No Time to Die (25 page)

A
t 3:30
A.M.
, holed up in the windowless cavern of her lab, Natalie could not have said whether it was morning or night, a weekend or weekday. Such distinctions had receded from her consciousness, along with other pestering concerns like hunger and sleep. Her world existed solely on the microscopic level. She couldn't hear, smell, taste, or touch her surroundings—the forest of Zoe's genes that she was hacking through, one clearing at a time.

In the silence, her own breathing became a sound track, acquiring musical qualities of pitch and rhythm. Its steadiness lulled her into a deep concentration, beyond recognition of her time and place. She was so “in the zone” that when she heard a sudden loud crack behind her, it sounded like a gunshot.

Without thinking, she dove off her stool, hands over her ears.

An urgent voice shouted at her, “Natalie!”

Crouching under the counter, she turned around to see that her open door had smacked the wall. In her disoriented state, it was difficult to comprehend what else she was seeing. Nina Hernandez, her normally aloof colleague, was running—no,
charging—
toward her with a wild look on her face.

We're being invaded,
she thought.
Find Theo.

“I knew you'd be here!” Nina cried, nearly crashing into the counter. She gripped its edge, panting, her frizzy black hair falling into her eyes. Her lab coat was coming untied and one white string dangled across her chest, rising and falling with her breath.

“What's going on?” Natalie leaped to her side. “Are we evacuating?”

“What? No, I hope not.” Her lips spread into a grin. “I think I figured out a new approach for Zoe.”

Natalie groaned. “Jesus, Nina. You can't shout like that here.”

“Sorry, I'm just excited.”

“But you do viruses.”

“Yeah, but I've been studying her samples after hours, ever since that weird mutation turned out to be nothing. Think how many more times that could happen! Sifting through her entire genome could take
years
, even if you have a hunch about where to look.”

Natalie grimaced. It was the truth. “So?”

“So I thought, rather than spend all that time looking for some random spontaneous mutation, why don't we look instead for an epigenetic cause? Some
external
factor that triggered her genes to change when they did?”

“You mean, like a virus?”

“Exactly. Once you have one, its RNA is in your cells forever. And get this—I've just found a viral strand in her DNA that I don't recognize. I wonder if it's possible she caught some kind of mutated virus around age fourteen that altered the expression of the aging genes?”

Natalie cocked her head, thinking. “If so, we could isolate it and use it to infect mice. Then we examine their genomes and see where the viral RNA shows up. Maybe it could lead us to the right location.”

“But in her, the viral RNA shows up across several regions of her genome—not just in one place.”

“Okay, we could do knockouts. Silence the different genes in different mice to tease out which ones—if any—make them stop aging.”

Nina beamed and held up her hand for a high five. “It's brilliant.”

Natalie demurred, raising her own hand to signal caution. “Maybe. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We don't even know if she had this virus around the right time. What if it was something she caught last year?”

“What time is it?”

Natalie glanced at her computer. “Three forty-five a.m.”

“Too early to wake her, you think?”

They traded smiles and dashed to the door. Natalie led the way to the staircase, up three flights, and through the maze of hallways that took them to the residential complex. Outside, through the hall window, the quad was dark and still. It seemed they were the only people awake on the whole compound. Their sneakers scuffed the concrete as they ran past identical door after door. Natalie slowed when they passed Galileo's, but then she remembered he was away again.

Right next to Theo's apartment, they stopped at Zoe's.

“You do the honors,” Nina whispered.

Natalie recalled that Zoe was a light sleeper, prone to restlessness and insomnia. She knocked softly so as not to startle her too much.

Almost right away, they heard footsteps padding toward them.

“Who's there?” came her high-pitched voice.

They chorused their names.

She opened the door and gazed at them bleary-eyed, her blond hair mussed on one side. A large cotton T-shirt hung down to her bare thighs.

“Do you guys know what time it is? I was finally falling asleep.”

“Sorry,” Natalie said. “But we might have a new way to approach your case.”

Alertness flashed into her eyes. “Really?”

“We just have to ask you a question.”

“A really important question,” Nina added. “Your answer could change everything.”

Zoe glanced between them, wide-awake now. “Okay . . . ?”

Natalie hesitated. She was startled to realize how much hope she had already built up, against her cautious instincts.

“Did you—do you remember if you got sick around the time you stopped aging?”

Zoe stared at her. “That was seven years ago.”

“I know, but try to think back. Does anything stand out—not just a cold, but maybe something worse?”

“Something antibiotics wouldn't have helped with,” Nina said. “You might have felt really tired and weak?”

Zoe closed her eyes, frowning. “That would have been around eighth grade. Oh, that was the year I missed graduation, which really sucked. There was a cute guy who was going to a different high school, and I never got to say good-bye 'cause I was stuck at home with a fever.”

Nina's eyes widened. “A fever? Did you have any other symptoms?”

“Yeah, I was sick for like three weeks straight. Now I remember. I had a cough. And my fingers tingled. That's when the doctor said it wasn't just the flu.”

“So what was it?”

She shrugged. “No idea. It just went away on its own.”

“How old were you exactly?”

“That was June, so—”

She broke off, and Natalie watched a jolt of astonishment cross her face. “I was just about to turn fourteen.”

R
eturning to a certain slum in Southeast was a mission Les dreaded, but as he hurried past a group of slouched teenagers, clutching his backpack under his arm, he was spurred on by the thought of that bitchy old White House reporter.
Tell us
one
thing you've accomplished since you started this manhunt.

If only she could see him now, wearing baggy sweatpants and a muscle T-shirt to blend in with his sketchy surroundings. His last aim was to attract attention. He wondered what Benjamin Barrow and the other committee members would think of this little off-the-record task, one they would never have the nerve to pull off. He could just imagine them squabbling over its consequences, concerned more with matters of irony and principle than real life.
If we accomplish our mandate through less-than-ethical means, would that diminish a future triumph?

Idiots, he thought. Of course not. Sometimes you had to be pragmatic in life, sacrifice certain standards to uphold bigger ones. That was the way the world worked. Ask anyone who got ahead. There were bound to be indiscretions and concessions along the way. Besides, the answer was irrelevant, since no one would ever find out enough to ask the question.

A beat-up Ford Explorer squealed around the corner, grazing the edge of the sidewalk inches away from him. He jumped, shouting at the driver, “Watch it, dick!” The car zoomed by, a cloud of exhaust floating in its wake.

He cursed under his breath and walked faster. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could get out of this hellhole. Grime and rust coated the parked cars lining the block. Torn garbage bags lay on the sidewalk waiting for a collector who never came. The projects looked like jails, crumbling brick buildings with narrow windows. They probably housed more vermin than people. It was demoralizing to picture living here—and worse to remember that he once had.

On the corner, the sight of a middle-aged bum bowed over at the waist, mid heroin bend, brought back memories of his own old neighborhood, the pathetic hopelessness of it, the feeling that he would never amount to anything, shackled by the invisible chains of poverty. Setting foot here felt like a regression, like slipping down a nasty dark tunnel from which he might never emerge. Part of him was filled with compassion for that bum, a reminder of the life he managed to avoid, but mostly he felt contempt.

He remembered how his mother used to light lavender-scented candles during the summer to disguise the foul odor of the trash heap, overflowing with syringes and broken bottles, that backed up to their apartment. Once, as a kid, he'd asked her who was throwing away all those needles. She'd paused, then responded that a doctor must have been cleaning out his office.

To this day, the smell of lavender filled him with sorrow.

He shook off the memory and averted his gaze from the addict slumping over on the street. As soon as possible, he would hurry back to his gleaming apartment in Georgetown, with its wraparound views of the Potomac thirty stories above the city's filth and pain.

He jogged the rest of the way to the familiar dilapidated building, snarled at a dozing man stretched across its front steps, and marched inside. There was no security, not even a locked front door. The entryway reeked of bile, as though some drunk had gotten sick. Les held his breath and ran up several flights to the apartment he knew, number 317. He knocked, testing the knob. It turned. A voice inside shouted at him to go away, but he walked in, only to be met with the unmistakable skunk scent of marijuana.

Ten feet away, Cylon was sprawled on his couch, a shiny glass bowl at his lips. At the sight of Les, his bloodshot eyes opened wide and he began to cough, waving his arms to clear the smoke around him. Amidst his fit, the bowl somehow disappeared into the cushions.

Les stifled a smile. “Excuse me,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “am I interrupting something?”

Cylon straightened, pulling a blanket over his fleshy white belly. “Um, no, sir. What are you doing here?”

“You know you're not supposed to be smoking pot, Cylon.” Les crossed his arms and walked closer, putting on his best expression of disappointment. “What would your probation officer say?”

“You can't tell him!”

“Why not?”

“ 'Cause I helped you.” He pouted, averting his gaze the way he always did during confrontation. “Come on, man.”

“Well.” Les seemed to consider. “I actually have another job for you. Why don't you see how fast you can get it done and we'll call it even?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to hack the computer of a guy in Ohio. We think he might be helping the gang I told you about.”

Cylon cracked his fat white knuckles, looking interested. “How do you know?”

Les gave him a sharp look. “That's not your concern.”

The truth was that Les suspected Julian Hernandez's secret signs were a misleading crock of shit, but he couldn't know for sure unless he found some direct proof of dishonesty. What he did know was that the FBI hadn't been able to locate a single sign, even with the post office cooperating and the national hotline running. If Julian really was a liar, what else was he hiding?

“So you wanna check out his hard drive?” Cylon asked.

“Better yet, his e-mail. I want to see exactly who he's talking to.”

“You know his address?”

“Julian-underscore-Hernandez fifteen at yahoo.”

“Are you gonna pay me again?”

“Jesus, John, not if it's going to drugs.” The use of Cylon's real name made him cringe. It was a low blow, ignoring the avatar of the brilliant computer hacker to acknowledge the overweight, ex-con loser behind the screen. “Is it not enough to keep you from going back to jail?”

He frowned, wounded. “Fine. But it might be tough.”

“Why?”

“Well, I can try the easiest way first. Send him a link to a virus from a made-up account and see if he clicks. Then I'd have control.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“But most people don't click on links they don't know these days.”

“It might work. This guy's old and foreign, probably not tech savvy.”

“If not, there's other ways.” Cylon was staring straight at him now, a look of intense pleasure on his face. The only time he ever made real eye contact, Les realized, was when he was talking about hacking.

“What ways?” Les asked, his voice low, almost seductive. He knew better than to break this trance.

“I just pose as anyone and get the dude to reply to an e-mail. The headers probably'll tell me his ISP and mail server. Then I can find the GPS coordinates of the server and take over his local cable network loop, figure out what OS he's running, and research what bugs exist at that patch level. As soon as I find one I can exploit”—he snapped his fingers with a grin—“
bam
, I'm in. Sucker wouldn't have a clue.”

“Great. How long do you think it will take?”

Cylon shrugged. “Depends.”

“Come on.”

“It's true. I won't know what specific patch level until—”

“A rough guess?”

“I dunno. Remember, he has to reply to my e-mail first.”

Les jumped to his feet, unable to contain his irritation. “Then make it happen.” He tossed a plastic-encased cell phone onto the couch. “That's clean. Call the minute you have something.” He headed for the door, his backpack tucked under his arm. Thank God for the pot; Cylon's mistake had saved Les another two grand in bribery fees.

“Wait!”

He rolled his eyes and turned around. “What?”

Cylon gazed at him with pitiful earnestness. “Did you talk to the President yet?”

Les gave a sardonic smile. “Not yet.”

“But you promised.”

“Once I crack this case, I can ask him anything I damn well please. Got it?”

Cylon reached for his silver laptop. “Yes, sir.”

“And hand over that bowl,” he added.

With a look of anguish, Cylon retrieved it from under a pillow and held it out like a sacrificial offering. Les stuck it inside his jacket pocket.

“Don't let me catch you smoking again,” he snapped, and walked out.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he pulled out his prize and inspected it. Inside the glass hole were bright green buds, browned on top. He chuckled under his breath, thankful for dumb luck and dumb cons. Now he just needed a light.