fairly straightforward: 1) Recover the specimen—preferably alive; 2) determine the extent of civilian knowledge of the incident; and 3) suppress and contain any “spillage.”
This was of “paramount importance,” notes Brenneis, “as per both Elizabeth Schultz, director of the Labs, and Matthieu Dupin, the managing director of Wiedlin.”
Brenneis goes on to explain that they had successfully planted a story about a rabid black bear—loose somewhere in the foothills—being responsible for injuring some hikers. They managed to sell this story to the Sheriff’s Department, New Mexico Game & Fish, the U.S. Forest Service, as well as the local media. Hiking and mountain biking trails were summarily closed, and the public was warned not to enter the foothills until the bear is caught.
Yeah, that should keep everyone quiet. For 24 hours at most, Brook thinks. It strikes him that the entire Project HOBO initiative was ill-conceived from the start. New Mexico is a massive state with vast tracts of some of the least populated, most remote land in the country. Why the hell would you run something like this on the edge of a major metropolitan area?
He doesn’t get a chance to ponder the question too long. It’s time for “show & tell.”
Brenneis and a trio of zoologists escort Brook and his team through a winding maze of corridors into the far reaches of Q-63. At the very end of the facility, protected by a series of bank-vault-like doors, is the animal containment wing.
Rows of cages stretch into the far corners of a massive underground warehouse. Each cage is filled with an enormous lizard the size of a pickup truck, heavily muscled, with dagger-like claws. Some snarl and charge the bars, but most are calm—gazing out at their captors with baleful, intelligent eyes. This is like friggin’ Jurassic Park. But real.
Perecia, the sharpshooter on the team, jokes about the size of the target—how it won’t take much skill to hit it, even from 50 yards away—but Brook knows that his unit is in healthy awe of the massive reptiles. Looking at his men, Brook doesn’t see fear; he sees a quiet, detached assessment of their target.
The zoologists are clearly not comfortable with the Mescher/Gates team being here for any longer than necessary, so they usher Brook and his men to a lab in the Bio wing, where Brook has to endure another long discourse on the morphology of the megalania prisca. The most relevant part of the lecture is about what it would take to subdue the creature.
It turns out that typical tranquilizers like xylazine hydrochloride (which is effective on elephants and rhinos) don’t work quickly enough on a megalania. Brenneis explains that the Project HOBO pharmacokinetics team have developed their own rapid-absorption chemical restraint opiate—a drug that should stop an enraged megalania within 10 to 15 seconds.
Ten seconds? One of those freaking lizards can do a world of hurt in ten seconds. Brook rubs his eyes. What the hell were these eggheads thinking?
Eggheads. That’s what Brook’s dad used to call the scientists he worked with back in Oak Ridge during the war. Nearly 70 years later, they were still the same. Clueless.
Except one.
17
September 14th. The Hyatt Place Hotel. Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Richard Brook runs his operation out of the Hyatt across from Albuquerque’s upscale outdoor mall, the ABQ Uptown. The hotel is centrally located and right off the highway. Plus it’s the exact type of place a bunch of medical supply sales reps would stay. And that’s their cover.
But today, two of the “salespeople” are heading into the Sandia Mountains—dressed as New Mexico Game & Fish officers.
“Why do they call it ‘Game & Fish’ instead of ‘Fish & Game’ like everywhere else?” asks Worth as he gears up in Brook’s suite.
“Think about it,” McDaniel replies. “We’re in the goddamn desert.”
“High desert,” Brook says. “As you boys will discover for yourselves.”
“True,” McDaniel says. “But there’s still more game than fish.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Brook claps his second on the shoulder. “Good hunting.”
After McDaniel and Worth depart, Brook runs through the next assignment with Perecia and Fitzinger. Fitz is a naturally jovial guy who gains people’s trust instantly. Perfect to investigate the families of the megalania’s victims. He and Perecia will pose as state police officers and see how the various cover stories about hiking accidents and bear attacks are holding up.
With all of his men deployed, Brook makes some phone calls and then drives across the city toward Albuquerque’s Old Town. He needs to find someone who knows someone else. That was 90 percent of what he did professionally. He estimates the remaining 10 percent is split between killing people and paperwork.
On his way to Old Town, Brook stops at a local bakery called the Golden Crown Panaderia for some coffee and an empanada.
He then heads down Mountain Road, parks in a lot near the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History, and walks toward the Plaza. The sun is out, but the air is crisp and comfortable. Much better weather than in Peshawar, the last city he spent time in.
It is close to 11 AM and the area is starting to fill up with tourists. In a few weeks, the tourist population would triple due to the Balloon Fiesta, but now it is definitely manageable. That was another thing he liked about Albuquerque. You always had room to breathe.
Back in the 1700s, Old Town was the center of the city. A large church—San Felipe de Neri—stood at the north end of the Plaza and was surrounded by low Pueblo-Spanish–style buildings housing government offices and homes. The big church is still there, as are many of the original structures. But these days the buildings house restaurants, galleries, souvenir shops, and boutiques.
Brook ambles over to the church and admires the lush formal gardens outside of the rectory, where English roses mix with cacti. He then turns and scans the center of the Plaza, a small tree-lined park with a prominent gazebo. No sign of his target.
On the west side of the Plaza, nestled among some boutiques and snack stands, is a tourist information office and public restrooms. Brook checks both places but is unsuccessful. He then begins a counterclockwise stroll around the perimeter of the square, peeks into shop windows, and pretends to inspect artwork, pottery, and tchotchkes. One souvenir store has a window display filled with carved horse figurines—each hand-painted with different colors and patterns.
After a full circle he sits down on a bench and goes through the motions of checking his phone. He doesn’t have a lot of time left, and by all rights Alex should have been here by now. It’s a busy Saturday—getting close to lunchtime. Where the hell was he?
The smells of the New Mexican restaurant on the corner make Brook’s stomach rumble. The thought of grabbing a quick chile relleno runs through his head. Then the faint sound of a guitar tuning up catches his ear.
Brook follows it toward the east side of the Plaza, where an attached, covered porch supported by posts and beams known as a portal shields Native American jewelry vendors from the sun. At the far end of the portal, a gray-haired man wearing a black suit sits on a stool and strums a Beatles song from The White Album. Brook grins and saunters over.
“Hello Alex,” Brook says.
“Do I know you?” Alex asks without stopping his strumming. His skin is very tanned, his face is deeply lined, and he has a prominent hooked nose. The man’s real name is Luis Dominguez, but he goes by the moniker “Magic Alex” because he is both an amateur inventor of electronic devices and an avid Beatles fan. Brook had done business with Alex a few times in the past and found him to be a reliable source of information—if approached the right way.
“Very funny.” Brook notices that Alex’s current instrument of choice is a beat-up, old hollow body Epiphone Casino guitar plugged into a small homemade battery-powered amp.
“I’m taking requests today,” Alex says. His eyes rove along the walkway in front of him, tracking tourists.
“It’s my lucky day, I guess.” Brook drops a stack of bills into a cardboard box be
side the amp.
“Depends.”
“Uh huh.” Brook wonders how this will go down. Only one of two ways, really.
“So what can I play for you? I’m partial to The White Album today.”
Brook recognizes the tune Alex is playing. “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill.” The older man plays it in an almost classical guitar style—with a touch of flamenco thrown in. Not bad, Brook thinks. He checks his watch. “How about “The Scientist,” champ?”
“Coldplay? Are you serious? I said, The White Album.”
Brook considers for a moment. “I’m So Tired.”
“Predictable. ‘Piggies.’”
“Far from it, my friend.” Brook says. “Far from it.” He runs through the track listing of The White Album in his head and decides on a more pointed approach. “Happiness Is a Warm Gun.” Brook isn’t actually armed at this moment, but Alex might get the idea.
Alex shrugs it off. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” he says.
“Sorry for your loss.” Brook drops another stack of bills into the box. “Don’t Pass Me By.”
“Very good,” Alex says. “Most people forget about that one.” He thinks for a few seconds, then announces “Helter Skelter.”
“Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?”
“I’m not that easy,” Alex says. “Good Night.”
“C’mon Alex. I don’t have all day. You’re running me around in ‘Circles.’”
Alex stops playing; he is