The Rise and Fall of Khan Noonien Singh, Volume One (15 page)

“Nothing personal,” Takagi added hastily. “Our friend Carlos is just very conscientious when it comes to security.” He shrugged sheepishly, then made a painfully obvious attempt to change the subject. “Did you know that Carlos is literally one-of-a-kind? He was the subject of one of our very first attempts at adult transgenic therapy. DNA from the African mountain gorilla was spliced into his chromosomal sequence, causing increased muscular and a skeletal development. Really! Believe it or not, he used to be my size, back when we first sprung him from some awful Cuban prison.”

Ohmigosh,
Roberta thought in amazement.
The big bruiser really is part gorilla!
She had to resist a sudden temptation to peek over the back of her seat to take a closer look.
I
knew it! So what does that make him anyway?
A Homo simian?

“Unfortunately,” Takagi confessed, a note of regret slipping into his voice, “on the whole, the experiment was not a tremendous success. Of the fifty initial subjects, all rescued from life sentences in prisons throughout the world, only Carlos survived the entire procedure, and he ended up sterile, pretty much killing any chance of passing on his newly acquired characteristics that way.”

Carlos growled warningly from the backseat, suggesting that the tactless Japanese scientist was perhaps treading upon a touchy area. Roberta could see where the ape-man might be sensitive about certain issues. “Still, we’ve made enormous progress since then,” Takagi added.

Such as?
Roberta wanted to press Walter for more details, but she also remembered that Ronnie Neary still hadn’t gotten an answer to her
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original query. “That’s all very fascinating,” she admitted, “but you can’t distract me that easily. All I want to know is where this darn plane is flying to?”

Takagi’s lips parted encouragingly, but, before he could speak up, an older, Ukrainian-accented voice interrupted from one of the seats in front of Roberta. “My apologies,” Dr. Lozinak said slowly but firmly. “We have indeed asked much of you, but you must grant us this much more. Please believe me, it is much safer for everyone if you do not learn the actual location of our primary facility until we have all arrived safely at our destination.”

“Good,” Carlos growled in agreement, his voice several octaves lower than Lurch on
The Addams Family.
Roberta had noticed the claw marks on the bodyguard’s face when they met at the airport. Evidence, no doubt, of a recent run-in with a certain feisty black feline, and proof, as far as Roberta was concerned, that the surly Missing Link was indeed the culprit who had invaded her hotel room, bugged her phone, and rifled through her things.
Like I wouldn’t notice traces of such obvious snooping!
she thought indignantly
I bet I would have found that bug all on my own, even if Isis hadn’t raised a fuss about the phone the minute I came through the door.
Fortunately, she and Seven hardly needed phones when they could use their servos as communicators—and without paying long-distance fees.

“Sorry,” Takagi said with an apologetic shrug. “But Dr. Lozinak is right.”

Frustrated, Roberta fought down an urge to swear out loud. “What exactly are you afraid of?” she asked, figuring she could probably press the issue a little further without blowing her cover. “That someone’s going to interrogate me as soon as we get off the plane?”

“Perhaps,” Lozinak admitted. She couldn’t see his face from where she was sitting, but she could imagine the sober, slightly rueful expression on the older scientist’s grandfatherly features. “Or we could—what is the English phrase?—lose trace of you somewhere between the airport and our base. Please understand, by informing you prematurely, we would be risking not only ourselves, but also our colleagues at the project, and all we have worked for these many years.” He
[89]
paused, probably to let his careful explanation sink deeper into Dr. Neary’s consciousness. “You see, it is not a decision we can take lightly.”

“Oh,” Roberta said weakly. “I guess when you put it that way—” She let her voice trail off, making a strategic decision to let the matter slide. After all, she reminded herself, she already knew a lot more than any of her fellow passengers realized, including the fact that Seven would be waiting to greet the plane in Delhi.

She felt a stab of envy, directed at her aloof and enigmatic supervisor. Unlike her, Seven wouldn’t need to cool his heels aboard a jet for seven hours just to get to far-off India.
Transporters have definitely spoiled me for air travel,
she realized.
What I wouldn’t give for a cloud of glowing blue smoke right about now!

Isis must have been thinking along the same lines, because she suddenly let out an ear-piercing wail from the confines of her cramped plastic carrier. No surprise; Carlos had earlier insisted that the cat remain locked up for the duration of the flight. Despite the feline’s innumerable snubs and slights, Roberta couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the claustrophobic kitty-cat.

I know how she feels,
the young woman thought. A paperback copy of
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
rested in her lap, its slender spine and meager page count suddenly striking her as grossly insufficient to get her through the tedious journey ahead.
I
should’ve brought something longer,
she realized.

A lot longer.

BALAM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

DELHI, INDIA

MAY 17, 1974

THE METAL DETECTORS
at the entrance to the International Arrivals and Departures terminal were a fairly recent innovation, being a necessary response to the recent global epidemic of skyjackings. Gary Seven handed a blue-clad airport security guard his servo, along with a key ring and a handful of small change, before stepping through the primitive scanning device. Circumstances, it seemed, were going out of their way to remind him of the twentieth century’s penchant for senseless violence.
And these people think they have the wisdom to rewrite their own DNA?
he marveled, incredulous.
They can barely keep the skies free of terrorism and extortion.

More or less indistinguishable from a fountain pen, the servo elicited no suspicions on the part of the security officer, who blithely handed Seven’s personal articles back to him. Tucking them back into the pockets of his gray suit, Seven walked calmly but briskly toward the gate mentioned in Ralph Offenhouse’s files, following signs printed in both Hindi and English. It was a little after four A.M. In theory, the plane would be arriving from Rome in less than half an hour, bearing, among other things, Roberta Lincoln and her newfound associates, not to mention a supply of processed uranium intended for purposes unknown.

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Despite the early hour, the terminal was a typically Indian scene of hubbub and congestion. Milling families bid farewell to departing relatives with variable combinations of tears and jubilation, while those stuck waiting for flights slumped in worn plastic seats, dozing uncomfortably or struggling to stay awake. Irate flyers, perhaps discovering that their flights had been delayed and/or overbooked, argued loudly with airline personnel at the check-in counters in front of several of the gates. Worn-out babies cried incessantly, and a Hindi pop tune blared over the din, showing little consideration for those unlucky travelers hoping to catch a little shut-eye before boarding their planes, and the spicy scent of hot
chai
tea rose from more than one cup or thermos bottle clutched in the grip of a prospective passenger.

For himself, Seven was intensely grateful that he’d been able to bypass a grueling fourteen-hour flight from America, thanks to his matter-transmission vault.
I
could transport from Vulcan to Alpha Centauri,
he marveled,
in a fraction of the time it takes a primitive
747
to fly halfway around this planet.

Unfortunately for the mass of late-night flyers, none of the cafeterias, snack shops, or newsstands had opened for business yet. Weaving his way through the packed terminal, while doing his best to ignore the nerve-fraying crowding and commotion, Seven reached the designated gate within minutes. Since this was strictly a private flight, there were no airline employees in attendance. Rows of seated passengers, most likely waiting for the next scheduled departure from this gate, flanked the unmanned check-in station guarding the closed door that blocked access to the jetway. Peering through wide glass windows, Seven saw that the plane from New York had already landed. A BAX-146 jetliner, he guessed, taxiing toward the terminal. The jet was painted a bright shade of orange, contrasting sharply with the cobalt blue insignia adorning the plane’s tail fin. The stylized logo resembled a butterfly spreading its wings.
Newly hatched from a chrysalis,
he surmised, recalling the name of the mysterious organization Offenhouse fronted for. A chrysalis, of course, was another name for the cocoon in which a caterpillar metamorphosed into a butterfly. An appropriate symbol for an outfit that appeared to
[92]
be dabbling in genengineering, he decided, and not quite so obvious as, say, a double helix.

Seven watched as Roberta, Isis, and their three fellow passengers departed the plane via the jetway. Roberta looked exhausted from the long flight, but otherwise fine. Ditto for Isis, who silently bore the indignity of her claustrophobic pet carrier, currently held aloft by the straining muscles of Roberta’s right arm. Seven was curious to hear what either operative might have learned during the trip from Rome, but now was obviously not the time to debrief them. Perhaps later, if one or both of them managed to slip away from their distinguished escorts long enough to contact him on their private frequency, they could bring each other up to speed on their respective missions. At the moment, his primary goal was to find out more about what Chrysalis
wasn’t
showing Roberta, even if that meant making his own way to their ultimate destination.

Is the peptone being used at the same facility that Roberta and Isis are being transported to,
he wondered,
or is Chrysalis’s presumed biological warfare program being carried on elsewhere in India?
The only way to find out was to stick with Offenhouse’s damning cargo until the end of its travels.

For now, he contented himself to nod discreetly at the two female agents as he briefly made eye contact with them across the crowded waiting area. If nothing else, he wanted them to know that, as planned, he was at large in India and pursuing his own lines of inquiry, which appeared to be dovetailing with Roberta’s undercover operation at a remarkable and encouraging speed. At this rate, he, Roberta, and Isis might well be converging on Chrysalis’s hidden base practically simultaneously Then, unfortunately, the most daunting part of their joint mission would begin.

How far along is Chrysalis in their experiments?
he worried once more.
And what will we find once we’ve finally penetrated their dense layers of intrigue and misdirection?
Dealing with Chrysalis’s creations, he feared, would be infinitely more challenging than uncovering their secrets.

Turning his attention from Roberta and Isis to their companions, Seven recognized Viktor Lozinak right away, despite the lowered brim of the man’s fedora. The missing scientist limped slowly beside his
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fel
low travelers, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. Walter Takagi, whose boyish face matched the photos Roberta had retrieved from the Beta 5’s copious database, helped the older gentleman with his luggage, carrying a suitcase in one hand and a black valise in the other. The third man, who carried the remainder of their bags, was unfamiliar to Seven, although he accepted Roberta’s initial assessment of this large, muscular individual as some variety of professional spy or mercenary. He repressed a knowing smile at the sight of the parallel claw marks streaking the man’s left cheek.
Good girl, Isis,
he thought, assuming she had her reasons.

None of the party, including Roberta, appeared to be carrying any of Ralph Offenhouse’s scientific contraband, which was presumably still residing in the aircraft’s cargo hold.
Very well,
he thought, as Roberta and the others were quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
I’ll follow the merchandise while the women stick with our suspects.
He waited for the plane’s flight crew to depart, then surveyed the layout of the surrounding terminal.
How to get down to the plane?
The jetway was tempting, but probably not stealthy enough. A more roundabout route was called for; fortunately, Seven knew just where to go.

Past experience had taught him that the food service and catering personnel tended to be the weak link in airport security systems. Arriving and departing passengers might be checked out thoroughly, but cooks, bartenders, waitresses, and busboys often had the run of the place, simply because they served a necessary function in keeping impatient flyers happy. Consequently, Seven circled the nearest, conveniently closed cafeteria until he found an inconspicuous rear entrance, then used the servo to let himself in.

Still hours away from opening, the restaurant was empty and cloaked in shadows. Seven weaved past silent booths and tables, taking care not to attract attention from anyone who might be walking by outside. He slipped behind the serving counter, then made his way into the rear storage area, where, as expected, he found an elevator next to a stack of empty tanks of soft drinks. He smiled knowingly.
Going down,
he thought.