Replica (12 page)

At that moment, Habib's assistant Jimi came rushing into the room, his face white. "Your Highness. It is the phone for you. This is the call you've been waiting for."

A
S THE HAMMERED
-
SILVER MOON
hung above the dark rocky hills, Tracy Mills clambered along the slippery outcropping of the falls and raced along the tree line, looking for a way into the jungle before any monstrous pursuers caught her. She quickly arrived at a gap in the foliage the size of a small car, where she turned and sprinted down a dark path, into the gloom beneath the trees.

She heard nothing behind her and did not waste any time squinting back into the darkness. But she suspected that her predators would be silent stalkers, revealing themselves only when they pounced.

The coastal woodlands were comprised mostly of blue gum and eucalyptus, their leaves so dark now that they looked like bits of funeral shrouds. Tracy followed the winding trail as it began to slope into a canyon. The trees were so tall and thick in places, the partial moon's glow only penetrated enough to lay a scalpel of light upon the path.

Even where moonlight revealed the way, Tracy proceeded with caution fearing the surface roots on the jungle floor, which spread across the animal-trodden path, would trip her. Every few feet, low-hanging branches presented another danger to her, but she kept one arm up and hurried along.

Soon, she would reach the bottom of the slope where she could either turn back toward the sea or head deeper into the jungle where her prospects might be bleak.

Frantically wondering which way to go, she descended the last fifty feet. The trees flanking the trail gave way to an impenetrable tangle of low-lying thorns, called African Box. A few immense ferns, ideally suited to the frequent rains, overgrew the path and Tracy pushed through them, the nettles like small hands grabbing at her.

A shallow stream cut a course through the bottom of the canyon, and she paused beside it to catch her breath.

The night was soundless.

Hugging herself, she realized how cold she was. In jeans and a tank top, she was adequately dressed for a sunny spring day on the beach, but not for the cold, damp air of a jungle night.

Spurred by cold and fear, Tracy stepped off the stream bank and onto a bank of loamy soil eroded from the heavy rain a day earlier. She tried to jump across the narrow stream, but landed a few inches short, soaking her tennis shoes. Nevertheless, she fought through more mud up a steep embankment, and then turned east toward the next arm of dense forest. She could tell east by the position of the moon and from that, she could stay on a course that would take her further up the coast to where the lab was supposed to be.

Yeah, she thought. Good luck.

She would have a hard time getting anyone to believe her story. She had no illusions about that. They would tell her she was just being paranoid and that what she'd heard was little more than a lynx or a cougar, common to the jungles of Tasmania.

But she had to try. Someone would believe her.
Someone had to!

Behind her, a couple hundred yards away from the slope she had just descended, something shrieked. It was not entirely an animal cry, but it wasn't human either. More screams followed, each one unique in its tone and pitch, answering the first shrill call.

I thought that doctor said I'd be safe on this side.

Tracy halted on the steep trail, one foot firmly planted against a small boulder. She looked back as her pursuers simultaneously began to wail, reminiscent of a pack of wolves, yet far more frightening. The sound was so bloodcurdling it penetrated her flesh like a needle to her marrow.

"What are you?"
she whispered. She suspected they could see as well as cats in the dark. Could they smell her as well, like dogs can?

Her heart began to slam painfully in her breast.

Tracy Mills turned and clambered up the steep embankment and into the dense forest. She heard the wailing grow louder behind her, but she dare not look back. There was only one way to go.

Forward.

P
ETER
C
ARLSON
'
S MIND WAS IN
overdrive. As he stood in the lab, these sophisticated machines were a stark reminder that not all that glitters is gold.

Carlson stepped over to his desk and gazed down at the latest genetic mapping of the Thylacine fetus. The short arm of chromosome 12 was not consistent with the original gene map. There were still thousands of base pairs that didn't match up.
It could only mean one thing.

At that moment, Ellen Choy entered the lab.

"They changed the DNA," she said.

"How do you know?" Carlson asked, having already suspected as much.

Ellen held up a sheaf of papers, "Because I stole his notes."

Carlson looked at the stolen documents. "He sold out. He wasn't even trying to grow an adult. He just needed stem cells." He read further. "
Gem/BioTech!
"

Ellen nodded.

"That explains a lot," Peter said. Like why they never answered his inquiries; that was where the foremost researcher he tried to contact was from.

Obviously, Tibek was in Gem/BioTech's pocket.
Deep
in their pocket. The conclusion was undeniable.
Theft.

Carlson sat at the counter and swung the lamp closer. The first file he opened contained a mixture of photocopies and lined yellow pages filled with Michael Whiting's long flowing script. The pages that had been copied represented studies, or portions thereof, that had been used repeatedly, perhaps with all the surrogates Whiting had used in his studies. Peter was already familiar with most of the scientific procedures Whiting had used, having read everything published on the subject.

The rest of the papers were from Tibek himself and contained everything from articles from
Scientific American
to personal finance records and handwritten formulas. One article did stand out and apparently had captured Tibek's interest as well. Splashes of yellow highlighter dotted the article throughout. A German biotech firm had gentically manipulated cat DNA to incorporate material "friendly" to humans, creating transgenic stem cells that tricked the immune system of the human recipient. Then they took those cells, placed them back in the host with human growth hormone, repeating the process again to
'tweak the stem cells into unprecedented growth'
. In pencil at the bottom of the page, Tibek had theorized:
injection of Thylacine cells into host system: same effect?
A later notation declared:
Additional samples are necessary. Mutations occurred.

Finally, the journal articles ended and the subsequent pages were more notes about various sequencing protocols.

Peter turned to Ellen, whose head was resting in her hands. "Well, I'd say you have your proof."

Ellen looked up and nodded. "There's more. I found mention of Ron Powers in those notes."

Peter gave her a bewildered look before tearing through the papers again. "Are you sure? I didn't see that. Ron Powers, the CEO of GenSys."

"Yes. I think Tibek set him up." She walked over to Carlson and flipped through the papers, finding the one she was looking for. "There," she said pointing a shaky finger at Powers name on the document.

Peter furrowed a brow. "They are both involved."

"This whole thing is a lie, Peter."

Unfortunately, it was too late now.

R
ON
P
OWERS WAITED FOR THE
sun to break through the morning mist each day before taking his breakfast out on the veranda. The afternoon brought eighty-degree weather and warm penetrating rays to deepen his already near-perfect tan. But mornings could be downright chilly.

He had to admit, his self-imposed exile hadn't been entirely unpleasant. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to withdraw a large amount of cash from the bank--an account his wife knew nothing of--before leaving California. But his stay at San Lupos had been costly. His European-style hotel located on the rocky cliffs cost him upwards of eight hundred dollars a day. But he had no regrets as he sat watching the Caribbean Sea hurl its powerful waves against the rocky shoreline below. In fact, the time he'd spent there had served him well. It had allowed him to think about his situation.

As the last remnants of coastal haze gave way to another idyllic morning, the telephone by his bed rang. No one had this number, no one knew he was here. He debated not answering but it kept ringing. Finally he rose from his Spanish omelet and walked inside, grabbing the receiver. He expected it to be the front desk, but when he heard the caller's voice, he knew it wasn't.

"Hello, Mr. Powers?"

"Yes. Who the fuck is this?'

"Just a minute, please."

Powers took a slow sip of his vanilla latte he'd ordered with his breakfast, and then waited. Someone was going to have some explaining to do.
This was a private suite, godammit!

A few seconds later a familiar voice came on the line.

Powers felt his body flush. "Your Highness. This
is
a surprise." Powers sat slowly on the side of the bed.

"A pleasant one, I hope."

"Of course. It's always good to hear from you." He couldn't help but look around, though he knew there was
no way
the Prince knew where he was. Except the Prince had called him
here
. Not on his cell phone, on the hotel line. A bead of sweat appeared at his hairline.

"I trust our arrangement is still intact."

"Yes. I was just about to call you." He modulated his voice to show no alarm.

"Great. In that case, we can do our business in Dunali. I am sending a plane for you."

"A plane? When? I mean... this is a bit of a surprise."

"Don't worry, I won't keep you long. I'll have you back in a day or so. I have some of my venture capitol friends coming in. I'd like you to be there. I have arranged a car to pick you up, at your hotel there in San Lupos."

Powers shit a brick. "When will that be?"

"They should be there within the hour."

"Very good. I'll see you soon," he said with fake enthusiasm.

Ron Powers was frightened.
Scared shitless.
Without a completed formula to give the Prince, he would lose any hope of getting the sixty million. But he had a way around that. In truth, he knew all the Prince wanted was proof that the clone embryo was genuine. That would be something he could verify through Frank Tibek.
Time for Tibek to earn his cut.

However, an hour later, with the Prince's car arriving any minute, Ron Powers hadn't any luck contacting Frank Tibek.

Powers slammed the phone down and walked to the window. A black Mercedes sedan rolled to a stop in front of the lobby entrance. Two dark-suited men climbed out and entered the hotel.

A minute later, he heard a rap on door.

I
NSIDE HIS OFFICE
, F
RANK
T
IBEK
bent down in front of a cabinet at the bottom of his bookcase. He unlocked the thick door and reached in to grasp the heavy TSA data books that he'd written in code.

What!

His hand met empty space.

Tibek slammed the cabinet and carefully locked it, even though there was no longer anything to protect.

"Calm down," he told himself, trying to stem a rising tide of paranoia. "You're letting your imagination run away with itself. There has to be an explanation. Think this through."

With a wave of apprehension, Tibek went to his desk to logon to his laptop. At first, he couldn't believe his eyes. The spot that always occupied his computer was empty.
"What the hell?"

Telling himself to remain composed and think logically, he had a sudden realization. This was no imagination going wild, no mistake, no simple case of misplaced materials. Someone had
stolen
his data and was now going to use it against him.

And he knew who that someone was.

Tibek would fix Carlson once and for all. And he would do it himself.

Well, almost by himself.

S
HARING HER TRAIL WITH IMAGINARY
spiders, snakes, beetles, rats, bats, monsters and the ghostly image of Roger Sippolt, Tracy continued to run down the trail toward a distant light. Suddenly without warning, the ground gave way beneath her.

Flight or Fight.

All logic and reason had evaporated from Tracy Mills' mind. She held no thoughts of the plane crash, the mysterious lab, Jack, the victims, the horrific attack of the others. There was one matter at hand.

Survival.

The ground skimmed by in a blur beneath her like a sleek endless highway. Whether her body was numb with fear or numb from injury, Tracy didn't know, but she didn't feel any pain.

Sliding on her side, Tracy was stretched out, her arms above her, hands clawing at the wet ground as she continued to accelerate down the canyon.

Suddenly, the ground beneath her was no longer soft. She realized to her horror that she sliding toward the sandstone cliff she'd seen from above.

She had arrived.

The waterfall!

The wall of water loomed for only an instant before she was in it. The blow to Tracy's chest when she hit the base drove the wind from her lungs and rang the bells in her head.

The dark pool felt like a charged chemical vat.

Tracy's body shuddered. Cold water streamed over her shoes and numbed her legs. Like a diver tied to a cinder block, Tracy felt herself being dragged down to the bottom of the falls. She struggled back to the surface for an instant. As if to give rise to Tracy's own dumbstruck terror, the high-pitched scream of a wild animal cut through the air.

Then the falls pulled her under again.

T
HE AWFUL SMELL HIT HIM
like a baseball bat and Frank Tibek had to stifle his gag reflex. The big room was in semidarkness, illuminated only by a few dim ceiling lights. Tibek tried to be quiet, but his entry alerted the occupants, whose burning red eyes tracked his every move. Tibek felt like a menu item at a buffett.