“Our parents died on our twenty-first birthdays, and ever since we’ve tried to find some answers, but every time we think we have a lead, it goes nowhere. The FBI has a lot of cases to work. If they get a break in this case, they’ll go with it, but it’s not their first priority. We need someone who can devote his full attention to tracking down Josef Helmick and to finding out what he’s been doing for the last twenty years.
“About ten years ago we tracked him to Dubai, but we weren’t able to find evidence that indicated he was involved in anything illegal. He has a reputation as a gambler and a playboy, but, unfortunately, that’s not illegal.
“The Hollywood clone murders are the first crimes we’ve found that we believe can be tied back to Helmick. If he’s cloning these old movie stars and selling them to wealthy men to use as sex slaves, he’s breaking a whole bunch of laws. If he’s selling them to be tortured and murdered, he’s breaking a whole bunch more. We want to stop him, and you’re the only person we know who can help us do that.”
Fred drained his mug and set it on the table. “When do I start?”
Chapter 7
The next week was a frustrating one for Fred. He spent hours pouring over evidence from the crime scenes, but he found no answers. He spent hours praying, but he felt as if his prayers were bouncing off the ceiling and falling back to earth.
The only useful information that he had been able to obtain was that Josef Helmick’s Dubai residence was the top floor apartment at the Burj Khalifa. If he were cloning humans, he was not doing it in Dubai. He found no corporations, no interests in any companies that might have laboratories where he could do his work—nothing.
The only acquisitions in Josef Helmick’s name that Fred was able to uncover were a vacation home in the Swiss ski-resort town of Gstaad and a five-hundred acre piece of real estate in the Swiss Alps that had once been a retreat for the world’s most privileged—its guest list had included England’s royal family, the Rothschilds, the Vanderbilts, the Mellons and the Roosevelts. The retreat included an opulent hotel, various guest “cottages” complete with a full staff of servants and a private chef, tennis courts, swimming pools, a golf course, and a 150-bed sanatorium where those with failing health could take the mineral baths and receive various other treatments. One of the main attractions, however, was an ancient castle which was said to have a dungeon filled with medieval instruments of torture. Although the castle had not been restored to house guests, the retreat provided several tours each day for those guests who wished to tour it.
In 1950 the retreat had been donated to the Swiss government, and for the next fifty years it was operated as a tourist attraction. At the turn of the century, however, interest waned and it was no longer able to bring in even enough revenue to pay for its upkeep. Since it was no longer profitable, the government closed it, locked the massive gates, and allowed it to sit uninhabited and unused.
Fifteen years earlier Helmick had purchased the property from the Swiss government for an undisclosed sum, but no one knew why. The retreat had been deliberately designed to provide its guests with maximum privacy, and even in 2041 the only view available was glimpses of buildings tucked in among the towering forest viewed from a plane. It was known that occasionally Josef Helmick visited the estate, but no one else appeared to live there. Fred was certain that if Helmick were involved in human cloning, his laboratories were on the estate. Legally those laboratories would not exist; therefore, Helmick could operate in total isolation with no government regulations or inspections to interfere with his work.
On Friday afternoon Fred put all of this information into a report and uploaded it to the secure site that Harold Baker, GenTECH’s leading IT specialist, had set up for him and sent it to the Sinclairs.
Fred needed a break. In order to take his mind off the case, he turned on the television in his home office just in time to catch Scott Bentley’s report on the on-going negotiations between OPEC and the U.S.
Bentley was saying that Prince Abdul something or other had met that day with the president and that the talks were expected to result in the biggest oil deal between the U.S. and OPEC in more than fifteen years.
“After visiting New York, Chicago, Miami, and San Francisco,” Bentley announced, “the newly-elected president of OPEC has ended his tour in the nation’s capital where it is expected that he struck a deal that will lower gas prices in the U.S. before the year’s end. However, the White House has not yet commented on the negotiations or what they may mean for Americans at the pump. That’s it for this week. Until Monday, this is Scott Bentley wishing you happy hunting!”
For a moment Fred sat quietly, not taking in the full implications of what he had just heard. The tour had included every place where the body of a clone had been found. It could be a coincidence, but how likely was that?
Fred was reaching for the PCD when it rang. Charlie Byrd was on the other end. “They found another clone this morning. Elizabeth Taylor. In an alley next to the Willard Hotel in D. C.,” he said, foregoing any small talk.
Fred’s heart was now pounding. “Did you see the new head of OPEC on the news?” he asked.
“No. Is there some reason why I should have?”
“Well, he met with the president today after finishing his tour of several American cities including New York, Chicago, Miami, San Francisco and D.C. Does that itinerary ring any bells?”
“Oh, yeah,” Charlie replied. “I’ll see what I can find out; I’ll get back to you.”
ψ
Early Monday Charlie called back. “Here’s something that will get your week off to a good start,” he began. “The prince entered the U. S. with an entourage of fifty-seven servants, wives, and assistants, but he left with only fifty-two.”
“How can that happen?” Fred was incredulous. “Surely, he has to account for everyone who entered the country with him.”
“You’d think,” Charlie responded, “but, no. He doesn’t have official diplomatic immunity, but he may as well have. If we had video of him killing every single one of those women, we wouldn’t be allowed to do a thing about it. It’s what we call a ‘potentially explosive political situation’ so we allow him to do anything he wants, and there are no consequences.
“I’m glad you’re working this,” Charlie continued. “You can do whatever it takes to find the truth. If I were to look too closely, my next assignment would be in Fairbanks.”
Chapter 8
The wall of billowing sand blotted out the sun as it crawled across the Arabian desert. Spanning several stories in height, it had a monstrous living quality—as if a huge beast were working its way toward the city, gaining strength as it went and striking fear and dread into the hearts of men and animals alike.
From his penthouse apartment in the Burj Khalifa, a man of about forty stood gazing out the window focused on the storm. He was of medium height—about five feet eleven inches, with thick brown hair, a smooth complexion, and hazel eyes. His face was not classically handsome—his features were too heavy, but any observer would have described his appearance as “attractive.” His physique was perfectly-toned and tanned. Every article of clothing was custom made for him by the world’s best tailors, so as to fit perfectly. Even his cologne was custom—he had contracted Dior to formulate one scent especially for him, and that scent, which he had named Eleven, was his trademark, as he was the only man in the world with access to it.
He wore a white cotton shirt and white cotton pants—casual but well-suited to the intense heat of the Dubai summers. Normally, he preferred to spend the hotter months in Switzerland or Germany or even Scandinavia, so as to avoid the 108 to 119 degree temperatures that were normal for the United Arab Emirates. This year, however, he had not been able to leave because he had contracted to do so much work for one specific client. That was the reason that he stood, legs slightly spread, hands locked behind his back, in a military stance reminiscent of his youth—watching the growing storm through the window and waiting f
or Anis Shaheen, who was now thirty minutes late for their appointment.
Josef checked his watch again to confirm the time. Yes, it was now 1:30—Anis was scheduled to arrive at 1:00. Josef despised tardiness; his father had drilled into him the necessity for punctuality. One of the hardest adjustments he had been forced to make in working with people of the Middle East was their complete lack of regard for time. Josef had been taught that being late was inexcusable, but here in Dubai time appeared to be fluid; an appointment for 1:00 P.M. meant that the client might show up at 2:00 or 3:00 or sometime the next morning or next afternoon or even a week or two later, and the person’s absence might or might not be accompanied by a message or some explanation. This was true of the whole society, but it was particularly true of the royals and even more so of their surrogates, who, although they had no genuine wealth or influence of their own, mimicked their masters as much as possible. Anis was merely a surrogate of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the region, and like most underlings to powerful men, Anis spent a great deal of time trying to make everyone believe that he, too, was powerful.
“If he weren’t bringing me my money, I would lock him out just to teach him a lesson,” Josef fumed silently. As it happened, Anis was bringing him money—he was placing a new order and bringing half the payment in advance as required by Josef’s standard contract. The last job had been worth five million Euros—the new one would be at least that. Two and one-half million Euros was worth waiting for, so Josef waited, and as he waited he turned his attention back to the approaching mountain of sand.
He was accustomed to sand storms from having grown up in the Southwestern United States. During his infrequent trips to Albuquerque, New Mexico, he had seen his share of blowing sand, but those storms did not compare to the ones he watched from his 160th story luxury apartment at the Burj Khalifa. He occupied the highest apartment in the 206 story structure—everything above his unit was used for storage and maintenance. The glass window wall of the highest apartment in the world’s tallest structure gave Josef a unique vantage point on the world. That vantage point had given him new respect for the wilder elements of the Arabian desert—the sheer force of the wind that picked up the sand and carried it for miles while blanketing everything in its path. No lone person in the path of that storm could stand against it. The Bedouins had learned to lie down beside their camels when the winds came, but no Bedouin would ever attempt to challenge the wind. No one could reason with it; no one could persuade it, and no one could stop it. It was both horrifying and awe-inspiring.
“That would be the essence of power,” Josef thought. “The power to control the wind, the sun, the rain, the elements; the power to change the temperature of the sea from its normal July average of ninety degrees, to freezing; the power to make snow fall from the heavens in August. No amount of wealth could compare to power such as that—a man with that power could control all of the wealth and influence of the entire world….”
A bell signaling a new text message interrupted his thoughts. The concierge on the first floor had sent him a text notifying him that his guest was on his way up. “Guest! Try glorified messenger boy. That worm will never be my guest….” By the time Josef had finished his silent rant, Anis was knocking at the apartment door.
Josef stood unmoved while his servant opened the door and ushered Anis into the luxurious apartment.
Anis Shaheen was not originally from Dubai—he was Syrian by birth. He had served in the Syrian military and had chosen the right side of the Syrian revolutionary conflict. His fluency in English had made him useful in his country’s government and allowed him to travel to other countries until he had come to the service of his current master. Like all foreigners in Dubai, he was intensely aware of the racial snobbery among Arabs and of the second-class citizenship that extended to all non-native born people. If he had been born in this tiny kingdom rather than in Syria he would have never had to work—his future would have been guaranteed. Instead, he had spent his life laboring for and groveling before his betters, and although he now enjoyed a well-paid position, he was deeply aware of the difference between his station and that of those around him.
Anis glanced around the room with envy. The Burj Khalifa was a decadent, opulent structure, and Josef’s apartment reflected its richness. The walls were alternating ruby red and electric blue, with some gold accents. The bar which stood to the left of the entrance was covered in blond onyx; the floor was black granite, and the ceiling was gilded with Arabesques. No expense had been spared; no luxury had been omitted. It was not right, Anis mused, that such wealth and luxury was being enjoyed by this strange German. One day all of these Europeans would be stripped of their riches and power and reduced to their proper role as slaves. In the meantime, Anis was forced to tolerate Josef.
“My brother,” he oozed with false enthusiasm as Josef approached. Anis rose to embrace him and Josef, who inwardly recoiled at his vulgar display of affection, remained calm and composed and returned his embrace.
“Welcome home, Anis. How was your tour of the West?” Josef inquired.
“Very satisfactory. The prince thoroughly enjoyed his entertainment. He sent me today to reorder.”
Josef held a notepad and a pen as he took a seat on the red leather couch across from the chair where Anis was seated . He never took orders on electronic devices—his work was too sensitive, and electronic devices could be hacked. Anis commented on this. “I find it odd that a man of science makes all of his notes on lined yellow paper like a school boy.”
Josef ignored the obvious insult. “My father and I did not agree on many things. He raised me in a Spartan, military environment not unlike the one in which Alexander the Great grew to manhood. As you can see from my surroundings, like Alexander, I have rejected the harsh military life in which I was raised in favor of luxury beyond anything my father ever dreamed. But, even though we virtually never saw eye to eye, he did teach me that sometimes, the old ways are best.” He clicked his pen and waited.
“Fifty girls—the same as before except that the prince wants twenty-six of Marilyn. She was his favorite—so pleasing. The other twenty-four can be divided equally.”
“When?”
“One week from now. On Saturday, the prince is hosting a party in his palace just outside the city to celebrate the new oil deal. The girls are to be delivered three hours in advance to allow time for inspection—to certify that they are acceptable to the prince and his guests.”
Josef laid down his note pad and held out his hand for the money. Anis pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Josef. Josef counted. “Ten million….there is only ten million here, Anis. The terms are one million per copy—half up front. If you want fifty you need to bring me another fifteen million Euros now and twenty-five million on completion.”
“The prince has decided to renegotiate. Ten million for the whole package—that is all he will pay. Consider it a ‘volume discount.’ He also wants a copy of this.” With that Anis took a photo out of his jacket pocket and flicked it across the small table that separated the two men.
Josef picked it up and looked at it. The photo was of a young lingerie model on a fashion runway. The style of her hair and makeup and the condition of her body suggested that this photo was very recently taken.
“What is this?” he stared at Anis.
“The prince saw her at a fashion show in New York while he was purchasing some articles for his wives. He wants you to copy her for him and deliver her with the others. She will be the centerpiece of the entertainment.”
“Where do you think you are Anis? Do you think this is some high-end whorehouse? I am a scientist—not some groveling pimp. It takes three months to make a copy—the prince knows that. And you place the order in advance. You don’t bring me a snapshot of some girl with no name and tell me to copy her for you.” Josef flung the picture back across the table in disgust, but Anis did not pick it up.
“Careful Josef,
you have no idea with whom you are dealing or what we are capable of. You are making a lot of money on the prince right now, but the world is full of girls, and the prince has a short attention span. Abdul has imaginative ways of dealing with those who fail to show proper respect—if you don’t change your haughty European attitude, you will find yourself begging him to kill you—just like these copies of yours do.
“As for the girl…I am quite certain she has a name. You will find out what it is and copy her for us and deliver her on Saturday with the others. You are staking more than money on this Josef; if you disappoint us you will die worse than these girls of yours.”
Josef was instantly hot with rage. “No Anis, you have no idea what I am capable of. Don’t EVER threaten me, or I will bury whatever is left of you and Abdul so deep in that desert that no one will ever find either one of you, and, then, I will force my copies of you and the prince to lick my feet every morning until I grow tired of you and send you off to sign all of the OPEC oil reserves over to me personally.”
Anis stood quickly. He had expected his speech to frighten Josef—he had not expected to see this cold rage staring back at him.
The thought that Josef might actually have a copy of him was unsettling—probably untrue—but very unsettling.
“The prince has invited twenty of the top members of OPEC to attend his party. For that reason, I am going to give you twenty-four hours to reconsider. The prince and I will expect everything we have ordered and a full and sincere apology. If we don’t receive the answer we want, the prince will take immediate action to make you wish that you had complied. Do you understand?” With that Anis rose and exited the apartment, leaving Josef sitting alone holding the envelope with the ten million Euros.
Fantasies of cruel deaths he could arrange for Anis and the prince were flooding Josef’s mind—he could feed them alive into a wood chipper and then pour them into the sea. He did not really have the surrogates, but he did have enough DNA to make surrogates. That was an appealing thought—he could copy them and then dispose of both of them. Then he could control OPEC through the surrogates…. But it would require three months to make the copies, and with the prince threatening him, he did not have three months. A situation like this one was very volatile and required an immediate response. Josef had been given twenty-four hours, but he knew from experience that he probably really had only about half that time. Fortunately, he did not need much time to plan—he already knew what to do.
The Force (The Kingdom Chronicles) Page 3