Unacceptable Risk

Chapter 7

Grady walked behind Michael Bowden, who lay on the travois dragged by Yodo. Periodically he called out the name Marita, no doubt the woman they had buried in the jungle before they left. They had finally told him she was dead. Since then, he had been very quiet. Early morning light barely made its way to the forest floor but she welcomed it, as the night had seemed a harbinger of terrors too numerous to count.

They were headed for the trail that ran from Herrera to Santa Jose on the Galvez. Javier led the small party.

As she walked through the dripping green forest, Grady fantasized about a simple room with a chair, a bed, a shower, and an air conditioner. She wore lightweight nylon-polyester jungle pants and a shirt like every other yuppie who went to the Amazon. The clothes dried fast and afforded UV protec tion-it was space-age stuff. On her back she carried a pack bulging with Yodo's things so that he could remain as unburdened as possible for the task of dragging the crude stretcher. It seemed that Michael was nearly delirious from the morphine, but when he wasn't pumped full of the painkiller, his suffering (albeit silent) was so great that they hastened to remedicate him. Even so, he frequently asked Grady if she was all right and if she was tolerating the jungle. Once he explained that she needed to be wary of snakes and spiders, as if it might not have occurred to her.

Grady now carried a gun and was prepared to use it.

Occasionally she could see the sky and she noticed black bottoms to the clouds. They passed a large snake curled around the lower branches of a tree. It spit a forked tongue in their direction, seeming to wish death on all who passed by. A giant scorpion, surely the mother of all bugs, crunched under her boot, and nearby a foot-long insect sat like a skele ton in a morgue.

Michael's wounds were bad, but his essential character came through, and Grady found him even more appealing than she had in his books. He was intelligent, sensitive, and handsome to boot. He spoke sincerely, absolutely without guile, a rarity in Grady's experience. His constant concern for her safety won her over completely.

When they finally made the trail, it was a tunnel in the green, in places six feet wide and obviously the beneficiary of regular machete hacking. This made it a more logical place to make an ambush. That caused new worries.

Then it got much worse.

They heard something large, maybe man-size, moving through the jungle. They stopped and it stopped. At this point Grady could see only a few feet into the heavy foliage. The mosquitoes were fierce and distracting. As they waited and watched, the gun became heavy in her hand.

"Let's keep moving," Yodo said. At the same time he sig naled for Grady to get down. She squatted. He signaled for her to move back so she duckwalked back down the trail, careful to make no noise. She wasn't sure what Yodo had in mind, but she assumed he wanted them to spread out for a reason. Perhaps it was a more effective way to fight with guns.

They all aimed their firearms, waiting for something to emerge. Silence. The gun grew heavier in her hand.

"Send her ahead, not behind," Bowden whispered. Then he looked at Grady. "Down the trail to the Matses."

Yodo was now signaling for her to come ahead, so she re versed and, in response to Yodo's waves, went past Michael Bowden, who touched her hand.

"Get out of here," he whispered.

She nodded without knowing why. She had no desire to head out by herself even on a trail, but Yodo seemed adamant and Sam would bust a gut if she rebelled against the leadership. Sam's lectures had had an effect. She kept moving. Down the way about fifty feet or so, the trail took a small bend. As she went around it, she knew the others would dis appear from her sight.

Now Yodo was signaling frantically that she hurry. She stood and started to jog as quietly as she could. Immediately she realized how much harder it was to be alone in this strange place. Once down the trail she ran in earnest; then she came to a fork and took the one to the right. She sup posed they figured that Michael was the target and she could run ahead on the trail, both to get help and to be safer.

The foliage along the edge was growing over the trail and it had narrowed to a couple of feet. As she ran, she came to more forks, and it usually seemed obvious which was the larger and more well-traveled path. Then it began to get dif ficult as the splinter trails looked the same. Finally she found herself walking through the jungle. She realized she should look back and mark the trail in her memory, but when she did so, the two large sacropias-and the rest of the jungle for that matter-seemed entirely unfamiliar. Looking up, she recognized nothing distinctive.

She decided to backtrack a few feet. Past the closest sacropia she looked for a trail but saw nothing. When she went to the next tree, she saw a faint pathway through the fo liage that immediately forked. Her heart started to beat faster as she imagined getting lost in the vast jungle.

She had no GPS and she knew Yodo meant for her to stay on the trail. But which trail?

She decided that one of the trails was slightly more disturbed and that would be the one she had arrived on, so she took a few more steps, moving slowly, careful not to leave the track. Then she heard something rustling through the leaves at her side. It was barely perceptible. Instantly she aimed her gun and flicked off the safety. Whoever it was would be blown to the next world if they looked the least un friendly. It stopped. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. She peered through the branches, wondering if she should walk toward or away from the rustling.

Curiosity won. She took about ten more steps down the track and stopped. Again she heard the sound. Then it stilled and she was left with only the birdcalls and the pounding of her heart. A donkey bird took up his eerie call. With great care she moved ahead, her gun still pointing in the direction of her stalker.

As she moved-he moved. Maybe it was a coincidence. She took a few more silent steps, and once again, whatever was shadowing her stopped when she stopped, moved when she moved. It had to be human because an animal could not be so synchronous. Sweat ran down her sides, back, and arms as the thought of Gaudet stole into her mind. She fought to control herself, remembering the native girls. Stories of his slow and calculated tortures began to soften her mind and made concentration difficult. The unbelievable cold of the persona came back to her now as if breathing in her face. Her knees began to shake and she bent over, knowing that she was losing control.

Then, letting Sam's reassurances echo through her mind, imagining Sam's voice instead of Gaudet's, she forced her self to stand straight and pointed the gun, thinking that she'd shoot the moment she saw him. But the lack of further sound unnerved her, and she ran back the way she'd come, moving hundreds of yards before realizing that the trail had disap peared again.

Her chest was heaving and her breathing was loud. She listened.

Branches were being pushed aside, still on the same side of the track. She ran again, heedless of direction or paths, praying she'd find Yodo before her stalker caught up.

She thought she saw the trail and she tried to maintain her speed, though the footing was slick with mud.

Then she stopped short and cursed herself. She remem bered something Sam had told her long ago: fear was her biggest challenge, and it was defeating her. With absolute clarity she recalled that she must think of the forest as a home. Her home. The first thing to do was find a safe place. If cold weather was killing her, then it had to be safe from cold; if she was hunted, then she had to make herself safe from the hunter. Nearby she saw a walking palm. She went deep in the foliage and, with her back to the many branched trunk, she sat. She could see fairly well but could not easily be seen.

It felt safer. If Gaudet were following her, she would make him come and get her and make him pay with a bullet to the chest. Her breathing had slowed and her mind was be ginning to work again.

Then she heard movement. This time she remained mo tionless and the noise stopped. She told herself again that no one could approach her without revealing themselves. Despite buzzing mosquitoes she kept her gun aimed and controlled her breathing. Off to her left she saw a scorpion, but fortunately it wasn't coming her way.

More movement. Someone was getting closer and they were straight ahead, right down the gun barrel. She let her finger clamp heavily on the trigger. She remembered the dis emboweled native girl and Michael's story of his wife and the rape of Marita's sister. She had no doubt that she was about to kill. A terrible confidence grew inside her. Then she heard a faint movement behind her and her heart jumped in her throat. Slowly she turned her head, but she couldn't see more than a few feet.

Now the stalker in front of her was taking a step about every thirty seconds, but the sound was barely detectable. A leaf moved. She drew a bead about chest high. There was a white hand parting heavy vines and then it froze. Nothing moved. She considered shooting. The thick post sight on the front of the gun was wavering, even with the double-clench grip. Something bounced off her head. She jumped. Ahead of her Sam stepped out of the jungle.

David Dun

Unacceptable Risk

She lowered the gun. "You scared the shit out of me," she cried out.

"I know. I'm sorry. I thought I was following Gaudet. Hey, don't worry. I think he's gone. You did the right thing. Stopping running was the right move."

Grady slumped, shaking and exhausted.

"You did good," Sam said. "And you didn't shoot me, which I also appreciated."

The rare praise restored her like a drug. She stood and threw her arms around Sam, holding him close, and he hugged back.

Baptiste crawled out of bed at the Hotel International. He was out of breath and covered with sweat, both his and hers, after what had been exhausting sex. Except for the guilt that had hung over the bed like a cloud, he supposed it might have been the best sex of his life. It was hard to remember that far back. Benoit Moreau was the most sexually sophisti cated woman he had ever met. For years sex had lasted ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. This had lasted over an hour. And then she insisted that they do it again.

The day after their deal was struck, they had gone straight to the hotel from the prison with virtually no paperwork. He had gotten the admiral on the phone and promised that infor mation on Chaperone was imminent. He stood on the thresh old of the biggest scientific breakthrough of the twenty-first century and the future glory of France. How could the admi ral say no? Baptiste thought he heard envy in the man's voice, and that made him feel better than he would have guessed. Plainly the old man wanted to find a way to substi tute himself but could not.

Even though it was highly irregular, France was desper ate, and if the woman wanted "tea" at the most famous hotel in Paris, then "tea" it would be-delivered by room service along with miscellaneous pastries.

When she went for her shower, he sat on the toilet in a reverie, letting his mind wander over the case and allowing it to play with his growing curiosity over what he was about to learn. Victory was at hand. Never in her earlier interviews had she explained anything about Chaperone.

She stepped out of the shower and began applying moisturizing lotion to her body in what looked to be a long and cherished ritual. He jumped under the shower for a quick one. After he was out, he found her in the bedroom.

"Can we go to the lab now?" he said, realizing immediately that there was a new deference to his tone.

"Of course." She was nude and beautiful, her black hair tousled but attractive, her face animated and her eyes flash ing. Because she had never let her body go, and gave it many forms of exercise, her stomach had the flat look of youth and the definition of an athlete. Even in prison she trimmed her pubic hair, her arms had contour and definition, her butt was like two cantaloupes, and her breasts were a mouthful-but petite and shapely. He wondered if she really had had three orgasms or if it was all feigned. Never mind; he would get his information now.

"Tell me about Chaperone," he said as she pulled on her panties. Oddly, he thought to himself that he still had not had enough.

"You are sure you can get me a pardon?"

"I have discussed it with the admiral. He said yes." Baptiste felt guilty for lying about something so important to her, but what could he do? He had a job.

"I will tell you about Chaperone on the way to the labora tory. More important, I will tell you about a man named Georges Raval. Through Raval we can know the precise details of the science behind Chaperone. I believe that he is the only living scientist that understands the technology and can teach it. He is the primary inventor. And I will tell you about Gaudet's plot, or at least its name-'Cordyceps.' Right now I want to talk about my new routine. What time do I leave the prison each morning for work?"

While he answered a multitude of questions about shack les and security and where she could go and where she could not, Baptiste watched a fascinating reverse striptease and re pressed a great deal of marital guilt.

Sam and Grady sat around the hospital bed. The yellowed paint on the walls was thin with tiny cracks that splintered and forked like the rivers that seemed to drain the soul of this place. The structure was dying along with many of the patients under the ruthless onslaught of humidity, heat, and the DNA of abundant life that seemed to eat without end. The linens in the place were gray like the muggy afternoon sky, the fan whirled cheerlessly, its blades matching the yel low of the walls as the plastic became brittle from ultravio let. Age and decay were moving with remarkable speed-the downside of life in a paradise that otherwise was a sym phony of rebirth.

Michael remained mildly drugged on small doses of mor phine and Sam stared with some sense of horror at the bloody bandages, imagining the infection that was sure to come. He wondered whether the IV could pump antibiotics fast enough. Fortunately for Michael the bullets had found their way through meat rather than organs. With luck all his body parts would work as before-if he could survive potential infection. As they sat there, Michael shook himself fully awake and Sam could see the strength in his face and eyes. The guy was tough. As soon as they were able, they planned to move him to a large hospital in Rio.

"You're looking better," Sam said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Much better. How do you feel?"

"Depressed, and like a caiman bit three times as he swal lowed me. I was very fond of Marita, the girl, and I'm going to miss her. Did we get the bastard who shot her?

"I don't think so. There were a few guys in the jungle around there and we didn't get them all. We didn't get the leader yet."

Michael looked dejected.

"Well, you're alive and we're going to take good care of you. That's a promise."

"You never told me how you happened along," Michael said, amazingly coherent.

Michael knew Sam as "Robert Chase." Grady and Yodo had so far managed to keep the name straight when Michael was present, but Sam knew that soon he would have to lose a little of his anonymity where Michael was concerned.

"We were looking for you," Sam said. "We knew that Devan Gaudet was looking for you as well."

"What does he want with me?"

"We hoped you had some idea."

"My work, maybe."

"We think Gaudet wants information about something called Chaperone."

"Never heard of it."

"It's one part of an advanced technology that he stole."

"How does it work?"

"Well, the technology itself genetically alters targeted brain cells in a living human being. It works quickly, in a matter of minutes or hours."

"That's pretty hard to imagine. How did it come about?"

"A company called Grace Technologies took a herpes virus from a monkey, pulled off the outer protein layer, broke apart the DNA, and discarded the portion of the DNA that made it infectious. Then they spliced in their own engi neered DNA. Specifically there were two strands, a promoter sequence and the coding sequence. The promoter sequence ensures that only the correct brain cell types are altered. The coding sequence does the actual alteration of the DNA in the brain cell. Then they gave this new string of DNA a protein coat." Sam stopped.

Michael seemed to be following him fine, narcotics or not. "How exactly does this technology alter brain cells?"

"It installs DNA that adds an extra receptor to the dendrite, thus making them hypersensitive."

"I would think it's complicated to alter brain cells to achieve a particular effect."

"They were looking for generalized emotional effects, like increases or decreases in anxiety or aggression."

"How do they suppress the immune response?" Michael wondered aloud.

"How did you think to ask that?"

"lama biologist. If you are changing the DNA in a body cell, the immune system may reject that cell if it is producing proteins that are foreign. It may also reject the vector, just like it would a virus. Basic biology. And I might add that I think there is no known way around that. Only immuno- suppressant drugs, and they don't do such a good job. I can't imagine the brain functioning well after such a transformation."

"You're right. It doesn't. Except in Grace's initial trials. They were using something called Chaperone, which we think alters the immune system. We believe that you have discovered organic material that Chaperone came from. Some thing you sent to Northern Lights Pharmaceuticals," Sam suggested.

Bowden only nodded.

"Whatever the case, you won't be safe unless Gaudet be lieves you're dead. It is extremely important that we con vince him that you are. So we've put out a story."

"What do you mean?"

"An account of your death. Not in the States. Just locally in Peru and Brazil. We told your publisher confidentially that you are not dead, but that you needed to appear so for your protection. They told your agent. Their publicity people will refuse to confirm it at least for the moment."

"I don't want my readers to think I'm dead."

"You'd be a lot safer if they did," Sam explained.

"I'd rather take my chances. I don't understand why Gaudet would want me dead."

"He wouldn't until after he had tortured you and gotten the information he needs. So at least don't screw up the scut tlebutt in South America. It'll be much easier to keep you safe. With two bullets in you it's easy for Gaudet to believe you're a dead man. Let's not change that."

"From what you're saying, Gaudet would need my jour nals. They're gone. The Matses have taken them to my scien tist friends in Pacaya-Samiria. I hope that by now they'll have shipped them to New York."

"That will piss him off, all right." Sam smiled at the good feeling it created. "We know about Professor Lyman at Cornell. One of my associates will be ensuring the journals get there safely."

"I'd rather pick up my journals personally. I doubt Richard would release them to anyone else anyway. It looks like I've got to go to the U.S. Who is going to believe I'm dead when I'm walking around New York?"

"Well, that's a point I wanted to make. You have to hide, not be public at all. Go out in a disguise."

"Hide? I would think you'd want him to chase me so you could get him yourself."

"Gaudet isn't the kind of person you bait. Not unless you're willing to run a terrible risk. I tried. My friend is dead," Sam answered.

"Well, I'm not cowering."

"I'm sure Grady would be happy to go to New York with you… It isn't that you could never go out…"

"I appreciate what you're suggesting, Mr. Chase, but I'll take whatever risk I have to."

Sam could tell Michael needed to rest. He nodded and led Grady into the hallway.

"He seems to like you, and he's a nice guy… I was hop ing you wouldn't mind staying with him and the men."

"And maybe convincing him to lie low?"

Sam nodded and dialed Jill on the sat phone to learn what Big Brain was uncovering.

"For reasons that are typically convoluted, after hacking into the Hertz car rental company in Sydney and a nearby hotel, we think we have a recent Gaudet alias-Jean Valjean- a character out of Les Miserables. The hotel that we hacked was his last watering hole before the Amazon. We also ran the parcel delivery database and looked at all the packages from that hotel."

"And?"

"Somebody sent an express package on that date from Gaudet's hotel to a woman in Manhattan by the name of Claudia Roche," Jill revealed.

"Who's she?"

"She's Georges Raval's aunt. He's now the highest name on our list of ex-Grace scientists that might be alive and not be working for Gaudet."

"Has somebody talked with this aunt?"

"Oh yeah. Our locals in Manhattan. Raval is supposedly in the U.S. and they're wondering if he's in Manhattan near his aunt."

"What do you suppose Gaudet sent to Raval's aunt?"

"When our locals paid their first visit, she didn't admit to receiving any package. But they won her confidence to some degree and finally she said she received a promotional cell phone from some company. It had five hundred free min utes-supposedly a trial gift," Jill outlined.

"Clever. No doubt it has a very extended memory for the call log. So Gaudet knows about Georges Raval and is look ing for him just like we are."

"Sure looks that way."

"Had she used the cell?"

"Yes, but she gave it to us. We looked at the call log and found nothing that helps us find Raval. And the aunt is very tight-lipped. Claims she hasn't seen him in years. We think she's lying, but what can you do? We're watching her. We don't have a great ID on Georges Raval yet. He's blond, ap parently," Jill offered.

"If he hasn't dyed his hair."

"But I saved the best until last."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Grogg's got to tell you this one himself. It was a master piece. Here." Jill signed off.

"Hey, Grogg, you're the man of the hour. What do you have now? Jill says it's hot," Sam teased.

"Remember 'popsicle boy'? Well, we got into his computer and found an IP that matched the old Grace Technologies mainframe. Then we used our favorite former disgruntled employee of Grace."

"Jason Wade?" Sam suggested.

"None other. And he knows that mainframe intimately. It disappeared when Gaudet gutted Grace. Now it's on a satellite link in some computer room somewhere on the planet. We can't figure out where, but with Jason's help we actually broke in and found an interesting file. It's called Cordyceps. Actually, two files. One just Cordyceps and one Cordyceps/ Windows SMB/CIFS. Without Jason's old password we could never have gotten in because it shuts you out if you make a handful of unsuccessful attempts. Somebody just forgot to delete that particular password. We tried to open them both and they both self-destructed. I think the SMB file is related to a computer worm. I'm betting someone's building a computer virus. SMB files have had weaknesses that have been exploited in the past by virus builders."

"But now it's gone?" Sam questioned.

"Actually, no. Just for the hell of it we went back there again and there was the file-restored. So it actually disappears for a time, probably into some disk memory, and then it is visible again. So we get another shot and we have an idea about how to get around the password from something that Jason Wade dis covered a long time ago about how this security works. With a general password we can make the document stop disappearing into memory and maybe we can download it, even if we can't yet open it. We're working on that. Jason thinks that when we open it, we'll know a whole lot more. So we'll see. The files had a silent alarm, but we were able to neutralize it. Hopefully, they won't detect that we invaded," Grogg summarized.

"Cordyceps. Hmm."

"We looked it up in the encyclopedia. It's the name of a fungus," Grogg elaborated.

"Let me ask Bowden about it. He does fungus."

In a couple of minutes Sam was back in Michael's room.

"Do you know anything about Cordyceps-other than it's a fungus, according to the encyclopedia?"

"Actually, I do." Michael looked from Sam to Grady. "Why?"

"It may somehow relate to what Gaudet wants from you. We think that they have a plan called Cordyceps."

"Ah. Well, it's not just any fungus, cordyceps. It has a fas cinating life cycle." Michael explained the gruesome manner in which the fungus killed bugs and propagated itself.

Sam marveled at the black metaphor. "No way."

"Afraid so. Cordyceps was also the origin of cyclosporine, a fairly effective first generation immunosuppressant. Interest ing that they appear to be in need of an immunosuppressant and they call their plan Cordyceps. Chinese Olympic runners attribute their success to a diet that includes cordyceps. Asians also used it to restore sex drive in elderly people, and recent clinical studies have backed that up. It's a fungus or a group of related fungi. Five of the top thirty drugs in use today came from fungi. So, yeah, cordyceps is impressive."

"You say they make immunosuppressants from it." Sam needed to hear more.

"Yes, but I have discovered several powerful immunosup pressant molecules. One I'm thinking of is from a rare fresh water sponge. There are very few freshwater sponges and this one is unique. But I know of nothing that would reprogram a human's immune system as you describe for Chaperone. I've never heard of anything that powerful."

"Assuming the name Cordyceps is a metaphor, I wonder who the beetle is?" Sam mused.

"Now that I think about it, Northern Lights did take a lot of those freshwater sponges. And they wanted more."

"Say nothing to anyone about that," Sam cautioned.

"I couldn't give them any more, though. I'd already taken as much as I dared. For a while. We need to let it reproduce. I'd found it in only one site. As I'm sure you know, the Amazon is about the size of the continental United States. There's bound to be more of it, but who knows where? r emember too that this sponge grows underwater in a land full of rivers. It's blind luck to find it," Michael reasoned.

Sam smiled. "When it comes to security, I guess that's as good as it gets. But if I get your journals, do I get the GPS coordinates for everything you've found?"

"Yes, you do. But you would have to know which organic tissue contains the magic molecule or whatever you're look ing for."

"Making you the key to his success again. Gaudet would do anything to boil the search down to one plant."

"If it were the sponge, it's actually an animal. Sponges are one of the oldest living animals dating back to the pre-Cambrian period. A colleague has called them biological Titans. They, or the micro organisms that inhabit them, have provided us some of the most important drugs ever discovered-anticancer drugs, antiviral drugs for AIDS, Herpes, and Shingles, anti-inflammatory drugs, and immunosup pressants. But I still don't see a connection to cordyceps any more than one of the thousands of other tissue samples I have provided them."

Sam saw that Grady actually had her hand on Michael's arm. Nice distraction from the pain of the wounds.

Leaving the two of them alone, Sam went back to the phones, deciding that he would update Jill before calling Figgy. He repeated the conversation about Cordyceps, sponges, and the rest; then he closed with the observation about the touchy-feely situation between Michael and Grady.

"This Cordyceps thing is spooky," Jill said.

"Yeah, we all wanna know who the beetle is."

After their normal perfunctory "see you later," Sam hung up. Next he made a quick call to Figgy.

"How are we doing on Moreau? I need to see her," Sam reminded his contact.

"A lot of red tape. I'm working on it."

"What's their problem?"

"I'll level with you. They're trying to talk with her and having their troubles. They don't want to be upstaged on one of their own kind by an American. But I'm working on it and you'll get there and I'll get you everything they get."

"Find out what the French know about Georges Raval."

"Will do," Figgy answered.

"I want to see the French list of all the former Grace scientists and compare it to mine."

"Maybe they'll want to look at yours and tell you if there is a difference."

"I'm not gonna deal with games like that. I can always tell the CIA to stuff it and drop France from the group. Tell them that."

"Come on, Sam. The French still have some clout with the CIA. You won't bluff them that easily."

"Get me the damn list."

Sam hung up, disgusted that he had to do this dance with the French. Only God knew what they were really up to.

Then he made arrangements to move Michael to a large hospital in Rio.

As he neared Michael's room, Sam couldn't help asking himself what it would be like if thousands of people sud denly acted like his neighbors, Matt and Frank. As he thought it, he answered it-and wondered just how much time he had.