The Genesis Conspiracy Read online

  There have been setbacks,” he continued as he shrugged and smiled broadly. “Two ex-wives for example. But for the most part I have succeeded in everything I set out to do. I am in one of the most coveted positions in the entire academic world. Now my desires are fueled by academic excellence and power.” He clinched his fist and raised it in the air. “I am no longer reduced to petty spray painting of creation museums to voice my passions. I have the power to make a difference.”

  Dawkins was taken aback by the performance. It was out of character and certainly not what he’d expected. He swallowed his comments and simply nodded his understanding and allowed his boss to continue.

  “Do you know what sickens me?” Hoffmeyer asked rhetorically. “What absolutely makes me want to heave? It is stupidity. Unlike you, I did not grow up in an academic family. I was the son of a traveling evangelist who sold his wares across a hundred little one-horse towns throughout the Southeast. That probably surprises you. From an early age, listening to my father pound on the pulpit at illiterate simpletons, I decided that I wanted no part of that world. He would catch me reading books that he considered the work of the devil including Darwin’s Origin of Species. He would actually go to the trouble of burning them and then take a belt to me. I hated him.

  “Fortunately, though, I moved beyond that cursed world and escaped to Chapel Hill. It was there that I met Professor Jenkins, a contemporary of your grandfather and a staunch advocate for evolution. He took me under his wing and the rest is history. And I learned that anger can be channeled in productive ways.”

  Dawkins shuffled in his seat, still not knowing where all of this was going. When Hoffmeyer stopped in a protracted pause, he felt that a response was expected.

  “Does this report affect my standing here?” Dawkins shyly asked with an unpretentious tone.

  Drawn back from his reminiscent thoughts, Hoffmeyer nodded. “I’ll be honest with you Russ. It could.”

  Dawkins felt a sudden chill move down his back. It reminded him of seeing police lights and knowing an arrest was inevitable.

  “But not to worry,” the older man half smiled. “I am your advocate. You do good work, publish frequently, and aside from miscellaneous reports of angry outbursts, you are developing a good reputation. But…” Hoffmeyer paused and checked his watch. “I need a favor from you, or rather, the big man does. It seems we have a skeleton in our academic closet. I can’t let you in on the details, but there is something I need you to retrieve for me.”

  Dawkins wrinkled his brow in response.

  “No need for concern. It’s not like I’m asking you to do something illegal. I just need someone I can trust to bring it back here, simple as that. It’s in Russia, St. Petersburg to be exact. You’ve been there before. I’m sure you know your way around.”

  “Of course,” the younger man replied, feeling slightly uneasy. It wasn’t like he could decline the request. Called back from the middle of a dig thousands of miles away and then indirectly threatened by a long forgotten act of juvenile vandalism certainly raised questions. And now a mysterious assignment? Dawkins’ only consolation was that apparently his job was not at stake. But he could guess that his being singled out for this job had less to do with his academic credentials as it did with his criminal record.

  “Excellent,” Hoffmeyer responded. “I knew I had made the right choice. Pack warmly,” he said handing him a large, sealed envelope. “I did a weather search on the Internet, and they expect a light snow there before the week is out.”

  Hoffmeyer stood and escorted his companion to the door.

  “Is that all?” Dawkins asked hesitantly.

  “For now,” Hoffmeyer said gripping his shoulder. “There are all sorts of wonderful things about this business that you have yet to learn. The most important one is that the guys with deep pockets are always looking for a return on their investment.”

  3

  With a magnitude greater than anyone had seen in recent years, the sandstorm sweeping across central Asia caught the meteorological community completely by surprise. Through the night, steady 60 mph gusts carried a myriad of sand that would ultimately envelop eastern China and the Korean Peninsula. The emergency response from the Beijing officials had come too late to prevent complete gridlock within the city. The traffic around Tiananmen Square had slowed to a crawl, and many annoyed or frightened drivers had abandoned their cars to seek shelter.

  “We’re never going to make it at this rate,” Sam Evers blurted out his frustration. “Can’t you just pass them on the sidewalk?” His driver, Aidan Connor, a tall, fair complexioned man in his mid-forties, understood the young man’s emotion.

  “It wouldn’t do us any good,” he replied in a slow, even voice. “Until this storm passes, all flights are grounded. Besides, you give your brother too little credit. I’ve worked with Jake for years, and I’ve never known him to be caught off guard by anything, certainly not a sandstorm.”

  “It’s not the sandstorm I’m worried about,” Sam insisted. “Despite Murray’s attempts to stop him, that idiot Russian who was working with them called for the extraction helicopter before they could collect Jake. Murray said they could have given him another hour, but Pavel refused and convinced the Mongolian pilot that he was in charge. With no backup evacuation plan, Murray had no choice but to go along. As they were lifting off, Murray swears he heard an explosion coming from the mountain range just beyond their communications relay.”

  “Did the Russian guy not hear it?”

  “Murray’s pretty sure he did, but Pavel denied it. I’ll get the full story once Murray gets back. He’s still trying to clean up the paperwork mess that Jake usually handles.”

  “And I’m guessing you’ll have more than one question for that Russian,” Aidan remarked.

  “You bet I will,” Sam nodded as he looked pensively out the side window, “but for now, the only thing I can think about is getting my brother back.”

  4

  The light snow which had begun to fall over St. Petersburg was swept across the frozen parking lot of the Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography by a steady gust of wind flowing in from the Gulf of Finland. The museum’s magnificent turquoise and white building was one of the oldest in Europe and a marvel of Czarist opulence. Commissioned by Peter the Great, it housed a diverse collection of artifacts spanning the farthest reaches of the expansive Russian landscape and culture.

  Outside the structure, sitting in a borrowed car and wearing a pair of large sunglasses, a young woman watched the usual crowd of office workers, students, and occasional faculty members filter out of the rear entrance. Battered by the chilling wind as they exited the building, each drew their jackets closer around them as they hurried to their cars. Katie Petrovich knew most of them, and even considered them among her closest friends, but at least one of them had betrayed her.

  When the last hint of daylight had departed from the late afternoon sky, Katie noted that only two cars remained. One belonged to Sergei Baranov, the newly appointed Assistant Administrator for Exhibits. No doubt he had phoned his wife to say that he was working late again. Katie wondered if the woman had any idea of the truth. Everyone else certainly did. The other car belonged to Alena Fomin, his new secretary. Their cars were always the last two in the parking lot. Katie failed to understand what any woman had seen in such a creep, let alone two women.

  The only people that Katie still trusted at the museum were her old graduate advisor, Professor Kozlov and his daughter Tamara who had loaned her the car. Katie had confided in Tamara about her ordeal in Mongolia but had asked her not to report it to her father. He was a kind, grandfatherly sort of man who was brilliant but a bit daft when it came to the world outside of academic circles. Discretion was also a word that was not in his vocabulary.

  Katie had intentionally flown into Moscow instead of St. Petersburg and had taken the train back to avoid anyone who might be awaiting her arrival at the airport from which she had departed. The attempt on her
life and the fear of when it might happen again made her sick to her stomach. On the three day journey back from Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, she had had time to reflect on the events leading up to the attack in the Gobi.

  Her visit there had been personal, and she had kept it a secret for the most part except for answering a few casual questions from friends who were curious about her trip. The only thing she had told them was that her grandfather had been a fossil collector and had visited the area numerous times before his disappearance. While partly true, her real reason for going to Mongolia was to locate the very thing she had found.

  A Ukrainian tour group, exploring the Flaming Cliffs two years before her trip, had made the chance discovery of a parachute cord and a torn swatch of orange nylon fabric. Closer inspection showed that it was similar to materials used during the early space program.

  “Soviet satellite junk” the tour guide speculated when he had given it to Mongolian officials in the next town. The discovery and subsequent quote had been captured by a Russian photographer and travel writer who had been in the Mongolian town at the time. According to the article, which was published some months later, after a cursory look around the area where the parachute had been discovered, the photographer and his Mongolian guides found nothing. Katie had carefully studied the photo from the magazine and had matched it via an Internet search of NASA archival photos. She was convinced that it was from a Gemini capsule and her rationale had paid off. That spacecraft held the key to a family mystery that she was determined to unravel.

  As the last two occupants of the museum kissed briefly in the parking lot before going to their respective cars, Katie slumped out of view behind the steering wheel. In true gentlemanly fashion, Baranov allowed his new conquest to leave ahead of him before he turned the opposite direction toward the liquor store at the end of the street.

  When she was certain that the building was unoccupied, Katie zipped her coat, reached into her purse, and retrieved a swipe card.

  “Lord help me,” she prayed as she opened the car door.

  5

  A leafless twig from an Erdene willow tree danced in the turbulent air as the last wisp of wind trailing the great storm moved across the desert. Tumbling in the breeze, it followed like an obedient dog, climbing and falling until it touched the ground and caught momentarily on an odd shape just viable above the sand. Tilting his head slightly, Jake Evers released the unknown assailant from the brim of his cap as he struggled to move his body. He felt the sensation of heat against his back, but as if in a dream, he could not take hold of the reason. Mechanically, his body moved between shifts in consciousness until finally he was free from his sandy confinement. Overhead, the full sun of midday began to bake away the cold night air.

  As he peered up and raised his chin, sand fell from his cap and pooled above his eyelashes. Blinking it away, he caught sight of an object in the otherwise cloudless sky. It looked like a large bird approaching over the horizon, which flew a straight course until it was finally within view. Then he heard the sound.

  “Helicopter,” the word barely sounded from his dry lips.

  When Jake tried to stand, a sudden pain shot through his leg, causing him to cry out. Looking down, he immediately saw the crimson mat of sand impacted around his pants and he recalled the attack. The sandstorm, which had buried him in its fury, had also acted as a tourniquet and stopped the flow of blood from his wound. It had saved his life.

  Suddenly, a whir of sand beat against his face causing him to bury it in the fold of his elbow. The tunnel began closing around him again, and through his last moments of consciousness he heard a voice that he immediately recognized.

  “He’s alive!” Sam shouted. “But he’s bleeding. Get me the kit!”

  6

  The Roosevelt Hotel at Madison Avenue and 45th was far from being the finest hotel in New York City, but its elegant grand ballroom with red carpet and traditional crystal chandeliers possessed an old world charm that Kirk Hoffmeyer thought was far superior to the newer European styles. Configured for a reception, it would accommodate over 850 people, which was not far from the expected turnout for the night’s fundraising gala.

  As he passed down the long corridor leading to the grand ballroom foyer, he was greeted with smiles and superficial well wishes from junior associates and underlings. They were all clutching champagne glasses and dressed in their finest formal attire, most of it rented. Before he reached the foyer, he turned into the promenade suite to check with Susan Douglas who was coordinating the guest list. Dressed in a full length sequined gown of brilliant red, she was frantically going over some forgotten detail with the caterer.

  “Magnificent,” he said, drawing her attention as he approached. “You look stunning.”

  Gracefully flipping back the long curls that had fallen over her face, she stepped forward to embrace him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied with a smile.

  “Is everything going well?” he asked politely.

  “Mostly,” she answered as she waved her hand, dismissing the caterer. “Ice sculptures. I have a long history with them.”

  Hoffmeyer smiled. “Do you have the final guest list?”

  “It’s right here,” she answered, reaching for a leather portfolio on the table nearest them. He took it from her and opened it to an edited page filled with check marks, hand scribbled notes, and RSVPs.

  “Sorry for the muddle,” she said, noting his apparent struggle sorting through her notes. “I didn’t have time to compile a final list, not that it would matter. We’ve been making changes right up to the hour.”

  “Understandable,” he replied with a detached tone. He was still searching for a name.

  “Walter Holtz.” He finally spoke the name of one of the richest men in New York. His private contributions accounted for more than thirty percent of the annual donations to the museum.

  “Oh, where is my mind?” Susan exclaimed. “His secretary called a few moments ago to RSVP. He and his wife are coming. She also said that he wanted to speak with you.”

  “Is he here yet?” Hoffmeyer asked in a more anxious tone.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Let me check for you.”

  “That’s OK,” he said, turning toward the door. The rest of his muffled statement went unheard as he stepped from the suite and moved quickly toward the grand ballroom.

  7

  As his blurred vision gradually cleared, Jake began to recognize the contents of his cabin onboard the Tracey Michelle, TERA’s largest research vessel. Slowly, he tilted his head to the right until his gaze fell upon an old photograph of his parents. Beside the photo, he could read the gilded words on the binding of his well-worn study Bible.

  “Thank you, loving Father,” he breathed. “I’m still alive.”

  When he moved to roll out of bed, he noticed that his left arm was tangled in something. Blinking several times to clear his eyes, he saw that an I.V. pole and tube flowed down to his forearm. From his pounding headache, he guessed he was being given fluids for dehydration and possibly a transfusion. The grogginess also told him that he’d been given a sedative.

  “Looks like the bag is nearly empty,” he reasoned aloud as he carefully removed the needle, “and I have got to find some Tylenol.”

  With his finger pressed against the puncture, he slid his feet off the bed and slid into his deck shoes and headed toward the door. Forced to shield his eyes from the bright sun, he painfully began to make his way up the flight of stairs that led to the bridge.

  “Jake,” a voice called from behind him.

  “Hey, brother,” he sluggishly greeted Sam as the younger man reached out and grasped him in a painful embrace. Although an inch shorter, with brown hair and blue eyes, their similar appearance caused most people to guess their relationship.

  “How are you feeling?” Sam asked with concern.

  “Better before you squeezed out what little life I h
ad left.”

  “That’s what you get for hanging out with the wrong people.”

  “The girl!” Jake suddenly blurted out. His grogginess was wearing off. “The girl. Did you find a girl at the site?”

  “Is that who you gave the satellite phone to?”

  Jake gave him a questioning look.

  “Before its battery died, we located your phone in St. Petersburg, Russia.”

  “No,” he brought his hands to his face, rubbing his tired eyes. “They must have gotten her. At least she’s alive… maybe. How did you know about the phone?”

  “In your delirious state onboard the helicopter, you babbled on about a beautiful girl named Katie. In the same context you mentioned the phone, so we did a search and found that in addition to a call placed to Murray’s number, which was never received, a second call was placed from Ulaanbaatar to a private residence in St. Petersburg.”

  “Did you save the number?”

  Sam feigned an astonished expression.

  “Sorry,” Jake shrugged.

  “It was an apartment in the southern part of the city. I even printed the Google directions from the nearest metro.”

  Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “How long was I in the desert?”

  “Four days. Not sure why you’re still alive.”

  “I knew you’d miss me too much.”

  “Or that Mom would blame me for what happened.”

  Jake chuckled and then grabbed his throbbing head. “Don’t make me laugh. It feels like someone put my head in a vice.”

  His brother’s expression changed. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

  “Not a clue. They were well armed. I can attest to that.”

  “Mongolian?” Sam inquired.

  “Russian,” Jake responded.

  “How’d you get away?”

  Jake paused, allowing the events to replay in his mind for the first time—the storm, the space capsule, the girl, and their attackers. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked over at his brother.