by James Barney
There was a pause. “Hold on. Let me patch in Defense . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Route 50 West, Maryland.
“Something exciting going on at work?” asked Bryce Whittaker, trying in vain to start a conversation. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of Kathleen’s Subaru, which was traveling westbound on Route 50 toward D.C. Kathleen had been lost in thought ever since leaving Annapolis. It was dark outside, and the highway was relatively empty.
Whittaker’s question interrupted Kathleen’s private reverie. “What? Oh sorry. Yeah, something really exciting.”
“Care to share it?”
Kathleen glanced at Whittaker and reflected on how things had changed between them tonight. The trip to Garrison Manor, it turned out, had been a revealing experience. She’d discovered something unexpected in Whittaker, something she liked very much—a sensitive, compassionate side she hadn’t noticed before. She loved how kind he’d been to her grandfather, so understanding of his condition. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? I keep secrets for a living.”
“Oh really?” She shot him a disbelieving look. “And here I thought you were a reporter.”
“Ouch, that hurts.”
“Bryce, I’m serious. This is big. You can’t tell anyone.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Kathleen sighed heavily and braced herself for what was going to be an awkward conversation. “Have you ever heard of the Epic of Gilgamesh?” she asked finally.
“Gilgamesh? No, can’t say that I have.”
For the next twenty-five minutes, Kathleen told Whittaker everything that had happened to her in the past week. She began with her meeting with Dr. Sargon. She explained what she’d learned about her parents. She explained about the Tell-Fara temple, where they were killed. She told him about the silver box and its bizarre contents.
“Wow!” Whittaker exclaimed.
“Wait, it gets weirder.” Kathleen continued outlining the details of Sargon’s apparent suicide, her trip to Boston to meet with Dr. Eskridge, and finally her decision to test the tooth for DNA. The only thing she left out was her meeting with the FBI. Bryce doesn’t need to know that, she decided.
For the most part, Whittaker remained silent during her long narrative, interjecting only the occasional “uh-huh” or “wow” at appropriate intervals.
Kathleen glanced over occasionally to gauge his expression. This was a lot to lay on him all at once, she realized. But it felt great to get it off her chest. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “but this could really be huge.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Whittaker asked. “I mean, the stuff about the Nephilim and the super-long life spans and all?”
“Well, it’s not as crazy as you might think. We already know there’s a gene in fruit flies that controls their life span. That’s the INDY gene I told you about at the lab. So it’s not inconceivable that a similar gene exists in humans—or at least did exist at some point.”
“Yeah, but what happened to that gene? I mean, nobody’s lived more than about a hundred and twenty years in modern history. At least not that I’m aware of.”
“You’re right. The longest known life span in modern recorded history was a woman in France who lived to be one hundred and twenty-two. She died in 1997. The oldest person currently alive is about a hundred and fourteen.”
“Okay, so that’s my point,” said Whittaker. “I mean, if there was this Nephilim gene floating around somewhere in the human gene pool, wouldn’t it have surfaced by now?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the last couple of days, and I have a theory.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m thinking it could have been a virus.”
“What could have been a virus?”
“The source of the DNA that gave those Nephilim such long life spans.”
“A virus?”
“Sure. There’s been a lot of research lately showing that a good percentage of our DNA is actually made up viral DNA that entered the human genome millions of years ago and has simply come along for the ride all these years.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. For instance, researchers have found precursors to the HIV virus that exist in all of our DNA. Every single one of us. They’ve been there for millions of years, passed on from generation to generation.”
“So how come we don’t all get sick?”
“Well, what happens is, over time the viral DNA becomes neutralized. It becomes what some biologists call junk DNA, which means it doesn’t do anything at all. It just comes along for the ride, generation after generation, slowly deteriorating into randomness.”
“Seems strange that our DNA would be loaded down with junk like that.”
“I know. But our DNA is actually chock full of these viral remnants, most of which entered the human genome tens of millions of years ago, literally while we were still monkeys.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this before?”
“I guess it’s not something people like to think about. I mean, there’s this misconception that our DNA is a perfectly engineered blueprint for human life. Concise and well tailored in every way. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Our DNA is patchwork quilt of all sorts of stuff. Parts of it work, of course, but a lot of it’s just filler.”
“Like spaghetti code.”
“Exactly! The system works, but it’s not elegant.”
“Okay, but how does this relate to these . . . Nephilim you were talking about?”
“Well, like I said, when viral DNA enters the human genome and begins to be passed down from generation to generation, it may start out being pathogenic.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it causes some perceptible symptoms. AIDS, for instance. Or leukemia.”
“Okay . . .”
“But over a period of time, the viral DNA begins to lose its effectiveness. It might take one generation; or it might take many. Scientists aren’t quite sure how this happens, but it appears that, somehow, the rest of the genome is able to neutralize the invading species . . . contain it, so it becomes progressively non-pathogenic.”
“All right . . .”
“So, I’ve been thinking . . . what if these Nephilim were infected with a virus that injected the INDY sequence into their DNA? The symptom of that virus would be an abnormally long life span—just like the fruit flies in my lab.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“But over many generations, the pathogenic effect of that virus would fade as the viral DNA became progressively neutralized. The INDY sequence itself would degrade to the point where it was no longer functional. After thousands of years, it wouldn’t even be recognizable—just random, junk DNA.”
Whittaker thought for a moment. “Like what happened to the Nephilim . . .”
“Yes. Their life spans became progressively shorter over a period of several hundred years until, finally, they became entirely asymptomatic.”
“You know,” Whittaker said with a crooked smile, “that actually makes some sense to me.”
“Yeah . . .” Kathleen’s voice trailed off. “Anyway, now you understand why I’m so excited about this DNA sample. We may have found an actual sample of human DNA with an intact INDY gene!”
Whittaker was silent for a long while, obviously lost in thought. “So . . . when will you know? I mean, how long will it take to confirm that you’ve actually found the INDY gene?”
“We have to sequence the sample and compare it against a modern reference sample. That could take a few days . . . or weeks. It really depends on luck.”
“Then you’ll know?”
“We should.”
“Wow,” said Whittaker, rubbing his chin.
After that, they both became lost in their respective thoughts.
Whittaker was the first to break the silence. His tone was academic and deliberative. “You know, there’s a real relig
ious angle here. Have you given any thought to that?”
“Frankly, no. Religion’s not really my thing.”
“Okay, but I’m just thinking out loud here. You mentioned some passage in the Bible that talked about these Nephilim, where God said that man was just flesh and would be confined to live no more than one hundred and twenty years, right?”
“Something like that. I think it was in the Book of Genesis.”
“And didn’t you say that, even with all our modern medicine, the longest any person’s been able to live is one hundred and twenty-two years?”
“Yeah.”
“Almost like there’s a limit to our life span or something?”
“Okay, I see where you’re going, but—”
“Hold on, just think about it for a moment. For the devout . . . they might see this as a violation of, I don’t know . . . God’s will or something.”
Those words hit a sharp chord in Kathleen’s mind. Dr. Sargon had used that exact phrase the other night. “God’s will.” Why does it keep coming back to that?
“Do you see what I mean?” Whittaker asked.
“I guess so. But you could use that same argument to challenge just about every scientific advance. For instance, you could say that cancer is God’s will. AIDS is God’s will. Leukemia. Diabetes. Gallstones. You could chalk up every conceivable human ailment to God’s will and oppose any form of treatment. And you know what? There are people who believe exactly that. They’ll sit there and refuse medical treatment as their children suffer painful illnesses that are totally treatable. Well, I just don’t subscribe to that nonsense. Frankly, I think it’s bullshit!”
Kathleen rarely cursed, and she was surprised by her vitriol on this topic. But this was something she believed in strongly. Science could not be handcuffed by outdated superstitions about “God’s will” and biblical fairytales. “I can’t accept it,” she declared firmly.
“All I’m saying is, there’s a debate there. And even if you don’t agree with it, there are millions of people out there who might see this as an affront to their most closely held beliefs.”
“Well,” said Kathleen with a shrug, “they’re wrong.”
Whittaker laughed. “Maybe so. But I’m telling you, you could really be opening Pandora’s Box here.”
Chapter Thirty
Rockville, Maryland.
Jeremy Fisher was thoroughly exhausted. He’d been awake since early Saturday morning—nearly forty hours ago. His hair was a mess, he had the beginnings of a full beard on his face, and his clothes were badly wrinkled and ripe. Earlier in the day, he’d driven to McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries—his only meal of the day.
In his entire life, Jeremy could not remember being as tired as he was right now. Still, despite Kathleen’s admonition to go home, there were a few important things he needed to finish up in the lab before he could leave. Most important, he needed to transfer the purified DNA sample into a half dozen sterilized neoprene sample bottles for retention. After a lucky success like today’s, the last thing he wanted to do was leave his DNA sample sitting overnight at room temperature where it could decay, or worse, get contaminated.
He knew that if any bit of stray DNA got into the sample at this point—even a tiny bead of sweat from his fingers or a microscopic cell of airborne yeast—all would be lost. If any polymerase chain reaction (“PCR”) solution remained unquenched in the sample, it could amplify the invading DNA and quickly turn the entire sample into an ambiguous, multi-species DNA soup. In other words, useless. At this stage of the process, more so than at any other, contamination was the enemy. And he wasn’t about to be robbed of his breakthrough success.
Jeremy’s plan was to divide the bulk sample into six equal aliquots, each sealed in a sterilized sample bottle. He then planned to freeze five of the aliquots with liquid nitrogen for long-term storage. The remaining sample bottle would go in the laboratory’s refrigerator for Julie’s sequencing work.
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, which were burning badly. He’d left his contact lenses in far too long, and he desperately needed to take them out. Fumbling through his tattered canvas backpack, he found his “geek glasses” and slipped them into his pants pocket. He exited the lab, being sure to close the airtight door behind him, and lumbered slowly down the hallway toward QLS’s small unisex bathroom. He entered the bathroom, flipped on the light, and closed the door with a soft ka-chunk.
Groggily, he removed his contacts and splashed cold water on his eyes, which felt great. He washed his unshaven face with soap and water and, for nearly a minute, savored the feeling of having his eyes closed. Finally, reluctantly, he dried his face with a paper towel and put his glasses on.
It took a long time for his bloodshot eyes to adjust to their new corrective lenses. As they came into focus, he stared at himself in the mirror with amazement. He looked like hell. He poked the dark, puffy circles under his eyes and wondered what, exactly, caused them. At some point, he became aware of the monotonous electrical buzz of the overhead fluorescent light . . . and something else.
Straining to hear, he detected something metallic and irregular—a rattling noise somewhere just outside the building. It lasted a few seconds—tat tat tat—then stopped. A few seconds later, it resumed—tat tat tat tat—then stopped again. Jeremy stood motionless, straining to listen. But, as before, the buzz of the bathroom’s fluorescent light was the only audible sound.
He exited the bathroom and started back toward the lab, stopping momentarily at the emergency door at the back of the building. “Hello?” he said tentatively.
Silence.
“Hmph.” He shook his head. He really needed some sleep. Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, he continued on.
Halfway down the hallway, he heard the same noise again—a soft, metallic clicking sound. This time, though, it came from the other end of the hallway, near the lab. It was just a brief, isolated noise, but this time, he was sure he’d heard it.
He picked up his pace. The hallway was dim and his vision still slightly blurred from rubbing his eyes. He entered the anteroom to the lab and stopped short.
Something was out of place.
He spotted it immediately. The door to the lab was open—just a faction of an inch, but open nonetheless. He was sure he’d closed it. It was something Dr. S had drilled into his head since Day One at QLS. The airtight door to the lab must always remain shut because slight temperature fluctuations can affect the breeding cycle of Drosophila. He was positive he’d closed that door.
Hadn’t he?
“Hello? Julie? Dr. S?”
No reply.
He approached the door and reached for the doorknob but quickly withdrew his hand. The light was on inside, just as he’d left it. But how did the door get open? A fleeting image of the discolored tooth crossed his mind. Two days ago, he had extracted human dental pulp from it. The process had repulsed him somewhat, but he’d gotten through it. Now, the image of that tooth returned to his mind—strange and grotesque.
His hand hovered just inches from the doorknob. His pulse was racing wildly. “Hello?” After a long period of silence, he laughed to himself nervously. Don’t be ridiculous, he thought. Obviously, he’d left the door open by mistake. It was late, and he seriously needed some sleep.
He cracked the door open farther and poked his head through. “Hello?” he said again. “Julie? Dr. S?” He stepped through the door and scanned the lab quickly with his blurry, bloodshot eyes. Everything looked normal.
He walked farther into the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place—
Bam! The lab door slammed shut behind him and latched with a reverberating clank.
Jeremy spun and immediately found himself staring down the barrel of an enormous black handgun, inches from his face. The man holding the gun was tall and lanky. He wore black jeans, a grimy white T-shirt, and a thin, partially zipped black leather jacket. His face was boney and angular, his eyes dark and ruthless.
�
�Don’t move,” said Semion Zafer.
The order was entirely unnecessary. Jeremy was already frozen in place, speechless. Am I imagining this? Is this really happening?
“Where’s the sample?” Zafer croaked.
“The what?”
Zafer frowned and thrust the barrel of his SP–21 Barak pistol directly into Jeremy’s forehead. “Don’t fuck with me, asshole! I want that DNA sample you told Dr. Sainsbury about tonight. Where is it?”
The feeling of the cold steel barrel on Jeremy’s forehead acted like an eraser, making his mind go entirely blank. He struggled for words but managed only to open and close his mouth like a beached fish.
“Where . . . the fuck . . . is it!” Zafer brought his face within inches of Jeremy’s, the Barak pressed firmly against Jeremy’s skull.
“Th . . . there.” Jeremy motioned with his eyes toward the black soapstone bench behind him.
“Get it.”
Jeremy backed away from the pistol, unable to take his eyes off the barrel. Slowly, unsteadily, he inched backward toward the bench. When he got within arm’s reach of the sample flask, he picked it up with a trembling hand. “This is it,” he said.
Zafer lowered the pistol and held out his hand. “Bring it here.”
“What do you want with it?” Jeremy asked, immediately regretting the question.
“Hey!” Zafer bellowed. “I didn’t say talk. I said bring it here . . . Now!”
“Okay, okay.” Jeremy handed the flask to Zafer, who snatched it away.
“Now,” Zafer said, “get on the floor.”
Jeremy’s heart was pounding against his ribcage. A single thought was reverberating in his head. He’s going to kill me. Right now! Right this very second! He’s going to kill me!
“On the floor!” Zafer shouted.
Slowly, Jeremy complied. His mind was spinning chaotically, every synapse firing at once. He had to think! He was on his knees now.
“Lie down!” Zafer ordered. “On your stomach.”
Think! Jeremy commanded his brain. Think!
Zafer was stepping toward him now, standing over him.
