Bertram did not technically report to Siegfried. As the chief vet of the world’s largest primate research and breeding facility, Bertram dealt directly with a GenSys senior vice president of operations back in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who had direct access to Taylor Cabot. But on a day-to-day basis, particularly in relation to the bonobo project, it was in Bertram’s best interest to maintain a cordial working relationship with the site boss. The problem was, Siegfried was short-tempered and difficult to deal with.

He’d started his African career as a white hunter, who, for a price, could get a client anything he wanted. Such a reputation required a move from East Africa to West Africa, where game laws were less rigidly enforced. Siegfried had built up a large organization, and things went well until some trackers failed him in a crucial situation, resulting in his being mauled by an enormous bull elephant and the client couple being killed.

The episode ended Siegfried’s career as a white hunter. It also left him with his facial scar and a paralyzed right arm. The extremity hung limp and useless from its shoulder connection.

Rage over the incident had made him a bitter and vindictive man. Still, GenSys had recognized his bush-based organizational skills, his knowledge of animal behavior, and his heavy-handed but effectual way of dealing with the indigenous African personality. They thought he was the perfect individual to run their multimillion-dollar African operation.

“There’s another wrinkle with the bonobo operation,” Bertram said.

“Is this new concern in addition to the weird worry of yours that the apes have divided into two groups?” Siegfried asked superciliously.

“Recognizing a change in social organization is a damn, legitimate concern!” Bertram said, his color rising.

“So you said,” Siegfried remarked. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t imagine it matters. What do we care if they hang out in one group or ten? All we want them to do is stay put and stay healthy.”

“I disagree,” Bertram said. “Splitting up suggests they are not getting along. That would not be typical bonobo behavior, and it could spell trouble down the road.”

“I’ll let you, the professional, worry about it,” Siegfried said. He leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked. “I personally don’t care what those apes do as long as nothing threatens this windfall money and stock options. The project is turning into a gold mine.”

“The new problem has to do with Kevin Marshall,” Bertram said.

“Now what in God’s name could that skinny simpleton do to get you to worry?” Siegfried asked. “With your paranoia, it’s a good thing you don’t have to do my job.”

“The nerd has worked himself up because he’s seen smoke coming from the island,” Bertram said. “He’s come to me twice. Once last week and then again this morning.”

“What’s the big deal about smoke?” Siegfried asked. “Why does he care? He sounds worse than you.”

“He thinks the bonobos might be using fire,” Bertram said. “He hasn’t said so explicitly, but I’m sure that’s what is on his mind.”

“What do you mean ‘using fire’?” Siegfried asked. He leaned forward. “You mean like making a campfire for warmth or cooking?” Siegfried laughed without disturbing his omnipresent sneer. “I don’t know about you urban Americans. Out here in the bush you’re scared of your own shadow.”

“I know it’s preposetrous,” Bertram said. “Of course no one else has seen it, or if they have, it’s probably from a lightning storm. The problem is, he wants to go out there.”

“No one goes near the island!” Siegfried growled. “Only during a harvest, and it’s only the harvest team! That’s a directive from the home office. There are no exceptions save for Kimba, the pygmy, delivering the supplementary food.”

“I told him the same thing,” Bertram said. “And I don’t think he’ll do anything on his own. Still, I thought I should tell you about it just the same.”

“It’s good that you did,” Siegfried said irritably. “The little prick. He’s a goddamned thorn in my side.”

“There is one other thing,” Bertram said. “He told Raymond Lyons about the smoke.”

Siegfried slapped the surface of his desk with his good hand loud enough to cause Bertram to jump. He stood up and stepped to the shuttered window overlooking the town square. He glared over at the hospital. He’d never liked the epicene bookish researcher from their first meeting. When he’d learned Kevin was to be coddled and accommodated in the second best house in the town, Siegfried had boiled over. He’d wanted to assign the house as a perk to one of his loyal underlings.

Siegfried balled his good hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. “What a meddling pain in the ass,” he said.

“His research is almost done,” Bertram said. “It would be a shame if he was to muck things up just when everything is going so well.”

“What did Lyons say?” Siegfried asked.

“Nothing,” Bertram said. “He accused Kevin of letting his imagination run wild.”

“I might have to have someone watch Kevin,” Siegfried said. “I will not have anyone destroy this program. That’s all there is to it. It’s too lucrative.”

Bertram stood up. “That’s your department,” he said. He started for the door, confident he’d planted the appropriate seed.

CHAPTER 7

MARCH 5, 1997

7:25 A.M.

NEW YORK CITY

THE combination of cheap red wine and little sleep slowed Jack’s pace on his morning bicycle commute. His customary time of arrival in the ID room of the medical examiner’s office was seven-fifteen. But as he got off the elevator on the first floor of the morgue en route to the ID room, he noticed it was already seven twenty-five, and it bothered him. It wasn’t as if he were late, it was just that Jack liked to keep to a schedule. Discipline in relation to his work was one of the ways he’d learned to avoid depression.

His first order of business was to pour himself a cup of coffee from the communal pot. Even the aroma seemed to have a beneficial effect, which Jack attributed to Pavlovian conditioning. He took his first sip. It was a heavenly experience. Though he doubted the caffeine could work quite so quickly, he felt like his mild hangover headache was already on the mend.

He stepped over to Vinnie Amendola, the mortuary tech whose day shift overlapped the night shift. He was ensconced as usual at one of the office’s government-issued metal desks. His feet were parked on the corner, and his face hidden behind his morning newspaper.

Jack pulled the edge of the paper down to expose Vinnie’s Italianate features to the world. He was in his late twenties, in sorry physical shape, but handsome. His dark, thick hair was something Jack envied. Jack had been noticing over the previous year a decided thinning of his gray-streaked brown hair on the crown of his head.

“Hey, Einstein, what’s the paper say about the Franconi body incident?” Jack asked. Jack and Vinnie worked together on a frequent basis, both appreciating the other’s flippancy, quick wit, and black humor.

“I don’t know,” Vinnie said. He tried to pull his beloved paper from Jack’s grasp. He was embroiled in the Knicks stats from the previous night’s basketball game.

Jack’s forehead furrowed. Vinnie might not have been an academic genius, but about current news items, he was something of a resident authority. He read the newspapers cover to cover every day and had impressive recall.

“There’s nothing about it in the paper?” Jack questioned. He was shocked. He’d imagined the media would have had a field day with the embarrassment of the body disappearing from the morgue. Bureaucratic mismanagement was a favorite journalistic theme.

“I didn’t notice it,” Vinnie said. He yanked harder, freed the paper, and reburied his face.