“What do you think?” Jorge asked.
“Although I’m noncommittal on the subject,” she said, “Javier has the scientific data to support his ideas.”
“I’m more focused on the here and now,” Jorge said. “For us, things have worked out better than I ever expected.”
They both doted on Abbaran, especially Jorge. He carried a pocket photo album and would flip it out at every opportunity.
Jorge loved to play with Abbaran and often came home early to be with his son. He’d watch him lovingly and noted that when he was excited or perturbed he’d run both hands over his red hair
“It frightens me to love someone as much as I love Abbaran,” Jorge said.
Arrosa smiled. “You can’t love a child too much.”
A month later, after a period of especially violent attacks and counter attacks between the ETA and the Spanish secret police, Jorge arrived to a crowd surrounding his home.
A neighbor stood in Jorge’s way as he approached the front door. “Don’t,” he said, as tears filled his eyes. “ It was a GAL ( Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación ) death squad. The arm of Interior Minister Antonio Marin Vega.”
Jorge forced his way into their small house where members of the Spanish Security forces strolled around his now bloody home. He entered their bedroom to find Maria, Arrosa, and Abbaran dead—decapitated. He turned, vomited, and passed out on the floor.
When Jorge awoke, a tall and thin officer stood looking down at him. He wore a blue uniform with shoulder braids, and colorful medals on his coat. He pointed at Jorge. “Get him out of here. Too bad that he couldn’t join his wife and child.”
“Si, Colonel Salazar,” a soldier said.
Jorge lunged at Salazar, but the soldier drove the butt of his rifle into his face.
Jorge was stunned. He fell back, choking from blood flowing from his nose and mouth. He struggled to a sitting position. “You son-of-a-bitch. You’ll regret the day you laid hands on the Moneo family.”
The soldier delivered another blow to Jorge’s face.
Salazar sneered at Jorge’s prone body. “A pathetic race, these Basques. The sooner we rid ourselves of them, the better.”
Chapter Four
Following the deaths of his mother, wife, and child, Jorge’s mood swung between hopelessness and rage. He’d spend days in bed disconsolate, and then he’d rise exploding with impotent, uncontrollable exasperation at Spain and its security forces. He swore revenge. The ETA had identified Antonio Marin Vega and his agent, Francisco Salazar, the chief inspector, as the forces behind the murders.
Jorge abandoned his studies. His home once filled with joyous memories was now a knife into his psyche. Neighbors reported hearing Jorge crying out to Arrosa and Abbaran, especially at night. Friends tried their best to help, but to no avail.
At his brother Alberto’s urging, Jorge returned to church after many years absence. Following several sessions with the Bishop, Jorge refused to continue.
“It's a total waste of time,” Jorge said to his brother. “I really don’t need the Bishop’s counseling and rote religious admonitions. They’re hollow, at best, and cruel and insensitive at worst.” He paused and stared at Alberto. “Maria was your mother. Did she deserve to die? Arrosa was an innocent, and Abbaran, he was my boy—my life—my future—lost to me forever.”
Alberto lowered his head. “I love you, my brother, and I’ll pray for your soul.”
The ETA tried to be helpful for they saw in Jorge’s loss another political opportunity. Jorge attended meetings, listened to their philosophical discussions and lectures on Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, but he refused to participate.
“Just put me in a room with Vega or Francisco Salazar,” Jorge said, “and I’ll put them down like the dogs they are.”
“Impossible and counterproductive,” the ETA had said. “Anyway, you’d never get close to Vega. He’s too well protected.”
The ETA chose to make Jorge’s family martyrs for their cause, but they only outraged Jorge further. These tactics against the Spanish Security Forces were pathetic; he thought—blunt arrows in the ETA’s weakening quiver.
Gradually, his depression deepened and, when one evening he found a pistol in his hand, he brought it to his mouth and held it there trembling. He kept it for a moment, and then pulled it away and wept.
Goddammit it, he thought, I won’t be a victim, too. Revenge is an option available only to the living.
Jorge monitored the activities of the Spanish Secret Police. This wasn’t difficult as they left a bloody trail of one atrocity after another. Following one particularly violent attack on a Basque family, Jorge followed the police back to their barracks. He trembled with anger as they drank to celebrate their latest carnage.
Those heartless…soulless, putasemes (sons of a bitch)
After several hours, Francisco Salazar staggered from the barracks and wobbled down the street toward his home. Jorge followed, holding a club behind his back. When he finally caught up with Salazar in a dark alley, Jorge asked the bleary-eyed Salazar, “Can you point me to the nearest hospital?”
Salazar’s words came out slurred. “You don’t look like you need a hospital.”
“Oh, it's not for me, Colonel.”
Salazar shook his head as if confused. When he staggered forward to examine Jorge more closely, Jorge swung the club, striking Salazar across the face and sending him to the ground. Salazar struggled ineffectually to block further blows as he screamed in pain. The screams echoed through the alley as Jorge struck again and again.
Suddenly lights appeared from windows on the alley as people peered out and shouted, “Stop—stop. Someone call the police.”
Jorge struck once more, kicked Salazar in the face, and raced away.
Following the attack on Colonel Salazar, the secret police launched violent attacks against the ETA and anyone they identified as a possible sympathizer. They arrested several known members of the ETA, including Jorge. They placed them in a line up for Salazar.
As Jorge stood under the bright lights, he sweated with fear. After several minutes without an identification, the secret police locked them up, tortured them, and finally, after three days, set them free.
Alberto approached Jorge one evening. “You heard about Salazar? He almost died after a beating.”
“Almost isn’t good enough for that bastard.”
Alberto studied Jorge. “You didn’t…”
“I wish I had the courage.”
“Remember Romans 12:19, ‘Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’”
Jorge shook his head. “Right.”
“I’m so happy that you’re channeling your energies into more productive areas. Everyone’s talking about your Denisovan School for the Gifted. How many children do you have?”
“I’ve managed to cull out twelve of the brightest minds in Basque Country. It is my hope that they’ll be the foundation for our future.” Jorge paused. “Moreover, we’ve demonstrated and published our results that show an increase in physical, intellectual, and artistic performance.”
“Thank God that you’ve put all that destructive anger and the ETA behind you. You had me worried, brother.”
Jorge shook his head in disgust. “I shouldn’t be surprised. It takes a special type of naivety to enter the priesthood.”
“Naivety?”
“People are more than one thing, Father. I’m as committed as ever in the ETA and its goals, but I’ve learned that there’s more than one way to extract my revenge.”
Back in the arms of the ETA, Jorge channeled his rage to become one of its most militant advocates and vitriolic terrorists. He helped organize, and participate in multiple murders, assassinations, bombings, and kidnappings, all the while keeping his eye on Francisco Salazar’s recovery.
Jorge had struggled with the kidnappings, especially of children. But ultimately he acquiesce
d to the even more savage ETA elements, for kidnapping, absent the ultimate threat, would be useless.
While Jorge continued his clandestine activities, the ETA encouraged him to expand his school for the gifted. Over time, his participation with the ETA and his radical advocacy against the Spanish authorities became common knowledge.
Alberto came to Jorge a month later. “Rumors are circulating suggesting your involvement in the attack on Colonel Salazar.”
“I told you I wasn’t involved.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alberto said. “If they think you are, your life’s in jeopardy.”
“If they had any evidence, I’d be in jail now awaiting execution.”
The next day, the Spanish security forces entered Jorge’s classroom, placed him under arrest for sedition and conspiracy against the government of Spain. Two days later, they put him on an Iberia Airlines flight to California. Jorge, at age thirty-three, was on his way to a new life.
The officer in charge had gripped Jorge by the elbow, and growled, “If I had my choice, you’d be dead now. Come back to Spain, and you’re a dead man.”
Chapter Five
Jorge arrived at San Francisco International Airport, grabbed his carry-on bag, and lined up to clear customs. The customs inspector eyed Jorge, carefully scanned his passport, and asked, “The purpose of your trip?”
Jorge smiled. “This will be my new country.”
The inspector nodded, and said, “Next.”
Jorge was following the crowd to the baggage return area when a clean-cut man in his forties in a tailored suit held up a sign that read, “Jorge Moneo.”
Jorge walked up to the man. “I’m Doctor Moneo.”
When the man reached into his suit to pull out his credentials, the SIG-Sauer P228 was holstered on his belt. “I’m FBI Inspector Special Agent, James Olsen, San Francisco District office.”
Jorge’s eyes widened. “What can I do for you, Agent Olsen?”
“Follow me.”
“My bags?” Jorge asked.
“They’ll wait, Doctor. Just follow me.”
Jorge followed through an unmarked door into a small room with a simple table and chairs.
“Have a seat, Doctor.”
“What’s this all about?” Jorge asked. “As far as I know, my papers are all in order.”
“We know all about you and your papers, Doctor. What we’d like to know is your intentions.”
Jorge clenched his fists. “What’s going on here? Your State Department hashed all that out at my asylum hearing.”
“Yes, I know,” the agent said. “With your history of terrorist activity, you must have had a lot of juice to have been granted asylum.”
Jorge stood. “I don’t have to take…”
“Sit down, Doctor,” the agent shouted.
Jorge sat. “I don’t know what you think you know, but I assure you that there are two sides to every story. Moreover, whatever you think you know, the ETA has disavowed violence.”
“Bullshit!” He paused. “Remember Jeremiah 13:23: “a leopard can’t change its spots.” This is a free society, but we know how to protect our values. Don’t think for a moment that we’re not watching you. Comprende?”
“I’ll write your comments off as merely coarse and ignorant,” Jorge said. “May I go?”
“Go. You pull that ETA shit here, and I’ll return to put you in a cell or on a plane back to Spain. From what I hear, they’ll be glad to see you again.”
After Jorge settled into an apartment near the Emeryville Marina, he had two immediate goals: first, to create anew the Denisovan School for Gifted Children, and second, to set up a genetic analysis laboratory. He hired Zeru Ibarra, an evolutionary biologist at UC Berkeley. She was the granddaughter of Javier Manni, a well-known molecular geneticist. She was twenty-three, five feet four inches with brown-green eyes, typical for Basque women.
Zeru, like all modern Basques, knew of Jorge Moneo, his tragic history, and his commitment to the Basque cause. “I’m so glad to meet you, Professor Moneo. You’re an icon for the Basques.”
“Thank you, but icon is a bit much. My accomplishments are few, but hopefully not insignificant, for I have much more to accomplish.” Jorge studied her. “If you agree, I’d like you to join me here in Emeryville.”
“And my role?” she asked.
“You’ll assist me with the expansion of the Denisovan School for the Gifted and our project to understand Basque genetics, and…”
“And what?”
“After you’ve been around here for a while, you may discover that my past still haunts me.”
Zeru studied Jorge. “What does that mean for me?”
“It means that the authorities, especially the FBI, specifically Inspector Special Agent Olsen, may ask questions.”
“What kind of questions?” Zeru asked.
“About our work, here. Don’t let them alarm you. We have nothing to hide. Answer all their questions honestly.”
“You should know up front,” Zeru said, “that while I understand the ETA, and even relate to it, I can’t support their terrorist activities…they’re cruel, destructive, and self-defeating. Ultimately, the ETA’s violence can only damage the world’s sympathies for Basque causes.”
“All that’s in the past. I assure you that I no longer support terrorist activities of any type. Eventually, the FBI will come to understand.”
“How can I help you?” Zeru asked.
“Besides offering the world and the Basque country gifted students from their own culture, I want to explore the Basque genome.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling, “give me a small closet and a chemistry set, and I’ll have it for you in a week.”
Jorge glared at Zeru. “I don’t find that the least bit amusing. What we do is serious business.”
“I’m sorry. At times, I talk without thinking first.” She paused. “But, why the rush? The Human Genomic Project is well underway. In five to seven years, we’ll all have the results.”
“I can’t wait that long. We’re a culture on the brink of extinction,” he said. “If I can do anything to help the Basque people, establish our uniqueness, and protect the race in any way, I want to do it.”
“It will be expensive and duplicative.”
“We have the moral and financial support of many Basque groups.”
“Okay, but we can’t reinvent the wheel,” Zeru said. “We need someone with the bona fides to jump right into DNA analysis.”
“Like?” Jorge asked.
“You know the European Molecular Biology Laboratory?”
“Of course.”
“I know a scientist, Ramon Rodriguez, who works for them in the Human Genome Project.” She paused. “And by the way, he’s Basque.”
Jorge became excited. “Do you think…?”
“I’ll do my best; you do yours; and we’ll see.”
“Like in The Godfather,” Jorge said, “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Within a year, they’d progressed far enough to explore the detailed genetic profile of the Basque people. They brought several hundred samples from the Basque Country for analysis. In addition, they took samples from Basque populations in Chino, Reno, and Boise. For staff with Basque heritage, they offered a free snapshot of their genome.
“We’re not finished with the complete analysis, “Rodriguez said, “but we have enough to profile the Basque people.”
“Tell me what you have thus far,” Jorge said.
Rodriguez pulled out a three-inch thick folder and opened it. “This is the summary page.”
“Go ahead.”
“The general population shows 1-4% Neanderthal DNA. Blood type and the presence or absence of the Rh factor is consistent among the Basques. Moreover, detailed DNA analysis shows the concordance of several biochemical markers in the Basque subjects.”
“So,” asked Jorge, “what’s the bottom line?”
“In general, samples from Basque C
ountry closest to the Western Pyrenees Mountains had the highest percentage of Neanderthal DNA. Our samples ranged from 1 to 7 percent Neanderthal DNA, but we did have outliers.”
“How far out?” Jorge asked.
“We had one sample that showed nearly 11 percent Neanderthal DNA.”
“Do you have any idea of that individual’s phenotype?” Jorge asked. “Do you know what he or she looked like?”
Rodriguez sighed, smiled, studied Jorge, and said, “Take a look in the mirror, Señor.”
Chapter Six
(1995-1998)
(Zack, ages three months to three years)
The sun shone through the east-facing windows as Denise and Gabe sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Zack sat upright in his highchair smiling, kicking his legs, and babbling. Denise offered Zack a bottle, and after a moment staring at it, he grasped it, pulled it to his mouth, and drank.
Denise looked at the kitchen bulletin board where she had mounted a large Kansas State University developmental milestone chart for the first year of life—her bible. “It's amazing,” she said. “Look at the yellow marks. They show Zack’s accomplishments as of the third month and he’s way off the chart in every arena, including sensory, social, and especially his motor skills. It concerns me. If babbling is language, he’s ahead there, too.”
“That bothers you?”
“It’s just that both of us were bright kids, but compared to Zack, we were laggards.”
“If we go to our pediatrician and express those concerns, he’s going to laugh us out of his office.”
Denise grasped his hand. “Look, everyone wants to think that their child’s special, the next Mozart, but if Zack’s really gifted, we have responsibilities to that gift.”
“Okay, I’ll schedule him for the Medical College Admission Test right away.”
Hybrid (Brier Hospital Series Book 7) Page 3