Grail Protocol Complete Trilogy: The Grail Protocol Series, #1

Grail Protocol

By

Douglas W. Jones

Text Copyright ©2015 Douglas W. Jones

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To my wife, Laura, who patiently and lovingly listened to my story as it was written and gave me wonderful advice.

Prologue

THE LAST OF THE FIRST bottle of merlot sloshed around the plastic cup as he shuffled to the kitchen table. He sat down heavily and through bloodshot eyes viewed the work in front of him. A pack of cigarettes was lying there and he pulled one out, lit it, and took a small drag. He coughed. He took another, longer drag—didn’t cough that time. He sat there calmly for half an hour, smoking steadily, resigned to what he must do. Time passed imperceptibly, lost in a haze of nicotine and cheap wine.

The man stared at the dingy, off-yellow wall as he let the last drag from yet another cigarette drift out of his mouth and up past his eyes. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling and he watched with disinterest as it dissipated in little melting whorls. I don’t even smoke, he thought with disgust. At least not for the last twenty years. He stubbed out the butt. What the hell; it doesn’t matter now.

The kitchen table stood on thin steel tube legs and was covered with a vaguely gray Formica-like material that was cracked and stained beyond redemption. It wobbled from age and abuse, just like the chair. He sat there, in the middle of the dimly lit efficiency apartment, and looked at the pile of envelopes in front of him. Next to the envelopes was the stack of promotional flyers he’d downloaded and printed. He lifted one off the stack and placed it in front of him. Then he picked up a vial of fine white powder and sprinkled a small amount onto the paper. It doesn’t take much. He folded the paper in thirds and slid it into an envelope. Next, he peeled an address sticker off the preprinted sheet and stuck it on the envelope. Denver. I really like that city. He added the return address label and a stamp, then mechanically began preparing the next envelope.

Bastards, he muttered. Pain flashed across his cramped shoulders and up his neck as he straightened and pushed back from the table. He’d been working for hours. He rose like a weary marionette and contemplated the stack of fifty letters—sealed, addressed and ready to send out into the world. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists, his gray-blue eyes momentarily hardened. Those bastards brought this on themselves—and on everyone. I didn’t want to do this. His body sagged as hard resolve faded from his eyes, replaced by emptiness and remorse. The apartment faded into a watery blur. Tears spilled down his face. Noble left me no choice. It was the only rationale he could conjure for the terrible thing he was about to do.

Chapter 1

Friday, June 1

The mast is dropping within my woods,

The winter is lurking within my moods,

And the rustling of the withered leaf

Is the constant music of my grief.

Henry David Thoreau

THREE FULL SECONDS transpired as the machine intelligence focused its vast intellect on the data stream from RegenTech—it pulled the trigger and alerted its human masters.

It spent such an astronomical length of time because it analyzed information from a thousand research databases—everything that was known about rhesus monkeys—just to be sure. The pattern that had emerged over the past two days was unmistakable—it matched the established alert parameters. The AI acted.

TRAYLA MARTIN’S PRIVATE number rang. Yes?

Director Martin, this is Analyst Drecker. Albert has issued a priority alert.

Subject?

"I don’t know, Director. It’s on the eyes-only list."

Send it to my terminal.

Yes, ma’am. A few seconds passed. You should have it now.

Trayla disconnected and turned to her terminal to open the coded header. Her jaw dropped as she scanned the first two words...Grail Protocol...

Trayla Martin, Director of Section Delta, was at her desk, enjoying what had been a normal Friday afternoon. Her organization, a sub-entity of Homeland Security, was the government’s biotech watchdog. They monitored research organizations and sniffed out any disturbing developments before they could become a threat.

Trayla didn’t have a large staff of agents and analysts to track down millions of text messages, phone calls, emails, and the comings and goings of the thousands of individuals who worked in US and global biotech—that was old school. Instead, she had Albert.

Grail Protocol meant nothing to anyone else in Section Delta, but it meant everything to Trayla Martin. With trembling hands, she typed the commands to confirm the eyes-only routing, then opened the alert. Albert had issued it for RegenTech, a small, privately held biotech firm in Charlotte, NC. She scanned quickly across the data and came to the research notes written by a Dr. Simon Barstow. She read down the summary page and there were the keywords that had triggered Albert’s action.

Albert was state-of-the-art artificial intelligence. Quantum dynamics and deep neural nets were providing the path forward, and it was increasingly more accurate to talk of top-end AI computers as learning intelligences or artificial minds.

The AI watching RegenTech was the most advanced of its kind. Its primary mission: surveillance. The more it watched, the more it learned what to watch for. Its makers taught the machine basic things in the beginning, but it was impossible to build in appropriate responses for every contingency, so they didn’t try. Instead, they taught the AI to learn what to look for, and they gave it wide latitude to access, at its discretion, millions of data sources. No one knew how the AI made the decisions on where and how and when to focus its enormous cognitive capacity; they just knew they were pleased with the results.

She sat back, stunned. This could be it. Breathing slowly and deeply for a minute, she composed herself. The trembling subsided. She picked up her phone and dialed a number she had used only once. The second ring cut off abruptly—then a single word, Noble.

We have a Grail Protocol, Mr. Noble.

The silence on the other end lasted so long that Trayla almost spoke again.

Probability? the deep voice asked.

Fifty-five percent that this is a Class One Event. The intercept came from the RegenTech Corporation and occurred twenty minutes ago.

The sudden intensity in the disembodied voice sent a shiver down her spine. Send the intercept file at once, the voice commanded.

Yes, sir. She punched a couple of keys on her terminal. On its way. I’ll start a complete scrub of all internal communications for the past thirty days. Is there anything else, sir?

No, came the curt reply. The line went dead.

Trayla Martin set her phone on the desk. Her hand began trembling again as thrill wrestled with dread for control. Noble had bought her years ago...had in fact created her position in Homeland Security. She had never met the man, but she knew his public persona very well. For her, he was a name, a phone number, and a final destination for file transfers. She knew he controlled powerful levers reaching deep into the machinery of government. The thought of what was coming coursed down her spine like an electric current. Well... In for a penny, in for a pound.

Trayla Martin turned to her computer and entered a string of highly unusual commands.

Chapter 2

Two Days Earlier

DR. BARSTOW WALTZED into the research facility, a boxer’s spring in his step and a smile on his face. He was in a congratulatory mood. Crumbs from a Subway sandwich still littered his shirt. That morning he had enjoyed a minor celebration when the scales finally registered below the magic two hundred mark. At six foot one, he could still stand to lose another few pounds, but he was getting there.

In large letters on the lobby wall opposite the entrance was the company name, RegenTech, and beneath in smaller letters, Biotechnology Research Center. A small, privately held company in Charlotte NC, they conducted cancer research using the latest gene-splicing techniques. Twenty-two employees worked in state-of-the-art facilities. Dr. Simon Barstow was the senior researcher and had helped create the company five years prior.

He sauntered down the corridor and looked left at his reflection in the long row of windows. Getting there, he thought. It was a fine day, and tomorrow night was going to be amazing. How did I get so lucky? His smile blossomed into a full-on grin. Simon Barstow knew he had won the lottery the day he met Julie Carston. A warm feeling surged over him as he gripped the small box in his pocket.

Simon hung his jacket on a coat hook as he walked into the lab, then paused at the coffee machine for his first afternoon cup. Once again, he refused the inner voice that told him he needed to cut back. He sat down at his cluttered lab station, savored the first sip, and fired up his data terminal.

He stared over the rim of his coffee cup at the test results on the screen. He leaned in for a better look. That’s odd. He rechecked the labels on the blood samples. The subject numbers and the date/times for the specimen collection were all as they should be. He called up the blood analysis results from the previous two days. What the hell?

The samples were from Test Group 3C, and Tom, his assistant, had verified and signed off on everything. Simon’s brow furrowed as he gave the numbers a closer inspection. He sat back in his chair, shaking his head, his features bunched up in puzzlement. Something was decidedly odd.

Tom, he called out loud enough to be heard over the whirring of a nearby centrifuge. Could you come over here for a minute?

Tom quickly finished loading the last few specimens in the protein sequencer and hurried to Simon’s station. What do you need, Dr. Barstow?

Have you had a chance to look at the results from this morning’s specimens?

Not yet. Is there something wrong?

I’m not sure. He motioned toward the screen with his cup. "I’ve been going over the blood analysis data from Group 3C, and the numbers are off—actually way off. They don’t make sense. I’ve gone back over the data from the last few days, and everything looked fine up through yesterday, or I should say almost fine. Now that I’ve got these latest results, I can see that the data was already trending away from expected norms. The drift was small at first. That’s probably why we missed it."

Tom looked over Dr. Barstow’s shoulder and scanned the results on the monitor. Mm, you’re right. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer. Those are really messed up. They can’t be right. He straightened his lanky frame to full height as he stepped back. What do you want to do?

Simon swung around in his chair, considering for a moment. Let’s make sure we’ve got reliable data first. Set up a standard calibration run. These results are most likely from an equipment malfunction. Have we been running any other samples today?

No, Tom said as he checked the schedule on his tablet. His hand had begun to tremble slightly. But we’re scheduled to run specimens on Group 3D this afternoon. Tom tapped a few times on the tablet and muttered something inaudible. I’m probably thinking the same thing you are. We should put those tests on hold until we get results from the calibration run.

Right... Okay, said Simon as he nodded agreement.

Assuming we have standard samples ready to go, we could run a full-panel test in just a couple of hours.

Simon leaned back in his chair. Good...that’s good.

Tom dropped into a nearby chair, a worried look on his face. This could be bad. If the calibration results show an equipment problem, we might have days of questionable data, and not just on 3C. That would be a lot of lost time and money. He looked at Simon, his expression becoming more downcast. I’m sorry, Dr. Barstow. I should have caught the drift sooner. I don’t know how I missed it!

Simon was shaking his head as Tom finished. Whoa. Slow down, Tom. Simon raised his palms toward his young assistant to emphasize the point. I missed it too. There’s no fault here. So, don’t start blaming yourself. Let’s just figure out what went wrong so we can get back on track. Okay?

Yeah. I guess you’re right. Thanks.

They both took a moment. Then Tom rose to his feet. I best get started. Without another word, he spun on his heel and strode purposefully across the aisle to his workstation.

Simon turned to his terminal, and for the next few hours, he tried to focus on normal responsibilities. He wasn’t successful. A knot of worry at the back of his mind kept nagging at his thoughts. Tom was right; this could get expensive.

THE CALCULATING, DISPASSIONATE entity focused on the data stream for eight milliseconds—an exceedingly long time in its universe. It studied the research data that had initially piqued its interest, and raised its priority slightly for future surveillance. It then moved on—sifting, sorting, and analyzing terabytes of information each second. It never tired, it never got bored, it never ceased.

Curiosity is too human a word for what diverted the attention of the machine intelligence, but it is useful as a starting point for understanding. The insignificant biotech company briefly came under increased scrutiny because a small portion of its research data was out of the ordinary, unusual in a specific way. It violated parameters that had been set years before, and red flags had tripped.

This had happened many times in the past, but in each case, the apparently extraordinary had always resolved back to the merely ordinary: human error, machine failure, poorly designed protocols, these and more constantly generated false alerts. Nevertheless, the data was noted and surveillance priorities modified. The unusual data did not yet reach a level of significance that would require the AI to notify its human masters. It would simply watch.

SIMON DRUMMED HIS FINGERS on the lab bench and glanced for the umpteenth time toward Tom. Are we ready yet, Tom? He looked up at the clock then back at Tom working diligently at the analyzer station. They were alone in the lab. It’s almost three o’clock.

Tom stood rigidly at his workstation. Just a few more minutes, Dr. Barstow. I’m sorry about the calibration run yesterday—I mean about the expiration date on the samples. He rolled his shoulders several times, clearly trying to dispel the tension. I got new material as soon as I could.

So, the current calibration run checked out?

Yes, sir. One hundred percent. I don’t know what went wrong yesterday, but the equipment is running fine now.

Tom glanced in Simon’s direction just in time to see Simon once again checking the clock. He turned to face Simon. I’m really sorry about the time. Look, you should go. I can handle this. It’s not every day that a man gets engaged. I’m sure I’ll have everything back on track with good data this time.

No. It’s okay. I’ve got time. The finger-drumming threatened to become a staccato drum solo. Simon forced himself to stay seated and let Tom do his job. He wanted desperately to bolt out of the lab. This was the night. It had taken him months to work up the nerve, and now it was finally here. But he was stuck.

Tom’s arms shot over his head like he was signaling a touchdown. That should do it! He turned to Dr. Barstow. It’s going to take thirty minutes to get the first results. Are you sure you want to wait?

I’ll wait—best to make sure everything’s copasetic.

Dr. Barstow turned to his terminal and busied himself tidying up his work queue. It was the last thing he felt like doing, but it would make the minutes pass faster. Two short reports and eight emails later, he was closing down his terminal for the day. The timing was perfect. The analyzer’s beep cut through the silence in the lab like a fire alarm; at least, that’s the way it felt to Simon’s overly sensitized mind. A last couple of keystrokes finished the shutdown, and Simon swiveled in his chair to look straight across the aisle at Tom’s back.

Tom’s pecking at the keyboard suddenly ceased. Simon noticed him pulling back slightly from the terminal. His hand jerked toward the keyboard and stabbed aggressively at several keys—then froze.

Simon could feel his scalp tightening. What is it, Tom?

Tom didn’t answer at first. He leaned closer to the terminal screen. Tendons sprang out along his neck. He stabbed rapidly, almost viciously at the keyboard.

Simon got a cold lump in his gut. He rose from his chair. Tom! He took several steps toward his assistant. Talk to me.

Tom turned partway to look with desperate eyes at Simon. Then he jerked his head back toward the screen. Simon’s eyes followed. They flashed wide in disbelief—then anger. He stared accusingly at the offending data. Dammit!

Tom stammered, his eyes downcast. I d-don’t know what happened, Dr. Barstow. The calibration runs were perfect!

Simon reached out toward his assistant. I know, Tom. Calm down. It’s not your fault. We obviously have cross-contamination. I don’t know where it could possibly be coming from, but our blood samples are clearly contaminated. Simon took two steps and flopped down into his chair. He leaned his head back and looked beseechingly at the ceiling. I don’t need this right now.

Tom was clearly about to have a fit, shifting back and forth from leg to leg, turning first to the screen, then back to Simon. Dr. Barstow, I’ll stay tonight to get this figured out. Don’t let this mess up everything. Tonight is just too important for you and Dr. Carston.

Simon focused his eyes squarely on Tom standing mute and downcast at the analyzer. Then Simon’s cheeks puffed out as a whoosh of air escaped through pursed lips. This is so screwed up. Dr. Pierce is going to be furious, and we’ve got zero answers. We’re already running a razor’s edge on our financials—and this...this could really be a disaster. Simon slumped in resignation, slowing shaking his head. I need to postpone tonight.

Tom’s reaction was instantaneous and emphatic. No! Don’t do that! I can handle this. I’m going to double-check everything—the procedures, equipment—

Simon brought both hands up to interrupt the younger man. Stop. I’ve made my decision. We’re both staying until we get this figured out.

JULIE HAD UNDERSTOOD why Simon cancelled their dinner date. She was a senior researcher at Paris Technologies and knew that sometimes things didn’t go right—things that had to be dealt with immediately. Simon had told her the gist of the problem and she simply wished him luck. They had arranged a rain check for next week.

Simon was the one who was upset. After a year, he had finally worked up the courage to ask Julie to marry him. He had planned out every detail. It was going to be perfect.

The two men set everything up again, from scratch, starting with new blood and tissue samples. Several hours later, they sat in stunned silence, having just read the latest analysis results.

I don’t get it, said Simon, looking at his obviously dejected lab assistant. We double-checked every step. What did we miss? He slumped back in the chair, head bowed, tired, pissed. Then it hit him. Why it hadn’t occurred to him before, he didn’t know. He looked up and saw a look of amazement dawning on Tom’s face, and knew the same thought was in his head. Maybe we didn’t miss a thing.

Chapter 3

Present Day

Friday, June 1

COME IN, DR. BARSTOW. Dr. Brandon Pierce didn’t bother to get up and give Simon a more courteous welcome. Have a seat. You said you had a research issue you needed to discuss in person. What’s so important that you couldn’t just post it in the normal research update or email? I’m busy, so this had better be good."

Dr. Pierce was the CEO of RegenTech and had founded the company five years prior, using seed money he’d made in a previous business venture.

What a prick, Simon thought to himself. Out loud, he said, Sir, this is important—really important. Simon could tell that Dr. Pierce was in a foul mood.

Fine, Dr. Barstow, Dr. Pierce said in an exaggerated sigh. You’ve got my undivided attention. He put his terminal in standby and leaned back imperiously in his expensive executive chair, practically daring Simon to impress him.

Simon drew in a deep breath. Two days ago, we started getting strange results from Group 3C. That’s one of the advanced stage cancer studies using rhesus monkeys.

Dr. Pierce rolled his eyes toward the ceiling then back down to stare at Simon with a bored expression. I am quite aware of what Group 3C is, Dr. Barstow.

Of course Dr. Pierce. The blood and tissue workups were all wrong. Key metabolic metrics were radically different from what we expected to see. At first we thought we had calibration problems. We eliminated that possibility. Then we thought it was contamination. It took time, but we eliminated that as well. We’ve spent the last forty-eight hours confirming the test results.

And? Dr. Pierce prompted impatiently.

Dr. Pierce, last week the rhesus monkeys in our test group had an average age of 16.2 years. This morning, they appear to be average fourteen-year-olds.

Simon stopped talking and stared at Dr. Pierce, who glared back, his skin slowly darkening to a deep red. The silence dragged on. Suddenly, Brandon Pierce jerked out of his paralysis. What the hell are you babbling about?

Simon remained calm. We’ve checked and rechecked. The metabolic data for Group 3C is appropriate for the average fourteen-year-old monkey.

Dr. Pierce considered for a second. Suddenly, he stabbed the wake-up button on his terminal keyboard.

What’s the folder name? he demanded.

It’s not on the network yet.

Why the hell not? he snapped with obvious irritation.

Simon’s fingers dug into the arms of the chair as he exerted control over his emotions. He stayed calm in the face of Dr. Pierce’s brusque demand. He tried valiantly to keep sarcasm from his voice—but failed. I thought you should see the results first before we broadcast them to everyone in the company.

Dr. Pierce gave Simon a scathing look and started to respond—then stopped. Right, he said after a moment. Right, good thinking. We need to keep this close-hold until we get more information. Who else is in the loop on this?

Tom Myers has been running the analyses on 3C. That’s it. He knows this is confidential.

Good... Good, Pierce said as he nodded slightly. I need some time to think. If your interpretation of the data is even close to accurate, we need to be really careful in how we handle this.

Yes sir. I’ll upload the files right away for your review. Simon jotted down a number. They’ll be in a secure folder with this passkey. He slid the slip of paper across the desk to Dr. Pierce. In the meantime, I’ll run more diagnostic tests to get a clearer picture of what is happening. Is there anything else you need me to do?

No, not right now. Keep everything updated on the network and we’ll talk tomorrow.

Yes, sir. Simon got up and headed for the door. Just before exiting he paused, then turned. Brandon, we’re really in new territory here. No one will have a clue what to do if this is real.

The two men stared at one another in silence. Both men knew what those last words meant.

Simon walked into the hallway. He raised his arm slightly and spoke toward the wrist unit. Mandy.

Yes, Simon? the AI responded.

Please upload the latest test results and lab notes for Group 3C.

Right away, Simon. After a few seconds, Mandy continued. All data and personal lab notes are uploaded and in the assigned folder.

Thanks, Mandy. Simon knew it was silly to thank the AI, but she’d been with him for over two years. It just seemed the natural thing to do.

GREGORY NOBLE SAT PERFECTLY still, but it was a façade. His body vibrated with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His hand still rested on his phone where he had set it down after Martin’s call. He stood up slowly from his desk, willing his body not to tremble, and walked to the twelve-foot-tall expanse of glass overlooking Los Angeles. The view from the forty-eighth-floor penthouse office of Noble Bio-Technologies was breathtaking.

Trayla’s call meant the breakthrough might finally be happening. Excitement surged through his body as he looked at the vastness before him. After all of these years, maybe... He clamped down hard on that train of thought and drew in a slow, deep breath. He closed his eyes and let the breath ease ever so slowly past his barely parted lips. It was still a large maybe at this point. Albert had only assigned a fifty-five percent probability that it was a Class One Event. On the other hand, Albert had never initiated any Class One Alert before."

Steven, Gregory said, never breaking his gaze out the window.

Yes, Mr. Noble, the AI replied from the unit on his wrist.

Send a priority alert to the Grail Protocol Group. Conference in fifteen minutes.

Yes, Mr. Noble. A few seconds later, Priority alert sent. Two confirmations already received. Seconds later—All confirmations received.

Gregory continued to stare at a fixed point beyond the city. Only his chest moved, in and out, deeply and slowly inhaling and exhaling each breath, centering himself for the most important challenge of his life. A confluence of events might finally be happening, one that would change the fate of the world. He turned away from the window and strode purposefully through the rapidly opening, brass-clad double doors that reached to the ceiling.

Dr. Robert Brenner came running down the thickly carpeted hallway waving enthusiastically. He was the corporation’s chief technology officer and one of the few people who might consider Gregory a friend.

He huffed to a stop in front of Gregory. We got a Grail Protocol Alert?

Correct—probable Class One. Gregory’s stoic reply masked his own growing excitement. It came in ten minutes ago and it’s from a domestic source.

Shit, oh, shit. Holy... Are you going to initiate the Protocol? What’s the probability? Where did the breakthrough occur? Who do we have—

Gregory gripped Robert’s shoulders, his voice edged with disapproval. Stop! You know I don’t like it when you do this. He released his grip and stepped back. It’s preliminary, Robert—not even an hour old. There’s no secondary corroboration. Gregory looked up at the clock above the conference room door, then back at Robert. The conference starts in three minutes. He waved his hand slightly toward the door. Shall we?

Gregory and Robert entered the conference room. Michael Boyle was on one of several monitors placed at intervals around the half-circle conference table. Good afternoon, Michael. Gregory and Robert took their seats.

Good afternoon, Mr. Noble, and to you, Robert. Michael Boyle was founder and CEO of MicroTech Security and the only member of the Grail Protocol Group who was not part of Noble Bio-Technologies. He was the intelligence director for all Protocol operations. Michael and Gregory had met just after Michael left the NSA. He had become an integral part of developing and implementing the first stages of what would become the Grail Protocol.

A minute later, the last two members of the Protocol Group entered the conference room. Benton Harcroft was chief operating officer of the company. Louis Compton was corporate director of security and served a similar role within the Protocol Group. Both men acknowledged the other members and quickly took their places at the table.

Gregory stood. We have a Grail Protocol Alert with a fifty-five percent probability of being a Class One Event. Gregory pointed to the large projection screen at the front of the room. All pertinent information is in the indicated file and available on the network. Get up to speed. For now, Steven will provide a summary of events up to this point.

The lights dimmed slightly and Steven began in the clipped, precise British accent that Gregory preferred. Gregory looked around the table at the rapt expressions. He had been preparing this team for years. They were ready.

Gregory left immediately after the short briefing and went directly to his office. He needed to be alone. A feeling of euphoria coursed through his body. His skin rushed with heat. He sat at his desk, reached into the lower drawer, and withdrew a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan scotch and a cut-crystal whiskey glass. He poured himself two fingers, neat, and raised the glass to his nose, deeply inhaling the fiery, sweet vapors.

Gregory looked around his expansive office, appreciating the luxury that wealth could buy. He looked out the huge windows at the Los Angeles skyline and beyond to where the sun glinted brilliantly off the Pacific Ocean. He smiled. It’s happening. He was forty-three, healthy, vigorous—wealthy beyond Midas. His smile grew much larger as he allowed a single thought to crystallize in his mind: I’m never going to die.

Gregory sat still, a transfixed, almost ecstatic expression on his face. Everything felt hyper-real, his senses more alive than he’d ever experienced. He rubbed his hands lightly across the fine soft leather of his chair, luxuriating in its buttery warmth. He put his hands up to his lapels and slowly ran his fingers down the exquisite fabric of the deep black Armani suit. He got up and walked to stand directly in front the life-size portrait of John D. Rockefeller that was opposite his desk. He spoke with a hint of boastfulness as he raised his glass in a toast. You would have loved this. Then he laughed, and he laughed and laughed—as tears streamed down his face.

Chapter 4

Monday, June 4

JULIE CARSTON WALKED into her apartment and threw herself on the large green-and-tan overstuffed couch. The living room was small but cozy—she needed cozy. Work had been exhausting, but she was more than body-tired.

Simon was a mess. She still didn’t know what was going on at the lab, but it had become a serious problem last Thursday and had spilled over to Friday. For a month, she and Simon had been looking forward to a mutual friend’s fortieth birthday party. By all accounts, it had been a terrific celebration. But Julie and Simon were not there. Simon had abruptly canceled. This was unusual, but even more so when he said he couldn’t tell Julie anything about it. It was the same problem that had cancelled their date at La Travatas—she knew that much. Dr. Pierce had put the research project under the highest classification.

Simon’s odd behavior had continued into the weekend. Julie called Saturday morning to see if he was up for a walk along the RiverLink Greenway. He was at the lab. But he was never at the lab on Saturday. Simon begged off. All he said was that he was working on something classified and incredibly important. Julie didn’t know whether to be upset or concerned. This had never happened before. It hurt that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, confide in her. She had let it go—mostly. But it had bugged her all weekend.

Julie sat staring, unfocused, into the room. What is going on?

SIMON WEARILY RUBBED his aching eyes and pulled his fingers through his hair. Tom had left a few minutes earlier. Simon sat at his lab table, alone, cocooned within the stainless steel coolness and polished whiteness of the lab. He stared at his face in the mirror-like surface of the small centrifuge, his reflected image distorted by the gentle curve of the machine. His stubbled visage stared back from eyes underlined by pale black smudges. I look like shit.

He sat up straighter in the chair and gave a huge full-arm, full-leg stretch as a monster yawn escaped. He collapsed with a whoosh of breath and sat rag-doll–like in the chair for a moment, then shook himself and rose to his feet.

Mandy, Simon called out to his AI.

Yes, Simon?

Call Julie, please.

Right away, Simon.

He left the lab and started down the hall that would take him outside and to his car.

Julie answered. Hi, Simon. I was just thinking about you.

Right back at you, sweetheart. I’m leaving the lab and heading home. I miss you. It’s been a tough weekend. I’d love to see you if you’re up for it.

I miss you, too. Do you want me to come over?

Actually, I was thinking more like O’Malley’s. Are you up for a little pub food and a pint or two? Simon asked hopefully.

You read my mind. How about I meet you there?

Great. I’ve got to get home and get cleaned up first. I’ve been pretty much living at the lab all weekend. How about I meet you around seven?

That works for me.

Simon smiled as he got into his Lexus. OK then, it’s a date. See you at O’Malley’s. Bye, bye.

Simon stared wearily out the windshield. Take me home, Mandy.

Mandy started the car. Okay, Simon, sit back and relax. We’ll be home in about twenty-five minutes.

The vibrating seat and Mandy’s voice roused Simon from his power nap. Simon, we’re home.

His eyes snapped open. He felt almost refreshed—almost. The time display read 5:52 PM. Plenty of time for a hot shower. He glanced in the rearview mirror. And a shave.

JULIE WAS ALREADY SEATED in a secluded corner booth and saw Simon as he entered through the ornate oak door. He walked across the rough but polished board floor, stopping briefly to talk to the host, who pointed in Julie’s direction.

Pushing fifty, Simon Barstow still cut a fine athletic figure. A bit of gray at the temples added a nice mature touch to his dark brown hair. The light blue color of his shirt complemented his gray-blue eyes. His tan sport coat narrowed from broad shoulders down to the still-respectable thirty-six-inch waist of his faded jeans. A daily exercise routine kept his body in good shape, not quite as good as when he was on active duty in the army, but still, not bad.

The glow from the many small lamps and ceiling lights reflected softly off the dark wood and brass of the tables and cozy booths.

Simon half-slid, half-leaned into the booth beside Julie and kissed her tenderly on the lips. Hey, sweetheart. It’s really good to see you.

Simon, you look tired, Julie said with concern. I mean you really look worn out.

It’s been nuts...completely nuts. Simon wearily sank back into the leather padding of the high-backed wooden seat. And yes, you’re right, I am tired...to-the-bone tired.

A waiter stopped at their table. Welcome to O’Malley’s. My name is Peter. Would you like to start with something to drink this evening?

Simon answered quickly. A Guinness for me and... He looked to Julie, who held up two fingers. Ah, make that two pints of Guinness.

Any appetizers to start?

Julie shook her head and Simon responded, No, thanks. We’re good.

OK. I’ll be right back with those pints.

Simon and Julie sat quietly for a moment. Finally, Julie asked the obvious question. Do you want to talk about it?

Simon sat up straight and folded his arms on the table. He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. He leaned toward Julie and spoke just above a whisper. It began last Wednesday with some weird test results. We didn’t know at first what we had, but we found out... Boy, did we find out.

Julie’s eyes widened. That sounds a bit dramatic.

Simon grimaced. Julie, I’m serious. What’s happening at the lab...it’s crazy. It can’t possibly be real. But it is. Real, I mean. At least, I think it is.

Simon, slow down, Julie said with a bit of concern in her voice. She took one of his hands in hers. You’re starting to worry me. I’ve never seen you like this.

Simon drew in a deep breath. Yeah, okay, like I said, it all started last Wednesday. At first, we thought it was a calibration or contamination problem. Two days later, we knew it wasn’t either of those. We set up more tests. Same results. Simon stopped and just stared at Julie with a haunted look on his face.

And? Julie prompted.

And... I think we’ve stumbled on the Holy Grail.

Simon, quit beating around the bush, she said with exasperation. The Holy Grail? For Pete’s sake, just say it—whatever it is.

Simon held Julie in an intense stare, his grip tightened on her hands. The monkeys... It’s the monkeys. They’re getting younger.

Julie snatched her hands away, an annoyed look flashing briefly across her face. "Simon...really? You’ve got me worried sick about you...then you say something like that?

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

Julie started to say more, then froze. Her expression morphed through several transitions—from annoyed, to quizzical, to concerned. She reached back to take one of Simon’s hands in hers. Her expression softened even further. You’re serious. She said it as a statement.

His haunted look deepened and he nodded slightly. On Friday, after Tom and I confirmed the data, I met with Dr. Pierce. That’s when reality hit the fan. Dr. Pierce got real serious, real fast.

Julie lifted her hand to his cheek. She kept her voice low. Sit back. Relax. I see our server coming.

Their server set the two Guinnesses on the table. Would you like to order?

Julie took charge. Nothing right now, thank you.

Their server moved on. She turned back to Simon. Okay, she said, a didactic tone infusing her voice. Let’s look at this logically before we go off the deep end.

Simon jerked up straight. Stop right there, he said emphatically. I know where you’re going. And believe me, I’ve looked at this logically, every way: up, down, sideways. Simon’s volume rose with each word.

Julie held a calming palm up toward Simon. Okay, then... I’m listening. What happened next?

Next, Simon mumbled. Next... I needed to know. He paused and took a long draw on the beer. He began nervously drumming his fingertips lightly but rapidly on the table. I couldn’t leave the lab. I called you to cancel our date—well, you know that part. I threw myself into figuring out what was really going on. The weekend is a blur. I triple-checked every age-correlated test I could think of—creatinine levels, urea nitrogen levels, cholesterol and triglyceride levels—all of them. They all showed the same thing: the monkeys were becoming younger.

Good grief, Simon. Do you hear yourself? Julie said in a low conspiratorial tone as she leaned closer. That can’t be happening. Someone is screwing with your test results. Or there’s contamination, or, or... She fumbled around. ...or I don’t know what; but this is crazy. We’ve been doing genetics work for years at my company, and nothing we’ve discovered even hints at what you’re telling me.

Believe it. It’s happening. I also ran oxidation stress testing and glycation binding analysis, and the results told the same story. Julie, the rhesus monkeys are younger than they should be; and they’re rapidly getting even younger.

Julie was vigorously shaking her head. Monkeys don’t grow younger. Nothing grows younger. Her voice became strident, but still in a half-whisper. Maybe you slow down the aging process. You might even stop the aging process altogether. But—she emphasized each word with metronome precision—nothing—grows—younger! It’s against the laws of nature.

Simon slumped away from the table, nodding his agreement. No shit.

Chapter 5

Thursday, June 7

GREGORY NOBLE MOVED his stare around the table. It was an uncomfortable feeling for those on the receiving end. He was a physically domineering presence. At six foot four and two hundred twenty pounds, he was built like a NFL quarterback and had the movie-star looks to amplify his powerful physique. When he turned his piercing green eyes on those around him, the impact was like a physical force. Gregory Noble was a hard man to deny.

He settled his gaze on Dr. Brenner. Robert?

Dr. Brenner stood and leaned forward on locked elbows, hands on the table, his posture tense, excitement shining in his eyes. It’s confirmed—Dr. Barstow has discovered the proverbial Fountain of Youth—that’s really the only way to put it. The monkeys are five years younger. Everyone around the table knew the math. A five-year drop in the age of a rhesus monkey was equivalent to a fifteen-year drop for a human.

Robert continued. So, if we saw these same results in humans, we would have just witnessed a group of fifty-year-olds transform into thirty-five-year-olds.

Noble stood but kept his hands pressed to the tabletop to stop his nervous excitement from reaching his fingertips. Gentlemen, we’ve been waiting twenty years for this. We have this one shot—we must seize it. We can finally bring long-term stability to the human race. The men around the table knew what Noble was about to say, yet they still listened with rapt attention—they were true believers.

Great political leaders grow old and lesser men take their place. Economic giants build industrial and financial dynasties, only to have their heirs squander the wealth and power in frivolous ways. Empires are forged by visionaries only to have weaker successors let the hard-won gains rot from within or disintegrate in bitter rivalries. History records this repeated cycle of rise followed by the inevitable fall. And it records the chaos and setbacks that are the consequence. He slammed his hand on the table. No more!

Noble gave them a few moments to reflect. They all knew that this was a transparent bid to claim the moral high ground for what would unfold in the coming years. It was true, but it was only half the truth. Every man knew the more personal truth that drove their leader. It was a truth they all shared.

From his earliest days at Harvard, Noble saw clearly what destiny would demand from him, and what he would demand from destiny. He drove himself relentlessly. But he was haunted—haunted by the same nightmare that had cursed obsessively driven men down through history. What good was the quest for wealth and power, what triumph was there in attaining all his dreams and climbing to the pinnacle of human achievement, if one day, he would simply die and turn to dust? Noble had determined, long before, that this would not be his fate.

He turned to his chief of operations. Benton. How are things progressing with Dr. Pierce?

Good. We took a calculated risk last Saturday and revealed our knowledge of events at RegenTech. Our offer was blunt, but it sufficed. We dressed it up...how we’re better able to develop the discovery and bring its benefits to humanity faster—that sort of thing. His tone oozed cynicism. It was a thin disguise, but Dr. Pierce wanted to buy what we were selling. After all, it will make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. And he knew the real deal—accept our offer or lose everything. His startup company wouldn’t stand a chance against a hundred-billion-dollar company. Bottom line? Dr. Pierce is on board and will keep the discovery locked inside RegenTech.

Good...very good. And I hope it will be sufficient. However, we must be prepared to take additional measures if necessary. Gregory turned to another member of the Protocol Group. Compton?

Louis Compton’s moss-green dead-fish eyes locked on Noble. The thirty-six-year-old former Green Beret officer leaned his imposing six-foot-two, two-hundred-thirty-pound-frame forward. He was ready, and as usual, brief. All assets are in place, Mr. Noble—per your directive. No one asked for clarification. None was offered.

Chapter 6

Wednesday, June 20

SIMON BARSTOW COULD barely contain himself as he leaned across Dr. Pierce’s desk. It’s been three weeks and there are no negative effects—none! Just the opposite. We’ve run every test we know and they all show the same positive changes. The monkeys have stopped regressing and are stable at seven years!

Dr. Pierce said nothing, just sat stoically, staring.

Simon sped on in a rush of enthusiasm. "This is unprecedented! We need to get our findings to the New England Journal of Medicine or the Journal of the American Medical Association so we can show first-discovery bona fides. We need to—"

Dr. Pierce slammed his hand on the table and jumped up. Enough! he yelled. We’ve been over and over this. You are really trying my patience, Dr. Barstow. Until I say so, this stays in-house. There’s no way we’re going to go off half-cocked and get the scientific community all riled up when we don’t even know how this is happening. Do you know the mechanism that is triggering these radical changes? His face was getting redder by the second. Do you? he challenged angrily. Do you know what part of the genetic code has been modified and how? Hell, we weren’t even working on longevity. We are not going to go public with this until we have solid information on why and how these changes are occurring. His eyes were practically bulging. Is that absolutely clear? he demanded.

The vehement reaction stunned Simon. Yes, I understand was all he could muster. He looked up into Dr. Pierce’s uncompromising glare and quickly backed off to defuse the confrontation. You’re right, of course. I’m just excited. But you’re right; there’s no need to rush things.

Dr. Pierce seemed mollified as he slowly sat back down. Okay, then. We’re agreed that we continue the research and keep this in-house until we have a solid scientific hypothesis on how these changes are being created.

He continued in a much calmer tone. I think there is another, perhaps more important reason for withholding release of this information. How would the public react to this discovery? What would they expect? No—Dr. Pierce raised an admonishing finger in the air between them—what would they demand? I think you and I both know...and we can’t deliver. Then what? Hell, we don’t even know if we have anything to offer. These monkeys could all develop lethal complications and die next week. No, Dr. Barstow, I’m afraid we are far away from being able to release our findings. Things must stay very close-held for now.

Outwardly, Simon nodded his head in agreement and seemed satisfied with Dr. Pierce’s explanation. But his twisting gut told a different story. Something was not right, and Simon was definitely not satisfied.

NOBLE LOOKED UP IN response to the knocking.

Robert Brenner stood in the open doorway. Got a minute?

Sure. He waved for him to enter. What’s on your mind?

Robert took a seat in one of the two overstuffed green leather club chairs sitting in front of the desk. He crossed one leg over the other, precisely positioning his right ankle on his left knee, and took a few seconds to tug at the crease in his pant leg to get it straightened just so.

Gregory waited patiently for his friend to complete the short ritual. He’d known Robert for many years and knew that this presaged a discussion he was reluctant to have. Are you quite ready, Robert? Gregory asked with mild amusement.

As chief technology officer, Dr. Brenner was responsible for keeping his boss up to speed on all key research. He began with no further preamble. Two things. First, we don’t know what we’re doing. Specifically, we don’t know how the RNA/DNA sequences inside the virus are doing what we can clearly see happening to the monkeys. There are more than three billion base pairs to work through, and even when we’re sure we’ve located all the genetic alterations, it will still take extensive work to map the protein coding to the changes we’re observing.

Robert paused to see if Gregory wanted to interject anything. When it became clear that Gregory was content to just listen, Robert continued. The second thing is, we don’t know the endgame. We’re in completely unchartered territory here. The data from our test groups are changing daily and we have no idea where the changes will end. And then there are the ancillary consequences of this genetic manipulation. We could find that tomorrow the monkeys have developed massive tumors or are hemorrhaging internally—we simply do not know. We’re working hard to find out—and we will find out. But it will take time; and we may not like the answers we get.

Gregory Noble leaned back in his executive chair and looked briefly at the ceiling as he breathed deeply in, then slowly out. He brought his gaze down and focused on Robert. I appreciate everything you’ve said, Robert. You’re right, of course; most of what is happening is currently a mystery to us. And we don’t know how this is going to turn out tomorrow or next week. But we have containment of the situation, so we have time. Your job, Robert, is to get us the answers we need.

JULIE AND SIMON FINISHED the dinner dishes and retired to the living room with a bottle of wine and glasses. They settled cozily on the large wingback loveseat and, with a touch on the remote, filled the room with soothing sounds of an instrumental classic. They sat for a long while, enjoying the delicious cabernet sauvignon, the music, and simply being together.

Finally, Julie broke their gentle reverie. So, tell me the latest.

Like I said earlier, something’s wrong. Pierce is wound up tight and he’s got everyone tiptoeing around to stay below his radar. I know he’s excited about the discovery, but something else is going on. He’s edgy, nervous. I don’t know. He’s like a tightly stretched rubber band about to snap.

That is odd. I’ve met Dr. Pierce on several occasions and he’s always struck me as the somber type.

I know; he typically is. I’ve never even heard him raise his voice. I’m telling you, something strange is going on.

Okay... Switch subjects; forget about Dr. Pierce for a minute. What about Group 3C?

Well, there’s not much that you don’t already know. There’s been virtually no changes in the blood and tissue samples for the past several days. Simon paused as a weird wave of disorientation passed through him. Basically, we have a group of immortal monkeys.

A snort-laugh suddenly burst from Simon, almost spewing wine out his nose. He was caught completely off-guard. Another guffaw ripped past clenched jaws that vainly tried to stifle the outburst. Tears streamed down his face and wave after wave of laughter overwhelmed him. He couldn’t catch his breath. Uncontrollable laughter turned into a coughing fit that went on and on.

Finally, he wound down, the shaking and coughing subsiding in stages; his eyes stopped tearing and his vision began to clear. In another minute, he was able to catch his breath. Whew, he wheezed. Where did that come from?

Julie sat quietly beside him on the couch, waiting patiently for Simon’s near-fit to calm. She lifted the wine bottle and asked with a slight lilt in her voice, More wine, sweetheart?

Yes, that would be delightful, he responded, wiping his eyes as he regained some composure.

Julie took her time as she poured them both another glass of cabernet. What was that about?

I don’t know... All of a sudden, it just seemed so ridiculous, or funny, or something... He gulped in a breath as he suppressed another incipient burst of laughter. I’ve got no clue why. It just hit me out of the blue.

Hmhmm. Hilarious. She let a few seconds of silence clear the air, then deliberately took the discussion in a different direction. What about the chimpanzees?

Still no adverse side effects. As expected, they’re changing slower than the rhesus monkeys, but it’s as predicted.

Simon got up and started pacing; his agitation and frustration would not allow him to sit still. This is bullshit. Dr. Pierce should be champing at the bit to get a research paper published and to bring in other research institutes. That’s the best way to establish our first-discovery credentials and to accelerate the pace of research. We’re just sitting on the greatest medical discovery ever. This makes no sense at all.

Unless, Julie said, there are things going on that we know nothing about. She looked up at Simon with growing concern on her face. That could be it, Simon. Dr. Pierce could be working with someone, or for someone outside of RegenTech. Someone who is calling the shots. Maybe Dr. Pierce is making perfect sense, but we can’t see it because we don’t have all the puzzle pieces.

Simon slammed his fist into his open palm and his eyes narrowed. You’re right! You’re absolutely right. I’d bet money that Pierce is working for another group, someone in the shadows.

They looked at each other, sharing a dawning realization. Julie spoke first, and she was clearly worried. If we’re right about this, and I think we are, you could get royally screwed.

Okay. Simon drew the word out slowly. What are you thinking? He looked like he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Everything is at RegenTech. All of it, Julie said. Everything could disappear in an instant. No proof, no discovery, all of your work—gone. You would have nothing but a story—a story that would be difficult for anyone to believe.

Simon collapsed beside Julie. I’ve got to do something. Now! His agitation was ramping up fast. I need to back up the research. All of it. He jumped up, unable to sit still. Maybe I should go back to the lab...tonight. I need to go tonight. Simon’s voice rose in pitch as he started pacing again. Get everything copied onto a portable drive—right now. Yeah, that’s what I should do. I can’t just sit here pretending everything is fine. They could be at RegenTech. He stopped and spun to face Julie, his eyes widening in alarm. They could be there right now, erasing the hard drives, taking the samples and the monkeys. They could—

Simon, stop, Julie cut in sharply. Sit down. Take a breath. Nothing’s happening at RegenTech tonight. Julie reached up, took hold of Simon’s arm, and urged him to sit down beside her. Besides, you can’t just show up in the middle of the night. That would look pretty suspicious—don’t you think? They would surely look into why you were there at such an unusual time.

Simon took several deep breaths as he relaxed into the cushions. He gave a little embarrassed smile. Good point. I’m glad one of us is keeping a clear head. I’ll make the backup copy tomorrow. Simon sank deeper into the sofa. He felt calmer now with a plan in place. He didn’t know if there was anything of substance to their conspiracy theory, but he was certain of one thing: he would feel much better when he held a backup copy safely in his hands.

NOBLE SAT QUIETLY IN his office chair and waited for Louis Compton to walk from the office door and come to a halt in front of his desk. He didn’t offer the option to sit, and Compton didn’t presume.

You wanted to see me, sir, Compton said as a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. Events are moving along as expected. Boyle’s surveillance programs are working at top efficiency and he assures me that if any hint of this discovery surfaces, we’ll know at once. He also has a highly sophisticated virus ready to infiltrate targeted computers. Any attempt to duplicate Dr. Barstow’s research will fail.

Benton has assets in place to spread disinformation and discredit or invalidate leaked information. The one locus of significant concern remains RegenTech. For now, Dr. Pierce is playing ball. However, the time is coming when we will need your special services. I assume everything is ready to go at a moment’s notice?

Of course sir was the simple reply.

Chapter 7

Thursday and Friday, June 21-22

Simon looked at the clock above the door. It was 5:37 PM. RegenTech had almost emptied. He watched through the lab windows as Russell Bates, the head of the IT department, walked by on his way to the parking lot. Right on time, he thought. Russell was very punctual. You couldn’t exactly set your watch by him, but close.

Simon sat for several minutes, trying to manage the nervous energy that was building. Because he was number two in the company, he had administrator access to the network. This allowed him to copy all the files he need from his own terminal. He also knew how to hide most of what he did so it wouldn’t be obvious in the system