Authors: Peter James
She went into the kitchen, opened the freezer compartment and took out a bag of frozen peas and carried it back out to the table.
‘You want peas? Want me to cook them for you?’
She tore open the pack, separated one pea from the frozen mass and popped it in her mouth, letting the ice melt, then crushed the pea between her teeth. It tasted good. She ate another, then another, and felt a little better. ‘These are good,’ she said. ‘Eat yours, don’t let it spoil.’
He reached out a hand and took hers. ‘Remember, women get cravings during pregnancy; maybe that what’s happening.’
‘It is not a craving,’ she said, more irritably than she had intended. ‘I just want to eat a few frozen peas, that’s all.’
The phone rang. John stood up.
‘Leave it!’ she snapped.
He looked startled. ‘It might be—’
‘Leave it! Just leave the bloody phone!’
John shrugged and sat back down. He ate some of his tuna, and Naomi broke off and chewed more peas, one at a time. ‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘Lori rang. She’d read the piece.’
‘And?’
‘Why the hell did you have to tell that woman, John? The whole city knows; the whole of America knows – probably the whole bloody world knows. I feel like a freak. How are we ever going to bring our child up normally out here?’
John looked at his food in awkward silence.
‘Maybe we should move, go to England, or Sweden, just go to some other place.’
‘It’ll calm down.’
She stared at him. ‘You really think that? You don’t think Sally Kimberly – and every goddamn television station and radio station in the country – hasn’t got a date marked down in their diary for six months’ time, when the baby’s due?’
He said nothing. In his mind the question was swirling,
Who the hell are the Disciples of the Third Millennium?
There were all kinds of fanatic groups out there. People who believed their religious convictions gave them a right to murder. And he was thinking about the faces of his colleagues earlier this morning. The enormity had only really struck him today. He and Naomi were doing something the world wasn’t ready for. It would have been fine if they’d kept it a secret.
But now the genie was out of the bottle.
A car door slammed. Nothing unusual about that, except—
Both of them heard it. Sensed something.
More press, probably.
He got up from the table and crossed the hall to the living room, which looked down onto the street, without switching on the lights. Through the window he could see several news cars and vans still out there. But there was a new vehicle among them, a plain grey van with no radio, television or newspaper insignia, parked right outside the house, beneath a street lamp. It was old and tired-looking, with a dent in the side, and dusty. The rear doors were open and three people stood behind it, a man and two women, unloading something that looked like wooden poles. The small gaggle of reporters still out on the sidewalk had made a space for them and were eyeing them warily.
John felt a prick of anxiety.
The man was tall and thin, with long grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and shabby clothes. The women were shabby, also. One, also tall, had long, lank brown hair, the other, plump and short, had her hair cropped, almost a crew cut. They raised their poles in the air and now he could see they were placards.
They formed a group on the sidewalk, each of them holding a placard aloft, but he couldn’t read the wording.
Somewhere in his study, he remembered, he had a pair of binoculars. It took him a few minutes of rummaging through the chaotic jumble to find them. Pulling them out of their carrying case, he went back into the living room and focused on the placards.
One read,
SAY NO TO GENETICS
.
Another read,
TRUST IN GOD, NOT IN SCIENCE
.
The third read,
CHILDREN OF GOD, NOT OF SCIENCE
.
Then he heard Naomi’s voice, trembling, right behind him. ‘Oh no, John, do something. Please, do something. Call the police.’
‘Just ignore them,’ he said, trying to sound brave, not wanting her to see that he was as disturbed by them as she was. ‘Bunch of loonies. That’s what they want: publicity. They want us to call the police, cause a confrontation. Ignore them; they’ll go away.’
But in the morning the protesters were still there. And they had been joined by a second vehicle, an ancient, very battered green Ford LTD station wagon with darkened windows, and two more very tough-looking women holding placards.
ONLY
GOD
CAN
GIVE
LIFE
.
ABORT
SATAN’S
SPAWN
NOW
.
John had an old school friend, Kalle Almtorp, from his home town of Örebro, who now worked as an attaché at the Swedish embassy in Washington. They rarely met up, but kept in touch by email. Kalle had good connections.
John had contacted him now to see what further information he could find out about the death of Dr Dettore, and the total silence from his ship. He also asked him for anything he could find out about the organization who called themselves the Disciples of the Third Millennium.
This morning, John had almost two hundred emails, as well as a whole barrage of voice mails both at his home and office numbers. The story of their designer baby had hit Sweden and, it seemed, just about every other country on the planet. There were phone messages from family and friends, as well as three from publicists begging to take him and Naomi on as clients, assuring them their own personal story could be syndicated globally for vast sums.
There was a reply from Kalle Almtorp. It was in Swedish – they always communicated in their home language.
Kalle had barely more information on the death of Dr Dettore than John had seen on the news. Like the ship, the helicopter had been registered in Panama and the crash had happened in international waters. However, because both the pilot and Dettore were US citizens, the FAA were taking an interest. A full air-sea search was underway and a salvage vessel had been sent to the crash area. So far there had been no reported communications from the
Serendipity Rose
, nor any sighting of wreckage.
As for the organization calling themselves the Disciples of the Third Millennium, Kalle had no information on them, either. It could just be a hoax, he suggested, some crank learning about the helicopter crash – maybe some religious nut – and claiming responsibility. However, he advised John and Naomi to be extra vigilant for a while, and he said he would be in touch again when he had any further news.
John typed a brief reply, thanking him, then another email caught his eye. It was from his old mentor in England.
John,
This is a long shot, because I imagine you have been totally seduced by the Californian sunshine. But I’ve seen on the internet the stir you’ve caused with designer babies and thought you might want to get away? We have a great opportunity here. UK government funding, Sussex countryside, pretty well-assured lifetime employment and ample funding. This is a real boffin establishment. Two hundred acre campus. Six hundred research staff. A particle accelerator to rival Cern under construction. Micro Writing department – there’s a machine here that can write three hundred lines on a human hair . . . I’ve just been recruited to head up a new department, and we are actively looking for bright scientists in the virtual life field. I could offer you a lab of your own with great facilities and total freedom.
In any event, tell me how you are, you old Viking sod, and what’s new?
Carson Dicks.
Professor. Dept of Virtuality. UK Government Morley Park Research Laboratories. Storrington. West Sussex. United Kingdom
John leaned back in his chair and stared at it thoughtfully. If he mentioned this to Naomi, he knew exactly what she would say; she’d bite his hand off for the chance to go back to England. Back home.
But for him it was less appealing. Sussex was where he had lived before, and he had liked it well enough. It was close to London, it had the sea, it had Brighton, which was a handsome and vibrant city, it had great countryside.
But it was England. Dismal weather. Dismal attitudes towards scientists. It was hard to believe that a country which had been responsible for so many of the world’s greatest inventions had such an indifferent and miserly attitude towards research. Tenure at USC might be a problem, thanks to Sally Kimberly, but he could remain in the US, sell his soul and get a job in industry, with a software or maybe a pharmaceutical company.
He liked Carson Dicks. But the thought of going back to England depressed him. Although, he conceded, it might be the answer to their present predicament.
He typed a guarded response back, telling the professor it was good to hear from him, and he would think about it.
Naomi’s Diary
Lori and Irwin have been brilliant to us. I still don’t think either of them really approves of what we’ve done, but they’re not showing it. They insisted we come and stay with them in their guest annex until everything dies down.
They have a great property on Lago Vista, just off Coldwater Canyon. It sits right on top of a canyon, up above the Beverly Hills Hotel with views west towards the ocean, and to the east across to downtown LA, and their guest house is heaven – bigger than our own house!
It’s like being out in the country, tons of wildlife, and across the canyon we can see an enormous place – Irwin says it was built by Aaron Spelling (creator of
Dynasty
!), but Lori’s not so sure, she thinks that place is further east. Whatever. The house must be fifty thousand square feet and there are two tennis courts. Awesome! I’ve made a note to check it out for them, and I keep forgetting – I know just the person to ask.
It’s now four days since the news of Dr Dettore’s death, and three days since John and I featured on the front of
USA Today
. It’s really hard. Everywhere I go I feel people staring at me; even sitting in the car at stop lights I see people looking and I wonder if they saw the paper. I try to think, if I had read that article, would I remember the woman’s face four days on? What makes things stick in people’s minds? Every publicist would love the answer. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m sure I’m getting some strange looks in meetings.
John’s had no response from the
Serendipity Rose
. Emails get bounced back, and the phone is constantly unobtainable. John’s friend at the Swedish embassy in Washington, Kalle Almtorp, says the US Coastguard has found no wreckage from the helicopter and no sign of the ship. There are moments when I can’t believe Dr Dettore is dead – he was such an inspiring, larger-than-life character – and other moments when I feel that I’m – that John and I both are the victims of some conspiracy.
John is very subdued. That worries me, because he’s always been such a positive person, always known what to do. He seems lost at the moment.
When I was pregnant with Halley I never had any of the cravings you hear about, that you’re meant to have. But now, this frozen pea thing I have is driving me insane! I wake in the middle of the night and go down to the freezer and take out a handful of cold peas. Irwin took us all out to the Ivy last night, and I managed to convince the waiter I was serious, I wanted a side order of unthawed frozen peas. He brought them, beautifully presented as if they were oysters or something, on a bed of crushed ice.
Going nuts? Moi?
This place truly was to die for, Naomi thought, reclining on a lounger on Irwin and Lori Shapiro’s marbled pool terrace, the sky cloudless, the warmth of the sun feeling good on her body.
It was midday, Sunday. Irwin had taken John to his club for a round of golf, which Naomi was glad about – John needed to get out in the fresh air and away from their problems for a few hours. He was severely stressed, tossing and turning all night, and she could tell he was having problems concentrating in the daytime. He seemed to be in a daze, unsure what to do, and that scared her. In the past he had always been so mentally strong – in a world of his own at times, maybe, but in control.
She watched the Shapiros’ two small girls, Chase and Britney, splashing around with an inflatable chair in the pool, and their son, Cooper, hunting for bugs in the shrubbery at the edge of the patio. He was six, born three weeks after Halley. If Halley had lived he might be here, wearing a hat that was too big and carrying a bamboo pole, hunting bugs with Cooper right now, she thought wistfully.
Lori called out to her. ‘We have to leave in ten minutes!’
They were going to lunch at Barney’s, with another girlfriend of Lori’s. Reluctantly, she climbed off her lounger and headed inside. As she entered the cavernous open-plan living area, she glanced at the television, which was permanently on. A police officer was standing outside a colonial-style mansion, in front of a line of crime-scene tape, surrounded by emergency vehicles, talking grimly to a reporter.