BOX SET of THREE TOP 10 MEDICAL THRILLERS

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  “On the basis of the information we have before us, I am prepared to declare that this project has a green flag. With all the necessary funding it will take. Jason. It’s your project now. You’re in charge. If there’s a God out there, or in there…” he said pointing to the image of the Crown of Thorns still floating in the air in front of the screen, “ …then it’s up to you to find Him…and clone Him!”

  .

  Chapter Nineteen

  The White House

  Washington D.C., America

  .

  Tim Curts put down the phone and sat at his desk, contemplating what he was going to do for the rest of his day. His two o’clock had just been cancelled, and since it was the Redemption Day holiday everyone else that had any sense was at home with their families. Nowadays, Redemption Day held more significance than the traditional Thanksgiving Day holiday. It certainly had more relevance, the purpose of the day being to celebrate the day the vaccine for the SARs 2 virus had been discovered.

  That’s where he should be too, at home with his family, except that the ‘two o’clock meeting’ was not something he could have said no to. When the President of the United States of America, asked you personally to be in his office in Washington for ‘a two o’clock’, you didn’t say no.

  And then when the President subsequently calls you at one o’clock to tell you that he won’t be able to get out of his golf game in the afternoon after all, and that the meeting can wait till the next week, well, what could you do?

  “No problem Mr President. Enjoy your game. How’s the weather?” Tim had said biting his tongue and cursing under his breath.

  “Excellent. The weather’s brilliant here in Florida! Got to go…my caddies waiting. See you next week Tim.”

  Florida? What the hell was he doing in Florida? And why had he dragged Tim away from his home and family on the most important day of the year, to a meeting he could never have made? Tim swore again under his breath and stood up and moved across to look out of the window into the garden at the back of the White House. He knew better than anyone that it wasn’t a good idea to swear oaths about the President aloud in any office in the White House. All the rooms were bugged. No doubt even his own. He should know. It had been his idea to bug them. He had done that in the second month of his new role as Head of Security at the White House, a role which was now almost secondary to the myriad of other functions he also fulfilled for the President.

  Of course, his day job, his real job…was as a Senior Operative and Field Agent, reporting directly to the Director of the CIA, …but he hadn’t done much for the CIA in the past five years. Nowadays, it was all about protecting the security of the President. Making sure that no one outside, or even inside his team, took a shot at the President and killed him. The irony was that sometimes even he was tempted to take a shot himself.

  Tim Curts was a fair man. Forty five, sandy haired, green eyes, five foot nine, slim and muscular, and very fit. Likeable. Friendly. Sincere. Honest. And fiercely loyal. With an IQ that bumped the top of the scale, he had been an obvious choice for recruitment to the CIA when he graduated from Berkley with a top degree in Biology.

  His career had started off slow, but had really got going during his intelligence stint in Syria during the final years of the first Bush administration.

  America wasn’t half the superpower it used to be. The economy was shot to hell, and manufacturing output was way down. Nowadays America was just a shadow of its former self. Self pitying, weak, without pride, and constantly on the edge of bankruptcy.

  When the SARS pandemic hit America, the economy had collapsed and never really recovered. Even America’s military might was now under threat. There just wasn’t the money to continue funding it on the same scale as before.

  Over the years, Tim's opinion of his President had changed dramatically. During the first days of the President's administration, when Tim had been appointed to his position, he had really believed in the Presidency. But over the years he had seen the truth behind the administration. President Jamieson was a brutal man, godless and greedy. The title President had never been able to hide the 'General' behind the blue suit and tie, a soldier with a soldier's military mind.

  Yet, it was the ‘President’ that yielded ultimate power in America and Tim had taken the oath many years ago to defend his land, and to support and obey ‘the President’, whoever that President may be.

  Tim was loyal to the core, and he wouldn’t change now. But it didn’t stop him looking back fondly upon the days when Clinton, the Bush Boys and Powell had ruled America. The old America had been a great land then. A good place to live. Decent, free…

  The phone rang and Tim pulled himself away from the window to pick up the red receiver. It was the security phone, so he knew immediately that the call would be important. Probably either the President again or his boss calling from the Pentagon. It was the latter.

  “Tim. Sorry to hear that you were called away from your family. How is Mrs Curts and that gorgeous little girl of yours?”

  “Fine Daniel. Very good. I spoke to Regina an hour ago and they were about to go for a walk in the forest to work up an appetite for the family dinner…”

  “She’s a good woman Tim. You’re a lucky man…” Daniel was a good boss. Director and Chief of the CIA for the past ten years, he cared about his employees and took a genuine interest in their family lives. No wonder that he commanded respect, friendship and even a small degree of love from those who worked for him. He was a rock, a giant of a man, and Tim had always thought that if fate had not thrown America such an unlucky curved ball, Daniel would have made a great President. A real President. Like the ones in the past. Not like the one they had now.

  “And you? What are you doing in the office?” asked Tim. He knew that Daniel preferred to work hard, rather than sit at home alone in his huge empty house. Daniel had never married.

  “Something came up…something that I want you to take a look at. It’s a Code Green. For your eyes only. But I think you may need to get an opinion from some others. If you do, just use your judgement in who you choose, okay? You know the ropes.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “I sent the file over thirty minutes ago. It should arrive in your office in about ten minutes. When you’re ready to advise me on your opinion, give me a call. Day or night. You know where to reach me. I'll leave it to you to brief the President. I don’t think we have much time to waste...”

  “Sure thing Daniel. As soon as I know what’s going on. In the meantime, get yourself off home and fix yourself a brandy!”

  “Roger that Tim. Sounds like a good idea. I think you’d better fix yourself one too, you’ll want one when you read what I've just sent you!”

  .

  The green file arrived ten minutes later exactly, escorted by two heavily armed escorts in blue striped suits. Standard CIA garb nowadays. All very cosmopolitan and European.

  Tim fixed himself the brandy as his boss had suggested. Daniel wouldn’t have suggested it unless he meant it. He didn’t mess around.

  Tim laid the box on the oak desk in front of him and first typed his personal password into the small keyboard, then pressed his index finger onto the security reader on the front of the file. There was the slight sound of a “click” as the container disarmed itself, having correctly scanned in his finger print and recognised the owner, allowing Tim to open the box without it self-destructing and destroying the contents.

  Inside there was a green folder containing a field report from Ambassador Johnson in London. Tim had never met the man, but he had heard good reports of his work. He knew that the Ambassador would never send in a Code Green report unless it was something really important.

  The field report contained a long type-written report in clear text, with a set of photographs, and very strangely, a hologram of a thorny branch wrapped into a circle, like a wreath of some sorts. The hologram fascinated Tim and for a few moments he played with it, holding it up
to the office light and watching how the wreath projected itself into the space in front of his eyes as the light shone through it from behind. It was amazing. After a few minutes he put it back on the table, took a sip of his brandy and sat back in his large leather chair to read the report.

  .

  He had only got to page two when he realised that his hands were beginning to shake. He took another sip of his brandy, read another page and then finished the rest of the glass. He needed it.

  .

  Chapter Twenty

  The Chesapeake Room

  The White House

  Washington D.C.

  .

  Two days had passed since Tim had first read the report on the ‘Haissem’ project. Its content had both scared and inspired him, and had filled his every thought for the past forty-eight hours. That evening he had placed some calls to a few of his colleagues, and the next morning a select group of people had been sent copies of the file. They had each reviewed its contents, and had flown down that night to meet with Tim in a Code Green meeting at 8am the next morning.

  .

  “First of all, may I thank you all for coming so soon, and I’m sorry if I disturbed your holiday celebrations. But, as you have all read the report I think you will agree that we have something here that requires our complete and immediate attention.” Tim spoke directly to the team gathered around the round table in the Chesapeake Room of the White House. The room had been swept for bugs and listening devices immediately before the meeting began, and it was now secure. In the centre of the table, the hologram had been laid upon a light box, casting the three-dimensional hologram up into the space above it, so that the entangled wreath of thorns hung mysteriously in the air above the table.

  Tim rose to his feet and walked around the table, resting his hand briefly on the shoulders of the people as he passed them.

  “I want you all to speak openly here. Honest opinions. Straight talk. Whatever you say is for the benefit of this team only. Nothing said here goes beyond this wall. I think we all understand that.” It was a statement not a question.

  “Jim, you lead the best genetics team the government has got…what’s your opinion?” The question was given to Jim Stuart, head of the governments Genetics Research Core, or ‘The GRC’ for short, as it was more commonly known. Tim didn’t approve of most of the programmes Jim was working on, investigating how to use genetics in creating genetic and biological weapons of mass destruction, but he was the expert.

  “Scary. Very scary. Incredible. But possible. Very possible. We don’t have the capability yet. But it sounds like the graduate student Jason has combined several existing processes to invent a new one. We need to find out what that is.” Jim replied in his deep voice. He was a giant of a man, overweight and over tall, and when he spoke he stroked his long black beard. Tim didn’t like him. Quite frankly, he looked weird.

  “Okay, and how long will that take?”

  “About six months. Maybe a year if we have to do all the work ourselves, but we can’t be far behind. We’ve been trying in the GRC labs to clone people for years, since the turn of the millennium.”

  “…but you haven’t succeeded yet. Have you?”

  “No, not yet. They have all died in their infancy. Well, actually before they were born, but we can do it. We’re very close.”

  “You’ll have to get closer. But, if I am understanding you correctly, you are telling me that technically this project may be completely viable, as in something we have to take seriously?”

  “More than that. This is genius. I wish I’d thought about it.”

  “...But you didn’t. A graduate student did.”

  Tim turned his attention to the man sitting opposite Jim. “ ..and what is your opinion Dave?”

  Dave was one of the country’s leading biologists from Caltech University in California. He chaired many of the government committees on genetic and biological research, and Tim had always suspected his involvement with the government didn’t stop there.

  “Completely doable, although probably about five years ahead of its time. They’ve stolen the lead.”

  “What do you mean ‘stolen the lead’?” Tim replied immediately.

  “…just that there are lots of groups all round the world trying to clone humans successfully. Unfortunately, no one has ever been able to publicly repeat the success of Professor Wainright from Oxford, the man who is really heading up this project.”

  “What do you mean ‘stolen the lead’?” Tim repeated the question.

  For a second Dave said nothing, looking briefly out of the window as if contemplating if and how he should reply.

  “Dave, may I remind you that I am head of security here at the White House, and that I have the complete trust of the President, and report to him directly. I have his full authority. If there is something going on here that I don’t know about, you had better damn well tell me now, …and I mean now!” Tim put both hands on the table and leaned across towards Dave, staring straight into his eyes.

  “Okay, I thought you would have known. We’ve been trying for a number of years to clone President John F. Kennedy. He was never buried in Arlington. Weird though it may seem, he was really put into cold storage…frozen in one of the crazy cryogenic programmes of the late twentieth century. There isn’t a hope in hell of bringing him back to life, but we might be able to clone him. So far we’ve made two little boys, but they both died when they were four. Don’t know why. Just died one day. No reason. But from what I read in the report it sounds like the Oxford group are way ahead of the game. Way ahead. If I wore a hat, I’d take if off to them.”

  “JFK? Bloody hell!!! What the hell has the world come to when you can’t even die in peace, once and for all!” Tim shook his head. “Dave, I want you to give me a full report on that project, whatever it is, and I’ll circulate it to the others. But from now on, this one will take precedence.”

  Tim turned to the last member of the team who until this time had been quiet. Unlike the other two who were dressed in civvies, Colonel John Smart was in his full dress uniform.

  “Colonel Smart. Your report please?”

  Colonel Smart was well known to Tim. He was a top soldier but was also one of the smartest men Tim had ever met. He’d ‘done’ several other ‘jobs’ for Tim in the past, in his role as Security Chief at the White House. Over the years Tim had come to trust his judgement, and a couple of times he had taken his counsel on international security issues. Colonel Smart had grown up in Europe and spoke five European languages, and had a deep understanding of international and cultural issues.

  “Having heard the reports from our learned friends, I believe we have no choice but to obtain the Crown of Thorns, to give it its proper name, and to advance our cloning programme rapidly so that we can make our own clone of Jesus Christ as soon as possible. We cannot, under any circumstances allow the Europeans to take the lead in this race. America was once a God fearing nation. And now is our chance to put Christ at the head of the nation once again. It is our duty to make sure that Christ is born and brought up in America. An American!”

  “And how are we to ‘obtain’ the Crown?” Tim asked, knowing full well that Colonel Smart would have already drawn up a plan to steal it from the Europeans.

  “According to our Oxford source, who as you can see from the report is a member of the team undertaking this research, the project is going well. The original agreement with the French Catholic church was for a loan of the Crown not to exceed six months. But the work is already ahead of schedule and if things continue on track, our contact has told our agent in England that the Crown will be due for return to France in two months time. This gives us a maximum of seven weeks to obtain the Crown. Our agent in England has been very thorough. He has made a full hologram of the Crown and has provided it with his report. From this hologram we are able to view in every aspect a life-size image of the Crown. Using this information an exact replica of the Crown must be constructed usin
g materials similar in origin to the object being replicated. As soon as we have an identical copy I will arrange for the duplicate to be swapped with the original. Ideally, this should be done after all the examinations are complete at the laboratory in Oxford, and just before it is returned to France to its current home in the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris."

  "If we miss the window of opportunity to obtain it while it is at Oxford we will have to take it from its vault in Notre Dame, however the logistics of doing that would be significantly harder. While it is in Oxford it is under minimal security so as not to draw attention to itself. Very few people even know it has left France.”

  “Once we have the Crown I will deliver it to the new G.R.C. labs in the underground CIA Biological Warfare Institute deep in the mountains in Vale, where it will be up to our scientists to discover how to clone Jesus Christ.”

  “The immediate problem I face is how to swap the Crown with a duplicate when we have it ready. It will be a few weeks before I have made all the arrangements and have put together a couple of back-up plans, should the first go wrong, but by the time we have a duplicate made I will be ready." Colonel Smart finished his report.

  “Thanks Colonel Smart. For now I’m putting you in charge of arranging for the duplicate to be made, and for arranging all the details of the operation to make the swap in England. In the meantime, Dave and Jim, I’m looking to you two, to provide the smarts on how you’re going to make the clone. Make the necessary arrangements for preparing the lab in Colorado. Code Green too. This whole project is Code Green. We’ll meet again in a week for an update. Any questions?”