by James Barney
“No,” she said firmly, trying hard not to blink.
A short pause. Then Wills nodded with apparent satisfaction. “Okay, then. Thank you for your time.”
The ride back to U Street was awful. Kathleen sat in the backseat of Hendricks’s Crown Victoria, behind a pane of thick bulletproof glass. She felt like a criminal, though she’d done nothing wrong.
Except now she had done something wrong. She’d lied to the FBI. Why had she done that? She could almost picture Special Agent Wills right now, documenting her lie, annotating it, cross-referencing it. He was so meticulous—certainly he’d figure out that she’d lied. And then what?
Kathleen wished none of this had ever happened. She wished Dr. Sargon had never called and that she’d never gone to his house.
“Where’s your car?” Agent Hendricks asked.
But Kathleen was still absorbed in her thoughts.
“Ma’am, where is your car?” Hendricks repeated, practically yelling at Kathleen.
“Oh, sorry. It’s right there. On the left.”
The Crown Victoria pulled to an abrupt stop next to Kathleen’s silver Subaru. Kathleen went to open the door but realized there were no door handles in the backseat. Criminals could not be trusted with door handles.
Hendricks exited the car slowly, obviously relishing the circumstances of the situation. After a long, unnecessary delay, she finally opened the door for Kathleen.
“Thank you,” Kathleen mumbled as she alighted from the backseat.
“Mmm-hmm.”
The Versace coat was still draped over Kathleen’s arm, and she was careful not to drag it on the ground as she exited the car.
“Hey,” said Hendricks, pointing to the coat.
“Yes?”
“You may want to get that dry-cleaned.”
Kathleen looked down and grimaced. On the side of the cashmere coat was a large, dark coffee stain, which must have leaked from the Styrofoam cup. “Oh no,” she moaned.
A smile crept over Hendricks’s face. “Well,” she said, clucking her tongue, “have a nice day.”
Chapter Seventeen
Arlington, Virginia.
“What the hell happened?” Venfeld demanded angrily. He was sitting at a red light behind the wheel of his brand-new BMW 645i, a sleek black convertible sports sedan with soft black leather interior. The disposable prepaid cell phone was pressed tightly to his ear.
“I dunno,” replied Zafer in his thick Israeli accent, “It was weird . . .”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“I went to pay that old man a visit, like you said. I went through a back window, but it must have set off an alarm.”
Idiot, Venfeld thought.
“I knew I didn’t have much time. So I ran upstairs to his bedroom, and, well . . .”
“And what? What happened?”
“The door was locked. I told him to open it, but he just kept mumbling something in Arabic.”
“Do you know what he said?”
“Something about Allah, that’s all I could tell. I told him to open the fucking door or I’d, you know, send him straight to Allah myself. But he just kept mumbling. It was weird. So I kicked open the door, and he was, like, just standing there. Waiting for me . . .” Zafer’s voice trailed off.
“Damn it, Semion. I don’t have all day. Tell me what happened.”
“He shot himself! Right there in front of me. I . . . I didn’t expect it. Shot himself right in the head.”
“Did he say anything before he did? Anything about the box?”
“No. His last words were something about misery and farana . . . I really couldn’t tell. Anyway, after that he was just . . . dead and fucking useless. I checked all the boxes downstairs but didn’t find anything. Then I had to go ’cause I heard sirens coming.”
“Shit.” Venfeld terminated the phone call and waited impatiently for the light to turn green. When it did, he punched the accelerator and made a sharp, squealing U-turn in the intersection.
He had work to do.
Chapter Eighteen
Springfield, Virginia.
“What’s going on?” Carlos asked in a hushed voice. He and Kathleen were standing on the back deck of his Springfield townhouse. Kathleen clutched a brown paper bag beneath one arm. Carlos’s wife, Ana, and six-year-old twin girls were watching TV inside. The late-afternoon sky was mottled with dark gray storm clouds, and a few stray raindrops were already starting to fall. The family cat, Slinky, prowled restlessly back and forth along the railing behind them as they spoke.
“I need to talk to you about last night,” Kathleen said in a hushed tone.
“Okay . . .”
An hour earlier, she’d driven straight from U Street to QLS in Rockville and called Carlos from her office. She needed to talk to him immediately about the “situation” and wanted to meet at his house.
Kathleen moved closer to Carlos and spoke nearly in a whisper.
“You know the man I was visiting last night?”
“The old guy?”
“Yes. Something happened to him after I left. They found him dead.”
“Whoa! Are you serious? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But the FBI took me in for questioning.”
“The FBI?”
“They asked me a lot of questions. It sounds like he committed suicide, but there was also a break-in, apparently. And why would the FBI be involved in a suicide investigation, anyway? Isn’t that something routine that the police would normally handle? I don’t know; there’s something strange going on.”
“Well you didn’t have anything to do with it. I mean, I saw you leave, and that old guy was still out on the stoop. So you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”
“Right. But there’s something else . . .”
“What?”
“They asked me if he gave me anything.”
“And?” A moment later, a wave of recognition spread over Carlos’s face. “Oh.”
Kathleen looked down, shaking her head remorsefully.
Carlos sighed. “Dr. Sainsbury, you really should’ve told them about that. I mean, the FBI. That’s serious business.”
“I know, I just . . . It was a split-second decision, and I blew it.”
Carlos’s face showed obvious concern, but he said nothing.
“Carlos,” Kathleen said quietly, “I gave them your name and your number at work.”
Carlos frowned and bobbed his head from side to side, obviously weighing the implication of Kathleen’s words.
“I’m sorry to put you in this position. It was just too hard to explain the—”
Carlos cut her off. “It’s okay. Really. But I think it’s time you told me what was in that box.”
Kathleen nodded her head and slowly unrolled the paper bag she’d been holding under her arm. She carefully pulled the silver box out of the bag.
Carlos watched closely.
With the silver box firmly in one hand, Kathleen opened the top, revealing the contents. “This is what he gave me.”
Carlos took the box cautiously from Kathleen’s hand and spent several seconds inspecting its contents. “Is that a tooth?”
“Yeah.”
Carlos shrugged “I don’t understand. What’s the big deal?”
“It’s from a five-thousand-year-old temple. Or so I’m told.”
“Okay . . .”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
Kathleen nodded. Of course Carlos was right. Given what she’d gotten him into, he deserved to know everything. She drew a deep breath and summarized the situation as best she could.
“Okay, but I still don’t understand,” said Carlos after she’d finished. “Why did that old guy give this to you?”
“You know, I don’t fully understand it either. He said it was very important that I have it and that he’d explain everything to me it later. But now, of course . . .” Kathleen closed her eyes and began rubbing h
er temples. “I just need some time to figure it out.”
“Right.”
“So if the FBI calls you—”
Carlos cut her off. “I get it. I won’t mention anything about this.” He nodded toward the box.
Kathleen bit her lip and summoned the courage for one more request. “I need one more favor.”
Carlos raised his eyebrows, as if to say, There’s more?
Kathleen pointed to the silver box in his hand. “Can you put that somewhere?”
“You want me to have it?”
“Carlos, what if the FBI searches my apartment? Or my office? How would I explain it?”
“But—”
“And to tell you the truth, I just don’t want that thing around anymore. It gives me the creeps.”
“Okay,” said Carlos with a sigh. “I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Arlington, Virginia.
Bill McCreary checked his watch. It was Monday morning, 8:00 A.M. Time for his meeting with Director DuBose and the new deputy. Frank will be precisely on time, he predicted. Seconds later, as predicted, there was a knock at the door to the “Logistics Analysis” office. McCreary opened the door and greeted the two men standing in the hallway.
“Morning,” said Frank DuBose, DARPA’s director. He was a thin man of medium height with a ruddy face and a serious, tight-lipped expression. His white hair was cropped short in a buzz cut—tight over the ears and flat on top. He wore a white shirt, narrow tie, and thick, black-rimmed glasses, as if he’d just stepped out of NASA’s space program, circa 1968. “This is Gary Sorenson,” he said, introducing the younger man next to him, “the new deputy director. He’s ready for his SERRATE read-in.”
McCreary ushered both men into the small front vestibule of the “Logistics Analysis” office. “Sorry about the cramped quarters,” he said. “We don’t get many visitors here.” He introduced the muscular man sitting behind the desk in the center of the room. “This is my assistant, Steve Goodwin.”
Sorenson nodded at Goodwin, who nodded back.
McCreary led DuBose and Sorenson into his private office and closed the door behind them. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to two chairs at a small, round table. “I’m sure you have a lot of programs to hear about today, so I’ll get right to it.” McCreary remained standing as he spoke. “Gentlemen, this program is classified Top Secret, SCI.”
Sorenson nodded that he understood. Many programs at DARPA were classified as SCI, or Sensitive Compartmented Information—which meant the program included classified information deemed especially important or sensitive to the national security of the United States or its allies. SCI information was handled via special SCI “channels,” each of which was given a unique SCI code word. The code words themselves were classified Top Secret.
McCreary continued. “The SCI designation for this program is SERRATE. Therefore, all information in this program is designated Top Secret SERRATE.”
Sorenson nodded again.
“I assume Director DuBose has briefed you generally about the SCI procedures here?”
“Yes,” Sorenson replied. DuBose nodded his head in concurrence.
“So you know this entire OSNS wing is a SCIF, right?”
“Yes.”
“And no compartmented information ever leaves the SCIF, right?”
“I understand.”
“As an added precaution for this program”—McCreary gestured toward the front room—“Steve out there makes sure that no one—including me—carries any SERRATE materials out of this office. Ever.”
Sorenson nodded that he understood.
“Okay then, all you need to do is sign this paperwork.” McCreary placed a small stack of forms on the table and waited patiently as the new deputy read and signed each one. “Good. Now that that’s out of the way, let me tell you a little about SERRATE.” McCreary paused. “By the way, what’s your technical background?”
“Electrical engineering,” Sorenson replied.
Ugh, this is going to take a while. McCreary took a deep breath and commenced his presentation. “Up until a couple of years ago, I was a researcher at NIH, working on a small offshoot of the Human Genome Project. It was a massive project funded by the U.S. government to decode the entire human genome. The project began in 1990 with a multibillion-dollar grant from the Department of Energy. The research was coordinated by NIH and carried out by a large consortium of U.S. and international laboratories. It was a monumental effort, some would say the most important scientific undertaking since the Manhattan Project.”
Sorenson nodded.
“The project was essentially completed—about ninety-five percent of the genome sequenced—in 2004, with the assistance of some very aggressive, venture-backed biotech startups that were competing to see who could finish the sequence first. You might remember the epic battle between GenSystems and Rial?”
“Sure,” said Sorenson, nodding his head. “Didn’t they both announce completion of the sequence on the same day?”
“Yep. And they’ve been fighting over the patent rights ever since. GenSystems merged with WestPharma a couple years ago. And Rial moved into the pharmaceutical business. It’s now the largest pharmaceutical company in Israel.”
Sorenson shrugged. “So what does this have to do with SERRATE?”
McCreary leaned over the table and replied emphatically, “Everything.”
Chapter Twenty
Bethesda, Maryland.
Kathleen Sainsbury held her grandfather’s hand tightly. His hand seemed massive and strong compared to her own tiny, seven-year-old hand. It felt comfortable, like a snug blanket. They stood together in a small, rural cemetery on a warm September afternoon.
Kathleen had lots of questions. Are Mommy and Daddy in heaven? When will they be back? But the silence of the small crowd around the open graves and her grandfather’s firm, steady grip told her those questions would have to wait. She looked curiously at the two shiny coffins, draped with flowers, and listened as an emaciated preacher in a black suit recited passages from the Bible. His voice was low and melancholy, like a gurgling river. Kathleen liked the scent of the fresh flowers.
Suddenly, there was a loud buzzing noise . . .
Kathleen awoke with a start. It was light outside, which confused her at first. Then she remembered she’d set her alarm for 7:30 A.M., instead of the usual 5:30 A.M. After the hectic past two days, she’d decided she needed an extra couple hours of sleep. She punched the alarm and rolled out of bed with a groan.
Forty minutes later, she was sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, regretting having slept in. Shiny luxury cars crawled along Old Georgetown Road in both directions. In the D.C. area, “rush hour” was a misnomer, since it lasted at least three hours in the morning and another three in the afternoon. And, to make matters worse, she still had to drop by the dry cleaners on her way to work.
At about 8:30, Kathleen turned left from Old Georgetown Road into a low-rise shopping center, squeezed her Subaru into a tight parking spot, and hurried into Lee’s Cleaners with her stained coat.
“Good morning,” said the young woman behind the counter.
“I need to have this dry-cleaned,” Kathleen said, presenting the young woman with the Versace coat. “It has a coffee stain right here.” She pointed to the dark brown stain on one side of the coat.
The young woman clucked her tongue. “Ooh, that looks bad. But we’ll try, okay?”
Kathleen took a receipt for the coat and turned to leave.
“Excuse me!” the young woman called out, just as Kathleen reached the door.
Kathleen turned and returned to the counter. “Hmm?”
The young woman held a small piece of folded paper in her hand. “I found this in the pocket.” She nodded toward the coat.
Kathleen took the paper, perplexed. “In the pocket of this coat?”
“Yeah, right here.” The woman pointed to one of the coat’s inside pockets.
“Thanks,” she mumbled as she turned back toward the door, still studying the mysterious piece of paper.
Kathleen sat in her car for a long time in the strip-mall parking lot, oblivious to the parade of well-dressed professionals hurrying by, some with Starbucks coffee cups, others with gym bags, some with both. One woman in a silver Mercedes SUV waited nearly three minutes for Kathleen’s parking space before eventually speeding off in disgust, giving Kathleen a dirty look and a quick honk as she zoomed away. Kathleen didn’t care. Her head was spinning. The note in her hand had brought everything suddenly rushing back: the evening with Dr. Sargon, the revelation about her parents’ murder, Sargon’s apparent suicide, the FBI, the silver box.
Somehow, these things were all connected.
Dr. Hakeem Abdul Sargon—former curator of the Iraqi National Museum, friend of her parents, witness to their deaths—had called her out of the blue to give her something “very important.” He’d given her a silver box with a five-thousand-year-old tooth in it, from an ancient tomb in Iraq called Tell-Fara, the very tomb her parents were excavating in 1979 when they were murdered. He’d told her he had something “very important” to explain to her the next morning. Was it something about the tooth? About Tell-Fara? About her parents? About the tomb? Kathleen didn’t know. But it was apparently something important, and Sargon had said she’d understand everything once she heard it.
One thing was sure: she didn’t understand anything now.
What else did she know? Dr. Sargon had apparently committed suicide—or was murdered—just hours after she left his house. Why would he have committed suicide if he wanted to see her the next morning to tell her something “very important”?
And why were the all the Quran boxes in Sargon’s living room open? Was someone else looking for what Dr. Sargon had given her?