by Mark Alpert
The veep was so horrified, it looked like he was having trouble breathing. He swallowed hard, and the air whistled out of his throat. For a long while he said nothing and just stared at Ahmed, whose eyebrows were bleeding from the repeated blows against the glass. Then the vice president pressed his lips together firmly and turned back to Grant. “Our administration has a clear-cut strategy for fighting terrorism. We’ve reinforced our borders to stop the terrorists from getting into America. And we’ve launched military operations around the world to thin the ranks of our enemies and deprive them of any secure base of operations.”
This sounded suspiciously formal, like a line from a campaign speech. Grant nodded but didn’t say anything. Keller was the better person to discuss policy issues, and after a moment the K-Man stepped forward and faced the vice president.
“You know as well as I do that our strategy isn’t working. There are more terrorists than ever in Africa and the Middle East. And their internet propaganda has inspired hundreds of American citizens to take up their cause.”
The veep shook his head. “No one said it would be easy. But we’re making progress.”
“No, we’re not. Trust me, I’m in charge of all our antiterrorism initiatives, and I’ve seen all the classified reports. The more troops we send to Yemen and Afghanistan and Somalia, the more we turn the people of those countries against us.” Keller pointed at Ahmed, who now leaned against the mirror, exhausted, pressing his battered forehead to the blood-smeared glass. “Every day, we’re creating more terrorists like this one. It’s a failing plan. We have to try something new.”
The veep’s face reddened. He opened his mouth, but he was so flustered that it took him a couple of seconds to get the words out. “So is this monster behind the glass part of your new plan?” He glanced at Ahmed, then quickly turned away. “Did you change his genes too? If so, I’m disappointed, Vance, because it doesn’t look like you’ve improved him very much.”
Keller gave him a patient smile. “No, we didn’t change his genes. Whenever we test a new idea, we need to have a control subject who doesn’t receive the experimental treatment. That gives us a baseline we can use to make comparisons. Ahmed Yasin is the control subject for this experiment. We didn’t do anything to him.” The K-Man turned to Grant. “Colonel, can you show us the test subject who did receive the treatment?”
Grant headed for the steel door at the far end of the room. He used his security card again to unlock the door, then held it open for the others. “You’re going into another observation room that’s identical to this one. Please be careful.”
He repeated the same steps as before. The vice president and his Secret Service men filed into the room, stumbling in the dark and coughing nervously. Once everyone was inside, Grant flipped the switch that pulled back the black curtain. Just like before, they saw an interrogation room through the one-way mirror, with a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor. But there were two people in this room, a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit and a guard in a black uniform, both sitting on the chairs. And on the table between them was a feast: a large bowl of yellow rice, a platter heaped with roast chicken, a pile of pita bread, a ceramic teapot and two cups.
The prisoner in this room wasn’t handcuffed or shackled. He was heavyset but apparently in good health, with a long, full beard hanging from his face and a crisp, white turban wrapped around his head. He was eating the chicken and rice with gusto and talking animatedly with the guard, an FSU officer who used to work as an interpreter for the army. Grant hit the switch that turned on the audio feed, and although the two men were talking in Arabic, the tone of their conversation was clear. They were chatting and laughing, having a great time.
Grant turned off the audio, then pointed at the prisoner. “That man is Hassan Mohammed—the terrorist who used to be Ahmed’s boss, the leader of Al-Qaeda in Yemen. The CIA captured him by accident four months ago when his new driver took a wrong turn and they cruised right into the agency’s drone base. The agents interrogated him just as hard as they did Ahmed, and once again they failed to get anything out of him. But then they sent Hassan to us, and we injected him with a new CRISPR treatment. We call it the Serenity sequence.”
Grant paused to let Keller continue the story. This was the final stop of their VIP inspection tour, and now they were gearing up for the climax. The K-Man stepped close to the vice president and grasped his elbow. “Our animal studies laid the groundwork for this particular treatment. There’s a long history of genetic manipulation of domestic animals to make them tame. For thousands of years, farmers selectively bred their cows and horses and dogs, using trial-and-error breeding techniques to eventually produce animals that were less troublesome and more obedient. Our researchers identified the genetic changes associated with tameness, the specific DNA sequences that make docile animals different from their wild cousins. Then we devised a CRISPR treatment that could make the same changes to human DNA.”
The veep was speechless. His face had turned bright pink and his forehead glistened with sweat. He tried to say something, but his Adam’s apple bobbed and his whole body trembled. He raised one of his quivering hands to massage his throat, kneading the loose skin under his jaw. “I … I don’t … I can’t…”
“This is the solid proof I was talking about. CRISPR turned this terrorist into a cooperative informant, eager to help us. And thanks to the information he provided, the Air Force was able to destroy seven Al-Qaeda camps in Yemen and eliminate almost all their leaders. It was one of the greatest victories ever in the War on Terror.” Keller pointed at the jovial Hassan, who was shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. “What’s more, we can repeat this success. We can inject the same treatment into all the suspected terrorists in our custody. And now that Phase Three is almost ready, we’ll have a more effective way to deliver the CRISPR molecules to their intended recipients. We’ll be able to pacify an entire village at once. Maybe even the entire Middle East.”
The K-Man waited for the vice president to say something, but all the veep could do was open his mouth wide and let out a strangled croak. At the same time, three of his Secret Service agents collapsed. They started convulsing on the floor of the observation room, foam dribbling from the corners of their mouths. The other three agents finally realized what was going on, but they were too feverish and weak to respond fast enough. Before they could pull their guns from their holsters, Frazier lunged across the room and bashed their heads in.
Now all the Secret Service men lay on the floor, either dead or dying. The vice president was the only visitor left standing, and that was only because Keller held him up by his elbow. The veep was twitching and jerking, clutching his throat, spitting up mucus and blood. But the K-Man held him close, as if they were lovers.
“You see, we developed a new virus for carrying the CRISPR treatment. It’s an airborne virus that enters your body when you breathe it in. Because it doesn’t need to be injected, it can spread the genetic changes much more quickly and efficiently. But we weren’t sure how fast it would work, so we set up this test.” He gently lowered the veep to the floor and knelt beside him. “For the purpose of the test, we designed a CRISPR molecule that kills lung tissue. When the virus infects a lung cell, the molecule makes genetic changes that dissolve the cell’s membrane. The researchers prepared trillions of these airborne viruses, and I released a vial of them into the cabin of our helicopter after we left the White House. Of course, I vaccinated myself against the virus first. And I made sure that Colonel Grant and his colleagues received the vaccine too.”
The vice president died while the K-Man was talking to him. Keller frowned at the corpse, then stood up and checked his watch. Then he looked at Grant. “It’s seven minutes to midnight. And I released the virus at ten-forty-two.”
Grant did the calculation in his head. “One hour and eleven minutes. Not bad. But chemical weapons can kill faster.”
Frazier left the room to get seven body bags. In the meanti
me, Keller lifted his right foot and closed the veep’s gaping mouth by tapping the corpse’s chin with the toe of his shoe. “The goal of Phase Three isn’t mass murder, Colonel. When we use this virus again, it will be carrying a much different treatment.”
Grant nodded. He knew what their goal was.
TWENTY
A burst of gunfire shattered the windows of Gracie Mansion’s library. Jenna grabbed Tamara’s arm and yanked her down to the carpet.
Frank the cop did the same thing for the mayor, pulling him down to the floor and out of the line of fire. Then, lying faceup, Frank drew his pistol and aimed at the beautiful Tiffany chandelier hanging from the ceiling. His shot obliterated the bowl of colored glass and the lightbulbs within, and the library went dark. Now it would be harder for the soldiers outside to target them.
Jenna should’ve been terrified, but she wasn’t. Over the past twenty-four hours she’d gotten a crash course in surviving police shoot-outs, and she’d learned the importance of keeping calm and staying low. She listened carefully to the battle outside the mansion: the thumping of the helicopters, the shouts of the soldiers, the sputtering gunshots. The Federal officers who’d leapt from the choppers were exchanging fire with the New York cops in front of the building. Their bullets smashed the windowpanes and strafed the library, whizzing across the room just a couple of feet above Jenna and Tamara. They were still too exposed. They needed to move away from the windows and find better cover.
Tamara lay on her stomach next to a bookcase. She’d removed her revolver from the waistband of her jeans and pointed it at one of the shattered windows, but the gun shook in her hands. Jenna crawled closer to her. “Tamara! Does this place have a basement?”
She didn’t respond. Her teeth chattered and her eyes stayed on the window, which still had a couple of unbroken panes. She’d probably never fired a gun before. Or been shot at either.
Jenna touched her arm, which was tense and trembling. “Listen to me, okay? We can’t stay here. Is there a basement in this building?”
Keeping her eyes on the window, Tamara nodded. “There’s a staff office down there.” She jerked her head to the left. “The stairs are that way, past the dining room.”
Jenna turned to Frank, who also lay on his stomach, pointing his gun at one of the windows. The mayor cringed beside him on the carpet, curling his lanky frame into a ball. Jenna whistled to get their attention. “Come on! We’re going to the office downstairs!”
Then she scrambled out of the library. After a moment of hesitation, the others followed.
More gunfire pummeled the mansion as Jenna crawled on her hands and knees across the dining room. She winced at the noise but didn’t slow down. This was a bad situation, but it wasn’t any worse than the shoot-out at Green-Wood Cemetery or the massacre at Bay Parkway or the firefight outside her apartment building in Brighton Beach. She had a chance of surviving it if she didn’t lose her head, so she kept her focus on reaching the stairway. Tamara crawled behind her, and Frank brought up the rear, practically dragging DeMarco across the floor. They were going along with her plan because it made sense, she guessed. Or maybe because they were petrified and couldn’t think of anything better.
Soon she found the steps and hurried down to the basement. There were no windows here, so Jenna felt safe enough to stand up. The others stood up too and ran behind her down the corridor. Within seconds they reached a large windowless office, with a desk, a conference table, an antique chair, and a pair of file cabinets. Once they were all inside, Frank closed the heavy fireproof door and locked its dead bolt. Then he shoved both of the file cabinets behind it for good measure. They could still hear the helicopters outside the mansion and the jarring gunfire, but the noises were muffled.
Jenna got the feeling that DeMarco rarely used this office. The file cabinets were dusty, and the conference table was crowded with outdated computers and fax machines and even a couple of manual typewriters. The mayor’s main office was in City Hall, where all the top officials worked, and he probably used this room only if an emergency came up late at night and he needed a private place to make a phone call. On the desk was an old-fashioned speakerphone with a lot of black buttons, but when Jenna picked up the receiver she didn’t hear a dial tone. The soldiers must’ve already cut the mansion’s telephone and cable lines.
DeMarco leaned against one of the file cabinets, panting and heaving. Tamara stood next to him, still holding her revolver but pointing it at the floor. Both of them were in bad shape, and Frank looked shell-shocked too. He put his gun back in its holster and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he grabbed his police radio from his belt and pressed the TALK button.
“This is Sergeant Frank O’Connor at Gracie Post.” He shouted into the radio’s mouthpiece. “Ten-thirteen, ten-thirteen, we need immediate assistance. Any unit, please respond!”
He took his finger off the button, and a burst of loud static came out of the radio’s speaker. Frank waited several seconds, but there was no response. So he tried again.
“Repeat, this is O’Connor at Gracie. We got a Level Four emergency here. Can anyone hear me?”
Again, there was no response except the blast of static. By this point, Tamara and DeMarco had pulled out their cell phones, but it was clear from their expressions that neither one could get a signal. And Jenna knew why. It was Physics 101, the basic laws of electromagnetics. She’d studied the subject during her freshman year at Columbia.
“The Feds are jamming us.” Jenna pointed at the ceiling. “One of their helicopters must have a transmitter that’s broadcasting radio noise. The noise is louder than our radio transmissions, so it’s blocking them.”
The mayor stared at her. He cocked his long head and narrowed his eyes, and at first Jenna thought he was giving her a look of disbelief. But then he curled his lip and bared his teeth, and Jenna realized he was enraged. He moved away from the file cabinets and confronted her. “Did you know this was going to happen? Because it’s pretty damn suspicious. First you show up here to tell me about genetic experiments and super-soldiers, and five minutes later the fucking army starts shooting at us.”
Tamara stepped between them and got in DeMarco’s face. “You’re being ridiculous, okay? I brought Jenna here. She had nothing to do with this attack.”
“She worked in their labs, didn’t she? The FSU’s genetics project?” DeMarco pointed at Jenna, stretching his long right arm over Tamara’s shoulder. “That’s what started this mess, right?”
“But she’s not with them anymore. She didn’t—”
“She and the other scientists, they’re all to blame. They helped the Feds do their illegal experiments, and now the administration thinks they can get away with anything. They think they can shut up everyone they don’t like and take over everything they don’t already control.”
Jenna shook her head. “I opposed the experiments on humans. Believe me, Mr. Mayor, I had no idea they would do this.”
“Yeah, that’s what the Nazis said. ‘We had no idea where all those trains full of Jews were going. We thought they were taking a long vacation or something.’”
“Bob, that’s enough!” Tamara placed a hand on the mayor’s chest and actually shoved him backward. “We don’t have time to fight each other. We need to figure out a plan.”
DeMarco retreated until he leaned against the file cabinets again. He scowled at Tamara, hard and bitter. “A plan? Are you serious? The mansion is surrounded and we can’t call anyone for help. In five minutes the FSU men are gonna storm into the building and start checking all the rooms. How the fuck is a plan gonna help us?”
Tamara looked at the mayor with surprise and disgust. Sergeant Frank O’Connor didn’t seem very happy either, and Jenna was dazed. She turned away from the others and went to the other side of the office, moving slowly and stiffly. She stopped beside the conference table and looked down at all the electronic junk heaped on top of it. She could see her reflection in the blank screen of one of th
e old computers.
Although she didn’t want to admit it, there was some truth in what DeMarco had said. She was partly responsible for Palindrome. Even in the early days of the project she could’ve guessed where it was headed, and she should’ve tried to stop it. She should’ve ignored all the confidentiality agreements she’d signed and called The New York Times and CNN and her congressman’s office. She should’ve warned them all about what the researchers in her lab were doing.
To her shame, though, the idea of stopping Palindrome had never even occurred to her. She’d been too busy designing experiments and analyzing the results. She’d hoped the research would help Raza—at least at the beginning, before his CRISPR treatment failed—but to be honest, helping her brother had never been her primary motivation. From the start, the driving force for Jenna had been sheer scientific greed. She’d wanted to explore and comprehend everything. She couldn’t stand the thought that Nature was keeping secrets from her, maybe because she was so angry at Nature for killing her mother and crippling her brother. So she’d devoted her life to extracting those secrets. It was a special kind of revenge. Nothing else mattered.
It made her sick to think about it. She grimaced at her reflection on the dead screen. She wanted to smash the thing.
Instead, she forced herself to stare at something else. She looked past the old computers and spotted an even older piece of equipment at the far end of the table. It was a rectangular console, as big as a suitcase, with knobs and switches on the front and a couple of six-inch speakers. It looked like it dated from the 1940s, a vintage radio for calling ships at sea or cargo planes headed for the war in Europe. It was so old, it might’ve belonged to Fiorello La Guardia, the New York mayor whom they named the lousy airport after.