The Methuselah File

By Alex Swan

In Switzerland, a private research institute claims to have resurrected a cyronically preserved 150 year old man and infused him with the Methuselah Gene - an anti-ageing gene that could make him immortal.

Hanna Hayes, a young, American neuro-molecular biologist has been recruited by the Schoch Institute in Switzerland. She soon finds herself caught up in murder and intrigue as she discovers more and more dark secrets in the subterranean laboratories of the institute; secrets with names like Project Einstein, Project Darwin, and Project HAL. These are secrets that will soon impact on the President of the United States, his female Chief of Staff, an American mobster, an American girlie magazine proprietor, and a stem cell clinic in Beijing with connections to the Chinese Government.

Hanna will survive a number of attempts on her life before the final, horrifying secret is revealed, a secret that may change the balance of power and the world that we live in forever.

Alex Swan is the pseudonym of an award winning writer of drama for the stage and radio, who has also written for television.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Swan
• Release date: Oct 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9780473249670

Alex Swan

Alex Swan is the pseudonym of an award winning writer of drama for the stage and radio, who has also written for television.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

ROBERT FISHER WAS BORED WITH HIS JOB. At thirty-six years of age he felt he should be on the rise to the pinnacle of a career. But he was stuck in a rut; almost fifteen years of his adult life as a journalist to this: the Communications Director of the Schoch Institute. The pay was fine, the title sounded almost grandiose, but the reality was he had swapped investigative journalism for PR; probing for publicity. He no longer wrote stories, he wrote press releases. And he could do that in his sleep, hence the boredom. But things were about to change.

He was summoned to the CEO’s office just before 10am. He went immediately. When he entered the large, wooden-panelled room, she was sitting behind her long, ornate, immaculately tidy, desk. Ljudmila Gladovitch was a woman in her mid fifties, with shoulder-length light-brown hair, tinted with gold streaks, an oval, lightly-lined face, with sharp, piercing eyes that looked right through you. Unusual eyes: one brown, one green. Robert often felt they were the eyes of a cat; always on alert, tensing to strike. And he was sometimes drawn in by those eyes, but more as prey than a predator.

Ljudmila opened a silver tin and took out a cigar, which she lit, blowing a stream of bluish smoke into the air. The Schoch Institute was smoke-free, apart from special designated areas in the social precincts. But Ljudmila was a law unto herself who made her own rules that others were not free to follow. She picked up a green folder off her desk. ‘Robert,’ she said with little expression. ‘Today we have a special announcement to make to the scientific community and the world’s press. It’s a major breakthrough. We’ve titled it the Methuselah Project.’

Methuselah. Wasn’t he some old guy in the Christian Bible who lived for hundreds of years, Robert thought?

‘Do you know about cryonics?’ she asked him.

He did. ‘Freezing dead bodies, in the belief that one day modern medicine will be able to cure what they died from and rejuvenate them to a healthy life,’ he told her. ‘The scientific community is generally skeptical of the idea. Many think that cryonics is pseudo-science.’

‘Science is science, judged by results,’ Ljudmila retorted. ‘And there is a major error in your description. Cryonics is not about freezing dead bodies. Ice is damaging to body tissue. Cryonics is about the rapid cooling of bodies to preserve cells and tissue, which do survive for hours beyond clinical brain-death.’

Robert nodded. ‘So possible in theory. But as I understand it, to date, no mammal has ever been preserved in this way and brought back to life.’

Ljudmila gave him a thin smile; a smile that seemed almost more directed to herself. ‘You are correct, Robert.’ She blew another cloud of cigar-smoke into the air, stubbed out the cigar in a glass ashtray, then rose and came around from behind her desk. Her figure was slim and sinewy and she wore a short black dress, with black stockings to match, running all the way up to her thighs; unusual perhaps for a woman her age, but Ljudmila had legs to strut. She clutched the folder to her chest. ‘Correct until now, that is,’ she said.

He stared at her. What was she telling him?

She smiled again, and this time the smile was definitely for him. ‘Come with me,’ she instructed him.

She led him out of a rear door of the large office. There was an elevator there; glassed interior, plush, shagpile carpet on the floor. She waved her security token over the sensor and pushed a button marked 5. They were moving down, not up. Ljudmila’s face was set like stone. ‘This is important, Robert,’ were the only words she said.

His mind was spinning. There were a plethora of research projects going on at any one time in the Schoch Institute. Those that were classified and top secret were conducted in the bowels of the building, where they were headed now. A place normally off-limits to him. He only got to know about these projects when Ljudmila needed his services, a practice that applied to all aspects of her life. He sometimes felt like a rodent kept in the dark until his mistress the cat determined it was time to play.

The lift door slid open. They were in a narrow corridor that ran away to their left. Ljudmila led him along the corridor. At the end was a small office where a young woman in a white nurse’s uniform sat at a desk looking at a bank of monitor screens. The woman turned as they entered.

‘And how is our patient today?’ Ljudmila asked her.

‘Still stable,’ the nurse replied. ‘I think he’s making good progress.’

‘Excellent,’ Ljudmila said. ‘He’s about to become famous.’

She led Robert out of the office, climbing some steep steps that led to another corridor. One wall was made of glass from the floor to a low ceiling. A short way along there was a small recess in the corridor with comfortable chairs placed inside it and an object that looked like a telescope. Robert could see it was a viewing platform, suspended in the air close to the ceiling of a large room on the other side of the glass. Around the walls of the room were large screens displaying a range of visual material from CNN news broadcasts, to movies, to panoramas of natural scenery. Down on the floor, the room was laid out like an open-plan house: living area, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, all without interior walls. But Robert’s eyes moved quickly to the human figure sitting in an armchair in the living area of the room. The figure, wearing a beanie and headphones, was gazing silently up at one of the giant screens.

‘Meet Methuselah,’ Ljudmila said.

Robert was a little surprised. From the nurse’s words about the patient being stable and making good progress, he had expected to see someone in a hospital bed, not sitting in a chair with no signs of medical supports anywhere near him. Through the telescope fixed to the glass, he studied the figure below. It had the face of an older man; watchful of the giant screen, but seemingly oblivious to the watchers above.

Ljudmila turned to Robert. ‘How old would you say this Methuselah is?’ she asked him, with a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

Robert studied the face below further. ‘Sixties …seventies maybe,’ he said.

‘A reasonable assumption,’ Ljudmila conceded. ‘But one that is totally wrong. It’s his birthday today. And he’s one hundred and fifty years old.’

Chapter 1.

JFK Airport; New York.

THE DARK-HAIRED, PETITE figure that was Hanna Hayes had one eye on the Departure Board and one eye on the headline in the New York Times.

BODY OF 150 YEAR OLD MAN BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE

CLAIMS ANTI-AGEING PROCESS HAS BEEN REVERSED

Amazing coincidence. The claims were coming from the Schoch Bio-Medical Research Institute in Switzerland, the same institute she was about to depart for to take up a new position. The story had broken onto the world stage yesterday, claiming the first successful rejuvenation of a cryopreserved human being. In Hanna’s world that was equivalent to the announcement in 1969 that man had landed on the moon. The most quoted phrase of the skeptics of cryonics was believing cryonics could rejuvenate a dead body that had been frozen was like believing you could turn a hamburger back into a cow. Was that what had happened here? The live cow reclaiming its dead flesh?

And to do that you needed to be able to cure any diseases existing at the time of death. That was one of the major challenges for cryonics. The other was repairing the damage caused to cells and tissue by cryopreservation itself. The article was silent about the methods used to achieve that. It just leapt to the next headline: the claim that not only had Schoch rejuvenated the subject, but that the ageing process had been reversed as well. This time the article was more specific. The Schoch Institute claimed that the patient possessed what they called the Methuselah Gene – a gene that promoted longevity. And that the presence of the gene in disease-cured tissue and organs was a prescription for further prolonged life.

Resurrection and breathing life back into the dead.

The presence of a gene that restored the fountain of youth.

This was more than landing a man on the moon. This was equivalent to finding life on Mars!

Her phone rang.

‘Hanna?’ a familiar voice said.

She stiffened. What was this about? ‘What do you want, Michael?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t want you to go, Hanna,’ the voice replied with a sense of urgency. ‘I’m ready to leave Elizabeth.’

‘You’re ready, Michael? As in, you haven’t done it yet, but you’ll think about it? Have I got that right?’

‘I love you, Hanna.’

‘When two people love each other, Michael, they want to live together, not see each other in secret!’

‘Please, Hanna.’ His tone was pleading, like a prisoner trying to stave off execution.

On the Departure Board a light was flashing next to her flight to Zurich, calling passengers to proceed to Passport Control and the Departure Gate. She picked up her hand luggage. ‘Sorry Michael. I needed more than promises. It’s time for both of us to move on.’ She turned her phone off and headed for Passport Control.

The night flight to Zurich was eight hours long. All the way she wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She had agonized long and hard about taking the position at the Schoch Institute before finally accepting. But these headlines seemed to justify her decision. This put Schoch at the cutting edge of bio-medical research. And that was exciting. She felt like a wide-eyed child being told there was a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

She had been head-hunted for the job three months ago and an intensive process it had been. The Schoch Institute had approached her on the basis of her work as a neuro-molecular biologist with a special interest in the pathology of Huntington’s disease. Having just reached her thirtieth birthday, she had already made a name for herself in a range of prestigious medical journals around the world in her specialist field. It was at a conference in London less than a year ago that she had first met the CEO of the Schoch Institute, Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch.

Dr Gladovitch had been impressed by a paper that Hanna had presented at the conference. At an informal meeting afterwards, Ljudmila Gladovitch had inquired whether Hanna might be interested in joining her team at the Schoch Institute. Hanna agreed to consider the proposal. And then the emails started and with each offer, the salary package increased. It wasn’t just the money that finally tipped Hanna to resign from her current position at the Rockefeller University in New York. The Schoch Institute had a strong reputation in the field of bio-medical research and Dr Gladovitch had promised her lots of leeway to pursue her specialist field. So joining Schoch was no step backwards for her career.

The other reason for going was that there was no longer any outside work attractions to keep her in New York, or America, for that matter. Both her parents had been killed in a car accident and she had no siblings. There was a small circle of friends she would be leaving behind, but email would keep them in touch. Only one person might have kept her in New York, but he was now history. She had been in a relationship with Michael Glade, an investment banker, for almost three years. She had known from day one that Michael was married, but all that time he had kept her hanging on a promise that he would leave his wife. After years of waiting, finally she gave him an ultimatum that he couldn’t meet. On the plane she replayed Michael’s twelfth-hour phone call several times over in her head. But she wouldn’t relent now. He had played with her emotions for far too long. She was worth more than that. So she focused on the new job, put her glasses back on, and re-read the article in the New York Times.

The revived man was claimed to be Olaf Stefansson, an Icelandic millionaire who had made his money in the fishing industry and who, at time of his death at the age of 123, was reputably the oldest person living on the planet. This longevity had recently been attributed to the Methuselah Gene, where studies had shown that a significant group of Icelandic residents, with family connections and a common genetic marker, had lived exceptionally long lives. That marker had been dubbed the Methuselah Gene. More recent studies had found a similar result among offspring of long-lived Ashkenazi Jews. Stefansson had been cryopreserved on his death in the early 1980’s. His body had been kept in a hermetically sealed and special cooled crypt in Reykjavík ever since. And now the Schoch Institute claimed to have brought him back to life. And re-charged the Methuselah Gene in his body to allow him to live even longer!

But the headline was misleading. This was often the outcome in the uneasy alliance science had with the media. The media wanted to extract every last drop of drama out of the story. And this imbalance could lead to distortions of the truth, which was the case here. For this 123 year old man had been clinically dead for nearly thirty years, a time-span the media had simply added to his real age to produce the headline: Body of 150 year old man brought back to life. But it was still a stunning achievement and the claims about the Methuselah Gene were fascinating to say the least. It was almost the stuff of science fiction, but as Hanna knew only too well, today’s science fiction could become tomorrow’s science fact.

When her plane landed it was eight o’clock in the morning, Swiss time. She passed through Swiss Passport Control without difficulty, having her work permit stamped and approved. She retrieved her suitcase and cleared customs without any challenge. In the concourse, she noticed a row of headline boards at the entrance to a newsstand. One board had the same headline as the New York Times. Others appeared to have similar headlines in German:

STELLE DER 150 JAHRE ALTEN MANN WIEDER ZUM LEBEN ERWECKT

ANTI-AGING PROZESS RUCKGANGIG GEMACHT

And another in English from the International Herald tribune:

MODERN LAZURUS RISES FROM THE DEAD TO BECOME METHUSELAH

That seemed to say it all.

Just past the newsstand, a small group of people were gathered around a television screen watching a live news broadcast. Hanna went closer. There was a split screen. On one side she recognized the famous, feisty face and the jowly features of CNN’s Larry-the-Hound-behind-the-news-Hagler, in a CNN studio. On the other side of the screen, another familiar face - Dr Ljudmila Gladovitch, CEO of the Schoch Institute, and Hanna’s new employer to be, in a studio somewhere in Switzerland.

‘So sum this up for me please, Dr Gladovitch,’ Larry said.

Ljudmila’s strange eyes stared out of the screen. Today her stare had a detached expression, which in Hanna’s experience many scientists often had, born of an ethos of objectivity that goes with the professional territory of their occupation. But her words were electric.

‘We have breathed life back into a body that had ceased to function, proving that cryonics, despite its many skeptics, has some efficacy,’ Ljudmila told him. ‘With the use of nano-technology we cured the heart failure that had originally killed this patient by growing new donor cells from embryonic stem cells and transplanting these back into the patient. We did the same with his other vital organs – his liver, his lungs and his kidneys. And using blood cells taken from the patient before his death, we extracted the Methuselah Gene and infused this into these stem cells to reverse the ageing process.’ Ljudmila Gladovitch paused before delivering her coup de grace. ‘This obviously charters new territories for humankind, because ultimately we may be on the road to making humankind immortal.’

Larry Hagler somehow managed to keep his composure. ‘Which obviously raises a plethora of legal and ethical issues that the world community needs to address,’ he said, sombrely.

‘Correct,’ Ljudmila agreed.

Hanna stared open-mouthed at the screen. Legal and ethical issues. That was an understatement.

Resurrection and breathing life back into the dead.

Retrospectively curing life-termination diseases.

Through the use of embryonic stem cells.

Containing a gene that restored the fountain of youth.

To make the recipient immortal.

This was not analogous to finding some low-level life on Mars. This was about changing the fundamental meaning of life on the planet. Hanna moved away in a daze. She needed to find out more; she was drawn to get answers to some of the questions that were bombarding her brain. She headed out of the concourse, looking for the railway station and the final leg of her journey that would take her to the nerve centre where these revelations were coming from.

Chapter 2.

The White House; Washington D.C.

THE U.S. PRESIDENT sat in a work room studying the array of papers set out on the large table in front of him. Alongside him were Dr Martin Duvall from the National Institutes of Health, Professor Lincoln Gale from the President’s Council on Bioethics, and the White House Chief of Staff, Francesca Young. The President was holding a copy of the Washington Post. The headline read:

METHUSELAH GENE OFFERS A LIFESPAN OF 150 YEARS AND MORE

Beneath the headline there was a picture of the man they were calling Methuselah. He presented as an older man, but nowhere near one hundred and fifty, with a blank stare that looked out of the page, like he was totally unaware of the attention he was attracting. The President leaned back in his leather swivel chair. ‘So, Martin…’ he addressed Dr Duvall. ‘What do we know about this Schoch Institute?’

Martin Duvall was a man in his late fifties, fit and trim, befitting his position as Director of the National Institutes of Health. ‘Schoch has a record of being a reputable biomedical research centre,’ he told the President. ‘It was foundered by Dr Eugene Schoch, a notable molecular biologist, who won a Nobel Prize some years back for work in his field. Schoch died last year, but the Institute lives on, as is evident by these reports.’

‘So these claims are credible?’ the President asked.

Duvall spread his hands. ‘Well there’s been no peer review yet, as far as I’m aware. So the claims haven’t been substantiated by an independent body. Therefore we can only speculate on their credibility.’

‘Speculate then,’ the President instructed him.

Duvall glanced down at his notes. ‘The cryonics movement to preserve dead bodies dates back to the 1960’s. Originally, the FDA were ardent opponents and tried to shut down the largest cryonics organization, the Alcor Life Extension Foundation. There were a series of law suits before the FDA were forced to back down. Since then there has been an increase in these organizations, both in the U.S. and overseas. Records indicate that several hundred Americans are currently cryopreserved. And since the 1990’s there have been major improvements in the cooling technologies used, greatly reducing the amount of likely damage to the cells and tissues caused by the preservation process.’ His eyes came back to the President’s. ‘Which makes this case, if true, even more remarkable than just being the first recorded case of rejuvenation. Because the age of this man at the time of cryopreservation would place him in the earlier era of the technology.’ Duvall’s eyes flicked a glance at Professor Lincoln Gale. ‘Whilst not being illegal, there is a lot of opposition to cryonics, both in the scientific community and in the public at large, as I’m sure Professor Gale will attest to.’

Lincoln Gale from the Bioethics Council was already nodding.

‘You finish first,’ the President ordered Duvall.

Duvall continued. ‘Apart from reviving an apparently dead man, the Schoch Institute is making two more claims here: the cure of existing disease and a reversal of the ageing process.’

‘And are the two related?’ the President asked.

Lincoln Gale couldn’t contain himself. ‘Ageing is not a disease,’ he said, emphatically.

‘You could have fooled me,’ Chief of Staff Young tried to lighten up the conversation. But no one smiled.

‘The commonality is the use of stem cells,’ Duvall replied to the President. ‘In particular, embryonic stem cells, which are claimed to have been used to cure disease and implant this Methuselah Gene back into the body.’

The President was well aware of the debate and controversy around stem cell research. His predecessor in the White House had banned federal funding for stem cell research where stem cells were derived from the destruction of a human embryo. This position had now changed. The President supported federal funding for stem cell research using discarded human embryos created for fertility treatments. But there were still opponents, including Professor Lincoln Gale.

Chief of Staff, Francesca Young, knew something about cryopreservation but was not so well briefed on stem cell research. ‘Forgive me,’ she interrupted. ‘I obviously know about human embryos, but what exactly are stem cells?’

Duvall looked up from his notes. ‘Stem cells occur naturally in the body. They are like blanks; capable of forming themselves into new functioning cells in the body. There are basically two categories of stem cells. Adult stem cells can be extracted from sources such as bone marrow, blood, muscle, skin and umbilical cords. These have proved useful but have their limitations. The second category is stem cells from human embryos. Embryonic stem cells are the most primitive and have the potential to turn into any other cell type in the body.’

‘So why wouldn’t we encourage this research and the application of it to humans?’ Francesca asked. She knew the answer to the question but wanted to flush out Lincoln Gale’s views on the issue.

‘Well there are many medical risks to such procedures still to be overcome,’ Duvall answered her question. ‘And then there are the ethical issues.’

All eyes turned to Lincoln Gale. ‘The extraction of embryonic stem cells generally involves the destruction of the human embryo,’ he said, not disguising his distaste for the proposition. ‘That in turn destroys the potential for human life.’

‘But thousands of human embryos never make it to the formation of a fetus,’ Francesca Young challenged him.

Lincoln Gale’s stony face set even firmer. ‘True. But allowing unrestrained embryonic stem cell therapy could become the thin end of the wedge. It could lead to designer babies and human cloning. And that is not a situation we would ever want to endorse.’

Heaven forbid. A world filled with clones of Lincoln Gale, Francesca was thinking. Maybe the President or herself. But not Gale.

‘I think there are two separate issues here,’ the President intervened. ‘The treatment of disease and the promotion of longevity in otherwise healthy people and those who have been pronounced clinically dead.’

‘Precisely,’ Gale agreed. ‘As I said, ageing is not a disease. And nor is death either.’

The President clasped his hands together. ‘But we already have, as you know Lincoln, a world-wide industry built around the promise of anti-ageing. It includes nutrition, dietary supplements, exercise, drugs, cosmetic surgery, and organ transplants.’ When he mentioned cosmetic surgery, Francesca Young blushed, but no one noticed.

Duvall responded. ‘But the as yet unproven claims by the Schoch Institute, in terms of cryorejuvenation and this Methuselah Gene, if proven, as you say Mr President, take this debate to a very different level.’

‘Like the prospect of human immortality,’ the President mused aloud.

‘To which there are multiple objections,’ Lincoln Gale responded.

‘Objections?’ Francesca Young challenged him. ‘Shouldn’t we classify them as issues, to get some objectivity here?’

‘Fair point,’ the President adjudicated. ‘We do need some objectivity here. So let’s hear the issues, Professor.’

Gale’s eyes grew dark and dismissive. He drew himself up in his chair. He had a tall, thin body that looked uncomfortable when he was standing, but even more out of sorts when he was sitting. His expression was tight, with bird-like features ever on alert for predators who wanted to attack his arguments. Predators like Francesca Young.

‘I will try and summarise the issues,’ Gale said, stiffly.

‘Bullet point,’ the President directed.

Bullet point. Gale assembled the key points in his mind.

‘Playing God,’ he began.

‘That’s a religious view,’ Francesca objected. ‘While one might have a religious belief, the State has an obligation to be secular under the Constitution.’

The President nodded. Fair point. But he also knew that a President might ignore religious views at his peril. ‘Continue, Professor,’ he said to Gale.

‘Immortality subverts the meaning of life,’ Gale said tersely. "Immortality undermines what it fundamentally means to be human. Being human is about life, growth and death. Like all living things.’

‘But perhaps we are the real Gods on this planet now,’ Francesca said. ‘So we can now change the rules.’

Gale looked at her like she was some kind of alien creature.

‘Try socio-economic issues then,’ he responded. ‘Already, like most western societies, we have an ageing population. Technologies that promote anti-ageing and seek immortality will place unbearable stress on the socio-economic fabric of civilization as we know it, leading to the destruction of the planet by over-population.’

‘Now that is an issue that deserves our fullest attention,’ Francesca Young agreed.

Gale permitted himself a small smile from this concession.

The President cupped his hands under his chin. He looked thoughtful. ‘Clearly, we need to keep these issues high on our agenda,’ he said. He picked up the copy of the Washington Post. ‘As well as maintaining a close surveillance on this story. Speaking of which, how is this Schoch Institute funded?’

The question was put to Martin Duvall. ‘It’s a private foundation,’ he answered. ‘They receive grants and donations from a variety of sources – other foundations, research centres, individuals and governments, including the U.S. government.’

That made Lincoln Gale jerk in his chair.

‘Those funds are targeted to specific projects,’ Duvall hastily went on. ‘There is no reason to think U.S. government funds are tied up in this project. But I have asked for a review of the matter.’

The President stood up. ‘Thank you gentlemen,’ he said to Duvall and Gale. ‘Please keep Ms Young fully informed of any further developments on your side,’ he told them. ‘And she will keep you informed of any developments that come directly to us.’

‘Thank you, Mr President,’ Duvall said, standing.

Professor Gale was determined to have the last word. ‘This has major implications for the future of the planet and America’s place in that future,’ he said as he joined Dr Duvall, awkwardly on his feet.

‘We share your concerns,’ the President assured him.

Did he? Gale wondered. And he also wondered how much influence Francesca Young had on the President. Only time would tell.

After Gale and Duvall left, the President sat down again across the table from Francesca. At forty, Francesca was still a very attractive woman with the olive complexion and dark red hair of an Italian mother. But motherhood was not apparently on her personal agenda. She was single and had never married. A career woman as the label went. And many Washington insider eyes had popped when she had been appointed to a position normally occupied by men, a position that was the highest ranked member of the Executive Office; a position that some described as the ‘Co-President’. She was bright, attractive, and sassy. She would go far, the President was sure of that. ‘You noted down his bullet points?’ he asked her.

She nodded.

‘Contrary views?’

She smiled. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Bullet point. Objectivity,’ he replied.

‘In a nutshell –

Freedom of knowledge and inquiry.

A moral duty of science to develop better treatments in the fight against suffering and disease.

Individual rights set against government monopoly over what constitutes ‘progress’.

‘But I do acknowledge that the socio-economic issues here are major.’

Francesca rose and picked up her papers from the table. She could have told him more; about her father, about the cosmetic surgery some years before to increase her breast size. But that might make her sound frivolous and harm her career aspirations.

The President watched her go. She was a tall woman with a taste for fashion who moved with poise and elegance. He doodled with a pen on some paper on the table. Cryorejuvenation, stem cell research. They were just additions to his already busy agenda, along with the precarious state of the American economy in a world recession, international terrorism, and the gathering gloom around global climate change. If he was lucky he might get eight years max in this job to make a difference. Eight years out of the one hundred and fifty or more this Methuselah Man might have. He couldn’t imagine what he might do for the balance of those one hundred and fifty years or more.

Immortality. It still seemed more suited to the notion of an after-life, if such a state really existed.

Chapter 3.

Schoch Institute; Leysin, Switzerland

ROBERT FISHER got the call to Ljudmila’s office at the same time as Pierre De’Thierry, the Director of Security. Ljudmila was behind her desk staring into a computer screen.

‘Update,’ she said, looking first at Robert.

‘At last count there were thirty television crews outside the compound,’ he told her. ‘It’s like the Oscars out there.’

‘And are we secure?’ she asked her strongly-built Director of Security.

‘The compound has been sealed off,’ he assured her. ‘No one is being allowed to enter or leave.’

‘And the day workers?’ Ljudmila inquired.

‘Will leave by a side door at the rear of the building,’ De’Thierry told her.

Ljudmila nodded. ‘We need to disperse that circus out there,’ she said.

‘Are you surprised?’ Robert said, with little surprise in the tone of his own voice. ‘Surely you foresaw that half the world’s press would want to show up here?’

‘This is a scientific research centre, Robert, not the premiere of a Hollywood movie,’ Ljudmila snapped.

Robert spread his hands. ‘Nevertheless-’

Ljudmila picked a sheet of paper from her desk. ‘This is my latest media release,’ she announced. ‘It states that Methuselah Man has been moved to a secret location. So there’s little point in them hanging around trying to get film of him.’

‘Shifted to where?’ Robert said. This time his tone was definitely one of surprise.

Ljudmila shot him a supercilious smile. ‘Shifted to nowhere, Robert. It’s just a ruse to get them off our doorstep.’

‘What about the scientific community?’ Robert followed up. ‘There’s no end to the barrage of emails and telephone calls coming in all around the world.’

‘The scientific community is not so barbaric that it will set up tents on our doorstep,’ Ljudmila said tartly. ‘I can handle them. Just get rid of the media.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Robert said, moving towards the door. The tall, strong frame of Pierre De’Thierry followed him.

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Ljudmila called after them. ‘I’m expecting a new recruit to arrive shortly. Her name is Dr Hanna Hayes. She’s joining us from New York. Keep a lookout for her will you. She’ll wonder what she’s come to when she sees that rabble outside.’

‘Will do,’ De’Thierry replied.

De’Thierry was a couple of years younger than Robert. To some of the opposite sex he was probably handsome in a rugged, outdoor kind of way. This former French Foreign Legion soldier had hard, weather-beaten features, with wavy black hair and a mouth full of gleaming gold teeth. But he wasn’t the kind of man Ljudmila was attracted to as a woman. The softer exterior and personality of Robert was much more her type. As the CEO at Schoch she controlled everyone’s lives, professionally and personally. As the new recruit, Hanna Hayes, would soon find out.

Chapter 4.

Switzerland

HANNA WAS STARING out the window of the train as it sped through the Swiss countryside. She had been abroad before to a number of scientific conferences, visiting London, Paris and Berlin. But this was her first time in the Swiss Republic. Switzerland she associated with the usual stereotypes of watches, chocolate and mountains. And the snow-clad mountains were there, preening themselves in the fresh alpine air beyond the window.

But right now, on the inside of the train, the sweeping grandeur of the scenery felt like a giant artificial screen; almost unreal, like a movie backdrop she could see but not touch from her seat. It was a sensation that made her feel unequivocally alone, as if she had been cast in that movie outside the window as some almost invisible extra. She had left all roots, all connections behind her, propelled like a stranger into some foreign land. The excitement that had motivated her earlier had seeped a little from her body. And it was all because of that stupid message from Michael. There was still a clutter of messages inside her mobile phone: messages she was determined not to respond to. They were all from Michael; final desperate pleas for her to change her mind. But it was too late for that. She had made her decision.

And then the text message that had suddenly popped up on her screen.

U are heading into possible danger Hanna. A terrible mistake. All my fault. Please re-consider.

He was right. It was a terrible mistake. His mistake. But what did those other words mean? U are heading into possible danger. What danger? It was just a sick ploy to try and ease his conscience. She deleted all the messages and switched her phone off.

The Schoch Institute would be her life now and what was happening there had to be exciting. And she would be there during this momentous moment in biomedical history. She should be grateful. Securing this position at Schoch had not been a walkover. Despite the barrage of emails from Dr Gladovitch, the final appointment process had been exhaustive. The Schoch Institute wanted more than her CV and references. She had to undergo a full medical, including disclosure of the medical history of her parents. It seemed that Schoch wanted employees with healthy bodies as well as specialist minds.

And Michael, had he still been in the picture, might have been another barrier to securing the position. For Schoch had made it clear that they preferred their young scientists to be single and unattached. ‘It’s about job focus,’ Ljudmila Gladovitch told her. ‘We’re not a puritanical organization, you understand. We encourage our staff to socialize and enjoy leisure. But marital attachment and children do tend to distract people from utilizing their full energies and potential for the cause of science.’ In Hanna’s mind that all seemed to add up to a breach of her civil rights. But the Schoch Institute didn’t appear to be bound by such rules. Of course, with Michael out of her life, none of this really mattered. And if Michael had been the man he always claimed he was, she would’ve stayed in New York.

She looked up to see a middle-aged man in a black overcoat walking down the carriage. When he reached her seat he smiled at her and sat down opposite. He was quite beefy in build, with silver hair and a pink face that looked friendly. In his hand was a copy of the International Herald Tribune. He unfolded it, displaying the headline she had seen earlier in the day.

MODERN LAZURUS RISES FROM THE DEAD TO BECOME METHUSELAH

The man’s blue eyes were studying her closely. ‘Interesting article,’ he said. His accent was American.

She smiled back at him. ‘Isn’t it?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘So, what do you make of it?’

‘I … wouldn’t know,’ she said.

‘I think you would.’

She felt a small rush of anxiety rise in her chest. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked the stranger.

He folded the newspaper back in half. ‘You’re a neuro-molecular biologist, I believe. Your alma mater was Johns Hopkins University. Your current research is into Huntington’s Disease. At the moment you’re on your way to take up a position with the Schoch Institute. And your name is Dr Hanna Hayes.’

Her anxiety rose to another level. Who was this stranger who seemed to know everything about her? He answered her silent question.

‘My name is Sheldon Ramsay,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m an attaché at the American Embassy in Berne.’

It didn’t soothe her anxiety. ‘So why are you interested in me?’ she asked him, cautiously.

He smiled at her again in a fatherly sort of way. ‘You’re a prominent researcher and a fellow American, Hanna. We need to look after our own.’

The flight in her chest turned to fight. ‘And what makes you think I need looking after?’ she challenged him. Michael’s words were ricocheting in her head: U are heading into possible danger.

Ramsay held up the newspaper. ‘This is serious stuff, Hanna. It has major ramifications for the human race. Uncle Sam needs to take a close interest. And you’re one of us. A loyal patriot, I assume.’

‘Meaning?’ Hanna said.

‘The Schoch Institute is closing its ranks on this story,’ he replied. ‘You could be our eyes and ears there.’

‘A spy you mean?’ Hanna said, incredulous.

Ramsay gave her another disarming smile. ‘Not a spy, Hanna. A patriot.’ He handed her a business card. ‘Should you ever want to call me, here’s the number. Anytime, day or night.’ He stood up. ‘Just remember,’ he said. ‘We’re family.’ He moved away down the carriage, disappearing through the door at the end. She looked at his card.

Sheldon Ramsay

Attaché

United States Embassy

Berne

Switzerland

The excitement she had felt earlier about what was happening at the Schoch Institute turned again to a growing unease. Patriot. It was certainly just shorthand for spy. And she was a scientist not a politician. But Michael’s message about danger and Ramsay’s veiled concerns for her welfare only increased her unease.

The train arrived at Lausanne. On one side of the train the large, lazy blue waters of Lake Geneva stretched away into the distance. The article in the New York Times had stated that the Schoch Institute was on the outskirts of Geneva. But she wouldn’t be going to Geneva. It was in the opposite direction to where her journey would take her. Typical American media myopia. The Schoch Institute was about two hours away by road or rail from Geneva, beyond the cities of Lausanne and Montreux. But American geography was confined to places that its media consumers might possibly have heard of. Geneva was certainly closer to the Schoch Institute than Zurich was, but the flight timetable from New York had been more suitable flying to Zurich.

The train stopped at Central Lausanne Station for about ten minutes before re-commencing its journey. Hanna saw Sheldon Ramsay alight from the train and head off down the platform. She wondered whether she would see the man from the American Embassy again.

Montreux, famous for its annual Jazz Festival,