The Genesis Conspiracy

by Richard Hatcher

“I’m not sure,” he said, stepping closer to the door. He pressed his ear against it.

  “Smells like the rest of this filthy country,” Dawkins mumbled in disgust.

  “Ah!” Hoffmeyer suddenly yelled.

  “What is it?” Dawkins asked excitedly.

  “My God!” he shouted in obvious pain. Hoffmeyer frantically slung off his right loafer, dropped to the floor, and pulled off his sock. “It feels like my foot’s on fire.”

  Dawkins bent down to take a closer look at the floor and saw that his boss had been standing in a dark, gelatinous puddle. It was also the source of the rotten egg smell.

  “What is it?” Hoffmeyer asked as he examined the tender area on the outside of this big toe. Thankfully it appeared to be the only affected spot.

  “Acid?” Dawkins replied, pointing to the shoe that had landed beneath one of the emergency lights. Vapors were rising from the nearly eroded sole.

  “Dear God,” Hoffmeyer groaned. “What on earth is going on here?”

  “Are you able to walk?”

  Hoffmeyer pulled his injured foot across his left knee and examined the spongy area where a callous had once been. “I don’t think it’s that bad. I got the shoe off before it could do too much damage.” He glanced at the sock where a small hole had been burned around the toe.

  Dawkins helped him to his feet. “You should at least go wash it. There’s a restroom down there next to the water fountain.”

  “We’ve got to leave after that,” Hoffmeyer said sternly. “This is not worth us risking our lives. In time, you’ll learn as I have that Holtz is a psychopath who’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. Our lives mean absolutely nothing to him. So we’re leaving. Understood?”

  “Of course,” Dawkins nodded as Hoffmeyer stepped into the restroom.

  Alone, the young PhD contemplated the possible scenarios. He looked back down the hall toward Baranov’s office. The puddle of acid was flowing out from beneath the door. That meant that someone had either accidentally or intentionally spilled it from inside. Why acid? What could they have been using it for?

  A long forgotten piece of information suddenly came into his mind. Acids were used in developing film. In the modern age, digital photography had practically removed the need for a darkroom, but he’d worked in one once when he was a photographer for his grammar school yearbook. The ancient teacher who had supervised the yearbook staff had insisted on them doing it the old fashioned way. Acid baths were used in the final process to stop the printed image from getting too dark.

  “A darkroom,” he mumbled.

  Less than three minutes later, when his boss came back out, Dawkins was nowhere to be found.

  28

  After a quick trip to the metro stop to see Katie off to find her grandmother, Jake turned and headed back to the museum, which was several blocks away. Wearing only a light jacket, Jake felt the cold night air permeate his skin since the temperatures were hovering just above freezing. Jake walked slowly at first, trying to remain inconspicuous amid the few pedestrians still making their way down the sidewalk. Along the less traveled back streets, he was able to move at a half jog until he reached the Neva River. Once he crossed onto Nevsky Prospekt, he slowed his pace to a fast walk and was back at the museum a few minutes later.

  The entire complex was surrounded by a fenced courtyard that someone had locked since his last visit. There were only a couple of unoccupied cars in the adjacent lot, and the park across the street was completely deserted. Jake took a final look in all directions and then climbed the gate. After sprinting across the courtyard, he stood beneath the column of windows below Baranov’s office. The correct spot was easy to find since the shattered bottle of acid was strewn across the sidewalk. To the right of the windows, he spied a downspout affixed to the wall with brackets at regular two feet intervals. Not an easy climb, but at least he would have hand and footholds.

  With the front lugs of his boots gripping the edge of the brackets, he worked his way up to the third floor window. Gripping the painfully cold pipe with his right hand, he gave the window a solid shove. When it screeched open, he peered inside. Seeing no one, he shifted his weight and swung into the opening.

  Once inside, he carefully approached Baranov’s door and yanked it. As he’d expected, the lock didn’t budge. Knowing he would never get the door open without prying it, he started up the hall in search of a lever. As he turned to make certain that no one was approaching from the connecting hallway, something odd caught his attention. Beneath the security light, he found what appeared to be an old shoe. Kneeling to examine it, he found that the sole had been completely eaten away. The sulfurous smell told him why.

  “Uh oh,” he muttered as his flashlight caught a smeared footprint a few inches from the dark red puddle.

  Jake wasted no time as he moved up the hallway. In the chemistry lab where he’d found the acid, there was nothing strong enough to act as pry bar. He discovered the same thing in the computer room next door and the janitor’s closet beyond that. The next room was a repository for museum artifacts that had been rotated back into storage for lack of a space to display them. On the front shelf, Jake found a badly pitted but sturdy iron sword, most likely from the Roman period he surmised. He also removed a large prehistoric stone tool from the shelf below.

  “That should do it,” he thought aloud.

  Back at Baranov’s office, he pushed the sword into the opening above the lock. After giving it a tap with the stone hammer to ensure that it would not move, he swung the stone with all his might, striking the sword dead center of the handle. With a loud boom the lock broke, cracking the door open with the remaining force. Jake knew the only obstacle now was the body a few inches inside. He paused for a moment to listen for footsteps. Hearing none, he gently applied enough pressure to force an opening large enough to allow him to peer inside. It was unsettling to know the source of the resistance to his pushing.

  Inside he discovered a small office with museum posters covering the two walls that he could see. The filing cabinets just beyond the door were cluttered with stacks of paper and file folders in scattered disarray. Bracing himself, he applied more pressure to the door and then trained his flashlight toward the body. It was a man, lying face up, staring at the ceiling through sightless eyes. His face had an eerie white pallor and two bullet holes were clearly visible in his blood soaked shirt.

  With a clear view of the entire office, one thing became apparent to him. There was nothing resembling a film canister anywhere. If Baranov was the dead man lying in front of him, Jake had to assume that the film was somehow involved. Had someone killed him to get it? Or perhaps someone had tried to get it and Baranov wouldn’t budge. Either way, the next logical place to look was the darkroom where Katie had last seen it. That would require getting into the lockbox beside Baranov’s desk. Jake could see that the box was also locked. Katie had told him that Baranov probably carried the key on the key ring in his pocket.

  “The things I’m doing for that woman,” he mumbled as he bent down beside the body and reached into his right pants pocket. The clinking sound and feel of a firm metal edge told him he’d been successful.

  Quickly removing the ring, he examined each key until he found a short one which appeared to be a size matching that of the lockbox. It was a correct assessment. Inside the box, there were a dozen or more keys, but fortunately they were labeled. Crudely pronouncing the Cyrillic letters, he found that the Russian word for darkroom was a simple transliteration from the English. Grabbing the number five key, he turned toward the door.

  “And what does that open?” the tall man in front of him asked.

  Jake would have been more startled, but the man’s Bostonian English indicated that this was no security guard. He also noticed the man’s odd footwear, one high end leather shoe and one foot wrapped in what appeared to be cloth from a torn lab coat. Any thought that this could might be Baranov’s killer disappeared as well. He didn’t have the eyes for it. J
ake guessed he was a competitor who just found out that he’d been swindled.

  “That’s for me to know,” Jake answered, leaving the remainder of the sardonic phrase unspoken. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You don’t think you’re going to get by me without an explanation for this,” the man said motioning toward the body.

  Jake smiled cynically. “A more interesting story might begin with why a foppish New Englander would be hobbling around a Russian museum in the middle of the night wearing only one shoe.”

  The man looked down for a moment and then met Jake’s gaze. “I don’t have time for games. The film belongs to me. I have paid for it and have come to collect. Now where is it?”

  “What if I’m the killer?” Jake shrugged. “If I were in your shoes…or shoe, I’d be more cautious. I certainly wouldn’t be making all these demands.”

  “You don’t fit the description.”

  “Which is?” Jake asked pointedly.

  Suddenly, the loud sound of footsteps approaching caught their attention. A younger man reached the office door, almost breathless with fear.

  “She’s got a gun,” he blurted as his eyes caught sight of the lifeless mass in the floor behind them. “I’ve been….”

  When he collapsed in Hoffmeyer’s arms, it was obvious from the crimson stain on his back that Dawkins had been shot.

  “Oh no!” the tall man said frantically. The thought had never occurred to him that the killer might still be in the building. He dropped his injured apprentice on the floor and cast a wild-eyed look about for an exit. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Wait,” Jake demanded. “What about your partner here?”

  “He’s dead…and I’m out of here.”

  As the tall man hobbled to the stairwell, Jake gently rolled his younger accomplice over onto his stomach and examined the wound. The bullet had entered through his left shoulder and had apparently become lodged in the bone. There was no exit hole. He checked his pulse and found that the man was still alive.

  “Gun…” Dawkins said groggily as he returned to consciousness.

  “It’s OK. You just passed out. Lie here and be still for a minute.”

  “Holtz. I’ve got to get Mr. Holtz’s film back.”

  “Holtz?” Jake asked.

  “Walter Holtz.” The man said angrily as if Jake should have recognized the name. He was clearly not thinking coherently. “You’ve got to help me.”

  “I’m going to help you. First, you said there was a woman with a gun. Is she following you?”

  A look a fear came across his face once more, but he said nothing.

  “Do you know where she is?” Jake said forcefully.

  The younger man swallowed hard and tried to speak. “There,” he struggled to say, pointing behind Jake.

  As Jake turned, a shot rang out which struck the wall just above his head. Plaster fell into his eyes as he leapt to his feet. Without hesitation, he charged toward the approaching figure who had closed the gap to within twenty feet. Even in the dim light, Jake could see the wild look of hate in her eyes as she ran toward him with an outstretched arm. Her fist was clinching a small automatic pistol and across her shoulder, she awkwardly lugged a large vinyl bag.

  Anticipating the second shot, Jake dropped to the ground and slid to close the distance. When he came up, he threw an elbow to her jaw with as much force as he could muster. The sudden pop told him he’d connected with a well-timed blow. The gun was jarred from her hand as she struck the floor, unconscious. Jake kicked it out of reach under the door of an adjacent office. Although he would like to have kept it, he wanted no connection to the probable murder weapon.

  Guessing the content of the bag, Jake slung it over his shoulder and went back for the injured man who was now sitting with his back against the wall.

  “Can you walk?” Jake asked.

  “Yes,” he responded weakly.

  “You can either come with me or try this on your own. Your partner has flown the coop.”

  The younger man looked at the bag. “Is that the film?”

  “I assume so.”

  “That belongs to my employer,” Dawkins said. “He paid for it and sent me here to get it.”

  Jake stared at him for a moment without responding as he caught his breath. “No, this belongs to a friend of mine and probably the U.S. government for that matter. In my book, that trumps any claim your boss might have over it. Besides, if it belongs to you, why did you come here to steal it?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Fair enough. But I’m just reclaiming stolen property. Of course theft must seem fairly minor to your boss since he’s murdered already to get this.”

  Jake couldn’t help noticing the flash of concern that crossed the young man’s face.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that dead guy in there. It was Baranov, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not talking about Baranov,” Jake replied sternly. “I’m talking about the Mongolian attack. Did Mr. Holtz tell you about that? Did he tell you about the murdered guide and the attempt on an innocent girl’s life?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I’m just a courier sent here to retrieve that roll of film.”

  “Then you need to walk away from this and find another employer.”

  “I can’t do that,” Dawkins responded. The comment was more of a plea than a statement of resolve.

  “In too deep,” Jake suggested, “or just too much to lose?”

  Dawkins struggled to his feet, but fell back against the wall, still dizzy from the trauma.

  “I’ve worn many hats,” he said looking up. “Vagrant, juvenile delinquent, petty criminal, but I’m not a murderer. I just want to go home.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” Jake firmly asserted.

  On their way out of the museum, Jake found no sign of the one-shoed man except for a fragment of cloth snagged in the sill of the door leading outside. The younger man’s partner had hit at least one more obstacle in his flight to safety. Although he would like to have known their names, Jake knew it would be pointless to ask. If his assumptions were right, these two would-be criminals were both in over their heads. At least he had the film and a name, Walter Holtz.

  The weather conditions had worsened since Jake had entered the building. A heavy, wet snow was now falling and the temperature seemed to have dropped significantly.

  “It’s cold,” the younger man muttered as they approached the faculty parking lot.

  “Here,” Jake replied taking off his jacket. “Put this around you. I’ll continue to apply pressure to your shoulder as we work our way to the train station, although I think the bleeding has mostly stopped. The bullet is still in there, but I think it missed the major arteries.”

  “Thank my lucky stars,” mumbled Dawkins

  “Or the one who made them, ”Jake offered with a smile.

  Blam! The gun blast from an unseen attacker came so unexpectedly, neither of the men moved at first. It was unclear to them from which direction the shot had come. When the second shot followed immediately afterward, Jake shoved the younger man to the ground, pivoted hard on his injured leg, and bolted back toward the museum. In the shadows to his left, he spied the gunman beneath the dim glow of a security light affixed above the entrance door. He was tall, and like a professional hit man from a mafia film—he wore a suit and tie although his muscular build barely fit into the jacket. With no time for more than a cursory glance, Jake ducked behind a row of hedges that lined the waterfront side of the museum. When he was nearly half the distance down the length of the building, he glanced back to see if the gunman was following him. Instead, he found that his injured companion was quickly closing the gap.

  “Come on!” Jake shouted, motioning with his hand until he caught up. “You should’ve split in the other direction.”

  “I don’t want to die,” the younger man pleaded.

  Blam! Blam! Two more shots rang out
just before they turned the corner into the barren museum parking lot. As they sprinted across the pavement, Jake spied a metro stop down the street that had a large number of cars parked in its adjacent lot. When they reached it, Jake hurdled the low fence and then helped his companion climb over.

  “Did you drive?” Jake asked.

  “No, I took a cab.”

  “In here,” Jake commanded, jerking his panicked companion into a row of cars parked in the darkest corner of the lot. “Stay down.”

  Hidden from view within a cluster of four closely parked cars, Jake crawled on his hands and knees toward the passenger door of an older Moskvich taxi while Dawkins tried a Mercedes on the diagonal corner. A double click indicated that they both had found unlocked cars.

  “Over here,” Jake instructed in a low voice.

  Dawkins shook his head and motioned toward the Mercedes.

  “We’ll never get that one started,” Jake muttered. “Too new. Anti-theft devices.”

  Conceding the point, Dawkins crawled over to the rusted yellow taxi and climbed in behind Jake. Being cautious not to make a sound, he closed the door and moved into the back seat to allow Jake to work under the steering column. Jake removed a Swiss army knife from his pocket and opened its scissors. In less than ten seconds, he had freed the ignition wires.

  “That was fast,” Dawkins remarked.

  “It’s not what you think. I had an uncle who owned a junk yard.”

  With a strained cough, the old Moskvich sputtered to life. Jake eased the automatic transmission into reverse and without sitting up, backed the taxi from its parking spot. After putting it into drive, he slowly emerged from his crouched position.

  “It’s him!” Dawkins cried as they were both jolted by the face of their attacker who was standing directly in front of the car. Jake hammered the gas pedal and the taxi responded with a sudden lurch that spun the gunman down the side of the car. Jake turned the steering wheel hard to the left and accelerated toward the west end of the parking lot. When he reached the entrance, his worst fear was realized. For after hour’s security, a large chain had been swung between the unoccupied parking attendant’s booth and the first post of a massive perimeter fence. Their only option now was to go back in the direction of the gunman.