Transhuman (26 page)

Sliding in behind the steering wheel he pulled out his cell phone and, sure enough, there were six calls from his wife.

Hating to admit he'd failed, Del deleted the messages. But as he reached for the car's ignition, he relented and called Lenore.

“Del!” Norrie's voice was bursting with delight. “They found her! That Agent Hightower called this morning and told me they know where Angie is!”

Del listened to his wife's eager babble, half joyful that they'd found his daughter, half resentful that he'd been such a miserable failure at doing the job himself.

 

Paul Rossov

I
T WAS NEARLY
noon when Rossov's flight landed at Portland International Airport. He was met by a professional chauffeur, as arranged by his office back in the White House. Surprisingly, the chauffeur was a young woman, fairly good-looking, with creamy dark skin, tightly kinked strawberry hair, and strangely hazel eyes.

A lot of crossbreeding there, he thought. Generations of miscegenation. Smiling inwardly he thought,
E pluribus unum
. She'd make a great poster girl for the nation's motto. Especially in the nude.

The chauffeur stowed Rossov's overnight bag in the limousine's trunk, then drove unerringly to the Bartram Research Laboratories complex.

Once he told the cute receptionist who he was, Shannon Bartram herself came to the lobby to greet him. She was younger than Rossov had expected, a bit on the blousy side but basically good-looking despite the extra weight.

“It's been a busy day,” Mrs. Bartram said as she led Rossov back to her office. “First the FBI and now you.”

“Agent Hightower was here,” Rossov said.

“Oh, yes. This morning. He and his partner met with Professor Abramson. It was a good meeting.”

“Abramson's here.”

“Yes, he's been here for several days, with his granddaughter and Dr. Minteer.”

She walked him past a secretary and into her own office. Rossov took it all in with a glance; desk by the window, conference table in the corner, bookshelves. Everything neat as a pin.

As he took one of the chairs in front of the desk, he said, “I need to talk to Abramson. In private.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Bartram said, settling into her desk chair. “He's busy at the moment, having a tissue sample taken, but he'll be available in an hour or so.”

“And the little girl?”

“She's either in her room or out on the grounds, taking a walk. Dr. Minteer is with her, wherever she is.”

“Can I see her?”

Mrs. Bartram's face contracted briefly into a frown, but she quickly forced a smile. “Wouldn't you like some lunch first? I'm sure the airline food wasn't all that satisfying.”

“I'm fine,” said Rossov. “I'd like to see Angela Villanueva.” He spoke the words pleasantly enough. No need to get tough with her, he thought, unless she puts up some resistance.

Bartram picked up her desk phone. “Let me make sure where she is.”

After a few words into the phone, she got to her feet. “She's in her room with Dr. Minteer.”

As she led him out of the office, Rossov realized, “You haven't had your lunch yet, have you?”

Bartram managed a smile. “Oh, that's all right. I'm trying to slim down a little. I can afford to skip a meal.”

When they got to Angela's room, Luke Abramson was there as well, together with a tall, slim, attractive brunette. The child was sitting by the window, bent over a digital game that emitted faint beeps.

Rossov went straight to Abramson and stuck out his hand. “I'm Paul Rossov, special assistant to the President of the United States.”

Abramson looked surprised. “You work in the White House?”

“I do. But I flew out here to meet you, Professor.”

“I guess I should be flattered.”

Rossov smiled thinly. “I think your work is tremendously important.”

“That's…” Abramson fished for a word. “Good,” he finished lamely.

“And this must be Angela.” The child looked up from her game, and Rossov's breath caught in his throat. Angela Villanueva didn't look like an eight-year-old child; she looked like a geriatric midget.

The brunette broke the sudden silence. “I'm Angela's physician, Tamara Minteer.”

“Hello,” he said, his eyes still on Angela.

Angela said, “Hello.”

Turning to Abramson, Rossov asked, “What's wrong with her?”

Abramson's face turned stony. “Progeria. It's a side effect of the therapy that eliminated her brain cancer.”

“She recovering nicely,” Minteer added, moving to Angela's side. “Soon she'll be completely back to normal.”

“I'm going home pretty soon,” Angela said.

Rossov thought, Maybe not, kid. Maybe not.

To Abramson, he said, “We have to talk. The highest levels of government have taken an interest in your work.”

The professor forced a tight smile. “That's good. I've been fired from the university, you know.”

Wrapping an arm around Abramson's shoulder, Rossov said, “Not to worry. We can take care of that.”

Shannon Bartram said, “Why don't we go to my office? We can talk it all out there. And I'll have some snacks sent in.”

*   *   *

“
H
EY, WE GONNA
sit out here all day?” Novack grumped.

Hightower had cranked the driver's seat back to where he felt reasonably comfortable. “Did you see that limo come up the road?”

“Yeah.”

“I imagine that's the White House guy.”

“Okay,” said Novack. “So your backup from Salem has arrived and they're watching the road. The White House guy is inside, talking to Abramson. Let's get back to the hotel and get something to eat, for chrissakes.”

“Aren't you curious about why the White House is interested in this case? I am.”

“And we're gonna find out about it while we're sitting here in the cold?”

“I don't feel cold,” Hightower said.

“I sure as hell do.”

Thinking it over for a second, Hightower started up the Chevrolet's engine. “Okay. Let's go back up to the labs. It'll be warmer inside.”

 

Fisk Tower

Q
UENTON FISK GLARED
at the image on his wall screen. It was the chief of his Washington office, the man he paid handsomely to know what was going on in the labyrinths of the federal government.

“We know there was a meeting in the Oval Office last week,” said Neville O'Connor, “with the Secretary of the Treasury and the Attorney General. Apparently they were discussing Abramson's work.”

“Apparently?” Fisk snapped.

O'Connor, a large, round, perfectly bald man replied blandly, “We don't have the White House bugged, Mr. Fisk.”

Fisk let the irony pass him by. “Somebody from the White House is out in Oregon right now, talking with Abramson.”

O'Connor pursed his lips. “Probably a result of that meeting last week.”

“Why would the White House be interested in Abramson's work?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” O'Connor replied. Before Fisk could explode, he quickly added, “But we'll find out. Give us a couple of days. We'll find out.”

“You do that,” Fisk said coldly. He tapped a button on his phone console and O'Connor's image winked out.

Why would the White House be interested in Abramson's research? he asked himself again. I can see the Justice Department's interest: The FBI is part of that department. But why Treasury? What's the Treasury Department's interest?

Steepling his fingers and leaning back in his comfortably yielding desk chair, Fisk stared up at the ceiling and tried to think it out.

Abramson's working on life extension. He's made old lab rats young again, and he wants to try the same trick on chimps. And then humans, eventually.

If he can rejuvenate old people, his work is worth a fortune and a half. And it's
mine.
I'm his sole source of funding, and he's signed a privacy agreement. He's tied to me, tied tightly.

But the government could step in and upset the apple cart. Somebody in Washington could find some legal reason to take Abramson away from me.

He made a mental note to get his legal department to check on the Abramson agreements.

Then it hit him. Abramson's granddaughter. She was dying of cancer, and he kidnapped her so he could treat her. Has he succeeded?

Abruptly, he sat up straight and banged on his desktop intercom. “Get Novack on the line,” he commanded his secretary. “I don't care where he is or what he's doing. I want to talk to him
now.
”

*   *   *

A
S SHANNON LED
Luke and Rossov back toward her office, the White House man asked, “Is there a conference room someplace, where Professor Abramson and I could speak in private?”

Shannon stopped, frowning slightly. “Why, yes. Of course. This way.”

They turned a corner and went past several doors. Through one of them Luke saw a middle-aged man sitting at a desk, staring into space. Thinking, he figured. Or daydreaming. He noticed the whiteboard behind the man, covered with chemical equations. Not daydreaming. Thinking.

Shannon opened a door and ushered them into a small conference room: round table, six cushioned chairs, sideboard bare except for a telephone, cabinets, no windows.

“Will this do?” she asked.

“Fine,” said Rossov, with a nod.

“I'll be in my office,” she said, gesturing toward the phone on the sideboard. “Extension one.”

“Easy to remember.” Rossov smiled as Shannon left the room and quietly closed the door.

“Have a seat,” he told Luke. It was more of a command than a suggestion.

Luke pulled out one of the chairs, and Rossov took the one next to him, turning it to face Luke.

“You look younger than your photographs,” Rossov said, with a smile that was meant to be disarming.

Luke studied his face. It was narrow, bony, with probing gray eyes and thin sandy hair combed straight back off his high forehead.

“I've been taking telomerase accelerators,” he admitted.

Rossov's pointed chin went up a notch. “And it's working, isn't it?”

“So far.”

“Your granddaughter's really cured?” His voice was sharp, eager. Luke got the impression of a rat that had just discovered a sizable morsel of cheese.

“Her brain tumors are gone. Now we've got to get her past the side effects.”

“Progeria, it's called?”

Luke nodded.

Rossov stared hard at Luke. At last he said, “Professor, we think your work is incredibly important.”

“We?”

“The highest levels of government. The very highest.”

“NIH doesn't,” Luke said. “They dropped my funding.”

“That was a mistake.”

Luke said nothing. What's he after? he asked himself. What's he fishing for?

Rossov said, “I understand that the Fisk Foundation is funding your work now.”

“That's right.”

“We would like you to work under federal sponsorship again. We'll provide you with the finest laboratory facilities and staff. You'll have everything you want.”

“And the Fisk Foundation?”

“We'll take care of them. Your work is too important to be monopolized by a private organization.”

“But Quenton Fisk—”

“Is no match for the President of the United States,” Rossov said, as if he had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

Despite himself, Luke whistled softly. “The President?”

With a sly grin, Rossov said, “As I told you, the very highest levels of government are interested in your work.”

“That's … very good to know,” Luke said.

Clasping his long-fingered hands together, Rossov said, “Okay. We'll have to set up a facility for you. Someplace where you won't be bothered by outside pressures. You and your granddaughter and Dr. Minteer.”

“You know that the FBI wants me on a kidnapping charge.”

“Oh, that will be dropped. You just leave everything to me.”

“And Dr. Minteer—you'll need to restore her credentials.”

“No problem. Anyway, she'll work with you and your granddaughter for the time being.”

A tiny voice in Luke's head was telling him that this was all too good to be true, but he heard himself ask, “Could you arrange for Angela's parents to come out and see her? They're pretty upset about all this, you know.”

Rossov's almost jovial expression soured a bit. But he said, “Sure. Certainly. Not right away, of course. But we'll get word to them, let the little girl talk to them on Skype, that sort of thing.”

Luke nodded uncertainly.

Reaching out to pat Luke's knee, Rossov said, “You just leave everything to me. I'll take care of all of you.”

 

Bartram Research Laboratories

“
U
H-OH,” SAID HIGHTOWER.

He and Novack were sitting in the lobby, waiting for the White House man to come out. Novack had his cell phone plastered to his ear; Hightower could hear a loud angry voice yammering at him.

And then Del Villanueva pushed through the glass door and stalked up to the receptionist's desk, striding past Hightower and Novack without noticing them.

Loud enough for Hightower to hear him clearly, Villanueva demanded, “I'm Delgado Villanueva, Angela's father. I've come to see my daughter.”

The receptionist looked startled. “Angela Villanueva?” she asked.

“That's right. She's here, and I want to see her, right now!”

Hightower pushed himself up from the couch and started toward the reception desk. Novack, still on the phone, watched him.

“I'll call Mrs. Bartram,” said the receptionist.