The Genesis Key (23 page)

Chapter Forty

Washington, D.C.

L
uce Venfeld was nervous. He refolded the Local section of the
Washington Post
and placed it on his desk, having reread the QLS article for the third time.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. That damned reporter was screwing everything up!

To say the least, Elias Rubin and the Olam Foundation were not going be pleased about this. Which was why he was nervous. He'd never disappointed this client before, nor did he want to. He exhaled loudly and tapped his fingers on the exquisitely burled surface of his walnut desk.

There was something else troubling him about the article, too. The FBI was involved. And a “source close to the investigation” had already drawn a link between the QLS break-in and “organized crime
.
”

“God damn Zafer,” he muttered under his breath. Semion Zafer was sloppy. And cocky. And stupid. And now the FBI was on his trail
.
What if he got caught? Could he be expected to keep his mouth shut?

Venfeld put that thought aside and returned his focus to the QLS story in the
Post
.
What could be done about this situation?
He thought about QLS's facility in Rockville. Somewhere in that lab was a DNA sample and some sort of computerized analysis that contained all the information the Olam Foundation wanted. If no one else had that data yet, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn't too late.

He stood up and straightened his tie. Zafer was probably still asleep at this hour. No matter. It was time for Plan B.

Venfeld retrieved his Berluti briefcase from beneath his desk and set it softly on the desktop. He clicked the latch and lifted the front flap. The contents of the briefcase were mundane: newspapers, several manila folders, some bills. Venfeld slid his hand behind the stack of papers until it found its way into a special silk-lined pocket on the backside of the briefcase. There, he felt the hard, cold contours of the object he wanted.

He hadn't used it in a while, but he certainly remembered how. He pulled the custom-tooled Beretta 90-TWO pistol from its hiding place and felt its weight in his hand. Reaching in again, he pulled out a cylindrical Trinity suppressor and attached it to the gun's barrel.

Plan B
.

Chapter Forty-One

Rockville, Maryland.

F
or a moment, Kathleen thought she'd pulled into the wrong parking lot. Looking around, she barely recognized the small paved area in front of QLS's building. It was teeming with people. Every parking space was occupied, and about a dozen other vehicles were parked haphazardly along the edges of the lot and in the median strip.

She parked her silver Subaru at the edge of the lot with two wheels on the grass. She stepped out of her car and hugged her coat tightly against her body as she surveyed the surreal scene around her. A raw northeast wind swept through the parking lot in long, sustained gusts. Overhead, dark clouds were accumulating.

Two white news vans were parked side by side at the back of the lot, one from Channel 5 News, the other from Channel 7. Atop each van was a long, telescoping satellite antenna that extended high into in the air.

Directly in front of the building, two television cameras were set up on tripods about fifteen feet apart, each accompanied by portable lights and white reflective screens. In front of one of the cameras was an attractive woman in a bright red dress, whom Kathleen recognized immediately as Tina Chang from Channel 5 News. She appeared to be just beginning a live report. Kathleen inched closer to hear her speak.

“Thank you, Terry,” said Ms. Chang into a microphone emblazoned with the N
EWS
5 logo. “I'm here in front of the offices of Quantum Life Sciences in Rockville, where there's an incredible report out this morning about the discovery of a gene in the human DNA that many are calling the longevity gene. According to a story in the
Washington Post
this morning, this small biotech company behind me may have successfully isolated a gene in the human body that apparently controls our life span and can be manipulated to actually double or triple human life expectancy. Details are still sketchy at this time, but some are saying that when this particular gene is triggered using gene therapy, we could expect to live
hundreds
of years, perhaps even longer. So, as you can imagine, this news is causing quite a stir.

“As you can see behind me, a small crowd has gathered here at the front entrance to the Quantum Life Sciences building. Some of them have been here since as early as five thirty this morning. I spoke with some of these folks a little earlier to find out why they decided to come down here today. And some of their answers were surprising.

“I talked to one man whose wife is in the hospital with terminal cancer. He said he came here to see if he could enroll her as a test candidate for this new gene-therapy treatment. Another elderly man I spoke to said that he wanted to volunteer to try the treatment himself. In fact, that was the case for a lot of the people in this crowd. Not everyone, though, is happy about this news. I spoke to several people who are worried about the effect this technology might have on the environment, on the economy, and on the general fabric of our society. A couple folks here were also very vocal about their belief that this technology is a violation of what they consider to be God's will. So it appears there's a wide variety of strong feelings about this technology.”

Chang paused momentarily and put her finger to her left ear, apparently listening to a question posed by the Channel 5 news anchor. She resumed a few seconds later.

“Yes, Terry, I've been told that there are some people inside the building. Now, remember, this is a very small company, with only a few employees, but I believe there is someone inside the building right now. So far, there's been no official word from the company about this news. But I imagine at some point a representative of the company will have to come out to address this growing crowd.

“Terry, I should also mention one other thing. As you can see, the front doors to the building are covered with plywood. This was the result of a break-in here on Easter Sunday, in which one of the employees of this company was shot, just outside the building here. I understand he is still in critical condition at this time, and it's not clear whether that shooting has anything to do with the discovery of this new longevity gene. Of course, we'll be following this story very closely, and we'll let you know if anything develops.

“Reporting live from Rockville, Tina Chang, Channel 5 News.”

Kathleen checked her watch; it was 8:35. She had to get inside the building. She quickly weighed her options. She could just walk up to the plywood-clad front door and unlock it with her key. But then, of course, she'd have to walk past TV cameras and reporters, and cut through a phalanx of at least thirty people standing directly in front of the doors—some of whom looked quite agitated.
She'd never make it.

The only other option was to go through the emergency door in the back, for which, unfortunately, she had no key. If she'd had her cell phone, she could have called Carlos and asked him to open the back door. But, of course, she didn't have her cell phone. She'd left it at home with the battery removed.

She made up her mind.

Glancing discreetly in all directions to make sure she hadn't been spotted, she slowly walked away from the chaos in the parking lot. She strolled, in no apparent hurry, to the side of the five-unit building and slipped quickly around the corner. Now out of view of the TV cameras and the crowd, she walked briskly in the grass alongside the building, glancing behind her several times to make sure she hadn't been followed. Rounding the corner at the rear of the building, she quickened her pace to a jog.

She navigated through the mulched area that separated the back of the building from the thick pine forest behind it, weaving around unkempt clusters of ornamental shrubs and plants until, finally, she reached QLS's back door. She knocked softly.

There was no answer.

She knocked again—louder this time—glancing left and right to make sure she was still alone behind the building. Again, there was no answer. “C'mon, Carlos,” she whispered. She put her ear to the cold metal door and could hear the muffled voices of Carlos and Julie inside.

She pounded hard on the metal door—ten times. The noise seemed to reverberate everywhere. She was sure the people in the parking lot would hear it. “C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,” she whispered anxiously.

Finally, she heard Carlos's voice on the other side of the door. “Who is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“Carlos, it's me, Kathleen! Open up, please.”

After a momentary pause, the door opened with a clank, and Carlos Guiterez stood on the other side with an exasperated look on his face. He pulled her inside and closed the door. “Dr. Sainsbury,” he said as he reset the door's alarm, “I've been trying to call you—”

“I know, I know. My cell phone's dead. Tell me what's been going on here.”

“It's been crazy all morning. It started about three hours ago. I was sacked out in my office and Julie was asleep in the conference room. You know she stayed here all night after you left, right?”

Kathleen nodded.

“Anyway, about six in the morning, we heard someone banging on the front door. Given everything that's happened lately, I wasn't about to open up. I asked who it was through the door. It was some old guy asking if he could sign up for the “longevity gene therapy.” I asked him what the hell he was talking about, and he told me it was in the
Post
. I told him to come back during business hours. Then I went and found the article online, and I was, like . . .
Whoa! How do they know already?
Then I saw the byline.”

Kathleen felt ashamed. “He said he'd keep it confidential.”

“Don't worry about it, Dr. S. That guy's an asshole. Turns out, though, it's not all bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guess who called me at seven o'clock this morning.”

Kathleen shrugged.

“Remember our friends at Crescent?”

“Let me guess: They rescinded their cash call?”

“Yep. Now they're behind us ‘one hundred percent.' ” Carlos mocked the thick New York accent and pushy mannerisms of the young broker at Crescent whom they both loathed.

Kathleen rolled her eyes. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, a lot. The phone's been ringing off the hook for three straight hours. People calling for interviews, people wanting confirmation of the newspaper story, people wanting to volunteer for the ‘treatment,' people wanting it for their wife, their father, their mother, you name it. One lady wanted to know if it would work for her
cats
. Another guy started screaming at me about usurping God's role as the divine creator . . . Jeez, I don't even remember what he said. Sounded like a nut job. After a while, I just stopped answering the phone. Julie's pretty upset—you may want to talk to her.”

Kathleen drew a deep breath. “All right. Grab Julie. Let's meet in the conference room in five minutes.”

A low, sustained rumble permeated the entire building for several seconds, shaking it ominously.

“Sounds like we're in for a storm,” said Carlos.

Chapter Forty-Two

Southeast Washington, D.C.

L
uce Venfeld parked his gleaming, black BMW on 6th Street in Southeast D.C., on the edge of Congress Heights. This was easily the worst neighborhood in the District—a twelve-block cluster of city-owned apartment buildings and dilapidated row houses that was practically run by drug dealers. Shootings were a nightly occurrence.

Venfeld, however, wasn't worried about parking his brand-new BMW here. He'd been in this neighborhood before, and he knew that most of the thugs in this neighborhood would be hibernating at this hour. Daylight in Congress Heights was a reprieve, a time when normal working-class folks could get out of their apartments and go about their daily lives in relative safety. Besides, driving a shiny expensive car in this neighborhood was so audacious and conspicuous that anyone who did so was presumed to be someone important—a corrupt alderman perhaps, or a drug kingpin. People like that generally got a pass in this neighborhood. At least for a while.

Venfeld walked two blocks north on 6th until he reached Savannah Street, where he turned right. He walked casually, comfortably—like he belonged here. Half a block down Savannah on the right, he stopped at a set of crumbling, rust-stained cement steps that led to the front door of the Trenton Terrace Apartments. His destination.

Venfeld's Burberry raincoat nearly covered his dark blue suit and red silk tie. He wore a pair of thin black leather gloves and a black fedora. A pair of dark sunglasses obscured his eyes. With the brim of his fedora pulled down nearly to his eyebrows and the collar of his raincoat flipped up, you could barely see his face at all, even at a close distance. The most anyone could tell about him was that he was white, and well dressed.

Not that Venfeld was particularly worried about people noticing him around here. In this neighborhood, people didn't usually “notice” things. “Noticing” things could get you killed
.
As a popular saying around the neighborhood went,
“
Don't trouble trouble.
”
You didn't ask questions, and you didn't “notice” things.

Venfeld climbed the cement steps and typed a four-digit security code into the call box. A buzzer alerted him that the door was now unlocked. He pulled it open and stepped into the dingy elevator lobby. It was poorly lit and smelled like stale cigarette butts and urine. In one corner, a large collection of beer and liquor bottles was assembled next to an overturned laundry basket—apparently someone's nightly perch.

The building had just one elevator. A tattered cardboard placard taped to the elevator door proclaimed in scrawled handwriting that it was “BROKE.” Venfeld rolled his eyes and walked to the back of the lobby, where a dented metal door led to the stairwell. He opened it and stepped inside. The stairwell was dimly lit and adorned with gang graffiti. It, too, smelled like urine.
Jesus,
he thought,
don't they have bathrooms around here?

For a moment, he stood motionless at the bottom of the stairwell—just listening. Somewhere, a television was on. But, otherwise, the building was quiet. It was 8:30 on a Thursday morning, yet no one was rushing off to work; no one was getting kids ready for school; no one was going out for coffee. This was Congress Heights. Morning here was like nighttime elsewhere. People in this building were sleeping.

Venfeld pulled his Beretta pistol from the pocket of his raincoat and ascended the steps slowly. A few minutes later, he exited on the seventh floor and made his way to Apartment 7E.

There was no need to knock; Venfeld had a key. He carefully unlocked the door and swung it open, waiting a full ten seconds for any possible noise or reaction inside. Hearing nothing, he slipped quietly through the open door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. With his right hand, he squeezed the handle of his 9 mm tightly, releasing the grip safety. His index finger rested lightly on the trigger. He was ready for anything.

Jesus, what a fucking slob,
he thought to himself as he stepped around half-eaten fast-food meals, dirty dishes, and crumpled clothes on the floor. The living room smelled like pizza, booze, and old socks. Porno magazines were stacked high on the floor next to the only legitimate piece of furniture in the room—a tattered lime green couch with a pizza box occupying the central cushion.

Venfeld quietly made his way across the carpeted living area, past the greasy kitchenette, and into the short hallway adjoining the apartment's two bedrooms and one bathroom. He generally knew the layout of the apartment. What he didn't know was which bedroom Semion Zafer slept in.

He approached the first bedroom door, twisted the doorknob carefully to avoid a click, then pushed the door open quietly, just enough to poke his head through. The room was dark. A thick shade covered the only window in the room, blocking out what little sunlight would have been available from the adjacent alleyway on this overcast morning. Venfeld could see that the floor of the room was covered wall-to-wall with boxes, clothes, and a vast collection of junk. There was no bed—no furniture at all—and nobody in the room.

He proceeded down the hallway to the next door—the bathroom—which was wide open. Leaning backward against the hallway wall, he craned his head ninety degrees around the corner and peered inside. The bathroom was dark—and empty.

Which left just one more room . . .

Venfeld was just starting toward the last door in the hallway, when suddenly, the doorknob rattled and the door began to open.

“Shit!
”
he mouthed silently. He quickly retreated a few steps and slipped into the bathroom. It smelled like mouthwash and mildew. He climbed into the shower and pulled the shower curtain closed ever so slowly, coaxing each metal curtain ring across the steel curtain rod so that it barely made a sound. He positioned his body like a statue—feet planted on the bottom of the shower, right arm outstretched, finger on the trigger. He could hear Zafer's footsteps in the hallway.

The bathroom light clicked on.

Through the opaque shower curtain, Venfeld could see Zafer yawning and rubbing his face, coming closer.

Venfeld decided not to wait any longer. With a rapid sweep of his left hand, he ripped open the shower curtain. Zafer was standing less than four feet away, fully nude, directly facing him. He'd obviously been heading for the toilet.

They locked eyes for a fraction of a second. Then Venfeld raised his firing arm, took aim, and fired his pistol. The suppressor emitted a muffled pop.

The 9 mm round caught Zafer in the chest. A thin circle of blood splattered on the yellow tiles behind him as the bullet passed through his flesh and exited between his shoulder blade and his spine. “
Lech!
” he grunted in Hebrew, staggering backward. He hit the yellow-tiled wall and slid down, leaving a slimy trail of blood.

Venfeld quickly aimed and fired again—the CIA's “double tap” technique.
Pop!

Zafer's eyes widened as the bullet hit him square in the forehead. A small, dark circle formed just below his hairline, and his head snapped back violently. Simultaneously, the back of his skull exploded, splattering blood and brain matter all over the tiled wall behind him. Zafer slumped down into a lifeless heap, his eyes frozen in an expression of disbelief.

Venfeld could be sure of one thing now: Zafer wouldn't be talking to the FBI.

He stepped out of the shower, still clad in his raincoat, gloves, and Fedora, and carefully navigated around the body of Semion Zafer, deftly avoiding any blood spatter. He made his way to the front door but, before exiting the apartment, paused to listen carefully.

Silence.

Don't trouble trouble.

Venfeld exited Apartment 7E, locked the door behind him, and strode leisurely back to his BMW on 6th Street. He found it parked just where he'd left it, untouched.

S
even minutes later, Venfeld merged his BMW into the morning rush on the Southeast Expressway. He typed the address of Quantum Life Sciences into his navigation system and sat back and relaxed to the sounds of Mozart's Symphony no. 40 in G Minor, one of that composer's darkest works.