The Judas Strain (Page 88)

Anxious and short-wired, Painter wanted to get back down there himself. But he trusted Jennings not to waste his time with trivialities. "What do you want me to see?"

Jennings waved to one of the office’s plasma wall monitors. "I’d like to conference with Richard Graff in Australia. He’s expecting my call, if you’re willing."

"Graff?" Painter asked. "The researcher who had been working with Monk at Christmas Island?"

"Exactly."

It was Dr. Graff who had radioed a tanker passing Christmas Island and had alerted the world about the hijacking of the cruise ship. The oceanogra-pher was currently sequestered and quarantined in Perth.

"You’ve read his debriefing with Australian authorities?" Jennings asked.

Painter nodded.

"But there is something odd that the researcher has discovered since then."

Painter waved to the monitor. "Okay. Show me."

Jennings came around his desk and quickly established a live conference feed. "Here we go."

The monitor went dark, flickered, then a jittery image of the scientist appeared. Dr. Graff wore blue hospital scrubs and his arm was in a sling. He blinked behind his glasses at Painter and Jennings.

Introductions were made—though Jennings passed themselves off as researchers associated with the Smithsonian Institution.

"Can you demonstrate what you found?" Jennings asked. "What you showed me earlier? I think my colleague should see it."

"1 have the specimen waiting right here." Graff slipped offscreen. The camera angle widened and shifted to reveal a white conference table.

Graff reappeared, carrying a large red object in one hand.

"Is that a crab?" Painter asked, sitting straighter.

"Geocarcoidea natalis, "Jennings explained. "The Christmas Island red land crab."

On the screen, Graff nodded and settled the crab to the tabletop. Its large pincer claws were rubber-banded closed. "The little bugger—or rather a horde of them—helped save my life back on the island."

Curious, Painter stood up and approached the screen.

Graff put the crab on the table and released it. It immediately scrabbled across the surface, aiming in a determined straight line. Graff hurried around to the table’s far side to catch it.

Painter shook his head. "1 don’t understand. What are you trying to show me here?"

Graff explained. "Dr. Kokkalis and I found it strange that these crabs were not killed off by the toxic exposure, but their behavior certainly was affected. They were attacking and tearing each other apart. So I had hoped to study the behavior to see if it offered any insight into the toxicity."

While narrating, Graff had settled the crab twice more to the table, but no matter where he placed it, no matter which way he faced the creature, the determined crustacean would turn and make a beeline, hitting the same corner of the table before almost toppling off.

He demonstrated it a few more times.

Strange.

Graff explained his supposition. "The Christmas Island land crab has a finely attuned nervous system that guides its annual migration pattern. Most crustaceans do. But the toxic exposure seems to have rewired the crab’s nervous system, turned it into the equivalent of a fixed compass. The crab always crawls in the same direction, the same compass heading."

Graff collected his crab and deposited it in a tank. "Once things calm down over at the island," he finished, "I’d like to test other crabs to see if they are similarly rewired to the same setting. It’s a fascinating study. I would be happy to write up that grant proposal you mentioned earlier, Dr. Jennings."

"It certainly is an intriguing anomaly, Dr. Graff," Jennings said. "My colleague and I will consult and get back to you. I appreciate your time."

The call was disconnected, and the screen went blank. But Jennings continued typing at Painter’s computer station. A new image appeared on the plasma screen, fed from the computer, a globe of the world.

"When I heard about this anomaly," Jennings said, "I went ahead and collated Dr. Graff’s data and tracked the crab’s trajectory." A dotted line appeared encircling the globe. "I didn’t think my results proved anything until you sent down the update from Commander Pierce."

The globe spun and zoomed large on the screen.

Painter leaned in close. The view swelled with the image of Southeast Asia. The dotted line traversed Indonesia, spanned the Gulf of Thailand, and ran straight across Cambodia.

Jennings tapped the screen, noting one spot crossed by the crab’s trajectory. "Angkor Wat."

Painter straightened. "Are you suggesting—?"

"A rather odd coincidence. It makes me wonder if this crab had been rewired to march itself straight over there."

Painter stared at the screen, picturing Gray Pierce, reminded of the deadly bluff being played out there. "If you’re right, then Marco’s trail might not be such a dead end after all. Something must be there." Jennings nodded, hands on his hips. "But what?"

5:32 A.M. Siem Reap

Vigor reminded himself never to play poker with Gray.

The commander sat in a rattan lounge chair in the hotel’s bar. The facility was closed at this hour, but Nasser had rented the space out for privacy. The Elephant Bar gained its name from the pair of large curved tusks near the entrance. Continuing the motif, the lounge was appointed with bamboo furniture upholstered in zebra and tiger prints.

Gray sat across a glass coffee table from Nasser, playing a cautious game.

Seichan had sprawled herself across a sofa, ankles crossed. Kowalski sat at the long bar, staring at the gemlike spread of bottles. But Vigor also noted how the large man continued to spy upon Gray and Nasser in the bar’s mirror.

Not that there was much any of them could do.

Nasser’s men stationed themselves at all the exits and lined both walls.

With a clank of metal on glass, Nasser returned one of the gold paitzus to the tabletop. Before he even entertained any discussion about cures, Nasser wanted to verify that the ruins of Angkor were indeed where Marco Polo had first encountered the Judas Strain. Gray had laid it all out, decoding the entire story as he had aboard the seaplane.

Vigor stood over the table, studying the angelic script, the star chart, the map of the ruins. He had again listened to the complete decipher.

Nasser finally accepted the truth. He leaned back. "And this cure?"

Vigor fought against flinching. On the flight here, Gray had explained his take on the last story of Marco Polo: his theory of vaccination through cannibalism. It was intriguing, but in the end, it offered no real cure.