The Genesis Key (10 page)

“No problem, Dr. S. Just making sure you're okay.” He pointed to the antique silver box on the front passenger's seat of the car. “What is that thing, anyway?”

Kathleen had almost forgotten about it. “Oh, this? I guess you'd call it a gift.”

“From him?” Carlos nodded at Sargon on the porch.

Kathleen thought about it for a moment. “Actually, it's sort of from my parents.”

Chapter Fourteen

Crystal City, Virginia.

L
uce Venfeld inspected the digital image on his computer screen. It was just past 2:00
A.M.
, and he was sitting in the library of his penthouse condo in Crystal City. Across the Potomac River, the Jefferson Memorial gleamed brightly in the glow of several dozen spotlights. The night was otherwise black and moonless.

“Who's the old man?” Venfeld said into a prepaid cell phone.

“His name's Tariq Al-Fulani,” replied Semion Zafer. His voice was hoarse, with a thick Israeli accent. “Some sort of antiques dealer.”

The photograph was a grainy nighttime shot taken through a telephoto lens. It showed Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury receiving a blurry object from an elderly man in a white shirt. They were standing together on the front stoop of a brick row house.

“What's that he's handing her?” Venfeld asked.

“A box.”

“What
kind
of box?”

“I couldn't tell. It might have been metal. It was sort of shiny.”

“Any idea what was inside?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said Venfeld calmly, “stay where you are.” He pressed a button on the phone, terminating the call. Then, turning his full attention to the photograph on the screen, he zoomed in on the old man.

Venfeld knew a great deal about Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury. He knew she was the only child of Rebecca S. Talbot and Daniel S. Talbot, both deceased. He knew she'd been adopted and raised from the age of seven by her maternal grandparents, John and Abigail Sainsbury of Great Falls, Virginia. He knew she'd attended Langley High School, where she was a straight-A student and a standout soccer player, and that she'd received both a B.S. and M.S. in biology from the University of Virginia, followed by a Ph.D. in microbiology from Johns Hopkins University. And he knew all about her post-doctoral work at NIH, which had terminated abruptly two years ago.

Venfeld also knew a fair amount about Kathleen's parents, who were both killed in 1979 in southern Iraq as a result of some sort of archeological mishap. What he
didn't
know was who this old man was in the photograph . . . and why he was meeting with Dr. Sainsbury in the middle of the night.

Venfeld did not believe in coincidences, something he'd learned in the CIA. Here was an old man with an Arabic surname giving a shiny metal box to a woman whose parents died mysteriously in Iraq in 1979. There was a connection, and Venfeld aimed to find out what it was. The Olam Foundation was now tantalizingly close to its goal, for which he would soon earn a fortune.
Nothing
could be left to chance.

He pushed
REDIAL
on the prepaid cell phone.

Zafer answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Pay Dr. Al-Fulani a visit and find out what was in that box.”

“Now?”

“Yes,
now.
”

Chapter Fifteen

Bethesda, Maryland.

I
t was an unusually cold morning for late March—below freezing with a stiff, northwest breeze. A perky brunette “meteorologist” was calling for a 30 percent chance of mixed precipitation.

Kathleen hit the remote and went to the closet for her warmest overcoat. “Oh no,” she muttered, seeing that the wooden hanger was empty. She remembered immediately where she'd left her cashmere coat.

She pictured the exact moment when she'd handed the coat to Dr. Sargon at his house last night. She distinctly remembered having the coat on when she finished her date with Bryce Whittaker . . .

Her mind lingered on that thought for a moment. Her date with Whittaker had been . . .
interesting
. No, it had been more than interesting. It had been enjoyable. Pleasant.
Fun
. Surprisingly, she found herself wanting to see him again as soon as possible.
Should I call him?
No.
She dismissed the idea.
He'll call if he's interested.

Her thoughts then shifted back to her Versace coat and to Dr. Sargon, the strange old man who claimed to be a friend of her parents. Kathleen had no reason to doubt his account of events in Iraq decades ago, and she was genuinely glad that he'd told her what really happened to her parents there. But the talk of “God's will” and the Great Flood had been a bit too much for her. Dr. Sargon was apparently obsessed with something biblical and grandiose, and Kathleen simply did not have the time to get involved with such things. Her focus had to stay on QLS, which was having problems of its own.

Nevertheless, she wanted her coat back.

W
hen Kathleen arrived at the 1800 block of U Street Northwest, just after 10:30
A.M.
, everything was different from the night before.

Two D.C. Metropolitan police cruisers were parked at the curb in front of Dr. Sargon's row house, their red and blue lights flashing insistently. Double-parked beside the police cruisers was a bright yellow ambulance from Sibley Hospital, its emergency lights blinking white and red.

Kathleen drove by slowly, searching for a parking spot.

On the sidewalk, she saw two D.C. police officers and a man in a blue blazer talking to one another. One of the uniformed officers was pointing toward Sargon's house. And that's when Kathleen noticed the yellow police tape draped across the front entrance.

She pulled into the first available space, about a block and a half away, and walked back toward the scene. She was slightly out of breath from the brisk walk when she approached the two officers and the third man standing in front of Sargon's house. “What's going on?” she asked.

“Police investigation, ma'am,” said one of the uniformed officers. His tone was polite yet stern. “Please stay clear of the area for the time being.” He pointed across the street, where a small clutch of neighbors was gathered, some holding steaming cups of coffee.

“But—” Kathleen hesitated. Her first instinct was to walk away—
fast
. Nothing good could come of getting involved. But her coat was in there. And her car had been parked directly in front of the townhouse for nearly three hours last night. Surely, someone had seen it—possibly one of those neighbors standing across the street at this very moment.

“Ma'am . . .” The officer was clearly getting annoyed with her.

“I left my coat in there,” Kathleen blurted. “Can I just go in and get it?”

The two uniformed officers exchanged surprised glances.

“You left your coat in
there
?” asked the second officer. “When?”

Kathleen sighed.
Here it comes
. “Last night.”

“You were here last night?” asked the first officer.

“Yes.”

“What time?”

Before Kathleen could respond, the man in the blue blazer interrupted. He was thin, African-American, in his late forties with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He was impeccably dressed. A photo ID badge pinned to his jacket identified him as Special Agent Anthony Wills of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “I'll take it from here, guys,” he said to the two hulking officers, much to their apparent displeasure. Then, turning to Kathleen, he said politely, “Let's go get your coat.”

Relieved to be dealing with someone reasonable, Kathleen followed the FBI man up the walkway and stairs to Sargon's house. They ducked under the police tape and walked through the front door, which was wide open.

“Okay, where's your coat?” said Agent Wills.

Kathleen stood in the foyer, temporarily distracted by all the activity around her. At the front door, an evidence technician in a blue jumpsuit was dusting the brass doorknob for fingerprints. Another evidence technician was taking photographs in the living room adjacent the foyer, where Kathleen and Dr. Sargon had been sitting last night. Two EMTs stood at the top of the front hall steps, apparently waiting for something to be completed in one of the upstairs rooms.

“Ma'am?” said Agent Wills, still waiting for an answer.

“Oh, sorry . . . I think he put it over there somewhere.” Kathleen pointed toward a door under the stairs.

“What does it look like?”

“It's long, cream-colored, with three brown buttons down the front.”

As Wills disappeared behind the closet door, Kathleen surveyed the scene around her. She felt conspicuous and self-conscious, and more than a little uneasy about the situation. She glanced into the living room and noticed an evidence technician eyeing her curiously. He looked away immediately as she caught his gaze.

Then she saw the table—the same one she'd looked at last night with all the Persian antiques—except, now, something was out of place. It took her a moment, but she finally realized that all of the Q'uran boxes were open, their lids standing erect on their hinges.

“Is this it?” Agent Wills asked, returning from the coat closet and holding up a cream-colored overcoat.

“Yes, thank you! I wouldn't have bothered you, but this is a really expensive coat.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

Kathleen watched as Agent Wills—still holding the coat up with one hand—ran his other hand slowly up and down the length of the coat, apparently feeling the softness of the cashmere. Then he felt both sleeves. Then he felt all along the inside of the coat.
He's searching for a weapon
, Kathleen realized. Her stomach began to churn.

Agent Wills handed her the coat, and she thanked him meekly. “So, should I see myself out now?” She nodded toward the police tape across the doorway.

“Actually, I was hoping you could stay and answer a few questions.”

Kathleen's heart sank.

Wills's tone had suddenly turned crisp and professional. Gone were the easygoing smile and friendly demeanor of just a few minutes ago. Out of nowhere, a short, stocky woman in a blue FBI windbreaker appeared at his side, holding a notepad and pen. She gave Kathleen a surly glance that seemed to say,
Bitch, I already know
you're lying.

Kathleen swallowed hard. This was not how she'd envisioned spending her Sunday morning. “Am I in trouble?” she asked, her stomach starting to knot.

Wills replied without smiling. “It's possible.”

Chapter Sixteen

Washington, D.C.

T
he ride to the FBI's Washington, D.C., field office was not as humiliating as Kathleen had expected. Special Agent Wills drove a dark blue Crown Victoria, unidentifiable as a law-enforcement vehicle except for the shotgun rack and police radio mounted on the center console. More important, there were no sirens, as Kathleen had feared. Nor was she forced to sit in the backseat behind bulletproof glass. Instead, to her surprise, Wills had politely offered her the front passenger's seat and even opened the door for her. His partner with the notepad, Agent Cheryl Hendricks, sat in the back, frowning the entire time.

They arrived at the field office at Judiciary Square just after 11:15
A.M.
, cleared security, and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The office was spacious and sparsely appointed, and surprisingly quiet. A guard at the front desk greeted Wills and Hendricks familiarly as they entered.

“Before we get started,” Wills said to Kathleen in the reception area, “would you like something to drink? Coffee or soda?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Black.”

Special Agent Wills disappeared and returned a minute later with a small Styrofoam cup of coffee, which he handed to Kathleen. The three then navigated their way around the various desks and cubicles that took up most of the open floor space, eventually arriving at Wills's desk near the back. It was a plain, government-issue desk with a simulated-wood-grain top—like all the others. But, unlike most of the horizontal surfaces in the field office, Wills's desk was clean and organized. Somehow, this didn't surprise Kathleen.

“Have a seat,” Wills said, motioning to a chair adjacent his desk.

Kathleen complied, draping her coat across her lap. She sipped the coffee, which was painfully hot—and
awful
. It tasted like it had been brewed sometime yesterday morning.

Hendricks pulled a chair from her cubicle and dragged it conspicuously across the vinyl-tile floor to a spot next to Kathleen's chair. She sat down and flipped open her writing pad.

“Let's start from the beginning,” Wills said. “Dr. Al-Fulani called you at some point last night, correct?”

“He called my home phone and left a message.”

“When was that?

“I'm not sure of the exact time. I was out at dinner. I guess somewhere between eight and ten thirty.”

Kathleen answered questions of this nature for the next hour and a half. Wills's questions were methodical, meticulous, almost surgical in nature. Each moved the timeline of last night's events forward one small increment. If Kathleen gave an answer that jumped too far ahead in the timeline, Wills carefully looped back with follow-up questions, filling in all the gaps. His interrogation technique was systematic and professional.

For her part, Kathleen answered each question as best she could, holding nothing back. They covered her initial meeting with Al-Fulani at the front door, the room with all the antiques, the revelation of his real name—Hakeem Abdul Sargon. They covered the coat, the Turkish tea, the map of Mesopotamia, and Sargon's story about Kathleen's parents and his own escape from Iraq.

Suddenly, the tenor of Wills's questions changed. “Would you say Dr. Al Fulani was acting strangely last night?” he asked.

“Strangely?”

“Did he do anything unexpected? Out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I didn't know him before last night, so I don't know how he normally acted. But, yeah, I guess I would say he was acting a bit strange.”

“How so?”

“He seemed kind of . . . I don't know . . .
obsessed
with something. Or maybe ‘frantic' is a better word. He just seemed agitated to me.”

“What do you think he was obsessed with?”

Kathleen paused for a moment. “God,” she replied.

“God?
”

“I think he believed God was . . .
talking
to him, or directing him to do something. He kept talking about God's will and stuff like that. Which I found very strange.”

“I see. And at any point last night, did you see him with a weapon?”

“A
weapon
?” Kathleen straightened in her chair. “No.”

“Did he say anything that might lead you to believe he was suicidal?”

Then Kathleen suddenly understood. “Is
that
what happened?”

Wills searched Kathleen's eyes. “The police will probably conduct an autopsy before they pronounce an official cause of death, but I've seen enough self-inflicted gunshot wounds to know one when I see one.”

Kathleen grimaced.

“Odd circumstances, though.”

“How so?”

“Someone set off the house alarm around 4:00
A.M.
A rear window was pried open.”

Kathleen shook her head, confused.

“That reminds me,” said Wills. “Did anyone see you leave Al-Fulani's house?”

Kathleen hesitated. She didn't like where this was going. “Yes,” she said finally. “My office manager, Carlos Guiterez. He was waiting for me outside when I left.” She hated getting Carlos involved in this mess, but she was glad for the alibi just the same. She wondered, though,
Why do I need an alibi?

The interview ended just before 1:00
P.M.
, leaving Kathleen mentally exhausted, hungry, and anxious about the entire situation. Her head was spinning from the events of the past twenty-four hours.

“Cheryl will give you a ride back to your car,” Wills said, nodding to Agent Hendricks.

“Thanks,” said Kathleen.

“And we may have to call you again if we have more questions. I assume that's okay?”

“Of course.”

Agent Hendricks stood up slowly with exaggerated stiffness, making no attempt to hide her annoyance at having to chauffeur Kathleen back to U Street. “Come on,” she said.

“Oh, Dr. Sainsbury,” said Wills as they were leaving. He rose to his feet. “One last question.”

Kathleen turned to face him.

“Did Dr. Sargon give you anything last night?”

The question hit Kathleen unexpectedly, and she reflexively stalled for time. “What do you mean?”

Wills frowned. “Just what I said. Did he
give
you anything while you were at his house? A package, a gift, anything?”

To her recollection, Kathleen Sainsbury had never lied to any person of authority in her entire life. Not to her grandfather, not to her teachers, not to the IRS, and certainly not to the police. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, at that very moment, she felt an unavoidable urge not to tell Agent Wills about the silver box Dr. Sargon had given her. Whether it was simply too hard to explain, or whether it was something Sargon had said about the artifact inside, Kathleen didn't know. Nor did she have time to think about it.
Detective Wills was waiting for an answer.

“No,” she said firmly, trying hard not to blink.

A short pause. Then Wills nodded with apparent satisfaction. “Okay, then. Thank you for your time.”

T
he ride back to U Street was awful. Kathleen sat in the backseat of Hendricks's Crown Victoria, behind a pane of thick bulletproof glass. She felt like a criminal, though she'd done nothing wrong.

Except now she had done something wrong. She'd lied to the FBI. Why had she done that?
She could almost picture Special Agent Wills right now, documenting her lie, annotating it, cross-referencing it. He was so meticulous—certainly he'd figure out that she'd lied.
And then what?

Kathleen wished none of this had ever happened. She wished Dr. Sargon had never called and that she'd never gone to his house.

“Where's your car?” Agent Hendricks asked.

But Kathleen was still absorbed in her thoughts.

“Ma'am
, where is your car?” Hendricks repeated, practically yelling at Kathleen.

“Oh, sorry. It's right there. On the left.”

The Crown Victoria pulled to an abrupt stop next to Kathleen's silver Subaru. Kathleen went to open the door but realized there were no door handles in the backseat.
Criminals could not be trusted with door handles.

Hendricks exited the car slowly, obviously relishing the circumstances of the situation. After a long, unnecessary delay, she finally opened the door for Kathleen.

“Thank you,” Kathleen mumbled as she alighted from the backseat.

“Mmm-hmm.”

The Versace coat was still draped over Kathleen's arm, and she was careful not to drag it on the ground as she exited the car.

“Hey,” said Hendricks, pointing to the coat.

“Yes?”

“You may want to get that dry-cleaned.”

Kathleen looked down and grimaced. On the side of the cashmere coat was a large, dark coffee stain, which must have leaked from the Styrofoam cup. “Oh no,” she moaned.

A smile crept over Hendricks's face. “Well,” she said, clucking her tongue, “have a nice day.”