The Omega Sequence

By Nelson King

A contract hit jeopardized by politics, personal ideologies and the love of a beautiful young woman: Prometheus, a muddled assassin, begins to question the morality of the profession he has excelled at for the past twenty years.
This international thriller begins in Europe and ends on a remote island deep in the South Pacific. The Omega Sequence could be the answer to mankind's health and save billions of lives in the years ahead-but only if the patent for the new technology is kept out of the hands of the corporations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nelson King
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780993856112

Nelson King

Nelson King still considers himself a New Zealander, even though he has lived abroad for almost twenty years. He trained as a civil and structural engineer but is now a full-time novelist. He splits his time between New Zealand, Europe, and Canada—a country and people he has grown to love dearly. He writes suspense fiction thrillers with a hint of action/adventure, traveling the world to painstakingly research his many subjects and characters. His interests include flying planes and exploring far-flung regions. He is currently writing his fourth book, the third in the Fabian Castillion assassin suspense series trilogy.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

University of Barcelona

Monday May 10, 2004

12:03 p.m.

Roaring around the corner came the old Toyota trucks, charging up the road towards our women farmers’ group. They were followed by an unruly assortment of old tractors, pickup trucks, and oil-belching motorcycles, said the elderly woman who stood behind the lectern up on the stage. She paused, catching her breath.

"Before I continue, let me say we are only small group of women farmers—a collective of like-minded, hardworking Indonesians owning less than 35 acres of land in Bulukumba, South Sulawesi. I am sixty-four years old. My husband die six years ago because of sickness. The youngest widow with child is nineteen. We plant mainly corn or coffee, sometimes nutmeg. Sometimes pepper and cloves. When the security officers came a year ago and tried to get us to switch to cotton, we were unsure. But back to my story.

Men and women got out of the pickup trucks; there were no children. The mob moved across the field towards us, carrying farm tools and pitchforks. One of the men even had a bullwhip for use on the anoas, our dwarf buffalo. The mob neared the house. She began to describe the dwelling: a traditional tongkonan house with a saddleback roof and high frontage, with a carved wooden buffalo high above the door. "Buffalo is said to bring us good luck. Did not bring us good luck this day. Us husbandless wives, we share the house with our children. All day we work on our farm spread around us, try to make a living.

We could see the group wearing some strange orange T-shirts with writing on the front. When the fighting broke out, we realized SC stood for StateOwen Corporation. The old woman breathed in deeply. The door at the back of the auditorium had just opened, and a hunched shadow in a tweed jacket and cap slowly made his way down the stairs. He stopped, looked from side to side, and then sat down in one of the aisle seats. The auditorium was half-full, seating about fifteen hundred people at full capacity.

She cleared her throat and pushed on with her talk.

"When we spoke with our neighboring farmers who also had been approached, we found out the cotton seeds were genetically modified. Bt cotton seed, they call them. We hold meetings, get advice from other farmers. We weren’t sure, but eventually we try this new crop because they say we get high yields—four to seven tonnes per hectare was promised. One year later on a sunny afternoon, we stood outside the house beside a bonfire piled high with burning cotton plants. The mob came, but we were not scared. Many people we recognize as neighbors and farmers from other towns. We don’t think they get violent.

The mob came to within twenty feet, shouting and yelling at us. We said we didn’t want nothing to do with StateOwen Corporation anymore: no more genetically modified cotton, no more pesticides. But the group yelled and cursed at us. They say StateOwen was good for economy, and even though cotton failed, we should still keep planting it. One man say corporation will supply us with seeds and fertilizers through their credit schemes. If we got behind with payments, he said they would give us more credit, and then more. Another man shouted, ‘Don’t forget the pesticides—StateOwen has their own brand, and it is the best and most powerful!’

At that moment, the back door of the auditorium opened again and a long beam of light shone down the carpeted stairs. A second figure slipped quietly into the auditorium, and immediately the old woman could see that his figure was athletic, thick shoulders pushing against the fawn jacket that he wore. He carried some kind of helmet in his hand and a long-stemmed rose in the other. She couldn’t help but have a feeling of fear that made her throat tighten. She wondered whether he was one of the powerful StateOwen execs who came to visit them not long ago. They had American voices and expensive wristwatches, and carried briefcases full of cash to try to persuade them not to talk.

Curious, she watched him make his way down the stairs to the ninth row, where he found a seat. In contrast to the old man who had entered a moment ago, this man was tall and erect, with swarthy skin and dark, neatly groomed hair. She guessed he was about thirty to thirty-five years of age, with the collar of his fawn coat pulled up around his ears, which she found interesting because it wasn’t the least bit cold in the auditorium. Before the lecture, she’d noticed that many of the Spanish students were dressed in stylish silk shirts and thin sweaters.

She took a sip of water and continued.

"Then I step forward. I remind angry mob this first crop was a total failure and that we were burning it in protest. I told them we lucky to get one hundred and thirty kilograms per hectare out of it—nothing like the four to seven tonnes that the security officers promised. I find out later the security officers were actually policemen from another village. They had been paid by StateOwen Corporation to help give out and sell the seeds, and they got kickbacks. We were told Bt cotton yields very well, gives such big bolls. We said we would also get great yields. The security officers smiled. We not smiling now. I then remind mob that StateOwen Corporation has decided to raise the price of next year’s seeds, as well as the cost of their fertilizer and pesticides. Then a woman from the back of the mob shouted, ‘StateOwen Corporation will feed our children and their children. We will become prosperous!’

"I said, ‘No, they won’t. This corporation will steal independence, bury us in circle of debt, and forever we will be their slaves.’ And to make my point, I picked up a handful of the pitiful cotton. I said, ‘Bt cotton is no good. All are damaged bolls. Nothing will come out of this. Even seeds cannot be replaced. And they cost three times more than old seed. There are no bolls. Go and see for yourself. If I say, you will feel I am lying. But not one person stepped forward, and that made me angry. I said, ‘We irrigate it far more than our traditional cotton crop. We fertilize it, even apply urea. The bollworm infestation struck twice, needed two or three extra sprayings. Look at these damaged bolls,’ I shouted. ‘When the bolls open, there is no good cotton. Looks like this.’ That’s when I threw the handful of cotton on the bonfire that we had been tending all morning. My fellow farmers yelled with joy.

That was when the fighting broke out… The old woman breathed a sudden, sharp breath. She wiped a couple of tears from her eyes and took three or four seconds to compose herself. "Three of us didn’t make it. One woman was killed with a pitchfork. The other two were beaten to death. The rest of us ran away, hiding under the wooden piles of the houses or the drainage ditches until the anger died away.

The fighting between neighbors flared up from time to time over the next six months, and many of the farming groups in South Sulawesi stopped planting StateOwen Corporation Bt cotton for good. By December 1996, StateOwen changed its company name and decided to end the war by pulling its genetically modified cotton seeds out of South Sulawesi. But we did not know the worst was still to come.

CHAPTER 2

A Dry Scotsman

12:09 p.m.

Douglas MacDougall stumbled out of the auditorium feeling sick to his gut. He didn’t want to hear another word of the atrocities that his former employer had committed in the Malay Archipelago.

As he waited impatiently for his granddaughter outside the auditorium, he began to play with his bulbous nose —it was bright red and swollen with rosacea, a particularly virulent strain of which had been passed down through the MacDougalls, and he seemed to have gotten the short end of the stick. He had his grandfather’s cheeks, too: purple and streaked with thin red veins. But this did not bother him. Something else did.

If there was anything he hated, it was poor, uneducated people being taken advantage of by a multinational corporation run by Harvard execs. He slipped the hip flask from his pocket and took a wee swig.

After doing so, he checked to make doubly sure his old leather satchel was still safely tucked under his right arm. Stamped into the leather flap of the satchel was the family crest—the same one that was on his hip flask. The crest consisted of an arm sheathed in knight’s armor, holding a raised cross. Circling the cross was a decorative leather belt and buckle, with BUAIDH NO BAS written on the belt. To conquer or die.

He felt the need to conquer the bastards who had treated these people so poorly.

He grunted disapprovingly. Screw these corporate bastards. Pissing about with our food. What do the pricks take us for, lab rats? Fucking morons, are we? These bastards poison our food and sugarcoat their promises. In Scotland we have a saying: bees that have honey in their mouths have stings in their tails. They’ll not get away with it.

Come on, Sophia, he muttered under his breath. My lecture begins in a few minutes, and I don’t want to be late. He began to nervously adjust his tweed cap, or bunnet, as they called it back in Scotland, so that it settled more or less flat on his straight white hair. He wore a Harris tweed jacket and a red woolen scarf with the official MacDougall tartan, dating back almost two hundred years, emblazoned upon it—black and turquoise lines crossing at right angles. His one flaw of personality, if one could call it that, other than occasionally partaking in a wee dram, was that he’d been blessed since birth with a complete inability to filter his thoughts, both good and bad.

One could almost read Douglas MacDougall’s mind simply by watching his eyes. At this particular moment they were slanted, which meant he was deep in thought. If one eye was half-cocked, it meant he was about to clock someone, and if money was mentioned, they would both diminish back into his head and refuse to even blink. An empty stare would ensue.

Being of such short stature, he had developed a keen sense of wit and sarcasm, which had poisoned many relationships over the years, particularly when he’d indulged in a toddy or two. The words that could come out of that twisted wee mouth were enough to make grown rugby players blush like little schoolgirls.

Shortness never seemed to hold him back, though, and many old boys would attest to the fact that Douglas MacDougall was a hard-charging rugby player who liked to bend the rules, at least when the referees weren’t looking. Winning was the goal, and he would stop at nothing to achieve it.

Scrum-half at St. Aloysius College in Glasgow was a coveted position, and over the years it had been filled by thoughtful men quite at home ordering the forwards about, none more so than Douglas. He soon developed a reputation for playing above his weight.

Ardent supporters of the First XV rugby team would recall a fateful day back in December 1955 when Douglas had had a wee melee with one of Wimbledon College’s backs. The young lad had been boldly disrespectful in speech, mentioning the words imp and gremlin in the same sentence, along with an expletive or two. There were other derogatory remarks that had followed, aimed at Douglas’s teammates. Douglas had decided to take it upon himself to teach the lad a lesson at the next loose scrum.

He had charged in blindside beyond the watchful eyes of the referee and had run the metal cleats of his boots down the poor boy’s back, raising bloody welts that wept crimson onto his nice white rugby jersey, giving it a strangely beautiful impression of a tiger’s stripes. Not happy with that, he had punched the boy square in the face two minutes later, right under the referee’s nose. The referee had appeared to ignore it, instead turning his attention to another matter, pondering the difficult question of how long advantage should continue after the boy’s unfortunate knock-on once his nose had been partially caved in. It had helped that the referee had been St. Aloysius’s rugby coach filling in for the visiting referee, who had been holed up in the local hotel nursing a severe case of the flu.

To this day there was a continuing, bitter hatred and ill will between Douglas and this once-young boy, not helped by the fact that the man was a member of the Bruce clan.

Where the hell is she? Douglas looked about. Still no sign of his granddaughter. Only a constant stream of students making their way down the narrow hallway. When a gap opened he spotted an unoccupied leather divan against the far wall. He tentatively stepped out into the flow, excusing himself as he trod towards the seat, flumping himself down and placing the satchel beside him, taking a deep breath.

He felt in need of another dram to steady his nerves. His mother, the dear old soul, had once said that when he was a lad, he’d had a good Scottish stomach lined with steel. Not easily upset. It took a lot—a slice of haggis too long in the sun, perhaps, or curdled milk, or perhaps even one of the poor imitation Scotch whiskeys coming out of India—to upset it. Something else did it, too: the thought of the women being beaten, or the young girls who had lost their lives to the razor-sharp prongs of the pitchforks. All because of a squabble over gen-engineered crops. Douglas sipped another nip and coughed.

He looked about and was glad for the distraction that headed his way. A man dressed in a fawn jacket with bright, luminescent stripes across his chest wandered haltingly towards him. He carried a yellow helmet in his hand and wore thick fawn fireproof pants. Clearly he was a member of the local brigade. He had a clipboard in his other hand and stopped to check one of the sprinklers poking from the high ceiling.

He made a couple of check marks on his clipboard, moved three paces closer, and spotted Douglas. He gestured with his eyes at the divan as if to ask if he could sit, but then plonked himself down next to Douglas of his own accord. He began to strike up a conversation.

Buenos días. Me llamo Marcelino. He thrust out his hand and introduced himself.

CHAPTER 3

Sophia

Monday May 10, 2004

11:57 a.m.

Sophia stepped off the sidewalk and began climbing the marble stairs to the grand entrance. She was aware that she was already late and it would take a further fifteen minutes to cover the grounds of the University of Barcelona to reach the lecture auditoriums, and her grandfather, on the other side of the grounds. She hoped her grandfather was in better spirits than he had been at breakfast at the hotel. Though she doubted it. He was eternally grumpy, and she loved him for it.

The sun made an appearance over the high facade of the building, silhouetting a beautiful escutcheon carved into the stone near the crest. She stopped and took in the spectacle, sighing softly to herself in wonderment. Time didn’t seem to have any real meaning to Sophia. She wanted to savor her last few hours in this beautiful city.

Her shopping bags were full to the brim with three expensive cashmere sweaters, two new pairs of designer jeans, and an evening dress. She continued up the stairs, drawing each step out and looking about. Once she reached the landing she headed for a marble plinth supporting a bronze bust of Philip IV. Halfway there, she was surprised by a man who stepped out in front of her.

She stopped dead in her tracks. He was dressed in full firefighter’s uniform, including a helmet. The visor of his helmet was pulled down and the reflection of light made it hard to see his eyes. She vaguely thought she might have run into him before.

Perdón, señorita, excuse me, señorita. He held out a long-stemmed yellow rose.

Sophia blushed. Gracias. She gracefully accepted the gift.

The man smiled and walked away. Sophia grunted annoyingly. It was a similar grunt to one she’d heard her grandfather emit over breakfast when his eggs appeared, half-cooked, on top of his toast. Que tengas un buen día. Have a nice day, he yelled over his shoulder.

Sophia didn’t know quite what to say. On the one hand, it was a gentlemanly gesture for a complete stranger to offer her a gift. And on the other, it was rude to just walk away with no explanation. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and then disappeared further down the footpath amid a group of students. Sophia had no idea she had just met a highly trained assassin. For the second time. And he’d just left his calling card with her.

CHAPTER 4

Meet Your Maker

12:11 p.m.

Douglas cleared his throat. Bloody wog. No hablo español. I can’t speak Spanish, he replied in his best Spanish, which sounded more like the dialect of a drunk Glaswegian. Other than the word si, which he understood to be no, the extent of his linguistic skills had just been used up.

Ah, los ingleses. Bienvenido a España. Welcome to Spain, said the firefighter, yawning while placing the clipboard on the floor at his feet and folding his hands across his lap. Douglas had no idea that the firefighter had given his granddaughter a long-stemmed yellow rose a few minutes earlier.

There was an air of serenity about the firefighter as he lay back, a calmness like that of an old dog, or of a lion resting under a tree on the veld edge, out of the hot afternoon sun. He let out a sigh as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and a minute later began snoring.

As the firefighter lay there sleeping Douglas took in his features. He seemed vaguely familiar, though all the young men here tended to look the same. Thin faces, strong cheekbones, and reddish cheeks. His eyebrows were very dark and thin, and a three-day-old stubble marred his jawline and chin.

His coat was stained with a layer of black soot, and—Douglas breathed in sharply—there was a small patch of blood on the end of the man’s right sleeve. It looked fresh, made in the past day or two. His or someone else’s?

The name tag on the front of his jacket said GILBERTO.

Douglas wasn’t the only one thinking to himself. As he lay there pretending to sleep, the firefighter had much to think about. He was busy running over the timing of certain events in his mind. There were the logistics, then security, and safety, of course—particularly his own. There was also the general managing of the details of an undertaking that would begin shortly. Everything had to be in place and all eventualities accounted for if the plan were to go ahead like clockwork.

He pretended to wake up abruptly. He leaned forward, picked up the clipboard, and rose to his feet.

Hasta luego. Until later, he said, smiling. He headed off down the hall.

Douglas tapped the peak of his tweed cap with a measure of disdain. Waste my bloody time. Who does he think he is? His attention was diverted to the opposite end of the hallway.

Grandpapa. Grandpapa! came a shout from out of the bustling humanity that flowed by. Douglas quickly forgot about the depressing thoughts as he watched a beautiful young woman head his way. Guid gear comes in sma’ bulk. Good things come in small packages, he thought to himself as he watched Sophia come towards him.

She was twenty-six years old.

Though Sophia, at nearly six feet in height, was anything but a small package. Small-boned was what he meant. Her arms were long and graceful like a model’s, further accentuated by the beautiful navy cashmere peplum sweater and tight-fitting sleeves that flared out over her graceful hands.

Unbeknownst to MacDougall, from the end of the hallway, the firefighter stood behind a carved stone bust of David and watched the old Scotsman greet the young woman. He could see the young woman was immensely beautiful and very animated when she spoke. Clearly very fond of her grandfather. A slight smile crossed the firefighter’s face and he continued to watch surreptitiously.

Sophia wore a matching tight-fitting pencil skirt in navy that exposed the tops of her feminine knees. A pair of twinkling high heels encrusted with semiprecious stones graced her slender feet. Sophia had kindly informed her grandfather, after he’d commented on her stilettos, that they were technically peep-toe cross-strap sandals covered in real crystals, and had been handmade in Italy with spool heels. A stiletto high heel, in other words.

This was one of the rare occasions when Douglas could truly smile, and there was none of the corner-of-the-lip turning up that so often accompanied his unfortunate attempts to expose the lighter side of his person to the world. He had been asked many times why he was smirking when, in fact, all he wanted to do was smile. He had recently decided to give up altogether, though this one sneaked through and appeared quite natural.

Genetics are a strange thing, thought Douglas with some amusement as she headed towards him.

In as little as two generations, what appeared to be God’s wrath taken out on the human form had somehow borne a miracle of immense beauty. It was the neck that did it; long and lean as a cheetah’s, with a delicate porcelain head balanced on top like some splendiferous cara mea puella statuette, the creator of which could be none other than Michelangelo himself, complete with the most beautiful English skin one could ever wish to have.

The long black eyelashes could be traced back to an Italian great-grandmother from Rome who ran a small company of horse-drawn carriages carrying fat German tourists up from the Colosseum into the city, a demure but intensely beautiful woman who had all of her children out of wedlock and with several different men. And then there were Sophia’s pernicious hazel eyes, a mystery of green and brown flecked with angry yellow streaks that were at once intellectual, puzzling, and unfathomable, then bright and intensely cheery, sparkling like precious diamonds.

In an effort to garner some understanding of his granddaughter, Douglas had done some investigating of his own. He had found some very disturbing information on the Internet. Aquarius was a very free-spirited, unpredictable sign, and those born to it were blessed with a wide range of characteristics, particularly indecision.

Aquarians had a well-earned reputation for changing their minds about certain things as the mood suited them. While typically intellectual, charming, and well behaved, they had a habit of sometimes struggling to make up their minds regarding significant decisions, which led people to believe they were selfish.

When Sophia was smitten she displayed keen desire, and it seemed she was ready to sacrifice everything for her partners and to be faithful to them for life. Perhaps a bit too hastily.

Her turbulent personal life was why Douglas had brought her to Spain. Having just graduated from Oxford with a BA in literature and credits in ancient European civilization and the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, it was time she broadened her horizons in a more pluralistic and less scholarly fashion.

And to help make the acquaintance of someone. Perhaps find a beau.

Oh, Grandpapa, you’re mumbling, and your face is beet red. Talk to me. Can you breathe? Her words were sincere and heartfelt, and edged with panic. Sophia’s hazel eyes could miraculously darken, particularly when she wanted something. They were strong and determined and sparkling with fire. If there was one thing that could melt Douglas’s heart, it was his granddaughter, though he was careful not to spoil her or give in to her numerous demands.

He’s as right as rain, Grandpa is, he said, his Scottish lilt crisp, his r’s rolled, barely hiding his contempt at having to wait for her. Douglas briefly patted his wallet, checking that it was still safely pocketed beneath the left breast of his tweed jacket. Give the old boy a bit of room to catch his breath, wee lass. He unwrapped her arms from around his waist and took half a step back. Don’t go wandering off again, wean. Grandpa promised your mother I would return you in one piece. In about two hours, once I’ve given my little talk, we’ll head straight to the wee airport and then off to Canada. Then it’s a short stay in India, and by then it’ll be high time to get you back to London. He sighed.

It had been three long weeks spent together living out of their suitcases, crammed into the same cheap hotel rooms, sharing a bathroom, and on one occasion top-and-tailing when their double room had been let go after a late arrival.

No one’s interested in your stupid talks anymore, Grandpapa. Give it up. Come and live with us in London. With Mum and I. We’ll watch the world go ’round in its silly, confused way. Life will be fun, filled with visits to the zoo and parks. Organic crops are the only way to go. I learned that from a friend whose mother had an orchid and vegetable plot out the back of her flat. Mother agrees with me—

That’s quite enough for one day, lass. I see you’ve inherited the MacDougall knack of speaking your mind. I’ll be the one to decide when my career ends, not you or some bloody research institute.

Whatever, Sophia said, drawing the word out and shrugging her shoulders just like the American girls did on TV. She did this when she wanted something: pretended she was a spoiled little arrogant brat from America. Once again, he checked to see that his wallet was still firmly attached to his person. Sophia, after having spent close to six years at university, had developed a remarkable lack of interest in the true value of the English pound and had inherited a great propensity for spending lavishly, all of it money she did not have.

After spending six almost fruitless years in one of the most expensive universities in Britain, she had run up a debt close to eighty-five thousand pounds, and that was one of the reasons for bringing her along on this trip. Douglas was trying to separate her from her petulant, hoity-toity friends and retrain her spending habits, and if his luck did not run out, hopefully find her a job. At twenty-six years of age, it was time for her to start getting serious about the future. And there was one other complication: that complete twit of a boyfriend from Romania.

Sophia laughed. She could see her blunt dismissal had hurt him, and she smiled and wrapped her delicate hands around his, feeling sorry for him once again.

Oh, you know I didn’t mean it, Grandpapa. You go and give your silly little lecture. Just don’t ask me to listen once again. It bores me stupid. You’re not going to change the world. And it’s my last day in Barcelona, and I would hate to be cooped up with a bunch of strangers in a dark, stuffy auditorium listening to one of your boring conspiracy theory talks.

Spoken like a true MacDougall. Douglas winked at her, squeezing her hand. "That’s my girl. Go on, then. Run along. You’ll be safe within the university grounds. Just don’t get lost. And don’t change a thing. The world needs independent thinkers, people who don’t follow others like bloody sheep. I know the subject matter bores you—it’s for intellectuals, and you have no interest in plant lectins or conspiracy theories. But as I’ve stated on many occasions during this trip, I’m going to be the bane of every gen-engineering food corporation on this damn planet until things change. Unless, of course, they slow down genetic testing. The industry has moved too fast for my liking. You know I vowed since the incident to fight to regain the respect of my peers. You’ll understand one day. We’re a proud lot, the MacDougalls. Won’t be made a fool of. ’Specially since I was right. It