Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``There’s a lot here over my head,’’ she said. ``Something on transcription, non-coding DNA, even stuff on retroviruses and gene therapy. There’s even a reference to CRISPR-Cas9. I don’t really know what to make of it. Not the kind of thing I’d expect a jock like Eichel to have stuffed away at the bottom of his sock drawer.’’

  ``No, you’re right,’’ Brant said. He’d thought the same as soon as she’d loaded the thumb drive’s contents. ``Are we any closer to deciding what he was up to?’’

  Mallek smacked the keyboard. A screenshot of the animation appeared as if capturing reassembling base pairs in mid-flight.

  ``Eichel didn’t do this,’’ she said with finality in her voice.

  ``What kind of biology are we talking about?’’ Brant asked, unsure whether to disclose what he knew about Eichel’s relationship with Allison Carswell and the nature of her work.

  ``How much do you know about DNA?’’

  ``The building blocks of life? The instructions to build an organism? The double helix?’’

  Mallek smiled. ``DNA is a double stranded polymer molecule so technically it’s two molecules with hydrogen bonds between them. If you break the polymer down, you’ve got the nucleotide or bases with a backbone. You’ve probably heard of the four bases in DNA. Adenine, cytosine, guanine and thymine. Better known as A, C, G and T. That familiar to you?’’

  Brant nodded his head in the affirmative.

  ``The strands of the molecule coil around each other to form a double helix. That’s what we’re looking at.’’

  ``Can you tell what Eichel was up to?’’

  Mallek furrowed her brows. ``I’d need more information. Storm’s knocked out the Internet. Otherwise I could compare the structure of this particular piece of DNA with a database we have back at the university. That would tell us what he was looking at with certainty.’’

  ``Want to make a guess?’’

  Mallek tapped at the Macbook’s keyboard. The computer animation continued to spin on the screen.

  ``If I knew what kind of proteins this was coding for…then I might be able to get a better sense of what he was doing.’’

  ``What about the other files?’’

  Mallek opened one of the text files. A list of the paper’s authors followed by a brief summary of the contents appeared at the top of the document.

  ``This might be a bit more helpful. Give me a minute to read through this.’’

  She scanned the document, running her finger over the text on the screen. Several times she paused, backtracking over the words and the paragraphs.

  ``Looks like some kind of gene therapy if I were to guess,’’ Mallek said, her voice now betraying an abundance of uncertainty and caution.

  ``What would you do with such information?’’

  ``I’ve read some work on gene therapy. I took a tour at some of our labs last year. It had a lot of promise in the beginning but it hasn’t really lived up to the hype. A couple of patients enrolled in a few trials have died. It seems to me it’s more speculation and hope than reality at the moment.’’

  ``Sorry to be stupid, but what exactly is gene therapy?’’

  Mallek smiled. ``That’s alright, I doubt most people would know…or have any clue what can be done with it.’’

  She reached across the keyboard and clicked the mouse. The spinning DNA molecule broke apart.

  ``On the surface, gene therapy is really quite simple. You’ve heard of the Human Genome Project? That was an attempt to map all genes in the human body. You see if genes and their functions can be determined, then one day we can go in and turn off or change the function of that gene. Suppose your wife or daughter has an abnormal BRCA1 gene. That means there’s a very good chance she’ll get breast cancer in the future. But what if we could go in and snip out that faulty gene and replace it with a normal version, one that codes for the correct protein? BRCA1 is a tumor suppressor gene. When it works properly, tumor formation is, well, suppressed. If it’s abnormal, there’s a high chance tumors will develop because the gene doesn’t work properly to discourage growth.’’

  ``So gene therapy means swapping out one gene for another?’’ Brant asked, recalling Vanessa Singh’s reference to using electroporation to move material in and out of cells.

  ``Essentially, yes.’’

  ``And this material….These documents, the files and the papers. You’re saying Eichel or whoever did this was conducting research into gene therapy?’’

  Mallek closed a file and turned from the laptop’s screen. The warm glow from the bedside table bathed her face, softening her features. ``More than research. I’d say all this material amounts to the instructions for a retrovirus. Look here.’’

  She positioned the cursor on a pdf — a copy of an academic paper authored by a research team the previous summer at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies. Brant smiled to himself.

  ``What’s so funny?’’ Mallek asked.

  ``My mother,’’ Brant said. ``She had a lifelong fascination with Jonas Salk for some inexplicable reason. When I was born she insisted I be called Jonas. After Jonas Salk. My father wanted to name me John, after his father. I guess my mother won out in the end. I hadn’t thought about that for years. Not until I saw the top of that paper.’’

  ``Was your mother a scientist?’’ Mallek asked.

  ``No, not really. I think she may have had some ambitions early in life but the realities of being the wife of a foreign officer took over pretty quickly. I guess my name was all she could really do to remember where her passions had once been. My sister’s name is Marcellus. After the rock formation.’’

  ``That’s not a common name. Has a nice ring to it, though.’’

  ``Yes, I suppose it does,’’ Brant said, checking himself after a moment. ``What else can you tell me about this retrovirus…if that’s what it is. What would Eichel do with a retrovirus and what exactly is it?’’

  ``A retrovirus is a type of virus that can be used to insert its own DNA into a host cell. Gene therapy trials use retroviruses…well, disabled retroviruses…to carry genes into the cells of their patients.’’

  ``Any other uses?’’ Brant asked. His mind was racing now as he contemplated the implications of the work. ``And is there any other way? Something like, say, electroporation?’’

  Mallek abruptly stopped typing and looked at Brant. ``You seem to be very well informed lieutenant. Why do you ask that?’’

  In as much detail as he could remember, Brant told her everything, explaining the connection to Allison Carswell’s work, her murder, the link to Genepro and Sergei Volodin’s threats. When he’d finished, Mallek shot him a wry look. Her nose wrinkled as she made a face.

  ``I knew it was no coincidence you were camped out at the cabin,’’ she finally said, her voice tinged with disappointment.

  ``I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything earlier,’’ Brant said in his defense. ``I wanted to catch Eichel unaware. I was almost there, too.’’

  ``So he knew who you were?’’

  Brant shook his head. ``No, I doubt it. He kept to the same routine even after I started watching him.’’

  Mallek’s face softened as she considered his position. ``I guess I would have done the same under the circumstances.’’

  ``I can’t help but feel my presence precipitated Eichel’s murder.’’

  ``How so?’’

  ``There are no coincidences, right?’’ Now it was Brant’s turn to shoot a wry smile.

  He’d considered the point all along, convinced that whoever had shot Eichel must have known who he was and why he’d come to the cabin. The pool of candidates was small, but likely not as exclusive as he’d first thought. Mallek could be ruled out. Of that he was sure.

  ``Where does that leave us, with this research I mean?’’ Brant asked.

  ``From what you’ve just told me, I doubt Eichel had much to do with this at all.’’

  ``So this was all Allison Carswell’s work? Somehow Eichel was manipula
ting her?’’

  ``That would be my guess,’’ Mallek said, shaking her head in agreement. ``The more I think about it, the more I realize this has nothing to do with Franz. You’d need a sophisticated knowledge of genes and chemistry to do this kind of work. Franz Eichel was not your man. Eichel knew how to manipulate people, but that was about as good as it got. No, this is the work of a scientist. This is genome editing.’’

  ``Editing? To what end?’’

  ``There’s always the possibility of bioterrorism,’’ Mallek said lightheartedly as if the thought was so outsized it was humorous. She’d been so focused on deciphering the mystery of Eichel’s apparent interest in DNA and retroviruses that she hadn’t given much thought to the use — or the misuse — of the technology.

  ``What did you say?’’ Brant asked, his voice betraying the sudden serious turn in their conversation.

  ``Well, I’ve read some reports of synthetic lab-created retroviruses being used for bioterrorism, but the level of sophistication you’d need to devise such a thing, and then replicate it without killing yourself is far higher than anything I’ve seen here.’’

  ``Are you sure about that?’’

  Mallek smiled. ``It’s not like you can cook up a bioweapon in the kitchen. You’d need a high degree of experience, not to mention the right equipment and money. Plus, there’s the other issue of whether a retrovirus is actually the best vector for bioterrorism. They’re impractical and unpredictable. Far better to use something like anthrax or smallpox virions. If I were a bad guy, that’s what I would use.’’

  ``What about this electroporation thing?’’

  ``An earlier attempt at moving genetic material?’’ Mallek shrugged. ``Maybe it didn’t work out and they dropped it in favor of using a retrovirus.’’

  ``You mentioned something called CRISPR-Cas9. I’ve seen that before,’’ Brant said, trying to recall where he’d come across the reference. Then it hit him. The links to the patent application and the article he’d found on Carswell’s computer in Boston.

  ``CRISPR is all the rage at the moment in biology,’’ Mallek said. ``Ever since four different research teams reported they could use the technique to target and eliminate specific DNA sequences. It’s already used to delete, add, activate or suppress targeted genes in human cells, mice, rats, zebrafish…even bacteria.’’

  ``What about Cas9. What is that?’’

  Mallek smiled. ``We’re really getting into the weeds. Cas9 is a protein used with CRISPR to cut DNA in a very exact spot. Where have you seen this before?’’

  ``On Carswell’s computer. She’d saved a document with links to a patent application and an article on CRISPR-Cas9. Do you think she was working with it to move genes or edit DNA?’’

  ``It’s possible,’’ Mallek said. ``The big concern with CRISPR is that it’s so accessible. It makes the study of individual genes much faster. You’d be able to easily change multiple genes in cells at once to study their interaction.’’

  Brant squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ``Okay, assuming you WERE a bad guy and you intended to experiment with some kind of retrovirus or this CRISPR-Cas9 or maybe a variant. Something she’d cooked up herself. What would you need?’’

  ``You’d need a lab.’’

  ``As in a chemistry lab?’’

  Mallek nodded. ``Something like that. Much of the biological design has already been done on the computer. This Volodin person you spoke about, this is what he wants. He wants the designs and techniques outlined in Carswell’s papers to move and edit genes. To move to the next stage…if I were a bad guy…we’d be talking about a wet lab. Something where this stuff can be manufactured.’’

  ``Doesn’t sound like something you can do at the local university.’’

  Mallek puffed out her cheeks and exhaled to punctuate the point. ``No, you’d need to be outside prying eyes. You’d need breathing space.’’

  ``Breathing space?’’

  ``Maybe an old warehouse or unused factory. I suppose you could build a clean room if you had enough money and the correct knowledge. Those things are sophisticated but I guess any kid on the Internet could find the designs in a couple of minutes.’’

  ``A clean room?’’ Brant said, more for his own benefit than for anything else. His head swooned. The floor seemed to rise up from nowhere.

  ``You better have some more tea,’’ Mallek said as she made for the mug he’d placed on the side table. Concern marked the rings underneath her eyes and the pale blush of her cheeks.

  ``I think I know where it is,’’ Brant said finally.

  ``Where what is? What are you talking about?’’

  ``Eichel was pointing us to it all along. We have to go.’’

  ``You’re not going anywhere but to bed. Whatever it is you think you know can wait until after you’ve slept. Doctor’s orders.’’

  Brant began to protest. He didn’t get far. The room darkened as his head hit the pillow.

  Early morning. The rain had become a torrent. Brant had awoken to a dull throbbing in his head and a stiff shoulder. He’d tossed and turned all night, waking at the first light of daybreak. Mallek, for all her effort, couldn’t sleep. She’d rolled herself up under a blanket on the floor but the hardwood was cold and she’d struggled for rest. She gasped when she saw his face.

  ``It probably looks worse than it feels.’’

  ``Then you must be feeling pretty badly,’’ she said as she reached into her backpack to retrieve a handful of painkillers. ``Take two of these. They’ll numb you.’’

  ``I don’t need medication for that,’’ he said, downing the pills in a single gulp without the aid of water.

  ``We can take my car. Do you need anything from your room?’’

  ``My backpack. And Eichel’s phone.’’

  Mallek left first, leaving him alone in the room.

  Brant stepped out into the hallway as if he were walking on hot coals. The floor creaked under each step. In the quiet of the morning the lodge seemed like a boat on a calm sea. As a child he’d always wanted to sail. He’d imagine the sun on his face and the cool breeze filling white sails pulled taut by firm hands on the mainsail. The idea of the motion of the boat as it sliced through the water would often fill him with pleasure at the mere thought. This morning was not such a time. The previous night’s beating and the medication had produced nausea and a tenderness in the pit of his stomach.

  He returned to his room for the backpack, phone and something else. He found the Beretta tucked away at the back of the bureau undisturbed and wrapped snuggly in a pair of socks — exactly where he’d left it.

  He was in the hallway again when he heard a shuffling of feet. With haste, he hid the Beretta in his waistband. Though he would have been more comfortable with the piece in its shoulder holster, he didn’t want to alarm anyone.

  ``You’re awake.’’ John King stepped out from the darkened tunnel that was the hallway leading to Brant’s room. He was in a bathrobe and pajamas and carried a mug in his right hand. He seemed surprised to find anyone up at such an early hour and his cheeks blushed as if he’d been a child caught somewhere he ought not to have been. ``Jesus, what happened to you?’’

  ``I tripped. Hit my face on the sharp end of a table.’’

  ``You sure the table didn’t have fists? Looks like you’ve been punched in the head a few times,’’ King said. He stepped closer for a better look at the angry purplish bruise. Reflexively, Brant pulled away.

  ``It’s okay. It’ll be fine in a few days. You should install some nightlights around here. Better to move around in the dark.’’

  ``I’ll give that a thought,’’ King said as he took a gulp from his mug. ``Do you want some coffee? I just made a pot.’’

  ``No, thanks. I was just going back to my room.’’

  ``You’re the only one up?’’

  ``Yes.’’

  Brant glanced back in the direction he’d come, hoping that Mallek had already made it to the
car. King smiled as he followed his line of sight. How long had King been standing there, and why hadn’t he seen him until they’d almost collided.

  ``Getting to know the other campers are we?’’ King asked.

  ``Something like that.’’

  ``I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ll have breakfast at 8. Not much point having it any earlier. The storm’s finally hit. No way anyone’s going out on the lake today. You’ll have plenty of time for more interviews or whatever it is you need to do. You ARE still investigating?’’

  ``Yes, it’s going well. I think we’re making progress.’’

  ``I’ll see you at breakfast. Get a cold compress or something for that face. And watch out for those chairs. They can be a bitch.’’

  ``I’ll do that.’’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mallek had pulled her car into the remaining vacant parking space at the front of the lodge. She drove a late model Range Rover with white leather seats and a mahogany dashboard. The navigation system sprang smoothly to life at the press of a button.

  He’d needed to sprint from the steps of the front deck to the opened car door. She’d cracked the window enough to let fresh air into the car’s interior so as to avoid the inside windows fogging over. Rain pounded heavily on the roof and hood of the car.

  ``Did anyone hear you?’’

  ``I ran into John King outside my room.’’

  ``Damn.’’ Mallek hit the top of the steering wheel. ``What did you tell him?’’

  ``He thinks we’re sleeping together.’’

  ``And you didn’t defend my honor?’’

  ``I didn’t realize it was something needing defended.’’

  ``Good answer. Now buckle up.’’

  ``Nice ride by the way. Medical school seems to be paying off.’’

  ``Don’t be an idiot. It’s my dad’s. He wouldn’t let me move away from home unless he bought me a car.’’

  ``What is he? Some kind of finance guy?’’

  Mallek shook her head. ``Cardiac surgeon.’’

  ``Must be tough.’’