Indignation replaced the sudden panic on Phillips's face, but not before Christian got a good look at his initial reaction.
'That's ... preposterous. I see you've been reading all the propaganda from people who don't understand the benefits mankind can derive from stem cell research. For your information, adult stem cells have been extracted from bone marrow since the sixties, for crying out loud. Besides, why would someone knowingly subject themselves to be rewired into an addict?'
'Key word being 'knowingly,'' Christian countered.
'I resent the implication, sir.'
'Implication? Maybe I haven't made myself clear. How are you getting your test samples, Doc? Before I came here, I did a little light reading on genetics, something about legislation on human tissue.'
'I'm well aware of the Human Tissues Act.' Phillips crossed his arms over his chest.
'Yeah, well . . .' Christian nodded. 'International law puts a tight lid on testing human genetic material without informed consent from the patient. Tell me, are you and this facility in compliance, Dr. Phillips?'
'I assure you, none of the people you've seen here today have had their rights violated.'
'Very clever semantics, Doc. What about all the people we haven't seen?'
'That's enough.' Jasmine weighed in. She'd made her rounds. Now, in a low voice, she intervened. Christian had crossed a line she would defend. Char-boneau's line.
'You feel the conflict, Jasmine? Maybe your beloved employer put himself in the line of fire without knowing it. Maybe the people behind this so-called research got greedy and took him out. You gotta pick sides. What's it gonna be?'
She looked surprised. He'd caught her off guard, not an easy feat.
Christian knew what the doctor said made sense. Even if someone's genes were manipulated without their knowledge, how would the subterfuge be implemented on a grand scale? With Charboneau out of the picture, he knew he might never know the answer. He had to find his father to uncover the truth behind such a conspiracy. Now there was more at stake than a rescue mission for one man. And Jasmine would have to choose sides.
'I think this tour is ended.' Phillips seethed with anger.
'I agree,' Jasmine chimed in, with less conviction.
Seeing his chance to evade Christian's questions, the doctor took advantage of his rift with Jasmine and waved over a security guard. 'Call a taxi for our guests and see that they are escorted off the property. Don't let them get lost.' To Christian, he added, 'I hope you understand when I say our meeting is concluded and you're not welcome back.'
Bile rose in Christian's belly. He didn't want to think about Charboneau's role in all this. Research of this magnitude took time and money. What was his father's blueprint for implementation? How did he plan to take advantage of genetic engineering? Most of all, he wondered how he could so easily believe Charboneau was guilty.
As they were escorted out, Christian whispered to his questionable comrade, 'Thanks for the teamwork back there. You're a real gem.'
'And the fragile male ego rears its head once more.' Jasmine flashed her best Mona Lisa smile and another wink. 'We got what we came for.'
Christian did a double take, catching her subtle gesture. 'We? Lady, you put a whole new emphasis on the 'me' in the word team. I'm not exactly feeling the love here.'
'Oh, but you will.'
Jasmine had something to share, but would she? And if she did, how much could he trust? The start of a festering headache took hold, along with a growing soreness to his shoulders. With Duarte waiting, and no likely moment for a private conversation with Jasmine, he'd have to put off getting his answers.
He hated being in the dark, in more ways than one.
Military Police Headquarters,
State of Mato Grasso
Downtown Cuiaba
From his taxi window at a busy intersection, Christian spied police headquarters up ahead, a glass and stone building. Given all the history in this town, the structure was modern and relatively uninspired. Not much to look at, except for the impressive palm trees and fountains in the median of a bustling boulevard.
At the curb, he paid off the cabbie. Getting out of the vehicle took effort. His body ached from head to toe. Jasmine made a beeline for the entrance, but Christian's mind was elsewhere when he caught up to her. Soon he'd be staring into a set of dark eyes— eyes that bristled with a capacity for danger. Captain Duarte would require special handling. Christian believed when negotiating with a hungry, unpredictable beast, it was best not to look like a side of beef.
He'd consider it a moral victory if he walked away with all his original body parts.
'Let me do all the talking,' he said to Jasmine, like that was an issue. The Asian beauty made the Terminator look neighborly and downright chatty.
'By all means. I'd rather not be blamed for tightening the noose around your neck.' She smiled. Sometimes Jasmine had all the charm of a croc swallowing a baby antelope whole.
At the first floor security kiosk, they showed ID and signed into the building. Directed to the second floor, they wore visitor badges clipped to their collars. Captain Duarte had a corner office to the far right of the detectives' bullpen, off the bank of elevators. Even crossing international borders, some things went without saying—the universal language of police work never changed.
Christian knocked on the man's open door.
'Glad to see you are prompt, Mr. Delacorte.' The captain did not extend his hand, only waved them to take a seat.
As usual, Jasmine did not respond well to cordiality. She donned her cloak of invisibility and melded into her surroundings like a slithering chameleon in self-preservation mode. She chose to stay mobile.
'Do I get points for cutting our lab tour short?' He broke the ice with a lame attempt at humor as he sat down, trying to hide his wince of pain. Duarte barely sneered, so he went for round two. 'I love what you've done to the place. Real cozy.'
Bare bones and no frills, Duarte's office gave no hint of the man he was. No family photos. Nothing personal. The unpretentious room held a fatigue green metal desk with oak veneer, a matching bookshelf and credenza, and a few chairs. The sparse decor made the furniture showroom at Ikea look ostentatious and overdone.
'I prefer things . . . simple,' Duarte said. 'I don't often get my way.'
Christian raised an eyebrow. 'I find that hard to believe.'
'Just as I find it hard to believe a visitor to my country does not register a formal complaint after he is very nearly killed on the streets of my town. Why did you not report the incident, Mr. Delacorte?'
Playing hard ball already; the man had no patience for idle chitchat.
'It wasn't a big deal.' He shrugged.
'All evidence to the contrary. The bruises on your body say otherwise.'
Christian considered the man seated behind the desk. Did Duarte exert control to force his cooperation, or did the man have an affinity for interference? What was his agenda?
'I didn't get a good look at the license plate or the car. Filing a report would've been a waste of time. And we don't have much of that.'
Duarte stared at him. His black eyes looked like bottomless pits.
'And I suppose you hoped the blood sacrifice of a chicken would bring good fortune in your search?'
How many times would he hear
He knew he had to give Duarte something. He broke down and shared what he could about the Macumba house warming on their balcony last night, but he held back a choice tidbit or two. Their next stop, to the voodoo peddler, to see Bianca Salvador, was his lead to keep. And he wouldn't mention the contents of the carryon bag at
