The Genesis Key (33 page)

Chapter Sixty

Annapolis, Maryland.

K
athleen crouched behind the largest burial marker in Saint Anne's Cemetery, a massive cruciform tombstone marking the final resting place of Sarah Davis Clagett. Kathleen's eyes remained fixed on the churchyard gate, some twenty-five yards away. It had been nearly five minutes since she'd heard any shuffling noise from the garden. Perhaps her pursuer had given up
.

She seriously doubted it.

Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the neoprene sample container and stared at it in the moonlight.

She realized now, of course, that McCreary was right. As long as she had this in her possession, bad things would keep happening to her. Whoever—or whatever—was after her, they would never stop until they had what they wanted . . . or until she was dead.
Or both.

A panicky, desperate emotion swept through her. How would she ever get out of this alive? Where could she go? Whom could she trust? To her surprise, she found herself thinking about McCreary's offer. Cowering behind the cold, damp tomb in the dead of night, the sunny French Riviera was starting to seem mighty attractive.

Suddenly, something about the sample container caught her eye. She held it up for a closer look. In the moonlight, she could just barely make out the first letter of the smudged label.
Was that an
E
?

“Don't move!” said a deep voice behind her.

Kathleen gasped and froze in place.

“Stand up slowly,” Luce Venfeld ordered.

She complied.

“Now, turn around. Slowly!”

Kathleen turned slowly to find herself face-to-face with Luce Venfeld, his arm outstretched, his 9 mm pistol aimed squarely at her head. His scarred face was resolute, his dark eyes cold with anger,
vengeance
.

“End of the line,” he said flatly, arm already outstretched. He snatched the neoprene sample container from Kathleen's grasp. As he inspected the vial in the moonlight, the corners of his mouth curled up into a sinister smile. He tucked the container quickly into the breast pocket of his overcoat.

He took a step backward, keeping the pistol trained unwaveringly on Kathleen's forehead. “Now, Dr. Sainsbury, it's time
.
”

Every muscle in Kathleen's body tensed as she prepared for the inevitable. A thousand thoughts flooded her mind at once. Her grandfather and grandmother, her parents, Carlos, Julie, and Jeremy, all the QLS investors, cash calls, NIH, Dr. Sargon and the relic, the FBI, and—above it all—the words of Bill McCreary: “Sometimes science can be its own worst enemy.”

She met Venfeld's vengeful gaze and studied the cold expression on his face. As she did, she noticed something strange. A bright red dot had suddenly appeared on his forehead. It bounced around for a split second, then stabilized just above his eyebrows . . .

A shot rang out, and Kathleen flinched, closing her eyes tightly.

Had she been shot? Where was the pain?
She opened her eyes and immediately observed that Venfeld's face had changed dramatically. His angry eyes were now open wide with surprise. His mouth was agape. And, where the red dot had been a second before, there was now a dark circle with blood oozing out of it.

Venfeld stumbled backward and collapsed on the ground, a .40-caliber bullet lodged deep in his brain.

Kathleen could barely breathe.
What the hell just happened?
She heard footsteps coming up quickly behind her.

“Are you okay?” asked the familiar voice of Agent Wills as he trotted out of the shadows and into the moonlight before her, impeccably dressed as always, a SIG laser-sight pistol in his hand.

Kathleen shook her head in disbelief. “How did you . . .”

“I heard the call come in from Goodwin and McCreary and got down here as fast as I could.” Wills stepped cautiously toward the motionless body of Luce Venfeld, pistol at the ready. “I picked up this guy's trail back on Route 2.” He was advancing slowly toward the body.

“Who
is
that?” Kathleen asked.

“Name's Luce Venfeld. He's a lobbyist . . . of sorts.” Wills knelt down and felt Venfeld's neck for a pulse, apparently finding none. Then he patted Venfeld's overcoat until he found what he was looking for. He removed the neoprene sample bottle from Venfeld's overcoat, inspected it momentarily, then slipped it into his own coat pocket.

Kathleen was just about to say something when she heard another voice behind her.

“Wills? Is that you?”

Kathleen turned to see Bill McCreary and Steve Goodwin bursting through the wooden cemetery gate. They jogged over to where Wills and Kathleen stood, out of breath and obviously confused by the situation.

McCreary positioned himself between Kathleen and Wills. Goodwin stood next to him. “Is that Venfeld?” McCreary asked, nodding at the dead body.

“Yep,” Wills replied. He tipped his chin toward Kathleen. “He was just about to shoot Dr. Sainsbury here. I had no choice but to take him down.”

McCreary glanced at Kathleen and then back to Wills. “Sure, of course.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Good job, Agent Wills. Excellent work!” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Where's the sample?”

Wills hesitated before responding. “I've got it.”

“Good,” said McCreary. “Let me have it. We need to get it to the SCIF immediately.”

Wills didn't move.

“Agent Wills, did you
hear
me? Give me the sample so we can secure it properly in the SCIF. We can't risk having it out here in the open any longer.”

“Actually, Bill,” Wills replied in a firm voice, “I've got other plans.” As he spoke, he pulled a small two-way radio from his breast pocket and spoke into it quietly. “I'm ready,” he said.

McCreary was incredulous. “What do you
mean
you have other plans?”

“There's not much to say,” said Wills flatly. “You and I just have different ideas about what to do with this technology.”

McCreary sputtered, “Different ideas? It's not your job to—” He stopped short. “What, exactly, do you have in mind?”

“This technology's too valuable to be locked away in a SCIF, Bill. I'm going to put it in the hands of those who value it most.”

“And who might that be?”

Wills shrugged. “I can't tell you yet. Right now, there's a six-way bidding war, and the Chinese are in the lead. But that could change at any moment.”

Kathleen's jaw dropped and she shook her head disbelief.
Agent Wills?
She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“Jesus Christ, are you crazy!” McCreary shouted. “Do you realize the consequences? Do you know the impact this will have on national security? On the human race?”

Wills shrugged. “Bill, those are your concerns. You dreamed all that stuff up using a bunch of fancy computer models. But this technology is inevitable
.
I've heard you say so yourself.” He patted his coat pocket. “I've decided the time is now.”

As Wills spoke, the steady thumping of an approaching helicopter arose in the distance.

Wills began backing up toward a small clearing in the cemetery.

“I can't let you do this,” screamed McCreary over the noise of the approaching chopper. He tapped Goodwin on the shoulder and nodded.

Steve Goodwin—215 pounds of solid muscle—immediately charged toward Wills, hunched over like a defensive tackle, arms outstretched, legs pumping up and down.

“Back off!” Wills yelled at Goodwin, who was barreling down on him like a freight train. Wills raised his SIG and barked one last warning, “Freeze!”

Goodwin didn't stop.

Wills pulled the trigger, and a deafening report resulted. He watched in anguish as Goodwin crumpled to the ground, just inches from his feet. Then he trained his gun on McCreary. “God damn it, Bill!” he screamed over the rotor wash of the approaching helicopter. “Why'd you make me do that?”

McCreary's response could not be heard over the sound of rotors and the swirling windstorm caused by the descending helicopter.

Kathleen watched in astonishment as a blue-and-white Bell 407 touched down in the grassy clearing. Wills ran toward the chopper, bent over and hugging his overcoat to his body. The side door of the helicopter opened, and Wills climbed in.

Just before the helicopter door closed, Wills turned and gave McCreary one last look. There was nothing triumphant or gleeful in his expression. Rather, Kathleen thought, Wills looked resigned, as if he were merely carrying out the inevitable. Seconds later, the chopper lifted off with a deafening
thump-thump-thump
of the rotors, and disappeared into the night sky.

As soon as the rotor wash subsided, Kathleen and McCreary rushed to Steve Goodwin, who was writhing in pain on the ground, clutching his shattered left knee.

McCreary looked up at the blinking taillight of the helicopter as it disappeared into the sky and shook his head glumly. “God help us, the world is about to change.”

“Maybe not,” Kathleen whispered to herself.

Chapter Sixty-One

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

B
ryce Whittaker had just drifted into to a blissful slumber, bringing to a satisfying close the best day of his career so far. He'd finally achieved his dream of breaking into television. And, according to the producer of
Randi Rice Tonight
, he'd done extremely well. “A natural” were the producer's exact words. Just as Whittaker had always known.

Whittaker's boss at the
Post
was overjoyed by the excitement and controversy caused by the QLS article. He called right after the TV segment aired to congratulate Whittaker and offer him a position at the national desk. With Whittaker's rising star power, the
Post
clearly did not want to lose him to a rival newspaper or, worse, to a television network.

It had been quite a day for Bryce Whittaker. So when the phone rang just after midnight, he naturally assumed it would be more good news. “Hello?” he answered groggily.

“Screw you, Bryce!”

Whittaker paused momentarily, confused. “Kathleen? My God, where are you?”

“Drop it, Bryce. You
betrayed
me! How could you?”

“Kathleen, I . . . I . . . had no choice.”

“The hell you didn't! Do you realize what I‘ve been through today because of your damned story?”

“I'm really sorry. I . . . I didn't know it would be such a big deal. Honestly!”

“Apology not accepted,” Kathleen said evenly. “You nearly got me killed. Carlos is in the hospital. You can't apologize your way out of this one, Bryce.”

Whittaker sighed. “What do you want?”

For the next five minutes, Kathleen explained in exact detail the article she wanted Whittaker to write.

“Are you kidding?” Whittaker said when she'd finished. He was fully awake now. “You're talking career suicide, you know.”

Kathleen didn't hesitate. “Listen, Bryce, either
you
write it, or I'll call the
Washington Times.
Your choice.”

Whittaker rubbed his temples, weighing the prospect of the rival
Washington Times
breaking the story. “All right
,
” he said finally, exhaling loudly. “When can we meet?”

“We just did. And I want that story in the paper tomorrow morning. Front page.”

“Jesus, Kathleen. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Andros Island, Bahamas.

T
he Atlantic Ocean lapped rhythmically against the sugar white sand of Los Brazos beach with a soft, lulling rumble. Palm trees swayed in the warm, tropical breeze as the sun rose above the red-tiled roof of Casa de Las Rocas, a twenty-two-room mansion overlooking the spectacular private beach on the island's south end.

Guests had been arriving all night long. Several had landed in private jets on the estate's airstrip, two miles away. Others had flown in from the United States by helicopter, landing on the estate's helipad near the beach. One had arrived on
Isadora
, a 180-foot yacht, which was now moored just offshore.

At 8:00
A.M.
, six of the distinguished guests were assembled in the mansion's oval dining room, whose curved wall of plate-glass windows framed a view of the sparkling turquoise sea below. They sat in high-back chairs surrounding an ornate, eighteenth-century mahogany table from the British colonial period, a time of sugar plantations, rum wars, and pirates.

Outside, the twin limestone formations for which the house was named stretched out into the sea for several hundred yards, hooking toward each other at the end to form a tiny, secluded harbor where pirates once moored their sailing ships and buried their loot onshore. They called these black rocks
Los Brazos del Diablo
—“the Devil's Arms”—mainly as a ploy to keep others away.

“Gentlemen,” said a tall, elegant, white-haired man who had just entered the room. “Welcome to Casa de Las Rocas.” He was Guillermo de Juan Ignacio Gomez, a Mexican billionaire, and one of the richest men in the world. His snowy hair contrasted strikingly with his smooth, bronzed skin. He wore a beautifully embroidered white silk shirt, white pants, and handmade Italian sandals.

Gomez had amassed his original fortune in the early 1970s, when he'd built one of the most sophisticated drug-smuggling operations in the western hemisphere, trafficking marijuana and cocaine from Mexico into the United States. For the past five years, however, Gomez had been strictly legit, investing his sizable fortune in a string of successful resort properties on both coasts of Mexico, off Florida, in the Caribbean, and more recently in Central America. He was now a well-respected real-estate tycoon.

“Señor Wu,” Gomez said warmly to the man seated nearest to him. He shook the Chinese man's hand and patted his shoulder familiarly. “I am honored by your presence.”

Jin Shan Wu bowed his head slightly without smiling. He was a shipping magnate from Shanghai—one of China's new billionaires and, like Gomez, one of the richest men in the world.

Gomez worked his way around the table in similar fashion, greeting each guest warmly and with the utmost respect.

“Señor Haryadi,” he said to Eswara Haryadi, owner of the largest steel company in India and also one of the richest men in the world. “Welcome, my friend.” Haryadi nodded and smiled.

“Señor Nazarov,” he said to Aleksei Nazarov, an oil baron from Russia, “I hope your long flight was not too uncomfortable.”

Nazarov shook Gomez's hand enthusiastically and smiled. “It was very comfortable, thank you.”

“Señor Glick,” Gomez said, putting his arm around the shoulders of Roger Glick, CEO of WestPharma Corporation, “a pleasure to meet you.” Glick nodded and flashed a courteous business smile. Glick was the only person at the table who was not a billionaire, although his personal fortune did measure in the neighborhood of 150 million dollars, depending on the daily price of WestPharma's stock. The buying power of his company, however, a 50-billion-dollar publicly traded concern, put him on par with the likes of Wu, Haryadi, and Nazarov.

Gomez continued around the table. “Señor Diakos,” he said warmly to Leonidas Diakos, an old-world billionaire from Cyprus. “Your yacht is beautiful, señor. I would very much like a tour of it if that could be arranged.” Diakos smiled and nodded that yes, that could be arranged. Diakos was a thin, frail man in his late seventies. His skin was tan and leathery, his thinning hair bright silver. The Diakos family had been wealthy for so many generations that no one in Greece could really recall where all that money had come from originally. Today, the Diakos family had its fingers in dozens of concerns, including banking, shipping, beverage distribution, and real estate. Leonidas Diakos, as head of the family, controlled billions of dollars in assets.

Gomez shook hands with the last man at the table, Wilhelm Van der Giesen of Capetown, South Africa. “Señor Van der Giesen,” he said warmly, “welcome, my friend.” Van der Giesen nodded without smiling. At age forty-nine, he was the youngest man at the table by at least fifteen years. But he, too, was a billionaire, his wealth having been acquired by his father a generation ago, largely on the backs of impoverished and abused diamond miners in Tanzania and Zaire.

Gomez positioned himself at the head of the table and remained standing. “Gentlemen, I am honored to have all of you here as my special guests. If you need anything at all during your stay, please let one of my staff know. Now, I'll turn things over to the man who called this meeting, Señor Rubin.”

Elias Rubin had been waiting in the doorway just outside the dining room, and he entered the room when Gomez called his name. “Welcome, everyone,” he said with a showman's flair. “And thank you for making this trip on such short notice. I believe you will find it was well worth it.” He paused and nodded to each guest individually. “When I started the Olam Foundation five years ago,
this
was the day I dreamed of. The day our aspirations would finally become reality. The day that fiction would become fact. Gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you Mr. Anthony Wills.”

Exactly on cue, Wills walked into the dining room, dressed in a light tan cotton suit and crisp white button-down shirt, open at the neck. Behind him, two hulking men in camouflage pants and tight black T-shirts also entered the room, each with a holstered sidearm strapped to his hip. They were members of Gomez's private security team, the same men who'd picked up Wills in the St. Anne's Cemetery the night before and flew him directly to Andros Island.

“Good morning,” said Wills, a bit nervously. He nodded to the six seated men and to Rubin, who remained standing. “And thank you, Mr. Gomez.” He gave Gomez an especially appreciative nod.

“Now,” said Rubin, seating himself at the head of the table, “let's get down to business. As you know, Mr. Wills has brought with him an intact DNA sample that contains the INDY gene. That is why we're all here, of course. But, before we begin, I would like to remind all of you of the terms of our agreement, just to make sure there is no confusion or misunderstanding.

“First,” Rubin said, “all transactions must be wired directly to the Cayman Island account of the Olam Foundation. One hundred million dollars in cash goes to Mr. Wills as a finder's fee.” Rubin nodded appreciatively at Wills. “The rest of the payment will be distributed equally to the members of the Foundation.

“Second, no matter who purchases the INDY gene, all of us at this table—” Rubin made a sweeping gesture with his arm around the table, ending dramatically with himself. “All of us will be granted personal access to the gene therapy at no cost. Agreed?”

Everyone at the table nodded.

“Very well then. It is now time for the first round of sealed bids—”

“Wait
,
” said Van der Giesen, holding up his hand in protest. “We haven't even seen this DNA sample. How can we bid on something we haven't seen?”

“Of course,” Rubin replied calmly. “I have a biologist here with all the necessary test equipment to confirm the presence of the INDY gene in the sample. The final bid will, of course, be contingent upon a successful test.”

“Still,” said Roger Glick, “shouldn't we at least see this sample before we bid?”

“Fair enough,” said Rubin with a slight nod of his head. He signaled to one of the armed security guards, who exited the room and returned a minute later with a young, bespectacled man in a white lab coat. “This is Dr. Jinjung Xing, from the University of Beijing. I have retained him to help us with our transaction today.”

Dr. Xing approached and spread out a light-blue surgical mat, about two feet square, in the center of the table.

“Mr. Wills,” said Rubin dramatically, “the sample please
.
”

Wills pulled the neoprene sample container from his breast pocket and handed it to Rubin, who placed it with great showmanship on the mat. The seated guests watched with acute interest.

“Open it, please, Dr. Xing,” said Rubin.

As the guests watched with great anticipation, Dr. Xing snapped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully cut the Teflon seal around the lid of the container with a small scalpel. Then, he carefully unscrewed the cap, turning it slowly counterclockwise, one revolution at a time.

Everyone at the table—including Gomez and Wills—leaned in with rising anticipation. The room fell silent. After three complete turns, the lid was loose, and Dr. Xing lifted it off slowly . . . carefully . . .

“What the hell!” screamed Roger Glick—the first to react—as he fanned away the swarm of fruit flies that had just emerged from the sample container. The tiny black flies shot out like a puff of smoke and quickly dispersed all around the room.

“What's the meaning of this?” Wu demanded angrily, fanning away the flies.

“You brought us all the way here to see . . .
insects
?” said Eswara Haryadi indignantly.

“This is bullshit!” shouted Van der Giesen.

The six guests were already standing up, shaking their heads and conversing with each other in angry tones. Some were already on their cell phones, summoning their jets and helicopters to be powered up.

Gomez turned to Wills, his eyes burning with rage. “Explain this!” he demanded.

Wills shook head back and forth, mouth wide open, utterly dumbfounded.

“Get him out of here!” Gomez said angrily to the security guards.