The God Gene: A Novel Read online

  “Never set foot on the African continent.”

  “With ‘Rick’ as a name, you should have made a point of stopping in Casablanca at least once.”

  “Never had a chance.”

  “Well, then, it’ll be the first time for both of us.”

  “Hey, about that…” He lowered himself into the chair beside the desk. “Can we rethink your coming along?”

  “No.”

  “This could be dangerous. We know little or nothing about this Jeukens guy. I can’t see how he’s done all this alone. He’s got to be working with other people. Hell, for all we know, he’s been blackmailed into acting as a front. The situation’s too unsettled. Too damn risky for me to feel comfortable taking you along.”

  “I’ll stay in the background, out of danger.”

  “That’s not gonna help Keith, so why come at all?”

  Didn’t he see? Didn’t he get it?

  “I’m not going along for Keith, I’m going for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah, you big dummy. What if you discover…” How to say this? “What if it’s the worst news?”

  He looked away. “You mean if Keith’s dead.”

  “Yes. Exactly. I want to be there for you.”

  “Oh.” His expression softened. Obviously no such thing had occurred to him. “Well, I appreciate that. I really do, but—” His cell phone gave off a faint vibrating hum. He pulled it out and checked the display. “Text from Stahlman.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Answering mine. I need to arrange next week off. Want to do it face-to-face. Says to meet him in a warehouse in Long Island City.” He pocketed the phone. “Can we finish this conversation later?”

  “Of course. You go see Stahlman. We’ll talk when you get back.”

  He stared at her a moment. “Why do I get the feeling that as soon as I walk out that door you’re going to reserve two seats to Cape Town?”

  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “Wait, okay?” he said, pointing to her. “Just … wait.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  With an exasperated sigh he headed for the front door.

  As soon as she heard it slam, she logged onto South African Airway’s website where she snagged two first-class seats nonstop to Johannesburg—expensive, but worth every penny on a flight that long. From there they had only a short hop to Cape Town.

  Next she called Steven. She needed someone to stay with Marissa and who better than her own father? Fortunately she and her ex were still on good terms. When Marissa had been recovering from her stem cell transplant, Steven would come and spend his designated weekends in the Shirley house, while Laura would move into his Manhattan apartment.

  “Sure,” he said. “Always glad to spend some extra time with my best girl. How long we talking?”

  He was good that way—loved Marissa like crazy and would do anything for her. His public relations business allowed him to work anywhere. His laptop, his phone, and a wi-fi connection to social media were all he needed. He’d told her the only reason to have an office these days was as a place to meet clients.

  “A few days should do it.”

  “Where is the world traveler off to this time?”

  “South Africa.” Using the KISS rule, she added, “A friend’s brother has had some sort of breakdown and we’re going to go bring him back. You might have heard of him. Keith Somers? The author who disappeared a while back?”

  “Oh, right. I do recall something about that. He had a bestseller, right? Look, if he wants to make hay from his disappearance, send him to me. I’ll have his face and the title of his book all over the place once he’s back. That’s my thing, you know.”

  Laura knew. And he was very good at his “thing.” He could seduce public opinion into buying anything he told them to. If he’d limited his seductions to public opinion during their marriage, he and Laura might still be together.

  “I’ll be sure to ask. Meanwhile, I’ll get her off to school in the morning and you be here when she comes home.”

  “No problem. Or better yet, I could come over tonight and—”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  He laughed. “Okay. Safe trip.”

  4

  LONG ISLAND CITY, NEW YORK

  The 35th Street address Stahlman had given Rick turned out to be a huge warehouse in the industrial zone between Queens Boulevard and the LIE. Looked like it had been around since just after World War II. Its two floors had to total a quarter mil square feet, easy. Rick had been involved in the security end for many of Stahlman’s ventures, but he hadn’t known about this.

  The building might have had truck bays around back, but he saw only one entrance on this side—a steel door under a heavy-duty roll-up security shutter. Inside, a square-jawed side of Hispanic beef in a rumpled suit sat behind a battered desk. Rick recognized him—he’d vetted him for a security guard position last month—but couldn’t recall his name.

  “Hey, Mister Hayden,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “Good to see ya. The boss said you’d be stopping by.”

  As they shook, Rick said, “I remember pretty much everything about you, Guerra, except your first name.”

  “Adão.”

  “Right.” No wonder. “How’s the job going?”

  A shrug. “It’s quiet. But that’s okay. We get some shaky types nosin’ around, but they move on.”

  “Quiet’s good.”

  “I’m with you there,” Adão said with a smile. “Gives me a chance to study.”

  “GED?”

  “You got it.”

  “Keep it up. Where’s the boss?”

  Adão turned and punched a code into a keypad next to the door behind the desk. “Right through here.”

  The door buzzed open and Rick stepped through to find Clayton Stahlman staring at a monitor as he tapped on a keyboard. His desk was bigger than Adão’s, but just as battered.

  Rick didn’t get to see Stahlman much—most of their communication was via phone, or email, or text—so he still experienced an instant of surprise at how healthy he looked. Before the ikhar, he’d been frail, feeble, and moon-faced from his meds. Got out of breath shifting in his wheelchair. Now vigorous and fit in his late sixties, gray haired in a turtleneck and jeans, he looked the picture of health, although his barrel chest remained a legacy from his pulmonary fibrosis.

  “Mister Hayden.” He’d never once called him Rick. “Good to see you! What brings you to the wilds of Queens?”

  He gave a quick run-down of Keith’s disappearance and the need to go after him.

  “By all means, take as long as you need,” Stahlman said. “You never take time off anyway. Do you need anything? Any way I can help?”

  “I think I’ve got it covered.” Rick gestured around. “But what is this place anyway? This why you need the extra security?”

  “Still getting it set up, but yeah. I brought in some men like Adão from other spots for now. It’s a little project I’ve wanted to start for a while. Thought I’d never get to it but, thanks to you and Doctor Fanning, it’s now full speed ahead.”

  “Okay, but what is it?”

  “We can talk about it when you get back.”

  Just then a door to Rick’s right opened and a middle-aged woman stepped through.

  “The latest scans,” she said.

  Stahlman raised his eyebrows. “Anything?”

  “All normal.”

  Rick had a glimpse of a large space behind her. About twenty feet away a man in the lotus position floated two feet above the floor.

  The woman retreated then, shutting the door behind her. Rick grabbed for the handle but it had locked shut before he could pull it back open.

  “Wait … did I just see…?”

  Stahlman was smiling and nodding. “Probably.”

  “But…”

  “All in good time. Right now the main thing for you is to focus on finding your brother. As I said: Call me when you g
et back. And if you need anything before that, you have my number.”

  Rick headed back to the street. Had he seen what he’d seen? He shook it off. He had more pressing concerns. The first was keeping Laura from going to South Africa. Marten Jeukens seemed like a harmless, middle-class businessman, but looks could be deceiving. He could be a dangerous psycho fronting a criminal enterprise. Rick didn’t want Laura anywhere near him.

  5

  THE MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL

  The Afrikaner stepped into the pilot house. In some indefinable way he had changed since Amaury had last seen him on Friday. He did not have the field glasses that had been a fixture around his neck, yet he seemed just as tense.

  “So, monsieur, how did you spend the past two days?”

  “Mostly in a fruitless endeavor which involved unsavory types.”

  “Really. Do you care to elaborate?”

  “Not particularly.” He nodded ahead, at the foredeck. “Although the unsavory types I mentioned were not unlike the two in your current employ.”

  “Bakari and Razi? Yes, they look like they would eat your children for breakfast, but they are good workers.”

  The brothers lounged near the bow, by the ladders bungeed to the side rails. Both had dark, almost tar-black skin, broad shoulders, and round faces. But Bakari’s face was pockmarked while Razi’s was smooth, which proved handy because otherwise they’d be easy to confuse.

  “Also they know how to keep their mouths shut,” Amaury added.

  “How do you know?”

  Amaury shrugged. “There have been times when the exotics we’ve brought back have been on certain lists.”

  “Endangered species?”

  “Those lists exaggerate the danger to the creatures. I take good care of them, find them good homes, but to do this I must operate—you know the expression ‘under the table’?”

  The Afrikaner’s narrow lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know the expression well. I’ve had a few dealings down there myself.”

  “This weekend, perhaps?”

  “Not worth talking about.” Jeukens squinted ahead at the glaring water. “We seem to be moving faster than our previous trip out.”

  Amaury nodded, impressed. “You have a good sense of—comment dit-on?—of velocity. Yes, I have pushed us to ten knots. Last time we had no firm destination so I was conserving fuel. This time we know where we are going. No wasting our tank on a grid search as before. We shall be able to travel out to the island and back without stopping at Toliara.”

  Marten said, “I did a rough estimation from Maputo to the island and came up with a distance of just about five hundred miles, maybe a little less.”

  “I came up with the same. The weather maps show no fronts coming through, so we should have calm seas. We will drop anchor there Tuesday morning.”

  “Good,” Jeukens said. “And you’re sure we’ll have enough fuel to return without stopping?”

  Why was he so concerned?

  “Yes. We burn more fuel going out because we are heading northeast and must push against the southward flow of the channel. On the way back we head southwest so we can ride the current and make better time.”

  “Excellent!”

  Another question had been nagging at Amaury. “You said you were going to study the primates. Are you planning on staying behind when we head back?”

  Jeukens sighed. “Not this trip. I first must get the lay of the land inside the caldera so I’ll know what I’ll need for a more extended stay. Like, are there food sources? A bunch of breadfruit and banana trees or coconut palms would make a nice supplement. What’s the drinking water situation? No, I’ll be heading back with you this trip. But next time … next time I’ll know what I’m getting into and come prepared.”

  “Before we head home we will be sure to catch one of the proper sex for you.”

  Jeukens frowned. “Proper sex?”

  “Yes. As a mate for your little friend.”

  “Mate?”

  “But of course. You want a breeding pair, oui?”

  “Not at all. She’s dead.”

  “I am shocked. What happened?”

  Jeukens pressed his fists together, thumb to thumb, and gave them a sudden, violent twist.

  “I snapped her scrawny little neck.”

  6

  SHIRLEY, NEW YORK

  Rick kept his voice calm but Laura could tell he was furious that she’d made reservations for both of them.

  “I thought we’d agreed to discuss this when I got back.”

  “And here I am, ready to discuss,” she said in her sweetest, most reasonable voice.

  “But you’ve already made the reservations.”

  Same voice: “I can cancel mine if you convince me otherwise.”

  “But—” His cell gave off a by now familiar vibrating hum. Checking the display, he said, “Hmmm, that was fast.”

  “What was fast?”

  “I put in a call to one of the few people in the Company who remembers me. Asked him to check out Jeukens—any known criminal associates, things like that. He’s got access to databases we can’t get near.”

  “And?”

  “Texted me with a link to a public website in Mozambique. I’ll read it off so we can check it out on your big screen there.”

  As Rick dictated, Laura typed in the URL—a word she didn’t understand followed by .gov.mz—then hit enter. Text flashed onto the screen, but all in Portuguese. She clicked the translate button.

  “Looks like some sort of a police blotter,” Rick said.

  A subhead read “Maxixe, MZ” and was dated this morning.

  “Where’s Maxixe?” Laura said.

  “You’re the map savant.”

  “Somewhere in Mozambique is all I can say. Beyond that…”

  The gist of the entry was that the body of a local helicopter pilot named Abilio Batalheiro had been found on a Maxixe street. Cause of death unknown at the time. The police weren’t sure if it was an accident or foul play, but a South African named Marten Jeukens was the last person to engage Batalheiro’s services and was being sought as a person of interest.

  The bottom of the article listed Lieutenant Souza Mugabe of the Maputo police as the person to contact with any information.

  Rick straightened. “I wonder if I should call this guy and ask if anything’s changed since this went up.”

  “Well, unless he works the graveyard shift, chances aren’t good he’ll be available.” When he gave her a questioning look, she tapped her watch. “It’s seven hours later over there.”

  “And you know this because you’re a map savant?”

  She shrugged. “I noticed it’s the same time zone as Israel, and I’ll never forget Israel.”

  “Ah, yes. We’ll always have Gan Yosaif.”

  Right. Fond memories of four bullet-riddled bodies.

  She did a quick search for Maxixe and found it lay about three hundred miles up the coast from Maputo.

  “A long way from Cape Town, and even Johannesburg. Are we sure it’s the same Marten Jeukens?”

  Rick shrugged. “Can’t say. Doesn’t seem like a common name, but for all I know, Jeukens is the Jones or Smith of South Africa. That report didn’t happen to post his birthdate, did it?”

  “I doubt it,” she said, switching tabs, “but I’ll check.” No, no birthdate listed. She was about to click off when she noticed a .jpg link. “Hey, looks like they’ve got a photo.”

  She clicked it and a shot of a bald, bearded man in a safari jacket filled the screen. The caption said, Marten Jeukens. It appeared to have been taken in a hotel lobby. The photo was high-def with good lighting; so, even with a trace of motion blur, it gave a clear look at him.

  She studied his face, saying, “You think he’s the same guy? He looks different. I mean, he’s still got the shaved head and the beard, but is that the same nose?”

  Rick said nothing, so she added, “And didn’t his eyes look different on his LinkedIn photo?”
r />   Still no answer so she glanced over her shoulder. Rick’s face had gone white and his mouth was hanging open.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” he said, pointing. “Keith! That’s Keith!”

  Laura looked at the screen again. She’d seen photos of Keith, watched his TV interviews, and this wasn’t … Granted, he’d sported a full head of hair and had been clean shaven at the time, but this man was much thinner and …

  “No. It can’t be.”

  “The hell it can’t! He’s lost a lot of weight and shaved his head, but I know my brother, and that’s Keith!”

  TUESDAY

  May 24

  1

  DAPI ISLAND

  Amaury gazed up at the sheer lava wall of the mysterious little island and could only pray that the rest of this trip went as smoothly as these first two days. The waters of the channel had been placid, the current gentle, and the John Deere engine had purred like a kitten. Bakari and Razi, who often fought as only brothers can, behaved themselves. Even Jeukens had relaxed enough to exchange a few words with them—not that they cared to have much to do with an Afrikaner. The brothers spoke Portuguese, Ronga—they were Shangaans, a Bantu tribe—and could manage some very broken English. So English, by default, became the Sorcière’s lingua franca.

  Its anchor had found firm footing about a hundred yards from the western shore and the ship bobbed gently in the current. Amaury and Bakari were rowing the inflatable fifteen-foot raft he’d brought along. The cargo: the ladders and the tents.

  As they approached the shore, Jeukens and Razi waded out to their knees and pulled them the rest of the way in.

  “The ladders,” Jeukens said, scowling. “At last, the ladders. We should have brought them first.”

  So anxious to climb up and over that wall.

  “And if we had, where would you be now? We would lose you to those monkeys when we need every available hand to haul our equipment to the other side.”

  “I am not part of your crew.”

  Amaury had anticipated this moment. Jeukens had been a client on the first trip out here. As the man who had chartered Amaury’s boat, he’d had major say in the Sorcière’s course. But on this trip he was a passenger, with no say. With Bakari and Razi watching and listening, this had to be settled here and now, once and for all. The Shangaans’ father had fought in the Mozambican civil war against South African–funded forces. He’d lost a leg to a land mine. They were naturally suspicious of foreigners. Neither Amaury nor Jeukens were natives, but Amaury’s color was on his side, and he had to show the brothers that not only was he their boss, but the white man’s boss as well.