Killer of Killers (19 page)

Trent hugged her in return but requited her
warmth to a lesser degree. He trained his eyes on her brother.
Josh, in turn, trained his eyes on Trent. The towering athlete
exhibited no sentiment but was sufficiently courteous to not
interrupt. Trent said, “Hello.”

Josh replied, “Glad you made it.” He offered
his hand.

Trent and Josh reenacted their Oakland
handshake, this time without comments. Josh’s eyes seemed strange
to Trent. They looked demeaning and self-serving. Something was
amiss.

An elevator carried them skyward. At first
the ride was smooth for Trent, but as the seconds passed, it
triggered a flashback of his clash in St. Paul. He knew the images
of pounding fists and clamping chokeholds weren’t real, still his
pulse quickened, and sweat dripped from his brow. His breathing
turned shallow, and the cab’s movement almost unbearable. To
prevent the weight of imagined assailants pressing him downward, he
latched onto the rail.

Samantha crumpled her brow and asked, “Trent,
are you all right?”

Reined in by the soothing voice, Trent
replied, “Yeah, I’m okay,” but he wasn’t so sure. Nothing like that
ever happened before, and the experience was quite disconcerting.
He preferred to dismiss it, but the moment the elevator opened, he
darted out first and into a spacious hall where women sat at desks,
working with computers or talking on telephones. Some looked up and
greeted the siblings, and others acknowledged them with good
natured smiles.

Trent followed his fair-haired escorts into
an adjacent room occupied by a single secretary sitting at a
cherry-wood desk. The woman had her dark hair tied into a bun and
wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Trent noted she was darker
complexioned than the ladies in the prior room, yet he couldn’t
place her ethnicity. She looked up and said, “Mr. Manoukian will
see you right away.”

The words were soft and spoken with an
accent, which, again, Trent couldn’t identify. She gestured to the
double doors beside her, and they opened automatically. Trent knew
his immediate future would depend on what he learned in the next
few minutes. It was a pivotal moment for him.

Alongside Samantha and Josh, Trent stepped
into a lavish office, where a balding man rose from a large desk,
blathering, “Samantha, Josh, come in, come in.” In turn, he hugged
Samantha, shook hands with Josh, and then extended a hand toward
Trent. “So you are the mysterious Trent Smith. I have been looking
forward to meeting you.”

Trent noted that this man also had an
unfamiliar accent. And his eyes seemed oddly devious. Nevertheless,
he shook his hand and replied, “And you are the wonderful Karl
Manoukian, savior of the universe.”

“Is that how Samantha described me?”
Manoukian directed a smile to Samantha, as if elated her reference
could be so construed. “Mr. Smith, we must talk, and I’m very glad
you came. Please, everyone, have a seat, be comfortable.” He
gestured to a sofa near the desk.

Trent eyed the sofa with skepticism. He
remembered the one in New York. Manoukian’s was rounded and broke
into chairs as it stretched the length of the room. Like Soriah’s,
it was upholstered in black leather, but Trent detected no
surrounding seam in the black-tiled floor.

Josh and Samantha settled into the chairs,
leaving one vacant on the end. Trent sat there. Karl Manoukian
returned to his own plush seat behind the desk. “Mr. Smith,” he
began, “I know you have no desire to be employed by me or anyone
else. Samantha has made that very clear. However, she did indicate
you would be willing to hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” Trent said.

“First, Mr. Smith, may I ask you why you
killed Benjamin Stiles?”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “I’m not here to
answer any questions.”

“Of course. Let me start again.” After
adjusting his posture, Manoukian continued. “Some years ago, Dr.
Samuel Bernstein told me he was on the verge of creating a serum
that would revolutionize medicine. With my funding, he was able to
do that. Soon afterward, we realized his research uncovered a
plethora of biological solutions, including the single, ultimate
objective sought throughout the history of civilization...”

Trent’s eyes were still narrowed. “A fountain
of youth.”

Manoukian’s eyes widened. “Yes, a fountain of
youth.”

Trent still couldn’t believe it. “How is that
possible?”

“Basically, Mr. Smith, it comes down to the
mitochondria which lie within the cells of our bodies. It’s a
structure in which protein molecules are dissolved with the
infusion of oxygen, and converted to energy. It is this energy that
rejuvenates our strength and vitality. It keeps us young.
Eventually, however, oxidation breaks down the mitochondria. When
that happens, our bodies also break down. We age.

“Dr. Bernstein worked with the theory that
mitochondria originated as single-celled organisms that became so
symbiotic with their hosts they became indispensable. Because the
DNA in mitochondria is genetically distinct from the cell nucleus,
he claimed mitochondria once existed as separate organisms and can
manufacture their own proteins independent of the rest of the
cell.

“By mutating a certain combination of
anabolic steroids at the atomic level, we can increase
mitochondrial protein, which subsequently decreases the need for
oxidation, thereby preventing the breakdown of the mitochondria.
The encompassing cells retain their integrity, and the aging
process stops.”

Trent sat unfazed. “And it’s as easy as
that.”

“No, Mr. Smith, I assure you it’s not quite
so easy as that. The correct ratios and mixtures of additional
components are necessary, but it’s all too scientific, even for me,
to explain. After all, I’m a financier, not a biologist.”

“You’re a financier,” Trent observed, “whose
money ran out, and that’s why you merged with Abraham Soriah. And
now, I understand it’s Abraham Soriah who runs the entire
program.”

“Well,” Manoukian responded, “in a nutshell,
as they say.”

“So why do you want him dead?”

“Mr. Smith, I can appreciate your wish to
reach the crux of the matter, so I will make this very plain.
Abraham Soriah has created an army of what he calls
Eternals
. Most of these Eternals are ex-athletes, like
Joshua here...and Stiles. The rest are extremely wealthy or famous
for one reason or another, but they all have one thing in
common.”

“And that is...”

“They are all extraordinarily tall and
athletic individuals.”

“I have noticed,” Trent said. “So what’s the
big deal?”

“Mr. Soriah has mandated that his Eternals
are to be individuals who possess certain qualifications.”

“Right. Tall people. I got that already.”

“Not just tall people. He is also selecting
gifted individuals who have exemplified excellence in the human
condition in a myriad of ways. Yes, he is partial to athletes,
particularly professional athletes, but he also includes musicians,
thespians, scientists, engineers, and doctors.”

“For what purpose?”

“His goal is to create an exclusive community
of immortals. This group of people will eventually be segregated
from the mortal world and live in their own society, independent
from the outsiders, as he’ll refer to them.”

“A nation of immortals living and working
separately from the rest of us,” Trent repeated as he pondered the
concept. “So why must he be killed?”

“Because the future of humanity is at stake,”
Manoukian proclaimed. “How long do you suppose he’ll be content to
rule one little community? Absolute power will corrupt absolutely.
Surely you have heard that.”

“Yes,” Trent said.

“Inevitably, he will fall victim to his own
ego. Either he will believe he has the right to extend his rule
over the rest of mankind, or...” Manoukian paused, as if the words
were too horrible to speak.

“Or what?”

“Or there will come a time when he will
eradicate the balance of the population. Normal people who live,
age, and die will be considered inferior—a subhuman
species—deserving to be exterminated. It will be genocide, Mr.
Smith, not of a race or ethnicity, but of an entire planet.

“Humanity’s future, to Mr. Soriah, is a world
of immortals, each inhabitant a physically perfect specimen of
exaggerated proportions. His ultimate plan is to establish a new
human race to inherit the earth, to progress and explore, to reach
the stars and become a space age civilization of supermen.”

“And, of course,” Trent surmised, “being the
architect of it all, Abraham Soriah will be their leader. Or dare I
say their eternal god?”

“That is most definitely the way he sees it,”
Manoukian confirmed. “Who would question it?”

“What about their children?” Trent asked.
“What if their kids don’t meet Soriah’s qualifications?”

The balding executive leaned forward and
folded his hands. “You have heard of ancient Sparta, have you
not?”

Trent considered ancient Sparta. A government
official inspected every newborn child. If the infant didn’t meet
the standards which the hard-living Spartans had set, the baby was
put to death. Trent also considered that it was thousands of years
ago, during a brutal age of adversity and primitivism. Was the same
thing in store for Soriah’s future world? If so, when would this
inspection take place? Would it be at birth, as in ancient Sparta?
Would another inspection take place at adolescence? Would every
individual who didn’t top six feet by adulthood be slain? A
megalomaniac like Soriah, living forever, could see to it that the
standards he himself set never changed.

Trent pondered the words of his host.
Genocide was real. The superior and inferior concepts in the human
condition were also very real. The concepts were extreme, but they
were real. If a separate nation of immortal supermen existed, how
long would it take before they considered themselves superior to
the rest of humanity?

Still, it sounded farfetched to a skeptical
Trent. “How do you know all this?” he asked. “Did he tell you these
things?”

“Not quite so directly,” Manoukian admitted.
“However, his plans are unfolding before our very eyes. You have
seen it as clearly as the rest of us.”

“All I’ve seen are murderers walking the
streets because of a corrupt legal system,” Trent clarified. He
looked to Samantha and exchanged a glance with Josh. He turned
again to Manoukian and continued. “As far as supermen are
concerned, that’s laughable. Being over six feet tall doesn’t make
someone a superman any more than wearing clean underwear.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Manoukian said.
“But if Mr. Soriah is allowed to establish an entire nation of
immortal titans, what will they come to believe one hundred years
from now? Or two hundred years from now?”

Trent still didn’t buy it. “No reasonable man
will consider himself superior just because he gets a shot in the
ass every morning.”

Manoukian smiled confidently. “That’s very
amusing, Mr. Smith, but who says Abraham Soriah is a reasonable
man?”

Trent realized Manoukian had a point. He
experienced Soriah’s eccentric tendencies first hand. If the old
man wasn’t over the edge yet, he was awfully close to it. By any
measure, it was clear the aged industrialist ran an exclusive
operation—
an operation that included Manoukian
. “But you’re
a part of this,” Trent concluded. “You are a willing participant.
You sell your serum to the hot shots in California, don’t you? You
agree to limit its availability only to those on Soriah’s
honor
roll
. That makes you just like him, the way I see it.”

“That is only temporary, Mr. Smith,”
Manoukian stressed. “I have my hands tied. It’s why we need
you
...to help rectify the situation.”

Trent considered the argument, but he wasn’t
convinced. “What makes you different than Soriah?”

Manoukian fidgeted. “For one thing, I am not
going to discriminate.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll discriminate but for
different reasons. Only the top point one per cent of the
population who can afford your drug will get it. And they’ll be the
same people who you’re selling it to right now. Why else is it on
the black market? You get a bigger price tag, isn’t that
right?”

Manoukian didn’t answer. He sat behind his
desk with unblinking eyes, and it didn’t escape Trent’s notice that
Josh and Samantha remained voiceless during the exchange. They
looked at each other, as if they expected Manoukian to carry the
argument. But Manoukian merely replied, “You are right,” in a much
softer tone. “And that’s the way it is because of Soriah,” he
added. “I can’t change it, not until he is out of the way. Do you
understand now?”

“What about your distribution system in Los
Angeles?” Trent inquired. “How do you conduct that business?”

“On a regular basis, Mr. Soriah sends one of
his couriers to provide for our clients on the West Coast. Mr.
Stiles was in the process of doing just that when you killed him.
He was going to see me afterward.”

Trent thought of Samantha’s secret. So far,
Manoukian’s story upheld hers. “What about these murders? Why are
they happening? What do you plan on doing about it?”

Manoukian squirmed. “These murders are the
result of an unfortunate side effect, and it’s something we are
trying to overcome. You see, there is a problem with the pheromone
induced interaction between men and women who are using the drug at
the same time.”

“The pheromone induced interaction,” Trent
repeated, as he remembered Samantha’s partial explanation.

Manoukian continued. “We have discovered that
pheromone production increases tremendously in people who are using
the drug. Conversely, Eternals are abnormally sensitive to the
pheromones in others. Typically, pheromones trigger sexual
attraction, and they still do, but under the circumstances of both
a man and a woman being treated by Eternity, the effects are often
different when they are in contact with each other.”