“Now,” Kaufman began, “assuming they’re not the village idiots, are they or are they not onto something?”
Lang hedged.
“Explain.”
“Based on their descriptions, it appears that they studied four crystals, two of which contained inclusions, filaments of palladium. And yes, almost every successful cold fusion experiment that’s been run has used palladium. Even Fleishman and Pons used palladium before they were burned at the stake as heretics.”
Fleishman and Pons were the researchers who’d first discovered cold fusion. They were hailed for a while, before the hot fusion community, fearing for their grants and endowments, attacked and savaged both them and their experiments. Very quickly Fleishman and Pons found their reputations destroyed, their concept shunned and treated as a hoax. In the aftermath, scientific journals followed suit, refusing to publish papers on cold fusion, while mainstream universities barred their fellows from working the field. To even express an interest in the subject was considered the death knell for a career.
“Palladium,” Kaufman repeated, one eyebrow raised. “Interesting. What else?”
Lang plucked one of the printouts from the stack and handed it to Kaufman. “If the NRI is correct, the crystals show the following: a background level of radiation consistent with a low energy reaction, indications of metallic transmutation on the inclusion, primarily streaks of silver and copper at the tip. A high concentration of sulfur in the quartz. And a measurable residue of trapped, gaseous tritium.”
Kaufman studied the printout, moved by the magnitude of the moment. Tritium was the one element they’d been looking for, a radioactive waste product that could only form during a nuclear reaction of some kind. The inclusion’s other properties were rare and extremely odd, and they could almost be explained, except for the presence of the tritium. It proved that the crystal had been used in a reaction that released nuclear energy. Its continued existence could only mean that the reaction had been a type of cold fusion.
“If their data are correct,” Lang repeated.
Kaufman had no doubt that the NRI had gotten its data correct. “What else does the data describe?”
Lang acquiesced. “First of all, the crystals are primarily quartz. But they’re also filled with microscopic lines running in geometrically precise patterns—almost molecular in size. I’m talking several angstroms, here. I don’t know how they were made or what they’re for, but they act like fiber-optic channels, directing specific wavelengths of light through the crystal while screening others out. The effect is only visible under a polarized light.”
“What wavelengths are we talking about?”
“High-energy spectrum: violet, ultraviolet and beyond. According to the report, the tunnels are present in all four crystals, and they’re similar on the crystals containing the inclusions. But the pattern on the other two is far less complex.” Lang paused. “The NRI report tentatively labeled them as blanks. You know, like a hunk of metal that hasn’t been drilled and lathed into whatever it was supposed to become yet.”
“What about the last data transfer?” Kaufman asked. “Were you able to make sense of that?”
Lang reached over and clicked open a new program on the monitor. “There you go,” he said smugly.
Kaufman saw a bunch of dots spread randomly about the computer screen—dots of various sizes—along with a few streaks and arcs on a black background. The screen was divided into four by a pair of lines that crossed in the center. It meant nothing to him.
“What am I looking at?” Kaufman said.
“This is the data displayed in a graphical form,” Lang replied.
“Is this some kind of distribution?”
“No,” Lang said. “Of all things, they’re star charts—four separate panels of them.”
“Star charts?”
“Like the kind old sailors used to navigate with,” Lang said. “I’ve done a little work on the first one. It’s a sky pattern viewed from the southern hemisphere.”
Kaufman grew deeply interested. The NRI had their people in Brazil, looking for the source of the crystals. “Assuming the chart is accurate, does it correspond to a particular longitude and latitude?”
“Not sure yet,” Lang said. “The best I can tell you: Western Hemisphere, south of the equator.”
Before Kaufman could reply, his cell phone rang. He stepped away. “What is it?” he asked.
“We’ve been checking the hospitals, like you asked,” the German-accented voice reported. “And we’ve found a man who might interest you. He’s a John Doe, resting up in a small hospital on the outskirts of Manaus. He was brought in ten days ago, after spending some time at a clinic upriver. Apparently, he was pretty bad off when he first arrived: delirious, suffering from exposure, dehydration and first-stage malnutrition, along with a compound fracture of the right leg. But the fact is, he’s alive, and he’s still here. And I think you’re going to want to meet him.”
“Why?”
“Because he says he works for Helios.” Very rarely was Richard Kaufman at a loss for words, but for a moment, he was struck silent. Kaufman had acquired two contacts in the NRI, frustrated parties who were willing to sell out the organization for a fair price. One had been part of the first mission into the rainforest, a group that had stopped signaling and disappeared. He’d given that man a code word to be transmitted over the radio when he needed to be extracted from the jungle, after he’d stolen what the NRI group recovered. That code word was “Helios”: the Greek god of the sun. It had seemed appropriate.
“Worked for Helios?” Kaufman repeated. The right word but the wrong statement. “Are you sure those were his words?”
“Absolutely. He wanted to know who we worked for and when we didn’t tell him, he said he worked for Helios and we should know what that meant. He says he has something that might interest Helios. Something he’ll only give up in person.”
“Have you tried to persuade him otherwise?”
“As much as we could. But he is in a hospital.”
Kaufman appreciated their finesse. “All right. Keep an eye on him, and make sure he’s not an NRI plant designed to draw us out. Once you’re certain, I’ll meet with you, and then, when I’m ready, I’ll meet with him. But he goes nowhere without our approval, got it?”
Kaufman switched off the phone and glanced over at Lang, who’d turned a subtle shade of green.
“What the hell was that all about?” Lang asked.
Kaufman smiled. “Our next stop. Western Hemisphere, south of the equator.”
Lang did not look pleased, but Kaufman knew his man, he knew that Lang would follow along, chasing the carrot of his own greed as much as taking orders. All Kaufman had to do was avoid bombarding him with too much truth at once.
CHAPTER 12
Seventy-two hours after the briefing at the hotel, Danielle and the new NRI team were five hundred miles upriver, traveling aboard a diesel-powered boat called the
During the day, however, they chugged upriver, spread out on the boat as best they could. The group numbered fourteen, including Pik Verhoven, his four South African mercenaries and a trio of Brazilian porters to help with supplies and equipment.
With snow white hair, a ruddy, tanned face and a scar that twisted across it like a broken strand of barbed wire, Pik Verhoven was a menacing sight. Six foot one and two hundred and forty pounds, he didn’t walk as much as lumber, allowing others ample time to clear his path. Those who stood too close might end up with a none-too- subtle glare, an awkward bump or at least tobacco juice stains on their boots as well-aimed spittle was fired from the ever-present chaw in his mouth.
Aside from Danielle, no one seemed eager to interact with either Verhoven or his men any more than
