Operation: Siberia

- 4 -

The squat Russian clapped his hands and laughed.

“Right first time, Captain Banks. It is a cave lion, to be exact,” Volkov said. “In 2008, a well-preserved specimen was unearthed near the Maly Anyuy River which still retained some clumps of hair. I was able to obtain some samples, and using the methods which will become clear to you when you see my labs, was able to manufacture this fine specimen that you see here.”

Banks still couldn’t take his gaze from the beast. It was larger by far than any lion he’d seen, any big cat he could imagine. It was a thing of grace and power, a pure animal built only to hunt. He felt a shiver of cold dread in his spine at the sight of it, like an atavistic memory of an ancestor’s encounter with just such a thing, back in the auld country, when all was still ice and snow and wind. He would not like to meet it under such circumstances—under any circumstances. He was brought out of the reverie by another sarcastic remark.

“Manufacture?” Wiggins said. “Is that what we’re calling it these days? Do you have more of these big fuckers?”

“Just this one, so far,” Volkov said. “But he is mature now, and producing sperm so we have plenty of genetic material at our disposal.”

“I don’t want to know how you collect it,” Hynd muttered.

The three British scientists had moved off to a clear space away from the cages, and stood in a huddle, speaking in voices too low to be overheard, but the discussion looked animated, and Waterston’s face was stern, as if he’d seen something he did not like. Banks was not the only one to notice, for Volkov went quickly over to the lead scientist and took him by the arm.

“Come, come,” he said. “The tour has only just begun. There is much to see before lunch.”

They went past more domed cages, but Volkov didn’t stop, and when Banks glanced inside in passing, there appeared to be nothing to see but boggy ground and grass.

All of this area of the zoo appeared to be empty. There were four more domes to match the ones at the front, but no animals inside. The largest of the four looked like it might have contained something at one time, for the ground was scuffed, the turf torn up in clumps, and the glass on the viewing side of the cage had been scratched with deep, scouring scars on the inside surface. More alarmingly, a large area of the outside of the dome was cracked in a spider-web almost ten feet across at its widest point, as if something had launched a violent, head-on attack in an attempt to escape.

“What was in this one?” Waterston asked.

“A failure,” Volkov replied curtly and kept walking on. Banks saw that the Russians behind them had stiffened and grown wary as they passed this damaged dome.

Something happened here—something bad. And I think it’s a good idea I find out what.

It would have to wait, for Volkov had already led the scientists away and only stopped when they reached what appeared to be the central point of the whole zoo. A huge dome, looming twice as high again as the others, was completely caged in, not just with glass but with a lattice of iron and mesh. They entered this dome via a glass-covered walkway that ran around the inside perimeter of the structure. The interior of the dome stretched some fifty yards in diameter, and was dominated in its center by three huge conifers that looked to Banks’ admittedly amateur eyes to be young redwoods. Six black dots sat high on the topmost branches, but Banks couldn’t get his brain to make the required adjustments of scale. They were birds, that was certain, but that was all he could tell.

That changed quickly. The same Russian worker stepped forward to another embedded keypad, and typed in four numbers, again accompanied by the high, ringing tones.

“I don’t need to see another animal being slaughtered, thank you very much,” Waterston said indignantly.

Volkov laughed.

“Then we shall not offend your delicate sensibilities any farther, Professor. Watch.”

A section of the floor opened up, and a long trestle table rose up out of the ground from below. The carcasses of half a dozen large hares lay in a line along the tabletop. As if a whistle had been blown, the black birds dropped from their height, not flying, but gliding, great wings outstretched, acting almost like black parachutes as they circled, once, around the trees then flopped and hopped comically onto the tabletop where they proceeded to feed hungrily. They looked like vultures—Banks guessed they were a kind of Condor—but they stood well over three feet high in body, and their wingspan was enormous, somewhere between fifteen and twenty feet for the largest of the six specimens.

“Fucking thunderbirds,” Wiggins said. “That’s all we’re needing.”

“You may be closer than you know in that nomenclature,” Volkov said, “for these birds almost certainly coexisted with the Native Americans in the northern part of that continent after the retreat of the ice. These, our Teratornis merriami, were the most abundant of the giant bird species. Over a hundred specimens have been found, mostly from La Brea Tar Pits in North America, but we had several of our own here on the delta, drawn, no doubt, by plentiful carcasses on which to feast.”

The birds made short work of their lunch, stripping the carcasses clean with beaks and talons as efficient as any blades. The show appeared to be over. The birds hopped off the table and, rather laboriously, took to the air again, achieving height with some frantic, again almost comical, flapping of the huge wings. They finally soared almost gracefully for a few seconds as they circled up the dome, then looked clumsy again as they attempted to land on springy branches at the high tops. But within seconds, all was settled and calm again, and the six black dots looked down from their high perches. The Russian stepped forward and keyed a code into the touch screen; the table whirred and sank. The opening in the floor closed as if it had never been, leaving a green sweep of grass with not even a stray bone or scrap of flesh left to show for the feeding.

The three scientists had gone into a huddle again, and this time when Volkov noticed, he got visibly more agitated, and made straight for Waterston.

“Come, sir, tell me,” he demanded. “What have you seen that makes you so conspiratorial? I have bared the secrets of this place to you. At least do me the same courtesy.”

“Bared your secrets?” Waterston said. “I don’t think we’ve even begun to see the depths to which you have sunk in your rush to get your ‘zoo’ open.” The emphasis he used on the word showed all too clearly his opinion of both the little Russian and his work.

Banks started to pay attention; the tension had just risen several notches. Volkov bristled, and the three Russian workers moved, almost imperceptibly, closer to their boss. Banks had changed his earlier opinion; now he was pretty sure they were all armed; the bulge of a shoulder holster showed when one of them moved closer to their boss. Banks saw Hynd and McCally take note and go still and watchful.

They were one false move away from a knockdown fight, possibly even a shooting match.

And we’ve only been here an hour.