Finally, the engine changed pitch, and the boat slowed. Misha angled toward shore, and a dock appeared out of the mist. He eased them alongside the tire bumpers. Men appeared out of the fog and secured the mooring lines.
“We go now,” Misha said and hopped to the pier.
Tucker led the others and followed their guide through the fog down a wide boardwalk that spanned a swampy area. At the end rose a Quonset hut with pale yellow walls and a riveted roof streaked with so much rust it looked like an abstract painting.
The group stepped inside. To their left, a pair of red-and-blue miniature submarines sat atop maintenance scaffolding. The subs were thirty feet long and seven wide with portholes lining the hull, including along the bottom. Amidships, a waist-high conning tower rose, topped by a hand-wheel-operated entry hatch. Below this, jutting from the subs’ sides, were a pair of adjustable control-planes. At the bow was a clear, bulbous cone, which Tucker assumed was the pilot’s seat.
Tucker turned to the others, who were staring openmouthed at the subs, and said, “Your chariots.”
No one spoke.
“Impressive, da?” Misha said cheerily.
“You’re joking, right?” Utkin asked. “Is this how we’re leaving Volgograd?”
And this, from the most pliable of the group.
Bukolov and Anya remained speechless.
“They’re so very small,” Utkin continued.
“But comfortable, and well stocked,” Misha countered. “And reliable. It may take a while to reach your destination, but we will get you there. To date, we have had only three accidents.”
Anya finally found her voice. “Accidents? What kind of accidents?”
“No injuries or fatalities. Power outages.” Misha shrugged. “We got craned out of the river before the Volga mud swallowed us.”
Anya turned a pleading look toward Tucker. “This is your plan? I am not—”
Surprisingly, Bukolov became the voice of reason, stepping to Anya and curling an arm around her shoulders. “Anya, I am sure it is perfectly safe.”
She did not look convinced.
Leaving the others in the maintenance bay to ogle the submarines, Misha led Tucker into a side office. There, Misha’s friendly grin disappeared. “What your people have asked is very difficult. Do you know how far away the Caspian Sea is?”
“Two hundred eighty-two miles,” Tucker replied. “Taking into account the cruising speed of your submarines, the average recharge time for the sub’s batteries, and the seasonal current of the Volga, we should reach the Caspian in eighteen to twenty-four hours.”
“I see,” he grumbled. “You are well informed.”
“And you’re being well paid.”
Before Misha could reply, Tucker added, “I understand the risk you’re taking, and I’m grateful. So, I’m prepared to offer you a bonus: ten thousand rubles if you get us there safely. On one condition.”
“I am listening.”
“You’re our pilot. You personally. Take it or leave it.”
He wanted more than a financial gamble by the owner of Wild Volga Tours. He wanted his skin involved in the game, too.
Misha stared hard at Tucker, then stuck out his hand. “Done. We leave in one hour.”
22
March 16, 9:34 A.M.
The Volga River, Russia
Misha led the group back the way they’d come, through the swamp to the speedboat. Once aboard, the crew shoved off and headed downriver toward the tour company’s embarkation point. The fog remained thick as the weak morning sun had yet to burn it away.
“What’s that stink?” Utkin asked after a few minutes.
Tucker smelled it, too, a heavy sulfurous stench to the air.
“Lukoil refinery over there,” Misha replied and pointed to starboard. “Much oil businesses along the river.”
“This close to the Volga?” Bukolov said. “Seems like a disaster waiting to happen.”
Misha shrugged. “Many jobs. No one complains.”
The speedboat slowly angled back toward shore, weaving through a maze of sandbars into the mouth of an estuary. Its bow nosed into a narrow, tree-lined inlet and pushed up to a wooden pier, where the boat was tied off. At the other end of the dock, one of Misha’s minisubs bobbed with the waves from their wake, rubbing against the tire bumpers.
“The Olga,” Misha announced. “Named after my grandmother. Lovely woman, but very fat. She too bobbed in the water. But never sank.”
Misha led them to the end of the dock to the Olga. An employee in blue coveralls climbed out of the conning tower hatch and descended the side ladder. He shook Misha’s hand and exchanged a few words.
After clapping the employee on the shoulder, Misha turned to the group. “Checked, stocked, and prepared for takeoff. Who goes first?”
“Me.” Anya set her jaw and stepped forward.
Tucker felt a wave of sympathy and respect for her. Frightened though she was, she’d decided to face it head-on.
Without a word, she scaled the ladder. At the top, she dropped one leg into the hatch, then the other, and disappeared into the conning tower. Utkin went next, followed by Bukolov, who muttered under his breath, “Fascinating . . . what fun.”
When it came to Kane’s turn, Tucker double tapped the ladder’s rung. Awkwardly but quickly, the shepherd scaled the ladder, then shimmied through the hatch.
“Impressive,” Misha said. “He does tricks!”
You have no idea.
Tucker followed, then Misha, who pulled the hatch closed, tugged it tight over the rubber seals, then spun the wheel until an LED beside the coaming glowed green. With the sub secure, Misha dropped down and shimmied to the cockpit.
The sub’s interior was not as cramped as Tucker had expected. The bulkheads, deck, and overhead were painted a soothing cream, as were the cables and tubes that snaked along the interior. A spacious bench padded in light blue Naugahyde ran down the center of the space, long enough for each of them to lie down, if necessary.
Tucker leaned and stared out one of the portholes, noting that the sun was beginning to peek through, showing shreds of blue sky. Occasionally green water sloshed across the view as the sub rolled and bobbed. He straightened and took a deep breath, tasting the slight metallic scent to the air.
“If anyone’s hungry,” Misha called out from the cockpit, “there’s food and drink at the back.”
Tucker turned and saw that the aft bulkhead held a double-door storage cabinet.
“You’ll also find aspirin, seasickness pills, and such. We’ll stop every four hours for bathroom breaks. Are there any questions?”
“How deep will we be diving?” Bukolov pressed his face to one of the portholes, looking like a young boy about to go on an adventure.
“On average, eighteen feet. The Volga’s main channel is at least twice that. Plenty of room for us to maneuver as needed. Plus I have a hydrophone in the cockpit. I’ll hear any ships coming our way. If you’ll take your seats, we will be under way.”
Tucker sat on the forwardmost section of bench, and Kane settled in beneath it. The others spread out along its length, staring out portholes. With a soft whirring, the electric engines engaged, and the sub slid sideways away from the dock, wallowed a few times, then settled lower. The waters of the Volga rose to cover the portholes and flooded the sub’s interior in soft green light.
As Misha deftly worked the controls, the Olga glided out of the estuary and into the main river channel. They were still only half submerged.
“All hands prepare to dive.” Misha chuckled. “Or just sit back and enjoy.”
With a muffled whoosh of bubbles, the sub slid beneath the surface. The light streaming through the portholes slowly dimmed from a mint green to a darker emerald. Soft halogen lights set into the underside of the benches glowed to life, casting dramatic shadows up the curved bulkheads.
After a few moments, Misha announced in his best tour-guide voice, “At cruising depth. We are under way. Prepare for a smooth ride.”
Tucker found his description to be apt. They glided effortlessly, with very little sense of movement. He spotted schools of fish darting past their portholes.
Over the next hour, having slept fitfully over the past days, exhaustion settled over everyone. The others drifted away one by one, draped across the bench, each with a wool blanket and inflatable pillow.
Tucker held off the longest, but after a quiet conversation with Misha who assured him all was well, he curled up and went to sleep, too. He hung one arm over the side of the bench, resting his palm on Kane’s side. The shepherd softly panted, maintaining his post beside the floor’s porthole, studying every bubble and particle that swept past the glass.
1:00 P.M.
Tucker startled awake as Misha’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Apologies for the intrusion, but we are about to make our first stop.”
The others groaned and stirred.
Tucker sat up to find Kane curled on the bench with him. The shepherd stood, arched his back in a stretch, then hopped down, and trotted to the entrance of the cockpit.
“Tell your friend he cannot drive,” Misha called good-naturedly.
“He just likes the view,” Tucker replied.
Bukolov waddled forward and sat down beside Tucker. “I must say, you impress me.”
“How so?”
“I had my doubts that you could truly help me—us—escape Russia. I see now that I was wrong to doubt you.”
“We’re not out yet.”
“I have faith,” Bukolov said with a smile. He gave Tucker’s arm a grandfatherly pat, then returned to his section of bench.
Miracles never cease.
He felt his ears pop as the Olga angled toward the surface. The portholes reversed their earlier transformation, going from a dark green to a blinding glare as the sub broached the surface. Sunlight streamed through the glass. A moment later, forward progress slowed with a slight grinding complaint as the hull slid to a stop on sand.
Misha crawled out of the cockpit, climbed the ladder, and opened the hatch. “All ashore!”
They all abandoned ship.
Misha’s expert piloting had brought the Olga to rest beside an old wooden dock. Their tiny cove was surrounded by tall marsh grass. Farther out, up a short slope, Tucker could see treetops.
“Where are we?” Utkin asked, blinking against the sun and looking around.
“A few miles north of Akhtubinsk. We’re actually ahead of schedule. Feel free to walk around. You have thirty minutes. I’m going to partially recharge the batteries with my solar umbrella.”
Tucker crossed with Kane to the shore and surveyed the immediate area around the dock. He had Kane do a fast scout to make sure they were alone. Once satisfied, he waved the others off the dock so they could stretch their legs.
“Stay close,” he ordered. “If you see anyone, even in the distance, get back here.”
Once they agreed, Tucker headed back to the sub. Misha had the solar umbrella already propped over the sub, recharging the batteries.
As Misha worked, he asked, “Tell me, my friend, are you all criminals? I do not judge. You pay, I don’t care.”
“No,” replied Tucker.
“Then people are following you? Looking for you?”
“Not anymore.”
I hope.
Misha nodded, then broke into a smile; his gold teeth flashed in the sun. “Very well. You are in safe hands.”
Tucker actually believed him.
Anya returned early by herself and prepared to return below.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“I . . . I did what I had to do,” she said, blushing a bit. “I left the boys so they could have some privacy to do the same.”
Tucker glanced down to Kane. It wasn’t a bad idea. It would be another four hours before they stopped again. “How about it, Kane? Wanna go see a man about a horse?”
2:38 P.M.
As the Olga continued to glide down the Volga, the group dozed, stared out the portholes, or read. Occasionally Misha would quietly announce landmarks no one could see: a good spot for sturgeon fishing, or a mecca for crawfish hunting, or a village that had played a major or minor part in Russian history.
Utkin and Anya traded scientific journals and pored over them. Bukolov studied his notes, occasionally stopping to scribble some new thought or idea.
With nothing else to do himself, Tucker drifted in a half drowse—until Bukolov abruptly slid next to him and nudged him alert.
“What do you make of this?” the doctor said.
“Pardon?”
Bukolov pushed a thin journal into his hand. It was clearly old, with a scarred leather cover and sewn-in yellowed, brittle pages. “This is one of De Klerk’s later journals.”
“Okay, so?”
Bukolov took it back, scowled at him, and flipped the pages back and forth. He then bent the book open, spread it wide, and pointed to the inner seam. “There are pages missing from this last diary of De Klerk’s. See here . . . note the cut marks near the spine.”
“You’re just noticing this now?” Tucker asked.
“Because the entries seemed to follow along smoothly. No missed dates, and the narrative is contiguous. Here, just before the first missing pages, he talks about one of the men in his unit complaining of mysterious stomach pains. After the missing pages, he begins talking about his Apocalypse Seed—where he found it, its properties, and so on.”
Not able to read or speak Afrikaans, Tucker had to take the doctor’s word for it, but the man was right. The cut marks were there.
“Why would he do this?” Tucker asked.
“I can only think of one reason,” Bukolov replied. “Paulos de Klerk was trying to hide something. But what and from whom?”
7:55 P.M.
Misha announced another pit stop and guided the Olga toward shore. It was the third landfall of the day, near sunset. He wanted one more chance to stock up his solar batteries for the night. He pulled them up to another abandoned fishing dock. Clearly he had planned their route carefully, choosing backwater locations for their ports of call.
As the hatch was unsealed, Tucker was immediately struck by the cloying rotten-egg stench of the place, undercut by a heady mix of petroleum and burned oil.
“Ugh,” Anya said, pinching her nose. “I’m staying inside. I don’t have to use the bathroom that badly.”
Tucker did, as did Kane. So they headed out with Utkin and Bukolov.
The cove here was surrounded by swamp, choked with densely packed grasses and reeds, interspersed with dead dwarf pines. A maze of wooden boardwalks zigzagged through the marshy area, paralleling aboveground pipes. At several intersections, car-sized steel cones protruded out of the oil-tinged water.
