The Monarch (30 page)

They stepped inside, making sure to keep themselves between George and the door. Getting caught in here would be a final mistake.

The inside of the vault reflected the door's opulence and shine. Blue-­green metal edged with copper lined the walls and ceiling. Halogen bulbs ran in semicircles around the ceiling. The floor was bright alabaster marble. Even the few chairs and stools scattered here and there continued the color scheme. There were a few tables around the grocery store-­sized confines of the vault, presumably for viewing items. Controlled and cooled air flowed inside, a slight breeze wafting out of a few vents around the room.

But this was like no collection Jonathan had ever seen before. There were no paintings or sculptures, no gold or jewels. Not even any antique documents. The entire collection consisted of about a dozen pedestals, displaying their treasure beneath glass cases. The treasures themselves were not immediately identifiable.

“What the hell is this?” Lew said, as he and Emily leaned in close to the first case by the door. Inside it was a blackened, misshapen item, held in place by copper prongs, the entire contents of the case immersed in some sort of clear fluid.

“My collection has changed somewhat since your . . . cleansing. I have you to thank, really,” George said, his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet, like someone waiting for a recipient to guess what present they'd just been given. The smile was back too.

“Thank? Thank me for what?” Lew said.

“For the clarity you gave me. My previous collection consisted of works produced by others. By-­products. Waste of the true treasures.”

“True treasures,” Lew repeated. Jonathan could tell by the look on his face he had no idea what George was talking about. Jonathan wished he didn't. “This . . . briquette is a treasure?” Lew said, hitching his thumb at the item.

“Most assuredly. It's the first and, for obvious reasons, the closest to my heart. Though nowhere near the most valuable in dollars.”

“But what—­”

“Oh my God,” Emily said, stepping back from the case.

“It's his hand,” Jonathan said.

“His . . .” Lew trailed off as George raised his artificial hand so Lew could get a good look at it. “You mean?” Lew looked closer at the item again and recognition fell across his face as he apparently discerned the fingers and thumb at the top of the burnt appendage. “Jesus Christ!” Lew jumped back from the display.

Instead of being offended, George was titillated, laughing as he walked deeper into the vault.

“And all of these?” Lew asked, pointing at the rest of the displays in the collection.

“Human body parts,” Jonathan said.

“Oh, but they're much more than that,” George said. “These are pieces of genius. Think about it, what would have more value—­van Gogh's paintings, or the ear he cut off? A scroll from the 1200s, or the actual heart of a Templar? The cup that caught Christ's blood at the crucifixion, or the actual blood the cup held?”

“This is sick,” Lew said.

“Actually . . .” Emily began.

“Don't tell me you agree with this lunatic?” Lew said.

“It's not something new. The sale of famous, historical body parts has been around for hundreds of years. Probably longer,” she said.

Emotionally, the idea turned Jonathan's stomach as much as it did Lew's, but logically, he could understand the concept.

­“People actually pay money for this?” Lew asked.

“A great deal of money, trust me,” George said. “But commerce aside, almost every Catholic Church has relics, usually embedded into their altars.”

“Relics?” Lew asked.

“Pieces of saints' bodies. The Vatican distributes them as a kind of reminder that miracles, at least at one time, actually happened,” Emily said.

“And let's not forget the mummies. Egyptian body parts are on display in every museum around the world,” George said.

“Whatever,” Lew said shaking his head.

“What did you promise Kring?” Jonathan asked George, all too aware of the time slipping away from them. “Where's item CS–231?”

George remained silent, obviously having second thoughts.

Jonathan nodded to Lew.

Lew walked up to a display case with what looked like a lump of clay in it, and tapped the barrel of his gun against the glass.

“How much did this one cost you?” Lew asked.

“You wouldn't! You promised—­”

“So did you. Play hardball and you'll have a steel box full of garbage. The choice is yours,” Jonathan said.

Canton George's face turned lobster red, his hand clenching and unclenching. He paced back and forth, panting like a caged animal. He was powerless and he knew it, but he was so used to being in control it must have been like a foreign flavor on his silver tongue.

Without pretense, Lew smashed the display. Glass shattered and fluid rushed out onto the floor, the item flopping to the ground like a dropped oyster.

“No!” George screamed, moving toward Lew. Jonathan raised his gun and stopped him.

“Uh, uh, uh. The item.”

When George remained stubborn, Jonathan nodded to Lew and he stepped over the mess to the next display case, a larger one with bits of bone in it. Lew tapped the glass. Emily turned away, apparently preparing for another crash and splash.

“Going once, going twice—­”

“Stop! Fine, I'll give it to you. Just take this maniac out of my house.”

George went to the back of the vault and unlocked a cabinet. He took out a contraption and brought it over to one of the tables.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“It's a transport case for Kring's item, nitrogen cooled,” George said. He punched a code into it and the contraption hissed open, oozing cold vapor. Then he reached around behind a nearby display and pressed something. The glass around the item also hissed open, more cool fog blossoming as the interior mixed with the vault's room temperature. Using a pair of copper tongs, he took a small lump out and put it into the cryocase, sealing it inside. “There. Now go.”

“What is it?” Jonathan asked as Lew picked it up.

“The anterior prefrontal cortex from the greatest mind in human history,” George said, his mood seeming to lighten at the prospect of telling someone about one of his treasures, even if he was about to lose it.

“Whose mind?” Emily asked, moving closer to the item.

“Albert Einstein's,” George said, his chest practically swelling with pride.

Jonathan's, Lew's, and Emily's mouths dropped open simultaneously. Lew took the case out from under his arm and held it out in front of him with both hands, like it might explode if he wasn't careful. A long time seemed to pass before anyone spoke.

Incredulously, Emily said, “
The
Albert Einstein.”

“Is that even possible?” Lew asked, shifting only his eyes to Jonathan.

“Back in the fifties,” George said as he paced, the gun pointed at him unable to deter his lecture, “when he died, Einstein left instructions that stated he was not to be autopsied. He wanted to be cremated and his ashes secretly dispersed. He was not fond of the rock star attention he'd garnered by that point and was afraid that he'd become an even bigger postmortem celebrity.”

“So how—­”

George cut Lew off. “He left instructions, but it's very difficult to make sure the world follows your wishes when you're dead. The pathologist on duty that night in the Prince­ton Hospital lied. He said he had permission to perform an autopsy. No one is sure why. In any case, during the autopsy the doctor removed Einstein's brain and eyes.”

“His eyes?” Jonathan said.

“Yes, apparently they're still in a safety deposit box somewhere in America, but no one knows for sure. It's all just rumors. But the really interesting thing is that the pathologist didn't even have the skill or training to remove and preserve a brain, much less a brain revered by the world as the epitome of genius.

“Einstein's son did end up giving his permission after the fact. Again, something that didn't fit what everyone at the time expected to happen. Isn't that delicious?” George asked, grinning widely now.

“As a phlegm sandwich,” Lew said.

“Yes, well, in any case, the legal issues were handled. The extracted brain was sectioned and kept in a basement for years before anyone agreed to do any kind of study of it. When it was finally examined, the results showed that Einstein's brain was just an average brain. In fact, a little less than average in size, weight, and density.”

“Huh? But how could someone that supersmart be—­”

“Aha, because it
wasn't
his brain,” George said, appearing incredibly pleased with himself. “The sectioned brain wasn't Einstein's. The theory is, there was a switch, and Einstein's brain—­the real one—­was extracted and preserved by a true expert who later sold it at auction. The supposed pathologist of record was just a paid-­off stooge. Sometime after that, someone cut the real brain into pieces so they could sell it several times and make more money. Over the years, the pieces have vanished.”

“Jesus,” Jonathan said.

“This is the last known piece in existence,” George said, waving his hands and practically saying,
Ta-­da
.

“How do we know you didn't just give us a lump of cheese?” Lew asked.

“There's a letter of authenticity in the base of the cryocase. Beyond that, I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me,” George said.

Jonathan worked to process everything they had just been told. That story plus the cryocase, which meant the item was still viable, explained why Kring wanted it. If what Sophia had told him was true, it was the extra step Kring needed for a cure. A
permanent
cure. It was the last thing Jonathan wanted to give the bastard, but the only thing on the planet that could save Natalie's life.

If they weren't already too late.

 

43

Tartaruga Island

9:30
P.M.
Local Time

S
OPHIA STOOD JUST
outside Nathan's office, summing her courage to confront him about Jonathan's daughter. She knew he'd be mad that she'd slipped past her guard, but she didn't want to risk asking to leave, only to be denied. She also knew she was in the right, but even with her recent revelations, facing off with the man who had been posing as her father all these years practically terrified her. She'd almost calmed herself enough to enter when she heard something that terrified her even more. It froze her to the spot where she stood.

“Call Thomas. Tell him Mr. Hall and Miss Denham are coming and they've got the item. He's to meet them on the tarmac,” Nathan said.

“You're not really going through with this, are you?” Lara asked.

“And tell Sophia to be ready with the DNA profile from the eyes Thomas brought back from Pensacola. I have no doubt George's item is authentic, but we have to be sure,” Nathan said.

“But—­”

“Enough! The future—­our future—­hinges on what we do in the next few hours. I need you to listen and obey. To the letter. Do you understand?” Sophia had a feeling “our future” didn't mean her future.

“Yes. I understand,” she said.

“Good. The exchange will occur in the courtyard. I want you to position our two best sharpshooters on the roof around the courtyard. When I give the signal, they are to open fire.” Sophia put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“Their targets?” Lara asked.

“Everyone but you and me. No one gets out of that courtyard alive.”

“Even the girl? Natalie?” Lara asked, sounding more surprised than shocked.

“Especially the girl. Give orders to shoot her first. I want to see it in Hall's eyes. I want to see him realize who the best man is. Just before The Monarch dies.”

Sophia pressed back into the shadows as Lara left her father's office, a determined resolve in her stride. When Lara reached the elevator and the door had closed, Sophia ran the other way. If Lara was going straight to the lab, she had only a few minutes.

I have to get Natalie out!

At the end of the hall, Sophia gripped the grating covering the access way to the bowels of the complex and pulled it open. She hurried inside and pulled the grating closed behind her.

Hunched over, Sophia ran along the cramped tunnel to one of the ladders that connected the levels. She climbed down as fast as she could, but knew she'd gone no faster than the elevator. At the bottom, she jumped off the ladder and ran, the pounding of the generators beneath her feet tickling her ears. She reached the access panel to the lab, kicked it open, and crawled out.

She ran to the door, pulling out her access card as she went. She could hear footsteps on the other side, but it was impossible to tell how close they were. Sophia collided with the door and ran her card upside-­down through the slot twice in rapid succession. The light above the reader blinked red. She continued running the wrong side of her card through the slot reader. After the fifth pass, the panel emitted a long beep and the light turned solid red. She'd forced the electronics to lock down the mechanism. It would be an hour before the reader would accept a valid card again, though she doubted Lara would wait that long. Sophia looked at her watch as she ran to her computer. She figured she had about ten minutes before Lara had the guards break the door down.

She dug through a drawer filled with miscellaneous junk, finally finding the little USB hard drive. She plugged it into her computer and started to copy the data. She had to save Natalie, but there was no way she was leaving without the research.

As she watched the progress bar on the computer screen slowly crawl toward one hundred percent, she heard someone trying to use a security card on the lab door. After several tries, someone banged on the door and cursed. When the door went quiet, Sophia checked her watch again.

While the data transferred to her drive, Sophia ran to the refrigerator and took all the remaining serum and baselines over to the sink. It was probably futile, but if she failed to save Natalie, she thought it would at least be harder for an unmedicated Nathan to execute his plan. She put one vial of the serum into a bag she grabbed from her office and dumped the rest into the sink. When it began taking too long, she just smashed the glass and ran the water, flushing her work down the drain.

The data transfer was barely at fifty percent.

She stood running her hands through her hair. What was she forgetting? Nothing could be left behind for them to reconstitute her serum. She saw her shelf of logbooks. There was no time to shred them all and she couldn't carry them.

She pulled a large garbage receptacle over by the exhaust fan and then ran to the shelf, pulling down all her notes. She dumped them all in and poured in a bottle of sulphuric acid. The books smoked for a minute before bursting into flames. Most of the toxic smoke went out the vent, but some of it leaked into the lab. Sophia coughed and covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve.

The computer beeped that the data transfer was complete. Sophia grabbed the USB drive and put it in her jeans pocket. Then she initiated the wipe command—­a security protocol that would wipe the hard drives of their data and prevent their recovery by all but the most dedicated computer forensic team.

Suddenly a bell sounded and the sprinklers in the ceiling burst to life, showering everything in the lab with a combination of water and fire retardant foam. Sophia grabbed her bag and slipped the eyes Thomas had brought for her to test into it, along with a few personal items. This wasn't how she'd wanted to leave her life in the lab, but there was no time for melancholy. She wiped water and foam from her face. Darting to the back of the lab, slipping and almost falling, she unlocked all her animals' cages. Everyone went free today.

Stepping carefully over the fleeing animals, she hurried back across the lab and into the access panel. It wouldn't shut properly, so she just pulled it closed as best she could. She'd kicked it open a million times as a child, but her mature leg muscles had damaged it in her rush.

Out of the foamy rain, Sophia took off her lab coat and used it as a towel, wiping the water and foam off her face and body. Then she headed back down the tunnels to the ladder and headed up to level three.

The alarm was still sounding when she crawled over to the welded vent that led to Natalie's cushy prison cell. She peered in and saw that though Natalie could hear the alarm, it just seemed to be an annoyance to her rather than a danger.

Tough kid.

Sophia took the small vial of sulphuric acid out of her bag and carefully poured it along the vent's welded seam. As the acid drew the moisture out of the metal, slight toxic smoke rose into the air. She stepped back so she wouldn't inhale the poison. When she gave the vent a kick, the remaining seam cracked and the cover sprang free. She slipped inside, the screeching alarm hiding her entrance from both the guard outside the door and Natalie.

Sophia eased up behind her and put her hand over Natalie's mouth so she wouldn't scream. The girl looked up with wide, confused eyes.

“Relax, honey. I'm a friend of your dad's,” Sophia said. “I'm going to take my hand away. Okay?”

Natalie nodded, her wide eyes narrowed as she evaluated this stranger's story.

“How do you know my dad?” Natalie asked.

“He helped me with a recent . . . problem. So I'm returning the favor. How'd you like to get out of here?” Sophia said, unsure of what exactly she would do if Natalie said no. It didn't matter. Natalie smiled and nodded.

They gathered up Natalie's drawings, put them in her knapsack, and then slipped through the vent into the noisy tunnel. Sophia closed the vent cover, which unlike the one in the lab, married up well with the severed seam. She turned around and took Natalie's hand, leading her deep into the complex's innards, to a place Sophia had never shared with anyone.