by James Barney
“Look familiar?”
Kathleen shook her head. “No.”
“How about this one?”
“No.”
This process dragged on for more than an hour, with face after face of rough-looking men flashing onto the screen, none of whom Kathleen recognized in the least. When will this end? she wondered. She had a mountain of work to do—
“Wait!” she exclaimed suddenly.
“This guy?” Andersen inquired.
“No, not him . . . back up . . . there! That’s the guy I saw.”
“Are you sure?” asked Special Agent Wills.
Kathleen studied the picture carefully. It showed a man with a bony, angular face, dark, deep-set eyes, and a menacing frown. “I’m positive. He stared right at me for more than a second. That’s definitely the guy I saw.”
Andersen picked up the phone and dialed four digits. “Cooper, bring me the file on Ida 140943.”
A minute later, a young police corporal knocked and entered the small room carrying a thin manila folder. Andersen flipped through the file while Wills stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
“It’s from Interpol,” Andersen said quietly to Wills.
“Mm-hmmm.”
Kathleen watched anxiously.
“Are you sure he’s the guy you saw?” Andersen asked after a while.
“Yes, I’m sure. Why, who is it?”
“His name’s Semion Zafer.”
Wills piped in. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with a pretty nasty character.”
“I’ve never heard of him in my life,” Kathleen protested. “How could I be mixed up with him?”
“I don’t know,” said Wills, crossing his arms. “Who do you know in the Israeli Mafia?”
“The Israeli what?”
Wills leaned closer to Kathleen. “Care to tell us more about the DNA sample that was in that broken flask?”
Kathleen flinched.
“Where’d you get it?”
Kathleen’s heart was racing. If she told the truth, they’d know she lied earlier to Agent Wills. And that would make her look guilty. She felt her throat tightening.
“Dr. Sainsbury?” Wills prodded.
Kathleen panicked. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know where it came from. I mean, Jeremy Fisher was working on it after hours . . . some sort of project he was interested in. I . . . I’m not sure where he got it.” Kathleen’s heart was beating furiously. She’d just lied again to the FBI. And this time, it was a big, fat, whopping lie. She was going to regret this. She was absolutely sure she was going to regret this for the rest of her life. It was only a question of when.
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Finally, Detective Andersen stood up and announced, “All right then, I guess we’re done.”
Kathleen presented tag 33 to the young man at the security window and asked for her cell phone back.
“Wow,” said the security guard as he handed the phone to her, “your phone feels hot.”
“Yeah, it gets that way sometimes.” Kathleen thought nothing of it.
The young security guard looked intrigued, though. He adjusted his wire-frame glasses and straightened in his chair. “Let me ask you something. Does the battery drain down a lot, even when you’re not using it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But it’s an old phone. I think the battery’s going bad.”
“Maybe,” said the guard. He held up the hardcover book he was reading, which was titled Technology, Crime, and Law Enforcement. “I’m studying criminal justice at Montgomery College at night. I just got through reading all about cell-phone bugs and different ways your phone can be hijacked and turned into a listening device. You’d be amazed how easy it is to do. One telltale sign is a phone that stays hot even after you turn it off.”
Kathleen eyed her phone suspiciously. Could it really be bugged?
“You should take out your battery when you’re not using that phone,” said the guard. “Or, better yet, get a new phone and don’t let it out of your control.”
“Thanks,” Kathleen said.
As she exited the building, Kathleen touched the phone to her cheek. It did feel hot. But could it actually be bugged? Who would do that? She turned the phone on and noted that the battery was, indeed, nearly depleted, even though she’d charged it just last night. Navigating the call list, she was surprised to see four incoming calls in the past hour, one from Julie and three from Carlos.
She pushed redial for Carlos’s number.
Carlos answered on the first ring. “Dr. Sainsbury,” he exclaimed, obviously recognizing her incoming number. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morn—”
“Carlos! Don’t say anything else.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“All right. But you should get down here right away.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Special agent Wills sat hunched over the interview table in Room 202 of the Montgomery County Municipal Center, his chin resting on a clenched fist. He was reviewing the Interpol rap sheet on Semion Zafer for the umpteenth time.
Detective Andersen entered the room. “You still here, Tony?”
“Yeah, still trying to figure out what to make of this guy.” Wills thumped the thin file on Semion Zafer. The first page contained a photocopy of a booking photo from the Tel Aviv police department, which showed a frowning Zafer—a few years younger than he was now, but with the same dark eyes and skeletal facial features. “What do you think?”
Andersen leaned over and skimmed the file. “Small-time operator. Street punk.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. He got busted in Tel Aviv when he was nineteen for roughing up a jeweler. They pegged him as being part of the Israeli Mafia, but it sounds like a shakedown racket to me, kid stuff.”
“Mm-hmmm.”
“Certainly not international caliber . . .”
Andersen shrugged.
“I mean, what’s an Israeli street thug like Semion Zafer doing breaking into a high-tech biology lab in the United States and shooting a scientist in the back?”
“Looking for drugs? Could be an addict.”
Wills was unconvinced. “Seems like an odd place to look for drugs.”
“Loan sharking? Could be that QLS was funding its operations with easy money, and Zafer came looking for his first installment.”
Wills shook his head doubtfully. “Doesn’t sound right to me. QLS had millions of dollars in venture capital.”
“Well, I’m out of ideas,” said Andersen, shrugging his shoulders.
Wills was still rubbing his chin, deep in thought. “Did you hear what Dr. Sainsbury said the other night about mummy DNA?”
“Yeah, that was weird.”
“Then today, she tried to back away from it. Said it was something her colleague Jeremy Fisher was working on.” Wills leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced tightly behind his head. “There’s something I’m missing here . . .” His voice trailed off as he turned his attention back to Zafer’s Interpol file.
“Well,” said Andersen, starting back to his office, “I’m sure you FBI boys will figure it out.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Rockville, Maryland.
“What’s going on?” Kathleen asked as she stepped through the boarded-up front doors of QLS’s headquarters.
Carlos and Julie were standing in the lobby, and both began speaking at once.
“One at a time,” Kathleen admonished.
Julie started over in an excited, high-pitched voice. “Dr. S., you were right! The thermocycler still had uncontaminated residue from Jeremy’s sample. I was able to increase the concentration by running it through, like, three hundred cycles. It took all morning, but I consolidated the samples and quenched it and . . .” She stopped to take a deep breath and broke into a broad smile. “Dr. S, we got it!”
; “An intact DNA sample?”
Julie nodded.
“My God,” Kathleen said, “that’s great!” She gave Julie a tight hug. “I knew you could do it.”
“I’ve already started sequencing it,” Julie continued, “and so far it looks really good. I mean, really clean.”
Kathleen was still beaming over the good news when she turned to Carlos. “And what news do you have?”
Carlos looked down. “Nothing good, I’m afraid.”
The smile faded quickly from Kathleen’s lips. “What’s wrong? Is it Jeremy?”
“No. I haven’t heard anything about Jeremy. I got a call from an attorney at Tillman, Feldstein and Roth. They represent Crescent Venture Group and Aurora Capital, two of our investors.”
“Yeah?”
“Seems they’ve given us five days’ notice for a cash call.”
“A what?”
“They’re pulling their investments out. We’ve got five days to buy back all their shares at half par value or they can force us to roll up the company and sell off all the assets.”
“How much do we owe them?”
“At this point, about eight hundred thousand. And that’s just for their cash calls.”
“Carlos, that’s impossible!” Kathleen’s face was flush. “We don’t have that kind of money sitting around.”
“I know.”
“How can they do that?”
“It’s in the contract. You know, we’ve missed two milestones . . . it’s all completely legit.”
“We have the shareholders’ meeting coming up. I thought everyone was going to hold tight ’til then.”
“I did too. But it looks like Crescent and Aurora got cold feet and decided to head us off at the pass.”
“Why now?”
Kathleen’s question was still hovering in the air when there was a loud knock on the plywood panels covering the front doors. Carlos opened the doors to reveal Bryce Whittaker standing just outside.
“Bryce,” said Kathleen with unchecked surprise. “What’re you doing here?”
Whittaker stepped into the lobby and gave Carlos and Julie a perfunctory nod. Then, moving closer to Kathleen, he spoke in a low voice. “I tried to call you a couple times, but you didn’t answer your cell phone.”
“Yeah, I turned it off. I thought it might be . . . well, never mind. What’s up?”
“I heard what happened and just came by to make sure you’re okay.” Whittaker’s tone was earnest. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Bryce. But, actually, I’ve got a lot going on right now.” Kathleen tilted her head toward Carlos and Julie. “Can I give you a call later?”
“Sure . . . of course.” There was an awkward pause as Whittaker searched for a graceful exit. “Okay, so . . . just give me a call when you get a chance.”
“I will,” said Kathleen with a nod. “And, Bryce, thanks for coming by. Really. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Whittaker made his way to the door but stopped short. “By the way.” He turned to face Kathleen. “Were you ever able to recover anything from that DNA sample? You know, the one we talked about the other night.”
Carlos and Julie shot inquisitorial glances at Kathleen, as if to say, you told him about that?
Kathleen avoided their looks. “We’re working on it,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Whittaker. “I mean, it would be a real shame to lose something that important.”
“Yeah, it sure would. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”
“Sure. Talk to you then.” Whittaker nodded politely to Julie and Carlos. “It was nice seeing everyone.” Then he turned and exited.
Carlos shut the door behind Whittaker and was just about to say something when Kathleen cut him off.
“Julie,” she said urgently, “we don’t have much time. How quickly can you finish sequencing that sample?”
“I guess I can work on it tonight. Maybe have it finished by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Okay, I’ll help you. Carlos, can you stay here tonight too?”
“Sure, of course.”
“Okay, guys . . . this is it.” Kathleen was doing her best to channel Knute Rockne. “It’s do-or-die time. We need to have something big to announce by the end of this week, or I’m afraid we’re all going to be looking for new jobs. Julie, I hate to put all this pressure on you, but we need that sample sequenced ASAP. We need to find that INDY gene.”
Julie looked perplexed. “I’ll try Dr. S, but . . . what exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”
Good question. “Start with the INDY sequence from D. Melanogaster and look for something similar in the sample. If you find a close match, bounce it off the NCBI library and see if it matches any known human sequences. Remember, we’re looking something that’s not supposed to be there. Something that sticks out like a sore thumb. Possibly viral in nature. That’s all I can tell you for now. Just use your instincts.”
Julie looked unconvinced.
“Julie, the INDY gene is in there. Trust me. We just need to find it.”
When Kathleen returned to her office, the phone was already ringing. She raced to pick it up, thinking it might be news about Jeremy. “Hello?” she said.
“Hi Dr. Sainsbury, it’s Charles Eskridge. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“No, it’s fine,” she lied.
“Listen, I’m in D.C. today, and I was wondering if I could stop by your office for a few minutes.”
“Uh, sure. What brings you to town?”
“Actually, I came to help settle Dr. Sargon’s estate. Seems he named me as the executor of his will.”
“Really?”
“Yep. His attorney called the day after you left Boston. To be honest, it didn’t surprise me. Poor guy had no family. He left everything to Harvard University, which I guess makes sense. Given the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Kathleen.
“Anyway, my flight doesn’t leave for a few hours, and I was hoping I could drop by to give you some things. Would you mind?”
Kathleen told him that would be fine and gave him the address.
Dr. Eskridge arrived at QLS by cab an hour later, looking uncomfortable in a dark blue suit and black wingtip shoes. He carried a leather portfolio under one arm. Kathleen met him at the door and invited him in.
“Sorry I’m overdressed,” said Eskridge, looking genuinely embarrassed. “I was meeting with lawyers downtown.” He rolled his eyes. “You know how they are.”
They made their way to the QLS conference room and took seats at the table. For a few minutes, they exchanged small talk, chatting about his trip to D.C., the weather, and Quantum Life Sciences. He asked about the boarded-up front doors, and Kathleen explained about the shooting several nights before. Eskridge was visibly shocked to hear the news and had many questions about what had happened and who might have done it.
Kathleen cut him off. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.
Eskridge quickly changed the subject. He opened his portfolio and retrieved a two-inch stack of postcards, letters and photographs bound with a rubber band. “I found these while rummaging through my office last week after you left. I thought you might want to have them.”
Kathleen took the stack, removed the band, and inspected the top item. It was a picture postcard showing a wide river running through an unimpressive cityscape of dilapidated, 1960s-era buildings. The riverbanks were steep and dirty and devoid of trees. To Kathleen, the scene hardly seemed worthy of a souvenir postcard. She flipped it over and read the caption: “The Tigris River in Baghdad, Iraq.”
“Your mother was in the habit of sending me postcards from her travels,” said Eskridge. “This one was from her honeymoon, 1972.”
Kathleen read the handwritten note on the back: “Dear Dr. Eskridge, Iraq is wonderful, and we are really enjoying our honeymoon. Mixing work with pleasure, of course. Still trying to get permission for a dig in Tell-Fara. Hope all is well.
Love, Becky.”
Mesmerized, Kathleen inspected and read each of the other postcards and letters in the stack. Like the first, they had all been sent to Dr. Eskridge by Kathleen’s mother from places throughout the Middle East.
Near the bottom of the stack was a black-and-white photograph of a group of sixteen archeology graduate students, obviously taken in the early 1970s. In the middle of the group was a tall, muscular man with a handlebar moustache and a cowboy hat, smiling broadly. Kathleen recognized him as a younger version of Dr. Eskridge. On the far right side of the group was a pretty woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a sleeveless blouse and cutoff jeans. “My mother,” she said quietly, pointing to the smiling woman.
“Yes. That was our summer trip to Alexandria in 1971.”
The last item was a faded color photograph of Kathleen’s parents, pressed shoulder to shoulder and holding up an infant girl between them. They were smiling proudly.
“Is that me?” Kathleen asked. She flipped the photo over and read the cursive notation: “Kathleen Mary Talbot, age 3 months.”
“That’s you,” said Eskridge. “By the way, do you know who you’re named after?”
Kathleen searched her memory and came up blank. “No.”
“You were named after Kathleen Mary Kenyon, a famous British archeologist. She was best known for excavations in Jericho and the City of David in Jerusalem in the 1950s. Your mother was a big fan.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Kathleen.
“And you can thank me for not being named Gertrude.”
“Huh?”
“Your mom wanted to name you after Gertrude Caton-Thompson, another famous female archeologist. I talked her out of it.”
Kathleen laughed. “Thank you.”
Eskridge reached into his portfolio and retrieved another object. “Here, I thought you also might enjoy this.” He handed Kathleen a thin book with a soft, glossy cover.
Kathleen studied the dark nineteenth-century painting on the cover of the book. Fallen Angel by Alexander Calabral.
“It’s an introductory text about the Nephilim,” said Eskridge.
Kathleen was still considering the sepulchral scene on the cover, which depicted a sullen angel sitting awkwardly on the ground, head turned away, wings drooping down, a brooding sky above. “Why such dark imagery?” she asked.
