Surviving Immortality Page 4

  The day’s gone from me standing up to my belly in a tub of shit, to being immersed in it, and it’s not even noon. At least things can’t get any worse, he thought, but he wasn’t altogether sure.

  Chapter Four

  JESSUP HUNG his head, not from shame but weariness.

  He heard a faint noise, a mechanical thumping. As he watched Kenji’s note turn to ash, the thumping grew loud. He glanced out the window over the sink and saw a helicopter hovering just beyond the holding pens.

  The horses spooked, galloping along the fence in all directions. Their panic turned to terror as the copter drew close. Dust thrown up by their hooves and by the copter’s rotor blades turned the corral into a brown tempest. By the time Jessup raced out the back door, the horses crashed through the corral rails, bursting into the work yard. In a single body, they tore across the yard hell-bent for the foothills.

  Jessup leaped for his life and landed only a few feet from flashing hooves. He rolled under the porch and waited until the last of them sped by. He stood, squaring his shoulders, preparing for a fight. The herd was almost out of sight by the time the copter touched earth and the blades slowed. As soon as the air cleared, a man and a woman crawled from the cockpit, leaving the pilot in the plastic bubble.

  The man was meticulously groomed, wearing Dockers, a polo shirt, and aviator sunglasses. He looked to be in his midfifties, sporting a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a salon tan. He cradled a bottle of champagne in his left arm and held out his manicured right hand to shake Jessup’s rough paw. The woman wore her brown hair in a tight bun on the back of her head, and her stylish navy blue silk suit and heels made her seem as if she’d just stepped from a boardroom rather than a helicopter. Her skirt showed off a great pair of athletic legs. She was seductive and seemed cheerily aware of it. She carried champagne flutes in one hand and a briefcase in the other. She walked several feet behind her male companion, letting Jessup know who was in charge.

  Jessup pointed after the herd. “Do you halfwits have any idea what you did?”

  “All too sorry,” the gentleman said with a slight Scottish brogue, “but there was no time to waste with airports and rental cars. I wanted to be the first to congratulate our rising star.” He flashed a billion-dollar smile. When Jessup didn’t answer, he added, “Fear not. I’ll buy you a new herd of thoroughbreds. Any breed you’d like.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Declan Hughes, at your service. I’m the founder and chairman of the board of Golden Eagle Industries, parent company to Golden Eagle Pharmaceuticals.” He turned to the woman. “And this is Miz Diane McCarthy, Golden Eagle’s CEO.”

  She lifted her hand to shake, but it was holding four wine flutes, one stem between each finger. She shrugged, and her cheeks blushed a lovely peach color. “Pleased to meet you. I assume you’re Mr. Connors?”

  Even Jessup, tucked away on this ranch for the last dozen years, knew plenty about Declan Hughes. A 2004 Time magazine article listed twenty people under the age of forty who were shaping the new century. Declan Hughes was fifth on that list. A multibillionaire physicist and businessman, he was the Steve Jobs of the US defense industry. He made a killing in the decade-long Iraq war. In addition to owning Golden Eagle Applied Avionics, the premier corporation developing drone-aircraft weaponry for the US military, he also owned the pharmacological research company that employed Kenji.

  Jessup had also read his name online and in the society columns of the LA Times, enough to know that Declan had a penchant for sexy women, vintage cars, and Cambodian art, and his charity functions drew most of Hollywood’s A-list to his Holmby Hills mansion, yet his politics were surprisingly liberal. He reportedly abhorred war, even though that’s what earned the lion’s share of his billions, and he sat on the board of advisors of the Audubon Society, the Sierra Club, and the Wilderness Society.

  Jessup’s anger imploded. This grand entrance, no doubt, had something to do with Kenji’s hasty exit just a half hour before. Jessup waved an arm toward the back door, and Declan brushed past him, as cheerful and confident as British royalty.

  In the kitchen, Declan unwired the cork on his champagne bottle, and Diane McCarthy lined up flutes on the counter. The cork came out with a festive pop.

  “Pernod Ricard Perrier-Jouët, two-thousand-four,” Declan said, holding up the bottle. “It’s not quite as expensive as the Dom Pérignon Oenotheque Rose, two-thousand-six, but I think it tastes as exquisite, and I love the flowers on the bottle.” He poured the slightly golden liquid into flutes. “Please invite Kenji to join our celebration. We have much to talk about.”

  Diane handed Jessup a glass of bubbly.

  “He’s not here.”

  “When will he return?”

  Jessup shrugged.

  Declan glanced around the kitchen, lingering on the two things that were unusual: the ashes in the sink and the envelope on the counter. “I see you’re a man of few words, Mr. Connors. Would you tell me where I might find him? I’m sure his letter gave his destination, or you wouldn’t have destroyed it.”

  “We’re just simple ranch people here. We don’t like folks butting in, and we don’t give out information until we know why someone is asking questions.”

  Declan’s smile broadened as he held up his flute in a toast. “Mr. Connors, cheers.” He swallowed a thimbleful and seemed to roll it on his tongue. “Superlative.”

  Diane also sipped. Jessup drained his flute in one swallow. Declan refilled his glass.

  “As to the why, we want to congratulate him and his research partner, Miss Consuela Rocha y Villareal, for their discovery of the greatest scientific breakthrough in the history of mankind.” He took another sip, but his eyes never left Jessup’s face. Jessup felt like he was being dissected like a lab rat.

  He shook his head. “Kenji never mentioned any breakthrough.”

  “Mr. Connors,” Diane said, “Kenji and Consuela are leading authorities in the field of regenerative medicine. Let me show you something that will explain everything.” She set her flute on the counter and placed her briefcase on the walnut table. She sat before the case, popped open the latches, and removed a laptop.

  Jessup drained his second glass while she brought the computer to life and clicked an avatar. The monitor filled with a video of Kenji and Consuela in a lab setting. As he listened to Consuela spout off a lot of scientific jargon about altering human DNA, he felt the blood drain from his face. They claimed their breakthrough regenerated human tissue so effectively that a body could remain healthy for thousands of years. And with this ability to mass generate healthy cells, the body could reverse many forms of cancer, AIDS, heart disease, and even Alzheimer’s. Kenji made the outrageous claim that he was born during World War II, which would make him over seventy years old. Absurd, of course, because he looked not a day over thirty. Jessup had to admit, however, that during the last eleven years of living with him, Kenji had not aged, not a day.

  To prove their assertion, they showed an elderly Asian patient who they claimed had been treated moments before. The old man looked wrinkled and sickly. A clock on the bottom corner of the screen showed the passage of time. He went from looking ninety years old to a healthy forty years old in five hours, and with the aid of time-lapse photography, those hours sped by in three minutes.

  Then came the kicker. Consuela announced they would not share their research findings with anyone until every gun, bullet, bomb, tank, battleship, and nuclear warhead had been destroyed. “When the world is wholly disarmed, when there are no armies, when war and mass killing are no longer possible, then we will end disease and aging. Everyone will live for several thousand years. Nobody will suffer old age.”

  On screen, Kenji added, “We can wait centuries for you to de-arm. You, unfortunately, have little time if you wish to live.” He smiled, and the screen went dark.

  “Oh shit,” Jessup mumbled.

  “Spot-on, Mr. Connors,” Declan said. “You Americans have such cleve
r slang.”

  Diane closed her laptop. “Consuela posted this video on YouTube this morning at 6:00 a.m. Eastern time. Because of Consuela’s considerable fame and reputation as an exemplary scientist, nobody is doubting its authenticity. It scored a hundred and sixty million hits before YouTube crashed. The world is going crazy over it.”

  “You see, old boy,” Declan said, “Consuela disappeared after she made that post. We want to tether Kenji before he vanishes as well. They’re hiding because they’re in severe peril.”

  Jessup grabbed the champagne bottle, pressed it to his lips, and upended it. He emptied the bottle and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

  “You’re not as simple as you would have us think, Mr. Connors,” Declan said. “You see the gravity of this situation. They’ve engineered a formula worth several trillion dollars, over time, perhaps a hundred trillion. Everybody on the planet will pursue them—every government, every drug company, every bounty hunter. No telling what will happen if the KGB or the CIA get to them first. I have the resources to protect them. I can safeguard them and the formula, but we need to find them in a hurry.”

  Jessup’s head spun from the champagne. He sat at the table. It was all too preposterous. He thought of Kenji’s note, telling him to trust no one. These people had, no doubt, concocted this harebrained story to get information from him, information he didn’t have. But no—he had a flash drive in his shirt pocket. He cupped his hand over his heart.

  Diane said, “The research facility where they worked burned to the ground last night. We suspect Kenji and Consuela set off firebombs to destroy any trace of their research. We have our best and brightest sifting through the ashes for any documentation. So far we’ve found nothing. I think they truly mean to stay hidden until the world de-arms.”

  Jessup didn’t know what to think or who to believe.

  Declan said, “It might help to search his belongings here. Perhaps we’ll find clues as to what they discovered or where to find them.”

  Jessup rose and squared his shoulders. “You have no right to make demands. This is my ranch.” His confusion morphed into anger, and he made no attempt to hide it.

  “We have every right,” Declan said, his voice rising. “They worked for my company, using my equipment and my money. That formula belongs to Golden Eagle Industries!”

  Ordering them to leave was on the tip of Jessup’s tongue when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see his father standing at the doorway to the living room. Blake stood erect, his cheeks rosy, eyes clear, and his now darkened hair jutting out at rakish angles. He wore a threadbare blue robe adorned with Mickey Mouse and Pluto. Jessup didn’t recognize him; he seemed years younger, and the scar on his jaw was missing. To Jessup, it was like looking in the mirror.

  Blake cleared his throat. “Why don’t you all quit jabbering and fix some lunch. I’m so damned hungry I could eat a bear.”

  “Oh shit,” Jessup mumbled through his third shock of the day.

  Chapter Five

  THE FLIGHT from the Promesa Rota to LAX took forty minutes. The drive into downtown Los Angeles took two hours, and they still had miles to go. Stopped traffic clogged the freeway. Far ahead in a brown haze of exhaust fumes, an 18-wheeler rested, jackknifed across all but one lane. Cars trickled through the open lane like sand through an hourglass. Much as Declan Hughes loved cruising in his Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, he fidgeted. “Damn this traffic! A fifty-dollar bill waiting on a pocket full of nickels. This is precisely why we need a helipad on the Golden Eagle headquarters building.”

  Diane McCarthy placed a hand on his. “Another twenty minutes won’t matter.”

  “Every second they’re getting farther away and harder to find.” Declan pulled the notes from his briefcase, the only research documentation they were able to find at the charred lab where Kenji and Consuela worked. A series of firebombs detonated in all areas of the research center—just hours before Consuela posted her video on YouTube—incinerated everything of importance. He reread the references to “back translation from proteins” to determine the RNA, “hence to the DNA transcription.” Nothing extraordinary about that. Farther down, however, it referenced using sterioisomers in translating the enhanced RNA sequences in protein molecules.

  The documents, what little there were, gave enough information to convince Declan the research team had a full understanding of DNA purification and restructuring subunit composition techniques, yet it fell short of revealing any of the key facts. It did, however, lead up to those facts with chilling accuracy.

  “They’ve done it. They’ve really done it, and that makes them the most dangerous people in history. They’ve not only mapped out the whole DNA chain, they know how to restructure it to make humans virtually immortal.”

  He thought about his next move, reached for his phone, and called the president’s science advisor, Jeffery Wolfe. Wolfe’s official handle in Washington, DC, was “Secretary to the President for Science and Technology, and also Educational Liaison.” Secretaries to the president, Declan knew, were thick as fleas on a Bangkok street dog. The job was a real one, of sorts. He sat on several advisory boards and met with delegations of teachers and members of the scientific community who descended on Washington; he documented their problems and got them passes for White House tours.

  It took fifteen minutes to bulldoze his way through a barrier of secretaries just to talk with Wolfe’s personal assistant.

  “Mr. Hughes, we’ve been calling you all morning.” Her voice held a tone of relief.

  “You couldn’t have tried very damned hard. I’ve had my cell with me the whole time. Patch me through, and tell him this is the most important call he’ll ever take.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m forwarding you to Secretary Wolfe.”

  Declan took deep breaths to calm himself. His fingers still trembled, and he couldn’t decide if that was from nervousness or elation.

  Jeffery Wolfe’s voice burst through the phone. “My God, Declan, is it true?”

  “I believe it is, but we’ve encountered a snag. I need your help.”

  “Anything. The president is adamant we secure this as soon as possible.” His tone was professional. “She also wants a face-to-face with you at Camp David five minutes ago. I’ve got a jet waiting for you at LAX. How soon can you get there?”

  “In this traffic, two hours. Hold a second.” Declan turned to Diane. “We’re going back to the airport to catch a plane to Camp David. Call my personal assistant, and tell him to pack a bag for each of us and drive them to the airport ASAP.”

  “I’m going with you?”

  He nodded as he lifted the phone again. “My two key scientists have disappeared with all the research data. You need to organize a nationwide manhunt. I’ll have my secretary email you all their personal information. Use the CIA, FBI, military, local police, and the Boy Scouts if you have to. There’s no time to lose.”

  “The FBI’s already on it,” Wolfe said. “We got them involved as soon as we heard about the death threats.”

  “Death threats?”

  “The ayatollah of Iran ordered a fatwa on both your scientists. We have hard evidence that the pope has joined forces with them and is funding them. We suspect Israel is in on it too. So you see, there’s already a manhunt going on. We’re moving as fast as we can with everything we’ve got.”

  “What the hell is a fatwa?” Declan asked, knowing it couldn’t be good.

  “An assassination contract. It’s now the holy duty of every Muslim to kill your scientists. Iran put a ten-million-dollar bounty on each head. I’m arranging a Secret Service security team to protect you, in case your name pops up on that list.”

  “I can’t believe the pope would do that, even behind the scenes.”

  “Really? Any idea how many billions of dollars flow into the Vatican every year?”

  “But why, Jeff, would anything change for them?”

  The expression on Diane’s face turned from conc
ern to shock.

  “Religions have a love-hate relationship with death,” Wolfe said. “Fear of dying is the source of their power, not to mention their income. I mean, if everyone lives forever, who the hell cares about an afterlife? So nobody’ll drop money in the collection plates.”

  “Okay, I get it. Goddamn that YouTube video.”

  Diane touched his arm, obviously trying to calm him.

  Declan continued without looking at her, “That’s the price we pay for allowing people to wallow in religious ignorance. It’s high time we sweep the myth of a God into the cosmic dustbin, as we did with a flat earth, babies delivered by storks, and the GOP concerned about the middle class.”

  “Right, well, let’s hope we find your people long before that happens. The FBI is swarming the airports, shipping ports, and border inspection units. Our first priority is to contain them in this country.”

  “Thanks for your help, Jeff. I’m feeling better already.”

  “Declan, if it were anybody other than Consuela Rocha y Villareal making these claims…. I mean, changing a person’s DNA to cure cancer, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and heart disease, I’d be treating this as some crank stunt.”

  “Jeff, can we shut down all flights in and out of the country?”

  “That would cause a panic, so that’s a presidential call. Believe me, we understand this situation is vital. We’ll do everything possible.”

  “Okay, I’ll call again when I get to the airport.”

  Declan switched off his phone and bounced it off the car seat. “Dammit!”

  Diane picked up the phone and placed it on the seat between them. “This means I’ll finally meet Madam President?”