The Messiah Code (29 page)

He walked toward the group and was surprised by the hush. Nobody was saying anything; the team just stood in a circle staring at the intruder. Then Tom's recovered eye

sight caused him to stare as well; the intruder was standing with his back to him--buck naked.

Jasmine was by her keyboard and Tom watched her silently beckon him closer. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost. He turned back to the stranger, now only feet away. Jasmine
had
seen a ghost--that of a Nazarene carpenter who had been dead for two thousand years.

Jasmine tapped out two more commands to the Gene-Imaging software, and the eerily lifelike hologram of Jesus Christ rotated on the holo-pad in front of Tom.

A
t 3:12 A.M. on April 1, fifteen days after the Nazareth genes had been found, all was quiet in the Carter household. The still darkness in Holly's bedroom was disturbed only by the soft, regular sound of her breathing. Her peaceful face smiled as she dreamed her dreams--oblivious to the malignancy growing inside her.

Twenty-four days had elapsed since the original glial cell in her brain had turned traitor. It had now produced countless clones of itself, all with equally rebellious DNA. Even as Holly slept, the tireless revolution was gathering pace, growing faster than DAN had predicted. The obedient brain cells could do nothing to quell this uprising. Even the immune system, the body's militia geared up to repel invaders, ignored these mutations of the body's own cells, letting them go about their murderous business unchallenged.

Only two days ago, when her godmother and father had taken her to
Star Wars VII
, Holly had experienced the first headaches, accompanied by a rush of giddiness. But she hadn't told anybody because she was worried her dad would blame the computer, and stop her from playing on it. So Holly had simply decided to cut down and use it only a few hours at night, feeling sure the headaches would go

away. But of course they wouldn't. They would only get worse.

Even as Holly dreamed of last summer when Mom and Dad had been together, playing with her on the pink-white sands of Horseshoe Bay in Bermuda, the traitorous cells were already entering the second mutation of clonal evolution. And if the rebels of this genetic war of independence remained unchecked, if they were allowed to proliferate indefinitely within the tight confines of Holly's skull, then it wouldn't only be in her dreams that Tom's precious daughter was reunited with her mother.

T
om Carter was still unaware of Holly's condition when he drove to work the next morning, and he would remain so until her monthly brain scan in a little over a week's time. In the fifteen days since finding the Nazareth genes he had been focusing all his thoughts and energies on unlocking their power. He had barely had time to reflect on the significance of seeing the resurrected holo-image of Jesus Christ, let alone worry if Holly had already succumbed.

The first thing Tom did in the Crick Lab that morning with Bob Cooke was check the Gallenkamp incubators. He pulled four of the transparent circular culture dishes from the top rack and studied them closely. Three of them contained
Streptomyces
bacteria with one of the three new Nazareth genes cloned into them. The bacteria were acting as factories, converting the new genetic instructions into their coded proteins. The fourth dish contained the same bacterium with all three genes combined.

"Any change?" asked Bob Cooke beside him.

"No, it's the same as the
E coli
. We don't obviously have the same inclusion bodies, but the pattern's similar. You used the same plasmids and restriction enzymes for all the dishes?"

"Identical."

"Well, the
naz 3
gene still refuses to behave. Whatever protein it codes for still isn't folding."

Bob Cooke took the fourth dish labeled the "
Trinity--Strepto
myces
" and frowned. "But we're getting the un

known protein when we put all three genes together."

"Yeah, but what does it do? The human cell cultures prove that
naz 1
obviously codes for some kind of DNA repair protein, but not a particularly spectacular one. And the protein from the
naz 2
gene has limited cell control characteristics--but again that's nothing new. What I want to know is what this totally new protein from all three combined is. It doesn't actually appear to do anything."

Bob picked up his notes from the bench beside him. "If only we could get the damn
naz 3
gene to work in isolation."

"Assuming it does, of course," muttered Tom.

"If it doesn't," said Bob, "then it's going to take a helluva long time to unravel what it's doing in the total mix. Perhaps it might be better to try and find a match?"

Tom put the culture dishes down and paced around the lab. This was proving more difficult than he'd thought. He was sure his strategy was correct. But it looked as if he might have to shift the emphasis. It had been obvious from the start that if there was something therapeutic in the Nazareth genes, then the answer lay in the composite protein formed by all three together. The enigmatic
naz 3
gene appeared to be adding an unidentifiable element to the other two, turning their individually unremarkable proteins into something unique and potentially exciting. But unlocking the enormously complex third gene in isolation would take even DAN too long. So his strategy boiled down to focusing on three broad areas.

The first involved farming the protein in the lab. By inserting the three genes into bacteria, the bacterial cells could be turned into mini-factories producing the coded proteins. And after some modifications Tom hoped he could then inject the proteins like a drug.

The second meant inserting all three genes directly into live animals, to see what effect they had on an organism and what proteins were produced in vivo.

The third option he'd formulated only as a last resort, in case the first two failed, or took too long. This entailed finding a live person who possessed a fully functioning set of the genes. Tom thought he could then analyze the nat

urally occurring genes in situ. And if he still couldn't determine how they worked, then he would try to persuade the individual to realize any healing powers he might possess, and use them to save Holly. This had originally been the least attractive option, but as he considered their progress to date it was fast becoming the front runner.

They had already tested option one endlessly. All the genes had been tried individually and collectively in
E coli, Saccharo
myces cerevisiae, Streptomyces
, and even human cell cultures. But always the
naz 3
gene refused to express its protein, and always they got the mysterious composite protein when all three genes--what the irreverent Californian had termed the Trinity--were combined. However, each and every time they made it, this laboratory-farmed version of the composite protein appeared to be inert.

Option two had also yielded little so far, although there were other tests to run. To date the Trinity had had no effect on mice, or on live tumor cells when inserted by viral vector. To his left in the glass-fronted refrigerated cabinet he could see the rack of beautiful serums his team had developed--all designed to deliver the three genes into an organism's stem cells. But the genes still didn't appear to make any difference when they got there.

Unless these serums came through in later tests it looked as if Bob Cooke was right, and they'd have to prioritize option three. They would have to find someone who already possessed a working set of these genes, so they could analyze them in vivo, or persuade the individual to heal Holly directly. Tom reached for the phone and dialed Jasmine's extension downstairs in the IT Section. She picked up on the second ring.

"Jazz."

"Hi, it's Tom. How's the search going?"

A pause. "Not good. A couple of people, and I mean a couple, have got one of the genes--either
naz 1
or
naz 2
. But no one's got all three. I haven't seen anybody with
naz 3
yet. Big Mother's feeding in more scans all the time, but I've been through most of IGOR's past entries now and we're fast running out of prospects."

"How many scans is Big Mother picking up?"

"The usual. One in five."

"Make it five out of five. From now on I want to check on everyone who takes a Genescope scan anywhere in the world."

"Every single one? What's going on? Has your mysterious Ezekiel been applying pressure?"

"No, we've got three more weeks before he starts getting antsy." Tom remembered how excited the old man had been when he'd returned the samples and told him they'd found the three genes. Ezekiel had asked when they might have a match but hadn't pushed him to pull the five-week deadline forward. "It's my other options that are applying the pressure, Jazz. They're running out. You look like our best bet now."

"Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better. But don't get your hopes up. It could take years for a subject who has all three of the genes to be scanned and deposited in IGOR--assuming one exists."

"How about the other eighty percent of genomes Big Mother wasn't storing on IGOR?"

A sigh. "They're on a range of private databases around the world. Trying to hack into them is illegal."

"Only if anyone finds out."

Jasmine tried to sound shocked, but Tom could hear the excitement in her voice. "They're
extremely
well protected."

"You're saying it
can't
be done? Or it would take a
genius
to do it?"

A small laugh. "Dr. Carter, has anyone ever told you that you can be a real sweet-talker when you want to be?"

It was his to turn to chuckle. "No, Dr. Washington, I can honestly say they never have."

Another pause, her voice more serious. "How's my goddaughter? She seemed a bit quiet at the movies."

"I know, but she says she's fine."

"When's her next scan?"

"About a week."

"You really believe you need a match to help her?"

"We're still trying the other routes, but they're not looking good so far. So, yeah."

A sigh. "I'll see what I can do. But promise me one thing, Tom?"

"Name it."

"Visit me in jail!"

H
e was perfect. His build, height, even the shape of his face was ideal. He was a loner too. Over the last two weeks Maria Benariac had followed the dark-haired man around most of Boston, and it was clear that he was new to the city and had few friends. On the third day he'd gone to that downtown club where she'd discovered he was bisexual, but that wasn't a problem; he only had casual partners. There appeared to be no one who would miss him for a week or so. Even his phone was barely used--her phone tap had told her that much--and when it did ring he never seemed to pick it up, preferring to let the answering machine screen the callers for him.

Apart from the obvious necessary changes, he was exactly what she was looking for. Even his sexuality made it easier to justify what she was going to do to him. It made him unrighteous and therefore eminently expendable.

Maria took care when she followed him from the company building. Her research had uncovered that he'd once worked for the New York Police Department and would therefore have some training. She noticed the polyethylene bag draped over his right shoulder and the cap in his right hand. Obviously his midday interview had gone well.

Excellent.

If he hadn't got the security job then all his other qualifications would have been worthless. But with it he was more than perfect--he was a gift from God.

He climbed into his car, and she followed in hers. She didn't need to shadow him too closely; by now she could guess what he was doing and where he was going. He'd rented an apartment in a block near Harvard. When they passed the GENIUS campus ten minutes later she allowed herself a small tight smile. She could almost taste the satisfaction of killing the scientist. And in a few days she would be able to satisfy that taste for real.

As they neared the man's apartment she parked her rental car a block away and walked. By the time she reached the main door of the brownstone he was already inside. She tried the door and like yesterday, and the day before, found it open. She entered and checked that she was alone, then sauntered over to the two elevators, taking the one that still worked. The run-down building had paint peeling off the walls and was mainly inhabited by students. But it would do fine for a few days. Brother Bernard was no doubt still trying to contact her; he had already left three messages at her London apartment, none of which she'd answered. But Bernard, or whoever he sent looking for her, would never find her here. And when he did it would be too late.

On the third floor she checked her overalls and the contents of her toolbox, then strolled down the corridor to the man's apartment. Number 30. She stopped and knocked.

Silence. Then a muffled "Who is it?" She heard breathing from the other side of the black door and guessed he was looking through the peephole.

Holding up her toolbox, she turned to show the orange logo on the back of her overalls. In her deepest blue-collar voice she rasped, "Power company, sir. Been a few dangerous surges in this building and the one next door. Need to check your meter and wiring. Just a safety measure."

A pause. "Have you got any ID?"

This annoyed her. Why were people so suspicious? she thought. What
reason
did a fit, young ex-cop have for not trusting a power company employee? What could he possibly be scared of?

She reached into her overalls and pulled out a typed letter. "I got a letter from the boss. It's on company paper. That okay?" She pushed the letter under the door. "Or do you want my card?" She made a big show of opening her toolbox and scrabbling around inside. As though she'd put it in there somewhere and was trying to find it.