The Ghost Pattern (6 page)

They shifted their weight nervously, some gasping, others wringing their hands.

Forced labor,
Gary Davis found himself thinking,
doing who knows what for the Russians. We are so fucked.

“Make no mistake,” Bogdanov continued. “If you are not worth keeping in the lab, we will use you as lab rats for the test batches. One way or the other, you
will
work for us.”

A deathly silence engulfed the small group. Bogdanov smiled, satisfied.

“Now get to work. Organize everything, make a list of what you’re missing, make sure you’re ready to produce the chemicals we need. Is that clear?”

No one replied. He waited a few seconds, then turned to leave.

“Dr. Bogdanov, if I may,” Dr. Bukowsky spoke, his Canadian politeness intact despite the circumstances. “We need insulin. Dr. Crawford is diabetic, and she ran out of supplies yesterday.”

Dr. Crawford grabbed Bukowsky’s sleeve, as if asking him to stay quiet.

“We will see about that,” Bogdanov replied. “How useful is she? What does she do?”

Someone gasped behind Gary. As if hypnotized, he heard himself speak.

“She is quintessential to any neurochemistry research,” Gary spoke clearly, calmly, and sounding sure of himself. Although he was making it up on the fly, he hoped he was right about the Russian’s intentions. “Her dissertations on the clinical aspects of applied psychopharmacology, and her fellowship experience with the University of Virginia make her irreplaceable to any drug study.”

Dr. Crawford looked at him with amazement, a hint of a smile fluttering on her lips as she mouthed, “Thank you.”

“I will bring insulin,” Bogdanov said. “Now, get to work.”

Dr. Faulkner, still weak on his legs, stumbled forward and said, “You can’t do this! You can’t force us to work for you! What kind of doctor are you?”

Bogdanov turned and stared at Dr. Faulkner in disbelief, then gestured at King Cobra with a swift head movement.

Cobra took three large steps and, as he reached Faulkner, struck him in the stomach with his knotted fist. Dr. Faulkner gasped, then keeled over, curled up on his side. He moved his legs spasmodically, and, as Gary and a couple of others rushed to assist him, he drew his last breath with a terrifying groan.

Gary put his fingers on Faulkner’s neck, searching for a pulse.

“He’s gone; probably a massive coronary,” he said bitterly. “Great job,” he turned and said to Cobra. “At this rate, you’ll kill us all before we do whatever the hell you got us here to do, you stupid fuck!”

Cobra took a step toward him, cussing in Russian, his face congested and scrunched in anger, wielding his fist in a threatening motion. Gary stood there, not even flinching.
Que sera, sera
, he thought, bracing himself for the beating that was to come.

Cobra’s fist never came down on him.

“Enough,” Bogdanov said, then left the lab, followed closely by his men.

...15

...Saturday, April 30, 6:25AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

...San Diego International Airport

...San Diego, California

...Three Days Missing

Alex waited on the tarmac, oblivious to the early dawn coloring the sky with a reddish palette of hues, and to the fresh morning breeze. Her eyes scouted the runway, waiting for the plane to appear, worried about her friend, Blake Bernard. The calm and composed Blake, who held his own impeccably while transacting billions of dollars without breaking a sweat, would never give anyone seventeen missed calls. Yet he’d done just that.

The familiar silhouette of his Phenom 300 taxied quickly and came to a stop right in front of the VIP terminal, where she waited. The door opened immediately, and Blake stepped down, rushing toward her. She met him halfway, registering briefly how disheveled he looked. Dark circles under his eyes, clothing and hair in disarray. His signature elegance was completely gone, replaced by the aspect of deep distress.

“Alex,” he said in a broken voice, swallowing bitter sobs, and hugging her tightly.

“Blake, my goodness, what happened?”

“Adeline, my wife, she was on flight XA233,” he said, his face still buried in her shoulder, sobbing.

Her eyes welled up instantly.
Adeline…oh, no!

“Oh, my God, Blake, I am so sorry! Please accept my deepest—”

“No!” Blake snapped, pulling away from her. “No condolences, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then what can I do?”

“I want you to find her,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re the only one who can.”

He couldn’t be serious. The entire world was looking for that plane; what could
she
do?

“Blake, I–I can’t, there are—”

“No!” Blake almost yelled. “You don’t understand. She isn’t dead. She can’t be! I’d feel it in here!” He pounded his chest above his heart with his closed, white-knuckled fist. “I’d know it!”

She took a step forward as to attempt to console him. He was crazy with pain over the loss of his wife, and he wasn’t thinking straight. She wished Steve were here; he’d know what to say and do to help Blake. She was going to have to do her best, and hope her best was good enough.

“Blake,” she spoke softly, “such a loss can be devastating, I understand. And I am here for you. Why don’t we go to Tom’s, get you a hot cup of soup, and help you get some rest?”

His eyes shot her a glare filled with disappointment.

“Not you too! Not after everything we’ve been through together, Alex! Do you think I lost my mind? Is that it?”

She shrugged a little, involuntarily, and felt her cheeks catch fire. “Blake, I—”

“No, I’m still sane, Alex, and I am appealing to that fantastic brain of yours! You who found a ten-billion dollar, money-laundering scheme hidden so deep inside my bank’s business systems that no one else had managed to find it before. I am pleading with my friend, Alex Hoffmann, the best investigator I have ever met, to just hear my case for a minute. Can you do that for me? Give me one minute of unbiased attention?” Blake’s pleading voice reached a higher pitch, while he still struggled to stifle heavy sobs. “Do you still trust me that much?”

She considered his words, embarrassed she’d jumped to conclusions and dismissed Blake so quickly. She shouldn’t have made that error in judgment; she knew better.

She managed to look at Blake, unable to hide her embarrassment. “I am so sorry, Blake, please forgive me. Can we please start over?”

He let out a pained, long sigh. “Don’t apologize. I sometimes think I’m crazy, too. But believe me, she isn’t dead. She can’t be. Oh, God…”

“OK, let’s talk. I am all ears. Why do you think she’s not dead? The authorities confirmed the plane went down over the Pacific.”

“I’d feel it…I
know
I would,” Blake said quietly, looking Alex in the eye with an unspoken plea to believe him, to trust his call. “And…and I had a dream right about the time her plane went missing.”

“A dream?” Alex couldn’t hide the doubt in her voice.

“Yes, a dream, and I know just how this sounds. But Adeline and I are very close; we’re what people refer to as soul mates. We’ve always had our ways to feel each other’s pain, stress, or fear.”

She didn’t dismiss the thought so easily the second time. Although the science behind it was blurry to say the least, there were numerous documented cases of such mental connections existing between closely connected human beings, able to transcend thousands of miles.

She decided to believe that was a possibility in Blake and Adeline’s case. Steve would have been a great asset to her right now…damn it! And Blake wouldn’t move from the damn tarmac. No way could she get him to Steve. She refocused her attention.

“What was the dream about? Was she saying anything to you?”

“She said she loved me, and then…” Blake almost choked, “well, I don’t know how to describe it, but the message was that I shouldn’t let her go. I shouldn’t give up.”

“OK, good enough for me,” Alex replied, her usual analytical self taking over. “What do you think
I
could do, that the authorities aren’t doing already?”

“Believe,” Blake replied. “Believe that it’s possible that plane didn’t crash into the Pacific. During the past 48 hours, I’ve been traveling like crazy, speaking with everyone. Airlines, the FAA, no one would even listen to me. It doesn’t matter who I am, or how much money I’m willing to spend. No one even wants to hear me out; they all dismiss me and recommend some shrink or another, after expressing countless regrets.”

She blushed again and looked at the tarmac for a minute, trying to hide it, disappointed with herself at how narrow-minded she’d been about the whole thing. She’d done the exact same thing the airlines had done. In her mind, she had wished she had a shrink present to help Blake. Must be the early hour to blame for her atypical shortsighted logic. Forget Steve. Blake was there to see her.

“OK, let’s talk scenarios,” she managed to articulate.

“Yes! Thank you!” Blake said, hugging her tightly. “I knew you would hear me out. What do you want to know?”

Where the hell do I even start
, Alex asked herself bitterly.

“Umm…” she said, “what do you think could have happened to that plane?”

“I don’t know,” Blake answered with sadness, “but I just need you to consider the possibility that it hasn’t crashed in the Pacific, and start looking for it.”

“That I can do,” Alex replied, “but why do you think that’s even possible? You think the entire world that’s looking for it is just plain wrong? Everyone’s looking for it in the middle of the Pacific.”

“Where they fail, you can succeed. I have that much confidence in you, Alex.”

Oh…OK, no pressure,
she thought, a little flattered by his confidence, yet feeling overwhelmed.

“Blake, I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted.

“Maybe…but you’ll think of something. I’m willing to bet a ton of money that by the end of today you’ll have a few ideas. Only you can find her.”

She smiled. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Blake. I hope I’ll earn it.”

“You will, and I will help you. Any resource you need, you got it. All my money, all my influence, you can use at will, no questions asked. I will sign blank checks, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Just name it,” he confirmed.

“Park your plane somewhere and let’s go to Tom’s. I need breakfast, and I need to think. You need to come with me,” she added, feeling embarrassed for manipulating him like that. “Just in case I have questions or I need resources, or something.”

“Done,” he replied, then turned toward the plane and signaled his pilot.

Minutes later, he was fast asleep in Alex’s car, as she drove on the Pacific Highway, heading north in the dawn’s brisk light.

...16

...Sunday, May 1, 10:49AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

...Undisclosed Location

...Russia

...Four Days Missing

The massive door unlatched noisily, startling them.

One of the armed men walked in, his weapon hanging loosely, strapped on his shoulder. It was the one they called One-Eye. He still had both his eyes, but a long, purplish scar extended from his left ear to under his left eye, putting a deep ridge into his cheek, making them wonder how his eye survived that terrible knife wound.

One-Eye extended his hand, holding a small packet with insulin vials.

“Insulin,” he spoke harshly.

Dr. Gary Davis stepped forward, grabbing the box.

“Thank you,” Gary said, then opened the box. “Hey, this is just two days’ worth,” he said, showing the man the four vials.

One-Eye shrugged and replied dryly. “If you all behave, she’ll get more.” Then he turned and left, latching the door behind him.

He rushed to Dr. Crawford’s cot, while Dr. Adenauer brought a hypodermic and some alcohol on a piece of gauze. Dr. Crawford sat with difficulty on the side of her cot, preparing her insulin shot.

“Thank you,” she said, speaking weakly. “This will help.”

She shot the insulin into her thigh, then massaged the spot gently, while everyone kept their backs turned to give her some privacy.

“Thank you,” she repeated, “I’m done.”

They all huddled around her cot except the pilot, who remained crouched on the floor, not moving much or saying anything since they’d entered the makeshift lab. Lila, the flight attendant, kept as great a distance from the pilot as physically possible, quiet and grim, crying at times.

“Do you understand what they want us to do?” Dr. Crawford asked. “I was a little out of it and I couldn’t focus,” she explained apologetically.

They stood silent for a few seconds, looking at one another, various degrees of concern marring their expressions. It was as if the nightmare would become more real if one of them would put it into words.

“They want us to build a drug formulation,” Gary spoke, “a drug that will increase the violence drive in subjects in a controlled manner. Not too violent; just enough to cause damage, and controllable with an antidote. They also want the drug to be aerosolized, yet have precise, controllable response in subjects.”

“This is insane,” Dr. Mallory spoke. “I don’t even think that can be done. Not here, not like this. What they’re asking for requires years of work.”

“Don’t say that, please,” Dr. Teng spoke, his voice strangled by tears. “I–I have my family with me. My wife and my little girl…they have them. We can’t say no.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Adenauer spoke, arrogance seeping in his voice. “We all know we cannot say no to the malignant, sociopathic narcissist without taking considerable risk. We have to be judicious about our approach to this research.”

“Approach to research?” Gary snapped. “Are you seriously considering doing this? It’s against everything we have sworn to do as doctors.”

“What choice do we have?” Adenauer replied. “Compliance, in this case, is the logical, self-preserving thing to do.”

“But consider the consequences, for chrissake,” Gary insisted.

He felt Dr. Teng’s hand grabbing his sleeve. “Please,” the tiny man whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

“Ah, you are forgetting,” Dr. Adenauer replied, pedantic as if he were lecturing in front of young students, “I said research…I never said delivery of a drug formulation.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Mallory asked.

Gary was starting to see Adenauer’s point. He was, indeed, brilliant, and, he had to admit, he stayed cool and rational better than most. Better than himself even.

“I mean we comply, we do the research,” Adenauer clarified with a parental tone, “but we will not be able to deliver results very soon,” he ended his phrase in a whisper. “We…stall. Isn’t that the right word in English?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard, considering how insanely absurd and complex this task will be,” Mallory added.

They nodded in agreement, and remained silent for a while.

“What are we hoping for, though?” Dr. Klaas Fortuin asked. “They’ll never let us go. If we are worthless to them, they will kill us all. There is no doubt about that.”

The harsh reality expressed so simplistically by the direct, almost blunt Dr. Fortuin hit hard. They bowed their heads and hunched their shoulders, desperation taking over.

“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything,” Gary said. “For now, let’s focus on immediate survival, right? Dr. Bukowsky, what would you say to a patient in this situation?”

“Exactly true, let’s focus on survival,” Howard Bukowsky confirmed. “Our situation has definitely improved,” he continued, trying to focus everyone on the very few positive aspects of their confinement. “We slept on cots last night, not on the floor, we have water, and we had warm food last night. Dr. Crawford has insulin for a while, and that demonstrates a very important point.”

“What?” Dr. Crawford asked.

“That we were able to negotiate with them. We asked for something and we got it. It’s important we keep that in mind,” Bukowsky concluded.

“Ah…” Gary said. “You’re right. Then let’s ask them to keep our lab rats healthy and well-fed, to ensure the tests will be relevant and successful.”

“You’re not saying…you’re not seriously considering testing on human subjects, are you?” Dr. Fortuin asked, barely containing his apprehension at the thought.

“No, of course not,” Gary replied. “But they expect us to use them as test subjects. If we ask for it that way, we can hope to negotiate better conditions for the rest of the passengers.”

“We might not have a choice, you know,” Dr. Adenauer said. “We might be forced to test on them. Who knows what they’ll do if we resist?”

“Then how do we prevent harm from coming their way?” Dr. Mallory asked. “We formulate weak batches?”

“Uh–huh,” Gary said, pensively, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That would work. Weak batches, using low-toxicity components with small halftimes.”

Dr. Crawford stretched her legs, as if to see if she was able to stand on her own. Then she spoke in a quiet voice, just above a whisper. “Let me ask you all something that might seem unusual. Are any of you good with hypnosis? I mean, really good, as in hypnotizing someone against their will?”

“Hmm…” Gary said, “interesting thought.”

“I’ve had some results,” Dr. Mallory replied, “but, of course, I’ve never tried it against a patient’s will. It’s unethical, illegal even.”

“Here, it doesn’t matter,” Dr. Crawford said. “Try, try it whenever you have a chance, let’s see what happens. Maybe some are more susceptible than others. It could be a way. But be careful,” she added. “They can’t suspect a thing.”

She stood and stretched her back a little. “In the meantime,” she added, “I will ask for any documentation they might have on previous research. Something tells me this isn’t the first time they’ve tried to formulate this drug.”