The Genesis Key (3 page)

Whittaker and the photographer glanced at each other and shrugged.

“Gentlemen, the fruit flies in this container are
one hundred and forty-four
days old.”

Whittaker scrunched his eyebrows together, doing a quick mental calculation. “So that's . . . three times their normal life span?”

“Correct,” said Kathleen, nodding.

“And how'd you do that?”

“These fruit flies have a genetic mutation. A dormant gene on one of their chromosomes has been turned on.”

“What do you mean, ‘turned on'?”

“Activated. Made functional. It's basically like turning on a light switch. You inject a vector into the fruit-fly embryo with a snippet of DNA that is designed to activate the gene. When it finds its target, it effectively turns that gene on.”

“And by turning this gene on, you're able to make the flies live longer?”

“Exactly. The life span of these mutated flies is up to four times that of normal flies.”

Whittaker was now scribbling furiously in his notebook. “So which gene did you turn on?”

Kathleen suppressed a smile. “It's called the
INDY
gene.”

“Indy? Like Indianapolis?”

“No. I–N–D–Y. It stands for ‘I'm Not Dead Yet.' ”

Suddenly, the photographer's eyes lit up. “Like in Monty Python?”

Kathleen nodded.

“Oh man, that's classic! Bring out your dead!” he cried in a mock cockney accent. “Bring out your dead!”

Whittaker interrupted. “So are you saying you can also do this for humans?”

“Not exactly,” said Kathleen hesitantly. “At least not
yet
. The INDY gene was discovered in fruit flies several years ago by a group at the University of Connecticut. Since then, researchers have been poring over the human genome looking for an INDY-like gene in humans. Unfortunately, no one's been able to find one. Which, frankly, doesn't surprise me given that the mechanisms of aging in humans are much more complex than in fruit flies. It may well be that the INDY mechanism doesn't exist in humans. Or, if it does, it may be spread over multiple locations in the genome, rather than conveniently packaged in a single gene, as it is in
D. melanogaster.
That would make it exceedingly difficult to find . . . at least without some sort of a road map.”

Whittaker scratched his head. “Okay, now I'm confused again. What's the point of studying the INDY gene in fruit flies when you don't even know if it exists in humans?”

Kathleen nodded, acknowledging what she knew to be a very reasonable question. “One of the amazing things about these INDY flies is that their quality of life seems better than that of other flies. Not only do they live longer, but they're more energetic throughout their entire lives. The female flies can reproduce well into old age, and the males are, how should I say . . .
friskier
. They mate more often than their non-INDY counterparts, and well into old age.”

“Way to go, little dudes!” whispered the photographer, giving a goofy thumbs-up to the plastic container.

“Anyway,” Kathleen continued, “we're trying to understand—on a cellular and biochemical level—exactly what gives these INDY flies such vigor and longevity. Our goal is to eventually create a drug therapy that can stimulate those same biological processes in humans. If we can do that, then maybe we can give people a better quality of life as they grow old.”

“How close are you to developing such a treatment?”

And there it was.
The Question
. The same question Kathleen had heard at every quarterly shareholder meeting for the past two years. She gave Whittaker the same response she gave the investors each time. “It'll be at least another three to five years.”

“That long?”

Kathleen shrugged. “Science takes time,” she said matter-of-factly. “Three to five years is our conservative estimate.”

With that, the interview concluded. The photographer snapped some additional shots of Kathleen in the lab, in the anteroom in front of the
D. melanogaster
poster, and, finally, in the conference room where they'd begun an hour earlier. He then went to load his camera equipment into the news van, leaving Kathleen and Whittaker standing alone in the lobby.

Outside, a chilly rain had begun to fall.

“I have one last question for you,” said Whittaker, inching closer to Kathleen. “Strictly off the record.”

“Okay . . .”

“Is there a, uh . . .
Mister
Dr. Sainsbury?” He cocked an eyebrow impishly and smiled.

Kathleen was stunned by the question, which seemed to have come from nowhere. She shook her head no.

“Any chance you'd consider having dinner with a lowly newspaper reporter? Full disclosure: I got a C in high-school biology.”

Kathleen laughed. “Well, I don't know . . .
maybe
.” She immediately regretted that response.
She didn't even know this guy.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“Y
ou did what?” asked Julie Haas in mock disbelief.

Kathleen, Carlos, Julie Haas, and Jeremy Fisher—the four employees of QLS—were seated at a booth at Azteca, a Mexican bar and grill a few blocks from QLS.

“I said I'd go out with him,” Kathleen repeated, shaking her head remorsefully. “I honestly don't know what I was thinking.”

“Hey, I think it's great,” Carlos reassured her. “You said yourself you need to get out more.”

The foursome never needed an excuse to come to Azteca after work for margaritas and chips and salsa. Today, however, they had a bona fide reason to celebrate, namely the upcoming story in the
Washington Post
. Like Dr. Sainsbury, the other three members of QLS each owned stock options in the privately held company, and they knew their big payday would come when QLS went public or, more likely, was acquired by a large pharmaceutical firm. Either way, some positive press in the
Washington Post
couldn't hurt.

And it couldn't have come at a better time. QLS was low on cash and fast approaching the end of its first-round funds. The investors were growing increasingly vocal about the company's lack of progress, and, unfortunately, Kathleen's constant refrain of “science takes time” was wearing thin.

QLS needed a breakthrough . . . and
fast.

“What does he look like?” Julie asked.

“Like this.” Kathleen pulled Bryce Whittaker's business card from her purse and handed it to Julie. In bold, gothic print, it read: B
RYCE
A. W
HITTAKER
, R
EPORTER
, T
HE
W
ASHINGTON
P
OST
. In the upper left corner was a professional black-and-white photograph of Whittaker in a dark suit with a serious, hard-hitting expression.

“Oh my God,” Jeremy crowed, snatching the card from Julie's fingers. “Who puts a picture like
that
on their business card? This guy's totally full of himself.”

“Hey, I think he's cute!” Julie retorted.

“He looks like an ass,” Jeremy said.

Just then, a pitcher of Margaritas arrived, and Carlos filled everyone's glass. “Here's to QLS,” he proposed, raising his glass.

“Here's to some good press,” Kathleen added.

A
n hour later, the foursome exited Azteca and headed for their respective cars in the parking lot. Carlos walked Kathleen to her car. “Dr. Sainsbury?” he said as they reached her car. He never called her “Kathleen”—a sign of respect and a carryover from his twenty years in the Marines.

“Hmmm?”

“I meant to ask you earlier, but do you have plans for Easter Sunday? Ana and I would love to have you join us for dinner.”

“Oh, thank you, Carlos, that's very kind.” Kathleen genuinely appreciated the offer, though it made her feel vaguely sad. Carlos knew she had no family except for her elderly grandfather, so he always made a point of inviting her to spend holidays with his family.
A sweet gesture but totally unnecessary.
“I've already made plans,” she lied. “Thank you, though.”

“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Dr. Sainsbury.”

A
cross the street from Azteca, a black Lincoln Navigator was parked lengthwise across three parking spaces in a Burger King parking lot. Its sole occupant—Semion Zafer—sat motionless in the driver's seat, staring out the side window at Azteca's front door. The Navigator's dark tinted windows made him practically invisible from the street.

Zafer was tall and gaunt, with oily black hair and a pale, unshaven face. His dark eyes were deeply recessed above protruding cheekbones, giving his face an angular, skeletal appearance. His lips were thin and tight, expressionless.

Through the telephoto lens of his Hasselblad H2D–39 camera, he spotted Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury—his target—exiting Azteca with three other people. “Well hello,” he croaked in a heavy Israeli accent, “aren't
you
a pretty one?” The corners of his mouth curled up slowly as he increased the zoom and surveyed Kathleen's slender body from head to toe. She wore tight jeans and a fashionable silk blouse that accented her figure tastefully.

Zafer quickly zoomed in on each member of the QLS foursome, snapping several face shots of Kathleen, Julie, Jeremy, and Carlos in a matter of seconds. He then followed Kathleen and Carlos with his lens as they walked to Kathleen's car, snapping several shots along the way.

Three minutes later, as Kathleen pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto Route 355, Zafer snapped one last shot of her silver Subaru Outback, being sure to capture the license-plate number.

His work today was done.

Chapter Two

Washington,
D.C.

L
uce
Venfeld leaned back in his plush leather chair and flipped open the business
section of the
Washington Post
. He was a lean,
serious man in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a square,
clean-shaven face. His appearance was refined in every respect, save for an
ugly, purplish scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek, betraying a life
that had once been far less luxurious.

Venfeld's K-Street office was spacious and
beautifully appointed with expensive leather and mahogany furniture, an
intricate Turkish rug, and several tasteful oil paintings on the wood-paneled
walls. In a corner by the door, partially obscured by a Kentia palm, a half
dozen framed photographs showed Venfeld posing with some of the most notorious
characters of the past three decades. In one, he stood next to Manuel Noriega.
The Panamanian dictator was smiling broadly, his arm draped casually over
Venfeld's shoulder. In another, Venfeld was shaking hands with a handsome man
with deeply tanned skin and white hair, dressed entirely in white. They stood
before a palatial hacienda somewhere on the Mexican coast. The photograph was
inscribed in blue ink: “Many thanks. —Guillermo.”

Venfeld was a lawyer by education but had never
actually practiced law. Instead, upon graduating from Georgetown Law School some
twenty-five years earlier, he'd gone straight into the CIA, where he worked his
way up from analyst to field agent. During his last ten years at the agency,
he'd successfully infiltrated the business hierarchy of some of the most
sophisticated drug cartels in Venezuela, Panama, and Mexico, posing as Joseph
Browning, an international tax attorney with Langston and Darby of New York,
London, Hong Kong, and Buenos Aires. His polished appearance and world-class
education allowed him to mix easily into Latin-American society, where he
casually collected information at cocktail parties and befriended key
individuals, gaining their trust over a period of years.

The large window behind Venfeld's desk framed the
Washington Monument and the federal buildings at Madison Place like a postcard.
At this early hour, the morning sun was just breaking the horizon, backlighting
Washington's famous limestone obelisk with a soft peach glow.

Venfeld read with mild interest the story that
began on page one of the business section, titled A
REA
B
IOTECH
S
TARTUPS
R
EACH
FOR THE
S
TARS
.
The byline attributed the story to “Bryce Whittaker, Staff Reporter.”

“In the past decade,” the story began, “the
Washington area has become a major biotech hub, with dozens of biotech and
life-sciences companies establishing headquarters in Maryland, Virginia, and
even the District.”

The article went on to recount the numerous reasons
for this rapid growth of the biotech sector around the capital beltway. For one
thing, the Washington area offered easy access to important government resources
such as the National Institutes of Health (NIH), the National Cancer Institute
(NCI), the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST), and the Food
and Drug Administration (FDA). The area boasted several universities with
renowned health and life-sciences programs, including Johns Hopkins University
and the University of Maryland. The Washington area was also incredibly wealthy,
claiming four of the five richest counties in the United States: Loudoun and
Fairfax counties in Virginia, and Howard and Montgomery counties in Maryland.
Those affluent counties had each created tax-funded “incubators” to help small
startup companies get off the ground, including many biotech, bioinformatics,
and nanotech companies.

“Here,” the article continued, “we will take a look
at eight biotech startups in the Washington area, each hoping to ride the area's
biotech boom to new heights.”

Venfeld casually sipped coffee as he skimmed the
remainder of the article, which included a short synopsis of each of the eight
spotlighted companies. He read with waning interest until he reached Quantum
Life Sciences on page three, at which point he suddenly sat straight up in his
chair, nearly spilling his coffee.

QUANTUM LIFE SCIENCES
SEEKS TO EXTEND, IMPROVE HUMAN LIFE

Imagine living an active life for two
hundred, three hundred, even four hundred years or more! It may be possible,
according to the scientists at Quantum Life Sciences, Inc., a two-year-old
biotech startup in Rockville. QLS has already isolated a gene in fruit flies
that triples their life expectancy, while also making them more active and
productive. Though it is unclear whether this gene—called “INDY” for “I'm Not
Dead Yet” (a Monty Python reference)—occurs in humans, QLS is studying how the
gene operates in fruit flies and hopes to replicate the same biochemical
processes in humans to achieve a better quality of life in old age.

“Clinical tests are several years away,” said
Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury, QLS's founder and CEO, “but we feel we are moving
steadily toward a meaningful treatment for Alzheimer's, dementia, and other
age-related diseases.”

QLS raised approximately $2.5 million in
its first round of financing. The company had no comment on whether it plans to
seek further private equity or make an initial public offering to finance its
continuing research operations.

Venfeld studied the picture of Dr. Kathleen
Sainsbury that accompanied the article. She stood, arms folded and smiling
broadly, before an impressive array of laboratory equipment. The square
half-rimmed glasses and lab coat did nothing to detract from her natural
beauty.

He refolded the paper and tossed it onto his desk.
“Maria!” he bellowed through the open door to his secretary.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Bring me the file on Dr. Sainsbury.”