Calypso Directive (32 page)

“What do you hope to find?”

“The descendants of plague survivors, of course,” Johansen quipped. “Not just any descendants. No, I'm looking for descendants who might carry in their DNA specific immunity factors or mutations that allowed their ancestors to survive the plague. Mutations that the living descendants would still carry to this day.”

“What do you do when you find descendants?” Will asked.

“We take DNA and blood samples from them . . . with their permission of course. Then we analyze the sample for immunity factors, and we enter the individual's DNA profile into my genealogical database.”

“Like a family tree?”

“Yes, absolutely. Except this is a family tree for DNA. I am proud to say that our lab maintains the world's largest DNA-derived genealogical database focused on epidemiology. We have over half a million entries and counting. Would you like to become a member?”

“When you were talking about adding my results to your research, this is what you were referring to?” Will asked.

“Yes. Except, based on the images you've shown me, I think we'll be doing much more than just plugging your genome into the database. Are you ready to get started?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Very good. Let's start with you telling me about your family history and anything you know about your condition.”

“I am of European descent. English, I think. I am thirty-four years old and an only child. Both my parents have passed away, so I am the only surviving male heir on my father's side of the family. For as long as I can remember, I have never been sick—that is until I started receiving the injections.”

“Explain what you mean when you say you've ‘never been sick'?”

“Just that. From the time I was a kid, I don't remember being sick. My mother used to joke that I repelled germs. My father said that I had my grandpa's famous Foster constitution.”

“Foster? Is that your surname?”

“Yes. Why?”

“That name is familiar to me.”

“Did you know my grandfather?”

“No, I don't think so. I need to check my notes. I have interviewed hundreds of people over the years and made thousands of data entries. You're both young; your minds are still quick. When you get to be my age, you'll find it all begins to blur together. That's why I keep detailed handwritten notes. Then I make the grad students type them into the computer,” Johansen said with a mischievous chuckle.

Julie laughed. “Grad students love grunt work. Don't let their bellyaching fool you.” The professor picked up his office phone and rang his assistant. “Can you please pull any files we have on the surname ‘Foster' from the United Kingdom and bring them to my office please?” He then turned his attention back to Will. “While we wait to see what she finds, let's talk some more about your experience never getting ill.”

“When I was a kid, I never got sick. The other kids caught chicken pox, strep throat, the flu, but not me.”

“Just so I understand, you are saying you have never been ill in your entire life?”

“Not that I can remember, no. Not until they put me in quarantine and started the injections.”

“I don't understand. Who put you in quarantine? What injections?”

“It's a long story. You might want to grab a cup of coffee.”

Johansen leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I have nothing but time. Please, tell me everything.”

“
T
HIS IS IT
, the Ponte woman's apartment,” Raimond Zurn said to Udo.

“Do you want me to kick the door in, brother?” Udo asked, eyes glimmering.

“Battering rams are for barbarians. I am not a barbarian. I'm an artist. Artists are refined, skilled with instruments of their trade,” Raimond quipped, retrieving a lock picking kit from his bag with gloved hands. Thirty seconds later the door was unlocked. “Quiet, elegant, refined.”

Udo snorted with feigned irritation. The truth was that over the years he had come to enjoy his brother's theatrics. Raimond made him laugh. Udo was not a clever man, but being around Raimond made him feel clever by proximity. Besides, Udo knew from experience that the time for barbarism would come soon enough; then he would have his fun.

Raimond pushed the door open to Julie's apartment and stepped across threshold. He stood erect and perfectly still, like a wolf surveying a stretch of tundra just before a caribou hunt. The clamorous sound of a television commercial emanated from the kitchen. Raimond turned to Udo, motioning him to enter the apartment. Udo followed and then quietly shut and locked the apartment door. Raimond nodded approvingly at his brother, and then turned toward the sound. With a quick, deliberate stride he moved toward the kitchen, withdrawing a white handkerchief laced with chloroform from his pocket en route.

A tall slender woman with dark hair stood at the sink counter, her back turned, humming a tune and slicing mushrooms on a cutting board.

Raimond wrapped his left arm around her torso, pinning her arms against her sides. With his right hand, he held the handkerchief over her mouth and nose. She gasped, sucking in air through the chemical-laden cloth. Her body tensed and then fell limp in his arms. The paring knife hit to the floor with a thud. His strike was so efficient she never uttered a sound.

•     •     •

THE WORLD WAS
blurry and bright. Time seemed to be passing in slow motion for Isabella as she struggled to regain consciousness. Her eyelids were heavy, and she very much wanted to go back to sleep, but a voice deep in her mind told her she needed to wake up. She was in danger. From what, or from whom, she could not recall, but the last thing she remembered was being deathly afraid.

“She's waking up,” Udo announced. He walked over to Raimond who had fallen asleep in a chair and gave him a shake.

Adrenaline coursed through Isabella's arteries counteracting the waning effects of the anesthesia. She tried to move her legs; she could not. She struggled to free her arms; the effort was futile. She was securely bound to a chair by duct tape. Her pulse quickened, and she was surprised to hear herself panting as she writhed in the chair.

“You should save your energy,” Raimond said to Isabella, now standing in front of her. “You're going to need it.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Isabella demanded, trying to sound tough.

“It doesn't work that way. I ask you the questions—not the other way around,” he replied, shaking his index finger at her.

“Ja, we ask the questions, fräulein,” Udo added.

“In my experience, everything progresses much more smoothly if I explain all the rules to you before we begin. I don't want any confusion or misunderstanding between us.” Raimond walked around behind Isabella and put his hands on her shoulders. “Quite simply, this is an interrogation. I am the interrogator, and you are the interrogatee. You have information that I need. If you answer all of my questions truthfully, then you will live and this will all be over quite swiftly and painlessly. If you do not, then the interrogation will be quite long and painful. Do you understand the rules?”

Isabella began to tremble. “I don't understand why you are doing this. I own a little wine bistro downstairs.” She began to stammer, “I, I, I, don't understand what you could possibly want from me!”

“I don't think you were listening. It is
very
important that you listen to me. I ask the questions. You answer truthfully. Do you understand? These are the rules.”

“Yes, yes, but, I have a question.”

“Okay,” Raimond replied, exasperated. “One question.”

“How do I know that you won't kill me even if I answer your questions?”

“Because, number one, I am a man of my word. Number two, because I am not here to kill you—I am here to gather information. Let us return to the rules one final time. I ask you questions. You answer them truthfully, and you live. If you choose not to answer my questions, or you lie to me, then you will be tortured until your slow and painful death,” Raimond expounded. “What is your name?”

“Isabella.”

“That was very good Isabella, you answered the first question truthfully. You are a very nice young woman, Isabella, with a long happy future ahead of you. If you cooperate, you can return to your wine bistro and you will never see me or my colleague again. If you do not cooperate, then I can make no such guarantee.”

Isabella began to sob. She could taste fear in her mouth. Her throat was tight. Her heart pounded. She could not believe this was happening to her.

Raimond maintained his station behind her. It was a technique he had developed by accident during an interrogation many years ago; it proved so effective, that he had used it ever since. First, he found it much easier to be brutal without having to look into the victim's eyes. Second, the victim could not see his face. Pain sears powerful memories in the brain, and he did not want his face to be recalled. But most importantly, standing behind the victim seemed to magnify the terror of the experience more than any other technique he had experimented with. Over the years, he had learned that interrogation was like baking; it worked best when one followed a recipe. His recipe was two parts fear to one part pain.

“Okay, let's move on,” he announced casually. “Tell me, where can I find your roommate, Julie Ponte?”

“Um, Julie?”

“Yes, Julie Ponte. Where can I find her?”

“I don't know. Why? What do you want with Julie?”

“Isabella, you have broken the rules. Now I am forced to have my colleague demonstrate what happens every time you break the rules,” Raimond reprimanded. Still standing behind her, Raimond grabbed her forehead and her chin and pulled her jaw open. Udo swiftly stuffed a balled up kitchen rag deep into her mouth. Isabella tried to scream, but the sound was almost completely muffled by the wad of fabric pressing against her tongue, checks, and soft palette. Udo then walked around to her left side. With his massive hands, he effortlessly peeled her clenched left fingers free from the end of the armrest. Before she knew what was happening, he gripped her left pinkie finger and snapped it like a fresh carrot at the knuckle joint. He released her broken finger at the angle he broke it—protruding ninety degrees to the
s
ide—for her to see.

Isabella shrieked in agony, but the gag in her mouth deadened the volume and pitch of her wail to a level undetectable outside the apartment. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Isabella, I want you to listen very carefully. This is the best that you will feel during the rest of this experience. From now on, it only gets worse. Now, I am going to ask you some questions with the gag in your mouth. You are going to nod your head up-and-down for ‘yes' and shake your head side-to-side for ‘no.' Nod your head if you understand,” said Raimond.

Isabella nodded her head, trembling. She stared off into space, averting her gaze away from her left hand.

“Good girl. I am going to remove the gag from your mouth. If you scream, I will reinsert the gag, and break another finger. Do you understand?”

Nod.

“Are you ready to cooperate?”

Nod.

“Good. Let's try again. Where can I find Julie Ponte?” asked Raimond. He then motioned to his brother to remove the gag.

“I don't know where she is.”

Raimond was silent for several seconds, and then suddenly grabbed her forehead and chin. Udo stuffed the gag back into her mouth. Isabella shook the chair and screamed a muffled scream. He nodded at Udo.

Udo gripped her left ring finger in his hand and twisted, snapping the bone between the second and third knuckles. Isabella shook the chair violently as tears gushed down her cheeks. Mucus was beginning to fill her nose and clog her throat.

Raimond tenderly stroked her forehead and dark brown hair, like a lover would do. “Isabella, I am very disappointed in you. You've broken the rules again. This time you lied to me. Look at your fingers.”

Isabella continued to sob and looked up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to see her mangled left hand. Raimond grabbed her face between both hands and jerked her head down.

“LOOK AT IT!” he shouted.

The power of his voice dominated her will, and she looked at her left hand, two of her fingers protruding at unnatural, oblique angles. She began to hyperventilate. The rag stuffed in her mouth exacerbated the problem, causing her to panic. The veins in her neck and forehead bulged. Her face flushed red.

Raimond sighed. He pulled the rag out of her mouth and waited while she panted in terror, trying to catch her breath, sweat now pouring from her brow.

“Isabella. Isabella, listen to me. This is not going very well. I'm going to ask you the same question again. This time, I want you to tell me the truth,” Raimond said to her. “Where can I find your roommate, Julie Ponte?”