Washington nodded. “Wisely spoken. However, it seems to me, though not expressed verbally, that Mobius’s inevitable missteps would necessitate reopening the Well, as Mr. Madison has wisely suggested.”

Monroe, his expression neutral, his thin lips pressed tightly together, as usual, kept his own council. He was an enigmatic figure, to be sure: African American, charismatic, deeply conservative, and the only member to feel the use of the presidential pseudonyms at table to be childish and unnecessary. He was also possibly the smartest mind in the room, which was why he frightened Hartwell, a man not prone to fear on any level. Monroe, a behavioral scientist by training, a CEO of a large multinational company by trade, rejected all overtures at friendship. He seemed to be averse to any form of intimacy, no matter how small or sincerely offered. On the other hand, Hartwell mused, since the Well was his brainchild and since he had run it for the entire length of its first life, perhaps that was hardly surprising. Hartwell knew that Monroe harbored a resentment against the other members for shutting down his operation. He himself had stood with Monroe, but the two of them were outvoted. Hartwell kept a keen weather eye on him, wanting to see his reaction to its resurrection.

Van Buren, a raven-haired captain of the shipping industry with pale skin, nodded. “I, for one, wish to have nothing further to do with it.”

Adams, along with the others, looked to Madison. “Why in God’s name should we reopen it now?”

“The human trials,” Washington said.

“Indeed.” With a congenial nod to him, Madison said, “Gentlemen, please open the file in front of you to the first page.”

The six men did, almost in unison, and almost in unison four of them gasped, for there staring up at them was a color photo of the chimpanzee who, under the influence of Mobius’s implants, had torn off his own face. Neither Washington nor Monroe showed any reaction whatsoever.

“The failed test subjects must be disappeared without a trace.” Hartwell waited a moment or two to allow the shock to subside, then said, “All in favor of reopening the Well under the supervision of Mr. Monroe please indicate with an ‘Aye.’”

After the smallest hesitation, seven ayes were uttered. Hartwell saw the briefest flicker of a smile animate Monroe’s face. Relief and fear struggled for supremacy inside him.

Chapter 15

15

The morning sun cast long shadows across Djibouti. Deplaning with the Marine cadre, the Red Rover team crossed the tarmac and, without further ado, climbed aboard a twin-engine jet as sumptuous as the C-17 had been Spartan.

“One thing’s for sure,” Flix said, checking it out. “Cutler didn’t order this up for us.”

“Who did?” Charlie asked as they seated themselves in the wide, butter-soft leather seats.

“Friend of mine,” Whitman said.

“When can I meet this mystery man?” Charlie said.