 
The Methuselah File  
A novel by Alex Swan

Published by CP Books

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-0-473-24967-0

© Copyright 2013 Alex Swan

All rights reserved.

Except for the purpose of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher.
For Gillian, Tim, Nick, Sam and Jamie  
and the team at The Copy Press for their help in this journey
PROLOGUE

ROBERT FISHER WAS BORED WITH HIS JOB. At thirty-six years of age he felt he should be on the rise to the pinnacle of a career. But he was stuck in a rut; almost fifteen years of his adult life as a journalist to this: the Communications Director of the Schoch Institute. The pay was fine, the title sounded almost grandiose, but the reality was he had swapped investigative journalism for PR; probing for publicity. He no longer wrote stories, he wrote press releases. And he could do that in his sleep, hence the boredom. But things were about to change.

He was summoned to the CEO's office just before 10am. He went immediately. When he entered the large, wooden-panelled room, she was sitting behind her long, ornate, immaculately tidy, desk. Ljudmila Gladovitch was a woman in her mid fifties, with shoulder-length light-brown hair, tinted with gold streaks, an oval, lightly-lined face, with sharp, piercing eyes that looked right through you. Unusual eyes: one brown, one green. Robert often felt they were the eyes of a cat; always on alert, tensing to strike. And he was sometimes drawn in by those eyes, but more as prey than a predator.

Ljudmila opened a silver tin and took out a cigar, which she lit, blowing a stream of bluish smoke into the air. The Schoch Institute was smoke-free, apart from special designated areas in the social precincts. But Ljudmila was a law unto herself who made her own rules that others were not free to follow. She picked up a green folder off her desk. 'Robert,' she said with little expression. 'Today we have a special announcement to make to the scientific community and the world's press. It's a major breakthrough. We've titled it the Methuselah Project.'

Methuselah. Wasn't he some old guy in the Christian Bible who lived for hundreds of years, Robert thought?

'Do you know about cryonics?' she asked him.

He did. 'Freezing dead bodies, in the belief that one day modern medicine will be able to cure what they died from and rejuvenate them to a healthy life,' he told her. 'The scientific community is generally skeptical of the idea. Many think that cryonics is pseudo-science.'

'Science is science, judged by results,' Ljudmila retorted. 'And there is a major error in your description. Cryonics is not about freezing dead bodies. Ice is damaging to body tissue. Cryonics is about the rapid cooling of bodies to preserve cells and tissue, which do survive for hours beyond clinical brain-death.'

Robert nodded. 'So possible in theory. But as I understand it, to date, no mammal has ever been preserved in this way and brought back to life.'

Ljudmila gave him a thin smile; a smile that seemed almost more directed to herself. 'You are correct, Robert.' She blew another cloud of cigar-smoke into the air, stubbed out the cigar in a glass ashtray, then rose and came around from behind her desk. Her figure was slim and sinewy and she wore a short black dress, with black stockings to match, running all the way up to her thighs; unusual perhaps for a woman her age, but Ljudmila had legs to strut. She clutched the folder to her chest. 'Correct until now, that is,' she said.

He stared at her. What was she telling him?

She smiled again, and this time the smile was definitely for him. 'Come with me,' she instructed him.

She led him out of a rear door of the large office. There was an elevator there; glassed interior, plush, shagpile carpet on the floor. She waved her security token over the sensor and pushed a button marked 5. They were moving down, not up. Ljudmila's face was set like stone. 'This is important, Robert,' were the only words she said.

His mind was spinning. There were a plethora of research projects going on at any one time in the Schoch Institute. Those that were classified and top secret were conducted in the bowels of the building, where they were headed now. A place normally off-limits to him. He only got to know about these projects when Ljudmila needed his services, a practice that applied to all aspects of her life. He sometimes felt like a rodent kept in the dark until his mistress the cat determined it was time to play.

The lift door slid open. They were in a narrow corridor that ran away to their left. Ljudmila led him along the corridor. At the end was a small office where a young woman in a white nurse's uniform sat at a desk looking at a bank of monitor screens. The woman turned as they entered.

'And how is our patient today?' Ljudmila asked her.

'Still stable,' the nurse replied. 'I think he's making good progress.'

'Excellent,' Ljudmila said. 'He's about to become famous.'

She led Robert out of the office, climbing some steep steps that led to another corridor. One wall was made of glass from the floor to a low ceiling. A short way along there was a small recess in the corridor with comfortable chairs placed inside it and an object that looked like a telescope. Robert could see it was a viewing platform, suspended in the air close to the ceiling of a large room on the other side of the glass. Around the walls of the room were large screens displaying a range of visual material from CNN news broadcasts, to movies, to panoramas of natural scenery. Down on the floor, the room was laid out like an open-plan house: living area, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, all without interior walls. But Robert's eyes moved quickly to the human figure sitting in an armchair in the living area of the room. The figure, wearing a beanie and headphones, was gazing silently up at one of the giant screens.

'Meet Methuselah,' Ljudmila said.

Robert was a little surprised. From the nurse's words about the patient being stable and making good progress, he had expected to see someone in a hospital bed, not sitting in a chair with no signs of medical supports anywhere near him. Through the telescope fixed to the glass, he studied the figure below. It had the face of an older man; watchful of the giant screen, but seemingly oblivious to the watchers above.

Ljudmila turned to Robert. 'How old would you say this Methuselah is?' she asked him, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

Robert studied the face below further. 'Sixties ...seventies maybe,' he said.

'A reasonable assumption,' Ljudmila conceded. 'But one that is totally wrong. It's his birthday today. And he's one hundred and fifty years old.'
Chapter 1.

JFK Airport; New York.

THE DARK-HAIRED, PETITE figure that was Hanna Hayes had one eye on the Departure Board and one eye on the headline in the New York Times.

BODY OF 150 YEAR OLD MAN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE

CLAIMS ANTI-AGEING PROCESS HAS BEEN REVERSED

Amazing coincidence. The claims were coming from the Schoch Bio-Medical Research Institute in Switzerland, the same institute she was about to depart for to take up a new position. The story had broken onto the world stage yesterday, claiming the first successful rejuvenation of a cryopreserved human being. In Hanna's world that was equivalent to the announcement in 1969 that man had landed on the moon. The most quoted phrase of the skeptics of cryonics was "believing cryonics could rejuvenate a dead body that had been frozen was like believing you could turn a hamburger back into a cow". Was that what had happened here? The live cow reclaiming its dead flesh?

And to do that you needed to be able to cure any diseases existing at the time of death. That was one of the major challenges for cryonics. The other was repairing the damage caused to cells and tissue by cryopreservation itself. The article was silent about the methods used to achieve that. It just leapt to the next headline: the claim that not only had Schoch rejuvenated the subject, but that the ageing process had been reversed as well. This time the article was more specific. The Schoch Institute claimed that the patient possessed what they called the Methuselah Gene – a gene that promoted longevity. And that the presence of the gene in disease-cured tissue and organs was a prescription for further prolonged life.

Resurrection and breathing life back into the dead.

The presence of a gene that restored the fountain of youth.

This was more than landing a man on the moon. This was equivalent to finding life on Mars!

Her phone rang.

'Hanna?' a familiar voice said.

She stiffened. What was this about? 'What do you want, Michael?' she demanded.

'I don't want you to go, Hanna,' the voice replied with a sense of urgency. 'I'm ready to leave Elizabeth.'

'You're ready, Michael? As in, you haven't done it yet, but you'll think about it? Have I got that right?'

'I love you, Hanna.'

'When two people love each other, Michael, they want to live together, not see each other in secret!'

'Please, Hanna.' His tone was pleading, like a prisoner trying to stave off execution.

On the Departure Board a light was flashing next to her flight to Zurich, calling passengers to proceed to Passport Control and the Departure Gate. She picked up her hand luggage. 'Sorry Michael. I needed more than promises. It's time for both of us to move on.' She turned her phone off and headed for Passport Control.

The night flight to Zurich was eight hours long. All the way she wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She had agonized long and hard about taking the position at the Schoch Institute before finally accepting. But these headlines seemed to justify her decision. This put Schoch at the cutting edge of bio-medical research. And that was exciting. She felt like a wide-eyed child being told there was a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

She had been head-hunted for the job three months ago and an intensive process it had been. The Schoch Institute had approached her on the basis of her work as a neuro-molecular biologist with a special interest in the pathology of Huntington's disease. Having just reached her thirtieth birthday, she had already made a name for herself in a range of prestigious medical journals around the world in her specialist field. It was at a conference in London less than a year ago that she had first met the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch.

Dr Gladovitch had been impressed by a paper that Hanna had presented at the conference. At an informal meeting afterwards, Ljudmila Gladovitch had inquired whether Hanna might be interested in joining her team at the Schoch Institute. Hanna agreed to consider the proposal. And then the emails started and with each offer, the salary package increased. It wasn't just the money that finally tipped Hanna to resign from her current position at the Rockefeller University in New York. The Schoch Institute had a strong reputation in the field of bio-medical research and Dr Gladovitch had promised her lots of leeway to pursue her specialist field. So joining Schoch was no step backwards for her career.

The other reason for going was that there was no longer any outside work attractions to keep her in New York, or America, for that matter. Both her parents had been killed in a car accident and she had no siblings. There was a small circle of friends she would be leaving behind, but email would keep them in touch. Only one person might have kept her in New York, but he was now history. She had been in a relationship with Michael Glade, an investment banker, for almost three years. She had known from day one that Michael was married, but all that time he had kept her hanging on a promise that he would leave his wife. After years of waiting, finally she gave him an ultimatum that he couldn't meet. On the plane she replayed Michael's twelfth-hour phone call several times over in her head. But she wouldn't relent now. He had played with her emotions for far too long. She was worth more than that. So she focused on the new job, put her glasses back on, and re-read the article in the New York Times.

The revived man was claimed to be Olaf Stefansson, an Icelandic millionaire who had made his money in the fishing industry and who, at time of his death at the age of 123, was reputably the oldest person living on the planet. This longevity had recently been attributed to the Methuselah Gene, where studies had shown that a significant group of Icelandic residents, with family connections and a common genetic marker, had lived exceptionally long lives. That marker had been dubbed the Methuselah Gene. More recent studies had found a similar result among offspring of long-lived Ashkenazi Jews. Stefansson had been cryopreserved on his death in the early 1980's. His body had been kept in a hermetically sealed and special cooled crypt in Reykjavík ever since. And now the Schoch Institute claimed to have brought him back to life. And re-charged the Methuselah Gene in his body to allow him to live even longer!

But the headline was misleading. This was often the outcome in the uneasy alliance science had with the media. The media wanted to extract every last drop of drama out of the story. And this imbalance could lead to distortions of the truth, which was the case here. For this 123 year old man had been clinically dead for nearly thirty years, a time-span the media had simply added to his real age to produce the headline: Body of 150 year old man brought back to life. But it was still a stunning achievement and the claims about the Methuselah Gene were fascinating to say the least. It was almost the stuff of science fiction, but as Hanna knew only too well, today's science fiction could become tomorrow's science fact.

When her plane landed it was eight o'clock in the morning, Swiss time. She passed through Swiss Passport Control without difficulty, having her work permit stamped and approved. She retrieved her suitcase and cleared customs without any challenge. In the concourse, she noticed a row of headline boards at the entrance to a newsstand. One board had the same headline as the New York Times. Others appeared to have similar headlines in German:

STELLE DER 150 JAHRE ALTEN MANN WIEDER ZUM LEBEN ERWECKT

ANTI-AGING PROZESS RUCKGANGIG GEMACHT

And another in English from the International Herald tribune:

MODERN LAZURUS RISES FROM THE DEAD TO BECOME METHUSELAH

That seemed to say it all.

Just past the newsstand, a small group of people were gathered around a television screen watching a live news broadcast. Hanna went closer. There was a split screen. On one side she recognized the famous, feisty face and the jowly features of CNN's Larry-the-Hound-behind-the-news-Hagler, in a CNN studio. On the other side of the screen, another familiar face - Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch, CEO of the Schoch Institute, and Hanna's new employer to be, in a studio somewhere in Switzerland.

'So sum this up for me please, Dr Gladovitch,' Larry said.

Ljudmila's strange eyes stared out of the screen. Today her stare had a detached expression, which in Hanna's experience many scientists often had, born of an ethos of objectivity that goes with the professional territory of their occupation. But her words were electric.

'We have breathed life back into a body that had ceased to function, proving that cryonics, despite its many skeptics, has some efficacy,' Ljudmila told him. 'With the use of nano-technology we cured the heart failure that had originally killed this patient by growing new donor cells from embryonic stem cells and transplanting these back into the patient. We did the same with his other vital organs – his liver, his lungs and his kidneys. And using blood cells taken from the patient before his death, we extracted the Methuselah Gene and infused this into these stem cells to reverse the ageing process.' Ljudmila Gladovitch paused before delivering her coup de grace. 'This obviously charters new territories for humankind, because ultimately we may be on the road to making humankind immortal.'

Larry Hagler somehow managed to keep his composure. 'Which obviously raises a plethora of legal and ethical issues that the world community needs to address,' he said, sombrely.

'Correct,' Ljudmila agreed.

Hanna stared open-mouthed at the screen. Legal and ethical issues. That was an understatement.

Resurrection and breathing life back into the dead.

Retrospectively curing life-termination diseases.

Through the use of embryonic stem cells.

Containing a gene that restored the fountain of youth.

To make the recipient immortal.

This was not analogous to finding some low-level life on Mars. This was about changing the fundamental meaning of life on the planet. Hanna moved away in a daze. She needed to find out more; she was drawn to get answers to some of the questions that were bombarding her brain. She headed out of the concourse, looking for the railway station and the final leg of her journey that would take her to the nerve centre where these revelations were coming from.
Chapter 2.

The White House; Washington D.C.

THE U.S. PRESIDENT sat in a work room studying the array of papers set out on the large table in front of him. Alongside him were Dr Martin Duvall from the National Institutes of Health, Professor Lincoln Gale from the President's Council on Bioethics, and the White House Chief of Staff, Francesca Young. The President was holding a copy of the Washington Post. The headline read:

METHUSELAH GENE OFFERS A LIFESPAN OF 150 YEARS AND MORE

Beneath the headline there was a picture of the man they were calling Methuselah. He presented as an older man, but nowhere near one hundred and fifty, with a blank stare that looked out of the page, like he was totally unaware of the attention he was attracting. The President leaned back in his leather swivel chair. 'So, Martin...' he addressed Dr Duvall. 'What do we know about this Schoch Institute?'

Martin Duvall was a man in his late fifties, fit and trim, befitting his position as Director of the National Institutes of Health. 'Schoch has a record of being a reputable biomedical research centre,' he told the President. 'It was foundered by Dr Eugene Schoch, a notable molecular biologist, who won a Nobel Prize some years back for work in his field. Schoch died last year, but the Institute lives on, as is evident by these reports.'

'So these claims are credible?' the President asked.

Duvall spread his hands. 'Well there's been no peer review yet, as far as I'm aware. So the claims haven't been substantiated by an independent body. Therefore we can only speculate on their credibility.'

'Speculate then,' the President instructed him.

Duvall glanced down at his notes. 'The cryonics movement to preserve dead bodies dates back to the 1960's. Originally, the FDA were ardent opponents and tried to shut down the largest cryonics organization, the Alcor Life Extension Foundation. There were a series of law suits before the FDA were forced to back down. Since then there has been an increase in these organizations, both in the U.S. and overseas. Records indicate that several hundred Americans are currently cryopreserved. And since the 1990's there have been major improvements in the cooling technologies used, greatly reducing the amount of likely damage to the cells and tissues caused by the preservation process.' His eyes came back to the President's. 'Which makes this case, if true, even more remarkable than just being the first recorded case of rejuvenation. Because the age of this man at the time of cryopreservation would place him in the earlier era of the technology.' Duvall's eyes flicked a glance at Professor Lincoln Gale. 'Whilst not being illegal, there is a lot of opposition to cryonics, both in the scientific community and in the public at large, as I'm sure Professor Gale will attest to.'

Lincoln Gale from the Bioethics Council was already nodding.

'You finish first,' the President ordered Duvall.

Duvall continued. 'Apart from reviving an apparently dead man, the Schoch Institute is making two more claims here: the cure of existing disease and a reversal of the ageing process.'

'And are the two related?' the President asked.

Lincoln Gale couldn't contain himself. 'Ageing is not a disease,' he said, emphatically.

'You could have fooled me,' Chief of Staff Young tried to lighten up the conversation. But no one smiled.

'The commonality is the use of stem cells,' Duvall replied to the President. 'In particular, embryonic stem cells, which are claimed to have been used to cure disease and implant this Methuselah Gene back into the body.'

The President was well aware of the debate and controversy around stem cell research. His predecessor in the White House had banned federal funding for stem cell research where stem cells were derived from the destruction of a human embryo. This position had now changed. The President supported federal funding for stem cell research using discarded human embryos created for fertility treatments. But there were still opponents, including Professor Lincoln Gale.

Chief of Staff, Francesca Young, knew something about cryopreservation but was not so well briefed on stem cell research. 'Forgive me,' she interrupted. 'I obviously know about human embryos, but what exactly are stem cells?'

Duvall looked up from his notes. 'Stem cells occur naturally in the body. They are like blanks; capable of forming themselves into new functioning cells in the body. There are basically two categories of stem cells. Adult stem cells can be extracted from sources such as bone marrow, blood, muscle, skin and umbilical cords. These have proved useful but have their limitations. The second category is stem cells from human embryos. Embryonic stem cells are the most primitive and have the potential to turn into any other cell type in the body.'

'So why wouldn't we encourage this research and the application of it to humans?' Francesca asked. She knew the answer to the question but wanted to flush out Lincoln Gale's views on the issue.

'Well there are many medical risks to such procedures still to be overcome,' Duvall answered her question. 'And then there are the ethical issues.'

All eyes turned to Lincoln Gale. 'The extraction of embryonic stem cells generally involves the destruction of the human embryo,' he said, not disguising his distaste for the proposition. 'That in turn destroys the potential for human life.'

'But thousands of human embryos never make it to the formation of a fetus,' Francesca Young challenged him.

Lincoln Gale's stony face set even firmer. 'True. But allowing unrestrained embryonic stem cell therapy could become the thin end of the wedge. It could lead to designer babies and human cloning. And that is not a situation we would ever want to endorse.'

Heaven forbid. A world filled with clones of Lincoln Gale, Francesca was thinking. Maybe the President or herself. But not Gale.

'I think there are two separate issues here,' the President intervened. 'The treatment of disease and the promotion of longevity in otherwise healthy people and those who have been pronounced clinically dead.'

'Precisely,' Gale agreed. 'As I said, ageing is not a disease. And nor is death either.'

The President clasped his hands together. 'But we already have, as you know Lincoln, a world-wide industry built around the promise of anti-ageing. It includes nutrition, dietary supplements, exercise, drugs, cosmetic surgery, and organ transplants.' When he mentioned cosmetic surgery, Francesca Young blushed, but no one noticed.

Duvall responded. 'But the as yet unproven claims by the Schoch Institute, in terms of cryorejuvenation and this Methuselah Gene, if proven, as you say Mr President, take this debate to a very different level.'

'Like the prospect of human immortality,' the President mused aloud.

'To which there are multiple objections,' Lincoln Gale responded.

'Objections?' Francesca Young challenged him. 'Shouldn't we classify them as issues, to get some objectivity here?'

'Fair point,' the President adjudicated. 'We do need some objectivity here. So let's hear the issues, Professor.'

Gale's eyes grew dark and dismissive. He drew himself up in his chair. He had a tall, thin body that looked uncomfortable when he was standing, but even more out of sorts when he was sitting. His expression was tight, with bird-like features ever on alert for predators who wanted to attack his arguments. Predators like Francesca Young.

'I will try and summarise the issues,' Gale said, stiffly.

'Bullet point,' the President directed.

Bullet point. Gale assembled the key points in his mind.

'Playing God,' he began.

'That's a religious view,' Francesca objected. 'While one might have a religious belief, the State has an obligation to be secular under the Constitution.'

The President nodded. Fair point. But he also knew that a President might ignore religious views at his peril. 'Continue, Professor,' he said to Gale.

'Immortality subverts the meaning of life,' Gale said tersely. "Immortality undermines what it fundamentally means to be human. Being human is about life, growth and death. Like all living things.'

'But perhaps we are the real Gods on this planet now,' Francesca said. 'So we can now change the rules.'

Gale looked at her like she was some kind of alien creature.

'Try socio-economic issues then,' he responded. 'Already, like most western societies, we have an ageing population. Technologies that promote anti-ageing and seek immortality will place unbearable stress on the socio-economic fabric of civilization as we know it, leading to the destruction of the planet by over-population.'

'Now that is an issue that deserves our fullest attention,' Francesca Young agreed.

Gale permitted himself a small smile from this concession.

The President cupped his hands under his chin. He looked thoughtful. 'Clearly, we need to keep these issues high on our agenda,' he said. He picked up the copy of the Washington Post. 'As well as maintaining a close surveillance on this story. Speaking of which, how is this Schoch Institute funded?'

The question was put to Martin Duvall. 'It's a private foundation,' he answered. 'They receive grants and donations from a variety of sources – other foundations, research centres, individuals and governments, including the U.S. government.'

That made Lincoln Gale jerk in his chair.

'Those funds are targeted to specific projects,' Duvall hastily went on. 'There is no reason to think U.S. government funds are tied up in this project. But I have asked for a review of the matter.'

The President stood up. 'Thank you gentlemen,' he said to Duvall and Gale. 'Please keep Ms Young fully informed of any further developments on your side,' he told them. 'And she will keep you informed of any developments that come directly to us.'

'Thank you, Mr President,' Duvall said, standing.

Professor Gale was determined to have the last word. 'This has major implications for the future of the planet and America's place in that future,' he said as he joined Dr Duvall, awkwardly on his feet.

'We share your concerns,' the President assured him.

Did he? Gale wondered. And he also wondered how much influence Francesca Young had on the President. Only time would tell.

After Gale and Duvall left, the President sat down again across the table from Francesca. At forty, Francesca was still a very attractive woman with the olive complexion and dark red hair of an Italian mother. But motherhood was not apparently on her personal agenda. She was single and had never married. A career woman as the label went. And many Washington insider eyes had popped when she had been appointed to a position normally occupied by men, a position that was the highest ranked member of the Executive Office; a position that some described as the 'Co-President'. She was bright, attractive, and sassy. She would go far, the President was sure of that. 'You noted down his bullet points?' he asked her.

She nodded.

'Contrary views?'

She smiled. 'Where do you want me to start?'

'Bullet point. Objectivity,' he replied.

'In a nutshell –

Freedom of knowledge and inquiry.

A moral duty of science to develop better treatments in the fight against suffering and disease.

Individual rights set against government monopoly over what constitutes 'progress'.

'But I do acknowledge that the socio-economic issues here are major.'

Francesca rose and picked up her papers from the table. She could have told him more; about her father, about the cosmetic surgery some years before to increase her breast size. But that might make her sound frivolous and harm her career aspirations.

The President watched her go. She was a tall woman with a taste for fashion who moved with poise and elegance. He doodled with a pen on some paper on the table. Cryorejuvenation, stem cell research. They were just additions to his already busy agenda, along with the precarious state of the American economy in a world recession, international terrorism, and the gathering gloom around global climate change. If he was lucky he might get eight years max in this job to make a difference. Eight years out of the one hundred and fifty or more this Methuselah Man might have. He couldn't imagine what he might do for the balance of those one hundred and fifty years or more.

Immortality. It still seemed more suited to the notion of an after-life, if such a state really existed.
Chapter 3.

Schoch Institute; Leysin, Switzerland

ROBERT FISHER got the call to Ljudmila's office at the same time as Pierre De'Thierry, the Director of Security. Ljudmila was behind her desk staring into a computer screen.

'Update,' she said, looking first at Robert.

'At last count there were thirty television crews outside the compound,' he told her. 'It's like the Oscars out there.'

'And are we secure?' she asked her strongly-built Director of Security.

'The compound has been sealed off,' he assured her. 'No one is being allowed to enter or leave.'

'And the day workers?' Ljudmila inquired.

'Will leave by a side door at the rear of the building,' De'Thierry told her.

Ljudmila nodded. 'We need to disperse that circus out there,' she said.

'Are you surprised?' Robert said, with little surprise in the tone of his own voice. 'Surely you foresaw that half the world's press would want to show up here?'

'This is a scientific research centre, Robert, not the premiere of a Hollywood movie,' Ljudmila snapped.

Robert spread his hands. 'Nevertheless-'

Ljudmila picked a sheet of paper from her desk. 'This is my latest media release,' she announced. 'It states that Methuselah Man has been moved to a secret location. So there's little point in them hanging around trying to get film of him.'

'Shifted to where?' Robert said. This time his tone was definitely one of surprise.

Ljudmila shot him a supercilious smile. 'Shifted to nowhere, Robert. It's just a ruse to get them off our doorstep.'

'What about the scientific community?' Robert followed up. 'There's no end to the barrage of emails and telephone calls coming in all around the world.'

'The scientific community is not so barbaric that it will set up tents on our doorstep,' Ljudmila said tartly. 'I can handle them. Just get rid of the media.'

'I'll do my best,' Robert said, moving towards the door. The tall, strong frame of Pierre De'Thierry followed him.

'Oh, and one more thing,' Ljudmila called after them. 'I'm expecting a new recruit to arrive shortly. Her name is Dr Hanna Hayes. She's joining us from New York. Keep a lookout for her will you. She'll wonder what she's come to when she sees that rabble outside.'

'Will do,' De'Thierry replied.

De'Thierry was a couple of years younger than Robert. To some of the opposite sex he was probably handsome in a rugged, outdoor kind of way. This former French Foreign Legion soldier had hard, weather-beaten features, with wavy black hair and a mouth full of gleaming gold teeth. But he wasn't the kind of man Ljudmila was attracted to as a woman. The softer exterior and personality of Robert was much more her type. As the CEO at Schoch she controlled everyone's lives, professionally and personally. As the new recruit, Hanna Hayes, would soon find out.
Chapter 4.

Switzerland

HANNA WAS STARING out the window of the train as it sped through the Swiss countryside. She had been abroad before to a number of scientific conferences, visiting London, Paris and Berlin. But this was her first time in the Swiss Republic. Switzerland she associated with the usual stereotypes of watches, chocolate and mountains. And the snow-clad mountains were there, preening themselves in the fresh alpine air beyond the window.

But right now, on the inside of the train, the sweeping grandeur of the scenery felt like a giant artificial screen; almost unreal, like a movie backdrop she could see but not touch from her seat. It was a sensation that made her feel unequivocally alone, as if she had been cast in that movie outside the window as some almost invisible extra. She had left all roots, all connections behind her, propelled like a stranger into some foreign land. The excitement that had motivated her earlier had seeped a little from her body. And it was all because of that stupid message from Michael. There was still a clutter of messages inside her mobile phone: messages she was determined not to respond to. They were all from Michael; final desperate pleas for her to change her mind. But it was too late for that. She had made her decision.

And then the text message that had suddenly popped up on her screen.

U are heading into possible danger Hanna. A terrible mistake. All my fault. Please re-consider.

He was right. It was a terrible mistake. His mistake. But what did those other words mean? U are heading into possible danger. What danger? It was just a sick ploy to try and ease his conscience. She deleted all the messages and switched her phone off.

The Schoch Institute would be her life now and what was happening there had to be exciting. And she would be there during this momentous moment in biomedical history. She should be grateful. Securing this position at Schoch had not been a walkover. Despite the barrage of emails from Dr Gladovitch, the final appointment process had been exhaustive. The Schoch Institute wanted more than her CV and references. She had to undergo a full medical, including disclosure of the medical history of her parents. It seemed that Schoch wanted employees with healthy bodies as well as specialist minds.

And Michael, had he still been in the picture, might have been another barrier to securing the position. For Schoch had made it clear that they preferred their young scientists to be single and unattached. 'It's about job focus,' Ljudmila Gladovitch told her. 'We're not a puritanical organization, you understand. We encourage our staff to socialize and enjoy leisure. But marital attachment and children do tend to distract people from utilizing their full energies and potential for the cause of science.' In Hanna's mind that all seemed to add up to a breach of her civil rights. But the Schoch Institute didn't appear to be bound by such rules. Of course, with Michael out of her life, none of this really mattered. And if Michael had been the man he always claimed he was, she would've stayed in New York.

She looked up to see a middle-aged man in a black overcoat walking down the carriage. When he reached her seat he smiled at her and sat down opposite. He was quite beefy in build, with silver hair and a pink face that looked friendly. In his hand was a copy of the International Herald Tribune. He unfolded it, displaying the headline she had seen earlier in the day.

MODERN LAZURUS RISES FROM THE DEAD TO BECOME METHUSELAH

The man's blue eyes were studying her closely. 'Interesting article,' he said. His accent was American.

She smiled back at him. 'Isn't it?' she said.

He nodded. 'So, what do you make of it?'

'I ... wouldn't know,' she said.

'I think you would.'

She felt a small rush of anxiety rise in her chest. 'What do you mean?' she asked the stranger.

He folded the newspaper back in half. 'You're a neuro-molecular biologist, I believe. Your alma mater was Johns Hopkins University. Your current research is into Huntington's Disease. At the moment you're on your way to take up a position with the Schoch Institute. And your name is Dr Hanna Hayes.'

Her anxiety rose to another level. Who was this stranger who seemed to know everything about her? He answered her silent question.

'My name is Sheldon Ramsay,' he introduced himself. 'I'm an attaché at the American Embassy in Berne.'

It didn't soothe her anxiety. 'So why are you interested in me?' she asked him, cautiously.

He smiled at her again in a fatherly sort of way. 'You're a prominent researcher and a fellow American, Hanna. We need to look after our own.'

The flight in her chest turned to fight. 'And what makes you think I need looking after?' she challenged him. Michael's words were ricocheting in her head: U are heading into possible danger.

Ramsay held up the newspaper. 'This is serious stuff, Hanna. It has major ramifications for the human race. Uncle Sam needs to take a close interest. And you're one of us. A loyal patriot, I assume.'

'Meaning?' Hanna said.

'The Schoch Institute is closing its ranks on this story,' he replied. 'You could be our eyes and ears there.'

'A spy you mean?' Hanna said, incredulous.

Ramsay gave her another disarming smile. 'Not a spy, Hanna. A patriot.' He handed her a business card. 'Should you ever want to call me, here's the number. Anytime, day or night.' He stood up. 'Just remember,' he said. 'We're family.' He moved away down the carriage, disappearing through the door at the end. She looked at his card.

Sheldon Ramsay

Attaché

United States Embassy

Berne

Switzerland

The excitement she had felt earlier about what was happening at the Schoch Institute turned again to a growing unease. Patriot. It was certainly just shorthand for spy. And she was a scientist not a politician. But Michael's message about danger and Ramsay's veiled concerns for her welfare only increased her unease.

The train arrived at Lausanne. On one side of the train the large, lazy blue waters of Lake Geneva stretched away into the distance. The article in the New York Times had stated that the Schoch Institute was on the outskirts of Geneva. But she wouldn't be going to Geneva. It was in the opposite direction to where her journey would take her. Typical American media myopia. The Schoch Institute was about two hours away by road or rail from Geneva, beyond the cities of Lausanne and Montreux. But American geography was confined to places that its media consumers might possibly have heard of. Geneva was certainly closer to the Schoch Institute than Zurich was, but the flight timetable from New York had been more suitable flying to Zurich.

The train stopped at Central Lausanne Station for about ten minutes before re-commencing its journey. Hanna saw Sheldon Ramsay alight from the train and head off down the platform. She wondered whether she would see the man from the American Embassy again.

Montreux, famous for its annual Jazz Festival, was only a short distance from Lausanne. From there, they passed through Villeneuve, leaving the shores of Lake Geneva behind them, making the short trip to Aigle, where she left the train. Aigle was a small town situated among acres of vineyards. It was also the junction from where you took the mountain cog-wheel train to the Schoch Institute.

The mountain train consisted of only a small number of carriages. The line wound its way slowly up the mountain leaving the vineyards behind. The mountain walls soared skyward all around the train, their thick fleeces white with winter snow. Hanna tried to steer her mind back to that movie she could be part of. She enjoyed skiing and there would be endless opportunities here. And rock climbing, another hobby she indulged in from time to time.

The Schoch Institute was about half-way up the mountain. When the train stopped at the station – a simple, unoccupied shelter on a narrow platform, Hanna alighted from her carriage. She was the only passenger to leave the train. The other passengers on the train seemed to be either backpackers or skiers, probably headed for the mountain resort of Leysin further up the track. The air was chilly. She pulled up the collar of her coat and walked along the platform.

The Schoch Institute was a three-storey wooden building from a previous age, constructed against the side of a mountain. The eastern wall of the building was only a few metres from the railway platform. The exterior looked in need of repair with paint flaking off the wall boards. There were small windows on the second and third storey's, all with iron-bar grills covering them. The building looked more like a prison than a centre for scientific study. Hanna's first impressions were less than favourable.

And there was no entrance-way here. She had to lug her large suitcase along the side of the building to where a flight of concrete steps led down through a stand of trees. Halfway down the steps she could see the front of the building spread out across the face of the mountain wall behind. And in front of the building, a large carpark, covered in drifts of snow, was full of cars with a crowd of people between the cars and the building. They had an assortment of equipment: cameras on tripods, microphones and sound booms. Television crews. Why, she thought, should she be surprised? As she approached the building, a man came straight for her, armed with a camera.

'Avez-vous travailler ici? Que savez-vous de Methuselah homme?'

'Sorry, I don't speak French,' she told the young man with the camera.

'Anglais?' he replied. 'English?'

'American,' she said.

And then she was surrounded by a jostling mob of reporters with microphones.

'Do you work here?' someone was yelling. 'Can you comment on the Methuselah case?'

She might have enjoyed the attention – a media star in a sound byte, but the pack was pushing up against her slight figure almost making her lose her balance. And then off to her left she saw a door in the building open and a line of men in blue uniforms come charging out at the crowd. They drove into the pack like a human wedge, shoving the reporters aside and paying no care to their expensive equipment. The pack howled for blood.

'Dr Hayes?' an accented voice said in her ear.

'Yes,' she said.

The man in the blue uniform took her arm. Another man took her suitcase. And then the wedge of uniforms, with her protected in the middle, thrust a path back to the building.
Chapter 5.

SHE WAS STANDING in a vestibule with a marbled, tiled floor and a high, domed ceiling lined by wooden beams, from which hung several glass chandeliers. It might have been the lobby of some old grand hotel dating back to a time well before she was born. Except that part of it had been modernized. Directly in front of her, jutting out into the middle of the room, was a floor to ceiling glass partition, four-sided with a small annex off to one side. Behind the partition was a reception area completely sealed off from public access. But currently the area was deserted. And she noticed that the side walls, made of what looked like plaster were also of a more recent era. The walls interrupted the flow of the ceiling, terminating the room in the absence of a cornice. Apart from the external door through which she had entered the building, there appeared to be no other exits or entrance ways past reception. The Schoch Institute had all the hallmarks of a fortress.

The security contingent that had brought her safely inside the building stood around in a circle. The tall, strongly-built man who had taken her arm outside, stepped forward and introduced himself. 'Dr Hayes. Welcome to the Schoch Institute,' he said, smiling a line of several gold teeth. 'I'm Pierre De'Thierry, Director of Security. I apologise for the rough reception you received out there.'

His accent, like his name, suggested he was French.

'It's to be expected,' Hanna said. 'Given the media releases that have been coming out of here in the last few days.'

The Director of Security nodded. 'I suppose. But then I'm no scientist. My job is to protect the scientists and their secrets.' The gold teeth were on display again.

Secrets, Hanna was thinking. Going to the media on Methuselah Man was hardly the way to keep a secret. And surely this smiling hulk of a Security Director must have the brain to appreciate the ramifications of what had been disclosed.

'Follow me please,' De'Thierry said. He led her to the glass annex on the side of the reception area. The others followed, one of them towing her suitcase behind him. She noticed something else odd about the room. A deep groove had been cut in the floor in the shape of a large square in front of the reception area. And when she gazed up at the ceiling, she could see a metal edge recessed inside the wooden beams that paralleled the groove below; like maybe a metal cage that could be lowered from the ceiling to the floor. What purpose that might fulfill she had no idea.

De'Thierry produced a token and swiped it across an electronic sensor on the wall of the glass annex adjoining the reception area. Part of the wall slid open. Hanna followed De'Thierry inside. At the rear of the annex was a metal archway and a conveyor belt leading into an X-ray machine, just like you found at airports. 'Security precaution,' De'Thierry said. She put her handbag along with her watch on the conveyor belt. One of the security men placed her suitcase on it too. She followed De'Thierry through the scanner. On the other side was a metal door. De'Thierry swiped his token again and the door opened.

She stepped out into another vestibule, larger than the previous one. It had the same marble floor and high-domed, chandelier-lit ceiling. But none of this space had been modernized. It retained the character of yesteryear and looked even more like some grand hotel lobby, though the decour was a little tired and past its prime. She realized then that the first vestibule had obviously once been part of this one, now divided off to provide a security screening system to protect the inner echelons of the Schoch Institute. On her left was a polished counter, where two young women in the same blue uniforms of the security guards stood gazing into computer screens. Past the counter, several doors led off the vestibule. The security guards disappeared through these doors, apart from De'Thierry.

'Your luggage will be sent to your room,' he told her. 'But first you must come and meet the Chief.'

'Dr Gladovitch.' Hanna said.

De'Thierry flashed his golden smile again. 'Of course. The powerhouse that makes the Schoch Institute what it is.'

At the rear of the vestibule was a wide staircase winding up to the next floor. There were lifts on either side of it. De'Thierry led her up the staircase. On the walls were portraits of famous scientists and medical researchers. On the left wall were those whose work had been chiefly concerned with the human body: Pasteur – disease prevention, Jenner - vaccinations, Harvey – the circulation of the blood, Barnard – the first heart transplant, Watson and Crick – DNA and the Human Genome.

On the right wall the lineup was more eclectic: Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo, Sir Isaac Newton, Ernest Rutherford – the splitting of the atom (Hanna had to read the inscription for that one), Charles Darwin and Albert Einstein. Alongside Einstein was a name plate without a portrait: Eugene Schoch – founder of the Schoch Institute. Hanna was aware that Eugene Schoch had died the previous year. Presumably his portrait was a work in progress. She also knew he was a Nobel Prize winner, but did he belong with luminaries like Da Vinci, Galileo, Darwin and Einstein? The other thing that didn't escape Hanna's notice was that every single portrait was male.

The staircase led to another large foyer – carpeted this time, but still decorated in the old-world charm of the vestibule below. Except for the large model of the human genome that occupied the centre of the room, and next to it another model of the double helix by which the DNA acid is organized. Constructed of colourful plastic tubing, they looked like exhibits of modern sculpture.

And yet what these exhibits represented was way more ancient than the structure and decour of the Schoch building. For this was the basic building block of human biology. From what Hanna had briefly seen, the Swiss Alps were a landscape of daunting grandeur. But the human genome, invisible to the naked eye, was a landscape of even more stunning splendor, when one considered the complexity of its structure. There were estimated to be around 100 trillion cells in the human body. And inside the nucleus of each cell, the DNA molecule, carrying the instructions for life; around three metres long in each nucleus. The DNA was carried by over twenty thousand genes, organized into twenty-three chromosome pairs, with one of those chromosomes, X or Y, determining whether you were male or female. And all of this inside each human somatic cell. An amazing feat of bio-engineering.

De'Thierry led her to the front of the foyer, where at one end there was another reception area, this time peopled with clerical staff busy at computer screens. An older woman at the front desk looked up as De'Thierry approached and waved him past. He went to a closed door just past the reception area, opened it and gestured Hanna to enter. It was a small waiting room with a pink velvet chaise langue and chairs to match. There was another door at the end of the waiting room with a camera mounted above it. Hanna could see the title plate fastened to the door.

DR LJUDMILA GLADOVITCH

CEO

De'Thierry knocked on the door. There was a pause, before a small screen to the right flashed a message: Enter. De'Thierry opened the door. Following behind De'Thierry, Hanna found herself in a large, spacious office where the decour was still from an age past, apart from a large flat screen about six foot square set in one of the wooden-paneled walls. There was a faint odour in the air that smelt like tobacco smoke. A middle-aged woman was seated behind a long, wooden desk. Hanna recognized Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch immediately. To her right, a younger man was sitting in an identical chair to those in the waiting room. He rose as they entered. Dr Gladovitch followed. She came around from her big desk. She was wearing a short black dress. Bold, Hanna thought for a woman her age, but she had the figure to fit it. Dr Gladovitch held out her hand.

'Hanna,' she enthused. 'So good to see you. My apologies for the reception committee outside. Rabble with no respect for anyone's privacy.'

'To be expected I guess,' Hanna said. 'After your amazing revelations.'

Dr Gladovitch raised her eyebrows, accentuating the difference in the colour of the pupils in her eyes. 'That's exactly what Robert said.' She turned to the younger man next to her. 'Robert Fisher,' she introduced him. 'Robert is our Communications Director.'

Robert Fisher shook Hanna's hand. He had brown hair, a square face with soft features and a complexion that suggested he liked the outdoors.

'Our revelations as you call them,' Dr Gladovitch said, 'are merely an inevitable part of the pursuit of science.'

'But still amazing,' Hanna pressed her. 'An amazing achievement. I mean not just the rejuvenation, which is amazing in itself. But a reversal of the ageing process? And possible immortality? That's just incredible.'

Dr Gladovitch shrugged. 'It's early days yet. Like a newborn child, Methuselah has to learn to walk again before he can run. But please ... take a seat.'

They all sat in the comfortable chairs. Hanna just had to ask the question. 'Can I see Methuselah Man?' she said.

Dr Gladovitch quickly shook her head. 'I'm afraid not, my dear. He's been moved to another location.' She looked at Robert Fisher when she said that. 'Until all the fuss dies down, you understand. He has his rights too.'

'I saw a piece of your interview on television,' Hanna told her. 'As you said, it does raise a range of legal and ethical issues.'

Dr Gladovitch smiled. 'Science is neutral, Hanna. Ultimately, these are matters for society to judge.'

'Society? As in governments you mean?' Hanna asked. She was thinking of Sheldon Ramsay from the American Embassy, but she decided to keep that meeting to herself.

'Governments?' Ljudmila Gladovitch scoffed. 'Governments are merely cliques of vested interests, my dear. The future of the world and humanity has more to fear from governments than it does from science.'

'So you mean the people should somehow decide these issues?' Hanna asked.

Dr Gladovitch pulled a face. 'Spare me the thought,' she said, dismissively. 'You think that media circus outside here should be given the right to make such decisions? By society, I mean intelligent men and women who are capable of formulating a coherent vision for the future. People like you my dear.' The smile returned to her face. 'Which brings me to you being here. Methuselah may well be ground-breaking. But that is just one of the many projects we have underway here. Biomedical science has many frontiers. We continue to seek cures for debilitating diseases and work for the betterment of humankind. Your expertise in Huntington's Chorea is one of those. And I see you becoming a very important part of our team here at the Schoch Institute.'

The betterment of humankind, Hanna was thinking. There was evidence of that sentiment on the wall behind Dr Gladovitch's desk: a portrait of Marie Curie, famous chemist, physicist, and early discoverer of radioactivity. Finally a woman in the Hall of Fame.

Dr Gladovitch rose from her chair. The man called Robert Fisher did the same. Hanna and the Security Director, Pierre De'Thierry followed suit. 'Robert will arrange your induction and accommodation then take you to meet your Department Director, Dr Randy Ryman, who is one of your countrymen.' Dr Gladovitch put out her hand. 'I hope to see a lot more of you, my dear. I'm sure you will make a very valuable contribution to our work here.'

Hanna shook her hand. Ljudmila Gladovitch was friendly enough, but there was something about the CEO of the Schoch Institute that made Hanna wary. The CEO was not someone you would want to easily cross, she decided. And when she gave Hanna a final smile, Hanna's eyes were drawn to the CEO's sharp looking teeth. This was not the golden mouth of the Director of Security standing alongside Hanna, but more like the smile of a shark before it bit you.
Chapter 6.

AFTER THE MEETING WITH LJUDMILA, Robert Fisher took Hanna to the HR Department on the same floor, where she was given a map of the facilities, a copy of in-house policies and procedures, and instructions relating to fire and evacuation procedures. Then Robert took her back down the spiral staircase to the ground floor and the Housekeeping Department. One of the housekeepers – a local Swiss woman, showed her to her accommodation which was in the West Wing on the ground floor.

The accommodation was also in keeping with the style of yesteryear. Smaller than the apartment she had vacated in New York, it had a living area, kitchen, bathroom and one bedroom with a double brass bed. It was functional rather than flash, like much of what she had seen in the Schoch building – a decour that had lost its lustre; definitely no more than three stars. And that was rather ironic she thought. The pale-yellow light in her new accommodation made her feel she was in some kind of cave (prison maybe if you included the bars across the windows) – a pocket of the past that seemed so out of keeping with the cutting edge research that Ljudmila Gladovitch and her teams were engaged in at the Schoch Institute.

The in-house accommodation had been offered as part of the employment package. But she didn't have to remain there. After settling into the new job she could look for other accommodation, maybe in the village up the mountain. She was relatively self-reliant and didn't mind being on her own. But a small circle of friends was desirable. Friends. The thought made her take out her phone and switch it on. There were no more messages from Michael. It looked like he had finally given up. But she re-read his final message about her being in danger. She certainly hadn't felt in any danger since arriving at Schoch. Being crowded by the media mob in the car park had not really been threatening, and feeling wary about Ljudmila Gladovitch was more about caution than conflict. Everyone she had met had been friendly. So maybe she would give herself time to settle in, find some friends and look into sharing a chalet somewhere.

She stood at the window. Blue, faded, velvet curtains flanked the long, narrow barred windows than ran from the floor to the high-stud ceiling. From the latticed window, she could see a semi-circle of snow-laden Alps, displayed beneath a sharp, blue sky. And below in the car park, the television crews remained on alert for any further developments in the Methuselah story. Some of the 'rabble' were building a snowman to pass the time.

In the afternoon she had to present for another medical. It was extensive. 'A healthy body promotes a healthy mind,' the workplace physician smilingly told her. 'Especially in an environment such as this. We need to know the full medical conditions of all of our staff.' She spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, finding the laundry facilities and reading the site map and the organisation's policies and procedures. Robert Fisher had offered to have dinner with her. She met him in the evening in the dining room.

The dining room was in the East Wing on the ground floor. True to character, it had an atmosphere of grand dining from times past. More crystal chandeliers hung from a decorative, high-stud ceiling. Dark embossed walls surrounded the dining area, where white-jacketed waiters attended the few guests assembled with a silver service. A large roaring open fire blazed away in a grey-stone hearth. There was a bar off to one side where they went for a pre-dinner drink. Robert fetched the drinks while Hanna found them a table by another log fire in the corner of the room.

Robert returned with two glasses of red wine. His gaze took in his companion. Hanna Hayes had a short, slight figure with a round, pleasant face. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. Robert imagined if she loosened that ponytail, let her hair fall forward down past her shoulders, then she would look even more attractive; quite stunning in fact. 'So what are your first impressions of Schoch?' he asked her.

'Everyone seems friendly,' Hanna replied, recalling her earlier thoughts.

'And what do you make of Ljudmila?' Robert's eyes were watching her closely.

Hanna smiled. 'Your Director of Security called her a powerhouse. I imagine that's right. I imagine she wears the pants around here. A woman who likes to be in control.'

Robert's eyes dipped to the table. 'Very astute. She's certainly the boss and lets no one forget it. She was the protégé of Eugene Schoch the founder of this place. Eugene died last year and is buried in the cemetery in Leysin. Ljudmila's a neuro-surgeon by profession, as I'm sure you know. But I don't think science alone will ever do it for Ljudmila. As she said, science is neutral, but Ljudmila is not. She doesn't like neutrality, despite the fact that the Schoch Institute is on Swiss soil,' he laughed. 'Ljudmila likes power. So I guess that's why she went to Harvard and got an MBA. She wanted to manage people and not just be a mere researcher. Sorry-' Robert rebuked himself. 'I didn't mean any offence.'

'None taken,' Hanna smiled back. 'I think I can honestly say that I'm more interested in progress than power.'

Robert nodded. 'Ljudmila would also claim she's interested in progress. But she would want the right for herself to define what progress means.'

'Like her definition of society you mean?'

'Precisely,' Robert agreed.

Hanna took a sip of her wine and looked around the bar. 'How many people work here?' she asked Robert.

'Around about eighty counting all the support staff. Roughly half of that number are scientists or medical staff.'

'That's strange,' Hanna said. 'I get the feeling the place is quite empty.'

'A lot of people live outside the compound. Some live up the mountain in Leysin. Others down the mountain in Montreux or Lausanne. And then of course, there's Sector B.'

Hanna looked at him. 'Sector B?'

'Yes. The place is divided into two sectors – A and B. A is what you see above ground. B is where the moles live.'

'Moles?'

Robert took a mouthful of his wine, then said, 'Sector B is underground – two levels of it under where you're sitting right now. The above part was once a hotel, built in the nineteen thirties. During the Second World War the Swiss Government took it over and turned the area below into an air-raid shelter. Switzerland was neutral in that war of course, but they never trusted their Nazi neighbours. After the war it was a hospital for awhile for tuberculosis patients. Then Eugene Schoch bought it and started the Institute. Sector B is a relatively recent development. It's sealed off. You need a special clearance to enter.'

Hanna looked surprised. 'Why?'

'It's where the top secret research is carried out. Projects like Methuselah Man. The moles live down there. They rarely come out.'

Hanna stared at him. 'You mean their entire life is ... subterranean?'

Robert nodded. 'Yes. But with a difference. Sector B is nothing like Sector A with all its remnants of a past age. Sector B is modern, state of the art, and a social playground of virtual reality.'

Hanna's eyes widened even further.

'Eugene Schoch loved technology,' Robert continued. 'The kind of technology that could change the way that we live. I think maybe he feared there might be a nuclear war one day. So he constructed this virtual world down there. It's like Disneyland for the discerning. Down there you can climb virtual mountains, sail virtual ships, star in your own movie, make virtual friends and even, I believe, have virtual sex.' He looked away when making the last point.

'I think I'll pass on the latter,' Hanna said quickly.

Robert shrugged. 'Each to their own, I guess.'

'So who has clearance to enter Sector B?'

'Whoever Ljudmila decides. You have a token, right?'

'Yes.'

'A blue one.'

'Yes.'

'It's programmed exclusively to get you into your apartment. But it will also get you into the other areas in Sector A.' Robert took another drink of his wine. 'Let me explain. There are three levels in Sector A. The floor where you entered the building, the next floor up where the administration offices are, and a higher level where the Sector A laboratories are. The levels are numbered from the top. So Level One is the top floor. The ground floor where you entered the building is actually Level Three. Sector B comprises two more levels under the ground, in descending order: Four and Five. Level Four is where the moles live. You need a yellow token to get you in there. Level Five is where the moles work – more labs and the like. You need a red token to access there. As I said, that's where Methuselah Man is. Was,' Robert hurriedly corrected himself. 'And a white token will get you anywhere in the building. But only Ljudmila has one of those. Maybe I can get her to agree to give you a tour of Sector B sometime.'

Hanna smiled. 'Fascinating. But it sounds like you prefer Sector A. That you're more a real-world guy. Right?'

'Right,' Robert agreed. 'Old fashioned, I guess.'

'So you live outside?'

'No. I live in. The same accommodation block as you. But I get outside as much as possible.' He sipped again on his wine.

That explained his complexion she thought. She asked him where he was from originally. She hadn't been quite able to place his accent, but she had assumed he was English.

'New Zealand,' he told her.

'New Zealand? Isn't that a lot like Switzerland with lots of mountains?'

He put his wine glass back on the table. 'Yes and no. Yes to the mountains and lots of spectacular scenery, no in the sense that New Zealand is an island country surrounded by sea.'

'I've read about it. I'd like to visit there one day,' Hanna said. 'So how long have you been away from home?'

'Years. Most of that time I worked in England, before coming here to Schoch.'

'You have family? Are you married?'

Robert shook his head. 'I'm not married. I have parents back in New Zealand and a twin brother who works for the New Zealand Embassy in Beijing.'

'And how long have you been here?'

He looked away. 'Too long.'

'So why don't you leave?'

Robert looked sheepish. 'I guess I'm scared that I've lost the skills of my previous occupation.'

'Which was?'

'Journalist.'

'Surely not.'

Robert sat back in his chair. 'When you spend so long as a media mouthpiece you forget your own language.'

Hanna studied him closely. 'Well maybe you just need some motivation. Something to get those creative juices flowing again. And what could be better than Methuselah Man? The story's got so many angles.'

'Ljudmila wouldn't stand for it.' Robert said with conviction.

Hanna sipped on her wine. 'Well obviously you'd have to quit your present job. Go back outside where you belong and rediscover yourself.'

Robert stared into the log fire as if seeking inspiration. 'Maybe,' he said, softly. 'The trouble is, while I pump out the press releases, I don't really understand the jargon you people use.'

'But that's the point isn't it? Your job is to take the jargon out of the science so the layperson can relate to it.'

'Sure,' Robert agreed. 'But that's easier said than done.'

'Is it?' Hanna challenged him. 'Take my research area. Huntington's Chorea. Do you know what that is?'

Robert thought for a moment. 'It's a brain disease, right? Causes mental and physical decay and maybe death. Incurable? Passed down through the genes?'

Hanna nodded. 'All fairly factual. The jargon's not that necessary to tell the story. It's a faulty gene found on chromosome four that produces the Huntingtin protein. The mutation that causes Huntington's Chorea damages nerve cells in various parts of the brain, causing as you say, major physical, mental and emotional changes. The changes include uncontrollable jerky movements – which is the Chorea, balance problems, weight loss, speech problems, mood-swings – often violent or anti-social, and depression. If one parent has the gene their offspring stand a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it. It's currently incurable, but there's promising research into its treatment. Research that I'm involved in.'

'Stem cells, right?'

'Yes. But that's only one of the lines of research. The other major one is gene therapy.'

Robert's eyebrows lifted. 'I thought they were the same thing?'

'No. In general, for the treatment of disease, stem cell therapy aims to replace cells that contain a faulty gene. Gene therapy seeks to fix the faulty gene inside the existing cells. An analogy would be a broken window in a house. You could try and repair the window by putting tape over it to cover the crack. In medical terms that would be like trying to fix the problem with drugs. Gene therapy is the equivalent of putting in a new window. Stem cell treatments would involve building a new house.'

'Which makes gene therapy sound like the better option,' Robert mused. 'A new window would seem to be a far more direct approach than building an entire new house.'

Hanna shook her head. 'Not necessarily. Sometimes it's better to start anew. And in Huntington's there is a further complication. For technical reasons we can't actually target the mutation that causes the disease. So gene therapy is left with trying to silence the faulty gene rather than actually replacing it. But that has its problems as well.'

Robert looked thoughtful. 'Huntington's is a hereditary disease, right? So if you succeed in finding a cure for a sufferer, is that cure passed on to successive generations?'

Hanna sipped again on her wine. 'Good question. The answer is, it depends. We have two types of cells in our bodies – somatic and germ line. Changes made to somatic cells are not heritable, so they are not passed on to future generations. But changes made to germ line cells, that is sperm or egg cells, are heritable and will benefit future generations. But like embryonic stem cells, gene therapy intervention involving germ line cells is the subject of much ethical debate.'

'Which raises a broader issue and brings us back to Methuselah Man,' Robert said. 'Your research is all about curing disease. Methuselah Man may well have had diseased tissue, but he had already lived more than a normal lifespan. So the issue is about the ethics, the desirability of prolonging normal life. In a nutshell, should the scientific community be applying stem cell research and gene therapy to benefit healthy people rather than those who are sick?'

If Lincoln Gale from the U.S. President's Bio-ethics Council had have been sitting there he would have been nodding in agreement.

'Precisely,' Hanna said. 'That is the big question. And it's further tied to my comments about somatic and germ line cells. So let me try and summarise. Do you have a pen and some paper?'

Robert's hand dug inside his jacket pocket. 'I do,' he said. 'Some of my journalist's habits have survived.' He produced a notebook and pen. Hanna started drawing a diagram. After a few minutes she showed it to Robert. 'Simplistic,' she said. 'But hopefully you get the idea.'

'By therapy, I mean both gene therapy and stem cell treatment,' Hanna told Robert. 'Most research is carried out in quadrant One. And there have been successful treatments there in humans. It's also the quadrant that I work in. Quadrant TWO would include treatments to enhance things like beauty and intelligence. Anti ageing would also come in here. So the claims for Methuselah Man fall into both quadrants ONE and TWO. Quadrants THREE and FOUR represent the same divide but this time the effects of the therapy will be passed on in the genome to future generations. That is where the ethical debate lies because these treatments could involve cloning. Of course some people are also opposed on ethical grounds to treatments in quadrant TWO. Personally, in relation to conditions like Huntington's I would have no problem with quadrant THREE if the therapy was proven to be accurate and safe. But quadrant FOUR is another matter. That would include designer children. I doubt any reputable researcher would go there.'

You obviously don't know Ljudmila, Robert was thinking.
Chapter 7.

IN THE MORNING Hanna set out to meet the man who would be her supervisor, Dr Randy Ryman, a Californian who had studied genetics at the Harvard Medical School. He was the Head of the Bio-Genetics department at Schoch, a unit that was situated on the top floor of Sector A. Presumably, Hanna thought, there was no top secret research being conducted there.

Randy Ryman. His Christian name was not an unusual one for a North American male, but Hanna was intrigued by it all the same.

'And does he reflect his Christian name?' she had jokingly asked Robert Fisher.

'Actually, he does have that reputation,' Robert told her. 'So you should be on your guard. Unless of course you decide to succumb to his redoubtable charm,' he added with an inquiring smile.

She scoffed at the suggestion. 'Charm is not an attribute of a man that appeals to me,' she told Robert. 'I associate charm with snake charmers. When the spell wears off, you end up with a simple snake.' She was thinking of Michael when she said that.

She thought Robert looked relieved when she told him.

Robert. He was an attractive guy, she thought, with a nice manner. But one who needed a new direction in his life. If she could help him see that she might be making a positive contribution to his future. As for Dr Randy Ryman. Was randy-ness a product of his genes, she wondered? Or did he pursue this trait to live up to his name? Nature or nurture? She put the question to herself, professionally not personally. She didn't know the answer. But it seemed an interesting question.

She took the elevator from Level Three to Level One using her blue token. When the elevator doors opened she found herself in a small foyer where two corridors forked beneath two signs. One said Bio-Genetics and the other Bio-Technology; the two main divisions of research at Schoch. There was no reception or admin staff visible, just a series of offices and laboratories leading off a narrow corridor. The first office had a name plate on the door:

DR RANDY RYMAN

DIRECTOR

BIO-GENETICS DEPARTMENT

She knocked on the door. It opened. A man of medium height stood before her. Early forties, she guessed, with boyish features, a tousled mop of blond hair and sky-blue eyes. The archetypal Californian surfer man, except that his complexion was pale and not tanned from the surf and the sun. Outdoor pursuits were obviously not his passion, she decided. Maybe he was more a nocturnal man, befitting his name. He took her hand in a firm grip.

'Dr Hayes. Such a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure we are going to get to know each other extremely well.' His mouth broke into a broad smile. He had perfect Hollywood teeth as well. And he didn't let go her hand. 'May I call you Hanna?' he said.

'Of course you can, Randy,' she replied.

'Such a pleasure,' he repeated. 'I am very aware of your work. And meeting you in the flesh only increases that pleasure.'

Snake charmer, she thought. She looked down at their clasped hands. He took the hint and released his grip.

'Come in.' he said. 'Let me induct you into our little team.'

She noticed when her gaze had dropped to their clasped hands that he had blue, yellow and red tokens clipped to his belt. He obviously had access to all Schoch's secrets. He took her into his office. It was sparsely furnished – desk, computer, bookshelves, filing cabinet, all contained inside the shell of what once had been part of a former hotel bedroom, and then possibly a hospital office. 'We have no interest in all the media hype that the Methuselah project is getting,' he told her. 'Anti-ageing is not the goal here. But saving lives and the alleviation of human suffering is.'

It was what she wanted to hear.

Cryonics aside, Dr Ryman didn't need an anti-ageing gene personally, she thought. But maybe one day when the boyish exterior faded, Narcissus might be joining the queue.

Randy Ryman beamed her another smile. 'It's exciting to have a researcher of your calibre in this field here in our team, Hanna,' he said, echoing Ljudmila Gladovitch's earlier sentiments. 'And the fact that you're female, also improves our gender balance in the unit.' His smile widened even further.

He took her on a tour of the other offices and laboratories, introducing her to the other members of the unit. And there were other females working in the unit, Hanna noted. She counted five out of a total staff of ten. Improving the gender balance for whom, she wondered?

Next he took her to the Bio-Technology department. There was a similar size team there of about ten people and again a reasonable gender mix. The head of the Bio-Technology department was Dr Karl Meisman, a surly German with a stern face who barely gave her a smile and seemed to snap at his staff rather than speak to them. Was it preferable to have a snake-charmer as a boss or a Rottweiler, she wondered? And she noticed that Dr Meisman also had a full set of tokens on his belt, unlike the rest of his staff. Finally Randy Ryman showed her to her allotted office and issued her with a computer login.

'We have an important project for you to begin with,' he told her. He handed her a plastic pocket containing a CD. 'This is logged as Case Study 969,' he said. 'It's a hypothetical case of an older male with advanced Huntington's Chorea. We have built the model from brain scans of actual patients and computer imaging of their brains. The model allows you to simulate various therapy treatments and postulate outcomes from those interventions. We believe it is the most advanced model of its kind.'

She was familiar with computer models of Huntington's Chorea in the brain. The problem with this technique was exactly what Ryman had stated. It was a hypothetical simulation. There was a big gap between what might be the effects of treatment deduced from modeling and what would be the effects on an actual patient. That was why the normal route of research experimented on live animals such as mice and then tried to extrapolate those findings back to humans. But that route also had its problems, namely the differences in the genome between mice and humans. Perhaps the modeling techniques developed at Schoch were an advance on what she had seen before. She would withhold her judgment on that.

After Ryman left she settled down in her new office to begin work on Case Study 969. She opened the CD. Words fluttered onto the screen:

CASE STUDY 969

Huntington's Chorea: Advanced pathology; elderly male

To view file details click on icon

To view neurological computer model click on icon

To view therapeutic models click on icon

And so on. Hanna clicked on the computer model – a representation of the 'patients' brain. It was impressive – best she'd seen: fully animated; real, alive. Most models, like actual brain images and scans were static, the technology allowing you to artificially animate specific sections of the brain, rather like a video game. But this was a super-simulator, more along the lines of the sophistication of an aircraft simulator for training pilots than the best efforts of the gamers. This was like being inside a real brain.

A virtual brain.

Using the zoom microscope she zeroed in on three areas of the brain susceptible to Huntington's disease.: the Basal Ganglia, the Cerebral Cortex and the Striatum. At full magnification she could see dark clumps of toxic tissue where the disease had caused neuron damage or death. The healthy Huntingtin gene codes the Huntingtin protein Htt. The purpose of this protein is to assist moving molecules in and out of a cell. The mutation in the Huntingtin gene disrupts this process, producing the mutant protein Huntingtin mHtt that increases the rate of neuron cell death in certain areas of the brain. As the number of neurons reduces in these areas their neurological functions are impaired, causing the symptoms Hanna had described to Robert Fisher. In most cases a sufferer will lose around twenty-five per cent of their total brain cells before death.

The cause of the mutation and the exact role mHtt plays in cell death was unknown. But research had identified the activity of the mutant gene in the cell. In a part of the Huntingtin gene is a sequence of three DNA bases known as CAG (cytosine-adenine-guanine). These repeat to code for the amino acid glutamine, forming a chain of glutamine known as polyQ. If the length of the chain is under 36 CAD the normal protein Htt is produced. If the length of the chain exceeds 36 CAD the mutant protein mHtt is produced causing the disease. A reading of over 39 CAD signals high severity of the disease. And this hypothetical simulation was in that category.

Hanna's task was to model various therapies as interventions in the virtual brain to see whether the disease could be restrained or removed entirely. As she had explained to Robert, there were two major competing lines of research: stem cell therapy and gene therapy – gene silencing in the case of Huntington's Disease. Both techniques had been shown to be successful in experiments on mice, but so far had not been replicated in humans. That was her challenge. And her treatment preference was for stem cells. And that was where she would begin.

She went to click on the therapeutic models icon to check out the tools in there for stem cell therapy. But as her hand fingered the mouse she noticed something strange occurring in the virtual brain – a small pulsating spot embedded in the cerebral cortex. She looked closer. The spot was growing larger, oscillating, like an ever-growing circle, rising like a cyclone through the membranes of the brain. And then the circle became form – a face rushing at her on the screen. Hanna recoiled in her chair. The face filled the full screen like a video clip. It was the face of an elderly man; bald, hollow cheeks and lined skin, with red, leaky eyes that stared blankly into Hanna's face. She shifted to the left of the screen. The red eyes followed her. She shifted to the right. The eyes moved with her. The face spoke in a clipped European accent.

What are you doing inside my brain? the voice demanded. And then the face laughed, before breaking into an inane smile. It spoke again.

Humpty Dumpy sat on a wall

Humpty Dumpy had a great fall

All the King's horses and all the King's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

'Who are you?' a shocked Hanna asked.

The rubbery smile returned and the eyes closed like the intruder had just passed into a trance. Hanna leapt out of her seat and fled the office, seeking the assistance of the snake-charmer, Dr Randy Ryman.
Chapter 8.

RANDY RYMAN came to her office immediately. But the face had disappeared from the screen.

'It was here!' Hanna said, defiantly. 'I didn't imagine it!'

Ryman raised his eyebrows. 'I'm not saying you did. But there must be an explanation. One of those rogue Internet downloads maybe?'

'I wasn't on the Internet,' Hanna objected.

Ryman shrugged. 'Can still happen. I'll get IT to check it out if you wish.'

'I wish,' Hanna said, emphatically.

'OK, I'll get right onto it,' Ryman said, leaving the office.

Hanna slumped down in her chair. She hadn't imagined it. The face had been real. Was it just some chance aberration, or someone's idea of a sick joke? Or something more sinister? The man inside the model? The mind inside the brain. The ghost inside the machine?

She worked on the model all afternoon. The face never returned. It didn't return the next day either, or the day after that. And the IT department had failed to find anything suspicious. Life became routine. It was what she was used to. The staff in both the Bio-Genetics and the Bio-Technology units were all exceedingly friendly. Most days Hanna had lunch and dinner with them in the Staff Cafeteria on Level Two or the restaurant on Level Three. She got quite friendly with an attractive young woman from England, called Cara Bell, who worked as a laboratory assistant in Bio-Genetics. Cara, who was a few years younger than Hanna, was also a trained nurse and had been working at Schoch for just over a year. She seemed to enjoy her work but told Hanna that working at Schoch got a bit dull at times. 'There's a shortage of nice men,' she told Hanna. 'But Robert Fisher's an exception,' she added with a smile. 'He's not interested in me though. I'm too flighty. There's only Dr Ryman with his roving eye. But so far I've managed to avoid him,' she said proudly.

Wise decision, Hanna thought.

So she wasn't surprised when Randy the snake-charmer asked her out for a drink on Friday night. But she turned him down. She told him she was tired, still adjusting to the new job.

'I understand,' the snake-charmer told her. 'I'll wait until you've got your strength back. Then we can play.'

It was a play she didn't want a part in. And she wondered whether the Schoch Institute had a robust policy on sexual harassment and what the implications might be if she rebuffed the advances of her snake-charmer boss. But she did accept the invitation of Robert to go skiing up the mountain on Sunday.

They took the mountain cog wheel train early up to the village of Leysin. Hanna wanted to have a look around before they headed further up to the skifields. The old village was a picturesque place set in a white, mountain bowl, consisting of a huddle of wooden chalets and narrow, paved streets. Postcard Paradise, Hanna thought, especially in winter, the highpoint of the resort calendar. She had a map and noticed the local cemetery was nearby. They hiked up to the cemetery, which sat on a small hill above the village. There they found the grave of Eugene Schoch. The inscription on the gravestone read:

EUGENE SCHOCH

1926 – 2008

FOUNDER OF THE SCHOCH INSTITUTE

In science anything is possible

'There's another famous person buried in this cemetery,' Robert said. 'The British mountaineer, Dougal Haston, the first British climber to conquer Mt Everest and the first person to climb the North face of the Eiger by the most direct route. He was killed in an avalanche up on the skifields where we're heading, in 1977.'

Before I was born, Hanna thought. And his feats made her occasional forays into rock climbing seem lame to say the least.

They took the mountain train to Leysin-Feyday, the top station. This was at the foot of the ski field. Leysin was not usually listed in the front rank of Swiss ski fields, but there was something for all grades of skiers here and around seventeen chairlifts in the immediate vicinity to choose from. Robert had his own skis, but Hanna needed to hire her equipment. It soon became apparent that Robert was an advanced skier, but Hanna regarded herself as intermediate. In the past few years she had made an annual trip to Aspen or Banff for a winter holiday and to improve her skiing. So she was looking forward to the rest of the day.

And the day was as picturesque as the old village: bright, blue sky and a determined winter sun trying to warm the icy air reflecting off the white coat of the mountains. Outside the ski-hire shop they encountered a familiar figure – the strong, muscular frame of the Director of Security, Pierre De'Thierry.

'Bonjour,' the gold teeth of De'Thierry greeted them.

'Bonjour,' Hanna said.

'Out for a bit of R and R?' De'Thierry said, reverting to English. 'And in good company too,' he indicated Robert. 'Robert's a very good skier.'

'Pierre's not too bad himself,' Robert replied.

The gold teeth came back on display. 'Well, enjoy your day,' De'Thierry said. He sped away towards the chair lifts.

After Hanna was fitted out at the Berneuse Ski Station, Robert took her on the Berneuse cable car. It was a spectacular ride with stunning views out across the mountain panorama. Away to the right they could see the blue waters of Lake Geneva and in the distance, across the jagged teeth of the mountain tableau, Robert pointed out the prominent peaks of Mt Blanc (the highest mountain in Western Europe at 15,781 feet) and the famous, razor ridges of the Eiger where the dead British climber had once thrilled the mountaineering world. From the top they had a long, winding run down the intermediate slopes of the Tete d'Ai. The slopes were fairly busy but there were enough different runs on the mountain not to make it too crowded.

Upon the reaching the bottom they repeated the experience. At the top of the third cable car ride Robert decided to tackle a more adventurous run and set off on his own. Hanna opted for a different run this time – a gradual descent down through a plantation of pine trees. She seemed to have this trail all to herself. But about half-way down she thought she heard the noise of another pair of skis somewhere close behind her. She turned her head but could see no one among the foliage. She carried on, but then heard the noise again – the swish of metal slicing through the surface of the snow. This time she snow ploughed to a stop and turned her body back up the slope. And she saw the figure sliding through the trees and coming towards her: a man dressed in a blue ski suit, wearing a red woolen hat. He snow ploughed to a halt in front of her.

Dark snow glasses covered his eyes and the hat was pulled down low over his face. She couldn't see his silver hair, but she could see just enough of his fatherly, florid face to recognize him.

The man from the American Embassy. Sheldon Ramsay. The man who wanted her to be a spy.

'What are you doing here?' she accosted him.

Ramsay gave her a lame smile. 'I just happened to be in the area,' he said.

'You expect me to believe that?' Hanna said sharply. 'Why are you following me?'

Ramsay's face grew more serious. 'As I told you on the train, Hanna, you're family. An American citizen working in a controversial organization whose work is of interest to us. I'm concerned for your welfare.'

'Cut the crap!' Hanna hissed at him. 'You're not concerned for my welfare at all. You asked me to become a spy!'

'Patriot, Hanna,' Ramsay corrected her.

'Spy!' Hanna repeated. 'I declined your first invitation, and I decline your second as well!' She jumped her skis back around and took off down the slope. She knew he was still following her. She could hear the sound of him behind her, but he kept his distance. At the bottom she finally came to a halt outside the Berneuse Ski Station. Ramsay came slowly alongside her.

'Have you seen Methuselah Man?' he asked her.

'Yes,' she lied. Anything to get him off her back.

'And how was he?'

'He was fine.' She stared into Ramsay's blue eyes. 'You know what I think?'

Ramsay cocked his head to the side. 'What?'

'I think you want the Methuselah treatment yourself,' she challenged him.

Ramsay smiled. 'I can understand that some people would want to be immortal, Hanna. But not me. I have no such interest. My interest is purely political.'

'And mine is purely science,' Hanna responded.

Ramsay backed off. 'You've got my card, Hanna. Anytime you want to talk, you know where to find me.' He eased away on his skis.

'There's nothing to talk about!' she yelled after him. 'I have nothing to report and I never will have! So goodbye, Mr Ramsay!'

Ramsay kept on going. From seemingly nowhere, Pierre De'Thierry suddenly appeared. 'That man bugging you?' he asked Hanna.

'He wants to bug the Schoch Institute,' she replied.

De'Thierry looked at her for an explanation.

'He's from the U.S. Embassy in Berne.' She told De'Thierry briefly about meeting Ramsay on the train and their encounter on the ski trail. 'And he keeps telling me I'm in danger,' she added. 'What danger? I just wish he'd leave me alone.'

De'Thierry sighed. 'Government people,' he said. 'They always want to interfere in things that don't concern them.' He moved on in the direction of the chairlifts.

Hanna felt a little shaken. She went to a nearby coffee shop and bought a coffee. She sat down at an outside table and waited for Robert. Almost an hour went past. Sitting watching a colourful array of skiers was easy on the eye, but after almost an hour of this she began to get concerned about Robert. She was thinking of the story about the British mountaineer who had been killed on this ski field in an avalanche. Robert should've been down by now. And then her attention was distracted by a snowmobile with beeping yellow lights heading up the mountain. SKI RESCUE was written on the side of it; a snow ambulance used to retrieve injured skiers. She watched it disappear over a brow in the mountain. Fifteen minutes later it was coming back down again. And there was still no sign of Robert. She felt mild trepidation in her chest. It was natural when someone was overdue coming off the mountain. She skied slowly over towards the approaching snowmobile.

And then she caught her breath. There was a figure lying still on the snowmobile. A figure wearing a blue ski suit and a red, woolen hat. She only caught a glimpse of the face with its eyes closed. But it was him. Sheldon Ramsay. There was a young man from Ski Patrol following the snowmobile.

'What happened?' she asked the man.

Fortunately he spoke English. 'Accident,' he said. 'A collision with another skier.'

'Is he all right?'

'He'll be fine,' the young man replied. 'Apart from two broken legs.'

Just then Robert appeared walking over the snow towards her, carrying his skis over his shoulder. 'Robert!' she cried out, the relief apparent in her voice. 'I was getting worried about you!'

'Sorry,' he apologized. 'My bindings broke. I had to walk all the way down the mountain. What happened there?' he said, looking at the retreating snowmobile.

'Accident,' she told him.

Something made her turn around. Pierre De'Thierry was standing about twenty yards away, also watching the snowmobile.

And his gold teeth were smiling.
Chapter 9.

SHE WAS BACK AT HER DESK on Monday morning. She had enjoyed the day's skiing, apart from the incident with Sheldon Ramsay. There were dark thoughts in her mind about a possible connection between Ramsay's accident and the Director of Security, Pierre De'Thierry. But she never confronted him about that. She didn't really want to know. She wanted to erase all traces of Sheldon Ramsay from her mind. And her vehicle for doing that would be her work. She would focus all her energies on Case Study 969.

But first she had to deal with Dr Randy Ryman.

'Nice day on the slopes?' he said to her when she arrived at work in the morning. 'With the fisherman?'

'Fisherman?' she said, baffled.

He gave a condescending smile. 'Our esteemed Director of Communications. Robert Fisher. A "fisher" is the official name for a fisherman these days I believe. And that's what fishermen do don't they? Fish for stories? And ski bunnies maybe?'

Hanna stiffened. She drew herself up to her full five feet, four inches. 'Dr Ryman,' she confronted him. 'Is my personal life part of my employment contract?'

He gave her a smarmy smile. 'In this organization, Dr Hayes, personal and professional life is merely part of a continuum. Which just means for me that I take a broad interest in the welfare of all of my staff.'

Broad, she noted. Male American shorthand for women.

'I'm not a ski bunny,' she said coldly. 'And if I need your assistance, I'll certainly ask.'

Her welfare. There seemed to be no shortage of people who were interested in her welfare: Michael, Sheldon Ramsay, perhaps Pierre De'Thierry, and now Dr Randy Ryman. In her office she booted up her PC and settled into her work. She was trying to identify all of the sites in this virtual brain where the mutant Huntingtin's gene resided and the extent of the damage in each. At the moment she was focusing on the basal ganglia, a collection of nuclei that controlled movement. She zoomed in on the area, enlarging it, caressing her way around it with her cursor. The neurons started jumping, like she was pricking them with a needle.

And then that spot suddenly appeared again, like the first time – rising in the cerebral cortex like a small whirlpool, spreading out across the membranes like a storm on a pulsating sea. She recoiled again in her chair. Somewhere in the distance she heard what sounded like breaking glass. But she was riveted to the screen. The bald head and the tired face filled the screen; the ghost in control of his machine.

The red, rheumy eyes stared out at Hanna.

'Who are you?' she asked him again.

The inane smile broke out on the dry, cracked lips. And then they began to sing.

Old man River

That old man River

He just keeps rolling

He just keeps rolling

Along.

The face laughed and one of those red, dead eyes winked at her. And then the face was spinning away into oblivion. Hanna was shaking. But something in her mind was also spinning into focus.

Old Man River.

And this virtual brain was also old – dying in need of repair.

Case study 969.

She minimized the model and clicked on the Internet, entering "Methuselah" in the subject line. A host of websites came up on the screen. She clicked on the first of them.

Methuselah. The oldest man in the Christian Bible.

Who reputably lived to nine hundred and sixty-nine years.

Case Study 969.

Methuselah

The face on her screen.

It was time to confront Dr Ryman and Dr Gladovitch if necessary. She got out of her chair then froze. There was a figure dressed all in black, including the balaclava over its face, standing in the doorway. And it held what looked like a machine gun.

A gun that was pointed at Hanna's face.
Chapter 10.

'MOVE,' THE FIGURE SAID, waving the gun towards the doorway.

Hanna did as she was told. The figure marched her down the narrow corridor. She noticed at once that all the adjoining offices were vacant. She entered the large workroom at the end of the corridor where several people could work on common projects. It was fully fitted out with work benches and equipment – computers, data-show projectors, screens. The entire teams of both departments were there – about twenty of them, held hostage by two other figures in the same black clothing, holding the same guns. Hanna's eyes went to Dr Randy Ryman. His pale face had even less colour now and his eyes were darting around the room, maybe looking for some means of escape. But there was none, except for the hole high in the ceiling where a glass skylight had been broken to gain the intruders access. Hanna remembered the noise. Two rope ladders dangled down from the hole.

And then two more people entered the room. In front was Ljudmila Gladovitch, behind her another armed figure in black.

'Security has been contained,' the figure behind Ljudmila said to his companions.

'What is the meaning of this?' Ljudmila demanded to whoever might answer.

One of the masked figures in the room took a step forward. 'We want the Methuselah research and the gene itself,' an English voice said.

'Impossible!' Ljudmila scoffed. The masked man, who appeared to be the leader, pointed his gun at Ljudmila. No sign of fear registered on her face. 'The research is kept on a secure server,' she said, coolly. 'You can't access it here. And we do not have a bank of the Methuselah Gene on the premises.'

'You are lying,' the figure snarled back. He inclined his head towards one of his accomplices. Of the four masked figures, three of them looked male, but one of them by body shape was almost certainly female. And this was the one the leader gave the signal to. She swung her machine gun around the room, finally coming to rest on Cara Bell. Cara's face had the look of a terrified child.

'Kill her!' the leader said.

'No!'

It was impulsive; foolhardy, she suddenly realized. But Hanna just couldn't let that happen. Her short, slight figure had just taken a big step towards the woman with the machine gun, a gun that was now pointing at her.

'Give it to them,' Hanna pleaded with Ljudmila.

'Never,' Ljudmila hissed. 'They'll have to kill me first.'

The masked woman's right hand came off her machine gun and went to a pocket in her black trousers, withdrawing a large handgun. Lifting it in an outstretched hand to eye level, she moved it further around the room, coming to rest on the pale face of Randy Ryman. The handgun moved slowly down Ryman's body coming to rest just below his midriff. A muffled crack followed and a thin strand of wire shot across the room lodging itself in Ryman's crotch. He yelled and slumped to the floor, lying there not moving. Loud cries of anguish filled the room.

'You've killed him!' a shocked Ljudmila cried.

'Quiet!' the masked leader yelled above the cries. 'He's been tasered. He will live.' He waved his machine gun around the room. 'But next time it will be a real bullet.'

Ljudmila's face finally showed some vestige of fear. 'All right,' she said, slowly. 'I will do what you ask. The research is not worth the lives of my staff.' She took her cellphone off her belt and dialed a number.

'Be careful what you say,' the masked leader said, pointing his gun at her.

Ljudmila spoke into the phone, telling whoever was on the other end to bring the Methuselah Gene up to Level One. Then she went to a nearby computer, logged in and began downloading the Methuselah research onto a CD. The masked leader stood over her and watched.

Hanna was as frightened as anyone else in the room. She had been surprised when Ljudmila had surrendered to the intruders' demands. Not that she seemed to have a lot of choice, but it would not have surprised Hanna if the Schoch CEO had been prepared to sacrifice human life to safeguard her research. Perhaps it was time she looked at Ljudmila in a different light. Assuming they were all going to get out of here alive. Hanna's eyes focused on the female figure in black. She could only see her eyes in the narrow opening of the balaclava; green in colour, bright and staring. And when those eyes became aware they were being watched they turned quickly onto Hanna. Hanna quickly shifted her gaze.

Another of the masked intruders spoke. 'Everybody will detach their keys and slide them across the floor to my companion with the taser, along with your cellphones and any other communication devices,' he said in a voice that had an unmistakable European accent behind the English. Everyone obeyed the order and some were searched at gunpoint by the other figures in black. When the woman had the pile of tokens, phones and other devices in front of her, she bent down and scooped them all up into a plastic bag. Hanna was standing at the end of the line. Only she saw what happened next. As the woman in black bent down, her woollen top slid a little way up her bare back, revealing a tattoo. The tattoo was about six inches long; some kind of .... stick insect. And then the woman was standing straight again. The intruders removed a telephone and computer from an adjoining office and began herding the researchers inside. A woman that Hanna didn't recognize entered the main room, followed by two more armed masked figures. The woman, wearing a white lab coat, was carrying a small polystyrene container. The masked leader took it off her.

'You won't get away with this!' Ljudmila yelled.

The masked leader said nothing. One of his accomplices locked the office door with somebody's token. The bag of tokens was then thrown across the other side of the main room. There was a window in the office. The researchers watched as the intruders scaled up the rope ladders to the roof. One of them waited a few moments while the others escaped, his gun trained on the room below. The moment the last of the intruders disappeared out the hole in the skylight, Ljudmila was attacking the glass window in the office with a chair.
Chapter 11.

The White House; Washington D.C.

THE PRESIDENT and Francesca Young sat watching a recorded newscast from CNN's Larry-the-Hound-behind-the-news Hagler. Larry ran through the events summarized by the banner headline on the backscreen behind him:

METHUSELAH RESEARCH STOLEN IN SWITZERLAND

'Both the Swiss Police and Interpol have so far drawn a blank on who was behind this,' Larry was saying. 'But the National Institutes of Health have raised concerns about the ramifications of this should the Swiss research end up on the black market.' Larry's furrowed features were frowning. 'And of course we must remember that this research not only claims to have reversed the ageing process, but is also predicated on the claim that a cryopreserved body was successfully rejuvenated back to life. We cross now to Dr Martin Duvall, Director of the NIH. Dr Duvall, can you hear me?'

Martin Duvall, neatly dressed in a blue suit, appeared as an insert down right on the screen. 'I can hear you, Larry,' he said.

'So what are the ramifications if this research finds its way to the black market?' Larry asked him.

Duvall's steadfast gaze was fixed firmly on the television audience. 'Well firstly, Larry, let me assure your audience that the cryonics industry and genetic therapies are well regulated in this country. And secondly, we still have no proof that the claims made by the Schoch Institute in respect of their research and the rejuvenation of a dead body have any validity. There has still been no peer review.'

He's fudging, Francesca was thinking; deliberately not answering the question. He wants the audience to think that the Schoch research and Methuselah Man are a fantasy.

'And with Dr Duvall in our Washington studio,' Larry continued, 'is Professor Lincoln Gale of the President's Bio-ethics Committee. 'Professor, I think you have a view on this?'

Lincoln Gale appeared next to Martin Duvall. His small eyes were twittering behind his glasses. 'I do,' he said dourly. 'I am implacably opposed to cryopreservation, regarding ageing as a disease, and any suggestion that human beings should be immortal. Without death life is meaningless.'

It was time this man was replaced on the Bio-ethics committee, Francesca thought to herself.

'We did try to get an interview with Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch, CEO of the Schoch Institute,' Larry interrupted. 'But she declined our request.'

The President muted the broadcast. He was familiar with all these arguments. He turned to Francesca. 'So ...can we speculate on who might have stolen this research?' he asked her.

'My list would include the criminal fraternity, terrorists and government agencies,' Francesca told him.

The President started on her list in reverse order. 'Governments?' he probed her. 'I assume that doesn't include us?'

'Not that I am aware. I was thinking more of rogue states who might see this research as having some political mileage.'

'Not states with already large populations, surely? As yourself and Professor Gale both agreed at our last meeting, these anti-ageing and immortality treatments would only lead to massive socio-economic stress and possible destruction of the planet by over-population.'

'But their leaders might want the research for themselves,' Francesca said, ruefully.

The President nodded. 'Possible,' he agreed. 'And terrorists? How do they make your list?'

'Same as governments. They might see some political or personal advantage. But having said, that I can't imagine that terrorists of the Muslim kind would want to be Methuselah's.' She smiled at the President. 'I imagine that their male martyrs can't wait to go to all those virgins in their heaven.'

The President permitted himself a smile. 'You could probably apply that argument to Christians as well wanting to go to their heaven,' he responded. 'But what about criminals?'

'I imagine this research has a high monetary value. Their aim might be to sell this to the highest bidder.'

'And who would be bidding?' the President asked. 'Other research centres, medical clinics, private individuals?'

'Possibly all of those.'

'The Cryonics industry?' the President ventured. 'The initial news item must have boosted their business, surely?'

'Yes. But there's been nothing from the Schoch Institute to suggest that the details of their research won't ultimately be made public. So why wouldn't the Cryonics industry wait for that information to be in the public domain?'

'To steal a march on their competitors maybe?'

'Maybe,' Francesca conceded. 'But to me this all points to a more clandestine group.'

The President looked thoughtful. 'Does the CIA have a view on this?'

Francesca nodded. 'I checked with the Agency. They are following this and the original story with much interest. But they were tight-lipped about telling me anymore. Though they did say that their Chief of the Switzerland Sector is currently out of action with two broken legs.'

The President's eyebrows tweaked upwards. 'Skiing accident, right?'

'Right. How did you know that?'

The President smiled. 'Just a calculated guess. Switzerland. The ski season.'

'That's true. But it did happen at Leysin where the Schoch Institute is located.'

Again, the President's eyebrows tweaked. 'They think there's some connection?'

'They don't know. The matter is still under investigation.'

The President leaned back in his chair. 'So ...should we be making a media release about this?'

It was her call. And she enjoyed that. She was the one in charge of this story. She didn't tell him about the call from Lincoln Gale who wanted her to persuade the President to issue a public statement condemning the research being conducted at the Schoch Institute. That didn't fit her agenda. For the moment she wanted the White House to watch this story unfold from the wings.

'I suggest we wait,' she told the President. 'See what unfolds.'

The President nodded. 'Good advice,' he said. 'We don't want to pre-judge these events, do we?' The question was more to himself. He closed the file. 'Thank you Francesca,' he said.

She didn't take her cue and rise from the table. 'There is one other thing, Mr President,' she said, cautiously. 'I have a small confession to make. A matter of personal interest in this that I need to declare to you.'

That got the President's undivided attention. 'And what's that, Francesca?' he asked her, studying her face.

'My father was cryopreserved at the time of his death in 2004.'

The President looked surprised. 'Really?'

'Yes.'

The President knew all about Francesca's father. General Eisenhower Young, the youngest military commander in the United States to be made a five-star general at the age of forty-two. Named after Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe during the Second World War and America's thirty-fourth President, General Young had won a purple heart in Vietnam and had gone on to become a military commander in the Gulf War of 1990. He later played a key role in the ill-fated Iraq War, where he had been seriously injured in a bomb blast; injuries that claimed his life several weeks later. The President had opposed the management of the Iraq War by his predecessor, George W Bush, but that had nothing to do with his appointment of Francesca as his White House Chief of Staff. Talent was talent and her father had been just doing his duty as a loyal American. It triggered one thought though.

'Cryopreservation is not illegal, Francesca, despite what Professor Lincoln Gale would want us to enact. Your father had every right to choose that form of burial. Though it does clarify one thing for me. If I recall, your family turned down a full military burial at Arlington cemetery for your father, choosing instead to have him interred in a private family plot. Shorthand for cryopreservation I presume?'

'Correct,' Francesca said.

'And in my judgment that doesn't disqualify you from being involved in this matter. After all, you will not be making the final decisions on these issues.'

But I do intend to influence them, Francesca was thinking.

They both looked up at the mute television screen where Lincoln Gale was mouthing words at the audience that they couldn't hear. If he was aware of her revelation, Francesca was in no doubt that he would want her removed from any involvement in this matter. The President seemed to read her mind.

'Probably best though that we keep your revelation a secret for the time being between the two of us,' he told her.

'Thank you Mr President,' Francesca said.
Chapter 12.

The Schoch Institute

THERE WAS AN AIR OF FEAR still remaining in at least the upper precincts of the Schoch Institute. A week had passed since the raid on Level One. The local police and Interpol had been on the premises investigating the crime, but appeared to have little in the way of leads. Hanna was interviewed along with the other hostages and she passed on her sighting of the stick insect tattoo she had observed on the lower back of the female in the gang. The police noted that down but made no comment.

The gaggle of television and news crews who had finally previously dispersed from the car park had returned for several days to cover the story. Ljudmila refused to speak publicly until the police had completed their initial inquires, but after that she became a lot more accommodating to their requests for coverage, consenting to interviews and allowing crews to film the area where the raid had taken place. The story that went world-wide out through the networks, including the CNN network, got as much coverage as the original Methuselah story and a lot more detail to back it up. The only exception was Methuselah Man. He was still being monitored and off limits to the media, she told them. Despite all the publicity, no conclusions as to who these masked intruders were had yet come to light.

Speculation though was rife. Candidates for the culprits ranged from organized crime, unscrupulous governments, rival research centres and "pro-life" groups around the world who saw attempts to prolong life and resurrect dead frozen bodies as an outrage against humanity. Even the Catholic Church had been accused of being complicit in this crime and it was rumoured that the writer, Dan Brown, was considering writing a novel about it.

All this attention and the trauma of what had happened made the resumption of any kind of normality of life and work at the Schoch Institute difficult. But Ljudmila had displayed a side to her that Hanna hadn't encountered before. The aloofness she associated with Ljudmila had been softened by a more caring side, which focused on the experience that some of her employees had been through. Ljudmila had brought in trauma counselors from Geneva to work with the staff and had personally spent time with all of them. It wasn't sufficient though for some of them. Of the twenty something scientific staff working on Level One, eight of them, including Cara Bell, had announced they were leaving. And after being interviewed by the police, the snake-charmer Randy Ryman, victim of the tasering, had gone on indefinite leave.

Hanna was also considering her position. This had been the most traumatic event in her life to date. Far more traumatic than breaking up with Michael. Michael. He was part of the mix that was making her re-assess her future at Schoch. His words about danger had turned out to be true. But surely that was just a coincidence. He couldn't have known there was going to be a raid on the Institute. Could he? It didn't make any sense. Maybe it was the trauma that made her blurt all this out in her session with Ljudmila.

When she told Ljudmila about Michael she certainly got an expression of interest. 'So this ... Michael warned you of danger?' Ljudmila said. 'What possible danger could you be in coming here, my dear? Apart from what happened the other day.'

'I can't believe Michael had anything to do with this,' Hanna said. 'He's a banker not a criminal.'

Ljudmila's face was sombre. 'Maybe,' she said. 'But I should pass that information onto the police. It should be checked out.'

'If you must,' Hanna said. Serves him right, she was thinking. Making up stuff like that. He deserved to have Interpol come knocking on his door. She hoped they would do it at his home with his wife present.

'Has Michael contacted you since you've been here at the Institute?' Ljudmila asked her.

'He tried. But I never answered his messages. The relationship is over.'

'Then you must promise me that you won't contact him until the police have checked this out. If he is involved that would only arouse his suspicion.'

He couldn't be involved, Hanna was about to say. He might be a bastard when it came to love, but he wasn't a criminal. 'I promise,' she said.

Ljudmila looked pleased. 'You're a great asset to the Institute, Hanna,' Ljudmila smiled, warmly. 'And despite everything that's happened, I don't want to lose you. The project that you're working on is very important to me. In terms of personal safety, I have instructed Pierre to review security here at Schoch and investigate why our current security arrangements were breached.'

Pierre De'Thierry. That raised another matter. 'Did Pierre tell you about the man on the skifield from the American Embassy?' she asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila nodded. She fixed Hanna with a stare that seemed to come more from her brown eye than her green one. 'He did, Hanna,' she said calmly. 'The U.S. Government has always opposed the kind of research we conducted in the Methuselah Project. So it's little wonder they tried to poke their nose in and take an interest through you. You did the right thing though by telling Pierre.'

Hanna felt a chill creep along her skin. 'Was Pierre responsible for Ramsay's accident?' she asked with widening eyes.

Ljudmila looked offended. 'Deliberately broke his legs you mean? Of course not. Do you think I employ thugs? The only thugs around here are the ones who broke into our establishment.'

And then another thought crossed Hanna's mind. 'You don't think the American government was behind the break-in do you?'

Ljudmila's expression was inscrutable. 'Who knows, my dear. Anything is possible.'

In science anything is possible.

The inscription on Eugene Schoch's headstone. Eugene Schoch. The original brain behind the Methuselah project. Brains. She had another question for Ljudmila.

Ljudmila was smiling; those shark's teeth of hers on display. 'Thank you my dear for this frank conversation,' she was ending the interview. 'We will talk again.' She stood up.

'Wait,' Hanna said. 'There's something else. I think you're being less than honest with me. Case Study 969. A simulated brain that suffers from Huntington's. A brain I think belonging to a live person code named Methuselah. A person named after a biblical character, who reputably lived for nine hundred and sixty-nine years.'

The corners of Ljudmila's mouth turned down a little. But it was impossible to say whether that was a positive or a negative sign. 'That is incorrect,' she said, dismissively. 'The brain you are working on is of a deceased person. And he is not the Methuselah of the Methuselah project. But you are correct in one aspect. I have not given you all the facts.' She reached into a drawer in her desk and produced a photograph. She handed it to Hanna. It was a photograph of an older man, maybe somewhere in his late seventies or early eighties. The face of the man who had appeared twice on Hanna's computer screen. 'This is Professor Eugene Schoch, the founder of this Institute,' Ljudmila told her. 'He died last year from complications arising from Huntington's disease, a condition he did not want to make public. He was eighty-two. A brilliant man and my mentor. Your project is about seeking ways to cure the terrible affliction he suffered from. His case is coded 969 because he was the person who carried out the initial work on the Methuselah project. So it is his signature research if you like.'

'But I've seen him,' Hanna said. 'He's appeared to me out of nowhere twice when I've been viewing the simulation of his brain.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'Yes I know. But what you have seen is a DVD he made himself before his death. Eugene was a bit of a practical joker and an IT-media buff. A person in the IT department has been streaming this DVD into your simulation by way of a joke. Eugene I must say would have approved of the fun. But I take a serious view of the indiscretion and I have given the person concerned a warning. It will not happen again.'

It was plausible. And Hanna had seen his grave up in the cemetery in Leysin. But she also felt a tinge of disappointment. Despite the shock of the seemingly live face rearing up on her computer screen, she had felt a sense of excitement about the possibility of the owner of that virtual brain appearing to seize back his property: the intangible mind claiming the tangible brain.

What some philosophers called the Ghost in the Machine.

'So,' Ljudmila said. 'Will you stay with us and complete this important project?'

'I need to think about it,' Hanna replied.

'Take as long as you need,' the smiling mouth of the Shark replied.

She didn't have to go back to work for a couple of days. But there was a curfew on anyone leaving the compound until an internal investigation had completed its inquiries. She spent most of the time in her room, watching television and thinking about her future. Robert was becoming a good friend – her only real friend at Schoch. She had dinner with him in the formal dining room. He was a passive ear to listen to her tribulations concerning the raid and he offered what support he could. The evening after her meeting with Ljudmila she told him about Case Study 969.

'Did you know Eugene Schoch had Huntington's?' she asked him.

Robert hung his head. 'Yes. But I was instructed by Ljudmila not to tell you. She's always tried to keep it hush hush for some reason. But in the months before his death, Eugene exhibited many of the symptoms you mentioned the first night we had dinner here.'

'I was convinced I was dealing with the brain of Methuselah Man,' Hanna said.

Robert shook his head. 'He doesn't have Huntington's. I'm fairly sure of that.'

'Is there any update on his progress?' Hanna asked.

'Stable apparently. Under constant observation.'

'Where is he being held?'

Robert looked away. 'He's never left Sector B, Hanna. That was just another piece of information to deflect people's interest.'

The brain of Eugene Schoch and the person they called Methuselah Man still on the premises. What else hadn't Ljudmila disclosed, Hanna wondered?
Chapter 13.

New York

MICHAEL GLADE surveyed the busy night streets below from his ninth floor apartment near to Central Park. He stayed in his apartment Monday to Friday, returning to his home at Long Beach on the weekends. Elizabeth didn't seem to mind his absence during the week. She knew he worked late most evenings. And she never asked him questions about work or what he got up to during the week; maybe she already knew. Maybe she was just content with the lavish lifestyle he provided for her and the children. Truth was he did entertain other women here. But the woman he was waiting for tonight was purely a business liaison.

But it did make him think about Hanna. He wondered how her life was at Schoch. Many times he had regretted his involvement in that. He had thought she might've been useful to him working there, but it hadn't turned out that way. Nor had he expected her to completely turn off the contact like that. He had thought her attachment to him had been greater. But now it was time to move on. There were plenty more fish in the sea; plenty more women he could catch with his charm.

The doorbell rang down on the street. He switched on the intercom. 'Who is it?' he said.

'Sophie Maurer,' a voice replied.

He pushed the security button to allow her to enter. There was a knock on his door less than a minute later. He checked the eyehole then opened the door. He had never met Sophie Maurer before so he didn't know what to expect. But he hadn't expected this. The woman who stood in his doorway was maybe in her late twenties with a slim, stunning figure and long white hair framing a pale, unblemished face, the colour of ivory, from which cool green eyes swept over Michael's face. In her hand was a small metal suitcase.

'Come in,' he said.

She entered the apartment. She was wearing a low-cut white dress that matched her hair. His eyes flicked hungrily over her body.

Stunning.

She handed him the case. 'For you,' she said in a voice that sounded European. He took the case, placed it on a table and opened it. It was stuffed with bundles of American dollars. 'It's all there. You can count it if you like.'

He smiled and closed the lid. 'No need,' he said.

She stood there looking around the apartment. She didn't seem in any hurry to leave.

'Can I offer you a drink?' he asked her.

She smiled back at him. 'That would be nice,' she said.

On the busy street below a man in a black Oldsmobile sat by the curb with a pair of night glasses trained on the ninth floor of the building across the street. He had to wait for awhile before he saw Sophie's white profile in the window. He had to wait even longer before he saw a light in the adjoining window turned on. He put the glasses down, rolled up the window and settled back in the seat, closing his eyes. Then he waited.

Michael Glade couldn't believe his luck. It was one of the quickest seductions he had ever achieved. But she had made it easy for him. She obviously fancied him. That was clear from the moment she entered the apartment. After one drink he was leading her to his bedroom. She let him undress her. She was even more beautiful without her clothes. He marveled at the firmness of her beautiful body. He kissed her. Her mouth was eager and she teased him with darting movements of her tongue. She undressed him then. And then she turned away to climb onto the bed.

He noticed it straight away – the strange tattoo on the small of her back. Strange because it was unusual for a body tattoo in his experience; some kind of stick figure, an insect with a green, heart-shaped head and two bulbous eyes. He asked her what it was. She smiled sweetly at him in the dim glow of the lamp by the bed. 'Mantis,' she told him. 'A Praying Mantis.' Her smile broadened. 'It's a symbol of feminine power because the female Praying Mantis eats the male after sex. She bites his head off.'

'Charming,' he said.

She was not a passive lover. She clasped her legs tightly around his back, like the tentacles of an octopus rather than the fragile stick legs of a Praying Mantis, driving her body up into his, matching the rhythm of his thrusting. Her tongue licking on his neck drove him crazy. But he wanted this to last forever so he held himself back. After a time, he rolled her over, mounting her from behind. He liked this position best; it was primitive, a linkage to the basic animal world from which human beings had emerged. And as he drove hard into her the stick insect on her back seemed to be coming alive, its mouth opening with large teeth to devour him. He came in a rush of exquisite bliss, rolling off her onto his back. She turned over too and sat up beside him.

'That was amazing,' he said, breathlessly. 'I'm never going to let you go.'

'And I'm not going to let you go either,' she whispered beside him.

He smiled and closed his eyes.

Fatal

In the blink of an eye she joined her palms together, lifted them high in the air then brought them down in a swift arc hard against his throat, smashing his windpipe. A terrible gurgling noise came out of his throat before his life left him. The Praying Mantis had devoured her mate.

The man in the black Oldsmobile had fallen asleep. He was woken by the tapping on the window. The Mantis climbed into the back of the car. He noticed she still had the metal suitcase in her hand.

'Let's get the fuck out of here,' she said. 'Outta this country.'
Chapter 14.

The Schoch Institute

HANNA FINALLY WENT BACK TO WORK, though she was still to make up her mind about staying on. Of the remaining staff in the Bio-genetics unit she was the only woman left. So much for the gender balance now. And that, she thought, could only increase her vulnerability to the snake-charmer, Dr Randy Ryman. But he was still on indefinite leave. She wondered whether being traumatized by a stun gun had caused the snake to lose his bite.

She went back to work on the simulated brain of Eugene Schoch. His Huntington's had been quite advanced. If he had been still alive any cure would be a challenge indeed. Her first line of inquiry was still stem cell research. As she had told Robert, this was all about building a new house not trying to repair one that was defective. She wanted to replace the defective gene with a brand new healthy one. But there were challenges. What stem cell line would she try and use: an adult stem cell from the hypothetical patient's own body, or an embryonic stem cell from a donor embryo? The latter had greater general promise, but the former had less chance of rejection in the patient's brain. And then there was the problem that Huntington's resided in multi sites. This raised the challenge of accurate targeting when introducing new stem cells into the affected areas. And even if she achieved that, she had to make the new cells perform and signal the correct function to occur in the brain. There was then the additional challenge of making the new gene dominant over the faulty gene that still resided in the brain. If the faulty gene remained dominant then the treatment would be a failure. And finally, she had to avoid the infusion of a new gene causing unplanned side effects like mutant tumours. There was much to work on.

A couple of nights later she went back to her room after work to change for dinner. She was about to slip into some fresh clothes when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to find Robert in the corridor. He was holding a bunch of flowers.

'For you,' he smiled. 'To cheer you up.'

She blushed. 'Thank you,' she said. 'That's very sweet of you.' She invited him in.

'Mountain lilies,' he said. 'Pretty much all you can get this time of the year.'

'Do they grow them here?' she asked. 'Inside the compound?'

He shook his head. 'No. I was able to get a curfew pass to buy them in Leysin.'

'Thank you,' she said again. She placed the lilies in a vase of water and invited Robert to take a seat in one of the two chairs in the room. She joined him in the other one.

Robert looked around the room. He seemed a little nervous. 'So,' he said, finally bringing his eyes back to hers. 'Have you decided what you're doing?'

She smiled at him. 'I don't know. I feel confused. What do you think I should do?'

His nervousness increased. He drew a deep breath. 'I'd like you to stay,' he said.

'As a friend?'

He held her gaze. 'More, if you want.'

She had found Robert attractive the first day she had met him. Those mysterious neurons in the cerebral cortex had given her the signal. But in her escape from Michael, a new man, a new relationship was the last thing on her mind. So she turned the signals off. 'I didn't know you felt like that,' she said. 'English reticence?'

'I'm not English,' he reminded her. 'I'm from New Zealand.'

'But your country was settled by the English wasn't it?'

'After the indigenous Maori people, yes. And substitute the American Indian, much the same as your country.'

Hanna grinned. 'But we're a lot more pushy.'

'Not me,' Robert smiled back.

'No you're not Robert. And I like that.'

He looked away. 'I guess I didn't know whether the feeling might be reciprocal. Still don't.' He forced a small laugh. He stood up. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't have said any of this.'

She stood up too. 'No. Please, wait. I like you a lot, Robert. I just thought there must be someone else in the picture somewhere. Cos you're a very attractive man.' She remembered the words of Cara Bell the English nurse and laboratory assistant. 'And a nice one too,' she added.

Robert looked away. 'There's no one else,' he said.

Hanna took his hand. 'And I was coming off a bad relationship, you know. My mind was elsewhere.' She smiled into his eyes. 'I'm flattered,' she said.

He put out his arms and drew her to his side. He loosened her long dark hair and kissed her. His lips and his hands were gentle; not too rushed. She led him slowly to the bed. It was too early to know whether the relationship would last. But for now she wanted someone to be close to; to remind her what it meant to be human.

In the morning when she awoke Robert was already dressed and he had made her a cup of tea. She smiled up at him and sighed. 'Last night was nice,' she said.

He smiled back at her. 'For me too. So have you decided? About staying on?'

'Let's see how things pan out,' she told him.

He left before she got up. After she showered, she sat down at the PC on the desk. She clicked on the Net and brought up yesterday's copy of the New York Times on line as she did every morning. She scrolled through the headlines, pausing where a news item took her attention. And then she saw it on page six. She stared at the headline.

PROMINENT NEW YORK INVESTMENT BANKER MURDERED

Her heart leapt in her chest as she read further.

Michael Glade, a prominent New York investment banker was found dead in his New York apartment yesterday. Police are treating the incident as homicide.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Chapter 15.

Beverley Hills, Los Angeles, California

JEFFERSON PIKE sat by the heated indoor pool, housed in the long solarium that ran the length of his Hollywood mansion. In the pool, three nubile young woman in the skimpiest of swimsuits frolicked in the water: blonde Samantha, brunette Corby and chestnut Charlene, or alternatively, Miss Boudoir, January, April and September. They lived in the mansion for free for the term of their contract. Jefferson was the founder and majority shareholder of Boudoir Magazine – a popular glossy bought by a clientele existing mainly of men. He had been forty years in the business and had built a multi-million dollar empire in a field full of competition like Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler.

Boudoir's market niche was unadulterated sex, no pretence at social commentary, just plain erotica – male erotica, presented now in addition to the magazine on DVD and on-line. Boudoir had its critics of course, they periodically asked State Legislatures to ban Boudoir products and if that didn't work some of these groups would burn the products in publicized protests. And all this publicity had made Jefferson Pike very rich. But there was a problem. The money had ceased to be important. Jefferson had houses in Miami, the Bahamas and Italy and France. He had enough wealth to live forever but his body was losing its way. He had always been a star, both publically and privately of his own publicity. He had always walked the talk in his own magazines and videos – fronting up in person to Boudoir's infamous byline: "Bedrooms are for sleeping; boudoirs are for bonking." He laid emphasis on his Christian name: Jefferson – his namesake a father of the American Constitution, and him a pioneer of the human constitution, namely the physical, sexual body. But now, at eighty-two years old his body was failing. He was a former stud whose star had faded; a stallion thrust out to grass.

He looked at the playmates in the pool. And that was exactly it. He could only look these days at those sensual shapes. The mind responded, that was the cruelest fate of all. But the old, worn-out body stayed on the sidelines, asleep. Even the wonder men's drug, Viagra, wouldn't arouse that slumbering body anymore. So he was looking forward to the man who was coming to see him.

He arrived on time. Miguel, Jefferson's valet, announced the visitor. Miguel was an ageing Hispanic, long-serving in Jefferson's employ. His age was a deliberate selection. Jefferson didn't have any young males on his staff. He wanted no youthful testosterone competing with the boss. He wanted the playmates to be on call for him. But currently, he was a doctor without a stethoscope.

The doctor who joined him beside the pool didn't have a stethoscope either, but he had a black briefcase in his hand, which possibly contained more amazing secrets than any doctor's surgery in the world. He held out his hand.

'Mr Pike. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been an avid reader of your magazine for years.' The doctor's eyes traveled along the indoor pool to where the young women were still splashing around like young, excited children at a beach. He wondered what the source of their excitement was. It couldn't be an expectation of receiving Jefferson Pike in the boudoir. Pike looked like a dried up log of driftwood abandoned above the waterline. Even his grey hair looked lifeless, like strands of kelp stuck to the old log beneath. 'How are you today?' he asked Jefferson Pike.

'The same as any other day,' Jefferson said, grumpily. 'I hope you've come here to change that.'

Jefferson Pike noticed the doctor's roving eye. And he took in the full profile of the much younger man standing over him. Dr Seymour Willey was probably in his thirties, immaculately dressed, suave of manner, with a Californian tan suggesting he could be a lifeguard and not a famous Hollywood cosmetic surgeon. But it wasn't cosmetic surgery Jefferson Pike wanted from Seymour Willey. That was about changes to external appearance; changes that would sooner or later succumb to age. It was changes on the inside that Jefferson Pike wanted; permanent anti-ageing and the rejuvenation of youth that this Methuselah Gene apparently offered. And that was what Seymour Willey claimed to be in possession of – the elixir of youth stolen from some research centre in Switzerland.

Jefferson had followed the story in the media. And then someone called from the Long-Life Foundation and offered him the deal. It was a very covert operation, they said. Offered in total secrecy. Jefferson didn't want to know the hows and whos of what some media outlets were calling the Hormone Heist. He just wanted to be part of the process on a trip to immortality. And he couldn't imagine the Swiss getting too excited about their discovery. They were as cold as their winter, not hot-blooded hedonists like himself and Seymour Willey. But if he had been able to visit the Schoch Institute he would seen that Dr Randy Ryman might have been a cousin of Seymour Willey (apart from the Californian tan).

Seymour Willey opened his briefcase. 'I just need to confirm your treatment date and answer any questions,' he said.

Jefferson Pike looked up at him through a tired eye. 'How long before I see any effects?' he asked.

Seymour Willey spread his hands. 'A couple of months maybe. It depends. Each recipient is different. The full effects might take much longer.'

'And the treatment might not work at all. Right?'

'Right,' Seymour Willey agreed. 'As I said, each recipient is different.'

'And if it doesn't, no refunds, right?'

'Right. The costs of treatment will still have been incurred.'

'You tried this?' Jefferson asked.

Seymour Willey shook his head. 'Not yet. At five hundred thousand dollars the cost is a bit prohibitive for me.'

Surely not, Jefferson was thinking. This man had half of Hollywood on his books.

It was expensive, given that there was no absolute guarantee it would work, Seymour Willey was thinking. And that bothered him a little. He had his reputation to think about. But he was sure that if it all turned out to be a fizzer, his clientele would stand behind him, on the basis that he had already given them a least a taste of the fountain of youth. And there was the commercial side. He stood to make fifty per cent of all transactions. 'Compare the price with cryopreservation,' he told Jefferson Pike. 'Since the story about Methuselah Man hit the media the price of cryopreservation has doubled to around three hundred thousand dollars. And then there's the added cost of restoring the body to life. This treatment you can get while you're still alive, making it very competitive.'

Jefferson nodded. He had already decided to have a punt both ways. He had signed up for cryopreservation when the Methuselah Man story hit the headlines. But in the interim this had to better than being frozen on ice after his death until they revived him. He handed Seymour Willey a piece of paper. 'Here's the check,' he said. 'Where do I sign? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.'

Seymour produced the contract.

After the contract was signed, Jefferson instructed Corby, Miss April Boudoir, to show Seymour Willey off the premises. She led him to the back doors of the mansion, then asked him, 'You're the famous cosmetic surgeon, aren't you?'

'I am,' he agreed.

She twirled her long dark hair and leaned up against the door, preening herself in a provocative pose. 'Do you think my body needs you?' she asked him with a sultry smile.

He looked her up and down. Her skimpy swimsuit left little to be imagined. 'I do,' he smiled back at her. He reached into his pocket and produced a card. 'My private card,' he said. 'Give me a call anytime you like.'

'I will,' she said. She rubbed her bare back up and down on the door. Like a cat with fleas.
Chapter 16.

Beijing, the People's Republic of China

LING YIN AND LING YANG sat in a teahouse not far from the Great Hall of the People behind the famous Tiananmen Square. There were a few other people in the teahouse, locals not tourists, but no one seemed to be paying the two men any attention. That might have been surprising, given that both of them were very prominent in their own fields in the People's Republic. But they weren't media fodder and both of them shunned publicity as much as possible.

Both in their mid forties, they were twins, but not of the identical kind. Maybe with foresight that was why their parents had named them after the ancient Chinese philosophical concept of Yin-yang, a philosophy of opposites. Physically, they were certainly opposites. Ling Yin was short and slight of build, whereas Ling Yang was more of medium height and of a much burlier build. And they had pursued divergent careers as well. Ling Yin had studied medicine, eventually becoming a general surgeon and working in some of China's top hospitals. With the relaxing of State Communism in terms of allowing more capitalism in the economy under Deng Xiaoping and then Jiang Zemin, Ling Yin had formed his own private clinic and now specialized in stem cell surgery. His business was booming and people came from all over the world seeking treatment for a variety of illnesses.

His twin brother, Ling Yang, had studied economics at the London School of Economics before pursuing a career in the military, working his way up to the status of a General in the People's Liberation Army. While committed to the Communist State, he too had prospered under the relaxation of restraints on freedom of enterprise, becoming a partner in his brother's medical business. So he was not at all opposed to private providers like his brother making money primarily off foreigners who came seeking a cure. It helped fuel the burgeoning Chinese economy and brought in much-needed foreign exchange.

In the philosophy of the Yin and Yang, Yin is the shade and the feminine side. Yang is the sun and the masculine side, bringing with it more aggression than calmness. And this was true of the personalities of Ling Yin and Ling Yang, but as in the ancient philosophy, neither was completely autonomous, for each also becomes the other. And so it was through the tight familial bonds that joined Ling Yin and Ling Yang. Their conversation today, out of the watching eyes of their peers, was about the Methuselah Gene and the stolen research from a clinic in Switzerland. Ling Yin had been given access to this stolen research and planned to implement it in his clinic.

'The potential for this is unimaginable,' Ling Yin told his brother in Mandarin. 'The anti-ageing industry is a trillion dollar business that has the capacity to outstrip the other big players like food, education and tourism.'

Ling Yang was watching his brother's face. He had never seen him quite so excited. 'So how does this help China?' he asked. 'We already have too many people to feed. We have a one child per family policy. You want to make people live longer? What will that do to our society?'

Ling Yin looked at his brother quizzically, as if he had just asked a silly question. 'The treatment will not be available to the masses,' he said. 'That would destroy us all.'

'Just to those who can afford it?' Ling Yang followed up. 'Like members of the Politburo, you mean?'

His brother's face was now expressionless. 'That is not my decision to make, Ling Yang. To me this is mainly about revenue. Millions of American dollars.'

Ling Yang smiled. 'So people like American Christians who believe in an after-life might become immortal here on earth, while we who do not believe in an after-life could achieve the same. That is a strange outcome is it not?'

Ling Yin laughed. 'I do not believe the treatment will ever make people immortal,' he told his brother. 'But it can slow the ageing process, which will have major appeal to people's vanity. But there is much to establish yet as to how effective it might be.'

'And this treatment uses stem cells?' Ling Yang asked.

Ling Yin nodded. 'Yes. The Methuselah Gene is not found in most human bodies. So you need to place it in the body using stem cells. But you cannot infuse the gene into every cell in the body. But by using stem cells you can target key organs that play a major role in the ageing process. The skin is one. Others would be vital organs like the heart, lungs, liver, bladder and kidneys. Another potential area is parts of the brain.'

Ling Yang's eyes widened. 'And this treatment is safe?'

Ling Yin had a detached expression on his face. 'No medical treatment is ever completely safe, my brother. There is always an element of risk.' He smiled. 'That is why I intend to test it on wealthy Westerners first. Further tests on laboratory animals would take years. And we need to become the market leader here.'

'So you have this Methuselah Gene?' Ling Yang asked.

Ling Yin nodded. 'It is supplied by the Long-Life Foundation, a cryopreservation centre based in California.'

'Who stole it from the Schoch Institute in Switzerland?'

Lin Yin shrugged. 'I do not know the details of that. What I know is that there is an organization called The Franchise behind all this. I do not know precisely who they are. But they have established franchises for this treatment in California, London, Moscow and here. That is only four treatment centres. So it is a very exclusive franchise.'

'And the cost of this franchise to us is five million American dollars. That is a lot of money, Ling Yin.'

Ling Yin shook his head. 'The recommended retail price for the full Methuselah treatment is five hundred thousand dollars, minus a twenty percent commission to the Franchise. I intent to cut our price to three hundred thousand dollars. So, deducting the commission on the full amount, to recover our investment we only need to treat twenty-five patients before we become profitable. Twenty-five people willing to pay for restored youth and a longer life out of a world population of nearly seven billion people. That is surely achievable, Ling Yang.'

Ling Yang nodded. 'And this ... cryo ... rejuvenation of the dead?' he asked his brother. 'The Swiss clinic has perfected this too?'

'So it would seem. But there will be many ethical objections to doing this in the West. So here is another multi-million dollar opportunity for us. China could also become the cryonics capital of the world.'

Ling Yang was staring at his brother. Ling Yin's enthusiasm was unstoppable. 'So you intend to resurrect a dead body like this Methuselah Man?' he asked his brother.

Ling Yin spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. 'The research stolen from the Schoch Institute is incomplete on that treatment,' he said. 'But I believe I can perfect it. I just require a suitable candidate; one freshly preserved. Ideally, a rich Westerner.'
Chapter 17.

The Seymour Willey Clinic; Beverly Hills

THE SEYMOUR WILLEY CLINIC was situated off Sunset Boulevard near the Bel Air Country Club. The building was all new and shiny; straight, clean lines with a lot of metal and mirror glass to hide the activities that went on inside. This was where the rich and the famous came to have cosmetic corrections to beautify or restore what they believed to be flawed. And now there was a new treatment on offer for the latter; a treatment not advertised to the general public, reserved for a selected, discrete few with a spare half a million dollars to invest in the quest for eternity.

One of those seekers had his driver park the limo in the private parking lot, where the driver helped his employer's personal assistant to offload the wheel chair from the car. Jefferson Pike got out of the car. He could walk, but the arthritis in his knees made it painful, so he preferred to be pushed around by an assistant. And today his assistant was Miss January Boudoir, Samantha, his favourite girl. Blonde Samantha guided him in the motorized chair into the Seymour Willey Clinic nearby.

The interior of the clinic was as modern as the interior; lots of chrome and glass. Posters on the wall proclaimed the promises of anti-ageing and the benefits of staying young. It was summed up by a large poster on one wall:

AGEING IS A DISEASE

WE CAN PUT IT IN REMISSION

There were photographs of middle-aged women; before and after - from wrinkles to unlined skin, from double chins to single cups, from sagging breasts to bouncing balloons, from rounded figures to raunchy bodies. Jefferson gave it a cursory glance. He wasn't interested in temporary fixes. He wanted the changes long-term; changes from the inside out. Samantha pushed him up to the reception counter. There was a bevy of young women behind the counter, all groomed to advertise the products they were promoting. Jefferson ran his practiced eye over them. There were potential boudoir bedmates here, he noted. Maybe he would approach some of them later, but for the moment his mind was on other things.

'Mr Pike,' one of them enthused over the counter. She knew exactly who he was, her white smile and her flashing eyes making a pitch for his attention. 'Welcome to the Willey clinic.'

I'd like to put my old willy inside you, Pike was thinking. And that was mainly why he was here. It might have been a crude thought to some, but the mind of Jefferson Pike seldom surpassed such thoughts, apart from thinking about money.

'I'll take you to your room,' the wannabe boudoir queen said.

And then a newcomer entered the clinic. A woman maybe in the twilight of her thirties, Jefferson thought; attractive in face and figure with dark skin tones and hair the colour of crimson. Jefferson's eyes lingered a moment on the appearance of the new arrival. Boudoir Magazine had a section called Mature Boudoir Bedmates - photo-shoots of women from their mid-thirties on. He could see this woman contained in his pages. But this was no time for business.

The receptionist ushered him and Samantha out of reception and along a narrow corridor. There were cubicles off the corridor with most of the doors closed. But one was open and Jefferson took a double take at the figure reclining on a bed in the room.

'Stop!' he commanded Samantha. He angled his wheelchair towards the door to the room.

'You can't go in there!' the wannabe boudoir receptionist insisted. 'We have strict rules about privacy here.'

'Rules are made to break,' Jefferson growled.

Jefferson's observation proved to be correct. The man lying on the bed was Tony Supero – notorious Mafia Godfather of the western states who ran major gambling operations in Vegas and Reno. Jefferson had met Supero on several occasions; fundraising, charitable dinners to put a benevolent face on the true nature of both men's operations.

'Tony,' Jefferson greeted the Mafia boss.

'Jefferson,' the mafia man smiled at Pike, like an alligator confronting a stray swimmer in a swamp. 'What brings you here?' He raised a hand. 'Don't tell me. A nose job.' He laughed, showing his yellowing teeth. 'You've needed it for years.'

'Minor surgery,' Jefferson corrected him. 'Some improvements to make me feel younger.'

Supero looked at him through probing eyes. Supero was probably twenty years younger than Jefferson, but his face was as rough and leathery as the skin of that alligator. Supero was a rich man. His presence here was unlikely to be about Botox, Jefferson thought. He had to be here for the Methuselah treatment. It was the most likely explanation.

'Maybe we're here for the same treatment, Tony,' Jefferson said. 'There was once a man called Methuselah. The only man to really know about eternal life I believe.'

Tony Supero grinned. 'I look forward to having this conversation in nine hundred years time,' he said.

'We have to go,' the receptionist insisted. She motioned Samantha to wheel the chair out of the room.

Jefferson's cubicle was further down the corridor. The receptionist left, but not before she flashed another warming smile at Jefferson Pike. An older nurse arrived. She looked sweetly at Samantha.

'Your daughter?' she said to Jefferson.

'I'm his lover,' Samantha pouted at the nurse.

Was, Jefferson thought. That's why I'm here. To get the spark back.

The nurse's face betrayed her disgust. 'This is a hospital not a bordello,' she said, disapprovingly. 'And you can't stay here. This is a private procedure between the doctor and his patient.'

Jefferson pressed Samantha's hand. 'Wait in reception, doll,' he said. 'I'll be fine, doll,' he told her. 'Come back and see me tomorrow.'

Samantha forced a smile to the nurse. 'Look after him,' she said. 'He needs lots of care and attention. Some of it I'm sure you couldn't possibly give him.' She wheeled around and strutted out of the room.

The nurse turned to Jefferson. 'Roll up your sleeve!' she commanded. 'I need to take your blood pressure. And have you fasted as per our instructions?'

'Of course,' Jefferson said. Nurse nightmare. She could be a special feature in the next edition of Boudoir magazine: the reason why some men murder their wives.

Seymour Willey looked at his schedule. Methuselah treatments for Jefferson Pike and Tony Supero. Both leads he had followed and secured. Prominent conversions. After commission, eight hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Fifty per cent for him. But there was the woman in the office. A Colette Mason who had arrived without an appointment. Cosmetic intervention no doubt. He would see her briefly before dealing with Pike and Supero.

One of his receptionists ushered Colette Mason into his office. She sat down in a chair opposite him.

'So ... Miss ... Mrs ..Mason ..' he began.

'Ms,' she corrected him.

'How can I help?' His gaze traveled over her body. Cosmetic surgery could enhance anyone. But in her case there didn't appear to be any glaring deficiencies. She already had an imposing bust, he noted. Maybe that was the problem. He wasn't expecting her reply.

'I want the Methuselah treatment,' she told him.

He stared at her. Who was she? She was not someone on his target list. He hadn't approached her. And her name was not one he recognized. Could she be a law enforcement officer? What he was doing was not illegal. Unless they thought he was part of the criminal raid in Switzerland. Which he wasn't.

'I provide cosmetic surgery,' he said. 'I don't know anything about this Methuselah treatment.'

'I think you do,' the woman smiled. 'And I have the money. Half a million dollars, right? How would you like it? Bank transfer or cash?'

'I need to know more about you,' Seymour said, cautiously.

Her smile broadened. 'I can supply you with medical records if you wish. But the rest of my personal background must remain off record. Let's just say that I work for a very large and powerful organization,' Francesca Young replied.
Chapter 18.

The Schoch Institute

HANNA WAS TRYING HARD to re-adjust to life at the Schoch Institute. After the trauma of the robbery she might have quit like many of the others, like her friend, Cara Bell had. Cara told Hanna that she had saved her life by stepping forward and challenging the gunman (gunwoman actually). 'She was probably bluffing,' Hanna tried to dismiss her bravado; bravado that had surprised even Hanna herself.

'I can't stay here,' Cara said. 'I have nightmares about it. I need to move on and find fresh pastures.'

And so Cara had left Schoch for places unknown.

There were only two things that made Hanna remain. The first was Robert. They were getting on well together. She liked reserved Robert and his dry sense of humour. He made her laugh and that was a panacea in these troubling times. And in their more intimate moments together he was a patient, gentle and caring man to be sharing her bed with. But she was cautious. For the moment, they both kept their own apartments, visiting each other by mutual arrangements. Relationships could be enjoyable, but ultimately fail the test of longevity. Short term success did not necessarily equate to long-term surety. Michael was proof of that.

Michael. She had been shocked by what had happened to Michael. Michael was certainly a rat-bag, in the way he had treated her. But that didn't approve of someone killing him in his New York apartment. Poor Michael. He hadn't deserved that, surely? She thought often about the warning from Michael in relation to the Schoch Institute. She might have dismissed it as mischief on his part to prevent her leaving their relationship behind. But then came the robbery. Was that just coincidence, she asked herself over and over again. According to subsequent reports in the New York Times the motive for Michael's murder was still unknown. It may have been robbery as his apartment had apparently been ransacked, suggesting the killer, or killers, were looking for something.

But also intriguing was a later revelation that Michael's body had been found naked in his bed with his death attributed to a broken neck. And DNA samples from another person were also found on his body. An affaire gone wrong perhaps? But the police believed that the blow which had killed him had been a human hand, delivered with such velocity to be most likely the hand of a male. A jealous husband or boyfriend maybe, who had discovered Michael with his partner? The New York police were continuing their inquiries. And as the weeks rolled by the story soon vanished from the pages of the New York Times. But it wouldn't vanish for his family, Hanna thought. They would want an explanation; closure from this horrible event that must have ruptured their lives. Maybe one day the case would be solved. Or maybe it would be better for his family that it never was. But Hanna had to leave all this behind her. She had to keep telling herself that she was not responsible for Michael's death. Michael had chosen to live the way he did. And whatever had happened in his New York apartment was not her fault.

When not with Robert she immersed herself in her work – the other reason that kept her at Schoch. Now with the knowledge that she was working on the simulated brain of a person deceased, she felt more relaxed about being experimental with her research. She could be adventurous, try things that might lead to blind alleys without fear of endangering the life of a subject who was still alive. And as Ljudmila had told her, while it may be too late to cure Eugene Schoch, if she was successful many others would benefit in his memory. And she didn't have the drooling Randy Ryman to contend with either. He was still on long-term extended leave.

In his role as Communications Director, Robert was busy dealing with PR in relation to the robbery. The local police and Interpol apparently still had no leads as to who had stolen the Methuselah research. Pierre De'Thierry's investigation into security at Schoch on the day of the raid had uncovered no breaches, apart from the fact that two of his five staff had been on leave at the time. Somehow the thieves had short-circuited the alarm and surveillance system on Level One. One of Robert's tasks was to try and establish where the stolen information on the Methuselah research might have ended up. He had been surfing the Internet, looking for sites where the thieves might be advertising their new-found booty. And he had made some progress.

He showed Hanna a summary of his findings.

Alcor Life Extension Foundation

Cryonics Institute

American Cryonics Society

Longevity Research Centre

Youth Elixirs Corporation

The Long-Life Foundation

'The first three are well established cryonics organizations in the U.S.,' he told her. 'They have several hundred cryopreserved bodies between them. So they would be excited about Methuselah Man. But the only website where I can find any trace of a possible connection with the robbery is the Long-Life Foundation. Their website comes perilously close to claiming they are in possession of new knowledge to help make people become immortal. I've tried to make contact with them but they don't reply.'

'They probably want to see the colour of your money,' Hanna said.

Robert nodded. 'I've given this information to Ljudmila. She's passed it onto the police.'

Methuselah Man. He of course was the cause of all this. But Ljudmila had imposed a curfew over all information relating to Methuselah Man.

'There will be no further announcements about Methuselah Man until those responsible for stealing our research have been apprehended,' Ljudmila had instructed Robert. This was the line Robert gave to various world media who were still covering the story. But like the murder of Michael Glade, after a time, the Methuselah story all but disappeared from the centre media stage. Attention spans were limited to sound bites these days.

And no one within Schoch seemed to have any information on the precise location and condition of Methuselah Man either. Apart from Ljudmila, and possibly Dr Karl Meisman, Director of the Bio-Technology unit, and maybe Pierre De'Thierry, the Director of Security. But they weren't saying anything.

'Perhaps Methuselah Man is dead,' Hanna ventured to Robert. 'Perhaps the treatment wasn't successful long-term.'

'Not according to Ljudmila,' Robert told her. 'She assures me that once the thieves are identified, Methuselah Man will rise like a phoenix from the ashes back into world view. And if he was dead,' he added as an afterthought, 'wouldn't Ljudmila want to publicise that to take the wind out of the thieves sails?'

'But then Ljudmila would lose face,' Hanna responded.

'True,' Robert said. 'But my money's on Ljudmila's version for the moment.'

It was a Wednesday. And Robert had a special treat for Hanna.

'There's a virtual Wild-West show in the pub in Sector B tonight,' he told her. 'Do you want to go?'

She looked surprised. 'Can I?'

'Yes. I've managed to get you a special pass.' Sector B was off limits for Hanna and generally Robert also. But every Wednesday night he had a special pass to visit the community floor in Sector B to play virtual games with some friends. It was a concession Ljudmila had granted him for loyal service, he explained to Hanna. But up to now Hanna had not been granted the same privilege. She didn't mind. It sounded like boys playing with their toys. But on this occasion she wouldn't pass up the opportunity.

'I'd love to go,' she said.

They turned up at the appointed time. There were about twenty 'moles' present. Hanna didn't recognize any of them. It was a strange feeling, seeing all these strangers who lived and worked beneath the earth for long extended periods of time; the moles who carried out the top-secret research at Schoch, including the work on Methuselah Man. Maybe she would finally learn something about his whereabouts and condition. But the moles seemed to want to keep to their own company. His friends weren't present, Robert told her. So they sat together alone at a table.

The bar, or pub, as Robert called it, was a social centre of entertainment in Sector B. This was Eugene Schoch's virtual-created world: Disneyland for the Discerning. Tonight the visual tapestries running around the walls were wild-west frontier: cattle ranches, cowboys, prairies, frontier towns, gambling saloons, bordellos. The bar itself was presented as The Golden Nugget – a saloon populated by real barmen in rawhide suits and bowties. Above the tables where the guests sat, light beams caught you in a column of virtual reality, transforming each person into a character for the set. There were cowboys, cowgirls, ranchers and their wives, dancers, gunslingers and merchants, all enjoying a colourful night out. Robert had been cast as a Sheriff and Hanna as Miss Dolly from the local bordello.

'Charming,' was Hanna's verdict on her assigned character.

'Sexy,' was Robert's.

They ate real barbequed beef steaks with an assortment of salads and vegetables, including what was described on the menu as 'prairie potatoes'. This was followed by a dessert of blueberry pie. The music was honky-tonk, pumped out by a dude in a top hat seated at a piano in the corner of the bar. After dinner there were virtual poker and blackjack games beamed out from the 3-D displays on the walls. And then the highlight of the evening.

They swept into the bar – six of them, in the virtual fabric of the 3-D pulsating walls: in outlaw gear, Stetsons, bandanas, calf-length boots, six-guns blazing in the air. They might have dissolved into the flow of the wallpaper, but in 3-D virtual reality they seemed to emerge out of the walls to confront the jacketed barmen. One of the barmen produced a sawn-off rifle to defend himself. And one of his attackers shot him dead. He fell down behind the bar. And this was a real barman. All part of the show. Another barman surrendered up a tray full of money. One of the attackers grabbed the money and sped away. The others followed, the last of them a woman with pale skin and long white hair, spilling out from a red homburg hat. She was wearing moleskin trousers, a jerkin to match and a short blouse that ended just above her bare midriff. She pointed her large six-gun into the middle of the room and pulled the trigger. There was a bang and a puff of smoke that leapt out of the screen. One of the diners fell forward and off his chair. The crowd screamed. The virtual outlaws disappeared into the backdrop that closed over behind them. The crowd applauded. And the shot dinner guest rose from the floor and resumed his seat.

'Come on Sheriff!' some of the guests were crying out to Robert. 'Get a posse, man and get after them!'

Robert looked sheepish. He turned to Hanna, seeking support.

But Hanna was staring at the wallscreen, at the place where the virtual outlaws had disappeared. Her mind was on the fair woman in the short blouse that ended several inches above her bare, white back. A lower back that had a tattoo engraved on it.

A tattoo of a stick insect.
Chapter 19.

LJUDMILA FIXED HANNA AND ROBERT with a stern stare from behind her desk.

'So what makes you think that these two women might be the same person?' she said to Hanna. 'Apart from this tattoo.'

'Well they did appear to be the same build,' Hanna responded.

Ljudmila moved her head slowly from side to side, as if weighing up Hanna's answer. 'But that's hardly conclusive, is it?' she finally said.

'Surely we can find out more about the woman in the virtual show,' Robert intervened. 'See if there might be some connection.'

Ljudmila folded her hands up under her chin. 'Of course, Robert. I have already instructed Pierre to investigate that.'

Hanna was feeling a little miffed by the conversation. It was almost like she was on trial here. 'I just thought you might be interested in the observation,' she said, a little tartly.

Ljudmila picked up on her tone. 'You did the right thing, Hanna. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. It's just that before we all leap to conclusions here we need solid evidence. And I might say, off the record, you understand, that I have always wondered whether the raid that took place here might have been an inside job.'

Hanna stared at Ljudmila. Inside job. That was an admission she hadn't heard before. The thought had occurred to her, but she had dismissed it as unlikely.

'Pierre has investigated this possibility,' Ljudmila continued. 'But he found no evidence to support it.' Ljudmila spread her hands. 'However, it is not a possibility that I would rule out. I mean, after the incident we lost a number of staff. That was understandable, but maybe one of them, some of them, had other reasons to terminate their employment.'

Hanna was thinking about one of them: Dr Randy Ryman. The sleaze ball that the woman in the raid had shot in the crotch. Why was that? Did that imply that the woman in the raid had some connection to Dr Ryman? But that did not link her to the tattooed woman of the Wild-West show. So she didn't mention it to Dr Gladovitch.

'I will get Pierre to investigate this information further,' Ljudmila concluded the conversation. 'I will keep you informed.'

When Hanna and Robert left Ljudmila's office they discussed the scenario of the raid being an inside job.

'But even if the woman in the film and the woman in the raid are the same person, that doesn't mean the one in the film was ever here in person, does it?' Hanna said. 'She was just an actor in a virtual film. So she wasn't necessarily ever in-house.'

'I'm going to check that out,' Robert said. 'Find out the background to that virtual film.'

He did. He talked to the Schoch Institute's Entertainment Director, who told him that the virtual movie was made by a company called Virtual Fantasy Films, based in Frankfurt. The Entertainment Director told Robert that he had purchased several virtual movies from Virtual Fantasy Films for the Schoch Institute over recent years. 'They are a very popular and successful company,' he told Robert. And he showed Robert a brochure of recent titles in English.

The Crown Jewels Heist

The Storming of Fort Knox

Hold-up at the Golden Nugget

Looters at the Louvre

Highway Robbery

Burglars in Barcelona

Hold-up at the Golden Nugget was the one Robert and Hanna had watched. But from the catalogue there was clearly a common theme. Interesting? Maybe. On a following page there was a cast list with pen portraits of the actors. Robert's eye went straight to the picture of the young woman with the snow-white hair and skin to match, whose green eyes looked almost vacant. The name under the picture said: Sophie Maurer.

'So these people make virtual films about robberies?' Hanna said when Robert told her about his findings. 'So maybe sometimes they do it for real?'

Robert considered that. 'That's hard to believe. I mean, an actor is an actor. But you're suggesting that these people are covert criminals as well.'

'Stranger things have happened,' Hanna said.

'But Ricardo, the Entertainment Director, assured me that the film we saw wasn't shot inside Schoch. It's the virtual technology that makes it appear that way. So as you said, this is not evidence of any inside job.'

Hanna looked thoughtful. 'Unless someone in Schoch employed them to steal the Methuselah research. Someone like Randy Ryman.'

Robert spread his hands. 'You've no proof that Ryman was involved in this, Hanna. And it also presupposes that these actors were also covert criminals. And we've no proof of that either.'

'Keep digging,' Hanna instructed Robert. 'I have a feeling that we might unearth something here.'

She was right. But not in the manner she had expected. The next day she and Robert were having lunch in the Staff Cafeteria on Level Two, when Pierre De'Thierry entered and approached their table.

'Do you mind if I join you?' De'Thierry said in his Francophile English. His raw, weather-beaten features, born of his time outdoors in the French Foreign Legion, now softened by his sunny, golden-teeth smile.

'Be our guest,' Robert said.

De'Thierry sat down. 'Dr Gladovitch tells me you observed a woman in a film with a tattoo, similar to what you saw on one of the intruders during the raid here,' he said.

'Not similar. The same,' Hanna corrected him.

De'Thierry raised his bushy eyebrows. 'From which you have concluded that they must be the same person. But surely it is not unusual for two women to have the same tattoo?'

'But this was a very unusual tattoo,' Hanna replied.

De'Thierry's golden smile broadened. 'And you are an expert on tattoos, Dr Hayes?'

Hanna shook her head. 'No. But the comparison was striking. And the two women in question had the same build.'

'The same build? You mean tall? Short? Skinny? Fat?'

'Slim. Average height.'

De'Thierry seized on that. 'Average? A description that could fit millions of women. And speaking of the masked robber. You never saw her face. Right?'

Hanna stiffened. This was turning into an interrogation. 'Only her eyes,' Hanna told him.

De'Thierry's hard eyes were fixed on her face. 'So the identification is based on eyes and a tattoo?'

'Surely worthy of further investigation,' Robert said, coolly.

De'Thierry nodded. The smile came back. 'I agree, Robert. You were right to bring this observation to Dr Gladovitch's attention. But I believe you are mistaken.' He stood up and glanced towards the door of the cafeteria. 'There's someone I would like you to meet. Her name is Sophie Maurer.'
Chapter 20.

THE WOMAN WHO ENTERED THE CAFETERIA was taller than Hanna remembered from the virtual wild-west show. She was maybe in her late twenties, with a slim, willowy figure and pale skin, on a face framed by long, white hair that fell almost to her waist. 'Sophie's a movie star,' De'Thierry said with his golden smile. 'I think you've seen her in action.'

'We have,' Robert agreed. 'You were very convincing,' he said to Sophie. He was smiling too when he said that, Hanna observed, the smile of a fan not one of a foe; solid Robert melting in the sight of Sophie's sizzling good looks. De'Thierry's gaze was on Hanna, noting that she was still to be won over. 'She only plays criminals in films, not in the flesh,' he taunted Hanna.

Hanna felt a small blush of embarrassment creep through her cheeks. 'It was not an accusation, merely a question,' she replied.

De'Thierry's eyes narrowed. 'A question I trust that has now been answered.'

'I will take the question as a compliment,' Sophie said, demurely. Her green eyes were not vacant now; they were piercing, probing on Hanna's face. She spoke in English, but the German accent wasn't disguised. Unfortunately, Hanna was thinking, the woman in the raid hadn't spoken to provide a comparison. But those eyes. The same colour in both cases. Green. But it was time to back off. De'Thierry had made his case and for the moment she couldn't rebut it without further evidence. But De'Thierry hadn't finished with her yet. He seemed intent on demolishing every shred of her case once and for all.

'There is the matter of the tattoo,' he announced. 'As I told you,' he said to Sophie Maurer, 'Dr Hayes claims she saw the tattoo of a stick insect on the woman criminal who broke in here a couple of months ago. And in your wild-west movie, Dr Hayes thought she saw the same tattoo on you.'

This time there was a small semblance of a smile on Sophie's moistened lips. 'I do have a tattoo,' she agreed. 'It's my trademark.' She turned around and lifted her white blouse. And there it was a few inches above her bottom – a green stick insect with two large oval-shaped eyes. A praying mantis, Robert noted, confirmed immediately by Sophie Maurer. 'I am known in the industry as Mantis,' she told them. Her smile widened. 'According to the Internet, many of my fans now have the same tattoo. So maybe your criminal person is a fan of mine.'

'Sophie's very popular,' De'Thierry added. 'Especially in Europe.'

Plausible, Hanna was thinking. But in exactly the same place? Still plausible.

De'Thierry's smile swarmed in a golden glow of victory. 'I trust this conversation has cleared these matters up,' he proclaimed. 'And I believe that Robert has a catalogue of Sophie's movies that we can purchase if you like.'

Robert was looking at Sophie Maurer adoringly. 'That'd be great,' he said enthusiastically.

Hanna gave him a disapproving glance.

'Sophie is staying overnight,' De'Thierry said. 'She has some training material relevant to corporate communications.' He grinned at Robert. 'Maybe you could meet with her tomorrow morning, Robert, to view some of her wares?'

A smile spread across Robert's face, like a boy who had just been offered a bag of sweets. 'I'd be pleased to,' he said to Sophie.

Sophie gave a soft, sweet smile. But the smile was not to Robert. It was directed at Hanna.

'But for now we'll leave you alone,' De'Thierry said. He and Sophie Maurer headed for the door of the cafeteria.

'You go near that woman and you can forget about coming to my apartment,' Hanna said to Robert, once they had departed.

Robert returned her a silly smile. 'I guess you can't get the primitive hunter-gatherer completely out of the modern man,' he said, lightly. 'But Sophie's just a pin-up girl. You're a real woman.' He pecked Hanna on the cheek.

Hanna forced a scowl. 'Well just make sure you remember that, Robert' she said. 'And confine your hunting to the Internet.'

'So ...,' Robert tried to change the conversation, 'on a more serious note, do you still think she might be the woman in the raid?' he asked her.

Hanna shrugged. The tattoo, the green eyes? Compelling. 'Maybe,' she said. 'I just don't know.'

'Seems unlikely, doesn't it? She's a beauty queen not a bandit.'

'She's an actress Robert. Anything's possible.'

'I just can't see it,' Robert said. 'But De'Thierry, well he's a different kettle of fish. I don't trust that man. Maybe it's the gold teeth.'

'Creepy,' Hanna agreed.

'Worse than Randy Ryman?'

Hanna shook her head. 'No one could be as creepy as Randy Ryman.'

Robert nodded. 'Which brings us back to whether the raid was an inside job. I still think that's got to be a possibility.' He looked thoughtful for a moment. 'And leaving Ryman aside, who at Schoch would be best placed to orchestrate that?'

Hanna read his thoughts. 'The Director of Security.'

'Exactly.'

'But as you said to me about Randy Ryman, you have no proof of that. It's pure speculation.'

Again Robert nodded. 'True. So maybe I need to do some more digging.'

After lunch they returned to their respective offices. Robert set about his task. His starting point was security surveillance on the day of the raid. According to Ljudmila, Pierre De'Thierry had carried out a full investigation of that. But only Ljudmila had seen his report. What had been disclosed was that somehow the thieves had circumvented the alarm and surveillance cameras on Level One where the raid had taken place. There was no disclosure about how they had achieved that.

But Robert had someone he could talk to about that. Peter Bains. De'Thierry had five staff in his unit – a couple of Swiss guys, two gay giants (a couple that everyone called Tweedledee and Tweedledum) and Peter Bains. Robert had got Bains the job at Schoch. He knew Peter's father. Peter was a twenty year old who had gotten in with a bad crowd in England and descended down the slippery slopes of drug addiction. Rehab had apparently cured him and Robert had done him and his father a favour by getting Peter a position at Schoch and promising his father that he would keep a friendly eye on his son. So far, young Peter appeared to be doing a good job. So there was a favour there that Robert could call up. Peter Bains had been on extended leave back in England when the robbery had occurred and had only returned to Schoch a few days ago. When he checked with HR, Robert discovered that Peter was due on duty in a couple of hours time.

To fill in the time, Robert went back to complete some web browsing he had started on the Long-Life Foundation. There were several 'Long-Life' Foundations with websites on the Net. One was based at the Washington University Medical School. Another was a website for non-profit charities to assist the funding of medical research, and another was advertising mattresses. But the one that had taken Robert's interest earlier was offering genetic cures to prevent ageing and to promote the restoration of youth. Stem cell research was among their offerings. As was cryonics. Robert had found several links from the main site to explore. Painstakingly, he worked his way through them. All of them initially seemed promising, but one by one they led him to a dead end.

The last one was a list of scientific advisors endorsing the work of the Long-Life Foundation. Robert's eye scrolled down the list. Until one name stopped him cold on the page. He rang Hanna on her mobile. She answered. He breathlessly told her about the site. 'And guess who's on the list of Advisors?' he said

Hanna didn't have to think about it. The name came flying through her mind like the answer to a question in a quiz. 'Dr Randy Ryman. Right?'

'Right. We've nailed him!'

'Not quite, Robert. You're still working on the assumption that this Long-Life Foundation is behind the stolen research. Still pure speculation.'

'Whose side are you on here?' Robert said grumpily into his phone.

'The side of truth,' Hanna replied. 'As you say, we need evidence to back up any of these allegations.'

When the call ended, Robert clicked out of the Net. She was right of course. If they couldn't tie the Long-Life Foundation to the robbery then Ryman's name on an endorsement list would not signal anything dodgy. He checked his watch. Peter Bains would be on duty now. He set out to find him.

He found Peter in the Security Centre on Level Three. The Security Centre contained a bank of monitor screens that continuously scanned the interior of the building. Peter sat at a desk in front of the monitors by a computer screen. The boy was a different person to the one Robert had first met. He was tidily dressed with a gleam in his eye that suggested his life was definitely on the up. Maybe a girl somewhere in the picture, Robert thought, but didn't ask. They chatted for awhile about Peter's extended leave in England. His father and mother were both well and the family appeared to be all on good terms now.

'Where's Pierre right now?' Robert finally asked.

Peter clicked on an icon on his computer screen. A map of the entire Schoch Institute came up on the screen. Each area on each level had a code written in it. Outside of the building an orange ring was oscillating. 'He's not on the premises,' Peter said. 'He wears a tracking ring on his finger so you can locate him. That orange circle on the side of the screen. That tells me he's currently off site.'

Probably giving Sophie Maurer a tour of Leysin, Robert thought. Trying to woo her, the cunning bastard. 'Have you seen Pierre's report on security the day we were robbed?' he asked Peter.

Peter shook his head. 'No. But I've heard all about it. Must have been awful for those involved.'

'It was,' Robert agreed.

'And they haven't caught anyone yet?'

'No.' Robert sat down in a chair beside Peter. 'So what I don't understand is how they got in here without activating the alarm system.'

Peter considered that. 'Well I guess if they knew what they were doing, it wouldn't be that difficult to disable the alarm system,' he said.

'You mean outside the building?'

Peter nodded. 'Difficult. But possible. The alarms are activated by sensors in the external surveillance cameras. If you knew where the cameras were, or could find them, you would just need to blind the cameras with a cloth or something and that would silence the sensors.'

'But wouldn't that be registered here in the control centre?'

'It would,' Peter agreed. 'But we were short staffed that day. Both Marcel and I were on leave. It's possible that such an incident might have been overlooked.'

Short staffed. How convenient, Robert thought.

'But wouldn't there be a record? Don't you keep tapes of surveillance?' he asked Peter.

Peter nodded. 'We do. They're archived every week. But I'm sure Pierre would've viewed the tape of the day in question.'

'I'm sure he would,' Robert agreed. 'But I wouldn't mind seeing it all the same.'

'No problem.' Peter opened up a folder on the computer. 'What was the date again?' he asked Robert. 'And the time of the break-in?'

Robert told him.

Peter scrolled through an electronic calendar and finally brought up the day. Then he went to the time Robert had given him. 'Level One, right? And they came through the skylight in the roof.'

'Right.'

A black screen came up on the computer. Peter moved his cursor to the toolbar at the top of the screen. The screen blipped grey, then went black again. He did this two more times and in each case the screen went black. 'That's the two exterior cameras in the front of the building and the two on the roof,' he told Robert.

'They were blinded, right?'

Peter didn't answer. He clicked on other icons on the toolbar. The screen remained black. 'Well that's interesting,' he finally said.

Robert stared at the black screen. 'What is?' he asked.

Peter turned his eyes to Robert. 'If the cameras were physically blinded, there would still be a red location line running across the bottom of the screen here. But there isn't.'

'Meaning?' Robert said.

'Meaning that those cameras weren't even operating. They've been switched off.'

Robert drew a deep breath. 'You're sure about that?'

'Positive,' Peter replied. 'And I'm sure Pierre would've noticed that.'

'You would think so,' Robert said.

'Maybe we should ask him?'

'No, Peter.' The words came out fast; too fast. They had a ring of urgency. 'Let me handle this. OK?'

Peter shrugged. 'OK.'

The computer made an audio sound, like a telephone ringing.

Peter clicked back to the map of the building. The orange ring was now inside the building. 'Pierre's back,' he said to Robert.

'Not a word about this, Peter. All right? I need to check a few things out.'

'All right,' Peter agreed.

Robert turned and hurriedly left the Security Centre. As he entered the inner vestibule, he saw De'Thierry and Sophie coming through the security clearance. He didn't stop to greet them but kept on walking until he reached the winding staircase leading to Level Two. But they had seen him. And as he climbed quickly up the stairway, he could feel De'Thierry's hard eyes burning into his back.
Chapter 21.

HANNA WAS PACING AROUND her apartment trying to comprehend what Robert had just told her. 'So if you're right about this Long-Life Foundation and Ryman, could he have switched off the security surveillance?' she asked Robert.

Robert shrugged. 'Possibly. But more likely he would have been working in cahoots with someone else.'

'De'Thierry?'

'It seems to add up doesn't it? There were two staff conveniently on leave and he was in charge of that. And he must've viewed the tape. So if he's innocent, he knows that those cameras were switched off.'

Hanna was trying to see this from all possible angles. 'Maybe it's in his report?' she said. 'Maybe he blamed it on a systems failure or something?'

Robert considered that. 'Maybe. There's only one way to find out.'

'Raise it with Ljudmila?'

'Yes. What other options do we have? Asking De'Thierry won't provide a conclusive answer.'

Hanna had paled a little. 'But if it's not in his report,' she said slowly, 'and we tell Ljudmila, she has to raise it with De'Thierry. And if he's involved in this, he's not going to be very happy with us is he?'

Robert nodded, thoughtfully. 'True. And he won't be happy with Peter Bains either. But what do you suggest we do? Keep it a secret?'

Hanna sat down next to Robert and took his hands in hers. 'We can't,' she said. 'Ljudmila is the boss here. She has to take responsibility for dealing with this.'

'Agreed,' Robert said. He got up and went to the computer console, punching in Ljudmila's contact numbers. The large wall screen in the apartment started flashing red. There was a whirlpool of movement then Ljudmila's face came up on the screen.

'Robert. Hanna,' she said from the wall. 'I hope this call is important. I am rather busy right now.' She sounded impatient.

'Very important,' Robert said. He told her as concisely as he could about Randy Ryman and the Long-Life Foundation.

'There's nothing sinister there,' she interrupted him. 'Professional endorsements are commonplace for medical staff. Surely Hanna knows that? I don't know a lot about the Long-Life Foundation, but I don't have any concerns about their activities. Unless you have proof that they were involved in the robbery here.'

Touché, Hanna thought.

'So is that all?' Ljudmila said curtly.

'No,' Robert said stiffly. He told her all about the surveillance cameras that had been switched off. 'Was that in Pierre's report?' he concluded.

That brought a reaction. 'That is a very serious allegation, Robert. Are you saying that Pierre was behind this?'

'You need to judge that for yourself,' Robert said. 'I'm just giving you the facts.'

A pained expression came onto Ljudmila's face. 'I find that hard to believe, Robert. Pierre's been such a loyal employee, but of course I will investigate this further immediately. In the meantime, please don't leave your apartment.' Her face disappeared from the wall.

Hanna stared at Robert. 'I'm frightened,' she said.

Robert came to her and held her. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll protect you. It's going to be all right.'

Hanna's gaze went to the door of the apartment. She knew he would do his best for her. The hunter-gatherer protecting his mate. But she doubted he would be a match for the Frenchman from the Foreign Legion.

For a big man, Pierre De'Thierry moved swiftly and silently along the corridor that led to the Security Surveillance centre. Inside the centre, Peter Bains sat watching his battery of monitors. He looked up as De'Thierry entered.

'I've been told there's a damaged camera outside front left,' De'Thierry said.

Peter Bains looked surprised. He surveyed one of his screens. 'Seems to be functioning okay,' he said.

'My information is that it's been vandalized,' De'Thierry replied. 'I think we should take a look.'

'Fine,' Bains said. He stood up and followed De'Thierry. They passed through the security gate to the outer vestibule. De'Thierry de-activated the locked entrance door and both men went outside. The cool air cut them like a knife. The black of the night enveloped them, but exterior lighting illuminated the entrance way. There was no sign of any other person. De'Thierry led the way to the left of the compound, to where the surveillance camera was visible attached to an iron stanchion several metres up the side of the building. Bains edged in front of De'Thierry.

'Looks OK to-'

He didn't finish the sentence. There was a muffled crack as De'Thierry pressed the trigger of his Glock 27, the bullet from which tore through Peter Bain's brain killing him instantly. His body slumped to the ground. De'Thierry dragged the body a few metres to a large slab of stone about a metre square with an iron ring protruding from it. He lifted the slab and put it to one side. The light from the building only penetrated a short way down the deep sump that carried surplus stormwater maybe fifty metres down the mountainside. De'Thierry rolled Bain's body into the hole and replaced the stone lid. That's the last time you'll tell stories out of school, scumbag, he thought as he walked away.

He went back inside the compound and returned to the Security Surveillance Centre. Once there he replayed the tape of the outside front left camera. The film had captured the execution. He erased the tape, then tapped into the archives, bringing up the day of the robbery. He erased that too. Then he planned his next move.

Hanna was pacing around the apartment again. 'I think we should get out of here,' she said. 'I feel like a prisoner.'

'And go where?' Robert said.

'I don't know. Somewhere safe.'

Robert came forward and took Hanna in his arms. He could feel the tension in her body. 'I think it's safest to stay put,' he said. 'Don't worry, it's going to be all right. Trust me.'

Hanna broke away from his embrace. She picked up her handbag and rifled through it until she found the business card. She sat down at the computer console and clicked on Outlook.

'What are you doing?' Robert asked her.

'I'm going to email that man from the American Embassy.' She glanced at the card. 'Sheldon Ramsay. Someone needs to know what's going on here.'

Robert breathed out slowly. 'I don't think Ljudmila would approve of that,' he said.

'Screw Ljudmila! Our lives could be on the line here!' She typed Sheldon Ramsay a brief message. She had information, she said, about the theft of the Methuselah research. It concerned the Director of Security at Schoch, Pierre De'Thierry, who was almost certainly involved. Insurance. She said she would like to meet with Ramsay as soon as possible. She clicked on Send then froze on her chair. 'What's going on here?' The alarm was apparent in her voice.

Robert approached the computer. A dialogue box confronted him on the screen.

No connection to the Internet is currently available. Please contact your administrator

'The system's down,' he said.

Hanna grabbed her mobile and dialed Ramsay's number. The phone wouldn't connect. It just kept bleeping. Ashen-faced, she handed the phone to Robert.

'It's been scrambled,' he said.

Hanna's frightened eyes went immediately to the door of the apartment.

Pierre De'Thierry dialed a number on his phone. Sophie Maurer answered a moment later. 'It's Pierre. I need to see you,' he said.

'I'm in my room,' came the reply. 'Number 62.'

'See you shortly,' Pierre told her. He clicked off his phone and took the Glock out of his pocket to check the ammunition. Sophie Maurer would be his next victim. She had put the whole operation at risk. All because of that stupid tattoo above her bum. The tattoo that had put the meddlesome Dr Hayes and her wimp of a boyfriend on his trail. He had to take her out. With her out of the way the cover-up would be almost complete. Then he would deal with Hanna Hayes and Robert Fisher. He slipped the Glock back in his pocket and headed for Room 62.

When he arrived outside her door he checked the corridor. There was no sign of anyone. And the Glock was fitted with a silencer so any neighbours shouldn't be aroused. He pushed her doorbell and was surprised that the door opened straight away. But that wasn't his only surprise. Sophie Maurer was standing in the doorway stark naked. He felt his mouth drain dry and his fingers fidget on the butt of the Glock in his pocket.

'Pierre,' she purred at him, without a trace of embarrassment. 'Is your visit for business or pleasure?' She didn't let him answer. Her hands came swiftly forward and took his, including the one that had been fingering the Glock in his pocket. She drew him into her side and buried her mouth briefly on his lips. Then she pulled her head away but kept a firm grip on his hands. 'Let me load your gun,' she whispered.

'Ce qui?' he said, startled.

She smiled at him. 'You know what I mean. You're a big boy, Pierre, I can tell.' She led him quickly to her bed. He had come to kill her not cavort with her, but the sight of her luscious body meant that his gonads had taken over his brain. He'd taste her first before he killed her. It would be the best and last climax she'd ever have. She was hastily removing his coat and shirt. He removed his trousers, making sure the Glock remained concealed in his pocket. He placed his trousers strategically at the side of the bed. She had her arms locked around his neck. He was in no mood for foreplay. He liked to treat his women rough. He pinned her arms above her head and drove hard into her flesh. She arched her body up into his, murmuring something in German and clasping her legs around his heaving back.

It was short and swift. When he came inside her he rolled onto his back panting for air, his mind slowly returning to the main purpose of his visit. He'd had his pleasure. Now for the business. She sat up quickly beside him and swung her legs off the bed.

'What're you doing?' he started to say.

Too late. He was staring wide-eyed at his Glock that she now held in her hand, pointed at his chest. There was a nano-second when he heard the POP POP as she emptied two bullets into his heart killing him immediately. And then, almost in slow motion, she lowered the gun and shot him again in the crotch.

Sex and death united.

The Mantis had devoured another mate.

A short time later the two giants called Tweedledee and Tweedledum arrived at the room. They wrapped the body in a blood-splattered sheet then stuffed it in a body bag. Several hours later Pierre De'Thierry went to his final resting place at the bottom of Lake Geneva.
Chapter 22.

The White House

THE PRESIDENT scanned his agenda for the day. Francesca's agenda really. She was the conduit between him, his Executive and Washington. She organized his day, controlled his flow of visitors and the information coming into his office. She was the 'Gatekeeper' and he relied on her for the smooth transition of business. Today, like most days, his schedule was busy, but Francesca's planning allowed him enough space to spend time on the most pressing issues of the moment. And there were plenty of those.

Stem-cell research and cryonics rated less in his eyes against the struggling world economy, terrorism, and global warming. But he had given Francesca a commitment to keep these other issues on his radar, even though he knew she had a special interest in these matters.

She arrived in the Oval Office just before nine. As always, she was smartly dressed in designer labels. He had noticed a change in her lately. She was always smiling and a healthy glow seemed to stream off her skin, like rays of sunshine radiating through the room. She just seemed so happy. Maybe there was some new romance in her life. He wouldn't ask her. She would tell him if she wanted to. When he thought about it briefly later, he decided that she suddenly looked ten years younger.

Lincoln Gale and Martin Duvall arrived a few minutes later. Their expressions were much more sombre. It was like they brought a cloudy climate into the room, cloaking out Francesca's sunshine. When they were both seated, the President leaned back in his chair. 'So, gentlemen, Francesca,' he said. 'As you know, I called this meeting for an update on what Francesca has now labeled the Methuselah file. Any developments I should know about?'

Dr Duvall of the National Institutes of Health went first. 'On the matter of centres claiming to be able to treat ageing and disease by therapy, and organizations offering cryonic preservation of deceased bodies, there has been a proliferation in their numbers around the world,' he told the President. 'Most of those centres are visible in Asia, particularly China. But it's happening in other countries as well; namely Britain, France, Germany, Russia, as well as here in the U.S.'

'We need more regulation,' Lincoln Gale of the Presidents Bioethics Council intoned. His pointy features stared across the table at the President. 'We need to stamp out this pseudo-science before it spreads like the cancer that it is.'

'It's not pseudo-science,' Francesca challenged him. 'It's possible-science. And your objections are not about science, they're about ethics.'

'But more regulation may well be an option,' Duvall interceded. 'There are serious safety issues here. And the problem in the U.S. is that these private centres offering therapy are difficult to track down. Some of them are very covert, selective. They don't advertise their services in the open marketplace. They surreptitiously target the wealthy who can afford this. Rumour has it that a single treatment can cost up to half a million dollars.'

No one was looking at Francesca Young when Gale said that. If they had they would have noticed her eyes drop sharply to the floor.

'We have good dialogue in these matters with the governments of Britain, Germany and France,' Duvall continued. 'But we have made little progress with the governments of Russia and China.'

'In this country we should move to close these covert operations down,' Gale said firmly.

'But they're not illegal,' Francesca objected.

'We should make them illegal,' Gale declared.

The President sat back in his chair. 'There is a slight problem there, Lincoln,' he addressed Gale. 'The Society for Cryonics Advancement in America made a multi-million dollar donation to my election campaign.'

Gale's face darkened.

'Preservation of dead bodies is not so much an ethical issue for me,' the President said, sneaking a glance in the direction of Francesca Young. 'It doesn't of itself lead to these therapies to promote anti-ageing. If someone wants to have their body preserved, instead of being buried or cremated, it seems to me that's a fundamental human right.'

'Agreed,' Francesca backed up her boss.

Gale's lips turned sour. 'That's a specious distinction,' he said. 'The only reason people would choose to be preserved is that they hope they can benefit from these treatments in the future. If these treatments were banned on the statute book the cryonics industry would collapse.'

'No it wouldn't,' Francesca disagreed. 'People would just find ways of being preserved after death overseas. In places like China, which could cause a substantial flow of revenue out of this country.' She glanced at the President. 'Not to speak of having their human rights infringed.'

'But America would have clean hands,' Gale said stiffly.

'America has not always had clean hands,' Francesca replied.

'Meaning?' Gale said, coldly.

Francesca stared at him. 'Where do you want me to start? Guantanamo Bay? Iraq? Stains on our hands that this President had to clean up.'

The President held up a hand. 'I don't wish to be distracted from the conversation at issue,' he said. 'But I think Francesca makes a good point about the fact we live in a global world. We can't be isolationist on these issues. On any issues,' he added.

'But as Ms Young says, there are issues of morality,' Gale persisted.

'Agreed,' the President said. 'But whose morality?' He turned quickly to Duvall. 'So do we have any updates about the Schoch Institute and their Methuselah Man?' he asked the Director of the National Institutes of Health.

Duvall spread his hands. 'The Schoch Institute has imposed a curfew on all communications relating to this Methuselah Man.' All information flow has dried up. And it appears that there has been no further move to introduce peer review into this project.'

'The CIA has supplied me with an update on the stolen Methuselah research from the Schoch Institute,' Francesca announced. She opened a folder that was placed on her knee. 'The Swiss police and Interpol are of the view that the theft of the Institute's research was at least partly an inside job. The prime suspect is a man called Pierre De'Thierry who was the Director of Security at Schoch. De'Thierry has since disappeared and his whereabouts are unknown. He is being sought by Interpol. He is also believed to be the person who broke the legs of the CIA station chief in Berne just after this story broke. At the time that was thought to be an accident.' Francesca paused before continuing.

'And you may have seen in the media recently the story of a New York investment banker, a Michael Glade, who was murdered in his New York apartment. It appears that several months ago a former girlfriend of his, an American neuro-molecular-biologist, went to work at Schoch. And that's not all. It turns out that Michael Glade is the brother of the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch. Whether that is significant to Mr Glade's murder, or the theft of the Methuselah research, is still to be determined.'
Chapter 23.

Beverley Hills; Los Angeles; California

JEFFERSON PIKE WAS FEELING GREAT. Like a billion dollars in fact. But this billion dollars was alive in his body, not static as represented in his long list of material assets. It was all to do with the treatment he had received from Dr Seymour Willey at the Willey Clinic just over a week ago. He could feel the benefits of it already; feel his ailing, eighty-two year old body rejuvenating under his skin. As a younger man, Jefferson had boasted of being 'an all-night stand'. He didn't expect to return to that claim immediately, though he wouldn't rule it out in the future. But a weekly dalliance with Miss January Boudoir was part of his immediate plan. Blonde Samantha had always been his favourite girl. She treated him like age was a state of mind (it never occurred to him that the reason she always wanted the light off when they made love might have to do with something other than her claim that he was a real devil in the darkness).

So tonight was going to be the beginning of his comeback. He had informed Samantha of that this morning. She had seemed a little surprised.

'I thought the treatment might take a little longer to kick in,' she told him. 'You need to be careful at your age, Jeff,' she smiled at him. 'Too much exertion could be bad for you.'

'Poppycock!' he replied. 'I'm Jefferson Pike. I've had the Willey treatment. I was born for bonking. There's lots of rides left in me yet.'

Samantha's plastic smile widened. 'You're the boss, big daddy,' she said, sweetly. 'Your little gal is at your command.'

'You are,' Jefferson agreed.

For good reason, Samantha thought. When the day finally comes when your motor stops, I won't be a pillion passenger in these rides any longer. I'll be the one in control. Of everything.

Samantha was privy to a secret that the other playmates at the ranch were unaware of. A year ago she had started withholding favours from an ailing Jefferson. 'You keep telling me that I'm your favourite gal,' she had taunted him. 'If that's so you should prove it to me by more than words.'

He had looked at her like a kid drooling over a large lolly. He didn't want to lose that piece of candy. It gave him the most pleasure out of all the other merchandise in the store. So a week later he took her to Vegas and made her his fifth wife. On two conditions. One that she never told anyone. Two that she agreed, whilst being his favourite, that he could have the other girls in his boudoir as well whenever he wanted. Even in his eighties a sheik needed a full harem.

He was surprised when she accepted his conditions without complaint. None of his former wives would have had a bar of it. That was why they had all divorced him. But Samantha didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she almost looked relieved that he wanted to share his boudoir with the other playmates in addition to her. Because I'm such a stallion, he thought, and these mares just can't keep up with me.

That was before his body had given up on him; before the sheik had become a eunuch in his own harem. But Seymour Willey had changed all that, given him a new lease of life. And even if he wasn't about to become immortal, the treatment would make him an octogenarian wonder for some time to come. He was sure of it.

It was Wednesday evening. They all ate together in the lavish, wooden paneled dining room at the ranch, waited on by Molly the cook. Jefferson's gaze swept proudly around the table. This was his family: sugar-daddy Jefferson and his boudoir princesses - Samantha his beautiful blonde, Corby his breathtaking brunette, and chestnut-cool Charlene making up the trio; the restored sheik and his handmaiden harem. And when he did finally shuffle off his mortal coil, they would all be taken care of for their loyalty and service. He had enough money to leave them all something sizeable. Sam of course would have a legal claim against his estate as his wife (but the others didn't know that). So he had provided for Corby and Charlene generously in his will. There would be no need for a cat fight. All their saucers would be full of cream.

But it might never come to that. With the Methuselah treatment Big Daddy might outlive them all. And that thought made him think of the night to come. Depending on how tonight went with Sam, come the weekend, or perhaps the weekend after, he would celebrate his return to his harem with a bonus bonk – a ménage de quatre with him, Samantha, Corby and Charlene together. Like old times. He was certain they would look forward to that with as much excitement as himself. But he wouldn't tell them yet. He needed to focus his mind on the night ahead; become a marathon runner again, not a sprinter, pace his run, give Sam the ride of her life.

After dinner Corby excused herself. She was going out, like she did every Wednesday night. She had drinks with a girlfriend in Beverley Hills she told Jefferson. That was a lie. Jefferson knew exactly what she got up to on a Wednesday night. He got Miguel his manservant to follow her once all the way to Seymour Willey's clinic. The married cosmetic surgeon, Seymour Willey, was bonking Miss April Boudoir on a weekly basis. Jefferson didn't mind. He wasn't possessive about Corby or Charlene, only Samantha. He understood, especially in the last year, that these girls needed a regular service, that they were young, hot-blooded, and needed what Jefferson couldn't provide. And Seymour had been his saviour after all. Despite half a million dollars, it seemed fitting for Seymour Willey to receive a perk, to invite him into the family as it were in appreciation of his services.

But the same didn't apply to Samantha. He was fiercely territorial about her. If he ever found out another man was touching her he would hire the mobster, Tony Supero, to take him out. After all, Samantha was his lawful wife, the Queen of his harem.

After dinner Jefferson retired to one of the lounges in his mansion with Samantha for a nightcap. If he tried to stay up late these days he fell asleep in his chair. And he needed that energy for more important things. So it would be an early night. Charlene had already taken the hint and disappeared off to another wing of the house to watch a movie. There was just him and Samantha alone in the large room together.

There wasn't much talking, just some chit-chat about the next edition of Boudoir Magazine, where Jefferson planned a cover photograph of himself and his harem, just to remind the world that he was still on the throne and in charge of his kingdom. Jefferson was deep breathing, calming himself like an athlete readying for a race; a marathon he kept reminding himself, not a sprint.

Samantha sipped on a martini while he drank a single malt scotch with a dash of soda. The whisky warmed his windpipe, but the sight of Samantha opposite him flamed a different region in his body. She had dressed up especially for the occasion. She wore a short, shiny red dress that showed off her bountiful cleavage and ended half-way up her thighs. Her long blonde hair cascaded down past her shoulders and her blue eyes looked alluringly at him, her red lips smiling like a cat about to purr. He watched as she sucked on her martini through a straw, making a gurgling noise as the straw drained the glass. It was enough for Jefferson. He could feel his heart pumping faster in his chest and the devil of the darkness rising in his groin. He swallowed the rest of his whisky in one gulp, stood up and offered Samantha his hand.

'C'mon doll,' he said. 'Big Daddy needs you. Now.'
Chapter 24.

The Schoch Institute

The previous day

HANNA HANDED LJUDMILA the print-out from the New York Times Online. Her face was set stern. Internet connection had been restored the day after Pierre De'Thierry (and Peter Bains) had mysteriously disappeared from Schoch. But that was another matter. This revelation required an explanation. Robert had discovered the article and showed it to a shocked Hanna.

MURDERED BANKER REVEALED AS BROTHER OF METHUSELAH MAN CHIEF IN SWITZERLAND

The article recorded that Michael Glade was the son of a Russian refugee, born in America to an American mother, who later changed his name from Gladovitch to Glade. His older sister, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch, had also grown up in America, but she had lived and worked most of her adult life in Europe. Methuselah Man and the theft of the Methuselah research was referred to, but no connections were drawn between that and Michael's murder.

Ljudmila nodded and placed the print-out on her desk. 'This is essentially true,' she admitted.

'Essentially true?' Hanna challenged her. 'Surely, it's either true or it's not?'

Ljudmila shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 'Michael was not a full blood brother to me, my dear. He was my half-brother. We had the same father, different mothers. I am sixteen years older than Michael.'

Michael was forty. That made Ljudmila fifty-six. 'So why didn't you tell me about this?' Hanna demanded. 'When we talked about Michael. Why didn't you tell me that you were his half-sister?'

Ljudmila pursed her lips. She looked uncomfortable, as if she wished she was a thousand miles away. Her two different coloured eyes seemed almost opaque, like a cat caught in the beam of a torch. Fight or flight.

Fight.

'Why didn't Michael tell you?' she responded. 'You say that you were very close.'

'That's not an answer,' Hanna shot back. Ljudmila averted her eyes.

Flight.

Ljudmila folded her hands in front of her on the desk. 'You need to understand that Michael and I were not close. In fact, we only rarely communicated. We fell out years ago because of our father. Our father, Sergei Gladovitch, was a brilliant physicist who worked for the military in Moscow. It was the time of the Nazi invasion of Europe. My father feared that the Nazis would conquer Russia, so he and my mother fled to the United States where because of his work he was welcomed with open arms. I was born some twelve years later. When I was fourteen my mother died of a lung infection. A year later my father met an American woman and married her. A year later Michael was born.' Ljudmila paused and sipped from a glass of water on her desk (or was it gin or vodka? Hanna wondered).

'I never got on with my mother,' Ljudmila continued. 'She seemed to resent me. In fact she was horrible to me. She used to lock me in my room for hours at a time, demanding that I learn by heart passages in the Christian Bible. She seemed to think that all Russians were born communists, that we were naturally evil from the moment of birth. Apart from my father, who had converted to Christianity, and Michael who was her son.'

'But I was determined to succeed. I did very well in my studies at college. I was accepted into Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore where I did my medical degree and later I won a place at Harvard in their MBA programme. After that I came to Europe.'

Ljudmila drew a deep breath. 'I kept in touch with my father, but as I said, Michael and I were never really close. But then something else happened that sealed our separation forever. My father's second wife left him for another man. A Baptist preacher. She was a stupid woman and my father was better off without her. But again he was devastated. His health was affected and he retired from his work. He had a small pension fund, enough to provide him with a reasonable standard of living for the rest of his life. But Michael persuaded him to invest his savings in a scheme Michael was involved in. It was high risk. The scheme went bankrupt. But not before Michael had pocketed a sizable windfall. My father lost all his money and Michael never paid him back. My father died shortly after that, a broken man.'

This was more revelation that Hanna had expected. Was this really the same Michael she had once thought she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? He had never told her any of this. She had never detected anything dark and devious about Michael (apart from the empty promises he made all the time to leave his wife, a small voice in her head reminded her). He had been Michael the man. Michael the Monster more like it. But there were other questions that needed to be answered.

'Did you know that I was seeing Michael when I applied for this job?' she asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila sheepishly hung her head. 'I did, my dear. It was the first correspondence I had had with Michael for years.' Her eyes came steadfast back to Hanna's face. 'He wrote to me out of the blue to recommend you for a position here. He said you were a brilliant neuro-molecular-biologist and that I should read your CV.'

Hanna's brain was racing. Michael had recommended her. Why would he do that when they were in a relationship? She fired the question at Ljudmila.

Ljudmila shrugged. 'I have no idea, my dear. He never went into your intimate details.'

She sounded evasive, but the truth was slowly crawling down Hanna's chest. There could only be one reason for him to do that. To get her out of his life. He never ever intended to leave his wife. She had only ever been a bit on the side. And she worked in a field relevant to what his half-sister did in Switzerland. How convenient. The bastard. The bloody bastard!

'So I followed his advice,' Ljudmila continued. 'And I soon saw that he was right. So I came to that conference in London with the intention to meet you. And as they say, the rest is history.'

But Michael didn't have to go to those lengths to get her out of his life, did he? He could've just ended the relationship. Or did he fear the reaction of a woman scorned? That she might tell his wife? But there was something else that didn't make sense. Or did it?

'But Michael tried to stop me coming here!' she confronted Ljudmila. 'He texted me that I was heading into danger! So what was that based on?' Again she recalled the exact message:

U are heading into possible danger Hanna. A terrible mistake. All my fault. Please re-consider.

Ljudmila squirmed in her chair. 'There can be only one explanation for that Hanna. Michael must have had some involvement in the theft of the Methuselah Gene. That is the only danger he could possibly be referring to.'

'And you told me you would pass that message onto the police. Did you?'

Ljudmila glanced away. 'No my dear. I didn't want to believe that my half-brother could be capable of that. Clearly, I was wrong. But that also raises another question doesn't it?' Her eyes came sharply back to Hanna's face. 'Perhaps Michael recommended you to me for reasons other than your brilliance as a scientist.'

Hanna stiffened.

Ljudmila had just reversed their roles. Flight had been replaced by fight.

'You mean to have someone inside Schoch to assist him?' she said incredulously. 'I assure you I had no knowledge of that.'

Ljudmila's smile brought the image of a shark to mind again. She was baring her teeth to remind Hanna who controlled the ocean here. 'Of course we are all presumed innocent unless proven guilty,' she softened the accusation. 'So I must believe you my dear. Although-,' she added, wanting the last word. 'I suppose it is also possible that Michael did have a role for you in mind, without telling you, but changed his mind at the last minute.'

Possible, Hanna thought. Though she wanted to believe an alternative explanation that the gutless Michael just wanted to get her out of his life, but then changed his mind on the method when he realized that she might get caught up in the crime that he and others were planning. But there was still another question. 'So why was he murdered if he was a part of all this?' she asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila shrugged. 'I've no idea, my dear. But as they say, there's no honour among thieves. Perhaps there was a falling out. Perhaps he got greedy. The latter would certainly fit with the Michael I knew.'

Hanna's head was reeling. The Michael his half-sister knew and the Michael she knew seemed like different people. But Ljudmila's conclusions seemed to make sense. 'So have the police located De'Thierry?' she asked Ljudmila. The Swiss police had been on the premises yesterday, and along with others, they had interviewed both her and Robert.

'Not yet to my knowledge,' Ljudmila replied. 'I was wrong about Pierre, I must confess. He turned out to be a traitor.'

'And maybe a murderer,' Hanna ventured. She was thinking of Peter Bains who had also disappeared. But there was no electronic record of him leaving the building. It was his evidence that had alerted Robert to the shutdown surveillance cameras. And now he had disappeared. And so had De'Thierry. The inescapable conclusion was that De'Thierry had discovered this and dealt with Peter Bains before his own departure.

'That is better left to the police,' Ljudmila said.

'And Sophie Maurer?' Hanna asked.

Ljudmila looked down at her desk. 'She was recorded leaving the building yesterday morning,' she told Hanna. 'But as I understand it, there is no hard evidence that she is involved in any of this, apart from the similarity of the tattoo you brought to my attention.'

Not similar; the same, Hanna thought. In exactly the same place as the masked female intruder. With the same green eyes.

'But I'm sure the police will be talking to her,' Ljudmila continued. 'You did mention your suspicions to them I believe.'

'I did,' Hanna agreed.

Ljudmila nodded. 'Quite right my dear. We shouldn't leave any stone unturned. But we also need to refocus our minds in the cause of science. That is why we are here. So you need to resume your very important work on Case Study 969. In the absence of Dr Ryman, any questions you have about the case should be referred to me.' She gave Hanna a motherly smile.

The cause of science. She had to ask the question.

'How is Methuselah Man?' she asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila's eyes dipped again to her desk. 'The incubation period is taking longer than we thought,' she said. 'And there have been some complications.' Her eyes came up from her desk. 'But nothing that we can't remedy,' she smiled confidently at Hanna. She spread her hands. 'This has been a traumatic time for all of us my dear. I am just hoping that the police do their job, and our lives return to normal.'

Normal. Was that a word that could ever be applied to the Schoch Institute, Hanna wondered?

When she returned to her office on Level One, Hanna tried to immerse herself in the simulated brain of the late Eugene Schoch, but the events of the last few days kept clouding her thoughts. Too many questions still not properly answered. But then maybe Ljudmila was right: leave it to the police to do their job. After a time, as a diversion, she checked her emails and was surprised to find one from Sheldon Ramsay. Obviously the email she had tried to send him two nights ago had finally been sent when the system was restored. The message was brief.

We do need to talk Dr Hayes. Please advise a suitable time and location

Sheldon Ramsay.

And then her phone rang. It was Robert. His voice was grave. 'The police have just found the body of Peter Bains,' he told her. 'In a sump outside the building. He was shot through the head. The hunt for Pierre De'Thierry is now a murder enquiry. And somehow I need to tell Peter's parents.'
Chapter 25.

Beverley Hills; Los Angeles; California

THE MASTER BEDROOM was situated on the top floor of the mansion above the wide, sweeping marble staircase that led to the floors below. The bedroom had two features that took the eye immediately: the bed that was almost as wide as the room and could probably sleep an entire gridiron team, and the glass mirrors that covered the walls and the ceiling. As was part of the routine, Samantha sat on the velvet chaise longue at the end of the bed, while Jefferson went into the en suite dressing room. He returned a few minutes later wearing a satin dressing gown. Samantha stood up to meet him. She let him kiss her for a time, teasing him with the tantalizing tip of her tongue. Jefferson couldn't wait any longer, his whole body was on fire. He unzipped her red dress from the back and slid it off her bare shoulders, rolling it down over her waist. She wriggled the rest of the way out of it leaving it in a pile on the floor. Next, Jefferson unhooked her bra, dropping it onto her dress. His hungry eyes sized up her firm, ample breasts before cupping them in his palms, squeezing them gently until she closed her eyes and made a soft murmuring sound.

Jefferson went down on his knees, as if about to pray at the feet of a beautiful temple goddess who had lured him here on the promise of seduction. He gripped the elastic strip of her white, lacy panties with his fingers on each side of her hips. Then he slid the panties off her all the way to her feet where she stepped out of them, her hands pressing against his shoulders. Jefferson marveled once more at the beautiful firm body that stood over him. Eve awaiting her Adam. He nuzzled his head between her thighs. She murmured again above him then began rocking her body slowly hard against his face. It was Jefferson who was making noises now – panting like a sprinter too fast out of the blocks.

Marathon ... marathon, his brain reminded him. Not a sprint.

He pulled away from her. For a moment he couldn't get up. His body seemed to have turned to concrete. She helped him up off his knees. As was their routine, his hand went for the light switch, but she blocked it and pulled it away.

'Let's leave the light on,' she whispered. 'Just for a change.'

He hesitated. He savoured every second of seeing her naked body in the light, but when it came time for him to undress he preferred to be out of her sight; the devil in his darkness. So he let her untie his gown and slide it to the floor. She gazed down his scrawny body and smiled. She led him to the large bed where he lay down on his back. Jefferson stared at her, transfixed. She was still smiling, the siren-nymph about to seduce him. But on the other side of that smile her eyes were seeing his sunken chest, his rib cage showing through translucent skin, like his skeleton was eating him up slowly from the inside out.

But anything was worth a billion dollars.

She stroked the half-erection in his groin. It came away to its full height, like a spring suddenly released. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and clenched his tired teeth. She spread his legs and prepared to mount him. His legs. They were more like stilts now, all sinew and bone and veins, no longer the legs of a once strong cowboy.

Cowboy. Hanging on a hook at the side of the bed was a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. She crawled over to retrieve it and placed it on her head. Then she climbed astride him and began the ride. She rode him slowly at first, driving down on him deep, locking him inside with her pelvic bone pressing against his navel. Jefferson started groaning, his bony fingers reaching up and gripping her shoulders like a drowning man desperate to be rescued. She increased the tempo, bouncing him against the mattress, like this was an aerobic routine for her and he was merely a machine to trim her body. His breath was coming fast and furious now and his chest was heaving, as if each time she drove down on him she was administering an electric shock. And then his groans became words.

'Stop, stop,' he pleaded with her breathlessly.

She noticed his face had turned a sickly shade of grey and perspiration was popping on his forehead.

'Enough. Stop,' he said again.

She began bouncing him against the mattress even harder, quickening her stroke. She was panting for breath now, but she kept on, determined to drive this old doggie into dust.

Jefferson had left his body. There was a suffocating pain in his chest that seemed to be squeezing his internal organs as if they were gripped in a vice. And then he felt another sensation from somewhere else in his body, a sensation that suddenly seemed to fire him into space like a rocket blasting off for the stars. He could see those stars – white, twinkling lights in a black firmament that closed around him like a shroud. And then the light disappeared and only the darkness remained.

Samantha slumped forward onto Jefferson's inert body. Sweat from her brow plopped onto his puny chest. His skin was still warm; his eyes were open and staring at her with an empty gaze, like a dead fish cast on the surface of the ocean. She climbed off him, closed his eyes with her fingers and pulled the duvet at the bottom of the bed up over his body.

'Bye Daddy,' she said, with a tinge of sadness in her voice.

Jefferson's reign at the ranch was over. She was firmly in the saddle now. She was the boss from now on. And there were lots of changes she intended to make. Not that she had ever disliked Jefferson Pike. He was often good fun to be around, good company and a very generous man. But giving him her body had always had a purpose. Surely he had known that. Or perhaps he just buried the knowledge and replaced it with the fantasies he portrayed in Boudoir Magazine, pretending they were real life. But sex was the last thing on her mind at the moment. There were more important things in life.

Like a billion dollars.
Chapter 26.

Leysin; Switzerland

IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD winter was yielding to spring. In and around the village of Leysin the snowline was already retreating to the higher slopes of the mountains. On the lower slopes, mountain flowers were blooming and cows grazed on new grass, bells around their necks tinkling in the clear mountain air. With the snow in retreat, Hanna was already thinking of indulging her passion for rock climbing in the weeks to come. But for now her mind was totally focused on the meeting with Sheldon Ramsay from the American Embassy. She had agreed to meet him in a tavern in the village of Leysin called the PUB. She arrived there with Robert just after 2pm. Sheldon Ramsay was waiting at a table in the corner, drinking a beer. He pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. 'Dr Hayes,' he greeted Hanna, offering a plump but firm hand.

Hanna introduced Robert. 'Robert's my best friend at Schoch,' she told Ramsay. 'We have no secrets.'

Ramsay gave Robert a quick once-over, like an employee sizing up a potential employee, seeking a fast first impression from his appearance, his body language, his eyes. The impression must've been favourable for he said, 'I'll trust your judgment Dr Hayes. And it seems to me you have every reason to want a close friend at the Schoch Institute.' He didn't elaborate on his reasons for the statement but they seemed fairly clear. 'Can I buy you a drink?' he asked them.

Hanna ordered a gin and tonic and Robert a beer.

Ramsay's hand was leaning on the table. Next to it was a metal walking stick. Ramsay winced, gripped the stick with his hand and limped off towards the bar. Obviously the damage done to his legs was still causing him some pain. A consequence of his brush with Pierre De'Thierry.

'Attaché you say,' Robert said to Hanna. 'That's probably shorthand for the CIA.'

Hanna looked at Robert, surprised. She hadn't really considered that possibility.

'First impression,' Robert said. 'He strikes me as someone who is much more than just a pen-pusher.'

Ramsay soon returned with the drinks. He set them on the table then squeezed his beefy frame into his chair. 'Thanks for coming,' he said. 'Your original email said you wanted to talk to me about the Methuselah robbery.'

'The email was delayed because of a fault in the system,' Hanna said. 'I guess it's now been overtaken by subsequent events.'

Ramsay nodded. 'I have been fully briefed Dr Hayes. I take it you mean the involvement of Pierre De'Thierry and the murder of the young security guard?'

'I got Peter Bains the job at Schoch,' Robert said. 'I know his family.'

Ramsay's florid face grew solemn. 'The police will catch his killer, Mr Fisher. You can be sure of that.'

'Pierre De'Thierry,' Hanna said. 'He's the person who broke your legs here on the mountain,'

Ramsay's expression looked wounded, as if recalling an earlier time when the pain he was still feeling was even greater. 'I had already come to that conclusion,' he told her. 'And one day when we catch that sonofabitch, I'm looking forward to spending some time in his cell with him strapped to a chair.'

Not just a pen-pusher. A pugilist by his own admission.

For a time, Hanna had felt some guilt about what had happened to Sheldon Ramsay, thinking that De'Thierry's brutal action was about protecting her. But now she realized that it wasn't really her that was being protected, it was something much larger. 'But in terms of the robbery,' she said. 'De'Thierry obviously wasn't working alone.'

'That is certainly true,' Ramsay agreed.

Hanna shot a quick glance at Robert. 'I have no proof of this Mr Ramsay. But there was a doctor working at Schoch that I think might've been involved.'

'Dr Randy Ryman?' Ramsay surprised her.

'Yes.'

Ramsay waved a pudgy hand at the air. 'We'll come back to him shortly.' He glanced around the bar. But apart from a couple of obvious tourists engaged in deep conversation at the other end of the room, they had the space to themselves. Ramsay leaned over the table and spoke in a hushed voice. 'What we have established, though this has not been in the media, is the existence of a shadowy organization called The Franchise, who seem to be behind this raid and the subsequent distribution of the Methuselah Gene in the U.S., England, Germany, Russia and China. Which brings me to another question. This Methuselah Man. What's his current condition?'

Hanna shrugged. 'We don't really know. He's been quarantined and Ljudmila isn't making any public statements. But she did tell me the other day that there have been some complications in his development.'

Ramsay looked thoughtful.

'So who is this Franchise?' Robert asked Ramsay.

'It's not a formal organization and it's not domiciled in one location,' Ramsay told him. 'It basically exists in cyber-space. They have a bank account in Zurich, but email correspondence has been traced right across Europe. Whether The Franchise carried out the raid at Schoch themselves, or whether they hired professionals to do it, we weren't sure until you provided the police with possible breakthroughs, Dr Hayes.'

Hanna's eyes popped wide. 'I gave you a breakthrough?'

Ramsay nodded. 'Two of them in fact. One of them was your suspicion about the woman called Sophie Maurer. The woman with the tattoo.'

Finally she was getting some credit, Hanna thought; accolades instead of accusations. 'So she was the woman in the raid?' she asked Ramsay.

'That's very likely,' Ramsay replied.

Hanna flicked another glance at Robert. 'So she's not just an actress. She's a bandit as well as a beauty queen.'

Robert sought refuge in his beer.

'She is an actress,' Ramsay continued. 'She's the star of low-budget virtual films, one of which you saw. But we've been investigating Virtual Fantasy Films and made some interesting discoveries. They have a group of actors with some very interesting pasts. Pasts that include burglary and armed robbery.'

Again Hanna turned to Robert. 'Touché!' she said. 'That was more or less my thesis,' she told Ramsay.

Robert returned her a lame smile.

'And Sophie Maurer has a criminal past as well?' Hanna asked Ramsay.

Ramsay shook his head. 'No. But she does have an interesting background. Her real name is Sonia Gluckman. She trained as an officer in the BND, the German Security Service, where she graduated with distinction. She is cited as an expert in the use of a variety of firearms as well as being a martial arts expert. She left the service a couple of years ago after an unfortunate incident, where in a training session she accidently broke a male colleague's neck and killed him.'

Hanna had a sudden sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. 'You must know about the murder of Michael Glade in New York and that he was Ljudmila's half brother,' she said to Ramsay.

Ramsay nodded. 'Of course. As well as your previous relationship with Mr Glade.'

'That's how Michael died wasn't it? Of a broken neck?'

'A shattered windpipe, yes. And Michael's murder perplexed the New York Police. He died of a severe blow delivered by a human hand. The police thought that only a strong male hand could've done that. But female pubic hairs were found on the body; most likely from a female with very fair skin. And a former officer in the BND with the skills of Sonia Gluckman could certainly have committed that crime.'

This time Hanna didn't look at Robert. 'Robert dreamed of dancing with her,' she said to no one in particular.

'I was only joking,' Robert objected.

The sickening in Hanna's stomach multiplied. 'Just as well. Otherwise you mightn't be here now. So the police have apprehended Sonia Gluckman?' she asked Ramsay.

Ramsay shook his head. 'No. All of these actors have gone to ground. But we'll find them eventually.'

Would they? Hanna thought. So many stray needles in a world-wide haystack.

Ramsay sipped on his beer, then placed his glass back on the table. 'Which brings me to the other breakthrough we made because of you, Dr Hayes. The connection between what happened at Schoch and Michael Glade.'

Hanna didn't really want to dwell on Michael any longer. Michael. She still felt some sympathy for his death, but their relationship was now an embarrassment to her; Michael, who the British would label as a cad and a criminal to boot.

'We only put Michael under the microscope because of your connection to him and the Schoch Institute,' Ramsay continued. 'Without that we would never had tied him to Dr Gladovitch. And it also led us to The Franchise. We're in your debt Hanna.'

Hanna stared at him. 'So Michael was involved in the robbery?'

'Definitely,' Ramsay replied. 'Michael Glade financed this operation. There is a paper trail from his personal accounts transferring large sums of money to the bank account in Zurich that we know is used by The Franchise. Contrary to what most people think, the Gnomes of Zurich can be very cooperative when it comes to disclosing transactions that are tainted by criminality.'

Ramsay finished his beer then continued. 'The stolen research then appears to have been on-sold to the Long-Life Foundation, which supplies clinics in England, the U.S., Russia and China.' Ramsay's blue eyes studied Hanna's face. 'And that's where your colleague, Dr Randy Ryman seems to come in. He has been acting as an advisor for the Long-Life Foundation. He has been interviewed by Interpol, but there is scant evidence to charge him with any wrongdoings. I'm sure you'd agree Dr Hayes that we live in an era of snake-oil solutions to problems of ageing and maintaining the fountain of youth. And the massive movements of pharmaceutical products across international boundaries makes it difficult to sheet home any criminal culpability against these suppliers. The best we can hope for is to nail The Franchise and its members for the initial robbery and the murders that have been committed.'

'So why was Michael murdered?' Hanna interrupted him. She wanted to know whether he agreed with Ljudmila's speculation.

He did.

'Greed,' he said. 'Michael's killer cleaned Michael's apartment of any incriminating information. But Michael had left his mobile at work. And that was a lucky break for us. There are texts on it that tell a story of Michael wanting a bigger cut of the operation. And returning texts declining to negotiate. And then Michael sends another text in which he says if they don't pay him a large sum of money he'll spill the beans on the entire operation.'

'He was blackmailing them,' Hanna said, open-eyed.

Ramsay nodded. 'It would appear so. And that provides a motive for his murder. But there's one other thing. The text messages from and to The Franchise had a person's Christian name on them.' Ramsay's eyes were watching Hanna's face closely. 'And that name was Eugene.'

Hanna stared back at him. 'Eugene? You don't mean Eugene Schoch?'

Ramsay shrugged. 'It's an obvious possibility.'

'Eugene Schoch died over a year ago,' Robert said forcefully. 'He's buried up in the cemetery here.'

Ramsay pursed his lips. 'You saw the body?'

There was a silence before Robert shook his head. 'No,' he replied, softly.

'But the name could just be a code, surely?' Hanna ventured. 'Anyone could be using that name.'

'Of course,' Ramsay agreed.

Ramsay stood up, steadying himself with a hand on the table. 'I'll keep you informed of any developments,' he told them. 'But what we would really like to get is an update on this Methuselah Man. I mean, if this stolen research isn't as kosher as it's claimed to be, there's a lot of people out there who are going to be fleeced.'

'We'll keep digging,' Robert told him.
Chapter 27.

The Schoch Institute

BACK AT SCHOCH they held a debriefing on what Sheldon Ramsay had told them in a quiet corner of the bar on Level Three. Foremost in Hanna's mind was the information about Sophie Maurer, or Sonia Gluckman, as her real name apparently was. After what they had heard, Hanna just hoped she would never see the woman again. And another chilling thought had passed through her mind. What if the police didn't catch Sophie Maurer? What if Hanna was the only witness to link Sophie the actress with Sophie the armed hijacker? Would Sophie come back to Schoch looking for her; looking to deal with her as she may well have done to Michael? And if it was Sophie Maurer who had murdered Michael, then she was not just an actress/ beauty queen and an armed bandit. She was also a cold-blooded and dangerous killer.

Hanna had to accept that Michael had been part of the hijacking plan. Ramsay's testimony about the emails seemed to be conclusive. And they certainly provided a motive for Michael's murder. But what dogged Hanna was why Sophie Maurer, if she was his killer, would sleep with him first? That seemed bizarre. Unless they were already lovers. But then Sophie Maurer would have to be the coldest of cold-blooded killers imaginable. Unless she had found Michael with another woman. Or she had slept with him and his killer was someone else. But Sophie was connected to the hijackers. Wasn't she? And she was a trained killer. Maybe she did kill Michael and the blonde pubic hairs belonged to someone else?

These thoughts were messing up Hanna's head. And Robert didn't want to dwell on Sophie Maurer either. Probably because he felt stupid about being taken in by her physical appearance. Robert seemed more interested in the name on The Franchise's emails: Eugene. Could it really be Eugene Schoch? Or was it just a code as Hanna had suggested to Sheldon Ramsay? It did connect with the live images of Eugene Schoch that had twice appeared on her computer screen; images that Ljudmila claimed were filmed before Eugene's death and part of a hoax played on Hanna by some jester in the IT Department. Maybe she should check that out? But if Eugene Schoch was still alive, where was he? Somewhere in the bowels of the building in Sector B where Methuselah Man apparently was? But why would Eugene Schoch be trying to steal research from his own institute?

So many questions that made her head whirl even more. And Robert was determined to try and answer at least one of these questions. The condition of Methuselah Man. 'We have to find a way of viewing Methuselah Man,' he told her.

'But he's in Sector B and we have no access there,' she said. And then a realization. 'But these games you go to in Sector B on a Wednesday night. Doesn't that give you access?'

Robert shook his head. 'That gets me into Level Four only. Level Five, where Methuselah Man is, requires a different pass.'

'Maybe you could get one of the moles to let you into Level Five?'

Again Robert shook his head. 'That would be more than their job's worth.'

There had to be a way, Hanna was thinking. 'The security surveillance cameras,' she said. 'If we could access them we could try and find Methuselah Man.'

'Negative again,' Robert said. 'The surveillance cameras are limited to Sector A, Levels One to Three. The thinking is that security only needs to monitor movements in and out of Sector B. In Sector B itself it is not considered motivating for the moles to feel they're being watched all the time. They're at the cutting edge of the work here. Their rights to leave Sector B are highly restricted as it is. You don't want them to feel totally like prisoners. But there are alarm systems on sensitive areas in Sector B.'

'So it's impossible,' Hanna said, despairingly.

Robert drew a deep breath. 'Nothing's impossible. There is one way I might be able to gain access to Level Five,' he said in a hushed voice.

'You mean we,' Hanna corrected him. 'Where you go, I go. We're a team, remember?'

'If Ljudmila finds out about this she'll probably fire me,' Robert said.

'If she fires you, then I'll leave too,' Hanna said dismissively. 'So we may as well get fired together.' She squeezed his hand. 'So tell me your plan.'

Robert looked away. 'I can't,' he said. 'It involves a major breach of the rules.'

'Robert!'

He held up his other hand to silence her. 'Trust me. What you don't know can't harm you. But we will go down there together. I promise you.'

'When?' Hanna demanded.

'Next Wednesday night. Late. After my games night on Level Four.'

'OK,' Hanna said. 'I won't ask any more questions.'

Later that night they both went back to Hanna's apartment where they drunk a bottle of wine. Robert was surprised when the wine was finished that Hanna went to the refrigerator and opened another one. She didn't normally drink that much. 'I just can't relax,' she told him

'Because of what Ramsay told us today? About Sophie Maurer and Michael?'

'Yes,' she said. 'I can't get that terrible image out of my mind. And I'm scared she might coming looking for me.'

Robert took her hand. 'She wouldn't be so stupid. This place is like a fortress. Besides, I'm sure the police will find her soon. And we could tell Ljudmila that she's a definite suspect in the robbery and Michael's murder. Then security would be alerted if she ever tried to visit. But I'm sure she won't.'

They were sitting on the couch. Robert put his arm around her shoulder. He felt Hanna shiver. 'You picked a bad man in Michael Glade,' he said softly. 'But that's life, isn't it? You weren't to know.'

She looked at him through her big brown eyes. 'I wasn't, was I? But hopefully, I've made a better choice this time.'

Robert looked away. 'I hope so too,' he said. 'Because I love you. And I want you to remember that, whatever happens.'

Hanna clutched onto him like a limpet. 'I love you too,' she said.

When they went to bed, Hanna was a little unsteady on her feet. Robert was understanding. 'It's all that wine,' he told her. 'You've been through rough times. And we don't have to make love tonight.'

'I want to,' she said. 'It'll take my mind off things.'

But it didn't. All those questions were still bombarding her brain. And at one point, Robert turned into Michael and his hands were exploring the body of Sophie Maurer and not her own. She shut her eyes and tried to block out the pain.

Ljudmila sat in her apartment on Level Four, drinking vodka and smoking a cigar. She had the large wallscreen on and was watching a private show. She watched as Robert and Hanna made love on Hanna's bed. Ljudmila puffed on her cigar and took a slug of her vodka. Enjoy him while you can, Hanna, she thought. Because unfortunately my dear, he's just on loan to you.
Chapter 28.

The Boudoir Ranch

SAMANTHA FINALLY FOUND Ira Goldman's private numbers in a drawer in Jefferson's desk in his study. She rang the cellphone number first. It went straight to his answer phone with the standard message about being sorry for not being available right now - please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you. Next she tried his home landline. The message this time was that he was away for the weekend and wouldn't be back until Monday.

Great.

It was Saturday morning and she had been trying to get Jefferson's attorney for over two days. It was like everyone was trying to avoid her, like she was just a piece of white trash. Which once she was. But no more. She was now the heir to Jefferson's estate. On the night Jefferson had died, the brush-off brigade had arrived at the ranch by helicopter, within twenty minutes of her phoning Ira Goldman. She was impressed by the speed of it all, but curious about two of the men in the helicopter who looked more like paramedics than staff from a funeral parlour. They put what looked an oxygen mask over Jefferson's face and drips in his arms, as if they were trying to revive him.

'He's dead,' she told them emphatically.

The men just ignored her and within minutes were carrying Jefferson's body out to the helicopter. They were running, she observed. And then she was left alone as the helicopter climbed steeply into the sky and headed for Beverly Hills. Well not quite alone. Charlene emerged from her room after the helicopter had left. She had her television turned up so loud she didn't hear the helicopter arrive and had only heard it leave when she turned the volume down during an add break. Corby was still out seeing her doctor date, Seymour Willey and Miguel the manservant, was heavily sedated with sleeping pills. The cook and the housemaids only worked at the ranch on a daily basis.

Charlene seemed more concerned about her future at the ranch than she did with Jefferson's demise.

You don't have one, Samantha thought, but didn't tell her. Not yet. There was plenty of time.

Ira Goldman rang her about half an hour later. He was brief and to the point. 'As Jefferson's attorney and executor I will arrange the funeral,' he told her.

'Is he actually dead?' she asked him. 'The men who arrived to take him away looked like medics and they wouldn't tell me anything.'

'They have to take precautions,' Ira Goldman told her. 'In case the body can be revived. But in Jefferson's case it was too late. They rang me a short time ago. He died of a massive heart attack.'

'Thank God,' Samantha said, then realizing her gaffe, followed up with, 'What I mean is he didn't suffer. It was quick.'

Ira Goldman's throaty tones came down the airways. 'It would appear so. Jefferson instructed me that he wanted a small, private funeral with no access to the media. And speaking of the media, I don't want to make any public announcements about this until the funeral has been organized. Is that understood?'

'Completely,' Samantha told him. She didn't want any media attention either. She just wanted a quick and quiet transition to her of his estate. 'So where has his body gone?' she asked Ira Goldman.

'To a funeral parlour, where else?'

'But which funeral parlour?' she snapped back at him. He was treating her like some dippy blonde. 'I am his lawful wife. And I know that you know that. Jefferson told you.'

There was a pause before Ira Goldman said, 'Yes of course. His body has gone to the Heavenly Lights Funeral Parlour in Beverly Hills. I will contact you when the funeral arrangements have been finalized.'

She wanted to ask him about when she could expect her inheritance, but that might seem like indecent haste. 'OK,' she said.

Ira Goldman terminated the call.

The next day Corby returned home to the ranch. And a surprise. Not for her, but Samantha. Corby knew about Jefferson's death.

'Seymour told me,' she said. 'He had a call when we were ... you know, occupied.'

'From who?' Samantha asked her.

'Jefferson's attorney,' Corby told her.

'So why would Ira Goldman ring him?'

'No idea,' Corby said.

Maybe it was about the Methuselah treatment, Samantha thought. Though fat load of good that seemed to have done Jefferson. She made her move then. She summoned Corby and Charlotte and gave them their eviction notice.

'You can't do that!' Charlotte whined. 'Jefferson promised me I could stay here for the rest of my life.'

'I'm in charge now,' Samantha responded. 'He married me. I'm his lawful wife. I have the papers.'

'I'm going to see an attorney,' Corby said.

'Feel free,' Samantha goaded her. 'But it won't do you any good.'

'Bitch!' Corby said.

She had Miguel escort them from the property the following day; at gunpoint, a sawn-off shotgun in his feeble hands. Miguel had sized up the situation immediately. He wanted long-term tenure on the ranch and Samantha seemed to be calling the shots, so he quickly sided with her. Jefferson would have been proud of him. For a short time he was a true cowboy with a trigger-happy gun. Though he was pleased that he wasn't called on to use it. That might've been a challenge he couldn't rise to.

And now it was Saturday. And there had been no contact from Goldman. Samantha tried the Heavenly Lights Funeral Parlour one more time. At least someone answered there.

'I'm sorry Ms Brown,' the voice said once she had established who she was. 'But the matter of Mr Pike's funeral is in the hands of his attorney. There's nothing more I can tell you.'

'I am not Ms Brown,' Samantha snapped down the line. 'I am Mrs Jefferson Pike, his lawful widow. And I demand that you give me details of my husband's arrangements!'

'I'm sorry ... Mrs Pike,' the voice said. 'But Mr Goldman is the executor of your late husband's estate. All inquiries need to go through him.'

'I don't care about the funeral arrangements,' Samantha said, firmly. 'But I am his widow and I am coming to your premises to view the body.'

There was a long pause before the voice said, 'I am sorry ... Mrs Pike, but that won't be possible. Your husband's body has been moved.'

'Moved?' Samantha said. 'To where?'

'I can't tell you. You will have to speak to Mr Goldman about that.'

The voice switched off the phone.

Samantha ripped the landline out of its socket and flung it across the room. Jefferson would've approved she thought. Once in a fit of anger about a television programme on him that he disapproved of, he shot the television set into exploding pieces with a rifle. She strode into the living room and poured herself a stiff Martini from the bar.

Monday came. Samantha rang Ira Goldman's firm at nine o'clock. Same message. 'Mr Goldman is unavailable. Can I take a message?'

She hung up.

Plan B. She rang Seymour Willey's clinic. He wasn't available either. But he did ring back half an hour later.

He sounded aloof; frosty, even hostile. 'I've heard how you've dealt with Corby,' he said. 'And it hardly recommends you to me.'

'I'm Jefferson's lawful wife,' she responded. 'I have my rights. I'm trying to find the location of his body and I thought you might be able to tell me.'

'I'm a doctor not an undertaker,' Seymour Willey said dryly.

Samantha persisted. 'Neither his lawyer or the funeral parlour where he was originally taken will tell me anything,' she said. 'I thought maybe, given the treatment you provided for him, you might be studying his body for scientific reasons or something. And that would be unlawful without my consent, Dr Willey.'

There was a pause before Seymour Willey said, 'The fate of Jefferson's body is entirely lawful, Samantha. He directed in his will that he be cryopreserved. I thought he would've told you.'

'Cryo what?' Samantha said.

'Preserved with certain fluids so he can be brought back to life in the future.'

'What?' Samantha nearly fell off the phone. Brought back to life. 'That's a silly fantasy Dr Willey,' was all she could say. 'Isn't it?'

'Not at all,' Seymour Willey replied. 'You must've heard of Methuselah Man?'

'Methuselah Man? Wasn't that a movie?'

'No, it's very real Samantha. We have the technology now. So at some point Jefferson can be returned alive and well to you and the ranch, which is what he wanted.'

An hour later, after three Martinis, Samantha was walking around the mansion in a daze. They could bring Jefferson back to life? She wasn't going to let that happen.

Even if it took a sizeable slice of her one billion dollars.
Chapter 29.

The Morongo Valley; Palm Springs; California

THE MODERN BROWN STONE BUILDING blended with the surrounding desert landscape, parading bare hills and stunted vegetation. The building was single storey with clean lines and few windows. The small, copper plaque near the entranceway was functional rather than flashy. THE LONG-LIFE FOUNDATION it read. Francesca Young drove her rental car into the carpark. The drive from LA, with a few stops along the way, had taken her just under three hours. She had been in Los Angeles on official White House business, so the drive to Palm Springs had been a convenient opportunity.

She got out of the car. The reading in the car put the outside temperature at eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Hot. A dry, draining heat in a region that received less than six inches of rain a year. She walked up to the main entrance of the building. As a cryonics centre, it was one of the smaller establishments in the U.S. It had a select cohort of cryopreserved clients, who had chosen to be preserved prior to their death. The cohort numbered around thirty.

The light inside the wooden-paneled foyer was soft and soothing, replacing the starkness of natural light. The reception counter was unattended. Francesca pushed a buzzer on the counter. A moment later a black woman wearing a dress to match her skin appeared through a back doorway. She smiled warmly at Francesca. 'Good afternoon,' she said. 'Can I help you?'

'I have an appointment with Dr Adams,' Francesca told her, giving the woman her name.

The black woman nodded. 'Of course. Just a moment please.' She disappeared back through the doorway.

Francesca didn't have to wait long. A thin, middle aged man, wearing glasses and neatly dressed in a dark suit came out to meet her. He came around in front of the counter, taking in the sight of the tall, attractive, cherry-red haired woman who stood before him. 'Ms Young,' he said, forcing a smile. 'So nice to see you again.' He shook her hand with a limp grip. She had the same impression as she had on previous visits here that Dr Adams better fitted the stereotype of a funeral director than the pathologist that she knew he was. But maybe here there wasn't a lot of difference between the two vocations. 'Please – come with me,' Dr Adams said.

She followed him through another doorway to a small office off a corridor. They sat down in two comfortable chairs, a low coffee table between them in front of his tidy desk. 'You said you wanted to talk about your father,' Dr Adams said.

Francesca nodded. 'Yes. I just wanted to be assured that he was still in ... you know, a stable condition.'

Dr Adams gave her a small smile. 'As far as the dead can be said to be in a stable condition, he is,' Dr Adams told her. 'Do you want to view him?'

'In a moment. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. You obviously would have been following the story about Methuselah Man and his apparent rejuvenation in Switzerland. Has that had an effect on your business?'

Dr Adams suddenly looked uncomfortable. His eyes flicked nervously away behind his glasses from Francesca's gaze. 'Of course,' he said. 'We've had a deluge of inquiries. But as you know, we are very selective about what clients we choose. They need to be prominent people who could still make a positive contribution to society if we managed to bring them back to life. People like your father. And of course, yourself, if you ever consider making an arrangement with us. So our policy on entry here hasn't changed.' Dr Adams seemed to have regained his composure. 'But I must say,' he said with an air of authority, 'that the claims that have come out of Switzerland have still to be properly authenticated.'

'You mean the claims about rejuvenation or the claims about the Methuselah Gene?' Francesca asked him.

Dr Adams eyes dropped away from her gaze again. 'Both,' he said.

The latter is authentic, Francesca thought. I am living proof of it. 'But you must believe that rejuvenation is possible,' she challenged Dr Adams. 'Because your entire industry is built on such a premise.'

Dr Adams nodded. 'Of course. 'We believe the theory is sound. It is just that the medical technology to put the theory into practice is still under development. Now let us hope that what has been claimed in Switzerland will turn out to be the breakthrough we are looking for. But we're not at that point yet.' Dr Adams permitted himself another small smile. 'And I have been giving this speech to a lot of people recently. Many families of people interned here, having seen the Methuselah story, have been asking the same question - whether we are at the point of being able to rejuvenate their loved ones. Perhaps that is why you are here also?'

Francesca returned his smile. 'Partly. I wanted to get your views on this and now I have them.'

'You do,' Dr Adams agreed. 'Of course-' He was frowning again. 'The Methuselah story has also had its downside. It has prompted further calls to regulate our industry and even to have it closed down.'

'Led by Martin Duvall of the National Institutes of Health and Lincoln Gale of the President's Bio-ethics Council,' Francesca said.

Dr Adams nodded. 'Yes. We were hoping that a new President might be more supportive of gene therapy in general and our industry in particular,' he said, his eyes now fixed firmly on Francesca's olive-skinned face.

'Trust me. He will be,' the Co-President assured him.

Dr Adams looked very pleased. 'Thank you, Ms Young. It is always of value to have friends in high places.' He rose from his chair. 'Let me take you to your father. I'm sure he would've been very proud of you, given your achievements to date,' he added.

'Will be proud of me, sometime in the future, don't you mean?' Francesca smiled back at him.

'Of course,' Dr Adams agreed. He led her to the rear section of the building. Behind secure metal doors he showed her into a chamber, where along one wall were eight large, gleaming stainless-steel cylinders several metres high. Above the cylinders was a narrow, steel walkway. Francesca climbed up a metal stairway to the viewing platform. Dr Adams remained on the floor of the chamber. General Westmorland Young was in the fifth cylinder along. Francesca had viewed him before, although 'viewed' was hardly the right word. The cylinder was full of liquid nitrogen. Submerged in this solution were four smaller sealed cylinders and inside these, as Francesca was aware, were cryopreserved bodies, preserved head down from the top to protect the most important organ in the body, the brain, in case there was ever any leakage of the liquid nitrogen out of the main cylinder. Four bodies to a main cylinder was common practice, saving on space and providing each preserved person with some 'company' in their wait for a full return to life.

Francesca's gaze was suddenly taken to the far side of the chamber. The chamber was L-shaped and the area her eyes were on could not be seen from the floor below the viewing platform. She drew a sharp breath. Situated in this corner of the chamber was a row of more stainless-steel cylinders, but these were only about a metre high. Below her, Dr Adams followed her gaze.

'Babies?' a shocked Francesca said.

'Brains,' Dr Adams replied. 'Heads, actually. Neuros. Short for neuropreservation. They weren't so common when your father was preserved, but today they're fast proving more popular than whole bodies. They now account for about half of the human preservations in this country. Half price too,' he added.

Francesca's own brain was racing. 'So how do you rejuvenate a brain on it's own?' she asked Dr Adams.

'Cryopreservation of whole bodies is problematical due to difficulties with tissue regeneration,' Dr Adams told her. 'The belief with neuros is that we will be able to grow a new body to complement the preserved brain. And major advances have already been made here. Medical science has already grown new organs from donated tissue using stem cells. The first was a Columbian woman in 2008 who received a new windpipe by this method. Recent trials indicate we can do the same for hearts, lungs and other organs.'

'Amazing,' Francesca said. She knew immediately what Lincoln Gale's view would be on that.

At that moment the black nurse entered the chamber. 'Telephone for you, Dr Adams,' she said. Dr Adams looked up at Francesca.

'I'm fine,' Francesca said. 'I'd just appreciate a few more moments in here thinking about my father.'

Dr Adams nodded his assent and left the chamber. Francesca meditated awhile, thinking about her father the General. They had been very close father and daughter and she had been devastated when he had been killed as a result of the bomb blast in 2004. But one day, Daddy, she silently told him, we're going to raise you from the dead.

She retraced her steps down the metal stairway. On the floor of the chamber she wandered over to view the neuros more closely. Maybe that was a better option now as Dr Adams had suggested, the brain being the primary repository of memory and knowledge in the body. But that option had come too late for her father. Just past the line of neuro cylinders was what looked like a loading bay with a metal roller door on the far wall. On a nearby platform sat a metal coffin. On the side of it there was an inscription:

PROFESSOR ONG CHU LEE.

And taped to the top, a sheet of paper that gave an address in both English and Mandarin. The English address read:

Jing Do Funeral Parlour

Shenxiang

Dongcheng District

Beijing

THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

Perhaps a preservation that now wanted to return to their homeland, Francesca wondered. She didn't give it any further thought and headed out of the chamber for Dr Adam's office. After saying goodbye to Dr Adams, she returned to her car to drive back to LA. As she reached the rental, a shiny, red Cadillac-convertible came tearing down the shingle driveway, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake. Someone in a hurry. Francesca watched as the car came into the carpark and the single occupant got out. A young woman in a shiny, white jump suit with long blonde peroxide hair. Francesca had seen that face before but couldn't for the moment place it. The woman ran to the entranceway of the building.

It wasn't until she was some distance down the road that Francesca recalled the face. When she had received the Methuselah treatment at Seymour Willey's clinic in Beverly Hills. The young woman who had been pushing an old man in a wheelchair; an old man whose face she also recognized but couldn't place immediately at the time. Until later when she realised it had been the porn King, the owner of Boudoir Magazine, Jefferson Pike.
Chapter 30.

The Schoch Institute

Wednesday night

LJUDMILA WAS FAST ASLEEP. Her breathing was shallow and measured. Every now and then she made little noises, suggesting she was in REM, the dreaming state of sleep. Alongside her in the large bed, Robert listened carefully to those sounds. She had to be in a deep sleep before he made his move. He stared into the darkness of Ljudmila's apartment, his mind still trying to deal with his guilt. It had been the only way. If Hanna and him were going to penetrate Sector B and learn the truth about Methuselah Man, he had to do this. There was no other way.

So why hadn't he told Hanna? Why hadn't he told her the truth? Simple. Because she would've ended their relationship. And he didn't want that. So why didn't he just put all this behind him, abandon this place with Hanna and restart their lives? Because they both wanted to know what was really going on here; for Hanna it went to the core of her vocation, for Robert it was about another vocation – one he had abandoned, one that Hanna had convinced him he should return to. Investigative Journalism and the secrets of the Schoch Institute.

But that did nothing to allay his guilt. His weasel words to Hanna replayed in his mind.

Trust me. What you don't know can't harm you.

You picked a bad man in Michael Glade.

And her reply.

Hopefully I've made a better choice this time.

Had she?

My plan involves a major breach of the rules, he had told her.

She thought he meant the rules of the Schoch Institute.

He meant the unwritten rules of their relationship.

Because it wasn't the first time. It wasn't just about a means to gain entry to Level Five.

Robert had been at the Schoch Institute for just under two years. Before that he had worked as a foreign correspondent for the Guardian in London, covering issues in some of the world's hotspots – mainly in the Middle East. His eyes had witnessed multiple horrors from suicide bombers in Lebanon, Palestine and Iraq; the killing of innocent bystanders, women and children alike. His most haunting memory was of a young girl in Iraq two years before, who had asked him to photograph her shortly before boarding a bus. A bus that was blown to bits by a suicide bomber in front of Robert's eyes a short distance up the road. That was it for Robert. The nightmares after that never left him. The eyes of the young girl burned at him through every nightmare. He took leave from his job and sought time-out in Switzerland, ending up in the mountain resort of Leysin.

It was on the ski slopes one day that he met Ljudmila Gladovitch and Eugene Schoch. Après Ski they had drinks at Café Leysin, and by the end of the day they had offered him a job as Communications Director at the Schoch Institute. He accepted and the journalist became a publicist. It suited him at first. The job was low stress, easily within his competence and allowed him lots of free time to work on his skiing in the Swiss Alps. It was therapy, a healing from the horrors he had witnessed in the previous years. Socially, Robert had always been lucky with women. Since the day he left his native New Zealand in his mid twenties, armed with a journalism qualification, he was a wandering free spirit, fitting into whatever location he arrived at and taking advantage of what was on offer. There was nothing particularly premeditated about that. He had a quiet charm and a dry sense of humour that many women found interesting and some irresistible. But none of these relationships ever promised long-term tenure for Robert. He lacked commitment and no one ever threatened to change his mind.

In Switzerland the passing parade continued. On the ski slopes, and in the cafes of Leysin, he met a procession of tourist backpackers from all over the world in search of their 'overseas experience'. He was sometimes part of that experience. But 'commitment' remained an elusive concept in his mind. And then came the night at a Schoch Institute party when Ljudmila moved in on him like a lusty old mare seeking a younger stallion. He went along for the ride and ended up in the CEO's bed. It shocked him when he was sober in the morning – a mid-thirties year old man and a woman past fifty. But Ljudmila belied her age, and in bed she was like an athlete and a coach rolled into one. And she didn't seem to mind that Robert maintained outside liaisons with a procession of younger women as well. He was happy being a man on the mountain and a toy-boy for Ljudmila when she wanted him as well.

And then Hanna arrived at the Institute. What she didn't know, and what Robert had never told her of course, was that Ljudmila had assigned him to look after her in whatever capacity that required. On condition that he still came to Ljudmila's bed on a Wednesday night for their 'games evening'. And so he played the role – the hunter-gatherer who would make Hanna another notch on the hunter's belt. At first that's all it was; a role play. But gradually Hanna slipped under his skin. He found himself attracted to her in ways that he had never been attracted to another woman before. Slowly it hit him, like a train glimpsed down a track, then coming at him with such a rush that he couldn't move from its path. He had fallen in love with Hanna Hayes. It was real, like nothing he had ever felt before.

He never told Ljudmila. He just wanted to be sure. Sure that these feelings were not just the product of being in semi-solitary confinement at Schoch. And now he was sure. He had resolved to tell Ljudmila that he would no longer go to her quarters and be her toy boy; tell her that he had fallen in love with Hanna Hayes. Ljudmila had to understand that. They couldn't go on. But then the idea of how he might breach security and gain access to Level Five and Methuselah Man.

This would be his last time in here.

But he couldn't tell Hanna.

Maybe if it was just the once; a necessary act for a good cause.

But not with all this history behind him.

Hanna was too important for that.

Ljudmila stirred in her sleep. She rolled over and flung her arms around him, squeezing her naked body hard against his. He rolled away. She started snoring. He slipped carefully out of the bed, landing lightly on the floor then putting on his clothes. Ljudmila didn't stir again. He moved deftly out of the bedroom to the larger living area. At the end of this was a work area – a desk with computer console and telephone. Beyond there was a storage area with shelves that contained boxes of files. At the end of the shelves was a metal cabinet that wasn't locked. And inside there, Robert knew, were the keys to Ljudmila's secret kingdom. She had once told him that she kept all the Levels access tokens here because she felt her apartment was more secure than her office.

Inside the metal cabinet there was a row of tokens hanging on a rack. There several of each of the colour codes, apart from a white one, which hung on its own. Ljudmila's master token. To take that would be too risky. But to get to where he wanted to go he only needed a red token and there were several of those. He plucked one of them off the metal rack and placed it in his pocket. Then he pushed the remaining red tokens together to try and disguise that one of them was missing. He moved quickly to the exterior door to the apartment.

In all his times in Ljudmila's apartment she had always encouraged him to leave in the middle of the night. She didn't want anyone to see him leaving in the morning. He was her secret and no one else needed to be privy to it. So his leaving would not arouse any suspicion in Ljudmila's mind in the morning.

He slipped out of Ljudmila's apartment and headed hurriedly for Hanna's.
Chapter 31.

Dongcheng District; Beijing

Thursday

LING YIN arrived at his office early as was his custom. He was usually seated at his desk by seven am to plan his day. And he expected his staff to observe the same hours. But he paid them well. He studied the in-bound logistics sheet from yesterday, received from the Logistics Manager. What he wanted to find was on the sheet. The coffin of Professor Ong Chu Lee. The coffin had been delivered from the Jing Do Funeral Parlour yesterday.

In the last two weeks, Dr Yin's Yao Clinic had received three other cryonically-preserved bodies of Chinese nationals shipped from the United States. This was in response to fears in America that the cryonics industry might soon face tougher regulation. Dr Yin had to assure the senders of these bodies that his clinic was happy to store these 'patients' but that rejuvenation was still not on offer. Although, he told them, research at the Yao Clinic was moving towards that conclusion. To fulfill his earlier boast to his brother the General that China could become the cryonics capital of the world, the perfection of rejuvenation was essential. A wealthy client residing abroad had to be cryonically-preserved in their country of origin, as soon as possible after death. Unless they were terminally ill and could be persuaded to travel to China to die. So to secure a competitive advantage against its foreign rivals, the Yao Clinic had to develop rejuvenation techniques, as the Schoch Institute in Switzerland had claimed to have done.

And that was why Dr Yin was currently excited about the arrival of Professor Ong Chu Lee. For this 'patient' was going to be his guinea-pig, his proto-type for the world's second successful rejuvenation of a cryopreserved body. Or so he hoped. But Professor Ong Chu Lee was not the patient's real name. He had been given that assignation and the identity of a Chinese national to avoid complications about his body leaving the U.S. And this body had arrived by air. The patient's real name was Jefferson Pike, a billionaire publisher of an American porn magazine.

The deal had been brokered by a colleague of Dr Yin's in Los Angeles, Dr Seymour Willey, who ran a clinic there. And this was not just a matter of medical history in the making. This was also a matter of money. Lots of money. For Jefferson's Pike's executor had agreed to pay twenty million American dollars, providing the operation was successful. But one million of that had already been deposited in the accounts of the Yao Clinic as an expression of good faith. And that money was non-refundable, even if the procedure was unsuccessful.

Dr Yin had all the paperwork from the executor – Ira Goldman of Goldman-Sly, Attorneys-at-Law, based in Los Angeles. And he needed to move quickly. The attorney had also informed him that The Rancher, the nickname Dr Yin had given Jefferson Pike, had a wife who was contesting the rejuvenation procedure. She didn't want it to proceed and was threatening legal action and a protest to the American and Chinese Governments if The Rancher's body wasn't returned to the United States immediately. Ira Goldman maintained that the wife didn't have a legal leg to stand on, as the authority for cryopreservation and possible rejuvenation derived from The Rancher's will and was now vested in Ira Goldman as Jefferson Pike's executor. Dr Yin dialed a number on his hand phone. It was time to make this matter a fait accompli.

A few minutes later his Logistics Manager, Chen Chou, entered his office. Chen Chou was heavily built with the kind of face that no one would want to meet in a dark alley on their own. It was an unlined face; bland, almost featureless, apart from the hard, button-like eyes that suggested he had never made peace with the world. And adding to this severe and chilling countenance was the long, livid white scar that ran from his left ear and travelled down his lumpy neck. Chen Chou was a former policeman, who had copped that scar from a machete attack during his days of working in the seedier precincts of Shanghai.

Ling Yin had hired him mainly as a minder, to look after security in a city where corruption and criminal elements could still threaten the success of a business. Especially one as successful as the Yao Clinic. Ling Yin didn't much like the man he had given the title of Logistics Manager to. He thought Chen Chou was coarse and uncultured, but a necessary precaution. From Chen Chou's viewpoint the feeling was reciprocal. To him, Ling Yin regarded himself as one of the old Emperor class, who viewed Chen Chou as an urban peasant. His brother Ling Yang was even worse in Chen Chou's eyes. A General who would betray the masses if it meant advancing his own personal power. But they paid Chen Chou well. And the money was the price of his loyalty. He didn't have to like the Ling brothers.

'The Rancher,' Ling Yin commanded him, without looking up from his desk. 'Have him sent up to the operating theatres.'

Chen Chou nodded, like the foot soldier he was supposed to be.

Ling Yin looked up and gave his minder a rare smile. 'We could be on the verge of making history here Mr Chou,' he said. 'If I am successful with the Rancher, China could be the second location in the world to produce a Methuselah Man. Methuselah Man 2 we might call him.'

Chen Chou stared at his boss. Methuselah Man 2. It sounded like the sequel to some box office American movie.

After Chen Chou left the office, Ling Yin studied the planned treatment for The Rancher. Intervention on the 'patient' had occurred in a timely fashion after his 'death'. Death was medically defined as the cessation of a heart beat, but medical science was clear that bodily cells, including those in the brain, survived beyond that for several hours. So the medics had infused The Rancher's body with cryoprotectants (anti-freeze) to prevent ice formation. The body was then cooled to prevent further physical decay and bring about a state of vitrification (suspended animation) to maintain cryostasis by immersion in liquid nitrogen. The preserved body of Jefferson Pike was then finally flown to the Yao Clinic. Dr Yin's task was now to repair the damaged organ that had 'killed' Jefferson Pike, in this case his heart or the blood vessels around it. And that was where his considerable experience in stem cell therapy would come into play.

Stem cell therapy offered the chance to repair the damaged organ. The stem cells involved could be from Jefferson himself (depending on what damage they had suffered from his cryopreservation) or from foreign stem cells. The Yao Clinic used embryonic stem cells, the most potent repair systems known to modern bio-genetic science. And in this procedure the Yao Clinic faced no official regulation, as was the case in most western countries. Once the damaged organ had been repaired then an attempt would be made to resuscitate The Rancher. And Dr Yin was confident of the outcome. He also believed that the fact that Jefferson Pike had already been treated with the Methuselah Gene would be beneficial to the 'patient's' chance of success.

But this would be a long and tortuous procedure. He had already assembled a team of surgeons and technicians for the operation. He checked his watch. They were due to begin the procedure at eight am, which was only a short time away. He checked his briefing notes. And then his secretary, a young, plain-faced Chinese woman entered his office.

'There is an urgent message for you,' she said in Mandarin. She handed him a sheet of paper.

A long email. From another firm of attorneys in the United States. The Rancher's wife's attorneys. More threats if this procedure went ahead. Ling Yin wasn't too concerned about these threats. The American attorneys could fight this matter out in their Courts, a process that could take years. And he would be immune from that process. Their Courts had no jurisdiction over him. His government would protect him. His brother, the General, would see to that. Ling Yin had medical history to make. Although, he conceded to himself, too much adverse international publicity could possibly damage his vision to make China the cryonics capital of the world.

And then the second half of the email grabbed his attention.

Of course our client would prefer to avoid international publicity on this matter. She would prefer that the matter was settled on a private basis. To this end we are instructed to make you a confidential without prejudice offer to refrain from any attempt to rejuvenate the body of Jefferson Pike in return for an immediate payment of fifty million U.S. dollars. Should you accept this offer we would want Mr Pike's remains to be disposed of in the most appropriate manner as determined by you and not returned to the United States. Our offer is conditional on that undertaking. We would deal with any ramifications of that decision in the U.S. without recourse to you. We would however require verification of your actions by an independent party. A suitable party is named in the attachment to this mail. This confidential offer will remain open for twenty-four hours from the date of this correspondence. We look forward to hearing from you

Jackson Rogers

Rogers, Johnson, Hernandez

Attorneys-at-Law

Ling Yin re-read the message. The independent party named in the attachment resided in Beijing and was known to Ling Yin.

Fifty million U.S. dollars

He rang his brother the General.

'It might avoid unnecessary international attention,' his brother said. 'And fifty million U.S. dollars would be a welcome cash injection into our business, wouldn't you agree? I am sure you can find another suitable candidate for this procedure.'

'The attorneys for The Rancher are hardly likely to accept this solution,' Ling Yin replied.

'Then we can publically announce that the treatment was unsuccessful, which required the body to be disposed of. And we let the American attorneys fight this out among themselves.'

Ling Yin agreed with his brother. The words in the email were clear in his mind. The body was not to be returned to the United States. If they wanted the fifty million U.S. they must dispose of the Rancher's body immediately. He summoned Chen Chou.

'The procedure with the Rancher will not now proceed,' he told his minder. 'I need you to dispose of his body; covertly, as quickly as possible. I do not want a paper trail.'

Chen Chou nodded. 'I will have the body dispatched to the Sung-Su factory immediately,' he told his boss.

'The Sung-Su factory?' Ling Yin had never heard of the Sung-Su factory. 'What is that?' he asked Mr Chen.

Chen Chou's thin smile displayed a line of crooked teeth. 'It's a pet food factory. They generally use horse meat, but they are open to other kinds of produce. Very fitting for a Rancher wouldn't you say?'
Chapter 32.

The Schoch Institute

Wednesday; after midnight

HANNA WAS WAITING for Robert. He should have been here by now and she was getting concerned. But then her door buzzer rang. Robert stood in the corridor. He looked a little dishevelled. 'I was getting worried,' she said.

He seemed on edge.

'Have you found a way in?' she asked him.

His eyes fell away from her gaze. 'I have,' he told her.

'How?'

He didn't answer her directly. 'Follow me,' he said. He led her down the corridor to the vestibule and the lift on Level Three. There was one hurdle to overcome. The surveillance cameras would pick them up entering the lift and leaving the lift if they exited on Level Two or Three. But with the red token Robert had they could go all the way to Level Five and exit there where the surveillance cameras didn't operate. The only problem was if they weren't observed exiting on Level Two or Three that could arouse suspicion. Providing someone was watching that monitor at the time. Security were aware that Robert had permission to enter Level Four on a Wednesday night, but Hanna had no such permission. Would that cause a problem? They had to chance it. It was worth the risk. And now Robert just wanted some pay-off to make the price he had paid to do this worthwhile.

Someone was watching them on the monitor in the Surveillance Centre. The burly security guard, Tweedledum. He knew Robert had a clearance to go to Level Four on a Wednesday night. And he knew why. Lots of people in Schoch did. It was difficult to keep secrets here. Tweedledum smiled at the monitor. And now Robert Fisher was taking Dr Hayes with him. Obviously the intention was a threesome. If that's what turned them on, so be it. It was none of his business. Ljudmila was the boss. She could do what she liked. So he wouldn't keep a record of what he was watching.

Inside the lift Robert swiped the red token over number 5 on the electronic sensor. It glowed green and the lift started descending.

'How did you come by that?' Hanna asked him.

'I stole it. Now no more questions, OK? That was the deal.'

'OK,' Hanna said.

If Tweedledum had been watching the monitor more closely he would have seen that Ljudmila's apartment on Level Four was not their destination. But he had already left his post to sneak a cigarette in the toilet.

The lift stopped on Level Five and the door slid open. They stepped out onto a wide, linoleum-tiled corridor that stretched maybe twenty metres ahead of them. Other corridors ran left and right. The area was dimly-lit and there was no sign or sound of anyone apart from themselves.

'This reminds me of a hospital,' Hanna whispered.

'It was once, remember? It was a TB clinic.'

'So you told me. But weren't TB clinics places where patients got lots of clean, fresh air? I mean this place is under the ground!'

'Maybe they kept the hopeless cases down here. The ones that had no chance of seeing the light of day again.'

Hanna felt a shiver run along her spine. The place had a morbid feel about it. Probably the lack of natural lighting; though it was the middle of the night. They walked slowly down the long, middle corridor. On one side were several large rooms with signs that said: LABORATORY, protruding from the wall. On the other side were smaller rooms that looked like offices. Hanna eyes were drawn to the opaque, plastic-like sheen that ran around the walls: Wall-weave that transported scenes from virtual reality like the one in the Wild-West Bar. Robert noticed her gaze. 'VR is everywhere down here,' he said. 'You wouldn't believe some of the stuff you can see down here.'

'Like virtual sex,' Hanna said, grinning at him.

'You would be more likely to find that in the residential areas on Level Four,' Robert said quickly, wanting to change the subject. 'I guess when the moles are at work here they need the wall-weave to make this place more cheery,' he added, as if he had read her earlier thought.

They came abreast of a sign that said: LABORATORY 4.

'Can we have a look in there?' Hanna said.

Robert swiped his red token across the sensor. The door to the lab opened. It was a large room with benches dotted around it containing an array of laboratory equipment. Nothing different to thousands of research laboratories all around the world. On some of the benches were computer terminals. Probably inside them was key information about what was being worked on down here. But they would be locked by individual passwords.

Hanna paused by a line of fridges along one wall. They were secured also, but Robert's token broke the code. Again, the contents of the fridges were to be expected – Petri-dishes of cell cultures with arcane labels, intelligible only to the researchers who had placed them there. Nothing Hanna could begin to speculate on.

They left the lab and walked to the end of the corridor. Ahead of them was a large reception desk with an open office behind it. On either side were two metal doors, one white, one red.

'I'm lost,' Robert said.

'Lost?'

'This is not the way Ljudmila brought me to view Methuselah Man. We came by another lift at the rear of her office on Level Two.'

'Are you sure we're on the right floor?'

'It was Level Five. I'm sure about that.' Robert swiped his token across the sensor on the white door to their right. The light on it stayed red. 'I can't unlock it,' he said. He tried the token on the red door to their left. This time the lock clicked to open the door. But Hanna had moved into the office behind the reception desk.

'Let's have a look in here first,' she said.

Robert followed her into the office. Behind the office was what looked like a meeting room – a large table surrounded by high-backed chairs. And beyond that another door with a nameplate on it. CONTROL CENTRE. Inside, the room was full of computer stations, all powered off. And on the back wall was a screen with printed labels on it and a row of lights down one side.

THE METHUSELAH FILE

PROJECT METHUSELAH MAN - a green light

PROJECT EINSTEIN - a green light

PROJECT DARWIN - a red light

PROJECT HAL - a red light

'What does that all mean?' Hanna said.

'Projects the moles are working on I guess,' Robert replied. 'Maybe a green light means in progress and a red light, not yet started or completed.'

'Einstein, Darwin?' Hanna wondered aloud. 'And who or what is Hal?'

'No idea,' Robert said.

Hanna switched one of the computers on and started clicking with the mouse. As expected, it needed a password. She tried Methuselah ...Nothing. She tried Methuselah Man... Einstein... Project Einstein. The computer suddenly shut down.

'Was that wise?' Robert said, sounding alarmed. 'It might leave a trace.'

'It won't know the identity of the would-be hacker though, will it,' Hanna replied.

At the rear of the Control Centre was another locked, red door. Robert swiped his token and the door opened. They found themselves in another corridor branching right and left. They went left to another door and another sign: ANIMAL CENTRE. This door wasn't locked. Robert opened it. The smell of rodent feces filled the corridor. The room was divided into two cages. In one, hundreds of white mice ran around freely in open spaces, partaking of slides and Ferris-wheels to try and enjoy their confinement. In the other, several dozen mice sloped around more slothfully, sliding across the floor of their shit-filled cages in various states of vermin awareness. Some of them had sores and lumps on their tiny bodies that made them look diseased. A couple of them, Robert observed, had two heads.

'Animal experimentation,' Hanna said. 'It's part of the territory.'

'I want out of here,' Robert said.

They retreated to the corridor and turned right. Another door soon barred their way. The sign on this door said: CRYOPRESERVATION CENTRE. Again Robert swiped his token and this time double metal doors slid open. They were in a rectangular-shaped room with bare walls and little adornment. There were a couple of metal benches on wheels sitting in one corner and a small desk with computer equipment on it. On either side of the room were two more doors labeled Storage 1 and Storage 2. Robert unlocked the Storage 1 door first with his token. Most of the room inside was taken up with a large refrigerator, or chiller, the kind of fixture you would see in a commercial kitchen for food storage. Robert pulled on the heavy metal handle, which opened outwards to let them enter. It was a chiller and the air in there was cold. Maybe it had once been a place where food was stored, but now it contained dozens of specimen jars sitting on shelves around its perimeter. Jars full of liquid, marked and labeled with codes. Most of the jars contained dead mice, or parts of them, but three much larger jars contained the preserved heads of dogs.

'Charming,' Robert said. He looked at Hanna. 'But stock-in-trade for you, I suppose.'

'Mice, yes. But not dogs,' Hanna said. Her eyes flicked around the shelves. She half-expected to see a human head as well, but was relieved not to find one.

They retreated to the entrance room where Robert opened the other door marked Storage 2. This time there was a narrow passageway that ran the length of the chamber and a line of more chillers – smaller than the one in Storage 1, six of them in total. They looked like vaults. Hanna tried the handle on the first one. It didn't move. Robert swiped his card across the sensor below then levered the heavy door open. The small chamber they were staring into was about the size of a small cell in a police station. It was bare, apart from a gleaming, stainless-steel cylinder, about two metres high and a bit less than a metre in diameter, sitting on a low platform.

'I think that's a cryonics preservation chamber,' Hanna said.

Robert had never seen one of these before. Hanna hadn't either; apart from pictures on the Internet. Robert went closer. There was a small metal tag holder on the side of the cylinder. And written on a card was a name. Robert read it out.

Olaf Stefansson

'Methuselah Man,' Hanna said.

'Yes,' Robert nodded. On the side of the cylinder was a metal ladder attached to the top. Robert climbed several steps up the ladder. There was a lid on the cylinder. He removed it. 'It's empty,' he said.

'It wouldn't have been once,' Hanna shot back. 'This is where they would've kept him before his ... resuscitation.'

Robert climbed down from the ladder. They exited the chamber and went to the next chiller. The same sight greeted them inside. Together, they read the name tag on the cylinder.

Assthor Grimsson

Again, Robert climbed the ladder to the top. And a surprise. The lid on this cylinder was glass. And there was something inside. 'This one's full of liquid,' he called down to Hanna. 'And I can see what looks like two feet. And legs attached to a body.'

'The liquid will be Liquid Nitrogen,' Hanna told him. 'Preservative.' Though quite why the body was preserved in there upside down, she wasn't sure.

Robert came down to join her. 'Methuselah Man Two,' he said. 'In waiting.'

'Or maybe he's just a standby,' Hanna mused. 'In case Methuselah One isn't successful.'

'It's not cold in here,' Robert remarked.

'It doesn't need to be, the Liquid Nitrogen maintains the bodies at the temperature they were preserved at.'

They moved to the next chiller. More of the same and another preserved body. Gudjon Maarde the name tag on this one said. And next door another. Carol Magnusson. 'By the name, this one could be female,' Robert conjectured.

Hanna forced a grin. 'I'm all for equality,' she said. And thinking of the rejuvenated Methuselah she added, 'And every Adam needs an Eve.'

Robert didn't comment.

There were two chillers left. But neither of them was prepared for the name on the next cylinder.

Eugene Schoch

This time it was Hanna who shot up the ladder to the top of the cylinder, her stomach performing cartwheels. The cylinder was empty. She had a sudden flash of memory back to her Catholic childhood – the crucifixion, the resurrection, the empty tomb.

'Jesus Christ!' she said.
Chapter 33.

Dongcheng District; Beijing

Thursday, 8.30 am

LING YIN re-read the latest email his secretary had just delivered to him. From The Rancher's attorney – Ira Goldman of Goldman-Sly. Goldman seemed to know about the fifty million dollar offer from The Rancher's wife's attorneys. He didn't specifically mention the figure, but it was clear he had some knowledge about the counter instructions received from Jackson Rogers. For Ira Goldman was now offering the Yao Clinic sixty million U.S. for the rejuvenation to proceed.

A bidding war had broken out over the Rancher's body.

And the Yao Clinic was in the box seat, as the Americans would say.

Ling Yin rang Chen Chou's number. 'Has The Rancher been dispatched to the Sung-Su factory?' he asked when Chen Chou answered.

'He has,' Chen Chou told him. 'Twenty minutes ago.'

'Then get him back immediately!' Ling Yin instructed his Logistics Manager. 'There's been a change of plans.'

'I'll do my best,' Chen Chou responded.

'Don't fail me,' Ling Yin ordered him.

Chen Chou clicked off his phone. Personally, he preferred the course of action he had proposed. He had just been looking The Rancher up on the Internet. There were pictures of the old man surrounded by all these beautiful, young women. It was obvious what they saw in The Rancher. Money. Lots of it. Money could buy you young women in Beijing too, as Chen Chou was well aware. But not as attractive as The Rancher's women, he had to admit. But The Rancher had had his fill. It was time he was sent to the knackers yard.
Chapter 34.

Schoch

Wednesday, 1.30 am

HANNA'S THOUGHTS WERE RACING. 'If Eugene was here, where is he now?' she said. The question was directed at herself as much as Robert. Her mind had returned to the face of Eugene Schoch on her computer screen. A practical joke played by someone in the IT department. A video taken of Eugene Schoch before he died.

'Just because that cylinder has his name on it doesn't prove that he was ever actually here,' Robert answered her. 'He could be in his grave in Leysin.' Sheldon Ramsay's words in the PUB returned to haunt him. Did you see the body? Ramsay had asked him.

He hadn't.

'But cryonic preservation would make sense for the architect of Methuselah Man,' Hanna said. In science anything is possible. It was on his tombstone.

'But that still doesn't prove that he's alive, does it?' Robert replied.

Hanna studied Robert's face. 'And you're positive that Eugene and Methuselah Man are not one and the same?'

'Positive,' Robert said adamantly. 'The man shown to me by Ljudmila was not Eugene Schoch. And those two cylinders in there are further evidence of that. 'C'mon,' he said. 'Our first task is to find Methuselah Man.'

The remaining vault was completely empty, no cylinder, nothing. And they appeared to run out of areas to investigate. There was another locked, white door leading somewhere from the Cryopreservation Centre, but Robert couldn't open that one either. So they made their way back to the Reception desk where the other two doors were. The white one remained steadfast, so they took the red one to the left.

'We should hurry,' Robert urged her. 'I don't know how long we're safe down here.' On the other side of the door, Robert immediately recognized where he was. There was a lift there – the one Ljudmila had brought him from her office. He led Hanna down the narrow corridor to the small office where previously there had been a nurse on duty. Fortunately, at this time of the night the office was deserted. Just past the office were the steep steps leading to the corridor that eventually yielded to the glass walls of Methuselah Man's recovery room. They came to the viewing area. Hanna stared through the glass. Below them she could see a large room, brightly lit, with a figure lying in a bed and another figure slumped in a chair beside it.

'The glass is a one-way mirror,' Robert whispered beside her. 'We can see them but they can't see us.' Robert was taking in the scene. Last time it was a lavish living area. The decour was still the same - the wall-weave, most of the furniture. But the middle of the room had become like a hospital ward – the bed in the middle with the figure lying in it, connected to drips positioned on metal stands above the bed. The figure slumped in the chair alongside looked like a female nurse. And she was asleep.

'That's Methuselah Man?' Hanna said, breathlessly. 'The figure in the bed?' If it was, she was thinking, he didn't look well. And she remembered Ljudmila's words. There have been some complications. But nothing that we can't remedy.

Robert reached for the telescope embedded in the wall. He swiveled it down onto the figure in the bed. 'Christ!' he muttered under his breath.

'What is it?' Hanna said.

Robert lifted his face from the telescope. 'The man I saw last time was reputably one hundred and twenty-years old, but he looked around eighty. This time he's very different.'

Hanna was staring down through the glass. 'What do you mean, different?'

Robert motioned her towards the telescope. 'Take a look for yourself.'

Hanna nuzzled her eyes into the telescope lens. The face of the figure on the bed came into sharp focus. It was male, but the face was wrinkled like an ancient prune, deep furrows like valleys etched in the pallid skin. If this was Methuselah Man he had not re-discovered the fountain of youth. He truly did look like he might be his full biblical nine hundred and sixty-nine years of age.
ONE MONTH LATER
Chapter 35

CNN Studios; Atlanta; USA

LARRY HAGLER'S jumpy, jowly features stared out of millions of television screens all over the world. The news headline was emblazoned in red lettering on the blue back screen behind him:

METHUSELAH TREATMENT MISFIRES.

'The story of a one hundred and fifty year old man, labeled Methuselah who was, apparently resurrected back to life in a Swiss clinic, hit the headlines across the world three months ago,' Hagler told his global audience. The picture of Methuselah Man as he had appeared to the world three months ago came up on the back screen.

'It was a story that promised much,' Hagler continued. 'Credibility for the cryonics movement, the prospect of using new cures for once fatal diseases, and the tantalizing possibility that a rare gene called the Methuselah Gene might not only increase longevity, but also allow human beings to re-discover the fountain of youth.' Hagler paused briefly, his eyes flicking over the autocue off screen.

'The problem was that none of these claims were ever scientifically verified by an independent third party, and so were dismissed by the mainstream scientific community. And now an article has appeared in the British newspaper, The Independent, claiming that while this 'Methuselah Man' is still alive, he has aged considerably in these last three months and that his health is in a very precarious state, thus casting major doubts on the effectiveness of this anti-ageing Gene. For more on this story we cross live to Monique Devereaux in Leysin, Switzerland.'

A small insert screen appeared in the bottom left of the main screen. The attractive face of a young woman with long, brown, wispy hair stared out of the insert.

'Monique, give us the latest on this groundbreaking story.'

'Right, Larry.' She held up the front page of The Independent newspaper. The bold headline was the same as the one Larry Hagler had introduced the story with. 'The story is attributed to a journalist named Henry Higgins, who claims that sources inside the Schoch Institute supplied him with the information you led with,' Monique told her audience. 'But interestingly, Larry, I have been unable to locate a journalist called Henry Higgins. The Independent however, stands by the story and says it has to protect the identity of the writer for reasons of confidentiality.'

'And what has been the reaction of the Schoch Institute to these claims?' Larry asked Monique Devereaux.

The screen split in two with Larry on the right and Monique on the left. Monique was standing, with microphone in hand, on a bright clear day in front of a two-storied, wooden building nestled into the side of a soaring mountain. 'This is the Schoch Institute behind me,' she said, glancing over her shoulder. 'And I was able to talk with the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch.'

Larry disappeared from the screen. Ljudmila appeared in a head and shoulders shot. Her expression was stern and her eyes drilled into an unseen camera. Eyes that had something strange about them.

'This story is completely untrue,' she said. 'And it did not originate from inside this establishment. It is pure speculation and I challenge the Independent newspaper to name who these sources are. Methuselah Man, as he has been dubbed, is alive and well.'

The unseen camera panned out to reveal an office, with the CEO seated behind a large desk. The camera cut to Monique Devereaux, sitting in a chair on the other side of the desk. 'So why won't you allow 'Methuselah Man' to be filmed and examined by an independent scientific authority?' Monique asked.

Ljudmila came back into a wider shot. 'What we have achieved here is medical history,' she said, coolly. 'But there is some way to go before Methuselah Man can resume any kind of normal life. Any unnecessary exposures now could jeopardize the success of this milestone of medical history. And I cannot let that happen.'

'Nevertheless,' Monique followed up, 'You can see why people want evidence that these amazing claims are ... verifiable.'

The camera zoomed into Ljudmila's face. She didn't flinch. Her expression had set even firmer. And for a moment, the mystery of those eyes was revealed. One pupil was brown the other green. 'This is not Fantasy Island or a soap opera,' she said dismissively. 'My duty is to my patient, not prurient public interest. Methuselah Man will not be turned into a freak in a media circus.' Her face relaxed with the semblance of a smile. 'When the time is right, Methuselah will be revealed to the world.'

Monique had another question. 'We have information,' she put to Ljudmila, 'that some people in various countries have already paid large sums of money to receive the Methuselah treatment for anti-ageing purposes. What reassurance can you give these people that those treatments will be safe and effective?'

The sternness of Ljudmila's expression remained. 'None at all,' she said directly to the camera. 'You will recall that the Methuselah research was stolen from my Institute by criminals. But what they stole was only part of the record. It is unlikely that they will have been able to replicate an effective Methuselah Gene treatment. If someone is disseminating unreliable treatments to the gullible that is not my fault. Charlatans do not represent the Schoch Institute. I am not responsible for their fake products.'

Ljudmila and her office disappeared from the screen. Larry came back on. 'That was Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch, CEO of the Schoch Institute,' Monique reminded the audience. 'Back to you, Larry.'

Monique disappeared. 'Thank you, Monique,' Larry said. He stared out of the screen. 'Disturbing disclosures there about possible bogus treatments. We have tracked down one of these centres that allegedly has been administering the Methuselah Gene treatment. It's situated in Beverley Hills, California. We cross to our LA correspondent, Michelle Davis. Michelle?'

Michelle came up in a bottom insert screen. She looked like she might be the sister of Monique in Switzerland, created from a similar mold, but her long hair was black. 'Larry,' she joined the conversation. The screen panned out to reveal an exterior location behind her. 'This is the Willey clinic in Beverley Hills,' Michelle told the audience. It was a modern building with tall windows of mirror glass, situated in leafy, semi-suburban street. 'It is operated by Dr Seymour Willey a notable cosmetic surgeon. CNN has been told that you can access treatment for the Methuselah Gene here at a price tag of around half a million dollars. Dr Willey wouldn't be interviewed, but he did issue us with a written statement.'

Michelle held up a piece of paper. 'In the statement Dr Willey denies that his clinic is involved in any covert or black market medical treatments. He goes on to say that all medical procedures carried out at his clinic are safe, proven and totally lawful.' The camera zoomed in on a close-up. Michelle continued with her script. 'But CNN has learned of at least one person who allegedly had the Methuselah treatment here.'

Michelle disappeared and the screen filled with a wide shot of a large, white mansion set among rolling brown hills and lush green pastures. Michelle's appealing face re-appeared in a bottom insert. 'This is the Boudoir Ranch, home to the late Boudoir Magazine magnate, Jefferson Pike. According to Jefferson Pike's wife, Samantha, Jefferson had the Methuselah treatment at the Willey clinic a week before he died. She says it made no difference to him whatsoever. In fact, she claims that it may have contributed to his death, in the sense that it made him believe he was a young man again and ignore his doctor's warning to avoid excessive exercise. I spoke with Samantha Pike about this.'

The screen changed. The new shot was of a young woman in her twenties with tumbling, blonde hair, wearing shades and a skimpy red bikini, lounging in an outside deck chair in the glare of a summer sun. 'My poor, beloved Jefferson,' Samantha purred. 'He thought this treatment would make him young again. But it didn't. And the tragedy is, he didn't need to do this. I loved him the way he was. And now there's nothing that will bring him back.' Her voice was cracking with grief. She brought a white tissue up to her face and dabbed her nose.

The shot went wide to include the interviewer. 'There are rumours,' Michelle said, 'that Mr Pike was cryonically preserved. Is that correct?' she asked Samantha.

The tissue came quickly away from Samantha's face. 'That's a lie!' she said emphatically. 'He would've regarded that as revolting. He was cremated at a private service. I have his ashes. Would you like to see them?'

'No, I'll take your word for that,' Michelle said, quickly.

The camera panned briefly back to take in the large heart-shaped swimming pool she was sitting alongside. The Boudoir Ranch had featured on television before; on the Leisure Channel: Lives of the Rich and Famous and on the X-rated Beautiful Bodies in the Boudoir series. But viewers of those programs would have noticed a major change at the Boudoir Ranch. In Jefferson's days, the pool was always full of a bevy of half-naked, beautiful Barbie Dolls. But the fleeting shot today showed a group of bronzed, well-muscled young men, all staring adoringly at the prize sitting at the side of the pool.

Samantha.

'Larry,' Michelle said, signing off.

'Michelle Davis in California,' Larry said at his desk. 'And standing by in Washington is Dr Martin Duvall, Director of the National Institutes of Health.' Martin Duvall appeared on the back screen. Larry swiveled around in his chair to speak to him. 'So Dr Duvall, what is your take on this?'

Martin Duvall nodded at the question. 'Well Larry, firstly let me say there is no solid evidence in the public or scientific arena that any of the claims of the Schoch Institute are valid. None of these claims has been verified by independent assessment. Secondly, cryopreservation is not in itself illegal in this country, but again there is no independent proof that a successful rejuvenation has ever been carried out anywhere in the world. And thirdly, while some human genes have been found to be associated with possible longevity, there is no evidence currently that such genes can be successfully transplanted in other human beings to make them younger or extend their life span.'

'So you wouldn't be encouraging people to invest in such treatments?' Larry asked him.

'I certainly would not, Larry.'

Martin Duvall disappeared from the screen.

'Thank you, Dr Martin Duvall. And we have time for one more brief comment,' Larry told his audience. Lincoln Gale appeared on the back screen. 'Professor Lincoln Gale, Chairperson of the President's Committee on Bioethics. And I understand, Professor Gale, that even if there is some substance to the claims about Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene, you would have ethical objections to such treatment?'

Gale looked awkward in front of the camera. He kept his eyes downcast and not on the audience, as if he felt he had just emerged naked from a shower to find millions of eyes suddenly watching him. 'I would, yes,' Gale agreed, tentatively. 'In a sentence, ageing is not a disease. It is the natural God-given process of being human. We should not be interfering with that process.'

Larry grinned. 'That's actually three sentences, Professor. But I get your drift. So you would want to curb these treatments, Professor?'

Gale's head came sharply up. 'More than that. I believe they should be banned.'

'Thank you, Professor Lincoln Gale.' A relieved Gale disappeared quickly off the screen. 'So there we have it,' Larry eyed his audience. 'If you have money to burn, perhaps you would be better off putting it in a bank instead of betting on a dream that science can make you young again. But we'll keep you posted on developments in this story. I'm Larry Hagler. The hound behind the news.'

One of the millions of viewers watching could feel the blood draining from her body to the floor. Could the Methuselah treatment really be useless? And even worse, a scam? A half a million dollar scam! Francesca Young rose shakily to her feet. She went slowly to the full-length mirror in the bathroom adjoining her office. It was six weeks since her treatment at the Willey Clinic. Every day she looked in a mirror. And every day she swore she could see the age reversing in her skin; subtle changes, microscopic almost, but there was definitely something going on. But now she just stared at the image being reflected back at her.

An image of someone who suddenly appeared to have grown older.
Chapter 36

The Schoch Institute

LJUDMILA STUBBED OUT HER CIGAR and pushed the mute button on the remote to silence the replay of the CNN story. She was pleased by her performance. But the source of the story in the Independent remained a mystery. Had the information come out of the Schoch Institute? And if so from whom? Or had it come from someone outside of Schoch who knew the details of Methuselah Man? Someone who had previously worked at Schoch. There were candidates, but not many of them. Was the dead hand of Michael involved in this? Did he have an accomplice who was still active trying to subvert her plans? She had always wondered about that. Her thoughts came back to the moles in Sector B. What motivation would any of them have to leak information to the media? They were all well paid. No newspaper could pay them on an ongoing basis what they stood to gain in her employ.

The buzzer on her office door sounded. Her eyes flicked to the small screen on her desk. She stubbed out the cigar, hid the ashtray in her desk and pushed a button that released an air-freshener fragrance into the room. Then she pushed another button to let the visitor into the office. The door opened and Robert entered. She motioned him to sit in a chair. He looked on edge, she thought. Not his normally relaxed self. He sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs on the other side of her desk.

'Has the CNN crew gone?' she asked him. Robert nodded. 'And they didn't ask you any questions?'

'They did. But I didn't answer them.'

He was telling the truth. She had watched and listened through the external surveillance camera and microphone on her monitor. She didn't know whether he knew about the hidden external camera and microphone. He was the Communications Director after all, not the Director of Security. She fixed him with a solid stare. 'I'm not happy with you, Robert,' she said, tersely. She could see him stiffen in the chair.

'Why?' he asked, cautiously.

'It's been a month, Robert since you came to my apartment. Every Wednesday night, it's been one excuse after another.'

Robert squirmed in the chair. 'I've become quite attached to Dr Hayes,' he said. His eyes were downcast.

'Attached, Robert.' The word came out of her mouth like a piece of dirt expelled by her tongue. 'Attachment was part of the plan. But not to the extent that you couldn't break the bond.'

'I'm sorry,' Robert said.

Ljudmila's eyes hardened on his face. 'You need to remember who's in charge here, Robert. But we can talk about that later. Right now there is a more pressing matter. This story about Methuselah Man. I want to know the source of it.' Her eyes watched his face. He didn't flinch (but behind her desk she couldn't see his foot tapping nervously on the carpet). 'The allegations are entirely untrue,' she continued. 'Methuselah Man is as well as could be expected given his age and what he's been through. He is still recuperating.'

'Whatever you say,' Robert said. 'I of course am not involved in the Methuselah Project.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'True. And if the thieves who stole our research are selling it and promoting false hopes to rich people around the world that is not my fault, is it?

'No,' Robert agreed.

Ljudmila cupped her hands in front of her chin. 'Before coming here you worked for the Guardian newspaper in London, right?'

'Right.'

'But you must know journalists who work for the Independent?'

'Of course.'

'Henry Higgins. Have you heard of him?'

Robert shook his head. 'No.'

'Most likely a pseudonym?'

'Most likely,' Robert agreed. He could feel the sweat popping in his palms.

'So maybe you could fish around among your contacts to try and find out the source of this story? I can understand the newspaper being coy about answering these questions from the American media, but inside knowledge might make this task easier.'

'I'll see what I can find out,' Robert said.

'Good boy,' Ljudmila said. 'And on the home front have there been any external requests from personnel in Sector B in the last month?' These were requests for outside contact that had to be lodged with Robert and then passed to Security for clearance.

'Just the usual birthday greetings and family stuff,' Robert replied. 'Nothing out of order. All of which of course was passed onto security to action.'

'Security,' Ljudmila mused aloud. 'We have been understaffed in security since the unfortunate death of Peter Bains and the disappearance of Pierre De'Thierry.'

'Murder,' Robert reminded her. 'Peter Bains was murdered. Most likely by De'Thierry who still hasn't been caught.'

Ljudmila lowered her head. 'I don't need to be reminded, Robert that I had a likely killer and a thief on my staff. And now it seems I have a trouble-maker as well. My point is,' she continued. 'That with De'Thierry and Peter Bains no longer with us, we only have three security staff. And I would not trust the abilities of Tweedledee or Tweedledum when it comes to written surveillance. So that leaves Jackson, who has been putting in extra hours like the others and who is getting on in years. Unfortunately, intelligent security guards are hard to come by. But I recently found one who started this morning.'

Ljudmila played with the console on her desk. A shot of a man sitting at a desk came up on the wallscreen. 'I'm sorry to interrupt you, Jacques,' Ljudmila said. 'But there's someone I'd like you to meet.' The camera zoomed in on the man's face. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with bad skin rumpled by old acne scars. 'This is Robert Fisher our Director of Communications that I told you about,' she told the man on the wallscreen. 'I'm sending him down to you to check all external requests made from Sector B in the last month.'

The newcomer gave a brisk nod of his head, but his face remained expressionless. Ljudmila turned off the screen.

'His name is Jacques Mornay,' she informed Robert. 'I've instructed him to carry out a full security audit of Sector B. And until further notice he will be the Acting Director of Security. That's all for now Robert.'

Robert stood up and headed for the door of the office.

'And Robert,' she halted him halfway to the door. He turned back to face her. She was smiling. 'I will see you next Wednesday night. No excuses this time.' Her eyes went back to her desk.

He wanted to remonstrate with her, but right now he wanted also to get out of her office as quickly as he could. He nodded and carried on to the door.

Ljudmila watched him go. She took the half-smoked cigar out of the draw in her desk and re-lit it. The Independent newspaper. An English newspaper. Robert had worked for an English newspaper. Coincidence? She trusted Robert. And he had no access to Level Five in Sector B. Unless he was a conduit between someone in Sector B and the British Press. Just in case she would have her new Director of Security keep a close eye on Robert.

Apart from his activities next Wednesday night.
Chapter 37

The Dongcheng District; Beijing

THE LING BROTHERS sat in the office of Ling Yin. Their expressions were sombre. On the table in front of them were various printouts of media stories from around the world about Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene. 'So which story do you believe?' Ling Yang, the General, asked his brother. 'This English journalist or the woman from the Schoch Institute?'

'I believe that both the claims from the Schoch Institute about Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene are credible,' Ling Yin replied. 'What I've seen of their research leads me to that conclusion. In the case of Methuselah Man, there may have been complications as you might expect in such a ground-breaking treatment as this.' He gazed down at the papers on his desk. 'The Methuselah Gene is more of a problem. It now appears that the gene stolen from the Schoch Institute and on-sold to us was experimental and not the final product.'

'What the Americans call a scam,' Ling Yang said.

'If the Franchise was aware of that when they sold us the gene, yes,' Ling Yin agreed. And even if they didn't, the damage seemed to be done. The most damning comment had come from the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch.

I am not responsible for fake products.

Ling Yin was well aware (as was his brother the General) what the ramifications of that statement were. Recipients of the Methuselah Gene would be demanding their money back from the treatment centres. And the effect on future business would be catastrophic. They had invested five million American dollars in this business. At their cheaper rate of three hundred thousand American dollars per treatment, minus the fixed royalty to the Franchise, this left the Yao Clinic with a return of two hundred thousand dollars per treatment. Leaving their costs to administer the treatment aside that required twenty-five patients to reach breakeven. To date, the Yao Clinic had only administered five Methuselah Gene treatments, three to wealthy Chinese businessmen and two to members of the Chinese Politburo on the recommendation of Ling Yang. The soft start was deliberate. The strategy had been to rejuvenate the Rancher, an event coupled with the fact that he had already received the Methuselah Gene, which would give the Yao Clinic a competitive edge in this global marketplace. But that strategy was now in tatters. And Ling Yang wanted an update on the Rancher.

More bad news.

'Due to this publicity, both offers have now been withdrawn,' Ling Yin told his brother. 'The bidding war has ended.' He was referring to the fifty and sixty million dollar offers from the Rancher's wife's and Jefferson's attorneys respectively. 'If the Methuselah Gene is seen to be of no value, then neither side has a motive to make the payment.'

Ling Yang scowled. 'We should have moved faster,' he said.

Ling Yin spread his hands. 'Hindsight is a wonderful thing, brother.'

'So what will you do with the Rancher?' Ling Yang asked.

'Keep him in storage. The situation might change.'

Ling Yang was scribbling on a piece of paper. 'So ...' he said. 'Your view is that we need to refund all the money paid by our five Methuselah Gene patients to protect our reputation?'

Ling Yin nodded. He didn't want to agree. But there seemed no other alternative.

Ling Yang continued. 'So that means, leaving aside the Rancher, we have our original five million dollar investment, refunds of one point five million to the patients and half a million in commission paid to the Franchise, which totals a loss of seven million American dollars. So we must get the money back from the Franchise,' Ling Yang declared, emphatically.

'They don't answer my emails,' Ling Yin responded. 'They have no physical address.'

'The Long-Life Foundation then,' Ling Yang declared. 'We must seek it there.'

Ling Yin squirmed at his desk. 'They don't answer my emails either.'

'But they have a physical address?'

Ling Yin nodded. 'They have offices in a variety of locations. But their Head Office is in Palm Springs, California.' He rummaged in a drawer in his desk and withdrew a colour photograph. 'This was the man who brokered the deal with me on their behalf.'

The photograph showed a man in his early forties with a boyish face and a mop of blond hair.

'His name is Dr Randy Ryman,' Ling Yin told his brother.

'Then we must find this Dr Ryman and recover our money,' Ling Yang said.

'We?' Ling Yin echoed.

'Chen Chou will find him on our behalf,' Ling Yang decreed. 'This is his former business. He will not let us down.'

Ling Yin wanted to recover their money as much as his brother did. But for a moment he was pleased that he was not Dr Randy Ryman.
Chapter 38.

Beverley Hills; Los Angeles; California

SEYMOUR WILLEY WAS A TROUBLED MAN. Ever since the CNN programme on the Methuselah Gene had aired his phone hadn't stopped ringing. Past and future clients wanting re-assurance or an immediate refund of their half a million dollars. He might have got away with reassurance, or at least bought himself some more time, had it not been for the blonde Barbie Doll, Samantha Pike, who had made him out to be a liar. And to turn the knife she was now publically threatening to sue him for fraud and hastening the demise of her beloved husband with a fake treatment. His reputation that had taken years to establish was now under threat. And one legal action would likely bring a flood of others. He could try and invoke the clause in small print in the Methuselah Gene contracts under which the patient accepted the risk of failure and absolved him of all liability. But the clause wasn't bulletproof, as his attorney had already told him, and even if it was successful it wouldn't save his reputation.

But it got worse.

He had borrowed most of the five million dollars that had been the joining fee for the Franchise. Whilst business had been good and growing, he was nowhere near breakeven yet. And he had borrowed more money against future potential earnings for a large stake in a new hotel complex being built in Las Vegas. And that consortium had just filed for a Chapter Seven liquidation, due to the bite of the world-wide economic recession. Investors were being told that any returns on their funds would be minimal. Seymour Willey was in big financial trouble. And some of those loans were secured over his expensive residential property in Beverley Hills.

What to do? A refund of his money from the Long-Life Foundation had been his only hope. But they claimed they were only brokers in the deal between the franchisees and the Franchise. And the Franchise had now disappeared in cyber-space. He could hardly bring legal proceedings against the Long-Life Foundation for the supply of products obtained from a robbery in Switzerland. So running was his only option. If he stayed here he figured he would be bankrupt, broke and ruined within six months.

He had decided to flee to Mexico and take on a new identity. He had already started making the arrangements. In less than a week's time he would just disappear leaving everything - his practice, his friends and his current wife behind him. The latter was tiring of him anyway, and it was his third marriage. Time for a change. There would be new pickings in Mexico, for work and his private life. Once there he would direct another cosmetic surgeon to alter his appearance to fit a new identity. Seymour Willey would be gone forever.

But he had one more farewell to finalise. Corby normally came on a Wednesday night but this week she couldn't make it until tonight. And tonight was Friday; the end of the week, the end of their relationship. It seemed fitting. Since Samantha had evicted Corby from the Ranch, Corby had been living with a cousin a few miles from Seymour's clinic. She was pursuing legal action against Jefferson Pike's estate, claiming a portion of his will that he had promised her for services rendered. Seymour had considered taking Corby with him to Mexico. But it seemed too risky. Maybe when he had settled there, adopted his new identity. He wasn't sure. So he would treat this evening a final farewell. But he wouldn't tell her.

She arrived a few minutes later. She looked as stunning as usual, dressed in a long black leather coat and calf-length boots that matched the colour of her hair. She was carrying a copy of the Los Angeles Times. The Methuselah Gene was one of the headlines. The paper was a couple of days old.

'This says your treatment doesn't work,' she said accusingly to Seymour.

He shrugged the accusation away. 'That's just a jealous reaction from people who can't afford to pay for it,' he said dismissively.

'Are you sure?'

'Positive,' Seymour told her.

She followed him to the rear room at the back of the surgery where in a cramped, clinical space there was a plain, no-frills single bed. Hardly the erotic boudoir that graced the pages of Boudoir Magazine. It was merely a functional space in Seymour's mind. And at the end of the day that was really all the beautiful Miss April Boudoir was to him: a fetching, but functional fuck.

Corby sat on the end of the bed. Seymour already had the champagne opened in an ice-bucket nearby. He poured out two frothing glasses and handed one to her. He raised his glass. 'Cheers,' he said.

'Cheers.' She took a sip of the French bubbly. 'So when am I finally getting the treatment?' she asked him.

This had been the main topic of her conversation for weeks now. Seymour just strung her along with future promises. He knew it was a kind of veiled threat to keep her coming here. She was a worthwhile investment for a weekly liaison, but she wasn't worth the hundred thousand dollars he would've had to have paid to the Franchise. He had given her free cosmetic surgery to firm her breasts and a nip and tuck to round her buttocks. But that was as far as his freebies would extend.

'I've run out of supplies,' he told her. 'There's another shipment arriving in two weeks time. I'll do it then,' he lied.

She looked at him with greedy eyes. 'Promise?'

'Promise,' he lied again. He took another sip of his champagne. 'Have you seen the bitch lately?' he asked her. It was a reference to Samantha.

Corby pouted her lips. 'I never want to see her again,' she said, bitterly.

'She's suing me on the basis that I caused Jefferson's death.'

Corby looked shocked. 'Suing you? More likely she caused Jefferson's death if you ask me.'

'Could be an interesting court case,' Seymour mused aloud. But he had no intention of being there to participate.

Corby finished her champagne. She would have another one after her weekly play in the cot with Seymour. She didn't mind coming here to the clinic on a weekly basis. Seymour was quite an attractive man for his age and not bad in bed. But she had no shortage of younger, more athletic hunks she could call on whenever she wanted. So there had to be something extra in all this for her. She was grateful for the jobs he had already done for her. Her breasts and buttocks were much better now; much more alluring. But she wanted the full Monty – eternal youth. Who would pass that opportunity up? If he didn't come up with the treatment in two weeks time she would give him an ultimatum: the treatment or this liaison was over.

It was time to do it. She stood up and unbuttoned her long leather coat. On this occasion, a startling surprise. Seymour drew a sharp breath. Underneath the coat she was totally naked. Seymour's eyes were lured longingly to her firm, shapely body. Corby slipped into the sheets on the narrow bed. 'C'mon doc,' she said to him.

He didn't need a second invitation. He quickly shed his own clothes and climbed in beside her. He began kissing her neck. She started stroking his back. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard a clicking noise, but decided it was probably just the wind outside rattling on a window. He came quickly to his task. There was no time for too much foreplay, partly because finance was dominating his mind and partly because his body just wanted to get on with it. He rolled over on top of her. At first her eyes were welcoming. And then suddenly they seemed to freeze and she was staring up and past him with an expression of terror on her face.

'What's wrong?' Seymour gasped. He lifted his head and inclined it behind him. What he saw shocked him as much as it had shocked her. A man was standing by the foot of the bed. One of his clients – the mobster, Tony Supero. His swarthy features were dark and demanding and in his hand was a pistol pointed at Seymour's head. 'Tony?' Seymour breathed hard. 'What're you doing here?'

'I've come for my money,' Supero said. 'All five hundred grand of it.'

Seymour rolled off Corby's body. 'Tony, Tony. That stuff in the media's all lies. Believe me.'

Supero jabbed the barrel of the gun closer to Seymour's head.

Seymour raised his hands. 'I don't keep that sort of cash on the premises, Tony. If you come back tomorrow we can talk about this.'

'Tomorrow never comes,' Supero said. 'I want my money now.'

'It's not that simple,' Seymour pleaded with him.

'Get up!' Supero ordered.

'All right, all right,' a breathless Seymour said. He got out of the bed and reached for his clothes.

'Leave the clothes,' Supero commanded him. 'C'mon, let's go.'

Seymour stared at him. 'Where are we going?'

'To your computer in your office. You can make the transaction there.'

'It's really not that simple, Tony,' Seymour said again.

Supero's stare hardened even more. 'It better be, Seymour. Otherwise you won't be going anywhere else. Ever.'

Seymour gulped in extra air. 'Tony, listen to me,' he started.

'Shut up doc!' Supero silenced him. 'You can talk in a minute.' The mobster cast his gaze quickly around the room. The fact that it was an internal room without any windows was a bonus. He kicked at Seymour's clothes on the floor and found what he was looking for. A cellphone. He picked it up and pocketed it. Then he found Corby's mobile in her purse. He pocketed that too. He waved the pistol at the petrified Corby in the bed. 'You just stay put kitten, you hear? If your boyfriend comes up with the goods he can come back here and start your motor up again. In the meantime, if you don't want to get hurt you just stay put. You hear me?'

Corby went to speak but no words came out.

Supero clicked the outside lock on the rear room and marched the naked Seymour to the outer office at gunpoint. In the office he pointed to the computer on the desk. 'Boot it up and let's do the business,' he directed Seymour.

Seymour sat at the desk and fired up the computer. After he accessed the Internet he clicked on his bank and wrote in his username and password with a shaky hand. Seconds later a balance of his account appeared on the screen. It showed a deficit of several million dollars.

'You must have other accounts,' Supero growled. 'You're a very rich man. Everyone knows that. And at five hundred grand a pop for this bogus treatment you must have a fortune stashed away somewhere. So let's get to it. Okay?'

'Tony, listen to me,' Seymour said again. 'I've fallen on hard times. A business deal that went terribly wrong. I can show you the details. I've got a temporary cashflow crisis, that's all. Just give me some time and I'll get your money. I promise you.'

'Your promises are worth piss, Seymour,' Supero snarled at him.

'I need a week, Tony. Just one week.'

Supero seemed to be considering that. And then his mean eyes caught sight of something on Seymour's desk. He picked up a sheet of paper. 'This is an E-ticket to Mexico in a few days time,' he said. 'Please explain, doc.'

Seymour's whole body was sweating. His tanned skin glistened like someone sitting in a sauna. He stared at Supero standing above him like a vengeful God on judgment day. 'It's just a business trip, Tony. That's all.'

'But it's a one-way ticket, doc. Doing a runner are we?'

Willey snapped. It was the cornered animal in him that responded to the imminent threat of extreme danger, not the rational reply of an intelligent man who with reason might be able to bluff his way out of this situation; flight not fight. He kicked his legs, like a sudden reflex out from his chair, knocking Supero off balance and made a desperate dive for the door. He had his hand on the door handle the moment before there was a muffled crack and a bullet tore through his skull. Seymour Willey slumped forward and fell to the floor like a tree suddenly uprooted by lightning.

Supero rifled through the drawers of the desk and then turned his attention to the blue filing cabinet in the corner of the room. It wasn't locked. He opened it. Even more amazing. The file he wanted was clearly marked in alphabetical sequence: Methuselah. He drew out the contents. There were dossiers of patients who had received the treatment, including himself. And another manila folder labeled: Supplies. He opened that and saw names and contact addresses. He stuffed a sheet of paper into his pocket and left the room.

In the rear room Corby hadn't moved. She still lay naked in the bed with the sheet pulled up tight under her chin. The terror had not left her face either. 'You killed him,' she said, her voice trembling.

'I had to kitten,' he rasped. 'He ripped me off. And no one does that to Tony Supero.'

'I have nothing to do with this business,' she pleaded with him. 'I'm an innocent bystander. Believe me.'

Supero went and sat on the side of the bed. 'You probably are kitten. But unfortunately you're a witness to this. You're in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

The fear was full in her voice. 'I promise you, I won't say anything,' she pleaded again. And then she pulled the sheet down her chest and forced a seductive smile. 'I could be your girl, Tony. I can do whatever you want. Be at your beck and call. That would be the price of my silence.'

Supero's hard eyes traveled along her body as if that was a proposition he hadn't considered. He drew a deep breath. 'Turn over,' he said. She did as he asked. He took the gun out of his pocket. 'Promise me again that you'll keep your mouth shut,' he said, pressing the barrel of the gun up against the back of her head. He saw her body stiffen.

'I promise,' she said, pushing her face hard into the pillow.

The sight of her bare skin was almost too much for Tony Supero. But he couldn't touch her with any part of him. He didn't want his DNA anywhere near her. 'Be my girl, kitten,' he said, hoarsely above her. He pushed the barrel of the gun between her buttocks. She whimpered with the sensation. He pulled the trigger, several times. She jumped with shock then lay still. Blood sprayed out of her mouth across the white pillow. Messy. Sad to ruin a body that had always been of more value than her brain.
Chapter 39.

The Schoch Institute

HANNA SAT IN HER OFFICE trying to focus on her work. She was having difficulties in making progress on the Huntington's affected simulated brain of Eugene Schoch. And added to that, was the real brain of Eugene Schoch deceased or still alive somewhere? The empty cryopreservation cylinder in Sector B with Eugene's name on it suggested his dead body had been brought back to life and that he was still alive somewhere. And that tied in with Sheldon Ramsay's claim that before his death, Michael had been sending emails to Eugene as he tried to blackmail the thieves for his silence. But that scenario seemed to paint Eugene Schoch as one of the thieves. Or perhaps the thieves just used Eugene's name as a code. And perhaps Eugene was dead. An empty cylinder with his name on it wasn't conclusive proof that he was still alive.

So many questions.

And this was just one of them. The intriguing list of Projects they had seen on a screen in the Control Room on Level Five. Project names with red and green lights next to them:

THE METHUSELAH FILE

PROJECT METHUSELAH MAN - a green light

PROJECT EINSTEIN - a green light

PROJECT DARWIN - a red light

PROJECT HAL - a red light

Methuselah Man was self-explanatory. But what were the other projects all about? Hanna had tried to find out. She had searched the Schoch Intranet, but to no avail. She had discreetly made inquiries of other staff on her floor in Sector A. They all returned her blank stares. Either they really didn't know, or they were damn good actors. And she couldn't ask Ljudmila. That would give away the fact that they had breached security and visited Level Five. Where she had seen Methuselah Man. A man who looked every day his real age or older. Did this prove that the Methuselah Gene was a failure as Robert's article had implied?

Robert's article.

She had tried to talk him out of writing it. He countered by reminding her that she had encouraged him at their very first meeting to rediscover his investigative journalist's career. And that was what he was doing. Fair enough. She wasn't against the expose. She just thought the timing was questionable. It made them vulnerable to Ljudmila, who was clearly angry about the article. Even though she had agreed with some of the content on CNN. The bit about the thieves of the Methuselah research possibly selling fake products. Hanna had seen the CNN broadcast and she remembered Ljudmila's dismissive words: If someone is disseminating unreliable treatments to the gullible that is not my fault. Charlatans do not represent the Schoch Institute. I am not responsible for their fake products.'

But Ljudmila had been equally dismissive about the claim that Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene were fake or even a failed experiment. So if Ljudmila traced the source of the article back to Robert, he (and probably Hanna as well) were in big trouble. And how difficult would that be? The pseudonym of Henry Higgins that Robert had written the article under was hardly an impenetrable shield for Ljudmila to pierce. After all, Ljudmila knew that Robert was a former journalist based in London where the Independent was published. It seemed a very short jump to Robert.

'Ljudmila trusts me,' was Robert's assured reply. 'She will never suspect me.'

Trust. He had broken Ljudmila's trust. Justified or not, if Ljudmila did trace the article back to Robert that would make her anger even worse.

'Her suspicions are with the moles in Sector B,' Robert had further tried to assure Hanna. 'The new Director of Security is focusing his attention there.'

The new Director of Security, Jacques Mornay. Hanna had met him. Mornay. It was also the name of an eel; a snake-like eel that lay in wait to ambush its prey. It fitted the new Director of Security perfectly: slippery, slimy; like the departed doctor, Randy Ryman. But the new Director of Security seemed to Hanna to be more covert than Ryman. The eel lying in wait to ambush its prey.

She tried to put these fears out of her mind and concentrate on the simulated brain of Eugene Shock. She had been working on her stem cell therapy for months now. She had experimented with both adult and embryonic stem cells in the hypothetical model. The latter had showed much more promise and were not being rejected by the hypothetical brain. Her experiments seemed to have solved the targeting problem, for she had successfully located the new stem cells in affected multiple sites. And she had achieved the 'switching on' of these new neurons. But there was a major problem. The defective Huntingtin's genes still resided in the patient's brain and were maintaining dominance over the new cells, causing the new cells to keep dividing and produce mutant tumours, life-threatening to the brain. Her stem cell experiments had stalled. So she had turned to the alternative treatment: gene therapy, or gene silencing as the research went for Huntington's.

Because research to date had not uncovered the cause of the Huntingtin mutation, the technique sought to turn the defective gene off, thus preventing further neuronal damage. So her analogy to Robert that night in the bar was not quite accurate. It was not a matter of fixing the broken window by replacing it, but rather boarding the window up so it ceased to function as a window any longer. This was called RNA interference. The RNA molecule acted as a bridge between the DNA in the nucleus of the cell and the outer cell. RNA provided the coding message to the ribosome (the protein-producing factory in the cytoplasm in the outer cell) to produce the Huntingtin protein. If the Huntingtin gene in the nucleus was defective then the ribosome would produce the mutant protein mHtt instead of the healthy protein Htt. RNA interference used fragments of RNA called siRNA, which destroyed all RNA in the cell with a matching sequence, stopping the production of the toxic protein.

The method of delivering the siRNA into the target cells was by using a carrier called a vector. And the most commonly used vectors were disease-causing viruses, including those that cause the common cold and the HIV Aids virus. The researcher would strip the virus of its own disease-causing genes in the laboratory and normally insert therapeutic genes, which the vector would unload into the target cell to restore it to a normal state. But in Huntington's the vector would carry the siRNA.

But there were also many challenges that Hanna would need to overcome to make this treatment successful. They included preventing any undesired side-effects, ensuring the virus targeted the correct cells – in the multiple sites of the Basal Ganglia, the Cerebral Cortex and the Striatum, and ensuring that the inserted material didn't disrupt any necessary function of the targeted gene, in this case any part of the Huntingtin protein still required for normal cell function. The latter problem was likely to be alleviated by the fact that a sufferer had two copies of the Huntingtin gene inherited from two parents and in the majority of cases only one copy of the gene would be defective. So if she could 'silence' just the defective gene this should not be a problem. But there was still the decision about which virus to use as the vector. Hanna still had lots to work on.

It was late morning when she saw a new email flash briefly on the bottom of her screen. We need to meet. She clicked on the email icon on the Toolbar. It appeared to be a message from Sheldon Ramsay, though the address at the top was someone called Stephen Rochester and the message was unsigned. A precaution maybe. The message simply read:

We need to meet. Can you make this Tuesday 12.30 at the PUB. It is important.

It was almost six weeks since they had met Ramsay in the PUB at Leysin. When he had told them about the Franchise, the attempted blackmail by Michael, the possibility that Sophie Maurer might be Michael's killer and Michael's emails to someone called Eugene. They had promised to keep Ramsay informed on any developments they uncovered inside Schoch. But they hadn't told him about the empty cryopreservation cylinder with Eugene's name on it. Because what did it prove? And they hadn't told him about seeing Methuselah Man either. But they were sure he would have seen the CNN coverage of the Henry Higgins story and read the article. The CIA would have been very interested in that. But so far there had been no contact from Ramsay. Until now. Today was Monday. She clicked Reply and wrote See you there and then clicked Send. She got up from her desk and went to find Robert. She didn't trust the Intranet or using her mobile. She had visions of the Mornay eel lurking in the shadows, watching and listening.
Chapter 40.

Leysin

THEY MET RAMSAY as agreed on the Tuesday at 12.30 in the PUB. Ramsay was waiting for them, his florid features seeming even more redder today. As well as his own beer he had a gin and tonic and another beer waiting on the table.

'I've got to go back to work,' Hanna told him.

'Me too,' Robert said.

'One drink won't harm you,' Ramsay growled. He raised his glass. 'I think we have made major progress since our last meeting,' he smiled at them. 'Cheers! Here's to Hanna Hayes and Henry Higgins!'

Robert's hand wobbled and he spilled some of his beer. 'It was quite a story, wasn't it,' he said, quickly.

Ramsay nodded. 'Well you should know, Robert. You wrote it.'

'What makes you think that?' Robert said defensively.

Ramsay's expression became stern. 'Come on, Robert. Whose side are you on here?'

Robert shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. 'Well ...if you must know, I feel a little torn on that one,' he replied. 'On the one hand, I'm concerned for all these people around the world shelling out big bucks for a treatment that may not work. But on the other hand, I still have some loyalty to Ljudmila and Schoch. I mean, Ljudmila hasn't necessarily done anything wrong, has she?'

'Hasn't she?' Ramsay said rhetorically.

'She publically condemned the selling of fake products,' Robert followed up.

'And the Henry Higgins story about Methuselah Man being a frail old man and not a rejuvenated spring chicken?' Ramsay countered.

'Which doesn't prove that the Methuselah Gene is a hoax,' Hanna intervened. 'It may just mean that the patient had complications, or that the treatment still needs to be further refined. The major thing you're forgetting is that if Methuselah Man is who Ljudmila claims him to be and there appears to be proof of that, rejuvenating him, with or without the Methuselah Gene, is an amazing scientific feat. And he may not be the only success story.' She told Ramsay about Eugene Schoch and the vacant cylinder.

That got Ramsay's attention. 'Which gives credence to the emails from Michael Glade to someone called Eugene,' he said, thoughtfully.

'Not necessarily,' Hanna corrected him. 'An empty cylinder, or an empty tomb for that matter, doesn't prove resurrection.'

'Leave religion out of this,' Ramsay growled. 'I'm a Catholic.' He cupped his hands in front of him on the table. 'But let's assume that Eugene Schoch was rejuvenated after death. All that might mean is that somewhere there's another old guy on his second deathbed. So at the end of the day, what kind of a worthwhile scientific feat is that?'

'In Eugene's case he was a very sick man to start with,' Hanna answered his question. 'That's why I was brought to the Schoch Institute. To try and find a cure for his Huntington's disease.'

Ramsay ran a large hand through his mop of silver hair. 'Which doesn't make a lot of sense does it? I mean, wouldn't you try to find a cure for him before you rejuvenated him?'

It struck Hanna like an electric shock. Unless you were working on the actual brain of Eugene Schoch and not a simulated one after all. Simulated brain experiments were really no different to doing experiments on mice. Whether such experiments could be successfully applied to a living human subject was always problematical. But if Eugene Schoch was a live subject that changed everything. And it raised some serious ethical issues as well.

'Your argument assumes that Eugene is actually alive,' Robert said to Ramsay.

Ramsay shrugged. 'Or that he never died in the first place.'

'That's easily solved,' Robert replied. 'You just dig up his coffin in the cemetery here.'

He is alive, Hanna was thinking. Whether he never died or whether he was rejuvenated, he is alive. I am sure of it.

'But leaving Eugene aside,' Robert continued, 'as Hanna says, the evidence is strong that Methuselah Man was rejuvenated from the dead and that is a major scientific feat.'

Ramsay eyed Robert thoughtfully. 'Your loyalty to Dr Gladovitch is admirable,' he said. 'So why did you include the condition of Methuselah Man in your article?'

Robert was still unwilling to own up to being the author of the article. 'You mean the article by Henry Higgins,' he answered Ramsay. 'You'd have to ask him that.'

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. 'Henry Higgins,' he mused aloud. 'So who is Henry Higgins?' He answered his own question. 'A fictional professor of phonetics in George Bernard Shaw's play, Pygmalion, which became the movie My Fair Lady. But there have been other Henry Higgins in the world, hasn't there? And one of them was once the Editor of the Northumberland News, a small, rural newspaper in the North of England where you worked when you first came to England from New Zealand in the late nineteen nineties.'

Robert had paled a little. 'That Henry Higgins died years ago,' he said.

Ramsay nodded. 'But it's an interesting connection, isn't it? And this Henry Higgins never became a prominent media figure. So you won't find him with an Internet search. So I guess you figured that no one would ever find a connection between him and yourself, Robert?'

Robert breathed out slowly. 'So how did you find out?'

'It's not that hard, Robert. An extensive search on your background soon leads one to the Northumberland News and Henry Higgins. A little careless of you, I might say. Let's just hope that Dr Gladovitch doesn't go down the same path.'

Robert was suddenly feeling foolish. It was so long ago. He never thought anyone would ever make the connection. He was sure his contacts at the Independent wouldn't divulge his identity. But he didn't want Ljudmila finding out. He had been trying to protect the gullible buying fake Methuselah treatments on the black market. He had only referred to the condition of Methuselah Man to give additional credence to the story. His intention had never been to betray Ljudmila. Betray. That was a word which resonated in his head. Maybe it really was betrayal; just like he had betrayed Hanna by sleeping with Ljudmila. That had been for a good cause as well. And it was a dilemma that wasn't fully dealt with yet. For tomorrow was Wednesday night.

'Your secret's safe with me,' Ramsay assured him.

You don't know half my secrets, Robert was thinking, and nor thankfully does Hanna.

'You said this meeting was important,' Hanna said to Ramsay. 'Do you have something more to tell us?'

Ramsay's expression grew stern again. 'I do,' he said. 'But first, is there anything else your digging has uncovered at Schoch that I should know about?'

'Nothing,' Robert said.

'Apart from the list of secret projects we saw in the Control Centre,' Hanna corrected him.

'And what were they?' Ramsay asked her.

'We just saw their names,' Hanna told him. 'There were no details about what they involved.' She reeled off the names: Methuselah Man, Einstein, Darwin and HAL

Ramsay looked interested. 'And apart from Methuselah Man, none of those other names means anything to you in terms of possible research at Schoch?'

'None of them,' Hanna replied.

Ramsay leaned over the table. 'Not even HAL?'

Hanna shook her head.

'You're not movie buffs?' Ramsay said.

'We like movies, yes,' Hanna said.

'So have you seen 2001 A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick?'

'I've heard of it,' Robert said. 'But I've never seen it.'

'Me neither,' Hanna said.

'Before your time, I guess. It was made in 1968 and many rate it as one of the greatest films of all time. Science fiction well ahead of its time. It's about meaning of life stuff and involves a spaceship on its way to Jupiter. It actually has some scientists preserved in a state of cryogenic hibernation for the duration of the voyage. Anyway, the spaceship is pretty much run by a super computer called HAL who even possesses human emotions. But HAL loses his marbles, or chips I suppose you'd call it, and he tries to destroy the mission.'

'So what could that have to do with a research project at Schoch?' a puzzled Robert asked.

Ramsay shrugged. 'Don't know. I thought maybe you could tell me.'

'Mind uploading,' Hanna mused aloud.

Both Ramsay and Robert looked to her for an explanation. 'What's mind uploading?' Robert asked her.

Hanna drew a deep breath. 'It's the theory that argues you can transfer the human mind and consciousness to a computer.'

'And that's possible?' Robert said.

'Anything's possible, Robert. Probable is another matter. But even to be possible, it relies on a materialist view of the mind. That denies the concept of spirit and argues that the mind is solely made up of physical and chemical interactions.' Hanna shot a glance at Ramsay. 'Not a view a Catholic would subscribe to I imagine.'

Ramsay said nothing.

'But even with a materialistic view of the mind, the problem is still around consciousness,' Hanna continued. 'How do you read the contents of the mind? But there are mapping technologies being developed to try and address this.'

'And the Bio-Tech Department at Schoch has a team of IT experts at the cutting edge of their profession,' Robert mused aloud.

'So if my mind is uploaded to a computer,' Ramsay intervened, 'it could then be copied to other computers. So there would be multiple Sheldon Ramsay's in the world.'

'And when you die,' Robert proffered, 'these other Sheldon Ramsay's would still exist.'

'And that raises a major ethical and philosophical question.' Hanna answered him. 'It is known as the Theseus Paradox, which is if an object has all its component parts replaced or removed is it fundamentally still the same object? It's all about personal identity.'

'You're not just a scientist,' Ramsay said, approvingly.

Hanna smiled. 'I studied philosophy in my first degree,' she told him. 'But you said you have more to tell us,' she shifted the conversation.

Ramsay slumped back in his chair. His belly fell out of his coat like a pregnant woman exposed. 'I do,' he nodded. 'Confirmation that the Franchise was behind the robbery, by engaging the group under the leadership of Sonia Gluckman, or Sophie Maurer as you know her, to carry out the raid on the Schoch Institute. Confirmation that Michael Glade arranged for the financing of the operation, before he got greedy as we discussed last time. Confirmation that the Franchise sold its product through the Long-Life Foundation at various outlets around the world.'

'So have you apprehended anyone yet?' Hanna asked him.

Ramsay looked uncomfortable. 'Not yet. We're still looking for the main offenders. But Robert's article has probably done the gullible and the foolish a favour. There's been a major backlash against this scam at all the outlets around the world where the Methuselah Gene was offered. Most of them have already closed. The gullible are claiming their money back. Lawsuits have been filed and in one case it appears that a patient has since murdered the doctor who administered the treatment.' Ramsay paused and sipped on his beer.

'Not much of this is new,' Robert said, sounding disappointed. 'Apart from the backlash, which is due to my article, this is more or less what you told us last time.'

Ramsay placed his glass down on the table. 'There's more,' he said. 'The money paid by the outlets through the Long-Life Foundation to the Franchise was remitted to bank accounts in Zurich.'

'You told us that last time too,' Robert said. 'So you've seized it?'

Ramsay shook his head. 'No. The money was quickly laundered through a maze of other accounts. Millions and millions of dollars. But we do now know where it ended up.'

'And where is that?' Robert asked.

Ramsay's eyes were burning across the table. 'The Schoch Institute,' he told them.
Chapter 41.

'WHY WOULD LJUDMILA STEAL her own research?' Hanna said, baffled.

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. The look he gave Hanna suggested she was being naïve. 'To line her own pockets maybe?' he suggested. 'For a few, crime does pay. And we're talking about a lot of money here. She'll probably do a runner soon. Disappear into the ether.'

'I just don't buy it,' Hanna said. 'Whatever her faults, in my opinion, Ljudmila's a dedicated scientist, not a criminal. And can you actually steal from yourself?'

Ramsay's expression was severe. 'Making false accusations and wasting the valuable time of authorities is certainly a crime,' he replied. 'Not to mention selling fake or misleading products in the marketplace.'

'So what you're saying,' Hanna followed up, 'is that to make this money she had to fake the robbery because she knew all along that the product was defective. Without the "robbery", the reputation of the Schoch Institute would now be in tatters.'

'Precisely,' Ramsay agreed.

'But if she's about to do a "runner" as you suggest, why would that matter? She could just close up shop, and as you say, disappear.'

Ramsay nodded. 'Fair point. So maybe she isn't intending to run. Maybe she wants it both ways – to keep the money and carry on with her research at Schoch, continuing to blame these "criminals" for what has happened on the open market.'

'And maybe there's her motive,' Robert intervened. All eyes turned to Robert. 'I agree with Hanna,' he said. 'I don't see Ljudmila as your normal criminal out for personal gain either. If this is true, then the money is probably earmarked for funding further research at Schoch. Schoch is a not-for-profit organization and I happen to know that their cash reserves are running low. And the type of research carried out at Schoch is extremely expensive. Maybe she intends to use the money to fund that list of projects we saw in Sector B - Methuselah, Einstein, Darwin and HAL.'

'Makes sense,' Hanna agreed.

'You sound like you're trying to excuse her behaviour,' Ramsay said, unconvinced.

'Not excuse. Explain,' Robert said.

Ramsay's expression was still sombre. 'Well try this. There is also the matter of Michael Glade's murder. If he was killed for trying to blackmail his employer then the trail of his murder now leads directly back to his half-sister, doesn't it?'

The thought had already crossed Hanna's mind. She found it difficult enough to think of Ljudmila as a criminal. But a murderer? That was unthinkable. And to suggest she would order the murder of her half-brother, no matter how estranged they were, was too chilling to contemplate. 'There has always been the suggestion that Michael's death was personal, a relationship gone wrong,' she said, trying to rationalize what she was hearing. 'Even if Sophie Maurer was his killer, his death could be explained in that way and be entirely separate from the attempt at blackmail.'

'You're clutching at straws,' Ramsay said.

She knew he was right. But she didn't want to confront the horror of what he was suggesting.

'So what happens now?' Robert asked. 'Do you arrest Ljudmila?'

Ramsay spread his hands. 'These crimes are the business of Interpol not the American Embassy. But I think there are still problems of proof. The evidence about the money ending up at Schoch is entwined in a maze of covert banking practices. It might take years to untangle. The most direct evidence would come from the apprehension of the people who apparently broke into Schoch and took the research, the most important of those being Sonia Gluckman, or Sophie Maurer as you know her. She also probably holds the key to the murder of Michael Glade. My only interest in this now is this other research that's being carried on there. Especially if your argument about Dr Gladovitch's motives here are correct.' Ramsay's eyes fixed on Hanna's face. 'So obviously, anything you can tell me further about that would be useful. However,-' His eyes dropped to the table for a moment then returned to the face of Robert. 'If you want my personal opinion, on the evidence we have, I regard Dr Gladovitch as a potential threat to your safety. Especially with the publication of your article, Robert. An article, as I said earlier, that is not that difficult to source. So my advice to both of you would be to leave the Schoch Institute as soon as possible.'

Ramsay's eyes switched to Hanna. But she was staring wide-eyed over his shoulder in the direction of the door that led to the street.

For coming through the open doorway was a man with an acne-scarred face; Jacques Mornay, the eel sliding towards his prey.

'This is all we need,' Hanna said through clenched teeth.

Robert followed her gaze. 'The new Director of Security,' Robert whispered.

Ramsay didn't flinch. And he never turned his head to view the new arrival. 'Leave this to me,' he muttered.

Jacques Mornay approached their table. 'Robert. Dr Hayes,' he said without a smile. His eyes turned to Ramsay. Ramsay offered his hand.

'Stephen Rochester,' he said, shaking Mornay's hand.

'Jacques Mornay, our new Director of Security,' Robert introduced Mornay.

'Timely,' Ramsay said, smiling at Jacques Mornay. 'I'm an old friend of Robert's. I'm a freelance journalist. Robert and I worked together back in London. And I think I might have some information about this Henry Higgins' article that you people are interested in.'

The eel's cold eyes suddenly showed interest. 'We are very interested, Mr Rochester,' Mornay said.

Ramsay nodded. 'But I do need to do some more digging, you understand, before I'm certain of my facts. I mean we don't want to transgress the libel laws, do we?'

'I suppose not,' Mornay said.

Ramsay looked at his watch. 'I'm sorry,' he said to all of them. 'But I will have to leave now. I have a train to catch. But I will keep in touch, Robert.' He glanced at Mornay. 'I owe Robert a favour, Mr .... Mornay. So I'm hopeful I can provide what you want here.' He levered himself to his feet. Mornay watched as Ramsay took his walking stick that was leaning on the side of the table. 'Good to see you again, Robert,' Ramsay said, shaking Robert's hand. 'And lovely to have met you also, Dr Hayes,' he said, shaking Hanna's hand. 'And nice to have met you too, Mr Mornay.'

Mornay shook Ramsay's hand, then said, 'Do you have a business card, Mr Rochester?'

Robert's heart pinged in his chest.

But Ramsay was totally unruffled. He withdrew a card from his jacket pocket and gave it to Jacques Mornay. 'And one for you as well,' he said handing Robert and Hanna a card. With the aid of his stick he ambled off towards the entrance to the street.

Robert stood up. 'We need to get back also,' he said to Jacques Mornay. 'Our lunchtime is nearly up.' Hanna rose to join Robert.

'Of course,' Mornay said. He looked at Ramsay's card. 'Let us hope that your friend can shed some light on this,' he said without emotion.

'Let us hope so,' Robert agreed. 'Will you walk back with us, Jacques?'

Mornay shook his head. 'No. I have a few things to do in the village.'

'See you later then,' Robert said.

Outside the PUB Robert looked at Ramsay's card. It read:

Stephen Rochester

Freelance Journalist

A list of contact numbers followed. Different, Robert noted, to those of the American Embassy in Berne. 'He thinks of everything,' Robert said.

'What did you expect?' Hanna replied. 'He's CIA.' And that Jacques Mornay was even creepier than she had first thought, she was thinking. She took Robert's hand and squeezed it. 'I think we should take Ramsay's advice and leave Schoch as soon as possible,' she said.
Chapter 42.

The Morongo Valley; Palm Springs; California

THE SUMMER DESERT HEAT SUCKED THE JUICES from the land across the Morongo Valley. The temperature had climbed to nearly one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of the day, but had slipped a few notches as evening approached. It was still hot. And the man sitting in the parked car in a grove of trees some distance away from the brown stone building was feeling it. Chen Chou mopped his sweating brow. It could get hot in Beijing at the high point of summer, but not as hot as this. This heat was dry and draining, like sandpaper scouring your skin. He put down his binoculars. The carpark outside the Long-Life Foundation was draining itself of cars parked there. It was after five pm and the staff were all finishing for the day. He was far enough away not to be easily noticed, but had anyone approached him he would not have aroused undue suspicion, dressed as he was in a fawn panama suit with a hat to match. In these clothes he looked more like a Mexican businessman than his true ethnic Chinese. Though the long, white scar running down the left side of his neck might have caused some notice.

This was his second time parked among the trees. He had been here yesterday, observing the departure time of the staff. And what he had seen had pleased him. The last to leave had been the CEO of the Long-Life Foundation, Dr Jasper Adams, identified by his photograph obtained from the Long-Life Foundation's website. The man Chen Chou wanted to talk to. Alone.

He smoked three more American cigarettes as he watched the car park empty out. And what finally pleased him was that the pattern of yesterday was finally repeated. Dr Adam's yellow Ford Shelby ended up the last car on the lot. Yesterday, Dr Adams had not left until 6.30pm, a good hour after the last departing employee. But Chen Chou would not push his luck. He would wait another fifteen minutes just in case there was anyone else still inside the building, before heading off to confront Dr Adams. His mission was to recover the money invested by the Ling brothers in this failed franchise arrangement. He wasn't sure that could be achieved directly by a confrontation with Dr Adams. It seemed unlikely that the American doctor would have access to the Franchise funds, but he was a link to the main man Chen Chou was seeking – another American doctor, a Dr Randy Ryman, who had been the Franchise's salesman in Beijing.

When the fifteen minutes was almost up he checked the tools of trade in his pocket – a Browning automatic pistol he had purchased in LA and the wire garrote he had brought with him from Beijing, disassembled and hidden in his suitcase. He opened the door of his rental car. And then he heard the noise of another car approaching in the distance. His gaze swept back along the valley, to the cloud of dust rising up from the gravel road. He waited in the cover of the trees. The car quickly emerged into view: a black limousine that came into the car park and pulled up outside the brown stone headquarters of the Life-Long Foundation. Chen Chou retrieved his binoculars. Three men in black suits got out of the limousine; one short and stocky, the other two taller, both wearing dark glasses. The shorter man led the way to the entrance to the building, the other two following behind him. Henchmen for the short guy, Chen Chou was sure. Their appearance was a dead giveaway for their occupations. When it came to gangsters, did American movies mirror real life, or did real life mirror the movies, Chen Chou wondered? He climbed back into his car, lit up another cigarette and waited.

He waited almost thirty minutes before the three men re-emerged into the car park. There was no sign of Dr Adams. He trained his binoculars on them. This time he got a clearer view of the leader: dark, swarthy features, a Greek or an Italian, Chen thought. The three climbed into the limousine and it sped off back down the driveway. Chen Chou started his car and took the loop gravel road around to the car park. When he got there the Ford Shelby was still sitting alone in the car park. Chen got out and headed for the entrance to the building.

He found himself in a natural-wood foyer containing a deserted Reception desk. His hard, button eyes scanned the walls of the foyer. The white sensors of the surveillance cameras were not hidden, but they were not blinking either, having been blown to bits by some well-aimed bullets. Chen Chou rang the buzzer on the Reception desk. No one answered it. He called out Dr Adams's name. But still silence. He went around the reception desk and into a corridor behind. There was a line of offices there but all were empty. The name tag on one of them caught his eye: Dr Jasper Adams; CEO. He carried on down the corridor. Eventually it led to a metal door that was open. Beyond the door was a large, cavernous chamber, lined with maybe thirty gleaming stainless-steel cylinders. Chen knew exactly what they were. There were similar cylinders in the basement of the Yao Clinic back in Beijing. He called Dr Adams's name again, but still no reply. He re-traced his steps back to Dr Adams's office.

The office contained the usual office furniture – filing cabinets, table and chairs and a metal desk with a computer screen on it. And his luck jumped a notch against the temperature outside the building. The computer was still on. He sat in the office chair and clicked on the hard drive. Lines of yellow folders came up on the screen. His eye traveled over their names, searching for a link to Dr Randy Ryman. There were HR and Business contacts folders, but none of the files in those appeared to have any reference to Dr Ryman. He clicked out of the hard drive and went to the email files in Outlook. First he trawled through the Inbox and then Sent Items. Nothing. He clicked on Deleted Messages. Screes of them scrambled down the screen. He clicked R. And there was the golden nugget he was seeking. Several deleted messages received from Dr Randy Ryman. The latest was dated only two days ago. He opened it. The message was brief but the golden nugget he had found glowed even brighter.

Jasper

All operations should go on hold until current media frenzy dies down. Then we re-build the business. Contact me on my Blackberry any time. I am taking some R & R in the Greek Islands.

I will be staying at the Volcano View Villas on Santorini.

RR

Careless, Chen Chou thought. Careless but very convenient. He had never thought this was going to be so easy. He clicked out of email and returned to the main screen. Then he exited the office. So where was Dr Adams? What had the previous visitors done with him? He returned to the cryopreservation chamber. He checked the loading bay and back rooms. No sign of Dr Adams. He climbed the metal staircase to the viewing platform above the stainless-steel cylinders and walked along it. Standard procedure. Three preserved bodies to each major cylinder. But when he reached the last one in the line he stopped and peered into the open vat of the cylinder. There were no smaller cylinders in here. And only one body in the brine of liquid nitrogen. A body that was face up and not the usual face-down, the head just below the liquid line, staring up through dead, open eyes behind the glasses the body still wore. The man Chen Chou had wanted to talk to.

Dr Jasper Adams.
Chapter 43.

The Schoch Institute

Wednesday

LEAVING SCHOCH. It was all they had talked about since the meeting with Ramsay yesterday. And their resolve had hardened. Their loyalty to Ljudmila had been eroded by Ramsay's disclosures. Whatever the scientific value of the projects Ljudmila had planned at Schoch, the scam robbery and the sale of dubious Methuselah treatments did make Ljudmila a criminal if Ramsay was to be believed. And worse. Michael Glade's murder. Ramsay's evidence clearly had Ljudmila in the dock labeled murderer, or at least an accomplice to murder. And that had to make Robert vulnerable, if not Hanna as well. It was time to leave. They were both agreed about that.

They planned to slip away today at the closure of work. They could come and go from Schoch as they pleased. But departing the building with suitcases would attract the interest of Security. So they had sought two days leave from HR, two days plus the weekend to spend some time in Paris, returning to Schoch on the Sunday night. At least that was their "story" and their application had been approved without any questions being asked. They had already packed and they were ready for their flight.

But the professional in Hanna necessitated that she should leave her work in a tidy, organized manner, allowing others to access her research in the future. This would be her biggest regret – leaving her research on the Huntington disease of Eugene Schoch's brain incomplete. She was sure she could find a cure, a cure that would constitute a major milestone in the medical world, a cure based on gene silencing. So she was finding it very difficult to leave such important work unfinished. But she could continue her research elsewhere. To that end she intended to download the simulated brain of Eugene Schoch onto a memory stick and take it with her – a clear breach of Schoch policy, but this was an Institute that seemingly broke its own rules on ethical behaviour without any apparent remorse. And Hanna's remorse was directed at Eugene Schoch, a man she had never met, a man she was certain was still alive – somewhere, inside Schoch or elsewhere, a man not yet cured of this awful affliction. But if she managed to complete this work elsewhere, perhaps Eugene Schoch could still be a beneficiary. It was mid-afternoon. She checked the state of all of her files and began to update the summaries on the status of her research to leave as a legacy for her successors.

Ljudmila arrived back at Schoch after attending a two-day Symposium on Stem-Cell research organized by the World Health Organisation in Geneva. Over the two days the media and her colleagues had gathered around her like moths drawn to the light of a candle, all wanting to talk about Methuselah Man and the world-wide scandal over dubious treatments overseas. Ljudmila enjoyed the limelight and she was adept at preserving her reputation amidst all this furore. Credibility was a major plank in Ljudmila's plans for the future.

Back in her office on Level Two she clicked on the Internet and caught up on leading stories in the world media. The Methuselah Gene was still there but had slipped from the major headlines. That pleased Ljudmila. It was time to turn away from the world and focus on matters inside Schoch. There was still the matter of the Independent story and who might have leaked information to this journalist who called him/herself Henry Higgins. The new Acting-Director of Security was looking into this and so, she expected, was Robert. She opened her emails. Most of the new messages looked fairly much routine, but one from Jacques Mornay took her eye.

Report on meeting between Robert Fisher/Dr Hayes with a journalist in the PUB in Leysin.

She read the message. An old friend of Robert's. A journalist who might have information on this Henry Higgins. A journalist called Stephen Rochester. She pushed the button on her desk console to contact Jacques Mornay. He answered immediately and she summoned him to her office. He arrived a few minutes later. She asked him to recount the story.

'So have you checked the credentials of this Stephen Rochester?' Ljudmila asked him.

Mornay nodded. 'I have. He checks out as an independent journalist who's written stories for the New York Times, the Washington Post and the Chicago Post.'

'All American newspapers,' Ljudmila noted aloud.

Mornay looked puzzled. 'You have a problem with that?'

Ljudmila shrugged. 'Not necessarily. Describe this Stephen Rochester.'

Mornay thought back for a moment. 'American. Big build, white hair, red face, in his fifties maybe. And he had a walking stick.'

Ljudmila's eyes lit up like neon lights. 'Walking stick?'

Mornay nodded. 'Yes. Do you know him?'

'Not personally. But from the description you give he sounds very similar to someone else. Someone who works for the American Embassy.'

Mornay's eyes were wide now. 'No shit? So what do you want me to do?'

Ljudmila looked thoughtful. 'Nothing for now. Leave this to me.'

After Mornay had gone, she lit a cigar and tossed the information around in her mind, trying to make some sense out of it. The description fitted the man Pierre De'Thierry had dealt to up on the ski slopes, causing major injuries to his legs; a man who was wanting Hanna Hayes to be a spy for him inside Schoch. So why were they now friends and why was he pretending to be someone else? Robert could answer those questions when he came to her apartment tonight. She finished her cigar then activated a number on her Blackberry. She didn't have to wait long before a voice answered.

'Sorry to disturb your holiday,' Ljudmila said. 'But I want you back at Schoch as soon as possible.'

'Roger,' the voice said. 'And Cara?'

'She knows too much. She needs to come back here with you. We'll keep her in Sector B. We can keep an eye on her there.'

Ljudmila ended the call. Cara Bell. The person Sophie Maurer had trained her gun on during the raid. It was all part of the script. Cara was just an actress reading her lines. But Hanna thought Cara had saved her life by stepping into the line of fire. Let Hanna think that. Ljudmila activated another number. This time there was no reply, but Ljudmila left a message.

'It is time for the Mantis to return to the nest,' was the message she left.

Hanna had finished the summaries of her research. She inserted the Memory Stick in a USB port in the computer under the desk and opened the file containing the simulated brain of Eugene Schoch. She clicked on File then Save As, bringing up the removable disk. She clicked on Save. And then something happened. Just like it had on two other occasions before – at the back of the screen, a small oscillating dot turning into a whirlpool and growing like a storm spreading across a turbulent sea. The bald head and red, rheumy eyes of Eugene Schoch glared out of the screen.

'Where are you taking my brain, Dr Hayes?' he demanded of Hanna.

She stared in disbelief.

Dr Hayes.

He knew her name. This was no video-clip made by a man before he died.

This was the face of a man who was still very much alive.

A wall of words came fluttering across the screen – three dimensional, with Eugene's face momentarily masked behind the words. 'And what is all this writing?' he challenged Hanna. 'Are you leaving us?'

'No,' Hanna shot back. 'Of course not.'

The words disappeared and Eugene's full face was staring at her again. 'Wouldn't blame you if you did. It's hardly New York here, is it? Sometimes it seems more like Auswitch and some of Joseph Mengele's experiments, if you ask me. And they were for the cause of science too. You are familiar with Mengele I suppose?'

Of course she was. The Nazi doctor who had carried out horrendous experiments on live Jewish subjects in the Auswitch concentration camp. The man they called the Angel of Death. 'What do you mean, Professor?' Hanna said, nervously.

The face of Eugene Schoch curled into an inscrutable smile. 'Maybe it's time we met,' he said.

Hanna stared at the screen. 'Where are you Professor Schoch?'

'On my pedestal where else?'

'Pedestal?'

'Of fame. I'm probably the most famous man in the world.'

'Why is that Professor?'

Eugene winked at her. 'Tell you when I see you. I'm in the basement. Level Five. Can you pop down to see me?'

'I don't think Ljudmila would approve,' Hanna said.

A mischievous grin lit up Eugene Schoch's face. 'Screw Ljudmila!' he said. And then the grin faded to a more wistful expression and his eyes were somewhere away from Hanna's face. 'Now there's a memory,' he said. The eyes came back to Hanna. 'Ljudmila doesn't need to know, Hanna. It can be our little secret. Come this evening when there's no one around. Not too early. Not too late. I still need some sleep you know. Shall we say about nine-thirty? The white door. I'll let you in.' Eugene Shock's face disappeared from the screen.

Hanna nodded. 'OK,' she said. The timing of leaving Schoch would need to be delayed. She was sure Robert would agree to that.
Chapter 44.

ROBERT WAS AS EXCITED AS SHE WAS. 'So has he been cryopreserved and rejuvenated like Methuselah Man?' he wanted to know. 'Or didn't he die in the first place?'

Hanna spread her hands. 'He didn't say. But there was the comment about being the most famous man in the world, whatever that was supposed to mean.'

'His scientific reputation maybe? For being the architect of Methuselah Man?'

'Maybe. But I got the impression he meant something else.'

'What sort of shape was he in?'

'Hard to say. I could only see his face. There was also a comment about him and Ljudmila. It sounded like they used to be in a relationship.'

'It's no secret they were lovers,' Robert told her. 'But Eugene's getting on.'

'My question is, what did he mean about Auswitch and Joseph Mengele? What was he trying to tell me?'

'I suppose we'll find that out tonight,' Robert said. Hopefully sooner than later, he was thinking. Ljudmila was expecting him around ten in her apartment. He wanted to meet Eugene and then get out of Schoch as soon as possible. Leave that guilt behind him.

In her apartment that evening Ljudmila was still thinking about the man from the American Embassy. So what was his meeting with Robert and Hanna really about? And why was he pretending to be a journalist? Obviously to throw Jacques Mornay off the trail. But what trail? Hanna had originally told Pierre De'Thierry that the American wanted her to spy on Schoch. Was that what Robert and her were doing now? Feeding him information about Methuselah Man? But what information? They had no access to Sector B, apart from Robert's limited access to her apartment on Level Four on a Wednesday night. And that access couldn't get him to Level Five. So maybe it all came back to the article in the Independent written by this "Henry Higgins". And that led back to Robert's former career.

Ljudmila accessed Robert's personal file from the hard drive on the computer in her apartment. There was an electronic CV there: details on his journalism background. Before coming to Schoch he had worked for the Guardian as a foreign correspondent. Jacques Mornay had already checked that out, looking for any reference to a Henry Higgins. But nothing had been forthcoming. She went back further in the CV. Before that he had worked for the Northumberland News. Maybe that was worth checking out. She Googled it. Websites about news from Northumberland County in England. She began browsing these sites looking for any reference to a Henry Higgins.

It took awhile before she finally came to a website titled History of the Northumberland News. Articles about former days, major stories, former editors. Editors. One name jumped out at her. Henry Higgins. His tenure with the paper as editor 1990 – 2000. The end of his reign coinciding with when the young Robert worked for the paper. And then his obituary notice. This Henry Higgins had died two years ago.

The traitor was unmasked.

But who had supplied him with the information on Methuselah Man? Someone else in Sector B? Or had Robert somehow gained access to Level Five? A thought struck Ljudmila. She went to the metal cabinet in the storage area of the apartment. The spare tokens were hanging on a rack. The red ones were oddly bunched up together. She separated them out. One of the hooks was empty.

Just before nine-thirty Robert and Hanna took the lift to Sector B using the red token that was still in Robert's possession. That would get them to Level Five. But Eugene Schoch would have to get them through the locked white door to the right of the Reception area. They exited the lift on Level Five and headed down the lino-tiled corridor that had reminded Hanna of a hospital. When they reached the deserted Reception Desk they confronted the white, metal door. Robert swiped the red token across the sensor. Nothing happened. He tried again. Same result. 'Where's Eugene?' he said, desperately.

'Don't know,' Hanna said. 'He said he'd let us in.' She was thinking fast. 'The Control Room,' she said to Robert. 'Maybe we can contact Eugene from there.'

'Worth a try,' Robert responded.'

They went behind the Reception Desk and re-entered the Control Room. The words on the screen at the back of the room were unchanged:

THE METHUSELAH FILE

PROJECT METHUSELAH MAN - a green light

PROJECT EINSTEIN - a green light

PROJECT DARWIN - a red light

PROJECT HAL - a red light

Hanna seated herself at one of the computer stations and inserted her Memory Stick. She was hoping she could access the live brain of Eugene Schoch. But the saved 'brain' of Eugene Schoch wouldn't link with the hard drive. Every time she tried her password it was rejected. She spent ten, frustrating minutes endeavouring to find a way into the system, but to no avail. And then suddenly the wall-weave on the other side of the Control Room burst into light. The face of Eugene Schoch oscillated into view.

'What are you doing?' the face demanded of Hanna. 'You're late for your appointment!'

Hanna stared up at the larger than life face on the wall. 'We can't get through the white door,' she told him. 'Robert's token won't unlock the door.'

'Robert? Who's Robert?' the face of Eugene Schoch said.

Robert moved into the vision of the wall-weave. 'Surely you remember me, Professor? Robert Fisher, your Director of Communications here at Schoch.'

Eugene's red-rimmed eyes were looking Robert up and down, as if trying to recall a distant past. 'Your face is certainly familiar, young man,' he finally said. 'But the name means nothing to me.'

'That's the Huntington's,' Hanna whispered to Robert. 'Trust me, Professor,' she said to the wall. 'He is who he says he is.'

Eugene nodded. 'All right. Go back to the white door. This time swipe your card three times, count to twenty, and then swipe the card three times again.' His face disappeared from the screen.

Back in her apartment Ljudmila was seated at her computer console. Where was Robert? It was after ten and he was never late. She smiled to herself. Punctual Robert who always came on time. But her smile soon faded. He had betrayed her. Henry Higgins who thought she was some dumb flower girl called Eliza Doolittle. Well she would teach him who was the boss around here. Her console was showing her surveillance camera shots of Level Four where Robert was permitted to enter on a Wednesday night. But there was no sign of Robert. She clicked on Level One and then Accommodation, finally bringing up the interior of Robert's apartment. It was empty. She brought up the interior of Hanna's apartment. It was empty also. She went to the restaurant and the bar on Level One. No sign of Robert or Hanna. She activated Security. The Security Guard called Jackson blinked at her wearily as she stared down on him from the screen above his desk. He looked guilty, as if he had been asleep.

'Have you seen Robert Fisher enter the lift to Level Four tonight?' she asked Jackson.

Jackson had not personally observed this. But when he checked the tape he was able to confirm that Robert Fisher and Hanna Hayes had entered the lift to Level Four less than an hour ago at 21.23.

Ljudmila looked thoughtful. Then she activated one more surveillance camera.

Robert and Hanna were back at the white door. Robert swiped the card three times, counted to twenty, and then swiped the card three times again. The door slid open. They entered a long corridor that led to another white door at the end. As they reached it, the door opened. They were standing in a large room not dissimilar to the one in which they had viewed Methuselah Man. Around the walls were screens, all currently blank. There were various items of furniture in the room, but their attention was drawn immediately to the centre of the room where on a raised pedestal the face of Eugene Schoch was staring at them.

'Welcome to my lair,' he said.

Hanna and Robert were speechless. They had various thoughts of what they might find here. But none of those thoughts had prepared them for this.
Chapter 45.

SHE COULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT SHE WAS SEEING. And Eugene picked that up immediately.

'You look surprised, Hanna,' he said. 'Is this a shock? A shock at the Schoch Institute?' He followed that up with an inane laugh.

The head of Eugene Schoch sat atop a large square metal box about two feet square. Eugene on his pedestal. From the box a series of plastic tubes ran to a stand nearby where two clear containers hung, one filled with maybe a saline solution, the other with what looked like blood. Both sets of liquid were being pumped in and out of the box beneath Eugene's head.

Hanna was feeling faint. 'What have they done with your body, Eugene?' she said, going closer to the pedestal.

The face of Eugene Schoch returned her a rubbery smile. 'This box beneath me is my body, Hanna. Have you ever seen anything like this?'

Hanna shook her head. 'No, of course not. How is this possible?

The rubber smile widened. 'Most things are possible, Hanna. It's just a matter of whether we have the knowledge, the skills and the audacity to achieve them.'

'But why this, Professor?'

'Why not? The head is the house of the most impressive organ humanity has developed. The human brain. As you will know, the human brain weighs on average 1.3 kilograms and is only 2.33% of our body weight. As an organ it is greedy. It consumes 20% of all the energy we produce. At rest, it burns oxygen and glucose at ten times the rate of all other tissues in the body. And the body is a drain on this wondrous organ. So much of the brain's function goes to keeping the body alive. All our tissue degenerates of course. But if we relieve the brain of its role of managing the body through the employment of vital artificial organs, we can greatly prolong the life of the brain.' A proud expression came onto Eugene Schoch's face. 'This is my own invention, Hanna, I developed the concept myself. It's called the Einstein Project. I never intended to be the prototype myself, you understand. My instructions upon death were for a full cryopreservation. That apparently happened, but the medics here could not restart all my bodily organs. So I became the first neuropreservation using my Einstein technique.'

Hanna's gaze swept back over the box and the tubing leading to the stand nearby. It was like looking at a patient on a life support machine, the machine having taken over all his bodily functions. But this machine was his life now, for as long as he managed to live. 'And are you comfortable with this?' she asked him.

'Comfortable?' He threw the word back in her face. 'I don't have a choice, do I? I am a head on a block. The head of Eugene Schoch!' He laughed at his own rhyming. 'But I guess I should be grateful for being allowed to come back from the dead. I don't know of anyone apart from Jesus and Methuselah Man who has ever claimed that. And I don't need to move. I don't need a body. There are benefits in not having a body at my age. I mean I don't have to put up with that awful arthritis that once plagued my joints and other various aches and pains that afflict the body. I should be grateful for that. It's just the Huntington's, Hanna that makes my new life a misery.'

Hanna was still trying to comprehend all this. 'We need to talk about that, Professor.' She turned her eyes away.

'I notice you have switched your methodology from stem cells to gene therapy,' the head of Eugene probed her. 'Why is that?'

She answered him. 'In my experiments the stem cells were unable to overcome the dominance of your defective gene. So I am focusing on silencing your defective gene by use of a modified viral vector. Modified because the usual viral vector is too large to get over the blood-brain barrier. Are you familiar with that problem, Professor.'

Eugene's head nodded. 'Of course. So which modified vector will you use? A retrovirus, an adenovirus, a herpes virus maybe?'

'I am experimenting with an adeno-associated virus, because an AAV is likely to be most effective in delivery to quiescent cells such as neurons.'

Eugene's head nodded. 'Please hurry, Hanna. Because the disease does cause me grief. It affects my mood. And my memory.' He was staring past Hanna at Robert behind her when he said that. 'As I said earlier, I believe, I remember your face, young man, but your name ...'

'Fisher,' Robert reminded him. 'Robert Fisher your Communications Director.' Like Hanna, Robert was also trying to comprehend what he was seeing here.

'Communications ...' Eugene said dreamily. 'I don't have much need of communication down here on my own.'

'So what do you do all day?' Hanna asked him.

'Work. What else is there to do? Sometimes I listen to music. That relaxes me. I follow the world news. All media is accessible to me by voice command. CNN!' he suddenly called out. The CNN channel burst into life on one of the wall screens. 'Off!' Eugene commanded. The wall screen went blank. Eugene swiveled his head back to face Hanna. 'I could watch movies, of course. But I don't. Most visual entertainment revolves around living bodies.' A faraway expression came into his eyes. 'So it's mainly work and sleep. Not very exciting I know.'

'What kind of work do you do down here, Professor?' Robert asked him.

'Research. Projects. There's lots to occupy my time.'

Hanna went closer to the pedestal. 'So all the nutrients you need come from here?' she asked.

Eugene nodded.

'You don't miss the taste of food?'

Eugene grimaced. 'I miss a good steak, of course. But a head can't have everything, can it?'

A head without a body, Hanna was thinking. Was such a form still really human? Was this progress or regress? In many ways he was like a baby again, totally dependent on others to keep him alive. It was not a situation she thought she would ever want to aspire to no matter how much her physical body degenerated. But maybe she was wrong. 'So are there any other Einsteins in existence?' she asked him. 'Or more planned?'

The face of Eugene Schoch smiled. 'Well I'm working on a new version of myself called Einstein II. And this one might have hands. We'll see. Even a head can keep improving.' His gaze moved past Hanna and Robert to the doorway behind. 'But maybe you should ask the boss about that.'

Hanna spun around to see what he was looking at.

Ljudmila stood in the doorway. And the expression on her face was as black as a thundercloud about to burst.
Chapter 46.

'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?' Ljudmila demanded of Hanna and Robert.

'I invited them,' the face of Eugene Schoch said. 'I needed some company.'

'You needed my permission,' Ljudmila said coldly.

'I wanted to see the Professor,' Hanna intervened. 'I wanted to talk to him about his Huntington's. A conversation that would've been easier if you had told me that he was still alive in the first place.'

'You wanted to pry.' Ljudmila snapped at her. 'You have no right to be here.'

'It's my fault,' Robert said. 'I brought her here. It only seemed right.'

'Right?' Ljudmila echoed. 'So does it also seem right that my Communications Director writes a spurious article about me under the name of his former mentor, Henry Higgins?'

His secret was out. There seemed little point in trying to deny it. Robert's main concern now was to protect Hanna. 'The article was my idea,' he told Ljudmila. 'Hanna was not involved.'

'Wasn't she?' an angry Ljudmila responded. 'So why Robert? Why?'

'It was all about ethics,' Robert said sheepishly.

'Ethics?'

'You were promising people something you couldn't deliver on. For large sums of money. That's not ethical.'

Ljudmila's expression remained cold. 'Isn't it? The Methuselah Gene is not a fiction, Robert. It's real.'

'Methuselah Man didn't look too well when I last saw him,' Robert shot back.

Ljudmila glanced over at the head of Eugene Schoch. But his eyes had closed and he appeared to be sleeping. 'You need to understand, Robert, that we are pioneers at the frontiers of medical science here. It's the same with any major medical/ scientific advance. There will always be unforeseen complications. Now in this case I was persuaded by the advice given to me by Dr Ryman that this project was ready to be made public. I took that advice. In retrospect, perhaps that was unwise.'

'But you agree,' Robert followed up, 'that you stage-managed the robbery to disassociate the Schoch Institute from this with the primary aim to make money.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'To further our research here, Robert, yes. But if you make that claim to anyone else I will strenuously deny it. And if you think that's unethical, most of the people who paid out money for the Methuselah Gene could well afford it and were characterized by more than a small dose of vanity. They would've believed that a placebo would've made them younger. Until your article came along that is.'

There was a question that Hanna had to have answered; a question that Sheldon Ramsay had posed in Leysin. She put it to Ljudmila. 'So did you have Michael murdered because he tried to blackmail you?' she asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila hardened her gaze. 'Of course not,' she said dismissively. 'I mightn't have got along very well with my half-brother, but I would never stoop to killing him. What do you think I am?'

Hanna took a deep breath and pushed her question further. 'The police believe that Michael was killed by Sophie Maurer the woman you hired to stage the fake robbery.'

Ljudmila's eyes narrowed. 'The police? What is their evidence for that? I assume this is all coming from your friend at the American Embassy, the one who wanted you to spy on me. The one who falsely claimed to be a journalist. He is trying to poison you my dear. There are major forces in the United States, despite their new liberal President, who want to destroy the work we are doing here. I have reason to believe that Michael was murdered by Pierre De'Thierry who was trying to blackmail me.'

'So where is De'Thierry?' Robert asked.

'I have no idea,' Ljudmila replied. 'But find him and I believe the mystery of Michael's death will be cleared up.'

'And this-' Robert said, inclining his head towards the sleeping one of Eugene Schoch. 'How long do you intend to keep this a secret?'

Ljudmila's response was immediate. 'Until Hanna has found a cure for his Huntington's.'

Hanna was watching Ljudmila, wondering what her discovery of them here in Sector B would mean. 'And if I don't want to stay here any longer?' she said.

Ljudmila gave her a thin smile; a smile that sent a chill through Hanna's chest. 'We'll come to that in a moment,' she said.

'You must stay, Hanna!' It was the voice of Eugene Schoch. His red eyes were open again; wide and staring at Hanna. 'It is a challenge enough to be a head without a body, Hanna. But a diseased head? You must spare me that. It's a big headache!' He started to laugh and then his eyes popped closed again.

Robert felt a wave of revulsion rise in his chest. 'You really think people are going to want this?' he challenged Ljudmila. 'I hate to think what the world reaction is going to be to this!'

'I agree this would not suit everyone,' Ljudmila coolly responded. 'But why should we let great minds like Eugene's die just because their bodies are worn out from disease and age? It is clear that the Methuselah Gene will not be the appropriate treatment for everyone. So Einstein is an alternative. Medical science should offer us options. That's what this is about; using the magnificent human brain to give us all options for the future.'

Hanna returned to her earlier question. 'So what are the options for the future for Robert and I?' she asked Ljudmila tentatively.

'You don't have an option,' Ljudmila said tersely. 'You have a one year contract. I would expect you to fulfill it.'

'And Robert?'

'Robert has betrayed me. What am I to do with such a traitor?'

You won't let me leave, Robert was thinking. You wouldn't want Henry Higgins writing another article about Project Einstein. So what is my fate he wondered with some trepidation? A question that was underscored by the sight of the burly security guards Tweedledum and Tweedledee lurking in the outside corridor.

Hanna came to the rescue. She too had noticed the menacing presence of the security men in the corridor. 'I'll finish my contract here,' she told Ljudmila. 'I'll find a cure for Professor Schoch. But on one condition. That Robert can stay here with me.'

Ljudmila returned her another cold smile. 'You are in no position to bargain with me my dear. But I will agree to your request on my conditions. And that is you will both work and live in Sector B. Which means you will be denied access to the outside world. And at the end of your contract you can both leave. Because by then all of our current research here will be in the public arena.'

'And the scam, the fake robbery,' Robert pushed her. 'How do you intend to avoid responsibility for that?'

Ljudmila's expression was unflappable. 'There is no proof of that, Robert. As I told you, it was a means to a useful end. No real harm was done.'

'Apart from Michael getting murdered,' Hanna objected.

And the murder of Peter Bains and some doctor in California that Ramsay had told them about, Robert was thinking.

'I've already told you my dear,' Ljudmila answered Hanna, 'I had nothing to do with Michael's murder. What the police need to do is to find Pierre De'Thierry.'

There was nothing else to say. They would remain employees of the Schoch Institute and be privy to its dark secrets. But both Hanna and Robert knew that now they were prisoners as well.

At least for the unexpired term of Hanna's contract. And would Ljudmila then keep her word and let them go?
Chapter 47.

Santorini; the Greek Islands

AFTER A FORTY-FIVE minute flight from Athens, Aegean Airlines flight A3356 swooped low across the deep blue Aegean Sea lining up the island of Santorini. Described in tourist brochures as the diamond of the Greek Islands, Santorini was the lip of a drowned volcanic crater. Its islands bordered the rim of the sunken volcano on three sides, containing a lagoon that opened to the Aegean Sea. Atop the main island, white sculptured villages with splashes of pink and yellow plaster and blue church domes adorned the rocky crests, with steep cliffs in places falling one thousand feet to the sea. Cameras were busy at work out the windows of the aeroplane.

But at least one of the passengers on flight A3356 paid little attention to the stunning landscape below. He was focused on the task ahead. He scrolled through his phone, bringing up the picture of his quarry then moving on to the address of the Volcano View Villas where he expected to find him.

When the plane landed at Santorini airport, Chen Chou proceeded to the terminal and collected his suitcase. Outside the terminal the sky was an insipid pale blue and the temperature a balmy 28 degrees Celsius. Wearing dark glasses and dressed in a pair of casual fawn trousers and a spotted floral shirt, the former Shanghai policeman looked like just another tourist arriving on Santorini for a spot of R & R. He caught a yellow cab and gave the driver the address. The Volcano View Villas were one of the best known five star luxury accommodation units on Santorini. And Chen Chou had been lucky. When he rang the Villas from Frankfurt International Airport asking for accommodation they did have a vacancy but only for three nights. He took it immediately charging the nightly tariff to the American Express card he held under a fictitious name.

The taxi trip took twenty minutes to cover the eight kilometer climb to the village of Fira. The Volcano View Villas were another two kilometers further on. At the Villas he checked in and discovered another piece of luck. He was given Villa Three, right next door to where his quarry, Dr Randy Ryman was staying, he noted from the hotel register. Good luck it was but not so incredible as it might seem as they were only four luxury villas in total.

The man who checked him in was friendly and asked the usual question about the purpose of his visit. Chen told him it was a business visit connected to a possible tourist venture in Fira, hence the reason for such a short stay. But he couldn't elaborate as the venture was still at the exploratory stage and subject to confidentiality. There was nothing suspicious about that. But the less detail he supplied the better. He was booked under the fictitious name on his Amex card and the only true identification anyone would have on him in the days that followed was his physical appearance. So when he booked in he kept his shades on for he knew that whilst he was obviously Chinese, most westerners had difficulty in clearly describing one Oriental from another.

The villa offered all the mod cons and opened out onto a patio, with several white stone steps leading up to his own private in-ground pool. But swimming wasn't on Chen Chou's mind. Bordering the pool and the patio on the seaward side was a blue balustrade. Beyond that the cliffs dropped sheer to the sea. Perfect. In the Kaldera below he could see a couple of cruise ships moored in the calm of the blue lagoon. From his vantage point they appeared like toys sheltered in the lee of the cliffs. He went back inside his unit and unpacked his case. He withdrew several items and laid them out on the bed: an electronic device that looked like a small cassette player, a leather pouch containing a pair of Nikon Action binoculars, a smaller pouch containing what looked like a wire necklace with two green stones at its base, and a nylon bag containing a black hood, mouth gag and two pairs of handcuffs. He put most of these items in a drawer by the bed, leaving out the binoculars and the small electronic device. He took the electronic device, strung the binoculars around his neck and went back outside.

Time to find his quarry.

Villa three was separated from villa two by a high stone wall. He might have stood on a chair to peer over that fence to check the occupants of villa two, but risked being spotted and reported to reception as some nosy voyeur. So he went back inside his unit and out the rear door. He looked for a way to get up on the roof. There was a ladder bolted to the exterior wall. Access to the air-com unit, he guessed. He climbed carefully up the ladder to the roof. Sure enough on the flat roof was the air-com unit, masking him from villa two. He crawled along the roofing tiles, positioning himself behind the rectangular aircon unit. When he peered past the unit down into the courtyard of villa two he saw exactly what he was looking for. Over in villa two he could see two people sitting in reclining chairs by their private pool. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes. In one of the loungers by the pool was a man maybe in his early forties, bare but for his swimming trunks, with a mop of tousled blond hair, wearing dark glasses and reading a book.

His quarry.

Dr Randy Ryman.

Chen had met Ryman once in Beijing when he was pedaling the Methuselah Gene to the Yao Clinic. He remembered Ryman as a Californian American who didn't quite fit the image that Chen had of dwellers from that part of the world. His skin was too pale, not bronzed from the Californian sun as portrayed in American magazines. But not now. The Ryman he was watching had an all over treacle tan. Artificial or natural, Chen couldn't be sure. He swiveled the glasses to the right. Alongside Ryman in another lounger was a woman in a lime-green bikini. Somewhere in her thirties maybe, she had dark hair tied up in a ponytail on her head, a trim figure, and like Ryman an all-over tan. Chen slipped the electronic device out of his pocket and clipped it onto the corner of the AC unit. He aimed the small powerful directional microphone protruding from the unit at the couple in the next villa. Then he activated the battery before crawling back along the roof, descending down the ladder to the safety of his villa.

He took the receiver headphones from his case, placed them on his head and sat in a chair on his own patio. The reception was clear if a little faint. He adjusted the volume. What he heard in the occasional conversation that followed was normal tourist chit-chat: the food they had eaten the previous evening, where they might dine tonight, things they still had to do. And then, after awhile something reared up like a shiny pearl in this conversational ocean of flotsam and jetsam.

'So when are we leaving?' the woman said.

'Tomorrow,' Randy Ryman replied.

'A couple of more days would've been nice,' the woman said.

'I told you what she said. She wants us back at Schoch as soon as possible.'

Chen's ears pricked up. Schoch. The laboratory in Switzerland where according to the international media this Methuselah Gene had been stolen from.

'She has too much control over our lives,' the woman's voice complained.

'She pays our salaries,' Ryman responded.

'Which doesn't give her power over our souls.'

'Try telling Ljudmila that,' Ryman said.

Ljudmila. Ljudmila Gladovitch, the head of the Schoch Institute.

'How am I going to explain to my colleagues that I've decided to return to Schoch? How am I going to explain returning with you?' the woman asked.

'There's a challenge for you,' Ryman said dryly.

'Tomorrow,' the woman said. 'Then I need to go shopping in the village.'

'Feel free,' Ryman said. 'But count me out.'

Chen's headphones fell silent. He tried to unscramble what he had just heard. The official line about the Methuselah Gene was that it had been stolen from the Schoch Institute and sold on the black market by an organization that Ryman was involved in. So why would a thief be returning to the scene of the crime, to a woman who was still apparently paying his salary? It didn't make sense. But it was something he needed answers to and that complicated the task ahead. But he would rise to the challenge. His salary depended on that too. And the woman in the lime-green bikini had given him his opportunity. When she went shopping he would make his move.

He had to wait fifteen minutes before he heard the woman announce she was off to the village to spent the rest of the morning shopping. He went quickly out of his villa to the reception area. He was browsing tourist brochures when she appeared on the outside walkway. He got a closer look. She was even more attractive for a western woman than she had appeared through his binoculars. She still had the shades on and her hair tied up but had changed into a light, loose fitting dress. She disappeared down the stone stairway in the direction of the village. He returned to his villa.

He took the wire necklace out of its pouch, slipping the green studs along the wire so that the necklace opened like a horseshoe. Then he took the nylon bag containing the black hood, the mouth gag, the plastic handcuffs, and strapped it around out his waist. The handcuffs were plastic so as not to trigger metal detectors at airports, but they were still strong enough for the job. He went back outside and scaled the ladder again onto the roof, creeping up behind the AC unit. Ryman was sitting in the chair on his patio. Chen waited and watched, considering his options. And then a break. Ryman got up, took a towel and walked up the shallow stone staircase to his villa's private pool. This was the moment. Chen would gamble on Ryman spending at least five minutes in the pool, but longer would be even better.

He got quickly down from the roof and hurried along the rear path that led to the back entrances to the other villas. He was prepared to pick the lock if necessary, but a bonus, the door to villa two was unlocked. He went quickly inside and made his way stealthily through the apartment to the open door that opened onto the outside patio. No sign of Ryman. His chair was vacant. He must be still in the pool. Chen concealed himself behind the interior curtain. He had to wait about ten minutes before Ryman appeared back on the patio. Would he come inside the villa? Negative. He dried himself off on his towel and sat down on the chair overlooking the blue balustrade and the blank sky beyond. Chen made his move. He came out of the curtain, the wire garrote spread in his hands, snapping it quickly over Ryman's head and pulling it tight with the locking beads around Ryman's neck. Ryman jumped in his chair and let out a choking sound.

'If you want to live, keep still,' Chen hissed behind Ryman. Ryman ignored the instruction, twisting in his chair, his hands groping to relieve the pressure on his throat. Chen locked the beads even tighter. Ryman's hands fell away like they were suddenly full of air. A gurgling noise started up in his throat. 'Do as I say!' Chen hissed again. Ryman's head slumped forward. Chen slightly released the pressure, lifting Ryman to his feet as he did so. He frog-marched the doctor over to the balustrade, forcing his head over the railing, keeping the garrote tight. Below, the cliff face fell away steeply, a thousand feet to the waiting sea.

'I represent one of the organisation's you cheated with your fake Methuselah Gene,' Chen said quietly. 'You owe us five million dollars. So how you going to pay that?' He loosened the garrote a little to allow Ryman to speak.

Ryman was breathing hard. But he kept still. The cliff face below was swirling dizzily before his eyes. He couldn't see how he could escape from the grip of his assailant, even though he was now being held with one hand, the other hand of his assailant resting on the balustrade. Ryman's eyes traveled quickly over that hairless hand and the gold signet ring with the inscription of a tiger on his forefinger. 'The Methuselah Gene is not a fake,' he finally managed to say. Chen tightened the garrote. Ryman's head jerked upward and then went limp.

Chen loosened the pressure. 'Answer my question,' he commanded Randy Ryman.

Ryman nodded his head. 'I will get your money,' he gasped. 'Just take this thing off me and we can talk about it.'

'The Schoch Institute,' Chen whispered in Ryman's ear. 'Were they behind this scam?'

Ryman was silent. Chen tightened the garrote. Ryman started choking again and his head was nodding furiously. Randy Ryman had just signed his own death warrant. The Schoch Institute would be Chen's target now. 'Goodbye Dr Ryman,' Chen hissed through clenched teeth. 'We have no more need for you now.' He tightened the garrote. A final gasp came from Ryman's throat. And final words he somehow managed to squeeze out.

'Wait ... wait. There's more ...'

Chen prevaricated. He loosened the grip of the garrote. 'What?' he demanded of the condemned man.

Ryman was fighting for breath. His head seemed to have left his body and everything was going black. In halting gasps he managed to tell Chen about Project Einstein and how the Yao Clinic in Beijing could negotiate a slice of the action from this major medical advance. Chen listened, jolted by what Ryman had to tell him. Why would anyone want to be a head on a box? Revolting. But perhaps his employers in Beijing might have some sick interest in this? So what to do with Ryman? Killing him might create a barrier to future negotiations. So he decided to spare him, let his confession be a last minute pardon. At least temporarily. He kept enough pressure on Ryman's neck to keep him still, plucking the gag out of the bag around his waist and securing it around Ryman's mouth. Then he slid the black hood over Ryman's head and fastened it with the cord threaded through the bottom. Finally, he clipped each of the handcuffs onto Ryman's wrists, securing each of the other cuffs to the balustrade.

'We'll be in contact,' he told Ryman. 'And if any of this turns out to be false, I will come looking for you. And next time there will be no reprieve. We have people on this island who will be watching you,' he lied. 'You cannot escape our eyes.' Ryman muttered something but his words were inaudible. Chen left as stealthily as he had arrived. Two hours later he was on a ferry bound for the port of Piraeus. Using the airport might have been risky if Ryman decided to be foolish and call the Greek police. His business, Chen explained to the man at Volcano View Villas reception, had taken a lot less time than he had expected.
Chapter 48.

The Schoch Institute

THEY WERE GETTING USED TO THEIR CONFINEMENT. Ljudmila had located them in a new apartment on Level Four. It was modern, in stark contrast to their former yester-year apartments on Level Three. Living inside the earth (in this case a mountain) and not above it, was an experience neither of them had looked forward to. It conjured up images of living in a cave or a submarine on the bottom of the sea – deprived of the sun, the sea and the sky. Hanna remembered a similar feeling when she first arrived in Switzerland and was travelling on the train in the Swiss Alps. How the countryside had presented itself as a giant artificial screen like a movie backdrop. But that was a false impression. This was a real virtual prison-world; Disneyland for the Discerning that Robert had spoken of the first time they had met.

They had experienced a taste of this virtual world at the Wild-West Bar where Sophie Maurer and her fellow actors had entertained them. But now that virtual world enclosed them - in work stations, rec-areas and inside their apartment. Instead of windows offering views of the real world there were screens displaying a virtual world of scenery, cities, highways, oceans and even the universe – fluid, animated; a three-dimensional decour to make you feel you were anywhere but under the ground. Consoles along the walls allowed you to select changes in the scene to suit your mood: from a busy metropolitan street, to the POV of a helicopter crossing mountainous terrain, or something slower and calming, like a sluggish river meandering through green meadows, flowering fields and unpopulated plains.

And that was just the beginning. In their apartment, by seating yourself at a console and wearing special headphones you could enter a virtual world for fun or pleasure. Hanna had already been rock-climbing and swimming (a sport she had been quite good at in her youth). And she had sailed with Robert, been motor-racing with Robert, heli-skiing with Robert, all without leaving home. The only feature Hanna had refused to try was virtual sex. Real sex with Robert was still much more appealing.

There was an ulterior motive for all this of course. It wasn't just about entertainment, novelty and pleasure. It was about dealing with alienation; manipulating the minds of the 'moles' who were denied most contact with the outside world. For they no longer had unsupervised access to the Internet, email, postal or telecommunication. They were paid prisoners of the Schoch Institute whose freedom was limited to their work and each other (though even the latter was subject to Ljudmila's surveillance, but they didn't know that).

The reason for their particular incarceration was obvious – to prevent any more public exposés of the Henry Higgins variety. And that clearly included contact with Sheldon Ramsay. If Ramsay tried to contact them and found he couldn't that may not raise any suspicion in his mind because after all Ramsay had suggested they should leave Schoch for their own protection. So he may well assume they had taken his advice. It meant that Ramsay could not be counted on as a future lifeline should they need him. So Hanna needed to complete her contract and then hope Ljudmila would keep her word and release them.

In the meantime Robert had been stripped of his position of Director of Communications. Ljudmila had allotted him a range of minor administrative tasks that he could perform with little required communication with other staff from the seclusion of their apartment. He didn't mind. He was happy to support Hanna until they could both leave Schoch and forge a proper future together. Then he would write his investigative opus magnum – the full exposé on the machinations of the Schoch Institute. And another bonus. His betrayal of Ljudmila had ended his betrayal of Hanna. For Ljudmila didn't want him in her boudoir any longer. She had selected a new toy-boy for that task from the Bio-Genetics Department, much to the relief of Robert. He just hoped that his relationship with Ljudmila was a secret that could be buried in the past forever.

Hanna had been given a new office and access to lab technicians on Level Five. She also had unrestricted access to Eugene Schoch, or the head of Eugene Schoch as he now was. It was strange really. At first, the sight of a head on a box had horrified her, made her sick in the stomach. It was like a terrible nightmare, or something you might find in some sick science fiction movie. But you could laugh that off, dismiss it as just a fantasy borne out of someone's fictional mind. But not here. This was terrifyingly real; fact not fiction, a living head that was in every way, apart from the obvious, the man called Eugene Schoch.

And the more time she spent in his presence, the more she adjusted to his new form, became de-sensitized to the initial horror. At first she couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live as a head without a body, but Ljudmila's words about options kept challenging her prejudices. She just had to try and see it as a dramatic new paradigm for human existence and the very meaning of being human itself. So gradually she was coming to see Eugene Schoch as a new manifestation of life, but still very much a 'person' with emotion as well as intellect. And when she allowed herself to see him in that new light she was able to ignore that the person of this Eugene ended at the base of his neck.

They were getting on well together. She liked his dry, almost malevolent sense of humour, though she thought it was more than likely a bulwark against him dwelling too much on the loss of his body. Today was Monday and he appeared quite upbeat and philosophical. 'I am a shrine to the upper echelons of Eastern philosophy,' he told her. 'Where the end point of human fulfillment is pure thought; mind merging with the cosmos. Nirvana, Hanna. That's the space I now occupy. Not a role-model for the Christians or the Muslims though,' he chuckled. 'Bodily resurrection, that's all they think about. But there could be a compromise here,' he added.

'Such as?' she asked him.

'Devolution, Hanna. It's another project of mine; another challenge for this chip on the old block here. And I have plenty of time to spend on it of course,' he laughed. 'Devolution. The opposite of the theory of evolution. From this single entity mind we could clone new bodies from our own cells. That's always been the theory of neuropreservation. And using stem cell research and the Methuselah Gene we could create perfect bodies that might be immortal.'

'With perfect minds,' Hanna mused aloud. 'Philosopher-kings. Protected by the Guardians. Plato's Republic made real,' she finished.

'Western philosophy was always more materialistic,' Eugene replied. 'My philosophy leans more to the Eastern mystics.'

'But mind is housed inside a physical brain,' Hanna reminded him. 'And yours has a material condition in the form of Huntington's Chorea.'

Eugene's old eyes clouded over. 'Touché,' he said. 'So how is my cure progressing?'

Hanna averted her eyes. 'Progressing,' she told him. But the truth was she was running into obstacles. But she didn't want to go there right now. And another thought had occurred to her. Evolution. Devolution. 'What you were just talking about, Professor,' she said. 'Devolution. It's called Project Darwin, isn't it?'

Eugene shook his head. 'No Hanna. Project Darwin is a much more evolutionary theory. It's about longevity from the beginning. From the embryo.'

Of course. How blind could she have been? Project Darwin was about the Germ-line. Implanting the Methuselah Gene in the healthy embryo before birth – the fourth quadrant in the diagram she had drawn Robert the first night they had met. A procedure that would give rise to generations of healthy Methuselah men and women. Start with the fetus, not a sick old man at the end of his life like the first Methuselah Man.

Philosopher-kings from the cradle to a distant grave.

Shocking!

Or was it?

She was still thinking about that when she returned to her new office. She wasn't sure about Eugene's theory of Devolution. The science to achieve that seemed years away. But was it progress? Was it ethical? The head of Eugene Schoch posed the same questions. But she was comfortable with her own research – using science to cure the sick and the unhealthy. Quadrants one and two in the diagram she had drawn for Robert.

She was still thinking about these questions when another surprise. Ljudmila entered her office and with her were two familiar faces. Hanna just stared at the sight of the sleazy Dr Randy Ryman and her former friend, Cara Bell.
Chapter 49.

SHE WAS MORE SURPRISED at Cara Bell returning to Schoch than she was to see Randy Ryman. She knew from Sheldon Ramsay that Ryman had been involved in the distribution of the fake Methuselah Gene, despite Ljudmila blaming Ryman for the product being defective. But was Ryman an accomplice to the stage-managed robbery? After all, Sophie Maurer had shot him with the taser gun. Had that been part of the plan? Somehow Hanna couldn't see Randy Ryman volunteering himself as a sacrificial lamb. He was more of a wolf and he didn't disguise it. But he did look different. His normally pale skin was now bronzed and shiny. But he had dark bulges under his eyes and whilst he wore a buttoned-up shirt and tie, she could see red marks and a puffiness under his chin. The façade of an outdoor holiday was there in his face, but beneath it she sensed some trauma might have befallen him. But she didn't want to pry. She wanted to know as little about him as possible.

Cara though told her the story. It was after Ljudmila and Ryman left them alone together. Apparently, Randy Ryman had been mugged and robbed while staying at a holiday resort in the Greek Islands. Cara had returned from a shopping trip and found him handcuffed to a balustrade outside their unit. And that of course raised an even more intriguing question in Hanna's mind: What was Cara doing holidaying with Ryman in the first place? When she left Schoch she had been trying to avoid Ryman. Or so she had told Hanna.

But now the truth came out. The snake-charmer had worked his spell over the hapless Cara (at least that was how Hanna saw it). Hanna thought Cara was misguided and she still didn't trust Randy Ryman, but she held her tongue. She wouldn't let the snake-charmer get in the way of her friendship with Cara. But she just hoped that Cara really knew what she was doing.

And Cara seemed to be unaware that Ljudmila had staged the robbery of the Methuselah Gene, so Hanna didn't enlighten her. Cara was still of the view that she was in Hanna's debt for protecting her from the armed intruders. And she seemed to be under the impression that Randy Ryman had been traveling the world legitimately working for Schoch and not the supposed thieves of the Methuselah Gene. Poor, gullible Cara. There was good reason to enlighten her, but Hanna knew that any such disclosures could put herself and Robert further at risk. She hadn't learned anything new from Cara. But as soon as Cara left her office, Hanna was quickly on her way to her apartment to tell Robert about Eugene Schoch's disclosures about Project Darwin and Devolution.

In Ljudmila's office different disclosures were taking place. Randy Ryman was telling Ljudmila for the first time about his encounter with an unknown man in Santorini who had almost killed him. He had been handcuffed to the balustrade for three hours until Cara had returned from her shopping spree. And for Cara's ears he had made up a story about being mugged. But she did find it difficult to understand why he wouldn't inform the police. They had checked out the next day and caught a plane back to the mainland where they had holed up in an Athens hotel for over a week before returning to Switzerland.

'So why didn't you ring me?' Ljudmila demanded of him. 'Your phone's been switched off. I didn't know where you were.'

Ryman squirmed in his chair. 'It's not very pleasant being garroted over a balustrade, staring down a one thousand foot drop to the sea,' he responded. 'I needed some time to get over that.'

'So who was this assailant?'

Ryman shrugged. 'I don't know. I never saw his face. But his accent sounded oriental.'

'Chinese?'

'Probably.'

'And we only have one client in China. The Yao Clinic.'

Ryman nodded. 'Yes. But anyone of our clients could've hired somebody Chinese to come after me, couldn't they?'

Ljudmila looked thoughtful. 'So why did he let you go? You couldn't repay the money. So why did he spare you?'

She thinks I'm expendable, Ryman was thinking. But this was the moment he was dreading the most. He gulped in some air and averted his eyes. 'Because I told him about Einstein. I told him the Yao clinic might be able to cash in on that.'

Ljudmila's expression was the colour of another thundercloud. 'You what? You told him about Einstein? You divulged our greatest secret?'

'My life was on the line!' Ryman protested. 'I'm sorry. But you don't pay me enough to sacrifice my life for Schoch.'

Ljudmila's eyes fell to her desk. Her long fingernails tore a jagged line down the paper on her desk pad. What to do here?

Ryman held up his hand. 'Wait,' he implored her. 'Think this through. The only Einstein we have is Eugene and he still has Huntington's, which makes him an imperfect transplant.'

'Not for much longer,' Ljudmila interceded. 'Dr Hayes will find a cure.'

Dr Hayes. Her name and her face resonated through Ryman's head. He had unfinished business there. Cara Bell was an interesting play thing. But he had already tired of her. Dr Hayes was an exciting challenge. And he had no problem in separating Dr Hayes the scientist from Dr Hayes the woman. But first he had to get himself out of this mess with Ljudmila.

'Even so,' he told Ljudmila. 'There were complications with Eugene's transplant as you know. And apart from the bodies in the Cryo Centre, we have no other candidates for the Einstein operation. If we did allow the Chinese to experiment with this technology maybe we can further refine it. I mean if they screw up no one is ever going to know, are they? This is China for chrissake, not the USA, or even Switzerland. The media there will never get near it. If they don't screw up we get the credit. That would be part of the deal. And to add to that, it will be easier for them to find candidates for Einstein cos they already have a substantial bank of cryopreserved bodies and brains, a collection that apparently is growing by the day. And one more thing. As a surgeon for this line of work, Dr Yin of the Yao Clinic is a leader in the surgical field. He's second to none, excluding myself of course,' he added with a weak smile.

Ljudmila didn't appear to be buying his argument. 'The plan was always for Schoch to be the sole centre for Einstein excellence, as you well know,' she told Ryman. 'It was never envisaged that Einstein would be available to the masses,' she said, distastefully. 'Longevity and youth is their tonic. Einstein is solely for the elite!'

'And that won't change,' Ryman argued back. 'Einstein will only ever have appeal to the intellect.'

Ljudmila sniffed the air. 'Will it? I can imagine the fat and the frivolous seizing on it. I mean, just think about it. A head could sit on a couch all day watching media trivia and not having to worry about diet or diabetes.'

'I don't think that will happen,' Ryman disagreed.

Ljudmila was looking at Ryman. She had never particularly liked the man. He was too self-assured, too intent on trading his boyish good looks and practiced charm. But he had a first class brain and his skills as a surgeon were beyond reproach. A brilliant medical technocrat. Not a mind that she had ever felt was strategic. Until now. She was considering his argument.

'I need to think about this,' she said.

She did. And later that day, as if to spur her decision, an email arrived from Dr Yin of the Yao Clinic.

Dear Dr Gladovich

You will know by now that the Yao Clinic intends to recover our investment for the failed Methuselah Gene. But we understand that you have a new innovative product under development. Perhaps we can negotiate on this.

Please respond to this request.

Failure to do so will result in further action as Dr Ryman can attest to.

Ljudmila printed the email then crumpled it in the palm of her fist. She would not be blackmailed. And yet, maybe there was some mileage here. Maybe she should follow Randy Ryman's advice. It would take the spotlight off Schoch and the last thing she wanted was a gaggle of gangsters camping on her doorstep and making threatening demands. And Ryman was probably right. The Chinese had a bank of cryopreserved candidates who could make the sacrifice for further scientific research until Einstein was honed to perfection to serve its true intended market. And finally, Dr Ryman's point about the redoubtable talents of Dr Yin. Ljudmila was well aware of his profile. And Schoch was currently vulnerable to being solely reliant on Dr Ryman. If something happened to him (as it almost had in Greece) Schoch would be left high and dry. So it made sense to have a second practitioner in the camp. You had to be strategic. Plans were made to be modified. That was the lesson of business. Her MBA had taught her that.

She summoned Randy Ryman back to her office and told him of her decision. He seemed pleased that she had taken up his suggestion. But he had one concern.

'And what if Dr Yin brings his gorilla with him?' he said, nervously.

'Then you'll have to get him to apologise,' Ljudmila said flippantly.

'That's not funny,' Ryman responded. 'It was the most terrifying moment of my life.'

'I have my own security, Randy,' she reminded him.

Randy. She never called him that. So why the sudden change?

'This guy was a real pro,' he told her. 'I just hope our security here is up to the possible challenge.'

Ljudmila returned him a sweet if sarcastic smile. 'Girls can do anything, Randy,' she told him, confidently.
Chapter 50.

Aigle; near Leysin; Switzerland

A few days later

THE BLACK MERCEDES WITH THE TINTED WINDOWS drove slowly through the railhead town and set off up the mountain road towards Leysin. In the car were three men, all dressed in black suits and wearing dark glasses. Two of the men were in their early thirties, strong and muscular with shiny, slicked down dark hair. The third man in the back seat was older – mid fifties, balding, a paunch protruding above his belt, his shirt open, revealing the top of a hairy, black chest. His age and his tough exterior announced that he was the boss; the godfather, the ruler of the Californian/ West Coast mafia. Tony Supero was gazing out the window of the car and puffing on a fat Cuban cigar.

You had to live the image.

His two companions belonged to another branch of the global, loose affiliated organization. Both of them lived and worked in Palermo; hit men, henchmen for the local Sicilian Costra Nostra. Tony Supero was on a personal mission to recover half a million American dollars of his lost money, money he had paid Seymour Willey in Beverley Hills to make him young again. A transaction that had proved to be a scam. Seymour Willey had been dispatched for his sins, but that hadn't retrieved Supero's money. The late CEO of the Life-Long Foundation in Palm Springs had pinpointed the Schoch Institute as the source of the Methuselah Gene. And that was what had brought him to Switzerland.

Back in Beverley Hills, the Los Angeles Police Department was still investigating the death of the cosmetic surgeon, Seymour Willey. The prevailing theory was that Willey had shot himself, exposed by a scam that he couldn't compensate his clients for. But the shooting of a young woman found in his clinic was not so easily explained. Why did Seymour Willey shoot her? The gun that killed her and him had his prints on it. It seemed to be conclusive, but the Police Department had unanswered questions. There was no reason for Willey to kill her. Unless she was trying to blackmail him.

The LAPD had checked the clients of Seymour Willey. People who had paid large sums of money for eternal youth; promises that later media had challenged. Possible motives for murder? And the mafia chief, Tony Supero was one of those. As was the porno king of Boudoir Magazine, Jefferson Pike. But he had since expired. The LAPD had interviewed Mafia boss, Supero. He had scoffed at suggestions that he had a motive to kill Seymour Willey. And he freely offered up a DNA sample, which matched nothing found on Seymour Willey's premises.

Supero had made contact with some of his distant Costra Nostra brothers in Sicily. They were only too willing to help and they gave him two of their henchmen, Alfonso and Leonardo; boneheads who would do their current masters bidding. Alfonso was driving. There was little conversation about the task to come. Supero's knowledge of his native Italian was rusty to the point of being useless. Alfonso and Leonardo's command of English was almost non-existent. It was a battle troupe that would have to communicate by sign language.

The car wound its way up the mountain slopes towards the village of Leysin. It finally found the carpark outside the building that housed the Schoch Institute. Supero viewed the two-storied building tucked into the mountainside and the tired sign above the wooden building that needed a paint: The Schoch Institute. 'This place looks like a home for geriatrics,' he growled.

Alfonso parked the Merc and the three men got out of the car. Supero felt the bulge of the Smith & and Wesson SW1911 in his inside pocket before heading off towards the entrance to the building. 'Put up or be shut up,' that was the message he intended to give to the head of the Schoch Institute. Tony Supero wasn't here to mess around. They entered the building through the large double wooden doors. Inside the light was dim. It was a decour from long ago – marble-tile floor, high domed ceiling with wooden beams and glass chandeliers. But directly in front of them something modern – a floor to ceiling glass partition, four sided with a small annex off to one side. Behind the partition a young woman wearing headphones sat at a reception desk in front of a computer terminal. She looked up as they entered. Tony Supero strode up to the partition. The woman made no move to open the glass. 'Bonjour,' she said into the small plastic voice grill set in the glass.

'We're here to see Dr Gladovitch,' Supero told her.

The woman seemed surprised. 'From China?' she said in English.

Supero's turn to be surprised. 'Yeah, China,' he said.

'You are early. You were not due to arrive until later this morning.'

'Yeah, early,' Supero agreed.

The woman scanned the three faces in front of her. 'Which one of you is Dr Yin?' she asked.

'I am,' Supero said.

Strange, the woman was thinking. She had expected Dr Yin to be Chinese. But this man wasn't Chinese. He looked more ... Italian. 'Can I see your ID?' she asked.

Supero had had enough of this nonsense. He wanted some action. Now. His hand went to his inside pocket and produced the Smith & Wesson. He poked the end of the small barrel into the plastic grill. 'Yeah, this,' he growled. 'Now get Dr Gladovitch out here immediately!'

The woman's reaction surprised Supero. She didn't even flinch. Out of his vision her hand moved quickly to a button under her desk. And as she pushed it, she moved deftly sideways out of range of the gun. A loud noise richouetted through the foyer, distracting Supero and his henchmen. A metal grille dropped from the ceiling to the floor, surrounding them on three sides with the fourth side of the cage being the glass partition in front of the Reception desk.

'What the fuck?' Supero breathed, waving his gun wildly in the air. Alfonso and Leonardo had drawn their guns also. Supero swung back around to face the woman in Reception. But she had disappeared.

'Who are you and what do you want?' a female voice came from somewhere in the roof.

'My name is Tony Supero and I wanna see Dr Gladovitch. Now!' he shouted at the ceiling.

'I am Dr Gladovitch,' the invisible voice said. 'What do you want with me?'

'For starters, lady,' Supero said angrily. 'You can let us out of this fucking cage or we'll blast our way out!' He brandished the gun at the glass partition.

'You won't,' the voice said, confidently. 'That is bulletproof glass. So tell me what you want with me or I'll call the police.'

Police. That was the last thing Supero needed. They would soon discover who he was and if they checked with Interpol there might be a trace back to the FBI and the LAPD in relation to his being questioned about the death of Seymour Willey. From Willey one road led to the Methuselah Gene and the Schoch Institute in Switzerland. Too risky. And even if the local police didn't make an immediate connection, they'd still be pressing firearms and disturbance charges at the very least. He had to take the heat out of this. 'I just wanna talk to you about the Methuselah Gene,' he called out in a more conciliatory voice.

'With a gun in your hand?'

Supero dropped the Smith & Wesson SW1911 on the floor, kicking it away with his foot. 'Alright. See ... no fire power.' He inclined his head at Alfonso and Leonardo who did the same. 'Now can you let us out of this goddam cage!' he yelled to the ceiling.

In her upstairs office, Ljudmila was watching the scene on a monitor. She had no idea who Tony Supero was but he had just made his connections to Schoch clear. 'So what is your association with the Methuselah Gene?' she asked Supero through the PA system.

'I paid half a million dollars for that crap!' Supero said bitterly. 'I want my money back!'

'You paid the money to who?' Ljudmila's voice said.

'Seymour Willey of the Willey clinic in Beverley Hills.'

She wasn't surprised. His American accent had already suggested that connection. Willey had been the sole franchisee in America. But it also gave her cause for a mounting concern. She was aware of the fate of Seymour Willey; aware that the Los Angeles police believed he had been murdered. And here was a group of armed men in her foyer. The connection was compelling. A connection she had to deal with. 'I will see you alone,' she said.

'No deal, lady,' Supero snarled. He glanced at Alfonso and Leonardo. 'These are my advisors,' he told the invisible voice.

'Your call, Mr Supero. I see you alone or I call the police.'

Supero tossed the options around in his mind. He could look after himself, he was sure of that. The two henchmen were back-up, extra security. And this was only a research centre after all. It was full of scientists not soldiers. He would be fine. 'OK,' he called to the ceiling. 'So lift this fucking cage.'

'The cage stays until we complete our business,' Ljudmila said firmly. 'I don't want men with guns running around my building. Approach the door to the left of reception. Beyond there is an electronic scanner. It will detect any other metal on your body and will not permit you to enter the main building until all obstructions are discarded.'

That was another shock for Supero. He swore under his breath and withdrew the stiletto knife blade from the sheath on his forearm, slipping it to Alfonso. The sight of the knife didn't escape the watching eyes of Ljudmila. The connection between this man and the death of Seymour Willey jumped another level in her mind.

Supero spoke to Alfonso and Angelo in his rusty Italian. 'Rimanete qui.'

He moved to the end of the Reception area where a door sprung open and shut again quickly behind him. He faced the security portal, removing his watch and placing it on the narrow conveyor belt. He walked through the detector, which remained silent, retrieving his watch on the other side. One more door faced him. It slid slowly open. On the other side he was met by two burly men dressed in grey uniforms; the equivalents of Alfonso and Angelo behind him. Tweedledee and Tweedledum motioned for Supero to follow them. They walked through the second foyer to the ornate staircase that led to the upper level. The staircase was lined by portraits of apparently famous people. But Supero didn't recognize any of them. On the next level a large model of plastic tubing occupied most of the foyer. The two security guards led Supero to the other side of the foyer where a recessed office awaited them. One of the security men opened the door and motioned Supero inside. He entered the office. A middle-aged woman in a tight, black skirt with strange eyes stood in front of a large desk. She extended a hand.

'Mr Supero,' she introduced herself. 'I am Ljudmila Gladovitch, CEO of the Schoch Institute. Please take a seat.'

Supero did as he was told. He noticed that the two security men sat in two chairs behind him.

'So ....' Ljudmila said. 'You want to talk to me about the Methuselah Gene.'

Supero nodded. 'I do.' He briefly outlined his purchase of the Methuselah treatment from the Willey clinic and his subsequent discovery in the media that he had been sold a pup. 'Half a million American dollars. That's a lot of money, lady. I tried to get a refund from Dr Willey, but unfortunately the good doctor has gone out of business.'

Gone out of business. What you are here to do to me, Ljudmila thought. She looked at him thoughtfully. 'The Methuselah treatment was stolen from my Institute,' she said in a measured voice, 'It is not fake. But I concede that the research wasn't completed. I cannot take responsibility for what happened between the thieves, Dr Willey and yourself, but our reputation is very important to us and needs to be protected. So I will reimburse your money.'

Supero's mean mouth twisted into a smile. 'It's a pleasure to do business with you,' he said.

Ljudmila's cell phone suddenly shrieked. 'Excuse me,' she said. She flipped the phone open and listened. 'Take them to meeting room three,' she said into the phone. 'I will be along shortly.' She flipped the phone shut again and stood up. 'Let's attend to your money,' she told Supero. She went behind her desk and sat in front of her computer screen. After a few moments a large screen on the wall glowed into view. It contained details of the Schoch bank account in Zurich. 'Your bank account details Mr Supero,' she said.

Supero had the details in his pocket. He gave her a New York bank account number.

Ljudmila typed it in. It came up on the wall screen then she was asked to confirm. She did and the screen asked her again for her password and netcode digits. She typed them in. Words came up on the screen.

Transaction completed

This will be completed immediately.

Ljudmila smiled. 'There you are Mr Supero. Of course, as I'm sure you well know, immediately means overnight. The money will be in your account by morning.'

Supero nodded. 'Thank you. No offence, but I intend to hang around until morning just to make sure.'

Again Ljudmila smiled. 'No offence taken, Mr Supero. If I was you I would take the same precaution. And if you wish, you can stay here at Schoch as my guest. This was once an hotel. We have some nice apartments with all the mod cons, as well as a bar, restaurant, gaming rooms. You are welcome to stay the night at no cost. But unfortunately, I cannot extend the same invitation to your companions downstairs.'

Supero hesitated. He wanted to see that money safely in his account in the morning. If he left Schoch and something went wrong it might be difficult to get back into this place again. But it would be prudent to have the boys from Sicily on standby.

Ljudmila had read his mind. And before he could answer, she said, 'Let me get our Entertainment Director to at least show you around before you make up your mind.'

A rear door in the office opened to admit a young woman; a beautiful young woman in a tight, body-fitting, white glittering dress and long hair the colour of snow.

'This is Sophie,' Ljudmila said. 'She will be your hostess.'

Supero swallowed hard. 'Deal,' he said.
Chapter 51.

THE TWO MEN IN DARK SUITS rose to meet her as Ljudmila entered Meeting Room Three. Tweedledee and Tweedledum followed her, but sat in two chairs away from the meeting room table. The two Chinese men made an odd couple, Ljudmila thought. One of them was short and slight, the other taller and broader. But the contrast didn't end there. The shorter man had a shiny complexion and keen brown eyes that peered out from behind his bifocals. The taller man had the same smooth complexion, but his face was more bland; unforgettable, apart from his narrow, mean, button-black eyes that surveyed you coldly from shallow slits beneath his eyelids. And the livid, white scar that ran down the side of his neck. Ljudmila knew immediately which one of them was the doctor.

'Dr Yin,' the shorter man said, extending his hand.

Full marks, Ljudmila. She shook his hand.

'And this is Mr Chen,' Dr Yin said. 'My personal secretary.'

Shorthand for bodyguard, Ljudmila thought. She shook Mr Chen's hand. His grip was much firmer than Dr Yin's. Ljudmila winced but didn't show it. She invited them both to join her seated at the table. She didn't introduce Tweedledee and Tweedledum at the rear of the room. She did notice though that Mr Chen, the Personal Secretary, was sizing them up with a clinical gaze. Mr Chen who bore a strong occupational resemblance to the American who called himself Tony Supero. 'You want to talk about a new line of research here at the Schoch Institute?' Ljudmila addressed Dr Yin.

Dr Yin nodded. 'Correct. But first we must discuss your Methuselah Gene.'

'Of course,' Ljudmila agreed. She gave him the same spiel she had spun to Tony Supero, ending with, 'so although the Schoch Institute was not responsible for the incomplete research that was illegally sold to you, for the sake of our reputation I hope we can reach some accommodation here.'

'That is why I am here,' Dr Yin said. 'But there is one discrepancy in your story. The person who promoted the Methuselah treatment to me on behalf of what you allege was a criminal organization was one of your former employees, Dr Randy Ryman. And now, I believe, Dr Ryman is back here at Schoch in your employ. How do you explain that?'

Ljudmila was prepared for the question. 'Dr Ryman was himself a victim of this criminal scam,' she told Dr Yin with a straight face. 'He had left my employment and was recruited by the Long-Life Foundation, an apparently reputable organization involved in gene research. He was shown fake documents that purported to give the seal of approval from Schoch to market the Methuselah Gene. Dr Ryman was unaware that the Long-Life Foundation was in cahoots with the criminal gang who had stolen that research. Once he discovered the deception he informed both myself and Interpol. That information led to the media attention the Methuselah treatment got and the closure of the Long-Life Foundation offices.' She paused, her eyes flicking to the stony face of Mr Chen the Personal Secretary. 'So you see,' she continued, 'whoever it was who attacked Dr Ryman in the Greek Islands nearly killed an innocent man.'

Dr Yin momentarily lost his cool composure. His eyes moved away from Ljudmila. 'I regret that incident,' he said.

Mr Chen's stony expression didn't budge. He didn't look like he regretted anything.

'But you must understand,' Dr Yin continued, 'that the Yao Clinic did also lose millions of American dollars because of this criminal scam. So I am hoping that we can address that with access to this ground-breaking new research of yours. The Einstein Project I believe you call it?'

'That is my hope too,' Ljudmila replied.

Dr Yin had regained his cool composure. 'And that will depend on you being able to demonstrate the success of this research,' he told Ljudmila. 'If you can do that, perhaps we can settle all our differences and move forward with a mutual interest.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'Deal,' she said. It was the second important deal she had made that afternoon.

Tony Supero had lust in his loins. The stunning Sophie just oozed sensuality; the way she moved, the way she talked. From her beautiful face and her striking, long, white hair, to the tapering legs that squeezed out of her tight dress, the body of this babe had turned Tony Supero on fire. And this broad had brains too. The way she spoke, the way she answered his questions about the Schoch Institute, the quiet confidence he could see in her eyes. Broads with brains were not usually a turn-on for Tony Supero. He liked his women to be compliant. But he wanted to taste this one and most of his thoughts at the moment were focused on how that might be possible.

She had shown him around the ground floor of the Schoch Institute. First the spacious apartment where he could stay the night if he wanted too and then the entertainment areas: the bar, the restaurant, the gaming room. The latter was hardly Vegas, just a collection of one-arm bandits, but a place to wile time away. His first task was to deal with Alfonso and Leonardo. His companion, the hostess with the most-ess, took him back to the Reception area. Alfonso and Leonardo were sitting on the floor in the middle of the cage, smoking. They both leapt to their feet as Tony and Sophie appeared in the glass enclosure of Reception. Sophie activated the button under the desk. The metal grille lifted back up to its covers in the ceiling.

'Vada indietro a casa. A Sicily. Sono sicuro qui,' Supero told them. Go back home to Sicily. I am safe here.

Alfonso and Leonardo both nodded and headed for the outside door.

'You sent them back to Sicily? You didn't want them to stay locally?' Sophie said softly.

Tony Supero looked surprised. 'You speak Italian?'

Sophie nodded. 'Along with four other languages, yes.'

'You're a bright girl,' Supero said.

Sophie smiled.

Supero smiled back. 'Well I figure I don't need ugly minders like them around me when I've got one as beautiful as you,' he said.

Sophie kept her smile. 'So what do you want to do now, Tony?' she asked him.

'That's up to you, Babe. Whatdidja have in mind?'

She preened herself in front of him. 'How about a drink?' she purred.

'Sounds OK to me.' A drink. In the bar. It would be the first move in his strategy.

Seeing was believing. Neither Dr Yin nor Chen Chou had ever expected to see anything like this in their lifetime. Dr Yin's mind had moved quickly from a state of awe to one of scientific excitement, but Chen Chou's mind had remained in a state of shock, for this was the most grotesque sight he had ever seen. The head of Professor Eugene Schoch had greeted them from his podium as if this was a completely normal exchange.

'So how do you feel Professor Schoch?' Dr Yin had finally managed to ask.

Eugene Schoch's eyes rolled lazily in their sockets. 'Much better now. Thanks to Dr Hayes,' he replied.

Ljudmila had told them about Eugene's Huntington's. But she had stressed that Eugene had the condition before his Einstein rejuvenation. She showed Dr Yin Eugene's medical records. She didn't want Ling to think that the Huntington's was in any way a consequence of the rejuvenation. Dr Yin had been impressed by what he heard about Hanna's work. But Ljudmila would not allow Dr Yin to meet Hanna, telling him that Hanna's work was classified, but also assuring him that once a cure had been effected the results would be published in major medical journals around the world. A disappointed Dr Yin had to accept Ljudmila's decision.

'Do you ever get bored with your new condition?' Dr Yin asked Eugene Schoch.

Eugene stared at Dr Yin proudly. 'Why would I get bored?' he challenged the doctor. 'I am a philosopher-king. And the mind is pure thought. When you have no bodily distractions it focuses the mind and allows you to travel to new levels of thought.'

Dr Yin stared at him. 'Do you retain former memories?' he asked the head of Eugene Schoch.

The head stared back at him out of one red eye. 'Of course. But one doesn't dwell on old memories. What would be the point? That would be like a paraplegic spending all his time thinking about the days when he was a world-class athletics sprinter. So much wasted energy, wouldn't you say?'

Dr Yin smiled. 'I guess so,' he said.

'I do miss company though,' Eugene followed up. 'Because I can speak as well as think. I look forward to the day when Ljudmila joins me here on my pedestal.'

'All in good time, Eugene,' Ljudmila said quickly.

'You intend to join him one day?' Dr Yin asked Ljudmila.

Ljudmila's mouth forced a smile. 'Of course,' she said.

'She tortures me with her absence,' Eugene said, bitterly. 'And sometimes she blows smoke from those cigars of hers into my eyes. Not very nice, wouldn't you say?'

'This is the residue of the Huntington's talking,' Ljudmila whispered to Dr Yin under her breath.

'Is not!' Eugene responded. 'So why are you two here?' He glared at Dr Yin and Chen Chou. 'Are you planning to join me?'

'I told you, Eugene,' Ljudmila interceded. 'Dr Yin is from the Yao Clinic in Beijing. I am considering licensing the Einstein research to his clinic.'

'Eugene rolled his eyes. 'Beijing. Where Dr Yin must be a king. A place where once there was a dynasty called Ming. Whose praises the Chinese no longer sing.'

'The Huntington's again,' Ljudmila muttered under her breath. She knew it was time to move her guests out of Eugene's chamber before he uttered any more inanities.

Tony Supero finished his fifth whiskey. The delicious sight of the woman called Sophie swum in his vision like a plate of high-class, quality food that was being presented in front of him. They had a couple of drinks in the antiquated bar on the second floor, before proceeding to the Gaming Room where Tony played the pokies to fill in time before the evening ahead. He won five hundred Swiss Francs – small fry compared to what he really wanted from the evening ahead. And then they returned to the bar. He noticed that his companion seemed to have an unusual female capacity to match him drink for drink, a challenge that only excited him more. What he hadn't seen was that the person who called herself, Sophie, was adept at emptying her glass in a variety of pot plant holders that dotted the bar and the Gaming Room.

'So what do you have in mind for the rest of the evening?' he inquired of his gorgeous companion.

Sophie's smile melted his hardened gangland exterior. 'Up to you, Tony. What do you desire?'

He knew the answer to that. 'You, Babe,' he told her. 'Does that surprise you?'

Sophie feigned some minor embarrassment. 'I suppose not,' she said.

His loose eyes traveled over her face. 'So what do I have to do to make the deal here?' he confronted her.

Sophie's smile broadened. 'Up to you, Tony. You're a man of the world.'

'And not the most pretty one. Does this offend you?' He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a bundle of American dollar notes, placing them on the table in front of her. 'One thousand U.S. dollars. Is that enough to make you play with Tony tonight?'

Sophie's long, slim fingers stroked the texture of the notes. Then she gathered them in like a poker player scooping up their winnings and pushed the bundle down the canyon of her cleavage. 'I'm not offended, Tony,' she said, softly. 'They don't pay me well here. But I do understand the value of customer satisfaction.'

'Excellent,' Tony Supero grinned. 'I suggest we go back to the apartment you allotted me, have a little .... wriggle before dinner. What do you say?'

The teeth that showed in Sophie's smile were as white as her hair. 'Deal,' she said, rising from the table. It was the third deal to be struck at Schoch during that day.

Randy Ryman was staring at the man seated next to Dr Yin. He had never seen the face of his assailant on the balcony at Santorini, but he had heard his voice. So far the only words this person introduced as Mr Chen had spoken was a cursory greeting. The voice sounded similar but the match was not conclusive. He needed to hear more of the voice of this man. But then any doubts Randy Ryman had about Mr Chen being his attacker dissipated in one disclosing moment. For Mr Chen brought his right hand from under the table to pick up a cup of black tea. And that was when Randy Ryman saw it – the gold signet ring with the inscription of a tiger engraved on it. The same ring he had fleetingly witnessed on the balcony at Santorini. This surly man sitting opposite him was his would-be killer.

Randy Ryman felt his blood drain away to his shoes. The fake suntan on his face paled to white. Mr Chen picked up the recognition immediately. His mouth curled into a cruel smile and his narrow eyes bored threateningly into Ryman's skull.

Ljudmila picked up on the incident as well. 'I suggest we should adjourn for the day,' she said. 'I will have my accommodation manager show you gentlemen to your rooms. Tomorrow you can discuss the details of Einstein with Dr Ryman. I will join you later for dinner, but now you must excuse me as I have several important things to attend to.'

Dr Yin nodded. Chen Chou kept his mean eyes on Randy Ryman. Ljudmila stood up and moved to exit the room. Randy Ryman got out of his chair and followed her. He caught up with her in the corridor. 'I am happy to spend time with Dr Yin,' he told her. 'But on one condition. I do not want that other guy in the room.'

Ljudmila considered that. 'Understood,' she said. 'I will speak to Dr Yin about that.'

In his apartment, Tony Supero poured two whiskeys from the minibar. He handed one to Sophie. 'Bottoms up babe,' he said. He drank the whiskey in one gulp. Sophie followed suit. Amazing he thought. She still showed no sign of even the mildest intoxication, standing there as steady as a rock in front of him. He didn't want to waste any more time to claim his prize. He put the glass down and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. 'Let's get it on,' he said huskily.

Sophie wriggled out of his grip. 'I prefer to undress myself, Tony,' she teased him. 'Turn around and let me surprise you.'

Tony hesitated then nodded his head. 'OK,' he said. 'Surprise me.' He turned his back on her. He heard her unzip her dress and the rustle of it as she slid it to the floor. 'Ready?' he asked.

'Moment,' she cautioned him. She took a half leap in the air, her right hand moving in a fast arc before landing the well-aimed blow on the back of Tony Supero's neck. He stumbled forward, the searing pain from the blow traveling in a red-hot spasm down his spine. Tony Supero had a neck as tough as a bull. He managed to turn around to face his attacker. He had a glimpse of her standing there in her bra and panties before she sprung at him again, the hard edge of her palm smashing his windpipe.

'Enjoy your last wriggle, Tony,' she smiled at the dying Supero.
Chapter 52.

IN SECTOR B the medical team, under the supervision of Randy Ryman set about neuropreserving the head of Tony Supero. It had never been part of the plan, but a last minute inspiration by Ljudmila had dispatched the medical team into action. Three floors above, Ljudmila dined with Dr Yin and his henchman. The conversation centered around the future joint venture between Schoch and the Yao Clinic. Chen Chou had very little to say. He just sat there like a circus bear on a chain ready to do his master's bidding if called upon to do so. Ljudmila was relaxed. Everything seemed to be falling into place and she had tidied up after Tony Supero. If anyone came looking for him the official story was that he had left in a car with some strangers for a destination unknown. And the money she had apparently deposited in his bank account was of no concern. The whole visual transaction had been a sham based on pre-programmed software she kept ready for such occasions. It was time to move on.

Three floors below the procedure proceeded to plan. The upper body of Tony Supero was cooled to a state of hypothermia. A tourniquet was fitted around the specimen's neck to prevent the flow of blood between the head and the body. Then Ryman took a small circular saw and severed the head from the body. The carotid and vertebral arteries were then perfused with cryoprotectant solution. The severed head was then immersed in a cylinder full of liquid nitrogen. Tony Supero would never have expected to be resurrected from the dead. But he would never become a permanent Einstein II. His neuro-resurrection was merely a demonstration of the technique for Dr Yin to observe.

In the morning Randy Ryman began his briefing session with Dr Yin. He was relieved to find that Mr Chen was not present. Ljudmila had arranged for a minder to accompany him to the Entertainment Centre for as long as these discussions lasted. First, Ryman took Dr Yin painstakingly through the cryopreservation rejuvenation process that had been applied to Methuselah Man, using computer models on a large screen and video footage from the actual rejuvenation. Dr Yin made notes on a laptop, asking questions of Dr Ryman and offering his own thoughts as a surgeon along the way. That dispensed with, Ryman turned his attention to the neurorejuvenation of Eugene Schoch and his subsequent conversion through the Einstein process. This was the part that really interested Dr Yin.

'Of course,' Ryman noted, 'Professor Schoch went through the steps of cryorejuvenation, which was unsuccessful, to neurorejuvenation through the Einstein process. But a straight conversion from a neuropreservation to an Einstein rejuvenation would be a much more straightforward procedure.'

'It would,' Dr Yin agreed. 'Because it would remove a whole step.'

'Precisely,' Ryman said.

Dr Yin's bespectacled head looked up from his laptop. 'But to date, you have not carried out that simplified procedure. Right?'

Ryman smiled. 'Right. But as it happens we have a candidate on standby for such a procedure.'

Dr Yin's impassive features suddenly displayed a hint of excitement. 'You do?'

'Yes. A perfect candidate I would say to experiment on. A criminal. Apparently with a long record of murder and other crimes. A criminal unlikely to be missed by his own mother.'

Dr Yin waited for a full explanation, which Ryman partly gave him.

'A criminal who forced his way inside here and was killed after a confrontation with our security guards. You know what they say, Dr Yin. Live by the sword, die by the sword.'

'And you have neuropreserved him?'

'Correct. He awaits our intervention.'

'And the police? Do they know he came here?'

Ryman smiled. 'Don't worry, Dr Yin. We have covered our tracks. And none of this will ever lead back to you.'

Dr Yin looked reassured. He would not bother himself about the identity of this neuro, a neuro they would try to rejuvenate only for the purposes of science. After that, Dr Ryman could decide the man's final fate. 'I am ready to begin,' he told Dr Ryman.

Ryman withdrew a cellphone from his pocket and pushed a key. One of his medical team on Level Five answered the call. But the news he had for Ryman was not encouraging. Ryman's expression darkened as he listened to the medic on the other end of the phone. 'You sure about this?' he said. 'You took another opinion?' When he switched off the phone his expression was unchanged.

'Problem?' Dr Yin asked.

'Big problem. X-Rays and brain scans on our 'patient' are showing that rejuvenation is highly unlikely to be successful owing to brain injuries suffered by the patient at the time of his death. It appears that this neuropreservation was a waste of time.'

The disappointment was evident on Dr Yin's face. 'Pity,' he said. 'A live rejuvenation carried out with you would have been very useful for me before returning to Beijing.'

'Agreed,' Ryman said. Heavy-handed Sophie, he was thinking. Why couldn't she have just shot him in the heart?

'And you have no other neuropreservations on site?' Dr Yin asked.

Ryman shook his head. 'Fraid not,' he said. 'Have you a specimen in Beijing?'

Ling shook his head. 'No. We have no neuropreservations on site. To date, neuropreservation has been a very American thing.'

Ryman sighed. 'So we have no donor; no trial. That's a setback I think.'

Dr Yin was staring forlornly down at the table.

'The criminal would've been perfect,' Ryman said.

Dr Yin's eyes lifted slowly from the table. 'A criminal unlikely to be missed by his mother,' he said staring across the top of his glasses at Ryman. 'Live by the sword, die by the sword.'

'Exactly,' Ryman said. 'A perfect candidate for an Einstein trial.'

'For the cause of science,' Dr Yin added.

Ryman nodded. And in that moment he knew they had reached a silent understanding.

It was well into the night before the operation was complete. It took another two hours before the new Einstein finally opened his eyes. He stared around the room like any post-operative patient awakening from anesthesia. And then he started yelling in Mandarin.

'He is aware who he is,' Dr Yin said approvingly behind the one-way mirror on the perimeter of the room.

'The next twenty-four hours will be critical,' Randy Ryman replied. 'To see whether his brain accepts the Einstein support or rejects it. But the signs so far are promising.'

They left the operating theatre at that point with the anguished screams of Chen Chou resounding around the corridor behind them.

Live by the sword, die by the sword.

In both their eyes it seemed fitting.

For the cause of science.
Chapter 53.

DR YIN DID NOT THINK HE WAS A BAD MAN. His entire practice in Beijing was about trying to help people who were desperate for a cure for some medical affliction. Sure he worked on the boundaries of established medical practice and he did make a lot of money from his work. But equally so did a lot of top surgeons around the world. He knew that often he was selling hope, but sometimes that hope did cure people, people that often mainstream medicine had discarded. Early in his current practice his brother, Ling Yang the military general, had persuaded him to employ a security director with credentials more associated with criminals than the world of medicine that Ling Yin was used to. He had never liked Chen Chou the former corrupt Shanghai policeman. Chen had an appalling record of extortion, stand-over tactics and murder, but Ling Yang had convinced his brother that he needed the protection of this thug for the safety of his business. Ling Yin had never been comfortable with that. In recent times he had thought of dismissing Chen Chou from his employ, especially after his lurid and unemotional account of what he had done to the American surgeon Randy Ryman. Ryman may have been involved in some shady dealings with the Long-Life Foundation, but ultimately he was a world-class surgeon in the same bracket as Ling Yin himself and not some gutter scum like Chen was.

In short, Chen Chou was expendable.

A perfect candidate for an Einstein trial.

For the cause of science.

Live by the sword, die by the sword.

And so he had offered the criminal Chen up as the specimen for the Einstein trial. His focus was on the cause of science and the future. And Chen Chou would be a part of that, making a name for himself in the annals of medical history, a role that he would never had dreamed of.

The procedure appeared to be a total success. Dr Yin entered further discussions with Randy Ryman and Ljudmila Gladovitch. The Yao Clinic would offer the Einstein procedure under a financial arrangement that would take into account the five million American dollars the Yao Clinic had already paid out to the Long-Life Foundation. Schoch would supply the necessary technology for the procedure. This suited Ljudmila. Some of the world reaction to Methuselah Man had been hostile enough. The reaction to a living head on a box was likely to be even more problematic. So better that the Yao Clinic in China would face the future flak. But Ljudmila was still insisting that Einstein should only be prescribed under strict criteria.

For the intellectual elite.

Dr Yin didn't appear to have a problem with that. 'Why would an average person wish to continue their life as a head?' he said, bemused. 'They are more likely to want a full cryorejuvenation.' The Yao Clinic intended to offer the full treatment, Dr Yin now feeling even more confident that he and his medical team in Beijing had the necessary expertise to successfully perform that procedure as well. But Randy Ryman had a question.

'Surely the Chinese Government would be opposed to bringing dead bodies back to life, given your existing population problems?' he asked Dr Yin.

'Dr Yin nodded. 'Of course. So our recipients of cryorejuvenation will mainly be foreigners,' he said.

The conversation turned to the Methuselah Gene. Dr Yin still believed there was a huge market for the Methuselah treatment, but the bad publicity around the fake gene on the world market had been a major setback. In reply, Ljudmila remained adamant that the gene was a successful treatment for anti-ageing and longevity, despite what had happened on the world market.

'But you won't show me your Methuselah Man,' Dr Yin challenged her.

Ljudmila shook her head. 'As I told you, he is still in quarantine because of an infection. But he is making positive progress.'

'But I need proof,' Dr Yin insisted. 'Otherwise public perception will make this market impossible to address.'

Ljudmila produced a plastic folder and withdrew some photographs. She handed them to Dr Yin. 'Here is your proof,' she said, confidently. 'Another recipient of the Methuselah Gene shown before and sometime after the treatment.'

Dr Yin studied the photographs. He glanced up at Ljudmila. 'Very impressive, but you must forgive me for my impertinence. The early photograph could be a fake.'

'It could,' Ljudmila agreed. 'But it isn't.' She passed Dr Yin another document. 'Here is a birth certificate that authenticates the photograph.'

Dr Yin read the document then passed it back to Ljudmila. 'Amazing,' he smiled. 'So why have you not gone public with this?'

'All in good time,' Ljudmila smiled back at him. 'But at the moment the person in question does not wish for that kind of celebrity status.'

Dr Yin smiled again. 'As I said, there is an undoubted world market for the Methuselah Gene. But it does occur to me that there is also an opportunity to introduce the Methuselah Gene into the Germ-line after conception.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'That is true,' she agreed. 'But there are substantial ethical objections to such a procedure, as you will be aware.'

Again Dr Yin smiled. 'As there surely are to Methuselah Man, cryo and neuro rejuvenation.'

'Yes,' Ljudmila said. 'But those procedures will only ever likely involve a miniscule percentage of the world's population. But introducing the Methuselah Gene into the Germ-line could potentially make the entire population of the planet immortal. And that would be unsustainable and a disaster for the human race.'

'Not if the procedure was tightly controlled,' Dr Yin answered her.

'Controlled by who?' Ljudmila said.

Again the inscrutable smile. 'People like ourselves,' came the reply.

Ljudmila shot a quick glance at Randy Ryman who had been sitting silently at the table for some time. 'We have carried out some preliminary research on this,' she told Dr Yin. We called it Project Darwin. As you will know from your own work with embryonic stem cells, there is the problem of rejection by the recipient of the donated stem cell. Infusing the Methuselah Gene into the embryo of a donee has similar challenges. The gene is still something foreign for the embryo to cope with. Our research shows that infusion of the Methuselah Gene into a patient's somatic cells is much more productive at the present time. Leaving the ethical issues aside, we believe that safe and successful Germ-line therapy involving the Methuselah Gene is still some time away.'

'That is correct,' Randy Ryman backed up his boss.

The negotiations completed, Dr Yin was ready to return to Beijing. The city was preparing for a visit from the U.S. President in a few days time, he told them. The one remaining question was what to do with Chen Chou.

'Entirely up to you,' Dr Yin said. 'I have no use for him in China.'

'He is Dr Ryman's patient,' Ljudmila said with a smile.

Hanna sat at her desk, staring into her computer screen. She was in a quandary about Eugene Shock's Huntington's. She had experimented with both stem cells and gene therapy. But both treatments had led to blind alleys. With the stem cells it had been the dominance of the defective Huntingtin gene over the introduced, healthy stem cells. And now a major problem with gene therapy. Silencing the defective Huntingtin gene relied on the fact that there were two copies of the gene in the body (one from either parent) and usually only one of them was defective. But it now transpired that both copies of the gene in Eugene Schoch's brain were defective. In other words both his parents had carried the defective gene. And this had never been known because his mother had died at an early age. If Hanna silenced both of the genes serious adverse consequences were highly likely. Impasse. Stalemate. But she had to find a way around checkmate if her and Robert were ever going to get out of Schoch. And she thought she had the answer.

A combination of both stem cells and gene therapy. She would use gene therapy to silence both the defective genes and replace them with healthy ones by inserting new stem cells. Simple. Well not really. There were all the other problems to overcome, but her work to date suggested that she had all those bases covered.

She left her office and walked down the main corridor in the direction of the Reception desk. She needed some stationery supplies, which were held in a small room behind the Reception desk. When she reached the desk it was deserted. The Receptionist was probably at lunch. She found the stationery she was looking for and noticed the door to the meeting room behind was open. She walked over and took a look. There were empty cups and saucers sitting on the meeting table. Hanna had seen Ljudmila and Randy Ryman with a Chinese man earlier that morning. She hadn't seen the Chinese man before and she was sure he must be a visitor. But as to the purpose of his visit she had no idea. Beyond the meeting room the door to the Control Centre was also open. She went inside. The same project names were still on the project screen under the name The Methuselah File. But the coloured light beside one of them had changed.

The former green light alongside Project Methuselah Man was now glowing red. What did that mean? That the project was completed? Successfully or unsuccessfully? There was no one in Sector B that she thought would (or could) answer that question, except for Ljudmila or Randy Ryman and she didn't want to approach either of them. Maybe Eugene, despite his isolation on Level Five might know the answer. He seemed to be always in the loop. She headed off to see him.

Eugene's eyes were closed, but they popped open the moment she entered the chamber. 'Hanna. What a delight as always,' he said.

'How are you today, Professor?' she asked him.

The head smiled. 'Box of birds, thanks to you, Hanna. So how is my treatment progressing?'

'Very encouraging,' Hanna said, determinedly

'Good. Good. I need to outshine my competition.'

'Competition Professor?'

'Did you not meet the Chinese doctor who was here?'

Hanna shook her head. 'Why was he here?'

'He came to see me. And he was so impressed that he wants to make a lot of Einsteins in China.'

Hanna looked surprised. 'And how do you feel about that?'

'Peeved, Hanna. There is only one Einstein.' He cracked a toothless smile. 'But soon the world will be flooded with Einsteins with a familiar brandmark: Made in China. The mind boggles; the brain of Eugene Schoch is in shock. Oriental replicas everywhere. I feel like I have been trivialized, turned into an item of mass production,' he said sourly.

'So what does Ljudmila say to that?'

Eugene screwed up his face. 'Ljudmila stopped listening to me ages ago. If I complain she blows that awful cigar smoke into my face. Just like in that Roald Dahl story. I'm a titular head, nothing more.'

She asked him about the red light next to Project Methuselah Man.

Eugene looked quickly around the room. 'Can't tell you Hanna. Telling tales out of school, teacher would strap me.' He screwed up his eyes. 'Have you been to the theatre lately?' he asked her. 'I miss the theatre, don't you? Because we don't have a theatre in Schoch do we?' His dry lips smiled, then he winked at her.

Was he trying to tell her something? What was all this about a theatre? There was only one theatre in the Schoch Institute that she was aware of.

The operating theatre.

She smiled back at him and then left the chamber.

The operating theatre was just down the corridor. The sign on a door opposite read: Recovery Room. She went inside. She was in a small room where what seemed like a one-way mirror looked into an adjoining room. She gulped in air. On the other side of the mirror was another Einstein – a Chinese face on a box that looked anything but happy. A face she hadn't seen before. It was not the Chinese man in the suit that she had seen with Ljudmila and Randy Ryman. So who was he? And where had he come from? She backed away from the mirror. She had no inclination to enter that room.

She went across the corridor to the Operating Theatre. She opened the door and froze. There was a body laid out on a stainless steel table; the body of a thin, emaciated man with the remnants of a face ravaged by the decay of ancient age. Methuselah Man.

'Dr Hayes,' a voice said behind her.

She swung around to see Randy Ryman standing behind her. 'Were you looking for something?' he said, smiling.

She didn't feel she was trespassing. After all, Ljudmila had given her the freedom of Level Five. But Ryman made her flesh creep along her spine. 'I think I've found it,' she said, looking over at the body of Methuselah Man. 'The end of an experiment.'

'Quite the contrary,' Ryman's suave features corrected her. 'It is just the beginning. Methuselah Man was very ancient when we started his treatment. That alone was a huge measure of our success. So his death does not mean the end of the project. Believe me, Hanna, Methuselah is very much alive.'

She wanted to ask him what he meant; wanted to ask him about the live Chinese head across the corridor. But she also wanted to get out of there. She felt Ryman's greedy eyes crawl all over her, like a pot of gold he wanted to claim. 'I guess I should get back to my work,' she said. She turned past him and left the room. She could feel those lecherous eyes undressing her from behind.

Ryman watched her go; the movement of her bottom in the long pants she wore. Live bodies were so much more exciting. He walked back along the corridor to the Recovery Room and went inside. The head of Chen Chou saw him coming. His mouth opened and his lips were moving furiously. But the strain of two days of screaming abuse had left him hoarse. His narrow eyes were full of hatred and loathing. Ryman walked up to the head and thrust his own head into Chen Chou's contorted face.

'The tables are turned, Mr Chen ,' he said. 'It is your turn to be on the receiving end now.' He produced the wire garrote he had retrieved from Chen Chou's luggage, slipping it around Chen's neck. Chen's loathing eyes were suddenly filled with fear. Ryman tightened the noose, slowly, until the skin of Chen Chou turned a sickly shade of blue and the death rattle rose in his throat. 'Goodbye Mr Chen,' Ryman repeated Chen 's own words to him back on Santorini. 'We have no more need for you now.'

Live by the sword; die by the sword.
Chapter 54.

Beijing; The Great Hall of the People

A few days later

BUILT IN 1959 the massive granite and marble Great Hall of the People occupied around 170,000 square metres on the western side of Tiananmen Square. Tonight, in the State Banquet Hall nearly five thousand diners were assembled for a dinner in honour of the visit by the first black American President of the United States. The tall, graceful figure of Francesca Young followed her President to the top table along the red strip of carpet that matched the colour of Francesca's silky hair. At the top table, the American President was flanked on one side by the American delegation and on the other side by the President of the People's Republic of China and the members of China's ruling elite, the Politburo. On the President's side were the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defence, the Secretary of Trade and the White House Chief of Staff, Francesca Young, as well as a number of security personnel and other minor officials.

The purpose of the President's visit was to develop better relations between the world's current top superpower and maybe the top superpower in waiting. Opinion was divided on this issue. Many in the American corridors of power and the wider U.S. population clung onto the belief that America the wonderful would always occupy the world's top slot. But more detached observers pointed to China's rapid emergence into the modern world; the size of its population, its growing GDP, and the fiscal fact that China currently owned one trillion dollars of American debt. The President's mission was to smooth this relationship, enter joint ventures and understandings that would see these two giants work together for the future of the world. But they were still strongly divided by their views on democracy and human rights. The President's challenge was to try and bridge this gulf, to forge a working relationship with this new giant who had awoken from previous decades of slumber.

After the speeches, many of the guests left the Great Hall for their homes or whatever accommodation they had arranged for the night. Those still with energy to burn stayed to mingle further into the night. Tables and white-jacketed waiters offered more food and beverage to those who wished to further partake. Francesca had noticed that none of the Chinese guests seemed to want to strike up a conversation with her. Some of them approached within a few feet, smiled politely or inclined their heads, then moved quickly away. Maybe it was shyness, or maybe it was a language barrier, she wasn't sure. So she struck up conversation with a group of people from the American Embassy, her asking questions about life in Beijing, them quizzing her on what it was like working for America's first black president. And then a change. As she turned to one of the waiters to refresh her drink, an unfamiliar voice spoke behind her.

'Ms Young. May I speak with you please?'

She spun around. A man dressed in the uniform of the People's Liberation Army stood there. He held out a hand.

'I am General Yang,' he said. 'Of the People's Liberation Army.'

He was of medium height, firmly built, with sleek black hair, a pencil-thin moustache and smouldering dark eyes. Francesca caught her breath. Despite the obvious ethnic difference he reminded her of pictures her grandmother had kept on her mantelpiece of the 1930's American filmstar, Clark Gable, one of the stars in her favourite film Gone with the Wind. Francesca shook the General's hand. 'Francesca,' she introduced herself.

His grip was firm, his eyes hard on hers. 'It is an honour to meet you, Francesca. And welcome to the People's Republic of China. And now, if I may have that word.' He led her away to a spot on the fringe of the crowd. 'As I said, and as you can see,' he told her, 'I am a general. And your father was a general also, wasn't he? It was a tragedy that he died so young.'

Francesca felt a nerve twang in her chest. The comment was close to the bone. For it was another reason why she was here in Beijing. 'It was ... a tragedy,' she agreed.

General Yang smiled. Francesca noted he had very white teeth. 'I have read a lot about your father,' he said. 'One of America's youngest five-star generals. He won a purple heart in Vietnam, was a commander in the Gulf war and was killed in the Iraq war. I have read some of his writings. A man of war by designation, but a man of peace by disposition. In American-speak, a dove not a hawk, I think. What might have been achieved if his life had not been cut short by tragedy.'

What he might still achieve, Francesca was thinking. 'He was a soldier,' she said. 'And soldiers get killed in wars. But I'm sure you know that, General.'

'Regrettably so,' General Yang said.

'So what about you, General ....'

'Yang,' he reminded her.

'Are you a dove or a hawk? A man of peace or a man of war?'

The white smile returned. 'Definitely a dove of peace, Ms Young.'

'Francesca. Please call me, Francesca.'

'Francesca.' The word rolled smoothly off his tongue. 'But what of your president? A dove or a hawk?'

Francesca didn't hesitate. 'Another dove, I believe. A man of peace. And your Politburo?'

The General shrugged. 'There's a mixture in our current line-up. That means that some of us must work hard to ensure that the future will be peaceful. America and China need to work together for that peace ... Francesca. And I hope this small meeting will help encourage that. After all, peace surely begins at a personal level.' He gave her one last flashing smile before he moved away. 'Lovely to have met you.'

She watched him go. The Chinese Clark Gable. She had a strange sensation creeping through her body. She wanted to call out stop, wait a minute, or something like that. But she restrained herself. She needed to remember who she was. One of the most powerful women on the planet.

In the morning she had arranged for some time off, to attend to her other reason for being in Beijing. She left the Beijing Grand Hotel just after nine and took a taxi into the heart of the Dongcheng District. The streets that wound past the windows of the taxi grew slowly more down-market. They reminded her of the more seedy areas of Washington DC, or the outer streets of New York that grew more and more foreboding as you radiated out from the centre of the low-numbered avenues. It made her wonder whether she had made the right choice; whether this was a mission poorly chosen, a mission more about money than a motivation to change the past. When the taxi dropped her off at the building she wanted, this growing unease reached a crescendo. The decrepit façade that confronted her and bore the sign: The Yao Clinic was in much need of renovation and repair. The thought of remaining in the taxi and returning to the Beijing hotel was prevalent in her mind. But she was committed and her plan was already in progress. She paid the taxi driver, who didn't speak English, the required Yuan and got out onto the narrow concrete curb. She took a deep calming breath and entered the building.

A surprise. The interior of the building was about as different to the exterior as chalk was to cheese. The exterior was like the shell of many fruits; bland, rough. The interior was fresh and full of life – modern decour and furnishings, all pleasing to the eye and with a strong suggestion that all this was very recent. A business on the rise. She took a wooden-panelled elevator to the fourth floor. 'Going up,' the electronic voice said. She stepped out into a plush reception area and waiting room. A young Chinese woman impeccably dressed with a round face like a bright full moon greeted her with a practiced smile.

'Hello,' she said in a clipped English accent. 'How can I help you?'

'Francesca Young. I have an appointment with Dr Yin.'

The woman glanced down at her desk. 'Ms Young. Yes. It is most pleasure to have you here. Please take a seat. Dr Yin will see you shortly.'

Shortly, Francesca thought. The word had a special meaning for doctors. It was shorthand for bring a book. But at least there was no one else in the waiting room and that was encouraging. She went and sat on a soft pink leather chair, eyeing the sign on the wall:

LIFE IS AN INVESTMENT

WE OFFER YOU THE GREATEST RETURNS

Tacky, Francesca thought. The intention was there but the subtlety was somehow lost in the translation. She rifled through the pile of American and Chinese magazines on the low wooden-adzed coffee table. She waited maybe fifteen minutes before a door at the back of the waiting room opened. A young Caucasian woman with long, bleached blonde hair in a fetching, short dress came through the opening. Francesca stared. It was the third time she had encountered this person, the last two occasions in California. The Barbie-blonde wife of the late porno king, Jefferson Pike. So what was she doing here? The answer was obvious. For the same reason as Francesca. Cryorejuvenation of a dead body.

Two middle-aged Caucasian men in dark suits followed her, and behind them came a small, slim Chinese man, also wearing a suit.

'That is a very satisfactory result, Dr Yin,' the blonde Barbie said in a Californian accent.

'It will avoid very expensive litigation,' one of the dark suited men said in a relieved tone.

'As you say in English,' the man addressed as Dr Yin replied, 'a win-win outcome for all parties.'

'I think so,' the blonde Barbie drawled. They passed by Francesca on her leather chair, giving her a cursory look. But none of them seemed to recognize her; the White House Chief of Staff was not a famous face. And that was a plus in Francesca's eyes. Power behind the throne needed to be covert. The group of three headed to the lift. The slight Dr Yin paused in front of Francesca.

'Ms Young?' he said.

She nodded.

'Come with me please.'

She followed him into a small office. It was clean but sparsely furnished. The office of a man with amazing services to sell might have been expected to be more lavish. But it wasn't. It was functional, utilitarian. Not at all what Francesca was used to. She took a seat on the other side of Dr Yin's desk.

Dr Yin studied the papers on his desk. 'So you want us to consider your father for cryorejuvenation?' he asked her.

She nodded. 'Yes. His body is preserved at the Long-Life Foundation in Palm Springs, California. The same place where the body of your previous client's husband was.'

Dr Yin looked surprised. 'You know my previous client?'

'Not personally. But I know who she is.'

Dr Yin smiled. 'And I thought that America was a large country. But of course I cannot discuss the affairs of another client.'

'Of course,' Francesca agreed.

Dr Yin's eyes went back to the papers on his desk. 'So your father was killed in a bomb blast in Iraq in 2004?'

'Correct.'

'But he died at his home in California. And he was cryopreserved within twenty minutes of his death, a procedure that had been planned in advance. That is very much in his favour.' Dr Yin raised his eyes back to Francesca's face. 'A major issue will be the extent of the damage to his vital organs and limbs suffered from the bomb blast. But you say here that the damage was not extensive. That the reason for death was shrapnel from the bomb, which lodged in his leg causing blood clots that eventually caused heart failure.'

'Correct,' Francesca said again.

'Also encouraging,' Dr Yin added.

'I understand that your clinic is very experienced in stem cell research. So you have the ability to repair damaged organs and tissue.'

Dr Yin nodded. 'We do. And we are perhaps more advanced in that area than your own researchers who have been restrained from exploring some of these procedures in your country.'

Francesca smiled. 'Until recently. My boss has made a number of changes to that.'

Dr Yin smiled back at her. 'Of course. Your new President. But as to your father, I will need to study his medical records in more detail before I can offer you a final prognosis.'

Francesca handed Dr Yin a large envelope. 'These are the X-rays and body scans taken at the time of death that you requested.'

Dr Yin took the envelope. 'How long will you be in Beijing?' he asked Francesca.

'I am taking a vacation in Europe for the next ten days,' she told him. 'Then I return to Beijing before flying back to the States.'

Dr Yin nodded. 'That is more than sufficient time. We will have a diagnosis by then.'

Francesca shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 'There is another matter, Dr Yin. I haven't raised this before because I thought you may not even consider my case. My father also had another condition, which was just beginning to manifest itself before he died. We were told that although this condition would eventually debilitate him he could still have quite a few years left leading a fairly normal life. I mean he was only fifty-five when he died. And-' she continued, 'I believe there has been a lot of research around this condition in recent years. Maybe a full cure will even be found?'

'And what is this condition?' Dr Yin asked her.

'Huntington's Chorea,' she told him.
Chapter 55.

Dr Yin had not been prepared for this. Huntington's Chorea was not a disease he was well acquainted with. For good reason. Population-wise the debilitating disease was rare. Rare in Western countries, but even rarer in Eastern ones. His research had informed him that the rate of Huntington's was 3- 7% per 100,000 people in Western European countries but only 1% per one million people in Asian and African countries. His first experience with the disease had been the neurorejuvenated head of Professor Schoch. And now, just a few days later, he was confronting the disease a second time in the brain of General Eisenhower Young.

His body language on hearing this disclosure had impacted immediately on Francesca. 'So this would rule my father out of contention for rejuvenation?' she asked Dr Yin, fearfully.

Dr Yin spread his hands. 'Not necessarily. The Huntington's itself would not prevent a rejuvenation. The question would be what quality of life your father would have on rejuvenation. And whether you for that matter are prepared to accept these consequences.'

Francesca pushed her father's case. 'As I said, I was told he may still have had fifteen to twenty years of relatively normal life. And while obviously that can't be guaranteed, I think that answers your question.'

Dr Yin nodded. 'And your comment about recent research into this disease is a valid one too,' he continued. 'In fact there is very promising research in terms of a cure currently being conducted in Switzerland.'

Francesca's dark eyes popped wide. 'Switzerland? Whereabouts in Switzerland?'

'At the Schoch Institute,' Dr Yin told her.

'Why doesn't that surprise me?' Francesca responded. The mention of Switzerland had triggered the name of the Schoch Institute immediately in her mind. The Schoch Institute: home of the dubious Methuselah Man and the equally dubious Methuselah Gene that had already cost her half a million dollars of wasted money. So to hear that the same research institute was also promoting a cure for Huntington's did not cut much ice with Francesca.

But Dr Yin was praising the work of the Schoch Institute. 'I have seen evidence of their research,' he told Francesca. 'It is very impressive. I have seen evidence of a successful rejuvenation there. A rejuvenation of an elderly man, much older than your father, who has Huntington's disease and who appeared to be improving.'

Francesca gulped in her chair. 'That's fantastic,' she said.

Dr Yin nodded. 'It is. And the patient is being treated by a young American medical researcher called Dr Hanna Hayes. I never met Dr Hayes, but everything I heard suggested she is close to a cure for Huntington's.'

Hanna Hayes. The name rang a bell for Francesca. The girlfriend of the murdered New York Investment Banker, Michael Glade, the brother of the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Ljudmila Gladovitch. A murder case that to Francesca's knowledge had never been solved. 'And Methuselah Man?' Francesca said. 'Did you observe him as well?'

Dr Yin shook his head. 'No. He was apparently suffering complications of his treatment. But I did see with my own eyes clear evidence that the Methuselah Gene is an effective treatment.'

That aroused Francesca's interest. Perhaps she could look forward to youthful longevity after all. But then Dr Yin explained to her about the fake gene that according to Ljudmila had been released onto the black market as a scam and her hopes were immediately dashed. But it made some sense. She knew about the murder of Dr Seymour Willey in LA from whom she had purchased her own treatment and the suggestion that his murder was related to the sale of the Methuselah Gene. There was no honour among thieves. And she knew also about the murder of Dr Jasper Adams at the Long-Life Foundation in Palm Springs. Another reason why she should get her father's preserved body out of there as soon as possible. She sat back in her chair.

'When I'm in Europe perhaps I could get to meet Dr Gladovitch at the Schoch Institute,' she said. 'Talk to her about this Huntington's research.' (And the Methuselah Gene, she was also thinking. Though she didn't think she had another half a million dollars to squander on her vanity.)

'I would be happy to recommend you to Dr Gladovitch,' Dr Yin smiled. 'I will send her an email suggesting some dates.'

'Excellent,' Francesca smiled back.

Dr Yin had been on the verge of telling Francesca Young about neurorejuvenation and the Einstein Project, but perhaps that was premature. He would wait until he had studied the medical records of her father in more detail. And then if he thought it was appropriate, and if Ljudmila didn't raise the procedure with Ms Young, he would discuss it with her on her return from Europe. He stood up and went to another door at the rear of his office, which he opened. He turned back to Francesca. 'Rest assured, Ms Young, we will do our best for such an important client as your good self and for a man who was a famous American general.'

'And who was a man of peace.'

That voice came from inside the adjoining room. Francesca stared as General Yang came into the office.

'You've met my brother I believe,' Dr Yin said.

Brother. The Chinese Clark Gable was his brother?

'General Ling Yang,' Dr Yin explained. 'Who is also my business partner.'

'Pleased to meet you again ... Francesca,' General Yang said, offering his hand.

Still reeling from the surprise, she shook the General's hand. His grip was firm like the previous night and his dark penetrating eyes were once again hard on her hers. Dr Yin and General Yang. Yin and Yang. The ancient Chinese belief in opposites, uniting to form a whole. And that certainly applied to their physical appearance: the slight, skinny Dr Yin and the firmer flesh of his brother the general.

'My brother is very useful for ensuring that our cryopreserved patients from overseas get into our country without any disruption,' Dr Yin said.

A wave of disappointment had come over Francesca. 'So that is how you knew all about my father,' she challenged General Yang. 'Not because of any personal knowledge, but because you knew I was coming to see your brother.' Her feelings for the Chinese Clark Gable were suddenly more like those of a film critic wanting to pan his most recent performance. But the wide smile he gave her and the soft expression in his eyes quickly disarmed her. She felt herself swoon again under that gaze. These thoughts repelled her. They made her feel like a silly schoolgirl.

'I can understand how you would think that,' the General said. 'But it is not true. I knew all about your father before Ling Yin told me you were coming here. What I told you last night is true. I am a student of American military history, as Ling Yin will attest.'

His brother the doctor nodded.

'Quiz me if you like,' General Yang challenged her.

'No I believe you,' Francesca said quickly. What did it matter anyway? It was time to remove herself from these silly thoughts about General Yang the man. But General Yang had other ideas.

'Can I buy you dinner tonight?' he asked Francesca. 'To celebrate peace between our two countries at a personal level.'

She knew she should have refused him, asserted her strength of will. But those thoughts just melted away in front of her eyes. 'You can,' she said. 'I'd like that very much.'

He sent a limousine to pick her up from the hotel. She had tossed the wisdom of meeting him for dinner over and over in her mind all afternoon. She wasn't required for official duties that evening, but the question was should the President's White House Chief of Staff be fraternizing privately with a top-ranking official from the PRC? Could there be some covert political agenda here beyond a mere social interaction? She knew she should have sought the President's permission. Several times that afternoon while in his company she almost did. But something held her back. And she knew what that was. She didn't want him to decline her request. As a woman, not a Chief of Staff, she wanted to spend some time with General Yang the man.

He took her to the Bianyifang restaurant famous for its long history of serving the famous dish, Beijing Duck. He was totally charming and good company. She learned that he had studied in England and that he had a passion for English literature, poetry in particular. An erudite Clark Gable. They did talk about politics but on a very general level. And no state secrets were discussed or sought. The conversation ended up on a more personal level. According to General Yang, his wife had died of cancer a year earlier and he had never entertained any thoughts of remarrying. Marriage, she told him, had never been on her agenda at all.

When he dropped her back covertly at the hotel (to avoid any security issues), he asked her whether he could see her again when she returned to Beijing after her vacation in Italy. 'I'd like that,' she told him.

She didn't have to think about her answer. The fluttering in her chest made it an easy decision.

The schoolgirl still had a place inside the woman.
Chapter 56.

Florence; Italy

FRANCESCA stood in the Palazzo Vecchio admiring the copy of Michelangelo's David, along with all the other tourists gathered there. She had crammed a lot into the last three days. It had begun with an eleven hour twenty minute flight from Beijing to Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport. In Rome she had taken a guided tour of the ruins of the Coliseum and the precincts of the Vatican, the highlight of the latter having been as it was for most, Michelangelo's magnificent Sistine Chapel. After Rome, she had taken a train to the red-roofed Renaissance city of Florence, taking in the sights – to date the Uffizi Palace and Gallery, the Duomo and now the Palazzo Veccho. She knew the original statue of David was housed indoors in the Accademia and that was still on her list to visit.

But as she marveled at the larger than life statue of David in all his naked glory, she became aware of a more life-sized man (fully clothed) standing nearby. He was younger than her, mid thirties maybe, wearing blue denims, sneakers and a brown suede coat. She had become aware that he was staring at her; she could feel his constant gaze on her neck. But when she confronted his gaze his eyes turned quickly away. In her few days in Italy she had become accustomed to younger, Italian men giving her the fond eye. It was perhaps a boost to her forty-year old ego, but she wasn't looking for a toy-boy. The only man she had any interest in at the moment was General Yang and that was still a story unfolding. But this man, with his shaven head of stubbled fair hair was not Italian. He was clearly Caucasian, of Anglo-Saxon lineage. She moved away to the other side of the crowd. When she looked back, the man was nowhere to be seen. She headed off in search of other tourist sights that were on her list. That night she retired early in her room at the Grand Hotel after turning down Italian food for dinner, opting instead for a Chinese dish off the menu. Was that a Freudian admission, she wondered? Maybe her holiday might change her mind about the Chinese General, but so far the opposite was true.

The following day she took a train to Bologna where more red roofs awaited her. Bologna was the home of the oldest university in Western Europe, foundered in 1088. It was also the ancestral home of the family of Francesca's mother, though her mother had been born in New York. Francesca had been hoping to find some traces of the long forgotten family, but after spending most of the day searching public records she abandoned the quest. Her next destination was the canalled city of Venice. She wandered around its narrow, cobbled streets and took in more tourist sights. It was at the Doge's Palace where her heart missed a beat in her chest. For in another crowd of tourists she spied the man with the shaven head of stubbled fair hair. This time he wasn't looking at her. But was he following her? And if so, why?

She was reveling in being just another tourist, traveling incognito in her casual clothes; passersby having no idea that she was the Chief of Staff to the most powerful man in the world. The President had wanted to assign a security detail to her travels to protect her, but she would have none of it. 'I'm traveling as plain Francesca Young, private citizen,' she told him. 'And I doubt I'm a terrorist target. I'm just not that important in the scheme of things. My name isn't even well-known.'

'You underrate your importance, Francesca,' the President told her. 'And there's nothing plain about you either,' he had added with a boyish grin.

She enjoyed both the compliments. She knew she wasn't plain and she didn't underrate her importance either. But for all that she still didn't see herself as a security target. Targeting her would hardly change American foreign policy. In that regard she was expendable. Maybe the President had detailed security surveillance on her after all? Maybe that was who the man in the crowd was. Maybe she should ask him? But the man was now walking away out of her sight. Maybe he was just another tourist? There was hardly anything suspicious about seeing the same person in both Florence and Venice, along with Rome Italy's major tourist attractions. She ended the day with Venice's main tourist attraction - where a gondolier paddled her gently around the city canals.

That was the end of her Italian soujourn. The next morning she was at Venice's main railway station, Venezia S. Lucia, just after six am to catch a train to Switzerland. It meant cutting her Italian holiday short by two days to travel to the Schoch Institute. But she hoped it would be worth it. Dr Yin had made contact with Ljudmila Gladovitch, who had agreed to see Francesca. The appointment was for late tomorrow morning. The train trip with three changes of train would take nine and a half hours to get her to Geneva. It would have been faster to fly, but Francesca just wanted to relax, stay in holiday mode until she got to Schoch and see a little of the famed Swiss countryside along the way.

The first leg of the journey was through northern Italy to Milan. The trip took an hour and forty minutes. After a fifteen minute train change at Milano Centrale she was headed for Zurich. The landscape was bathing in the glare of Summer. Green meadows, cows with bells around their necks grazing on the fresh pasture and small hamlets of chocolate-box coloured chalets flashed past the window. And everywhere, somewhere in sight, the Swiss Alps still preening their white-crowned heads in a blue sky; sometimes close at hand, sometimes in a distant backdrop. The trip to Zurich was three hours, forty-one minutes exactly, for Swiss Railway, like Swiss watches, had a reputation for precision. From Zurich another rapid change of train and onto Bienne - one hour, nine minutes later. And then the final leg (one hour, twenty-seven minutes) to Geneva. By the time the blue waters of Lake Geneva came into view, Francesca decided she was tired of mountains. She realized she was essentially a city girl at heart with a preference for the driving pulse of urban life rather than the calmness of wide, open spaces,

She arrived in Geneva just before four o'clock in the afternoon, booking into the hotel Four Seasons on lakeside. She strolled around the lake before returning to the hotel for the night. That night she dreamt she was swimming in a lake somewhere, pursued by a strong male swimmer wearing the uniform of the People's Liberation Army, who eventually caught her and towed her to the shore of the lake, where under the watching stars he read her poetry and then they made love until morning.

In the morning a final train journey to Aigle where she would take a mountain train up to the village of Leysin and the Schoch Institute. The ride took one hour twenty-one minutes and the time seemed to pass quickly. But when she alighted from the train at the small station of Aigle she stiffened on the platform. For some way down the platform she saw a familiar figure also get off the train: the man with the stubbled, fair hair, wearing the same clothes she had first encountered him wearing in Florence. And this time it couldn't be a coincidence. Her first thought was to call the President. But then she couldn't remember the time difference (the President might not have welcomed the call as in Washington it was 3.15 am in the morning). But instinct took over. She was determined to find out who this stranger following her was. Pulling her suitcase on its wheels behind her, she set out in a fast pace to follow her pursuer.

At the end of the platform a stairway climbed up over the railway line. Her pursuer had to have gone up there so she made straight for it. And then a voice snapped through the clear morning air.

'Ms Young.'

She turned. A solid, middle-aged man with silver hair and a florid face was seated on a bench at the side of the platform. He stood up awkwardly with the aid of a walking stick to greet her. 'I am Sheldon Ramsay from the American Embassy in Berne,' he told her. He produced some ID.

Sheldon Ramsay. The name registered in her mind. The American Embassy in Berne. From where the CIA had passed on some information about the Schoch Institute. After their man had been injured in a suspicious ski accident.

The walking stick.

Francesca stared at him. 'That young man. He's one of your staff?'

Ramsay nodded.

'Why are you following me?' she asked him.

Ramsay permitted himself a small smile. 'On the orders of the President. He was concerned for your safety.'

Francesca was thinking fast. 'The President thought I was only going to Italy,' she said.

Ramsay was watching her closely. 'You're a free citizen Ms Young.'

'Then why am I being followed?'

'You're also an important person in the administration of our Government. But no one can stop you coming to Switzerland.' Ramsay's blue eyes narrowed. 'And Aigle is such a popular tourist destination.'

He was being evasive. Aigle was just a railhead. 'I am going up in the mountain train to Leysin,' she told him.

'Of course.'

'To visit the Schoch Institute,' she added. No point concealing it. The conclusion was fairly compelling.

Ramsay nodded. 'In a private or public capacity?' he asked her.

'Private. I am interested in some research they are doing there.'

'The Methuselah Gene?'

Francesca felt a little uncomfortable in his stare. 'No. Not the Methuselah Gene. Something else.'

Ramsay leaned on his stick and looked around to make sure nobody else was present. 'You obviously know about the fake Methuselah Gene that was being pedaled in various parts of the world?'

'Of course,' Francesca said, curtly. She didn't want to go there.

'What you won't know,' Ramsay continued, 'is that Interpol believes that Dr Gladovitch of the Schoch Institute masterminded the theft of her own research to serve her own ends. That maybe she is also guilty of being an accomplice to murder.'

That shocked Francesca. That the woman she was going to see might be a criminal and a murderer. 'You have proof of that?' she demanded of Ramsay.

Ramsay shook his head. 'Not enough for a prosecution, no. And even less proof now.' He hobbled over to the bench and withdrew a file out of his briefcase. From the file he took some photographs and handed them to Francesca. They were photographs of five men, all obviously dead, riddled with bullets.

'These men were all members of a group called Virtual Fantasy Films. They were actors, but also hardened criminals. Interpol believes they were all part of the team that raided the Schoch Institute and stole the fake Methuselah Gene. They might have provided some of the evidence I referred to a moment ago. But Interpol believes they were killed for their silence.'

'Killed by who?' Francesca asked.

Ramsay shrugged. 'Nobody knows. But Interpol are seeking two more people believed to have been involved in the raid.' He took two more photographs from the file and handed them to Francesca. One was of a striking young woman with long, white hair, a pale face and alluring green eyes. The other was of a strongly-built man with a hardened outdoor face and gold teeth. 'The woman's name is Sonia Gluckman or Sophie Maurer and the man's name is Pierre De'Thierry.' Ramsay glanced down at his injured leg. 'De'Thierry may well have been the person who caused my injury. Between them, Interpol believes they hold the key to solving this case.'

Francesca handed back the photographs. 'Well my visit has nothing to do with any of this,' she told Ramsay. 'My interest is in research being carried out there into Huntington's Chorea, a disabling disease of the brain. And the Schoch Institute apparently has a young American researcher who is close to a cure.'

That surprised Ramsay. 'Dr Hanna Hayes,' he said.

'Yes. Do you know her?'

'We've met on several occasions. Along with her boyfriend, Robert Fisher, the Communications Director at Schoch. I have been concerned for their safety.'

'I'm hoping to talk with Dr Hayes,' Francesca told him. 'Maybe I can check on that while I'm there.'

'I'd appreciate that,' Ramsay said.

Ramsay accompanied her on the mountain train up to the Schoch Institute. He stayed on the train to head further up the mountain to Leysin where she agreed to meet him at a bar called THE PUB, after her meeting with Ljudmila Gladovitch. She made her way to the three storey building set in the mountain side. She entered the visitor's vestibule and went to the glass-enclosed Reception area where a smiling young woman greeted her. She was taken through security to the inner vestibule and up the marble staircase to Ljudmila Gladovitch's office.

Ljudmila Gladovitch, Francesca thought, was strikingly attractive for her age in both face and body, with a cheerful, if a little intense, disposition. Francesca's first thought was that she couldn't imagine for a moment that she was sitting in front of a murderer. But then what did a murderer look like, she wondered?

Ljudmila gave her a broad smile. 'It is a pleasure to meet you my dear. We are honoured to have someone as important as you visit our Institute.'

'It's a private visit,' Francesca reminded her.

'Of course.' Ljudmila's smile oozed across her large desk. 'But important for good PR all the same. You see, your media have not been all that kind to me in recent times. So anything to heal that rift is positive.'

Francesca bit her lip. 'In my public role I have been very supportive of your research here and stem cell research in particular,' she told Ljudmila. (Despite losing half a million dollars of my own money, she was thinking). 'I think you have much to be proud of in terms of the research you are conducting here. But when the Methuselah Gene that's being marketed internationally turns out to be a fake that certainly doesn't help matters.'

Ljudmila grimaced. And then she spun Francesca the same story about the thieves that she had spun to Dr Yin and many others. Francesca listened trying to balance this story with the one Sheldon Ramsay had told her. She wasn't sure who to believe. 'So you still stand behind your claims about Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene?' she asked when Ljudmila had finished.

'I do,' Ljudmila said, emphatically.

'So can I see Methuselah Man?'

Ljudmila gave her a sweet smile. 'Fraid not my dear.' She gave Francesca the same story about an infection and quarantine that she had given to Dr Yin.

'And Dr Yin told me that he had seen other evidence of the Methuselah Gene being effective,' Francesca followed up. 'Is that evidence publically available?'

Again, Ljudmila gave her that sweet smile. 'Not yet my dear. All in good time.'

Francesca took a deep breath. 'Which brings me to the main purpose of my visit. I am considering having my late father cryorejuvenated by Dr Yin. The problem is that he had Huntington's Chorea. But Dr Yin tells me that you have successfully rejuvenated a patient with Huntington's and that you are close to obtaining a cure.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'Also true my dear.'

'And – I suppose I can't see that patient either?'

'Unfortunately not. Given all the adverse publicity the Schoch Institute has had these past few months I need to preserve the confidentiality of my patients. Dr Yin is of course in a different category. He is a fellow researcher.'

This visit has been a waste of time, Francesca thought. I should have stayed on in Italy.

'But rest assured my dear,' Ljudmila smiled. 'All of this research will be made public and peer-reviewed in due course. And Dr Yin will be given all this research, which he will be freely able to employ with your father.'

Something at last, Francesca thought. 'One last question, Dr Gladovitch. Your Huntington's researcher. Dr Hanna Hayes, I believe. Could I speak with her?' She expected the same answer, but this time the response was different.

Ljudmila spread her hands. 'You could, of course. Unfortunately, Dr Hayes and her boyfriend, my Communications Director, have gone on a one month's vacation around Europe and I don't have their itinerary.'
Chapter 57.

Beijing Capital International Airport

FRANCESCA'S LUFTHANSA FLIGHT from Frankfurt touched down at Beijing Capital International Airport. The total travel time had been just over twelve hours, hopping as she had from Geneva to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Beijing. This time her progress through the grey-blue interior of the vast Terminal Three – the largest terminal in the world, took much longer than the previous diplomatic entry as a member of the Presidential Party. But now she was traveling as plain Francesca Young, United States Citizen.

When she finally cleared Customs and Passport Control she took a registered Beijing taxi for the twenty kilometer ride into the city. The ride took forty-five minutes. She checked into the Tianlun Dynasty Hotel on Wangfuying Avenue, near to the commercial heart of the city and adjacent to one of the main shopping precincts. She had thought it prudent to stay at a different hotel to the Grand Beijing Hotel that had housed the Presidential mission, in case they remembered her. On this occasion she wanted anonymity. She was tired from the flight but overall rested from her sojourn in Europe. The highlight might have been the visit to the Schoch Institute, but that had been largely disappointing. Her thirty minute meeting with Dr Gladovitch had not given her any further insights to research activities at Schoch, though Dr Gladovitch and her had finally exchanged email addresses and agreed to correspond on any matters of mutual interest.

After leaving Schoch, she had taken the mountain train up to Leysin to meet Sheldon Ramsay. He was most interested in the travels of Dr Hayes and her boyfriend, Robert Fisher. 'A months vacation,' he said, surprised. 'I'm surprised she didn't tell me about that. But I guess it's reassuring news.' Clearly, if the CIA uncovered any more information about the Schoch Institute or its activities, the White House would soon get to know.

When she got to her hotel room in Beijing, a surprise. A large bouquet of roses greeted her on a table in the room. And beside the roses a note:

"From fairest creatures we desire increase

That thereby beauty's rose might never die"

For a very special lady

With affection.

Ling Yang

The General who loved poetry. Francesca felt the warm flutter start up again in her chest. He had called her in Geneva inquiring about the details of her flight. He had offered to send a car to pick her up from the airport, but she preferred to make her own way into the city. So would she have dinner with him? There was hesitation on her part, but only briefly. She wondered where this liaison might lead. She was only in Beijing for two nights and one more day before she flew back to the States. What possible future could there be after that? But she accepted the invitation. Let the future take care of itself.

It was early afternoon. She tried to sleep, but the jet-lag kept her awake, like her biological clock had somehow lost a day. She decided that since she was meeting General Yang that evening she should brush up on her Chinese history. She took a tour of the Forbidden City, built by the third Emperor in the Ming Dynasty in the fifteenth century, but renovated several times over the centuries that followed. The entire complex covered one hundred and eighty-three acres so she had no time to see it all.

From the Forbidden City, she strolled through the Gate of Heavenly Peace and entered Tiananmen Square, the world's largest open-air square, spreading over one hundred acres. It was from here that Chairman Mao had proclaimed the People's Republic in 1949. To the East was the National Museum, to the West the Great Hall of the People, where she had dined with the American delegation and to the South, where she was headed, the Monument to the People's Heroes and the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong. She had a particular interest in the latter, related to her father and cryopreservation. For the founder of the Communist State had also been preserved on his death in 1976 and his crystal coffin was a major tourist and local attraction.

She had read about Mao and his mausoleum that morning on the Internet in her hotel. And an intriguing story it was. Although Chairman Mao had wished to be cremated, his body had been embalmed and the construction of his mausoleum begun shortly after his death. But the project had not been without its problems. The original crystal coffin lined up for his body had been donated by Russia but turned out to be five centimeters too short for the 1.8 metre Mao. A series of competing coffins were then constructed, all facing major difficulties due to a lack of the requisite crystal in China. But one was finally chosen. The Western Internet site claimed that there was some debate about whether the body inside the chamber was real or a fake due to the waxy hue of the body's skin.

But when Francesca approached the Mausoleum another surprise awaited her. All the tourist brochures she had read about the Mausoleum claimed that the daily queues to see the body of the Great Helmsman numbered in the hundreds. But today the line was much shorter and people were turning away and dispersing without entering the Mausoleum. She drew closer to the double-roof building with its frontage of tall, stone pillars. And finally she saw the notice that was turning people away. It was written in Chinese but also in English:

WE APOLOGISE BUT THIS SITE IS CLOSED INDEFINITELY FOR RENNOVATION

Disappointing.

By seven in the evening she was smartly dressed to meet the General. His chauffeur-driven car picked her up in the hotel forecourt fifteen minutes later. He got out of the car to greet her, kissing her hand. She was pleased he was dressed in civilian clothing – dark suit, deep-blue shirt and an oriental-patterned silk tie. 'You look beautiful,' he said, smiling.

The thin Caucasian man in the grey suit on the other side of the road who watched them through the zoom lens on his camera probably agreed.

'Thank you,' she said.

They drove to a discrete Beijing restaurant. He wanted to know all about her travels. It turned out he had been to all those places himself, with the exception of the Schoch Institute and the surrounding area. At the restaurant he ordered a bottle of French Champagne. 'To the future of our two countries,' he said, raising his glass. 'May there be a productive partnership emerge between us.'

She liked the soft, seductive way he pronounced the word partnership. Did he mean between their countries or them personally? Or both? She drank the toast anyway. 'All the pundits are picking that China will eventually overtake the U.S as the world's superpower,' she said. 'What is your view on that?'

He smiled that Hollywood smile. 'Well ...' He placed his glass back down on the table. 'In my view, a single superpower is somewhat dangerous for the world at large. It is preferable that such a role be shared.'

She wasn't sure that the hawks back in Washington would share that view. 'Economically we appear to be sharing the same bed,' she said, watching him closely. 'But our differences remain around democracy and human rights.'

His smile widened. 'When in Rome .... Francesca. The conventional wisdom is that the vast population of China poses a problem in that regard. That a rush to democracy, as you understand it, could cause anarchy and a breakdown of order within the country.'

'But the counter argument,' she responded, 'is that the rise of a middle class through economic prosperity will see those people demand greater rights and a say in their government.'

The General nodded. 'That might be right. But for many Chinese it's also true that economic freedom does not necessarily require political freedom. There are cultural issues here. You cannot assume that inside every Chinese person there is a social democrat trying to get out.' He paused a moment and sipped on his champagne. 'Whatever the truth,' he continued, 'the process must be properly managed. And that involves a partnership between government and the media.'

His dark eyes were soft in the candlelight and she felt that warm schoolgirl flutter again inside her chest. But she was still a professional and that sparked her next question in response to his last statement. 'By which you mean propaganda?' she said.

The smile came back. 'I prefer the word persuasion. Persuading the people that the paths we have chosen on their behalf are the right ones.'

She must remember to tell the President that, she thought.

They left politics there and dined on a sumptuous feast of Chinese dishes served on a revolving platter on the table. After the dinner, his chauffeur drove them back to her hotel. She asked him whether he fancied a nightcap. He didn't need persuading. When they entered the hotel they didn't notice the man sitting in the car opposite lining up their photograph through his night lens. After getting his shot he slunk down behind the steering wheel and prepared to wait.

Francesca took the General to her room. She poured them both an expensive malt whisky from her mini-bar. 'To the future; to a productive partnership,' she said. The General smiled and drank his whisky in one gulp. 'Do you want to stay the night?' she asked him.

The Chinese Clark Gable gave his Scarlett O'Hara an eager smile.
Chapter 58.

IN THE MORNING after the General had left, Francesca showered, dressed and had breakfast downstairs in the hotel dining room. This was her last day in Beijing. She had arranged to meet the General's brother, Dr Yin, in the morning to talk about her father. In the afternoon, maybe some more sightseeing or shopping. And then she would spend her final evening with the General. What was the future of this relationship, she wondered? But the General had been so sweet and gentle that she just couldn't refuse. A romantic interlude in Beijing. She needed some excitement in her life and General Yang had certainly provided it. Besides, it was a long time since she had indulged in having an affair. All work and no play ...

After breakfast she took a registered cab to the Dongcheng District to the Yao Clinic. Dr Yin ushered her into his small, sterile office. He seemed pleased to see her and shook her hand limply, but warmly. He wanted to know all about her travels and especially her visit to Schoch. But there wasn't much to tell on the latter visit and her purpose was to find out what the prognosis was with her father. She did wonder whether Dr Yin was in any way privy to her liaison with his brother. But if he was, his inscrutable expression revealed nothing.

'So what is the prognosis with my father?' she asked him.

This time his expression betrayed him. His body language was suggestive of a doctor about to impart serious bad news. 'I am sorry Ms Young but I don't think your father is a suitable candidate for cryorejuvenation.' He picked up a document off his desk. 'The injuries he sustained from the bomb blast were far more critical than you led me to believe. Several of his vital organs were damaged beyond repair. Injuries that I do not believe can be treated as part of the rejuvenation process. As a rejuvenated person he would be a permanent paraplegic with zero mobility and constantly in great pain. Would you wish such a future for him?'

Francesca's heart had sunk in her chest in despair. 'What about stem cell therapy?' she said. 'Can't you repair those organs with that?'

Dr Yin nodded. 'We could. But because of the multiple nature of these injuries it would be difficult to keep him alive throughout such a prolonged period of treatment.'

Francesca was desperately clutching at straws. She had promised the spirit of her father many times over that she would bring him back to life one day. And now she was hearing this. 'So there are no other technologies in the wind that might change your opinion here?' she almost pleaded with Dr Yin.

Dr Yin was looking at her strangely. 'Who knows what new technologies might be available in the future,' he said. 'As for the present, there is a radical alternative.'

'Radical?' Francesca echoed. 'What exactly do you mean by radical?'

Dr Yin folded his hands in front of him. 'Are you familiar with neuropreservation?' he asked her.

Francesca stared at him. 'The preservation of just the head on death? Yes. But that is just a cheap way of trying to secure a life after death.'

'Yes and no,' Dr Yin corrected her. 'The theory of neuropreservation has always been that one day medical science will have the technology to grow a new body to support the head. But that is some time off, if it ever happens at all. However, the Schoch Institute has pioneered a neurorejuvenation that does not require a new physical body. It is called the Einstein procedure.'

Francesca looked at Dr Yin in disbelief. 'What? You mean a live head minus its body?'

'Precisely. The rejuvenated head is maintained by a life-support system. But that system does not function fully as a body. It gives no mobility you understand.'

She felt her stomach turn. She didn't understand at all. What kind of horror story was he telling her? 'I don't think my father would want to come back to life as a head,' she gasped.

'It would not be every one's choice, I agree,' Dr Yin said calmly. 'But please ... come around here and take a look at this.' He motioned at the computer screen on his desk.

Francesca stood up. She felt a little dizzy. She moved around behind Dr Yin's desk and stared open-mouthed at what she saw. It was a video clip of a human head sitting on some sort of box and talking. And she recognized the head. 'Jefferson Pike, the porno king,' she said shakily. Her mind raced back to the last time she was here. His blonde Barbie wife and the two men in dark suits. That is a very satisfactory result, Dr Yin, the blonde Barbie had said.

'It is Mr Pike,' Dr Yin confirmed. 'He was cryopreserved after death and neurorejuvenated here at this clinic. His progress to date has been pleasing.'

Francesca gagged for air. 'I don't know whether this is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life or the most horrifying,' she said.

'As I said,' Dr Yin responded. 'This would not be everybody's choice. Indeed, both Dr Gladovitch and I believe that Einstein should be restricted to those preserved people who have exhibited greatness. Those with great minds; profound thinkers, creators, inventors. People who have made their mark on history.'

'Jefferson Pike?' Francesca spluttered. 'You put him in that category? A purveyor of pornography?'

Dr Yin permitted himself to smile. 'No, of course not. Mr Pike was merely a prototype for me. A guinea pig I think you call it. And I assure you, we have much more important patients in mind for this process in the future. And if you wish, your father could be one of those.' And Dr Yin had one last piece of information for her. 'The man neurorejuvenated at Schoch, the patient they call Einstein, is the person I mentioned to you who suffers from Huntington's. A disease they are confident they can cure.'

The sight of the talking head of Jefferson Pike spun in her own head the rest of the day. She tried to see her father in that role, but the thought just repelled her. But if that was the only way to bring her father back? But would he thank her for it? She needed time to think this over. For the moment she would focus on the Chinese General. But the sight of that live head on a box wouldn't leave her. And later that night as she clung hard onto a live body who was pressing deep into her own live flesh, she thought the whole thing was a gruesome abomination of what it meant to be human. And then even later in the night when she lay there in the darkness trying to sleep a dark and terrible thought came into her mind. The words of Dr Yin replayed in her head:

Both Dr Gladovitch and I believe that Einstein should be restricted to those preserved people who have exhibited greatness. People who have made their mark on history.'

And.

I assure you, we have much more important patients in mind for this process in the future.

The words outside the tomb of another possibly preserved body hammered their way into her head.

We apologise but this site is closed indefinitely for renovation.

She froze in her warm bed.
Chapter 59.

Los Angeles International Airport

Saturday

THE LEAR 45XR JET touched down on the tarmac at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) and taxied off the runway to the allotted space given by Air traffic Control. As soon as the engines had been shut down the cabin door was thrown hastily open and a ramp lowered quickly to the ground. A woman in a nurse's uniform eased the wheelchair carefully down the ramp, assisted by a burly suited man in front, to ensure that the transition from plane to the tarmac was a smooth one. A young blonde-headed woman dressed in a smart grey trouser suit followed. She was followed in turn by two more men in dark suits; one an attorney, the other a doctor. The pilots would come later.

The entourage hurried across the tarmac to the entry point where they would join a larger throng of travelers to proceed through Passport Control and U.S. Customs. A man in the uniform of Airport Security met them at the doorway. 'How is he?' he asked.

'Not good,' the blonde woman replied with an expression of desperation on her face. 'His condition is deteriorating.'

'I have arranged for priority clearance,' the Security man said. 'And I understand you have an ambulance waiting?'

'We have,' the blonde woman said tersely. 'So I hope his clearance will be quick.'

They followed the Security man through the terminal building, making use of the stretches of moving human conveyor belts wherever they could. They finally reached the line of high counters that was Passport Control. Lines of people were queued up waiting for clearance. American queues had a reputation for moving quickly except at airports. Unless your case was an emergency such as this. The Security man led them to a booth on the side of the queuing passengers that was not currently being deployed. A thick-set, uniformed Hispanic man appeared behind the counter.

'The emergency from Hawaii,' the Security man told him.

The Hispanic man peered down at the figure in the wheelchair. His motionless body was covered in a blanket that only revealed his face. It was the face of an older citizen, wearing dark glasses, with skin the colour of a grey parchment. 'Heart attack, right?' the Passport officer said.

'Right,' the man who was the doctor said. 'He took ill on the plane.'

'And who is this man?'

'Jeffrey Palin. He's my maternal grandfather,' the blonde woman said, handing over his passport.

'And you are, ma'm?'

'Samantha Pike.'

The officer looked at the passport, then back at the man in the wheelchair. 'Can you remove his glasses please.'

Samantha obeyed. The man's eyes were closed. He looked like he was asleep. Just then a young, attractive black woman in uniform came out of a nearby door. She had to pass by the wheelchair to get where she was going. She went a couple of paces past then abruptly turned, a look of shock on her face.

'My God!' she cried. 'That's Jefferson Pike! But he's dead.'

'Nonsense,' the blonde woman said quickly. 'He's my grandfather, Jeffrey Palin. Like it says on his passport.'

'That's correct,' the man who was the lawyer backed her up.

'That's Jefferson,' the black woman said, emphatically. 'I'd know him anywhere. I was a Miss Boudoir once.' Her eyes turned quickly on Samantha. 'And you're his wife!'

'You've got the wrong person,' Samantha curtly told her.

'No. I haven't,' the black woman said. 'Show me his hand. He wears a bracelet with the words boudoirs are for bonking written on it.' She didn't wait for Samantha to respond. She grabbed the corner of the rug wrapped around the man in the wheelchair's body. The entire rug fell away to the floor. The woman screamed and then she fainted on the floor.

There were shocked eyes everywhere staring at the human head protruding from a small metal box.
Chapter 60.

Cable News Network Center; Atlanta, Georgia

A TALKING HEAD ON A BOX stared out of the screen.

Music – the signature tune. And then the banner announcing the programme:

LARRY HAGLER AT LARGE: THE HOUND BEHIND THE NEWS.

A full studio shot of Larry, dressed in a blue suit, pink shirt and yellow tie filled the screen with a background banner reading:

HUMAN HEAD BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE

In the corner of the screen was an insert of the talking head. Larry's cherubic features were alive with excitement. 'Tonight,' he told his mass audience, 'we lead with the most incredible story since man landed on the moon. Jefferson Pike, the founder of Boudoir Magazine died almost six months ago. And we can confirm that we have sighted his death certificate. According to his wishes his body was cryopreserved and stored in a cryopreservation centre in Palm Springs. Recently the preserved body was shipped to the People's Republic of China, where a medical clinic used a process called neurorejuvenation to revive the head and brain of Jefferson Pike, but not his body. Incredible, right? For this process allows Jefferson Pike's brain to function supported by a life-support machine, which as you can see from the enlarged clip behind me, is about the size of a large suitcase. CNN obtained the following footage of this extraordinary story. We cross to our correspondent, Michelle Davis. Michelle.'

Michelle Davis popped up in an insert down right of the screen. 'Hello Larry,' she said to the audience. 'Jefferson Pike's wife, Samantha, and her entourage were intercepted at Los Angeles International Airport trying to smuggle the live head of Jefferson Pike into the country on a false passport and a claim that he had suffered a heart attack on a flight from Hawaii. Samantha Pike and her entourage tried to keep the media away, but apparently Jefferson Pike woke up from his medication and demanded to hold a news conference. Here's what happened.'

The screen filled with a shot of the Jefferson head sitting on its box, surrounded by a bevy of journalists.

'How does it feel to be brought back to life as a head without a body, Mr Pike?' one of them asked.

The head of Jefferson Pike gave a thin smile. 'It feels pretty damned good just to be alive again,' he replied.

'Do you still have all your memories of the past?' another one asked.

Jefferson's expression clouded over. 'I do,' he said, somberly. 'All of them.'

'So what are your plans?' a voice called out. 'Given this new state that you're in?'

Jefferson shook his head. 'I don't know yet. I'm just looking forward to getting back to the ranch and having a bath.'

There was a stunned silence. 'A bath Mr Pike?' someone finally said.

'Yeah. You know what a bath is don't you?'

The head of Jefferson Pike and the news conference left the screen. The screen split between Michelle and Larry. 'His doctor stepped in then, Larry,' Michelle said. 'He said that Jefferson Pike needed to rest.'

'Strange comment, Michelle, about the bath,' Larry said.

'Yes, it was, wasn't it,' Michelle agreed. 'Especially when you don't have a body anymore. And Jefferson had the last word, a comment I suppose that proved we really were witnessing a resurrected Jefferson Pike. As they wheeled him away, Larry, a young female reporter tried to get another close-up picture, but she was quickly removed. As she went, the head of Jefferson Pike remarked, 'Nice ass, Honey.'

Larry smiled. 'Vintage Jefferson, Michelle. So what happens now?'

There was a slight pause before Michelle answered. 'Well Samantha Pike and presumably Jefferson Pike will probably face charges relating to a fake passport, but those charges haven't been laid yet, Larry. Jefferson and his entourage have been allowed to go back to the Boudoir Ranch and that's where I am at present, Larry.'

The screen panned out to a wide shot of the Boudoir Ranch in the background, Michelle standing in the foreground. There was a large crowd of people behind her. 'There are hundreds of media people and rubber-neckers here Larry, as you can see, all wanting a view of Jefferson Pike, or better an interview. But security has been stepped up here and no one has been granted access.'

Michelle disappeared from the screen. Larry came back on full screen. 'Thank you Michelle,' he said. 'CNN has been trying to get comment from the clinic in China where this procedure was carried out,' he told his audience. 'But the clinic is refusing to comment and a media blackout has been put in place there. We sought further comment from Dr Martin Duvall of the National Institutes of Health.'

Dr Martin Duvall appeared in a split screen. 'So what is your view on this, Dr Duvall,' Larry asked him.

Dr Duvall looked troubled. 'Well, Larry,' he said. 'Cryo and neuro preservation and rejuvenation is not illegal, though we have been doing some work to tighten the legal framework around that. And there are further legal issues as well. I mean, this man was pronounced clinically dead. His estate passed to his wife and his family. Now it is claimed that he has been reborn, assuming you can argue that a head can achieve that status. However, does he now resume his former rights of ownership to his estate? If he had creditors before he died, can they now bring legal action against him? Our social fabric is not geared to cope with this. But ultimately this is a matter very much about legal and medical ethics. And I don't wish to make any comment on that at this time.'

Larry nodded. 'Thank you, Dr Duvall.' Martin Duvall disappeared from the screen. 'Ethics. Now someone who does have a firm view on this is Professor Lincoln Gale of the President's Bio-ethics Council. And he joins us now.' Lincoln Gale joined the split screen. 'Your views on this, Professor?'

Lincoln Gale's bird-like features were set in stone, like the end of the world had just been announced. 'In your opening comment,' he responded. 'You compared this news to our landing a man on the moon. I compare it to Hitler's Nazi Germany.'

'How so Professor?' Larry asked him.

Lincoln Gale's reply was measured. 'The human body has been created or evolved, depending on your viewpoint, as a unique species on this planet. To interfere in that process and create a head without a body seems to me to be a monstrous interference with the blueprint of God and Nature. This is equivalent to the grotesque experiments carried out on Jewish subjects in the Second World War by the Angel of Death, Joseph Mengele.'

'But couldn't you argue,' Larry pressed him, 'that evolution might ultimately lead us to the same result one day? That our heads, our brains, might make our bodies redundant? Couldn't what we are seeing here just be a natural progression for the human race?'

'To be turned into some kind of computer, you mean? I doubt it,' Gale said distastefully. 'To me, this head is nothing more than a circus exhibit. But the real point is that these are not decisions for us to decide. Outside forces will determine our future. We have no more right, in my view, to destroy the essence of this unique species than we have to destroy the planet.'

'So you would want to see this development banned?' Larry put the question.

'Absolutely,' Lincoln Gale replied. 'This is not progress. This is a return to barbarism. The total collapse of the values of our civilization.'

'Thank you Professor,' Larry ended the interview. 'Well folks there you have it. A major development in our medical/scientific history, or a return to the Dark Ages? We'll take a short break and when we come back we'll take a look at other breaking news of the day. Don't go away. I'm Larry Hagler. The hound behind the news.'

Millions of people watched this broadcast. But one in particular watched with great interest. Ljudmila Gladovitch sipped on her vodka and sucked on her cigar. She was unhappy that Dr Yin had chosen to rejuvenate a man such as this Jefferson Pike. But at least, she thought, on this occasion it was be the Yao Clinic that was in the media limelight and not the Schoch Institute. The diversion suited her. For she had even bigger fish to fry. The American Professor of Bio-ethics had made her smile when he had made his snide remark about the human brain being turned into a super computer. Project HAL would do exactly that. And that was just the beginning.

But she still needed to talk with Dr Yin. She needed to remind him of the criteria for Einstein's they had agreed on. She rang him. He was apologetic. He reassured her that Jefferson Pike was just a prototype, a practice for future development. His next patient, he assured her, would fit the agreed criteria exactly. And that rejuvenation, he told her, would really shock the world.
Chapter 61.

The White House

Monday

THE PRESIDENT SAT IN THE OVAL OFFICE in deep thought. He rifled through the dossier on his desk once more before closing it. There was a knock on the door. 'Come in,' he called out. Francesca Young entered the room. She was smartly dressed as always but sporting a new tan. She looked refreshed; relaxed, like the break had been beneficial. The President picked up the dossier, rose from his desk and came around it to meet her. They sat in two comfortable chairs, a small coffee table between them. 'You're looking well, Francesca,' he told her. 'The holiday obviously agreed with you.'

Francesca smiled, more to herself than to him. 'You could say that,' she said.

The President shot her a wary glance. 'And you're not the only important person to return from China in the last few days,' he said. 'For it appears that we now have a new life-form on the planet. A living head minus a human body.'

Francesca nodded. She was expecting this. 'And what is your view on that?' she asked the President.

The expression on the President's face was grim. 'Not very positive I'm afraid. As you know, I have a positive outlook to what medical science might achieve to cure disease through the likes of stem cell research, including the use of embryonic stem cells. But I cannot express the same enthusiasm for medical procedures that seek mere cosmetic improvements. Nor can I endorse the separation of a living head from a living body. I mean, what purpose is served there?'

'Freeing a healthy mind from a sick body, maybe?' Francesca suggested.

'But in human terms what would be the quality of life?' the President answered her.

'What is the difference between a head without a body and a paraplegic?' Francesca countered.

'True,' the President nodded. 'But maybe stem cell research can cure the paraplegic and return him or her to a full active life. The same research is not going to give a head back its body is it?'

'There are those in the medical-scientific community who believe that will be possible one day,' Francesca countered. 'But admittedly, that is likely to be a long way off.'

The President drew a deep breath. 'Maybe I'm old fashioned. But to me the essence of being human involves both a body and a mind.' He smiled wryly. 'It looks like for once I agree with Lincoln Gale. And I don't know how Lincoln will cope with that.'

'I'm sure he'd be delighted,' Francesca said, sourly.

Again, the President nodded. 'He is already pressurizing me to ban any research or practice in this country along the lines of what has occurred with Jefferson Pike.'

'And will you?'

'The matter requires further thought, Francesca. All of the ramifications of this need careful consideration. So what are your conclusions on this?'

In his opening remarks the President had asserted three personal propositions. First that he supported stem cell research to aid the cure of disease. She agreed with that. Second that he opposed the same research and treatment for cosmetic purposes, including obviously the pursuit of eternal youth and longevity. Her own actions made it clear that she had a different view on that. And thirdly, his opposition to the Einstein procedure. She had come around to agreeing with him on that. The more she thought about it, the more she couldn't imagine her father, who had always been so physically active in his life, being impressed if she brought him back to life as a head on a block. And the sight of the talking head of Jefferson Pike left her cold.

Grotesque. The President was right. Her job primarily involved her mind. But being human involved the mind and the body. General Yang had reminded her of that. She told the President she agreed with him about rejuvenated heads.

'Lincoln Gale will be pleased about that too,' he said with a teasing smile.

Lincoln Gale. She intensely disliked that man. In her mind he was a rabid fundamentalist who opposed most things she believed in. If Lincoln Gale had his way she was sure he would return women to the kitchen and the bedroom. So she would not concede any argument to him. She would deliberately play the Devil's Advocate if the subject came up in his presence.

The President sat forward in his chair. 'Can we talk about your holiday?' he said. 'Did you get to lots of interesting places?'

'I did,' she said, guardedly. 'Most of the time I was in Italy. But I did get to spend a couple of days in Switzerland.'

The President nodded. 'Switzerland? The home of good watches, chocolate and spectacular scenery.'

'And the Schoch Institute,' she added. 'As I'm sure you're well aware.' She was thinking of Sheldon Ramsay. There had to be an official report. 'So why did you have me followed?'

The President's eyes came to hers. 'I didn't. It was a CIA initiative.'

'For my protection?'

The President looked away. 'Of course.'

'I didn't need protection.'

'Maybe not. So why the Schoch Institute?'

Francesca swallowed hard. 'I was interested in a certain line of research they are conducting there.'

'Did you go in a private or a public capacity?'

Francesca swallowed hard again. This was starting to sound like an interrogation. 'Private. The research in questions concerns a certain medical condition that is in a branch of my family.'

That seemed to throw the President. 'What kind of medical condition?' he asked her.

'I'd rather not say.'

The President spread his hands. 'I'm not trying to pry, Francesca. But as you know, research at the Schoch Institute has been under a lot of public scrutiny. I just wonder whether that was a wise decision.'

Francesca eyeballed him. 'I met Dr Gladovitch. She struck me as being very professional and someone dedicated to her work.'

'So did you see Methuselah Man?'

'No. He was off limits.'

The President nodded slowly. 'And then you went back to China?'

'I did.'

'More sightseeing?'

'Yes. The sights of Beijing. The Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong.' The last memory brought a quick shudder along her spine.

'That's all?'

The shudder along her spine became a sharp twang in her chest. Where was this leading? 'I did make a visit to the Yao Clinic, operated by a Dr Yin. As I told you, my father was cryopreserved. Due to the restrictions in this country here around cryopreservation, brought about by Lincoln Gale and Martin Duvall, I visited Dr Yin to seek some advice about rejuvenation technology.'

'And the Yao Clinic is the same place where the procedure was carried out on Jefferson Pike, correct?'

'Correct. But I didn't know that at the time of my visit,' she lied. 'But once again, my visit was a private one.'

The President sat back in his chair. 'People's private lives are none of my business, Francesca. But for some of us private and public lives somewhat blur together and some people, especially the media, don't want to make the distinction.' He took two photographs out of the dossier on the table and handed them to her. 'You obviously know who this is?' he said studying her face.

She felt her face pale as she stared at the photograph of herself and General Yang leaving her hotel. And the second photograph, the two of them entering her hotel after their dinner. She looked up nervously at the stern face of the President. 'General Yang. He is the brother of Dr Yin of the Yao Clinic. He asked me out for dinner. And after that we had a drink in my hotel.'

The President was pursing his lips. 'General Ling Yang holds an important position in the People's Liberation Army. He is also a rising star in the Chinese political system where he is expected to become a member of the Politburo. Some analysts are picking him as a future leader of China. So the CIA keeps an eye on him. And when they see him with my Chief of Staff they get interested.'

The President fingered the dossier he held in his hand. Francesca's heart fluttered. And it wasn't the warm flutter she experienced when in General Yang's company. It was a flutter of fear. Did they have a bug or a hidden camera in her hotel room?

The President dropped the dossier onto the coffee table. 'As I said Francesca, your personal life is your business. But the problem here is one of perception. If these photographs fell into the wrong hands it could compromise not only you, but my entire administration.'

She sought out the President's eyes. 'You want me to resign, right?'

The President shook his head. 'No. Fortunately, this report is classified. But I hope you can see that a personal relationship with General Yang is incompatible with your position in the White House.'

Francesca nodded. 'You mean, it's my job or the General?'

'I'm sorry, Francesca.'

Gone with the Wind, she was thinking. It was no doubt exciting the first time you saw the movie. But you didn't have to keep replaying it to regain the memory. Her eyes came back firmly to the President's. 'My loyalty is with you, Mr President,' she said. 'Consider the relationship over.'

The President nodded his head.

Her job had to be more important than the General. When it came down to it the mind was more important than the body. Unless the General did become the Leader of China. Maybe then she would consider living in the Forbidden Palace and becoming his mistress. The power behind another throne.

Only time would tell.
Chapter 62.

The Schoch Institute

A week later

HANNA STARED AT HER COMPUTER SCREEN; at the real life image of the brain of Eugene Schoch. Her treatment appeared to have been successful. Looking at this ageing brain there was now no sign at all of Huntington's Chorea. The brain had been cleansed; no vestige of a horrific and debilitating disease remained. It was the same as looking at a biopsy of a cancer tumour that had now vanished. Remission or complete removal? What she was looking at strongly suggested the latter. It was compelling.

She had cured the regressive Huntington's disease in the brain of Eugene Schoch.

A Nobel Prize her ego prompted her inside her own brain. At a minimum, important status among the international research community. And most importantly, a ticket out of the Schoch Institute. Ljudmila had promised her that. And now she had to be held to her promise.

She wanted to move on. There were things at Schoch that disturbed her. The death of Methuselah Man that she had witnessed, still officially denied by Ljudmila. The second grotesque living head that she had witnessed in the operating theatre; the unwelcome attention of the sleazy Dr Randy Ryman. She wanted to forge a future with Robert. They were getting on well, but Robert needed to find himself, develop his talent, and grow with her into the future. Write his book about Schoch. He was denied that opportunity here. She wanted to give him the opportunity to grow; build a partnership based on love, respect and mutual ability. But Schoch was a closed, incestuous environment. They needed to leave; liberate themselves, take control of their future.

She left her office and went to their apartment to tell Robert her news. Robert was seated at the console in the middle of the apartment. He was participating in a virtual ski experience. On the wall screen he was skiing down a steep slope, bumping over mounds of moguls that impeded his path. Once he came off, rose in motion to his feet and carried on down the silver slope. 'Wow!' he said, getting to his feet to greet Hanna, as if they were meeting up at the bottom of the ski run.

'You're happy doing this?' she asked him.

He shrugged. 'Not happy, Hanna. I'd prefer the real thing. But this is better than nothing, I suppose. The problem is, when you play games all the time you just become part of the game.'

She nodded, then told him about her achievement with the brain of Eugene Schoch.

'Wow!' he said again. He lifted her short, slight body off her feet and kissed her neck. 'That's fantastic news!'

'We're free, Robert. We're prisoners no longer,' she said excitedly.

He kissed her firmly on the mouth. 'I love you,' he said.

'And I love you too.'

He placed her feet back on the floor. 'Have you told Ljudmila?'

'I sent her an email. I still need a few more days to finish writing up the results.'

'Does Eugene know?'

'Not yet.'

'He'll be over the moon.'

'Yes. He will.'

'Fantastic! And the first thing we'll do is have a holiday. I haven't had one of those for years.'

'I want to travel around Europe,' Hanna said.

Robert kissed her again. 'And I will be your guide,' he told her.

She had never seen Robert so animated. But then he had been shut up in this solitary compartment for weeks. He needed to find his wings again.

They both did.

Ljudmila studied Hanna's email. Her confidence in Dr Hayes was finally vindicated. This was a major advance in medical research. The Schoch Institute would gain international credibility and standing from this. And the prognosis for Eugene was greatly improved as well. Hanna would be rewarded for her efforts. That was only fair and deserving. She rang a number on her phone. Randy Ryman entered her office a short time later. She told him the news.

'Well I never doubted her ability,' Ryman said.

'Me neither,' Ljudmila replied. 'But she can now move on to even more greatness.'

'I've been looking forward to that,' Ryman said with a smile.

'Activate all the other projects,' Ljudmila instructed him.

'My pleasure,' Ryman agreed.

Randy Ryman left Ljudmila's office and proceeded to Level Five. He went to the Reception desk where the woman seated there didn't question his presence. He passed by her, passing through the Meeting Room to the Control Centre. Once there he changed the lights on the Project Board under the title: THE METHUSELAH FILE to:

PROJECT METHUSELAH MAN - red light - no change

PROJECT EINSTEIN - green light - no change

PROJECT DARWIN - red light - changed to green

PROJECT HAL - red light - changed to green

And then he added another Project, as Ljudmila has requested him.

PROJECT GOEBBELS - green light

He smiled up at the Project Board. He was looking forward to working with two of his colleagues on two of these projects; but for totally different reasons.
Chapter 63.

The Boudoir Ranch; California

JEFFERSON COULDN'T UNDERSTAND why he couldn't have a bath or eat B-B-Q steak, or why he couldn't sleep in her bed. True, he couldn't work out where his arms had gone, bound up as he was in this tight blanket and stuck in this wheelchair. But who needed arms anyway? The rest of him was still intact, he was sure of it, numb though he felt from the neck down. He was paralysed. But that would wear off in time, he was sure of it. But sometimes he had this recurring dream, or more nightmare really, seeing himself as a head minus a body on a box, surrounded by television cameras and reporters. 'You were medicated at the time,' Samantha told him. 'Obviously you were hallucinating.' She explained to him about the accident, how he had fallen off his horse. He didn't remember that. The last ride he remembered was on top of her and these crippling pains in his chest. But all that was gone now. There was just numbness in their place.

And there had been changes at the Ranch while he had apparently been in Intensive Care at the hospital. The place was full of young, lusty bucks everywhere. They cluttered up his pool and lounged around the house like they were waiting for a job interview. When he got his strength back he would change all that, throw them off the ranch; restore the rule he could see emblazoned inside his head: There's only room for one stallion on this Ranch to service all the mares. And he was as popular as ever, he knew that. He had seen the crowds of reporters camped out beyond the main gates; well-wishers pleased to see him back in his kingdom. Samantha had assigned him a minder, a burly Mexican called Rodriguez with bad breath, to wheel him around the mansion. He had wondered where his former valet, Miguel, was.

'He ran off with a whole pile of your valuable paintings at the time of your death ... accident,' Samantha told him. 'The police have never found him. I employed Rodriguez to take his place.'

He didn't actually need Rodriguez to get around. His wheelchair was state of the art – it read and actioned of its own accord simple voice directions, like move ..straight ahead ... left ... right ... and stop. To pass the time, Jefferson would often take it for a run around the house and further afield. His favourite excursion was down the driveway leading to the locked entrance gates. His many friends out there from the media got very excited when they saw him coming. Their cameras whirred, lights flashed and they called out to him begging for an interview. He felt like Charlton Heston in that old Hollywood movie El Cid, strapped to his horse, the hero rousing the troops. But that hero had been dead. Jefferson knew he was very much alive.

But he never made it to the gates and the adoring crowd. Rodriguez always caught up with him and returned him to the house. When he protested, the smelly Mexican grabbed his ear and twisted it. It hurt. As soon as he got out of the wheelchair, Speedy Gonzales would be sent packing without pay. And then there was doctor Newman, the personal physician Samantha had arranged for him. With his short-cropped fair hair and gym-conditioned body, he looked like a cross between a young Paul Newman and the Greek God ... what was his name? Adonis? He was polite, yet aloof, treating Jefferson like he was some broken-down geriatric inhabiting God's waiting room.

He was sitting in the Solarium when Samantha came through the door dripping wet from a swim in the pool. She was wearing a white bikini that covered two skimpy sections of her bronzed body. 'OK Daddy?' she said, sounding more like his daughter than his wife.

'When do I get back inside your castle, Princess?' he asked her with a gleam in his eye.

She tossed her wet blonde hair off her face. 'You miss that, Daddy?'

'Of course I do,' he growled. 'I've had enough of being parked in that dark room every night and given medication.' It was there that they apparently fed him when he was asleep through an intravenous drip. 'I'm sick of just sleeping,' he said. 'I want to rise again.'

She gave him a sad smile. 'I understand, Daddy. But you're a Phoenix with broken wings now.'

He looked at her blankly. 'Phoenix? I haven't been there for years,' he said.

She nodded. 'OK Daddy. Tonight. I'll let you take a trip down nostalgia lane.'

'Can't wait,' he said.

Later that night, after dozing to build up his strength, Rodriguez took him up in the lift to the master bedroom. It was empty. Rodriguez parked him like a living sculpture by the side of the bed and left. Jefferson waited. He didn't have to wait long. He heard giggling coming from the adjoining bathroom. The door opened and Samantha appeared in a white, toweling robe. Behind her in a matching robe (his, Jefferson noted) came Dr Newman.

'Hi Daddy,' Samantha grinned at Jefferson. 'Are you comfortable there? Ready for the show?'

Jefferson stared. Dr Newman ignored him. Samantha peeled off her robe. Her naked body shone in the dim light of the room. She lay on her back on the bed, drawing her knees up towards her torso. The sight of her naked body had always been a turn-on for Jefferson, but now he felt nothing. The thoughts were there but nothing connected in his body. He was numb. That bloody accident. Dr Newman shed his robe (Jefferson's robe). What was he doing here anyway? This was a breach of professional ethics. But Dr Newman didn't seem to care. He was lying across Samantha's bare body, his hands all over her. Samantha glanced up at Jefferson, then rolled her eyes and started kissing Dr Newman's neck. Dr Newman made a guttural noise in his throat. He slid down her body and started kissing her breasts. Samantha rolled suddenly away.

'I don't think this is really fair on Jefferson,' she said. 'A bad idea. We need to move him before he has a heart attack.'

Dr Newman glanced up at the hapless Jefferson and laughed. 'Heart attack? Not likely, Sam. A head can't have a heart attack!'

'You've got poor technique, son,' Jefferson taunted him. 'You're too quick. You need to slow down. Play the woman in a slow waltz. The quickstep can come later. I can give you guidance. Just let me join you. A ménage de trois. I'd like that.'

Dr Newman stared at him incredulously. 'What? You're past this Jefferson. You're just a head!' He pulled himself up on the bed. 'You want to join us? Fine. Come on then!' He grabbed the edge of the blanket on Jefferson's wheelchair and ferried it away onto the floor.

Jefferson looked down. Where was his body? He couldn't see it. 'Turn!' he ordered his wheelchair. It did and he stared at his image in the floor to ceiling mirror.

A head on a box. He was facing his nightmare. This was not a dream. He was no longer a man. He was a freak condemned to spend the rest of his life as a virtual voyeur.

This was not a role for the founder of Boudoir Magazine.

'Turn!' he ordered his wheelchair. It spun around, facing the door. 'Straight ahead!' The chair propelled itself towards the door. On the other side of the door the smart chair took him to the wide marble stairway that led to the ground floor. The sensors in the chair halted its passage on the lip of the stairway. Jefferson stared down the winding balustrade.

'Ahead. Full speed!' he said.

The chair responded. The movement tipped him forward on the first riser. The head of Jefferson Pike catapulted and bounced four floors to the bottom of the house.
Chapter 64.

The Schoch Institute

HANNA FINISHED HER PAPER on the research into Huntington's Chorea and the success of her treatment with the patient called Mr X, a pseudonym for Eugene Schoch. The paper didn't detail that Eugene Shock was a rejuvenated head. It detailed the recorded history of his disease and the treatments he had undergone that had finally brought about a cure. And the cure appeared to be compelling. Eugene's Schoch's Huntington's had been cured. All of the detailed medical evidence supported that. The treatment had been vindicated. It was now available for others suffering from this dreadful disease. A treatment for a disease that had been formerly untreatable in terms of a cure; a treatment that could relegate this debilitating disease to the categories of Malaria, Tuberculosis, and Leprosy. It was an achievement of which Hanna could be proud and potentially famous.

Eugene Schoch had been the first to praise her. When she told him, he looked at her from a bloodshot eye, like a little boy who had just been told that Father Xmas had just delivered the present he had most desired.

'That's great news, Hanna,' he said. 'The best news I've had since I was brought back to life.' He gave her a rubbery smile. 'Shall we dance?' he said.

'In our minds, why not?' she replied.

His smile widened. 'If I was a much younger man, in a former life I'd probably ask you to marry me,' he said. 'I did have a pretty face once,' he added.

'You flatter me, Professor,' she told him.

'Not at all, Hanna. You have given me a future. How could you not love someone for that?'

She took the finished report to Ljudmila in the meeting room on Level Five. Ljudmila was all smiles. 'This is a tremendous achievement,' she told Hanna. 'I'm sure it's just the first of many in a brilliant career.'

'We'll see,' Hanna said. She took a deep breath. 'So, as agreed, you will release me from the rest of my contract? Let Robert and I leave?'

A pained expression came over Ljudmila's face. 'I was hoping you might agree to stay on, my dear. We still have many other exciting projects to work on here.'

What were those, Hanna was thinking? Now that Methuselah Man had died. Project Darwin? Project HAL? She didn't think she wanted to be associated with any of those. 'I'm homesick for the States,' she told Ljudmila. 'Robert and I intend to holiday in Europe and then return to America.'

Ljudmila nodded. 'As you wish my dear. Shall we say that your contract will be terminated in one week's time. That will enable me to organise a media conference to bring this exciting news to the world.'

'Fair enough,' Hanna said.

Exciting news, Hanna thought as she walked back to her office. She had arrived at Schoch just over six months ago in the middle of the breaking news about Methuselah Man. Now she was leaving as the news was about to break on her cure of Huntington's. It seemed to complete a cycle of her problematic time at the Institute. Back in her office she copied her final report on Eugene Schoch onto a memory stick. That would have seemed even more like a good idea had she still been in Ljudmila's office to witness her boss strike out Hanna's name from the report and replace it with her own.

And then a distraction. The face of Eugene Schoch reared up on Hanna's screen. 'I need to see you, Hanna,' he said. Her screen went black.

She hurried down to Level Five. Eugene was waiting for her. He looked drawn and tired, the skin on his face gray and taut. Hanna's gaze went to the words on the large wallscreen.

LIVING HEAD DIES AFTER FALL

'Have you seen this story?' he asked her.

She shook her head. 'No. I am not permitted access to the Internet or the outside world.'

'The head in question is Einstein II, or Einstein III actually. There was a Chinese chap who briefly had the honour of following after me, but apparently he didn't survive.'

'I saw him on Level Five,' Hanna said. 'So who is Einstein III?'

Eugene Schoch swiveled his head towards the screen. 'Scroll!' he commanded it.

The photograph of a head came up on the screen.

'The face is familiar,' Hanna said.

'His name is Jefferson Pike.'

'Boudoir Magazine?'

'Correct.'

'But he died some time ago.'

'He was cryopreserved, Hanna. Then dispatched to Beijing where he was made into an Einstein. If Einstein, or Eugene Schoch for that matter, can ever be compared to a pornographer. Although,' Eugene added, 'I must confess I have occasionally got my hands on a copy of Boudoir Magazine. Not anymore though. It's not much use to me now. But Mr Pike, or the head of Mr Pike, has been front page news around the world for the last few days.'

Hanna's eyes were still on the wallscreen and the words that were tumbling into view. 'He fell down four flights of stairs?' she said.

'His head did, yes.'

'An accident?'

'Maybe. Or maybe he was murdered, though that's unlikely since his young wife already got his money and insurance from the first time he died.' Eugene's red-rimmed eyes focused on Hanna's face. 'Or maybe he just couldn't stand being a head.'

Hanna's eyes went sharply back to Eugene. 'Which is not a problem you have, Professor? Especially not now.'

Eugene gave her a bland smile. 'I'm in your debt, of course.'

She had to tell him. He had to know. 'I'm leaving the Institute, Professor. My work here is done. I want to go back to the States with Robert.'

The head of Eugene Schoch slowly nodded. 'I can understand that, Hanna. Life as a mole isn't much fun is it? And I can tell you that life as a head isn't all that exciting either, as Mr Pike would surely have attested to.'

Hanna looked around the room, the chamber where the head of Eugene Schoch was imprisoned. 'I enjoy the outdoors,' she told him. 'Fresh air, real mountains and real skiing, rather than this virtual world you have created here. Sorry. I know what you've done here is technologically amazing. But that's how I feel.'

Eugene rolled his red eyes. 'Don't be sorry, Hanna. I've become rather bored with it myself. And you have a very promising career ahead of you. But what do you think Ljudmila will make of your request?'

'She's already agreed,' Hanna confronted him. 'Agreed that Robert and I can leave here at the end of next week.'

Eugene's eyebrows raised. 'Has she indeed? Well I wouldn't bank on her word.'

Hanna felt a cold sensation creep up her chest. 'Why's that?' she said.

'Think about it, Hanna. She's still pretending to the outside world that Methuselah Man is alive. You know he's dead. And Robert is a journalist. You both know all about the fake Methuselah Gene that was sold on the international market, the fake robbery. She wouldn't want her former employees telling these stories to the world, would she?'

Hanna looked at him aghast. 'You mean she'd try to keep us here against our will?'

'Hasn't she done that already? And I happen to know that she has other plans for you.'

Hanna stiffened. 'Like what?'

Eugene's eyes looked away. 'You wouldn't want to know. But you and Robert need to get out of here as soon as possible. And I can help you do that.'

She stared at him. 'How Professor?'

He didn't answer her directly. 'Pack the minimum things you both need and come back here tonight, late when everyone's asleep. Say around midnight? And bring a torch,' he cried out almost as an afterthought. 'There should be one in the emergency kit in your apartment.'
Chapter 65.

ROBERT WAS IN NO DOUBT that they should accept Eugene's offer.

'I can't believe that Ljudmila won't keep her word,' Hanna tried to reason with him.

'You don't know Ljudmila,' Robert said, guardedly. 'She's devious. She can't be trusted.' He didn't elaborate on that.

'So what could be these plans she has for me?'

'No idea,' Robert said. 'But I would trust Eugene. Look at what she's done. Think about everything that Ramsay's told us.'

Hanna paced around the apartment. 'Yes I know. We do need to leave here. But this seems a bit extreme. And I keep worrying about Eugene. Maybe we could take him with us?'

Robert stared at her with wide eyes. 'How could we do that? He's a head. He doesn't have legs!'

Hanna nodded. 'I know, I know. It's just that I've become rather attached to him. He's become like the father I didn't really have.'

'Eugene is what he is because Eugene designed his own fate,' Robert responded. 'And you have done him a great service through your research. But the fact that he's become a talking doll in Ljudmila's basement is not your fault. As to us, it's time the prisoners fled their prison. And if we don't take this opportunity, we may not get another chance.'

So it was decided. They packed their most important items in one suitcase and waited in the apartment until just before midnight. Then they proceeded to Level Five. There were no surveillance cameras on Level Five, Robert kept assuring Hanna. There might be in Eugene Schoch's chamber, but Eugene seemed to have electronic control over his abode.

Eugene was waiting for them. He seemed calm, serene even, like a head that was in touch with its inner self. 'You have made the right decision,' he told them. 'Your escape route will be through the ceiling where the heating and air con ducts are. That will get you to the basement that is below us. From there, there is an external door that takes you out of Schoch. I can show you the plans.'

'And what will happen to you, Professor?' Hanna asked him. 'When Ljudmila finds out what you have done here?'

Eugene's face creased into a wide smile. 'She'll probably blow that damned cigar smoke into my eyes; hit me even. But that will be a small price to pay to secure your freedom.'

Hanna approached his pedestal. 'And you are happy to remain here in your present state?'

Eugene shook his head. 'No, Hanna, I'm not. What you see before you was my idea. I imagined that pure thought would be Nirvana. But I was wrong. It turns out to be more like Hell. It's like being a geriatric and bedridden in an artificial world. Day after day of this, and as the expression goes, you get bored out of your tree! In my current opinion it would be a thousand times more satisfactory to be senile. Human progress is not ready for Einstein, Hanna. We are still animals. And animals need bodies. No matter how useless they become. In my view we are not yet ready as a race to make the leap to become human computers. A head without a body is like night without day; life without death. It's just not part of the natural scheme of things. The shallow hedonist, Mr Pike, has finally taught me that.'

Hanna stared at him. 'So what are you saying, Professor?'

He gave her a reflective smile. 'As the English expression has it, I have had a long innings and it is now time to depart the crease.'

Hanna looked puzzled. 'Innings? Crease? Professor?'

'Cricket. Robert will understand the metaphor. I've decided it's time to pop off, Hanna. Return to the ether and memory. And it would be my hope that the Einstein experiment will die with me. But now to your escape. You need to get to the basement to gain your freedom. The exterior door there is not locked from the inside. It doesn't need to be because the basement is sealed off from Sector A. It is only accessible from Sector B. But you can travel through the ceiling to reach the basement.' He swiveled his head and called out to the wallscreen. 'Site Map! Level Five! Ceiling!'

A map of the premises came up on the wallscreen. The smile came back to Eugene's face. 'As the lawyers would say, quid pro quo. I will give you directions on this map on condition that you carry out a favour for me.'

Hanna and Robert stared at him. 'Which is, Professor?' Hanna said.

Eugene's expression was determined.

'That you turn off my life-support system,' he said.
Chapter 66.

LJUDMILA WAS IN THE GRIP of a disturbing dream. As she lay locked in the embrace of her new, young lover, her eyes went to the shape in the shadows at the foot of the bed. There was something there, something watching her. And then the shape burned through the darkness like a ghostly apparition. The face of Eugene Shock. Ljudmila awoke with a cry and switched on the bedside light. Her new toy-boy, Kurt from the Bio-Genetics Department, slept soundly beside her. Ljudmila got out of bed, the dream still fresh in her mind. Guilt maybe? But Eugene could hardly expect her to be faithful to their past in his condition. She wandered out to the living area of the apartment, poured herself a vodka and lit up a cigar. The wall clock showed 12.30 am. She felt wide awake but couldn't get the staring face of Eugene out of her head. So much so that she went to the console on her desk and brought up Eugene's chamber. But the screen was black. Eugene had the ability to de-activate the surveillance camera in his quarters. That had always been agreed to so that in Eugene's words, he didn't feel totally like a prisoner in his own Institute. But unbeknown to him Ljudmila had installed a back-up surveillance system. She was the boss of the Institute now; the goddess who had dethroned the former God, the omniscient one who could see into her subject's lives.

The secondary surveillance system brought the chamber into view. The lights were still on, as they always were, for Eugene never slept in the dark. She swiveled the control knob on the console to get a better view of the middle of the room. And then she froze. Eugene's head lay to one side on his pedestal. He might have been asleep, but his eyes were open wide. Ljudmila zoomed in for a close-up look and caught her breath as she stared into Eugene's lifeless eyes.

Hanna and Robert were making slow progress through the air ducts in the ceiling above Level Five. The vents were about four feet square – just enough space for a slim body to crawl through on its stomach. Fortunately, both Hanna and Robert had physical profiles that matched the requirement. The suitcase though with their key belongings and extra clothing had to be abandoned. It was too much of an impediment to their journey to freedom. So on their persons they carried passports, credit cards, money, and mobile phones. Each of them wore warm clothing, though none of that clothing was waterproof – their bulky ski jackets being too large to fit through the narrow ducts. On their side was that the season outside was summer, so apart from rain they should be warm enough in the clothing they had chosen. They were certainly warm enough at the moment – in the confines of the tight ceiling ducts it was hot and sticky, their bodies already wet with perspiration.

Eugene Schoch had shown them a map of the air ducts and how to navigate their way down to the basement below. Eugene's map directed them to make their way to the eastern side of Level Five where apparently a feeder vent led down to the basement. But the journey was anything but straightforward. In the darkness of the air ducts, illuminated only by the thin beam of their torch, it was easy to lose your sense of direction. And they kept coming to junctions in the ventilation system where other ducts joined and led off at all sorts of angles. Hanna was already feeling claimed by claustrophobia. It was oppressive being stuck here in these narrow tunnels, like a real mole burrowing in the darkness out of contact with the light. But she had to keep going. If we don't flee the prison now, Robert had said, we may not get another chance.

Frightening.

And what were these other plans Ljudmila apparently had for her? Did she really want to know?

It was Robert who urged her on. Dear Robert. She was in love with him as she was sure he was with her. They had to escape this madness; start over, begin anew. Robert was more relaxed about their current predicament. Back in England he had been caving several times and seemed to derive some masochistic pleasure from being stuck in enclosed spaces. But he did placate one of her mounting fears.

'There's no chance of suffocating in here,' he assured her. 'Feel that gentle breeze on your face? That's the outside air supply. We're moving in the right direction. We'll be safely out of here soon.'

And then the silence, disturbed only by their own shallow breathing, was suddenly shattered by the raucous sound of ringing bells.
Chapter 67.

LJUDMILA WAS PACING around Eugene Schoch's chamber. The head of Eugene had been pronounced dead by Randy Ryman, ordered from his bed by Ljudmila. The head and the life-support machine had been hastily removed to the operating theatre where Dr Ryman and a team of medics were trying to revive it. But who could have disconnected Eugene and why? For Eugene was not able to disconnect himself.

There were only three people, apart from herself, who had access to this chamber. The daytime surveillance nurse who occupied the adjacent viewing room, Randy Ryman and Hanna Hayes. The surveillance nurse was fast asleep in her bed and Randy Ryman had been asleep in his when Ljudmila called him. That left Dr Hayes, who had not been asleep in her bed when Ljudmila viewed her apartment. And nor was Robert there either. The conclusion was inescapable. But why had they murdered Eugene? They would pay for this.

But first she had to find them. Security was alerted. They were scanning the building in all of the areas probed by the surveillance cameras and all available personnel had been summoned to Level Five to hunt for Hanna Hayes and Robert Fisher. Finally, the alarms were activated to try and flush them out.

The minutes were ticking by. No sightings of the quarry had been reported. But they had to be somewhere. Level Five had been sealed off. There was no record of the quarry returning to a higher level. So they had to somewhere in this level. Below Level Five was a basement area that could only be reached from Level Three. So they had no access to that. There was no way out. These two moles were still trapped in their subterranean prison. No escape. It was only a matter of time.

And then Ljudmila's dual-coloured eyes rose slowly to the ceiling and she reached for her cellphone.

When the alarm bells sounded their plight became even more urgent. The bells obviously meant Eugene had been found. So were they now looking for the accomplices to his suicide? Murder actually, Robert was thinking. It was still murder even if the victim consented to their own death. But could you murder a mere head? They began to crawl along the narrow ducts even faster. Luckily, the stream of fresh air was growing even stronger. The feeder vent to the basement had to be somewhere near.

And then Hanna let out a stifled cry. A beam of light other than the one from their own torch splayed around the top of the air duct. It was coming from somewhere behind them. Her heart fell inside her chest.

Robert switched off their torch. 'Just keep moving,' he hissed in front of her. 'They may not have seen us yet.' And then the duct veered sharply to the right. They crawled frantically around the corner. The torch beam behind them spilled around the corner with them, but for the moment they were out of its sight. The stream of fresh air grew even stronger. 'It's somewhere around here,' Robert whispered. But in the almost pitch-blackness of the duct they had little hope of finding it, so he switched their torch back on. Even around a corner their pursuers might see its reflection but he had to find that vent. And suddenly there it was – a few metres in front of them – a large hole, about a metre in diameter, puncturing the air duct. And a strong flow of air was rising from the vent like a head of steam from a hotplate. And then some way behind them in the duct tunnel, a voice.

'There's a suitcase in here!' it was calling out to someone. 'They're obviously in here somewhere.'

'We've got to go down here,' Robert whispered. 'You wait here. I'll check it out.' He crawled across the vent then lowered his feet down it, hanging onto the lip of the vent with his hands. The interior of the vent was smooth with no obvious places to get a grip. He had to chance his arm, trust he would survive the fall. He let go his grip on the lip of the vent.

He was in free fall, his hands sliding down the smooth surface of the pipe. His fall was vertical and over in seconds – a thirty foot drop to the bottom. He came out of the pipe like a cannonball fired from a canon, landing with a heavy thud of bones against a wooden floor. For a moment he thought he had broken most of the bones in his body, but slowly he was able to pick himself up from the floor. He was hurting but everything seemed intact. How would Hanna cope with this, he was wondering? Perhaps he could somehow break her fall. And then a second cannonball fired out of the tunnel, landing on him, throwing him back to the floor. That crunch of bones again.

He stared up into Hanna's wide eyes. 'Are you all right?' she asked him, breathless.

He nodded. 'I think so. What about you?'

'Scary,' she said, catching her breath. 'But you cushioned my fall.' She climbed slowly to her feet. Robert followed. He hurt even more now, but still nothing seemed to be broken. They were in a dimly-lit basement with a low stud and a procession of pipes running the length of the ceiling. The vent that had delivered them here had side pipes running off it a few feet above the opening. Set in the wall nearby were several iron wheels with the words: On and Off on either side. Clearly, these allowed the vents to be opened or closed depending on what kind of airflow and temperature one wanted in the ducts above. Temperature. A chill ran through Robert's chest. One of these side pipes ran straight into the top of a large, iron structure nearby with a metal door in the bottom. A furnace. In wintertime that would push hot air up the vent into the ducts above. And to do that the opening they had just come out of would need to be closed. Thank God it was summertime. Otherwise they would have been delivered into a fiery furnace.

Shadrack, Meshack, Abednego.

Alongside the furnace were boilers that supplied hot water to the floors above. And on the far side of the basement a large pipe about eight feet in diameter ran the length of the wall. 'What's that?' Hanna said.

'I would guess it's the sewer,' Robert replied. 'All of Leysin's sewerage probably goes through here.'

And then against the dim light of the basement, a brighter light lit up the ground at their feet; a light coming down their escape vent. And a voice way above them. 'I can hear voices down here,' it said.

Hanna froze. She recognized that voice. The eel: Jacques Mornay.

Robert sharply inclined his head. And then they were running down the basement in search of that final door to freedom. The basement was L-shaped. For a moment Hanna had a terrible thought that they might be running in the wrong direction – into the mountain, not out of it. But when they turned the corner of the L they saw two large metal doors, big enough if opened to let vehicles through. It confirmed what Eugene had told them. On the other side of those doors was a side road that led back up the mountain to Leysin; a road they intended to follow to seek safety and shelter somewhere in the village. And beside the vehicle doors was a smaller door, which was their destination.

They reached the smaller door. Protruding from it was a long, metal handle as Eugene had told them. Not locked from the inside, he had said. Robert pulled on the handle. It was stiff, but finally moved down to the Open position. The door swung outwards letting in the Swiss mountain night.

And then they both froze, their mouths falling open, their eyes wide. For standing a few feet away on the other side of the door was a figure silhouetted in the light from the basement against the black backdrop of sky. A figure they both recognized.

Sophie Maurer stood there in a jump suit with an automatic machine gun pointed straight at them.

'Turn around and put your hands above your head,' she commanded them in a continental accent.
Chapter 68.

THE BRIGHT LIGHT STUNG HER EYES. Her retinas slowly adjusted to the onslaught while her brain unscrambled her situation. She was in one of the recovery rooms adjacent to the operating theatre on Level Five. It came back to her – in the basement with Robert, the open door, the terrifying sight of Sophie Maurer with the machine gun. What was she doing here? The woman Sheldon Ramsay thought might be responsible for Michael Glade's death. Sophie Maurer had marched them back along the basement in the direction they had come. And then a swirl of figures had emerged from the other end of the basement. The Security Director, Jacques Mornay, the eel with the pock-marked face; the giants, Tweedledum and Tweedledee and another man in a white coat. Robert and her had been forced up against a wall, their hands held tightly behind them, protesting against their treatment until she had felt the jab of the needle in her arm.

After that, nothing until now. She became suddenly aware that lying as she was in this bed she was unable to move; her whole body seemed paralysed. But her eyes were able to travel above her head to the drip on the bed stand that was connected to her left arm. Why had they made her a patient? She wasn't sick. And then another familiar face came swimming into her vision. Cara Bell. Cara who was also her friend. She was wearing her nurse's uniform. Her face was expressionless as she strapped a rubber sleeve on Hanna's arm to check her blood pressure and pulse.

Hanna managed to find her voice. 'What am I doing here?' she said. 'And what have you done to me?'

Cara's expression didn't change. 'You've been sedated. It's not permanent. It will wear off. I'm sorry. I can't tell you anymore. You will have to ask Ljudmila.'

'Where is Robert?'

'I don't know. You will have to ask Ljudmila that,' Cara said again.

'I want to leave this place. My work here is done. Ljudmila promised me.'

This time Cara didn't answer. She deflated the rubber sleeve and removed it from Hanna's arm. 'Your vital signs are fine,' she said. She noted these down on a clipboard then headed for the door of the room.

'Cara-' Hanna called after her. But Cara was gone. She lay there staring at the strong light in the ceiling. Why was she here? Why was she sedated? Ljudmila has other plans for you, Eugene Schoch had said. What plans? She needed to talk to Ljudmila. And she didn't have long to wait.

Ljudmila came into the room. Her face was just as expressionless as Caro's had been. She sat down on a chair by the bed.

'Why am I here?' Hanna demanded of her.

Ljudmila's expression grew solemn. 'You've been a naughty girl, Hanna,' she said in a matronly tone. 'And naughty girls need to be punished.'

'Naughty?' Hanna echoed. 'By wanting to leave here as you promised I could?'

'You murdered my dear Eugene,' Ljudmila said, coldly.

Hanna managed to slowly shake her head. 'No. Eugene wanted to die. Ask Robert. We merely carried out his will.'

'You murdered him,' Ljudmila said, emphatically.

'I cured him, remember? So why would I want to murder my patient? He wanted to die. We removed his life-support because he asked us to. It was a clear case of Euthanasia. And I believe that's a patient's right. In this case he couldn't do it himself.'

'Euthanasia is a crime!' Ljudmila snapped.

'So do I get a trial?' Hanna countered. 'Or have you already appointed yourself as Judge, Jury and Executioner?'

A thin smile crept over Ljudmila's lips. 'Execution is much too stronger a word, my dear.'

'Is it?' Hanna challenged her. 'Then why is Sophie Maurer here? According to Interpol, she's the one that's wanted for murder.'

A dark scowl creased Ljudmila's face. 'As I told you, my dear, I don't believe there's any evidence for that. It's merely your friend at the American Embassy trying to discredit me. Pierre De'Thierry is the man they want. Sophie has a security background. She is here to protect the interests of Schoch.'

Don't push this, Hanna was thinking. If she was facing a firing squad, going on about Sophie Maurer was only giving Ljudmila more ammunition. 'So why am I here in this bed, sedated like this?' she cautiously asked Ljudmila. 'It's not just punishment for what happened to Eugene, is it? He told me that you had other plans for me. What plans, Ljudmila?'

Ljudmila averted her eyes. 'You carried out a remarkable achievement finding a cure for Huntington's Chorea, my dear. And despite what you did to Eugene, I want you to be part of further research here at the cutting edge of medical science.'

'Like what?' Hanna demanded.

'Like the Methuselah Gene,' Ljudmila answered her.

'Methuselah Man is dead. I saw his body in the operating theatre.'

Ljudmila spread her hands. 'That is true. He was a very old man. But the treatment still had an effect.' She leaned closer to the bed. 'And I no longer care what the world thinks about this. The Methuselah Gene is for the elite – the best and the brightest. It's more about brains than bodies; value not vanity. Intelligent men and women who are capable of forming a vision for the future.'

Hanna remembered that Ljudmila had used that last line the first time they had met at Schoch. She was gaining some feeling back in her body. She stared hard at Ljudmila. 'Apart from a man looking younger than his claimed years, I have yet to see proof that the Methuselah Gene is a reality,' she said.

A motherly smile came to Ljudmila's face. 'You want proof, my dear? Then you shall have it.' She picked up a brown folder from her lap and withdrew a photograph. It was the same photograph she had stunned Dr Yin with. She held it close to her chest. 'How old do you think I am?' she asked Hanna.

Hanna remembered her previous conversation with Ljudmila about Michael. Michael had been sixteen years younger than Ljudmila. 'Fifty-six,' she said.

Ljudmila's smile widened. She held the photograph up so Hanna could see it. 'This is a photograph of me aged fifty-six. But as the date on the back shows, it was taken twenty years ago. I'm seventy-six now. Thanks to the Methuselah Gene.'

Hanna was shaking her head. 'What do you take me for. Ljudmila? The date on the back is a fake.'

Ljudmila withdrew a document from the folder and showed it to Hanna. 'My birth certificate. I was born in 1934. In Russia not America. It is not a fake, Hanna. My dead half-brother, Michael, was born thirty-six years later than me to the same father but a different younger mother. My mother was Russian, his was American. We belonged to different cultures, different generations. So much so that we had little in common.'

Which would make it easier to have him murdered, Hanna was thinking.

'Eugene and I-' Ljudmila continued, 'worked together at a research centre in Reykjavik in Iceland in the early 1990's. It was Eugene who discovered the Methuselah Gene. He implanted it in me in a range of my cells fifteen years ago when we set up the Schoch Institute. So you see, not only have I not aged, but I have grown younger too.'

'None of this is proof,' Hanna said, disbelievingly.

Ljudmila looked offended. 'I am living proof,' she retorted. 'Do you think Botox could have done this?'

Hanna was shaking her head. She wasn't going to accept this at face value, Ljudmila's face or anyone else's. 'All of this could be fake,' she said. 'Why should I believe you when you have me imprisoned in this room?'

Ljudmila sat back in her chair. 'Because, my dear, I want to give you the same special gift. Not Methuselah Man anymore. But Methuselah Women.'

Hanna stared. 'But I don't want it, Ljudmila. I think Eugene taught me that. A head needs a body. And youth needs age. It's part of the natural order of things.'

Ljudmila dismissed the argument. 'We are the new masters and mistresses of the world, Hanna. As such we have become Gods and Goddesses of our own destiny. So we can change the natural order of things for our own benefit. That is our destiny.'

'To benefit the elite, you mean?'

'Of course, my dear. We cannot include the masses in this equation. That would destroy the planet. There have always been intellectual peasants. The fact that some of them now wear expensive clothes, own material possessions and have a mindless education doesn't remove the label. For them, civilization is just a veneer. They are merely the crew. It is the likes of you and I who are needed to steer the ship.'

Elitist

Fascist

Frightening, were the words that flashed through Hanna's head. Was Ljudmila mad or merely misguided? Whatever, Hanna knew she had to get out of here. 'You should let me go,' she said quietly.

Ljudmila looked at her like she had just turned down a ticket to heaven. 'Let you go? I can't possibly do that, my dear. You're one of us now. Part of a special club. Besides, you know too much.'

Hanna's eyes were pleading. 'What do I know, Ljudmila, that's not known already? The fake robbery, the fake Methuselah Gene sold on the international market? Methuselah Man, Einstein. It's all been reported on before. And if I told people about you and the Methuselah Gene they wouldn't believe me. That only leaves the death of Eugene. And what would that publicity achieve? As you say, I could be charged.'

Ljudmila's eyes had narrowed. 'What about Sophie Maurer? If you disclose her presence here I would have Interpol crawling all over me.'

Touché. She probably would tell Sheldon Ramsay about Sophie Maurer's presence here. She still wanted to know whether Sophie Maurer was Michael Glade's killer. 'I promise you I wouldn't do that,' she lied. 'You have my word. And Robert's.'

That struck a nerve. 'Robert?' Ljudmila challenged her. 'No one can trust Robert. He's a journalist, Hanna. A paid troublemaker. Look at the grief he's already caused me.'

'Where is Robert?' Hanna asked.

Ljudmila's eyes bored into her. 'He's been restricted to your apartment until further notice.'

'Can I see him?'

'No.' The reply was emphatic. 'You must forget about Robert, Hanna. He's one of the masses; a little man, one of the mice; an intellectual peasant.'

The anger flamed in Hanna's chest. 'Do you mind?' she objected. 'Robert is my friend, my companion, my lover.'

Ljudmila gave her a taunting smile. 'Not just your lover, Hanna.'

'What do you mean?'

'Are you telling me you trust him?'

'Of course. Why?'

'More fool you, Hanna.' Ljudmila took a remote off the bedside table and pointed it at the large wallscreen on the far wall. 'Observe the faithfulness of your lover.'

The screen flickered a moment and then broke to a scene of a couple having sex. The camera zoomed in. Hanna's eyes were popping in her head. The couple going at it strongly were Robert and Ljudmila. 'No, no,' Hanna pleaded with Ljudmila. 'Stop it. Please.'

Ljudmila switched off the tape.

'That's a fake!' Hanna yelled at her.

Ljudmila's taunting smile remained. 'Fake? I don't think so. Both of them looked like they were enjoying it to me.'

Hanna's eyes turned on Ljudmila sharply. 'It was before my time here.'

'No, my dear. During your time. Where Robert really went to most Wednesday nights.'

'You forced him!' Hanna accused her.

'He didn't need forcing, my dear. And even if he did, why didn't he refuse me?'

You probably threatened him, Hanna thought but didn't say it.

Ljudmila looked triumphant. 'As I say, my dear, forget Robert. He's out of the picture now. There's no place for him in Project Darwin.'

Project Darwin. Hanna's body had been gaining feeling. But now it suddenly went numb again.

Ljudmila was leaning over her. 'You know what Project Darwin is?' she asked.

Hanna nodded, numbly. She remembered her discussion with Eugene Schoch. Project Darwin. Implanting the Methuselah Gene in the germ-line of a healthy embryo that would give rise to a lineage of Methuselah men and women.

An incubation for the elite.

'A far better all round prospect than Project Einstein offers, wouldn't you agree?' Ljudmila said. 'The Christian God apparently made a bad choice with his Adam and Eve, Hanna. But for Project Darwin I have chosen two highly intelligent people. You will donate your egg, Hanna. And your male consort in this exchange will be the sperm of Dr Ryman.'
Chapter 69.

HANNA STARTED SCREAMING. Ljudmila called for Cara who came rushing to the bedside, holding a syringe in her hand. She plunged it quickly into Hanna's arm. Hanna caught the expression on Cara's face – a flicker of concern about what was happening here; a member of the crew, maybe reluctantly following the orders of her mistress/ master.

The effect of the anesthetic was almost immediate. She felt a swimming sensation overwhelm her – the room rolling away around her until she was falling into a deep, black hole, labeled Project Darwin with a grinning Randy Ryman standing at the bottom ready to receive her.

When she awoke she didn't know how long she had been unconscious, her watch having been removed and there being no clock in the room. Her mind was a clutter of foreboding and fear. There was no way she wanted to be part of this experiment, with or without the sleazy Randy Ryman. She didn't see herself as part of an elite. She was a medical scientist who wanted to find cures for diseases that afflicted everyone; the masses and their mistresses and masters. On that point she was a democrat; she believed that Jack and Jill were intrinsically as good as their mistresses/masters and by opportunity, ability and education could be their own mistresses/masters. And she didn't want a baby either, not for mis-placed science, nor personal motherhood either.

At least not yet. She had thought that if things worked out long-term with Robert that might be a possibility in a few years time. But now? Robert had seemingly betrayed her with the apparently seventy-six year old Ljudmila. How could he? She must have forced him, threatened him. Why else would he go to her bed? It hurt her. But she felt she could forgive him, put this whole sordid experience behind them. Robert was not an intellectual peasant or a mouse. At heart he was a good man. She was sure of it.

But how to escape this chamber of horrors? Somehow she had to make contact with Sheldon Ramsay. He would help; get them out of here. And in the process take action to close this place down. Ljudmila deserved such a fate. If she wasn't mad she was a manipulative monster.

But how could she, imprisoned in this bed with no contact with Robert, also apparently imprisoned in their apartment, make contact with Sheldon Ramsay? She could think of only one answer. Cara Bell her friend. The woman she had saved from Sophie Maurer's gun. She had to help; pay her dues. And the expression she had glimpsed on Cara's face when Cara had sedated her – that glimmer of concern and maybe conscience.

Someone entered the room. But it wasn't Cara. It was Ljudmila. And her expression showed no conscience at all. 'How are you feeling now my dear?' she said without any hint of remorse.

'How do you think I'm feeling?' Hanna said coldly. 'You have no right to keep me here against my will. No right to force me to have Dr Ryman's baby.'

Ljudmila looked at her, quizzically. 'No one expects you to actually fornicate with Dr Ryman, my dear. It will all be done in vitro.'

'But you still expect me to carry this child?'

Ljudmila tilted her head to one side. 'Well we could use a surrogate of course. But our research suggests the project will have a better chance of success if the mother-donor is also the birth-giver.'

'You have no right-' Hanna started.

Ljudmila looked offended by the statement. 'You should be grateful, my dear. This could make you immortal.'

'I don't want to be immortal!' Hanna said, vehemently. 'And you won't get away with this. Sooner or later someone will come looking for me.'

'Who, my dear?'

'Sheldon Ramsay from the American Embassy.'

Ljudmila shook her head. 'Not likely, my dear. A few weeks ago we had a visit from the American White House Chief of Staff no less. A private visit, I must stress. But she was asking after you on behalf of Sheldon Ramsay. And she had some interest in your research on Huntington's. I told her that you and Robert had gone on an extended holiday around Europe. Since then I have sent her a letter telling her that you and Robert have left Schoch for a destination unknown. So I don't think Mr Ramsay will come looking for you here.'

Not mad. But evil.

Hanna tried another tack. 'Please,' she implored Ljudmila. 'I beg you. I provided you a cure for Huntington's. You don't need my services anymore. Please let Robert and I go.'

Ljudmila laughed. 'How many times do I have to tell you that Robert is a lost cause?' She picked up the remote and aimed it at the wallscreen. 'This was recorded earlier today.' Hanna and Robert's apartment came up on the screen. The date was in red at the bottom of the screen. Robert came into shot. He was sitting on the settee in the living room. His face was looking in the direction of the door to the apartment that was out of shot. And then a female came into shot. A female with snow-white hair down past her shoulders. Sophie Maurer. And she was wearing the same jump-suit that she had worn when she apprehended them in the basement. Robert was looking at her with an expression that Hanna had seen once before. The first time Robert had met Sophie Maurer in the flesh. An expression that said it all:

Like a little boy who had just been offered a bag of sweets.

Sophie Maurer walked slowly across to the settee. They were conversing, but the audio on the tape was switched off. Sophie Maurer unzipped the jump-suit and wriggled out of it. It slid to the floor like a second layer of shed skin. She stood there in just a white bra and panties. Robert stood up. He had a silly, sheepish grin on his face. He looked around the apartment, as if seeking out any hidden eyes. He obviously didn't find them for he let Sophie Maurer take him by the hand and lead him to the bedroom. As they reached the bedroom door, the hidden camera zoomed in close on the back of Sophie Maurer, then closer still, resting on her lower back to display a tattoo; a tattoo of a stick insect that looked like it was praying. The Mantis took Robert inside the bedroom, turning just before she entered to smile at the hidden camera. The screen went black.

'This was staged,' Hanna objected. 'You could see by the way she smiled at your camera.'

'Lost cause,' Ljudmila scoffed. 'Planned by Sophie, yes. But Robert didn't have to rise to the bait, did he?'

'Maybe he didn't,' Hanna responded. She was clutching at straws now.

Ljudmila lifted the remote towards the screen. 'Then let me take you inside the bedroom, my dear.'

'No. I don't want to see any more,' Hanna said, turning her head away. Ljudmila was right. Robert had betrayed her. The primitive hunter-gatherer with lust in his loins had remained in the core of the modern man.

'We need you to get some rest,' Ljudmila said. 'Our tests show you are approaching your fertile period. We need you to be in good shape for the operation.'

Hanna's face was full of hatred.

'Soon you will be famous,' Ljudmila said before leaving the room.

Hanna lay there like a sheep cast in the hopelessness of the situation. Cara Bell was her only hope now. She was sure they were watching her. From the observation room behind the two-way mirror. Was Cara still on her shift here? She had no idea of what time-zone they were currently in. But she would test it out. She waited awhile, hoping that Ljudmila was clear of the location. Then she summoned up all the strength she could muster in her right arm and brought it slowly over to her left arm where she seized the drip and pulled it out of her arm.

It had the desired effect. Within seconds, Cara came marching into the room. 'What do you think you're doing?' she rebuked Hanna.

'You've got to get me out of here, Cara,' Hanna whispered. 'I don't deserve this. I saved your life once. Now it's your turn to help me.'

Cara remained stony-faced. She replaced the drip in Hanna's arm with professional precision. When she did finally speak, her words were a total shock. 'Sorry, but you didn't save my life, Hanna. I was a party to the fake robbery all along. Sophie was never going to shoot me. It was all for effect.'

Hanna's heart fell away to her feet. Cara was part of the conspiracy all along? Her 'bravery' had all been for nothing? A sick joke played on her by Ljudmila and the rest of the cast. She sought out Cara's unrepentant eyes. 'And you and Randy Ryman? You were always a couple? That was part of the deception also?'

Cara's expression didn't change. 'Of course. It was to give me an alibi from any involvement in the robbery. Now you need to rest.' Before Hanna could utter another word, Cara had placed another syringe in her arm. 'Just a mild sedative this time,' she said. She took the empty syringe and left the room.

Hanna just lay there and stared at the ceiling. All hope had vanished now. She was a prisoner who would never be released. But she wasn't entirely broken yet. They could fertilise her egg with the sperm of Randy Ryman and infuse the Methuselah Gene into the embryo. But she wouldn't carry that baby full-term. She was determined about that.

Another figure entered the room. Hanna looked up. The suave features of Randy Ryman gazed down on her. He was wearing the operating attire of a surgeon – loose-fitting tunic and trousers. She stiffened in the bed. Had he come to operate on her? She tried to wriggle up in the bed, but the sedative held her down. Her body felt like a sack of stones. 'What do you want?' she confronted him.

He pointed the remote at a sensor in the ceiling. A smarmy smile spread across his face. 'Since we are going to have a baby together, Hanna, I figured we should get to know each other better,' he said.

Her expression was tight. 'If you and I have a baby Dr Ryman, it will be nothing short of rape.'

His smile remained. 'That's why we need to get together. To make this union mutually rewarding.' He sat down on the edge of the bed.

'I want you to leave,' she said coldly. 'Otherwise I'll scream.'

He didn't look fazed by the threat. 'It won't do you any good, Hanna. Cara is on her break. There's just you and me here. Mummy and daddy to little Methuselah.'

'Cara!' She screamed as loud as she could. His hand came immediately to her mouth, his fingers gripping her nose. She gagged for air. His other hand produced a roll of tape from his pocket. The hand across her mouth held one end of the tape, while his other hand fed out a length of it, then broke it off the roll. He fastened it tightly across her mouth and released his fingers from her nose. She sucked in air through her nostrils, her chest heaving for oxygen. He produced some cord and tied both her wrists to the iron bedstead.

She stared helpless as he removed his tunic and climbed onto the narrow bed beside her.

'I have dreamt about this for a long time, Dr Hayes,' he whispered in her ear.

Every ounce of her body was full of loathing as the snake-charmer prepared to claim his victim.
Chapter 70.

STRUGGLING WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE. Her only hope now was that someone would come. But it seemed unlikely. Ryman would have covered his tracks. And he had used the remote to block the surveillance camera. His body snuggled into hers on the narrow bed. She would make this as difficult for him as possible. Then he just might give up. His hands were under her surgical smock, touching her breasts, then traveling down to her belly, then back to her breasts; like a blind man's cane seeking to find a direction. Her body went rigid and she locked it down, determined not to respond to his touch. If he was going to violate her she would make him feel like he was violating a dead body.

Necrophilia

Who could take pleasure from communing with dead flesh?

Randy Ryman obviously. His hand starting stroking between her thighs. It thawed her freeze. Unlike her hands, her legs were free. She brought them together, trapping his hand like a vice. He muttered something and with his other hand he forced her thighs back apart. 'Better not to struggle, Hanna. Better to just enjoy it,' he whispered.

Had it not been for the gag pressed tight across her lips she would have spat in his face.

And then a voice cracked through the air. 'Get away from her!'

The expression on Cara Bell's face was one of total shock. 'How could you?' she berated Ryman. 'This was never part of the plan!'

Ryman's eyes were as angry as Cara's. 'Go away!' he commanded her. 'She's my patient, not yours!'

'She's Ljudmila's patient,' Cara said coldly.

Hanna's eyes were pleading with Cara's. Patient. She was a victim not a patient. And Cara had to put an end to this.

'Go away!' Ryman commanded Cara again. 'If you ever want to leave this place, go away now and forget you ever saw this!'

Cara's eyes came back to Hanna's again. Hanna sensed that glimmer of concern and conscience again in Cara's eyes. But then it was gone; vanished, like a soldier remembering that their job was to follow the orders of their superiors. Cara backed away from the bed and left the room.

Cara! Hanna was pleading behind the tape across her mouth. Don't do this to me. Where is your humanity? Your womanhood.

Randy Ryman's eyes had grown greedy. He grasped the bottom of her surgical smock and lifted it up over her head. Her naked body shone in the light of the overhead lamp. Ryman's hands gripped her outstretched wrists.

One last attempt to escape his lust.

As he moved to lie across her she brought her knees up sharply and drove them into his groin. He let out a wounded cry and rolled off her.

'Feisty,' he said through the pain. 'I like that.' He climbed off the bed and pulled some more cord from his pocket. He grabbed her right ankle and tied it to the bed end. Then he did the same to her left ankle. He removed his loose-fitting surgical trousers. The sickness stirred in her stomach. She stared with loathing at the serpent erection rising from his groin. She was a helpless victim about to be sacrificed on an altar to this perverted and fallen medical God. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. There was nothing more she could do. She would receive him in silence and hate this man until the day she died.

Ryman climbed back on the bed, astride her.

'Off the bed Dr Ryman!'

Hanna opened her eyes. Standing above her was the fair figure of Sophie Maurer. And in her hand she held a gun that was pointed at Randy Ryman's head. A startled Randy Ryman lifted his head and stared at Sophie Maurer.

'What the fuck are you doing here?' he said.

'Get off the bed!' Sophie Maurer said again.

'Or you'll shoot me?' Ryman taunted her.

'Those are my orders, yes. And nothing would give more pleasure as you well know.'

A flicker of fear crossed Ryman's features. He got off the bed and hastily put his trousers on. 'You can put the gun down,' he said to Sophie Maurer.

'No I can't,' she replied. 'You can't be trusted. Untie Dr Hayes.'

Ryman reluctantly did as he was told, freeing her legs and arms and removing the tape across her mouth. He pulled the sheet up to cover her naked body. Then he forced a smile. 'I'll be back Hanna when I sort this out,' he said above her.

Hanna couldn't speak. Her whole body was still shaking. She was looking at Sophie Maurer. Her eyes were cold and businesslike. As she said she was acting on orders. Her intervention had nothing to do with anything humanitarian. Hanna was sure that if Sophie's orders had been different she would be pointing the gun at her. But there was the emotional comment about shooting Randy Ryman giving her pleasure. Hanna remembered the shot from the taser gun at Ryman's crotch during the fake robbery. There was nothing fake about that. Some unfinished business there. Sophie Maurer led Randy Ryman from the room at gunpoint. Moments later, Ljudmila arrived.

'I'm so sorry, my dear,' she said, tight-lipped. 'That was not supposed to happen. Rest assured, Dr Ryman will be severely disciplined for this.'

Hanna stared at her. 'So does that mean you will now let me leave?'

'Good heavens no, my dear. We can divorce Dr Ryman the man from his genes. His intellect is beyond doubt. His personality and character will be offset by your own, producing what I believe will be a perfect embryo. A lot of research has gone into this, Hanna. We can't turn back now. But as I say, you have my absolute word that Dr Ryman will not bother you again.' She smiled that motherly smile again and left the room.

Hanna just lay there. Her body was still shaking. And then she did something she hadn't done for a long time.

She started to cry.
Chapter 71.

Washington DC

FRANCESCA YOUNG SAT in her apartment above the Potomac River watching Larry Hagler at Large on CNN. She had a smaller apartment in the West Wing of the White House that she used most nights of the working week. But on weekends when she had no pressing engagements she liked to come here away from the corridors of power to relax and live a small semblance of a private life. And part of that privacy was her own personal email that she accessed on a home computer away from any prying or censoring eyes at the White House. The message of most interest was still there on the screen.

My dear Francesca

It is little more than week and I am missing you very much.

I hope you will be able to return to Beijing very soon.

Your friend always.

Ling Yang

PS. I hope you got the flowers

Her eyes went to the vase by the window. The spray of roses had been delivered to her apartment by Interflora that morning. That was sweet of him. The Chinese Clark Gable. She had tried to put the General out of her mind. But it hadn't been easy. The President's words still rang in her ears. A personal relationship with General Yang is incompatible with your position in the White House.

Her job or the General.

She had opted for her job.

The mind was more important than the body.

But the news story on Hagler-at-large brought the whole Beijing experience flooding back. It was about the death of the head of Jefferson Pike and the tacky treatment this had attracted around the world. Dr Yin's prototype had become a publicity nightmare. Suicide was being touted as the likely cause of Jefferson's final demise, but some weren't so sure. Maybe his Barbie doll wife had a strong motive to see him off, thus ensuring that he would have no chance to claim back his rather wealthy estate. Whatever the truth, the opponents of the Einstein treatment (Lincoln Gale being prominent among them) were claiming that this vindicated their views. That a head without a body was an abomination of what it meant to be human and that if Jefferson had taken his own life it proved that no one in their rightful mind would ever wish to live in such a bizarre and unnatural state. Francesca still agreed with that view. At least personally. Her eyes went back to the General's email and his flowers.

The mind was more important than the body. But the body had its place in the scheme of things. It was a partnership. Like the rider and the horse.

And it further affirmed her decision not to have the procedure applied to her father. She didn't imagine he would thank her for exposing him to a media circus like the one she was watching on CNN. But what was taking her interest was the way that Larry Hagler seemed to be taking a personal stance on the issue. He was using phrases like what a tragedy this might be for the march of science if this unfortunate incident (Jefferson Pike's death) was to possibly retard the potential for medical progress and an alternative paradigm for human existence.

What was he saying here? Was he supporting the Einstein treatment? If he was he was being clever. His pitch was not like a salesman for the procedure - in your face, trying to close the deal. He was more covert, his arguments based on persuasion. And that recalled a conversation with General Yang in the restaurant in Beijing. When he had talked about another partnership; a partnership between government and the media. A partnership that had to be properly managed. By persuasion.

Later that evening, in her hotel room, the General had gone further. He had told her about a crazy idea his brother Dr Yin had. An idea he had apparently discussed with Dr Gladovitch, the CEO of the Schoch Institute; an idea that she had apparently been receptive to. An idea she had code-named Project Goebbels. Francesca had thought it preposterous, a fantasy from some warped scientific mind. The General had not expressed an opinion either way. And so the conversation had drifted on to other things. But now, watching Larry Hagler, that idea was bidding to be taken seriously.

She rose unsteadily to her feet and went to the nearby sideboard to pour herself a drink; scotch. When she poured out a measure her hand started shaking and she spilled some of it outside the glass. She had to steady her hand with her other hand to get a full measure into the glass. When she sat down and tried to take a sip of the whisky, her hand was wobbling so much she spilled more of the liquid onto her dress.

What was happening here?

But her attention was seized by the statement Larry Hagler was making on the television screen. And maybe it explained his support for the Einstein treatment.

'This is my last appearance on Larry Hagler at Large,' he was telling his audience with a poker face. 'This might be the best kept secret in the media.' He forced a smile. 'You see folks, I have been diagnosed with testicular cancer, a condition my doctors tell me is terminal. Now please understand, it's not sympathy I want here. I've had a long and blessed life. And I want to thank you the audience, without whom none of this would have been possible.' His voice cracked just a little. 'I love you all. This is Larry the Hound Hagler signing off for the last time.'

The television screen cut to a commercial. Francesca stood up. She knew instinctively that she needed to give Larry Hagler a call.

But her hand was still shaking too much to operate her phone.
Chapter 72.

The Schoch Institute

SHE HAD BEEN VIOLATED. They had removed eggs from her ovaries. Yesterday. They had sedated her then taken her to the operating theatre along the corridor. She remembered the medical team. Mostly familiar faces, but Randy Ryman wasn't among them. The surgeon was Dr Karl Meisman, the surly German who was head of the Bio-technology department and who had also been present on the day of the fake robbery. Meisman who was clearly one of Ljudmila's inner circle. They had anesthetized her, probably to stop her protesting about what they were about to do; perform theft on her body, a clear infringement of her human rights. But these were medical staff who apparently hadn't heard of the Hippocratic Oath.

And now she was back in the Recovery Room, awaiting the second half of the procedure when they would implant this 'super-embryo' born of her egg and Randy Ryman's sperm back into her body. A super-embryo infused with the Methuselah Gene.

It was a process she knew that would take some time, though how much time she didn't know. She was considering her options – limited as they were. Ryman's assault on her had almost broken her resolve to fight this. Flight, submit to their wishes was starting to look like her only option. And Ljudmila had so far kept her promise, for she hadn't sighted Randy Ryman since. But a part of him was still coming her way and that thought continued to fill her with revulsion. As did the thought of Robert and Sophie Maurer.

She was totally alone now, in a prison that had no doors or windows. They had removed her drip but there was no way out. She knew, thanks to Randy Ryman, where the surveillance camera watching her was in the ceiling. And behind the mirror glass running along one wall she also knew there was a nurse and maybe security personnel watching her also. Even if she could somehow make it through the locked door to her room she was sure the surveillance camera would activate an alarm. She had no token to leave Level Five, so where would she go? Back through the ceiling again? They would have somehow sealed that exit off by now. So did she still have the will to fight this? She didn't know. And what seemed to make her situation worse was the realization that all of this had been a carefully crafted plan right from the beginning.

From Day One. When she first came to Schoch.

Her recruitment had been a double bonus for Ljudmila. She had been brought here to cure Eugene Schoch's Huntington's, there was no disputing that. But her secondary purpose had always been for this: the mother of a new generation of Methuselah children; through the germ line; Project Darwin. It accounted for the extensive medical testing she had undergone before being accepted for the position. And the detailed interest in the medical history of her family. And again on arrival at Schoch – more tests; to ensure a healthy body and a healthy mind. It all led to this:

She was chosen.

To produce the Methuselah elite.

And with hindsight, Ryman's first words to her had been not only prophetic but issued with inside knowledge as well.

Dr Hayes. Such a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure we are going to get to know each other extremely well.

Not just the words of a sleazy snake-charmer. But also the words of one of the architects of Project Darwin.

The revulsion rose further in her chest.

A black nurse she had never seen before came into the room carrying a tray of food. She set it down on a small table that fitted across the bed.

They had to feed her up. A mother needed her nutrients. But food could also be her final act of protest. A hunger strike. They would force-feed her of course. But it would make it difficult for them and might even force them to abandon their plan. She had to cling to something. Fight not flight. Her sanity depended on it.

She swept the tray of food off the table and onto the floor where the plate broke and spilled its contents all over the carpet. The new nurse looked startled. She bent down, scraped up the food and scurried out of the room without comment. Now for their reaction.

It came maybe fifteen minutes later. This time Cara entered the room carrying another tray of food. 'You must eat,' she commanded Hanna.

'Make me,' Hanna challenged her.

Cara stood by the bed holding the tray. 'Is giving up one of your eggs for science really worth all this fuss?'

'They're my bloody egg! My decision!' Hanna said angrily. 'And then you want me to carry a baby I don't want! You don't understand my fuss?'

Cara looked away. 'I don't agree with that part,' she said, quietly. 'But it's not my decision.'

'So you do have some moral code then?' Hanna taunted her.

'Of course. Who do you think blew the whistle on Randy Ryman?'

Hanna nodded. 'Thank you. So what is the current situation between you and Dr Ryman?'

Cara's expression was sombre. 'Our relationship is over. Obviously, I don't approve of what he tried to do to you. And obviously it didn't show any respect for me either. He has a history of chasing women as I'm sure you know. I've tried to ignore it. But this time he went too far. Much too far.'

Hanna just had to ask the question. 'This history. Does it include Sophie Maurer?'

Cara nodded. 'According to Sophie, Randy once tried to drug her to seduce her. But things didn't go as planned. So there's no love lost there.'

He's lucky she didn't kill him, Hanna thought. If anyone ever had cold-blooded killer eyes, Sophie Maurer did. 'So what's happened to Dr Ryman?' she asked. 'Ljudmila said he would be disciplined.'

Cara looked away. 'Believe me, he has been dealt with severely. Ljudmila was furious about his behaviour.'

Ljudmila was furious? Why couldn't she see that rape in a test tube was just as heinous? 'So what was his punishment?' she demanded of Cara.

Cara held her gaze. 'He's been dismissed from his position.'

'Dismissed? But surely Ljudmila wouldn't want him outside telling stories?'

Cara's expression gave nothing away. 'Who said he's left the premises?'

Before Hanna could question Cara further, Cara placed the second tray of food in front of her, holding onto the rim of the plate with her hand. 'You must eat, Hanna. You need to build up your strength.'

'For a baby I don't want,' Hanna said, bitterly. 'Something even you don't support.'

Cara was looking at her strangely. Hanna sensed that glimmer of conscience again in her eyes. Cara handed her a small plastic folder. 'The menu for the rest of the day. Please read it.' That strange expression was still in Cara's eyes as she wheeled away to leave the room. Hanna opened the folder. On one side was a menu, but on the other side there was a written message:

Be careful! You are being watched and listened to.

I was shocked by what Randy Ryman tried to do to you and I disapprove of making you carry a baby you didn't ask for and don't want. When the 'robbery' happened on Level One Sophie Maurer would never have shot me. But you didn't know that so your bravery that day was real. I understand that now. In view of all this I want to help you escape. But we need to feed you up first. So start eating! If you want my help lift a spoon of soup up to your nose.

Hanna couldn't believe this. Was it just another cruel trick to torture her? She took a spoon off the tray, dipped it in the soup bowl and lifted it to nose height.

Cara came immediately back into the room. 'Food to your liking?' she said. She took the menu off the table. Hanna nodded, watching Cara closely. 'Good,' Cara said. She gave Hanna a quick smile. 'We should have you back to normal in a couple of days.' She left the room.

A couple of days. Could she wait that long? What if the embryo was ready for implant before then? Unlikely. And Cara was right. She needed to be fit to escape from here. But how was Cara going to get her out of here?

She ate the rest of the food, greedily. She just hoped the surveillance camera in the ceiling wouldn't notice the determined gleam that had returned to her eyes.
Chapter 73.

CARA SMUGGLED HER MORE NOTES at meal times that day and the one that followed, each time quickly taking them back once Hanna had read them. The escape plan was to get to the basement again and exit by the exterior door that had no inside lock. But not through the air ducts in the ceiling this time. There was apparently a waste chute in the operating theatre that led directly to the furnace in the basement. Cara had assured her that the furnace would not be alight. She hoped Cara was right about that. She would take Cara's internal keys. Cara believed this was Hanna's best chance, any attempted escape up the lifts to Level Three being problematic, with the additional hurdle of getting through security at the main entrance.

She would leave in the early hours of the morning again when no one should be around on Level Five, apart from Cara the night nurse. The plan was that Cara would disable the surveillance camera (and hopefully the alarm system with it). Hanna would then inject Cara with sedative to make it look like she had surprised her and overpowered her with the syringe she was carrying. Cara told her where her personal things were stored in a locker room next to the office. She suggested that Hanna travel as light as possible. Once outside the building, under the cover of darkness, she could follow the road that led further up the mountain to the village of Leysin. And when she reached Leysin, she could go to the local police station. Cara was sure that Schoch had no covert arrangements with the local law enforcement.

Why don't you come with me was Hanna's question to Cara.

I'll be fine here. Don't you worry, was Cara's written reply.

The final message came at lunchtime the next day.

Tonight. I am on the night shift

Hanna tried to doze and sleep for the rest of the day. Her mind was a cocktail of apprehension and elation at the prospect of the night ahead. Fight and flight. Leave this chamber of horrors. She was sure it was the right decision. And if she could get away without the alarm going off she was sure she could get up to Leysin under the cover of darkness. But she wouldn't go to the local police. She would ring Sheldon Ramsay in Berne. He would know what to do. His number was in her purse, hidden inside her make-up bag. And she would stay out of sight until she reached him.

It seemed an age before Cara finally came back on duty just before midnight. She gave Hanna the thumbs up, out of sight of the surveillance camera. And then she used the remote to disable the camera. 'Hurry,' she urged Hanna. 'There's a direct feed to the Security Centre on Level Three. It depends what screens they are watching, but short blackouts are common. I figure we have about five minutes of safety before it should be switched back on. Hanna was out of bed like a shot. Her heart sunk a little. After several days of being bed-ridden her legs felt weak and rubbery. But her determination would see her through. She went quickly to the outer office.

Cara had her things laid out on the table and some warm clothing. Hanna tore off her surgical robe and donned the clothing. She filled the pockets of her track pants with her money purse, complete with ID and credit cards, her mobile phone and her passport. She clasped her watch onto her wrist and rummaged in her make-up bag, retrieving Sheldon Ramsay's number. There was no room for much else. She slipped into a pair of sneakers. Then her and Cara took some spare pillows back into the Recovery Room and placed them in the bed with the sheet pulled up so what the surveillance camera would appear to see would be a sleeping body, turned away from its lenses. They hurried back to the outer office. Before Cara exited the room she re-activated the camera.

In the safety of the office, Cara handed Hanna her keys. 'And you might need this,' she said, giving Hanna a torch. And then she took a loaded syringe from her desk and jabbed it into her arm. Her last words before she slumped unconscious across the desk were: 'I'll be fine. Good luck.'

Hanna didn't even get a chance to thank her. She headed out into the corridor. She looked up and down. There was no sign of anyone. And according to Cara, there was no surveillance out here. She should have plenty of time. She went to the adjoining laboratory, letting herself in with Cara's keys. There was a fridge on one wall. She opened the door. There was a tray of test-tubes inside with the label: HH & RR.

The embryos. She took the tray, went to a toilet off the corridor and flushed all the contents of the tube down the toilet. A Methuselah child that would never be born. She went back out into the corridor and headed for the operating theatre. She was half-way along the corridor when a sign on another Recovery Room accosted her interest.

PROJECT HAL

She caught her breath. Mind uploading. From a human brain to a computer. Had they really achieved that here? Developed the technology to read and transfer the contents of a mind? She knew she shouldn't go into the room. The door might be alarmed. But her curiosity drove her. She opened the door. It led to an office – another viewing room, like the one she had just left. She stared, as the shock of what she saw on the other side of the mirror glass jolted in her chest. On a metal table the naked body of a man was laid out. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. He might have been sleeping, but his whole demeanour suggested he was dead.

Randy Ryman.

On his head was some sort of metal crown, like a helmet, with wires coming out of it, connected to a large video monitor. And on the screen the words:

THE MIND OF DR RANDY RYMAN

Download here.

There was a smaller screen on the desk with the same message and a keyboard nearby. Hanna clicked on the Download icon. Words scrolled down the big screen:

I want you babe . Your body. You and me. It's all I think about day and night ... sex ...sex ...sex

The mind of Randy Ryman. One of the intellectual elite.

She staggered back out into the corridor. It was a shock, but she didn't have any sympathy for this womanizer and would-be rapist. It seemed fitting that he was now locked inside this prison for the remainder of his electronic life. And then another sign on another Recovery Room caught her eye.

PROJECT GOEBBELS

She didn't recall seeing that in the Control Centre. Goebbels. What was the significance of that? Again, her curiosity got the better of her. She opened the door. It led to another office with another one-way mirror. She stiffened and felt the jolt again in her chest. On the other side of the glass was the head of another Einstein mounted on a box.

Robert.

She recoiled in horror. Who had done this to him? And why?

He couldn't see her behind the glass, but he was talking, seemingly to himself. There was a console on the desk. She flicked the Audio switch. His words came through the speaker above the desk.

'At Schoch we are dedicated to the highest purposes of medical research for the betterment of humankind. At Schoch we value integrity, transparency, individual human worth and we abide by the highest possible ethical standards.'

Hanna gagged for air. Was she really hearing this? After what she had been through?

From the mouth of Robert?

The head of Robert.

Goebbels. She knew about him. One of Adolph Hitler's key advisors in Nazi Germany. She had seen a film about this.

Joseph Goebbels. Hitler's Minister of Propaganda.

Instinctively, she opened the door to the Recovery Room. She knew she shouldn't go in there, but she had to see him. His head stared at her as she entered.

'Who are you?' he demanded.

She stared at his blank eyes. 'Robert? Don't you know me?'

He raised his eyebrows, quizzically. 'Sophie? Is that you?'

'No, it's me. Hanna.'

'Hanna?' he said. The name didn't seem to register any connection on his face. And then he started to repeat his spiel, like someone had pushed a replay button.

'At Schoch we are dedicated to the highest purposes of medical research for the betterment of humankind. At Schoch we value integrity, transparency ...'

They had brainwashed him. Project Goebbels. For the purposes of propaganda.

She saw the red sensor flashing in the corner of the ceiling. She backed quickly out the doorway. But too late. The alarm started shrieking, like a demented animal in pain, filling the room and the corridor outside it.
Chapter 74.

HANNA RAN ACROSS THE CORRIDOR to the operating theatre, the alarm screaming all around her. She unlocked the door of the operating theatre and went inside. The waste chute was in a small alcove out the back. She lifted the heavy, metal lid. The chute was just big enough for a human body to fit through. She wondered, fleetingly, what sort of waste went down here, but there wasn't time to dwell on that. She shone Cara's torch down the dark well. She could see into the furnace below. There was no sign of any flames or trace of any heat. She climbed in, feet first and let herself slide down it. It was nowhere as far or frightening as the fall had been down the air duct from the ceiling. When she hit the bottom her fall was cushioned by a bed of soft ash that ballooned up all over her. Using the torch, she crawled over to the grille door of the furnace and let herself out. She could hear the alarm still ringing above the ceiling in Level Five, but it wasn't wired to sound down here.

The basement was still dimly lit. She ran the length of it, rounding the L-shaped corner, to the exterior door, but then stopped still, her heart pounding in her chest. There was now a strong iron bar across the door chained to the wall by a padlock. Panicking, she tried the door. It was locked fast. What to do? She couldn't stay here. After her last attempt at escape with Robert, they would soon make a beeline for the basement. But there was no other way out. Apart from the lift at the other end of the basement. According to Robert, that went all the way up to Level Three. But they would be monitoring that. Wouldn't they? But there was nowhere else to go. She started running back the way she had come.

She rounded the L-shaped curve and headed for the lift. But then she heard the sound of the lift descending to the basement. They were coming to look for her. She was back at the place where Robert and her had come out of the air duct. The furnace and the boilers were on her right. She heard the hissing sound of the lift door open. She dived in behind the boilers – there was a small space there between the back of the boilers and the wall. Her heart was hammering against the walls of her chest. And then she saw a moving beam of light scudding along the floor. Torchlight, bright against the dimness of the lighting down here. From her cramped hiding place she saw two legs walking past her. She moved her head to take advantage of a small crack of vision between the two large boilers. She saw the full figure walking past her just a few feet away: the acne-scarred face of the Security Director, Jacques Mornay, moving slowly down the basement, sweeping his torch back and forth across the floor with one hand, his other hand holding a gun.

He went right past her, towards the L-shaped bend that led to the exterior door. She was trapped. Like a rat in a sewer. And that thought brought a sudden inspiration. She was staring over at the other side of the basement where the large pipe ran along the wall. A sewer pipe according to Robert. And back towards the lift, some kind of hatch on top of it. An inspection hatch maybe? She didn't have much time. Mornay would come back around that corner soon once he realized she was not in that part of the basement. She crawled out from behind the boiler and ran across the room to the pipe. She scrambled up the metal ladder leading up to the hatch and opened the heavy, metal lid. It groaned on its old hinges and a faint, rancid odour rose out of the pipe to greet her. Rubber bands snapped in her chest. She couldn't imagine what she was about to climb into. But her life depended upon her getting into that pipe. She was sure of it. She looked quickly down the basement. No sign of the returning Mornay yet. She stabbed a beam of her torch into the pipe. Apart from a thin film of rust-coloured water on the bottom of the pipe, it was empty. She expelled a sigh of relief and climbed down through the hatch. But then a problem. The interior of the pipe was about eight feet in diameter, large enough for her five foot-four inch height to stand up in without touching the top. But she couldn't now reach the hatch to close it. Maybe Mornay wouldn't notice it, positioned as it was half-way up the wall. Adrenalin swirling through her body, she started to run down the pipe, with no idea where she was heading.

Jacques Mornay was moving slowly back through the basement. There were lots of places a person could hide down here – among piles of discarded furniture, old machinery and empty drums. But so far he had discounted all possible places of refuge. If she was down here the only other bolt hole she had was the lift that went straight back to Level Three. But one of his men was guarding that exit at the top. He made contact with Ljudmila on a hand phone via a special frequency installed for the lower levels of the building and reserved for use by only a special few.

'There's no sign of her down here,' he informed Ljudmila. 'I am just checking around the boilers here. That's about the last place she could be.'

Ljudmila's frustration was evident in her voice. 'There is no sign of her on Level Five either. But we're still looking.' When the alarm had sounded, Ljudmila had immediately mobilized the total contingent of security staff, getting some of them out of their beds. They had found Cara Bell unconscious at her desk, the empty syringe nearby. It all added up to a quick picture of what had occurred here, though parts of that picture were still puzzling Ljudmila.

How had Hanna Hayes managed to get out of her bed, unseen, and overpower Cara? And she would have had to have got the anesthetic and the syringe first from the locked laboratory along the corridor. If she caught Cara unawares when she was still in her bed it would have made more sense. But it hadn't happened that way. Unless Cara had been asleep at her desk. Whatever, she would get Security to review footage from the surveillance cameras once they had found Hanna Hayes. And that last part was non negotiable. They had to find her. Not only would her escape put Project Darwin at risk, but it was obvious from where the alarm had been activated that Hanna Hayes had seen the results of Project Goebbels and possibly Project HAL as well. That made her capture compulsory.

Jacques Mornay was walking back towards the lift. 'She's not here,' he confidently told Ljudmila. 'I will take the lift back to Level Three and then-' He stopped mid sentence. The beam of his torch had come to rest on the sewer pipe that ran along the wall and on something in particular on top of the pipe. An open hatchway.

'Jacques?' Ljudmila barked from his phone. 'Everything all right?'

'Moment,' Mornay replied. He walked over to the metal ladder and climbed up it to the top of the pipe. He shone his torch down the opening. And then he lay his head across it, listening for any sound coming from the bowels of the earth. And he heard it – an echo of something drumming in the distance inside the interior of the pipe. 'She's in the sewer pipe,' he told Ljudmila.

'What?' came the reply.

'She's in the sewer pipe. I can hear her footsteps running.'

'Then go after her!' came the command.

Mornay's stomach turned a little. There was a faint, fetid smell coming out of the pipe. What you would expect from what this pipe conveyed. 'Where does this pipe go?' he asked Ljudmila.

'To a treatment pond further down the mountain,' she told him. 'And don't worry. I'll ensure there's no discharge down the pipe from the holding tanks outside the building. Just find her and bring her back.'

'Dead or alive?'

There was a pause. 'The former is fine by me,' Ljudmila finally said. 'She has outstripped my patience has Dr Hayes.'

That would be fine by him too. But when he killed her he wouldn't be bringing her back. When the next discharge came gushing down the pipe her final resting place would be this sewerage pond somewhere down the mountainside. He climbed down into the pipe.

She was running as fast as her legs could carry her. The pipe was following a gentle downhill gradient. There were long, straight sections, but occasionally it veered off at right angles only to straighten up again before reaching the next bend. She was sure it had to terminate somewhere, but where that would be and into what she didn't know. Robert hadn't told her that. Robert. His fate still haunted her fleeting thoughts. She knew he would never have willingly agreed to become an Einstein. It had been forced on him by an act that was tantamount to murder; more blood on Ljudmila's horrible hands. She had to be brought to justice and only Hanna's evidence could do that. More reason why her escape had to succeed.

She had to stop to catch her breath. All those days confined to a bed were taking their toll. She was close to hyperventilating. Her lungs were heaving out of control in her chest. Had Jacques Mornay seen the open hatch in the basement? Or had she been lucky? She listened for any other noise in the tunnel of pipe. But all she heard was silence. She had to keep moving. Just in case they did come after her. And she had to escape the clawing claustrophobia that was starting to engulf her.

Shortly, she reached another right-angled bend. Another long stretch of tunnel followed. She was about half-way along it when she tripped on something and fell headlong to the floor. She shone her torch around her feet. What she had tripped on was a rock about the size of a basketball. Where had that come from? She shone the torch on the roof of the tunnel. There was a hole in the pipe, a little larger than the rock. She stood up and explored it with the torch, but she couldn't reach the opening with her hands. The pipe was somewhere inside the mountain, imprisoning her somewhere in the bowels of the earth. She pulled out her cellphone. There was little chance there would be any coverage down here, she thought. But she had to try. She dialed Sheldon Ramsay's number. It was still the middle of the night, but if she could reach him she could leave him a message that hopefully he would get when he awoke in the morning. The sign came up in the luminous screen:

No network coverage

She put the phone back in her pocket. And then more rubber bands snapped in her chest as another beam of light lit up the pipe behind her. They were coming after her. Whoever it was they were on the other side of the right-angled bend behind her. But once they rounded the corner they would see her. She had to get to the next bend first.

Flight. She couldn't fight.

Summoning up all the strength she could muster, she began sprinting along the pipe, her torch turned off, praying that there were not any more obstacles she might trip on, hidden in the dark. She knew the next bend was about fifteen yards ahead of her. And then she felt the beam of her pursuer's torch illuminate her head like a fiery bolt of light. She heard the explosion from his gun reverberate around the pipe like a bomb blast behind her. And the swish of something grazed her ear. She jumped around the bend in the pipe as another explosion ripped through the pipe. How had he missed her? She was a sitting duck in a space this size. It was hopeless. He wouldn't miss next time. She would never get out of here alive. And there was nothing she could do. But the adrenalin kept pumping in her veins and she kept running for her life. It was only seconds but it felt like minutes before she realized that her pursuer didn't seem to have come around the corner in the pipe. Or at least the beam of his torch hadn't. Maybe he was just getting closer to fire the fatal shot.

Jacques Mornay was lying on the floor of the pipe cursing the large rock that had caused him to fall. His ankle hurt. The pain from it was shooting up his leg. He tried to get up but fell back to the floor. And then his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket. Ljudmila. He was surprised he was still within range. But it was a special frequency. And then another message flashing on the small screen.

Battery low!

'Have you found her?' Ljudmila demanded in his ear.

'I saw her,' he said, clenching his teeth to stave off the pain. 'But she got away.'

'We go to plan B then,' Ljudmila said tersely. 'Get out of the pipe now! Come back to the basement. Shouldn't take you more than fifteen minutes. Ring me when you're out. Understood?'

Mornay climbed slowly to his feet. The ankle screamed with more pain when he put his weight on it. 'It'll take me more than fifteen minutes,' he said. 'I've twisted an ankle.' And then he noticed that the screen on his phone had turned black. He was talking to himself. He started hobbling back along the pipe. He couldn't walk properly. He couldn't ring Ljudmila either to send some assistance. What was plan B, he wondered? Probably to get someone else to the other end of the pipe; apprehend Dr Hayes when she finally emerged from this suffocating tunnel. He hoped they would take her alive. He wanted to carry out the execution himself.

Hanna paused again to catch her breath. There was still no sign or sound of her pursuer. So where had he gone? And why had he abandoned his pursuit of her? Some devious plan that she wasn't aware of? She kept on down the pipe. It seemed to go on forever; probably all the way down the mountain to Aigle, she thought. And then another sickening thought. What was there to stop Ljudmila having someone to meet her at the end? Nothing. Somehow she had to contact Sheldon Ramsay. But how? Maybe she could get reception near to the end of the pipe?

Ljudmila looked at her watch. It was now twenty-five minutes since she had spoken to Jacques Mornay. So where was he? He must be out by now. Why hadn't he rung her? She tried to ring him. But his phone seemed to be turned off and that made her angry. There was important business to attend to here. She looked at the map that showed her the path of the sewer pipe and checked her watch again. She didn't want Hanna Hayes getting clear of the pipe under the cover of night. They might never detect her in the darkness. She waited a couple of more minutes then rang another number.

'Open the water valves in the sewer pipe,' she told the person at the other end.

Hanna could see a softer shade of light coming into the pipe ahead of her. When she reached it she found a metal grille had been inserted into the roof of the pipe. Some kind of inspection station. And the light coming through the roof was moonlight. The pipe had emerged from under the ground. There was a metal ladder leading up to the grille. She climbed up it. Her hands pushed on the grille and it came loose. The hole was small – about the size of her head. But there was no way she could get her slight body through it. But an idea. She took out her phone and re-dialled Sheldon Ramsay's number, holding it on the outside of the hole. Her heart leapt in her chest. It was ringing. But it went to messages. Breathless, she told him briefly what had happened, where she was, and pleaded for his help.

And then she heard a loud roar coming down the pipe. She stared, stupefied, as a wall of water nearly up to the top of the pipe came rushing at great speed around the corner towards her.
Chapter 75.

HANNA LUNGED UPWARDS, PULLED THE METAL GRILLE back in place and gripped onto it like a swimmer clutching a lifebuoy. The water came at her like a fiery wave intent on sweeping all before it. It hit her around the midriff, throwing her legs from under her like driftwood headed for the shore. But she held on tight to the grille above her head. How long could she stay there hanging on by a thread? Would this torrent finally subside? Her torch had been washed away, but the moonlight filtering through the grille provided her with some vision of her plight. Something thudded into her lower body and lodged against her thighs. She could just make out its shape – a drowned human body showing no semblance of life. She recognized the dark, dead face before the gushing water dislodged the body and swept it away down the pipe. Jacques Mornay, the former Director of Security.

She maintained her grip on the grille. But her arms were aching now, crying out for release. She managed to remain there for maybe another half-minute before her hands finally surrendered to the wishes of her lower body. She was in the torrent now, at the mercy of its passage, flung like that hapless piece of driftwood towards a distant shore. It was like being in a washing machine, turned over and over, her mouth doused in the swirling water, then her head above it gasping for air. She forced herself to go with the flow; relaxing, flight not fight. She was the swimmer of her youth, a part of the water, not an alien at its mercy. She could survive this – breathing when the water released her from its controlling grip, holding her breath in check when it overwhelmed her. Stay calm, stay calm. She had once held the record for underwater swimming at school. She needed to go back there. Stay calm, stay calm, go with the flow.

The pipe suddenly dipped downward – almost ninety degrees. It was like being in a super hydra slide that plummeted her in almost free fall down the mountainside. She gulped in air and held it in her burning lungs. Four minutes holding her breath under water. Her record as a teenager. Now she needed to better it.

Her lungs were bursting. She couldn't hold it in much longer. Defy death or drown. That was the challenge. And then she was propelled from the pipe like a bullet released from the narrow barrel of a gun. It spewed her out into a wider body of water; some kind of lake or pond. The taste of it in her mouth was foul but the water was clear. She came up for air, like a diver seeking to become mammal again. The moonlight rippled across this 'lake' showing her a nearby shore. With tiring and aching limbs she struck out for the land.

There were rocks that grazed her knees, but she pulled herself wearily up into the foliage overhanging the bank. She was the drowned victim that somehow had been saved. She lay in that foliage; the mammal returned to the land. The full moon cast dappled rays of light on the surface of the water. And then it was joined by a much more powerful beam that swept across the surface of the lake and bruised the forest canopy where she lay. She shrunk back into the darkness. The powerful spotlight moved on past her. They hadn't given up. They were still seeking their quarry.

She crawled further back into the safety of the forest canopy. Her clothes were clinging wet to her body. She shivered with the sensation. She was fortunate. It was the height of summer. If it had been the middle of winter, soaked to the skin as she was, hypothermia might have claimed her. But the wetness imposed by the clothes against her skin still made her exposed to the unforgiving effects of the elements. Her decision to wear a synthetic fleecy vest instead of a woolen jumper turned out to be a wise choice. To wring the water out of wet wool would have been almost impossible. But she was able to wring out the fleece and her track pants with grasping fingers. She still had her purse and her passport in her pocket, though they were both sopping wet. But the torch and her phone were gone. Not knowing the topography of the area she needed to remain here until sunrise. Her body was shaking and her teeth were clattering with the cold, but the adrenalin focused her on survival. She couldn't give up now. Fatigue overwhelmed her. She tried to stay awake, but in the end sheer exhaustion made her fall asleep.

She awoke with the sun spreading fingers of light across the tops of the mountains, warming the land. From her hideout on the fringe of a pine forest, the small lake, or treatment pond as it probably was, lay nestled in a shallow valley. The vegetation sprang sheer around the perimeter. On the other side of the lake from where she sat there was a gravel road snaking down to the foreshore of the lake. And above it on a small rise was a small, wooden building, a shack, most probably some kind of control centre to manage the treatment pond.

She scanned the perimeter of the lake. No sign of anyone. No sign of the source of that powerful searchlight she had seen on her arrival. She shivered with the dampness that still existed in all the pores of her skin. And then she saw the dusty cloud of a vehicle driving down the gravel road towards the shore of the lake. She watched it come, then park by the lake's edge. A figure climbed out of the canopy. A burly figure with silver hair. Sheldon Ramsay. He walked down to the lake. Elation overwhelmed her. She stood up and shouted to him across the water. He heard her.

'Hanna!' he shouted back. 'Can you get over to here?'

She yelled out that she could. She started picking her way around the verge of the lake. The perimeter she had to travel to get to Ramsay was maybe three hundred yards. When she reached the other side she lost sight of Ramsay, the road where he was being shielded by pine trees. She found a small track there and followed it. She finally emerged from the forest. She could see Ramsay's vehicle about thirty yards away at the side of the road. But there was no sign of Ramsay. And then she saw something that made her heart leap in her chest. There were two feet sticking out from behind a large log. She took several nervous paces towards it. Ramsay's glassy eyes stared up at her. But he wouldn't recognize her now. The pool of blood still pumping from his chest made sure of that.

'Welcome home Dr Hayes.'

Hanna spun around. Sophie Maurer stood a few feet away, a gun in her outstretched hand. Hanna gulped in air. Her eyes flicked back to Ramsay. 'Did you really have to kill him?' she demanded of the fair assassin.

Sophie's face was expressionless. 'It's my job, Dr Hayes. Removing obstacles.'

'Like Michael Glade?'

'Your former boyfriend? He was a waste of space.'

'And Robert was the same?'

A smug smile crept over Sophie's lips. 'I quite liked Robert. And he was good in bed. But he's gone on to higher things.'

Hanna was breathing hard. 'So now it's my turn?'

Sophie shrugged. 'That's up to Ljudmila. She's still thinking about that.'

'I'll carry the baby. Tell her that,' Hanna blurted out. It was worth the price of her life.

Sophie inclined her head. 'Behind me there's a track up to the Control Station. I have a vehicle there.'

Hanna walked in front with Sophie Maurer behind her. The track wound up through a patch of scrubby vegetation. The wooden shack she had seen from the other side of the lake was perched on top of a rise. Beside it was a white van and painted on its side the words:

THE SCHOCH INSTITUTE

Science for a better future

'Lean against the van with your hands on the roof,' Sophie ordered her.

'So you can shoot me in the back?'

'Do as you're told!' Sophie snapped.

Hanna obeyed. She couldn't control the shaking that shivered through her body. But if Sophie Maurer was going to kill her, wouldn't she have done it by now?

'I have retrieved the target,' she heard Sophie say behind her. She was obviously on the phone to Ljudmila. 'What are your instructions?' Sophie continued. A brief pause, then, 'I'm sorry you're cutting out.'

Sophie hadn't heard what Ljudmila had said. Ljudmila's voice was breaking up. She turned away, seeking a better signal. Ljudmila's voice came suddenly clear in her ear.

'Kill her,' came the instruction.

'Understood,' Sophie said. She turned back to the van and stared. Hanna Hayes had disappeared. She ran to the other side of the van where the road set off down the rise, looping to join with the road by the lake. There was no sign of Hanna Hayes. But the pine plantation squeezed up hard against the road. She must have run down into the trees, or had she gone back down the track to the lake? Sophie Maurer swore under her breath. She had her instructions. She would find her target and carry them out.

When Sophie was on the phone to Ljudmila, Hanna had turned her head. She saw Sophie turn away trying to pick up the signal. Hanna made her move; one last bid for freedom. She dropped to her knees and scrambled under the van, hunching up inside the rear wheel. She saw Sophie Maurer turn back then run to the other side of the van, before heading a short distance down the top road, searching on the fringe of the forest. Hanna slid quickly out the other side of the van and ran back down the track to the lake. Her body felt like a collection of loose bones held together with string. She passed by Sheldon Ramsay's body. She would try and lose Sophie Maurer in the forest. She didn't know what she would do after that. For now it was all about survival. And then she noticed something half-hidden in a pile of pine needles, a few feet away from Ramsay's body. The handle of a gun.

She reached down and picked it up. She had never held a gun before in her life! And then directly above her something was crashing towards her in the scrubby undergrowth. Her hand shook as she pointed the gun in the direction of the noise. Sophie Maurer emerged into the clearing. Her face registered unexpected surprise at the gun pointed at her chest. Hanna pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The trigger was stuck fast.

The movies. All those movies that fast-flashed through her head.

Some guns had safety catches.

Sheldon Ramsay had no time to release his before Sophie shot him. The gun had been thrown clear of his hand by the impact of her bullets.

The surprise on Sophie Maurer's face had turned to relief. 'Give me the gun,' she said, holding out her hand. Her other hand was moving slowly for her own gun in the holster on her hip. Hanna's thumb was resting on a raised button on top of the handle of Ramsay's gun. It slid forward. Sophie's gun was out of its holster and coming up fast. Hanna squeezed the trigger again.

POP! POP!

Sophie Maurer staggered a few paces backwards before she fell to the ground. Blood spurted from her chest, then dribbled from her mouth. Her eyes had that unexpected look of surprise again. Almost in slow motion she raised the gun that was still in her hand off the ground in the direction of Hanna. Hanna pulled the trigger again.

POP! POP!

Sophie's head jerked backwards and then lay still on the ground. Hanna's stomach was retching. She stood there watching Sophie Maurer, her own gun still raised, for several minutes. Then she dropped the Glock to the ground. She went over to Sheldon Ramsay's body and with her fingers closed his eyes. In his pocket she found a cellphone. She scrolled through the directory and soon found the number of the Berne office. She rang it. A strange calmness had come over her as she told the person who answered who she was and what had happened. She had to repeat it all over again to a second person she was connected to.

Then she climbed further up the hill, finding a grassy knoll that overlooked the lower valley against the backdrop of the Alps Vaudois. She had a good view of the road winding down the mountain to the lake. Would Ljudmila send more of her security forces looking for her? They wouldn't find her up here. Unless they had dogs, she suddenly thought. She sat and waited for help to arrive.

It was just over an hour later when she heard the flapping of rotor blades echoing around the mountains. The helicopter emerged in a blank, blue sky and fluttered down the mountainside towards her.

Friend or foe she couldn't exactly be sure.
One month later
Chapter 76.

Berne; Switzerland

HANNA SAT IN HER APARTMENT and watched the horror unfold on Swiss television. The Schoch Institute was turning into a ball of fire. Flames leapt out of the windows on both floors where the heat had already shattered the glass. And on the roof, more flames licked from under the eaves and danced on the roof under a darkening sky. She wondered whether the inferno was raging under the ground in the precincts of Sector B as well. Whatever, the television coverage was reporting that most of the staff that worked there had vacated the site over the last week. But it appeared that a small number of staff were still trapped in the building. Hanna watched with a sickening stomach as the fire-fighters tried valiantly to enter the building, but on each attempt being driven back by the intensity of the flames. Until finally their attempts to rescue anyone trapped inside were abandoned. Hanna turned off the television. Her stomach started retching.

It was almost four weeks to the day when Hanna had escaped through the sewer pipe and confronted Sophie Maurer. The helicopter, apart from the pilot, had contained a man from the American Embassy, whom she had come to know as Travis Powell, and two police officers from Interpol. The local Swiss police had arrived a short time later. After an investigation of the crime scene, the bodies of Sophie Maurer and Sheldon Ramsay had been placed in body bags and transported with the live cargo back to Berne. The policemen had interviewed Hanna there, recording the conversation, before submitting her to a medical examination and allowing her to sleep. The local police had gone to Schoch where a feisty Ljudmila denied any knowledge of Sophie Maurer and Sheldon Ramsay. And she poured scorn on stories about keeping Hanna a prisoner, live heads on life support, and a man's brain downloaded to a computer. 'We deal with scientific fact here not fantasy,' she told the police. But she did admit to Hanna being an employee there; an employee distraught and depressed about a broken love affair, she further informed the police. And Cara Bell, the woman whom Hanna claimed had helped her escape, had also denied there was any truth to Hanna's story.

Stalemate.

The next day Hanna had been given trauma counseling. And after that, a further two-day interrogation by officers from Interpol began. Travis Powell, the man from the American Embassy, sat in on all the sessions. Hanna retold her story, in much more detail this time, starting with her arrival at Schoch. Much of the earlier part they already had via Sheldon Ramsay – the fake robbery, the Methuselah scam. But now she told them about Eugene Schoch and the Einstein Project, the incarceration of her and Robert, Randy Ryman, Project Darwin, Project Goebbels, Project HAL, right through to her escape, the killings, and Sophie Maurer's confession. At times they looked at her in suspended belief as if they were listening to the plot of a science fiction-horror movie.

The day after her interrogation, or debriefing as Travis Powell called it, a team from Interpol raided the Schoch Institute armed with search warrants. But they found no evidence to back up any of her story – no Robert, no Randy Ryman, no living embryos, no remains of Eugene Schoch, or the body of the man called Methuselah. And none of the staff they interviewed corroborated Hanna's claims either. It began to look like Ljudmila's claim that Hanna was deluded and living in a fantasy world might be true.

Apart from the deaths of Sheldon Ramsay and Sophie Maurer.

Ljudmila had apparently further suggested that this was some kind of eternal triangle gone wrong. Hanna couldn't believe the audacity of the woman. Her and Sheldon Ramsay in some kind of affair? And Sophie Maurer the other woman? Was all this going to lead to her being charged with Sophie Maurer's murder?

But she had her supporters and Travis Powell from the American Embassy was one of them. Travis Powell was a sandy-haired, affable man in his mid-thirties. Sheldon Ramsay had been his mentor and he was taking Ramsay's death personally as well as professionally. 'Sheldon spoke very highly of you,' he told Hanna. 'And Sheldon was a good judge of character.'

The men from Interpol also seemed to be wavering her way. They already had evidence of the fake robbery and the Methuselah scam. And that didn't seem to make Ljudmila a very reliable witness. 'But we need to find more hard evidence of your allegations,' one of them said.

'The computer hard drives at Schoch,' she asked them. 'There must be evidence there.'

'We seized a number of their computers and their server,' the man told her. 'Our experts are analyzing them.'

They kept her in secure accommodation at the Embassy, the four-storey, bland building at 193 Sulgeneckstrasse. She wasn't exactly a prisoner again, but she couldn't leave the premises. And then the media frenzy started.

The death of Sheldon Ramsay and Sophie Maurer had been reported in the local media, as had the presence of Hanna at the scene – 'a female American citizen believed to be a research scientist from the Schoch Institute is helping the police with their inquiries,' was how the story ran. But then the international media got hold of the story and began splicing it to other past events – the fact that Sophie Maurer had been wanted by Interpol for questioning over the armed hold-up at Schoch when thieves had stolen the Methuselah Gene and later tried to market a dubious anti-ageing treatment around the world. All of which led straight back to the story of Methuselah Man and claims by the Schoch Institute that had never been verified. Were all these stories linked, the media began to ask? And they soon had Hanna's name in print and her main line of research interest.

But Travis Powell and the men from Interpol didn't want her talking to the media. They wanted to build their case against Ljudmila Gladovitch and the Schoch Institute away from the glare of a media circus. Hanna watched from a window in the Embassy as the media crews began to turn up on the doorstep only to be turned away. It reminded her of her arrival that first day at Schoch. And what the journalists couldn't authenticate, they were soon speculating on. One entry on the Internet was typical.

THE METHUSELAH FILE proclaimed the banner headline.

A wanted criminal and a high-ranking official from the American Embassy in Switzerland have both been found murdered near the Schoch Institute – the location of the dubious Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene. Dr Hanna Hayes, an employee of Schoch and an American researcher whose specialty is the treatment of the degenerative brain disease Huntington's Chorea was also found at the scene. Research has revealed that the founder of the Schoch Institute, Professor Eugene Schoch, who apparently died in 2008, suffered from Huntington's. So did Professor Schoch really die in 2008 or could he still be alive? And what other secrets might there be inside the Schoch Institute? Only the CEO of Schoch, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch and Dr Hayes know the answers to these questions. But neither of them are talking.

She was still shaken and scarred by her experience. So she buried herself re-creating her research into Eugene Schoch's Huntington's. Her copy of that research had been lost. She had requested that the Interpol computer experts keep an eye out for it when they searched the computer files. Without the hard evidence of her work on Eugene her research was pure speculation and no major research journal would be convinced by mere speculation. But she needed to write it all back up while it was still fresh in her mind. She was also aware that any public claims she made about her treatment of Eugene Schoch would only confirm the speculation in the media that Eugene Schoch hadn't died in 2008 as his tombstone in the Leysin cemetery proclaimed. But sometime in the future all of this needed to be disclosed. So she busied herself re-writing the research as a platform for future clinical trials she hoped that one day she could return to. But for the moment all this had to remain secret. Travis Powell and Interpol had insisted on that.

Two more weeks passed. Starved of any established 'facts' the story began to shrink in the media, as did the size of the media contingent at the Embassy gate. And then she was summoned to Travis Powell's office. 'There have been some positive developments in the case,' he told her earnestly.

He was right. DNA from Sophie Maurer had been matched to DNA found on the body of Michael Glade as it had to the bodies of five of her accomplices found murdered in Germany. Case closed. Nothing of great interest had been found in the confiscated computers and server taken from the Schoch Institute, but a number of them had missing hard drives. And surveillance camera records had all been erased. The investigating team were planning another visit to Schoch. One place they wanted to carry out a thorough search on was the furnace in the basement that was joined to the waste chute in the operating theatre. And that was when the fire had broken out.

It was several days before the investigators finally finished searching the burned-out remains of the Schoch Institute. Twelve bodies were discovered inside and the preliminary evidence was that all of them had been shot. Identification would take some time, dental records being the most likely way to achieve this. But whose dental records? Who were the twelve out of a total of around eighty staff? Hanna was sure she could guess. They would be people who were privy to Schoch's dark secrets: the security men who saw many of those secrets on the surveillance cameras; key medical staff who performed those covert operations down in Level Five. And she was sure that would include Cara Bell. Other discoveries had also come to light. Ashes removed from the basement furnace appeared to contain the residue of human bones. Tests were continuing. The remains of Robert, Randy Ryman, Eugene Schoch, and probably others, Hanna thought.

Schoch bank accounts had also been investigated. There was a record of significant salary payments made to most Schoch staff in preceding weeks. Redundancies? Or buying their silence maybe? But there was no transaction in favour of Hanna. She hadn't been paid for weeks. And there was no record of funds being personally uplifted by Ljudmila Gladovitch. It seemed to support the idea that Ljudmila had perished herself in the fire; more than likely she had started the fire after executing her inner cabal and then killed herself. Ljudmila's own use of the term Project Goebbels made Hanna think that this whole business was like that film she had once seen about the final days of Hitler's underground bunker in Nazi Germany's Berlin. The architect of the infamous Third Reich had apparently perished in his bunker and the architect of the infamy at Schoch had clearly decided to take the same way out. It was the end of an era; the end of a nightmare.

The media storm started brewing again, demanding answers. But it soon died away. They would have to wait until the authorities completed their investigations and that would be some considerable time away. Travis Powell informed Hanna that no charges would be brought against her in respect of Sophie Maurer's death. But she was welcome to remain in Berne awhile longer if she wished and they would provide her with a safe house and security during her stay. She accepted.

She moved into an apartment on Kochergasse with a view of the Aare River that surrounded the old city in a horseshoe. Security guards were a constant sight on the street below. She carried on writing up her research. But she did venture out under dark glasses, a blonde wig and in the company of her minders to do some sightseeing in the town. She visited the Zytglogge – the famous medieval clock tower with moving puppets in the street containing six kilometers of medieval-covered shopping arcades. She went to the Munster – the gothic cathedral and the gothic town hall. But the main attraction for her was 49 Einsteinhaus on the Kramgasse, the house of Albert Einstein. It was in Berne while working as a clerk in the Patent Office that Einstein developed his theory of relativity. The visit to the shrine of this twentieth century genius seemed fitting.

A week later she received a visit from Travis Powell. He had nothing more to report on Schoch and had come on another matter he told her. 'How is your research progressing?' he asked her.

'Almost finished,' she told him. 'I just need another live patient to apply it to.'

Travis smiled, knowingly. 'I was hoping you would say that,' he said. 'I have one for you.'

She looked at him, surprised. 'Here in Berne?'

'No. In Beijing.'

'Beijing?'

'Yes. But the subject is American. A very important American. One who resides in the White House.'

Her eyes shot wide. 'The President?'

Travis smiled. 'No. His White House Chief of Staff.'
Chapter 77.

Beijing

SHE LEFT FOR BEIJING a week later. Travis Powell hadn't been able to tell her much more, only that the White House Chief of Staff, Francesca Young, had Huntington's Chorea and wanted Hanna to treat her. 'Why Beijing?' Hanna had asked. 'Why not in the States?'

'The Administration doesn't want any publicity,' Travis told her. 'The President is totally supportive of his Chief of Staff. But you as well as anyone know what the media are like. You can just see the headlines: Top Advisor to the President has brain disease. It presents his opponents with some nasty ammunition.'

She understood that. But she also remembered the Chinese doctor she had seen at Schoch and Eugene's comment about an agreement to produce lots of Einsteins in China. Oriental replicas, Eugene had distastefully called them. And she had seen one of those grizzly replicas in a Recovery Room near the operating theatre. But she had never seen him again. And another, Caucasian this time, had been the girlie magazine king, Jefferson Pike. And that operation had apparently been carried out in Beijing. Hanna was sure that Jefferson Pike had been a major factor in Eugene's own suicide. So was she bound for the same clinic to treat the White House Chief of Staff?

Intriguing.

It took twelve hours and three flights to get from Berne to Beijing with stop-offs at Munich and Frankfurt. When she finally arrived at Beijing's Capital Airport, after clearing Passport Control and Customs, she was met by two men in suits, one holding a placard with her name on it. They introduced themselves, with ID, as being from the American Embassy. She was glad someone was there to meet her. The size of Terminal Three was like a city in itself. They drove her in an Embassy car along the Capital Airport High Road into the city. The conversation never escalated from chit chat about the flight and Beijing in general. Eventually, they arrived at the Dongcheng District and found their way to a six-storey building, surrounded by a ring of skyscrapers in the background.

'Our destination,' one of the men said, indicating the building. From the outside it looked shabby, a back-street enterprise, hardly befitting to be treating the White House Chief of Staff. They drove into a basement carpark. The interior of the building was a pleasant surprise. She was escorted in a clean, modern elevator to the office of the Director, Dr Yin. A slight, well-dressed man wearing glasses greeted her. The same man she had glimpsed at Schoch. He introduced himself and ushered her into a small, tidy office. The men from the Embassy sat in the waiting room outside. Inside the office, a middle-aged Caucasian woman rose from a chair to meet her. She was taller than Hanna, elegantly dressed, with dark red hair.

'Francesca Young,' she introduced herself. 'It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Hayes.' She glanced around the small office. 'The Yao Clinic is not quite the Mayo Clinic,' she said, apologetically. 'But Dr Yin is a world leader in his field, as of course you are also, Dr Hayes.'

Hanna dismissed the comment. 'It's not the physical surroundings that interest me,' she said. 'It's more the capability that they provide. So what does the Yao Clinic mainly provide?' she inquired of Dr Yin.

'Stem cell intervention,' he told her. 'That is our primary practice here.'

Hanna nodded. 'I have no problem with that. If the proper procedures are followed of course.'

Dr Yin gave her a half-smile. 'Of course. Please – take a seat. I have followed the story of the Schoch Institute with great interest. That fire was a terrible thing.'

'It was,' Hanna agreed.

'And a lot of unpleasant things seemed to have happened. People murdered. Suicides maybe? What exactly happened there, Dr Hayes?'

Hanna shifted uncomfortably in her chair. 'I am not at liberty to talk about events relating to the fire,' she told Dr Yin. 'All those matters are still under investigation.' She shot a quick glance at Francesca Young. Had the White House Chief of Staff been briefed on all this? If she was, Francesca Young's face was giving nothing away.

Dr Yin nodded. 'Of course. I understand. But is it true,' he persisted anyway, 'that Dr Gladovitch perished in the fire?'

'It would seem so,' Hanna conceded.

'And all Schoch's research? Lost in the fire. That's a tragedy, don't you think?'

Hanna hesitated. Dr Yin had visited Schoch. He knew about Einstein. And he probably knew about some of the other research as well. If he did, she could talk about that. She wouldn't be disclosing any secrets or hampering the police inquiry. 'There were positive things,' she said. 'Like my own research for one. But there were other things that were totally reprehensible.'

Dr Yin's eyebrows tweaked. 'Like Methuselah Man?'

'I had no major problem with that. At least not initially. But the treatment failed him in the end.' She was looking at Dr Yin when she said that. Had she been looking at Francesca Young she would've seen a sudden hardness enter the White House Chief of Staff's brown eyes.

'And the Einstein treatment?' Dr Yin probed her. 'I met Professor Schoch. He seemed to be in good heart. Or perhaps I should say head,' he added with a small grin.

Hanna took a deep breath. 'I have mixed views on that. For awhile, Professor Schoch convinced me that he was comfortable with his new life. But in the end he changed his mind.'

'He died in the fire also?' Dr Yin asked.

'No. He chose to end his own life. And I suppose that's the real point here. To me, it's all about choice. Professor Schoch exercised that choice. As I understand Jefferson Pike did also.'

She scored a point there. Dr Yin wrung his hands and averted his gaze. 'Mr Pike was a prototype. In hindsight, not a very wise one,' he said.

'A most disagreeable man,' Francesca Young said.

Hanna nodded. 'Maybe he was. But if we extend the choice argument further, if the Einstein treatment is an available choice for a scientist like Professor Schoch, why shouldn't it be a choice for a sales clerk? Or a Chinese peasant for that matter?'

Francesca Young seemed surprised by the comment. 'Not everyone can afford a Mercedes, Dr Hayes. Or a heart transplant for that matter.'

'With respect, I think you're confusing possessions and people,' Hanna responded. 'And on the latter, I believe medical treatments should be equally available to everyone.'

'But that's never going to be totally realistic, is it?' Francesca Young challenged her.

'Possibly not,' Hanna agreed. 'But then I am an idealist. And a democrat too.'

Francesca Young's face was sombre. 'As I am, Dr Hayes. A Democrat.'

'What about other projects at Schoch?' Dr Yin asked. 'Dr Gladovitch did brief me about some of those.'

Hanna felt the sickness stirring up in her stomach. She had tried to put all that behind her. But now it all came seeping back, filling her head with the nightmares of the past. 'That's where Dr Gladovitch really lost the plot,' she said. 'Where any vestige of radical scientific inquiry became clouded with evil. Did she mention Project Goebbels to you?'

Dr Yin's inquiring eyes dipped away from her gaze. 'No,' he said. 'What is that?'

'Programming an Einstein head for the purposes of propaganda.'

Dr Yin sneaked a glance at Francesca Young. 'And she achieved that?'

'Yes.' Hanna couldn't bring herself to use Robert's name. She lowered her head. 'But I believe her prototype perished in the fire also. As I assume did her prototype of Project HAL too.'

'Uploading a human brain to a computer? She told me about that,' Dr Yin said. 'A rather radical experiment I would have thought.'

'You could say that,' Hanna said. She took another deep breath. 'And finally there was Project Darwin. Did she tell you about that also?'

Again Dr Yin's eyes fell away from her face. 'Infusing the Methuselah Gene into the germ-line? She did. But she told me the likelihood of that being successful was still some years away.'

'She lied to you. I was to be the prototype for that.'

Dr Yin's eyes had come back to hers. 'Was? She didn't succeed?'

'No. I destroyed the embryo.'

'And none of this has been made public?'

'Not at this stage.' Hanna looked at Francesca Young. 'But the CIA knows the full story.'

'So will you go public with this story yourself?' Dr Yin asked her.

'Why shouldn't I?' Hanna said, stiffly. 'Ljudmila won't be coming to trial to answer for her crimes. So why should this story be kept secret? And my motivation is not just about me. I have the same objection to Project Darwin that I have for Einstein. If we are going to do that why should it only be available for a selected few?'

'Because the planet couldn't sustain generations of Methuselah's leading long lives,' Dr Yin said.

'Exactly.'

'So maybe we should stop trying to cure disease to prevent over-population of the planet?' Francesca Young said, sarcastically.

'Of course we shouldn't,' Hanna dismissed the suggestion. 'We should seek to eliminate sickness and disease wherever possible. And if people live longer as a result of that we need to find ways to make that sustainable. But ultimately, death is not a disease. It applies to all of us. It's what makes us human.'

Francesca Young was scowling inside. Hanna Hayes was starting to sound like Lincoln Gale.

'Which is why you are here,' Dr Yin said. 'To cure disease. Ms Young's Huntington's Chorea.'

Hanna nodded. 'Yes. And I will do all that I can to achieve that goal.'

Francesca Young was finally smiling.
Chapter 78.

HANNA WAS GIVEN A ROOM on Level Six at the top of the building. It was small, but clean with a comfortable bed. The view was hardly inspiring. It looked out onto the rear wall of the building next door and dropped sheer down to the ground below. The window wouldn't open. It had once, the handles were still present, but were now fastened tight to the surrounding architrave by screws. Because the building was now air-conditioned, Dr Yin told her. She was to take her meals in the small in-house restaurant on Level Three.

The following morning Dr Yin showed her the surgical suites and laboratories on Levels Four and Five. She observed a number of patients in pre and post care for various stem cell therapies. All of the medical staff she was introduced to were Chinese, but their patients were mainly foreigners. She was not introduced to any of the patients, but Dr Yin showed her some of their files. Treatments for a variety of conditions, including spinal cord injuries, blindness, cerebral palsy and skin disorders. The Yao Clinic had an eighty per cent success rate with these treatments, Dr Yin told her. But everyone was most excited about the Huntington's procedure Hanna was about to perform, though the real identity of the recipient had not been disclosed to any of the staff.

Dr Yin had allotted her a small work room on Level Three and given her a laptop She requested access to the Internet also. There was some research material she could download she told him that would assist her in treating Francesca Young. He agreed to her request, but informed her that all Internet traffic, including email, was monitored at the Yao Clinic. 'Practice policy,' he told her. So if she experienced any problems she should just contact him. But most of what she required should be accessible on the local Intranet. He clicked on the icon on the Desktop. It asked for a User Name and a Password. Dr Yin typed in a line of traditional Chinese characters in both spaces. 'Do you read Chinese?' he asked her.

'No,' she told him.

She thought he looked pleased. 'We use Chinese characters for our user names and passwords,' he said. He copied both lines and pasted them into a file on the Desktop. 'So you don't need to remember the symbols. Just paste them back every time you want to enter the site.' He pushed Enter on the keyboard. The screen listed several drives. Two of them were familiar: Methuselah and Einstein. Understandable. The Yao Clinic had been involved in both of these procedures. Dr Yin clicked on a drive labeled Diseases. A list of folders came up. He scrolled down with the mouse and clicked on Brain. A further list of sub-folders appeared. He clicked on one labeled Huntington's Chorea. A list of files appeared. Dr Yin took the mouse to a file called Patient F. 'Ms Young's records,' he said. 'You can work in here. Just create any files that you wish.' He left her alone after that.

Hanna read Francesca Young's medical file. Her father, General Eisenhower Young had been diagnosed with HD in his early fifties, only a couple of years before his untimely death. And Hanna was in luck. The General's wife, Francesca's mother's medical records were there on file also. And there was no indication that she had suffered from the disease. That meant that only one of Francesca's copies of the Huntingtin's gene was likely to be defective. Unlike Eugene Schoch. So the gene silencing technique, which Hanna had successfully applied to Eugene Schoch, should work here without the need for stem cell intervention. All Hanna had to do was create a suitable vector for implantation into Francesca's brain. She discussed this with Dr Yin. Obtaining the AAV virus would be no problem, he assured her. Samples would be available the following day.

He was true to his word. The following day she began creating the vector in a laboratory on Level Three. She worked around the clock for several days. It was easier second time around – Eugene Schoch having been the prototype. And finally she was ready to implant the vector into Francesca's brain. Dr Yin assembled a medical team. Hanna talked with Francesca. She canvassed all the risks. But Francesca put on a brave air. She put all her confidence and trust in Hanna. And Hanna was sure she could achieve a cure here. The operation went ahead. There were no complications. And now they had to wait; wait to see if the outcome was successful. Hanna remained confident.

She had to fill in time. She told Dr Yin that she wanted to go sight-seeing, this being her first time in Beijing. Dr Yin wanted to have the men from the American Embassy accompany her. But Hanna shrugged the suggestion off. She was sick of security guards watching her every movement, first at Schoch and then in Berne. She wanted her freedom. Dr Yin reluctantly agreed.

She set off the following morning. Tiananmen Square was her destination. She joined the throngs of tourists there, taking in the Great Hall of the People, the National Museum, the Monument to the People's Heroes and finally the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong. She queued there with several hundred people for a brief glimpse of the preserved body of the founder of Communist China. And a brief glimpse it was when she finally got to the crystal coffin. The Great Helmsman lay there peaceful and silent, his skin the colour of a wax-works model. Afterwards, walking back through the square, she had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was following her. She spun around; watched and waited. Lines of people streamed passed her, but no one seemed to be paying her any particular attention. She carried on to the Gate that led to the Forbidden City. She would take a tour there another day, for she imagined she would be in Beijing for some time yet.

She made her way out of the Square and onto the nearby, busy streets. There was another place she wanted to go. Not normally a tourist destination, but a place that held some interest for her, though more out of obligation than a strong willingness to go there. And still she had that over-powering feeling that she was being followed. Irrational maybe, but like a sixth sense the sensation kept dogging her. Several times she paused to survey the street behind her. Still nothing stood out, just lines of moving people and cars going even slower. Eventually she found one of the registered yellow cabs. She slid into the back seat. It soon became clear that the man didn't speak English. She handed him a piece of paper from her purse with an address on it. She had obtained it from the English Beijing website early that morning. The man stared at it, but shook his head. Then she remembered what Dr Yin had told her. Most of these taxi drivers only spoke Mandarin. She needed the address to have a Mandarin translation. She took another piece of paper out of her purse. Another address, this time in Mandarin. The address of the Yao Clinic. The taxi driver nodded and pulled away from the kerb. Her other visit would have to wait for another day.

She felt much safer once she was back inside the clinic. But had she just imagined it? The sensation of being followed. Was it just an after effect of her recent trauma? She raised the matter with Dr Yin. She put it to him bluntly. 'Did you have me followed?' she asked him.

His expression was inscrutable. 'Of course not,' he said. 'I am running a clinic here not a prison compound.'

His words sent a chill through her body. It made her think of Schoch. 'But possibly the American Embassy had you followed,' he added. 'I don't know, but you are of special interest to them, given your assignment here.'

That was possible, she thought. But why didn't they tell her?

Dr Yin folded his hands under his chin. 'When this assignment is completed,' he said, 'would you consider staying on and joining the staff here? I believe you have an exceptional future ahead of you as a medical practitioner. I am sure you will continue to push the boundaries of medical thought. We would reward you well,' he added. 'Both in fame and fortune.'

She really wanted neither. In medical terms she just wanted to make the world a better place; it was the ideologue in her, the democrat. 'I really want to return to the States,' she said. 'I think I've had my quota of living in foreign places for quite some time.'

'Think about it,' Dr Yin said.
Chapter 79.

MID AFTERNOON she visited her patient. Francesca Young was sitting up in bed on the telephone. Apart from the skullcap she was wearing, she looked in good spirits. Hanna sat down in a chair by the bed.

'Thank you Sir, thank you,' Francesca was saying. 'As I said, I feel great. And I'm sure this is going to be a success.... Yes, I will speak to you later.' She replaced the receiver on its base. She smiled at Hanna. 'The President,' she said.

Hanna was impressed. She opened the file on her knee. 'The operation went well,' she told Francesca. 'Now we just have to wait.'

Francesca smiled. 'I'm in your debt,' she said. Her eyes were studying Hanna's face. 'Of course if this is successful you have my permission to go public on this. It will make you famous.'

That word again. 'The cure for Huntington's is more important than kudos for me,' Hanna replied. She meant that, but she did concede in her mind that a successful treatment of the White House Chief of Staff would catapult her career in exciting directions. And she thought that after all she had endured maybe she deserved that.

'Dr Yin wants you to stay on working here,' Francesca said, still watching Hanna's face closely.

'Yes. But I've turned him down. I want to go home.'

Francesca nodded. 'Your choice, of course.'

Just then, somebody else entered the room. Hanna turned to see a strongly built man wearing an army uniform and holding onto a bunch of roses standing there. He held out a hand. 'General Ling Yang of the People's Liberation Army,' he introduced himself to Hanna. 'And you must be Dr Hayes?' He shook her hand. 'It is remarkable what you have achieved here.'

'It's early days yet,' Hanna reminded him. 'But the results so far are very encouraging.'

The General nodded. 'Of course. We would like to keep you in Beijing. We would be honoured to have such a brilliant researcher in our midst.'

Was this what they meant by Chinese water torture, Hanna wondered. If everyone kept on singing her praises long enough, she might change her mind? She smiled at the General. 'One thing at a time,' she said. She excused herself from the room.

Fame and fortune. Hanna wasn't sure where Francesca Young rated on that scale. But first the President of the United States and now a General in the People's Liberation Army. Her patient was certainly being feted by representatives of arguably the world's two super-powers. A powerful woman indeed. And then, through the glass partition from the corridor, Hanna saw the General place the flowers down on the bedside table, then reach over the bed and kiss Francesca Young on the cheek. It looked to be much more than a formal greeting.

Intriguing.

She returned to her small office on Level Three. The first thing she did was to take the first piece of paper she had shown to the Beijing taxi driver out of her pocket. She connected to the Internet and Googled Free Online Translator. A screen came up. She typed in the English name of the street address, clicked on Translate To:, then scrolled down to try and find Mandarin. It wasn't there but she found Chinese (simplified) and Chinese (traditional). She clicked on the latter. The screen blipped white. Seconds later, the translation came up. A surprise. It was not much different to the original, apart from a few Chinese symbols at the front. She printed it out and put the piece of paper back into her pocket. Next time she went into the city, she would show it to another taxi driver.

She went to the Intranet, pasting the set of symbols Dr Yin had given her for her User Name and Password. The list of drivers came up. She intended to write up more notes on Francesca Young, going to the drive labeled Diseases and taking the pathway to Patient F. But her eyes were resting on two of the other drives: Methuselah and Einstein. Curiosity got the better of her. She clicked on Methuselah. A dialogue box came up on the screen:

Password:

Password. All our passwords are in Chinese characters, Dr Yin had told her. Not only that, but even in English, the chances of guessing the password were about as endless as naming all of the stars in the universe.

Or were they? Dr Yin had told her that access to the Intranet was restricted to a very selected few. So why would the password need to be obtuse? Was it actually possible that it might be dead simple? Dr Yin had looked pleased when she told him she had no knowledge of traditional Chinese symbols. Maybe Dr Yin wasn't aware of the Free Online Translator. It was worth a try. She went back to the translator and typed in Methuselah in the English box, then scrolled down to Chinese (traditional). The screen blipped, then brought up a line of symbols. She copied and pasted them back into the Password Box.

Eureka. The screen went black then brought up a list of folders:

The Methuselah Gene

Methuselah Procedures

Methuselah Patients

Project Darwin

She gagged at the last one. Dr Yin had told her he had no detailed knowledge of Project Darwin. She clicked on the folder. There was only one file inside it.

The Schoch Report

She clicked. The contents froze her breath. It was a detailed report from Ljudmila on the implementation of Project Darwin at the Schoch Institute, using herself and Randy Ryman as subjects.

So Dr Yin knew all about this. But he had denied all knowledge.

Why?

And then she recalled Dr Yin's double denial. He had also told her that he knew nothing about Project Goebbels. Had he lied about that too? She clicked back to the drive labeled Einstein, went to the Password box then googled the Free Online Translator again. The screen blipped again and produced a line of Chinese symbols. She copied and pasted them into the Password box:

Again, a brief black screen, then a list of folders came onto the screen:

Einstein Prototype: Professor Eugene Schoch

Einstein Procedures

Jefferson Pike

Prospective Einsteins

Project Goebbels

He did know about Goebbels. She clicked on the folder. A list of files appeared:

Einstein as a method of Persuasion

Prototype: Robert Fisher – former Director of Communication at the Schoch Institute

Goebbels Procedures

Current treatments

Current Treatments – View

The last file was a video file. She clicked on it. It was dark and grainy – some kind of chamber where a long bench ran along one side with a row of Einstein heads sitting on their life-support boxes.; animated, making conversation. She could see six of them in the frame. The video had a zoom function. She activated it. The unseen camera took her in closer to this line of talking heads. One of them in particular. A face she had seen that very afternoon: the now talking face of the former ruler of the Chinese State: Mao Zedong.

He was babbling in Mandarin and Hanna couldn't understand a word he was saying. The camera panned left. The next five heads were more old Chinese men. They were talking in Mandarin also and engaging in debate with the head of Mao. Hanna had no idea of who they were. And then the camera zoomed left. The sixth head was Caucasian and she recognized it: Larry Hagler, the Hound behind the News on CNN. What was he doing here? She turned up the audio to listen to the head of Larry Hagler. He seemed to be talking to himself.

'Fellow Americans. It is time the two great nations of the United States and the People's Republic of China settled their philosophical differences and worked together as one powerful partnership to lead our planet into the future. World recession has shown us that the excesses of greedy, private capitalism has led to both financial and moral bankruptcy.' The head of Larry paused, as if trying to remember his next line. He gazed out into a space off camera. Maybe an autocue?

'Those who advocate the end of capitalism and globalization,' he continued, 'are misguided. Capitalism and global trade are the panacea for economic and social progress. But these are mechanisms that must be subject to the regulation of governments to protect us all. The leaders of the United States and the People's Republic of China now agree on this. The hand of government is your ally. The invisible hand of an unrestrained free market is your enemy. This is the essence of true democracy. As Abraham Lincoln famously said, Government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. This is the tenet of the new order. A new order that will protect the enlightened against the dark, primitive forces of our enemies and bring us peace and prosperity.'

Hanna's mind was racing. What was he saying? What did he mean by a partnership between the United States and the People's Republic of China? What exactly was this new order? But Larry wasn't finished yet.

'But our leaders also recognize the limits of their own intelligence. They do not seek to become philosopher-kings. They are more the Guardians of your future. In that regard, they will assemble the best brains on offer to impart their knowledge and innovation to the cause.'

Hanna sucked for air.

Philosopher-kings? Guardians? Plato's ideal Republic?

They will assemble the best brains?

Einsteins.

A cadre of Einsteins through whose inventiveness the new order would rule the world. But the heads she was watching here were not in that league. They were the PR men; front stage, working the audience; while centre stage in the full glare of the spotlight behind them the would be the leaders of the new order, and behind them – backstage, another row of talking heads: the best brains, the Einsteins, fuelling the leaders' vision of the future.

The philosopher-kings and the Guardians.

But who were these Einsteins who would provide the knowledge and the know-how for this vision? People like Eugene Schoch obviously, but he was no more. So who would be the successors of Eugene Schoch? Her mind went to another folder in the Einstein drive. She clicked back to it.

Prospective Einsteins

She clicked. There were two files in the folder:

Prospective Einsteins - Summary

Profiles

She clicked on the first one. A long list of names scrolled down the screen in alphabetical order. Some she recognized, some she didn't. Scientists – across the natural and human spectrum of all its sub-disciplines. And a number of them were Nobel Prize winners. Prospective Einsteins; with or without their consent, she wondered. Her eyes ran down the list:

Adamson

Brenner

Capeechi

Dawkins

Evans

Fire

Hawking

Hayes

She froze in her chair and looked at the whole line.

Hayes – Hanna – Neuro-molecular biologist
Chapter 80.

THEY WANTED TO TURN HER INTO AN EINSTEIN. And her previous question about consent had been answered; at least in her case. They knew she would never willingly consent to this. So were they planning to do this against her will? Dr Yin's words came back to her.

You have an exceptional future ahead of you as a medical researcher.

A head. Was that a sick joke?

This seemed to relegate Dr Yin to the same level of evil that Ljudmila Gladovitch had occupied. And clearly they had been collaborators. Dr Yin had the Schoch files on Project Darwin and Project Goebbels. He was carrying on where Ljudmila had left off. And she had told Dr Yin that she intended to go public about Ljudmila's crimes. That was another reason why he wouldn't want her leaving here.

She reached her room. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. She knew she had to get out of here. Now. But could she get out of the building? There were security guards stationed on the ground floor. They hadn't stopped her leaving this morning, so why would they now? Unless Dr Yin had already discovered her transgressions on the Intranet. And the other question: how much did Francesca Young know about all of this? The White House Chief of Staff had also brought up the matter of her remaining at the Yao Clinic, but had equally agreed with Hanna that it was her choice whether to stay or not. And Francesca had given her permission for Hanna to make the results of her Huntington's public. So should she go and tell Francesca Young everything she had seen on the screen? She was an American citizen after all. Her Embassy was there to protect her. And Dr Yin couldn't keep the White House Chief of Staff a prisoner also. Could he?

Unthinkable.

She would go and see the White House Chief of Staff immediately. She gathered up her essential things – passport, money, and put them into her purse and headed for the elevator.

When she reached Francesca Young's bed on Level Four the White House Chief of Staff was lying still in her bed. A young Chinese nurse approached Hanna. 'You come to see your patient?' she said in broken English. 'Sorry, she asleep right now. Can you come back, say half an hour?'

Hanna looked over at the bed. Her eyes came to rest on the bunch of Roses alongside.

Roses from the General.

The head of Larry Hagler was back in her mind. A partnership between the United States and China to lead the planet into the future.

Who would be most likely to broker such a partnership?

The White House Chief of Staff?

Who also appeared to have some semblance of a private partnership with a General in the People's Liberation Army.

Francesca Young the Democrat. A democrat who didn't seem to think that medical treatments should be available to all. Just the wealthy and the powerful.

The elite.

An elite controlled by Governments in the new order. The Governments of the United States and the People's Republic of China.

Governments of the people, by the people, for the people.

Or was that phrase missing a word in Larry Hagler's vision of the new order?

Governments of some of the people, by some of the people, for some of the people.

And who controlled the Governments? Who guarded the Guardians?

Generals and White House Chiefs of Staffs'

'Will you come back?' the young nurse said

Hanna stared at her. 'Yes, of course. Tell her I will return.' She moved quickly to the elevator. She wouldn't be coming back. Her legs were trembling. The video on Project Darwin and Larry Hagler's pronouncements had given her an image in her head from the annals of Nazi Germany where the project descriptor was derived from. Three tiers of organization, or front stage, centre-stage and backstage as she had conceived it at the time: Goebbels – Hitler – and the backstage scientists – Mengele, Rascher, Clauberg (and others who were not sadistic criminals: Heisenberg, Von Braun). But now a new paradigm was forming in her mind. Four tiers, or four sections on the stage: the front men propagandists, the politicians (not philosopher-kings; more like puppet-kings), and two sections backstage: the best brains and the real Guardians who would control everything; the real power behind the throne.

The new elite.

The General and his Lady.

And maybe ...... preposterous!

The elevator doors slid open. There was a small foyer leading to the outside doors. Seated by the doors were two, burly security guards. They rose when they saw her coming. 'Do you have a pass?' one of them said.

Her heart jolted in her chest. Her legs trembled even more. She hoped they wouldn't notice. 'I didn't need one this morning,' she said.

'You were cleared by Dr Yin,' the guard said. 'Do you want me to phone him?' He took a mobile from his pocket.

'No.'

The word came out too fast. 'I've .. I've just realized that I've left something in the office. I'm going back to get it and I will ask Dr Yin for a pass.'

The guard nodded and put the mobile away. At least they had made no attempt to physically apprehend her. Maybe her transgressions on the computer hadn't been picked up yet. If so, she just hoped that the security guard wouldn't communicate her appearance to Dr Yin. She hastily got back into the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor.

The dark thought returned. Preposterous ..... but possible.

Politicians ..... puppet-kings.

Maybe the politicians, the leaders, were going to be converted to Einsteins as well. Maybe they had been already. For who were those other five old men that had been talking to the head of Mao Zedong?

It crossed her mind that she should stop at Level Three and download some of that information onto a memory stick. Evidence.

Too risky.

She carried on up the elevator to Level Six.

Back in her room she took a nail file out of her toilet bag and inserted it into the screws that stopped the window from opening. It worked. It was slow but successful. When she had finished the window opened again – to its full gap of about two and a half feet. She stripped the sheets off the bed.

The movies; all those adventure stories she had read as a child.

She lay the sheets out and tied the two ends together. She had a makeshift 'rope' about twelve feet long. The distance to the ground was probably about seventy or eighty feet. But she could see a rickety fire escape about the length of the tied sheets over to her right. And she was an experienced rock climber.

She had to attempt the descent. Her life depended on it. Before they turned that life into a head on a box. She tied the end of the sheets onto a towel rail under the window. She pulled on it. The knot held fast. She climbed out of the window, feet first and gripped the 'rope'. It held. She let it take her whole weight. It still remained firm. She started crawling down the outside of the building. The building opposite had no windows facing onto her descent. But the Yao Clinic might have; she couldn't see below her. She slid down the sheets to the end. And then she was dangling in space.

She looked across the building. The fire escape was maybe ten feet to her right. Her heart was threatening to break out of her chest. She was a scientist, trained in the complex workings of the body, mainly the amazing workings of the brain. But now the call to her body was as primitive as the first of the humans who had walked the earth: survival, that was her only motivation now.

Déjà vu.

She swung her body off to the left, gathering momentum. And then she swung back to the right. She saw the rickety fire escape in front of her. She let go the sheet and flung out her outstretched hands. Her hands touched the iron railing, then gripped around it; like a trapeze artist, but with no safety net below. She swung her legs in under her body and landed on the metal landing. She had survived the fall. She tried to get up, but her legs gave way. She tried again. This time the adrenalin sustained her. She headed down the rickety fire escape.

All the way down she expected to see the security guards come around the back of the building, looking for her. But they didn't appear. Until she reached the ground. Then they finally arrived. They were looking for her.

She ducked inside a recess in the building. She saw the security guards hesitate a moment then disappear back around the front of the building. She ran across to the alleyway on the far side. It led her to a street beyond. There were people and traffic there. She merged into the passing parade. She had to find a taxi.

She finally found one a few blocks later. She showed the driver the address:

The driver grunted and drove off. Hanna looked at her watch. Time was running out. She had to get there by five o'clock, otherwise the staff might have gone for the day. And the traffic was thick and slow, coagulating the city streets. She didn't know whether they would help her. It was a last desperate act on her part. And how much would she tell them? And would they believe her? The heads on the video reared up in her mind and filled her with horror. Eugene Schoch had it right. His words came back to her:

Human evolution is not ready for Einstein, Hanna. We are still animals. And animals need bodies. No matter how useless they become. A head without a body is like night without day; life without death.

Finally, they reached the address. It was just after five. She paid the driver and climbed out of the cab. The sign on the exterior of the building confirmed she was at the right place.

NEW ZEALAND EMBASSY

She looked briefly up and down the street. No sign of anything sinister. She went inside the building. A young Chinese woman was tidying up behind a reception desk. She looked like she was about to leave. Hanna gave her the name of the person she wanted to see.

'Do you have an appointment?' the woman asked.

'No. But it is very important. Is he here?'

The woman looked at her a moment then disappeared up a side corridor. Hanna waited nervously. Moments later the woman re-appeared and behind her a man Hanna recognized immediately

Robert.

It was a shock. Robert had told her that his brother, David, was a twin. He hadn't told her he was an identical twin. She introduced herself. He shook her hand and held it.

'Robert told me about you,' he said. 'We live in hope that he is still alive. That he survived that terrible fire in Switzerland.'

Hanna's lips were trembling. 'Robert's dead,' she told him.

David Fisher looked like he had been expecting to be told that.

Hanna gripped his hand. 'I need your help,' she said.
Nine Months Later
Chapter 81.

Wellington; New Zealand

HANNA SAT AT HER DESK on the tenth floor of the building, gazing out at the harbour. The sea was a metallic grey, scuffed by whitecaps as the fierce, cold wind blew in from the south. It was the middle of winter here and she was glad to be inside the warmth of the building. She had been working at the Granger Biomedical Research Centre for six months now. It followed three months of rest and job hunting. Finally, she had found Granger and a vacant position that suited her.

Granger specialized in stem cell research with a strong interest in degenerative brain diseases. It was privately owned with its parent company based in the United States. They had set up a branch here due to advanced research being carried out in this country into Alzheimer's disease. So Hanna and her Huntington's research fitted right in. She had an impressive CV from her time in the States and her connection to the Schoch Institute had made her something of a curiosity.

In terms of news, Schoch had disappeared off the media radar. It was still there buried in various websites on Google, but nothing had come to light to catch the attention of the wider public. The update on Schoch was that the claims for Methuselah Man and the Methuselah Gene had never been verified and any evidence of them had perished in the fire that had razed the building to a blackened shell. Some of Schoch's former employees had been tracked down but none of them had anything bad to say about their time at Schoch or the CEO, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch. They wouldn't of course, Hanna thought. None of them had been part of the inner clique who had worked in the infamous Level Five; an inner clique who were all presumed to have died in the fire, including Ljudmila. Most of the bodies found in the wreckage were burned beyond any possible chance of identification. The cause of the fire had been put down to a gas leak and the whole incident had been laid to rest as an unfortunate 'tragedy'.

The real truth of that 'tragedy' might never be told. Hanna assumed that the CIA and Interpol had no reason to make any further public announcements, given that all of the perpetrators of the crimes were now presumed to be dead. So Hanna had never told her new employer what had really happened at Schoch either.

It was the same with the Yao Clinic. Who would believe her story? Their website advertised stem-cell treatments with only a veiled hint of the Methuselah Gene and greater longevity. True, the world had witnessed the 'Einstein head' of Jefferson Pike, but after his death the Yao Clinic had issued a statement claiming that this procedure would never be repeated. That seemed to have calmed the wave of revulsion and outrage that had swept around the world following the brief appearance of Jefferson Pike's head on television. Some commentators had since suggested the whole thing was a giant hoax somehow stage-managed by Jefferson's PR team and the media.

Hanna knew better. But she had no evidence to back up what she knew. And who would believe a story about a room full of talking heads somewhere in China and a plot by persons in America and China to forge a new world order based on brains on boxes? They would probably want to certify her.

She did see in the media that Larry Hagler (a single man with no children) had gone to an unnamed clinic in Beijing to receive treatment for testicular cancer and that nothing had been heard of him since. After that she had watched the American President on television, fearing that at any moment his appearances might become restricted to a head shot only. But so far he was still totally intact. She Googled the people she had seen named on the Prospective Einsteins list. And the ones that were still alive appeared to still have their bodies also.

But others had not perhaps been so lucky, though their new form might have granted them greater longevity. On arriving in New Zealand she had Googled websites on China until she finally found the photographs she was looking for: members of the Politburo, China's top decision-making body.

Pictures of the five older men she had seen on the video debating with the live head of Mao Zedong. But again she had no proof.

There had been one development though. Again, shortly after her arrival in New Zealand, she had seen the media headline:

WHITE HOUSE CHIEF OF STAFF RESIGNS

The reason given for Francesca Young's resignation was that she wanted to pursue another career, though the nature of that was never named. There was certainly no hint that she had been sacked or of any scandal. And the White House Chief of Staff (powerful though that position was) was not a public face, so the Media paid the story little attention.

But it did seem to blow the conspiracy theory out of the water. Francesca Young wouldn't have any influence over America's leader now. If he was to become a puppet-king (and that seemed most unlikely) Francesca wouldn't be pulling the strings. And Francesca Young had never gone public about being treated for Huntington's disease. If Hanna went public about it she could never prove it if Francesca Young denied the story. All the evidence was back in Beijing. And then a darker thought. Maybe the treatment hadn't worked after all. Maybe Francesca still had Huntington's? Maybe the disease had progressed to the point she could no longer do her job at the White House? Whatever the truth, Hanna never disclosed anything about Francesca Young to her new employer.

But there was one person to whom she had confided some of her secrets. David Fisher, Robert's twin brother. David who had got her out of China, out of the clutches of evil people. In the state she was in on her arrival at the Embassy in Beijing she had blurted out some of her experiences. But she had held some back. She never told him about Project Goebbels in Beijing, nor Robert's real fate at Schoch. She didn't have the heart to tell him that. Maybe one day if she ever got to know him better. She just told David that the Yao Clinic was carrying out human experiments without the consent of the patients and that a high-ranking General in the People's Liberation Army and a top American official were involved. She didn't tell him anymore about the planned US – China partnership. She didn't want him to think she was crazy. But she did tell him that they had tried to keep her a prisoner and that she feared for her life.

He agreed to help her. She thought there was no reason why anyone in Beijing would link her to the New Zealand Embassy. Even if they knew that Robert was a New Zealander how would they know that his twin brother worked there? Unless ... She didn't want to go there.

David got her a visa. And just in case they were watching the airport he engineered another plan. He arranged for her to be issued with a diplomatic passport. In doing this he was clearly exceeding his authority, but he would justify his actions to his superiors in New Zealand if he had to. A diplomatic passport entitled the holder to an unfettered exit from a foreign country. Any attempt to interfere with that right would cause an international incident. Would the Chinese authorities want to go there? They had just signed a substantial trade agreement with the New Zealand Government. Relations between the two countries were very cordial.

David Fisher and his staff accompanied her to the airport. She was booked on a thirteen hour direct flight on Air New Zealand from Beijing to Auckland. It all went according to plan. She passed through the Diplomatic channel without incident. But she didn't feel safe until the aeroplane finally took off into the Chinese sky.

And now she busied herself writing up her research for the third time. She couldn't directly refer to Francesca Young without the hard evidence that was still in Beijing. So she had to prove her treatment by carrying out fresh experiments on mice. The head of the Granger Centre was Dr Richard Shaw, an amiable man in his sixties. He and Hanna got along well and he was very supportive about her research. But he had announced two months ago that he intended to retire. His position had been advertised widely, both in New Zealand and overseas. And Granger had shortlisted two applicants, both currently working overseas. One was a Dr Joseph Banks, a bio-medical scientist working in England and the other a woman by the name of Dr Olga Simenov working out of a clinic in Poland. Both applicants had been flown to New Zealand for an interview. Granger saw the appointment as a vital one in their long term strategy and wanted to be sure that the appointee would fit into the local company culture. The CEO of Granger, George Rossiter, had also flown in from the States to conduct the interviews.

All three of the visitors were due in the office today. Hanna had Googled both of the applicants. They both had impressive research records, especially Dr Simenov. Hanna had some trepidation about working with another Eastern European scientist, but equally recognized that the sins of Ljudmila couldn't be visited on every scientist from that part of the world. Richard Shaw had informed the staff that he would bring each applicant around the office prior to their interviews for an initial introduction. The staff would have a further opportunity to input into the process after the formal interviews had taken place.

It was just after ten when Richard Shaw popped his head around the door of her office. 'Hanna,' he said. 'I'd like you to meet Dr Olga Simenov.' He entered the office. 'This is one of our most recent appointments, Dr Hanna Hayes,' he said to the woman who came through the door behind him.

It was difficult to know who got the greatest shock. Hanna's jaw dropped open at her desk and the woman's eyes popped in her head. She looked different – hair colour, hair style, but she couldn't change the dual colors of her eyes. And she didn't look a day older.

Ljudmila.
Chapter 82.

RICHARD SHAW saw the look on Hanna's face. She looked like she'd just seen a ghost. And he saw the same surprise on Dr Olga Simenov's face too, though she quickly covered it up.

'Lovely to meet you, my dear,' Ljudmila said to Hanna, without extending her hand.

Hanna remained speechless.

'Would you excuse me a moment,' Ljudmila said to Richard Shaw. 'I need to go to the bathroom.'

'Of course,' Richard said. 'It's just down the hallway.' Ljudmila left the office. "You know her?' Richard said to Hanna.

Hanna's face was white. 'I do. And her name's not Olga Simenov. It's Ljudmila Gladovitch, former head of the Schoch Institute. A woman who is presumed dead; a woman who was on Interpol's wanted list.'

It was Richard Shaw's turn to look shocked. 'I need to talk to Rossiter,' he said, moving quickly out of the office.

Hanna's head was in a spin. So Ljudmila had survived all the carnage she had left behind her. How had she conned her way here? All that stuff on Google was fake. What were her intentions? Was she still tied up with the Yao Clinic? And why was she here? To further her evil or find a place of refuge; somewhere to hide. Like one of those Nazi war criminals who used to flee to South America.

Richard Shaw came back into the office. The CEO of Granger, George Rossiter, was with him. 'She's left the building,' Richard said.

Hanna went to the window. She could see the pavement below and figures scurrying along it. And one of them stood out above the rest. Ljudmila fleeing for safety.

'Are you sure about all this?' George Rossiter asked her. 'Our vetting was exhaustive.'

Hanna ignored the question. 'We need to ring the police,' she said.

The police finally came. There were two of them from the Interpol Bureau of New Zealand based in Wellington. One of them had a file on Ljudmila Gladovitch. He showed Hanna photographs of Ljudmila, which both she and Richard Shaw identified as the woman who had been in the office posing under the name of Olga Simenov. They took notes. George Rossiter seemed totally embarrassed that Granger had recruited a possible criminal. The word possible was redundant in Hanna's mind. But the policemen were being diplomatic. They took all of Hanna's contact details before they left. They said they would need to talk to her again.

Hanna told Richard Shaw she wanted the rest of the day off. He readily agreed. She took a taxi from the front of the building to the inner-city apartment that she rented. The trembling had started up again. She just hoped that no one was following the taxi. She felt like a marked woman. And what if Ljudmila was not here alone? What if she had a criminal network here? And when she talked to the police again all of the events in Beijing were bound to finally come out. What actions would Dr Yin and General Yang instigate against her? No one was safe anymore. Not even here at the bottom of the world.

She packed her things. Then she wrote a letter to her landlord enclosing a cheque for the balance of her rent. She wrote another letter to Richard Shaw, resigning her position, apologizing for this decision, but hoping he would understand. She headed out of the apartment with her suitcase and her laptop.

Once again she was running.

It seemed to be her life.
EPILOGUE

West Coast; South Island; New Zealand

TO THE FEW INHABITANTS who lived in this remote part of the country she was known as Hayley Hope. She had been in their midst for several months now, living in this cabin (or bach as they called it here) on the edge of the bush by the sea. They knew her as a quiet, but polite American who was writing some kind of book; but whether it was fiction or non-fiction no one was quite sure. She kept to her own company and was regarded as something of a recluse, but no one minded that, such people were quite common down here. If anyone had gained access to the privacy inside her bach their interest might have mounted by the printouts pinned to the wall above the desk, where she spent most of her time writing.

MISSING SCIENTIST PRESUMED DEAD AND WANTED BY INTERPOL FOR QUESTIONING SEEN IN NEW ZEALAND

The article re-opened the story about Schoch; the circumstances surrounding the fire, rumours about the research activity that had gone on there and the allegation that Ljudmila had masterminded the murder of New York investment banker, Michael Glade. More articles were pinned to the wall beneath it. The bach was rented from a nearby farmer. Internet access had been an essential requirement of Hayley's accommodation requirements. And fortunately, this place had a telephone line. Further Articles detailed how Ljudmila had never been found and was now believed to have somehow left the country to an undisclosed destination. But the police were still seeking a key witness in this case: Dr Hanna Hayes, an American researcher who had formerly worked at the Schoch Institute. A picture of Dr Hayes had appeared in newspapers, on television and on the Net. But she hadn't come forward or been found.

If the picture of Hanna Hayes was placed alongside the image of Hayley Hope in a mirror, an observant onlooker might well notice some striking similarities. Height was one of them. Hanna Hayes was 1.64 metres tall and so was Hayley Hope. There was a clear resemblance in facial bone structure also. But first impressions were often more cursory. Hanna Hayes had long, black hair, tied back in a pigtail. Hayley Hope's hair was cut short and blonde. And the reading glasses that Hayley Hope was always seen in gave her a more bookish appearance than the open, smiling face of Hanna Hayes. First impressions would not lead to a conclusion that these two faces were like peas from the same pod.

And the disguise was necessary. With Ljudmila still at large how could Hanna ever feel safe? And Beijing still loomed like a black cloud in her mind. She constantly surfed the Internet looking for any updates on China. But at first she found nothing; no hint of Project Goebbels or any Einstein operations on the world's 'best brains'. But she was writing it all up in her book. One day the world would hear her story. And she knew she would have to return to the States when her visa ran out. Then she would have to become Hanna Hayes again. In the meantime she was being careful. In Wellington she had withdrawn all the money she had in her account so no one could trace her through her bank. She kept it under her mattress (true).

And then the cruelest cut of all. It was the final article pinned to the wall.

BEIJING CLINIC CLAIMS CURE FOR HUNTINGTON'S DISEASE

Dr Yin had claimed her research as his own. But Francesca Young was not named as the patient. While medical commentators had cautiously welcomed this claim it had also caused mounting concern in the United States about some of the practices and procedures being conducted in China in the whole area of stem cell research. Practices and procedures that some were calling dubious and unethical. The grisly sight of the live head of Jefferson Pike was being replayed by various media. Hanna noted the names of two of the main protagonists in this debate. Dr Martin Duvall of the National Institutes of Health and Professor Lincoln Gale, former Chairperson of the President's Bio-ethics Council. When she became Hanna Hayes again, Hayley Hope would be contacting these two men. She had more than enough ammunition to lend to their cause.

Today the sun was now shining from a rain-polished sky. Officially, it was Spring here but Summer seemed to be well on the way. Hanna was looking forward to that, when average temperatures apparently rose into the mid and late twenties, Celsius. She left the bach and walked the short distance down to the gray, gravel beach. The lively sea rolled all the way in here from Australia. Behind her, not that far away, were the mountains of the Southern Alps, the tops of some still streaked with late winter and spring snow. And between the mountains and the sea, the mottled green mantle of the native bush. She breathed in the clear air. They might have stolen her research but she still had her spirit and her freedom.

On the beach she walked over driftwood strewn by the tide across the sand. In front of her the heaving pulse of the sea. Humans were animals who lived on the land. Animals whose lives were made meaningful by death. Ljudmila and her cohorts had it all wrong. Methuselah should remain where he belonged: a character in the Christian Bible.

Beijing

General Ling Yang sat in his office watching the latest version of the DVD. Soon he would launch it on the world. He watched the clip as the old men from the Politburo remembered their scripts and debated his vision with The Great Helmsman: the head of Mao Zedong. At the end of the debate Mao would concede that his politics had been in error and he would endorse the views of General Yang. Viewers would think this was just some technological trick. But let them. The words were what mattered. The message. And who better than to give it in English than a famous American journalist, cured of cancer here in Beijing. The General watched as the head shot of Larry Hagler started its spiel.

'Global citizens,' Larry began. 'World recession has shown us that the excesses of greedy, private capitalism, mainly in America, has led to both financial and moral bankruptcy. But those who advocate the end of capitalism and globalization are misguided. Capitalism and global trade are the panacea for economic and social progress. But these are mechanisms that must be subject to the regulation of government. A strong and effective government like that of the People's Republic of China. Government of the people, by the people, for the people!'

There had been major changes in the script. All positive references to America had been removed. The partnership with America would only be a personal one now. Politically, the General now believed that China could achieve the new world order on its own. He let Larry Hagler finish his address. Then he removed the CD labeled Project Goebbels and placed it in the drawer of his desk. Project Goebbels. But Adolf Hitler had it all wrong. The Germans were not the master race. Chinese civilization was thousands of years older. They had always been the master race. And he would lead them to their true destiny on this planet. Him and his heir to be. His phone rang.

It was timely.

His chauffeur drove him to the hospital nearby. A nurse met him at the door of the guarded private room. 'Your wife has given birth to a healthy baby boy,' she told him in Mandarin. He went into the room. Francesca was sitting up in bed holding the child. She was smiling. His brother, Ling Yin had done an excellent job, perfecting the procedure that the Schoch Institute had called Project Darwin. The General picked up the child and held it to his chest. 'Perfect,' he said in English. 'Now we just have to decide on a name.'

Francesca's smile broadened. That was no contest. 'Methuselah,' she said. 'We need to call him Methuselah.'

General Yang smiled at his wife. Methuselah.

The General liked the sound of that.
