by J D Lasica
It was worthy of a Hollywood movie. The Return of the Immortals. This would be his legacy, the dent he would make in the universe: the contributions of these historic figures, marshaling their natural gifts—combined with nearly limitless financial resources—to attack civilization’s greatest challenges and infuse the political and cultural landscape with their genius.
“I only hope the world is still here when they come of age,” Blackburn said.
He locked eyes with Lee. A hazy mist seemed to be forming over the scientist’s face. “Can you do this?”
Lee gave a slight nod. “If nothing else, it will present a fascinating case study in nature versus nurture.”
“Get it done,” he ordered.
Blackburn knew he wouldn’t be here to see this to its conclusion, but he could set the wheels in motion. Every day the outlines of the world seemed a little dimmer than the day before. The rope holding the sword of Damocles above his head was becoming more threadbare by the hour.
He reached for a canapé and watched his assistant float around reading her Kindle as a butler poured Champagne into their flutes.
“Gentlemen, a toast,” he said, raising his flute. “To saving humanity from itself.”
“Cheers,” they said and clinked glasses.
While his initiative had a noble purpose, it also had a side benefit. By removing the bones of St. Peter and excavating some of the holiest final resting places on earth, the grave teams represented one small blow on behalf of the Blackburns against the Kingdom and the Power.
He had a score to settle with the Almighty.
34
Baltic Sea, August 27
F or some reason Katarina Gorka never understood, the parties she arranged always had to take place in the middle of the Baltic Sea, miles from land. Which was strange because Belarus was a landlocked country, so Dmitri Petrov had to go out of his way to fly his guests and girls out from Minsk to the port in Lithuania for everyone to board the megayacht.
But who was she to argue?
Every party was hosted here on Seaduction . And every party aboard this enormous luxury yacht had a small, select group of men invited for the weekend. The names and faces changed from week to week, but one thing didn’t change: the hungry looks in the eyes of the men.
“Katarina! More Champagne!” Petrov summoned her from across the top deck as he bounced one of the older girls, fifteen-year-old Mia, on his lap.
She topped off his glass until it overflowed, then circled the rest of the deck pouring for the guests .
Tonight the music was loud, throbbing, and Western—not the kind of music she grew up with. Two of the men dove into the pool in their skivvies and waved to the girls to join them. The men began gyrating and dancing, submerged up to their chests.
“Come on in!” they yelled, splashing the girls, who were wearing their barely there micro-bikinis. The girls laughed and kicked some water back at them.
The two youngest girls, twelve-year-old sisters Darya and Polina, were dancing in their pink and yellow fluorescent bikinis on the bow of the ship, pouring Champagne over their tiny chests and teasing the men.
She felt guilty for recruiting them but knew it was necessary, given the alternative.
At sixteen, Katarina had advanced through the ranks to become a Junior Instructor at the Minsk Home and Chief Party Planner for Petrov. Every weekend it was her job to make sure everyone on board was having a good time. That meant finding young girls on the backstreets of Minsk who were willing to fly away and party for two days. The girls would get paid and they would entertain men who promised they could get them into the modeling business or dance school or whatever pointless dream they had.
She loathed this part of her job, but she was good at it. She had a knack for finding the type of girls Petrov wanted. Lately it seemed he wanted them younger and younger. The look and the age and the attitude—fun, lively, compliant—all had to be just right.
Some weekends required Katarina to give the men hands-on attention. So when there were younger girls on board, she felt a rush of relief. More often than not, the men would spare her and devote their attention to the youngest girls. Sometimes they would take the girls right here on the main deck—with no false promises, just animal lust.
Seaduction, my ass. There was no pretense about it .
Darya took off her pink top and undulated like a sultry Lolita temptress between two of the men. Not to be outdone, Polina took off her top, too, and began twirling around the flagpole at the ship’s bow like it was a dance pole. At least these girls seemed to be having a good time. Sometimes the girls she recruited would change their minds before they even got on board, and Petrov would get mad and sometimes violent, but it was too late by then—the girls still had to go through with what they signed up for.
Katarina circled the pool, Champagne bottles in hand, and refilled everyone’s glasses as the summer winds tousled her long chestnut hair. The sunset was a red berry. She closed her eyes and imagined she was far away, back on that Caribbean island, supervising the girls under her care. Especially Sophia and her twin sister. Sophia reminded her of herself at age ten. The same brashness and spark, the same confidence in the way she carried herself. A young girl not yet aware of what lay ahead for her.
In less than two years, Katarina would be eighteen and Petrov would lose interest in her. That was just the reality. A younger teenage girl would replace her as Chief Party Planner, making a list of the young girls to bring on board for the next party.
Sophia, she feared, would soon be on that list.
35
Dallas, August 28
K aden and Nico entered the lobby of Birthrights Tower just as a severe-looking businessman in a designer suit brushed past them and out the doors.
“Wasn’t that Sterling Waterhouse?” Nico asked, recognizing him from the raft of business materials they’d been reviewing.
“Think so,” Kaden said.
They went up to the guard’s desk. Kaden smoothed the sides of the seersucker business suit she’d bought this morning at Bloomingdale’s, feeling self-conscious about being out of her usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans. She drew the line at high heels, though, snagging a pair of comfortable-looking flats. Nico looked super-weird, too, in his dress pants and blue blazer.
“We have an appointment with Erica Landon,” Kaden told the guard.
“I’ll check.” The guard dialed a number and announced that her eleven o’clock was here. He looked up. “Erica is running fifteen minutes behind. Please have a seat in the Empathy Lounge. ”
The guard directed them toward the far side of the atrium, and they took a seat on one of the leather sofas. They checked their phones for the latest updates from the crew at B Collective. After several minutes Erica appeared, looking a little frazzled.
“So sorry I’m late.” She was carrying a tablet perched on top of a small stack of folders. “Please follow me.”
She led them toward the back of the atrium, across a footbridge that spanned a little pond. A shaft of morning light angled in through a skylight in the vaulted ceiling, catching the waterfall that cascaded like silver coins down the river rock face of the northern wall. They entered a large quiet room with a fireplace hearth, sword ferns in redwood planters, and groupings of love seats and armchairs. Another couple and counselor were seated together at the far end of the room.
“Let’s use this pod,” Erica said, and they settled into the love seat while she sat in the armchair facing them.
“Perfect. Thanks so much for meeting us on such short notice.”
Kaden was doing her best impression of what a would-be mother might say. She and Nico figured the best way to get the lay of the land was as prospective parents. They used their real names and identities, figuring it would be simpler that way.
She leaned forward and patted Nico on the knee. “Valerie Ramirez sings your praises—we just had lunch with her yesterday. And we knew we had to look you up during our visit.”
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“Oh, I’m glad to hear that Ms. Ramirez sent you our way.” Erica gave a big practiced smile. “How can I help?”
Kaden recalled the pitch she’d been practicing since last night during a long planning session after they arrived in Dallas. They’d rented out an Airbnb right across the street from the west end of the campus. They had the private residence to themselves for a few days, and they spent the night coordinating how they would do a light-touch recon mission today, followed by an undercover operation tonight. The place had high-speed Internet, and they set up an encrypted private mobile chat room to swap updates. Sayeed, Annika, and Colin had already scrabbled together several updates, ranging from hard news stories to pure guesswork about what Birthrights Unlimited was doing behind the scenes.
One oddity was that Google Earth was displaying a low-res image of the Birthrights Unlimited campus with key buildings like Data Operations and the Genomics Lab blurred out. So part of today’s mission centered on scouting out the campus to determine vulnerabilities and soft target opportunities for infiltration.
“We’re interested in your services.” Kaden leaned forward in her seat. “Valerie shared the price point she’s paying, and that’s well within our budget.” As if!
“We don’t need to talk about pricing options just yet.” Erica set her stack of papers on the glass coffee table between them and fired up her tablet. “Let me gather some information so we can help get your parenting journey underway.”
Erica began taking down some biographical and financial information. Kaden provided the set of forged income statements they’d crafted along with their real IDs. When the question came up about parental roles, she said she would be the mother.
Erica handed them a parent questionnaire and asked them to fill it out and leave it for her at the front desk.
“Do you offer tours of the facility?” Kaden asked.
“We have a small group touring the fertility clinic at four today. Would you like to join?”
“Oh, we’d love that.”
“That would be great,” Nico added.
Their recon mission was underway.
36
Dallas, August 28
“ S ir, can you come down to the Fertility Center, please?”
Waterhouse was confused by Erica Landon’s request. She was a senior genetic counselor as well as the chief facilitator for prospective parents, the kind of high-touch, hands-on work he never got involved with.
“Can’t you handle it yourself?” he said on the call, standing behind his desk.
“Trust me, sir, you’ll want to make this decision yourself.”
“I’ll be right down.”
This, of all days. Not a good time for unwelcome surprises. The grave teams launched tomorrow night, and he still had to sit down with Conrad to go over the operational details.
He did a slow burn all the way down the glass elevator, staring at the tower’s immense glowing metal art sculpture in all its inscrutable glory, recalling the vast sum he’d paid for it. He stomped out the exit, across Birthrights Plaza, and into the Fertility Clinic. The receptionist cast a worried look and gestured toward Erica’s office .
He burst in, intending to dress her down, but was startled by who was sitting in the guest seat.
Dmitri Petrov rose from the black leather lounger and extended his hand. “My friend, it’s good to see you again.”
Waterhouse searched for words or a greeting, but he found none and let Petrov shake his hand.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this, sir.” Erica looked up from behind her desk. “It’s just—it’s just that we’ve never had a client request like this before.”
Petrov signaled with his palm for Waterhouse to take the seat against the wall, and they both sat.
Waterhouse wondered why Petrov had returned so soon. The August 31 deadline for final delivery of twenty baby girls was three days away, and he was still furiously trying to come up with a solution.
“I’m fresh off an invigorating sailing in the Baltic Sea,” Petrov said. “Perhaps you will join me on my yacht next time.”
“I’m not much for the water.”
“The water is not the attraction.”
Petrov held up a small sheaf of papers to show that he’d been busy. “I’ve spent the last hour with the charming Erica Landon, who has been kind enough to oversee my applications.”
“Applications?” He was still trying to wrap his mind around what was happening.
“Yes, yes. Very thorough, I’m impressed. You’ve put a lot of thought into the screening process to make sure the end result is a happy family.”
Petrov handed him the forms he’d filled out. Waterhouse looked over the first one. It was the standard Parent Consultation questionnaire required of all prospective parents.
Birthrights Unlimited would take this information and run a background check on Petrov’s credit history (no doubt stellar), medical records (no doubt the picture of health), and criminal history (clean, since he’s never been convicted of anything) .
While egg donors and surrogates underwent rigorous background checks, the plain truth was that that your fitness to be a parent didn’t count for much when it came to fertility clinics—unlike, say, adoption, a grueling ordeal that required references and employment background checks and interviews with neighbors and co-workers and several face-to-face meetings with a case worker.
In fact, Waterhouse couldn’t remember turning down any client’s application in the past ten years. The only hiccup occurred if a client’s check bounced.
“Sir, this is the reason I called you.” Erica picked up an envelope from the corner of her desk and handed it to him. He opened it and saw the check made out to Birthrights Unlimited—in the amount of three million dollars.
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Petrov wants to engage us for ten surrogacies,” Erica said.
Waterhouse put down the check and leafed through the set of papers in his hand. It was far thicker than usual, and now he saw why. Petrov had filled out the parent questionnaire and ten separate surrogacy applications for children with a handful of mix-and-match enhancements. All girls. Blue, green, brown eyes. Blondes and brunettes. All five-foot-ten or above. Dimples. Slim. All with C and D size cleavage. Five with pillow lips. All from the Deluxe Supermodel Catalog, the company’s top-of-the-line offering of donor eggs.
Petrov also chose the option to have them all born in the U.S.A. so that they would be American citizens upon birth, which Petrov once told him was a status symbol in Belarus but had the side benefit of allowing them to travel freely in more than a hundred countries.
“So many questions!” Petrov shrugged away the formalities. “But as you can see, all the paperwork is in order.”
Waterhouse handed the sheaf of papers to Erica. He knew what would happen to these girls. But it was out of his hands. Petrov had already shown what he and his henchmen were capable of. Waterhouse decided long ago to turn a blind eye to his investors’ questionable activities. This was just one more compromise he’d have to make.
His mind weighed the logistics of Petrov’s request. A few weeks ago it would have put a strain on capacity. But Conrad’s people had been carrying out an inventory upgrade with ruthless efficiency. They were finally turning a corner in keeping up with demand.
Waterhouse stood up, went to the door, and turned to Erica Landon. “Process Mr. Petrov’s paperwork.” Then he banged out of the room without saying a word to Petrov.
Petrov laughed with gusto. His words followed Waterhouse down the hallway.
“Wonderful! I’ve always wanted a big family!”
37
Dallas, August 28
W aterhouse watched the Command Center inside the Multimedia Center spring to life. The main gallery took up most of the first floor in the small, squat building in the Data Zone, which had the largest cluster of buildings on the Birthrights Unlimited campus.
He arrived early on this day to wat
ch his security chief, Gregor Conrad, begin prepping for the forty separate grave team operations taking place tomorrow night. Because Randolph Blackburn was financing the entire affair, he and Conrad had spared no expense in putting together this state-of-the-art facility.
Waterhouse’s eyes swept over the Command Center. They had modeled it after the Situation Room in the White House. A large digital screen, ten feet across and six feet high, showed the location of all forty designated targets with geolocation coordinates. A phalanx of monitors filled the walls, ready to display satellite uplink video feeds. Below each screen was a digital readout showing the status of each extraction and the current local time in big red numbers. Communications equipment sat atop a sturdy, lightweight table made of composite materials.
At the epicenter of the Command Center, in constant contact with his field commanders via encrypted voice and text, would be Conrad, who now entered the room for his prep session with Waterhouse. Henry Lee was on board with the grave team operations but didn’t want to know the details. So it would be Conrad running the show tomorrow with Waterhouse providing oversight.
“Afternoon, Chief,” Conrad said without looking up from his makeshift workstation.
“I thought this day would never get here,” Waterhouse said.
Conrad slipped on his Eyewear. The cherrywood table was filled with an array of monitors, tablets, and backup microphones—redundancy was a key feature of every one of the operations. He began giving voice commands to test the satellite uplinks from the field.
Waterhouse had been impressed with Conrad since Blackburn first recommended him for the job. Early in his career Conrad worked as a clandestine field officer for the CIA before he quit to set up practice as a private security consultant. When that didn’t pan out, he used his old contacts to dabble in international arms dealing. It was a lucrative business, up until his indictment for selling small arms and night vision goggles to the Houthi rebels in Yemen, target of a U.S. arms embargo. When the search warrant was executed, authorities found two ounces of cocaine in his million-dollar estate in Boca Raton, Florida—and seized the house under the draconian federal drug forfeiture laws. He lost his house, his boat, his cars. In the end, he had to declare bankruptcy.
