Ice Storm (13 page)

Just who were Dan Trotter and Ted Ayers? Why were they really in Antarctica?

And most importantly, why were they eavesdropping on me?

Chapter 31

"Hello Cy." Holly's voice was soft and sweet.

I froze halfway through the door. "What gave me away?"

She spun around in her chair. Her legs were crossed and she leaned casually to one side. She held a wine glass near her face. I couldn't help but look at her lips. "Your footsteps."

"You recognized me by my footsteps?"

"I'm a microscope girl," she replied. "So, I tend to notice the little things."

She blinked and I turned my attention to her doe eyes. My gaze drifted downward, drinking her in. She was hot. Not slutty hot, but innocent hot. She looked like the kind of girl who cried at sappy movies and shrieked at bumps in the night. Ten to one she wore boy shorts and t-shirts to bed. One to one she looked sexy as hell in them.

"Drinking while you work?" I said.

"I only work when I'm drinking." She twisted her fingers, causing red wine to whirl around the glass. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I have a favor to ask."

"Oh?

I walked across the laboratory, weaving through the maze of tables and whirring machinery. The lab was surprisingly high tech and I couldn't help but wonder how much energy it consumed.

I stopped next to her desktop. Her computer screen showed a dizzying array of charts, graphs, and numbers. "Why do you study microorganisms?"

"Because they can't run away."

"I'm serious."

A curious look appeared in her eyes. "They're a means to an end."

"Oh?"

"I'm not interested in microorganisms. At least not directly. I'm interested in something they do, something that's going to change the very nature of humanity."

"I bet no one ever accused you of being low on ambition."

She laughed. "Let me explain. Rupert and I study tardigrades or if you prefer, waterbears. They're little chubby segmented creatures with eight legs. And I do mean little. On average, they measure one millimeter long. But they're quite complex for polyextremophiles."

"Poly-what?"

"Polyextremophiles. That means they can survive a variety of extreme conditions—conditions that would kill most other organisms."

"Like below-freezing temperatures?"

"Exactly."

I looked at Holly and saw her in a different light. She still looked good. Her red shirt with ruffled sleeves clung tightly to her toned body. And those jeans brought out the wolf in me. But a bit of mad scientist was beginning to creep into her girl-next-door image. "Where do you find tardigrades? In the ice?"

"They tend to gather in algal mats. We used to import them from lakes and ponds across the continent. Then we discovered a colony not far from here. That's been the focus of our research for the last few years."

"How do tardigrades survive below-freezing temperatures?"

"They're tough, plain and simple. But if things get too cold, they undergo cryobiosis. In other words, their metabolic functions cease but they don't die. Instead, they become dormant and enter a state of suspended animation."

"Sort of like hibernation?"

"Actually, hibernation is probably a better way to put it. Suspended animation implies there's some kind of artificial mechanism at work."

"How long can they stay in that state?"

"A long time." She sipped her wine. "Indefinitely, perhaps."

I gaped at her. "They're immortal?"

"Theoretically, yes." She curled her legs onto the swivel chair. "That's the crux of our research. Tardigrades are able to maintain structural continuity throughout cryobiosis. They also have the ability to restart metabolism. Rupert and I hope to figure out how they do those things. Our ultimate goal is to transfer the knowledge to people. We hope to eventually induce a living person into suspended animation and then bring them back out of it with no structural loss."

"Wow." Apparently, I wasn't the only one at Kirby who hoped to achieve a lasting legacy. "You really are going to change the nature of humanity. If it works, future generations will owe you big time."

"Actually, I hope to live side by side with those future generations." She stared at me, gazing deep into my eyes. "You know, you're an interesting man, Cy Reed."

"I do my best."

"Most people pepper me with life and death questions when I talk about my research. They know life extension technologies are right around the corner and they're petrified they won't live long enough to reap the benefits."

I shrugged. "Everyone's afraid of death to some degree."

"Not you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You haven't asked a single question about your own mortality."

"I've got no interest in dying."

"But you don't fear it either. That's a rare quality."

I suddenly felt very uneasy. "About that favor …"

"What do you need?"

I extracted a small bundle from my satchel. "Could you put these things under a microscope for me?"

"What are they?"

"Bits of bone." I hesitated. "Human bone."

I waited for alarm to register on her face. But instead, her gaze intensified. "Where'd you get them?"

"About twenty miles from here." I picked my words carefully. "They look pretty old. I thought they might belong to a long lost hiker."

"I don't have the right equipment to run a DNA test."

"That's fine."

Her eyes blazed with curiosity. "Then what do you want to know?"

"I want to know how he died."

"I can already tell you that. He froze to death."

"I don't think so," I replied. "The position and placement of the body indicated a different sort of death."

Her eyes flashed. "What kind of death are we talking about?"

"A traumatic one."

Chapter 32

"Dutch?" I pushed the door open and entered the dark room. "You in here?"

Graham grunted. "Go away."

I turned on the light.

He winced and shifted on his mattress. "What part of 'go away' didn't you understand?"

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

I pulled the leather book out of my satchel and placed it on his mattress.

"Forget it," he said.

"I can't."

He was quiet for a long time. Then he sat up. "Did I ever tell you about my search for the Silver Madonna?"

I shook my head.

"During the French and Indian War, the French and Abenaki Indians launched attacks on the British from a village in Quebec called St. Francis. Major Robert Rogers was determined to make them pay for it. So, he led his Rogers' Rangers—the predecessors to the U.S. Army Rangers—in an attack on St. Francis. Three weeks later, he and his men destroyed the village and slaughtered its inhabitants."

"Does this story have a point?"

"Shut up and listen," he growled. "After the raid, Rogers' Rangers looted a Jesuit mission within the village. The Silver Madonna was the centerpiece of that haul. But the treasure weighed them down and reduced the amount of rations they could carry. As they fled south, the poor bastards were forced to forage for food. They even resorted to cannibalism. Eventually, French soldiers and Abenaki Indians caught up to them. Over one third of Rogers' Rangers died. And much of the stolen treasure—including the Silver Madonna—was lost."

"That's a sad story. But it's got nothing to do with the Amber Room."

"Actually, it's got everything to do with it. Some of the Rangers came to believe the Silver Madonna was cursed. From a certain point of view, they were right. And that same curse hangs over the Amber Room."

"Who metes out these curses?" I chuckled. "Some kind of treasure god?"

"Don't act stupid. You know damn well what I mean. I'm not talking about a mythical, mumbo-jumbo curse. I'm talking about a different type of curse. I'm talking about what treasure does to a man, how it changes him. It causes him to take unnecessary risks, to hurt others, to do things he wouldn't normally do."

I tapped my foot impatiently. "And what did the Silver Madonna do to you?"

"It came to my attention a long time ago. Various accounts indicated it stood over two feet tall and was constructed from ten pounds of pure Abenaki silver. Melted down, I knew it wouldn't be worth much. But as a historical artifact, I figured it would fetch a good sum. I made some inquiries. One collector, a specialist in the French and Indian War, waved big dollars in front of my face. So, I put together a little expedition, just me and my dad."

I perked up. I'd never heard Graham mention his father before.

"We drove out to the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as northern New Hampshire. We got ourselves a little boat and sailed the Israel River. We didn't have fancy gizmos back then so it took us a couple of days. But eventually, we found the Madonna."

"You did? Then how come I've never seen it before?"

"Because we never got it out of the water. Turns out my collector friend wasn't interested in paying for the Madonna. So, he sent a few goons to take it from us." Graham grunted. "Dad took two bullets to the chest. He died before I could get him to shore."

I saw a little pain, a little vulnerability in his one good eye. And I knew it wasn't his own safety that concerned him. "I'm not your dad."

"Maybe not. But you're obsessed with the Amber Room. It's making you reckless."

"I'll be fine."

"My dad said the same thing. Two seconds later, he died in my arms."

"I'm not going to die," I replied. "But I'm not going to stop looking. This is what I do. I hunt for treasure. Yeah, it gets risky at times. But everything in life involves risk."

He stared at me.

"I need your help," I continued. "I can't translate that book without you."

"You're on your own." He twisted away from me. "Now, get the hell out of here."

Chapter 33

The evolution of society, Roy Savala believed, was not defined by long periods of slow change. Instead, it was a process of stagnation, interrupted by brief periods of rapid, brilliant progress. But sometimes things went wrong.

Sometimes progress was lost.

Roy placed his hands on the strange rock. It was different than the others, darker and more defined. The chiseling around the edges showed magnificent care and attention. He'd investigated the other rocks. But he kept coming back to this particular one. Deep down, he knew it held the key to the secrets he sought. He just needed to figure out how it worked.

During the Crusades, the Islamic armies had carried curved and narrow scimitars while the Europeans had wielded English broadswords. During battle, the scimitars proved far superior in terms of strength, sharpness, and flexibility. According to legend, ancient warriors had even used their scimitars to slice through rocks and metal.

European blacksmiths had tried to duplicate the scimitar. They'd copied its dull blue color. They'd reproduced the bizarre patterns that punctuated its surface. But none of their attempts worked. Unfortunately for them, they lacked the secret of Damascus steel.

For centuries, Damascus steel stood head and shoulders above other steel. But by 1750 AD, the secret had been lost. No one knew for sure what had happened to it. Some archaeologists believed the specific ores required to produce it had been used up. Others blamed a breakdown in trade routes. But Roy favored another theory, namely that the forging techniques were lost due to the very thing that made them so valuable in the first place—secrecy.

Roy peeked into a tiny crack on the rock's surface. He thought he saw distinct shadows on the other side of it. His heart raced.

Over the years, scholars and experimental archaeologists had analyzed Damascus steel. They'd gathered raw materials that might've been available to the bladesmiths. They'd studied forging techniques. It didn't matter. The secret to the steel's strength, flexibility, and sharpness had eluded them.

Eventually, a team of German scientists subjected Damascus steel to x-rays and electron microscopy. They discovered something extraordinary. Damascus steel was no ordinary metal. It contained something that shouldn't have existed so long ago.

Nanotechnology.

Roy placed his ear next to the crack. He heard faint airflows. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of metal. He tasted salt in the air.

Damascus steel contained carbon nanotubes encasing carbon nanowires. These bundles helped arrange the raw materials into layers of soft steel and hard cementite. This gave it unusual strength as well as incredible flexibility.

Ancient bladesmiths had used acid to etch the steel. The nanotubes had resisted the acid, thus protecting the nanowires. After repeated acid treatments, the bundles moved to the edge of a blade, forming microscopic teeth. This accounted for the unusual sharpness exhibited by scimitars.

The exact details were unimportant. Instead, Roy preferred to focus on the big picture. L.V. Radushkevich and V.M. Lukyanovich had published the first images of carbon nanotubes in 1952. They became widely known in 1991, thanks to the efforts of Sumio Iijima. That created a quandary. Nanotechnology was clearly a product of the twentieth century. And yet, ancient bladesmiths had utilized it hundreds of years earlier. How was that possible?

"Hello Roy."

Roy grunted in annoyance. He hated interruptions. "I trust you found them?"

"Not yet," Ben Savala replied.

"Then why are you here?"

"It's been almost twenty-four hours. I figured you'd want an update."

"I don't want an update. I want those two little spies dead and buried."

"Believe me, I've tried every trick I know. I even procured their transponder data but it seems they disabled the beacon. So, I've got Zoey and Warren watching over Kirby. I'm running search grids in the meantime."

Roy sighed. "What do we know about them?"

"The passenger is named Beverly Ginger. She's a geomorphologist. This is her first time to the continent. Jeff Morin is acting as her guide."

"Is anyone looking for them yet?"