Immortal

by Dean Crawford

  Donald Wolfe nodded.

  ‘And if an infection breaks before these plans can be implemented?’

  The four men glanced at each other again before the eldest spoke. ‘Then we must endeavor to keep it beyond our shores,’ he said, ‘and we can tell the United Nations that we warned them of the danger.’

  ‘I’ll get things in motion immediately,’ Wolfe said.

  ‘This conversation never occurred,’ the eldest man said to him. ‘And if your role here should be compromised, we expect that you will remove yourself from existence entirely before our own involvement can be exposed. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

  Wolfe baulked, but nodded once without thinking.

  ‘Say it,’ the old man insisted. ‘Tell me that you understand what I’m telling you.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you want me to commit suicide if I am exposed?’

  The man nodded once.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Donald. You’ve said it yourself: this is an extremely sensitive issue with immense repercussions. We do not intend to be on the receiving end of any investigation and we cannot trust you alone to shield us from scrutiny. Therefore, you will remove yourself from the equation.’

  The four men moved to the door of the suite. The old man turned and looked over his shoulder at Wolfe.

  ‘If you refuse or are unable to commit the act, Donald, then rest assured we will arrange for somebody to do it for you.’

  Wolfe swallowed thickly and watched as the men filed silently from his suite to disappear once more into absolute anonymity.

  28

  SKINGEN CORP

  SANTA FE

  7.28 p.m.

  ‘This guy has more money than God.’

  Lopez was sitting beside Ethan in the passenger seat of the Mercury, the screen of her handheld showing an Internet page detailing SkinGen Corp.

  ‘Major pharmaceutical chiefs often do,’ Ethan said as he pulled into the heavily manned gates of the company’s headquarters and showed his identification to the guardsmen.

  Lopez scanned down through the Internet entry as they waited for access to the site.

  ‘True, but this one’s special,’ she said. ‘SkinGen’s annual turnover is measured in billions, and Jeb Oppenheimer has a reputation for extreme corporate ruthlessness. Says here that he once bought an entire company and then shut it down, in revenge for a deal several years previously that had gone against him. Almost three hundred people lost their jobs overnight, and the shut-down cost Oppenheimer fifteen million dollars.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Ethan said as the barriers lifted to allow them through. ‘He took the hit happily.’

  ‘By then fifteen million dollars was small change to him. He owns yachts worth five times that, which he doesn’t visit for years. Properties in Manhattan, London, Paris, Sydney and Rome, none of them worth less than ten million, and also a fleet of private jets on permanent standby in each of those countries.’ Lopez shook her head. ‘Seriously, how many private jets can one person need?’

  ‘I’d have just one for business and one for pleasure,’ Ethan said. ‘No sense in being greedy. What’s his line of work exactly?’

  Lopez scrolled through a few pages before reading slowly.

  ‘SkinGen’s current research involves the manipulation of cellular transdifferentiation in mammalian species.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lopez smiled. ‘Something to do with aging, but most of the research has been done behind closed doors under great secrecy. For whatever reason, the government is either unable or uninterested in monitoring whatever old Jeb’s up to in his labs.’

  Ethan parked the car in front of the colossal building with ranks of glossy-black windows set into aluminum. The whole place was as perfectly arranged as an operating theater, and seemed completely silent as they climbed out of the car, as though everything was artificial and devoid of life.

  ‘Sterile,’ Lopez remarked in the hot silence.

  Ethan led the way into a vast yet virtually empty air-conditioned lobby, where an immaculately dressed woman sat stranded behind an elaborately sculptured desk of metal and glass, dwarfed by the empty space around her.

  ‘Ethan Warner to see Jeb Oppenheimer,’ he said cheerfully and with a bright smile. ‘We called ahead . . .

  The receptionist did not return the smile, simply looked down at what he presumed was a concealed computer screen and tapped a few keys.

  ‘You didn’t book an appointment,’ she intoned robotically.

  ‘We’re here on behalf of the Santa Fe Police Department,’ Lopez cut in. ‘Either inconvenience Mister Oppenheimer right now or we’ll come back with warrants and tear this place apart.’

  The receptionist stared at Lopez in surprise, then picked up a telephone and dialed an extension number. After a brief conversation, she set the telephone down.

  ‘Mister Oppenheimer is waiting for you,’ she said without looking up from her screen. ‘Top floor, end of the corridor. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Too kind,’ Ethan replied, turning for a bank of elevators about a quarter of a mile away across the lobby.

  Lopez walked alongside him, smirking. ‘Losing your touch, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think this guy’s staff are human,’ Ethan said as they reached the elevators. ‘She was probably just plugged into the mains.’

  Lopez said nothing as they rode up to the top floor and walked down a long corridor to where another attractive girl sat behind a desk, a blonde this time. Ethan watched as she put down the telephone she was holding and smiled awkwardly, as though someone had surgically attached the grin to her face.

  ‘Mister Oppenheimer will see you now.’

  Something about the way she said the name, and how she immediately looked away from him having done so, struck an uncomfortable chord with Ethan as he opened the door to the office and walked inside.

  The office was spartan; broad windows to Ethan’s right letting in the sunset through opaque glass, thick carpet underfoot and a long glass-topped desk ahead. Behind the desk sat Jeb Oppenheimer, engrossed in something on a monitor. Ethan closed the door behind Lopez, and they walked together to stand before him.

  ‘Sit down,’ Oppenheimer said without looking at them.

  Ethan exchanged a glance with Lopez before taking a seat before the old man. He realized almost immediately that Oppenheimer’s seat was positioned on a raised platform, so that no matter how tall his guests the old man would still be able to look down at them. A white lab coat was draped over the back of his chair.

  Oppenheimer had a face like a large roasted walnut that had been smashed flat with a shovel. Deep, wide gullies and canyons wrinkled his face so heavily that it was hard to figure out where his features actually began. Feeble strands of silvery-gray hair were smeared thinly across a scalp sprinkled with liver spots, and the light from the windows shone on his thin skin and rheumy eyes with their blotchy sclera.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Lopez said.

  Oppenheimer finished whatever he was doing on his monitor, before turning to regard her with a cold expression.

  ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said. ‘Say your piece and then leave.’

  Ethan instantly changed attitude, matching Oppenheimer’s tone in a manner he’d learned when interrogating Al-Qaeda members in Iraq. Sound like them, and they’ll be more inclined to speak.

  ‘Saffron Oppenheimer. Tell us about her.’

  Oppenheimer’s eyes swiveled to probe into Ethan’s.

  ‘Since when do you tell me what to do?’

  ‘Since now,’ Ethan replied coolly. ‘We have questions regarding several incidents involving laboratories in the Santa Fe area. You can either answer our questions or we can return with warrants to search this entire premises. Your call.’

  The eyes narrowed, brimming with a mixture of fury and bemusement.

  ‘Search for what?’

  ‘Whatever we decide is of interes
t,’ Ethan replied, maintaining an uncompromising expression. ‘I have experienced first-hand that your granddaughter has a nasty habit of shooting first and asking questions later, so believe me I don’t care how much resistance you might think you can put up. Sooner or later you’ll tell us anything we need to know, understood?’

  Jeb Oppenheimer shuddered. One hand grabbed an ivory cane leaning against the desk beside him and he slammed it down across the glass surface between them with a crack like a gunshot.

  ‘Goddamn your hide, boy!’ He leaned forward across the table, and peered deep into Ethan’s unflinching gaze. ‘You’ve got balls, and I like that!’

  Ethan managed to remain impassive, and Oppenheimer leaned back and slapped his thigh in apparent satisfaction.

  ‘You know how many spineless, effeminate faggots I get coming in here each day groveling for money?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘At least half a dozen. No more than two a year could I give a damn about, creeps the lot of them.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ Lopez muttered.

  The old man grinned, peering at her.

  ‘And I suspected that you might be a little spitfire too. Tell me, what would you like to know about my dear little granddaughter?’

  ‘She’s one fatality away from becoming a homegrown terrorist,’ Ethan said. ‘She hit the Aspen Center and blew up their computer servers, not to mention stealing about a dozen primates. State police are on her case as we speak.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Oppenheimer said, resting his hands on top of his cane. ‘She’s been in and out of trouble since she got out of diapers, and this isn’t the first time she’s been involved in violence. She was in court just a few years ago.’

  ‘So we heard,’ Ethan nodded. ‘Makes me wonder who’s been looking out for her all her life. Or not.’

  Oppenheimer held Ethan’s gaze for a moment before levering himself out of his chair, walking slowly out from behind his desk and sitting on its edge.

  ‘Saffron’s parents died in an automobile accident when she was eight years old,’ Oppenheimer said, looking at his cane as he spoke. ‘My wife and daughter died with them.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Lopez said.

  ‘Life,’ Oppenheimer murmured, as though lost in his memories, ‘has a well-evolved capacity for biting us in the ass no matter how hard we try to avoid it. My advice, Miss Lopez, is to take everything you can from it, give as little as possible back and enjoy the ride, because there’s not a goddamn thing waiting for us when it’s over.’

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s your optimism I admire.’

  ‘Optimism is for dreamers and losers,’ Oppenheimer said. ‘Realism is all that matters. Yet a man can’t so much as call a spade a spade these days without being dragged through a court for causing offense. Offense! How can someone be offended by truth, especially if they’re as stupid as so many people are?’

  ‘That’s a sweeping statement if ever I’ve heard one,’ Lopez said.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Oppenheimer said, ‘but no less true for it. Do you know how SkinGen began? My father, Jeremy Oppenheimer, marketed a cosmetic skin cream in the 1920s for women, which he claimed would reduce wrinkles. Called it Everyoung. When most face creams contained lead, mercury and ethanol that wouldn’t so much smooth wrinkles as burn them off your face, his marketing genius was that the cream was basically dyed Vaseline. It sold out across the country, made him a multimillionaire.’ Oppenheimer smiled. ‘Every face cream out there today is exactly the same, just rebranded and remarketed and resold to a gullible and stupid population of self-obsessed women who spend billions on the same crap that SkinGen and others supply them year after year with new labels. You could call that a con, but then what about bottled water? An entire industry built on something that nobody in the developed world actually needs – it’s no better than tap water, which we have in abundance anyway. Or vitamin pills? Money for nothing, all of them, billions of dollars spent by people on things they already have.’

  ‘Saffron,’ Ethan said, pushing the old man back on topic. ‘She opposes your work.’

  ‘She hates it,’ Oppenheimer confirmed, ‘and wants none of her inheritance. Good riddance to her, the ungrateful little bitch. If she could only get over herself and realize that the real science we do here is the future, she could have a proper life instead of living in a flea-ridden shack in the Pecos with a bunch of slack-jawed tree-hugging losers who’d be afraid of soap if they knew what it was.’

  ‘We heard that Saffron has an entitlement to SkinGen,’ Lopez said.

  Oppenheimer looked at her with an expression of absolute disgust.

  ‘Entitlement? I’ll say. My wife and I agreed her inheritance when she was five years old, but the damned fool turned down everything when she turned eighteen.’ He sighed deeply. ‘As she is now my only remaining relative, she is the only heiress to SkinGen.’

  29

  ‘She’ll inherit the entire company?’ Ethan asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Every last goddamned dime,’ Oppenheimer muttered as though even he couldn’t believe it. ‘She’s said that if she is given even a single dollar she’ll donate it to charity.’ Oppenheimer spat the last word out as though it tasted unpleasant. ‘When SkinGen became financially successful I created an irrevocable living trust that can be terminated only if the trustees and the beneficiaries consent to the termination.’

  ‘For tax reasons,’ Ethan said, quickly catching on. ‘You spread the income amongst the beneficiaries.’

  ‘A trust does not have to pay income tax on benefici-aries’ income.’ Oppenheimer nodded. ‘I distributed trust income to as many beneficiaries as possible within my family, and in proportions that took best advantage of their personal marginal tax rates. The beneficiaries then pay the tax on distributions made to them. Simple and effective.’

  ‘Except that Saffron’s now the only remaining beneficiary,’ Lopez said. ‘I don’t suppose you know why Saffron has become so opposed to SkinGen?’

  Oppenheimer shrugged, looking at his cane again.

  ‘Saffron is one of those college drop-outs who think that we can run the world on wind farms, cow dung and happy songs. Left to her and her ilk, the world would collapse into colonies of dope-smoking hippies dancing round trees at midnight and wiping pig shit into their faces in an effort to cure the endemic syphilis they’d no doubt generate. Civilization would regress to medieval times within a generation.’

  ‘Sounds a little harsh,’ Ethan said. ‘Most of them just want to see the back of fossil fuels.’

  ‘Pah!’ Oppenheimer bellowed. ‘Of course they do! We all do. You know anybody who likes paying half of their salary just to travel to and from work, or heat their homes? But these idiots think that we can plug cars into wall sockets and the problem will disappear. That’s why realism is the only way forward. Go outside to your car, put it in neutral but don’t start the engine. Then push it all the way home. If you’re fifty miles from home, it’ll take you about a week, if you’re lucky. Start the engine and it’ll take you an hour. That’s how much energy is in just one gallon of petroleum. Assholes like Saffron think they’ll get the same efficiency out of hydrogen cells.’

  Lopez frowned.

  ‘There’s still homes that need heating, stuff like that. It can all be found in different ways.’

  ‘Such as?’ Oppenheimer crowed. ‘Wind farms are useless, a complete waste of time. They generate power so unpredictably that almost nothing can be used efficiently. Twenty thousand of them can’t even come close to a single power station, and even the greens don’t like them because they spoil the pretty countryside and might hurt birds, who they apparently think don’t know how to fly around obstacles. Makes you wonder why forests aren’t full of dead birds that have collided with trees. Nuclear power could save us, but the same people who won’t let us burn coal also won’t let us use nuclear because it might, possibly be dangerous if something bad happened, leaving us with the square root of fuck all to power our
homes.’

  Ethan couldn’t help but grin at the old man’s propensity to rant. He instantly wondered whether he was grinning because it amused him or because the old man was right.

  ‘So, oh wise one, what is your answer to our global predicament?’

  Oppenheimer sat back down on the edge of the desk, a wide grin creasing his lips.

  ‘Get rid of most of us, and let those who remain live in comfort and security.’

  ‘Genocide!’ Lopez gasped. ‘Are you kidding?’

  Oppenheimer shook his head slowly.

  ‘I expected more of you, Miss Lopez. Not genocide. Why waste the bullets? Natural wastage is the key to reducing the population of the planet to more manageable levels. Imagine, no more over-consumption of the world’s resources. No more overcrowding. Reduced spread of disease and antibiotic resistance, improved land yield, reduced conflict, increased living standards. Without it, the human race is doomed and a global disease pandemic almost inevitable. There are no flaws, none whatsoever.’

  ‘Except the little matter of removing a few billion people,’ Ethan pointed out.

  ‘Did you know that approximately one hundred fifty thousand people die each day on our planet?’ Oppenheimer said. ‘That’s about fifty-five million per year, and two hundred seventy-five million people over five years. Put simply, if no births occurred on our planet for five years, the equivalent of the entire population of the United States would vanish from our world.’

  Lopez shook her head.

  ‘No wonder Saffron checked out,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re not talking about genocide, you’re talking about eugenics.’

  ‘Eugenics was abandoned decades ago,’ Ethan said. ‘You’d be up in court today if you openly supported such measures.’

  ‘Would I?’ Oppenheimer challenged him. ‘In fact, eugenics is alive and well in our modern society. It never went away.’