Atlantis Found (38 page)

“It’s said that we all have an identical look-alike wandering somewhere in the world.”

Bell smiled. “God help the guy who looks like me.”

Pitt asked, “So where is this leading?”

“I can’t prove it without months of examination and tests, and I’m going out on a limb with an opinion, but I’m willing to stake my reputation on the possibility that those two young ladies, one living, one dead, were developed and manufactured.”

Pitt looked at him. “You can’t be suggesting androids.”

“No, no.” Bell waved his hands. “Nothing so ridiculous.”

“Cloning?”

“Not at all.”

“Then what?”

“I believe they were genetically engineered.”

“Is that possible?” asked Pitt, unbelieving. “Does the science and technology exist for such an achievement?”

“There are labs full of scientists working on perfecting the human body through genetics, but to my knowledge they’re still in the mice-testing stage. All I can tell you is that if Elsie doesn’t die in the same manner as Heidi, or fall under a truck, or get murdered by a jealous lover, she’ll probably live to celebrate her hundred and twentieth birthday.”

“I’m not at all sure I’d want to live that long,” said Pitt thoughtfully.

“Nor I,” said Bell, laughing. “Certainly not in this old bod.”

“May I see Elsie now?”

Bell rose from his desk chair and motioned for Pitt to follow him out of the office and down the hall. Since entering the clinic, the only two people Pitt had seen were the administrator in the lobby and Dr. Bell. The clinic seemed incredibly clean and sterile and devoid of life.

Bell came to a door with no guard outside, inserted a card into an electronic slot, and pushed it open. A woman was sitting up in a standard hospital bed, staring through a window whose view was interrupted by a heavy screen and a series of bars. This was the first time Pitt had seen Elsie in daylight, and he was awed by the incredible resemblance to her dead cousin. The same mane of blond hair, the same blue-gray eyes. He found it hard to believe they were merely cousins.

“Ms. Wolf,” said Bell, in a cheery voice, “I’ve brought you a visitor.” He looked at Pitt and nodded. “I’ll leave you two alone. Try not to take too long.”

There was no warning to Pitt about communicating with the doctor in case of a problem, and though he didn’t see any TV cameras, Pitt knew without a doubt that their every movement and word was being monitored and recorded.

He pulled up a chair beside her bed and sat down, saying nothing for nearly a minute, staring into the eyes that seemed to peer through his head at a lithograph of the Grand Canyon hanging on the wall beyond. At last, he said, “My name is Dirk Pitt. I don’t know if the name means anything to you, but it seemed to register with the commander of the U-2015 when we communicated with each other on an ice floe.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but she remained silent. “I dove on the wreckage,” Pitt continued, “and retrieved the body of your cousin, Heidi. Would you like me to arrange for her to be transported to Karl in Buenos Aires for proper burial in the Wolf private cemetery?”

Pitt was treading a narrow path, but he assumed that the Wolfs had a private cemetery.

This time he scored points. Her eyes went reflective as she tried to cut through his words. Finally, her lips pressed together with obvious anger, she began to tremble and move. “You!” she spat. “You are the one responsible for the deaths of our people in Colorado.”

“Dr. Bell was wrong. You
do
have a tongue.”

“You were also there when our submarine was sunk?” she asked, as if confused.

“I plead self-defense for my action in Colorado. And yes, I was on the
Polar Storm
when your sub went down, but I was not responsible for the incident. Blame the U.S. Navy if you must. If not for their timely intervention, your cousin and her bloody band of pirates would have sunk a harmless ocean research ship and killed more than a hundred innocent crewmen and scientists. Don’t ask me to shed tears for Heidi. As far as I’m concerned, she and her crew got what they deserved.”

“What have you done with her body?” she demanded.

“It’s here in the clinic’s morgue,” he answered. “I’m told the two of you could have grown from the same pod.”

“We are genetically unblemished,” Elsie said arrogantly. “Unlike the rest of the human race.”

“How did that come about?”

“It took three generations of selection and experimentation. My generation has physically perfect bodies and the mental capacity of geniuses. We are also exceedingly creative in the arts.”

“Really?” Pitt said sarcastically. “And all this time I thought inbreeding generated imbeciles.”

Elsie stared at Pitt for a long moment, then smiled coldly. “Your insults are meaningless. In a short time, you and all the other flawed individuals who walk the earth will be dead.”

Pitt studied her eyes for a reaction. When he replied, it was with detached indifference. “Ah yes, the twin of the comet that destroyed the Amenes nine thousand years ago returns, strikes the earth, and decimates the human race. I already know all about that.”

He almost missed it, but it was there. A brief glint in the eyes of elation mixed with rapture. The pure sense of evil about her seemed so concentrated he could reach out and touch it. It disturbed him. He felt as though she was keeping a secret far more menacing than any he could remotely conceive.

“How long did it take your experts to decipher the inscriptions?” she asked casually.

“Five or six days.”

Her face grew smug. “Our people did it in three.”

He was certain she was lying, so he continued to fence with her. “Is the Wolf family planning any festivities to celebrate the coming of doomsday?”

Elsie shook her head slowly. “We have no time for foolish revelry. Our labors have been spent in survival.”

“Do you really think a comet will strike in the next few weeks?”

“The Amenes were very precise in their astronomical and celestial charts.” There was a flick of the eyes from his face to the floor and a lack of conviction in her voice that made Pitt doubt her.

“So I’ve been told.”

“We have . . . connections with some of the finest astronomers in Europe and the United States, who verified the Amenes’ projections. All agreed that the comet’s return was plotted and timed with amazing accuracy.”

“So your family of uncharitable clones kept the news to themselves rather than warn the world,” Pitt said nastily. “And your
connections
kept the astronomers from talking. Benevolence must not be in the Wolf dictionary.”

“Why cause a worldwide panic?” she said carelessly. “What good would it do in the end? Better to let the people die unknowing and without mental anguish.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Life is for those who are the fittest, and those who plan.”

“And the magnificent Wolfs? What’s to keep you from being killed along with the rest of the foul-smelling rabble?”

“We have been planning our survival for over fifty years,” she said decisively. “My family will not be swept away by floods or burned by raging fires. We are prepared to weather the catastrophe and endure the aftermath.”

“Fifty years,” Pitt repeated. “Is that when you found a chamber with the Amenes inscriptions telling of their near extinction after the comet’s impact?”

“Yes,” she answered simply.

“How many chambers are there in total?”

“The Amenes told of six.”

“How many did your family find?”

“One.”

“And we found two. That leaves three that remain undiscovered.”

“One was lost in Hawaii after a volcano spewed tons of lava into it, effectively destroying it. Another disappeared forever during a great earthquake in Tibet during A.D. 800. Only one remains unfound. It’s supposed to lie somewhere on the slopes of Mount Lascar in Chile.”

“If it remains unfound,” said Pitt carefully, “why did you murder a group of college students who were exploring a cave on the mountain?”

She glared at him, but refused to answer.

“Okay, let me ask you the location of the Amenes chamber your family discovered?” he pressed her.

She gazed at him almost as if he were a lost soul. “The earliest inscriptions we found of the Amenes are inside a temple that stands amid the ruins of what once was one of their port cities. You need not ask more, Mr. Pitt. I have said all I’m going to say, except that I suggest you bid farewell to your friends and loved ones. Because very soon now, what is left of your torn and shattered bodies will be floating in a sea that never existed before.”

That said, Elsie Wolf closed her eyes and shut herself off from Pitt and the world around her as effectively as if she had entered a deep freeze.

28

BY THE TIME PITT left the clinic it was late in the afternoon, and he decided to head for his hangar rather than return to the NUMA building. He was moving slowly through the rush-hour traffic that crawled over the Rocheambeau Bridge before finally exiting onto the Washington Memorial Parkway. He was just approaching the gate at the airport maintenance road leading to his hangar when the Globalstar phone signaled an incoming call.

“Hello.”

“Hi, lover,” came the sultry voice of Congresswoman Loren Smith.

“I’m always happy to hear from my favorite government representative.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I thought I’d whip up a smoked salmon omelet, take a shower, and watch TV,” Pitt answered, as the guard waved him through, staring at the ’36 Ford with envy in his eyes.

“Bachelors lead dull lives,” she said teasingly.

“I gave up barhopping when I turned twenty-one.”

“Sure you did.” She paused to answer a question from one of her aides. “Sorry about that. A constituent called to complain about potholes in the road in front of his house.”

“Congresswomen lead dull lives,” he retorted.

“Just for being testy, you’re taking me to dinner at St. Cyr’s.”

“You have good taste,” said Pitt. “That will set me back a month’s wages. What’s the occasion?”

“I have a rather thick report on Destiny Enterprises sitting on my desk and it’s going to cost you big-time.”

“Did anybody ever tell you, you’re in the wrong business?”

“I’ve sold my soul to pass legislation more times than any hooker has sold her body to clients.”

Pitt pulled to a stop at a large hangar entry door and pressed a code into a remote transmitter. “I hope you have reservations. St. Cyr’s isn’t known for taking commoners off the street.”

“I did a favor for the chef once. Trust me, we’ll have the best table in the house. Pick me up in front of my place at seven-thirty.”

“Can you get me a discount on the wine?”

“You’re cute,” said Loren softly. “Goodbye.”

 
PITT wasn’t in the mood to wear a tie to a fancy restaurant. As he pulled the Ford up in front of Loren’s town house in Alexandria, he was wearing gray slacks, a dark blue sport coat, and a saffron-colored turtleneck sweater. Loren spotted him and the car from her fourth-story balcony, waved, and came down. Chic and glamorous, she wore a charcoal lace-and-beadwork cardigan with palazzo pants pleated in the front under a black, knee-length imitation fur coat. She carried a briefcase whose charcoal leather matched her outfit. She’d seen from the balcony that Pitt had put the top up on the Ford, and so, since she did not have to worry about windblown hair, she didn’t bother to wear a hat.

Pitt stood on the sidewalk and opened the door for her. “Nice to see there are still a few gentlemen left,” she said, with a flirty smile.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I come from the old school.”

The restaurant was only two miles away, just across the Capitol Beltway into Fairfax County, Virginia. The valet parking attendant’s face lit up like a candle inside a Halloween pumpkin when he spotted the hot rod roll up in front of the elegant restaurant. The mellow tone from the exhaust pipes sent quivers up his spine.

He handed Pitt a claim check, but before he drove away, Pitt leaned in and scanned the odometer. “Something wrong, sir?” asked the parking attendant.

“Just reading the mileage,” replied Pitt, giving the young man a knowing look.

His dream of taking the hot rod out for a spin while its owner was inside having dinner now suddenly dashed, the attendant drove the car slowly into the lot and parked it next to a Bentley.

St. Cyr’s was an intimate dining experience. Established in an eighteenth-century colonial brick house, the owner-chef had come to Washington by way of Cannes and Paris after having been discovered by a pair of wealthy Washington developers with palates for fine food and wine. They’d bankrolled the restaurant, giving the chef a half interest. The dining room was decorated in deep blues and golds, with Moroccan-style decor and furniture. There were no more than twelve tables served by six waiters and four busboys. What Pitt especially enjoyed about St. Cyr’s was the acoustics. With heavy curtains and miles of fabric on the walls, all sounds of conversation were cut to a bare minimum, unlike most restaurants, in which you couldn’t hear what the person across the table was saying and the din literally ruined any enjoyment of a gourmet meal.

After being seated at a table in a small private alcove off the main dining room by the maître d’, Pitt asked Loren, “Wine or champagne?”

“Why ask?” she said. “You know a good Cabernet puts me in a vulnerable mood.”

Pitt ordered a bottle of Martin Ray Cabernet Sauvignon from the wine steward and settled comfortably into the leather chair. “While we’re waiting to order, why don’t you tell me what you’ve found on Destiny Enterprises?”

Loren smiled. “I should make you feed me first.”

“Another politician on the take,” he said satirically.