“Standby.” The line went dead again. “Access code?”
Access code? There was no access code. This wasn’t a boy scout’s secret hideout. They should have voice-print identified him the second he said his name. Unless they were playing for time. Surrounding the building. David tried to get a read on the clerk as he held the phone. How long had he been inside? 10, maybe 15 minutes by now?
“I…don’t have an access code…”
“Hold the line.” The voice returned. More nervous? “Given name?”
David considered the request. What did he have to lose? “Reed. Andrew Michael.”
The response was quick. “Hold for the Director.”
Two seconds passed and then Howard Keegan’s grandfatherly voice was on the line. “David, my God, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you alright? What’s your status?”
“Is the line secure?”
“No. But frankly my boy, we’ve bigger problems at the moment.”
“Clocktower?”
“Fallen. But not broken. I’m organizing a counterstrike. There’s another problem. A plague is sweeping the globe. We’re racing the clock here.”
“I think I have a piece of the puzzle.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure yet. I need transport.”
“Destination?”
“Gibraltar.”
“Gibraltar?” Keegan sounded confused.
“Is that a problem?”
“No. It’s the best news I’ve heard. I’m actually in Gibraltar now — the last of the agents and I are planning a counterstrike on the Immari Headquarters here. The clerk can arrange transport for you, but before you go, there’s… something else I need to tell you, David. Something I want you to know, just in case you don’t make it here or… if, I’m not here when you arrive. You weren’t the only one investigating Immari. Unraveling their conspiracy has been my life’s work, but when I ran out of time… I knew you were my best shot at stopping them. I was your source. I used all my contacts within Immari to help you, but it wasn’t enough. The tactical mistakes are mine alone—”
“Are in the past. We have new information, possibly something we can use. This is not over. I’ll see you in Gibraltar.”
CHAPTER 102
Immari Research Base Prism
East Antarctica
Dorian had to hand it to Martin Grey: the man was technically competent. The research site in Antarctica was breathtaking. For the last thirty minutes, Martin had walked Dorian through each section of the giant centipede-esque mobile laboratory: the primate lab, with its two dead carcases, the drill control center, the staff barracks, the conference rooms, and the main control center, where they sat now.
“We’re out in the open here, Dorian. We should take precautions. There are several research stations here on Antarctica. Any one of them could stumble across us—”
“And do what?” Dorian said. “Who are they going to call?”
“The nations that fund them for one—”
“Those nations will soon be consumed with the outbreak. Unauthorized research on some ice cube at the end of the world won’t be on their radar, trust me. Let’s stop wasting time and get down to business. Tell me what you found at the sub site.”
“About what we expected.”
“Him?”
“No. General Kane,” Martin seemed to wince as he said the word. “wasn’t among the bodies we iden—”
“Then he’s inside.” Dorian’s hope betrayed his usually stoic exterior.
“Not necessarily. There are other possibilities.”
“Doubtfu—”
Martin pressed on. “He could have been killed during the raid in Tibet. Or en-route. It was a long journey. Or—”
“He’s inside. I know it.”
“If so, it raises several questions. Specifically, why he hasn’t exited. And why we haven’t heard from him. And there’s the reality of the timeline. Kane left for Antarctica in 1938. 75 years ago. If he is inside, he would be over 120 years old. Long dead.”
“Maybe he did try to communicate with us. Roswell. A warning.”
Martin thought it over. “Interesting. Even so, your obsession with Kane, with finding him, puts us all in danger. You need a clear head if you’re to lead this operation—”
“My head is clear, Martin.” Dorian stood. “I admit I’m obsessed with finding Konrad Kane, but you would be too if your father had gone missing.”
CHAPTER 103
Robert Hunt left the snowmobile running. He dismounted and walked into the small rock overhang where he’d left the two men. They were gone. But one snowmobile was there. Had they gone on to the site? Reported him? Had they followed him, backtracking to the last site? That would be as good as reporting him.
He ran out, into the open field of ice, withdrew his binoculars, and scanned the distance in every direction, twirling like a ballerina with his elbows pointed out.