The Genesis Key

by James Barney

  Venfeld pulled his Beretta pistol from the pocket of his raincoat and ascended the steps slowly. A few minutes later, he exited on the seventh floor and made his way to Apartment 7E.

  There was no need to knock; Venfeld had a key. He carefully unlocked the door and swung it open, waiting a full ten seconds for any possible noise or reaction inside. Hearing nothing, he slipped quietly through the open door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. With his right hand, he squeezed the handle of his 9 mm tightly, releasing the grip safety. His index finger rested lightly on the trigger. He was ready for anything.

  Jesus, what a fucking slob, he thought to himself as he stepped around half-eaten fast-food meals, dirty dishes, and crumpled clothes on the floor. The living room smelled like pizza, booze, and old socks. Porno magazines were stacked high on the floor next to the only legitimate piece of furniture in the room—a tattered lime green couch with a pizza box occupying the central cushion.

  Venfeld quietly made his way across the carpeted living area, past the greasy kitchenette, and into the short hallway adjoining the apartment’s two bedrooms and one bathroom. He generally knew the layout of the apartment. What he didn’t know was which bedroom Semion Zafer slept in.

  He approached the first bedroom door, twisted the doorknob carefully to avoid a click, then pushed the door open quietly, just enough to poke his head through. The room was dark. A thick shade covered the only window in the room, blocking out what little sunlight would have been available from the adjacent alleyway on this overcast morning. Venfeld could see that the floor of the room was covered wall-to-wall with boxes, clothes, and a vast collection of junk. There was no bed—no furniture at all—and nobody in the room.

  He proceeded down the hallway to the next door—the bathroom—which was wide open. Leaning backward against the hallway wall, he craned his head ninety degrees around the corner and peered inside. The bathroom was dark—and empty.

  Which left just one more room . . .

  Venfeld was just starting toward the last door in the hallway, when suddenly, the doorknob rattled and the door began to open.

  “Shit!” he mouthed silently. He quickly retreated a few steps and slipped into the bathroom. It smelled like mouthwash and mildew. He climbed into the shower and pulled the shower curtain closed ever so slowly, coaxing each metal curtain ring across the steel curtain rod so that it barely made a sound. He positioned his body like a statue—feet planted on the bottom of the shower, right arm outstretched, finger on the trigger. He could hear Zafer’s footsteps in the hallway.

  The bathroom light clicked on.

  Through the opaque shower curtain, Venfeld could see Zafer yawning and rubbing his face, coming closer.

  Venfeld decided not to wait any longer. With a rapid sweep of his left hand, he ripped open the shower curtain. Zafer was standing less than four feet away, fully nude, directly facing him. He’d obviously been heading for the toilet.

  They locked eyes for a fraction of a second. Then Venfeld raised his firing arm, took aim, and fired his pistol. The suppressor emitted a muffled pop.

  The 9 mm round caught Zafer in the chest. A thin circle of blood splattered on the yellow tiles behind him as the bullet passed through his flesh and exited between his shoulder blade and his spine. “Lech!” he grunted in Hebrew, staggering backward. He hit the yellow-tiled wall and slid down, leaving a slimy trail of blood.

  Venfeld quickly aimed and fired again—the CIA’s “double tap” technique. Pop!

  Zafer’s eyes widened as the bullet hit him square in the forehead. A small, dark circle formed just below his hairline, and his head snapped back violently. Simultaneously, the back of his skull exploded, splattering blood and brain matter all over the tiled wall behind him. Zafer slumped down into a lifeless heap, his eyes frozen in an expression of disbelief.

  Venfeld could be sure of one thing now: Zafer wouldn’t be talking to the FBI.

  He stepped out of the shower, still clad in his raincoat, gloves, and Fedora, and carefully navigated around the body of Semion Zafer, deftly avoiding any blood spatter. He made his way to the front door but, before exiting the apartment, paused to listen carefully.

  Silence.

  Don’t trouble trouble.

  Venfeld exited Apartment 7E, locked the door behind him, and strode leisurely back to his BMW on 6th Street. He found it parked just where he’d left it, untouched.

  Seven minutes later, Venfeld merged his BMW into the morning rush on the Southeast Expressway. He typed the address of Quantum Life Sciences into his navigation system and sat back and relaxed to the sounds of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G Minor, one of that composer’s darkest works.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Rockville, Maryland.

  “How’s everyone holding up?” Kathleen asked as she walked into the QLS conference room. Carlos and Julie were already seated at the table.

  “Fine,” said Carlos. He was an ex-Marine. Resilient, unflappable. Of course he was fine.

  Julie Haas, on the other hand, looked disheveled and frazzled. Her clothes were uncharacteristically wrinkled, her lipstick and makeup worn away, and her hair a tangled mess. “I’m okay,” she said unconvincingly.

  “Are you sure?” Kathleen prodded.

  Julie looked as if she might cry at any moment. “It’s just—” She exhaled loudly. “It’s just that everything’s happening so fast! People are screaming out there . . . Jeremy’s in the hospital . . .” Her chin began to quiver as she fixed her eyes on Kathleen’s. “And we never really talked about whether this was, you know, the right thing to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that this is really big, you know . . . much bigger than I realized. And now that it’s actually happening, I—” She looked down at her fidgeting hands. “Well . . . I guess I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Julie,” Kathleen said soothingly. “This treatment could help millions of people. How could you have second thoughts about that?”

  “I can’t explain it Dr. S. It’s just this weird feeling I get when I see all those people out there, arguing and yelling at one another. When I think about Jeremy getting shot because of this. It just makes me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Whether we’re opening up Pandora’s box. Like, maybe we weren’t supposed to discover this gene in the first place.”

  Kathleen mulled those words over in her head. She liked Julie and valued her opinion. Could she be right? Have we unknowingly violated some sort of natural barrier in the human genome? It was true they were about to reintroduce a virus that had been eliminated by natural selection thousands of years ago. Had it been eliminated for a reason? That thought was still percolating through her mind when Carlos suddenly changed the topic.

  “Dr. S, I think we need to talk about some business issues here.”

  “Right,” said Kathleen firmly. But her mind was still lingering on Julie’s comment about Pandora’s box, the same comment Bryce Whittaker had made last week. And another thought had suddenly popped up, something else Whittaker had said. Why would natural selection eliminate a gene that increased life expectancy? She still had not arrived at an answer to that riddle.

  “Dr. S?” said Carlos impatiently.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, business issues, I’m listening.”

  “We need to talk about getting patent protection for this gene sequence.”

  Kathleen nodded in agreement.

  “In fact, that was the first thing that jerk from Crescent asked me this morning, after he rescinded their cash call. He wanted to know if we’d filed a patent application yet.”

  “I guess we need to do that ASAP, huh?” Kathleen’s mind was now shifting back to the pragmatic aspects of managing this new discovery.

  “Already on it,” Carlos replied. “I started drafting a disclosure this morning using the data Julie gave me.” He pulled a small jump drive from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to Kathleen. �
�Can you take a look at what I’ve got so far and let me know if anything else needs to be added?”

  “Sure,” said Kathleen, slipping the jump drive into the pocket of her jeans. “I’ll do it this morning.”

  “When you’re done, I’ll forward the disclosure to our patent attorney at Coulter and Meyers. If I recall, I think we also have to deposit a biological sample at the Patent Office along with the application. So let’s make sure to preserve the DNA sample that you guys sequenced last night.”

  “It’s in a neoprene sample container in the fridge,” said Julie, rubbing her eyes. “Second shelf.”

  Kathleen looked at Julie empathetically. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. Carlos and I can hold the fort today.” She nodded toward the parking lot, where the sound of shouting voices made the “fort” analogy seem oddly appropriate.

  Julie smiled appreciatively. “Thanks Dr. S.”

  Carlos pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Go out the back,” Kathleen instructed. “Walk around casually to your car. If anyone asks you any questions, just say, ‘No comment.’ ”

  Carlos nodded and left with Julie.

  Meanwhile, Kathleen returned to her office. There were a thousand things to do today: the patent application, the agenda for the upcoming shareholders’ meeting, a whole new research plan. But her most immediate concern was what to tell the press. Should she deny the story in the Post? She considered it for a moment, relishing the idea of denying Whittaker’s story. That would certainly make him look like an ass—which he deserved. But, in the end, she decided she couldn’t do that. The story was basically true, and, besides, there were shareholders to consider. She decided “no comment” was the best approach for now, until they could sort everything out.

  She began typing a short press release but was quickly distracted by something outside. The crowd noise had intensified. Something was happening. She ran to the conference room and pulled the shade up just enough to peek through the window. She was surprised to see the crowd had grown significantly. There were now at least fifty people outside the door, and they seemed to be forming an unorganized circle around something . . . or someone.

  Carlos! She realized with a start. A crowd of people, about six deep, surrounded him on the walkway, shouting and screaming. Kathleen saw Tina Chang in her bright red dress, pushing her way through the crowd, microphone in hand, cameraman following close behind.

  Carlos needed help. Instinctively, Kathleen rushed to the lobby, unlocked the front door, and stepped outside into the cold.

  From where Kathleen now stood, the crowd was about thirty feet away, on the walkway connecting the QLS entrance to the sidewalk that ran along the front of the building. Tina Chang was still trying to squeeze her way through the writhing throng of people. The other news reporter, however, was standing at the fringes, and he spotted Kathleen right away. “Dr. Sainsbury!” he called out, jogging toward her, his cameraman in tow.

  Someone in the crowd looked up and pointed at Kathleen. Then, suddenly, the entire crowd began stampeding down the walkway toward her.

  The reporter from Channel 7 reached her first. “Dr. Sainsbury,” he shouted excitedly. “Can you confirm the report in the Washington Post?” He shoved a microphone in her face.

  Before she could answer, the crowd swarmed around her, grabbing at her arms and shoulders, everyone trying to get her attention at once. “Please help my wife!” an elderly man shouted. “I’m ready to volunteer,” said another. A shrill female voice screeched above it all: “Sinner!”

  Kathleen made eye contact with Carlos, who was still standing about twenty feet away on the walkway. She mouthed the words, “Where’s Julie?”

  Carlos pointed toward the edge of the parking lot, where Julie’s car was just leaving.

  “Can you confirm the story?” the Channel 7 reporter repeated.

  Kathleen spoke into the microphone. “We have no comment at this time.”

  At that, the crowd went crazy. “Will you be holding a press conference?” the reporter shouted above the frenzy.

  “We’ll issue a press release later today,” Kathleen replied.

  As the crowd activity reached a feverish pitch—more questions, more shouting, more pushing and jostling—a loud crack of thunder boomed overhead, momentarily drowning out the cacophony of voices.

  Then it began to rain.

  Carlos managed to break through the crowd and position himself next to Kathleen. “That’s it, folks,” he shouted above the roar, mainly in the direction of the Channel 7 reporter. He gently nudged Kathleen toward the front doors, pushing several people out of the way. He muscled open one of the boarded doors and pushed Kathleen through the opening. Then he stepped into the building and closed and locked the door behind him.

  “This is getting out of control,” Kathleen said breathlessly, dripping and shaking from the rain.

  Seconds later, a deafening crack of thunder shook the entire building, and the sky outside turned white. Lightning nearby. Kathleen and Carlos watched nervously as the lights in the QLS lobby flickered several times, then went out completely.

  They returned to the darkened conference room and stared through the window at the chaos outside. The crowd was dispersing quickly in the pouring rain. Both news vans were lowering their antennas.

  The lights came on about five minutes later, accompanied by an unexpected sound.

  The fire alarm!

  Kathleen and Carlos both jumped at the shrill, pulsating siren and ran immediately to the laboratory. They stopped just short of the door.

  “Look!” Kathleen said, pointing to the digital temperature display above the door. It read “99.1oC.”

  Carlos’s eyes grew wide and his Marine Corps instincts took over. “Get back! Get back!” he screamed, grabbing Kathleen’s arm and pulling her down the hallway.

  “What?” Kathleen shouted.

  But Carlos didn’t have time to answer. There was a deafening crash behind them as the lab’s airtight door blew wide open and fire and smoke exploded into the hallway.

  The last thing Kathleen remembered was the sensation of her feet leaving the floor.

  Then everything went black.

  Part III

  He saw the great Mystery, he knew the Hidden:

  He recovered the knowledge of all the times before the Flood.

  He journeyed beyond the merely distant; he struggled beyond mere exhaustion,

  And then he carved his story on stone.

  — EPIC OF GILGAMESH (TABLET 1)

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rockville, Maryland.

  When Kathleen regained consciousness, everything was dark. The force of the explosion had knocked her off her feet and sent her tumbling down the hallway until she’d hit the back wall—hard. She had no idea how long she’d been out.

  Now, struggling to orient herself, she felt nauseated and confused. Which way was up? Was she standing or lying down? Within seconds, she realized with a terrifying jolt that she was having trouble breathing; an acrid stench was causing her to choke. Noxious gas stung her windpipe and burned her lungs as she began to cough. Through the darkness, she saw something flickering nearby, just inches away—something bright and orange. It took several seconds before she realized: it was fire.

  She was lying on her stomach against a wall, flames and smoke swirling all around her. Panicking, she scrambled to her feet and searched frantically for a way out—an open door, a lighted exit sign, anything! But the smoke stung her eyes, and she was forced to shut them almost immediately.

  Temporarily blinded and still coughing uncontrollably, Kathleen stumbled forward with her arms outstretched, away from the heat of the flames. She felt something snag her arm. Something was grabbing her tightly, tugging her, dragging her backward! In a panic, she fought against the unknown force. As she did, she inhaled another breath of thick smoke. Her mind was beginning to go numb from the lack o
f oxygen. And, still, she was being dragged . . .

  Suddenly, she felt the soothing sensation of cold air on her face, filling her lungs, salving her skin. Desperate for oxygen, she sucked in the air greedily, coughing and sputtering as she exhaled. Her eyes were still shut tightly and stinging badly. Soon, she became aware of another sensation: cold rain.

  “Dr. Sainsbury, are you okay?” said a man’s voice. It was Carlos.

  She rubbed her watering eyes and cracked them open slowly, struggling to focus. Everything was blurry at first, but gradually, Carlos’s face came into view. She now saw that they were standing just outside the emergency door at the back of the building. Carlos had saved her life! “I . . . I’m fine,” she sputtered between violent coughs. She held up her hands and inspected them—they were black but not burned. She felt her head and face and then checked her hands again, whimpering when she saw a bright smear of blood.

  “You’ve got a nasty cut on your forehead,” Carlos explained. “But I think you’ll be okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “Fire in the lab. Something must have exploded.”

  Those words triggered an awful realization. “The sample!” she exclaimed. Without hesitation, she yanked open the emergency door, intending to enter. A thick plume of black smoke billowed out of the open doorway, forcing her backward, coughing.

  “No!” Carlos said, grabbing her arm just as she lurched forward again to enter.

  She met Carlos’s eyes pleadingly.

  “I know where it is,” said Carlos after a moment’s hesitation. “Wait here.” In an instant, he disappeared through the open doorway and into the swirling darkness.

  “Carlos!” Kathleen screamed after him. But he was gone.

  Her head was spinning. This can’t be happening.

  Moments later, she heard sirens in the distance. They grew closer until finally, they reached the parking lot on the other side of the building.