Genocide of One: A Thriller (4 page)

Until a month ago he could have still gotten a full-time job instead of staying in
research. Kento cursed his bad timing. Either way would have been fine with him. He’d
gone on to the doctoral program because he didn’t feel ready to go out into the world,
not because he was all fired up to work in research. Quite the opposite: ever since
he entered university he’d felt out of place, as if he’d made a wrong choice. He never
really enjoyed pharmacology or organic synthesis, but he had continued with it simply
because he had no other skills. He could picture it well—twenty years from now he’d
wind up just like his father, a boring researcher in some backwater branch of science.

Kento arrived on campus, and as he passed through the back entrance to the science
and engineering quad and headed toward the pharmacology building, his pace grew dull
and heavy. The more he thought about the drab path he was headed down in life, the
heavier his steps had become, but he finally managed to pull himself together and
speed up.

He climbed the linoleum steps to the third floor, to the Sonoda Lab, named after his
supervisor. He walked down a corridor and opened a door onto another short corridor.
On either side were small rooms, some with lockers; one of them was a seminar room.
At the end of the corridor was Professor Sonoda’s office, and to the left was the
research lab.

Kento, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, took off his down jacket, hung it up in
one of the lockers, and looked into the professor’s office. The door was open, and
Professor Sonoda was there, dressed in his usual shirt and tie.

“Good morning,” Kento said, and went inside.

Professor Sonoda glanced up from a stack of papers on his desk, and when he saw it
was Kento he looked concerned. Professor Sonoda was normally a lively person, much
more energetic than you would expect from a man in his late fifties, ever ready to
urge on his young grad students. But now he wore a grave, solicitous look.

“I’m so sorry to hear what happened,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay, I think,” Kento replied, and thanked him for sending flowers to the funeral.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting your father,” Professor Sonoda said. “But because
we were in the same line of work it really hit home. It’s a terrible loss.”

Kento was genuinely grateful for his supervisor’s kind words. Professor Sonoda was
an elite researcher who had developed numerous new drugs for major pharmaceuticals
companies, yet he somehow managed to find time in his busy research schedule to write
academic papers, which had led to his being appointed professor at the university.
He was also exceptionally adept at winning major grants to conduct joint research
projects with drug manufacturers. Kento had often compared his father unfavorably
with the professor, wondering why his father couldn’t be more like him.

Not wanting to bring back sad memories, Professor Sonoda changed the subject. “So
are you ready to come back?”

“Yes, I—” Kento said, and stopped. Other than the formal interment of his father’s
bones, was there anything else he still had to do? “I still might have to ask for
a few days off.”

“Of course; that would be fine. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Well, work awaits,” the professor said, smiling encouragingly, and saw him out.

The lab the grad students worked in was, perhaps, too enormous to be labeled a room.
It was a gigantic space as big as four junior high or high school classrooms put together.
There were four lab benches in the middle, covered with various testing equipment
and jars of chemical compounds, and along three of the walls there were grad-student
workstations and draft chambers with industrial exhaust fans. The scene verged on
the chaotic, but somehow the functional beauty of it all had its own special power
and appeal.

The Sonoda Lab was focused on developing new drugs to combat autoimmune diseases.
The professor, his assistant professor, and some twenty grad students were all dedicated
to the task, but at this time of year, in January, the lab was relatively quiet. Undergrads
who worked in the lab were preparing for the national pharmacy license exam, while
the recently graduated MA students were mostly out on job interviews.

“Kento, I’m really sorry to hear about your father,” Kento’s immediate supervisor,
Nishioka, said. He was a second-year PhD student. His eyes were red, as if he’d been
crying, but it wasn’t from tears of sympathy: it was because he had spent another
long, sleepless night in the lab.

“Thank you for your text message,” Kento said, remembering the condolences Nishioka
had sent.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wake.”

“Everybody’s busy, so I can’t expect them to attend. I should be the one to apologize,
for taking five days off.”

“No; don’t worry about that,” Nishioka said, blinking his bloodshot eyes.

Other colleagues came up one by one to express warm words of sympathy. Even the female
grad students, normally so brisk and businesslike, were unusually kind as they spoke
with him. Kento realized that he’d made it this far as a researcher through the help
of all these colleagues.

Kento stood at his workstation and got back to work. Organic synthesis focuses on
creating carbon-based compounds. Carbon has, as it were, four hands with which to
connect up with other elements. Oxygen has two. When these elements combine, two oxygen
atoms link up with a carbon atom, creating CO
₂
, namely, carbon dioxide. But organic synthesis is not, unfortunately, this easy.
It is much more challenging to build new organic compounds from simpler building blocks.
Many reaction conditions can influence the results: the chemical concentration, the
order of addition, the temperature, the type of catalyst, and the reaction solvent,
to name a few. In Professor Sonoda’s lab researchers were constantly looking for molecular
structures with druglike activity, which they could further modify to create new pharmacologic
agents.

Kento’s present research involved working with a basic core structure consisting of
carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen molecules and adding other functional groups to it. The
assistant professor had taped the recipe onto his workstation—instructions on the
steps he should take to get the reaction they were looking for. Pharmacology experiments
had something in common with cooking. The connection wasn’t clear, but the fact remained
that there were far more women in the pharmacy schools than men. In some universities
it was up to 90 percent. At the graduate-school level, too—unusual for the sciences—nearly
half the students were female.

It took Kento the rest of the morning to get his reagents and lab equipment set up
and to prepare for the first reaction. While he waited for the results, he went to
his desk by the window and flipped open his laptop. As expected, he’d received several
sympathy e-mails. He was grateful to his friends for their thoughts. He read through
them, answering each one. When he got to the last message, he froze. The sender’s
name startled him:
Seiji Koga, Tama Polytechnic University
.

He checked the name again, and a chill ran up his spine.

The e-mail was from his dead father.

He almost shouted out in surprise, then glanced around him. The other students were
deep into their own experiments, none of them paying him any attention.

Kento pushed his narrow glasses up higher on his nose and gazed at the screen. The
message had been sent today, at exactly twelve midnight. More than five days after
his father had passed away. The subject heading read:

It didn’t seem to be a virus e-mail or spam masquerading as a message from his father.
Was this somebody’s idea of a prank?

Kento checked that his security software was running and opened the message. Small,
nine-point script came up on the display.

Back? Back from
what?
From the dead? Kento read on.

The message ended there.

Short, but cryptic. It looked like a farewell note, but his father didn’t seem to
be thinking he might die when he wrote it. Had he really sent this? Had he used software
that lets you send a message at a predetermined time? If he really set this up himself,
it obviously meant he’d anticipated he’d be away from them. But why? Kento was clueless.

Kento reread the final lines.

Popsicle?
He pondered this for a moment, and then it hit him, and he knew the message had to
be from his father. Back when he was in elementary school, his father had decided
to give him some extra lessons during summer vacation and had reviewed the periodic
table of the elements with him in a science reference book. As Kento was looking at
it, the Popsicle he’d been licking slipped off its stick and plopped onto the page,
staining the box representing zinc—Zn—a strawberry color. Only his father knew about
this.

The book must still be back home, on a shelf in his father’s study. He considered
calling his mother to have her check it out, but his father’s instructions brought
him up short.

If he was going to obey his late father’s wishes, it meant he’d have to go all the
way home again, another two-hour train ride.

Kento leaned back in his chair. What could possibly be hidden away in that sticky,
stained old book?

Yeager flew into
the Republic of South Africa, changing planes in Johannesburg and arriving in Cape
Town. In the Southern Hemisphere it was the middle of summer. He was met at the airport
by a car from a local private defense contractor, Zeta Security, and driven to a training
facility in the suburbs.

South Africa was where the first private defense contractors had begun. In its initial
stages this new business—providing paid military services—had success in putting an
end to some of the civil wars that raged on the African continent. But the practice
had also led to some bloodthirsty mercenaries grabbing the wealth of certain countries
by force so that the winning side could gain control of valuable mineral resources.
The South African government passed an antimercenary law prohibiting South African
defense contractors from operating in foreign countries, but under the pretext of
aiding in the reconstruction efforts in Iraq a number of new private defense contractors
had sprung up, Zeta Security among them. Zeta was a subcontractor for Yeager’s employer,
Western Shield.

The view outside changed as they drove, first through a beautiful, seaside city, then
through wide-open plains filled with vineyards, and finally up into hills. Yeager,
seated in the back of the van, still struggled with whether he’d made the right decision.

In Baghdad he’d made up his mind to turn down the job offer and fly to Lisbon to be
with his wife and son. But after he spoke with Lydia and Dr. Garrado, he found out
how enormously expensive it was going to be to keep Justin alive for the final days
of his life. Over the past four years, as they paid for the advanced medical treatment
for Justin abroad, Yeager and his wife had reached the limit of what they could borrow.
Even if it meant he couldn’t be with Justin as much as he should, Yeager was at the
point where he needed to earn some serious money.

Dr. Garrado was their last hope. Most children with PAECS die before they reach the
age of six. No one has ever survived until the age of nine. But using every possible
treatment in his repertoire, Dr. Garrado, one of a handful of experts on the disease,
had kept Justin, now age eight, alive. When terminal symptoms appear the patient usually
has only a month to live, but Yeager was counting on Dr. Garrado to keep Justin alive
a few more months. As soon as he finished this assignment he could race off to see
him and make it in time. And spend his son’s final days with him.

But what would happen to him after Justin passed? What choice would Lydia make?

They’d been on the verge of divorce several times. When Justin was two and had started
having breathing problems, the doctor at the army hospital had first told them their
son’s disease was a single gene disorder. “People get two sets of genes from their
parents,” he’d explained. “So even if one set is abnormal, the other will cover for
it and allow things to function normally. Sometimes, though, a person gets abnormal
genes from both parents, and a disease results. In your son’s case there’s a mutation
in one part of the genes that create the lungs, which results in difficulties in absorbing
oxygen.”

Yeager felt like he was being blamed for the condition. And Lydia probably felt the
same way. As if he could read their thoughts, the doctor added, “This isn’t anybody’s
fault. It’s more like plain bad luck. Everyone has some abnormal genes, some more
than others. In this case, unfortunately, two abnormal genes happened to be in the
same location.”

But Yeager found this bad luck hard to accept. If only he hadn’t married Lydia, then
his child wouldn’t be suffering like this. And Lydia must have had similar thoughts
about her husband. The blame went back and forth, one of them attacking the other,
barbed words flying fast and furious, cutting them to the quick. They knew these fights
only made them more miserable, but they couldn’t stop.

It was only a matter of time before their marriage fell apart. Right around this period
was when they first heard of Dr. Antonio Garrado at the Lisbon University Medical
Center, who specialized in the disease. But their military health insurance didn’t
cover treatment abroad, and Yeager’s E-9 sergeant major salary wasn’t enough to pay
for the expensive treatment.

One day, after Yeager had finished a long tour and had returned home, he and Lydia
were having their usual fight when he suggested they get divorced. Lydia, though,
wouldn’t agree to it. She insisted that they stick it out for three more years. Wiping
away her tears with her fingertips, a characteristic gesture, she said, “Ever since
he was little, Justin’s been suffering because of this disease. He doesn’t have even
one happy memory. And you want us to get divorced and make his life even more miserable?”

Lydia’s words struck a chord. Yeager’s own parents had broken up when he was a child.

Then, after spending a short time home on leave, he left on another deployment. There,
in Afghanistan, as part of a forward observation team, he met a man on contract from
a private defense contractor. A former SEAL member, the man told him he’d be happy
to introduce Yeager to his employers if he were interested.

It was the perfect chance. Private contractors didn’t get benefits or retirement,
but their salary was more than three times that of his army pay, and he’d be able
to earn at least one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year. He waited until the
so-called stop loss period was lifted, during which his term of service could be extended
beyond the contracted-for end date, then resigned from the army and moved his wife
and son to Portugal.

Three more years, Lydia had said, but thankfully Dr. Garrado had been able to extend
that to five. Now, though, with Justin coughing up blood, the end was, at most, a
few weeks away.

Yeager was determined to keep their family going until their son had passed, but after
Justin was gone Yeager was sure he would end up alone—a mercenary who fought for money,
not for country.

“Here we are. Company headquarters.”

The driver’s voice brought Yeager back to the present. He glanced at his watch and
saw that the trip from the airport had taken more than an hour. The Zeta Security
four-wheel-drive vehicle passed through the sentry gate and entered the company grounds.
It was a large base, in dry, hilly country, cordoned off by security fencing. The
compound contained a main building, training grounds, and a runway long enough to
accommodate cargo planes during takeoff and landing.

The headquarters was a spacious, three-story, cream-colored Mediterranean-style building
that nicely belied the shady image associated with private defense contractors. From
the outside, Yeager thought, it looked more like some chic hotel.

As he got out of the van, Yeager put on his game face. It was showtime—time to put
the harsh realities of his life behind.

He lugged his backpack and sports bag into the lobby, where a tall man with a mustache
came out to greet him. He was dressed in khaki from head to toe—military without a
doubt, a hard look in his eyes, as though he’d forgotten how to smile. “Mike Singleton,
director of operations,” the man said in a South African accent. “The rest of your
team is already here. I’ll show you to your room.”

Yeager followed him to the back of the building. They walked down a mazelike corridor,
past numbered rooms. Singleton halted in front of room 109, knocked, and opened the
door.

The room was a typical four-man layout, with bunk beds along the walls on each side
and individual lockers on the far wall, straight ahead. The only new item in the room
was a small writing desk. The three men who had been standing in the room, talking
among themselves, looked toward the door as soon as it opened.

“Gentlemen,” Singleton said. “Let me introduce one of your team members. Jonathan
Yeager, call sign Hawk.” The men’s expressions were a little tense at this first meeting.
For Yeager these were critical new colleagues, his new comrades in arms.

 “We assemble at seventeen hundred hours in the second-floor briefing room,” Singleton
added, and left.

“Hi, Hawk,” one of the men said. He was slim, calm-looking, and appeared to be in
his twenties—on the young side for a private defense contractor. In situations like
these invariably the friendliest man introduced himself first, the most somber man
last. “Scott Meyers, call sign Blanket.”

“Nice to meet you.” Yeager smiled at the call sign and shook his hand.

The next man to shake his hand was about the same age. “Warren Garrett. No call sign.”

He figured Garrett for a thoughtful staff officer. An unpretentious type, but someone
you could count on when things got rough.

Meyers and Garrett were both white, probably American, but the third man was Asian.
He was short but hugely muscular, especially around the neck and shoulders, obviously
on performance-enhancing drugs.

“Mikihiko Kashiwabara,” he said.

“Miki—
heko
?” Yeager asked, and Meyers and Garrett laughed.

“Nobody can pronounce it,” Garrett said. “Japanese names are impossible.”

“What were you called on your last job?” Meyers asked. “Mickey?”

“Mick,” the Japanese man said, disgust evident in his voice. Clearly not his favorite
nickname.

“Mick it is, then,” said Garrett.

Japanese weren’t common among private defense contractors, and Yeager was impressed.
“What did you do before you started this line of work?” he asked.

“I was in the French Foreign Legion,” Mick replied in heavily accented English. “Before
that I was with the Japan Self-Defense Force.”

Yeager already saw a potential problem. Normally when a team of private contractors
was put together the men were all from the same military background. Even within the
United States, the army and the marines employed different tactics and weapons. Once
they were in combat these differences could lead to confusion and even get a team
killed, which is why private contractors were usually teamed up with people who had
the same background and training.

“I was in the US Special Forces,” Yeager said, trying to draw out the others.

“US Air Force for me,” Meyers said. “Pararescue.”

Pararescue jumpers were trained in advanced medical treatment and combat. Their motto
was “That others may live.” An unusual background for a private defense contractor.

“The marines, Force Recon,” Garrett said.

The team was certainly a mixed bag. Yeager knew they’d have to coordinate code words
and hand signals to use in a combat situation. And he’d have to make sure that Mick
felt like part of the team.

The briefing room was a small, windowless room. Narrow desks lined up facing a whiteboard
next to the wall.

Singleton strode in at exactly 1700. He glanced at Meyers, who was ready to take notes.
“No notes in this briefing. You need to memorize all the info I give you.”

Meyers quietly put away his pad and pen.

“I know you still don’t know each other, so I’ll introduce each of you and tell you
what your individual assignments are. First of all, all of you are airborne certified.
Yeager will be the team leader. He’ll be in charge of weapons and sharpshooting. Your
languages are English, Arabic, and Pashtun, too, I believe?”

“Correct,” Yeager replied.

“In the present operation, though, we won’t have need for those special skills.” Singleton
turned to the next man. “Meyers will be your medic. What other languages do you speak?”

“None, really,” the young man answered. “A little medical terminology. That’s about
it.”

Singleton stared hard at him for a moment. Yeager figured Singleton for a former member
of the South African army.

“Garrett, you’re in charge of communications. In addition to English you speak French
and Arabic?”

Garrett wordlessly nodded.

“Finally, Kashiwabara,” Singleton said, carefully sounding out the name. “You’re in
charge of explosives. You speak Japanese and French, but can you handle English?”

“I—think so,” Mick replied.

Singleton looked a little concerned at the uncertain reply. “Let’s take a look at
your schedule,” he went on.

Their training regimen would include forty-kilometer endurance marches every other
day, training in Swahili, and inoculations against a variety of diseases, yellow fever
included.

“Let’s move on to your area of operations.” Singleton walked over to a projector and
punched up a PowerPoint presentation onto a large screen. The first slide was a map
of Africa. He hovered his laser pointer over at the middle of the map. “You’ll be
inserted into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, known until recently as Zaire.”

Yeager checked the location of the Congo. It was a large country right in the center
of the continent, just below the equator. The country’s border was long on the west,
as it followed the Congo River, which ran past the capital, Kinshasa, all the way
to the Atlantic Ocean, where it ended in a narrow strip. The different colors of the
map showed the concentration of tropical rain forest within the Congo’s borders. The
country was covered in heavy forests.

“Gentlemen, you’ll be inserted at the opposite end of the country from Kinshasa, in
the eastern jungle region. It’s a search and destroy mission. Your cover will be that
you’re working for an animal rights organization, so let your hair grow out. Your
primary weapons will be limited to AK-47s and shotguns. We won’t be distributing squad
automatic weapons. I’ll give details on the rest of your gear at a later briefing.”
Singleton looked at Meyers, the former pararescue jumper. “Meyers, are you familiar
with Ebola hemorrhagic fever?”

“I am.”

“Since this has to do with the mission, could you brief the team on this disease?”

Meyers looked a bit taken aback, but turned to the other members. “Ebola hemorrhagic
fever is the most deadly infectious disease known to man. The virus destroys the cells
of the body, including the brain. The internal organs and muscles dissolve while you’re
still alive. In a person infected with the disease all the bodily fluids infected
by the virus gush out through the openings of the body—the ears, nose, mouth, and
anus, and through the pores—and you die. The mortality rate for
Zaire ebolavirus
is ninety percent.”