Lincoln Child - Utopia: A Thriller

Contents

To my daughter, Veronica

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M ANY PEOPLE HELPED make this book a reality. My cousin, Greg Tear, was involved almost from the beginning, and proved himself both a fount of ideas and a tireless sounding board. Eric Simonoff, my agent at Janklow & Nesbit, did a heroic job of reading (and, bless him, re-reading) the manuscript and offering vital criticism. Betsy Mitchell proved to be a supportive and shrewd reader, and the novel is much the better for her input and that of her associates. And Matthew Snyder of Creative Artists Agency proved himself once again to be the best gunslinger on the West Coast.

Id like to thank my editor at Doubleday, Jason Kaufman, for his enthusiasm and his invaluable assistance with the manuscript. To Special Agent Douglas Margini, for his advice on weapons and law enforcement proceduresand for the ridealongmy thanks. And Id like to give special thanks to my co-conspirator and writing partner, Douglas Preston, for his extensive input and for encouraging me to write this book in the first place. Throughout seven joint novels he has proven himself to be both a loyal partner and a close friend, and I look forward to our next seven collaborations. Doug, take a bow.

There are others whose contributions, large and small, must be acknowledged: Bob Wincott, Lee Suckno, Pat Allocco, Tony Trischka, Stan Wood, Bob Przybylski. No doubt there are others Ive neglected to name, and to you I offer my cringing apologies in advance.

I want to thank the many members of the Preston-Child online bulletin board; your enthusiasm and dedication wont be forgotten.

And last, but far from least, I want to thank the three women in my lifemy mother, Nancy; my wife, Luchie; and my daughter, Veronicafor making this book possible.

It goes without saying that Utopiaand its cast, crew, and guestsare entirely imaginary. References to persons, places, and things outside the Park are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

utopia (yooto'peah) n. A state or situation of perfection.
An ideal place or location, frequently imaginary.

PROLOGUE

I T WAS THE ultimate coup, and Corey knew it. Not only had he scored a Jack the Ripper T-shirtthe exact thing his mother had sworn for three months that she would never, ever buy himbut now the whole family was about to ride Notting Hill Chase. Everyone knew it was the most amazing ride, not just in Gaslight but in the entire Park. Two of his school buddies had been here on vacation last month, and neither one had been allowed on it. But Corey was determined. Hed noticed his parents were having a blast, despite themselves. Just as hed known they would: after all, this was only the newest, best amusement park in the whole world. One by one, the little family rules had fallen away, until at last hed tried for the Big Kahuna. An intensive half hour of whining wore them down. And now, as the line ahead grew shorter and shorter, Corey knew he was home free.

He could see the ride was really fancy, even for here. They were in some kind of winding alley with old houses on either side. There was a faint chilly breeze, with a musty smell to it. Wonder how they faked that. Little flames burned atop iron lamplights. It was foggy, of course, like the rest of Gaslight. Now he could see the loading platform ahead. Two women clad in funny-looking hats and long dark dresses were helping a group of people into a low, topless carriage with big wooden wheels. The women closed the carriage and stepped back. It jolted forward, wheels turning in rhythm, and disappeared beneath a dark overhang as another empty carriage came up to take its place. Another group boarded, rolled forward out of sight; yet another empty carriage slid into position. Now it was his turn.

There was a scary moment when he thought he might be too short for the ride, but by drawing himself up with a herculean effort Corey raised the top of his head above the minimums bar. He quivered with excitement as one of the ladies ushered them up into the carriage. Immediately, he darted like a ferret for the forward seat, planting himself firmly upon it.

His father frowned. Sure you want to sit there, skipper?

Corey nodded vigorously. After all, this was what made the ride so scary. The carriages seats faced each other. That meant the two who sat in the front would ride backward.

I dont like this, his sister whined, taking a seat beside him.

He gave her a brutal, silencing jab. Why couldnt he have had a cool big brother, like Roger Prescott had? Instead, he was stuck with a wimpy sister who read horse books and thought video games were gross.

Keep your arms and legs inside the barouche at all times, please, the lady said in that weird accent Corey supposed was English. He didnt know what a broosh was, but it didnt matter. He was riding Notting Hill, and nobody could stop him now.

The lady closed the door, and the lap bar came automatically into position across Coreys chest. The carriage jerked, and his sister gave a small squeak of fear. Corey snorted.

As they began to move forward, he craned his neck over the side, looking first up, then down. His mother quickly reined him back, but not before hed noticed that the carriage was on some sort of belt, cleverly concealed and almost invisible in the dimness, and that the wheels were just turning for show. It didnt matter. The carriage trundled ahead into darkness and the sudden amplified clatter of horses hooves. Corey caught his breath, unable to suppress a grin of excitement as he felt the carriage begin to rise steeply. Now, out of the darkness, he could see the vague shape of a city spreading out around him: a thousand peaked roofs, winking and smoking in the night air; and, farther away, a cool-looking tower. He did not notice the tiny infrared camera concealed inside its uppermost window.

FORTY FEET BELOW, Allan Presley watched the monitor disinterestedly, as the kid in the Jack the Ripper T-shirt rose up Alpha lift. That shirt had been the most popular seller in Gaslight the last four months running, even at twenty-nine bucks a pop. It was amazing the way wallets flew open when people came here. Speaking of flying open, the kids jaw was dropping almost like a caricature: his head swiveling this way and that, leaving faint greenish heat trails in the infrared monitor as his car rose up above the sprawling rooflines of Victorian London. Of course, the kid had no idea he was ascending through a cylindrical screen, displaying a digital image beamed from two dozen projectors onto the fiber-optic lights of the cityscape. It was an illusion, of course. At Utopia, illusion was everything.

Presleys eyes flitted briefly toward the girl sitting next to the kid. Too young to be of interest. Besides, the parents were with them. He sighed.

At most of the first-line thrill rides in the park, cameras were strategically positioned at the final hair-raising descents, capturing the looks on the riders faces. By paying five dollars at the exit, you could buy an image of yourself, usually grinning maniacally or frozen in fear. But it had become an underground tradition among the more daring young women to bare their breasts to the camera. Of course, the resulting pictures never reached public view. But male members of the backstage crew were greatly entertained. Theyd even come up with a term for the practice: meloning. Presley shook his head. The crew at the water flume in Boardwalk got a good twelve, fifteen eyefuls a day. Here in Gaslight, it was much less common, especially this early.