James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

She tried not to flinch at the use of her name. She had no ID on her. He must have noted some reaction. His lips thinned to a ghost of a satisfied smile. He had purposely used her name to unsettle her.

It had worked.

He continued: “By my estimation, you alone took out at least three of my men.”

She heard no anger in his voice, no threat of revenge.

“Impressive,” he said. “And smart. I hope you’ll prove as smart once we reach the island. My superiors and I will have some questions for you. Cooperation will be rewarded.”

And if she didn’t cooperate, the threat was plain in his eyes.

Instead of further unsettling her, the intimidation only helped center her. She spoke for the first time. There was no use begging for her life. She knew it was forfeit. Instead, she wanted answers for the bloodshed and death.

“What’s behind all this?” she asked. She tried to sound confident, but she had to struggle not to let a quaver enter her voice. “The genetic changes in the animals, all you’ve done to cover it up… what are you all doing out here?”

Duncan took her questions in stride. A part of her hoped he’d refuse to answer, but he showed no reluctance in responding, which unnerved her more than his threat a moment ago. If she had any question of surviving this ordeal, it was dashed by his candor.

“We call it the Babylon Project.”

Babylon?

He read the confusion in her face. “Named for where it all began. In a word, we’re involved in biowarfare . Or more specifically, I should say bioweapon systems . As you’ll soon see, what you stumbled upon is merely a scratch on the surface of larger ambitions. When we’re done, the way wars are fought will be forever changed.”

For the first time, true fear filtered through to her. This was no mere smuggling operation tied to a clandestine research project. It was much bigger.

Before more could be explained, the pilot came over the radio, cutting them off. “We’ll be landing in five minutes. Everyone buckle up.”

Lorna turned to the window again. The seaplane dipped toward the set of islands she had noted before. Most appeared to be sandbars supporting a tree or two. The grouping formed a gentle arc centered on a larger wooded island shaped like a dumbbell. They looked to be two islands that had fused together long ago by a bridge of sand and mangrove forest.

The seaplane dove toward the western half of the island. A deep cove scooped out an arc of white sand. Beyond the beach, a whitewashed villa climbed in a series of stacked tiers up a steep forested hill. A series of blue pools spilled from one level to the next. As the seaplane banked and angled for a descent into the cove, she got a bird’s-eye view of the island’s eastern half. It appeared deserted and untamed.

Thousands of such small islands and cays dotted the Caribbean. Many were privately owned and shifted national allegiances as easily and as often as one changed hairstyles. If someone wanted to set up a private research facility-one that was isolated and beyond the rules and regulations of modern society-here was a perfect place to do it.

The seaplane swept cleanly into the cove and dipped to the water. Fountains sprayed from the twin floats as the craft landed and glided toward a stone pier. Ahead, white sand sparkled against the blue water. Palms and mangroves shadowed the interior. A flutter of native doves took wing from the dense forest, disturbed by their approach.

It appeared to be paradise-but she knew it held a darker secret, a black heart kept out of direct view.

Lorna let out the breath she’d been holding.

She turned from the window to find Duncan studying her.

He lifted an arm toward the island. His eyes danced with amusement. The irony of his next words were not lost on her.

“Welcome to Eden, Dr. Polk.”

Jack had returned to his workplace, towing the others with him. He had everyone sequestered in the computer lab of the New Orleans Border Patrol station house.

The red brick facility had a long history, going back to the twenties, when the agency’s main goal was to capture deserting crewmen and Prohibition-era smugglers bringing rum in from the Caribbean. But times had changed. As part of Homeland Security now, the station housed one of the most advanced surveillance and computer units in the country, employed to protect the borders against terrorists and their weapons.

As Jack paced the secure room, he rubbed his temples, trying to hold his head from splitting apart. Since he’d arrived here, his skin had begun to burn with a fever, and an ache smoldered deep in his bones, ready to catch fire. He had dry-swallowed three aspirins and waited for them to kick in. He didn’t have time to be sick-and this tension wasn’t helping.

“How long do we need to stay here?” Zoë asked.

Jack lowered his hands from his head. “No more than a day.”

By that time Lorna’s fate would be sealed. It would no longer be necessary to maintain the ruse that everyone had perished at ACRES. The first emergency response helicopter had arrived on scene a quarter hour after Jack had found Burt in the woods. He had been relieved to see the CPB emblem on the chopper’s side. The station’s helicopters were often first-responders.

Jack had waved the chopper down. He knew the pilot well and quickly explained the necessity to keep their fate under wraps. Afterward, Jack coordinated with law enforcement to maintain that blanket. Morning news shows were already reporting on the tragedy and the lack of survivors. Shortly after that, the local NBC affiliate received an e-mail claiming the firebombing was the work of a new animal-rights terrorist group.

It was surely bogus, likely planted by whoever orchestrated the assault. Still, it served Jack equally well. The terrorist angle had the news organizations chasing their own tails. No one questioned the lack of witnesses or survivors.

Afterward, Jack had moved everyone here.

Including Burt and the animals from the trawler.

Randy slouched in an office chair, his eyes closed, with Burt curled at his feet. The other animals were recovering from mild tranquilizers. Dr. Greer had removed their tracking tags under local anesthesia. The tags rested on a nearby table, secured in a copper Faraday cage to prevent them from being tracked. All except one that was being analyzed by a computer forensics expert brought in from the local FBI office. With magnifying glasses fixed to his face, he had deactivated the tag.

He also confirmed Jack’s earlier suspicion. “This isn’t commercial grade. I’d say military or paramilitary. Either way, someone with money.”

As they waited for further details, Carlton joined Jack, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands. “If your man is right, it confirms a suspicion.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked, glad for the diversion.

“All that’s happened. This is beyond a simple corporation sidestepping rules and regulations regarding animal research. This has the fingerprints of something larger. Possibly with government backing.”

“As in our government?”

Carlton looked upon him as if he were a naive child. “Underground projects are financed all the time by the U.S. government, including grants from DARPA, the Defense Department’s research-and-development agency. But you should know that over the past few years, rumors have persisted in the scientific community of projects so black that people disappear into them and are never seen again.”

“And you think we stumbled onto one of them?”

Carlton sighed. “I don’t know. But there’s another worrisome trend. In regard to private defense contractors. I assume with your military background that you’re familiar with Blackwater?”