The Genesis Key (31 page)

It felt so good to have her eyes closed that before long she began to succumb to the powerful urge to sleep. Her thoughts were soon drifting, to the ocean . . . to the beach . . . to the French Riviera. What would life be like there? Could her grandfather live with her? How was the sailing there?

Then, darker questions began intruding into her thoughts. Why were her parents killed all those years ago? Why were Dr. Sargon's wife and daughter killed? And Sargon, himself, why did he take his own life? There seemed to be something about this INDY gene that wreaked death and destruction everywhere it went.

At some point in her semiconscious state, Kathleen began indulging even more irrational thoughts—ideas that otherwise never would have been allowed into the conscious mind of Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury, Scientist. What if there
was
a larger force in the universe—something supernatural, or at least beyond her capacity to understand—that was causing all these events to happen? What if that force was trying stop the INDY gene technology from being exploited? Who was
she
to defy such a force? And what would happen to her if she did? What would happen to the human race?

Somewhere amongst this tangle of irrational thoughts, Bill McCreary's words crept into the mix. “Sometimes science can be its own worst enemy.”

With that, Kathleen snapped her eyes open wide. She was no longer sleepy. Her thoughts had become too absurd, too irrational, and she was afraid of where they were leading.

She picked up the remote and clicked on the TV, turning the volume down to a barely audible level. Hoping for nothing more than a distraction, she flipped randomly through dozens of channels, frowning as she surfed through a depressing morass of home-shopping networks, infomercials, reality shows, and B-grade movies. She was starting to understand why some folks might not want to live an extra forty or fifty years.

Suddenly, something on the TV caught her eye. She flipped back one channel to CNN.

Bryce Whittaker.

His head and shoulders appeared in a square box in the top right-hand corner of the screen, sporting an electric blue shirt, unbuttoned—Hollywood style—to the middle of his chest, and a stylish black blazer. His face was ruggedly unshaven. Below him, a man with a thick white beard and moustache appeared in another square box of equal size. Kathleen immediately recognized him as Frank Fitzgerald, a well-known biologist and a member of the U. Conn. team that had originally discovered the INDY gene in fruit flies. The moderator, who filled the remainder of the screen, was Randi Rice, the annoying yet wildly popular host of
Randi Rice Tonight
, a one-hour topical show with a quasi-judicial theme. A text banner at the bottom of the screen asked, in bold red letters, I
MMORTALITY
G
ENE
D
ISCOVERED
?

“You have
got
to be kidding,” Kathleen muttered as she turned up the volume.

Rice was talking. “I'd like to turn to you now, Dr. Fitzgerald. Can you tell us a little bit more about this so-called INDY gene?”

“Well, first of all, let me point out that this is not an ‘immortality' gene. In our studies, we have found that fruit flies with the activated INDY gene can live two or three times their normal life spans. But certainly not forever.”

Rice frowned, clearly unhappy about being corrected on her own show. “Well, Dr. Fitzgerald, you'd have to admit that living two hundred years is getting pretty close to immortality.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Actually, hold that thought,” said Rice. “Mr. Whittaker, I'd like to get your thoughts on the spectacular fire that happened earlier today at the QLS headquarters in Rockville, Maryland.” As she spoke, the screen switched to a helicopter shot of the QLS building engulfed in flames. It made Kathleen sick to her stomach to watch. “What can you tell us about this remarkable turn of events?”

Whittaker spoke in a deep studio voice, as if he'd been doing this for years. “Randi, we still don't know what caused the fire and explosion at QLS this morning. We do know that one employee was taken to the hospital for non–life-threatening injuries.”

“Were any bystanders injured?” Rice asked.

“My understanding is that no one else suffered any serious injuries.”

The screen switched back to the talking heads.

“Well, that's good news,” said Rice. “Now, Mr. Whittaker, you're the reporter who originally broke this story, correct?”

Whittaker smiled and nodded with faux modesty. “That's right, Randi.”

“And how did you uncover this truly remarkable story?”

Kathleen wanted to scream:
He betrayed me! That's how he ‘uncovered' this story!

But Whittaker just shrugged and flashed a toothy smile. “Just good old-fashioned leg work,” he said. “Following leads, picking up on clues . . .”

Kathleen wanted to puke. On the other hand, she had to admit he
did
look good on TV.

“Now, I understand that you've spoken with Dr. Sainsbury, the CEO of Quantum Life Sciences, in the past few days,” Rice said. “Have you had any contact with her since the explosion this morning?”

“No, I haven't,” Whittaker replied. “She was last seen getting into a vehicle at the scene of the fire. I understand there were reports of gunfire being exchanged, but the facts are still very sketchy.”

“Remarkable,” said Rice, shaking her head dramatically. “Now, Dr. Fitzgerald, I'd like to get your thoughts on something, very quickly. What do you believe are the implications of this INDY gene technology in humans?”

“Well, assuming it's genuine,” said Fitzgerald, “and again, we don't have any confirmation of that, I believe the discovery of this gene in humans could be one of the most important breakthroughs in genetics since the discovery of DNA itself.”

“Do you personally see this as a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Oh, a good thing, of course,” said Fitzgerald assuredly. “This technology has the potential to improve all of our lives.”

“Well,” said Rice provocatively, “it seems not everyone agrees with you on that point. Joining us now are two people who have very different opinions on the subject.” As Rice spoke, two more squares appeared on the screen, leaving her face in the middle of four remote guests. “Joining us now by satellite are Dr. Sylvia Matherson, a bioethics expert from Stanford University, and the Reverend Jeffrey Kline, senior pastor at Freedom Baptist Church in Clarksville, Tennessee. Good evening to both of you.”

The two new guests nodded and smiled.

“Reverend Kline, I'd like to begin with you,” said Rice. “I understand you have some reservations about this technology based on your religious beliefs. Can you briefly explain those?”

“Yes I can,” responded Reverend Kline in a charming, Tennessee drawl. “In Genesis six, verse three, God commanded Noah and Methuselah that His spirit would not abide with man forever, but instead, being mortal, man's days would be limited to one hundred twenty years. Now, that is a
commandment
from God, no different from ‘Thou shalt not kill' or ‘Thou shalt not steal.' And anyone who attempts to circumvent that commandment, through genetics or otherwise, will be guilty of a very grave sin. I, for one, will instruct my congregation not to partake of any sort of genetic treatment that offers to extend their lives beyond the number of years allotted by God. Now, Randi, don't get me wrong. Science is wonderful. It has given us many important and useful things. But science should
not
be used to circumvent God's will.”

“Very interesting,” said Rice, nodding. “And Dr. Matherson, you also have some concerns about this technology . . .”

“Yes, indeed, Randi,” said Dr. Matherson. “I am very concerned about the socioeconomic impact this technology could have on our country, and really, around the world. Who will have access to this life-extension technology? Only the very wealthy? Or will it be made freely available to everyone? I fear that if only the wealthy have access to it, it will further widen the gap between rich and poor, with possibly devastating consequences. I'm also very worried about what impact this technology might have on our healthcare system and social security, as well as the environment. These systems are highly sensitive to changes in demographics, so introducing an abrupt change like this could have a far-reaching and insurmountable negative impact. Those are just some of my concerns.”

“Thank you. When we come back . . .”

Kathleen turned off the TV and shook her head, wondering in silent anguish what in the world she should do. Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.
The bedding
, she remembered. She stood to answer it.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Washington, D.C.

S
pecial Agent Wills clicked “relational timeline” on the NASC screen and anxiously awaited the results. On the screen, a complex, multicolor scatter plot suddenly appeared, showing the degree of interrelation of the nine people he'd just identified, plotted as a function of time. With a few clicks of his mouse, he adjusted the X-axis to focus only on the past thirty days.

As the adjusted plot appeared on his screen, his pulse quickened.

At the far left of the plot—representing about thirty days ago—each of the nine colored lines zigzagged up and down in saw-tooth fashion, generally running parallel to the baseline—a rainbow tangle of lines that was nearly indistinguishable from the baseline noise. But, about two-thirds of the way to the right on the X-axis, or about ten days ago, the colored lines suddenly began ramping up noticeably. The increase in their interrelated activity was gradual at first but spiked significantly about three days ago.

Something was happening.

Then, at the far right of the plot—roughly corresponding to when the QLS article first appeared in the
Washington Post
—the colored lines shot up nearly vertically. Whoever these people were, that article had them buzzing like a swarm of bees. Which told Wills all he needed to know.

Wills next turned his attention to Guillermo de Juan Iglacio Gomez, one of the members of the group. That name brought back a flood of memories. With a few strategic strokes of his keyboard, he retrieved Gomez's old FBI file, which was now prominently annotated at the top, in red letters,
CASE CLOSED
.

“Like hell,” Wills muttered.

Wills studied the grainy black-and-white picture of Gomez and recalled the day, roughly five years ago, when he was ordered to close the case on him. It still burned him up to think about.

Five years ago, Wills had been in charge of a special FBI taskforce called “SUNSHINE,” whose sole mission was to track, apprehend, and arrest the elusive mastermind behind one of the biggest drug distribution networks in North America. Guillermo de Juan Iglacio Gomez.

They'd received intelligence—most likely filtering in from the CIA (but nobody really knew)—that Gomez wanted to get out of the drug business altogether. He was allegedly trying to go legit and had already cut deals with the Mexican government, or at least paid off enough people in the government to escape prosecution there. But he wanted more. He wanted the freedom to travel, conduct business, and own property, not just in Mexico and South America, but all around the world. Even in the United States.

In short, he wanted to be reborn.

Of course, there would be no such deals with the U.S. government. Quite the contrary: the FBI was eagerly awaiting the day when Gomez would inevitably misstep and wander into the jurisdiction of U.S. law enforcement. The FBI field offices in Miami, Fort Lauderdale, San Juan, Saint Croix, Dallas, and San Diego were already on high alert for that event, as were other cooperative agencies in the Bahamas, Jamaica, and the British Virgin Islands. It was suspected that Gomez was seeking to acquire real estate in the Caribbean. So, the thinking went, it was only a matter of time before he showed his face on one of those islands.

That all changed, however, when the director of the FBI received a phone call one day from the director of the CIA, who reported that they'd worked out a deal with Gomez. He was now a CIA “asset.” He was not to be arrested or bothered in any way in any U.S. territory. His file was to be closed.

The FBI director nearly blew a gasket.

But, in the end, the FBI backed off, having lost yet another turf war to the CIA. And, with that, Gomez was officially “reborn”—free to roam the world, the Caribbean, even the United States, without fear of incarceration, extradition, or prosecution.

Wills
personally
had to close the file on Gomez and fold up the SUNSHINE taskforce, which, needless to say, left him bitter and more than a little disillusioned.

Staring at Gomez's picture on the computer screen now, a strange thought was bouncing around Wills's mind. It had started as a subtle twinge and had grown progressively until the idea was now pounding in his head like a bass drum.

Luce Venfeld had worked for the CIA
.

Wills snatched up the stack of papers labeled L
UCE
V
ENFELD
from his desk and quickly thumbed to Venfeld's government employment history, which—as Hendricks had warned—was almost entirely blacked out with redactions. Frustrated, Wills entered Venfeld's identification number into an interagency database and called up his employment history on the screen. It, too, was mottled with black squares and rectangles, obscuring all but the most mundane information.

But Wills knew how to make those redactions disappear.

He pressed
Alt-F3
on his keyboard, and a small dialog box appeared on the screen, atop Venfeld's employment record. Wills quickly tapped in the nine-digit code for SERRATE and pressed enter. Instantly, most of the black redactions disappeared.

Wills scrolled down, skimming with great interest Venfeld's twenty-year career as a CIA analyst and operative. He stopped just short of the last entry—Venfeld's retirement—and read the second-to-last description with unchecked surprise. It read:

SERRATE
—Cont. Surv.; Cont. Ops. (DFA); Quintana Roo, MX.

Wills shook his head in disbelief.
He should have known.
Venfeld had been part of the SERRATE program . . .
five years ago!

Staring at the entry, another item jumped off the screen at Wills. The letters “DFA.” Deadly Force Authorized. Venfeld was a trained killer.

The puzzle pieces were now coming together. Wills stroked his chin, deep in thought. A twenty-year veteran of the federal government didn't make that much money—a fact Wills knew all too well. He, too, was coming up on the twenty-year point. Retirement was right around the corner, and he was already starting to worry about his savings.

Venfeld, however, had managed to leave the CIA and immediately begin living large—a fancy car, a luxury apartment, top-dollar office space on K Street.

He'd cut a deal with Gomez.

That thought lingered in his mind for a long while as Wills stared blankly across the dim expanse of the FBI field office. The whirring of the vacuum cleaners had ceased long ago; the cleaning crew had moved upstairs. The entire second floor was dark and eerily quiet.

Wills's thoughts seemed to float above the vacant cubicles and government-issued desks of the field office.
What, exactly, did Venfeld get out of the deal?

Wills once again brought up the file on Guillermo Gomez and stared at his picture for a long time, shaking his head slowly from side to side.