The Genesis Code

by Christopher Forrest

  Metro Transit Bus

  Uptown Manhattan, New York

  The cool air-conditioning on the city bus was a godsend. They had run seven blocks from Dr. Ambergris’ brownstone before catching the bus at a busy intersection. Madison chose a seat near the back and collapsed onto the hard plastic. Grace plopped down next to him.

  When Grace finally caught her breath, she leaned over and whispered to Madison.

  “Did you see him? The Asian guy that ambushed Crowe?”

  “Yes,” said Madison, as he massaged his injured ankle.

  “Who the hell was that? And why did he just watch us from the closet until Crowe showed up?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Grace chewed on her bottom lip.

  “And he jumped out the window after us, but I didn’t see him chasing us once we hit the street. What was that about?”

  “Grace, I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  “I should have taken those letters. What a waste.”

  Grace slouched in her seat and laid her head against Madison’s shoulder.

  “Let me see the e-mail again.”

  He dug in his pocket and retrieved the folded page. Grace took the paper and unfolded it on her lap, smoothing the creases with her fingers. She contemplated the grid of numbers in silence for several minutes.

  “Okay, what do we know so far? Dr. Ambergris was trying to tell us something. Sixty-four numbers arranged in a grid. But not just any grid. These numbers form a Magic Square. And we know that the root of this Magic Square is two hundred and sixty. One year on the Mayan calendar.”

  “But now we’re stuck,” said Madison.

  “We must be missing something.”

  “I just don’t know much about the Maya.”

  “Neither do I. But the letters in Ambergris’ safe,” said Grace. “All from Dr. Bowman. Ambergris spent a lot of time with her. And I know she’s an expert on ancient civilizations. Maybe those letters were left for us to find.”

  Madison nodded. He looked down at his watch.

  “Ever been to Yale?” he asked.

  Crowe wiped the blood from his broken nose and dialed a number on his cell phone. A male voice answered the line.

  “Security.”

  “This is Crowe. I want you to pull Dr. Joshua Ambergris’ phone logs for the last eight weeks.”

  “Shall I take a number and ring you back?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  Crowe kicked Ambergris’ desk chair with a savage spinning blow. It crashed against the wall. Blood again trickled from his nose and dripped onto the floor.

  The voice came back on the line. “Okay, I have it. What are you looking for?”

  “Any calls to persons outside the facility other than his home or relatives. Look for anything out of the ordinary.”

  The security officer muttered to himself as he scanned the list of names and numbers.

  “Here’s an unusual one. Multiple calls to a Dr. Georgia Bowman. Yale University.”

  “Any others?”

  “Yes. Also multiple calls to Dr. Alberto Vasquez. University of Chicago.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Other than those, just the usual stuff.”

  Give me the numbers. And I need addresses as well.”

  Forty-seven

  Quiz’s Office

  Subbasement, Millennium Tower

  Manhattan, New York

  Quiz twisted the white cap off the pill bottle, tipped the bottle to one side, and coaxed a small blue pill onto the palm of his hand. He popped “Quiz’s little helper” into his mouth and swallowed hard, chasing down the bitter anticonvulsant with a shot of Diet Coke. He rubbed the cool aluminum can across his forehead.

  Madison was nowhere to be found. Out of ideas, Quiz had also tried to check in with Grace. No luck. Quiz was completely frustrated. And now he was down to his last Diet Coke.

  Dammit.

  A tinny, disembodied voice echoed from speakers overhead.

  “Attention, please. May I have your attention, please. The level one lockdown has now been lifted. The security drill has concluded. External communications have now been restored. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  His computer beeped and displayed an incoming systemwide communication from Triad Security.

  << PRIORITY COMMUNICATION >>

  << From: TRIAD GENOMICS SECURITY >>

  << Priority: BETA >>

  << To: ALL >>

  << Level one security lockdown is now lifted. >>

  << External communications restored. >>

  << Security drill complete. >>

  Thank God.

  From beneath the computer desk, Quiz’s chihuahua barked in agreement.

  Part II

  The oldest Egyptian or Hindu philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Who in his own skull confiding,

  Shall with rule and line

  Mark the borderland dividing

  Human and divine?

  —H. W. Longfellow, Hermes Trismegistus

  Forty-eight

  Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

  Yale University

  New Haven, Connecticut

  Yale University, originally called the Collegiate School, was founded in 1701 in the home of its first rector, Abraham Pierson. The fledgling institution was renamed Yale University in 1719, in honor of benefactor Elihu Yale, who made a gift to the university consisting of nine bales of goods, a portrait and arms of King George I, and about four hundred books.

  Since that time, Yale has added a few volumes to its collection.

  The Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, its edifice faced with translucent slices of marble to protect the collection from damaging sunlight, is one of the largest buildings in the world devoted entirely to rare books. The library’s central tower and underground stacks now contain over five hundred thousand volumes and several million manuscripts.

  A friendly inquiry at Yale’s Department of History revealed that Dr. Georgia Bowman had spent the afternoon engaged in research at the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. The department receptionist politely suggested that she might still be found there, pondering obscure volumes from the library’s expansive collections, in her usual corner of the fourth-floor reading room.

  A short stroll brought Grace and Madison to the center of the Yale campus. As they approached, the Beinecke Library appeared to hover over the granite plain of Beinecke Plaza in proportions of Platonic purity: the structure was exactly twice as deep as it was high, and three times as long. The cool gray granite and white marble of the library contrasted with the warmer stone and red brick of the adjacent Yale Law School and Berkeley College.

  “Christian,” said Grace, reaching out and taking Madison’s hand as they neared the revolving door in the library’s facade. “Thank you for what you did back there.”

  Grace stopped, turning to face Madison, still holding his hand.

  “When Crowe grabbed me, I was so scared. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t been there to stop him…”

  Her eyes welled up with tears.

  “You’re welcome,” said Madison. “I never liked him anyway.”

  Grace choked out a laugh, wiping the tears from her eyes with her free hand.

  “Hey, it’s the least I could do. You were there for me. Even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time. When Justin…”

  The memory breached the walls in his mind, pouring into his consciousness.

  Justin was a ghost of a child, lying thin and frail under the starched white sheets of a hospital bed. A tangle of tubes and wires crisscrossed his chest, connecting his dying body with IV bags, monitors, and machines.

>   The monotonous beep of a heart monitor ticked off the passage of seconds. Christian Madison sat at his bedside, gently holding Justin’s hand.

  Madison struggled to find words.

  “After Justin was gone, and Kate left, I didn’t think I was going to make it. I never told you how much…how much that time with you meant to me.”

  Grace blinked away another tear. “Then why? Why did you run away from me?”

  “I don’t know, Grace.”

  His face clouded with emotion.

  “You never told me why. Never considered my feelings when you ended it,” she said.

  “Do we have to do this now?” He closed his eyes. “I don’t think I can do this now.”

  Grace looked away, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. She turned her back to Madison and started walking toward the Beinecke Library.

  Madison wanted to tell her how he really felt. Wanted to reach out, take her into his arms, and tell her everything would be okay.

  Wait. Come back.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  Forty-nine

  The Palais des Nations

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Housed in the Palais des Nations overlooking Lake Geneva, the United Nations Office at Geneva (UNOG) is the second largest United Nations center after the United Nations Headquarters in New York. Unbeknownst to the UN staffers working on the premises, it also serves as the unofficial headquarters of the Order’s European membership.

  The secretary politely excused himself from a meeting of the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, exited the Palais des Nations’ E-Building through the first floor’s northern portico, and strolled through the forty-five-hectare Ariana Park toward the Villa le Bocage. Originally converted into office space for use by the United Nations, the nineteenth century villa had been quietly appropriated by the Order to serve as its European base of operations.

  The secretary was soon joined by a prominent member of the trade delegation from Italy.

  “Buon giorno,” said the Italian diplomat.

  The secretary inclined his head in greeting.

  A cooing peacock strutted across the stone path in front of them, its iridescent emerald tail feathers spread in a display of courtship.

  They walked together in silence.

  As they neared the villa, the secretary caught sight of the Celestial Sphere, a monument encircled by stands of hundred-year-old cedar trees. Its spherical frame was adorned with sixty-four gilded constellations and 260 silvered stars. A motor hidden in its base turned the sphere in slow revolutions around an axis aligned with the Pole Star.

  The secretary and the Italian trade delegate were the last to arrive at the villa. Inside, they joined four other well-known European officials who had also been inducted into the secret ranks of the Order. A luscious fresco depicting The Triumph of Venus looked down upon the group as they assembled around a rectangular conference table.

  The secretary convened the meeting.

  “I trust we are all well aware of the nature of the actions we are taking here today. We have a decision to make. Once this line has been crossed, there can be no turning back.”

  A French industrialist folded his hands on the table.

  “It is time,” he said. “Under Tanaka’s leadership, the Order has become reckless. His aggressive tactics pose a great threat to our plans. We cannot allow this madness to continue.”

  The secretary tipped his head back, staring up at the vaulted marble ceiling.

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I fear you are right.”

  The deputy consul from Russia banged on the table with a hairy fist. “I, for one, have had enough. It is time for a change in leadership.”

  Fifty

  Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

  Yale University

  New Haven, Connecticut

  The Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library is, in essence, a box within a box. Contained within thick exterior walls of stone and glass, bronze and marble, a glass-walled tower of books rises upward through the heart of the library. From the mezzanine below, Madison and Grace ascended a stairway that encircled the interior glass walls, spiraling upward through the core of the central tower.

  A lone female figure occupied the fourth-floor reading room.

  Seated at an oak table between the thick stone of the library’s exterior wall and the transparent panes of the glass book tower, Dr. Georgia Bowman communed with the dead. Immersed in the depths of an ancient Greek text, Bowman was oblivious to her surroundings, unaware that those few students who had occupied the tables around her had abandoned their studies as the afternoon drew to a close, leaving her in sole possession of the room.

  The scene brought the words of Henry David Thoreau to Grace’s mind: To read well—that is, to read true books in a true spirit—is a noble exercise…Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written.

  “Dr. Bowman?” asked Grace. Her voice sounded loud in the silence of the reading room.

  “Yes?” she answered, lifting her eyes from the page.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. My name is Grace Nguyen. I’m a geneticist. And this is Dr. Christian Madison.”

  Bowman looked around the room before fixing her gaze on the pair of scientists in front of her. Her eyes flitted back and forth between Grace and Madison as she examined their faces.

  “We work with Dr. Joshua Ambergris at Triad Genomics,” Grace offered.

  Bowman leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

  “You’re a long way from home, Ms. Nguyen.”

  “Dr. Nguyen, actually. But please call me Grace.”

  “What do you want, Dr. Nguyen?” asked Bowman.

  “Dr. Ambergris suggested that you might be able to answer some questions for us,” offered Madison.

  “I find that to be highly unlikely,” said Bowman.

  She closed the vellum tome on the table in front of her and removed her reading glasses, placing them gently on the leather cover of the Greek manuscript.

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. I will not be able to help you. And I have work to do. You are intruding. Good day.”

  “But Dr. Bowman—”

  “I said good day, Dr. Nguyen.”

  Grace was at a loss for words. She looked over at Madison.

  “Let’s go, Grace,” he said. “We’ve taken up enough of Dr. Bowman’s time.

  “But—”

  Madison took her by the hand and led Grace away from the table.

  “Something’s not right here,” he said when they were out of earshot. “We need to try a different approach.”

  Madison stopped near the stairway. Looking back toward the reading room, he could still see Dr. Bowman through a gap in the bookshelves lining the interior glass wall. She appeared deep in thought. After a moment, she rose from the table, leaving her glasses and briefcase, and walked toward the restrooms at the far end of the room.

  “I have an idea,” said Madison.

  He removed the printout of Ambergris’ e-mail from his pocket and unfolded the paper. When the door to the ladies’ restroom closed behind Dr. Bowman, he turned to Grace.

  “Wait here,” Madison said.

  “But what—”

  Grace watched as Madison jogged around the perimeter of the room. When he reached Dr. Bowman’s table in the reading room, Madison laid the printout of Ambergris’ e-mail on top of the book Bowman had been reading.

  “Now let’s wait,” Madison said when he returned to their partially hidden vantage point behind the glass-walled stacks.

  Three minutes later, Dr. Bowman returned to her table. She noticed the printout immediately, picking it up as she took her seat. Bowman retrieved her reading glasses, perching them precariously toward the end of her nose, and scanned the page.

  Her stern expression faded as she studied the grid of numbers.

  Her lips silently voiced the words as she read the single line
of text beneath the grid.

  “This is the beginning of the ancient word.”

  Bowman’s eyes darted across the rows and columns of numbers, her brow knitted in concentration. After a moment, she looked up. Her eyes searched the room. Finally, she spotted Madison and Grace watching her through the gap in the bookshelves.

  She sighed, and then reluctantly waved them over.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked when they reached the table.

  “It’s an e-mail from Dr. Ambergris. He sent it to me this morning. At four-thirty A.M.”

  Bowman gestured to two empty chairs at the table. Grace and Madison took their cue to sit.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

  “We believe it’s a Magic Square,” said Madison. “Other than that, we really don’t have a clue.”

  “What happened to…” she began. Then she held up a hand. “No, wait. I don’t want to know.”

  She thought for a moment. Then, having reached a decision, Dr. Bowman rotated the paper so that the numbers were right-side up to Grace and Madison.

  “Magic Squares are very interesting,” said Bowman. She offered neither an apology nor an explanation for her initial behavior.

  Grace took a chance. “What can you tell us?”

  Dr. Bowman’s expression softened. Madison thought he detected sadness in her face.

  “Joshua was quite enamored with Magic Squares,” she said. “Variations and derivations of the Magic Square have been around for thousands of years. The oldest known Magic Square is contained in an ancient Chinese text, the Yih King.”

  Bowman tapped a finger on the grid of numbers.

  “But the architect of this particular Magic Square appears to have an interest not only in ancient China, but in other ancient civilizations as well,” she said.

  “We suspected that,” said Madison. “The rows and columns of this Magic Square all total two hundred and sixty. Grace recognized the significance of that total—the number of days in one year of the Mayan calendar.”