by James Barney
“There’s one more thing,” McCreary added.
Kathleen wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more.
“And this may sound a little strange . . .”
Kathleen laughed dryly. “Trust me, Bill, at this point, nothing sounds strange to me.” A series of thoughts flashed quickly through her mind: Dr. Sargon and the tooth, her mother’s Ph.D. thesis on the Nephilim, the Tell-Fara temple, Dr. Eskridge and the Epic of Gilgamesh, the FBI, the fire. . .
“Now, this is just a personal concern, mind you,” said McCreary, “not anything we’ve tested or modeled.”
“Uh-huh.”
McCreary drew a deep breath and released it. “I’m worried that this technology might actually make us, for lack of a better word, nonhuman.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What is it, exactly, that makes us human? An easy answer, of course, is that our DNA makes us human. But we all have slightly different DNA, and our DNA differs only slightly from that of other primates, like apes and chimpanzees. So it can’t just be the sum total of our DNA that makes us human. There must be some particular part of our DNA that makes us quintessentially human, something that separates us from apes yet links us all together with one unique and invariable human element. The question is, which part?”
“You think it’s something on that region of chromosome fourteen?”
“Yes, I do. Mind you, I don’t have any evidence to back this up. It’s just a hunch. But I’m very worried that a gene therapy that activates the INDY gene might actually turn us into, well, a different species. To what effect, I don’t know. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. But I’m concerned that this INDY technology could literally signify the end of the human race as we know it.”
Kathleen thought about the book Dr. Eskridge had given her and the dark image of a fallen angel on its cover.
McCreary was about to say something else when Kathleen cut him off. “So does all of this give you the right to bury this technology forever?” Her tone was defiant and acerbic. “Why do you get to decide, on behalf of the entire scientific community, that this area of research is off-limits? Verboten.”
“Like I said,” McCreary countered, “it’s complicated. HHS is simply trying to control this information as long as we can. To give us—the government, that is—more time to prepare.”
“Control it? I thought you said science is unstoppable. How do you propose to control access to the entire human genome?”
McCreary adjusted his glasses. “Well, uh . . . that’s where SERRATE comes in.”
Kathleen stared blankly.
McCreary took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “SERRATE was created and funded by HHS to monitor and influence the pace of private-sector research in areas that are likely to become dangerously disruptive, meaning they could pose a serious threat to the security of this country, its allies, and democracy in general. Life-extension technology is currently at the top of that list, mainly because private-sector researchers—like yourself—are already so close to it. But we are also monitoring several other technologies, including human cloning and embryonic engineering.”
Kathleen was thoroughly confused. “I’m sorry, Bill, I still don’t understand. How can you influence the pace of private-sector research?”
McCreary glanced at Goodwin, who shook his head subtly. “Unfortunately,” he said, “that requires access to a different SCI channel, which I’m afraid I can’t reveal to you at this time.”
“Can’t rev—?” Kathleen stopped short. A troubling thought suddenly popped into her mind. She stood up abruptly and stepped around the table to where McCreary was standing. He was a good five inches taller than she, but she locked eyes with him and fixed him with her gaze. “Bill,” she said slowly, “did you have anything to do with Jeremy Fisher’s shooting?”
“No!” McCreary exclaimed, shaking his head emphatically. “Absolutely not!”
Kathleen continued to press. “How about the explosion at my lab?”
“No. Kathleen, trust me, we don’t do that. We don’t shoot people, okay? And we don’t blow up buildings.”
Kathleen held his gaze and jabbed a finger at him angrily. “Bill, if you had anything to do with those things, so help me . . .”
“We didn’t, Kathleen. I swear!”
Kathleen relaxed her gaze, but only slightly. “Well, do you know who did those things?”
McCreary pursed his lips tightly.
“Bill?”
“I don’t know who did it, okay?” said McCreary. “But I do have a couple of hunches.”
“I’m listening.”
McCreary put his hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “Kathleen, I don’t think you realize the danger you’re in. There are people . . . organizations . . . hell, entire governments that would kill you and everyone at QLS in a heartbeat to get their hands on this technology. Do you realize that?”
Kathleen swallowed hard and nodded. Yes, she was starting to realize that.
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill economic espionage,” he continued. “This INDY technology has the potential to affect the entire balance of power in the world. There are national interests at stake here . . . and likely some very bad people involved.”
Kathleen suddenly pictured the man with the scar on his face.
“Kathleen, these things that have been happening to you in the past few days . . . well, they’re going to keep happening as long as people think you have access to the INDY gene technology. There are organizations that want to exploit that technology for political, economic, and even military purposes. There are other groups who want to destroy the technology because of their religious or environmental beliefs. Are you familiar with Genesis six in the Bible?”
“You mean the part about man’s mortal existence being limited to one hundred and twenty years and all that?”
“Uh-huh. Some folks consider that to be a commandment, a judgment from God if you will—a punishment even. They will not look kindly upon this INDY gene technology, which arguably undoes God’s judgment in that respect—at least in their view.”
“Yes,” Kathleen said. “So I’m told.”
“Our goal with the SERRATE program is simply to control the INDY gene technology, slow down its progress until we—the government—can come to grips with how to handle it.”
“But Bill, what about all the people who need this technology now, for themselves and their loved ones? Don’t they deserve the opportunity to live longer, healthier, more meaningful lives? I mean, this technology isn’t evil. It has a lot of promise to improve the lives of millions of people.”
“Absolutely,” said McCreary in a conciliatory tone. “But for how long, and at what cost?”
Kathleen said nothing. At this point, she really wasn’t sure anymore. She needed to work some things out in her mind.
“The point is,” said McCreary, his voice softening, “there are powerful forces beyond your control that are vying for this technology. Some want to exploit it—perhaps for good, perhaps for evil. Some want to destroy it. And some—and I include the U.S. government in that category—just want to slow it down. Unfortunately, at this exact moment, you’re in the crosshairs of all of those forces. And that’s why, in my opinion, you’re in more danger than you can possibly imagine.”
Kathleen felt a lump in her throat. She hadn’t asked for any of this. All she’d wanted was to make a contribution to science, advance the vanguard of human knowledge, and maybe—just maybe—help a lot of people in the process. She didn’t want to be in the “crosshairs” of anything, particularly something that could get her killed. She sighed heavily and looked at McCreary. “What should I do?”
“Well, that depends,” said McCreary, a perceptible tone of self-satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Do you still have an intact sample from that tooth?”
“Well, I—” Kathleen stopped short. “How did you know it was a tooth?”
“Huh?” McCreary seemed genuinely surpris
ed. “Well, I . . . I guess I read it in the paper. There was all that stuff about Tell-Fara—” He glanced at Goodwin.
“No,” said Kathleen, shaking her head resolutely. “The newspaper used the term ‘mummified remains.’ I remember that specifically.” She inched forward. “Bill?”
McCreary held out his open palms but said nothing further.
Which told Kathleen everything she needed to know. “You bugged my phone, didn’t you?”
McCreary was backpedaling slightly, hands outstretched.
“You son of a bitch! You’ve been listening to my phone conversations, haven’t you?”
Still McCreary said nothing.
Kathleen crossed her arms and glowered at McCreary with an expression of disgust and disbelief. “How long, Bill?”
“Kathleen—”
“How long have you been tapping my phone?”
McCreary sighed loudly and glanced again at Goodwin. “Two years. Ever since you left NIH.”
Kathleen opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She was simply too angry to speak. All those private conversations! She felt sick to her stomach.
“Kathleen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you—”
“Screw you, Bill.”
“But you have to believe me—this was a national security issue. We had authorization to do this from the very highest levels. This INDY gene technology is a serious concern, and the government isn’t taking any chances.” McCreary reached out to touch her arm.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Kathleen warned, yanking her arm away.
“Kathleen,” McCreary pleaded. “I hope you understand how sorry I am.”
Kathleen frowned. She certainly wasn’t going to accept any apologies from McCreary—not now, not ever! In fact, given this new information, she was starting to wonder again about Jeremy’s shooting.
McCreary inched closer. “But, Kathleen, I do need to know whether you still have that DNA sample.”
Kathleen flinched. She could feel the sample container in her jeans pocket, pressing against her leg. She made a conscious effort not to glance down at it.
“Because, if you do,” continued McCreary, still inching closer, “the best thing to do would be to turn it over to us. The longer you’re out there walking around with it, the more danger you’ll be in. Trust me when I say this. There are people out there who will stop at nothing to get their hands on that sample.”
“Well,” said Kathleen with a shrug, “I don’t have it.”
McCreary studied her face, his brow wrinkled with doubt. “Where is it?”
“Back at the lab. Probably burnt to a crisp.”
“Where in the lab?”
Kathleen hesitated, considering her answer carefully. “In the fridge, in a canister on the second shelf, labeled ‘JH–328.’ ”
McCreary immediately turned to Goodwin. “Call Agent Wills. Have him pull that sample from the fridge right away!”
Goodwin already had the receiver in his hand. “I’m on it.”
“Special Agent Wills?” said Kathleen incredulously. “From the FBI?”
McCreary nodded affirmatively.
“He works for you?”
“Well, technically, he works for the FBI. But, yeah, he’s sort of on loan to the SERRATE program.”
Kathleen sat back down in the chair, feeling utterly overwhelmed and lightheaded. It was as if everything around her for the past two years had been an orchestrated charade. Nothing was as it seemed. Nobody was who she thought. Now, suddenly, she found herself wondering about other people who’d come into her life recently. Bryce Whittaker? Was he on the SERRATE payroll? Dr. Eskridge? Carlos? Her mind was racing now, trying desperately to make sense of it all.
“You okay?” asked McCreary.
Kathleen was rubbing her temples. “I’d like to go home now.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Rockville, Maryland.
Agent Wills hung up with Steve Goodwin and immediately pushed speed dial “2” on his cell phone.
“Yeah?” answered Agent Hendricks.
“Cheryl, cancel the tow truck. I’m going back to QLS.”
Wills turned his car around and started back toward Enterprise Drive. The rain had subsided a bit, but stray droplets still flew through the gaping hole where the driver’s-side door used to be, pelting his face and dampening his already-wet suit. “Anything on that tag number yet?” he shouted into the phone.
“Yeah. It wasn’t easy, but I think we finally figured it out. The tags didn’t match the vehicle description you gave us at all. Turns out they belong to a Ford Taurus registered to a Veronica Campos in Herndon.”
“Stolen tags?”
“Mm-hmm. But that’s not all. Turns out there is no Veronica Campos, at least not anymore. She died four years ago in Costa Rica, while visiting her family. My guess is her daughter’s been cashing her social security checks for the last four years.”
“Any idea how her tags got on that beemer?”
“Not really. I just got off the phone with the daughter, who claims to know nothing about a BMW. Her mom did have a Ford Taurus, but her daughter sold it a couple years ago to a used car dealer. So that didn’t leave us with much to go on.”
“Okay . . .”
“But you said the car you were chasing was a black BMW 645i convertible, right? Late model?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, it turns out there aren’t too many of those around. I went ahead and checked all the black ones that’ve been sold in the D.C. area in the past two years. One hundred and forty-nine. I just got through running all the names through the system—”
“And . . . ?”
“We had three possibles, two of which didn’t pan out. But the last one is kind of interesting. A guy named Luce Venfeld of Arlington.”
“What’s so interesting about him?”
Hendricks paused. “He’s ex-CIA.”
Wills’s eyes widened, and his grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I couldn’t access any details ’cause his file’s redacted like crazy. But he was definitely employed there for about twenty years. He left five years ago.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He runs some sort of consulting firm downtown called the LHV Group.”
“What do they do?”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten—Oh, wait, I just got something else.” There was a muffled conversation that Wills couldn’t quite make out and then the sound of ruffling papers. “Hey, check this out,” said Hendricks, coming back on the line.
“Hmm?”
“Venfeld’s registered under the Foreign Agents Registration Act.”
“The what?”
“It means his firm does political lobbying on behalf of foreign companies or governments.”
“Like who?”
“Hold on,” said Hendricks, followed by another stretch of silence. “As far as I can tell, there’s just one. Rial Laboratories of Tel Aviv, Israel.”
Rial Laboratories? Wills’s mind immediately began churning through ideas as he listened to Hendricks typing furiously on her computer keyboard.
“This is interesting,” said Hendricks after nearly a minute.
“What’s that?”
“The founder of Rial—Elias Rubin—is apparently a real character. Nothing specific on him in our files, but there’s a bunch of stuff about him on the Internet.”
“Like what?”
“Mainly rantings about what an asshole he is. Brilliant, apparently, but an asshole. And strange. I’m looking at a collection of all the crazy things he’s said to the Israeli press over the years. A bunch of tirades about the U.S. pharmaceutical industry. He’s accused them of being anti-Semitic . . . run by ex-Nazis . . . corrupt, et cetera. He’s also accused the FDA of discriminating against foreign companies.” She paused for several seconds. “Oh, and here’s a blog about what he does with all his money. He’s worth billions. He bought an entire luxury hotel in so
me resort town in southern Israel, and then leveled it so he could get a clear view of the Red Sea from his villa. Sounds like a nut job.”
“Sure does,” Wills mumbled. He thanked Agent Hendricks for the update, then hung up the phone. A dozen questions popped to mind at once. Rial was involved . . . no surprise there. But who was this Venfeld character? How did he fit into the puzzle?
Those questions would have to wait. Right now, Wills owed another visit to QLS.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Fire Department was just finishing up on the scene when Steve Goodwin pulled his white Suburban into the QLS parking lot. McCreary sat in the front passenger’s seat. Kathleen sat in the back, surveying the mess through the Suburban’s dark tinted windows. The TV news vans were gone now, as were the ambulances and most of the crowd. Kathleen’s heart sank as the QLS office suite came into view. It was a charred, smoking hulk—more of a hole than an office suite. The adjacent units had also sustained serious damage, but they looked salvageable. QLS, on the other hand, was completely gone.
“You gonna be okay?” said McCreary with passable concern.
“Yeah,” Kathleen said. “Just fine.”
“Again, we can put you up somewhere safe. A hotel in the city, if you’d like . . .”
“No, I think you guys have done enough.” Kathleen’s tone was bitter. Deep down, she’d accepted that Bill McCreary and the SERRATE program were probably not to blame for all of this. Still, she couldn’t help feeling betrayed by him, by DARPA . . . hell, by the whole United States government. Eavesdropping? Deception? Spying? And these were supposed to be the good guys? As much as she wanted some protection right now, she simply didn’t know whom to trust.
Kathleen got out of the Suburban without saying a word and made her way straight to the front of the building. An exiting fireman tried to stop her, but she easily sidestepped him and continued marching up the walkway to the front door, or at least what used to be the front door.
