Escape from Baghdad! (22 page)

“You built your own microscope?”

“Well it's not that hard. I've got it in my room,” Dagr cast a significant look toward Mikhail, who had just slipped away to make some tea. “
It's hidden
.”

“Why are we whispering?”

“I had to break things to make it. A lot of
his
things actually.”

“Ok, so you what did you see in your microscope?”

“I saw notches on the casing and signs of soldering on the side handles. The handles themselves are a little bit crude, compared to the rest of the thing. My belief is that this used to be a pocketwatch. Well, that's wrong because it's not actually a watch—what I mean is, it used to be disguised as a pocket watch. Then, when wristwatches came into use, it was made into a wristwatch.”

“That's a lot to tell from a few notches.”

“Look at the inscription. Compare the writing of that to the flag imprint. See anything?”

“It's messy,” Kinza said finally, after a long moment.

“It's amateur,” Dagr said. “It was almost certainly done later. And if you look really carefully, using a microscope—which I happened to have done—you can see that the Fouad Jumblatt inscription is actually
on top
of an earlier inscription. And there might be another one
under that one
.”

“So it's really old.”

“It's really old.”

20: TELOMERES

T
HE ROADS SEEMED TO EMPTY AND FILL WITH A PECULIAR MAGIC
, at times eerily empty and war torn, other times bustling with normalcy, reverberating with snatches of conversation, people hailing each other from across the street, loud voices that sounded aggressive but were in reality gregarious, good natured. Hoffman figured that people were just tired of staying home scared. Suddenly in front of them was a lablabi stall, a food cart selling boiled chickpeas, redolent with lime and chili, people jostling in an irregular line, and beside it another crowded stall selling wood-grilled burgers, and as they paused beside it, the smell drove him wild. He stuck his head out of the window like a dog and took three large lungfuls. Strangers waved at him, and one fashionably scarved middle-aged woman gave him a little newspaper cone of lablabi with a big smile.

Sabeen had changed her spots in the course of the drive, like some kind of leopard shaman, able to transverse identities at will. Stopped by a bored policeman, Hoffman had been about to strut his documentation augmented bluster when he was blindsided by her sudden outstretched arm swathed in medical white, proffering a plastic laminated card that he clearly saw carried the name of Dr. Sabeen Ibn Sina, followed by unintelligible Arabic squiggles. His eyes, following up the arm, took in a head coiffed demurely in a scarf, not the riot of silk he normally associated with her glorious skull, but a blue cotton number that he instantly knew was a doctor kind of thing.

Some moments later, they were waved through into a crowded parking lot and then a crowded hallway filled with the normal chaos of Iraqi hospitals.

“You're a doctor now?” He managed finally.

“It's real,” Sabeen said.

Behruse had shouldered his way through the press of sick people, of which there were many, and gunshot victims, of which there were fewer, an expressive ratio, one of many, which could well be used to gauge things in the city for the day. Here they arrived at a different checkpoint where armed military men in gauze facemasks blocked the hallway. Their job was to protect the doctors and equipment, which were both housed securely beyond this point, along with the occasional VIP patients, all of whom were nice targets for insurgent types.

At last, Hoffman had the opportunity to practice his art, consisting of rapid fire, clipped, nonsensical statements he had gleaned largely from his interactions with Col. Bradley accompanied by belligerent thrustings of his writ, which was for once legitimate. Several arguments and some rapid body searches later, they were ushered through into a slightly calmer segment of the building.

They were here because of a name in a file. Dr. Sawad had been eagerly awaiting test results from a colleague. His excitement had been evident even through the dry language of his notes. In his paranoia, he only ever referred to him as Dr. J. This Dr. J was apparently a cunning man well capable of stealing all his research and hogging the credit.

“There are four Dr. Js here: radiologist, urologist, GP, and neurologist,” Behruse read from a board. “Could be any of them. Unless J stands for the first name. Sawad really was a miserable bastard.”

The GP was a woman who took one look at Behruse and shut the door in his face. The radiologist was in the linen closet with a nurse and therefore unavailable for comment. The urologist had fled abroad. The neurologist, it turned out, was an old man who didn't really see any patients but through cunning hospital politics had managed to occupy a very nice fiefdom consisting of a large office, a waiting room complete with nurse cum receptionist, and even a small lab.

“Good evening, doctor,” Sabeen said, barging in over the faffing nurse. “We are friends of Dr. Sawad.”

“Dr. Sawad the prick?” Dr. J asked helpfully. “Or Dr. Sawad the heart specialist?”

“The former, I imagine.”

“I don't know him.”

“He gave you something to research,” Sabeen said.

“Who are these guys?” Dr. J looked around. “They don't look like doctors.”

“They are Mukhabarat and CIA,” Sabeen said.

“Oh my. Recruitment standards have fallen since the old boy left, eh?”

“You don't want to get mixed up in this, really.”

“I can see that.”

“Going back to Dr. Sawad.”

“He was a prick.”

“So you did know him?”

“Briefly.”

“What did he give you to research?”

“Don't drink that you oaf! It's
not
coffee!”

Behruse, sniffed, made a face and put down the beaker.

“Dr. J, allow me to inform you that we have the authority to take everything in your office,” Sabeen said, sitting down forcefully. “Including you.”

“Close the door, please, Mr. CIA, be a dear.”

“Should I start smashing things up?” Behruse, having found nothing edible in the room, was now growing irritable.

“Dr. J?”

“Two weeks ago Dr. Sawad the prick popped in and asked me to look into some DNA samples.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I didn't bother doing it.”

“Really?” Sabeen unbuttoned her coat and withdrew a sleek looking gun.

“Oh alright, I had a peek.”

“And?”

“Most peculiar stuff.”

“Explain.”

“Very technical, you lot probably wouldn't understand.”

“So everyone keeps telling us,” Sabeen sighed. “I happen to be a physician and I
do
understand some fairly big words. The other two, well you might be right there.”

“I also know lots of big words,” Hoffman said, offended.

“It's about telomerase,” Dr. J said, peering at them under bushy white eyebrows. “And senescence.”

“I also know calculus,” Hoffman said. “The difference-type calculus thing. Ask anyone.”

“You see, I study diseases caused by old age,” Dr. J said. “And regeneration at a cellular level. Why, for example, cells will repair themselves when you are young yet stop doing so when you're old. Senescence.”

“I imagine that's a matter close to your heart.”

“At this age, it's the only thing worth studying, really,” Dr. J said. “How to cheat death.”

“I also know all the countries in the UN, and most of their capitals,” Hoffman said.

“What did Dr. Sawad want to know?”

“He gave me some DNA samples from a patient he had,” Dr. J said. “A most curious case. If I didn't know Sawad better, I would have thought he was trying to hoax me.”

“Was it Afzal Taha?”

“I don't know the patient name. Sawad wouldn't tell me.”

“What was so curious about it?”

“Most people, doctors included, think DNA is the be-all and end-all of genetics,” Dr. J said. “It's not the case, of course. DNA is like a very large, very redundant instruction manual: in several different languages, with a bunch of gibberish thrown in for good measure. What gets translated, what gets activated, is a matter of complex interactions between proteins.”

“Was the sample DNA special?”

“The DNA? No. At the time, I found it perfectly normal,” Dr. J said. “What struck me was the peculiarity of the telomeres.”

“The excess stuff at the end of chromosomes?”

“Precisely, dear! You
are
a doctor,” Dr. J looked faintly disappointed. “Telomeres are excess DNA attached to the ends of chromosomes. They are repetitive chains. Do you know precisely what happens during cellular replication?”

“The chromosomes uncoil, and enzymes bind to each strand, replicating it.”

“I know about biology too,” Hoffman chimed in. “And the reproductive cycle for humans. I know all the body parts.”

“The high-school biology version, yes,” Dr. J said with a saucy wink. “Actually, when a chromosome is copied, it is not possible for the replicating mechanism to get all the way to the end: which means the bit at the end of each chromosome doesn't get copied. Now that would mean that each time the chromosome gets copied, a little bit gets left out, a little bit of vital biological programming, possibly. After a certain number of copies, one would imagine there is nothing meaningful left.”

“There is obviously something that stops this loss of genetic material.”

“The telomeres. The telomere is a RNA-protein complex ‘cap' or ‘knot' at the ends of each chromosome placed there precisely to prevent vital genetic loss. Each time the chromosome replicates, a segment of telomere gets shortened. These telomere segments are synthesized by an enzyme, the telomerase reverse transcriptase. But due to various factors, including a shortage of these enzymes, the telomere chain gets shorter each time. After a large number of replications, the telomere gets all used up, and the cell stops being able to replicate properly. Hence, the telomere has been theoretically linked to a time bomb heralding old age and death.”

“Cellular death programmed into us.”

“Right,” Dr. J said. “It's actually quite unfair. It's as if someone designed a perfect, self-healing, self-correcting organism, and then went and programmed death into it.”

“God?”

“Don't believe in him,” Dr. J said. “Although if he did it, it's a very poor sort of joke.”

“So if telomeres didn't shorten, our cells would continue to repair themselves, and we would not face old age deterioration?”

“Theoretically, that's one way of looking at it,” Dr. J said. “The flip side is cancer, of course. The kinds of cells that achieve immortality by circumventing the telomere death are normally cancer cells. So in an evolutionary sense, programmed cell death might have developed to prevent runaway cancer. Detractors say that tampering with the telomeres will cause massive cancer. Those of us interested in achieving cellular immortality believe this is the key to regaining our natural heritage.”

“Natural heritage?”

“A biblical joke of sorts. The Garden of Eden, as it were,” Dr. J wagged his finger. “Live forever, heal forever. Our heritage before we crossed God. We could be immortal.”

“Until someone with a gun comes along,” Behruse said, amused.

“What?”

“Your Dr. Sawad was murdered recently,” Sabeen said. “Pushed off a roof.”

“I hadn't heard,” Dr. J slumped in his chair. “That's terrible.”

“My sympathies…”

“Oh, he was a prick. Destined to be murdered,” Dr. J said. “I don't mean that. It's terrible that he died without telling me whose blood work I've got.”

“We know whose blood you've got.”

“Well you need to bring the young man to me immediately.”

“He ain't young,” Behruse said.

“You're wrong,” Dr. J said. “He's very young. His telomeres are pristine. In fact, he looks like he just stepped out of the Garden.”

21: HAND IN THE JAR

T
HE JAR WAS THICK PEBBLED GLASS, UNLABELLED, HOLDING
about two liters of formaldehyde. A hand floated inside, ragged at the edges where the bones had been severed untidily, possibly using a cleaver. The chipped edges showed that at least two attempts had been made to effect the separation. Tinges of blood blushed the formaldehyde into a faint pink, a fairly pleasant color, notwithstanding the provenance.

Mother Davala cradled the jar in her arms, as if it were an infant. Tears salted her cheeks in twin tracks, following the crevices of her ancient skin. It was an incongruous sight in that elegant living room, the jar and the crone. The other two ladies knitted silently, and even the click of their needles sounded mournful. Dagr felt a leaden sickness in his stomach, nausea rising. He could smell the blood suffocating him, although he knew it was no such thing. The hand, floating in its artificial womb, looked peculiarly feminine, reduced to a gentleness as if, detached from its host, it had reverted back to a prepubescent level of innocence.