An Uncommon Honeymoon Read online

  “Yup,” James said.

  When she’d appeased the security gods, the lock clicked. She pulled the handle and swung open the door. “I’m glad this lab won’t have anything like that in it.”

  “Nah. All the weird stuff is back there. They’re just working on reanimating the dead in here.”

  She chuckled. As James swiped his badge, she surveyed the lab. Long, waist-high counters were covered with computer monitors, microscopes, beakers, test tubes, and various pieces of research equipment. Quinn could only guess at their uses and had no intention of touching anything. She had no desire to accidentally trigger some sort of biohazard emergency that would quarantine parts of two states and end with her glowing in the dark.

  She was a little disappointed she didn’t see any contraptions with flasks and tubes and Bunsen burners, where blue liquid bubbled and sinister vapor trickled down the sides of beakers. On the plus side, body parts in need of reanimation were nowhere in sight.

  James rested his hand on the small of her back. Together, they headed toward Sydney’s workstation.

  A couple of techs dressed in white lab coats glanced up as they passed. Most continued working, ignoring them completely.

  They found Sydney Pettigrew at her station, her head down and absorbed in her work. It was clear she hadn’t heard them approach and remained oblivious to their presence. Quinn politely cleared her throat.

  Sydney flailed and almost toppled off her stool.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Sydney steadied herself and stood. “No, no. Not your fault. I get so wrapped up.” In her late thirties, she was slight and barely taller than Quinn. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

  “I know how that is.” Quinn had met Sydney once before, when they’d deposited with her the vials they’d stolen from Ziegler’s office.

  “You’re here to see what Herr Doktor was up to,” Sydney stated.

  “Yes,” James said. “We want to use the drug as bait.”

  “We need to know what it does and hope it’s sufficiently enticing for our elusive target to crawl out from under his rock,” Quinn added.

  “Oh, it’s definitely that,” Sydney said. The conviction in her tone was intriguing.

  “So it’s more than some kind of psychoactive drug?”

  A wary expression overtook Sydney’s features as she glanced at something over Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn turned to see who or what had caused the disruption. She smiled when her eyes met those of the spry, gray-haired man coming toward them.

  Grandpa.

  She wanted to kiss his cheek in greeting, but refrained. The goal was to keep their familial connection under the radar. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was a mixture of delight and surprise.

  “Curiosity, mostly. I heard some interesting things about Ziegler’s drug and want to learn more about it.” He and James shook hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Sydney said, guarded. “You are . . .”

  “Where are my manners?” Grandpa said. “Please forgive me. You can call me Buckshot.”

  The hum of activity in the room abruptly ceased, like when the principal walks into an elementary school classroom.

  Sydney paled, audibly gulped, and started to fidget with the buttons of her lab coat. Tongue-tied, all she could get out was a strangled, “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

  Quinn felt bad for the woman. To her, he was her sweet, generous grandfather whom she adored. During her growing-up years, he had stoked her fire for adventure with his stories of exotic, faraway places he’d visited as an importer/exporter.

  It was only a year and a half ago she’d learned of his true occupation. He’d been part of the CIA for fifty years. Now officially retired, he still consulted on ops and recruited new officers. It was he who had drafted Quinn in the first place. Because of his longevity and preference to remain mostly in the background, he had gained legendary, if not mythical, status. Now that his granddaughter was there, though, he took a more active interest in her ops.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Grandpa said, ignoring the fact that every set of eyeballs inside the lab was on him. He grasped his hands behind his back. “Carry on.”

  Quinn detected a ripple of furtive whispers as the noise level in the room returned to normal.

  Sydney had regained her composure. “The answer to your question, Quinn, about it being more than a psychoactive drug is yes and no. Have you ever heard of scopolamine, also known as the Devil’s Breath?”

  “It’s said to be a mind-control drug,” Grandpa said. “It’s derived from nightshade plants in Colombia and Ecuador. The myth is all one has to do is blow some of the white powder into a victim’s face and they will do anything you tell them to. They have no control over their thoughts or actions.”

  “Can it do that?” Quinn asked.

  Sydney shrugged. “There are all kinds of stories, mostly from South America, about people who had the drug slipped into their drink or food. While they were under its influence, they cleaned out their bank accounts and apartments and handed everything over to the person who drugged them. Some victims claim they knew what they were doing but couldn’t stop themselves. Others say they don’t remember any of it and wake up on a park bench the next day. They only know what happened after piecing it all together later.”

  “If true, that’s terrifying,” James said.

  “Synthesized scopolamine in extremely low doses isn’t terrible. It’s used to treat motion sickness and nausea, stuff like that,” Sydney said.

  Quinn folded her arms. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I assume higher doses are the problem.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely nasty stuff. It has an amnesiac effect. Some pharmacologists think that’s what makes victims believe they were under mind control. They don’t remember.”

  “So Ziegler did something with scopolamine?” James asked.

  “Sort of. He took what some people believe the Devil’s Breath does and synthesized a way to actually do it.”

  “Oh boy,” Quinn mumbled.

  Grandpa’s head tipped to one side. “Ziegler created a new drug?”

  “Yeah. He calls it Zieglopam,” Sydney said with a roll of her eyes. “But it’s not just the drug, it’s the delivery of it that’s crazy brilliant.” When Quinn’s eyebrows shot up, Sydney added quickly, “Not that I condone what he did. Because, you know, mind control . . .”

  “You have a professional appreciation for Dr. Ziegler’s achievement,” Grandpa said diplomatically.

  “Yes. Thank you. That’s what I’m trying to say.” Sydney blinked at him as if rebooting. A quick headshake and she was back on track. “Ziegler figured out a way to use nanotechnology to control minds.”

  Quinn’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “You mean like nanobots?” James asked.

  “Sort of? More like a nanoshell. Hang on. I brought a visual aid.” Sydney picked up a box of malted milk balls from the counter. She fished one of the round candies from the box and held it up between her thumb and forefinger. “Obviously a nanoshell is a lot smaller ’cause, you know, this isn’t really the definition of nano, you know what I mean?” She smiled and waited for a response.

  “Got it,” Quinn said. “Smaller than a Whopper.”

  Sydney held the box out toward them. “Anybody want one?”

  The men declined. Quinn, however, was always up for chocolate. “Sure. Thanks.” Sydney handed her the box.

  James sighed in mild exasperation and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Sydney bit the Whopper in half with her front teeth and held it up again. “The biopolymer shell is like the outside chocolate layer of this malted milk ball. Instead of the crunchy part in the center, it’s hollow.”

  Quinn tossed a Whopper into her mouth as she listened.

  “Each nanoshell carries a tiny amount of Zieglopam. Millions of these nanoshells are suspended in the green solution you liberated from Ziegler�
�s safe.”

  “What do these nanoshells have to do with scopolamine?” James asked.

  “It’s the delivery system for the Zieglopam. The main difference is Zieglopam suppresses the part of the brain in charge of moral reasoning.” Sydney popped the other half of the Whopper in her mouth.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Grandpa said patiently. “Say someone has been injected with Ziegler’s solution. What happens?”

  “The nanoshells are filled with Zieglopam, right? But instead of the Zieglopam working on the brain as soon as it’s injected, it stays inside the shell. So it’s just circulating around the body in the bloodstream with the red and white blood cells, platelets, and stuff until it’s released.”

  “And when is that?” Quinn asked before eating another malted milk ball.

  “Whenever the person who injected the nanoshells triggers it to. The nanoshell has a biochemical fuse that’s activated when it’s hit by a low-power radio pulse set at a very specific frequency. That fuse causes the nanoshell to break down. The drug is released into the bloodstream and carried to the brain. Moral reasoning is compromised and the person will do any heinous thing they’re told to do. They don’t even try to control themselves because they don’t care.”

  “So these nanoshells could be in a person for hours before the Zieglopam is released?” James asked.

  “Sure. Days. Weeks even. There’s no reason to believe it couldn’t be indefinite.”

  Grandpa scratched his cheek. “The injected person effectively becomes a sleeper agent. Like The Manchurian Candidate.”

  Sydney nodded. “I think that’s the idea. You inject the solution with the nanoshells into a person. Before you release them back into the wild, bomb them with a drug like Versed to induce short-term amnesia. They wouldn’t even remember you shot them up with anything in the first place,” Sydney said. “They go on with their lives. At the appropriate time and/or place, the Zieglopam’s released, they’re told what to do, and they do it. No questions. No hesitations.”

  “Truly mind control,” Quinn said.

  “What about these radio frequency pulses?” James asked. “Can they travel far?”

  “Not really.” Sydney pushed a pile of papers, a couple of journals, and an open comic book to the side as she rummaged for something. “Here we go.” She picked up her phone. “We fabricated a microchip based on a schematic on Ziegler’s thumb drive. It’s attached to the SIM card in the victim’s cell phone. It emits a pulse when it receives a signal from a phone call. The victim’s phone needs to be nearby, but the person making the call can do it from anywhere. Once the Zieglopam takes effect, the person in control can call again and give voice commands over the phone.”

  “The applications are endless,” Grandpa said.

  Quinn looked at her grandfather. “Some high-level government official could be kidnapped and pumped full of this stuff. He’s released, not remembering any of it. At some time down the road, he’s in a meeting or something, gets triggered, and kills everyone in the room.”

  “Ordinary people could become murderers or armed robbers or suicide bombers or extortionists or whatever.” James blew out a breath. “Not good.”

  “Does it work?” Quinn asked and tipped her head toward the phone in Sydney’s hand. “You said you fabricated the chip. Have you synthesized the nanoshells and drug, too?”

  “Yes. We used the formula and studied the prototype you swiped from Ziegler’s facility in Frankfurt. We’ve tested it on mice to make sure the nanoshells don’t cause problems like embolisms or trigger the immune system. So far, so good. We know the drug releases into the bloodstream, but we can’t exactly test mind control on a mouse. We’re not ready to use human subjects yet. Don’t want to fry somebody’s brain, or have them never come out of it or something if it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to.”

  “And we all thank you for that,” Grandpa said.

  Sydney acknowledged him with a tip of her head. “We found some video of a test Ziegler did, though.” She went to her computer and tapped at the keyboard. The four clustered around the monitor. A video, with a date and time stamp from six months earlier, began to play.

  A camera mounted in an upper corner looked down into a waiting room. Half of the chairs lining the walls were occupied. Most of the people stared at their phones. An elderly gentleman flipped through a magazine.

  A young woman, clearly bored, brushed her thumb over the screen of her phone. When it rang in her hand, she answered, paused, and asked if anyone was there. She shrugged, ended the call, and went back to scrolling.

  “Nothing interesting happens now,” Sydney said and advanced the recording, “other than the guy over there on the left who gets a piece of gum from his pocket. I couldn’t tell if it was spearmint or Juicy Fruit. I don’t think it was bubble gum since he doesn’t blow . . . any. . .” She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s not important,” she mumbled and turned back around.

  The time stamp indicated ten minutes had passed when the recording returned to regular speed. The young woman’s phone rang again. She answered and, this time, remained silent as she listened intently. Without an acknowledgement or farewell, she ended the call and put the phone in her purse. Then she stood, turned around, and grabbed the chair she’d been sitting in by the armrests. She lifted it over her head and charged at the elderly man with the magazine.

  Abject terror contorted his face as she brought the chair down on him. Unable to raise his arms in time, it caught him on the head. He crashed to the floor. Blood gushed from the gash the metal chair had opened on his forehead.

  She stood over him and raised the chair again. He curled into a ball and moaned when she smashed him with it.

  Quinn clamped a hand over her mouth as she watched in horror.

  “Dear God,” Grandpa whispered.

  At the same time several people jumped to their feet to intervene, two large men sprinted into the room. They disarmed the woman of her chair and hustled her out through the door from which they’d entered.

  A man in a white lab coat and a woman in scrubs flew into the room. Quinn recognized him immediately. “That’s Ziegler.”

  Ziegler dropped to his knees beside the battered, unmoving man on the floor.

  The screen went black.

  They remained silent, stunned by the act of brutality they’d just witnessed.

  “I hope he’s okay,” James said finally.

  “Me, too. And I hope she came out of it without any long-term effects,” Quinn added.

  Sydney snatched a clipboard from the counter and flipped through several pages. After consulting one particular page, she said, “According to Ziegler’s notes, the older guy had busted ribs, a collapsed lung, and a concussion. The test subject was given midazolam, which, among other things, produces short-term amnesia. When she ‘woke up,’ they told her she fainted in the waiting room. Other than saying she didn’t know why she’d fainted in the first place, she never questioned what happened. They monitored her for a little while, gave her some juice, and sent her on her merry way. Ziegler doesn’t say what happened to her after that.”

  “My guess is he would probably have followed up, but was arrested before he could,” James said.

  “It’s a good thing he was, too.” Grandpa’s expression was grave when he said, “Think of the devastation this would bring if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  Quinn shivered at the prospect.

  “The drug should do the trick and draw Borovsky out.” James turned to Grandpa. “Are you still okay with us using it as bait?”

  “Yes. We control both the prototype and the formula. And we’re working with the Germans. Ziegler is currently being held at a remote, highly secure undisclosed location. There’s no danger of him reconstructing and distributing it.”

  Quinn imagined Ziegler’s “undisclosed location” wasn’t exactly a resort.

  “Now that we know exactly what this stuff does, we can get the message to
Borovsky that it’s for sale,” James said. “I’ll call my contact and get it rolling.”

  “Thanks for the Whoppers, Sydney,” Quinn said and set the box on the open comic book. Her gaze drifted over the colorful drawings and she did a double take when something caught her eye. She picked up the comic book and held it closer to her face. “Who’s this guy?” she asked. “That’s not Thor, is it?” He was huge and muscled, a red cape billowing out behind him. Curly ram horns stuck out of the sides of his helmet.

  “No, that’s Perun the god of thunder and lightning. He’s like a Russian Thor.” Sydney’s words began to pour out. “He first appeared in Captain America in 1989. He was originally part of the Supreme Soviets who go after—”

  “That’s great, Sydney, but what I’m interested in is that,” Quinn said and pointed at the double-headed battle axe Perun held in his massive, meaty hand.

  “Yeah, Thor has his hammer. Perun has his axe. Later, he has a hammer and sickle, too, you know, as an obvious reference to the Soviet—”

  “Anatoly had a tattoo on his forearm almost exactly like that axe,” James said as he peered at the page from over Quinn’s shoulder.

  “Exactly!” Quinn said, excited that James had made the same observation. She wasn’t sure if Perun and the axe tattoo on Anatoly’s arm had anything to do with anything, but her brain was already buzzing with possibilities.

  “Uh-oh,” James said. “I’ve seen that face before.”

  “As have I, my boy,” Grandpa said. “The best thing to do is sit her down at a computer and let her release her inner bloodhound on an unsuspecting Internet.”

  Quinn shrugged and set the comic book down where she’d found it. “He’s not wrong.”

  “Agreed,” James said. “What are you thinking, Quinn?”

  The vague impressions swirling in her mind coalesced into a tangible thought. “What if Anatoly, Viktor, and Yefimov all had the same tattoo?”

  “Like a gang tattoo,” James said.