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  “There’s another irony,” Gamay said. “Despite being poisonous, they may be able to cure disease.”

  “Killing and curing aren’t mutually exclusive. Curare is a good poison that’s used in medicine. Botox too.”

  “Tell me about the sea star, Dr. Mayhew.”

  “Gladly. That little beauty is related to another sponge discovered in 1984. Harbor Branch Oceanographic was diving off Bermuda in the Sea-Link submersible. They found a piece of sponge in the sub’s suction tube. The sponge contained a chemical that in lab tests killed cancer cells.”

  “I read about that in the scientific journals. An exciting discovery,” she said.

  Mayhew nodded.

  “And frustrating as well,” he said.

  “In what way, Dr. Mayhew?”

  “Scientists searched for another twenty years for a whole sponge without success. Then someone had a brainstorm: why not dive deeper and find the sponge’s true habitat? On the first dive, they found enough sponges to support years of research. The scientists had been looking for the sponge in places where other stuff was growing. Their sponge grew at a depth of a thousand feet, where the bottom was practically bare.”

  “Did you use the same search procedure for the sea star?” Gamay asked.

  “Essentially. We found fragments of an unknown specimen not far from the Harbor Branch dives, did a habitat profile, and, as that TV chef says, Bam! We found whole sponges that also contained the cancer-killing chemical.”

  “Does the star’s potential live up to its beauty?” she asked.

  “The Harbor Branch specimen produced a chemical dozens of times more potent than the most powerful drug. The star is almost twice that strong.”

  “Do I detect a note of smugness in your voice, Dr. Mayhew?”

  The scientist widened his mouth in a smile that for once did not look pasted on his face.

  “We’ve got a long slog ahead of us before we can license the chemical to a pharmaceutical company, which would take the compound through clinical tests. We have to find a way to produce the chemical in quantity. Harvesting sponges in the wild isn’t feasible economically or ecologically.”

  “I’m sure you’ve looked into raising sponges through aquaculture,” Gamay said.

  “We’re researching that possibility. Better still would be culturing the microorganisms that produce the chemical. That would support our ultimate goal of synthesizing the chemical for wider distribution.” He shrugged. “First, we have to figure out how it works.”

  “You have your job cut out for you, Dr. Mayhew.”

  “True, but the potential rewards are mind-boggling. Ocean biomedicine is expected to be the greatest source of pharmaceuticals in the future.”

  Gamay cast her eyes around the lab.

  “What’s in the other tanks?” she asked.

  “More sponges, different varieties. Each specimen has its own chemical characteristics. We’re looking at cures for a host of human ailments. For instance, we’ve got corals that produce potential antibacterial and antiviral agents, and painkillers many times more powerful than morphine but without addictive qualities. The possibilities are endless.”

  Mayhew attempted to move the tour along.

  “I’m a bit puzzled,” Gamay said, subtly resisting the push of his guiding hand. “I’m sure I read on your website that you were doing research on other invertebrates. I haven’t seen any species of Cnidaria.”

  The question seemed to catch Mayhew by surprise. He dropped his hand from her elbow and glanced reflexively at the door to a walled-off section of the lab.

  “Jellyfish? Well . . .”

  Mayhew may have been an accomplished scientist, but he was an amateur at cloak-and-dagger. Gamay’s eyes followed the direction of his revealing glance, and she gave him her most charming smile. Taking him by the arm, she urged him toward the door.

  “I’ll bet you forgot,” she said.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s . . . We don’t like to disturb them.” He was folding under her unrelenting gaze. “Well, I suppose it won’t do any harm.”

  He opened the door and ushered Gamay into a room that was dark except for the light emanating from a tall, cylindrical transparent plastic tank four feet across and eight feet high.

  The light came from a dozen or so jellyfish, each about the size of a cabbage, that glowed with pulsating blue lights. They were in constant motion, moving from the bottom to the top of the tank in a graceful, hypnotic underwater dance.

  A figure on a ladder, bending over the top of the tank, turned toward their interruption. The unearthly light revealed the face of Dr. Bennett, the toxicologist. She opened her mouth in surprise.

  “Dr. Mayhew, I didn’t expect-”

  “I leaned on Dr. Mayhew to show me this part of the lab,” Gamay explained. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Bennett glanced at Mayhew, who gave her a nod.

  “Not at all,” Bennett said with a halfhearted smile. She brandished the long-handled dip net in her hands. “This procedure can be a little tricky at times.”

  Gamay’s eyes took in Bennett’s protective gloves and clear plastic face mask and coverall, and then she shifted her gaze back to the undulating, vaguely cube-shaped forms and their strange acrobatic ballet. Threadlike tentacles were attached to lacy fringe that rimmed each diaphanous creature. Their bioluminescence was almost bright enough to read a book by.

  “In all my years of diving,” Gamay said, “I don’t think I have ever seen anything this beautiful.”

  “Or as deadly,” added Mayhew, who had come up behind her. “The medusae in this tank produce a toxin that would put a cobra to shame.”

  Gamay dug into her memory.

  “This is a box jellyfish, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “That’s right. Chironex fleckeri, the sea wasp. There have been almost one hundred recorded deaths from its sting, which can kill a human being in under three minutes. I suggest that we stand back and give Dr. Bennett some room.”

  Dr. Bennett pulled the mask over her face and dipped the net in the tank.

  To Gamay’s surprise, the jellyfish didn’t shy away from the net but clustered closer to it, making it easy to snag one and transfer it to a beaker. In the process, the color of the jellyfish deepened and the pulsating became more frequent, as if they were agitated.

  “I’ve never seen jellyfish act in that fashion before,” she said. “They’ll usually try to avoid any threat they perceive.”

  “Jellyfish are predators,” Mayhew said, “but most species simply drift around, encountering their meals quite by chance. The eye in jellyfish is more acutely developed, which means it can see rather than sense its prey. Combined with its jet-propulsion capabilities, a jellyfish actually can chase down its intended meal.”

  Slowly shaking her head, Gamay said, “I’m not sure I understand. You said ‘most species.’ Didn’t you say these were box jellyfish?”

  Dr. Mayhew realized that he had said more than he had intended.

  “I misspoke a moment ago,” he said. “Actually, it’s closely related to the sea wasp, but more highly developed and aggressive.”

  “I’ve never seen a sea wasp quite that color,” she said.

  “Nor I. We came up with all sorts of fanciful names before settling on blue medusa.”

  “What is their potential pharmaceutically?”

  “We’re in the early stages of study, but the chemical it produces is far more complex than anything we’ve encountered. Experimenting with this delicate creature is like riding an untamed stallion.”

  “Fascinating,” Gamay said.

  Mayhew glanced at his watch.

  “Thank you, Dr. Bennett,” he said. “We’ll leave you alone now with your poisonous friends.”

  Gamay offered no resistance as Mayhew guided her out of the room and back into the main lab. He showed her some other species under study, then they left the resource-cultivation building and walked a short distance to an
other cinder-block structure.

  This lab had fewer tanks than the first one. Ocean scientists like to distinguish between wet labs, where specimens are housed and prepared, and dry labs, where computers and sensitive analytical instruments are kept. This was both, Mayhew explained. The wet part was where chemicals were extracted and placed with bacteria or viruses to see what the reaction might be.

  They spent more time in this lab than the first one, and by the time Gamay was out of questions it was nearly midday.

  “I’m as hungry as a horse,” Mayhew said. “Let’s break for lunch.”

  The kitchen served up gourmet-quality hamburgers. Mayhew chatted nonstop about nothing in particular, and Gamay figured he was just stretching things out. After their long break, the tour continued to a third building, which contained almost all computers and no tanks.

  Mayhew said the computers were matching chemicals to diseases faster than could be done by human beings. Gamay glimpsed Dr. Song Lee. Her eyes were glued to a computer.

  The tour was over by midafternoon. Mayhew seemed relaxed for the first time since Gamay had met him. He excused himself, and asked if Gamay would mind if he didn’t accompany her back to the lodge.

  “Not at all,” she said. “See you at happy hour.”

  As she left the lab building area, Gamay felt as if she had been given the bum’s rush. Since setting foot on the island, she had been wined, dined, zipped through a packaged tour, and prepped to be sent on her way in the morning.

  Mayhew had been correct to fear the attention of a trained observer. She might have passed off his close attention to her every move as a clumsy attempt at hospitality, but there was no doubt that he had tried a verbal bait and switch concerning the jellyfish tank’s occupants.

  Gamay had easily seen through Mayhew’s smoke screen. The collegial little research group was a facade. No amount of bar-room cheer could hide the fact that the island was a secretive, hermetically sealed, pressurized environment. People laughed too hard, or, in the case of Mayhew, switched on his phony jaw-breaker smile.

  GAMAY MADE HER WAY to the dock to get some fresh air. Dooley Greene was painting a skiff. He saw her approaching and removed the cigar stub from his mouth.

  “ ’ Afternoon, Dr. Gamay. Dr. Mayhew give you a good tour of the labs?”

  “It was short but interesting,” she said, keeping a poker face.

  Dooley picked up on the unenthusiastic response.

  “Thought so,” he said with his jack-o’-lantern grin.

  “I saw Dr. Song Lee in one of the labs,” she said. “Doesn’t she go kayaking every afternoon about this time?”

  Dooley nodded. “Like clockwork. She’ll go out later on.”

  Gamay pointed to the kayak rack.

  “Could I borrow one of those, Dooley? I’ve got a few hours, and thought it might be nice to explore the mangroves.”

  Dooley plunked his paintbrush into a can of turpentine.

  “I’d be glad to show you around in my boat, Dr. Gamay. You’ll see a lot more and save yourself some paddling.”

  Having nothing else to occupy her time, Gamay got into Dooley’s boat. He headed away from the dock, and, once clear of the island, goosed the throttle. The double hulls cut through the flat water like scissors through silk. Within minutes, they entered a small bay enclosed by mangroves.

  Dooley stood at the steering console, dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Squinting because of the sun’s reflection off the calm waters, he kept the boat pointed toward an old wooden cabin cruiser that lay off the tip of a mangrove island. The cruiser sat at an angle, with its stern in the water. The glass in the windows was missing, and there was a hole in the rotting wooden hull at the waterline that was big enough for a man to swim through.

  “Hurricane pushed that wreck up onto an oyster bar,” Dooley said, slowing the boat to a fast walk. “Makes a good navigation point when you’re cruising around the mangroves. It can get confusing out here at times, even with a GPS and compass.”

  The boat had gone past the tip of Bonefish Key, a long, tapering point shaped like a shirttail. The marine center dock was no longer visible, and palmettos obscured the water tower. The low, monotonous islands offered no outstanding features that could be used as reference points, and perspective constantly changed.

  “You must know these waters like the back of your hand,” Gamay said.

  Dooley squinted at the sun-dappled water.

  “It all looks the same, but you get so you can pick out little details that most people wouldn’t see.” He opened a storage box and pointed to a pair of goggles. “I cheat when I go out fishing at night,” he said with a smirk. “Got these night vision gogs over the Internet. Got some spare ones back at the boathouse.”

  “Where does Dr. Lee go kayaking?”

  “She paddles down the back side of the barrier beach. Lots of birds there. I’ll show you.”

  Dooley headed between two mangroves. The passage narrowed, funneling them to a dead end. Dooley brought the boat to a halt and handed Gamay a pair of binoculars. She raised them to her eyes and saw dozens of snowy egrets and great blue herons wading in the shallows, looking for food.

  Dooley pointed to a wooden stake that stuck out of the water a few feet from the shore.

  “That marks a path that leads across the island. Only a few hundred yards, and there’s good surf fishing on the other side.”

  Dooley powered up the outboard motor, and they sped out of the V-shaped cove and toward the wrecked boat. He made a sharp turn and headed back toward Bonefish Key. The water tower popped into view, and minutes later Dooley cut speed and expertly brought them alongside the dock. Gamay tied the boat off with a few turns of the bow and stern lines. She thanked Dooley and borrowed a chart of local waters, saying she wanted to see where they had been.

  She passed Dr. Lee, who was on her way for her daily kayak paddle. Gamay said hello, and got the same polite reception as the first time they met.

  She then stood at the top of the hill overlooking the marina and watched Lee until she paddled around a bend.

  When Gamay looked past the superficial beauty of the island, she saw that it had a beaten aspect to it. The mangroves were half dead, and even the high ground had never dried out after the hurricane, producing rank decay that overpowered the flowers and hung over the island in an invisible miasma.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  This place stinks in more ways than one, she thought.

  CHAPTER 21

  JOE ZAVALA SAT BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS 1961 CHEVROLET Corvette, cruising along Interstate 95 to Quantico, Virginia, at a safe ten miles over the speed limit. The convertible top was down, the powerful V-8 engine under the hood purred like a contented tiger, a CD of Ana Gabriel was playing, the wind was blowing in his dark brown hair, he was on the NUMA payroll, and he was about to meet a beautiful woman. Life was sweet.

  Around forty miles southwest of Washington, he turned off the highway onto a tree-shaded road and drove through countryside that first offered glimpses of military vehicles and structures, then led to a checkpoint manned by an armed guard. He showed the guard his NUMA credentials, had his name matched against a visitors’ list, and followed the signs to the main building of the FBI Academy.

  Surrounded by three hundred eighty-five acres of woods, the Academy was built on the Marine Corps base in the 1970s under the reign of J. Edgar Hoover. The campus-style complex consisted of twenty-one buildings of a soothing honey color connected by a network of glass-enclosed corridors.

  Zavala went through the front entrance of the main building and walked past a bubbling fountain into the atrium lobby. He checked in at the reception desk, and said he had an appointment with Agent Caitlin Lyons. He was given a security badge with his name on it to wear. A young woman was assigned to guide him through the maze of buildings and corridors.

  He heard a commotion that sounded like a gunfight at the O.K. Corral and knew that he was near the shooting range. The guide ushered hi
m in and pointed to a row of booths.

  “Number ten,” she said. “I’ll wait outside for you. Gets a little noisy in here. Take your time.”

  Zavala nodded his thanks, and took some ear protectors from an attendant. Then he went over to a booth and stood behind a woman who was firing at a silhouette of a man. She stood with her pistol in both hands, slowly and methodically pumping bullets into the target, hitting it in spots that would have proved fatal had the bullets been perforating human flesh instead of paper.

  Zavala had no desire to startle a trained FBI agent while she had a gun in her hand. He stood behind her patiently until she turned and saw him. She beckoned for him to step into the booth. She replaced the spent magazine with a full one, handed him the pistol, and pointed toward the target.

  The Walther PPK was a favorite of Zavala’s, and the grip felt comfortable in his hand. He raised it to eye level, flicked the safety off, and let off six shots in rapid succession. Every squeeze of the trigger found the center circle of the bull’s-eye over the heart.

  He flicked the safety back on and handed the gun back to the woman. She pressed a button that brought the target to the front of the booth. She stuck her finger through one of the holes Zavala’s bullets had made and said something he couldn’t hear. He removed his ear protectors, and she said it again.

  “Show-off.”

  She placed the pistol in a hip holster and pointed to her wristwatch. They made their way to the door, first dropping off their ear protectors. The guide was waiting in the hallway, but Caitlin said she would show Zavala to the lobby when their meeting was over.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

  They strolled along a shady path that was a world away from the sound of gunfire and the smell of cordite in the shooting range.

  Caitlin Lyons was an attractive woman in her thirties, and if she hadn’t been wearing black, short-sleeved coveralls with a sidearm on her belt she could have passed for a member of Celtic Women, the musical ensemble. She had a peaches-and-cream complexion, and the brows over her remarkable blue-green eyes were high and arched. Her dark blond hair was tucked under a black baseball cap with FBI on the front.