The Lucifer Genome: A Conspiracy Thriller

by Glen Craney

  He inched forward, appearing downright exuberant that his charm was having some positive effect. “Why, of course you can.”

  She whipped her hand up from under the desk and sprayed him with Mace.

  Cas flipped backwards over the chair and grabbed at his eyes. “Awwwggg! ”

  She shot up and sprinted for the door.

  He dived at her and cut her legs from under her with a football tackle. She fell on top of him, swiping at his pawing hands. Before she could escape, he rolled on top of her.

  Their lips hovered inches apart.

  With his eyes still watering, he reached down, unfastened her top button, and wiped his tears on her blouse. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  She slapped at his ears. “Get off me!”

  “How would you like to make an easy hundred thousand?”

  She stopped fighting. “Dollars?”

  “Interested?”

  Her mind somersaulted. “What would I have to do?”

  “Help me find a meteorite. Or meteoroid. I get confused.”

  Her eyes filled with visions of old American presidents framed in green ovals. Was he really offering her three years of salary for a meteorite? She had some pretty decent samples back at her apartment. He didn’t seem too bright. Maybe she could pawn off one of those igneous paperweights on him. Then, she’d celebrate with a little jaunt to the Bahamas over spring break and—

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  Rousted from her daydream, she wiped the Mace from his eyes and purred, “Hey, listen, I’m sorry about that. Sometimes I get a little overwrought.”

  “I had it coming, I guess. I’m a little out of practice.”

  She caught him staring at the outlines of her bra. “We should probably discuss this in a more professional manner.”

  “Right.”

  Released from under his weight, she stood and arranged her blouse. “What kind of meteorite are you looking for, Mr. Fielding?” She had a hard time meeting eyes, with him still sitting there in just a black Speedo. “Chondrite? Stony iron? Asteroid spectral?”

  “One that’s been on Earth for a few years.”

  She spun around to the windowsill behind her, where a coffeepot sat on an ancient silver radiator. She wiped off two mugs from the counter and filled them with sludge that had been burning in the coffee maker. “Shouldn’t be a problem. How many years? Old, I mean.”

  “Since the time of Adam and Eve.”

  She coughed, spraying coffee across her desk. “You’re not one of those, you know, Rapture nuts, are you?” Seeing him staring at the window, she turned to see what he was looking at. A second later, she twirled back in her chair to inquire about what had caught his attention.

  He was gone. His wristwatch and gold ring lay on the desk.

  Son of a bitch. Had he really …

  He bounced up from under her desk. “Judgment Day.”

  She caught her breath, realizing that the guy had only been spoofing a divine disappearance. He really did belong in a straitjacket. Still, if he were willing to pay what he’d just promised in cash, and preferably in advance, what the hell did she care?

  She went into professor mode, putting on her lecture voice. “The oldest known meteorite fragments are from space boulders found in the Tagish Lake in the Yukon. The rocks there survived because they hit the lake when it was frozen. I’ve got a contact at Brown University, where the fragments are held.” She gave him her best poker face. “But I’m afraid obtaining one of them will cost you more than a hundred thousand.”

  Cas didn’t blink at the pricing. “How old?”

  She fluffed her hair. “It’s rude to ask a lady—”

  “No, you giddy Gidget! The meteorite fragments!”

  She recoiled back into her chair from his rude outburst. Keeping her cool for the money’s sake, she said calmly, “They predate the solar system. Four and a half-billion years, give or take a generation or two.” She sized him up again, and this time couldn’t help herself, adding, “About your age, I should think.”

  “Hysterical. Let’s get back to these space boulders. When did they land?”

  “Twelve years ago,” she said.

  “The one I’m looking for has been on Earth for at least two thousand years.”

  Stunned, she leaned closer. “You’re looking for one particular meteorite?”

  “That’s what I said.” His intense gaze was jolting. “Very particular.”

  “That being the case, may I ask which particular meteorite?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  This was starting to sound a lot like some of the disastrous blind dates she had been on before Steve. “Look, Mr. Fielding, so long as I get paid, I don’t care if you’re after the Blarney Stone. But you’re going to have to give me a little more information if you want me to help you.”

  “How would you go about determining the age of a meteorite?”

  “It’s a pretty simple process. We measure the decay of its radioactive isotopes.”

  “I majored in brewery. Can you dumb it down?”

  She rose from her chair and moved to the chalkboard. “Isotopes are atoms of the same element with different numbers of neutrons. Some isotopes are stable. Others are radioactive. The radioactive ones decay into other components called daughter isotopes. Radioactive isotopes decay according to a law of power measured in a unit called a half-life. Take a supernova, for example. When fifty percent of its parent isotopes have decomposed, it’s said to have a half-life. Usually the original isotope is held to be extinct after it has run through six half-life revolutions.”

  Cas rubbed his bleary eyes. “Maybe we should reconvene this seminar at one of the local watering holes.” He smacked his lips. “I’m a little thirsty.”

  She could really use a stiff scotch, but not with a guy dressed only in a black Speedo—and certainly not with a man reputed to be a ruthless killer. “I am sorry, Mr. Fielding, but I do have other students waiting.” She returned to the formula she was scrawling across the board:

  Rubidium (87Rb)

  87Rboriginal= 87Rbnow * (elt)

  where, e is the base of the natural logarithm,

  l is the rate of radioactive decay,

  and t is the elapsed time.

  By substituting that in the original equation we get:

  87Srnow = 87Sroriginal + 87Rbnow * (elt - 1)

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “Is every meteorite different in composition?”

  “Of course. They all have their own isotropic imprints.”

  “Kinda like a fingerprint, huh?”

  She nodded, trying to remain patient, as if enduring the mental floundering of an unprepared undergraduate student. “Remotely similar.”

  Cas clicked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, making a popping sound. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Okay, tell me this, then. If you had a piece of the meteorite, you could test it and find its fingerprint. And then you could match it against the fingerprints of all the other meteorites in existence?”

  “Theoretically, I suppose.”

  Deep in what passed as thought for him, Cas twirled his expensive silver watch around his index finger while staring at the formula she had written on the blackboard. With a jolting spasm, he threw his feet off the desk and leapt to standing. “I guess that means we need to go fingerprint hunting.”

  “Go? Where?”

  “Pack for a warm climate. And bring a scarf.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Wait a minute. You haven’t even told me why you need this meteorite analyzed.”

  “That’s confidential. You know these corporate paranoid types.”

  “And if I don’t take the assignment?”

  “I’ll just have to off you.”

  Her eyes bulged. She reached for the Mace again.

  He winked at her as gathered up his clothes. Dressing, he said, “I’m kidding. Come on, Doc. Loosen up.”

  As her pulse dropped back to normal,
Marly tried to square this goofball in arrested development with the cold-blooded killer that Paul had described. She couldn’t help but notice his subdued good looks, for a middle-aged guy anyway, with his thick mop of gray-flecked hair and sun-hammered face. Sure, he could be a murderous psychopath, but Paul Brady had been wrong about him being dead. And now she was also starting to wonder if that Mossad kidnapper had been as whacked out as Paul had insisted. After all, this Fielding fellow did come to find her, just as the Israeli agent had warned her he would.

  “Listen,” Cas said while he buckled his belt. “I need an answer now.”

  She debated his crazy-sounding offer. A hundred thousand dollars for analyzing one little meteorite would go a long way toward solving a lot of her problems. What harm could come from it, really? The more she thought about it, Isserle the Mossad, or whatever name he went by now, had probably been working on the side for a corporate competitor in Israel. Yeah, maybe he was trying to keep Mr. Fielding here from hiring her expert services. Made perfect sense. She could really use a professional kick-start in the consulting business. If she made a name on this gig, other referrals might start popping up.

  And there was that larger apartment with the nice river view coming up for lease in her building next month.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lufthansa Flight 78

  AFTER THEIR THREE-HOUR LAYOVER in Frankfurt, Cas settled into the first-class cabin and ratcheted back his seat on the sprawling Lufthansa Dreamliner bound for the United Arab Emirates. He really couldn’t afford these upgrades from economy class, but if that was what it took to get his new business partner, Dr. Rockhead, on board with the mission, then that was the price of doing business. He’d just submit the cost to Jubal on his expense account when the job was finished.

  Now, where was that drink he’d ordered with his first step onto the plane?

  He looked over at Marly in the window seat and saw that she was already snoozing away. She really was a pretty little thing, if a tad tightly wound. The short strawberry-blond hair, button nose, and occasional dimples didn’t square at all with her professorial primness. Her pale skin was as smooth and flawless as Shada’s had been—a thought that made him wince—and he knew from having rolled on top of her in their office wrestling match that she had a tight bod.

  Now though, having insisted on the view, she had her neck slumped back in slumber land with her mouth open like a baby robin waiting for a worm.

  Unable to sleep, he flipped open a cheap paperback and turned to where he had left off, at one of the steamiest scenes.

  Marly woke herself with an undignified snort. Recovering with a start, she muttered above the white noise in the cabin, “I’m starving. When’s dinner?”

  He glared at her. She was hungry again? After the lunch on the flight and that one-woman wiener schnitzel festival in the airport restaurant?

  “Food is all-inclusive,” she reminded him. “That was part of the deal.”

  He shook his head in astonishment. Apparently the trauma of being nabbed and assaulted just a couple of days ago hadn’t dampened her appetite. He put down his novel and reached between his knees for his black-leather rucksack. After fishing around for a minute, he produced a Clif bar. “Don’t eat the whole thing. It’ll spoil your appetite.”

  “We get real cuisine on this flight, right?”

  “Drinks, dinner, and a movie,” he said. “That’s why we’re on this date. And since all this costs so much—”

  “Don’t even think about going there, Mr. Fielding.”

  The flight attendant finally arrived with his cocktail, and he slugged it down. He twirled the gin-coated ice in his drained glass and prepared to brief Marly, vaguely, about where they were going. In exchange, he wanted more details about this mysterious run-in with Avram Isserle that she had mentioned in the cab ride to the airport. He couldn’t imagine how such a clueless professor had found out that Isserle worked for Mossad. As best as he had gathered from her semi-coherent babbling about the incident, Isserle had probably managed to install a thumb drive on her USB port.

  But why would Mossad want anything to do with a Columbia egghead so low on the academic totem pole? He could only guess that the Israelis were looking for the same crazy SOB who pulled off the theft of the century. There were lots of ambitious grifters around the globe cracked enough to have given it a shot. So, before leaving New York, he had reached out to a former operative buddy freelancing for the CIA in Paris. His contact confirmed that Langley suspected a guest who, on the night before the heist, had checked into a Mecca hotel under the name of Abdul Baith.

  His stomach growled, derailing his train of thought. He signaled the flight attendant for a fresh cocktail. Replenished, he chewed on another cube while trying to remember what he had just been pondering. Oh yeah, Abdul Baith. He’d never heard of the guy, but then he’d been out of the game for a while.

  Marly stirred. “That ice-crunching? It’s honestly rather annoying. But, of course, you already know that, which is why you persist in doing it.”

  He chomped on a cube again and swallowed the shards. “At least I don’t snore. The pilot just went on the intercom to announce that the plane had developed an oxygen leak over Seat 2A.”

  She looked over at the book on his lap. “You actually read ?”

  He had forgotten about the novel creased open on his knee. “Oh, this? You’d love it.” He showed her the book jacket. “It’s called Bruised —”

  “I see what it says,” she said with disgust. “I would have pegged you for more of a picture-book type.”

  “I’ll have you know this is some of the best porn lit I’ve ever read. My only criticism so far is that you have to skip so far ahead to the threesome.” He flipped through the gray pages. “That’s in here somewhere, I swear. Which is why I bought this particular title.”

  She crossed her arms. “Do you really have to be reading erotica in public? I mean, right next to me?”

  “It’s not erotica.” He acted insulted. “What, you think I’m one of those Fifty Shades groupies? This is a good, old-fashioned, all-American, hard-core pot-boiler.” He talked right through her glare. “Lighten up, will ya, Doc. Gee-whiz.” He slid the novel under his leg. “Happy now?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes at his empty glass. “I thought martinis went out of style with spittoons and Brylcreem.”

  “Hey, it may be cheap airline gin, but it is a genuine Vesper martini. You should try one of these. Might help you uncoil a little.”

  She turned away, muttering.

  After watching her steam for nearly a minute, he finally gave in and whispered to her: “Okay, here’s the deal, Miss Manners. We’re flying to Jeddah, and then it’s on to Mecca. Which, by the way, is off limits to infidels. But we’ll manage somehow. Then we—I mean, you—are going to scrape up a few shavings from the Black Stone of Kaaba.”

  She turned so fast that she almost made him spill his drink. “You told me I was coming along to analyze a meteorite!”

  He motioned for her to lower her voice. “You are … but first we have to get some samples.”

  “What samples?”

  “We need to know what we’re looking for.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The Black Stone of Mecca is a meteorite. That’s what we’re looking for.”

  “Looking for?”

  “Keep this under your bra … but the Stone’s missing.”

  She grabbed his wrist to prevent him from taking another drink before he explained himself. “Are you out of your mind? You never said anything about … Do you have any idea what they’ll do to us if—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” He decided not to mention the part about him taking a big leap of faith that the thief had left behind some usable residue from the Stone’s extraction. He was actually surprised she knew that much about Mecca’s stringent regulations. Still, he shot her a ridiculous grin and jingled his ice next to her ear. “You’r
e such a drama queen.”

  She slammed the back of her head into the seat. “And you are certifiable.”

  “It’s no big deal, really. We’re just going to stroll into the Masjid plaza like we’re shopping or something. You’ll collect whatever rock droppings you can find, and then we’re off to the races.”

  She was half out of her seat and in his face. “And just how do you plan on getting us in to that pilgrimage square to get these … ” She was so flustered, she didn’t even know what to call them.

  He helped her out. “Sample shavings.”

  “It’s not as if we can waltz right in there.”

  As wildly different as they were, Cas felt himself, inexplicably, growing fond of her. He had expected her to be bright, but she was so street savvy. He chewed another ice cube, just to watch her squirm, and whispered to her ear, “Don’t worry that little head of yours. Waltzing in there is my department.”

  TWELVE HOURS LATER, AFTER LANDING in Abu Dhabi, Cas ushered Marly into Le Royal Méridien Hotel. Without first checking in, he made a beeline to the Oceans Seafood Lounge and situated her on a stool at the bar, stuffing a few dirham into the front pocket of her jeans to keep her stocked in peanuts. “This place is damn expensive, so go easy on the hors d’oeuvres.”

  She slapped away his frisky hand and grabbed the wad of money, secreting it under her blouse.

  “One word,” he whispered. “Do not move from this seat.”

  “That’s six words, even when you slur them.”

  He nudged closer. “Listen to me very carefully, Doc. This isn’t the Upper West Side. If you even think about wandering around here—”

  “Or what? You’ll con me with another one of your spook lies?” She turned away, refusing him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “Just relax and enjoy your munchies. I’ll be back in a few. Got it?”

  She motioned over the white-jacketed maitre d’. “What’s the most expensive item on the menu?”

  “Tonight, madam, we are featuring a prime cut of Kobe steak that’s had more beer and massages than, well”—he looked down his impressive nose at Cas—“your companion here.”