She just shook her head, and put her hand on his shoulder. There was nothing she could say.
Tom looked back at the impassive black swan. "So, DAN, you goddamned bastard, what's your prognosis? What's going to happen to her?" She could see Tom was stoking his anger, no doubt preferring it to the alternative. Despair was so useless.
"A ninety-nine percent probability exists that the combinationof genetic defects in genome of subject Holly Carter will eventuallylead to glioblastoma multiforme."
The two words sounded so much less frightening than "cancer" or "tumor," more like the Latin name of an exotic rose. But Jasmine wasn't fooled. As Tom had told her, glioblastoma multiforme was the worst kind of astrocytoma. The most virulent form of brain cancer.
She thought of Holly walking so bravely from her mother's graveside, all dressed up in her scarlet coat and black furry hat, and she felt an irrational hatred for DAN then. As if it was somehow responsible for the terrible news.
She turned to Tom, who just sat there, his blue eyes blazing with Arctic fire.
"God, I'm sorry, Tom."
"It's not over yet," he said with his customary stubbornness. "There's still one more question to ask it."
Of course, she thought, the time horizon.
Despite his anger she could see Tom was almost paralyzed with fear. It took him some seconds to compose himself. Then she heard him demand in a strong voice: "DAN, you cold son of a bitch, assuming most optimistic environmental factors, and best available medical treatments, when will clonal evolution commence? And when will Holly's cancer reach its fourth and fatal stage?"
There was a momentary pause and the growl of the Genescope deepened for a few seconds.
When DAN gave its verdict Jasmine listened to its metallic words and shook her head. She was proud of her achievements. But at that moment, as she heard the fortune-teller predict her goddaughter's death, she felt almost ashamed of what she'd helped create.
Chapter Three.
The same day
London
"I am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen..." Scrape went the blade across the scalp. "May my armor of righteousness be unblemished..." Scrape. "And may my shield of faith be strong." The cutthroat razor skimmed through the stubbly growth, parting white foam and leaving a swathe of smooth, hairless scalp in its wake. With every stroke Maria Benariac chanted a line from her three-line mantra:
"I am Nemesis. May my sword of justice be keen," she repeated as she continued her ritual.
When the skin on her scalp felt smooth once more she wiped the mist from the bathroom mirror to check her handiwork. Her striking, intense eyes--one blue and one brown--stared back at her. They were the only features the surgeon hadn't been able to alter. Turning her head, she noticed the tiny, decade-old scars behind her ears, the last traces from when she had made her once beautiful--too beautiful--face less remarkable.
Maria put the blade beside the sink, next to the tubs of theatrical makeup. Her fingers lingered on the razor for a second, tempted. But as she glanced down at the fresh scars that crisscrossed her right thigh she decided to wait for release.
Turning her naked body, she walked out of the small bathroom into the large single-room apartment that housed everything she owned. Enjoying the feel of the cool polished wood beneath her bare feet, she glanced out of the six-foot picture window. The Thames swirled gray and cold, a hundred feet below her. She walked to the far corner of the warehouse apartment and stood beneath the exercise rings hanging from the high exposed beams.
With a leap, she gripped her sinewy fingers around the rings. Well-muscled forearms tensed as they took up the weight of her body, lifting it high off the ground until the waist was level with the hands, and the elbows locked the arms rigid. Then she extended her legs straight out in front, forming a perfect right angle with her naked taut stomach.
"One... Two... Three..." she counted under her breath, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead of her. She didn't pause to rest for a second, as she performed her exercises.
"... Fifteen... Sixteen... Seventeen..."
With each grooved repetition the only visible signs of effort were the small rivulets of sweat that coursed down her sculptured back, and an almost imperceptible shake of the hands.
"... Forty-eight... Forty-nine... Fifty."
Eventually she allowed herself a smile of triumph, and released her grip on the rings. Bracing her legs for the drop, she landed catlike on the polished floor. Barely pausing, she walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised the naked body in her view.
She studied her tall physique carefully: the shaved head, the uncommonly broad shoulders, the powerful arms, the minute waist, the boyish hips, and the long tapered legs. There was no vanity in her gaze, only objective evaluation, as if checking the condition of a valued instrument or weapon. This dawn inspection was no different from that carried out every morning, and today as with most days she was satisfied. At thirty-five years of age there was not an ounce of fat on her body and the muscles were as supple as they were powerful. The only blemishes were the scars:
the tiny ones behind her ears, the raised cross-shaped scar on the underside of her right forearm, a crosshatch of self-inflicted cuts on her right thigh, and the two anchor-shaped scars beneath each nipple. These marked where her once full breasts had been removed, leaving androgynous mounds that no longer hampered movement or drew un-welcome glances.
After evaluating her body, Maria Benariac turned and checked her aerie. The tall room on the top story of the old warehouse was a throwback to the late eighties, when young professionals from the City bought up converted properties in the once unfashionable East End because they were cheap and close to their work. But the room was anything but a yuppie pad. An interior designer might have called the space minimalist, but sparse was a better description.
She walked to the panel of four switches by the window.
Click-click. The first naked hundred-watt lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was turned off, then on again.
Click-click. The same with the second lightbulb.
Then the third and the fourth.
Once she was satisfied all were in full working order, she continued the next stage of her daily ritual. Walking around the perimeter of the room she turned on each of the six strategically placed spotlights. When all were lit she walked to the middle of the room and studied the angle of their beams, checking that not one corner of the room was in shadow. She adjusted two of the lamps, and when she was finally satisfied that all darkness had been banished she surveyed the rest of her apartment, reassuring herself that everything was in place.
Moving to the single bed in the corner opposite the exercise equipment, she straightened the crucifix on the wall above her, then genuflected in front of it. Given to her by the Father after he had taken her away from the Corsican orphanage, the wooden crucifix was the only decoration on the pristine white walls.
Next, she ran her eyes over the bookcase. There was only one book on the top shelf: the Bible. On the next shelf were six separate modules of cassette tapes and a Sony Walkman. Five of the modules were labeled with the name of a language, whereas the sixth was marked "Voice Exercises." The bottom shelf contained an extensive range of reference CDROMs. All were in their designated place.
Her gaze shifted to the right, taking in the window, and a simple wooden desk and chair. A laptop computer and telephone sat neatly laid out on the desk, both linked to a separate phone socket in the white wall behind. Also on the desk were a watch and a thin manila folder. On the floor beside it a neat stack of similar, more faded folders, at least sixty tall. All had their corners clipped like expired passports. All except the one at the top. This and the file on the desk were still unmarked and intact. But it was the one on top of the pile that her eyes went to, causing her to sigh.
Next, she did an about-face and let her eyes quickly scan the recess that housed the modest kitchenette, ignoring the adjacent bathroom door, coming to rest on the main door of the
apartment. She visually checked all four locks on the steel door, then walked to the vast oak cupboard beside it.
She opened it, revealing its two distinct roles. The lefthand side acted as a wardrobe. Here men's suits hung neatly from a rail alongside women's dresses. Above them an array of exquisite human-hair wigs--some short, some long. On the floor, six pairs of men's and women's shoes, all the same size, were lined up in regimented rows.
But it was the right-hand side of the cupboard that attracted most of her scrutiny. This was essentially a tool rack, similar to those found on the walls of many a suburban garage. But these tools were not used to perform home-improvement tasks, or to cultivate gardens.
On the top level three knives hung on specially designed pegs. Like exhibits in a museum, they were ordered from left to right in ascending order of size. Although clean and in good condition, the worn handles attested to their frequent use. To the right of this trio was a kukri, the traditional curved knife used by the Gurkha soldiers of Nepal. She caressed each of the knives in turn, thrilling to the keenness of their blades.
Beneath the kukri was a lethal nunchaku: two shafts of wood, each a foot long, linked by a chain. The tip of each pale wooden shaft was heavily stained a deep bloody red. A garrote hung from the same peg like a discarded necktie. On the lower level were three guns: a ceramic Glock 9mm semiautomatic handgun capable of evading metal detectors, a SIG Sauer pistol, and a Heckler Koch submachine gun. At the bottom, lying horizontally in specially designed cradles, were a precision longrange sniper rifle and a pump-action shotgun. Among all these articles were neatly labeled drawers and shelves laden with accessories and ammunition.
Maria ran her hands sensuously over her charges, rubbing away a smear on the barrel of the oily Heckler Koch, and straightening a magazine clip beneath the SIG.
When she was satisfied everything was in order she padded across the wooden floor back to the bathroom. In here she turned on the shower and stood under the warm, steady flow. She took a bar of coal tar soap from the dish and scrubbed her skin till it felt raw. She used the same bar to lather her shaved head, blinking away the stinging suds. And as her muscles relaxed she surrendered to her feelings of anger and shame. And again considered the scientist who had been preying on her mind since Stockholm.
It was ironic that she had made her first ever mistake with the target she regarded as the most dangerous. All the others were clear-cut demons: the gun dealers, the blaspheming movie producers, the crooked TV evangelists, the bent mob lawyers and drug barons. With them the face of the devil was clear to see and easy to eradicate. But ever since the Father had given her the manila folder containing the details on Dr. Tom Carter, she had known he was different. His evil was far more powerful and insidious than any of the others she had dispatched. Society actually regarded his blaspheming genetics as good. It even saw fit to honor him as a savior. And Maria knew that there could be no worse evil than that which effortlessly masqueraded in the trappings of righteousness.
Maria felt the rage build inside her. She was Nemesis. She did not make mistakes. She had intended the kill to be public on the night of Dr. Carter's greatest triumph, to show the world the hollowness of his achievements. It was supposed to be a surgical strike; she should have been gone long before the atheist's body even hit the ground. Instead his colleague had pushed the target aside, and the wife had taken the bullets.
She rubbed the soap harder into her skin. She should have neutralized his colleague, Jack Nichols. The man had been a hero when he'd been in the FBI. It was Special Agent Jack Nichols who had stopped Happy Sam, the serial killer who cut the mouths out of his "smiling" victims in order to "capture their happiness." She knew all this. She could see that crescent-shaped scar on his face clearly--the same scar that Jack Nichols had received from the killer just before breaking his neck. No, she should definitely have factored in the possibility of the ex-agent helping his friend. That was amateurish. Unforgivable.
Maria turned off the shower, picked a coarse towel from the rail, and roughly dried herself. When she had finished she walked naked to the desk and picked up the manila folder. She opened it and glanced at the photograph of the next Righteous Kill.
She reached for the stack of similar files on the floor, all but one with their corners clipped, all but one successfully terminated. She picked up the one intact folder from the top. Opening it, she stared at the face of Tom Carter, her only failure. The piercing blue eyes seemed to stare back at her from under his thick thatch of unruly black hair. The strong jaw gave his long face a stubborn cast that made her even more determined to stop him. She desperately wanted to finish what she'd started, but knew it hadn't been sanctioned. Still, she could at least visit Dr. Carter and make him realize his punishment had only been postponed--not canceled. She checked the time on the watch by the phone. She'd have to hurry if she was to catch the Concorde flight.
Reluctantly she put Dr. Carter's folder back on the stack. Opening it stirred up all the old anxieties and her fingers began to pick at the fresh, livid scars on her thigh. Her picking became more agitated as she recalled the humiliation when Brother Bernard and the Father had learned of her failure: Nemesis's first failure. And how Brother Bernard had rebuked her.
She turned, walked back to the crucifix, and knelt before it. Her quick prayer was a simple one: that after completing next month's Righteous Kill in Manhattan, the Father would give her another chance to finish the scientist.
Chapter Four.
Beacon Hill
Boston
The next morning Tom Carter woke early. He reached across the large bed to Olivia. Only when he felt the cool expanse of unoccupied sheet did he remember his wife was dead. It had been his first waking thought every morning since the shooting, and he wondered if it would continue forever. He opened bleary eyes and watched the clock glowing on the bedside table: 5:16 A. M. Then the second remembered nightmare pierced his consciousness.
How long was a year anyway? Fifty-two weeks? Three hundred and sixty-five days? Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours? However he put it he couldn't make it sound longer than it was, and it wasn't long enough. But according to DAN that was all the time Holly had--at the very most. Without a cure she would be lucky to see one more birthday.
When DAN had told him the time horizon he had almost felt a bizarre sense of relief. The deadline was so close there was really nothing he could do. He had every excuse to give in--to concentrate on helping to identify Olivia's killer and ensuring Holly's last few months were as enjoyable and painless as possible. But of course that wasn't his way. He had never been any good at accepting anything passively.
He sat up in bed and shook his head, trying to clear all the jumbled thoughts and fears from his mind. If he was even to begin planning what should or could be done to help Holly he would need a fresh perspective. And he could think of only one way to get it. Before he broke the news to his father and Jack he would talk it through with the one person who had always listened to him in times of crisis and doubt.
Tom swung heavy legs out of the bed and wandered into the connecting bathroom. Olivia's array of shampoo and conditioner bottles sat undisturbed on the table by the bath. Like so many things around this home, which Olivia had created, the bottles were another reminder of her presence. But he couldn't yet bear to throw away even the smallest memento of her.
He set the shower to the power setting and blasted himself awake till his skin tingled. Looking down, he studied the ugly, purple scar above his right knee. The Swedish doctor had told him how lucky he was that the bullet had passed through his leg, causing only minor muscle damage. But few moments went by when he didn't wish every single bullet that had torn into Olivia's body had torn into his instead.
After showering, he toweled himself dry and opened the large wardrobe he had shared with his wife. Olivia's clothes hung emptily from the pegs, her smell still among them. He reached into his side, threw on the first clothes that came to hand, and grabbed t
he long quilted leather jacket lying discarded on the floor from last night.
On the landing he paused outside Holly's room and put his head around the open door. She was curled up in bed asleep. He crept over to her and kissed her forehead. As he studied her peaceful face, DAN's chilling prophecy seemed a distant--even ridiculous--nightmare. If he wasn't back before Holly awoke, he was sure Marcy Kelley, the housekeeper who lived in the selfcontained apartment on the top floor, would be up by then.
Leaving Holly sleeping, he stole down the still-dark staircase and quietly let himself out of the house. He went out the back door, because he knew the police car was parked outside the front driveway, a few yards down the road. He noticed it had snowed overnight as he climbed into his Mercedes and quietly eased out of the side gate, away from his guardians. He wanted to be alone, and didn't really share Jack's concern that the person who had tried to kill him in Sweden might have followed him to the States. Olivia's killer was probably on the run now and Tom wished the police would concentrate on catching him, rather than wasting time watching over him.
The drive from Beacon Hill through the usually congested sprawl of Boston was eerily quiet. It was not yet six on a Sunday morning and he saw only a handful of moving cars on the fifteenminute journey, including an anonymous brown sedan that overtook him after the snow-capped bridge.
The watery pink of dawn was just breaking when he arrived at the snow-covered fields of the cemetery. The wrought-iron gates were open and he drove to the top of the plot where he could still see the mound of Olivia's fresh grave under the overnight snow. He parked the Mercedes and blowing into his cold hands scrunched across the snow to where she lay. At the grave he sat in the snow next to Olivia, knees hugged close to his chest, and told her what had happened.
the Miracle Strain (aka The Messiah Code) (1997) Page 4
