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  ‘That’s why Hiram Conley hadn’t aged in a hundred fifty years or more,’ she said, deciding not to mention the possible presence of others likewise afflicted, ‘a biological infection. But it was your men who took the remains from the morgue, along with Lillian Cruz. Your men who destroyed Tyler Willis’s apartment.’

  Oppenheimer shook his head.

  ‘My men have done no such thing,’ he snapped. ‘They went nowhere near that apartment.’

  Lopez lost her momentum for a moment as she looked into Oppenheimer’s rheumy gray eyes and realized that he was almost certainly telling the truth.

  ‘Then who did?’ she asked.

  ‘Rival companies, most probably,’ Oppenheimer said. ‘You don’t think that I’m the only one in this race, do you? There are literally dozens of major corporations out there who would gladly arrange an accident for me in order to capitalize on the years of research we’ve achieved at SkinGen. Why the hell do you think I travel with bodyguards in a bullet-proof vehicle?’

  Lopez shook her head.

  ‘Not everyone on the planet thinks like you, Oppenheimer,’ she said. ‘Some people are decent enough to work things out on their own, not steal them.’

  ‘Quaint,’ Oppenheimer observed with a smile that reminded Lopez of a basking alligator. ‘The assumption that other people are of good intent is what most often gets one killed.’

  Lopez glanced out of the tinted window at the early-morning shoppers strolling past.

  ‘You’re boring me, Jeb,’ she said. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘That we each have something that the other needs,’ Oppenheimer said smoothly. ‘I want to know where the bacteria that infected Hiram Conley can be found.’

  Lopez slowly turned in her seat to face the old man.

  ‘We don’t know. All we’re interested in right now is finding Lillian Cruz.’

  ‘Really?’ Oppenheimer muttered. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Ms Lopez. You and your partner, Ethan Warner, are right now achieving absolutely nothing. You’re down here working for the government because they daren’t get their hands dirty themselves, being paid next to nothing to investigate an anomaly that could potentially make all of us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. Finding out what has happened to Lillian Cruz is an irrelevance compared to that.’

  Lopez peered at Oppenheimer.

  ‘Attempting to bribe a law-enforcement officer is punishable by—’

  ‘You’re not a law-enforcement officer, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Oppenheimer cut across her. ‘You’re a two-bit bail-bond bounty hunter on a lousy salary with mouths to feed south of the border and not enough left over to buy a third-hand car.’

  ‘How the hell would you know—’

  ‘I make it my business to know everything,’ Oppenheimer interrupted. ‘You think that I’m doing all of this for profit but you’re wrong. I’m doing what the politicians and governments of this world haven’t got the guts to do: finding a way to stop humanity from turning our world into a desolate wasteland.’

  ‘You’re such a hero,’ Lopez uttered.

  ‘So would you be, if you would only listen to what I have to say. All I need is that one bacterium, a tiny, insignificant life form that could change our lives. That single bacterium is worth more than all of the jewels and fuels on the face of our planet. If you find where it lives, there is nothing that I would not pay to obtain it.’

  Lopez raised an eyebrow.

  ‘If I found it, I’d have an auction.’

  ‘If you auctioned it, two things would happen,’ Oppenheimer said. ‘Firstly, nobody would believe you if you tried to tell the world what you possessed and your auction would fail, because it would take too long to verify your claims to all but a handful of the world’s top pharmaceutical companies with knowledge and expertise in senescence. Secondly, those companies would pay handsomely to arrange a particularly nasty accident for you before obtaining the bacterium for themselves, or at the very least preventing anyone else from obtaining it.’

  Lopez thought for a moment.

  ‘Tyler’s apartment.’

  Oppenheimer nodded. ‘I genuinely had nothing to do with it, but somebody who knows what’s happening here decided to prevent anyone else from grabbing any materials that Tyler Willis may have left behind. This is a situation, Miss Lopez, in which you either help me to obtain those samples or you walk away with nothing.’

  Lopez looked out of the windows of the vehicle for a long moment, at the passers-by variously struggling to control children, shopping bags or pets. Hundreds of them, millions, all working their forty hours a week, struggling to pay the bills, being hit with ever more taxes that were then frittered away by the incompetence of successive governments. There were, it seemed, just a handful of very wealthy people for every few million ordinary citizens, and Lopez was more than tired of struggling on a daily basis just to stand still.

  She looked at Oppenheimer.

  ‘And if I agreed? What would you want me to do?’

  Oppenheimer looked at one of his bodyguards, who silently produced a small black box no larger than a cigarette packet. Oppenheimer took it, and showed it to her.

  ‘This is a full service GPS tracker,’ he said, handing her the glossy black device. ‘With this, I can track your movements with its pre-installed and activated SIM card.’

  Lopez nodded, familiar with such surveillance devices. Usually attached to cars, they could be used together with the Google Earth service in order to monitor the device’s movement in real time. A GPS assist function via a network was used to boost sensitivity in the event of the GPS signal being temporarily lost. It was accurate to within fifteen meters. No antennas, entirely self-contained and barely three inches long. Perfect.

  ‘You need do nothing more than carry it on your person at all times,’ Oppenheimer said. ‘If you or your partner, or anyone you have contact with, should locate the source of the bacteria, you place this marker there and call me. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘There’s no way I can trust you,’ Lopez countered. ‘You once bought an entire company just to shut it down in revenge for a deal gone bad.’

  ‘It was I who was wronged,’ Oppenheimer muttered, ‘but in a show of good will, perhaps I could transfer some funds for you this afternoon, call it an appetizer? How does fifty thousand dollars sound?’

  Lopez’s stomach flipped but she forced her face to remain impassive.

  ‘I won’t do it for less than two hundred fifty thousand for starters,’ she said. ‘Wire transfer, for services rendered, all taxes paid. You do the paperwork and send copies to me. I don’t want the IRS climbing up my ass after this is all over.’

  Oppenheimer forced a tight grin across his features. ‘You’ll do it then?’

  Lopez looked at the tracker in her hand as conflicting thoughts flashed through her mind: Ethan; her penniless family back home; her pathetic apartment in Chicago; the endless search for money to make ends meet. She looked at the hordes of people outside the car, and made her decision.

  37

  SEDILLO PARK SOCORRO, NEW MEXICO

  16 May, 12.30 p.m.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Ethan clambered out of Enrico Zamora’s personal vehicle, an old Lincoln Town car, his new jacket and kepi pants feeling alien and awkward. Lopez got out of the other side, looking equally uncomfortable in her new attire, her hair tied up and concealed beneath her cap.

  Zamora looked at them both as he handed them a fake Springfield rifle each.

  ‘You both look damned fine, if I say so myself. You’ll pass unnoticed here, at least until the show wraps up.’

  Ethan looked down at the markings on his uniform. ‘Private? You couldn’t have found anything with rank?’

  ‘All greenhorns have to be privates at these events,’ Zamora explained. ‘Just the way it is.’

  Ethan looked over the roof of the car to where Sedillo Park was spread before them, a large open space lined with dense thick
ets of trees. Around the edge were large tents and marquees, various flags flying above their entrances in the hot wind. None of them were emblazoned with banners or adverts in the usual manner. Nearby were old wagons, carts and horses, and on the warm air he could smell the fumes of a hundred camp fires.

  A single, broad banner arced over the park entrance, emblazoned with bright red, white and blue text.

  SOCORRO ANNUAL CIVIL WAR

  RE-ENACTMENT

  The Battle of Valverde

  Ethan could see hundreds of people mingling around the fires and the horses, rank upon rank of fully uniformed Confederate and Union soldiers, all drinking coffees or Cokes and chatting amiably.

  ‘You really think they’ll use this as a place to meet up?’ Lopez asked Zamora as they began walking into the park. ‘They can’t be held that often.’

  Zamora nodded.

  ‘Just a few every year. Santa Fe’s come earlier, in February and March, to coincide with the anniversary of the actual battles. Out here near Arizona the re-enactment groups from south of the border team up with Socorro groups for larger displays. Hiram Conley was heavily involved in many of the re-enactments and was considered an expert.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Ethan replied as they strolled into the park between two large wagons and onto the field proper.

  Ethan reckoned that he could see maybe two thousand soldiers, roughly split between Confederates in their smart gray uniforms and the Union troops in dark blue. Enrico gestured to the massed ranks, the bayonets of their rifles glittering in the hot sunlight.

  ‘Back in the day when these battles were fought, the men wouldn’t have worn such identical uniforms. They’d have been all beaten up and modified, not to mention the fact that Valverde was fought in the winter so they’d have been huddled up in greatcoats if they were lucky enough to own them.’

  Ethan nodded, surveying the scene.

  ‘Hiram Conley and his comrades were Union soldiers. Most likely they’ll stick with what they know and be among those troops.’

  ‘Could take a while to find them,’ Lopez said, looking at her copy of the old photograph and Lee Carson’s mugshot. ‘Half of these enthusiasts have grown long moustaches and beards to look more authentic.’

  Ethan thought for a moment.

  ‘Let’s focus on Lee Carson,’ he said. ‘He’s the one we know has a good reason to find help – his hands are falling off. If we’re lucky, where we find him we’ll find the rest of them.’

  Ethan watched as Lopez and Zamora, armed with their photographs, struck out for the Union lines while he headed for the furthest flank of the army. Since arriving, he had noticed the ranks of speakers lining the edges of Sedillo Park, from which issued the voice of a commentator that rose and fell with flukes in the wind. It had crossed Ethan’s mind that they could just put out a call for Lee Carson to come in: he had, after all, been known to live amongst ordinary people during his very long life. The problem was, he might now live under a pseudonym. Any call-out for the wrong name would alert him instantly.

  Ethan approached the Union lines and decided on a different tack. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket as an idea hit him, and dialed Lopez’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  ‘Look for men wearing gloves of any kind,’ Ethan said. ‘If Carson’s here, he’ll have to keep his hands out of sight.’

  ‘Good call, will do.’

  Lopez rang off, and Ethan was about to pocket his cell phone when a voice thundered out across the field.

  ‘You there! Have you absquatulated your senses?! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?’

  Ethan stopped dead in his tracks as a portly man bearing the uniform of an officer sitting astride a magnificent golden-coated palomino with a white mane vaulted down from his saddle and strode up to him. The officer wore a silvery moustache as long as a canoe, bright blue eyes wide as dinner plates and skin flushed with apparent outrage. He jabbed a thin black cane at Ethan’s cell phone, various medals and tasseled ribbons on his shoulders vibrating with the sudden movement. Ethan lowered the cell phone.

  ‘I’m making a phone call.’

  ‘A phone call?!’ the officer thundered in disbelief. ‘This is 1862, God damn your hide, man!’

  The ranks of troops amassed behind the officer had fallen silent, watching the exchange with interest. Ethan blinked.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  The officer seemed to rise another inch in height, eyes widening even further as he sucked in more air to shout with.

  ‘You dare defy your commanding officer?’ he bellowed. ‘By Satan’s breath, I’ll have you in irons by sundown, you insolent little tick!’

  ‘You really take everything this seriously?’ Ethan asked, holding his own temper in check.

  ‘This is the army, boy, not a weekend away!’ the officer boomed. ‘Where’s your bivouac? Where’s your commanding officer?’ He raised his cane as though to swat it at Ethan.

  Ethan took a single step forward to put himself right in the officer’s face and then reached down, grabbing the man’s balls and twisting hard. The officer went up on his toes as a strained whistling sound squeaked from his lips. Ethan spoke quietly but with force.

  ‘Ethan Warner, Lieutenant, 15th Expeditionary Unit, United States Marine Corps, Iraq, Afghanistan. I’m here on business and I’m the real thing, buddy, not a jumped-up fantasist like you. You either shut up and get lost or I’ll kick your ass clean off this field in front of two thousand people, understood?’

  The officer deflated like a burst balloon as panic flickered behind his eyes. He squealed in taut agreement. Ethan twisted his grip a little harder while he reached into his pocket and pulled out Lee Carson’s mugshot.

  ‘Recognize this face?’

  The man’s blue eyes swiveled to look down at the picture. He nodded briskly as beads of sweat on his forehead twinkled in the sunlight.

  ‘Light infantry guy,’ he squeaked, ‘halfway down the ranks, behind the artillery.’

  Ethan nodded slowly. ‘Now, good officers lead by example, not by force. I don’t expect to see you raising that pathetic little stick of yours to anybody else, understood?’

  Another jerking nod, the man’s breaths now coming short and sharp.

  ‘Well done,’ Ethan said, and released his grip.

  The officer gasped, resting his hands on his knees as he fought for breath and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.

  Ethan turned, making his way through the lines of soldiers now staring at him and whispering as he headed toward where he could see the ugly muzzles of artillery pieces poking from the ranks. All of them were finely polished, gleaming in the hot sunlight. He searched for gloved hands, looking at the soldiers cradling their long-barreled muskets and rifles. One of them, an old man with a drooping gray moustache and beard, wore leather gloves but was far too aged to be Carson. Ethan was about to move on when the old man turned and jogged down the line of infantry.

  Ethan froze. The old man was tall, his shoulders broad and rangy and his step far too spritely for his apparent age. Ethan began following him as he turned off the front line of troops and headed toward the rear of the formations. Ethan moved parallel to him before reaching the back of the ranks to intercept the old man as he emerged. He called out to him as he tried to duck into a nearby tent.

  ‘Carson!’

  The old man’s head whipped round, a pair of strange blue-gray eyes locking onto Ethan’s in surprise. Ethan dashed forward a couple of steps to prevent him from fleeing, raising one placatory hand.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said quickly.

  Carson stared at him for a moment, then his rifle twirled violently in his grasp as the butt flashed up toward Ethan’s face. Ethan leapt sideways as the weapon whipped past his eyes, stepping in toward Carson in an attempt to wrestle him to the ground. Carson jerked back and brought the butt of the rifle smashing back down toward Ethan’s face. Ethan caught the butt in his hands, absorbing the force of the blow as
he slipped one foot behind Carson’s ankle and then hurled his body weight forward. Carson reeled off balance and staggered backwards, losing his grip on the rifle as he tripped over the tent’s guy lines to thump down onto the grass. He was about to scramble away and make a run for it when Ethan spoke.

  ‘I’m not here to arrest you,’ he said quickly. ‘I know who you are and I know what’s happening to you.’

  Carson squinted up at Ethan.

  ‘The hell would you know about it?’

  Ethan gestured to the nearby tent with the rifle, just as Lopez and Zamora arrived from the other end of the lines to block Carson’s escape.

  38

  The interior walls of the tent rippled in the breeze as Ethan ducked inside, following Carson with Lopez behind. Zamora discreetly stood guard outside to keep any prying eyes away.

  Lee Carson sat down on a crude wooden bench inside the tent, Ethan taking a seat opposite alongside Lopez.

  ‘You wanna tell me who you’re workin’ for?’ Carson asked him. ‘I ain’t agreein’ to no tests.’

  ‘We’re not working for a pharmaceutical company,’ Ethan said. ‘We’re just here to find out what the hell’s been going on. People have gone missing over this and we need to find them.’

  ‘Missing?’ Carson echoed with a frown. ‘What do you mean, missing?’

  ‘A medical examiner named Lillian Cruz,’ Lopez replied, ‘was abducted after an autopsy conducted on the remains of a man named Hiram Conley. We believe you were familiar with him.’

  Lee Carson sighed and reached up to take off his fake beard.

  ‘Yeah, he was an old acquaintance of mine.’

  ‘Very old,’ Ethan said and leveled Carson with a serious gaze. ‘How old are you, Lee?’

  Carson looked right back at Ethan as he removed his kepi hat and ruffled his hair with one gloved hand.

  ‘Last I can recall, I’m about a hundred seventy-two,’ he replied. He kept his gaze on Lopez and Ethan for a moment before suddenly chuckling and shaking his head. ‘Don’t seem right nor real, does it now? Gettin’ on two centuries and I can still rustle with the best of ’em.’