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The Descartes Evolution
by N.J. Croft

Copyright © 2020 by N.J. Croft. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Prologue

Ivory Coast

Dr. Smith patted the sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. It wasn’t yet ten in the morning but already the sun was merciless. A fiery orange ball in a deep blue sky.

The village was in the middle of nowhere, though he supposed that was the point. The buildings nothing but a cluster of mud and thatch huts and the surrounding land arid, just miles and miles of scrubby bush and red soil. Chickens scratched in the dirt and a few mangy-looking cows stood listlessly in a corral, flies buzzing around their eyes. God knows how the people survived here. Or even why they would want to. The place was disgusting, crawling with insects and stinking of cow dung. He was doing these people a favor, really.

He smiled at the thought.

“Everything is ready, doctor.”

The man in front of him was tall with dark brown skin and a shaved head. He was dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Sergeant Yakouba Sekongo was in charge of the convoy that had brought them here. The trip had taken four interminable hours. They’d set off from Diva at two a.m. driving through the dark to arrive early in the morning the time best calculated to have all the subjects in place. They’d been sleeping, and the village had been surrounded before any of the occupants had even realized they were here.

“How many?” he asked.

“Two hundred and seven in total. Fifty-two men, sixty-three women, and ninety-two children.”

It was a good spread and should give the results required.

The residents had all congregated in the open area in the center of the village. Most were seated on the ground. Children played in the red dirt and somewhere a baby cried. The adults seemed almost jovial, but then they had each received more money than they probably saw in a year in return for taking part in the test.

“Have the subjects all been labeled?” he asked.

Irritation flashed across Sekongo’s face, and he slapped at a fly on his arm before answering. “Of course. Your instructions have been carried out precisely.”

Dr. Smith had the idea that the man didn’t like him. He was used to it and unconcerned. As long as he did his job. “Are your men in place?”

“We have a secure perimeter.”

He glanced at his watch. “Okay. Then we’re good to go. Time to suit up.”

This was going to be extremely unpleasant but unavoidable when you considered the alternative.

He waited until Sekongo disappeared and then headed over to where his protective gear lay on a stool under the awning he’d had the men set up at the edge of the village. He took off his shoes and peeled off his socks, then stripped off his slacks and shirt. Thin latex gloves came first, followed by latex boots on his feet. The actual Hazmat suit went on next; silver and waterproof, it crackled as he dragged it over his body. He pulled the zipper up to his neck. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face. Next he picked up a roll of gray tape and sealed the cuffs and ankles. He checked the suit; the slightest leak could be a catastrophe. Once he was sure it was airtight, he pulled on rubber boots and then finally, he donned the full face mask. The world took on a distant feel as though he were in a bubble.

He shuffled over to where he had set up the recording equipment and glanced at his watch. It was two minutes to ten and he waited. At precisely 1000 hours he flipped the switch, his fingers clumsy in the thick gloves. A shiver of anticipation ran through him.

“Ivory Coast. Field Test Four. Day One. 1000 hours.” His voice came out muffled through the mask.

The screen showed the villagers seated in a ragged circle, chatting and laughing. Smith adjusted the machine so the camera panned out to reveal the men in silver Hazmat suits, masks covering their heads and faces, moving in from the surrounding bush. The villagers went quiet then. Maybe they were thinking that this was overkill for testing a new insecticide. They’d be right. A man stepped forward—Smith recognized Sekongo behind the mask—into the center of the village, carrying a cylinder. He set it down inside the circle, flipped open the top, and a trail of white gas rose slowly into the air. As it gained height, the gas diffused until it vanished from sight.

The villagers stirred uneasily. One man rose and backed away. A guard approached him and spoke, and the man returned to the circle.

Smith sat down clumsily on the stool and settled down to watch.

By 1400 hours most of the subjects were down, lying prone in the dirt. A single figure stumbled to his feet and took a swaying step to the edge of the circle. A guard stepped forward and knocked him with the rifle butt so he collapsed to the ground. Smith focused the camera in on him, to reveal bloodshot eyes, blood seeping from open sores on his cheeks and arms. Good. The test was progressing as expected.

Smith ignored the sweat rolling down his face. He hardly noticed it; his attention focused on recording what was happening.

By 1800 hours the temperature was cooling as the sun lowered in the sky. The majority of the subjects were inert, either dead or too sick to move. The guards shuffled among them, checking for signs of life, removing the labels from the deceased, noting the time of death, then dragging away the bodies for disposal.

Off to the left, smoke drifted into the sky.

Then the sun vanished with that peculiar suddenness of the African nightfall, and the work continued under flashlights and the flickering light from the bonfires.

By 2200 hours they had achieved 100 percent mortality rate, exactly as anticipated. Beautiful.

The gas was like nothing he had ever seen before. Where had it come from? He knew better than to ask.

Inside his mask, Smith smiled with satisfaction tinged with relief. He could report back that everything had worked as planned.

Which was good. His employers did not appreciate failure.

Chapter One

The cloying stench of blood hung in the air, incongruous in the opulent surroundings of the up-market apartment. The muffled screams had died to almost nothing, but the whimpers grated on Luke’s already raw nerves. Crossing the room, he dragged aside the brocade curtains to stare down at the view of Manhattan spread out below him.

Finally, he forced himself to turn around. He dropped onto the sofa opposite, rested his head against the back, and studied Fischer. The man was strapped into one of the delicate antique chairs, naked from the waist up, a makeshift bandage across his right shoulder. Blood had already soaked through, a perfect match with the crimson velvet upholstery.

They’d been watching Fischer for two days and had taken him that morning, when he’d shown signs of leaving town. Now, Luke needed to find out if he knew anything useful, or if this was yet another futile exercise in time-wasting.

So far, the man wasn’t talking.

Callum stood beside the chair, his face impassive. In his right hand, he held a syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid. Luke nodded, and Callum tapped the syringe, then pushed the needle into the prominent vein showing blue against the inside of Fischer’s arm. The result was instantaneous. Fischer’s spine arched out from the chair, and a low sound of agony vibrated in his throat.

Luke ignored the shiver of disgust that rippled across his skin. He’d taken this path ten years ago. He wouldn’t back down when things got messy; not when, for the first time, they had a real connection. But the interrogation was taking too long, and impatience and self-loathing gnawed at his guts.

He tried to live his life by a code of rules, but he’d redefined those rules so many times; always pushing the boundaries that little bit further, until now they’d lost any real value. But he believed there had to be some people willing to cross their own lines, otherwise, the bad guys, the people unhampered by rules, would win.

Still, at times like these, he couldn’t help but wonder what Leah would think of him now. Though that hardly mattered—Leah had been dead a long time.

The sound died away. Callum leaned forward and released the gag from Fischer’s mouth.

“Tell me why you are in New York.” Callum’s tone was icy cold.

Fischer’s head rolled up to look at him. A sheen of sweat glistened on gray-tinged skin. “I don’t know any more than I’ve told you already.” His voice was weak and shaky.

Callum’s eyes narrowed, and his finger tightened against the plunger.

“I don’t know anything, I swear.”

Callum glanced up at Luke and gave a slight shake of his head.

“Damn.” Luke rose to his feet and slammed his fist into the wall behind him.

Was this all for nothing? Another dead end?

He rubbed at the skin on the back of his neck—the site of an old burn—the scar always itched when he was stressed. He turned back to Fischer. His head rested against the back of the chair, face slack, but his eyelids fluttered open, and Luke caught a flicker of awareness, a brief flash of cunning.

He strode across the room and snatched the syringe from Callum. Callum raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Luke grabbed Fischer’s hair and forced him to look up. He held the man’s gaze as he plunged the needle into the hard muscle of Fischer’s thigh. Releasing his hold, he stood impassively as Fischer convulsed against his restraints. When his body went limp, Luke leaned over. “Talk to me.”

When there was no answer, he removed the syringe, refilled it, and returned. He held it poised.

“Wait.”

Luke placed the syringe down on the table. “Talk.”

“Descartes.”

The voice was thready, and Luke had to strain to hear the word. “What?”

“The Descartes Project. Some sort of terrorist attack—I think. That’s all I know.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“I don’t know. Days…weeks.”

“Who do you report to? Who runs the Conclave?”

Luke searched for some reaction to the name, but nothing showed on Fischer’s face. Still, he held his breath as he waited for an answer.

“I don’t know anything about the Conclave.” Panic flared in his face as Luke picked up the syringe. “I’m telling you the truth. It doesn’t work like that. After they recruited me, I was given a contact. He’s the only one I know, the only one. I swear.”

“Give me a name.”

The man swallowed, hesitated, but Luke knew he was broken.

“Lee Carson.”

“Is he here in New York?”

“I don’t think so. He’s based in London.”

The name meant nothing, and Luke ground his teeth. A dull pain throbbed in his temple, and he rubbed his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep.

He’d thought this was a breakthrough. Instead, it was just one more layer in the complex web that made up the Conclave. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. They hid themselves too well, each level protected by a series of intrigue and illusion. He was beginning to think he would never get to the true leaders behind the monster.

“We’re not going to get any more out of him,” Callum said.

“I know.” He tossed the syringe onto the floor. “Shit.”

“Look, it’s something. I’ll get working on the name. See if I can locate this Lee Carson.”

Luke ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “I’ll get on a flight to London. Call me when you have the details.”

“You should sleep first. You’re running on nothing.”

“I can sleep on the plane. We’re close. I know we are. For the first time, I’ve got their scent. And you heard him—this thing is going down soon.”

Callum waved a hand toward Fischer. “What do you want to do with Fischer?”

“Get rid of him.”

Callum nodded. “I’ll see to it and follow you to London. So, Descartes? Does it mean anything to you?”

“It’s a place.”

“You plan on paying a visit?”

Luke’s lips curved up in the semblance of a smile. The sensation felt strange. “I hardly think so. Descartes is on the moon.”