The Egyptian (23 page)

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Stefan met him in the lobby at eight. The air was still and cool, and they both wore light jackets. A hint of light remained as spring struggled to assert control. They walked to an Italian restaurant around the corner and sat on a street-side patio packed with checkered tablecloths.

“I talked to my company,” Stefan said. “It’s chaos. The scientists that were killed were much respected.”

“I’m very sorry.”

Stefan’s mouth tightened, and he nodded. His eyes shifted away.

“I understand,” Grey said. “You want to look someone in the eye and tell them they’re going to answer.”

“Yes.”

“It was an act of evil. You have to let the police handle it and hope they turn something up. You have to go on with your life.”

“I talked to the police.”

“Any leads?”

“Bulgarian police? In Veliko? They will never be caught.” Stefan swirled and studied his wine. “The police said they were killed by a blunt instrument, as you said. A large one.”

“A bat?”

“Something with more surface area. They were not certain what it was.”

Grey ran through possible weapons in his mind. It still bothered him that they had chosen not to shoot the scientists. “Anything else?”

“The autopsy revealed traces of two substances on Yakiv’s fingers. Resin and natron.”

“Was either connected to your work?”

“We don’t use resin in the lab. He might have brushed a tree in the forest. The other substance, natron, is a natural salt. The chemical symbol for sodium comes from the Latin word for natron.”

“A salt?”

“Natron occurs naturally in the Wadi Natrun, a valley forty miles northwest of Cairo.”

Grey sat back in his chair as the image of the blood-spattered lab filled his mind. He felt used and betrayed by Al-Miri, disgusted at what had been done, and he had half a mind to go offer his services to the Cairo police department.

Stefan wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a deep breath. He was pale. “Yakiv,” he whispered. He pushed his plate away half-finished, then excused himself and went to the restroom. Grey finished his spaghetti carbonara and slowly rolled his Peroni between his palms.

Stefan returned five minutes later. His eyes were red. He started to apologize and Grey quieted him. “You must’ve been very close,” he said gently.

Stefan clasped his hands on the table and rubbed his thumbs together. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something you do not understand, because you could not. I’m sorry to burden you—”

“It’s not a burden.”

Stefan compressed his lips and continued rubbing his thumbs. He stopped and pulled a photo out of his wallet, then set it on the table between them. The photo was of a young boy.

“His mother and I are no longer together.”

Grey picked up the photo. “He’s a handsome boy. He has your chin.”

“He has leukemia.”

Grey set the photo down. “Stefan, I’m-”

“Stop. Thank you. Some of what Veronica has said about me is the truth. I will go places in my work that some consider unethical. I wanted you to know why. And I swear to you I’ve never harmed an innocent human being. I cannot… I cannot stand back and watch my son die while there is hope in the laboratory. I won’t let men in classrooms and politicians and activist groups tell me what’s best for my son. I won’t put the lives of laboratory animals above the life of my child.”

“How long, I mean, how is he…”

Stefan spoke in a voice that had related a tragic event so many times he’d numbed to the telling of it. “It is not good. The chemotherapy holds off the inevitable, for the moment. The case is an aggressive one.”

“I keep saying I’m sorry. I wish I had better words.”

“Those men, they didn’t just kill my friends. I had hope in my laboratory. Do you understand? Hope for my son. Leukemia results from somatic mutations in the DNA. We didn’t have time to determine whether or not the liquid had an appreciable effect on cancerous cells, but it showed signs…” He clenched his fists on the table. “I know it will help. I feel it deep, in those same places where I feel for my son. Maybe it will need chemical adjustments, maybe not. But I know it can help.”

Stefan’s lab destroyed, his friends murdered, and his hopes for his son dissipated. A high price to pay for a lapse of judgment. Grey could only lower his eyes.

“It’s not fair that my son should die. I know every parent would say the same, and every one is right. But I had a chance to do something about it. I refuse to believe it can end like this.”

“Can you try and replicate it?”

He made a disgusted sound. “We were not even close.” He squeezed his eyes shut and put an elbow on the table, supporting his head with his fingertips. “I’m not a man of faith. There’s no scientific proof that human consciousness survives death.” He opened his eyes. “And what a frightening organic event death is. Even for those with faith—tell them their child will die within a year, and see how much they trust their faith.”

Grey said gently, “But isn’t that overwhelming love for your son a little proof of the divine?”

Stefan didn’t seem to hear him. “This living human being that you brought into this world, that you raised and loved, will no longer walk beside you. The death of a child—we are there to witness the absolute finality of death, the complete absence of that which we love most.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How is this acceptable?”

Grey toyed awkwardly with his beer bottle, and said words he didn’t believe. “We have to have faith we’ll see them again. That it’ll be okay. I know that sounds trite, but… it’s all we have, Stefan.”

“But we don’t know. We
do not
know. And if we don’t know, how can we sit in our chairs and wake and rise and eat and wait for the end to come? How do we—how can
I
—not stand and fight for my son? Claw back against nature? Try to keep, for as long as possible, what it would take from me? I’m a biologist. I understand that nature engineered us to procreate and then to die. But somehow we acquired awareness of our own mortality, what some call a soul. We acquired a desire to stay. When you add to that,” his voice cracked, “the unspeakable love for your child, you—” His face spasmed and he turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Grey whispered again. “I’m so sorry.”

V
eronica grinned at the waiter, and he smiled at her in return. A bold smile. Normally she liked that, but she found herself comparing it to Grey’s reserved smile, the one where he barely showed his teeth but in which his whole face played a part: his soulful green eyes and dark brow, his slightly crooked nose, his solid cheekbones and willful dark hair.

Grey’s too skinny, she told herself. This waiter, he was extraordinarily good-looking, and built like a workhorse. If I saw the two of them together I’d choose the waiter without hesitation. And he was probably in his last year of business school and already has his first year at Goldman lined up.

But the waiter didn’t have that nice expressive mouth and quiet self-confidence and
dammit
, she said aloud.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Monique said.

Veronica punched her order out. “I’ll have a dirty Stoli Martini and the braised lamb cheek.”

“With the tagliatelle onion strips? Or the acorn-roasted butternut squash?”

“I don’t give a damn. Just bring me what comes with it.”

The waiter frowned, then took Monique’s order and left. Monique clucked. “What’s that about? He was flirting with you. He couldn’t have been twenty-five. You’ve still got it, sweetie.”

“Sure.”

Monique returned to her blackberry, and Veronica remained silent until her drink arrived. “Could you put that thing away for ten seconds and listen to me?”

Monique held a finger up and kept typing. Veronica rolled her eyes and downed half her drink. Monique looked up and said, “Can you believe what happened with the foundation grant? That money was supposed to be earmarked for relief, and R&D has their hands all over it. Have you made reservations for Atlanta yet?”

“Did you listen to what I told you? Do you understand the significance of this man’s story?”

“Isn’t story the perfect word, though?” Monique said lightly. She always served up a reproach with healthy doses of charm and nonchalance, which annoyed Veronica even more. “Do you really believe it? Are there any samples?”

“I told you, they destroyed the lab. They tried to
kill
us.”

Monique laid her hand on Veronica’s arm. “That’s why you have to let it go, Vere.”

“Look. I trust Somax about as much as I trust a stockbroker with rent due. But I don’t think my contact was lying about this. And it was corroborated by…”

“By who? This mysterious detective?”

“I can’t give you the details yet. I made a promise. But you have to trust me. This is the biggest thing in a decade, maybe ever. Telomerase, Monique. Synthetic telomerase. You know what that means.”

Monique took the cherry off her cocktail stick and popped it in her mouth. “I’ll believe
that
when I see it.”

Veronica nodded. “That’s fair. That’s fair. But you have to let me work it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to talk about the waiter?”

Veronica took Monique’s hand and held it up. She traced a finger down the lines.

“What?”

“You’re a beautiful woman,” Veronica said, “and you know it. But we both see the writing on the wall. Look at these lines, look at my lines. Look at my crow’s feet. Look at these cantaloupes under my eyes. I take medicine for acid reflux. My ass looks like a cellulite factory.”

“Your ass is perfect.”

“I have ulcers on a monthly basis. I’m
thirty-five
. We’re decomposing like ice cream in sunshine.” She did a half-turn and revealed a small scar below her left shoulder-blade. “Melanoma. A quarter-sized chunk.”

“You never told me that.”

“Two years ago. Cancer, Monique. I had cancer. Already. That time I was lucky. Where’s it going to be next time?”

She said, gently, “It’s called life, hon.”

“Is it? Why? Because that’s what we know right now? We both know the science is coming. What if it’s here already?”

Monique opened her mouth, then let it slowly fall shut. “What would you have me do? If I said go ahead, what would you do?”

“I’d go to Egypt. This company is legit, I’ve checked on it. They have a few top dog scientists and a handful of important patents. No press yet. This company is ours.”

“The same company that you say just tried to kill you? You’re being unreasonable now. Let it be.”

“There’s something to it. I feel it.”

“Then let it come out on its own. No company is going to keep that to themselves, if it’s true. If they have it, they’re ironing out the kinks.”

It was Veronica’s turn to reflect. She hadn’t figured that one out yet. She assumed the liquid was still in development, and the internal brass were jockeying for position. Did she think certain people within the company, or the criminal elements with whom they were associated, would kill to keep this liquid to themselves until they were ready?

Absolutely.

“Regardless,” Veronica said, “a story like this is begging for someone to tell it. I was there. I risked my life. The public deserves this story.”

“The public deserves this story, or your career deserves this story?”

“Fine. Yes, dammit, my career deserves this story. What’s wrong with that? I’ve given my life for my career. What do I have to show for it? A lingering student debt and a few dozen pairs of fantastic shoes? Women my age in this city get put out to pasture. Not to mention the rest of the country. In Kansas I’d be a spinster. You might as well cover me with a black shroud and give me a bunch of knitting tools, whatever those are called. Or a big cross-stitch book.”

“Maybe you should try acting,” Monique said mildly. “You’re quite good at it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. A twenty-five year old beefcake is hitting on you, you’re a freelance journalist for the UN, probably our best, you have a good life in the greatest city in the world. Now, you tell me, who’s acting?”

Veronica slumped. “You don’t get it. I don’t have anything to show for all of it. Nothing.”

“I get it, darling. I get it. I’m older than you are, remember. Do you think I don’t question my choices daily? Do you think I don’t wish for the kind of man that doesn’t exist, or for twenty more years on my biological clock? We made different choices. We chose this restaurant and this city and things in life that we couldn’t have had otherwise. You need to learn to accept your choices and enjoy them. Or maybe it’s time you made some different ones.”

“I’ve said it all to myself a million times. This one is different, Monique. This one can make it right. This one’ll let me sleep at night.”

“All you have to do for that is close your eyes, darling. Your food’s getting cold.”

Museum of Egyptian Antiquities

S
o odd, so odd
, Professor Hilton thought as she replayed the two phone calls in her mind. The first: a message from Professor Viktor Radek calling to discuss her research connected with Nu.

Professor Radek must have run across her name at another museum, or in a journal. She was flattered, but… why? In her fifteen years as an Egyptologist almost no one outside of museum circles had approached her with an unprovoked inquiry concerning Nu. No one except the eccentric businessman who had sought her out during her first year. She sometimes suspected that when she’d published, he had bought all fifty copies of
Influences of the Ogdoad
by Professor Shelley Hilton.

The study of the Ogdoad was about as esoteric a specialty as one could choose. She didn’t make much money, didn’t possess the cult-like status of some of her colleagues at the Museum who were asked to lecture around the globe about the more popularized aspects of Egyptian history and culture. But she had her own little fiefdom of knowledge, she got to dip her sticky fingers into the honey pot of Egyptian history every single day of her life.