The Egyptian

by Layton Green

  Veronica’s voice was husky. “And the condition?”

  “You must not report a single word until the story is complete. And I say when it’s complete.”

  “That’s a deal with the devil.”

  “I need your word. If you hear the story and decide to print before I say, I deny everything, and you have no proof. And you’ll never get any from us.”

  Grey looked back and forth between the two of them. He had no idea what Stefan was about to tell them, but whatever it was, people were willing to kill for it.

  Veronica sat in her chair, unmoving. She licked her lips. “You have my word.”

  Stefan signaled his acceptance with a nod, then turned to face the woods. “The story begins with a package from Egypt.”

  • • •

  “Let me step back,” Stefan said. “I’ve been a scientist with Somax for many years. My career is the science of aging. I have always had many ideas, many hopes, many dreams. Ten years ago I became vice-president of research and development. Others can do what I can do in the lab; the company now wants my vision.” He stood and began to pace. “Do you know what enemy every person on this planet shares in common? Every head of state, every peasant, every billionaire, every welfare family?”

  “Death,” Veronica said.

  “Not death. Aging. Without the process of aging we would not have to die a natural death. And research has shown that aging is not an immutable biological event. It is not even universal among living things. Some species live far shorter lives than human beings, some live far longer. A very select few,” he paused, “are biologically immortal.”

  Grey’s eyebrows lifted. “Immortal?”

  “The hydra, an aquatic creature the size of a fingernail, is one example. Hydra do not undergo cellular senescence. Certain jellyfish utilize transdifferentiation to return to the polyp, or child, stage. Bacteria are essentially immortal as well.”

  Grey glanced at Veronica. “He’s right,” she murmured.

  “So you see, the possibility exists. Not as perhaps you think of immortality, not as ancient gods and warriors impervious to harm, but as an achievement of science.”

  “I thought these species were too different from humans to be valuable for research,” Veronica said.

  “So far, you’re correct. We’re still in the rudimentary stages of aging research. But we’ve made advancements in the last twenty years. Even more in the last several.”

  “Have you found something?” Veronica asked, and Grey noticed her hands were clenched. “Something real?”

  Stefan held up a finger for patience. “A decade ago upper management convened a special meeting. We decided we didn’t want to wait for the progress of science in the laboratory. We believed the secrets to aging lay in the natural world. In creatures such as the hydra and jellyfish—and perhaps in new, as yet undiscovered, species. And in other places. Rumors have existed since the dawn of man of waters that provided immortal life. Perhaps the myth has a simple, logical, rational explanation. Perhaps not. Or perhaps it is an exaggeration, but with some truth that would have a practical application to biomedical gerontology. In any event, my job, for the past decade, has been to explore the science of aging in every manner possible.”

  “I found an article,” Grey said, “in a newspaper. It was amateur. But it discussed how Somax and other corporations have delved into the occult.”

  Stefan smiled. “I can understand such an article. If an occult practice concerned aging, and possessed a potential scientific explanation, then I pursued it. I was open to everything. I scoured the earth for the origins of every single myth or legend surrounding human longevity. I’m quite sure an ambitious outside observer,” he glanced at Veronica, “might make such an observation. And I won’t deny that we’ve made certain inquiries that might be construed as an interest in the occult. But I am not a religious man. I’m interested only in the hidden doors of science that form the basis for occult legend.”

  Grey leaned forward. Maybe this case had more to do with Viktor’s world than he had thought. “And?”

  He waved a hand in disgust. “I found myths and legends. I traveled to remote corners of the world reputed to be home to cultures with abnormally long life spans—the Abkhazia region of Georgia, the Vilcabamba Valley of Ecuador, and the Hunza Valley of Pakistan, the alleged home of Shangri-La. I found an extraordinary number of people claiming to be over one hundred years old. None knew their age for certain, as is common with remote tribal cultures. I conducted biological studies of the population, I took samples of the soil, the trees, the plants, the air. I studied diets, cultural practices, sexual behavior. My conclusion was that they led extraordinarily healthy lives, and nothing more, and that very few were more than a century old. I turned my attention to the Hsien, the immortal beings of Tao legend. Taoists have breathing techniques and restricted diets and yogic practices that appear to allow their ascetics to reach advanced years with relative ease.” He shook his head. “Again, there was no evidence of preternaturally long life, of aging past the accepted maximum life span.”

  “One hundred and twenty years, give or take a few,” Veronica said. “As outlined in Genesis, Chapter Six, Verse 3.”

  “Very good. As your source demonstrates, human beings have been aware of the maximum life span for an eerily long time. Do you know what characterizes those rare exceptions who approach the limit? Without exception, it is good DNA. Strong, healthy cells. But even with these rare specimens, their cells are subject to the same rate of senescence as are we all. They just deal with senescence better than most.”

  “How exactly does senescence relate to aging?” Grey asked.

  Stefan nodded patiently. “All living things—with the potential exceptions I mentioned earlier—are programmed by nature to accomplish one task: reproduction of the species. After the reproductive period ends, the organism starts a period of decline, ultimately resulting in death. This period of decline is called senescence—that which happens after the biological purpose is fulfilled. Cellular senescence is the same thing, on the cellular level. Once a cell stops dividing, it enters senescence, and the organism begins a rapid state of decline. The reason the hydra does not age is because its cells do not undergo senescence. Humans age, in part, because their cells do. You remember the Hayflick limit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since it was discovered, the Hayflick Limit has appeared to be immutable.”

  “Appeared?” Veronica said, with a catch in her voice. “What do you mean appeared? The Hayflick Limit is untouchable. It’s the highest hurdle in biotech.”

  Stefan pressed his fingers to his lips. “My decade long search was, I must admit, a complete failure. We discovered no new species that shed light on the aging process. We discovered no ancient secrets. Just this month we were considering abandoning the project—we called it The Lazarus Project, in honor of one of our investors—and returning our full attention to the lab. Then I received the package. A package that has changed my work, my life, forever.”

  The afternoon languor had lengthened the shadows, quieted the woods. Grey glanced at Veronica. Her body was rigid with focus on Stefan’s words. Grey felt the same.

  Stefan paused, as if evaluating a memory. “A decade ago I worked for a brief time in Africa. I was based in Cairo.”

  “The Sudan experiments,” Grey said.

  Stefan’s eyes flashed. “Did you know the village was a leper colony? That they begged us to help them in any way we could?” He turned to Veronica. “Somehow that was left out of the news reports.”

  She said, “So you gave them false hope and God-knows-what type of self-serving pharmaceutical cocktail?”

  “We took the utmost care with our subjects. No adverse side effects were reported.”

  “Not until four-limbed children started showing up in nearby villages.”

  “Have you ever visited a leper colony? Have you ever seen a real genetic mutation? A child born without a face? Triplets fused toget
her like monsters?”

  “As a matter of fact I have.”

  “Then you should understand how utterly cruel nature can be. We want to help.”

  Veronica started to reply, then shook her head and looked away.

  Grey put a hand out. “Let’s finish the story. We can debate later.”

  Stefan took a moment to calm himself. “When I was working in Cairo, I let it be known, as I did wherever I traveled, that I was interested in acquiring new technologies, or any information of interest, concerning the science or myth of aging. I was introduced to a man named Dorian O’Bruggs as someone who dealt in the business of information. He had an excellent reputation.”

  “Criminals sometimes do,” Veronica said dryly.

  “A few weeks ago I received a phone call from Dorian. He told me he had something I’d be interested in, and named his price. I asked him what it was, and he said his client was interested in selling his groundbreaking telomerase research. I told him I’d pay half up front, and the other half if the research proved valuable.”

  “You didn’t ask where it came from?” Grey asked. “Who might’ve owned the research?”

  “I was desperate to find something, anything, that would further our work. And telomerase! Dorian assured me he was an honest businessman, and that he paid a fair price. I—yes, you’re right. I was naïve, and blinded by my hope.”

  “Some call it ambition,” Veronica murmured. “Now that I can identify with.”

  Grey said quietly, “What happened next?”

  “I received a visit from Dorian’s messenger. He opened a carrying case and gave me a small, hermetically sealed metal container. Inside was a test tube.”

  – 31 –

  Jax signaled to the bartender for another hit of Jack. All drinks have their places, he mused. Wine was for seduction and swanky restaurants. Gin martinis, for social functions and high-end nightclubs. Cuba Libres: beach bars and low-end nightclubs. Tequila was for Mexico and bars with ugly women. As Jax’s Kiwi friend once told him, if you don’t see anything you like, have another tequila. If you still don’t, repeat until you do.

  Vodka was for Scandinavia, Russia, and bars patronized by females from any of said countries. Frozen drinks, drinks with fruit flavors, mixed drinks with more than two ingredients that weren’t martinis: to be quaffed only during torture. Beer—all times and places not covered by the above list.

  Stuck in a living Kafkaesque nightmare and unable to escape the implacable minions of a psychopathic dwarf and his deranged bald employer: strictly the realm of Jack Daniels.

  Jax knew he was being tracked, but he’d be damned if he knew how. And he knew more ways to track someone than he knew ways to curse in foreign languages. He’d exhausted his resources and concluded either Al-Miri really was a wizard, or he was using a new technology.

  How many days had he been on the run? Maybe not that many, but it felt like an entire chapter of his life.

  He stood to use the restroom, and took a moment to gain his equilibrium. It was rare for him to be this far gone, and he was thoroughly enjoying it. He might not in the morning, but hey, that was the price of admission.

  His shoes stuck and smacked against the various unpleasant substances coating the floor of the dive bar. The place was a low-ceilinged, wood-floored shack that would probably fall over if he pushed hard enough on one of the walls. The bar smelled like the floor felt: beer, vomit, sweat, probably some urine mixed in from those special patrons who just couldn’t hold it. A couple of indolent ceiling fans circulated the foul air.

  Jax wanted off this continent. He wanted to be back in the nether regions, somewhere he didn’t have to worry about rules, laws, or police he couldn’t bribe with ease. He had shaken off the people following him on three different nights, in three different states, and they kept coming.

  He couldn’t risk a scene at a United States airport, or involve United States police. He didn’t have the right contacts here. So he was heading south, or north, he hadn’t yet decided. Each route had its advantages. The Canadian border was easier to cross in a pinch, but Mexican officials asked fewer questions. Whichever he ended up choosing, he was then going across the pond, and then across another. If they wanted to follow him to his turf, then it was game on. He’d hire a small army, hole up on top of a mountain next to the Taliban, and blow whoever came after him back to Oklahoma.

  In the meantime, he was sticking to the worst places he could find on the way, the doormats of America, places where his exotic pursuers would be far more unwelcome than he was. He was presently on the outskirts of Memphis, on one of the long flat strips of forgotten highway that ringed the city. The battered pawn shops and bars, the low-hanging wires and cracked pavement, the broken street lights and barefoot mothers on the corner: he might as well have been in Guatemala City.

  When he returned to his seat an enormous, leather-clad biker with a foot-long goatee had claimed the seat next to him. After the incident in West Virginia, Jax picked up a used chopper and stuck to biker bars and hotels in the worst parts of towns. If a bunch of Arab assassins showed their faces in this bar, they’d have fifty armed and xenophobic ex-cons to deal with.

  Jax signaled to the bartender again, this time for two. The biker slapped him on the back, and asked Jax what he was riding. They discussed the lifestyle and the biker bought the next round.

  The man belched, patted his piñata-sized gut and asked Jax where he was from. Jax knew his words were slurred. “Oklahoma.”

  The biker pointed at the underside of Jax’s left forearm, where a khaki-colored snake curled around a ruby cross. “You religious?”

  “Nah, boss. The church’s good for a couple of laughs, some quality architecture. Not much good at explaining anything.”

  The biker was still looking at the tattoo. “Uncle Sam’s playpen?”

  “I was with a merc unit for a while. The tat was the thing to do.”

  “No shit? Where, like Iraq or something?”

  “All over.”

  “You a bad-ass or somethin,’ brother?’”

  Jax shrugged. “You do what you gotta do. I prefer a cold beer and a willing woman.”

  “Looks like you’re cozyin’ up to a bottle of Jack tonight.”

  “The beer tastes like goat piss, and I don’t see any willing women.”

  The biker made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a growl. “I ain’t never met a merc. I thought that was a foreign line of work.”

  “Americans make the best mercenaries. They’re innate capitalists.”

  The man averted his eyes and chuckled in that hollow way people do when they don’t get the joke. “Pay’s good?”

  “Very.”

  “Maybe I could get in on that?”

  “You have any training?”

  “I been bustin’ heads in every goddamned town from here to New Orleans for thirty-five years, brother. That training enough for you?”

  Jax slammed his glass on the wooden bar and asked for two more. Route decision: made. “I suppose it is.”

  “I’m serious. I want in on some of that action.”

  “It might require a relocation.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Not many dirty wars in the U.S. right now. You could head south, though. There’s always room for another merc in the jungle. Pay’s shit compared to some places, but the perks are phenomenal. It’s a good place to bust your cherry.”

  The biker’s chest puffed out, and he wiped a teardrop of sweat from his forehead and shook it off his finger. “South, huh? You mean spic-ico? I’m good for twenty of those pint-sized bastards.”

  “Further south. Where the real stuff goes down.”

  He frowned. “How far south?”

  “Nowhere you can’t ride to.”

  “Shit, though, man. What, I just show up?”

  Jax drummed his fingers on the bar. “I know some people. I can make some calls. Gringos, too. Someone always needs help down south.”

  “N
o shit?”

  “I’ll make the call in the morning. I’m headed that way myself, tomorrow. You can follow me down if it works out.”

  The biker grunted towards a couple of men shooting pool ten feet away. “Can I bring two of my boys?”

  Jax grinned and held up four fingers to the bartender.

  – 32 –

  Stefan’s voice hushed. “It was a single test tube, full of liquid.”

  “With an image of a bearded green man and a palm frond staff,” Grey said. “Same as the tattoos.”

  Stefan stared at Grey, but Grey signaled for him to continue. “I burned with curiosity, as you can imagine. Perhaps this was a cruel trick? A hoax from a competitor? A misguided attempt at science from one of the radical prolongevitist groups? No matter—I took the test tube straight to the lab. The safe it arrived in was temperature controlled, and I transferred the test tube to a similar environment.”

  He cupped his jaw with his thumb and a bent forefinger, and started to pace again. “Please stop me if I become too technical.”

  “Wait,” Veronica said, and stood. “Excuse me a minute—I need to run to the restroom. Don’t say anything without me.”

  Grey’s mind was spinning from Stefan’s story, but speculation was useless. He took the time to stretch his legs, and wandered back to the courtyard. He saw the monk under the tree, sitting as he had before. Grey watched him as a gust of wind tumbled through the trees like an out of control acrobat. The monastery was a haven, a refuge, yet it had another quality to it, a permanence of isolation that hit too close to home.

  He saw Veronica returning, and he walked with her. Stefan resumed speaking once they settled. “The liquid had an emerald hue, with a metallic tinge. It was odorless.” He rubbed his chin again. “We touched on this before, but how familiar are you with the process of aging in human beings?”