by Mark Alpert
And now, on top of all that, Grant had to worry about Derek Powell.
Until a few months ago, Powell was the ideal soldier. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, educated at West Point, and trained to be a warrior at the Army Ranger School in Georgia. He did three tours of duty in Afghanistan, leading Special Operations teams against the Taliban and Islamic State jihadis. By his third tour, though, the war wasn’t going so well. The terrorists were taking over the country, and the Rangers were badly outnumbered and taking major losses. The U.S. Army desperately needed to give its soldiers an edge.
That’s where Grant came in. He was a Special Ops veteran with decades of experience in all the Middle East shit shows, so he knew which skills the Rangers needed. Keller assigned him to work with Palindrome’s scientists to find the right mix of genetic enhancements for the soldiers. Grant never completely understood the researchers’ techniques—his policy was to leave the science to the scientists—but basically it involved a carefully designed molecule that could cut and paste the DNA inside a cell. The researchers produced viruses that contained the building blocks for this molecule, then injected the microbes into the Rangers. Then the viruses would invade the soldiers’ cells and rejigger their chromosomes.
There was more to it than that, but Grant didn’t have to know all the details. What he cared about were the results, and Phase One of the Palindrome Project was pretty damn successful. The scientists injected the viruses into a hundred volunteers from the Rangers’ Third Battalion and put them all into a new unit under the command of Derek Powell, who’d also volunteered for the injections. And over the next three months, the unit’s performance was outstanding. Their casualty rate plummeted, and their kill rate skyrocketed.
But it was a radical experiment, so there were bound to be problems. Some of the soldiers developed serious complications: skin lesions, seizures, internal bleeding. And a few Rangers began to exhibit some very peculiar behaviors. One man refused to eat anything but chewing gum. Another stopped talking and would communicate with the other soldiers only by Morse code. The symptoms were all over the map, because every man’s DNA was different and the interactions between the redesigned genes were so complex. But the researchers assured Grant that they could fix the problems. It was a trial-and-error process, they said, just like any other scientific investigation.
Then, during a night raid on one of the Taliban villages, Powell broke away from his team and ran straight toward the enemy. It was a suicide move, completely insane. All alone, he sprinted a quarter mile under heavy fire and fought his way into the mud-walled compound where the jihadis were holed up. Then, just to make things worse, another Ranger team called in an air strike on the village, and a B-52 dropped a dozen five-hundred-pound bombs on the shit-pile. The next morning, they found a hundred charred bodies at the site, most of them dismembered or half-buried or fused together. The soldiers assumed that Powell’s body was somewhere in the heap, but it was impossible to tell which corpse was his.
But no one actually saw Powell die. And now here he was, back in Brooklyn, running around with one of the scientists who’d turned him into Superman.
Grant finished his second cigarette and reached for a file on the table. It was the Jenna Khan file, which was getting thicker by the hour as Grant’s aides investigated the woman’s background. Her employment and academic records were in the file, as well as half a dozen photos. She was pretty hot, actually. A sexy little Pakistani, as brown and curvy as a harem girl.
Until the night before, he’d never heard of her. She was just a name on a list, one of the 213 researchers working on Palindrome. None of the scientists at her level knew how the army was using their research—that information was restricted to the lab directors—so there was no need to monitor her for security reasons. There was one black mark on her record: ten months ago she’d refused to conduct an experiment testing the effects of the gene-editing molecule on samples of human brain cells. But that wasn’t so unusual. Three other researchers at her lab had also objected to the experiment on moral grounds, and they’d all been dismissed. The Khan girl was kept on for practical reasons—she was an expert on the genetics of behavior, and her research on animals was yielding useful results. But when she finished her animal experiments six months later, she was fired too.
At that point, she fell off the government’s radar, because everyone assumed there was no reason to worry about her. She’d signed a confidentiality agreement when she worked at the lab, and the Feds could arrest her if she revealed anything about Palindrome afterward. Her family was poor and vulnerable: Hamid Khan, her father, was a green-card holder who’d immigrated thirty-two years ago, but he’d never applied for citizenship, and after the crackdown on Muslim immigrants he lost his job at Flatbush Taxi Service. The mother was deceased—sudden cardiac arrest, twelve years ago—and Jenna’s brother was severely handicapped, both physically and mentally. The Khans were in such bad financial shape that they couldn’t even leave South Brooklyn after the riots in June, when the government established the Federal Service District and all the decent people got out of there.
But then Colonel Grant took the precaution of rounding up all the Palindrome researchers, and he quickly realized that he should’ve paid more attention to Jenna Khan. Grant’s investigators were still trying to figure out her connection to Derek Powell, but in the meantime they’d discovered something even more surprising, and it involved Jenna’s brother. Sitting on the table in front of Grant was a separate file on Raza Khan, a folder that was just as thick as his sister’s. And now, even though the colonel had dozens of interrogators at his disposal, he was going to interview the Khans himself. He wanted to get a good look at Raza and try to understand why the Palindrome scientists had suddenly become so interested in him.
At noon on the dot, the heavy steel door swung open, and a pair of guards brought the prisoners into the interrogation room. Both of the Khans wore orange jumpsuits and were in restraints: Hamid’s hands were cuffed behind his back, and Raza was strapped into a wheelchair. One of the guards sat Hamid down in the immovable chair that was across the table from Grant, while the other officer wheeled Raza to a spot next to his father. Then the guards left the room. Grant didn’t want them listening in, and he didn’t need their help anyway.
Hamid was nervous as hell. His balding head was slick with sweat. His nose was purple from the beatdown that the arresting officers had given him, and his cheeks twitched with anxiety. He was in his late fifties, short and pudgy and aging fast, a sad sack who’d graduated from a top university in Pakistan but couldn’t find any work in America except driving a taxi. In other words, pathetic and uninteresting. Grant gave him a quick once-over, then concentrated on his son.
Raza leaned against the wheelchair’s straps, his torso arched and his head tilted backward. His skin-and-bone arms hung limply at his sides, the stiff hands curved like hooks in his lap. The jumpsuit was much too big for him—the short sleeves came all the way down to his elbows, and the pants billowed like drapes around his legs. His face was the color of wet sand and shaped like a wedge. It narrowed sharply to his beak of a nose and his gaping mouth.
Grant shook his head. He couldn’t believe the kid had survived for so long. According to Raza’s file, his illness had paralyzed him at the age of thirteen, and now he was twenty-three. He hadn’t walked or talked in ten years.
And yet Raza’s eyes were alive. They surveyed the interrogation room, moving slowly and methodically from left to right. Then they came to a stop and focused on Grant. Raza’s eyes locked on him, fierce and penetrating, their dark irises glittering under the room’s fluorescent lights. It startled Grant, it was so intense. The boy’s gaze was violent, almost frightening.
Grant turned away from the kid and frowned. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I’m jumpy as hell. He’d been working nonstop for so long, he was starting to get wacky. As soon as he was done with these two, he was going to lie down for a while.
He turned ba
ck to Hamid. Enough fucking around. Time to get down to business. “Mr. Khan, you know why you’re here, right? Why we arrested you and your son and brought you to this detention facility?”
This was a standard opening line for any interrogation. Most suspects weren’t too bright, and often they’d blurt out the truth if you intimated that you already knew it. But Hamid shook his head, quickly and decisively. “No, sir, I do not. I honestly believe that someone has made a mistake.”
His English was formal and precise, with a trace of a British accent. A lot of educated Pakistanis sounded like that. But they usually started blubbering once you applied a little pressure.
“You have no idea at all, Mr. Khan?”
“Truly, I don’t. I have a green card, and all my papers are in order. And both my daughter and son are American citizens. They were born in this country, and I could show you their birth certificates if—”
“Let’s talk about your daughter for a minute. You know where Jenna is right now?”
The question threw him. He blinked a few times, clearly confused. “Well, isn’t she in the women’s section of this prison? All three of us were arrested at the same time, so I assumed she—”
“No, she’s not here. She got away from the arresting officers and now she’s on the run. And we have a strict policy about fugitives: we go after them hard. If your daughter doesn’t turn herself in very soon, I’m going to order my men to take extreme measures. That means if they spot her running away from them, they’ll shoot her on sight.”
Hamid’s eyes widened. “Please, sir, don’t do that!” He half-rose from his seat and leaned across the table. “Why would you shoot her? She’s done nothing wrong!”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure! She’s an exceptional girl. She graduated first in her class at Columbia and—”
“Did you know that Jenna was stealing experimental drugs from the lab where she worked? Drugs that she used to perform unauthorized treatments on your son?” Grant pointed at Raza but didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to get distracted again. “She was clever about it, so the lab director never discovered the thefts. But my men have begun a thorough investigation of your daughter, and they’ve found discrepancies in the requisition forms she filled out.”
Hamid opened his mouth but said nothing. His face took on a dark look of despair. He sank back down to his seat and lowered his head. He stared at the floor. “Please. You have to understand. She was just trying to help her brother. Is it fair to punish her for that?”
“What exactly was she trying to do?”
Grant already knew the answer to this question—it was in the Raza Khan file—but he wanted to hear Hamid say it. The strategy here was to get the ball rolling. With any luck, one confession would lead to another.
“Raza’s illness is a rare genetic disease.” Hamid glanced at his son, then looked down at the floor again. “Before he became sick, he was a normal, happy boy. And very smart too, a genius at mathematics. But everything changed after he turned thirteen. His disease is so rare that no one had ever studied it in detail, but Jenna had a theory. She believed the problem was a faulty gene that was linked to the genes that control sexual development. That’s why Raza’s symptoms didn’t appear until he approached puberty.”
Grant nodded. “And Jenna thought she could fix his faulty gene? Using the drugs from her lab?”
“Yes, that was the goal. She said she’d custom-designed a drug that she thought would help Raza. And it did help him, at least at first. His breathing improved and he seemed more responsive. But then his condition got much worse, and Jenna stopped the treatment.”
“Was anyone at the lab helping her?”
Hamid shook his head firmly. “No, definitely not. She didn’t want to get anyone else in trouble. She knew it was wrong to steal from her employer, but she was willing to do anything to cure her brother.”
Now Grant was ready to spring a surprise on him. He opened the Jenna Khan file, pulled out a photograph, and held it up for Hamid to see. “What about this man? Have you ever seen him with Jenna?”
It was a picture of Derek Powell in camouflage fatigues. The photo was taken almost a year ago, before Powell became a Palindrome subject, but it was the most recent picture Grant could find. Hamid stared at it intently, furrowing his sweaty brow. Then he shook his head again. “No, I’ve never seen him. He looks like a soldier.”
Grant studied Hamid carefully. The puzzled look on the guy’s face seemed genuine. If Hamid was lying, he was doing a good job of hiding it. “Did Jenna have a boyfriend? Maybe someone you never met?”
Hamid shook his head a third time, but now he didn’t seem so certain. “Jenna gave up on boyfriends. The last time she went on a date was months and months ago. She said she didn’t have time for it—she worked twelve-hour days at the lab, sometimes even longer. And after she lost her job, she spent all her time looking for a new position. It became very difficult to look for work after they shut down the subway service to our neighborhood, but—”
“She told you she was looking for work, but isn’t it possible that she was actually seeing somebody?” Grant held up the photo of Powell again. “Maybe she was meeting this guy somewhere?”
Hamid fell silent. He bit his lower lip as he thought it over, probably recalling his recent conversations with his daughter, wondering if there was anything he’d missed. Grant leaned back in his chair and gave the guy some time. For a moment he thought about his own kids, how they tried to hide everything from him, especially after their mother turned against him. He grimaced at the thought. Forget those bastards. Don’t waste another second on them. You got more important things to do.
Then Raza broke the silence. The fucked-up cripple let out an ugly grunt, loud enough to echo against the room’s bare walls. It was the kind of noise that an old, senile hag would make, bellowing her fury from her bed in the nursing home, unable to use words because she’s forgotten how to speak English. But when Grant turned his head at the sound, the kid glared at him so furiously that there was no doubt he’d understood every word of the interview. He knew exactly what Grant was doing. His emaciated body didn’t move an inch, but it seemed like he was looking right through Grant’s skull. Raza stared at him in disgust, peering with contempt at his innermost thoughts.
Grant squeezed the armrests of his chair. His heart was pounding. All of a sudden, he was terrified.
Shit! Stop looking at me, you fucking freak!
At the same time, Hamid turned to his son. He leaned as far he could toward the wheelchair, straining against the handcuffs behind his back. He obviously wanted to put his arms around the boy. “It’s all right, Raza. Everything’s fine.” His voice was softer now, less formal. “We’ll be going home soon. I just need to clear up this mistake.”
Grant took a deep breath, struggling to calm himself. The researchers were right: the kid was abnormal, different from everyone else in a very fucking fundamental way. They’d come to that conclusion after Grant’s investigators showed them the evidence of Jenna’s secret treatment of the boy, in particular the striking changes she’d made to his DNA. (She’d recorded the results of the genetic procedure on her laptop, which the FSU officers had found in her apartment.) But Grant could see the kid’s strangeness without looking at his genes. The fucker was off the deep end. Totally gonzo.
Hamid muttered something to Raza, a couple of soothing words in another language, probably Urdu or Punjabi. Then he turned back to Grant. “I know my daughter very well, sir, and I can tell you with full confidence that she wasn’t involved with this soldier. But if you still wish to speak with Jenna, I can try to help you find her, as long as you promise not to use any violence.”
Grant was breathing a little easier by this point, coming back to normal. The terror subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, and now he felt only humiliation and anger. He hated all of these Khans. He wanted to punish the whole family. “And how would you help us,
Mr. Khan? Do you have some idea where Jenna might be?”
“No, unfortunately I don’t.” Hamid gave him an apologetic look. “But I’m her father, so I’ll work harder than anyone else to make sure she comes home. I’ll walk up and down the streets, calling her name. I’ll print flyers with her picture on them and put them up everywhere.” He tilted his head toward Raza. “But you’ll have to release both of us from this prison before I can do all those things.”
Grant smiled, marveling at the Pakistani’s boldness. He really thought he could talk his way out of this. He didn’t understand just how much things had changed. “No, that won’t help. We’re going to keep you right here until we find her.” He pointed at Raza again without looking at him. “But we’re going to move your son to a different building on the island, a medical facility. Our staff there will be able to give him better care.”
Hamid jumped to his feet. His lips quivered in alarm. “I need to go with him to that facility. Raza becomes very agitated when he’s left alone.”
“He won’t be alone. Some of the finest doctors in the world will be treating him. Trust me, they’ll give him plenty of attention.”
“No, you don’t understand!” His voice rose in pitch. The guy was starting to blubber, just as Grant had predicted. “Raza needs me. He’ll go out of his mind if I’m not there!”
Grant stood up, stepped around the table, and went to the door. He opened it and gestured at the pair of guards in the corridor. “The interview’s over. Take Khan back to his cell, and take the kid to the Research Center.”
Hamid turned around and stood between the guards and his son’s wheelchair. “Please! You can’t do this!”
The bigger of the two guards marched toward him. “Get out of the way. Now.”
“It’s not legal! It’s—”
The guard socked him in the stomach. Hamid doubled over, gasping for breath, and the guard deftly grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the interrogation room.