The Genesis Key (25 page)

“Just over here,” said the man in the raincoat. “Where it's quieter.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Eilat, Israel.

E
lias Rubin paced slowly across the terra-cotta floor of his living room as a dozen logistical problems churned in his head. The seven members of the Olam Foundation were to meet in less than forty-eight hours. Guillermo Gomez had agreed to play host at his estate on Andros Island. Easy enough.

Getting seven of the most important people on the planet to change their schedules for this meeting had been no simple task, especially on such short notice. But he'd managed to get it done. He, himself, would board a private jet tomorrow afternoon for the seven-hour flight to the Bahamas. The other members had all made similar arrangements.

But now there was a much larger problem causing him concern.

Something very important was missing—indeed, the entire reason for the meeting. The DNA sample from Quantum Life Sciences. The Nephilim gene. Without it, the meeting would have to be cancelled.

He shook his head and exhaled angrily.

Time to give Venfeld another call.

Chapter Forty-Six

“W
hy do we have to go way over here?” Kathleen asked, still following a few paces behind the man in the raincoat.

“Just some routine questions,” said Luce Venfeld. He pointed toward a sleek black BMW at the edge of the otherwise empty parking lot. “I'm parked right over there.” The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a rusty bulldozer.

Nice car for a fire inspector
, Kathleen was just thinking to herself when Venfeld suddenly turned and jabbed his Beretta pistol hard into her ribs. Simultaneously, he clamped his hand around her arm so tightly that it nearly cut off her circulation. She could feel the barrel of the gun poking painfully into her rib cage.

“Let go of me!” she demanded angrily, trying unsuccessfully to free her arm from Venfeld's ruthless grip.

“Shut up!”

Kathleen looked around frantically for help, but to her dismay, she realized they were alone in the rainy, windswept parking lot, hidden behind a cluster of unoccupied buildings. She could still hear the faint commotion from the fire down the street, but everyone there was out of sight now, and well out of earshot.

She tried again to wriggle her arm free from Venfeld's grasp, grunting and wincing with pain. But it was no use. “What do you want?” she said through gritted teeth.

“I want that sample,” said Venfeld, his tone cool and measured.

“What sample?”

Venfeld pulled her close and poked the gun harder into her ribs. “Don't play dumb, Dr. Sainsbury. I just saw your colleague give you something back there, a small vial of some sort. I know it's the DNA sample—the Nephilim gene. And I want it.”

Kathleen felt heat rising in her face. Her eyes burned with anger.
You son of a bitch,
she thought to herself.
You're the one!

“Oh, I know all about that sample,” said Venfeld, reading her anger. “And I know about your mother's Ph.D. thesis on the Nephilim, too. I think you'll find I'm quite informed about the whole situation.” He pulled her tighter, bruising her arm. “And I know you're a gifted scientist. Which is why I'm confident you'll make the logical decision here.”

“What decision?”

“Hand the DNA sample over to me and everything will be fine.” He paused to let that notion sink in, then he jabbed the gun harder into her ribs. “Otherwise, you're going to die. Right here, right now. It's your choice, doctor. But either way, I'm going to get that sample
.
”

Kathleen felt the blood draining from her head. The neoprene sample container was in the right pocket of her jeans, pressing tightly against her leg. “All right,” she said resignedly, nodding toward her pocket. “Let go of my arm.”

Venfeld stared at her intently, apparently sizing up her intentions. Then, raising his pistol to within inches of her forehead, he released his grip on her arm. “Don't try anything stupid.”

Kathleen's heart was beating like a drum, reverberating in her ears, pumping adrenaline throughout her body. She was terrified and confused and furious all at once. “Who are you?” she said bitterly, digging through her pocket in no particular hurry.

“You don't need to know that. Suffice it to say I'm a businessman with a very demanding client.”

“A client who steals other peoples' research?”

Venfeld frowned and planted the barrel of the 9 mm pistol directly on her forehead. “I suggest you stop asking questions and give me that sample. Now!”

Kathleen swallowed hard. She'd pushed her luck far enough with this psychopath. She retrieved the dark gray container from her pocket and held it tight in her hand.

Venfeld watched her every move, keeping the barrel of the gun trained precisely on the center of her forehead. “Good girl,” he said with a crooked smile, extending his open palm toward her. “Now, hand it over.”

Kathleen sighed heavily as a series of thoughts flashed through her head.
Carlos had risked his life to retrieve this sample.
Sargon had died mysteriously. Jeremy had nearly been shot to death.
And my parents . . .

“C'mon, let's go!
”
Venfeld said, wiggling his fingers expectantly.

Kathleen made a move to hand the small container to him, then chaos suddenly erupted behind her.

There was a loud screech of tires as a dark blue sedan careened around the corner and skidded to a halt about twenty feet away. The driver's side door swung open and a familiar voice shouted, “Freeze!”

Venfeld lunged for the plastic container, smacking Kathleen's hand just as she tried to pull it away. The small cylinder flew through the air and hit the ground several feet away, skittering across the wet asphalt surface.

“I said freeze!” shouted the man who had now jumped out of the dark blue sedan. It was Agent Wills, holding a SIG P229 pistol in a Weaver stance, his shooting arm extended straight, left hand supporting the weight of the gun, body at a 45 degree angle. The gun was trained directly on Venfeld.

Venfeld reacted instantly. He stepped behind Kathleen and wrapped his left arm tightly around her torso, squeezing her so hard she could barely breathe. With his right hand, he pressed the barrel of his pistol tightly against her right temple. Together, they walked backward, slowly toward his car, the gun pressed tightly against her head.

“Let her go!” Wills called out, still frozen in his firing stance.

Kathleen locked eyes with Wills, as if to say, “What should I do?” But there was nothing she could do. She was simply a prop now, a human shield. She was walking backward with Venfeld, following his lead as if they were paired in some sort of bizarre dance. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the sample container on the ground, still rolling slowly toward the curb.

“You're making a big mistake,” said Wills.

The backward dance stopped. They were at the car. Kathleen felt the pressure on her temple release, and, a split second later, she heard the car door opening. Her body was still positioned directly in Wills's line of fire—providing the perfect shield for Venfeld. She felt some jostling as Venfeld maneuvered himself around the car door. Then, suddenly, she was shoved hard from behind.

Gunfire erupted all around. The force of the fall knocked the wind out of Kathleen's lungs, and for a moment, she wondered if she'd been shot. Seconds later, the BMW's engine roared to life and its rear tires spun out on the wet asphalt, producing an ear-piercing squeal and a cloud of bluish smoke.

More gunfire.

Kathleen looked up to see the BMW accelerating straight toward Agent Wills, who was still positioned near his vehicle, gun trained on the charging sports car. He fired one last shot through the BMW's windshield before leaping out of the way. A split second later, the BMW whizzed through the spot where Wills had been standing, ripping the Crown Victoria's open door clear off its hinges. The severed car door sailed through the air and skidded across the pavement some twenty feet away with a loud scrape of metal and breaking glass.

The BMW braked hard as it reached Gateway Drive, spun ninety degrees to the left, and accelerated again with another loud squeal of tires. By now, Wills had picked himself off the ground and jumped into the blue Crown Vic. He threw the car in reverse and whipped the wheel around, spinning the car 180 degrees. “Stay here!” he shouted to Kathleen through the opening in the driver's side of the car. Then he punched the accelerator and peeled out of the parking lot. Kathleen watched incredulously as the Crown Vic veered sharply onto Gateway Drive and sped north after the fleeing BMW.

For a few moments, she remained prone on the wet asphalt, stunned, her heart racing wildly. Until just a few minutes ago, she'd never even seen a handgun up close, let alone had one pressed to her head. Haltingly, she stood and scanned the parking lot behind her, vaguely worried that someone else might be lurking in the woods.

Then she remembered the sample container. Quickly, she scanned the pavement where she'd seen it a few moments ago, but it was gone.

Then she noticed the storm drain.

“Oh no!” she cried, sprinting toward the metal grate.

She reached the gutter and immediately dropped to her knees and peered inside. A small river of rainwater was pouring in, making a soft gurgling sound at the surface and a deeper, splashing sound somewhere far below, presumably in the sewer. A thick, muddy tangle of leaves, twigs, and construction debris clogged the gutter, forming a dam that forced the rainwater to snake its way over.

Flattening herself on the asphalt, she stuck her face directly into the gutter, scanning its dark, mucky interior. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she spotted something gray and yellow wedged between a pair of twigs. The sample container was perched precariously above the chute that led down into the sewer.

Kathleen held her breath and extended her hand carefully into the storm drain, stretching until her shoulder was pressed tightly against the cast iron lip that lined its opening. Ignoring the pain, she pushed her arm in as far as it would go, extending her fingertips toward the sample bottle.
Almost there . . . almost . . .
She felt the plastic container brush momentarily against the tip of her middle finger and gasped in horror as it tipped away and fell downward, out of sight.

Grimacing, she shoved her arm even farther into the storm drain, stretching every tendon as she maneuvered her hand down the chute where the container had just fallen. With one last effort, she plunged her hand downward and grasped a huge handful of slithery leaves and twigs. Then slowly, carefully, she extracted the fistful of muck from the sewer.

With her arm now free, she opened her clenched fist. There, amongst the tangle of debris in her palm, was the sample bottle—dirty and wet, but with its yellow Teflon seal still intact. Breathing a sigh of relief, she plucked it out of the muck, carefully wiped off the grime and dirt, and slipped it back into the pocket of her soaking-wet jeans.

She was just gaining her feet when she heard someone shout behind her, “Dr. Sainsbury!” Her nerves twitched; the last time someone said that, she'd wound up with a gun to her head.

She spun and saw the Channel 7 reporter trotting toward her from Gateway Drive, an umbrella in one hand, a microphone in the other. A cameraman and a small crowd of people followed close behind. “Dr. Sainsbury!” he shouted again, quickly approaching her. Seconds later, the microphone was in her face. “Can you tell us what just happened?” he asked breathlessly.

“Uh . . .”

More people were now entering the parking lot, pressing all around her.

“Are you okay?” someone in the crowd asked. “We heard shots!”

“Step aside, folks!” shouted a security guard who'd just arrived on the scene. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to push his way through the growing crowd.

A woman screamed at Kathleen in a shrill, grating voice, “This is what happens when you try to steal God's divine powers!”

Kathleen wanted them all to leave.
Why wouldn't they just leave her alone? Her business was burning down, for God's sake!

“Do you know who fired the shots?” asked the reporter, still jostling for a position at the front of the crowd. He shoved the microphone close to her mouth. “Who was in those cars?”

Kathleen's head was spinning. “Uh . . .”

Still more people were joining the crowd, pressing closer, elbowing for position. The security guard bellowed for everyone to back up, but the crowd ignored him, pressing ever closer to Kathleen. The lady with the shrill voice shouted again—something about “sin
.
” To which a male voice in the crowd replied, “Shut the hell up, lady!”

Kathleen was starting to feel claustrophobic and panicky. Suddenly, above the crowd noise, she heard the rumble of an automobile engine coming closer, growing louder.

“Look out!” someone in the crowd shouted. “He's not stopping!” The crowd began to disperse.

It was not the BMW as Kathleen had feared, but instead, a white Chevy Suburban driving toward her, allowing just enough time for the crowd to part as it approached. Kathleen could see the driver but did not recognize him.
The man in the front passenger's seat, however . . .

“Watch it!” someone yelled as the white Suburban pressed forward, revving its engine in warning. Kathleen held her breath and stood in frozen amazement as the vehicle approached.

At the last second, the Suburban swerved left and pulled up alongside Kathleen, stopping abruptly. Kathleen watched anxiously as the tinted, passenger-side window descended with a soft, motorized whirring sound. As the man in the passenger's seat came into view, she gasped in disbelief. “
Bill?
”

“Yeah, it's me,” replied Bill McCreary. “Get in the back . . . hurry!”

“But . . . where are we going?” Kathleen was still trying to get over the shock of seeing Bill McCreary . . .
here
. . . after all this time.

“I'll explain on the way. Hurry! Before these people eat you alive!” McCreary nodded at the crowd that was now inching back toward her.

Confused and bewildered, Kathleen opened the rear door and climbed into the Suburban, the crowd quickly converging behind her. “What about my wife?” someone screamed. “It's Satan!” shrieked the woman with the shrill voice, pointing at the Suburban. “It's Satan in there!”

Kathleen shut the door, and the Suburban immediately lurched forward, honking and revving its engine as it pushed through the crowd once again. Seconds later, the driver made an abrupt right turn and drove up and over the grassy median strip, bouncing down onto Gateway Drive on the other side. He then straightened the wheel and accelerated smoothly away.

Once they'd cleared the Gateway Office Park and made a right turn onto Enterprise Drive, McCreary looked back from the front seat and flashed Kathleen a quick smile. “Bet you're surprised to see me,” he said.