He was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal from one of the pigs. They all looked at the monitor, and Polten froze in horror when he saw what was happening.
One of the pigs was lurching around, trying to stay on its feet. It was clearly having trouble breathing. It keeled over and slumped in the dirt. Soon, two more pigs were staggering, then all of them were. It didn’t take long after that. Within a minute, nothing but silence from the speakers.
The general let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “It seems your timing was a little off.”
Polten tried to salvage the situation. “General, we just need to adjust the dosage. I’m sure with a few more tests we can—”
“Mr. Polten, I told you to give me your best effort on this test.”
Polten, wrung out, couldn’t restrain his annoyance. “That’s not how science works, General. You don’t always get it right the first time.”
“Then when are you going to get it right? Five more years and another truckload of funding?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Sorry, Mr. Polten,” Jefferson said, putting on his hat. “I’m going to recommend that we stop throwing money away on this project. We’ve got other more promising avenues to investigate.”
“Nothing is more promising than this! I’ve seen the reports from your other projects and they’re no closer than we are to developing an effective serum.”
“And you’re no closer than they are, even though your project has cost three times as much . . . Gentlemen.”
With that, he headed out with his retinue of officers, leaving Polten and Davis alone with the rest of the development team. They all looked at Polten in pity mixed with fear about their own jobs.
“I’ll talk to him,” he muttered. “Get out to the hazmat truck and collect the pigs for dissection.”
They shuffled outside, but Davis didn’t follow them.
“What?” Polten said to him. “I don’t need a pep talk.”
“How much do we have left in our budget?” Davis asked.
“Enough to keep the lights on for a few more months. Why?”
“And you have wide latitude for how to use it, right?”
“It’s my budget. I can use it however I see fit. What are you getting at?”
“I’ve got something to show you.”
Davis pulled up a video on his laptop. “This was shot a week ago in Bangkok, Thailand. It came from a police report about a drug deal gone wrong. Just found it this morning, so this is the first chance I’ve had to show it to you.”
He started the video, and it showed a room littered with bloody bodies. It was clear they’d been in some kind of gunfight, with bullet holes everywhere. Police officers and crime scene investigators picked their way over the corpses as they collected evidence.
“These are members of two drug gangs, one from Thailand and one from the Philippines. It seems the Filipinos came out of it better since most of the bodies are Thai.”
Polten could feel his blood boiling. “We’ve just had a major setback, possibly losing our jobs because of it, and you’re showing me the aftermath of a battle between rival drug gangs? What does this have to do with anything?”
“Remember when we were doing our literature review of World War Two drugs in the classified archives?”
Polten shrugged. “And?”
“We noticed one called Typhoon, a relative of steroids that we thought might help us in our work.”
“Yes, I remember that one. Typhoon would be revolutionary if it did everything it was reported to do, which is frankly hard to believe. But we didn’t have a formula or any idea how it was made. All we had was a photo of a pill, white with a typhoon cyclone symbol on it. Everything else about it was lost in the war.”
“Maybe,” Davis replied with a sly grin. “You know, I have a constant search going on the Internet for any mentions of unidentified drugs just to make sure we don’t miss anything that might be useful. Well, I think we’ve found something useful.”
He fast-forwarded the video to the point where one of the investigators was emptying the pockets of a victim.
“That’s one of the Filipinos,” Davis said.
The investigator stood up while looking at something in the palm of his hand. Someone asked him a question and he shook his head. He held a white pill up to the camera, and Davis paused the image.
The pill had the same symbol as the tablet of Typhoon they’d seen in the archives.
Polten looked at Davis in amazement. “Is it the same?”
Davis nodded. “Exactly the same. I checked. Someone found a cache of Typhoon pills somewhere.”
“Still intact after seventy years?”
“If they were vacuum-sealed, there’s no reason they wouldn’t be just as potent today as they were back then.”
Polten suddenly saw the opportunity to do something even bigger than Panaxim. If he was able to develop a contemporary analog of Typhoon, he could write his ticket in the chemical warfare community.
“We need to do this very quietly,” Polten said.
“I know. That’s why I waited until we were alone. And I expect to be a full partner in this.”
Polten smiled, though he had no intention of sharing the limelight once the project was a success. “Of course, I couldn’t do it without you. But first we need to know where these drug dealers got their supply.”
“I already dug into the Thai report. Since they don’t know what it is, the pill is locked up tight until they can get some answers. But the police didn’t capture any of the Filipinos who survived.”
“Then we need to send someone in to get the answers. Do the police know who they are?”
“Based on the identity of one of the men, they think it’s a radical member of a communist insurgency based in the Philippines.”
“Communists? They’re still around?”
“Apparently. With the rise of radical jihadists in the southern part of the country, they’ve been out of the limelight for a few years, but it seems like they’re starting to make a comeback.”
“That’s the Philippines’s problem. All we need is someone to tell us where they got the Typhoon. And I know just the man. Gerhard Brekker, a South African who owns a small private military contracting firm. He’s done some work for us before, off the books, and he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty if the price is right. Brekker’s told me that he can have contractors anywhere in the world within twenty-four hours.”
“If General Jefferson finds out were doing this, he’ll shut us down immediately,” Davis said.
“Then we won’t tell him,” Polten replied. But it was actually worse than that. Polten wasn’t supposed to have access to the classified files where he’d found out about Typhoon. Those files were supposed to be dead and buried. If the general discovered the Pandora’s box the two chemists were opening, Polten wouldn’t be surprised if both of them ended up in prison.
17
THE PHILIPPINES
Beth wrinkled her nose in disgust at the rickety ship tied up at the Manila dock where she and Raven had been told to meet Juan. The bright morning sun didn’t do the vessel any favors, throwing a harsh light on the rust spots, mismatched green paint, and cracks in the hull. It looked like it was in danger of sinking right there in the harbor.
“Are you sure this is the place?” she asked Raven, who regarded the ship with nothing more than an arched eyebrow.
“That’s what the text message said,” Raven replied.
“But this ship is called the Norego.” Beth pointed at the name painted in black on the fantail. The jackstaff flew a flag she didn’t recognize, and it certainly wasn’t American. “Maybe the Oregon couldn’t make it here so fast from Guam after all.”
Raven frowned at the corroded hulk. “Maybe not.”
She and Raven had ho
led up in a Manila hotel for the last two days, and Beth had been bored out of her mind waiting for a chance to retrieve the stolen Gardner paintings. Raven, on the other hand, had spent her time going out into the city to acquire new equipment that she thought they’d need, including a pistol and knife, neither of which she could have gotten through customs.
Beth was about to suggest that they text back to make sure they’d understood the message correctly when a uniformed Filipino man appeared at the top of the gangway accompanied by a weather-beaten old man in dirty khakis and a sweat-stained denim shirt unbuttoned down to his round belly.
The Filipino waved his hand like he was hastily refusing some kind of offer and hustled down the wobbly gangway. As he passed them, his face was ashen, and he mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He looked as if he’d lose his breakfast at any moment.
The old man lurched down the plank as if he’d drunk his breakfast. He stopped at the bottom and leaned against the railing.
“What do you want?” he rasped in a voice as rough as sandpaper. Deep lines etched his leathery face like a geological formation around his bulbous nose. His head was hairless except for gray muttonchop sideburns and bushy eyebrows that could have served as birds’ nests.
“We’re looking for Juan Cabrillo,” Beth said.
He scowled at them. “If you want a burrito, go find a restaurant. I’m a captain, not a cook.”
Raven choked down a laugh.
Beth gave him her best smile and raised her voice so he could hear her. “Sir, we’re supposed to meet a man named Juan Cabrillo here.”
“All right, all right. You don’t need to shout. So you’re Beth Anders and Raven Malloy?”
“That’s right.”
He pursed his lips as if he was considering whether they were legit, then nodded. “I’m Herb Munson. Juan’s this way. Come on.”
He staggered up the gangway. Beth and Raven looked at each other and shrugged before going after him.
The deck was a mess, and they had to step over trash and broken chains as they made their way toward the superstructure. Munson weaved his way ahead of them, and Beth expected him to take a spill on the cluttered deck with every step.
She leaned over and whispered to Raven, “Do you think this is a good idea?”
“He knew who we are, so obviously we are expected.”
“How could this guy be a part of Juan’s organization? He looks old enough to have been a stowaway on Noah’s ark.”
Over his shoulder, Munson suddenly said, “Of course I know how to park. We’re docked, aren’t we?”
Beth looked in amazement from Munson to Raven. “How could he hear that?”
“I don’t know. But something’s not right here.” Beth noticed that Raven’s hand hovered near her holstered weapon.
Munson waved for them to enter the ship’s interior, and once they were inside, Beth could understand why the Filipino had been so sick. A foul smell greeted them, and it only got worse as they entered a small office that reeked like an overflowing dumpster. The major source of the rancid odor seemed to be a connected bathroom. Before Munson closed the lavatory door, Beth got a glimpse of a level of filth that would give her nightmares.
A familiar voice behind them surprised Beth. “Hey there. Looks like you found us.”
She whipped around to see Max Hanley in the doorway.
“Juan,” he said, looking at the wizened captain, “we’re unloading the Powered Investigator Ground now.”
Beth turned and stared in astonishment at the man calling himself Munson. But when he replied, Juan’s strong baritone came out.
“Good. Send Eddie up. I’ll get changed while you ready the PIG.”
“Do you have to call it that?” Max said.
“You designed it, so you got to pick the name. You should have realized what was going to happen.”
“Acronyms. Everyone around here has to use acronyms.” Max continued to grumble as he walked away.
“Sorry about deceiving you ladies,” Juan said as he pulled off his bald cap and glued-on sideburns, “but I couldn’t reveal myself out on the wharf where prying eyes might have seen me.”
“Then this is the Oregon?” Raven asked matter-of-factly.
Juan grinned as he removed his prosthetic nose and fake belly. “You don’t seem very surprised.”
“Norego. Oregon. It adds up now. But that’s a good disguise. I’m not fooled easily.”
“I noticed. We do it to get in and out of ports without much attention. None of the harbormasters like to spend more time on board than they have to, and I get to remain incognito. Well, Beth, are you ready for a little road trip?”
Beth shut her mouth, which had been gaping open at Juan’s transformation. “I’m just a bit confused right now. What’s the PIG?”
“That’s our transportation for today. Here’s Eddie now. He’ll show it to you while I get out of these brown contacts and change clothes.”
A lean Chinese man appeared where Max had been. Juan introduced him as Eddie Seng, chief of shore operations.
“What does that mean?” Beth asked.
“I’m in charge of any excursions we take off the ship,” Eddie said.
“But I’m coming along, too,” Juan said. “I’ll meet you down there.”
As he ducked out of the office, Eddie said, “Why don’t we get some fresh air.”
“Yes, please,” Beth said.
When they got outside, Beth couldn’t believe how good the oily seawater of the dock area smelled. She inhaled in relief like she’d just been released from prison.
One of the ship’s deck cranes was hauling a boxy-looking truck from the hold. With oversized tires and a stout cab on the front, it must have been formidable in its day, but now it looked as decrepit as the ship it had emerged from. The crane’s motor whined in protest at the load, but the truck swung smoothly over the pier and settled onto the dock as lightly as a feather.
“We’re going in that?” Beth said, pointing at the truck as they walked down the gangway. “Why don’t we just rent an SUV?”
“The PIG may not look pretty, but I think you’ll be comfortable.” He noticed another Filipino man walking around the truck. “Just a moment. I need to take care of the inspector.”
When the PIG was unlatched from the crane, Eddie opened the back doors, which, like the sides, featured the faded logo of an oil exploration company. The cargo area was full of metal drums. “Spare fuel,” Beth heard Eddie say to the inspector, who nodded. He made a few notes on a clipboard, and Eddie signed it. Beth caught him slipping a few American hundred-dollar bills under the paper.
When the inspector left, Eddie said, “Sometimes we have to grease a few palms to avoid questions.”
Beth nodded but said nothing. She’d done the same in a few seedy locales when she needed answers to awkward questions.
They stood by while Eddie made preparations in the PIG. A few minutes later, Juan strode down the gangway in a black T-shirt and light cargo pants.
“I like this version much better,” Beth said.
“Me too,” Juan said. “I’m done with Herb Munson for the day. How’s it looking, Eddie?”
Eddie poked his head from the cab. “Everything checks out, Chairman. We’re ready when you are.”
“Then let’s load up. Beth and Raven, I’ll ride shotgun, if you don’t mind.”
Beth got in back with Raven and was happy to find that it had already been cooled down by a powerful air conditioner. Though the seats were torn and faded, the leather was surprisingly supple and the cushions provided good support.
When all the doors were closed, Eddie flipped a switch, and the ancient dashboard retracted and flipped around. It was replaced with a state-of-the-art computer display and high-tech switches.
Eddie engaged the powerful diesel and drove away
from the Oregon. The ride was limousine smooth.
Juan turned in his seat. “The PIG’s got a few more hidden features that might come in handy, since we don’t know what we’ll find up in the mountains. GPS says it’s a four-hour drive. There are drinks and sandwiches in the cooler between you, if you want some.”
Beth shook her head and laughed. “What hidden features? Am I sitting in an ejector seat? Does it have machine guns in the headlights?”
Juan gave her a mysterious smile. “No, not in the headlights.”
He didn’t say anything about the ejector seat.
• • •
MEL OCAMPO nervously watched Salvador Locsin’s helicopter land inside the compound in remote central Luzon. He’d been stalling as long as he could to avoid this visit, but he could no longer disguise his lack of progress in replicating the Typhoon drug.
He pined for his days as a research scientist at a pharmaceutical conglomerate in Manila. It had been solid if unexciting work that paid well, but when this new job offer had come along—with three times the pay—he’d jumped at the chance. At the time, it seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime. With the money he’d been advanced, he sent his wife and two children to the United States to live with a cousin until he could join them. Now he wished he’d never answered that phone call.
For four months, he’d been trapped in this remote compound in charge of five other chemists who were given the impossible task of divining the formula for a pill none of them had seen before. Now he wasn’t sure any of them would ever leave this place alive.
Locsin and his right-hand man, Tagaan, got out of the helicopter and marched toward him.
“Dr. Ocampo,” Locsin said, his annoyance obvious, “why am I here?”
Ocampo stammered, “To . . . to see the headway we’ve made on your project—”
“Wrong. I’m here because you aren’t doing the work you said you could do.”
Locsin brushed by him and walked toward the main lab facility with Tagaan. They pushed open the doors and walked in without caring about sterilization procedures. Ocampo scurried after them.