The Soul of the Matter (29 page)

As Dan and Trish were headed out the door, Peterson yelled out after them, “Shapes. That's right. I had forgotten. Dr. Bishop said he thought protein shapes played a critical role in the decoding of the genetic algorithm. I don't know what he meant, but it was just one more thing that left my head spinning that day.”

As Dan descended the steps to the first floor, his head was spinning as well. He was getting closer to believing what Stephen had told him, scientifically. But that would mean that he would have to believe that something like God existed, and our lives might actually make sense and have lasting value. He wasn't ready to take that leap yet.

He needed to get the codes from Sam and see Stephen's work for himself.

Chapter 58

D
istracted by the sophisticated, beautiful woman, who appeared grossly out of place at the budget motel, Sam didn't notice that someone had crept up behind him until a solidly built, medium-height man with a square jaw and a military demeanor appeared at his side, showed him an official-looking badge, and said, “We'd like to have a word with you about aiding and abetting serious federal crimes. Please open the door and step inside.”

The man's holstered weapon, revealed through a deliberately open jacket front, provided all the convincing Sam needed.

Whatever thoughts Sam had of escaping vanished when the door slammed shut behind him. With the room's thick curtains, and his sunlight-constricted pupils, he was plunged into darkness.

Seconds later, the woman flipped a switch, and a table lamp by the door shone dulled yellow light onto the main area of the room. Gesturing to a high-back cushioned chair in the corner of the room, the man said, “Please sit down, Dr. Abrams. My colleagues are on their way. When they arrive, we'll ask you a few questions, and then we'll leave.”

Sam walked hesitantly to the chair, sat, and then asked, “What government agency are you with?”

“It's a special investigative unit not known to the general public,” the man said. Without acknowledging Sam further, he walked to the window that faced the parking lot, pulled back the curtain slightly, peered outside, closed the curtain, then walked slowly back toward Sam.

“I'm not sure if I should feel good about that,” Sam said in a low
voice, briefly considering asking for a lawyer as a means to prove whether they were government agents. He decided against that. If it was a ruse, he didn't want to force the hands of ill-intentioned people.

The woman responded curtly, “We're not interested in how you feel. At least not yet.”

More nervous than before, Sam tried to get comfortable in the chair, to little avail. His mind raced from one thought to another. Imagined visions of Stephen's last moments formed in his mind. He pictured Stephen in similar circumstances being forced to talk before dying. His thoughts turned to the thumb drive hidden in the heel of his right shoe where a firm stomp would destroy it. Torn between protecting its contents and preventing it from falling into the wrong hands, he pressed his toes down and raised the heel of his right foot.

His left hand began to twitch. To stop it, he moved it from his lap and grabbed the left armrest of the chair, trying not to think about whatever insects might inhabit the worn, grubby chair in a run-down, out-of-the way motel. He tried not thinking about the questions that he would be asked. Stephen had deliberately set things up so he couldn't answer many, and what he could, he wouldn't. He wondered how he'd been found. Had Dan Lawson been followed?

A train rumbled toward the motel, eventually passing so close that it felt like it was in the room, and then was gone. His left leg started to shake, and his eyes started to blink uncontrollably. He began to think these people had something to do with Stephen's death.

Several nerve-racking minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The woman opened it and two men entered. One was a blond version of the black-haired first man. The other looked very much like a Russian spymaster, like Karla from the old, cold-war, John le Carré thrillers. Why did Sam's mind work like this when he most needed his wits and calm?

Without saying a word, the Karla man pulled up a wooden chair and sat down in it a few feet from Sam. He stared at Sam coldly, as though debating what to do with someone who had committed a terrible infraction but still might be redeemed.

Finally, the Karla man spoke in an even, Russian-accented voice
meant to convey cool authority, but the menace behind it was clear. “Dr. Abrams, my name is Sergei. You've already met Elena and Peter.” As Sergei said this, Elena removed the black wig she was wearing to reveal her frosted hair. She smiled at Sam, a sinister, disturbing smile.

Looking at the man who had arrived with him, Sergei said, “And that is Willy.” Willy was setting up a camera and microphone on a tripod, both aimed at Sam.

Sergei continued, “We know all about your involvement with Stephen Bishop and your own research. You will do your country, and yourself, an important service by being as forthcoming as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

Sam shuddered. He had never played sports as a kid. Instead, he had read lots of books to escape teasing from the athletic boys, and found his calling in science; he had always intended to use his mind, not muscles. He knew more than he could handle was coming his way, and it petrified him. In a shaky voice, he replied, “Who are you? What organization do you represent?”

“Dr. Abrams, do not try my patience. You need to recognize the seriousness of the situation. Dr. Bishop violated the trust placed in him by the government and by others, even you. He's placed this country at grave risk by his unauthorized research, the biological weapons his work was leading to, and by his association with Viktor Weisman, whose work has now made the US a target of every regime in the world. Do you understand?” Sergei said in a low voice that rumbled with violence.

Sam nodded.

“Good. That's wise. Now, answer our questions with complete honesty. Then we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, and you will be allowed to leave. Is
that
clear?”

Sam nodded again. He thought the best approach would be to mix in bits of truth, pretend to be uninformed in others, and mislead in the remainder. After all, what could they really know? And therefore, how could they tell if he was being truthful? And what he knew was too important to disclose. Stephen had been emphatic about the danger of sharing information, had probably died trying to protect it, and
Sam understood the implications of what he knew too well to give it up now.

“Let's start from the beginning. What was the nature of your relationship with Stephen Bishop?”

“I knew him by reputation when he was at MIT. When he started at HBC, Viktor Weisman, who was in my synagogue, referred me to him. Stephen hired me, and we worked together on genome decoding for about nine months. Things didn't work out. The research went in directions different than I had signed up for, we had a disagreement, and so I left. We spoke once in a while after that, but that was it.”

While Sam was being questioned, Elena and Willy searched the room.

After a long pause, during which he glared intently at Sam, Sergei said, “All right, then, tell me about Dr. Weisman's work. You are of course familiar with what took place at his MIT lab.”

“I didn't know him well. His fusion research was more than a job or interest for Viktor; it was his life. He treated it like a vocation and believed that it could change the world. I don't know anything about what he was doing at the time of the explosion,” Sam answered. That was absolutely true.

“What was Dr. Bishop's involvement with Weisman's work?”

“Absolutely none, of course. Why would you think they were related?” Sam answered.

“You are not complying with the terms I offered. There are penalties for that.”

“I swear I'm telling you the truth,” Sam pleaded.

Sergei, after listening to his earpiece, continued, “My superior, who is more temperate and forgiving than I am, thinks I should give you another chance. Let's try a different topic. How do you know Dan Lawson and the woman traveling with him?”

“I just met him. Stephen had arranged that. Did Lawson tell you I was here?”

Sergei laughed. “We'd lost him a day ago. Thank you for leading us back to him. Perhaps we'll talk with him next.”

“Then how do you find me?”

“We've been keeping an eye on all of Bishop's relationships. You
made contact with one here. That was all we needed. I tell you this so you know the power of our organization. Now, tell us about Stephen Bishop's research! We know it had strayed into dangerous territory, and that he had breakthroughs that can both revolutionize and devastate the world. He took things that weren't his and withheld what he owed others. This is your chance to redeem yourself for your part in this. We know you went into hiding for a reason. You want to be on the right side of this—and us, I can assure you,” Sergei said, his face now inches from Sam's, his heated breath washing over Sam's face.

Sergei stood up and his shadow fell over Sam and blocked the light. “Tell me again about your work with Dr. Bishop. Do not leave anything out.”

“I was hired by Stephen at HBC to analyze gene sequences to identify patterns. I found blocks of genetic code that seemed to function like subroutines in a computer program. Stephen surmised that if we could discover their functions, we could reassemble them to perform any task that we wanted. Our efforts failed. After his daughter got sick, he wanted to redirect his research toward stem cells. I didn't want to do that, so I left,” Sam said, continuing to mislead.

“And you have had no contact with him since then?”

“Just an occasional hello, how are you doing type of thing,” Sam said in a shaky voice.

“Then why did you just meet with his oldest friend, Dan Lawson, whom Dr. Bishop had recently sought out for assistance?”

Sam answered, “Stephen's daughter is sick again, and Lawson is searching for a treatment that he believes Stephen had found. It doesn't exist, and I told him that.”

“And yet you decide to come to this motel, in the very room where Lawson and Ava Bishop's doctor are staying, to continue a conversation with someone you don't know about a man you say you weren't much in contact with, who died under mysterious circumstances, and about research you say you wanted nothing to do with.”

Sam didn't answer. He started to move his mouth, then stopped.

Sergei stared at him. Sam tried to hold Sergei's gaze, to look like he had nothing to hide, but failed. Instead, Sam's eyes flicked nervously about the room. He felt sweat form on his brow and coalesce
into drops as it worked its way down his face. The lack of reaction from Sergei began to give Sam hope. Maybe they were satisfied with his answers. Whoever they were, even if they were with the government, they were people who carried out their tasks with extreme seriousness. He just wanted to get out of there.

“Perhaps we'll wait for them to arrive and ask them? What do you think they'll say?” Sergei asked.

“I have no idea. Before today, I had never met them,” Sam said, hoping this statement would ring as true as it was. “I don't think they would find your presence welcoming. In fact, you probably wouldn't get a lot of cooperation from them once they see how you are treating me,” Sam added in an attempt to assert himself.

“Unfortunately for you, I think you are correct,” Sergei said as he slammed his open hand across Sam's face, knocking him to the ground, pulled out an aerosol spray, and squirted it into Sam's mouth. Sam gasped for air, unable to yell. Sergei and Willy grabbed him by his armpits, yanked him up, and slammed him into the chair, then tied and gagged him. They searched through Sam's pockets and placed a wallet and a few coins on a table next to his chair. There was no doubting now what side of the law they were on or the danger he was in.

Peter looked suddenly uncomfortable. Sergei, noting this, said, “Go outside and look out for them if you don't have the stomach to do your job.” Peter hesitated before slowly leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Weak and fearful as he was, his face throbbing, Sam knew he had to summon the resolve to protect what Stephen had entrusted him with. He resumed his internal deliberations about what to do about the thumb drive.

Sergei's black eyes, the coldest Sam had ever seen, now glowered at him. Back in the chair across from Sam, Sergei moved closer. “Let me tell you how I view the world so you know what is about to happen. I think you will understand that you have no choice but to succumb, and that any hope of acting differently is an illusion that will be absolutely shattered.”

Sergei continued. “I have no use for the weak or those who cling to superficial ideals. Life is simply a battle, and you either win or
lose. It's about order and disorder. People can either be part of the superior order or join the mass of the lowly disorder. I hate disorder and weakness, and I will not allow it to prevail. I discipline myself in extraordinary ways to ensure I will win, that I will possess power, and that I will use it to obtain whatever I want. You are simply a pawn to me. What happens to you and those you profess to care about is no concern of mine. I cannot be appeased. You will be either useful to me or not. Do not doubt that I will extract everything from you. The only things in question here are the means that will be necessary to make you tell me the truth and whether you can convince me that you can provide further value once I am done.”

Sergei turned toward Elena and directed her toward the briefcases Willy had carried in. As Sam watched, working hard to breathe through the gag, Elena opened the cases and removed four speakers which she placed around the room. Then she pointed a microphone at Sam's mouth. She connected the speakers to an amplifier, the microphone to a laptop computer, and the computer to the amplifier. Finally, she started a program on the computer, and music began to play. Then she repeatedly and loudly clapped her hands in front of the microphone, adjusting settings on the computer, until the clapping was virtually impossible to hear.

Realization hit, followed quickly by terror.

With a calm expression that still conveyed menace, Sergei said, “I see you understand the purpose of this apparatus. It is a simple application of the same principles that are used in sound-damping headphones, only it will prevent the pathetic sounds you will make from escaping this room.” Putting on the headphones, Sergei continued. “We will be able to hear you, but no one else will.” He took off Sam's gag and said, “Go ahead and try it. Scream as loud as you can.”