Replica (4 page)

Carlson's eyes froze suddenly as he gazed back toward the entrance. Walking through the oversized door was a procession of men in full Arab dress, escorting the most elegant man Carlson had ever seen.

M
USEUM CURATOR
C
OLIN
E
LKSTROM WAS
a mere gnome of a man, pale and intense like a lab rat. His thin blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung over narrow shoulders, and his sharp nose was splattered with freckles. Looking at his beady eyes, one couldn't help but think he'd not slept in several days.

An influential anthropologist before taking the helm at Sydney, Elkstrom's reputation for surliness was matched only by his ceaseless dedication to whatever museum projects were currently underway. He projected, if not enthusiasm, a protective intensity many found off-putting.

As Peter Carlson followed the feral-looking curator, he found himself walking through an eerie maze of dark-paneled hallways. The labyrinthine network appeared to have been part of the original museum built in 1936. The floor was gray marble tile with darker marble inlays in the shapes of various animals.

"Dr. Carlson," Elkstrom finally spoke, as he briskly guided Carlson to some unknown destination, "Let me be frank with you, right off the bat." His tone was anything but amicable. "
You
are here because the board of the museum wants you here. I take my orders from them, even if I disagree with their decisions. Just so there's no misunderstanding, be aware that I do
not
share the board's enthusiasm for this endeavor. Or for your inclusion, for that matter."

Carlson could only stare.
I traveled seventeen hours on a plane for this kind of welcome. This guy was no Martha Stewart.

Carlson fired back. "With all due respect, I can't take the opinion of a
caretaker,"
he watched Elkstrom's jaw tighten at that word, "too seriously. After all, I have not signed on for anything. I understood this trip was to explore the possibilities."

"Very well," Elkstrom said through clenched teeth, "Allow me to spell it out for you."

"No need. I think you've already got the jump on that."

Carlson's smart remark seemed to jolt Elkstrom. He slowed his stride for a moment, his dark eyes drilling into Carlson. Then, like a viper uncoiling, he flicked his tongue over his top lip, wheeled around and strode faster, his narrow rodent head leading the way.

"Understand," Elkstrom began, having regained his starch, "there was a time when I was all for the cloning of the Thylacine. I thought it would be the most brilliant thing ever done. I'm sure you are aware of the attempt by Dr. Whiting and his staff a few years ago. It should have been the museum's hour in the sun, but it turned out to be more like being caught in an eclipse. My staff and I endured a great deal of criticism after that fiasco. Animal rights groups had a field day. The museum almost went broke. We threw all our financial support, as well as our reputation, behind it and our reward? It nearly destroyed us. And as for Dr. Whiting, well... I'm sure you know what happened to him."

Carlson nodded. "Yes, unfortunately I do." He was familiar with the museum's doomed effort to bring the Tasmanian tiger back from extinction. It began in 1999 when the museum's main scientist, Dr. Alan Whiting, extracted DNA from an ethanol-preserved female pup in its collection. A year later, they extracted further DNA from two other preserved pups; the tissue source was bone, tooth, bone marrow, and dried muscle. Dr. Whiting announced that the preserved female pup's DNA gave the scientists the Tasmanian tiger's X chromosome and the other male samples produced the male Y chromosome.

Then in 2002, Whiting announced a breakthrough in his efforts to clone the Tasmanian tiger, saying they had replicated some of the genes using a process called polymerase chain reaction, or PCR. The PCR's showed short fragments of undamaged Tasmanian tiger DNA, and there was no reason these couldn't work in a living cell. The next stage was to make large quantity copies of all the genes of the tiger so they could be used to construct synthetic chromosomes. Whiting said he hoped to clone a Tasmanian tiger in 10 years, provided they were successful in constructing sufficient quantities of all the genes of the tiger and sequencing sections of the genome, thus creating a genetic library of Tasmanian tiger DNA.

Unfortunately, hope and reality rarely occupy the same space. In February 2005, they announced the sad news; the project to resurrect the Tasmanian tiger was to be suspended indefinitely. After five years trying to extract DNA from preserved Tasmanian tigers in an effort to bring the lost creature back to life, the Australian Museum abandoned the ambitious project, announcing its supply of Tasmanian tiger DNA had become too degraded. In truth, the museum lacked the skills, facilities and finances to continue the project.

Six months later, Whiting killed himself.

"At any rate," Elkstrom continued, "we now find ourselves in a similar situation. This time we are forced into it because of the financial backing behind it."

"That would seem to eliminate the risk for you," Carlson said.

"It eliminates the
financial
risk. We still have our considerable reputation on the line. And, lest you think me blinded by loyalty to the Museum, there is even more at stake. If the cloning fails and we waste that Thylacine fetus in the process, we will have lost one of the greatest exhibits in history.
That fetal Thylacine is the last one of its kind in the world, period."

A
HALF HOUR LATER
, P
ETER
C
ARLSON
sat at a huge bamboo conference table staring at the image on the screen as Colin Elkstrom tore open a manila envelope and passed some documents around. Seated across from Carlson were the Prince of Dunali and his assistants. Introductions were informal and the Prince was smiling at Carlson in a friendly way. But there was nothing in his smile that suggested pleasure.

"I'm glad we finally get to meet, Dr. Carlson."

"The pleasure is mine, Your Highness."

"No need for formalities. Please, call me Habib."

Carlson relaxed a little. He was surprised that the Prince had virtually no middle-eastern accent. He spoke more like a mid-westerner. Carlson attributed this to the Prince's education at the University of Michigan, before going on to Oxford. The Prince was obviously well refined. Everything about him said
money.
"Fine, Habib it is."

"Good." The prince shot the cuffs of his jacket, nearly blinding Carlson with the brilliant ruby cufflinks he wore. "Now, shall we get down to business? Mr. Elkstrom, if you please."

Elkstrom frowned, and then dimmed the lights. The screen came to life with the first image being one Carlson knew well: The 1933 black and white photo from the Brooklyn Zoo of the last living Tasmanian tiger in captivity.

Carlson waited, saying nothing.

The Prince stood. "Dr. Carlson, I am by no means a scientist nor do I possess any skills in your field whatsoever. What I do have is a team of the world's finest genetic engineers and what I feel is the ultimate genetic cloning facility. I've spared no expense." Prince Habib looked at Carlson. "Here, you'll see what I mean."

The Prince nodded and a new image appeared on the screen. This time it was a picture of a huge modern facility bristling with high tech equipment.

"This is GenSys. Dr. Carlson. The facility is already up and running. Suffice to say the late Dr. Whiting, as we later found out, was much further along than he acknowledged. Something so fantastic that virtually overnight, he accomplished... and surpassed... what others had taken years to achieve."

"And what was that?" Carlson asked.

The screen flickered once more and this time an image appeared on the screen that caused Carlson to gasp. For a moment, the room was quiet. Carlson sat motionless, struggling to absorb what he had just seen, as the implications of it worked its way through his psyche.

"Take a moment," Prince Habib said calmly. "I realize it must be a hard thing for your mind to accept."

Carlson didn't speak. He could only stare at the screen.

That's not possible!

I
N THE HAZY MORNING LIGHT
, the helicopter skimmed low along the coast, following the line where the dense jungle met the beach. The last of the secluded tourist huts had passed beneath them ten minutes ago. Now there was just lush jungle, rocky cliffs, and miles of deserted beach. Sitting in the rear jump seat, Peter Carlson stared out the window as the coastline swept past. He noted to himself that he saw no roads, no buildings, nothing that said
inhabited.
Leaning forward in his seat, he asked, "How much longer?"

"A couple minutes."

Prince Habib was seated next to the pilot. He turned to Carlson. "It's just beyond those rocks," he said, pointing to a large cairn to their right.

"Where exactly are we? I mean geographically speaking."

The Prince made a gesture pointing at his ear, then in the direction of the rotors overhead. "You have to speak up," he said loudly.

Peter repeated his question, louder this time.

The Prince answered, "The island is called Poguba. It lies about three hundred kilometers southeast of Indonesia. I own it. I purchased it several years ago intending to make a resort out of it. But then, well, you know... things changed."

Carlson nodded. "I don't see any roads. How do you get around?"

"You don't. It's strictly chopper in and chopper out. Believe me, Dr. Carlson, you wouldn't want to be out in this jungle. There are mosquitoes here big enough to fly in supplies with. And that's the least of it."

"So the island's totally deserted?"

"Except for the occasional unlucky poacher or yachtsman who decides to beach their boat for a look around the island."

"You said,
unlucky?"

"Last year, a couple anchored their boat a few meters offshore and swam in. What was left of them was discovered on the beach a few weeks later. One of our pilots reported it to the Indonesian authorities, who came out and recovered the bodies, such as they were. Tragic."

Carlson leaned forward. He was almost at Habib's elbow. "What happened to them?"

"The authorities believe a jaguar got them. There are quite a few on this island."

"What about the facility? Have there been any problems there?'

Habib smiled at his companion's naivete. "Don't worry, Dr. Carlson, GenSys is better protected than Ft. Knox, and--"

"Excuse me, your highness," the pilot said, "GenSys is just ahead."

"Go around once, if you please."

Carlson gazed out the window at the jungle below. They were flying over a row of cliffs that extended miles beyond the jungle. The helicopter banked and circled the perimeter of the rocks.

"There it is now," Habib said, pointing out the window.

Peter Carlson pressed his nose against the window, his mouth agape.

Unbelievable!

I
T LOOKED LIKE A GIANT
horseshoe. But as the helicopter drew closer and the outline sharpened against the dense jungle, this resemblance gave way to a bastion of steel and glass that, from a higher altitude, could have been mistaken for a UFO. Despite Carlson's initial excitement at being part of something as monumental as this, his intellect told him to exercise caution. For one thing, he didn't like isolation. And this was
total isolation.

It stuck Carlson that the haze of the day seemed to dissipate over the facility. In fact, Carlson had to squint against the bright sun radiating down on all sides.

Carlson rubbed his neck. He was tired, disoriented from all the hours of mind-numbing air travel.
First, a jet; now, a helicopter.
Only the adrenaline rush of the last forty-eight hours had got him this far. Still, the extreme fatigue hadn't blunted his foreboding.

It wasn't so much that GenSys had set up shop in some remote island away from the public's prying eye; that much he understood. First, the timetable they'd established worried the scientist. Then there was the fact that they'd already started the project without him, though the Prince told Carlson personally that he was the key to the entire operation. Add to that the ominous presence of Prince Habib's henchman, always watching, always waiting, and standing by like trained Dobermans. It was a combination that, for all its precision, seemed precarious at best and dangerous at worst. Fortunately, the Prince was planning to depart for Dunali in the next twenty-four hours to be with his son at home. Carlson found the message this trip sent to be almost subliminal.
Hurry up and finish so I can save my son.
After all, that's what this was all for.

At least for Habib.

Carlson thought about the irony of the situation; here was a man of unlimited means, from a country just now creeping out of the Stone Age, whose money and power was due to decomposed prehistoric creatures that time turned into crude oil, leading the charge with the most scientifically advanced laboratory and research facility the world has ever known. And doing it in an area most of the world had no idea even existed.

As the chopper banked sharply around the trees and headed for the landing zone, Carlson watched as the chopper descended, realizing just how extraordinary the complex actually was. The outside structure alone had to be over two hundred yards long, its steel girders covered by a bewildering maze of modular solar panels. Men in yellow uniforms, rifles slung on their shoulders, stood guard at strategic points and watched the chopper approach.

The helicopter slowed as it turned, finally setting down within the orange hexagon of the landing zone. As Carlson reached for his bags, he noticed a cadre of men rushing out from the facility.

More of the Prince's henchmen.

The pilot stepped out and opened the passenger door. Carl-son stepped out, ducking below the still-spinning blades. The air was stifling and Carlson worked hard to suck in a deep breath.