“So who is the molecular biologist working with you?” she asked.
“Oh, I doubt you know him. He was in the bio-defense division at USAMRIID. I discovered he was conspiring with terrorists for money.” He rolled his eyes. “He also had a taste for young boys that was quite troubling. So I, ah . . . pressed him into service.”
“You mean you blackmailed him,” said Kira.
Sam ignored her. “I do have to hand it to you,” he continued, shaking his head in admiration. “Even with your lab notebook, even with the instruction manual right in front of him, it’s taken him years to duplicate your work.”
“Why not just enhance his intelligence?” asked Kira.
“I have. Several times. If not for this, he’d still be trying to figure out how to replicate what you did. But I didn’t want to give him too many pills. First, I don’t have that many left. Second, that kind of intelligence makes someone extremely difficult to control. You and I both know that. You can’t imagine the precautions I had to take each time I souped him up.”
Desh searched his own mind for any signs of a change but detected none. Part of him still didn’t believe her therapy would really work, but if it did, he had no idea what to expect when it began to kick in.
“How many people other than Desh know about the longevity therapy?” asked Kira.
“Good question,” said Sam, smiling. “The wheels are always turning with you, aren’t they. Always gathering intel. The answer is, only me. I clean up after myself very carefully. True, the entire US military has been after you, but I’m the only one who really knows what’s going on.”
“Other than me, of course,” corrected Smith.
With a burst of motion, Sam pulled a silenced pistol from a holster and put a bullet into Smith’s head at point blank range. The impact threw Smith off his feet and he landed roughly on his back, dead before he hit the ground.
Blood mixed with tiny bits of brain matter leaked from Smith’s head and began to puddle on the concrete floor next to him.
33
Kira shrank back in horror as blood continued to pour from Smith’s head.
Sam returned his gun to its holster. “Now where was I,” he said casually, as if nothing had happened
Desh didn’t need to consult a textbook to know that this man was a true psychopath.
“Oh, I remember,” continued Sam. “I was telling you that I’m the only one who really knows what’s going on.”
Sam nodded at Smith’s glassy-eyed corpse on the floor and then his gaze settled back on Kira Miller. “Although, admittedly, there used to be two of us. But now that I have you, Dr. Miller, I won’t be needing him anymore,” he explained, and then frowning, added, “and to be frank about it, he wasn’t all that useful. I had you dead to rights at that motel and he fucked it up.”
Desh’s last reservations about the veracity of Kira’s story had now vanished. Everything she had told him was true. This was the man Connelly had been looking for.
“How will you explain Smith’s murder to your men upstairs?” asked Desh.
Sam grinned. “No need for explanations among friends. The men upstairs were handpicked and are all completely loyal to me. I pay them extremely well, but I’ve always believed in wielding a stick to go along with the carrot. None of them are big believers in the Ten Commandments and have unfortunately committed some major, ah . . . indiscretions . . . in their lives. I have enough dirt on each of them to put them away forever. And if I die, this dirt becomes public automatically.” A self-satisfied look settled over his features. “These men would do anything for me. And since they have absolutely no idea what’s going on, unlike our dead friend here, they don’t have to worry about, ah . . . early termination, so to speak.”
Desh knew that Kira had been badly shaken by the ruthlessness of Smith’s execution, but she appeared to have composed herself once again. “What’s the game here, Sam?” she said, spitting out his name hatefully. “You know you can’t get the secret of longevity out of me through torture or with drugs. And you’d better believe I’m not going to tell a psychopath like you anything of my own free will. So what am I doing here?”
“We’ve already established you won’t tell me the coordinates.” He raised his eyebrows and an amused expression came over his face. “Not even to save your brother’s life. But there are sacrifices that are far greater even than this. I’ve been working ever since that moron Lusetti lost you—paying with his worthless life—to find the proper leverage to get you to, ah . . . voluntarily . . . tell me what I want. And I found it. So here is the question: will you tell me what I want to know to save the future of humanity?”