CRO-MAGNON (48 page)

“
Clone?”

“
Make a living copy. Thousands, probably. Or hundreds of thousands.”

Zinchenko looked puzzled. “Why?”

“
Perhaps for sale or hire as mercenaries. Disposable fighting machines, with herculean strength and fitness.”

“
Hercu . . .

“
Superhuman.”

The engine sputtered and Zinchenko nudged the throttle. “Not good,
ya
think.”

“
Salomon picked me because I’m his top geneticist—expert in human composition. Dr. Calder was chosen because of his expertise in paleoanthropology—the study of the predecessors of present-day humans.”

The big Russian stared at her and she saw a deep scowl develop. “You help this man—”

“
No. I passed him some worthless samples, and I will do it again today. But I’ve also determined that these prehistoric people have genes—body-making instructions encoded in their flesh—that may be of great benefit to present-day mankind.”

The camp master’s expression eased. “You have own . . .”

“
Plans, yes. Dr. Calder and I want to take the frozen heads back to the United States or some other place where we can work for the benefit of future generations.” She caught his eye. “We need your help, Fedor.”

Zinchenko peered at her with the untutored shrewdness of a Siberian peasant. “How
ya
know you not in this for money, same as this Salomon?”

“
You don’t. But the test charge that the original diver set off, at the behest of Salomon’s geologist, seems to have made the tunnel susceptible to the small quakes that regularly shake the mountain.” She glanced at Calder. “Dr. Calder has had experience diving on underwater caves. He feels, and I agree, that the tunnel may collapse before winter ends.”

Calder said, “Probably sooner. So it’s now or never, Fedor. We also suspect Salomon was behind the crash of Dr. Mathiessen’s helicopter and that Teague may have orders to do away with Caitlin and me as soon as Salomon determines he has usable genetic samples.”

Blaine said, “We don’t think Teague is just an aide to Salomon. We think he’s a hit man.”

Zinchenko raised his bushy eyebrows. “Hit man?”

“
Someone who kills for money,” Calder said. “This morning, he pulled a Glock 17 Pro automatic pistol on us.”

Blaine said, “Seventeen Pro?”

“
It’s specially made for police and commandos. Supposedly available only in Finland. It fires the nine millimeter Parabellum, the most accurate bullet ever designed. It’s got an extended slide lever, a stretched barrel threaded for silencer, and a radioactive-gas night sight. Plus other goodies.”

Maybe Ian wasn’t as stodgy as he sometimes appeared, Blaine thought.

“
+How do you know all this?”

“
It’s a militarized version of the Glock 17L competition pistol I’ve used in the handgun version of the biathlon, which may be added to the Olympics.”

“
A special killer’s gun,” she said. “Wonderful.”

“
Not only that, but this one has been fitted with a Crimson Trace laser sight and a select-fire lever that means it’s been converted to full automatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if Teague had some G18 machine-pistol mags, although they’re supposed to be unobtainable by civilians.”

“
Special gun,” Zinchenko repeated, looking thoughtful.

Calder nodded. “A state-of-the-art handgun, the very latest for close combat or wet work.”

“
Wet work?”

“
Clandestine killing at close range. No one but Finnish police or Special Forces could legitimately lay hands on such a weapon.”

“
And Teague isn’t either of those,” Blaine said.

Zinchenko sat staring across the narrow lake as the two trailers grew larger.

Finally, he said, “Gulnaz . . .”

“
Yes,” Blaine said. “When we informed her of the true situation, she didn’t want Salomon to succeed. She told us she intended to speak to Teague, perhaps order him to leave the valley.”

The big Russian continued to stare at the camp. “Was friend,” he said. “Gulnaz and
ya
were . . .”

“
We’re sorry,” Blaine said.

She saw Zinchenko’s mouth tighten. He glanced at her, then Calder.

“
What you want me do?”

“
Help us make a secret dive tonight to get the three heads.” Blaine glanced skyward. “It will be a quiet night, and sound carries in this thin air. We’re afraid Teague will hear the outboard.”

Zinchenko stroked his shaggy beard. “Could dive now.”

“
Yes, but we need time between dives in order to let the nitrogen in our bodies dissipate. Otherwise, we’ll get the bends.”

“
Bends?”

“
Decompression sickness, where bubbles form in one’s joints.” Besides, Teague has ordered us to stay in camp. He may check the grounds. It would help if you could tell him you’ve been working on the motor again and you need to try it on the lake.”

Zinchenko considered, then nodded. “Will do. For Gulnaz.”

Calder said, “We’ll be fleeing the valley tonight, Fedor. I don’t think you will be safe, especially when Teague realizes he has to kill us. You may want to accompany us.”

The camp master hesitated only a moment before nodding. “
Ya
guide you.”

He started to say something else but stopped as a faint rumble sounded, almost too low-pitched to hear. “Watch,” he said, pointing to the water.

Blaine looked down to see an inch-high wave sweep past the boat from the direction of the mountain , causing a wobble. After watching it speed to shore and spend itself on the rim of ice, she glanced at Calder. She could see from his pasty face that he was imagining getting trapped in the sunken cave.

He looked at Zinchenko. “How much of a tremor would cause a wave like that, Fedor?”

The Russian thought for a moment. “Small.”

“
How small?”

Blaine watched him waggle his fingers. “Trekkers not worry if not below mountain.”

“
How about divers, under a mountain?”

Zinchenko looked grim. “Not know.”

#

Murzo Ayni set up his one-man tent in a grove of stunted birch trees, crawled inside his goose-down bag, and turned on his transceiver. He tried the frequency Calder had given him for Rolf Mathiessen, but got only static. That was not surprising, as a swath of northern Afghanistan lay between him and Dushanbe, jumbled mountains that had been home to his ancestors thousands of years ago.

Next he tried Zapodevnik headquarters in Khorugh to see what he might learn about Mathiessen, Laszlo Salomon, or Evgenii Delyanov. Static again. That was disappointing, as he had changed his route from a four-day swing southeast to a two-day swing west and back, both for better radio transmission and for getting back quickly in case Ian and Caitlin needed him.

He knew he was taking a chance by befriending them, but he liked them. As he’d told them, he was convinced they were good people. Certainly he didn’t owe anything to the uncaring government officials who were ultimately responsible for his family being murdered. He had spoken the truth when he told Ian and Caitlin he was nervous that the responsible army officer would eventually turn on him.

If they could help him escape to
Ameriko
and find employment, that would be good. If not, he’d still help them if he could. He did not know anything about Salomon, but he did know that Delyanov was not to be trusted. And the hard-faced Teague set his teeth on edge every time he saw him. In his years as a ranger he had dealt with many bad men, and he wondered if his friends realized how dangerous this one was.

He munched a handful of the curd-and-mulberry trail food his cousin Simin mixed for him, made another futile try to establish radio contact, and then lay back to rest. Tomorrow, as most days in this barren land of high valleys and icebound passes, would require a hard slog.

#

After a meager supper of the remaining goat cheese and
non,
Blaine crawled into the lumpy sleeping bag in the work trailer, which Teague now limited them to. It had been a nerve-wracking day, and the night would be long and arduous, supposing the latest tremor did not cause Ian or Fedor to back out. She knew she should nap, but as she tried to blank her thoughts she could not help but see the four new paintings in the cave.

Involuntarily, her mind focused on the first frame, of the scar-faced Cro-Magnon spearing a snarling wolf while the shocked-looking young woman sprawled nearby. Although the thrust looked fatal, Ian had pointed out that the wolf resembled a younger version of the yellow-ruffed animal that now lay in the frozen cave, ribs crushed and jaws clamping the lion’s throat.

Ian was right, she thought. This panel did seem disjointed, shifting from the Cro-Magnon woman to the Neanderthal. Her perceptions drifted and cycled as her subconscious tried one interpretation after another, persistently shuffling connotations until a coherent story began to emerge . . .

Chapter 20

One evening a half-moon after the failed bison hunt, Leya and Alys had finished eating and Leya was preparing to nurse Brann. Fel, returning from his daily forage, crept into the tent. Leya knew that the young wolf’s staple during winter consisted mostly of hares, as his big paws allowed him to chase them over crusted snow. Tonight, however, he sported a dirt-smeared nose.

“
Fel’s been rooting for voles,” Alys said. “You wouldn’t think such small game would provide enough meat for a nearly full-grown wolf.”

“
He eats whatever he can find,” Leya said. “Since he’s not part of a pack, he has trouble bringing down large animals.”

Fel, tramping a circle in a corner of the tent beside Brann, pricked his ears. Either he knew they were talking about him or something else had captured his attention.

“
He is pretty opportunistic,” Alys said. “Once when we were gathering swamp cabbage by the big river, I saw him dash into the water and wade ashore with a flat-nose.”

“
He’ll eat anything,” Leya said, “including half-rotten carcasses that would gag you or me. That’s why I never feed him. I don’t want him to lose his ability to survive.”

The tent flap lifted and Mungo appeared. Leya suppressed a gasp as she noted he was carrying a javelin, supposedly taboo inside the longhouse. The only reason he would need one would be Fel. She could smell his breath across the small tent, and she knew he’d been imbibing honey-spirits again. Shielding Brann with an arm, she braced for whatever was coming.

Mungo’s reddened eyes fastened on Alys. “Get out, old woman.” He gestured with the spear at Brann lying on a red fox skin in the corner. “Take the Flathead
baban
.”

From the corner Fel uttered a low growl, causing Mungo to scowl. He hefted his spear, and Leya reached out and laid her free hand on Fel’s ruff, shushing him.

Alys was shaking her head, her stringy gray hair swishing about her fur-covered shoulders as she looked up at the intruder.

“
This is my tent, Mungo. You don’t enter without my say-so.”

“
I go where I want.” Letting the flap fall, he stepped inside and swept his free arm at her. “Take the half-breed bastard and get out, hag.”

“
Don’t talk like that to my
mator,
” Leya said. Keeping a firm hand on Fel, Brann still cuddled by her breast, she remained sitting, as if the occasion wasn’t serious enough to warrant standing.

The scar on Mungo’s cheek lifted, emphasizing his sneer. “Or what?”

“
Or I’ll call Ronan.”

He cocked his head and spat on a rawhide rug. “You are no longer a member of the tribe. Nobody will stop me.”

Leya knew that was true. No one would risk trouble with the obstreperous Mungo over someone soon to be cast out. If she caused a commotion, she was likely to be expelled on the spot.

Mungo reached out, and Leya shrank back. But it was Alys he grabbed, his free hand dragging her to her feet by one arm. Though half a head taller, the aging woman was helpless to resist.

Mungo pointed at Brann, snugged against Leya’s chest. “Take Flathead and go now, woman.”

When Alys didn’t move, he shook her arm.

“
Don’t hurt my
mator,
” Leya said.

Fel growled again, loudly this time.

Mungo glared. “Control the wolf or I’ll kill him.”

Leya sensed that he would have tried to kill Fel already, except that he was leery of tangling with a nearly full-grown wolf that had already pulled down several sizable animals. She knew there was no way the situation could be resolved satisfactorily, and it might easily conclude with injury to Alys or death to Fel. Lifting Brann, she handed him to her mother.

“
I’ll be in Nola’s tent,” Alys said. Tears coating her cheeks, she turned and stepped outside with Brann.

As the flap dropped, Mungo squatted by Leya, triumph and lust vying in his face. “Now we will see.” Butting his javelin against the dirt floor he reached out, grasped Leya’s singlet, and yanked her to him.