The Genesis Code (8 page)

Production Studio
WXNY, Channel 10
Queens, New York

“How’s it going?” asked Flavia as she plopped down on the battered sofa in WXNY’s production studio. Randy was seated at a computer workstation, digitally cutting and splicing the footage he had filmed at the Millennium Tower. A half-eaten glazed donut lounged on a paper plate in his lap.

“Not bad.”

After she had pumped Ebersole for everything useful that he knew about introns and DNA, Flavia had dismissed the socially awkward science correspondent with the vague promise of joining him for a cocktail at some uncertain date in the future. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek to keep him on the hook.

You never know when you might need a favor.

Flavia wasn’t above granting sexual favors to co-workers to get ahead, but Ebersole was not going to be one of them. The mental image of a naked Ebersole lying on top of her, flailing about, made Flavia shudder with revulsion.

“I think you’ll be pleased with the footage,” said Randy, bringing her back to the present. “Maximum bang for the buck.”

Flavia crossed her legs and leaned back, throwing one arm along the back of the couch. Her short skirt was tight against her tan thighs. She inspected the French manicure on her nails.

“How do I look?”

“Fabulous,” he said. “As always.”

Randy leaned forward until his face was only three inches from the monitor. He squinted at the slow-motion video, and then made some minor adjustments to the digital images with three clicks of his optical mouse.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes if you keep doing that,” said Flavia.

Randy turned and made an outlandish face at her.

“And will my face freeze like this if I don’t stop making faces?”

Flavia rolled her eyes. Randy turned back to the screen and continued editing the footage.

“When do you want me to do the voice-overs?” asked Flavia.

“Give me another hour. I’ll be ready for you then.”

Maximum bang for the buck.

Flavia stood up and walked across the room. She stood behind Randy’s chair, pressing her breasts against his back, and massaged his shoulders.

“Do a good job for me, Randy,” she purred.

Dr. Joshua Ambergris’ Residence
Uptown Manhattan, New York

Arakai surveyed Dr. Joshua Ambergris’ three-story brownstone, located on a quiet side street in uptown Manhattan. Stately and imposing, the brownstone had been in Ambergris’ family for three generations. A tarnished bronze plaque mounted on the dark red brick to the right of the front door read, simply:
Ambergris
.

Seeing no one on the street, Arakai moved closer to the front of the building. Ducking behind a row of manicured shrubs, he peered into a window.

The living room was empty.

Arakai circled around to the back of the brownstone through a small alley. Through a rear window, he could see a female figure in a faded apron moving about the kitchen. She was wiping the kitchen counter with a pink sponge.

Ambergris’ housekeeper.

In quick succession, Arakai examined each of the three rear windows on the bottom floor. They were latched, but Arakai could see no evidence of an electronic security system.

Careless, Dr. Ambergris.

Arakai retrieved his knife from its hidden scabbard and slipped the blade between the upper and lower window frames. With a quick flick of his wrist, he disengaged the window’s single, ineffectual lock.

Placing the blade between his teeth, Arakai quietly raised the window and hoisted himself inside.

Quiz cradled the phone against his ear with his shoulder. “What do you need?” he asked, taking a slug from his third Diet Coke of the day.

“There’s a lot going on right now, Quiz. I’ll explain everything later. But right now I need for you to search the Triad security server for a hidden file. Grace and I need to access Dr. Ambergris’ research journal. She tells me that he had it hidden by saving the file on the security server under an innocuous-sounding file name. I need you to find it for me.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find,” said Quiz. “But why don’t you just ask Dr. Ambergris where it’s located?”

“I can’t do that, Quiz. I’ll fill you in on everything soon, but things are happening fast. Can you do this for me?”

“Sure. What do you want me to do when I find the journal?”

“Don’t do anything with it. And don’t tell anyone what I’ve asked you to do. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Okay, Christian.”

Madison placed the phone back in its cradle. He felt decidedly uneasy.

“Ambergris sent me an e-mail last night. At four-thirty
A.M.
I didn’t think much about it, but now…”

Madison clicked open the e-mail and spooled it to the laser printer on his desk.

“What did it say?” asked Grace.

Madison retrieved a single sheet of white paper from his printer tray and handed it to Grace.

“That’s just it. No explanations. Just this.”

Beneath the text was a single cryptic sentence:
This is the beginning of the ancient word.

“I know what this is,” said Grace, running a finger across the rows of digits. “It’s called a Magic Square.”

“A what?”

“Magic Square. Dr. Ambergris used to talk about these. He called them Chinese number mysteries. They’ve been around for thousands of years.”

Grace thought for a moment. “Christian, I think Ambergris was trying to send you a message.”

Crowe marched down a corridor on the thirty-fourth floor, his jaw set in grim determination. As he rushed down the hallway, Crowe spoke into a handheld radio transmitter.

“Override the security lock on the door to office number 2427,” he instructed a subordinate in the security control room.

Crowe came to a sudden stop in front of a plain office door. Plastic numbers denoted the office as number 2427. Crowe thought he could hear voices inside.

“Yes, sir. Done.”

Crowe heard a small click as the locking mechanism for the door disengaged.

Quietly turning the doorknob, he drew his 9mm from a leather shoulder holster concealed beneath his navy blazer.

63rd Floor, Petronas Towers
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

“Extreme measures?” asked a man in a three-piece suit, echoing Tanaka’s pronouncement. “I must object. Any use of extreme measures would draw a great deal of attention and scrutiny. A tremendous amount of risk.”

Tanaka appeared to thoughtfully consider the prime minister’s remarks.

“But also great opportunity,” he finally responded.

Tanaka steepled his fingers and spoke forcefully.

“Gentlemen, scientists in two dozen countries are relentlessly pursuing genomic research. Granted, many have been coopted by the Order, or have been sufficiently manipulated to direct the focus of their scientific inquiries away from areas of concern. But how many years will it be before some brilliant young geneticist stumbles upon the same discovery as the dearly departed Dr. Ambergris?”

Tanaka placed his palms on his knees and leaned forward.

“Our scientists are making progress in unlocking the secrets of the Genesis Code, but we must have more time.”

Tanaka’s eyes narrowed.

“Gentlemen, the potential rewards are too great. And the potential risks of inaction are too severe. Who among you would stand idly by while the secrets of God Himself are within our reach? We can only speculate about what rest of the Genesis Code will reveal to us. The ability to dramatically extend the human life-span. The possibility of eliminating all disease. Genetic manipulation taken to its highest and best uses.”

Tanaka slowly shook his head.

“No. We cannot fail to act. We stand at the precipice. We are approaching a paradigm shift that will change the very nature of human existence. It would be foolish…unconscionable…no,
immoral,
to allow a sin of omission to destroy what we, and those before us, have labored to protect.”

Murmurs of assent rippled through the assembled members of the Council.

“Here is what I propose,” said Tanaka.

Crowe took a deep breath, raised his 9mm, and threw open the office door.

Grace’s office was empty.

Goddammit.

Crowe holstered his weapon and yelled into his handheld radio.

“Listen up. I want you to run the face recognition protocol on all feeds from every security camera in the building for the past hour. All floors. Your target is Dr. Grace Nguyen. I need to know which camera spotted her last, and how long ago.”

“That will take a while,” said the voice crackling over the radio.

“You have three minutes. Call me back when you’re finished. Do not be late.”

Crowe surveyed the interior of Grace’s office. Her purse was sitting on the credenza. A picture of an elderly Asian couple sat in a metal frame on her desk.

Parents? Grandparents?

Grace’s computer was on, but she had not yet logged in to the network. Triad Genomics’ logo, two intertwined strands of DNA forming a double helix, rotated on the screen.

Grace’s desk was covered with piles of photocopied articles and handwritten notes. One small colorful slip of paper caught his eye. It was a color copy of a Mayan rendering of two intertwined serpents.

A burst of static spewed from Crowe’s radio transmitter, startling him.

“I’ve got her,” said the disembodied voice. “The last camera to spot Dr. Grace Nguyen was on the thirty-fourth floor, in Corridor H. She was heading south.”

Corridor H. Dr. Madison’s office is on Corridor H.

Crowe keyed the transmit button on the radio. “Lock down all of the doors on the thirty-fourth floor. Security access level alpha only. Exits, offices, conference rooms, stairwells…everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crowe rubbed a hand across his bald head, thinking.

“And dispatch two security teams to the thirty-fourth floor. Where is Mr. Occam?”

There was a pause as the security officer consulted his computer.

“In the atrium.”

“Tell Mr. Occam to join me in Dr. Madison’s office. Immediately.”

Quiz’s Office
Subbasement, Millennium Tower
Manhattan, New York

The maintenance levels of the Millennium Tower possessed none of the restrained elegance on display in the public areas of the Triad Genomics headquarters.

That suited Quiz just fine.

His office overlooked the server farm in the subbasement of the Millennium Tower. Through a large window, Quiz could see the long rows of slender computer servers and squat genetic sequencers that made the work of Traid Genomics’ geneticists possible. Quiz’s job was to ensure that it all functioned. And that it all functioned correctly.

Quiz was a genius with computers, and the management at Triad Genomics gave him wide latitude and significant autonomy, provided that everything ran smoothly.

It usually did.

Finding Ambergris’ hidden journal will be a piece of cake.

One of the first lessons Quiz had learned in the profesional world was to never promise too much. It was a lesson he taught to his favorite techs on the IT staff.

“Figure out how long it will take you to complete a task,” he advised, “and then tell them it will take twenty-five percent longer than your estimate. If you get it done in the time you estimated, you’re a hero. And if you run into problems and it takes you longer, then you’ve covered your arse.”

Ghostly blue light from five flat-screen monitors provided the only illumination in the otherwise darkened office. The plasma screens were arrayed on a metal frame, mounted at various heights in a 180-degree arc around a seated figure.

“Barkley, hold my calls,” he announced to a small chihuahua sleeping on a dog bed under the desk. Barkley cocked his head and snorted.

“He may only weigh four pounds,” Quiz would say to anyone who would listen, “but he thinks he’s a big dog.”

He cracked open a fresh Diet Coke.

“And we’re off,” said Quiz, as he began writing a short program to ferret out Ambergris’ hidden data.

Four custom-built CPUs were vertically tiered in a metal rack against the wall. Cooling fans droned in the background. A riot of wires and cables snaked across the U-shaped computer workstation and spilled onto the floor. Scanners, digital cameras, stylus pads, and an assortment of digital accessories covered the surface of the workstation. At the other end of the room was a battered leather sofa adorned with a beat-up pillow and dingy blue comforter. Quiz often spent several days at a time in his office, taking catnaps when needed and showering in the gym at the hotel.

Quiz didn’t sleep much. He wasn’t very good at it. Instead, he often stayed up most of the night, prowling the Triad Genomics network, writing code, or challenging online players in the latest computer games.

An antique trunk served as a coffee table, piled high with copies of technical journals and computer magazines. Several empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door. A blue recycling bin next to the computer workstation was filled with empty Diet Coke cans. An
X-Files
poster hung on one wall. Across the bottom, it read:
I Want to Believe.

In ten minutes, Quiz compiled the sixty lines of code needed to search the security server and identify the hidden files. A pretty nifty little algorithm, actually, thought Quiz, patting himself on the back.

He executed the command to start the program. Lines of text began scrolling down the screen as the algorithm evaluated possible targets. The computer chirped each time it found a possible hit.

Soon it began chirping every ten or fifteen seconds.

“Houston, we have a problem,” said Quiz.

The small chihuahua barked in agreement.