“Are you on your way to Hawaii?” Levell said.
“Yes, but we’re going to need a change of plans.”
“What happened?” Levell sounded genuinely concerned.
“My seat mate on the flight this morning was an FBI agent working on the Case matter.”
“What! You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I overheard his phone conversations. The Bureau knows about the Dogs, and worse yet, knows I wasn’t killed in the plane crash.”
“Shit! It was bad enough that the Bureau got its hands on the Agency’s records as a part of the Case investigation. The original records contained everything on the members of your unit; preferred hair color in your women friends, favorite flavor of chewing gum, how many pieces of toilet paper you used to wipe your asses. Everything. DNA too.”
Levell was silent for a few moments then said, “Where are you now?”
“Are you sure no one can tap or trace this call?”
“Yes. It’s scrambled better than a well-cooked egg and encrypted with algorithms that all the world’s supercomputers together couldn’t crack if they had an eternity to do so. And we’re using chained proxy servers located in countries unfriendly to America. The Agency’s and NSA’s top tech people are with us. They make sure we stay ahead of the curve”.
“Good,” Whelan said. “I’m in the lobby of the Crown Plaza Hotel near the San Francisco Airport.”
“Sit tight. I’ll have someone pick you up in fifteen minutes or less. He or she will be holding a white handkerchief as if they’ve got a runny nose or something. Get in the car. They’ll take you to a safe house. We’ll put together a new plan in the interim,” Levell said.
“Better get the original Delta flight changed to a new destination. And have someone who resembles me use it.” Whelan said and hung up.
Several minutes later a late model navy blue Ford Focus pulled up on the far side of the wide porte-cochére that sheltered the entrance to the hotel. The driver appeared to be blowing his nose into a white handkerchief. Whelan walked quickly to the car, tossed his briefcase and carry-on in the backseat and slid into the front passenger seat.
Forty-five minutes later they were in a private home in San Jose near the university. A few hours later Whelan had wavy reddish-blonde hair, a full beard, thicker eyebrows, a larger nose, and brown eyes thanks to the makeup artistry of one of Levell’s people. He also appeared to have gained thirty pounds because of added padding and clothes. He was handed a used and somewhat battered suitcase filled with additional clothing and toiletries. He was now David C. Taggard, an immigration attorney from Kansas City.
When he left, he slipped into a new GMC Acadia and passed the next six hours being driven down the 5 to LAX. He spent some of the time familiarizing himself with Kansas City on his Smartphone using Google and Wikipedia. He also studied Google Earth aerial photographs of the Hawaiian island of Maui, then slept most of the rest of the way. At LAX he caught a late afternoon Alaska Airlines flight and arrived in Kahului on Maui a little less than six hours later.
* * *
When Christie approached the FBI agent sent to meet him at the San Francisco Airport, he nodded perfunctorily and said, “O’Connor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have the photograph?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and handed Christie an eight-by-ten manila envelope.
Christie took it. “Walk with me. I’ve got to make a stop.”
“Yes, sir. The men’s room is right across the aisle.” The agent pointed at it.
“Not that kind of stop.” As he walked, Christie slipped a thumb under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open. Inside was a grainy photograph of a muscular young man, maybe twenty years old. He appeared to be in a jungled area. There were vine covered trees and a lush variety of tropical growth in the background. The man was wearing full combat gear and his face was covered with camo paint.
Christie looked up and sighed. “Besides the fact that it’s an old and not very well preserved photo, the gear, helmet and camo paint pretty well disguise whoever it is.” He saw that they were approaching a sundries shop along the concourse, and motioned to the other man to wait for him outside. He found the largest bottle of antacid they had and bought two of them, slipping them into his briefcase.
As he left the shop, the other agent said, “Where to now, sir?”
“I’m going to pick up a rental car and drive down the coast. I’m meeting with someone who had an involvement in this matter many years ago.”
“Do you want me to drive you to the rental car garage? It’s pretty far from here.”
“No, I’ve been here before. I’ll take the tram. Thanks anyway.” He started toward the escalator that led to the tram level, then stopped and turned. “On second thought, O’Connor, there is something you can do for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have one of our sketch artists do an update from the photo…what this guy might look like today.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but there’s something vaguely familiar about this guy.”
26 Santa Cruz, California
Christie picked up a silver Hyundai Accent at the airport rental car garage. He drove south on the 101 then skirted San Jose. Eventually he turned onto California State Highway 17 and wound along spectacular views through the coastal mountains. He loved the rugged, almost pristine countryside in this area of California. He gazed wistfully at it and thought about relocating here with his family when he retired from the Bureau. For a change, his stomach seemed settled by the vista instead of the ubiquitous antacid. An hour and a half drive brought him to the town of Santa Cruz. He spent another twenty minutes locating William Nishioki’s home. It was a modest bungalow on a shady street in a new retirement community south of town, just off Cabrillo Highway.
He parked at the curb in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree. He was about thirty minutes early. As he rang the doorbell, he hoped Nishioki could accommodate him. The sooner they started, the sooner Christie would be able to drive back to his airport hotel, hopefully for a long restful sleep. He had a six a.m. departure scheduled the following morning for Reagan National Airport in Washington.
A man of medium build with thick gray hair that was cut short answered the door. He was dressed in a lightweight black gi, the uniform of martial artists. It was loosely cinched low on his waist by a sash, or obi. The sash once had been black, but it was so old and tattered it was hard to distinguish the color. Christie noted the man’s smooth, almost wrinkle free, skin. This surprised him. He knew Nishioki was in his early seventies. The man’s features clearly were Japanese. Christie knew he had been interned with other Nisei as a child.
“Dr. Nishioki?”
“Yes. You must be Mr. Christie.” Nishioki smiled and extended his hand. “You are early.”
Christie noted the firmness of the older man’s grip. “Yes,” he said. “I apologize. I made better time than expected. I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”
“Not at all, but would you mind showing me your official identification?” It was said with a disarming smile.
Nishioki studied the ID closely, then nodded in satisfaction. He stepped aside, motioning for Christie to enter. As the Bureau agent did, he saw that the room was airy and bright with hardwood flooring, expensive-looking rugs, and comfortable-looking furnishings. He looked around. “Do you live alone, Doctor?”
Nishioki hesitated then said, “Yes, why do you ask?”
“The nature of our conversation is extremely confidential. I’m sure you understand.”
The other man nodded. He pointed to an urn on a mantelpiece and said. “My wife is very good at keeping secrets.”
“Your wife?” Christie said. It dawned on him that the urn contained Mrs. Nishioki’s ashes.
“Yes. When it is my time, our ashes are to be spread as one over the sea.” There was no hint of sadness in the statemen
t, just calm conviction.
Struggling to cover his embarrassment, Christie said, “Well, you don’t look like you’re going anytime soon. You look amazingly fit, Doctor.”
“I have studied and practiced aikido since childhood. I was practicing kata when you rang the bell.”
“You must hold a very high rank.” Christie looked at the ragged obi circling the older man’s trim waist. Clearly he’d held black belt rank for a very long time.
“Rank has no meaning to the true practitioner,” Nishioki said. “It is the knowledge and how one applies it.” He motioned to a chair and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Christie. I was just about to have some tea. Will you join me?”
“That would be nice,” Christie said. He wasn’t particularly fond of hot tea, but doubted it would bother his stomach as much as the airport coffee had.
Nishioki went to the kitchen, returning moments later with a small tray that held a teapot and two cups. He placed the tray on a table and poured the tea, handing the first cup to Christie.
After settling into his chair, the scientist said, “I believe you have some questions for me about a project I worked on many years ago. Is that so, Mr. Christie?”
“Yes it is, Doctor.”
“Please,” Nishioki interrupted him, “call me Bill.”
“Likewise, call me Mitch.”
“Agreed,” Nishioki said with a smile. “You may begin interrogating, Mitch.”
Christie took a moment to gather his thoughts. He could feel the fatigue, mental and physical, from the schedule of the past few days. “You’re right, Bill. This does concern the project you mentioned.”
“Yes?” There was a quizzical expression on the older man’s face.
“I believe it had to do with an operation that was code named Sleeping Dogs.”
Nishioki simply said, “Ah”.
“What can you tell me about that operation?”
Nishioki was silent for a few moments then said, “There is nothing I can tell you about the military or political aspects. I was not a part of that, and I took great care not to be a part of it. I am a scientist.”
“A scientist. Well, let’s talk about that part of it.”
“As you know, my field is genetics. The Agency engaged my late colleague, Jacob Horowitz, and me to provide scientific research for this particular operation.”
“For what purpose.”
“To, ah, identify certain individuals who possessed the characteristics desired for this operation.”
“Tell me about those individuals. What makes them unique genetically?”
“They have somewhat different muscle fiber. It’s denser, giving them much greater strength. Their nervous systems transmit signals faster in their brains and throughout their bodies. Their hearts and lungs are larger, giving them the ability to process oxygen faster. Their bones are thicker, stronger. They are quite formidable.”
“Why you and Horowitz? Why not other geneticists?”
Nishioki’s smile changed. He seemed a bit self-conscious. “Because we had developed a theory that fit well within the parameters of the operation.”
“Did this involve identifying individuals who were…” Christie hesitated, groping for the right words. “…genetically superior to…ordinary men?”
“I believe the term you are searching for is ‘more genetically evolved’. And the answer is yes.”
Christie sat back in his chair and tried to sip his tea. To his surprise he had emptied the cup without realizing it. It was very good tea.
“May I pour you some more?”
Christie’s head bobbed up and down. “Please.” Nishioki sat forward and refilled Christie’s cup as well as his own.
“Can you explain in layman’s terms how these men came to be ‘more genetically evolved’?”
“I’ll do my best.” Nishioki settled back in his chair. “A gene holds information to build and maintain an organism's cells and pass genetic traits to offspring. The main role of DNA molecules is the long-term storage of information. DNA is like a set of plans or a code, as it contains the instructions needed to construct other components of cells.”
“That I did know,” Christie said.
“Over many generations, the genomes of organisms can change significantly, resulting in the phenomenon of evolution. Selection for beneficial mutations can cause a species to evolve into forms better able to survive in their environment. This process is called adaptation.”
Christie held up a hand. “It’s my understanding that these Sleeping Dogs are not simply a generation better than the average Joe, but several generations.”
Nishioki smiled a patient smile and said, “More like millennia. The process of adaptation is principally fueled by natural selection.”
“Natural selection? Isn’t that Darwinism? Survival of the fittest? Law of the jungle?”
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“Then I don’t understand. There are no saber-toothed tigers around anymore. What would prompt this sudden spurt of evolution?”
Nishioki continued to smile as if he were a wise and patient sensei teaching a young disciple the finer points of a complex aikido kata. “Natural selection is essentially random. It’s the process by which, over many generations, traits become more or less common in a population due to consistent effects upon the survival or reproduction of their bearers. Natural selection remains the primary explanation for adaptive evolution.”
Christie raised his hand again. “You just said that natural selection occurs over many generations. A moment ago you said these men, genetically speaking, are supposed to have jumped several generations into the future.”
Nodding his head, Nishioki said, “I was coming to that. The other cause of evolution, which is not adaptive, but leads to random changes in common traits in a population, is genetic drift. These are random changes at the molecular level that are not driven by environmental or adaptive pressures.”
Christie said, “So, your theory is that these men aren’t the product of natural selection, but of genetic drift instead?”
Nishioki shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “Both natural selection and genetic drift drive evolution. One theory is that, while the urgency to produce stronger, faster, smarter humans in response to a hostile environment no longer appears as great, some humans still carry the elements of that genetic code. It’s more dominant in them. If a male carrier mates with a female carrier, there is a strong potential for one or more of their offspring to be more advanced genetically than other members of that generation.”
“Yes, but you said these Sleeping Dogs are multiple generations ahead?”
Nishioki shifted slightly in his chair. “In human evolution there are…were a number of members of the genus Homo, the branch of hominids that includes our species, Homo sapiens. All other species are believed to have become extinct. Horowitz and I wanted to do research on the possibility that there may have been another branch of the Homo genus that closely resembled us in many ways. Interbreeding occurred among at least some of the species, including humans and Neanderthals. It was recently discovered that anyone with Western European blood carries Neanderthal genes. It could manifest itself today in the right combination of genetic pairings.”
Christie nodded slowly as he digested this information.
Nishioki continued. “Humans have 23 pairs of chromosomes, 23 from the father and 23 from the mother for a total of 46. I won’t bore you with the math, but there are more than eight million possible combinations of 23 chromosome pairs. In addition, each chromosome contains dozens to thousands of different genes. The total possible combination of alleles for those genes in humans exceeds seventy trillion. This is greater than the number of all the people who have ever lived.”
“Trillions?” Christie struggled to formulate a question. “But…we know there were at least fifteen of the Sleeping Dogs originally. And they were produced in a global population of barely seven billion. Less
, after you eliminate all those who don’t have Western European bloodlines. There’s got to be more to this story.”
Nishioki tilted his head and looked down at his teacup for a few moments. “This is where we enter entirely into the realm of the theoretical.” He paused again. “It is known, but as yet unexplained, that prior to a great holocaust or cataclysmic event certain individuals are born who remain untouched by the event. For example, the Black Plague devastated humanity on a global scale. But some individuals were untouched by it although they lived with and among those whom the disease destroyed. These are the people who repopulated the planet with our species following the event.”
“How do you explain that?
“You don’t. Unless you are willing to accept the existence of a higher power. Call it God. Or Mother Nature. Or Intelligent Design. Whatever you wish.”
“So, if I’m following you,” Christie said, struggling for the right words, “there may be a cataclysmic event of global proportions facing humanity.”
“I hope not, but it’s the theory Jake Horowitz and I developed.”
“And the Sleeping Dogs have come along in order to play a role in this event. If I understood you, they possess the strength and savagery of the Neanderthal combined with intellectual capacities superior to modern humans.”
Nishioki nodded.
“And none of this is provable?”
“Genetics research is not like police work, Mitch. You don’t simply catch the butler holding the proverbial smoking gun.”
“Are we, the USA, the only nation who has produced such individuals?”
“No. Genetics generally does not recognize nationalities, and certainly not borders.”
“So, nations who are unfriendly to the U.S. could have such individuals also?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they’re aware of that?”
“Probably not yet, but in time they will figure it out.”
“Speaking of figuring things out, I assume these Sleeping Dogs knew they were…ah…different.”
“Of course. As I said, they were very bright.” Nishioki paused, as if deciding whether to continue.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 12
