Aphrodite

21

When the knock at the door came, Edward Marion couldn’t help but flinch.
He’d been sitting in his motel room in near silence, not even turning on the television, for over five hours. Every time he heard any kind of noise outside his room, he’d stiffen, wait for the knock, and envision the conversation he’d have to have.
Who is it?
FBI. Open the door.
I need to see some ID.
Open the door and I’ll show it to you.
Slip it under the crack. When I see some valid ID, I’ll let you in.
So far, the knock hadn’t come. But he’d played the scene over and over in his head while he sat there, maybe two hundred times. He had come up with ten or twelve variations. One time he’d move confidently over to the door, check the ID, and verify it. He saw himself opening the door to someone who would stride inside and assume command, and who, without question, could lead him out of this mess. Another time, he imagined himself picking up the photo and badge, realizing that something was wrong, and then he’d freeze, knowing they’d found him and were going to kill him. After playing out this scenario, he’d nervously scan the room, trying to figure a way out. He’d gone into the bathroom several times, at least five or six, during his five-hour wait, and tried to imagine whether he could squeeze his frame through the small window. Each time he’d decide that it wasn’t possible. But then he’d start to sweat at the thought of someone trying to force his way into the room, so he’d go back to the bathroom and try to come up with a more positive scenario. Then he’d return to his corner, reimagine the scene, and this time in his mind he’d pick up a lamp and when the door opened, he’d swing it, crash it against the stranger’s skull, and race out of the room to safety.
Now it was for real.
There was the knock.
His eyes went to the bathroom door, picturing the small window. His glance flickered over to the lamp on the desk. Then he looked at the front door.
Ed Marion swallowed, tried to speak, found that he couldn’t. He cleared his throat, tried again, cleared his throat one more time. He saw that his hands were shaking and did his best to steady them. No such luck.
“Who is it?”
“Assistant Director Leonard Rollins. FBI.”
“I need to s-see s-s-some identification.” Shit. He hadn’t seen himself stuttering in any of his mental run-throughs.
“I’ve got a photo ID and badge. You want me to put them under the door?”
“Y-yes. Please.”
Marion waited, heard the shuffle of something being shoved along the floor, then something peeked through the crack under the door. Time to move. He gingerly walked across the room, reached for the ID. It looked official. But, of course, he didn’t have a clue what a real FBI identification looked like. This one seemed to say all the right things. And wait a second—he remembered the cop, Westwood, on the phone, talking to the FBI. He said that the agent he was talking to was named Rollins.
“I thought you weren’t coming yourself,” Marion said to the person on the other side of the door. “You said you were going to send someone else.”
“That’s right,” the man outside the door said. “I told Westwood I was going to send someone from a closer bureau. But I couldn’t get anyone. At least not today. It was easier for me to come myself. If you’re not going to let me in, would you mind slipping me out my ID? The bureau’s pretty stingy with things like this and they’ll actually charge me if I have to get a replacement.”
“What’ll you do if I don’t open the door?” Marion asked.
“Is Westwood coming back?”
Marion wasn’t sure. But he didn’t want to admit that. “Yes,” he said.
“I’ll slip my cell-phone number under the door so you can call me. Then I’ll find a place to wait and when he shows up he can verify me. But I’m hoping you don’t make me do that. This is kind of a busy time for me. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”
The guy sounded genuine enough. He knew Westwood and he knew the exact conversation they’d had on the phone. This guy Rollins had the right name, and he didn’t seem very anxious. There was no pressure to be let in. He struck Marion as extremely professional.
Wondering how the hell he’d allowed himself to get into this situation, Ed Marion reached for the doorknob and turned it. With his other hand, he simultaneously unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Standing before him was a dark-haired man, a little over six feet tall. Not heavy but muscular. Powerful-looking upper body. He had the aura of an athlete, someone who was very confident of his physical capabilities. Marion glanced down at the photo ID, looked back up at the man. It was a match.
“May I come in?” the FBI agent said.
Marion nodded and stepped farther inside the room. Agent Rollins followed, closing the door behind him. Marion sat down on the corner of the bed. Rollins remained standing by the black Formica desk against the wall opposite the bathroom. There was a phone on it and an oval mirror on the wall over it. Other than the curtains and the loud, matching bedspread, the mirror was the only attempt at decoration in the room.
“Nice place,” Agent Rollins said.
“Where are you going to take me?”
“Nowhere yet. This looks like an excellent place for a chat.”
“We have to get certain guidelines out of the way first. I need to know exactly what you’re willing to do for me.”
“What would you like me to do?” Rollins asked.
“I’m going to need immunity from any prosecution. And I’m going to need guaranteed safety for me and my family.”
“You’d better have a lot of information for that kind of deal.”
“Where do you want to start?” Ed Marion said.
Rollins pulled the one chair out from under the desk and sat facing Marion. “How much did you tell Westwood?” he asked.
“I didn’t tell him anything. I said I’d only talk to you guys.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t exactly make me feel safe. He seemed like a small-timer. He doesn’t know the kind of people who are involved.”
“He does now. You told him about Newberg and Kransten.”
Marion felt his hands go clammy. “I didn’t tell him. The names slipped out. I thought he was working for them.”
“You told him about Aphrodite.”
“He doesn’t know what it means.”
“Do you?”
“I know some of it. I’ve pieced together other parts. Nobody knows everything except Douglas Kransten.”
“And Louise Marshall.”
“You already know about all this?” Marion asked.
“Like you, we know about some of it.”
“How? You’ve been investigating them?”
Rollins nodded.
“Why?”
“How about if you tell me what you know, then I’ll decide if there’s anything for me to tell you.”
“You don’t have a cigarette, do you?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“No, neither do I. I’ve been pretty tense waiting for you to show up. I don’t know why I asked for a cigarette. I haven’t eaten. And I could really use a drink. That cop, Westwood, he scared the shit out of me, if you want to know the truth. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“Why don’t you just relax for a little while and tell me what you know. After you talk, you can eat and drink all you want.” When Marion nodded, Rollins said, “You work at Ellis, right? Tell me your job, exactly. Are you a researcher?”
“I have a medical and research background. Stanford. But these guys, the people Kransten has working for him, I was never in their league. These are Nobel-level minds. So now I’m a manager.”
“What needs to be managed?”
“We do medical research,” Ed Marion said. “And we specialize in three different areas. When you’re talking about this level of brilliance, there’s an extraordinary amount of competition. And greed. Someone’s got to allocate the funds, make decisions about various directions and priorities. That’s what I do, up to a certain level. After that, it’s in the hands of my superiors.”
“What are the priorities now?”
“We’re biotech. We’re all about genetic engineering. Kransten’s been enough of a visionary to move to the forefront in three different areas. He’s been there for years. We’re the market leader in stem-cell research derived from human embryos. There’s only one other U.S. company that’s even really functional at the moment. There’s no funding for it.”
“But you don’t have that problem.”
“No, of course not. Since the president restricted use to cells that have already been extracted, we’re in the driver’s seat. We’re private. We don’t have to worry about those kinds of restrictions.”
“And what’s the emphasis in this area?”
“The same as everyone else. Stem cells are just a tool. The more we learn about basic biology, the more likely it is that we can take these stem cells, reproduce the steps inside them, and make them behave in a specific way. It’s extraordinarily complicated, but the embryo does it naturally. If we can learn how the embryo does it, we can duplicate the process to make something similar to what the body loses when it has certain diseases. Ultimately, the goal is to develop and market treatments for cancer and degenerative diseases.”
“You said it’s a tool. A tool for whom?”
“For KranMar.” He scratched harshly at his chest, as if the conversation was making him itch. “There’s nothing illegal about this. It’s why I can’t understand all the precautions and secrecy. KranMar’s the third largest pharmaceutical company in the world. Of course they’re going to be developing products for profit. There’s nothing wrong with their research program.”
“Give me the two other areas you prioritize.”
“Recombinant DNA technology …”
“Try to give it to me in English, please.”
“Essentially, that’s reaching inside the body and directly fiddling with gene patterns, with DNA sequences.”
“And the goal?”
“You figure out how to change DNA, you can actually alter the species.”
“You mean, like make people stronger or handsomer or … whiter?”
“Agent Rollins, I don’t think any of us are in this for those kinds of neo-Nazi purposes. Even if those things were possible, we’re talking about altering diseases. Potentially even eliminating some of them. It goes hand in hand with the stem-cell research.”
“And the third?”
Marion hesitated, then he said, “Human growth hormones.”
“Growth as in make things bigger?”
Ed Marion laughed. “No. Growth hormones affect the aging process.”
“Keep going.”
“I feel a little strange talking about this. We’re in a very odd area here and I only know bits and pieces. The other two areas, that’s hard science. I wasn’t kidding when I said that there are several people working for us who could easily win the Nobel Prize. Growth hormones …well, it’s different. Some people inside Ellis, the other two divisions really, think it’s crackpot science. Kransten thinks it’s the key to the future.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s both. There’s a certain logic to the experimentation and I know enough never to bet against Kransten. The growth-hormone people maintain that the key to aging lies in the pituitary gland. The theory is that once we’re over twenty, the gland begins to slow down, providing decreasing levels of HGH. Human growth hormones. By around age sixty-five, most of us are producing little or none. It’s this decline that leads to most of the symptoms that we associate with aging— wrinkled skin, expanding waistlines, less energy and vitality. …”
“So you’re developing artificial hormones?”
“They’ve been developed for years. It’s how menopause is treated, for one example. And a lot of companies aren’t just producing growth hormones, they’re also producing something that helps the body distribute them. It combats the somatostatin.”
“You’ve lost me again.”
“The pituitary gland doesn’t just produce less HGH as we get older. It produces something called somatostatin. It’s a substance that inhibits the gland from distributing even the reduced levels of HGH that are produced.”
“Where does the crackpot stuff come in?”
“Basically, what’s out on the market is a lot of cosmetic bullshit. All you have to do is go on the Internet and look at all the anti-aging sites. They’re all selling miracle pills that keep you young. Selling growth hormones is probably already a billion-dollar business.”
“But they don’t work?”
“Marginally at best. They all claim that they’ll improve your cardiac condition and lower blood pressure and rejuvenate your kidneys and get rid of wrinkles. It’s more marketing than medicine.”
“That’s supposed to be illegal.”
“It’s not drugs. So it’s not regulated. The FDA allows them.”
“And why is KranMar so gung ho on growth hormones?”
“Because most companies have only been turned on to this in the last decade or so. KranMar’s been researching it for thirty years.” Ed Marion sighed. “And because most companies really do consider it cosmetic, no matter what they’re saying. They’ll be happy if it gets rid of a few wrinkles. But KranMar’s had some extraordinary results with various experiments.”
“Like Bill Miller?”
“Yes. Like Bill Miller.”
“And how many others?”
“I don’t know exactly. I only know about my group.” When Rollins waved for him to continue, Marion said, “I have nine of them, all in the Northeast. Well, eight now that Miller died. They’ve all lived to be over a hundred. One of them’s a hundred and sixteen years old.”
“How many other groups are there?”
“I don’t know. I think they’re regional, so I’d guess five or six others. Maybe a few more than that. We’re isolated from each other. For all I know, my group’s the only one that’s worked.”
“Do you know why KranMar is keeping this so secret?”
“No. That’s what I can’t understand. I’d think they’d be trumpeting this all over the world. I told him that once—no, I asked about it once—in a meeting with Kransten.”
“And what was his response?”
“He said that my job was to do as I was told and that if I asked so much as one more question, I would be replaced. I understood the word ‘replaced’ to mean a lot more than just being fired.”
“And why do you think he’s so afraid of making this public?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve thought about it.”
“Yes,” Marion said. “I’ve thought about it a lot. If there are people who’ve been treated who have lived to be over a hundred, there must be other people who have … not lived to be over a hundred.”
“They’ve killed people?”
“They’ve experimented.”
“And people have died.”
“I can only go by the odds. And the nature of experimentation of this sort.”
“Where’s Kransten, Ed?”
“I haven’t seen him in months. It’s strange. He’s dropped out of sight. A lot of the more serious research, particularly in stem cells and growth hormones, is done over in Europe. I know he’s got a large number of holdings over there and he spends a lot of time there. But, even for him, he’s been relatively invisible.”
“How about Helen Roag?”
“What about her?”
“Where is she?”
“In Boston, I assume.”
“She’s gone.” When Marion looked genuinely confused, Rollins said, “She hasn’t shown up for work. Her family says she’s missing.”
“Jesus …” Marion trailed off.
“Tell me about Aphrodite, Ed.”
“I told you, I only know bits and pieces. It has something to do with Bill Miller and the others and the aging process.” Miller twisted his neck as if it had suddenly stiffened up. “It’s the code name we use for the program.”
“No good. You know more than that, don’t you, Ed?”
Ed Marion sensed the change in Agent Rollins’s voice. It had turned hard. And cold. “Yes,” he said. “I do. But I have to keep some things in reserve. I’m not saying anything more about that until I know exactly how I’m being protected. Until I know exactly what’s going to happen to me.”
“Fair enough,” Rollins said.
“I’ve told you enough, haven’t I? To get to the next step?”
“You’ve definitely gotten to the next step. Why don’t we go out and get some food now?”
Marion was still uneasy. It wasn’t just Rollins’s voice, it was his eyes now. But then, he thought, that’s just the nature of the business. He’s FBI, he’s a tough guy, he was born with those eyes. So he nodded, got up from the bed, turned his back on Rollins to get the sport jacket he’d hung in the closet.
As Marion turned around, Rollins pulled a .38 out of his jacket pocket, the silencer already attached. When Marion turned back to face his inquisitor, he saw the gun and he stumbled backward.
“I don’t understand,” Ed Marion said. “You work for them? You work for Kransten?”
Rollins shook his head. “I’m FBI. I’m legit.”
“But …I can help you guys. I know a lot.”
“That’s the problem, Ed. You know too damn much.”
“I don’t understand,” Ed Marion said again, and he realized that he’d just wet himself.
“I don’t always understand myself,” Rollins said. “It’s a bitch.” Then he lifted the .38.
As Ed Marion lurched for the bathroom, Rollins fired. The noise was sharp but quiet, like a teenage boy playing cops and robbers in his backyard, making a sound effect with his mouth. The first bullet caught Marion in the back of the neck and he fell forward onto the floor. Rollins took two steps over to the body, pointed the gun downward, and fired one more shot, straight into Ed Marion’s left temple.
Rollins didn’t bother to check if the man was dead. There was no need to check. He holstered the gun, turned around, and left the motel.
When he got back in his car, he made two phone calls. Both were to Washington, D.C. The first one was to his direct superior, the man who was only one rung under the director. Rollins reported that his assignment had been completed and that he would provide more details as soon as he was able. He was then told to make the second call, which he did. That one was to the White House, where he gave his name, was put through to his contact in Homefront Security, and answered three quick questions.
“Yes, sir,” was his answer to the man’s first question. “He filled in several gaps and provided quite a few details. I’ll come to D.C. tomorrow and provide a more thorough briefing.” In response to the second question, he said, “No, sir. We don’t know where Westwood is at the moment. But I believe we have a way to track him down soon.” The answer to question number three was a simple “Yes, sir. As soon as I find him.”
When he hung up the phone, Rollins sat in the car for a few moments, relishing the silence. He thought: Sometimes my job really sucks.
And then he thought: I’m starting to lose my taste for this.
As Assistant Director Leonard Rollins of the FBI turned on the ignition and broke the silence, his final thought was: I hope somebody kills Justin Westwood soon so I don’t have to do it.
And then he willed himself to stop thinking.