The Infinity Factor

By Eugene Propper

A string of unsolved kidnappings of mothers and daughters plague our nation's capital. The police and FBI are unable to ascertain a motive or find any clues. They are unaware that a seemingly retired scientist, Barry Miller, funded and protected by an aging Saudi prince, has invented a process that not only extends life but also makes people younger. Adam and his best friend, former FBI agent Bill Morgan, are soon involved in a dangerous and deceptive game which reaches into the highest echelons of the U.S. and foreign governments, all of whom will stop at nothing to possess the weapon of the secret of youth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eugene Propper
• Release date: Mar 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988940109

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The Infinity Factor

Eugene M. Propper

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Published by Eugene M. Propper at Smashwords

COPYRIGHT 2013 EUGENE M. PROPPER

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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For My Wife, Tina

For Who She Is and What She Means To Me

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Author's Note

Prologue 1

Prologue 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Postscript

Also By Eugene M. Propper

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are products of the author's imagination. None of the characters are real, although several are patterned after real people and they are aware of that fact. The science upon which this story is premised is not fiction; it is very real. Making people live longer is actively on the minds of scientists worldwide.

In writing this book, I was greatly assisted by my friend, Tom Morris, a former Marine and FBI agent. Tom is a talented storyteller, photographer and all around engaging fellow. One of the characters in this book was patterned after him, but he is a much better person than his character depicts.

Some may believe the process to become younger already exists and that this book was written as a work of fiction because the actual facts have been classified and concealed by the government. The only way to determine if there is credence to this belief is if the author starts to appear younger at some point in the next five to ten years.

I can be reached at [e-mail].

Prologue 1

She trembled as they approached, looking like ghostly apparitions in a grade B horror movie. She lay strapped to an operating table, an assortment of medical devices monitoring her vital signs. IV tubes dripped fluid into both her arms. Whatever was in them did nothing to ease her anxiety. At first, she thought she was in a hospital. The people surrounding her were dressed in white and masks covered their faces. Reality struck when, even over time, no one would answer her questions, give her pain medication or say what they were doing to her. Doctors and nurses wouldn't do that. Occasionally she was sedated and had no idea what they did to her. That petrified her, as did the fact that she didn't know how many days or weeks she'd been there or even whether it was day or night.

She was kept in a room that had cinderblock whitewashed walls and a concrete floor. The only light was from bare florescent bulbs, the room lacking even a single window. There was a bed, a toilet, a sink and a hand-held shower. They gave her basic toiletries and a white terrycloth robe.

She offered to blow or fuck them, better than anyone ever had, if only they would let her go. They could certainly have used her for sex, whether she consented or not, but no one evidenced even the slightest interest. Men paid to have sex with her, but here she couldn't even give it away.

The drugs they gave her sometimes made her sick. Once, she shook for days, screaming for drugs to kill the pain, her pleas ignored by the people tormenting her. They never told her whether she was hurt or sick. The few times they talked to her they called her Gloria. On one occasion, the pain was so severe it made her faint. Her last thought, right before she passed out, was that her name was Annabelle.

Prologue 2

The bar had oak walls, black wood floors, lighting low enough to hide fine wrinkles and a mirror behind the bar that made the room appear larger. Televisions hung on walls at both ends of the bar, one showing a soccer game and the other a closed captioned news program. Rock music blared from speakers around the room.

Bottles of gin, vodka and other liquors lined the shelves in front of the mirror, like soldiers in formation. The bottles that represented the privates and sergeants were the brands used for mixed drinks. The generals were on the highest shelf, where their recognizable brands could be seen and coveted. These were most often served alone, not adulterated with soda or cherries.

An older man and a younger woman were tending bar. The man had thinning gray hair, sallow skin and sagging jowls. He had the tired look of someone who had heard more bar trivia than a body could take and who would continue to do so for the indefinite future. He wore a wrinkled white shirt over dark blue pants with a stained paisley tie. While not fat, he had a paunch that bespoke of unhealthy food and no exercise. He had not done a good job shaving. He spent more time serving older customers, who sat at the bar and seemed to be drinking alone. They didn't fit into the young, hip atmosphere the bar sought to portray. Like the bartender, they may have been left over from an earlier time, before the bar changed its owners, décor and name. Now it was trendy.

The woman could best be described as a hot chick, somewhere in her mid-20's. She had long black hair, deep blue eyes, a wide smile and painted on blue jeans over long lean legs. She wore a starched white tuxedo shirt that covered some bountiful charms, with the top three buttons unfastened. She smiled and chatted with her customers at the bar, flirting with some and laughing with others.

Adam Michaels had not been in a bar like this in several years. Here, people drank socially and for fun. They came to see and be seen, to negotiate deals, to meet girls or guys, to find sex, love or just friendship. This was the type of bar Adam had frequented before he got married, but he no longer had a use for them.

Adam thought of that time as his previous life, a time when he was a highly regarded young lawyer with a beautiful, intelligent wife and a much-loved baby. That life ended when a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed his SUV into his wife's car, killing her and their baby. The driver, who had previous drunk driving citations and a suspended license, died when he flew through the windshield.

Adam's grief was so painful he physically hurt. For a month, he barely spoke, never exercised and often went more than a day without eating. He didn't call his office for updates on his cases, or to give his thoughts to the lawyers covering for him. Friends and family called often, but he let his answering machine pick up messages and didn't call back.

Adam's only solace was provided by Hogan, a dog he believed was a Golden Retriever and German shepherd mix. Hogan entered Adam's life before he was married, showing up as a stray puppy on his doorstep. Adam took him to the Humane Society, hoping a family would adopt him. When he learned that the puppy had not been adopted and was scheduled to be euthanized, Adam went back for him. He often thought of that decision as one of his best. Hogan listened when Adam talked about the pain of his loss, something he wouldn't do with any of his family or friends. He lay close on those nights when Adam closed his eyes and just shook, not able to control his thoughts or emotions.

For the first time in his life, Adam turned to alcohol as more than a social activity. He found a bar where people didn't go to socialize or party; they went to repress their emotions, to forget their memories, or just to pass time, because they didn't have a better use for it. The bar had bad lighting, cheap vinyl covered stools and nothing that would pass as food. Its occupants drank often and hard, but never well and almost always alone.

Adam fit that mold. He drank nearly every day, because it helped him drown out his thoughts and sleep at night. Unlike most of the drinkers around him, Adam drank the generals, even though their taste was always lost to him in a short period of time. He had a feeling, which intellectually he knew to be untrue, that more expensive booze was less likely to cause him harm. His life became drinking and sleeping and drinking some more.

On the 31st day of his binge, his dead wife's mother showed up uninvited on his doorstep. Adam had trouble just looking at her, because it was like seeing an older version of his wife. She had trouble looking at him, because he was unkempt, bleary-eyed and unshaven. She took his hand and they walked around his neighborhood, talking about how much they missed his wife and son. When they got back to his home, she took both his hands into hers and told him that her daughter would be furious to see him like this. If he wanted to honor her memory, he needed to pick himself up and get on with his life. She'd already lost two people she loved and refused to lose a third. They walked to the bar and together polished off four bottles of Coke.

Starting that night, Adam went cold sober. For the next three months he didn't drink at all. It was important to him that he could do that. He exercised and saw some close friends and family. Years before, he had inherited a piece of land in the Shenandoah Valley, deep in the woods outside Luray, Virginia, a town famous for the Luray caverns. Adam had never thought he would use it, but now he felt a need to be there. He built a log cabin from scratch, working without help, because it was therapeutic and replaced his solitary drinking. Adam told no one where the cabin was located and stayed for a month after it was finished. He spent his time reading, cutting wood, hiking trails with Hogan and trying to focus on his life.

By the end of the month, he realized that the hole in his heart could be patched but never completely healed. Adam returned to work, not to stop himself from grieving but because he wanted to work. His return was covered by the Washington Post and local television news programs that had covered his cases before the death of his family and then had covered their deaths. A year had now passed since his return to work and Adam had quickly re-established himself as a top attorney.

Adam decided to go to a bar to celebrate the year, thinking he might do more than just look at the women there. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink from the hot chick bartender. She saw a man just over six feet tall, with blue eyes, wavy brown hair, a salt and pepper beard and a friendly smile. He was slim and athletic looking, someone people would describe as rangy. She brought him his drink and lingered to talk. After a few minutes of conversation, Adam decided it might be time to get back in the game.

Chapter 1

America's newest hope for an Olympic gold medal in swimming was happier in the water than anywhere else. After touching the wall and looking at the clock, Danielle Mosler vaulted out of the pool, having just completed the 200-meter freestyle only one second slower than the women's Olympic record. Already the star of the team, Danielle knew she would now be recognized as one of the premiere women swimmers in the country. She was singularly dedicated to the sport and devoted to her training. Danielle often trained four or more hours a day and was always the last person out of the pool.

It was only 8 a.m. and Danielle had already spent two hours in the pool. She raced to the locker room, despite the fatigue in her legs and shoulders, planning to call her mother as soon as she showered and changed. It had been seven years since her parents' divorce, but they had stopped talking to each other long before the divorce settlement was signed. That was also the time when Danielle discovered the peacefulness that her world in the water offered.

Outside the gym it was a beautiful fall morning, the cool air welcome after the hot and muggy Washington D.C. summer. The leaves had not yet started to display their annual show of colors, but Washington's haze and humidity were disappearing, allowing the beautiful blue sky to show clearly for the first time in months. Fall was one of the best times of the year to live in Washington. The great bulk of tourists were gone, with the school year now underway, and there was still enough daylight in the evenings for people to enjoy the outdoors.

As Danielle entered the locker room, a van drove up to the service door outside the pool building. The driver wore a white baseball cap with a red logo that read, Pete's Pool Service. The same logo was written on both sides of the van, a non-descript white Ford Econoline with no windows. The driver was tall, with a wide girth around his middle and a pronounced limp in a gimpy right leg. He had a full red mustache and beard and wore dark sunglasses under his baseball cap. Wearing a white short sleeve shirt, a string of tattoos stood out against the light skin of his right arm. He walked slightly hunched over and appeared to be in his mid to late 50's.

All these fit young women, many wearing shorts and tee shirts, were a glorious sight to behold. He watched their exodus from the gym, thinking it would be easy to get distracted from the job at hand if he let his mind wander. He was pulling equipment out of the van when he was approached by the head coach of the swim team.

A little early for a chemical delivery, isn't it?

The driver noticed the embroidered name Coach Turner over the breast pocket of his shirt.

Hey, coach. I'm as surprised as you are, the driver responded, favoring his right leg as he jumped down from the van. We had a call from your maintenance people, who said something about the pool's main pump goin' bad. I'm gonna have to take it apart and then shock the pool with chlorine to kill any bacteria that might seep out of the pump into the pool. Shouldn't take long. Be outta your hair and the pool in a couple hours.

I'm glad you could come on short notice. Can I give you a hand carrying some of your equipment? Turner asked, as he mumbled something about 'be nice if maintenance would think to call the damn head coach when the pool might be contaminated.'

The driver looked embarrassed. I see you noticed my limp. My doc says the damn thing wouldn't be this bad if I would lose some weight. I can't seem to lay off the beer, so the only help you can give me is to teach me how to swim so I can get some exercise.

The driver watched as an alarmed look appeared on the coach's face. Hey, coach, I'm only kidding about the swimming. Carrying these canisters is all the exercise I need. I appreciate your offer, but these canisters have toxic chemicals and insurance regulations don't allow anyone without heavy gloves and insurance to get near them.

I hear you, the coach said, clearly relieved. I hope everything goes okay. Good luck.

With that, the coach jogged away.

Goodbye, coach. Glad you can't stay, the driver said under his breath. He did have chemicals with him, but they weighed very little and weren't for disinfecting pools. They also weren't in the barrel-sized container he was unloading from the van, but instead were in a small vial in his shirt pocket. His limp was as phony as the excess weight around his middle, the beard on his face and the tattoos on his arm. He was fit and strong and certainly in better physical shape than the coach and maybe even better than the last swimmer remaining in the women's locker room, the one pushing to make the Olympics.

The coach would never know that the last thing this phony pool repairman relied upon was luck. He had watched Danielle for almost a week. Unlike most college girls, Danielle's rigorous training schedule required her to have a precise and consistent routine. This made it easy for him to learn her class schedule, training hours and weekly visits to her mother in nearby Great Falls, Virginia. He knew how she dressed, what classes she had, who her friends were and the fact that she had no boyfriend. In a very brief period of time, he knew more about her day than anyone other than Danielle herself.

He had decided to handle this matter at the pool, rather than in her dorm or car. He knew that she would be the last person out of the locker room after morning practice. He had time and he would move deliberately and decisively. Luck was for amateurs.

Maintenance. Anyone inside the locker room?

I need 10 minutes, the lone voice answered. The driver recognized Danielle's voice. He stepped inside, pulling a canvas laundry basket with him, and locked the door.

Excuse me! I need a few more—

Those were the last words Danielle spoke before falling to the floor. The driver knew exactly how she felt, the utter loss of all body strength, the muscle spasms with each pull of the trigger. The X26 Taser Gun was so powerful, it was only made available to law enforcement personnel. With each pull of the trigger 60,000 volts would race through her body. One pull was enough.

With his free hand, the driver slammed a needle into Danielle's leg. He carefully removed the prongs still clinging to her robe, wrapping both wires around the trigger housing. Danielle would remain unconscious for at least four hours. The Versed and Fentanyl drug cocktail, an opioid analgesic more than 80 times the potency of morphine, worked wonders. He gathered her personal belongings from her open locker, putting them and Danielle into the laundry basket, which he covered with soiled towels from a second basket. Everything had gone like clockwork.

Her robe had slipped open as he tied her up in the van and he admired her body out loud, but he was not taking her for sexual purposes and he immediately closed the robe. He smiled to himself as he realized that thinking about her body helped take his mind off the pain caused by peeling the phony beard and mustache from his face. He was unbuckling his belt to remove the padding around his stomach as he pulled his van into traffic. He would wash off the phony tattoos later.

Driving west over the Key Bridge, he slowed down to take in the view. He loved this city, especially the trendy shops along M Street, joggers of all shapes and sizes on both sides of the bridge, and the handful of single sculls in the Potomac River.

Chapter 2

"Adam, I know you asked me to hold your calls, but there's a man at the reception desk that refuses to leave without seeing you." It was Cindy Townsend, Adam's secretary, who was filling in for the regular receptionist while she was on a break.

What does he want?

"He keeps waving the Post story about you, the one where you went to jail. This guy is beginning to scare me."

The Washington Post article had appeared several months earlier. It reported that Adam's client had fled before trial on criminal fraud charges and the government had subpoenaed Adam to provide information about his client in an effort to locate him. Adam had refused to comply with the subpoena, claiming the information requested was protected by attorney-client privilege. The prosecutor argued that the privilege didn't apply since Adam's client had voluntarily absconded. The judge agreed with the prosecutor and ordered Adam to provide the information. He continued to refuse. The judge held him in contempt of court for failing to obey a court order and gave him free room and board at the D.C. jail until such time as he provided the information.

Adam's law firm appealed the judge's ruling the same day and the court of appeals came to his rescue on an emergency basis, ordering him released. Adam spent only six hours in jail, but his short visit there was memorialized by the Washington Post. Adam went home angry at his client, but even angrier at the judge and the government. The upside was the Defense Bar Association now considered him to be something of a hero. For Adam, it was just the right thing to do.

Adam hoped to quietly escort the man from the reception area, but he immediately recognized Adam and rushed to greet him. Adam instinctively placed one hand around the man's wrist and the other above his elbow and directed him towards the bank of elevators.

But Mr. Michaels, you must see me!

Adam led him inside the elevator, pushed the lobby button with his elbow and turned to leave before the door fully closed.

This is not what I expected. Bill Morgan said you would meet with me. The man's words trailed off as the elevator doors closed.

Adam had a sudden change of heart and direction as he now led the man back to the reception area. Cindy, get Bill Morgan on the line for me please. Realizing that he had no idea who the man was, he turned for a closer look and saw a face that meant absolutely nothing to him. I think you better tell me your name.

Miller, Doctor Barry Miller, the man replied as he extended his hand. How do you do, Mr. Michaels. I know this must seem trite, but I've heard so much about you.

Thank you, Dr. Miller. Why don't we go to my office? I'm curious how you and Bill got to know each other and what you think I can do for you.

Cindy fell in step behind the two men, having now finished out front. She would bring them a tray of coffee and cookies. She had been Adam's secretary before his wife died and, when Adam came back to the firm, he asked her to return. Cindy was proud of the fact that she refused to listen to gossip among the office secretaries about how demanding he was and she certainly didn't listen to the women who wanted to take him to bed. Cindy saw Adam not only as a brilliant lawyer but also as someone who could be sweet and caring.

The two men were alone in Adam's outer office. A cushy sofa sat at one end, with matching glass end tables on each side and an oversized glass-top coffee table directly in front. Doctor Miller had the sofa and the plate of disappearing butter cookies all to himself. Adam stood next to a mahogany wood credenza that ran the full length of the opposite wall, the top half of which was double-paned glass windows. There were bookshelves that contained nothing but hardback fiction, from the Childs, Grishams and Koontzes of the world, the kinds of books that made for good overnight company for out-of-town clients. The framed prints on the walls were reproduction Monets, the originals of which hung permanently in the National Gallery of Art about a mile away, as well as in other museums around the world.

Also on the walls were Adam's college and law school degrees, his Supreme Court admission certificate, and many awards and photographs, including courtroom sketches of him. Adam had designed the outer office himself, keeping it soft and completely devoid of anything connected with the rigors of law or his personal life. No pictures of his dead wife or child were on the walls, although his personal office, just a room away, was adorned with photos of them. Adam met with clients in the outer office and it was important to him that they feel comfortable. His clients came from as far away as the Middle East and as close as a short walk from government agencies and the White House.

Dr. Miller appeared to be somewhere between 50 and 60. He looked like a slightly smaller, mustache-free version of Oliver Hardy, the overweight member of the most famous comedy team of all time, Laurel and Hardy. He wore baggy black pants with the belt buckled closer to his chest than his abdomen, unlike most overweight men whose belts hung below their pot bellies. His significant belly pushed out the front of his pants. He wore brown wing-tip shoes with light blue socks and none of his clothes matched.

Cindy buzzed him when the call to Bill Morgan went through. Adam picked up the phone and walked with it into his private office, leaving Doctor Miller in the outer office.

Hey, Bill, how the hell are you?

Hey yourself. I'm glad you called. I just got back into the country and there's something I want to talk to you about.

Adam enjoyed talking to his friend, especially the good natured kidding that was part of almost all their conversations. Their friendship went back many years. They met playing rugby, a sport that provided rough and tumble contact and close camaraderie. On the surface, the two men couldn't have been more different. Adam had grown up with two parents and brothers and sisters in a loving home. Morgan had been an orphan, who moved from orphanage to foster homes and then back. Not surprisingly, Adam had a more optimistic view of family life than Morgan, whose one attempt at marriage had ended in a nasty divorce, leaving him with a bitter taste not only for marriage but also for any kind of permanent relationship with a woman.

Adam went straight from college to law school. Morgan, who was eight years older, joined the Marines after college and saw action in some of the world's most violent conflicts. After four years, he left the Marines and joined the FBI. As a result of his facility with foreign languages, he spent many years of his FBI career in foreign embassies. In that position, he met with foreign police and spy agencies on a regular basis, as well as some heads of state. Morgan had two passions: fast cars and exercise. He entered marathons as well as iron man competitions and he looked like a runner, only more rugged. Adam was much more laissez faire about exercise. On most subjects, Adam was to the political left of Morgan, whose views Adam jokingly referred to as coming from the dark ages.

I may know what you want to talk about. A friend of yours is sitting in my outer office stuffing his face with cookies.

You mean Doctor Miller is there with you?

That's exactly what I mean.

Shit, I intended to call you first. Actually, I sort of told him I would do that. Sorry about that. All I ask is that you listen to the good doctor. You won't be disappointed. Seriously, this guy has something you need to see.

I should get back to him. I'll let you know how it goes. Later, guy. Adam hung up.

***

2911 Rosebud Lane he mouthed to himself. It was the last house on the cul-de-sac, where five identical two-story brick homes stood side by side. They differed only in the shade of brick, the landscaping arrangement and the number of homeowners working late that evening.

The phony pool repairman who had kidnapped Danielle Mosler was now putting his skills into breaking in at the home of her mother, Katherine. He wore no disguise this time and smiled at the thought of not having to put glue on his face for the fake beard and mustache. He drove his Explorer into the driveway as if it belonged. He hit the correct code on the garage door remote on the second try. This was nothing to brag about since, in this region of Northern Virginia, there were only five frequencies allotted to garage door subcontractors. He carried a collection of all five remotes in his glove box.

I'm getting good at this, he said aloud, as he watched the double door rise to an empty garage. He pulled inside and pressed the remote once more to close the door behind him. He then pulled the power cord on the automatic door opener, effectively locking the door in the down position. When Katherine Mosler got home, she would have to leave her car in the driveway and enter through the front door.

He entered the house through the door from the garage using the key obtained from Danielle, as well as the security code for the alarm that she'd provided while still groggy. As he walked through the house, he saw a second entry pad on the wall next to the back door of the house. He climbed the steps to look at the upper floor and, in the master bedroom, found a framed photograph of a beaming Danielle in a black skin-tight swimsuit; she was standing next to Danielle's look-alike, only some twenty years older. For a split second, he imagined what Katherine Mosler would look like wearing her daughter's swimsuit. He would see if she looked like her picture when she got home.

He reactivated the alarm and then sat on the floor in the laundry room that was next to the door to the garage and off the hallway leading to the kitchen. He had blankets, duct tape, a recharged Taser gun and two bee packs whose syringes had already been modified to contain the fast-acting anesthetic. He crossed his stretched-out legs, leaned back into a plastic clothes hamper, laid the bee syringes on the ground at his right hip and the Taser on his stomach, and closed his eyes.

It was twilight when he heard the sound of the car engine, the car door slam and a pair of noisy high heels pounding across the front walk. Next, there was the familiar beep from the alarm pad, then even more noisy high heels, no doubt carrying an upset owner who had been forced to deviate from her customary short walk from inside the garage. He heard the crackle that a plastic bag makes when it's lined with paper. Katherine Mosler had set dinner down on the kitchen counter on her way to the garage.

Just what I fucking need. How much is this going to cost me? She cursed as she made her way to the garage and the automatic garage door opener that no longer worked.

I like the way this woman talks,