The Genesis Key (26 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

A
gent Wills spotted the black BMW several hundred yards ahead, making a sharp left turn onto Middleton Road and cutting across two lanes of oncoming traffic in the process. Wills gunned the Crown Vic's 235-horsepower engine and squinted as cold wind and rain blew through the hole in the side of the car, pelting his face and making it nearly impossible to see. As the Crown Vic topped 60 miles per hour, it became obvious he couldn't continue the pursuit any longer.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he hit the brakes and pulled the damaged sedan to the side of the road. He picked up the radio and selected Channel One for the Montgomery County police dispatcher. “Montgomery County Base One, this is FBI unit seven frank nine, in pursuit of a code twenty-six, northbound Middleton Road at Route Three fifty-five. Suspect is armed. Request APB, code three.”

A crackly female voice responded. “Roger seven frank nine. What's the vehicle description?”

“Black late-model BMW,” Wills responded. “Virginia tags . . . zebra . . . victor . . . mary . . . five . . . five . . . two.”

“Roger, seven frank nine.”

Seconds later, Wills listened as the dispatcher passed the same message to a Rockville police patrol unit in the area.

A crackly male voice responded: “Base One, one five six, we're on our way.”

Satisfied with the response, Wills switched to the FBI frequency and called in his situation, requesting vehicle assistance. Then he dialed Agent Hendricks on his cell phone.

Hendricks answered on the first ring. “Hey,” she protested, “you left without me!”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I couldn't find you.”

“Well, did you check the ladies' room?”

“Oops,” said Wills with a hint of sarcasm. “I must've missed that one.”

“What do you want, anyway?” said Hendricks, obviously not amused.

“I need you to run down a set of Virginia tags for me. Zebra victor mary five five two.”

“Who do those belong to?”

“That's what I want
you
to find out.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

K
athleen Sainsbury was feeling anxious, to say the least. She was sitting in the backseat of a Chevy Suburban traveling east on I–270. She didn't know where she was going. And, more perplexingly, she didn't know why Bill McCreary, her former NIH colleague and research partner—a man she hadn't seen for more than two years—was sitting in the front passenger's seat. “You want to tell me what's going on here?” she asked finally.

“It's complicated,” said McCreary over his shoulder.

“Complicated?” Kathleen laughed bitterly. “Ten minutes ago, someone was holding a gun to my head. My employees have been shot at . . . my building's been torched, my research sabotaged. Bill, trust me, complicated doesn't even come close!”

“Okay, fair enough. But it's . . . well, it's hard to know where to start.”

“Start from the beginning.”

“Right.” McCreary paused and then pointed to the man driving the Suburban. “First of all, this is my assistant, Steve Goodwin.”

Goodwin raised an arm and waved backward, glancing at Kathleen in the rearview mirror.

A half minute passed in silence as McCreary stared out the window at the road, apparently gathering his thoughts. Finally, he turned to Kathleen and met her eyes. “How long's it been since we've seen each other?”

Kathleen ran a quick calculation in her head. “A little over two years. In fact, if I recall correctly, it was exactly two years ago this past Saturday that we both got fired . . . uh, sorry . . . the day our program was terminated . . . without cause.” Kathleen was still bitter that their research project at NIH had ended so abruptly, seemingly without explanation or warning. To her, it had always seemed like they'd been summarily fired—and unfairly at that.

“Yeah . . .” said McCreary sheepishly. “I guess
that
would be the beginning.”

Kathleen shifted in her seat.

McCreary lowered his voice and cast his eyes downward. “Kathleen, the reason our project was terminated . . . is that I recommended it be terminated.”

“You
what
?”

“Now, hear me out on this—”

“You recommended
—
” The word got caught in her throat. Her thoughts were suddenly a jumble of anger, resentment, and disbelief. “What do you mean you
recommended
it be terminated?”

“Okay, now, remember we were working on a tiny offshoot of the Human Genome Project. Hardly anyone even knew what we were doing.”

“Of course I remember, Bill. I was there
.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a skunk works project. Tiny budget. Small staff. Barely any oversight. That's the way we wanted it, right? I mean, even if no one else was paying attention, we knew the significance of it.”

“Right,” McCreary interjected. “We knew the significance of what we were working on. We were searching for the secret to aging . . . the secret to life.”

Kathleen said nothing.
Where's he going with this?

“We were trying to pinpoint exactly where aging is programmed into the human genome and, more important, how to reprogram it. That was our goal, right? Team Methuselah.”

Kathleen rolled her eyes at the stupid moniker. It was a slang term McCreary had coined early in the project, and she'd always hated it. “That's right,” she said. “And we were close to finding it, too.”

“Actually,” said McCreary, arching his eyebrows high above his glasses, “we were closer than you think.”

His words lingered in the air as Kathleen pondered their import. She cocked her head back and shot him a suspicious look. “What are you talking about?”

McCreary drew a deep breath. “Remember when you took a couple weeks off in March, just before our project was, uh . . . terminated?”

“Sure, I took my grandfather down to Sarasota. But why—” Then it suddenly hit her. “Oh, don't tell me.”

McCreary nodded affirmatively.

“You found it?”

McCreary continued nodding. “I found its location. A couple of days after you left.”

Kathleen was stunned. “I . . . I . . . don't believe it.” She was still shaking her head slowly from side to side.”

“Middle of chromosome fourteen. About eighty-thousand base pairs, retroviral in nature. Sound about right?”

Unbelievable,
Kathleen thought to herself.
McCreary had found the location of the INDY gene more than two years ago.
“But how?” she asked.

“Dumb luck. I stumbled across it one afternoon just doing a routine screening for extinct viral fragments. As soon as I saw it, I knew there was something odd about that sequence, something really unique. It was heavily degraded but still distinguishable from the rest of the junk around it. I did a bit of reverse engineering and figured out what the original virus probably looked like, a retrovirus almost entirely unique to the Cercopithecinae subfamily of Old World monkeys. After a few days of research, I knew it had to be . . . it just
had
to be the INDY gene.” He paused. “You know, it's weird. We always thought the INDY gene would be something elegant and special. Turns out, the brass ring we'd been looking for all that time was just a random clump of viral DNA on chromosome fourteen, hidden among a bunch of other junk DNA. Right there in plain sight.”

Kathleen nodded clumsily. She knew everything he was saying was true. Her research had confirmed the exact same thing.

“Of course, the INDY sequence is heavily degraded in the human genome. That's why it was so hard to find and why it's no longer functional. But, with enough research, I knew we could eventually reverse-engineer the original sequence.”

“But . . . why didn't you tell me? I was your research partner.”

“I wanted to, Kathleen. I swear
.
I almost called you that week. But I just kept thinking . . .” His voice trailed off.

“You kept thinking what?”

“I kept thinking about the consequences.”

“What consequences? The INDY gene was exactly what we were looking for. It was the whole goal of our project! What was the problem?”

“Kathleen, no offense, but my concerns were much bigger than you and me. These were national security concerns . . . human race concerns. I needed to bring them to a higher level.”

“Who, Brinard
?
” Kathleen was referring to Jean Brinard, the head of their research group at NIH at the time, whom neither she nor McCreary respected very much.

“No, not Brinard. Higher.”

“Dr. D'Angelo?”

“Higher.”

“Higher than the director of NIH?”

“Yeah,” said McCreary, arching his eyebrows. “I called Peter Stonewell.”

“Secretary Stonewell? You went straight to HHS?”

“Kathleen, I needed someone with the appropriate perspective. Not Jean, not D'Angelo. I needed someone who could look past the scientific thrill of it all and see the bigger picture. I figured Stonewell was the right guy. And I was right.”

Kathleen was still shaking her head in disbelief. “I can't believe you've known about chromosome fourteen for two years and haven't published a single paper or breathed a word about it to anyone, including me. That's not how science works, Bill, and you know it.” Kathleen could barely control her anger. It wasn't right to sit on this type of discovery. Not something this important—a technology that could potentially save millions of lives, a technology that people needed now. She pictured her grandfather, sitting alone at Garrison Manor, lost in the dark and terrifying world of Alzheimer's disease, while McCreary—Mr. Big Picture—pondered “concerns.”

“So what were these
concerns
you had about our research?” said Kathleen coldly.

“Hold that thought,” said McCreary, raising his index finger. “We're almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“DARPA. It's where I work now.”

Kathleen knew the acronym but couldn't remember exactly what it stood for. She gave it her best shot: “Defense . . . Acquisition . . . Readiness . . . ?”

“No,” McCreary corrected her. “Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. I'm a program manager there now.”

Kathleen detected a ring of pride in McCreary's voice. And now she was starting to understand.
McCreary had scuttled their research for a promotion. He'd sacrificed all their work for a sexy job title!
She could really feel the heat rising in her face now.

F
ive minutes later, the three of them were walking up the sidewalk to the glass-enclosed headquarters of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. There were a few minutes of administrative protocol—mainly involving McCreary vouching for Kathleen—then they headed back to his office.

Kathleen was amazed by the phalanx of security measures, which seemed to get more intense as they approached McCreary's area, OSNS. “Jeez, what do you do back here?” she asked half jokingly.

“You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Which I can't.”

Finally, they arrived at the door to the “Logistics Analysis” office. Kathleen read the placard on the door aloud, unimpressed.

“Don't let the name fool you,” said McCreary, unlocking the door with a simple metal key. Considering all the security measures they'd just passed through, the key seemed downright quaint. The three of them entered the room, and McCreary closed and locked the door behind them.

“Okay,” said Kathleen in an exasperated tone, “
now
can you tell me what this is all about?”

McCreary spoke in a serious, emphatic voice. “Kathleen, what I'm about to tell you is highly classified. It's considered Special Compartmented Information, which means this information is deemed extremely sensitive and vital to the security of the United States. Do you understand?”

Kathleen nodded, though she really didn't appreciate the preachy tone.

“The SCI code name for this program is SERRATE, and only a handful of people in the entire government know about it. Even the director here at DARPA isn't fully read into the program.”

Why all the drama?
Kathleen was wondering.

McCreary nodded to Goodwin, who responded by handing Kathleen a small stack of papers. “So, before I begin, I have to ask you to sign these forms, acknowledging that disclosure of this information is a felony, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a fine of up to fifty thousand dollars, or both.”

“Whoa! Hold it right there!” Kathleen held up her hand in protest. She'd lost patience with all of this nonsense. “I'm not signing anything, okay? I mean, if you want to play super-spy and call your program ‘SERRATE' or ‘Team Methuselah' or whatever, that's your business. But don't try to drag me into it, okay? I'm a private citizen. I run a private company, engaged in private-sector research. I'm not affiliated with NIH or the government anymore.
Thanks to you.
” She couldn't resist taking another dig at McCreary. “So either tell me what's going on here . . . or take me back to Rockville.” She glared at her former colleague, beaming her displeasure. “Do
you
understand?”

McCreary and Goodwin exchanged troubled glances. Finally, McCreary tossed the paperwork onto Goodwin's desk and reluctantly motioned for Kathleen to have a seat. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Have it your way.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Interstate 270 East, Maryland.

L
uce Venfeld threaded his car aggressively through eastbound traffic on I–270, thankful that the afternoon exodus from Washington was not yet in full swing. In any event, he was heading in the opposite direction. With luck, he'd be in Bethesda in twenty minutes. As he zipped from lane to lane, he listened intently to the deep, accented voice broadcasting over the car's speakerphone.

“When will I have it?” asked Elias Rubin. His voice was guttural and croaky.

“Soon,” Venfeld replied. “I'm on my way to get it now.”

“We must have it by tomorrow morning,” Rubin said. “Is that clear?”

“You'll have it.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “I trust you understand just how much money's at stake.”

Venfeld tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Of course he knew how much money was at stake! Hundreds of millions of dollars, perhaps billions.
“Yes,” he said stoically, “I understand.”

“Then you'll understand why I'm very concerned about this situation. You told me three days ago I'd have that sample. And I still don't have it.”

“I told you, I hit a snag. But it's been taken care of.”

“I don't want to hear about snags, Mr. Venfeld.” Rubin's dictum was precise and slow. Deadly serious. “A meeting of the foundation has been convened based on your representation that the sample would be delivered three days ago. The members are on their way as we speak. If I don't have that sample by tomorrow morning—”

“You'll have it,” said Venfeld assuredly. “I'm on my way to get it right now
.
”

“Very well, then. You know where the meeting is.”

“Yes.”

There was another long stretch of silence. “Mr. Venfeld, I'm also very concerned about that newspaper article.”

Venfeld sighed. “Yeah, me, too.”

“This technology only has value to us if it's exclusive. If the sequence becomes publicly disclosed, the deal's off. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I expect to have that sample tomorrow morning,” said Rubin, hanging up abruptly.

Venfeld frowned. He'd almost had that sample in his hands an hour ago, but that stupid cop screwed it all up. He punched the accelerator and swerved sharply around a lumbering FedEx truck in the left lane.

As Venfeld merged his BMW onto the inner loop of the Capital Beltway, his thoughts drifted back—as they always did—to the money. Yachts and villas and airplanes suddenly materialized in his mind. He wanted that money. He needed it, like an alcoholic needs a drink.

Nobody was going to stand between him and a hundred million dollars. Least of all some idiot cop.