After Dr. Andersen’s interview, the United Nations International Science Committee had a three-day emergency meeting about HLA B66. A communiqué, issued after the meeting, stated that a joint international study had been agreed to by Britain, America, Singapore, Italy, Canada, and Sweden. It would be labeled “the BASICS Study.”
The United States and the rest of the countries were to select teams of doctors who were research-oriented and familiar with, or had experience in, HLA typing. They would all agree to share information on a regular basis.
Each country was required to finish the selection process in three weeks, and the first meeting of the scientists would be scheduled at the United Nations Headquarters in New York City.
3
SABRINA MARLEY BUZZED ABRAMHOFF’S line through the intercom.
“Yes?” answered Abramhoff, disconnecting the earpiece to the Dictaphone.
“It’s Dr. Dickerson calling, sir.”
“Put her through,” Abramhoff said.
After pushing down the third blinking button, Abramhoff greeted, “Hi, Regina.”
“Hi, David,” Dickerson said, realizing that this was one of those rare occasions when he called her by her first name.
“Did you have a chance to watch Dr. Andersen’s news conference?”
“Yes, I did.” Dickerson sounded elated. “What did you think?”
“I think that if they had not emptied their prison cells, like he said, their result would have been the same as ours,” Abramhoff said.
“If he was more focused and/or more selective, you mean?”
“The surprising thing, however, is that he did get a very high correlation.”
“Which argues, then, that the HLA finding is not an American phenomenon only?” answered Dickerson as she sneezed.
“Bless you,” Abramhoff offered.
“Thank God for HLA universality, because I recently read that America is being referred to as the harlot, Babylon,” Dickerson said, borrowing a passage from the Bible.
“Where did that come from?” Abramhoff asked.
“I guess you didn’t read the Book of Revelation after all?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s nothing,” Dickerson said. “On a more serious note, have you heard about the St. Louis, Missouri, project?”
“I did, peripherally. What was that all about?”
“Do you know Dr. Alexander Hill, of the old Deaconess Hospital?”
“Yes, isn’t he the one who discovered the allogenic transplantations theory?” Abramhoff’s forehead furrowed in thought.
“That’s him,” Dickerson said. “It appears that he has been conducting his own HLA B66 investigation with a generous donation from the Anheuser-Busch Foundation.”
“I wonder what his findings will be,” said Abramhoff, letting off a loud grunt.
“Are you okay?”
“Just stretching, go ahead.”
“Well, he is supposed to have a news conference next week,” Dickerson said.
“It’s beginning to look like that’s the quickest way to get on television,” Abramhoff said with a twinge of envy.
“What do you think about the BASICS study proposed by the United Nations?” Dickerson asked.
“Why?”
“I am just a little skeptical.”
“When you conduct international studies like that, egos get in the way, and turfs emerge from out of nowhere,” answered the politically savvy Abramhoff. “It goes without saying that they have to assign some leadership role there.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case,” Dickerson said, knowing in the back of her mind that Abramhoff desperately wanted that position. “Have you been contacted about that?”
“No, but the governor informed me that the State Department is attempting to set up diplomatic status for the doctors in general before informing them,” Abramhoff said, hoping Dickerson would let him take that leadership role.
“What’s this I hear about California and HLA testing?” Abramhoff asked, quickly trying to change the subject.
“I strongly believe that the governor is poised to announce statewide HLA testing,” Dickerson volunteered with great reluctance.
“Wow, you guys are ahead of everyone else on this issue. I have to notify Governor Roderick about this.”
“Don’t quote me, please, because the information I have is still unofficial,” pleaded Dickerson.
“One second, please,” Abramhoff interrupted.
In the background, Sabrina’s voice could be heard saying, “Dr. Achampi is here, sir, to see you.”
“Tell him I will join him soon in the conference room,” Abramhoff instructed.
“I can call you back later,” Dickerson said.
“Oh no, that’s okay. You were saying something about the California initiative.” Abramhoff’s curiosity was piqued. “This much I know, if California goes ahead with mandatory testing, the news will dwarf the BASICS project.”
“You think they’ll probably ask us to join the American team for that project?” Dickerson asked, moving away from the California discussions.
“I would certainty suspect so,” Abramhoff said with great authority.
4
DR. ACHAMPI WAS SITTING AT the middle of the rectangle oak desk when Abramhoff entered.
“I just got off the phone with Dr. Dickerson,” Dr. Abramhoff said, as he sat down at the opposite end of the desk facing Achampi.
“Oh! What did she say?” Achampi asked, pulling his chair forward.
“She was just telling me that California may become the first state to order mandatory testing for HLA B66.”
“No way,” Achampi said in frank astonishment. “The way I understand it, the federal government refused mandatory testing, and that’s why they set up the Pellagrini-Pinkett Project.”
“I know, I know,” Abramhoff said. He got up and went to the door to ask Sabrina for two coffees.
As soon as Sabrina left, Abramhoff resumed. “She said that right now the governor and the state attorney general are crafting the legal language to protect the state of California.”
“Can they do that?” Achampi asked, stroking his freshly shaved face.
“California has been known to do whatever they want, and then when the initiative becomes popular, it spreads to the rest of the states,” Abramhoff said. He appeared lost in thought.
“Are you planning to call Milton to see if Illinois will follow suit?” Achampi asked, seeming to sense what Abramhoff was thinking.
“Yes … yes, I will, but before that, have you heard about the BASICS project?” Abramhoff asked, directing his attention back to Achampi.
“Yes, I read about it in The Times of Northwest Indiana when I went to visit my dad over the weekend,” Dr. Achampi said.
“I seriously believe that we are going to spearhead that project,” Abramhoff said.
“Did the governor…?”
“No, I have not talked to the governor, yet,” Abramhoff replied, not letting Dr. Achampi finish his question. “I just finished discussing it with Dr. Dickerson.”
“What did she say?”
“I think she is taking a pass,” Dr. Abramhoff said. “I’m convinced that the governor of California is about to tap her for their mandatory testing.”
“That will be a daunting task for her.”
“She told me that she now has an assistant, a certain Dr. Millons.”
“So how do we organize this world study?” Achampi asked, convinced that Abramhoff would lead the project.
“First, we should insist that all blood samples be processed in only two places to avoid intercontinental errors,” Abramhoff said, already assuming the role.
“That’s fair.”
“Then we should insist that all data analyses be done here in Chicago.”
“Why?” Achampi asked.
“Because, let’s say they agree to that, then the bulk of the funding for the project comes to Chicago,” Abramhoff replied.
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“That’s interesting.”
“Secondly,” Abramhoff said, looking like a man on a mission, “Chicago then becomes the staging ground for all the major news conferences to follow.”
Such ego, thought Achampi.
5
NOT WANTING TO WAIT any longer, Abramhoff called the governor.
“Hi, Milt, I hate to disturb you at this critical legislative moment.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it … those knuckleheads are out of their mind if they think I am going to sign a deficit budget,” fumed the governor.
“I was just wondering,” Dr. Abramhoff said, “if you have heard anything about the BASICS project.” He did not want to go off on a tangent.
“About the … who project?” the governor asked, seemingly lost.
“You know, the proposed international HLA B66 project,” Abramhoff said.
“Oh yes, the State Department called me about two days ago to inform me that they have accepted our request to make Chicago the nerve center of the project, only if London and some bio-something research complex in Singapore were also added.”
A huge expression of relief dawned on Abramhoff’s face. He wanted to break out in a spontaneous dance, but with the governor on the other end, he decided to compose himself.
“That’s the new billion-dollar research facility complex in Singapore. I know exactly which one you’re talking about.”
“Must be, they did not give me all the specifics, but I went ahead and accepted. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah … Oh, yes, that’s okay.” Abramhoff’s joy finally exploded. “Can they also arrange for the statistical analyses and the news conferences to be conducted here in Chicago?”
“Doc … Doc…” responded the governor, sensing Abramhoff’s enthusiasm. “I’ll see what I can do when I talk to them again.”
“Thanks a million, Mr. Governor.”
“Don’t mention it.”
6
“THIS IS THE WRONG time to be looking for a landing strip,” observed Semonjene, shaking his head.
“This is the perfect time,” Aryan said in disgust. He then turned to Semonjene and smiled.
Aryan was getting tired of Semonjene’s complaints.
“What do you mean, perfect? It’s 10:45 at night; soon it’ll be midnight. The mosquitoes are eating me alive. There is no freaking moon to tell us where we are going.”
“How do you even know where you are going anyway?” Semonjene persisted.
Aryan Broughton and Semonjene Raloux had been looking for an abandoned airstrip. Aryan was contacted by the Micaela drug cartel from Colombia to investigate an airstrip they were planning to use for their midnight drops for the Louisiana regional supplies center.
The cartel figured out that the drug market in New Orleans and the surrounding states had gotten so lucrative that faster deliveries were needed to meet the market demand. A downloaded satellite search through Google at the Micaela computer room in Barranquilla, Colombia, located what appeared to be an airstrip in Louisiana.
Mr. Aryan Broughton, the local coordinator for Micaela Business International, was immediately contacted. He researched old archived local town papers and found that about seventy-five years ago there had been a landing strip, almost a small airport, on what used to be a beautiful estate where rich merchants lived. Now an abandoned community, the property had been swallowed up by Baton Rouge and New Orleans.
“I used to be a Green Beret, and missions like this are my specialty,” Aryan boasted.
“But, does it have to be in the middle of the darn night?” asked Semonjene.
“Yes it does, on specific instructions from Micaela,” Aryan replied.
“You know, since you’re good at this, you could have come by yourself, that way you don’t have me to cause you any problems.”
“Be quiet,” whispered Aryan suddenly, “and stand perfectly still.”
Semo, as he preferred to be called, stood perfectly still, and then hit himself on the neck to ward off insects.
“Did you hear that?” Aryan whispered.
“Hear what?” Semo, looking around sheepishly, whispered back.
“That,” whispered Aryan again. “It sounded like a girl trying to scream.”
“I don’t hear a thing,” whispered Semo.
“Your gun is fully loaded, right?”
“Yes, last time I checked,”
“Make sure it’s in a place you can reach easily.”
“Okay.”
“Put your left index finger in my back pocket and follow me closely. If I stop, you stop; if I move, you move, and by all means, do not bump into me, got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Semo said sarcastically, in a louder voice.
“Shut up,” Aryan whispered. “Let’s go.”
Semonjene took a deep breath and quietly followed Aryan. After a short distance of cat-like walking, a building silhouette could be seen in the distance. Then after about half a block or more, a two-story tower finally appeared, and there were faint lights coming from the inside.
This place is miles from civilization, thought Aryan. Who knew about this place? Some other cartel may have beaten us to the punch.
Approaching cautiously, Aryan turned to Semonjene and said, “Don’t touch anything. Don’t cough. Don’t even take a deep breath, just follow behind me. Where I step, you step. You don’t want them to know we are here. If they do, we’re dead.”
Semo wanted to whisper something back, but because he had always harbored a fear of death, he did not utter a word.
Aryan was able to discern three cars parked in what looked like the front of the building. He moved Semo quickly to the window where the light was coming from.
Two visible cracks could be seen through the wooden planks used to seal off the window. The building looked old, dilapidated, and uninhabited, yet there were at least three people inside. Aryan heard a muffled conversation coming from inside the building.
Aryan motioned to Semo to peek through the crack at the upper end. He whispered that there were three men in the room moving around, looking for something. A very frightened young girl had what looked like a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. She was still trying to say something, but only a moaning sound could be heard from her. She was about sixteen or seventeen years old, a little chubby. Her hands were tied behind her as she sat on the floor, shaking, in the far corner of the room.
One of the men, in blue jeans and a New Orleans Saints t-shirt, with a rough salt-and-pepper beard, unlocked a door and went into another room and dragged out an old mattress. The second man was standing over the girl, apparently to prevent any attempt to escape. He was a bigger, bulkier man than the first guy, a little older, in his fifties, clean-shaven, wearing jeans with a navy blue shirt.
The first guy reappeared from the other room with what looked like a bed cover and spread it over the mattress. A third guy appeared from the shadows. He was a short, stocky man, also in his late fifties, wearing a ruffled, light gray suit, and a tie. He was clean-shaven, with a sinister look on his face. He had a small saddle nose deformity, and he held a cigarette in his right hand.
He took a puff of the cigarette and threw the rest on the floor, extinguishing what was left with his right foot.
“You ready, guys?” he asked with a faint British accent. “You all know the routine. I go first, then today Jewel is second, then you, okay?”
“If you say so, boss,” answered the fellow referred to as “you.”
Jewel and the third man untied the struggling teenager and dragged her to the bed with her legs kicking, while the man in the suit and tie attempted to control her flailing limbs.
The girl’s hands were tied to two steel pipes at the corners of the makeshift bed. Next, the legs were spread apart and tied to old mahogany table legs at the south end of the mattress. The one called Jewel then pulled out a huge hunting knife and systematically cut off all her clothes.
The man in the suit climbed on the bed
, kneeled between her spread legs, and unzipped his pants. Through the gag, her moans were muffled but heartwrenching. Finished, Jewel went next, then the third guy. The young girl was so exhausted after Jewel’s performance that she hardly uttered a moan with the third person.
“Okay, let’s sacrifice, and head out of here,” said the man referred to as “boss.”
“Next Friday, can I go first?” the third guy asked, in a deep Southern accent.
“You know the rules; I go first, then you two take turns,” the boss said, his face unflinching.
“Can we get a pretty one then?” asked Jewel in his deep baritone voice.
“Our suppliers already have one coming from Arkansas,” the boss said.
“Yeah, my cousin lives in Arkansas, Fort Smith,” said the third guy.
“Yes … yes, let’s finish this and go,” said the boss.
They rolled the girl over in a prone position after untying her, then moved her forward with her whole head and neck hanging over the edge of the bed.
She was tied down again in this new position. Mr. Bossman took out a small book from his coat pocket, then read out loud some unintelligible words in a prayer-like fashion for what appeared to be an eternity. Putting the book away, he picked up a small ice container from the floor. He took his coat off, rolled up his sleeves, and revealed a hairless arm.
The third man pulled the girl’s head so it flexed backwards, revealing her neck. Jewel again pulled the hunting knife. With the precision of a butcher, he slit her neck wide open. Blood was pouring out and the bossman was collecting all that he could.
Upon seeing the girl’s throat slit, Semonjene made an attempt to sit down, his right hand covering his mouth to muffle a gasp. The three men looked up immediately.
“Did you hear something?” asked Jewel.
“I thought I did, but you know there are plenty of rabbits here,” the third guy said.
By now, the blood had dwindled to a trickle. Mr. Bossman put the ice bucket closer to collect the last drop. Then he opened an outer door and whistled.
“Did you guys hear anything out there?” he asked whoever was in the outer chamber.
Mark of the Beast Page 19