Genocide of One: A Thriller (50 page)

Danford’s conclusion was more practical than that of the young mathematician. “Or
else it’s an elaborate hoax.”

Rubens tried to keep his voice from trembling. “I’ll double-check, but the transmission
was sent from Japan to Africa, correct? Not the other way around?”

“That’s right.”

The shock Rubens had felt at first was becoming an overwhelming sense of intellectual
excitement. The answer to the puzzle Dr. Heisman had given him was unimaginable.

There was one more evolved human.

Rubens recalled the report by the operative code-named Scientist, which had come in
via the CIA. The information they’d gotten at the Tokyo office of the World Medical
Rescue Group was the key. “Mr. Ishida?”

“Yes?” The Japanese American turned to him.

“Are you familiar with Japanese law and domestic affairs?”

“A little,” Ishida modestly replied.

“In Japan they have an official family register called
koseki
, I believe.”

“That’s right.”

“I heard that people illegally buy and sell
koseki
.”

“It happens. Organized crime’s involved, because if you obtain another person’s
koseki
you can hide your identity.”

“How do they go about buying them?”

“They go to places where the homeless and day laborers congregate and find someone
willing to sell theirs. People desperate for money will sell their
koseki
.”

“If you use the
koseki
you bought, then you can become a different person, right? You can make a contract
with an Internet provider, open a bank account, lease a place through a real estate
agent?”

“Yes, all those.”

“How do they create an individual
koseki
?”

“When a child is born you report it to the city office.”

“What documents do you need?”

“You need two documents. A certificate issued by the doctor and a birth certificate.”

“Can a relative of the woman who gives birth issue the doctor’s certificate? For example,
say the woman’s father is an OB-GYN. Could he write the certificate?”

“Legally it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“On a totally different topic, what’s the system in Japan for accepting refugees?”

Ishida looked off into space. “Because one conservative party has held power in Japan
for the last fifty years, they’ve not been very keen on accepting foreigners. They
accept less than one percent of the refugees the United States does, a level that’s
essentially inhumane.”

“So it’s hard to obtain refugee status in Japan?”

“Very. Japan’s been harshly criticized for being closed off to refugees.”

Rubens spoke more slowly now as he posed a more concrete scenario. “Based on what
you’ve said, let’s say a civil war breaks out on another continent and a pregnant
woman escapes to Japan. But that woman dies soon after giving birth, leaving behind
her daughter. If the guardian, a Japanese woman, wants to care for the child, what
can she do?”

Ishida sat in thought for a moment at what was clearly a difficult question. “First
she would try to get her refugee status, but there’s a high risk of being deported.
If the father was still back in her native land, the chances of being deported would
increase even more. I can imagine trying to adopt the girl, but then they would have
to reveal who the real mother was, and that brings things right back to the question
of refugee status.” Ishida seemed to be recalling their previous discussion, and a
smile came to his face. “This Japanese woman who is the guardian wouldn’t happen to
have a father who’s an OB-GYN, would she?”

“She does.”

“In order to protect the child would they be willing to break the law?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s simple. Have it look like the pregnant woman died before she gave birth.
Then you create a death certificate. That way you can erase the existence of the child
who was to become a refugee. Then have the Japanese woman’s father write a false birth
certificate and register the baby with the town office as her own daughter.”

“Is that possible if the fake mother isn’t married and the father isn’t known?”

“Entirely possible. The column in the
koseki
for the father is just left blank. And the real mother isn’t named, either, so no
one knows that the report is fake.”

Rubens nodded slowly, satisfied.

Language becomes a tool of communication when there are multiple subjects who understand
it and can have a meaningful exchange. If a language cryptic to humans is sent and
received, that means there must be at least two people who use that language.

Nigel Pierce probably knew in advance that a superhuman might be born among the Kanga
band. Because nine years ago the first such individual was born in Japan.

In the midst of civil war in Zaire, a pregnant Pygmy woman was transported to Japan.
She died soon after giving birth. Her attending physician, Yuri Sakai, was bent on
saving the child and must have submitted the false report that the baby was her daughter.
The fact that the child had a congenital abnormality of the head must have aroused
her sympathy all the more. But as it grew up this child she thought was deformed displayed
an astounding intelligence, and Yuri contacted the anthropologist, Pierce. They investigated
the intelligence of this child, named Ema, and found that a different species of human
had come into being. Anticipating the birth of a second such child, the two of them
began to formulate a plan to rescue that child from the Congo, where the civil war
was still raging. Actually by this point the one in charge of the plan might have
been none other than Ema Sakai, the sole individual of a new race. For Ema it was
imperative to get this second child to Japan. Without another individual to mate with,
the line would die out.

From Nous’s perspective, developing this special drug was the most rational solution
of all.

From just a few clues Dr. Heisman had seen through it all. Ema and Nous probably had
the same father but a different mother. It was very possible that their future consanguineous
mating might lead to the same tragedy that had befallen Yeager and his wife. Any child
born of such a union would run a high risk of inheriting the same etiology gene from
both parents. The development of the drug that Seiji Koga had entrusted to his son,
Kento, was no doubt the first experiment to deal with a genetic disease brought on
by consanguineous marriage.

Rubens mentally calculated how old Ema Sakai would be now. Eight years and four months.
Operation Nemesis was not pitted against a three-year-old from some remote, uncivilized
place but against an eight-year-old superhuman in an advanced country with access
to all kinds of information.

You’re underestimating your enemy’s intellect.

If a mere three-year-old of an advanced race was able to attain the intellectual powers
of human beings, Ema Sakai’s mental abilities must far and away exceed ours.

The operation will fail. Rubens was certain of it now. From the encoded message they’d
decrypted, it was obvious that Ema’s mental powers far surpassed that of Homo sapiens.
This eight-year-old perceived a world we could never comprehend.

Over on the African continent, Nous was being protected by an intelligence unknowable
to humans, and Rubens felt sure he would make it to Japan. As long as the people supporting
him didn’t screw up.

Rubens began to worry about Kento Koga. He must be in contact with Yuri Sakai. If
he were arrested by the Japanese police, then the investigation would eventually lead
the authorities straight to her.

Kento had locked his apartment, yet when he got back there was a brand-new cell phone
on the floor just inside the front door. A memo was with it.
GET RID OF THE PHONE YOU’VE BEEN USING
.

He picked up the phone and checked the display. There had been several incoming calls
but no voice messages.

He took off his shoes and was heading into the lab, where GIFT 1 was going through
its final reaction, when the new cell phone began ringing. When he answered he heard
that low voice again, sounding as if it were coming up from the bowels of the earth.

“Leave your apartment, right away.”

“Why?” Kento asked.

“You made a mistake. They traced your phone call to the newspaper reporter and know
your location. Five detectives are searching your neighborhood as we speak. It’s only
a matter of time before they find you.”

Cold air brushed his back. If detectives heard about the problem with the bad smell
the landlord had mentioned, they’d race right over.

“But…” Kento’s voice trembled. “The drug isn’t complete yet.”

“This is for your own protection.”

“You’re telling me to give up?”

“I am.”

“But there has to be a way. If we take the lab equipment somewhere else…” he began,
but realized it was impossible. There were just too many things he’d need to take.
If he got hold of a car he’d still have to go in and out of the apartment to carry
equipment, and he couldn’t help but stand out.

“There’s no time. You only have one chance to escape. If you’re outside too long there’s
a high risk they’ll find you. Leave the apartment, then walk as fast as you can to
the east. Grab a taxi and head to the center of Tokyo. After that I’ll tell you where
you’ll be living.”

Kento looked at his watch. There were ten more hours before GIFT 1 was fully synthesized.
It would take an additional eight hours after that to separate the final product material
and determine the chemical structure. “But I just need one more day to complete the
drug!”

“Time’s up. Get out of there.”

Kento had a sudden mental picture: of Maika Kobayashi, lips bloody, struggling for
every breath. He could save her. He knew it. “No. I’m not running away. There’s a
child I have to save.”

“But you’re in real danger.”

“But you used to save children’s lives, too, didn’t you? Yuri Sakai.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he could sense how much his words jolted her. Kento
went on. “You came to get the laptop to keep me from getting involved.… You wanted
to keep me away from danger, didn’t you?”

No reply.

“But I
am
involved. I took my father’s laptop, and here I am now. I can’t go back. I’m going
to finish the drug. And nobody’s going to stop me.” Kento abruptly hung up.

He waited awhile, but there was no call back. Kento went into the lab and gazed at
the flask above the magnetic stirrer.

The detectives must have started their search from the spot next to the highway where
he phoned Sugai. There were several housing complexes between there and this apartment.
For five people to stop by each one would take at least a day.

Looking up to the heavens, Kento murmured a message to his father.

Dad, I promise I’ll fulfill your last wish. So please protect your son.

Let me save those children’s lives.

Kento smiled faintly and ended his prayer with these words:

I’m sorry I ever doubted you
.

Before they entered
Cape Town, Yeager and Meyers purchased all the equipment they would need—batteries,
various tools, and black sweaters and cargo pants, which would be their uniform. Pierce
needed a printer, so he stopped by an Internet café, printed the necessary documents,
and handed them over to the two soldiers.

They arrived in their Land Cruiser at a spot overlooking Zeta Security just as the
sun was setting. The company’s site, a broad open space in otherwise hilly surroundings,
was lit up clearly in the dying rays of the sun. The main building, resembling a resort
hotel, was beyond a chain-link fence and steel netting. The runway lay behind it.

They stayed inside the car for one final briefing. The data sent from their Japanese
ally covered all the necessary information: a schematic of the compound, security
camera blind spots, the disposition of security personnel and their numbers, and a
list of codes for the electronic keypads so they could get into each room. There was
also a flight manual for the Boeing 737, which Meyers had wanted. But the manual,
which Pierce had printed in the Internet café, was so thick that Meyers just ripped
out the pages he needed and worked on memorizing the locations of cockpit gauges and
instruments.

After they’d run through their plans, Yeager looked in the backseat and saw Akili
intently studying a sheaf of papers.

“What are you reading?” Yeager asked, but Akili didn’t respond. Akili didn’t seem
to be intentionally ignoring him; rather, he was caught up in reading the material.
His upward-turned catlike eyes were reading through the pages at blinding speed.

“He’s looking at a chart of ocean currents in the North Atlantic.”

“We’re going to be flying, so why worry about currents?”

“It’s his trump card,” Pierce said. He looked perplexed and less confident himself.
“There are aspects of this escape plan I can’t understand. We just have to trust our
friend in Japan.” The anthropologist pulled out the laptop Akili used to communicate.
“I installed some voice software. When Akili types in anything now it’ll be converted
to a voice.”

“Sounds like we can have a nice talk,” Yeager said.

They opened cans of food, had their final meal in Africa, and drove their car behind
Zeta Security, out of sight behind a stand of trees.

The security patrol came by at 21:40, right on schedule, and as soon as it passed
by Yeager started up the Land Cruiser. Headlights off, they crossed the road and pulled
up alongside the fence. A board bearing the image of a skull against a yellow background
hung from the four-meter-high fence, which had ten thousand volts running through
it.

Yeager got out, tugged on a pair of rubber gloves, and sat down at the base of the
fence. Using a plastic jack, he gingerly lifted the bottom of the fence. For a former
Special Forces member, it was an elementary infiltration technique. Once there was
enough space between the ground and the fence, Meyers inserted a large plastic board
to hold open the gap Yeager had made.

Faceup, Yeager slid between the board and the ground, careful not to touch the electrified
fence, and slipped into the Zeta Security compound. As soon as he was in he got to
his feet and ran over to the electric power unit, a waist-high metal box locked with
a small padlock. Yeager broke the lock, opened the door, found the alarm switch, and
turned it off. He next cut the communications cable to the security office and then
shut off the power.

Meyers threw a knife at the chain-link fence to make sure the power was off, and then
all three of them passed through the opening.

Phase two of their plan went quickly. The four of them moved toward the rear of the
main building, zigzagging to stay in the surveillance camera dead zones. Back in Zeta
Security after a long while, Yeager felt less tense than nostalgic.

They arrived at the rear of the building at 22:05, five minutes ahead of schedule.
In front of them was the concrete armory, and beyond that, bathed in orange light,
was the runway.

They held their breath, impatiently waiting for their chance. Red beacon lights shone
far off in the sky as the roar of a jet, owned by a dummy corporation, drew near.
The plane banked steeply as it glided downward.

When the noise was sufficiently loud, they made their move. They ran to the armory,
punched in the code, and the heavy door swung open. Inside, Yeager and Meyers exchanged
their AK-47s for silenced M4 carbines. They handed Pierce a loaded pistol, and all
of them put on bulletproof vests. None of the vests fit a three-year-old, so Pierce
carried Akili on his back. The anthropologist’s body would shield the boy.

Once they were outfitted, they brought out a handcart and loaded it up with other
items they would need—helmets, goggles, small oxygen tanks, and square parachutes—all
equipment they would need for high-altitude high-opening jumps. The two mercenaries
were airborne-qualified, so they would hold Pierce and Akili and do a tandem jump.
For this they needed to check their harnesses and couplings carefully.

The jet engine roar from the runway reached a crescendo and then quickly subsided.
The Boeing jet had landed safely.

Moving to phase three, Yeager leaned out the door of the armory to check out the situation.
Just then something happened they hadn’t planned for. The rear door of the main building
opened, and a tall man emerged. Yeager recognized him right away—Singleton, the director
of operations. Yeager had a quick insight: this could save them some trouble. He signaled
to Meyers the presence of an enemy, motioned him to follow, and silently slipped out
the door.

Singleton seemed headed toward the runway to greet the CIA operatives. Yeager came
up behind him, aimed his pistol at the back of his head, and cocked the trigger.

“Hold it right there.”

Singleton shuddered and raised his hands. “Who are you?”

“An old friend.”

“I can’t tell from the voice. Do you mind if I turn around?”

“All right.”

The director of operations of the private defense contractor slowly turned. His eyes
widened in surprise when he saw Yeager and Meyers pointing their pistols at him. “What
happened to Operation Guardian?”

“Two of our guys died.”

“What?!”
A pained expression, slight but still detectable, ran across his features. “Were
they infected by the virus?”

This reaction erased any doubts Yeager had. Singleton had heard nothing about the
operation’s real goals. Yeager no longer felt hostile toward him, though he wasn’t
feeling much goodwill, either. “The operation’s still ongoing. I want you to do exactly
what I say.”

“What are you talking about? Is this what the Pentagon wants?”

“Interpret it any way you like. Just do what I tell you.”

At this point Singleton finally understood this was no joke. “And if I don’t?”

“Don’t try to resist. You know what kind of men we are.”

The unarmed former soldier looked at each of them in turn, frowned, and nodded. “What
do I have to do to get out of this alive?”

“Get inside the armory,” Yeager commanded.

Ten minutes later, Singleton emerged from the armory and walked alone toward the airfield.
Inside the hangar a small passenger jet, thirty meters long, was parked on its spot,
wings spread wide as if to display the elegant curves of its fuselage. Nine workers
were busy unloading cargo and refueling the aircraft.

Singleton went over to the five men at the base of the gangway. “Welcome to Zeta Security.
I’m Mike Singleton, director of operations.”

The CIA agents unloading arms and ammunition each introduced themselves, and shook
Singleton’s hand.

“We’ve prepared a light meal for you in the mess hall, but could you wait here for
a couple minutes?”

“Sure, no problem,” the copilot said with a friendly smile.

After he saw that all the containers had been unloaded, Singleton directed the agents.
“Gather around over here, if you would.”

The men, dressed in overalls, assembled, and Singleton pointed to two of them. “There’s
a handcart over in the armory with some cargo on it, so could you bring it over here?”

“Okay,” the men said, and headed for the armory.

The Boeing pilot looked dubious. “What are you loading onto my plane?”

“We received an order a little while ago to load some extra cargo.”

“The order came from Langley?”

“Correct.”

One of the agents took a cell phone from his jacket pocket. He’s calling the United
States to confirm, Singleton realized, and he felt cold sweat drip down his back.
“I’m sorry, but please don’t use the phone.”

“Why not?” the agent asked suspiciously.

“The reason is…this,” Singleton said, and unbuttoned the front of his shirt. Taped
to his chest was a microphone and C-4 explosive with a remote-control detonator attached.

“Everyone here, myself included, has been taken hostage. An armed group is a little
ways off, with sniper rifles aimed at us.”

The CIA agents stared off toward the runway, but the hangar was too bright, and they
couldn’t see into the darkness beyond.

“They’re monitoring our conversation. Please, everybody, do exactly what I say. Let’s
start by taking out all your weapons and phones and laying them on the ground.”

Suddenly one of the agents made a break for it. But the instant he turned to run,
a sharp crack split the air, and a bullet hit his right shoulder. He gave a brief
shout, grabbed the wound, and squatted on the floor.

“They’re well trained,” Singleton said, stating the obvious. “If you don’t resist,
no one will be killed. I’m telling you, do what I say.”

The men reluctantly followed his instructions. They knelt down, underwent a body check,
were blindfolded and gagged, then shackled with plastic handcuffs, hands behind their
backs. Only the man refueling the plane was left untied, and he was ordered to continue
working.

Just then the two men who’d been ordered to the armory appeared, pushing the handcart.
Seeing that something was amiss, they came to an abrupt halt. But when they saw the
bomb wrapped around Singleton, they realized what was happening. “Hurry up,” he ordered
them, and they mutely followed instructions. When they finished loading the plane,
Singleton ordered them to keep the plane’s door open but to roll away the stairway.
As soon as they were done they joined the line of hostages.

During the hour it took to refuel, everyone was kept as they were.

Once the refueling was over the man refueling the plane moved away from the fuel cap
under the wing, and Singleton tied him up. Yeager checked this through his gun sight,
stood up from his prone sniper position, exchanged the sniper rifle for the M4 carbine,
and cut across the runway.

As he approached the hangar he saw Singleton, the only one standing. “Is this okay?”
Singleton asked.

His stilted voice revealed how exhausted and helpless he felt and carried with it,
too, a touch of hostility. Though not enough to rouse the anger of his captors.

“You did a good job,” Yeager replied, and tied up Singleton’s hands with plastic handcuffs.

Meyers, Pierce, and Akili materialized from different directions. Seeing that the
hostages wouldn’t be able to resist, Meyers lowered his medical bag and began emergency
treatment for the man with the shoulder wound. “Don’t worry,” he told the man. “You’ll
make it.”

Behind the gag the man groaned. He said something, muffled and unclear, though clearly
not words of thanks.

Meyers got in a pickup truck in the hangar and started the engine. They loaded the
hostages in the back and drove them to the practice area behind the main building.
They bound their legs, then Yeager had them locked up inside the shoot house they’d
used during their training.

“When is the next practice session?” Yeager asked Singleton.

“The day after tomorrow.”

In a couple of days the next group of mercenaries in training would be startled to
discover live hostages. Yeager put a blindfold and gag on Singleton. “Just be patient
till then,” he said, and left the room.

Out in the hallway Pierce looked at his watch. “Good job,” he said. “Now let’s get
out of this country. Out of Africa.”

They boarded the pickup truck and drove back to the hangar.

It was now late at night. As they arrived Yeager took another look at the plane. There
was no logo of any kind on the white fuselage, just a registration number, N313P.

Meyers took away the chocks and came over. “Help me out,” he said.

The two of them went into the hangar, pulled out an expandable ladder, and leaned
it up against the entrance to the plane. It was about ten meters high. Meyers went
first, clambering up the ladder, then Pierce, carrying Akili on his back, and finally
Yeager.

The plane was pitch black inside. Meyers shone his flashlight around the cabin. The
cabin had been reconfigured for business purposes, with meeting spaces forward and
aft and seats set up in the center around a table rather than along the windows.

They pushed the ladder to the ground and tried closing the door. They didn’t know
how to shut it, and it took an unexpectedly long time. They were discussing how it
was supposed to work when a mechanical voice rang out in the darkness.

Place the door parallel to the fuselage, then push outward
.

Akili was using the computer to instruct them. When they moved the thick door as he
said, it went smoothly, and they were able to close it.

“You’re amazing,” Meyers said, patting Akili’s head as he moved toward the control
cabin.

Faint light filtered in from outside, revealing the gauges surrounding the cockpit.

“This is the first time I’ve sat in the captain’s seat,” Meyers said as he lowered
himself into the left-hand seat and slid it forward. “Yeager, could you sit next to
me?”