Rogue Angel - Swordsman's Legacy Part 15

"Well." He offered a shrug and a dismissive splay of fingers. "We haven't actually cloned a human."

"But you're trying?"

"I cannot reveal BHDC's inner workings. To do so may, or may not, incriminate me."

"You've given me quite the earful already. A few years ago there was an article in Scientific American Scientific American supposing BHDC had already mastered therapeutic cloning." supposing BHDC had already mastered therapeutic cloning."

"Ah, you have done your research. Points for you, Annja."

"How, exactly, does that work? I don't understand anything beyond the basics."

"What? Therapeutic cloning?"

She nodded. It would be a start, to turn a key that may open further discoveries about BHDC.

"It's all a bunch of scientific mumbo jumbo. But you must consider the possibilities should we develop the technology to create human organs. No longer would we need donor lists. Children now dying in wait of a donor organ would survive."

"And that's all you're using the DNA for?" she asked.

"There is so much one can do with the code of life. Genetics can be traced through family bloodlines through the study of DNA. As you must know," he said, "genetic archaeologists use the process. I find it is most useful in providing proof for claims to family fortunes and proving paternity. Finding a descendant for d'Artagnan's sword? It is very possible. With today's technological advancements we are able to literally trace one's ancestors back to the days of the Romans, if we wish."

"Child's play. Scientists are tracing DNA back to the seven daughters of Eve," Annja said.

"If you believe the theory of the original seven."

"It's not a theory," Annja said. "Belief or not, most police outfits have a connection to DNA labs for forensics testing."

"But not everyone can create a human organ for transplant. It's a tricky but most satisfying accomplishment."

"Do you have...?" Ascher's kidney growing in a jar, Ascher's kidney growing in a jar, jumped to Annja's tongue, but she didn't speak it. It creeped her out to imagine a lab jar with a meaty kidney floating inside, awaiting transplant. jumped to Annja's tongue, but she didn't speak it. It creeped her out to imagine a lab jar with a meaty kidney floating inside, awaiting transplant.

On the other hand, to consider all the children and adults who would benefit from such a science truly was a wondrous thing. But wonders tended to be accompanied by hidden pitfalls, obsessions and evils.

"As for cloning," she prompted. "Beyond a mere organ. What about a whole human?"

"Somatic cell nuclear transfer. No one has successfully cloned a human. And if they had, the laws today would keep them from making it public knowledge."

"I thought there was an announcement in the scientific community a few years ago?"

"Ah, yes, that ridiculous Clonaid baby. The Raelian cult, if I recall correctly. They have not been able to produce scientific confirmation of the claim. It was a dupe on the entire world."

"But why-presuming you had the ability to create a clone-a historical figure?"

"Ah. Well, wouldn't you-if you could not have a child, and had decided to go the cloning route-want to be able to choose a historical figure? A little Marie Antoinette, for example. Or an Alfred Einstein or even Thomas Jefferson."

"Have you DNA evidence for all those people?" Annja asked.

"Of course. Along with treasure hunters, I staff genetic archaeologists and an a.s.sortment of skilled medical personnel. We're always on the lookout for viable samples."

"That's sick."

"Not at all. That is the future of biohistorical genetics."

"But...I obviously don't understand cloning. Can you use dead DNA?"

"Of course. I'll forego the lengthy scientific explanation, but suffice to say, so long as the sample is viable we can work with it. It's a process to extract the genetic material and synthesize a usable genetic code. But it is worth it."

"Really? There are a lot of customers for babies who resemble historical figures?"

"You would be surprised."

Yes, I would be. What would be the purpose? Flaunting your miniature Marie Antoinette before your friends, when they may merely grin and wonder what you're so proud of. Not many knew what historical figures looked like when they were children. On the other hand, she could imagine the twisted benefits of having a child who looked like a contemporary celebrity. If one were so vain as to wish their child looked like a movie star, would they then use that to profit from it?

"What about the couple who desires a mini-Hitler romping about their feet?" she asked.

"Oh, Annja." Lambert's chuckle rippled a chill along Annja's shoulders. She felt no comfort standing alone in this room with him. Time to start scoping out an escape route.

"You must understand," he said, "that the cloning process would merely produce an identical subject in physicality and appearance. The human brain cannot be cloned. The personality of the subject would not be pa.s.sed along to the clone. And those couples believing they can clone a lost loved one killed in a car accident will be sorely let down. We attempt to make that very clear in our literature."

"You have literature?"

She had heard quite enough.

The fact Lambert had been so free with his facts led her to believe the exit wasn't going to be shown to her. And she could see no other means to escape unless she crashed through the plate-gla.s.s window. How many stories up were they?

"So you'll let me leave?" she asked.

"Of course."

She lifted a cynical brow.

"If you take us to Ascher Vallois. While the sword is key, the treasure map must not be overlooked."

So he knew about the map.

Ascher was probably following it right now. How to read the map? If it was of the underground tunnels, could she find a similar map online to compare it to? Had Ascher had that thought yet?

"I knew it couldn't be a mere sword that motivated you," she said. "You're a weekend treasure hunter, as well?"

"It is hardly a hobby. The profit from our plunder finances BHDC."

"BioHistorical Design Corporation. I get it now. You steal DNA evidence, process it and sell it to the highest bidder. It's-" the realization expanded like a nuclear mushroom in her chest "-ident.i.ty theft at its most intimate and evasive."

"Oh come, Annja, they don't mind. They're all dead. A stolen hair here, a pilfered molar, perhaps a femur-though it is rather difficult to get viable DNA from bones."

"George Clooney isn't dead," she stated.

"Yet, wherever he goes, he leaves DNA in his wake. A fingerprint, a fallen hair, saliva."

He strode the floor, swinging his arms now. "Besides, you are arguing an impossibility. We're doing nothing wrong in the eyes of the law. Therapeutic cloning is completely aboveboard."

"In Britain. It's still illegal in France."

"Yes, I did once have a lab in Britain, but they aren't keen on pirates. I can't return to that country."

He shrugged. The grin he gave her hid many secrets that she wanted to release. A self-proclaimed pirate?

"Madmen always believe in their ideologies," she said.

"I'm not mad. I am a modern-day pirate, Annja. How else to finance our studies without plunder?"

Now the connection between the map and the cloning was coming together. The treasure was required to finance what must be a cash-sucking foray into the maniacal dreams of a strange future of cloned historical figures socializing with replicated modern-day celebrities.

"Even if I did hand over the map to you," she said, "you'd never be able to navigate it. There's no means to determine direction or even a starting point. A navigational device is missing."

Lambert brushed a finger across his lips as the most amused expression tickled his eyes. "So you are unaware of what you have?"

"I know what I'm missing," she said.

"I see." He turned and marched over to his desk. Annja was a little surprised that he simply left her standing, untied, able to dash away. Possibly he suspected little danger from a woman. Silly man. Hadn't his thugs related their struggles by the river?

A struggle that found you the captive, she chided herself.

"I don't need the map, Annja. I have a copy."

"A copy?" How many had Ascher made?

He typed in some information on the laptop keyboard, and the image of a map appeared on the screen. Annja approached slowly, leaning in to study the image.

"Look familiar?" he asked.

She nodded. It was as if Ascher had scanned the map onto the screen. But he couldn't have had time to do so since acquiring it yesterday morning. Could he?

He'd had time to humidify, copy and and laminate it. laminate it.

"Where did you get this?"

"One of my researchers turned it up after an exhaustive search in the stacks of the Bibliotheque Nationale. I'm sure the source was Nicolas Fouquet's journals, though that's not immediately to mind right now. You know the financier kept copies of all Queen Anne's correspondence. Though I am still a bit baffled as to the creator of the map. There is no signature on it, as was the custom."

"Not the queen?" Annja asked.

"Do you think Anne of Austria took the time to scribble out something so elaborate as this?"

Annja traced the jagged corner of the map on the screen. It had to be identical to the map Ascher held.

"Missing the same corner, I presume, as the one you hold. I have to believe whoever designed it did so purposefully. It's not torn, but rather cut. And only with the designer may lie the answers."

This copy was in color. Annja saw now the thick red line. The river or something else?

"You see? We have both been walking the same path. I'm not sure how you got Vallois to side with you, without-"

"Ripping out a kidney?"

"Exactly. Though you are not hard on the eyes. Perhaps he's sleeping with you."

She rolled her eyes at that comment.

"I won't settle for holding the bouquet," Lambert said. "I will have that treasure."

"Who's to say it's even there still? Wherever there there is. It's been three centuries. The map has obviously been copied once. What proof have you there aren't a dozen more copies lying around? Someone could have claimed the treasure centuries ago." is. It's been three centuries. The map has obviously been copied once. What proof have you there aren't a dozen more copies lying around? Someone could have claimed the treasure centuries ago."

"You don't seem particularly worried at that prospect. Nor am I," he said.

He slid to sit on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"This map here is a copy, more than likely made by Nicolas Fouquet. I wager he may have been as confused about how to navigate it as you are. But he did spend three years imprisoned with Charles Castelmore-the sword's owner. Do you think he managed to discover how to read the map during those years?"

Annja crossed her arms, her focus blurring on the laptop screen. Interesting question. And while she did not for one moment feel safe standing next to a man who had sent thugs after her and Ascher, right now it felt as if a colleague had posed a question.

But Fouquet had eventually died imprisoned. Even if he had learned how to read the map, he was never free to follow it. Of course, that didn't rule out lackeys or perhaps even Fouquet's wife.

"You know how to read the map," she tried. "You know who created it?"

"Ninety percent sure." He curled long fingers over the edge of the desk. A little-boy smile dashed his mouth. One who had found many treasures and eagerly sought the next daring adventure. "And I must say, I'm quite surprised you haven't stumbled upon it, as well. But that's all I will say about that."

"Because...even though you know how to read it, you're unable to," she said, working out the possibilities as she spoke. "You're missing the navigational key, as we are. But you know what that key is."

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Now you decide to keep incriminating evidence close? I don't understand you, Mr. Lambert."

"That's monsieur. monsieur."

"You're no more French than I am. What was wrong with the United States? Do they take particular offense to pirates, too?"

"Monsieur." A blond woman poked her head through the door and held out a business card. "There is a man here to see you. Urgent." A blond woman poked her head through the door and held out a business card. "There is a man here to see you. Urgent."

Lambert retrieved the business card and read it. "I've not heard of this person."

"He said he has an artifact you may be interested in viewing."

"Did he show you?"

"No, but he's carrying a small wooden box. He seems kind and elderly. A little hunched in the shoulders. Not a threat."

Lambert crossed the room and turned the laptop away from Annja. After a few keystrokes, and an intent observation of the screen, he said, "Very well. Bring him to the adjoining meeting room. I'll be there momentarily."

After the woman left, Lambert crossed the room and pressed his forefinger to a small switch on the wall across from the desk, which Annja hadn't noticed before. It was a biometric reader. A small green light flashed as it read his fingerprint. In response, a six-foot-wide portion of marble wall slid silently upward. Now there was an escape route.