The Rise and Fall of Khan Noonien Singh, Volume One (8 page)

She glanced at her wristwatch. It was nearly one P.M. Over six hours to go before she hooked up again with Takagi. She sighed loudly; it was going to be a long, anxious afternoon, most likely with the world’s largest secret admirer for company. Washing down one last bite of pizza with a swallow of Fresca, she started down the steps. Producing a compact from the depths of her macramé purse, she peeked in the mirror at Magilla Gorilla. Sure enough, he started moving again as soon as she did, thrusting a handful of lira at a surprised artist and leaving his unfinished portrait behind.

Just to play it safe, she turned left when she reached the Bernini fountain at the foot of the stairs, heading off in the opposite direction than Takagi had. The distinction between roadway and sidewalk turned out to be a blurry one, and she had to step briskly to avoid collisions with the ever-present Vespa motor scooters. Not too surprisingly, her large and silent pursuer managed to keep up with her.
Yep,
she thought.
Definitely a long day ahead.

811 EAST 68TH STREET, APT. 12-B

NEW YORK CITY

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

MAY 14, 1974

THE SIGN ON THE OUTER DOOR
now read Aegis Scientific Supplies, Inc., a small but essential detail in the sting operation Gary Seven had taken pains to set into motion over the past two months. Now, if fortune was on his side, his efforts were about to bring him one step closer to the answers he sought.

“Mr. Offenhouse to see you, sir,” his newly hired temporary receptionist informed him over the intercom. Unlike Roberta, this young woman, whom he’d hired for the morning primarily to maintain appearances, had no idea that Seven and his business were anything more than they appeared.

“Thank you, Allison,” he replied. “I’ll be right out.” He depressed a concealed switch on his desk and the nearby Beta 5 computer station, all gleaming steel and brightly flashing display panels, swung inward, vanishing into a hidden recess in the wall. As the futuristic terminal disappeared, an ordinary-looking bookcase rotated into place, concealing the Beta 5 entirely from sight. Scientific manuals and catalogues now occupied the bookshelves that had, up until recently, held encyclopedias and reference tomes: yet another part of the misleading facade Seven had carefully constructed.

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He took a moment to survey the office, confirming that its trappings were all 1974-standard, then straightened his tie and headed out to the foyer to greet his visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said. A clock on the wall revealed that it was exactly 9:05 A.M. The newcomer was punctual, if nothing else. “Thank you for coming by.”

“Let’s hope it’s worth my time,” the other man answered brusquely An American businessman in his late thirties, Ralph Offenhouse strode forward and took Seven’s hand, squeezing it forcefully.
Standard alpha-male behavior,
Seven recalled,
not unlike a Klingon greeting ritual, although somewhat less bloody.
He squeezed back with equal force, as the customs of this era expected him to. “Why don’t we step into my office and get down to business then,” he suggested. “Allison, please hold my calls.”

Aside from Roberta or Isis, he wasn’t really expecting to hear from anybody, but Seven judged that it was important to present the appearance of a thriving business.

“Sounds good to me,” Offenhouse agreed. He stepped through the interior door into Seven’s personal office. Shrewd brown eyes inspected the room’s furnishings, assessing their worth and state of repair. “Not a bad place you’ve got here,” he conceded eventually. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the couch and waited for Seven to take his place behind the obsidian-and-walnut desk. A translucent green cube sat like a paperweight atop various phony reports and invoices.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Seven asked.

Offenhouse shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, glancing at an expensive Rolex wristwatch. “I’m a busy man, so let’s not waste time with formalities.” He stared across the room at Seven, establishing eye contact. “Like I said on the phone, I saw your ad in that magazine. Are those prices for real?”

Knowing that any project involving large-scale genetic engineering would require quantities of specialized equipment, Seven had placed a prominent ad in a number of popular science and medical trade magazines, offering sophisticated biotech apparatus at discount prices.
[44]
Most of the inquiries generated by the ad had come from institutions and individuals that checked out as entirely aboveboard and innocuous; those deals he had quietly allowed to fall through, except for a few especially deserving clinics and research projects that he didn’t mind subsidizing indirectly. Offenhouse was different; from their earlier discussions on the phone, Seven had sensed something covert, evasive, and promisingly illicit about the man’s approach.

Subsequent biographical research had revealed that Offenhouse was a self-made entrepreneur with a history of faintly shady dealings. Marketing thalidomide in the Third World, for instance, long after the mutagenic tranquilizer had been discredited in the more advanced industrial nations, and investing in primitive cryogenics projects that sold a dubious promise of prolonged existence to the desperate, the fearful, and the terminally ill. Furthermore, he possessed no known connection to any reputable scientific organizations.
Assuming Offenhouse doesn’t want the equipment for himself,
Seven wondered,
whom is he fronting for?

“The prices are as advertised,” he informed Offenhouse, removing his servo from his coat pocket and fiddling with it as though it were merely an ordinary silver pen. In this manner he instructed the crystalline cube on his desk to record the conversation for future reference and analysis. Later on, after Offenhouse departed, he could then examine his visitor’s voice patterns to determine when and if the pugnacious businessman was telling the truth.

“Is that so?” Offenhouse said. Beneath bushy black eyebrows, dark eyes regarded Seven suspiciously. “What’s your angle, Seven? How can you afford to unload this gear so cheap?”

“Excess inventory,” Seven lied smoothly. “It costs too much to store this quantity of equipment on a long-term basis. In addition, I’d rather sell off the majority of my stock now, before the next generation of technology renders my inventory obsolete.”

Offenhouse appeared only partly appeased by Seven’s explanation. “What about quality?” he demanded. “I’m not going to pay good money for junk. I insist on inspecting the merchandise before payment.”

[45]
“Of course,” Seven agreed. “My instruments are all state-of-the-art and in excellent condition, as you can certainly see for yourself upon delivery.”

Offenhouse glanced around the office, as if half-expecting to see a stockpile of electron microscopes or gel electrophoresis units tucked away in a corner of the room. Rising from the couch, he removed a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Seven. “Here’s a rundown of what I’m looking for, and in what quantities. You think you can meet this order?”

Seven unfolded the document and scanned its contents. He nodded to himself, seeing more or less exactly what he had expected.
If I wanted to perform serious genetic resequencing using twentieth-century Earth technology,
he thought,
these are the rather crude instruments I would need to obtain.
The large volume of apparatus requested was also ominous, implying experimentation on a disturbingly ambitious scale. “A quite impressive list,” he commented. “May I ask what you need all this equipment for?”

“Frankly, that’s none of your business,” Offenhouse stated bluntly. “Mine either, for that matter. All you need to know is that I’ve been commissioned by a private consortium to handle various business transactions for them, preferably without attracting a lot of attention.”

Seven feigned a worried expression. “This isn’t anything illegal, is it?”

“We’re not talking South American drug lords, if that’s bothering you.” Offenhouse never took his intent gaze off the man he was trying to convince, almost daring Seven to contradict him. “This is all about science, and research, and not letting some other crew of eggheads get the jump on you before you’re ready to go public with your big-deal discovery. Between you and me, Seven, I don’t care if my clients are trying to cure the common cold or clone Elvis Presley, just so long as I get my commission. If you’re smart, you won’t worry about it either. Just take the money and run.”

“I don’t know,” Seven hedged, hoping to draw more information from his visitor. “It all sounds a bit ... unorthodox.”

[46]
Offenhouse slapped his palms down on the desktop between him and Seven, thrusting his scowling face forward. “Look, Seven, let me put all my cards on the table. I’m willing to pay you
twice
what you’re asking for everything on that list, provided there are no questions asked. So, do we have a deal or not?”

The more he heard, the more convinced Gary Seven was that this brash, overbearing businessman provided a link to whatever secret project was responsible for the disappearance of so many of the world’s top scientists. All he needed to do now was to let Offenhouse lead him one step closer to the truth.

“Very well, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said readily. “You’ve got a deal.”

CHRYSALIS BASE

LOCATION: CLASSIFIED

“You asked to see me, Director?”

“Yes,” Sarina Kaur answered from the midst of Chrysalis’s communal garden. Cool water sprayed from the lotus-shaped fountain at the center of a tiled courtyard surrounded by ferns and fragrant orchids. Now six months pregnant, Kaur sat upon a white cane bench beneath the leafy bough of a mango tree, genetically engineered to bear refreshing fruit all year long. Solar lamps installed in the high domed ceiling simulated the light of a pleasant spring afternoon. Kaur found the tranquil atmosphere of the garden highly conducive to contemplation; she often came here when, as now, there was a difficult decision to be made.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Singer,” she continued, putting aside the plate of chicken
tikka
she had been having for a late dinner. Despite a distinct Indian lilt, her English was impeccable. “Especially at such short notice, and at this hour.”

“Sure, no problem,” Joel Singer said a little too quickly. His white lab coat was stained from the day’s experiments and he shuffled nervously, not quite making eye contact with his superior at the project. “Er, what’s this all about anyway?”

Kaur inspected the youthful American biochemist. A slender white male with curly black hair, Singer had come to them directly upon
[47]
completing his postgraduate studies at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. At the time, he had seemed like quite a catch: talented, enthusiastic, and committed. Now, however, she had reason to doubt their initial assessment, especially where the latter trait was concerned.
Too bad we have yet to isolate a gene for loyalty.

A manila envelope rested beside her on the bench. She picked up the envelope and handed it to the younger scientist, who had to step forward to receive it. “I was hoping you could explain this,” she stated.

The temperature in the garden was cool and comfortable, yet beads of perspiration broke out upon Singer’s unlined brow. He gulped as he opened the envelope and drew out the documents inside: several sheets of stationery marked with his own handwriting. Beneath a carefully cultivated tan, the American’s face went pale.

“How did you get this?” he blurted. “You’ve been reading my mail?” He tried to muster an air of righteous indignation, with only partial success. “You had no right ... this was private, personal!”

Such predictable behavior saddened Kaur. “Now, Joel, you know we have to maintain the tightest security here. Secrecy is essential to the project. You were told that from the beginning.”
Perhaps we chose him too hastily,
she thought with more than a twinge of regret.
If so, then this is partly our fault.

“But it’s just a harmless letter to a friend, an old classmate from Columbia,” Singer insisted. He waved the sheets like a paper fan before the seated woman’s eyes. “Read it yourself. It’s all just small talk.”

Kaur was not swayed by his protestations. “First off, all contact with the outside world was to be strictly supervised. Those were the rules. Second, you and I both know that this letter is not nearly as inconsequential as you meant it to appear.” She gave Singer a rueful look. “Did you really think we’d forget that cryptography was a special hobby of yours? It’s in your file, Joel.”

Confronted thus, Singer looked unsteady on his feet. He tottered slightly, looking about plaintively for some sort of support amid the flowering bushes. Finally, he staggered backward and sat down awkwardly upon one of the lotus-shaped fountain’s sculpted marble petals. “I can explain,” he murmured weakly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

[48]
“It took us several weeks to crack the code,” Kaur admitted, paying little attention to Singer’s feeble denials, “but what we found is disturbing. Very disturbing.” She did not need to reclaim the actual letter to recall the most damning passages. “In this letter, you confide to your friend that you were having ‘second thoughts,’ that you had accidentally discovered something that disturbed you.” A look of extreme disappointment surfaced on her face, rising up from deep within her. “I thought you shared our devotion to the future, Joel.”