The Egyptian (6 page)

Jax thought of himself as a mercenary not in the classic definition of a hired soldier, but in the secondary definition: one who serves or works solely for monetary gain. Just like any businessman.

Jax maintained a personal ad in the London Times. The potential client would email Jax and mention importing furniture, and leave a return email address. Jax would reply, get a phone number, then make contact via his virtually untraceable satellite phone. If Jax liked what he heard, he would set up a meeting place of his choosing.

Jax had enjoyed the Venezuela job; it had a danger element, and he worried he was getting soft. Too many of his recent jobs had been like the Cairo job: meet with middleman and supplier in shady location, take secret package halfway across the world to ultra-wealthy buyer.

The buyer in the Cairo job was some suave Eastern European scientist who looked like a class president. Jax felt like he was delivering baked goods. He needed a good old-fashioned arms deal in a war-torn republic, where he had to stay steps ahead of a rival warlord and parachute out of a helicopter into a burning canyon to make a delivery.

For this job, Jax had been emailing someone named Mohammed, who wanted to meet in New York to discuss the transport of an unnamed but valuable object. Jax didn’t usually go to the client, but he assumed Dorian had passed his name on. He had to change planes in New York anyway.

Mohammed fought hard for choice of venue. He tried to persuade Jax to come to his suite, and Jax had laughed at him. Jax told him he could meet him at the cafe in Grand Central Market, or find a cheaper mercenary.

They set a date. Jax told him to arrive at the cafe at eight p.m., and to leave a newspaper open on the table with the obituaries showing.

Today was the day of the meeting. Jax planned to relax someplace after this job, maybe Sicily. He loved the change of pace there: the morning light, the culinary perfection, the absolute absence of the rule of law.

Jax’s plane landed in New York at five. He dropped his bag at Hotel Pennsylvania and grabbed a spring roll on the way to Grand Central. He arrived at seven-thirty, and took a seat at a table within viewing distance of the cafe. His boot knife rubbed against his calf when he sat. Within seconds, if needed, he could reach a taxi, a bus, the subway, the streets, or the trains.

At eight o’clock, two men arrived at the café who made an immediate impression on Jax. One was tall, bald, wrapped in a full-length forest green coat, and carrying a paper. He looked Arab. He entered, ordered, set the paper on the table and opened it.

The other man sat with him; Mohammed had conditioned that he went nowhere without his bodyguard. Jax understood such a thing, and had agreed. One bodyguard didn’t worry him.

Funny, though. Jax had never seen a five-foot-tall bodyguard.

A
fter a visual sweep, Grey chose a cocktail table at the rear of the bar, facing the crowded main room. He sat with his back against the velvet-lined wall, and ordered a Sapporo. Grey didn’t consider himself a product of any one culture, but he did identify with the Japanese. He loved their food, their art, their sense of beauty, their methodical way of life in the rural areas, the neon-soaked throb of their cities. And, of course, he loved everything about the martial arts, and Japan was the either the birthplace or the incubator of the great ones.

The Karma Lounge was just the sort of place he’d expect Veronica to choose: modern and hip, yet still classy. A few blocks south and west of the UN. He knew Veronica would do her best to extract something from him, and he anticipated a valiant effort. But client confidentiality did not include an exception for attractive and ambitious women, especially not those who published the results of their investigations for a living.

Grey had never felt comfortable on the Scene. He preferred the basement bars on the potholed side streets where the tourists never ventured. Where the darkened caverns and haze of cigarette smoke hid not just faces, but pasts.

He felt at home casing the Karma Lounge for exits and potential problem types, but when that ended, and he sat with his sweating beer in front of him and his arms shifting from folded to on the table to folded again, the familiar and uncomfortable feeling of being alone in a place not meant for solitude crept over him.

Thoughts of Nya lurked at the edges of his mind. But tonight that dagger cut more like a kitchen knife, and he resented its dullness.

He’d arrived half an hour early on purpose, but he felt a lightening of his chest when Veronica arrived in high heels and a shimmering blue cocktail dress that set off her eyes from across the room. Half the male patrons watched her strut to Grey’s table.

Grey noticed a hint of jasmine as she sat across from him. She ordered a pinotage, brushed her hair behind her ear and crossed her legs. Her mouth curled wide before she spoke, and he knew it was a mouth used to getting what it wanted. “Nice to see you again, Dominic Grey.”

His greeting died on his lips and he slowly set down his beer.

“I have an ex with the FBI. There’s no Mike Hood working for Diplomatic Security, now or ever. Funny, though, a man named Dominic Grey with your physical description was terminated a few months ago in Harare. Ex Diplomatic Security and Marine Recon. A former Special Forces hand-to-hand combat instructor, no less. After what I witnessed, I believe I have my man.”

He started to stand, and she put a hand on his arm. “Like I said before, I don’t know or care who you work for now. I’m only interested in what you’re sniffing. I assume because you’re here that you need my help.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “You promised a name.”

She pouted. “Time for business already? Can’t you let a girl finish her first glass of wine?”

Grey shrugged mentally; Veronica wasn’t going to make an issue of his visit to BioGorden. “Somehow I doubt Veronica Brown, freelance investigative journalist for the W.H.O. now on assignment for the International Biomedical Organization, ex lead reporter for the Washington Post, and at Detroit and Cincinnati papers before that, is rarely off the job.”

She raised her glass. “Touché.”

“How did you get into biotech?”

“I covered a cryogenic scandal at the Post, a company that was taking families’ life savings and freezing plastic dummies instead of relatives. That started the ball rolling. I don’t mind biotech, but it’s a means to an end.”

“What end?”

“I don’t know.” She laughed conspiratorially. “Something. Everything. Cocktails in yachts on the Mediterranean, rafting down the Amazon, tracking leads in Rio, cover of Time.”

“At least you know what you want.”

“Don’t you?”

He eyed her wine, and signaled the bartender for another round. “Time for business.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, then uncrossed her legs and straightened. “Fine. What in the world were you doing at BioGorden?”

“You know I can’t discuss that. I’ll tell you what I’m sure you picked up already: I’m looking for a biotech involved in the theft of corporate secrets.”

“What kind of corporate secrets? BioGorden has the hottest thing around right now, and we just got a full frontal of the Minotaur. If there was anything hotter I’d know about it.”

“You’re pretty sure about that.”

“There could be something new out there, but I’d be surprised. And very, very interested. Does it involve new or existing technology?”

“I’ll save you some trouble: I don’t even know what it is.”

“Then why would anyone hire you?” She pondered her own question, then said, “I suppose you don’t have to be an expert on the crime to catch the criminal. It helps, though.”

“Which is why I’m talking to you. So educate me.”

Veronica swirled her wine. “Biotech is a broad term, and encompasses many types of companies. The particular biotech world you’ve stepped into is the one that makes the news. It’s radical and controversial.”

“Biomedical gerontology. The science of aging.”

“Good. Yes. Thanks to biological limits, we’re allowed to experience only a fraction of the world. But what if that changed?” Her eyes gleamed. “M
y
God, how can you not want to grasp onto life like a spider clinging to the most fascinating web it’s ever spun, visit every mountain-studded island shore, taste every exotic cuisine, see every spired city, have a thousand loves, live a thousand lives?” Her eyes twinkled and she laughed. “Sorry, that was my spiel to get the BioGorden gig. But I believe in it. Those biological limits—they’re not set in stone. You wouldn’t believe some of what these scientists are doing. They’ve already extended the lives of mice by more than half. And I’m not talking doddering old mice stumbling around a cage. I’m talking sustainable prolongevity—living twice the years at the same health rate.”

“From what I’ve read so far, the science hasn’t translated to humans yet.”

“True. There’re a few things out there, severely restricted caloric intake, lowering the metabolic rate by prolonged controlled breathing, which can extend life for a few years. But who wants to live like a monk for a few more years in the nursing home? It’s on the way, though. There are drugs hitting the market that can do amazing things. We’re at the tip of the iceberg.”

She took a deep breath and took another drink. “It’s something I’m passionate about. Let the finality of death roll around in your mind for a second. You or whoever you love will be gone forever. Your children, maybe. Your wife. Your parents. How is that acceptable?”

Grey sipped his beer, expressionless. He let his eyes roam the bar, now filled to the brim with Manhattan’s finest, the picks of the litter. No, he wasn’t obsessed with extending life. “So when do I get the golden egg?”

“If I were looking for something shady in biotech, I’d look at Somax. It’s a company headquartered in Bulgaria.”

Grey kept a blank face, but his inner alarm was buzzing. Somax was one of the seven companies on Al-Miri’s list. “I didn’t realize cutting-edge technology was taking place in Eastern Europe.”

“Somax started in the former Soviet Union, under a different name and government ownership. From the beginning it’s been involved in radical experimentation, in particular biological warfare and militaristic human experimentation. God knows what else they were doing, back in the day. During the cold war they moved operations to Bulgaria.”

“Good choice. Bulgaria’s not exactly known for its transparency.”

“When Bulgaria gained independence, Somax privatized and moved into aging. Somax has a number of patents, is cash-rich, and no doubt has plenty of legislators in its pockets.”

“What exactly do they do?”

“If it’s done in biotech, they do it. Fetal stem cell research, cloning, organ farming, interspecies experimentation, cryogenics, biological warfare, designer genetic engineering, you name it. There are lots of rumors, and few facts. I’ve been looking for a reason to investigate them, a solid lead, for some time.”

“Thus this meeting, and why you told me without much of a fight.”

She lowered her voice, batted her eyes and purred. “Alcohol lowers my mental defenses.”

Grey smirked. “What else do you know about them?”

“The last time Somax was really in the news was a few years back. The story was never proven, but they allegedly conducted a series of biological tests in a village in Sudan. A few months after Somax left, a baby was born in the village with four arms and no face. No one could trace it to Somax, but it was widely assumed their drugs were responsible.”

The buzzing in his mind escalated. Sudan. Africa.

“They call it science and progress, but they operate in a moral vacuum, in my opinion. And I’m progressive.”

He considered what he’d seen in that lab. “I admit that… embryo… we saw today made me pause. Apparently the people outside the gate weren’t too happy about it.”

“The minotaur isn’t viable, of course. But it’s still alive, depending on your definition. People, especially religious types, tend to get a little crazy when the natural order of things is disrupted. Can you believe the Pope recently denounced the “largely uncharted world of biotech” as today’s greatest danger zone for the human soul? I’m sorry, how about mass poverty and child soldiers? People don’t like change, and biological experimentation is change most extreme. It challenges people’s worldview, their concept of egocentric humanity and the divine design behind life.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it.”

She lifted her hands, palms up. “I don’t know about the whole God thing, but if He didn’t want us to tinker with it, why make it accessible?”

“There’re lots of things theoretically available to us, but off limits. Like experimentation on African villagers.”

“I’d never dispute that. I’ve heard it all before, believe me. If you run in the biotech world for long you’ll see life and death and everything in between in a whole new light. Did you see what they were doing today? They sucked out the DNA from a cow egg, and inserted human DNA. Think about that. Do you understand how new this field is? What’ll we be seeing in five, ten, fifty years? If God doesn’t want us to go certain places, He better step in quick, because His new high priests are tinkering with life and death.”

Grey could only think of one appropriate response. “I need another beer.”

V
eronica watched Dominic Grey leave the bar after their second round. Soon after the biotech discussion ended he mumbled something about needing to take a walk, then paid their tab and left. He wasn’t the king of social graces, not even a minor marquis, but at least he’d bought her drinks. Veronica was not old-fashioned by the furthest stretch of the imagination, but that was one thing she appreciated.

As he headed down the street, hands in his pockets and slightly hunched, she noticed a feline grace to his step that disturbed her. Men didn’t walk that smoothly unless they were one of two things: gay or dangerous. She was pretty sure Dominic Grey wasn’t gay; if he was, he sucked at it. In spite of the fact that he didn’t hit on her, which both interested and annoyed her, he didn’t exhibit any of the signs of ambiguous sexuality for which she had a well-trained eye.