The Dna Conspiracy: A Novel

By Barry Dantzscher

In the aftermath of bio-terrorist influenza plagues that have devastated the worlds population, presidential aspirant Senator Harmon Hartman recruits his widower son-in-law Stewart Brewer to investigate strange goings-on at the GRAD (Genetic Research And Development) Corporations remote experimental station. There, Stewart discovers bizarre trans-species experiments, including one GRAD denies even exists. Stewarts discoveries lead him to question GRADs role in combatting the terrorist biological attacks and the governments official explanation about the course of the War on Terror. Stewarts suspicions, as reported to Senator Hartman, mark him as a target by the sinister conspiracy manipulating the political system. Putting his own life in jeopardy, Stewart pursues his investigation into the midst of a horrifying experiment where the War on Terror, genetic engineering and globalization converge in a frightening future for all mankind.

THE DNA CONSPIRACY is a provocative entertainment full of action, mystery, and suspense. With startling plot twists and controversial ideas, the story connects the pivotal themes of our times. At heart, THE DNA CONSPIRACY is a moral story that examines the timeless question: Does the end justify the means?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462821655

Barry Dantzscher

BARRY DANTZSCHER has been a professional writer for over 20 years, and is a member of the Writers Guild of America, west. He has written and produced award-winning network television movies. His play LENYA RIDES AGAIN has been presented by regional theaters. THE DNA CONSPIRACY is his first novel. Mr. Dantzscher lives in Los Angeles.

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Copyright © 2005 by Barry Dantzscher.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2005900247

ISBN:         Hardcover                               1-4134-8354-2

                  Softcover                                 1-4134-8353-4

                  Ebook                                     9781462821655

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

To Judy, for all the years of love and support.

And to Richard Krafsur and Jim Eskilson,

for the gift of steadfast friendship.

There is nothing in man’s plight that his vision, if he cared to cultivate it, could not alleviate. The challenge is to see what could be done, and then to have the heart and the resolution to attempt it.

GEORGE KENNAN

CHAPTER ONE

It’s time. Stewart?

Judith Haas stood at his office door; he was at his work- cluttered desk where he’d accomplished nothing, again.

Your meeting with Mr. Ritt?

Oh, yeah. Thanks, he said, rising, trying to pull himself out of the pit of despair he had fallen into, yet again. He avoided Judith’s dark eyes, so full of concern, slipped into his suit coat; the mourning armband needed re-stitching.

Senator Hartman—

Tell him I got the message, and he was gone.

For reasons he suspected and didn’t appreciate, Stewart was to meet his boss, Toby Ritt, at Folger Park. Toby often took his sandwich and book to the park at lunch, but it was late afternoon. As Stewart made his way toward the 2nd Street exit of the Madison Building of the Library of Congress where he served as Assistant Chief of the Congressional Research Service, he thought again about the teaching offer from Harvard, and could not deny that the prospect of getting lost, of losing himself in scholarly research, was beginning to grow on him. He’d probably jump at the opportunity if he hadn’t met Connie there when they were both graduate students. Maybe it was time to plan a job-search elsewhere in academia. In the corridor near the stairwell, a clutch of young research assistants drank coffee and laughed at a joke. They fell silent as Stewart approached, as if he were a rush of cold air. He was accused by subordinates who had known him only since the influenza plagues of managing by intimidation, and at six feet two inches and two hundred and ten pounds fighting-fit he was imposing. Clenching his teeth—a habit that replaced his ready smile after his children died—accentuated Stewart‘s square jaw, made him look tense and angry, ready to explode. He, of course, viewed himself differently, as more likely to implode. Intimidation wasn‘t his style—he was remote. These colleagues‘ youthful optimism made him feel distant; they had survived childhood and now could look forward to a future that followed the natural order— a long life into old age that included love and marriage and children who would not pre-decease them. He remembered when he was like them, just fifteen years or so before, so many deaths ago. Now, a pained-looking, bearded young man caught the pretty, slim- waisted girl he was chatting up staring with more than sympathy at Stewart. „The tragic hero act wears a bit thin, methinks," he said loudly enough that Stewart could hear.

„Plague on you," she replied sharply.

Stewart quickened his pace, opened the door to the stairs, and hurried down them. The only time he felt alive now was in motion. He‘d worked his body back into shape by all the running from reality; he was as lean and hard as in his glory days on the football field at UC Berkeley before the knee injury ended his athletic career. He stepped out into the bright spring afternoon. Rifle shot-like sounds of the mourning bunting snapped by the gusty Spring wind made Stewart pause while the door closed behind him and his eyes adjusted to the brightness. It was a glorious warm day, the smell of blossoming trees in the wind, but Stewart fixated on the black bunting snapping in the gusts. Since the President had declared the end of the Third National Health Emergency in his proclamation yesterday, the mourning flags had been lowered from the Capitol and White House, but elsewhere miles of black bunting still festooned every public and most private buildings. Stewart, lost in inarticulate thought, crossed D Street into Folger Park. The bench where Toby usually ate his lunch was unoccupied; Stewart sat and tried to temper his impatience. In a few minutes he saw Toby approach down 2nd Street, and hustle across D Street in his short-legged, choppy jogger’s gait.

Waiting long?

Just got here. What’s up?

They’re taking down the bunting.

You asked me here to tell me that?

Patience, my young friend. Patience, Toby counseled, peering over his glasses at Stewart and smiling with genuine affection. He sat close to Stewart, tucking his feet under the bench in his habitual manner, a habit born, Stewart supposed, of self-consciousness at his short legs. He often made self-deprecating comments about his appearance—compared himself to a homely basset hound beside Stewart’s dashing Doberman and Senator Harmon Hartman’s elegant greyhound. Toby relaxed and took in the sight of Capitol Hill that he had first visited on his high school senior trip almost fifty years before. «It’s been so long I can hardly imagine what life will be like without official mourning.»

«And panic.»

«Minor detail, my boy, they’ll find something new, you can be sure of it. Otherwise they’d be nothing to make a politician’s heart go pitty-pat. Of course, if you ask an old fart like me, what we really need’s a chicken in every pot and, presto!—we’re back to normalcy.»

«I’ve been meaning to ask you about your politics these days.»

Toby laughed, removed his glasses to polish the lenses with the black handkerchief he pulled from his breast pocket. As a young man he had cultivated this habit to make himself think before speaking, but since the air pollution levels had dramatically declined with the population and the replacement of fossil fuels by green power, his glasses seldom needed cleaning. Without his glasses, Toby’s sad, droopy face was kindly; with his glasses back on, he had a penetrating, skeptical look. «It does seem that I see things differently these days.»

«Good luck.»

Toby thought about it, then said, «Come on, Stew, let’s walk,» and taking the lead, he got up and set a quick pace toward 3rd Street.

Where are we going?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Why the big mystery?

No mystery.

Then how about a reason to follow.

Like we say in Illinois, Stewart, you can lead a mule to water.

It’s Missouri, not Illinois, and who’s the mule? Me for saying no, or your friend Senator Hartman for refusing to accept my decision?

Back home we can always tell the mule. It’s the ass who never smiles.

Stewart smiled, weakly. But the sight of Senator Hartman’s limo, one of the last pure gasoline dinosaurs, rounding the corner and pulling to the curb burst the bubble of his momentary good humor.

Please, Stew? And keep an open mind? Toby said, and then opened the limo door. Inside, Harmon Hartman impatiently beckoned them. Stewart hesitated but Toby nudged him into the back seat next to the Senator, and was closing the door behind them both before Stewart had made up his mind to protest.

Lacy, the chauffer, smiled over his shoulder at Stewart with a wink of his rheumy right eye permanently reddened by chemical exposure in Gulf War One, and drove quickly away from the curb. Stewart settled back between the incongruous, life-long friends, country-club Harmon Hartman and beer-joint Toby Ritt. As they drove around the park and headed north, then west on Independence Avenue, Stewart reflected how he felt closer to Toby than to the Harmon Hartman, his father-in-law, with whom he had shared many long days and nights on the campaign trail, and more days and nights in intimate family settings, holidays and sailing trips, when Connie and the kids were still alive.

„Am I being kidnapped?"

„Something like that."

„Another plague and we‘ll have the road to ourselves," Toby Ritt observed as they sped across 14th Street toward the Tidal Basin.

This will be fine, Lacy, the Senator said. The chauffer pulled to the curb and stopped. After you, Stewart.

In crouching past Toby to open the door, Stewart flashed him a sarcastic smile. I’m only the beard, his boss responded, and did not follow the Senator out of the limo, which sped away.

The sight and scent of the cherry trees along the Tidal Basin, in full, glorious bloom, overwhelmed Stewart with longing. Lovers strolled the paths and paddle-boated in the lagoon. Life now was lived at a slower, more congenial pace as the plague survivors went about their lives unharried by crowds on sidewalks, streets, everywhere. People actually smiled at total strangers, and spontaneous corner conversations became the delight of a lunchtime stroll as the nation’s capital reverted back into a small unhurried Southern city not unlike the Washington of the Warren Harding years, minus the racial injustice. The issue of which neighborhoods to raze and turn into green space and which neighborhoods deserved restoration fomented the only real public confrontation these days, and the wreckers and arborists kept constantly at work. Senator Hartman turned his back on the Tidal Basin and walked north across the grass, toward The Ellipse, with the White House, his real goal, in the distance. They walked in silence and paused to look at the Washington Monument.

„I remember the first time I came to this place," the Senator said.

„Yes, Stewart said quickly, „I remember the story.

„Right," Harmon said, with a sly smile, and turned left, toward the Reflecting Pool and Lincoln Memorial in the distance. Stewart now knew the reason for meeting; Senator Hartman could be so transparent when he wanted to. Before the plagues they would have put their lives at risk crossing 17th Street mid-block—but not now, and they continued to stroll toward the Reflecting Pool.

Toby tells me, Harmon Hartman began to address himself to the business of their outing, „that you won‘t accept reassignment to the committee." Hartman chaired the Agriculture subcommittee on livestock, among others.

„You should have asked me yourself," Stewart said flatly, and watched with some measure of satisfaction as Senator Hartman stiffened with displeasure.

You didn’t answer my calls.

I’ve been busy.

So have we all.

You running for President and I burying the dead.

I loved her too, damn it. No less than you.

She was my wife.

She was my daughter!

Stewart repressed the angry impulse to fling one or both of them into the Reflecting Pool. His father-in-law was correct— they both had loved Connie dearly. Stewart’s estrangement from Hartman centered on and grew in proportion to the Senator’s presidential aspirations, as he abandoned principled positions to gain purchase on the next higher rung of succession. Stewart walked away; the Senator caught up with him.

This is an important assignment, Stewart.

The Ag committee?

The Senator’s gray eyes narrowed. Ah, the old Stewart Brewer reappears, arrogant as ever. When Stewart didn’t rise to the bait, Hartman turned up the emotional heat, reached out and clutched Stewart by the shoulder, stopping him, making the younger man face him. Surely, you know that you are not alone in your grief.

Yes, Stewart knew; but nothing he knew or had tried freed him from the all-consuming grief that imprisoned him, poisoned and stunted him. But he was powerless against it. Others, including Harmon Hartman himself, found the way to the future, embraced life anew—but not Stewart. And if he could not work his way through his grief, nor shed it, he would embrace it; the authenticity of his grief, the purity of it, the power of it gave him strength, he thought. His emotional arrogance isolated him, made him unlikable, even to himself, but at least it gave him the power to endure.

Damn it, man, Hartman said, grabbing Stewart‘s other shoulder, „don‘t you care why all these billions died?"

„You mean I can‘t believe my own government?"

Hartman let his hands fall to his sides and turned away toward the Lincoln Memorial.

Now it was Stewart who had to catch up. „You mean there‘s more to come?

„Not from that quarter, no, I don‘t think so."

„From the Islamists, you mean."

The Senator weighed his reply carefully. „What if it wasn‘t them?"

„Who set loose the smallpox?"

„It‘s well established the smallpox attack originated in Chechnya. It‘s the influenza plagues I wonder about. I don‘t know if I buy the connection between global warming and changing geese migration patterns and the appearance of these new virus strains."

„Geese, chickens—it‘s still old science, Senator. Avian flu mutates and gets transmitted to humans. It‘s how the pandemic of 1918 started. Only this time it happened in China, not Kansas."

„So they say."

„My government says."

„So now your government doesn‘t lie to you?"

„You are the government, Senator."

„I am not President. And maybe he doesn‘t know."

„Know what?"

„I don‘t know. That‘s why I‘m asking you to take this assignment. My livestock committee has oversight on the species development programs out there. You‘ll be my personal representative. That gives you cover for your investigation. When Stewart didn‘t immediately agree, the Senator added, „I‘m giving you the freedom to follow whatever you think‘s important, Stewart. Just follow your nose, wherever it leads you.

„For the Livestock Subcommittee."

Harmon Hartman‘s tanned, telegenic face seemed suddenly much older. „When I first met you, Stewart—when Connie first brought you to Illinois to meet us, the family—you would have done anything for this opportunity. I could see you had it in you, the drive, the fire in the belly to know the truth, to make a difference."

„Let go of it, Senator. The plagues were an act of nature."

„They were acts of terror!"

„Of human nature, then."

„And what if we didn‘t get it right? What if the real terrorists are still alive, and plotting?"

„Then I hope to God they get me this time."

„You can‘t mean that, son."

„What‘s so important about the GRAD experimental station that you want me to check out?"

„I want to set my mind at ease, that‘s all."

„About their Frankenstein projects?"

„Stewart, that‘s not fair."

„Because it casts doubt on our great savior?"

„Justin Sizemore is a hero to mankind and rightly so. We owe our survival to him and should accord him the respect he deserves."

„Then why do you want me to go snoop on him?"

„I told you, I want to set my mind at ease."

„You could do that just as easily by subscribing to the mass amnesia."

„You could use time off, and away, Stewart. Think of it as a vacation."

They had reached the end of the Reflecting Pool, at Lincoln‘s feet. This is what Senator Hartman brought Stewart to witness— the wretched mourners scourging themselves as they circled the great emancipator‘s shrine. The superstitious fanatics in black, hooded robes brandished short, knotted leather whips. Some, in strict accordance with the law, flogged their shoulders through their coarse woolen robes; the most tortured bared their flesh to the whip. Hartman watched the grisly scene, his eyes flinching with each stroke, until he could bear it no longer. He turned back on Stewart. „I know it‘s not rational, son, since I don‘t have evidence to support it. Call it a politician‘s gut feeling. But something is terribly wrong when those people—he didn‘t mean the penitents circling the Memorial—when those people can explain away everything."

The idea of tearing Justin Sizemore, like the icons of Soviet Communism, off the pedestal of uncritical public adulation sorely tempted Stewart. Justin Sizemore, M.D., PhD, Founder, Chief Executive, Director General of GRAD—Genetic Research And Development—the largest, in terms of revenue, privately held enterprise in the world; conqueror of Alzheimer‘s Disease and father of the Chinese, Riyadh, and Damascus influenza vaccines universally credited with saving the human race from virtual extinction, who accumulated an incalculable fortune in the process even though the vaccines were, at best, far from perfect, had not saved Stewart‘s children and wife from drowning in the pneumonic fluids that flooded their lungs. But, as was noted by Senator Hartman and all his political colleagues, desperate times demand extraordinary risk-taking.

„You supported Sizemore."

„Yes, the Senator replied. „And I hope I don‘t live to regret it.

„I‘ve seen the analysis—"

„—the preliminary analysis," the Senator corrected Stewart.

„Are you saying the data‘s been cooked?"

„It‘s not just what‘s already happened, son. It‘s what they might be planning."

„Who is they?"

„Sizemore. GRAD."

Not Al Qaeda?

It’s been three years now, and nothing from that quarter.

It’s Sizemore we have to watch now? This is what you really believe, Senator?

He’s up to something, Stew. The hybrid livestock project smells funny. It’s small potatoes compared to his pharmaceutical empire.

—that gets no real scrutiny because it’s privately held.

It belongs in the Dow, I’ve tried to convince him of that. But all he does is smile that inscrutable smile of his. It doesn’t make sense to me why he devotes most of his energy to this livestock breeder project when it’s so small in the scheme of things. He talks about having the moral basis now that the world is underpopulated to extend human life to 120, 150 years, and yet he’s spending his time and effort with this cross-breeding.

Maybe it’s his pet project.

It took a moment before the Senator realized Stewart mocked him. I know you’ve lost respect for me, Stewart, the Senator said. No, no— he stopped Stewart from interrupting. I have to say this. He gathered his emotions before he spoke. Next to the death of my family members, the loss of your friendship is the hardest blow I’ve ever endured.

Stewart felt so much confusion in his heart that all he could do was lower his head in his denial.

Stew, we have to know what Sizemore’s up to. We need you, Stewart.

To confirm your suspicions that Sizemore and GRAD are planning some ungodly follow-up to the plagues?

„I hope to God I‘m wrong, Stewart. But conscience won‘t let me rest until I know the truth. I owe it to Connie and the kids, and so do you."

Stewart looked out along the Potomac. The President had been right to emphasize the positive in his proclamation ending the Health Emergency, had been right to challenge and inspire the plague survivors to the constructive tasks of creating a future that would ennoble all mankind. Nothing would be accomplished with hands grasping the scourge-whip or nailed to the cross. What Stewart needed was purpose back in his life, only he was far from certain that digging in the dirt, even for the truth, was what would heal his soul.

„I‘ll think about it."

When Stewart turned to leave, his father-in-law grabbed his hand and held it in his firm grasp for a long moment. The spring breeze wafted the scent of cherry blossoms and the lamentations of the penitents past them. The Senator finally let go and Stewart turned and hurried away.

CHAPTER TWO

Hell of an animal, this, Paul Young, DVM, PhD, said brushing the big bay stallion with obvious joy in its, and his, physicality. You ever ride horses back there in Washington, Stewart, or you too busy herdin’ the gravy train? he said, his downcast mouth reshaping into a smirking smile, a mirthless, distant look in his eyes.

Actually, I spend most of my time unmixing metaphors.

Young glanced at his mentor, Dr. Justin Sizemore. Guess I deserved that, say what, boss?

Young, as tall as Stewart but gangly, stood about a head taller than the perfectly proportioned, conventionally handsome Justin Sizemore. Except Sizemore never stood close enough for precise measurement. The boss always created distance he let no one enter; the scientific community had already assigned Sizemore to a place in its firmament, and he positioned himself at every opportunity to emphasize his stardom. Paul’s a westerner, Sizemore said, as if explaining everything. From his splendid isolation Sizemore intently observed everything and everybody with compelling grey eyes and an emotionless game face that concealed his true thoughts.

That’s right, Young chimed in. From way back when it meant cowboy, not not-Muslim. Young slapped the stallion’s haunch with gusto. You’re welcome to ride ‘im if you want.

Maybe later, if’n I can rustle me up a Velcro saddle, Stewart replied.

Maybe you’d prefer a mare.

You mean you haven’t made the womb obsolete yet?

No, these horses all horse. The mare there’s real gentle.

Thanks, but I’ll pass on the ride for now.

Well, anything catches your eye, you just let me know. We’re here to please, right, boss?

Yes, anything you need, Sizemore said with a disarming, almost shy smile that broke his craggy, handsome face into parts— firm chin, tight lips, crinkled eyes, furrowed brow—a look more of calculation than sincerity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, he said, offering his hand to Stewart, I have a meeting. He looked straight into Stewart’s eyes, and squeezed his hand with a quick, eely grasp. There was something unsettling about Sizemore, as if he were a crossbreed himself, between wizard and con man.

Catch you later, Stewart said, trying to get a rise, but all he got was an empty smile as Sizemore turned and stalked out of the barn.

As much as he mistrusted the jocular cowboy veterinarian Paul Young, Stewart preferred him to the genius Sizemore. So how long have you been with GRAD?

Since just after the smallpox attack. When it became apparent that we had to develop resistant livestock.

Resistant to the smallpox variant or resistant to sexual reproduction?

"In this day and age you have a choice. Ask any rancher ‘round these parts whether they prefer diseased herds or paying a patent fee. We can’t work for free, mister, and that’s the bottom line truth of it. Oh, but I forgot—workin’ for the gov’ment