The Genesis Conspiracy

by Richard Hatcher

  “I’m not sure,” Jake replied. “A couple of days most likely. My plans at the moment are uncertain.”

  “Business? Pleasure?” the driver probed.

  “A little of both,” Jake answered.

  “You have been to Russia before?”

  “Many times,” Jake answered with a sigh.

  “You like Russia?”

  “I do,” Jake nodded, “especially the food. In fact, I could go for a hot bowl of soup right now.”

  “Ah,” Jake’s comment brought a smile to the driver’s face, “borscht, schi, ukha.”

  “Ukha is a little fishy, but I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a bowl of sour schi.”

  “Have you tried Turkish food?”

  “Only in Turkey,” Jake confessed.

  “My country!” the driver announced enthusiastically, “I am from Kars, in eastern Turkey, close to Mt. Ararat. Have you heard of it?”

  “Near the border with Armenia?” Jake inquired.

  “Yes, yes. Have you been there?”

  “No, but I have traveled some around the area and even explored parts of Mt. Ararat.”

  “Hunting for Noah’s ark?” the driver eagerly asked.

  Through the rearview mirror, Jake noted the man’s expression as he tried to read his passenger’s face.

  “Officially or unofficially?” Jake smiled.

  The driver laughed. “I too have climbed Ararat, many times. Did you have a good time in Turkey?”

  “I had a wonderful time, well…,” Jake paused, “except for one thing.” Jake could see the man’s concerned look.

  “I had to go on a diet when I got back to the States. I think I gained ten pounds on that trip, mostly from eating tandir and baklava.”

  The unexpected response triggered a sudden, hearty laugh from the driver. “You are my brother,” the man replied.

  On the long drive to the city’s central, the two continued their dialogue and shared stories about their travels and equal love of exotic foods. Jake found their conversation a relief to his weariness, but as they neared the hotel, his lack of sleep was starting to take over again. When the driver pulled to the curb outside the Dostoevsky, Jake shook the man’s hand and tipped him generously.

  “Baris,” the man introduced himself with a firm handshake.

  “Jake Evers.”

  “If you need anything, call me.” He produced a business card from his shirt pocket.

  “I will. It has been a pleasure.” Jake gave him a big smile as he exited the cab.

  “Go get some sleep. You will need it, my friend.”

  Jake mechanically nodded, not thinking about the man’s parting comment until he had driven away. He heaved the backpack over his shoulder and started up the sidewalk toward the hotel.

  “Need it?” he muttered to himself. “What did he mean by that?”

  16

  For nearly an hour, Walter Holtz paced the span of the ornate Persian rug that stretched the full length of his spacious office before he finally heard a tap at the door. He looked up sharply as his secretary entered, followed by a man who pushed her aside in his hurry.

  “Your guest has arrived,” she announced in an agitated, but professional voice as she closed the door behind her.

  Kirk Hoffmeyer took every step to visually enlarge his frustration as he breathlessly walked across the room. With exaggerated motions, he loosened his tie and took long strides as he approached the old man standing with arms crossed before an immense bookcase.

  “Where the devil have you been?” Holtz quickly attacked his visitor.

  “On the phone with St. Petersburg, trying to resolve this thing.”

  “I fail to see why there is a need for res-o-lu-tion,” the older man drew out the final word. “We had a deal. Now there is this business of a second party. I will not stand for it!” he shouted. “I have already paid for that horrible film! Who are these other people?”

  Hoffmeyer knew his response would only elicit further wrath, but he had no choice. He drew in a protracted breath.

  “No one will tell me and I can’t locate Baranov.”

  The force of Holtz fist slamming the corner of his desk rattled the ice in his tall glass of bourbon. The old man approached Hoffmeyer and stood directly in front of him.

  “Who is this person you sent to Russia?”

  “Russell Dawkins, our new post doc.” He had already given the old man Dawkins’ name twice before.

  “Where is he now?”

  “At his hotel in St. Petersburg.”

  “Call him,” Holtz ordered, pointing to the phone on his desk. “I want to speak with him myself, right now.”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, Hoffmeyer retrieved his cell phone, found the number to the hotel, and dialed it from Holtz’s desk phone. After a long, silent pause, a rustling sound finally came across the speaker.

  “Dawkins,” the man answered.

  “Russ,” Hoffmeyer spoke with a noticeably shaken voice. “You’re on speaker with Walter Holtz, he is…”

  “Young man,” Holtz blurted. “What is going on there? Where is Baranov?”

  “Brokering a backroom deal would be my guess, sir,” Dawkins replied with unexpected candor. His haughty response startled Hoffmeyer. Instinctively he snapped a look toward Holtz to gauge his reaction. The old man’s expressions seemed to soften.

  “I have spoken with his secretary twice today,” Dawkins continued, “and went to the museum to find him. They’re obviously stalling. I tried to force my way past the secretary, but she called security. That’s when I phoned Dr. Hoffmeyer.”

  “Dawkins?” Holtz said with some uncertainty. “Do I have that right?” Unless someone directly affected Holtz’s standing, or more the case, affected him getting something he wanted, their name was never important.

  “Yes sir. Russell Dawkins.”

  “Russ,” the old man’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “I can see you’re no pushover when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing. That’s very good and you’re dead right about what’s going on there. This has turned into a bidding war. When you do business with the Russians, it’s all about money.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Holtz paused for a moment, formulating his plan. As he walked to the corner of the sitting area, his eyes dispassionately taking in the exquisite museum quality pieces he had collected from around the world. There were ornate masks from the Congo, statuettes from Syria, and ivory carvings from Thailand. Every major civilization both ancient and modern was represented. All of it was meaningless now. He would gladly trade them all for this one prize.

  “Here’s what I need you to do,” he spoke, walking briskly back toward the desk. “Play along for a bit. Pass a message to Baranov through his secretary. Tell him we’re onto his game and that the originally agreed on price is negotiable. If he smells more money, he won’t finalize a deal with this new party until he knows how much more I’m willing to pay. I’m sending Hoffmeyer to you on a flight tonight. Tell them that as well. If I’m sending Kirk, it will alert Baranov that I am serious.”

  “Do you want me to watch them?” Dawkins asked with a confident tone.

  The old man smiled. “Yes, Russ, and call me here at the office if you have something to report. Do you know the number?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. I have every confidence that you will be successful. Kirk will contact you when he arrives.”

  “I’ll expect his call.”

  Hoffmeyer was incensed as he thought about Dawkins’ theatrical performance. How dare this young upstart make a power play for Holtz’s attention? Surely the old man knew he was being brown-nosed. He hated that he had not taken care of it personally. The old man was obsessed. There was a never-ending list of things that he craved for his private collection. Whatever was on this film would just be another wild goose chase. He was convinced of it. In the end, even if they found something, no one would get academic recognition for the find. There would be no publicatio
ns, no museum displays. Like a thousand other things he’d seen Holtz stash away, this new find would remain hidden…forever.

  Hoffmeyer stood and was about to speak when his companion cleared his throat.

  “On your way out,” Holtz muttered coldly, never looking up from the drink in his hands, “have my secretary bring me the file on Dawkins.”

  Hoffmeyer nodded as he walked slowly toward the door. He knew what he had to do.

  17

  When Jake awoke late in the afternoon, he showered and redressed his wound with fresh gauze from the first-aid kit he had taken from the ship. The wound was healing nicely and with several hours of sleep behind him, he felt one hundred percent better. After carefully pulling on a pair of jeans, he tucked in a crinkled khaki shirt and grabbed his wool-lined canvas jacket. The televised local news reported that the day’s high would only reach the upper 40s with a projected drop well below freezing overnight.

  As he stepped off the elevator into the lobby, Jake observed that the usual hotel activities were coming to a halt for the day. The clothing shops were beginning to close, and the all-night kiosk appeared to be changing managers. Walking toward the exit, he casually considered the evening crowd. A well-dressed group of business people stood around the central bar, laughing loudly at an animated co-worker who had engaged them with a story. On the opposite side of the room, a Japanese tour group was standing in line next to the main exit, listening intently to instructions from their guide.

  It was a normal mix of people, with one exception. In the area around the central lounge, a lone man sat reading a book. He wore a tattered woolen overcoat that was buttoned almost to his chin. His aged face showed the deep lines of a hard life. At first Jake thought he might have been a homeless man who had escaped the hotel staff’s notice and wandered in from the cold, but one thing didn’t fit. Although his initial appearance was that of an alcohol abused vagrant so common in Russia, his demeanor pointed to something more. As Jake passed by, the man looked up at him through lively blue eyes. His vibrant, grandfatherly expression was inviting, and Jake felt drawn to him. He was certain that the man had an interesting story to tell, if only he had the opportunity to hear it.

  Outside the hotel, a brisk wind snapped Jake’s thoughts back to his mission. He crossed the street and retrieved a map of central St. Petersburg from his pocket. As he crossed the Griboedov Canal, he instantly caught sight of the widely recognized architecture of the Church of the Savior with its brightly colored onion domes. To most, it was known as the Church of the Spilled Blood because of its construction on the spot where Czar Alexander II was assassinated in 1881.

  As he turned the corner, Jake spotted a cold marble building from the Soviet era, a rare sight in the historically czarist city of St. Petersburg. In front of the building was the statue of a man he well recognized. The Cyrillic letters beneath it spelled out a name that was still sacred to many Russians—LENIN. Statues of Russia’s first communist leader once dominated St. Petersburg. They served as tributes to the man who had led a revolution to dispel the evils of an abusive monarchy only to usher in a new age of godless communism. It was history that deeply affected Jake. He had been in Russia many times and loved the people he had met there. Christianity was gaining ground, but with so many years of atheistic teaching, it was still an uphill struggle.

  Across the street, Jake observed a sign for the metro station. After walking down to the portal that crossed under the street, he arrived at the Vladimirskaya stop to catch the connecting train to the consulate. When the train finally arrived, Jake found a seat next to the doors and glanced up at the metro map posted on the opposite wall. After five stops, he exited the train at the Consular District and walked up the street to the U.S. consulate building, a four-storied red and white structure representative of traditional St. Petersburg architecture.

  “Jacob Evers,” he said to the Marine guard as he slid his passport under the security window. “I should be on your list.”

  The young corporal typed a few strokes on the keyboard and then passed the documents back through.

  “The door is on your right. Wait for the buzzer and then push the handle.”

  “Thanks,” Jake replied. “Have a good day…or at least what remains of it.” His internal clock was still not aligned.

  Once inside, Jake showed his identification at the guard’s station leading to the information security office in the basement. This was where he had last seen Wade Jarvis. Tightly packed cubicles wound like a maze through the main room due to a critical lack of space. When administrators had tried to expand the facility, their plans were halted. The new building was erected, adjacent to the existing one, but before its completion, building inspectors from a U.S. intelligence office found that it had been heavily bugged during the construction. The entire structure was gutted before the building process could continue. Though the work on the second building was now almost finished, consulate employees were still dealing with their cramped conditions until counterespionage groups were sure that the new building was safe to be occupied.

  Jake passed through a door labeled Information Technology and entered a room that was sealed with steel-reinforced concrete walls and floors. The muted sound of the door closing behind him reminded Jake of a mausoleum. He guessed that was why the facility was referred to as the Crypt.

  At the door on the far side of the first room, he scanned two temporary I.D. badges. They allowed him into an interior room which was again divided into small cubicles that stretched from one end to the other. As he walked down the central hallway, he was met by a number of stares from employees who didn’t recognize him. Jake smiled at the eccentric blend of office related cartoons and science fiction posters taped to the cubicle dividers.

  “Anybody home?” he asked as he recognized the ponytail at the back of Wade’s head as he sat typing away at his computer.

  “Welcome back,” the man greeted without turning around. “Have a seat. I’m nearly finished here.”

  Although Jake had known Wade for a number of years, he had yet to fully understand what made him tick. To the casual observer, Wade looked like a throwback from the hippie era. His gray hair was long and usually in an unkempt ponytail, and it appeared that he had not upgraded his wardrobe in the past thirty or forty years.

  “There,” Wade said firmly as he typed the last key. He spun around in his chair to face Jake. “How’d things go in Mongolia?”

  “Good for the most part,” Jake replied. “The testing went well but we did run into a few problems, or maybe just one big one.”

  “I hope it wasn’t the new data acquisition system I put together for you.”

  “You should know better than that, Wade. It worked flawlessly as always.”

  “Whew! That’s a relief. You guys are always asking for stuff at the last minute, and I’m never confident that it’ll work when it needs to.”

  “We took some of the best data I’ve ever seen. I spoke to Murray about it and he wants to upgrade all our software to your new code. It was superfast too.”

  “Good, good. Want a cup of coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

  “No, I’m OK.”

  “You look a little stiff,” Wade observed.

  “Oh, just a little sore from the bullet hole in my leg.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the details later,” Jake said, raising his hand. “Right now I need your help with something. We discovered a very interesting item out there in the desert.”

  Wade opened his eyes wide with an exaggerated look of interest. “Really? Now you wouldn’t be teasing an old man would you? I like dinosaurs and all, but…”

  “It’s not a dinosaur,” Jake replied, suddenly aware from a shadow crossing the floor beyond Wade’s cube that someone was eavesdropping. He casually watched the movement as he removed the journal from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “We found something truly remarkable,” Jake began, “a long forgotten NASA sp
acecraft with a dead body aboard.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Suddenly, an office chair squeaked across the floor of the adjacent cubicle, followed by a loud thud. Both men got up quickly and looked inside. A young woman was on her knees trying to upright the chair.

  “Are you OK, Melanie?” Wade asked, taking the woman by the arm.

  “Certainly,” she snapped back. “I…I, uh,” her eyes searched the ceiling for an answer.

  Her loss for words made Jake chuckle. He noticed that she was holding Wade’s hand tightly.

  “I know what you think,” she continued. “I wasn’t being nosy. I—.”

  “Don’t worry,” he interrupted her, smiling. “I can see you’re not the enemy, but I am curious about this revelation. You’ve been withholding information, Wade.”

  “Oh well,” Wade made a comical gesture. “Since the cat’s out of the bag, I might as well fess up. Jake, this is my…” he paused to phrase the words, “well, she’s my fiancée. This is Melanie Cogswell.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie,” Jake said shaking her hand, “and congratulations to both of you. I thought Wade was only married to the mainframe.”

  The statement eased the fear in Melanie’s eyes. She pushed her brown hair away from her face and smiled for the first time.

  “Marrying me will be a bit like marrying the mainframe.” She sighed. “I’m afraid we’re linked equally by Ethernet and love.”

  “Common interests are seldom a bad thing,” Jake replied.

  “We’ll find out together, I guess.”

  “You’ve got to finish your story,” Wade said. “Surely you’re pulling my leg about this lost spaceship and dead astronaut.”

  “Not an astronaut,” Jake corrected. “It’s a Gemini capsule, the two-seater types used between Mercury and Apollo. Sam did some checking on the Internet and found that all of them have been accounted for but one. We think the one we found was the first of two unmanned missions.”