by Bill Clem
Seizing the moment, Peter Carlson turned on his heel, pulled open the door, and left.
Sixteen
* * *
THE GENSYS CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS SAT on a hill in the middle of Silicon Valley just outside San Jose, California. Inside its walls, some of the most groundbreaking and controversial experiments ever conducted had taken place. But the most important one they’d ever attempted was now underway in a building far removed from the sunny landscape of San Jose.
Ron Powers sat tapping his pen, waiting impatiently for a phone call from that facility. He had a deadline to meet, but someone had thrown a wrench in the works and he was pissed off.
Powers was known as an aggressive CEO among his colleagues, albeit a reckless one. Thirty-six, handsome and intense, he had been fired from a rival of GenSys for not obtaining proper state permits before performing animal experiments using endangered species. Now, as head of product development at GenSys, Prince Habib hired Powers to clone the ultimate animal. However, Powers had other plans for the Prince’s money.
The phone buzzed once when he jerked the handset out of the cradle. “Speak.”
On the other end, an angry Frank Tibek took a deep breath. “We’ve got problems.”
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
“Carlson’s going to be trouble. I tried to tell you. His Boy Scout morals and nostalgic reminiscing about his granddaddy are enough to make me sick.”
“The Arab wants him onboard. Just play along.” Powers continued, the edge in his voice sharpening, “I need those specimens in the next two weeks. You had better figure out how to do it, Without Carlson finding out. If he catches on, the Prince will be his first stop.”
Tibek hated being treated like he was stupid. He just warned Powers about Carlson, and Powers answer was to warn him back? “What about that twit, Elkstrom? He is making some noise, too. I think you may have to send someone to talk with him.”
“With what you stand to make on this, you should handle it.”
“Yeah, and why don’t I just shit some golden eggs while I’m at it? I’ve got enough to do here. I’m here to... ” Tibek chose his next few words carefully, “... see that the desired result is met. I’m not here to be your muscle.”
Now a heated discussion ensued. The deal Powers alluded to was eighty million dollars for delivery of the clone and the corresponding technology, of which Tibek would receive ten million. Tibek had guaranteed he could meet the buyer’s demand that it all happen in twelve months. There was no agreement to any early delivery, especially of the fetal clones, and Powers knew it. He also knew he was dealing with something that people desperate enough would pay any price for. Relying on this, Powers had cut his own deal for another twenty million to bring the project in two months early.
For someone else.
The tactic worked. Unbeknownst to Tibek, Powers had promised the near impossible. He’d just maneuvered himself into a position in which he could not lose. Under this new scenario, his end would be either forty million or sixty million. Either way, he’d be guaranteed enough money to leave the country and be ensured a lifetime of luxury. All he needed to do was convince Tibek.
Powers, the ultimate grifter, put on his silkiest voice. “Frank, I have the utmost faith in you. Do this and I will see to it that you receive... a bonus. Let’s say ten percent. That’s a cool million. Just to step up what you are doing anyway.” Powers could tell by the lack of argument, he was speaking Tibek’s language now. He laid it on thicker, “Not only are you a brilliant geneticist, you’re the best con artist I’ve ever met. You’ve handled the Prince masterfully; you can surely fool Carlson. And you’re right, Frank; as for our little friend, Elkstrom, I’ll handle him.”
Powers hung up. He hit the speed dialer for a number he occasionally needed to contact.
The last time he’d used it was for Dr. Whiting.
* * *
Frank Tibek would have to work fast. Powers had taken him to be a fool, but he was sadly mistaken. The very people, who had approached Powers and cut his deal, wisely hedged their bets and contacted Tibek, who negotiated his own deal. Powers, the double-crosser, was being double-crossed. Tibek relished the irony of that twist.
Unfortunately, someone had thrown a piece of shit into his soup—Peter Carlson. Although it was true Carlson could help speed things up, Tibek was prepared to do whatever was needed to protect his own interests.
Including, killing Peter Carlson if necessary.
* * *
The telephone conversation had reminded Powers of his need to appear proactive to the Prince. For this, an email would do nicely.
Your Royal Highness Prince Habib,
Just an update to report that we are progressing according to schedule. And fully anticipate delivery by, or perhaps even prior to, the date previously agreed upon.
As always, feel free to call me at any time.
Yours sincerely,
Ron Powers
He read it twice. It was short and to the point, reaffirming their arrangement, and cementing the Prince’s confidence in Powers. In the back of his mind, Powers knew that it was something that could come back to haunt him. I ways he didn’t even want to imagine.
Seventeen
* * *
COLIN ELKSTROM TRIMMED THE ROSES bordering the Australian Museum of Natural History with loving care. Although there was a crew of groundskeepers, Elkstrom found the activity helped relieve the stress of being curator of one of the largest museums in the world. But on this day, he had another reason.
He had a meeting with The Man.
Elkstrom didn’t know his name, but it really didn’t matter. The Man was like a bank. He had the cash. And lots of it!
Elkstrom saw him approach in a black late model BMW, rolling to a stop near the curb. He was just as Elkstrom remembered: Dour, plain, and not much bigger than Elkstrom himself.
“Good morning,” The Man said, his voice soft and monotone.
Elkstrom started to extend his hand, before thinking better of it.
“We can talk over here.” He led The Man to the side of the rose garden, out of view of the parking area.
Elkstrom took a seat on a marble bench and laid the garden shears on the ground beside it. The Man sat next to him, smoothing out his suit.
“You got my message,” Elkstrom said, as The Man crossed his legs.
“What’s this about, Elkstrom?”
“It’s about my fee. With what I know about your operation, I’m starting to believe I was underpaid.”
The Man stood and stared at Elkstrom, his face expressionless. “You’ve been paid well, Mr. Elkstrom.”
“Clearly, my original fee was not enough.”
The Man took off his sunglasses and began polishing them on his shirt. He squinted in the sun. “How much more will you require?”
“I was thinking another fifty thousand.”
“I don’t like being extorted.”
“Don’t think of it as extortion. Think of it as... insurance.”
“It will take me a few days to get it.”
“Of course. Take your time; your credit’s good with me.”
The Man stepped toward the bench and picked up the garden shears next to Elkstrom. “May I? It looks relaxing.”
“Be my guest. It is relaxing.”
The Man turned toward the rose hedge and took one snip, then wheeled back. Quick as a striking cobra, the man’s arms shot out, garden shears open and extended, burying the twelve-inch blades into Elkstrom’s eye sockets. A gigantic explosion of pain blossomed in Elkstrom’s brain as a glut of blood and ocular fluid erupted from each eye. Soundlessly, he slumped over on the bench.
The Man shot his cuffs. “Consider yourself paid in full.”
Eighteen
* * *
JACK BAKER STOOD UNDER A eucalyptus tree and watched the rain pound the forest canopy. The others were packed tightly in a makeshift shelter and Baker found the idea of sharing a five by ten
lean-to with three strangers uncomfortable at best. His claustrophobia wouldn’t let him do it even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Night had arrived with a storm, and the rain seemed to be endless. Moreover, the temperature had fallen drastically, leaving him chilled to the bone and miserably soaked, despite the good-sized fire he built under the cover of some trees.
In the firelight, he also noticed something he ignored earlier. A jagged piece of metal had cut a gash in the back of his calf, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off and fatigue was setting in, the wound made its presence known like a white-hot knife. He pressed at it, hoping to bleed out any debris, but even the slightest touch sent a fireball shooting up his leg and right through his groin.
Tracy Mills came up behind Jack. “Ooh, that looks nasty.”
“Ah, I’ve had worse. It hurts like hell, though.”
“It needs a couple of stitches.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“I was an OR nurse before I became a stewardess.”
“What do you plan to use for sutures?”
“I saw the medical kit sticking in a tree at the crash site. I grabbed what was left in it,” Tracy said, opening the canvas bag she’d been lugging with her.
Jack inhaled silently. “Good thinking.”
“You do realize our plane broke up before impact.”
“What are you saying? It was a bomb?”
“No. The velocity broke it up. That’s why there’s intact stuff everywhere. It launched us forward when we hit the water and landed in the trees. It’s weird.”
“Stuff must have flown hundreds of yards,” Jack observed.
“Now, let’s take care of that leg.”
Tracy moved closer to the fire for light and reached in her bag. His leg was really throbbing now and he hoped she had something for pain in her bag of tricks.
She knelt down next to Jack. “Here we go. Now, let’s see.”
Jack pulled the cuff of his pant leg up past his knee revealing the full view of his wound.
“It’s pretty bad,” Tracy said. “I’ve got some lidocaine here to numb it up. It’s gonna need a few more stitches than I thought, though.”
Jack leaned back. “I barely know you and yet, here I am letting you sew me up. Can’t you at least give me a little background on yourself?”
“I could say the same thing, except I’m doing the sewing.”
“Fair enough.” He took a deep breath. “Jack Baker. I’m thirty-eight. Associate professor of anthropology, Penn State. Born in Washington D.C.; raised in Seattle. There, now it’s your turn.”
“Tracy Mills. Flight attendant of crashed plane. Graduate of UCLA Nursing School and Pan American stew school. I’m a California girl, and I am not telling you my age. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand and Jack shook it warmly. “You ready to get stitched?”
“Do what you gotta do, doc.”
They were looking at one another at the exact instant they heard it. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees when an inhuman high-pitched howl pierced the pounding rain.
Nineteen
* * *
THE LITTLE-KNOWN COUNTRY OF Dunali lies between Iran and Morocco on a chunk of desert that had unlimited oil and gas reserves. Prince Habib Hamel headed the monarchy that ruled the country. The crown had passed from father to son for generations and Habib was to pass it to his son, Ali. Now, that future for the young boy looked bleak. Khalid had become increasingly weak over the last month and the concerned Prince had sent the child to Dunali’s medical center for tests. The results sent the Prince into a state of despair. His ten-year old son would not live to inherit the throne one day. He’d be lucky to see his twelfth birthday.
Habib couldn’t let his son die, no matter what the tests said. He would find a way. If he had to spend every penny that came out of the ground beneath the desert sand, his son would not die.
Then, like a thunderbolt from a desert storm, the answer to his dilemma was delivered to him. It came in the form of a magazine article. He recognized its significance the moment he’d laid eyes on it.
The Prince called his aide into his suite. “Jimi, I want you to search the Internet for every geneticist you can find. Narrow it down to the top five in the world and bring me the list. You are to do nothing else until you are finished.”
His aide mounted strenuous objections. It was impossible. In most countries, it was illegal. It was immoral, he argued, let alone the religious ramifications. And the odds were so far against it, it was probably incalculable.
Habib knew the arguments against it, but none outweighed his reason to proceed. He could not be persuaded.
“Your highness—“
“Enough, Jimi. I gave you an order. Now, do not worry about anything else. Time is running out. Do you understand, my friend?”
The aide relented. “I believe I do, sir.”
That had been six months ago. Now, as the Prince stood staring out of his son’s window into the desert below, he realized that the cure he so desperately sought, the cure they all said was impossible, might be just weeks away. He waved his aide to his side. Taking his hand, he spoke softly, “Jimi, I need you to go check on the progress at the compound. Let me know what the status is. I have to stay here with Ali.”
“But, your--”
The Prince tightened his grip, making Jimi’s knees bend a little. “Don’t argue. The chopper will pick you up in one hour. Go now.”
“Very well, Your Excellency.”
Twenty
* * *
THE SIGN ON THE DOOR said SEQUENCING and, like all the other doors in the building, it opened with a security card. Peter Carlson slipped his card in the slot. The lights blinked, and with a click, the door opened. Inside, Peter saw a large room bathed in fluorescent light.
Peter wasted no time getting to work on the gene sequencing. Although he was coming in at the tail end of the project, his expertise was paramount for their success. He could feel the resentment Tibek harbored for him. After all, Prince Hamal had summoned him here to accomplish what Tibek had not been able to achieve.
Peter began by calling up all of Tibek’s data thus far. He was surprised to find that several files were incomplete and several more required an additional security code to open. He found this odd because less than an hour earlier, Tibek had assured him of full access to all the sequencing data they’d amassed over the last three years.
Using his login information to enter the data bank, Peter typed in the proper security code.
GENE>THYLA>WHTIB:
The monitor flashed and a list of files appeared.
source 1..17411 Sept. 3, 2004
/organism="Thylacinus cynocephalus"
/organelle="mitochondrion"
/mol_type="genomic DNA"
/db_xref="taxon:9275"
tRNA 942..1009
/product="tRNA-Phe"
rRNA 1010..1961
/product="12S ribosomal RNA"
tRNA 1963..2030
/product="tRNA-Val"
rRNA 2031..3597
/product="16S ribosomal RNA"
tRNA 3602..3675
/product="tRNA-Xle"
gene 3677..4633
/gene="ND1"
CDS 3677..4633
/gene="ND1"
/codon_start=1
/transl_table=2
/product="NADH dehydrogenase subunit 1"
/translation="MFTLNLFLYIIPILLAVAFLTLIERKVLGYMQFR KGPNIVGPYG
LLQPFADAIKLFTKEPLQPLTSSWSMFILAPILALTIALTIWTP LPMPNALLDLNLGL
LFILSMSGLSVYSILWSGWASNSKYALVGALRAVAQTISYEVT LAIILLSVMLINGSY
TMKTLSITQENLWLIFTTWPLAMMWFISTLAETNRAPFDLT EGESELVSGFNVEYASG
PFAMFFLAEYANIIAMNALTTILFLGSSMSLLTPNINTLIFVIK TLLLTITFLWIRAS
YPRFRYDQLMYLLWKNFLPLTLALCLWFISM PISMSCIAPQM"
tRNA complement(4633..4701)
/product="tRNA-Xle"
tRNA 4699..4769
PRODUCTION NOTE: Sequence is tainted. Suggest abort!
SEQU
ENCE 1
ORIGIN
1 tagctcgcac gactctattt cagcggaaat aaaatcaatg atctatagac ataaaattaa
61 caaatcatc agttacaaca atatcaacat ctaagactac atacaatcaa tttcattaag
121 atcaataatc aatgatcgat agacataaca tcaagtatta ctaacatcat aaagacatat
181 tattatactt ccccccctgc aaacacgtat ttaccatcaa cgtttgcgtt ta cacgtata
241 tgcgtacaca cgtatatgcg tacacacgta tatgcgtaca cacgtatatg cgtacacacg
301 tatatgcgta cacacgtata tgcgtacaca cgtatatgcg tactgtgtac gtgtacgtgt
361 aaataataat taataataat taataataat taataataaa taataataaa taataataaa
421 taataataaa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa taataaataa
481 taatatataa taatataaaa taatatataa taaataataa taagtttctg at cattaaac
SEQUENCE 2
541 ccccctaccc ccttactaaa ttttatcgct tccgtcaaac ccctaaaccg gatgatagac
601 ctttagcaca atgaataatc atcgtacggg agaaaacatt ctaaacccaa atactattta
661 catttaactt attacctaat caaattaact aaccaaaaac aattaactaa ccaaaaacaa
721 ttaactaacc aaaaacaatt aactaaccaa aaacaattaa ctaaccaaaa acaattaact
781 aaccaaaaac aattaactaa ccaaaaacaa ttaactaacc aaaaacaatt aactaaccaa
841 aaattttctg attcaaaaag aaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaatt aaatactgac
901 atagtatata aattaaaaat ttcaaaaaaa attacttttt tgtttgtgta gcttaaccaa
961 agcaaagcac tgaaaatgct tcgatggatc ataatgggtc cca gaaacac aaaggtttgg
1021 tcctggcctt actgttaatt cttattagac ctacacatgc aagtttccgc gccccagtga
1081 gaatgccctc aaaactaact aatagttttt taggagtggg tatcaggcac actcaatgag
1141 tagcccatga caccttgcct agccacgccc ccacgggata cag cagtgac taatattgag
1201 ctatgaacga aagtttgact aaattataat aaagagggtt ggtcaatatc gtgccagcca
1261 ccgcggtcat acgattaacc caagttaaca gaaaaacggt gtaaagcgtg tttaagcgaa
1321 ataaataaaa taaagttaat acctgactaa gctgtaatac gccatagtta gtactaaaat
1381 acacaactaa cgtgacttta ctatagagct gaagacacta aagctaaggt acaaactggg
