She stepped over to him. Chilled, she tugged her wool jacket tighter around her body, unconsciously accentuating her curves.

“How’s your father doing?” he asked.

“Finally sleeping.”

Together, they stared at the dark shoreline slipping past. Stars glinted crisply in the clear skies. Something brushed Tucker’s hand. He looked down to find Anya’s index finger resting atop his hand.

She noticed it and pulled her hand away, curling it in her lap. “Sorry, I did not mean to—”

“No problem,” he replied.

Tucker heard footsteps on the deck behind them. He turned as Utkin joined them at the rail.

“That’s where I grew up,” the man said, pointing downstream toward a set of lights along the west bank. “The village of Kolyshkino.”

Anya turned to him, surprised. “Your family were farmers? Truly?”

“Fishermen actually.”

“Hmm,” she said noncommittally.

Still, Tucker heard—and he was sure Utkin did, too—the slight note of disdain in her question and response. It was an echo of Bukolov’s similar blind condescension of the rich for the poor. Such sentiment had clearly come to bias Bukolov’s view of Utkin as a fellow colleague. Whether Anya truly felt this way, Tucker didn’t know, but parents often passed on their prejudices to their children.

Tucker considered his own upbringing. While his folks had died too young, some of his antisocial tendencies likely came from his grandfather, a man who lived alone on a ranch and was as stoic and cold as a North Dakota winter. Still, his grandfather treated his cattle with a surprisingly warm touch, managing the animals with an unusual compassion. It was a lesson that struck Tucker deeply and led to many stern conversations with his grandfather about animal husbandry and responsibility.

In the end, perhaps it was only natural to walk the path trod by those who came before us. Still . . .

After a time, Anya drifted away and headed below to join her father.

“I’m sorry about that,” Tucker mumbled.

“It is not your fault,” Utkin said softly.

“I’m still sorry.”

9:22 P.M.

Belowdecks, Tucker lounged in what passed for the mess hall of the boat. It was simple and clean, with lacquered pine paneling, several green leatherette couches, and a small kitchenette, all brightly lit by bulkhead sconces.

Except for the captain, everyone had eventually wandered here, seeking the comfort of community. Even Bukolov joined them, looking brighter after his nap, more his old irascible self.

Tucker passed out snacks and drinks, including some jerky he’d found for Kane. The shepherd sat near the ladder, happily gnawing on a chunk.

Eventually, Tucker sat across from Bukolov and placed his palms on the dining table. “Doctor, it’s high time we had another chat.”

“About what? You’re not going to threaten us again, are you? I won’t stand for that.”

“What do you know about Artur Kharzin, a general tied to Russian military intelligence?”

“I don’t know anything about him. Should I?”

“He’s the one hunting us. Kharzin seems to think your work involves biological weapons. So convinced, in fact, he’s ordered all of us killed—except you, of course.” He turned to Anya. “What do you make of all of this?”

“You’ll have to ask my father.” She crossed her arms. “This is his discovery.”

“Then let’s start with a simpler question. Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“I know who you claim to be, but I also know you’ve been pumping me for information since we met. You’re very good at it, actually, but not good enough.”

Actually he wasn’t as confident on this last point as he pretended to be. While Anya had asked a lot of questions, such inquiries could just as easily be born of innocent curiosity and concern for her father.

“Why are you doing this?” Anya shot back. “I thought such suspicions were settled back in Dimitrovgrad.”

“And then we were ambushed. So tell me what I want to know—or I can take this discussion with your father in private. He won’t like that.”

She stared with raw-eyed concern and love toward Bukolov. Then with a shake of her head, she touched her father’s forearm, moving her hand down to his hand. She gripped it tightly, possessively.

Bukolov finally placed his hand over hers. “It’s okay. Tell him.”

Anya looked up at him, her eyes glassy with tears. “I’m not his daughter.”

Tucker had to force the shock not to show on his face. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

“My name is Anya Malinov, but I’m not Doctor Bukolov’s daughter.”

“But why lie about it?” Tucker asked.

Anya glanced away, looking ashamed. “I suggested this ruse to Abram. I thought, if he told you that I was his daughter, you would be more inclined to take me with you.”

“You must understand,” Bukolov stressed. “Anya is critical to my work. I could not risk your refusing to bring her along.”

No wonder this part of the plan was kept from Harper.

“But I meant what I said before,” Bukolov pressed. “Anya is critical to my work.”

“And what is that work? I’m done with these lies. I want answers.”

Bukolov finally caved. “I suppose you have earned an explanation. But this is very complicated. You may not understand.”

“Try me.”

“Very well. What do you know about earth’s primordial history? Specifically about plant life that would have existed, say, seven hundred million years ago?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Understandable. For many decades, a hypothesis has been circulating in scientific communities about something called LUCA—Last Universal Common Ancestor. Essentially we’re talking about the earth’s first multicellular plant. In other words, the seed or genesis for each and every plant that has ever existed on the earth. If LUCA is real—and I believe it is—it is the progenitor of every plant form on this planet, from tomatoes and orchids, to dandelions and Venus flytraps.”

“You used the word hypothesis, not theory,” said Tucker. “No one has ever encountered LUCA before?”

“Yes and no. I’ll get to that shortly. But first consider stem cells. They are cells that hold the potential to become any other cell in the human body if coaxed just right. A blank genetic slate, so to speak. By manipulating stem cells, scientists have been able to grow an ear on a mouse’s back. They’ve grown an entire liver in a laboratory, as if from thin air. I think you can appreciate the significance of such a line of research. Stem cell research is already a multibillion-dollar industry. And will only escalate. It is the future of medicine.”

“Go on.”

“To simplify it to the basics, I believe LUCA is to plant life what stem cells are to animal life. But why is that important? I’ll give you an example. Say someone discovers a new form of flower in Brazil that treats prostate cancer. But the rain forests are almost gone. Or the flower is almost extinct. Or maybe the drug is prohibitively expensive to synthesize. With LUCA, those problems vanish. With LUCA, you simply carbon-copy the plant in question.”

Bukolov grew more animated and grandiose. “Or, better yet, you use LUCA to replenish the rain forest itself. Or use LUCA in combination with, say, soybeans, to turn barren wastelands into arable land. Do you see the potential now?”

Tucker leaned back. “Let me make sure I understand. If you’re right, LUCA can replicate any plant life because in the beginning, it was all plant life. It’s as much of a genetic blank slate as stem cells.”

“Yes, yes. I also believe it can accelerate growth. LUCA is not just a replicator species, but a booster as well.”

Anya nodded, chiming in. “We can make flora hardier. Imagine potatoes or rice that could thrive where only cacti could before.”

“All this sounds great, but didn’t you say this was all an unproven hypothesis?”