Genocide of One: A Thriller (6 page)

Kento gazed around this odd little laboratory. Why had his father prepared this lab?
Ah, he thought. There had to be a logbook. Sure enough, there was a large notebook,
the kind researchers use, on the table.

He opened it and found an envelope inside. Inside was a message, a computer printout.

While I’m away
. It wasn’t clear what he was referring to, though he clearly hadn’t anticipated dying.

More paranoia. Kento frowned and read on.

Kento sat down on the swivel stool at the table and placed the two laptops in front
of him. One white, the other black. He switched on the larger of the two, the white
one. He’d already tried the black one at his apartment and knew it wouldn’t work,
but he tried the power button again anyway. Maybe this smaller laptop contained private
messages and e-mails. He still knew nothing about the woman who’d been with him at
Mitaka station when his father had collapsed. He still wasn’t convinced his father
hadn’t been carrying on an affair.

As he waited for the laptop to boot up, he read further in his father’s message.

Kento let out a groan. This was ridiculous. He read the instructions again, carefully,
to make sure he was getting it. This was all a little out of his field.

The outer surfaces of cells have several types of receptors, all of which are proteins.
As the name implies, receptors have pocketlike depressions that accept and bind to
certain types of ligands and through this binding control cell function. This is how
hormones are bound by the cells and how hormones influence cells to take a particular
form and /or perform certain functions. For example, ligands in the form of male and
female steroid hormones play a role in muscle development and skin conditioning.

The orphan receptors mentioned in his father’s message are bodies whose function—and
the ligands they bind with—are unknown. His father wanted him to find a material,
an agonist, that would activate orphan receptors.

The GPCRs his father mentioned—G-protein-coupled receptors—are long, ropelike proteins
that loop seven times inside the cell wall and out again, making a pocket in the middle.
It is very hard to determine the pocket’s shape, and designing a ligand to bond with
it is extremely difficult.

To carry out his father’s instructions would require a huge research organization—like
a pharmaceuticals company—as well as top-flight researchers, more than a decade of
work, and tens of billions of yen. Even then the hurdle would be so great the project
might fail. Yet here his father was asking a second-year MA student, alone, with only
five million yen to complete the task in a month. Was he crazy?

Did his father actually have any chance of succeeding? The clues to that would lie
in the lab logbook, but the contents were way out of Kento’s field of expertise.

There were only four pages of notes in the logbook. The first research goal, according
to the notes, was to “design an agonist for the mutant type GPR769 and synthesize
it.”

Ah, Kento thought. So this mutant protein, GPR769, was the name of the target orphan
receptor. The agonist was the drug that would bind with this receptor and activate
the cell—in other words, an artificially created ligand. But that was as far as Kento
could follow. The rest of the procedures read:

• Structural analysis of mutant type GPR769
  
• CADD (design in silico)
  
• Synthesize
  
• Binding assay in vitro
  
• In vivo activity assessment
  

Other than the part about synthesizing, this all required expertise in other disciplines,
and Kento couldn’t judge whether these were appropriate directions or not. But he
did get the impression that his father had greatly underestimated the difficulties
of drug development. Structural optimization of the synthesized compound, clinical
trials on humans—these critical and time-consuming phases of development were entirely
missing.

Kento suddenly wondered whether this mutant type GPR769 was not a human receptor at
all. Maybe it was that of another living being. The term
mutant
made it clear that there had been a genetic mutation. What changes had this mutation
brought about to the creature that had this receptor? If the creature involved wasn’t
a human, then he could understand omitting the clinical trials.

The two laptops his father had left him looked to be key. The white laptop, the one
he was supposed to use in the research, ran on the Linux operating system—not a system
familiar to researchers in organic synthesis. The other laptop remained, as before,
frozen.

To carry out his father’s last wishes he would need to enlist the aid of a third party,
though this would go against his instructions to do the research alone.

Kento returned to the instructions his father had left and read the final item.

Kento liked the light way the message ended, and he chuckled along with his father.
On the odd chance that I’m gone for a long time
. It turned out to be not a long time but forever. And who was this American he was
supposed to meet? It was hard for him to believe that his father, so poor when it
came to English conversation, had any American acquaintances.

One unanswered question led to another. The only thing he did know for sure was that
his father had been trying to create a substance that could fit in the pocket of mutant
GPR769. All Kento felt he could do at this point was see whether this was a realistic
goal and go from there.

He stood up and put on his down jacket. As he was closing the logbook he noticed a
phrase in English in the margins. The research notes were all written neatly in pen,
but this was scribbled, lightly, in pencil.

He’d heard these words before somewhere.

Heisman Report…

The face of the newspaper reporter came to mind.

The members of
the war cabinet had assembled in the Situation Room, in the basement of the White
House. Fluorescent lights overhead lit the long, narrow, windowless room, but this
did nothing to dispel the oppressive atmosphere.

Everything in the room was neutral—the mahogany conference table, the black leather
chairs, the dark suits of the officials seated there. The people and objects in the
room sank back in a dull monotone, their outlines indistinct, an unpleasant, unearthly
aura enveloping the place, as if the entire room were a single living creature.

This was partly because the leader of the world’s greatest superpower, the embodiment
of the nation’s will, was distinctly short-tempered.

“So what’s behind it?” President Burns asked. Seated at the head of the long conference
table, he glared indignantly down the rows of officials. “For us to sustain this much
damage there had to be an internal leak.”

None of the cabinet members seemed willing to respond, so Burns indicated one of them.
“I’m asking you, Charlie.”

Watkins, the director of national intelligence, looked up from the summary report,
which wasn’t much help to him at this point. “It’s exactly as you said: the number
of fatalities among private defense contractors in Iraq has risen sharply, though
in the past week it’s returned to previous levels. I think our counterintelligence
strategy is starting to pay off.”

“You haven’t answered my question. How is the enemy getting wind of our movements?”

How the insurgents in Baghdad were able to target private defense contractors so efficiently
was a mystery to Watkins. But that shouldn’t have been his responsibility. “When it
comes to the movements of private defense contractors,” he said, “I think the Pentagon
knows more details than the intelligence community. The Defense Department should
know about their action plans. Or else the State Department.”

“Our investigations haven’t revealed any problem,” the secretary of defense, Lattimer,
said with his usual frown.

Vice President Daniel Chamberlain shot back. “So I guess the CIA has underestimated
the ability of Islamic militants to gather intelligence.”

The participants were well aware of the dynamics involved here, for they’d experienced
any number of glum meetings like this one. Before the meeting had even begun Chamberlain
had, typically, made the intelligence community the scapegoat. In his world, everything
was their fault.

“That’s not the case,” replied Robert Holland, the CIA director, who had been silent
up to this point. With his silver hair and mustache, Holland had a mysterious air
about him—perfect for the head of a spy organization. “Our analysis has been quite
rigorous.”

“What do you base that on?” Chamberlain demanded.

Lattimer broke in. “We should take that up in a separate meeting. The point is, private
defense contractors are like canaries in mines. If some of them die, the American
people don’t care. But if US troops suffer the same level of casualties, public opinion
will turn against us. The main thing is to avoid an increase in the number of KIAs
in our official announcements.”

Holland nodded reluctantly, wanting to get this pointless debate over as soon as possible.
He shot a reproachful glance at the president’s national security adviser, as if to
remind him that dealing with any intradepartmental discord was his job.

“So I guess we’re done here,” Burns said, straightening up his files.

“There is one more item,” Chief of Staff Michael Acres said. “The issue of the ICC,
the International Criminal Court.”

Burns let out a faint groan and turned to Thomas Wallace, his chief counsel. “How
is it going with retracting our ratification?”

“The UN isn’t accepting a US withdrawal from the treaty.”

Burns let out a huge sigh. At the end of the last administration his predecessor had
ratified an international treaty establishing the ICC. If the ratification went through,
American citizens who committed war crimes could be tried in an international court.
Burns had unilaterally withdrawn US ratification, a move that the UN had opposed.
Who the hell do they think they are? Burns swore to himself.

“The only thing to do is draw up a bilateral immunity agreement,” James Ballard, the
secretary of state, added. A former military officer, now a pacifist, he had quickly
found himself out of favor in the present administration but still made sure to faithfully
carry out his duties. “If we do that, other countries won’t be able to haul US citizens
before the ICC.”

“That’s not enough,” Burns said. “If a country won’t sign a bilateral immunity agreement
with us, I say we cut off all aid to them.”

“Then that’s the direction we’ll take,” Ballard said, keeping his own opinion to himself.

“Good. Gentlemen, you can get back to work,” Burns said, closing the meeting.

On both sides of the long, narrow conference table cabinet members and advisers prepared
to leave. Burns waited until the nearest seats were vacated and called his chief of
staff over. “Get me Dr. Gardner.”

“Yes sir,” Acres replied, and picked up a secure phone line. “Have Dr. Gardner join
us,” he said into the receiver.

The aging scientist passed the exiting officials as he made his way into the Situation
Room.

“Ah, Dr. Gardner. Sorry to have kept you on hold like that.” Burns stood up and welcomed
his science adviser. For the president, it was a relief to talk to someone he could
let his guard down with. Sensing this affinity, perhaps, Gardner smiled gently as
the president motioned him to take a seat.

CIA director Holland, who remained behind, mentally put aside the unpleasant barbs
that had been directed at him in the meeting and turned with genuine personal interest
to what Gardner had to say. As a simple avocation, Holland liked to read science journals
written for nonspecialists, and he was particularly anxious about the special access
program they had under way. In his mind, the administration underestimated the threat.
If the new life-form mentioned in the president’s daily briefing really did emerge,
then not just the United States but all mankind would face a crisis that threatened
its very survival. Even now, at this moment, this life-form was secretly growing deep
in the jungles of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Before turning to the main topic, Burns brought up a different, more tractable subject.
“What I asked you about the other day—what are they called again?”

“Embryonic stem cells.”

“Right. Embryonic stem cells. You were advocating that we restart research?”

“Correct. If we don’t, the United States will lose its competitive edge.”

Burns couldn’t get angry with Gardner, even when he voiced an opposing opinion right
to his face. Burns’s opposition to stem cell research wasn’t based on scientific or
moral grounds but on political considerations: a desire not to lose the support of
conservative Christians. “This is a difficult issue,” he said. “I appreciate your
viewpoint, but after considerable thought, I can’t change present policy.”

“Naturally I’ll respect your decision,” Gardner said calmly. “But let’s focus, then,
on a related field. The twenty-first century is the age of biology. And we can’t allow
America to fall behind.”

If only other officials would learn to respond like this, Burns mused. He directed
his chief of staff to bring some coffee for Dr. Gardner. “So,” he said deliberately.
“How is our plan progressing?”

Gardner, the science adviser for the special access program, took a sip of his coffee.
“We got off to a slow start, but we’re back on track. Through the kindness of Secretary
Lattimer we have a very nice facility set up at the Pentagon.”

Kindness permeated Gardner’s personality, but in the White House kindness wasn’t what
made things run. Burns couldn’t help but smile at the thought, but when he saw that
only Holland maintained a stern, serious expression, he wondered what was bothering
the CIA director. “You’re talking about the Office of Special Plans?”

“That’s right. It’s about this size,” Gardner said, looking around the Situation Room.
“We have videoconferencing equipment, monitors live-streaming information. The person
in charge is an outstanding young man from the Schneider Institute. He’s the one who
came up with the options I submitted earlier. He’s doing a very good job of presiding
over all aspects of the operation.”

“Yes, he’s one of our best players,” Lattimer added. “A top-level analyst in his thirties.
He doesn’t have much of a track record yet, but he’s very promising.”

Burns understood what lay behind these comments. In case the operation was botched,
this man was the one they could force to take the fall. In truth, the present operation,
based on the Heisman Report, was a fairly low priority among the black-ops programs
under way.

“We’ve selected the people who will carry out the ground operation, and they’re already
training in South Africa.”

“If that life-form exists, isn’t it already a threat to the United States?” This was
what concerned Burns.

“There’s no need to worry. It hasn’t grown to those proportions yet. It’s in its infancy,
you might say.”

“I see. So we’d best get rid of it, as we planned.”

“And we’ll do just that,” Gardner said, nodding.

For the very first time, Burns had an uncomfortable feeling about this science adviser
he relied on so closely. Far from objecting to these dirty tactics, the normally placid,
gentlemanly Gardner was doing his very best to see that the operation went forward
as planned. Even for a scientist like Gardner, for whom religious dogma meant nothing,
this life-form was disgusting and needed to be eradicated.

“Has Congress been informed of the operation?” Gardner asked.

“Just the budget for it,” Vice President Chamberlain said. “The law requires us, thirty
days before we commence an operation, to inform the top leaders of both houses of
Congress of the amount of the budget. But we don’t have to tell them any operational
details. So they don’t know what we’re planning. We also aren’t disclosing who’s involved
in the operation.”

Gardner seemed relieved. For an academic, being part of a top-secret operation was
the kind of thrilling experience that kept one awake at night, too excited to sleep.
Burns couldn’t suppress a smile. “With your help, Dr. Gardner, I think our plan will
work out just fine.”

Gardner nodded. “The head of the operation I mentioned has come up with a very elaborate,
detailed strategy. We should be done with the operation within a month. You have my
guarantee.”

Holland, who’d been silently watching this exchange, nervously stroked his mustache,
trying to shake the dismal feeling he had. Both the president and his science adviser
underestimated their opponent. If that life-form were, by some chance, to come into
contact with developed societies, the precarious balance that held the world together
would easily fall to pieces.

Holland thought about the four men assembled in South Africa. And how they might well
end up sacrificial victims so that mankind could avoid catastrophe.