Rise: Luthecker, #2

by Keith Domingue

  Nikki saw a small cluster of young people approach a door with a neon sign above it that read “Disco” and had an idea. She thought if she could get in, she could disappear within the cluster of people, at least temporarily, if the disco was crowded. She firmly believed that if she survived the night, she could find a way to stay hidden and gain the upper hand in the day. Nikki made a beeline for the door, reaching the entrance just in time to blend in with the small group waiting to step inside. Nikki noted that the group numbered eleven, all too absorbed in their own affairs to notice that she was standing behind them. Nikki used the group as a shield and held her breath as she glanced beyond them and saw her pursuers getting closer. She ducked inside the door, just as the armed men made their way to the other side of the street.

  “We go to disco now?” the young Russian woman named Masha said in broken English, looking back and forth at Yaw and Chris. Yaw washed down the last of, what tasted like, a pretzel and his can of Coke. He looked at the girl and the three girlfriends of hers, all dressed in variations of the same style of high heels and short dresses, who had gathered since Masha first approached them.

  Yaw then looked at Chris. “What do you think?”

  “You come,” one of the other girls who, at Masha’s invite, had dared to step closer to Chris and Yaw.

  Masha gave a wry smile to her friend before she led the small entourage away from the central plaza and across the street toward the disco. She gave a quick look back at Yaw and Chris to make sure they were following.

  “They look like pros to me,” Yaw whispered to Chris.

  “If that’s true then we know the score.”

  Chris did a quick scan of the streets.“I don’t see anyone on us.”

  “Who knows what’s inside?”

  “We’ll handle it. Nikki and Alex don’t have much time, and she looks like she’d be in the know. C’mon.”

  Chris and Yaw followed the group of four women from the plaza center toward the club across the street.

  Masha abruptly stopped in the middle of the street, pointed east, and shouted something in Russian to her friends.

  Yaw and Chris didn’t understand the words but the body language was clear. Seconds later, the meaning behind the abrupt halt and Masha’s confrontational body language became clear when men dressed in black fatigues and armed with AK-47s pushed roughly through the crowds, weapons first—not hiding the fact that they were searching for someone.

  Chris and Yaw looked at one another and stayed back.

  The barrel-chested man who led the search party of armed men made eye contact with Masha. He turned back and pointed to his soldiers who followed, barking at them in Russian and they dispersed into the streets on his command, continuing their search. The barrel-chested leader of the search party then lowered his weapon and approached Masha.

  Masha had one hand on her hip and her head tilted sideways, her eyes fearlessly locked on the man with the rifle.

  “Hope it ended well,” Yaw whispered to Chris.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  The angry look on Masha’s face was universally recognizable to all men. As the Russian with the rifle got closer, he and Masha immediately got into a heated exchange. The trade of verbal blows in Russian was also universal and lasted nearly a full minute before the woman pointed at Yaw and Chris. The Russian soldier’s steely eyes followed.

  “Oh shit,” Chris whispered.

  “Be ready.”

  The Russian soldier raised the barrel of his AK-47 slightly before he approached Yaw and Chris. Chris’ heart raced, hands twitching, ready for anything. Yaw stepped his right leg into a fighting stance.

  The Russian soldier showed no fear, no concern whatsoever. He stopped, less than three feet from Yaw and Chris, looking them both up and down. The only recognizable emotion on the man’s face was trace contempt. Yaw kept his eyes on the gun barrel, Chris on the man.

  The Russian’s eyes locked on Chris.“You have money?” he asked, his accent thick.

  “Who’s asking?” Chris said.

  Yaw put a hand on Chris’ arm.“Yes. We have money,” Yaw diffused.

  “This one,” the armed Russian said, before pointing the barrel of his AK-47 back toward Masha. “She will take it all from you.”

  “Fuck you, Semyon,” Masha yelled in response.

  Semyon started to walk away and she followed him, continuing her verbal assault in Russian, what sounded like profanity-laced anger aimed squarely at the back of the soldier’s head. The man she called Semyon finally held up a hand as if to mute her. His body language indicated he had heard all of this before and couldn’t take it anymore. He was choosing to walk away and looked up and down the streets for an escape. He trotted off to join his fellow soldiers in search of Nikki.

  Masha turned back and approached Yaw and Chris. “I am sorry.”

  “Who was that?” Chris asked.

  “His name is Semyon. He is former military. Now he works private security.”

  “What did he want?” Yaw asked.

  “He was looking for someone. A girl.”

  Both Yaw and Chris’ thoughts turned to Nikki.

  “What girl? Did he give you a name?” Yaw asked.

  “No. What does it matter? Semyon is always looking for…girls.”

  “It wasn’t just Semyon that was looking. It was a lot of men. All of them armed.”

  “All men with small penises are armed in Trans Dniester. Why do you care?” Masha asked, the anger from her exchange with Semyon still present in her voice.

  “What is Semyon to you?” Chris asked.

  “Nothing.” Masha spit on the pavement for emphasis.

  “That bad, huh? I’m sorry,” Yaw said..

  “What did you say to him about us?” Chris interjected.

  Masha looked back and forth between Chris and Yaw.“That you were nice, rich American men. That American men know how to treat a woman. That they are not like some brutish oaf who knows nothing and runs around cheating with other women. I told him that he was shit, and you were going to show us…a good time.” She spat on the ground again.

  “You said Semyon works for private security now. Who does he work for?” Chris asked.

  Masha turned back, looked at Chris with suspicion. It was one question too many. “A very dangerous man. Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “Masha, we need your help,” Yaw said.

  She turned to Yaw—looked back and forth between Yaw and Chris again.“You are not tourists.”

  “No. We are not. We’re here to find some friends,” Yaw said.

  Masha’s well-honed street sense sounded an alarm in her head. Opportunity. “Are they lost?”

  “Yes. And we need to find them.”

  “Bring them back to America?”

  “Yes.”

  “You take me with you? Get me out of here? Out of Trans Dniester?”

  Yaw and Chris looked at one another.

  “If you help us find our friends, yes,” Chris answered.

  Masha thought it over. “How do I know I can trust you?” she finally asked.

  “You don’t. But I can tell you this; we’re very good at what you’re asking for. You have our word on that,” Chris said.

  “Your word. That means little here.”

  “It’s all we have. Our friends were kidnapped from the U.S. and taken here. We’re looking for them,” Yaw explained.

  “Slave trade is big here. No one escapes. They may be gone from this country already.”

  “We don’t think so. They are being held for entirely different reasons than the slave trade. Do you know the name Lucas Parks?” Yaw asked.

  Masha’s face went cold.“I cannot help you.”

  “We can protect you,” Chris said.

  “Not from him.”

  “Trust us.” Yaw winked at her.

  “You are not rich Americans. You are stupid ones.”

  “Do you work for him?” Chris interjected.

 
Masha looked Chris in the eye. “We all pay. And we are not allowed to leave.”

  “If you want out, we’ll get you out,” Yaw promised. “But only if you help us.”

  Masha rocked from one leg to the other. She rummaged through her bag for several seconds, a Chloe Elsie Python-leather shoulder that easily sold for over two thousand dollars in the U.S., before she found what she was looking for—a soft pack of Winstons, along with a bright-red Bic lighter. She pulled a cigarette from the pack and handed the lighter to Chris. She put the cigarette to her lips, and he took the timeless cue and lit it. She took a hard pull that burned nearly a fifth of the cigarette before she blew out a long stream of smoke—an excuse to look around and see who was watching. Chris and Yaw noticed that all of her girlfriends had disappeared.

  She dropped the cigarette onto the concrete and gently tapped it out with the toe of her stiletto. “You should go. That is how I help you.” Masha abruptly turned away from them.

  “Masha, we’re willing to lay down our lives for our friends in order to help them escape. We’ll extend that commitment to you,” Yaw said.

  Masha stopped.

  “Help us, and if you want to leave this place and come to America, we will get you out. If it’s what you want,” Yaw explained.

  Masha dropped her head. It was a full thirty seconds before she turned to look at Yaw and Chris. She wanted to trust them but searched for a reason not to.

  “How many?” she finally asked.

  “Two. A man. And a woman,” Chris said.

  Masha scanned the street in front of the plaza. There was no sign of Semyon, or his men. “Semyon will be back. He may be a bastard, but he is good with the hunt. He will know who you are and why you are here soon enough. Come with me into the club. It is not safe for you on the street.”

  28

  Kirby

  Dr. Mark Kirby sat on the overstuffed leather couch and tried to appear calm. His thick beard made his chin and cheeks feel hot, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead, the sensation of heat reaching all the way to the crown of his head. At fifty-six years of age, the thin, bespectacled scientist had long ago given up the effort and frustration of climbing the Coalition Properties’ corporate ladder and had settled into project management in the biological sciences division of the firm. Mostly a paper pusher now, his ideas to change the world through his expertise in genetics and gene therapy— although dulled by politics, lesser minds, and the dissipation of energy and passion that accompanied age—still existed for him, were still valid calculations in his mind, and he was more than willing to share them with anyone who would listen. Hope to make a difference with his ideas still existed, and he still worked on his theories, albeit in the clandestine periphery of his job at Coalition. That ember of hope burned a bit brighter when he was informed that the CEO of Coalition Properties, the big boss himself, wanted to speak with him personally and discuss his work. Kirby recognized the enormous opportunity. He believed it was a second chance to be at the forefront of change, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t blow it.

  “He should be here momentarily,” Collin Smith, seated next to Kirby, told the scientist, as if sensing the man’s nervousness.

  Kirby nodded and smiled before looking around the office. He had never been in the corporate towers, let alone in the CEO’s office before, and to him, the suite looked like that of a mid-sized luxury apartment with an enormous oak desk at its apex.

  It was the photos on the wall that fascinated him the most, pictures of Coalition leader James Howe posing with several of the world’s movers and shakers. Kirby counted among them two U.S. presidents, a well-known senator whose controversial opinions often made the news, along with several movie stars and beautiful women. To Kirby, men like James Howe were otherworldly, their lives existing in an entirely different stratum than that of normal people, a place that the rest of the world could only dream about. Kirby’s heart skipped a beat when the large oak door abruptly opened.

  “Apologies for my tardiness,” James Howe said, before he carefully closed the door behind him. He turned to Kirby and smiled, sticking out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Kirby. I’ve heard many great things about you.”

  “Thank you. The pleasure is mine, sir,” Kirby replied before he shook the CEO’s hand with just a touch too much enthusiasm. Kirby had to look back at the couch before he sat down.

  “Collin,” Howe said, acknowledging the elder Coalition board member, before he took a seat in the large chair directly across from Kirby.

  “So let’s get right into this. I want the story first, the science next, and then I’ll have questions. Now tell me, who is Alex Luthecker?”

  Kirby’s heart raced with excitement. He cleared his throat before he began. “I first met Janet and Leo Mayer in 1988 after Mrs. Mayer had been diagnosed with stage three endometriosis by her personal physician. That doctor, a doctor Reid Wilson, had told Mrs. Mayer that because of her condition, cysts were beginning to develop on her ovaries, and her fertility was threatened. This news rattled the couple, and although still quite young, they decided to start a family right away. By late eighty-eight, when they had no luck naturally, they approached our fertility center for help. Because of the advanced stage of the disease, I suggested in-vitro fertilization, a standard procedure in this type of situation, to which they agreed. It was during the embryonic process that I suggested something to the couple that was quite new and experimental at the time, something that I had developed, and that was DNA testing the embryo for potential genetic defects. We had had considerable luck with our primate testing the year previous, and Coalition labs had received permission to begin beta testing by the regulatory bodies. We knew from our testing that we could only affect the maternal mitochondria, and at the time only one in five thousand children would inherit defective genetic material from the mother. Now it’s much worse of course. But the point is, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff, and we never expected to get a hit. We were quite surprised when we did.”

  “What was the defect that you found?” Howe asked.

  Kirby looked at Collin Smith. Medical information was still privileged to Kirby, and he looked to Smith for permission. Smith nodded for Kirby to proceed.

  “Autism. Finding a cure has been a passion of mine since medical school because of my younger brother’s diagnosis. I’ve always believed that in very special circumstances, it was less a disease and more a gateway to other parts of the brain. When I began to study genetics, I specifically sought out a genetic marker that could identify it.”

  Howe raised an eyebrow. “You mean autism is not caused by immunizations?”

  “Good God, no. There is zero scientific—”

  “I know. I was making a joke. But truthfully, isn’t autism a developmental disorder?”

  “That’s partially true. But the genetic triggers have to be there to begin with. It was my theory that there was a genetic component already in place that may or may not be influenced or triggered by environmental influences, so I started from that hypothesis. To me, it all starts with the programming of the DNA. So I conducted a small exploratory study of the brains of children who had autism and found that some abnormalities appeared to form in early fetal development. We could literally see the differences of activity in certain brain layers. That meant a genetic trigger, something that could potentially be found as early as the embryonic stage. It turns out I was right.”

  “So their child had autism, and you said you could help them.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a child; it was an embryo at the time. And it showed the strong predisposition for autism, but there were no guarantees one way or another if the child would have it. But in a nutshell, yes, that is what I told them.”

  “So you lied.”

  “No. I simply layered my beliefs into the science and let them decide.”

  Howe smirked. “And they agreed to treatment.”

  “There was a bit of reluctance at first, but, yes, they eventually
agreed.”

  Howe sat back in his chair and mulled over Dr. Kirby’s story a moment. “So tell me how it works. And remember I’m just a businessman. I’m not as smart as you.”

  Kirby couldn’t suppress a smile at Howe’s compliment. He took it as a sign of respect. Kirby saw Howe as a brilliant man, however unschooled in science that he may be, and he wanted to be careful in finding a reference that would be easy to grasp but not insult Howe’s intelligence. To Kirby this was always a tricky balance. He knew if he lost the CEO of Coalition Properties in the science, any hope of getting the company leader to support his pet projects was doomed.

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “Please; call me James.”

  “Well, James. If you think of DNA as millions upon millions of “on” and “off” switches, and you can determine exactly which switches turn what on and off, you can potentially change specific elements of a person.”

  “So you were looking to find the switch to autism and turn it off, is that what you were saying?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Think of autism as a large series of switches, and if it’s detected, it’s easier to replace the entire set of switches than it is to try and hunt down and map out the correct switch sequence. At least that was my theory.”

  “And that’s where the third parent came in.”

  “Yes; someone with a clean switch sequence. But it has to be maternal mitochondria.”

  “Mother to mother.”

  “Correct.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It worked. After the baby was born, a boy, healthy and happy, we kept tabs on him, testing him at intervals and looking for signs of autism. He had none. If anything, he proved to be exceptionally cognizant, social, with normal responses to stimulation. I can’t tell you how proud I was.”

  “But you can’t say for sure if the child would have developed autism.”

  “The fact of the matter is he did not, and the parents were happy. The test itself was ongoing. After the child’s third birthday, we simply absorbed the testing procedures into the child’s annual physical. Unfortunately…”