The Immortalists (9 page)

The obsession with secrecy seemed to grow daily. At one time, the group had held its rare meetings isolated in the forests of Latvia. When that had been deemed too public, they had tried communicating remotely over heavily encrypted lines. And now, it had come to this.

Chris Graden followed the armed man over a trail cut through thick tropical foliage. The island had been purchased two years ago through the customary maze of offshore corporations and partnerships, but beyond that, he knew nothing—not even its general location. A plane picked him up at a private airport near his home and landed many hours later on a cleverly disguised airstrip. Shades were drawn, and electronics were banned for the entire trip.

Karl cherished anonymity and isolation above all things and avoided gathering the group unless it was absolutely necessary. On the rare occasion meetings did happen, it was usually to disseminate bad news or allocate blame. And if the purpose was the latter, it was certain that the accused would never be seen again.

A stone building that faded in and out of an overgrown cliff became visible ahead, but only because Graden had been there before. Like everything else relating to the group, it was camouflaged to the point that it almost seemed a figment of the imagination. A mirage brought on by heat and fear.

The guard opened a steel door and pointed Graden down a familiar corridor. The walls were stone—damp with humidity and crisscrossed with live vines. He tried to keep his breathing even as he walked, reluctant to reveal his anxiety to the inevitable concealed cameras.

He finally pushed through the door at the corridor’s end, leaving the dripping ceiling and buzzing insects for an elegant, climate-controlled conference room that wasn’t much different than the one in his old corporate headquarters. The nine men sitting around the table greeted him with polite nods, but their eyes didn’t linger as he sat.

He could put identities to only two of them. On his right was Henry Parador, a powerful American senator whose family had made a fortune in tobacco. Directly across from him was Ivo Ljujic, a former Bosnian general who now controlled an Eastern European business empire that Graden carefully avoided reading anything about. Curiosity was strongly frowned upon and had been severely punished on at least one occasion that he knew about.

Everyone at the table was fit and healthy—nothing less would be tolerated—and he assumed that all were extremely wealthy based on the two men he recognized and the fact that his own initiation had cost well into nine figures.

It was there that the similarities ended, though. Ages ranged from mid thirties to early seventies, skin color from white to black, and accents from familiar to nearly unintelligible.

“Now that we’re all here,” Karl said with enunciation precise enough to obscure his place of birth, “I see no reason that we can’t start.”

Despite being one of the youngest men in the room, Karl was clearly in command. For some reason, his toned body, thick dark hair, and unlined face didn’t project inexperience—only virility and strength. Graden always felt just a little slower and more infirm in his presence.

“After a long period of calm, there are now a number of issues that demand discussion. First, for those of you who haven’t heard, Annette Chevalier is dead. Our efforts to block her research through pressure from her superiors proved ineffective, and we were forced to move more tangibly. As of today, the investigation into her death has been closed, and it’s been deemed a suicide.”

The men around the table nodded gravely as Karl watched in the strangely motionless way he always did. There was something about him that was inhumanly exact. Nothing was wasted—not emotion, not movement, and certainly not words.

“Unfortunately, there’s been a complication. Her husband went to Richard Draman after her death and gave him a copy of her research.”

Concerned murmurs erupted from the group as Karl turned to Graden. “We aren’t able to determine exactly what was said in that meeting because we didn’t have sufficient capability.”

Graden had been prepared for the charge, but that preparation didn’t prevent his mouth from going dry as he responded.

“It’s been our policy to use as little surveillance as possible because of the risks involved. I knew Richard Draman extremely well, and I’m one of his main sources of funding. It was in his best interest to tell me everything he was doing, and based on our evaluations, his research hasn’t gone in a direction that could be a threat to us. Also, it’s unlikely that he would have continued in this field for more than a few years—I expected him to move on when his daughter died.”

It was a dangerous tightrope. He couldn’t afford to be seen as making excuses, but also couldn’t afford to appear incompetent.

“In any event, the problem has been resolved,” Karl said. “Draman and his family went down in a private jet earlier today.”

An Asian man to Graden’s left spoke up. “This is very close to us. And the deaths of multiple biologists in such a short time could draw attention.”

Karl leaned forward and placed his palms on the table. “It needed to be done quickly. Draman went to see August Mason to discuss Chevalier’s research.”

“Still,” the Asian persisted, “there are quieter ways to deal with this, are there not?”

“Normally, yes. We used a man that we’d cultivated in the local police force, but it wasn’t as effective as we’d hoped. Because of Draman’s daughter’s illness, he isn’t easy to deter.”

“Perhaps it would have been wiser to deal with the daughter, then?” another man said.

Karl leaned back again, his statue-like demeanor slipping slightly. “We concluded the same thing. Unfortunately, our man was interrupted by Draman in the process.”

That elicited audible groans from the group.

“But we are certain that they are all dead now?” the Asian said.

Karl nodded toward a man Graden had never seen before. He was probably in his early sixties with distinctively Eastern European features and gray hair that had thinned in a vaguely unnatural pattern.

“I’d like to introduce Oleg. This is his area of expertise, and I’m going to let him answer that question.”

The man shuffled some papers as Graden tried unsuccessfully not to speculate on his background. He’d long suspected that the members of the group were chosen for their particular skills and spheres of influence: him, for his knowledge of the pharmaceutical industry and bioresearch; this man, perhaps because of a background in intelligence.

“Susan Draman did not get on the plane,” Oleg said with an unmistakable Russian accent.

Graden tensed, and it took a moment for him to find his voice. “Are you certain of your information? Richard never said anything about her not coming, and as long as I’ve known them, they’ve never been separated from Susie.”

“My information is correct,” he responded dismissively. “We’ve already looked into family and close friends but have yet to locate her.”

“Then you haven’t found all their close friends and family,” Senator Parador said. “People are pretty damn selective about who they leave their sick kids with. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Oleg was clearly unimpressed by the politician. “In fact, we
have
identified them all. Based on the suspicions that Draman expressed and the attempt on his daughter’s life, we’re working under the theory that he wanted to avoid leaving her somewhere she could be easily found.”

Karl broke in, obviously not interested in letting the back-and-forth escalate. “Everything possible is being done, and we’ll be calling on everyone here to help us minimize the public impact of the Dramans’ deaths as well as to help us find their daughter.”

“And what happens when we do find her?” Parador asked.

Karl scanned the faces around the table for a moment. “We’re still exploring our options, but it seems likely that she and the people she’s with will have to be eliminated.”

The darkness around Richard Draman was deep enough to rob him of his balance, and he stumbled toward the bow of the boat, groping for solid surfaces and listening to the waves lapping against the wood hull.

As he passed by the open-air bridge, he could see the face of the man at the wheel, his dark skin faded corpse green by the glow of the instruments. He didn’t acknowledge Richard’s presence at all, instead staring into the inky blackness as though he could see something in it.

Henry, the man who had picked them up at the airstrip, had introduced them to the still unnamed boat captain—a scarred and sun-blackened man with the requisite barrel chest and faded tattoos. Fortunately, he’d been amenable to smuggling two Americans back into their own country as long as a suitable price could be negotiated. Payment details were a bit complicated since Henry had put a serious dent in the cash they’d brought in return for his promise to tell anyone who might come asking that they’d gotten back on the plane after a brief stop to let Carly’s air sickness subside. But fear and capitalism were powerful motivators, and the captain had finally agreed that Carly’s engagement ring would suffice.

Richard continued forward, finally dropping to his knees and crawling to keep the rolling deck from pitching him into a cache of fishing gear. A moment later, a hand closed around his shoulder. “I’m here.”

He settled into the pile of life jackets they’d arranged on the bow, feeling the misty ocean spray against his face as his wife pressed against him for warmth.

“This is about all we have, isn’t it, Richard?”

“What do you mean?”

“We call our families once a year during the holidays after putting it off as long as we can. We don’t have many friends because of work and because we want to spend as much time as we can with Susie…”

“Are you trying to cheer me up? Because it’s not going so well.”

“I was thinking about Chris. About the fact that we’re probably closer to him than anyone else in the world.”

“So do you still think I’m paranoid?” he said. “That I’m having a breakdown?”

He could smell her sweat and shampoo as she shook her head in the darkness. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Like you said, one coincidence is easy to ignore. Two can happen. Maybe even three. But this…”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in the life jackets and wrapping an arm around her.

“I keep wondering if those pilots had families,” Carly continued. “If they had little girls waiting for them to get home too. And I keep wondering why all this has happened.”

“It’s what we talked about before. Some foreign pharmaceutical company is on the verge of a breakthrough that will make them billions.”

“But why Chris?” she interrupted. “He’s already rich, and so is everyone else who would be involved in something like this. They fly around on their jets and drive around in their Rolls-Royces while Susie and kids like her die. Isn’t that enough?”

Above, the clouds were beginning to part, exposing a narrow streak of stars. “You have to understand that the cost of doing this kind of research is astronomical, Carly. If I had to guess, I’d say that Chris and a bunch of other investors bet the farm on this thing. And if it goes south, they’ll be looking at trading in those jets and Rolls-Royces for double-wides and bicycles.”

“So where does that leave us, Richard? I’m a chef. You’re a biologist. How do we fight people who are willing to blow up a plane full of innocent people? People who would send a man to murder a child?”

It was a question he’d been obsessing over since he’d watched Chris Graden’s jet plummet into the sea. So far, epiphanies were proving elusive.

“If they think we’re dead, it gives us some breathing room,” he said.

“What if they don’t think that? What if they know we got off?”

“Fugitives can sometimes stay ahead of the FBI for years. Chris, for all his money, isn’t the FBI.”

“And we’re not fugitives, Richard. We don’t know the first thing about being on the run, and we have a sick daughter to think about. We haven’t done anything wrong. They have. They’re the ones who should be running. They’re the ones whose lives should be torn apart.”

She laid her head against his chest while he watched the blackness in front of them.

“At least we know one thing,” he said.

“We do?”

“Yeah. We know that Chris is involved. That’s enough to get started.”

“Started on what?”

“Exposing him and whoever he’s involved with. Maybe to the police. Maybe to the press. I don’t know. But they aren’t going to stop otherwise. Even if they think we’re dead, they might know that Susie isn’t. They’ll come for her if we don’t stop them.”

“What about August Mason?” Carly said. “How does he fit in?”

“I don’t know if he does. Other than the fact that Annette and Ray were working on research based on ideas he abandoned.”

“He turned you in to the police.”

“Yeah, but the truth is that he didn’t have much choice after I brought him that drive.”

“Shouldn’t he be dead?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s how everyone who’s been involved with Annette’s research ends up. Why would he be the exception? I mean, wouldn’t he be the last person in the world a pharma company on the verge of a breakthrough would want looking at that stuff?”

She was right. With everything that was happening, he hadn’t given August Mason a second thought.

“Shit!” he said, pushing Carly off him and making his way back to the captain as quickly as he could without falling overboard.

“Do you have a phone?” he asked. In the commotion on the plane, he’d forgotten to put his sat phone back in his duffel, and it was now at the bottom of the ocean.

“A phone?” the man said. “Is that a joke?”

“Let me use the radio, then. I have to contact someone on shore.”

“You’re not contacting anybody.”

“Look, this is life or death,” Richard said, reaching past him for a hand mic hanging next to the throttle.

The darkness, combined with the man’s surprising speed, made it impossible for Richard to react. He was driven back against the railing, and a gleaming blade stopped its arc less than an inch from his right eye.

Carly’s scream was barely audible, swallowed by the black hole they were floating in. The captain’s words, though, were extraordinarily clear.

“If you do anything that makes me even
think
it could get me caught, I’ll weigh both of you down and throw you overboard. Do you understand?”

Richard stared at the knife. He had no doubt the man was serious, but for some reason he wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was because the threat wasn’t a patchwork of conjecture and suspicion lurking just out of sight. It was right there. It had a face. It had a weapon.

The boat hit a wave, rocking it hard enough to cause the smuggler to stagger backward. Before he knew what he was doing, Richard grabbed the man’s wrist and swung an elbow up under his chin. It connected full force, and they both toppled into a pile of ropes coiled on the deck.

The strange sense of calm he’d felt only a few moments ago disappeared, replaced by the rage and frustration that he’d been swallowing for nearly a decade. The dazed smuggler was suddenly transformed into everything he’d come to associate with evil— Susie’s attacker, Sands, his best friend Chris. But mostly the disease.

He slammed a fist into the man’s face, and the sense of release was so overwhelming that he did it again. And then again. The smuggler dropped the knife and used his thick forearms to try to deflect the blows. Richard heard the clatter of the metal against the deck and groped blindly for the weapon, getting hold of it just before an arm wrapped around his neck from behind.

“Richard!”

He recognized the voice as his wife’s, but it seemed so far away.

“Richard! That’s enough!”

He faltered, dropping the blade and falling backward as his mind slowly came back on line. Carly kept hold of him, and he could feel her breath as it mixed with the breeze coming off the water.

He’d have done it. He was sure of it. He would have stabbed the man if she hadn’t stopped him.

Her grip loosened and she leaned in, examining his face in the starlight. “Are you OK?”

He swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak. A numbness crept over him that he hadn’t felt since the Pabst-Blue-Ribbon-fueled brawls of his youth. He’d thought that part of him—the part that had broken the jaw of a rival school’s star linebacker and pitched a friend’s abusive father through a sliding glass door— was long gone. But maybe it had just been hiding.

Carly used a foot to kick the knife out of reach and crawled around him to check on the semiconscious sailor. “If he doesn’t come around soon, I hope you know which way North America is.”