To Kill A Clone

By Gennaro A. Ottomanelli

To Kill A Clone describes the machinations of a billionaire microbiologist who creates a doppelganger to foil an assassination plot. His scheme encounters numerous misadventures ranging from a surrogate mother who reneges on her contractual understanding because she developed motherly affection for the cloned child and rejects the billionaire's determination to regain possession of what he views to be a manufactured asset. As the drama unfolds the billionaire has to deal with the duplicity of a previously trusted employee who attempts to dispose of the billionaire and usurp the corporation's immense empire and the clone. After dealing with the traitorous employee the billionaire finds himself in a legal quandary because his manipulations have aroused the suspicions of a female assistant district attorney who is distrustful and feels that the actions of the billionaire and his hirelings are tainted with unlawful and murderous intent. Another unwanted distraction occurs when the clone matures and becomes convinced that he has an original human identity and is not a fabricated appliance. The entire cloning plot becomes unraveled in a district court before a judge who rules that the clone is entitled to protection as required by the constitution. This disastrous turn of events persuades the billionaire to murder and eliminate the clone. The elimination of the clone becomes difficult because of the successful maneuvering of the traitor employee who has persuaded the clone to assume the role of the corporate leader when the billionaire disappeared and is presumed dead. Later it is discovered that the billionaire has avoided the attempt on his life and returns because the original cloning schematic included a calculated premature death for the clone to avoid the possibility of an identity theft by scheming employees. As the misadventures continue the now-emergent billionaire is stunned to learn that he is to be arrested for the murder of the clone. After the billionaire reveals the cloning procedure to his attorney they meet with the prosecutors and explain that the clone's calculated maturation was intended to include a timely death. Later the billionaire's defense attorney wins a ruling from the Court of Appeals to quash the indictment on the grounds that there is no evidence that a crime has been committed. The Court of Appeals remands the case to the State District Court to evaluate the merits of the indictment. Nevertheless the Assistant District Attorney want to solve the puzzle of whether the cadaver is the real billionaire or the clone. She enlists the aid of an expert to establish the genetic identity of the cadaver and the merits of the murder indictment. Arrangements are made to have the cadaver cryogenically preserved until the indictment is resolved. While these events are under negotiation it was discovered that the surrogate mother had given birth to twins and the twin brother had been secretly transported to friendly relatives in Nova Scotia where his birth records and identity were concealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350914801

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To Kill A Clone

©2023 Gennaro A. Ottomanelli

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35091-479-5

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35091-480-1

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter One

1998

It was raining when Ivan Slovik arrived in Samoa. He would soon learn that the rain was not unusual, the rainy season was a six-month, October to March, occurrence. The humidity was another problem, warming the rain like water in a sauce pan, only it simmered but never came to a boil.

Tellson’s instructions, prior to Ivan’s enplaning in New York, were characteristically blunt, She’s working in the hospital in Pago Pago. Find her, kill her and bring back the kid. He had dispatched two of Gene Odyssey’s most trusted security staff to assist Ivan in the assignment.

After their arrival in Samoa, Ivan left the security men in the terminal to take care of the baggage. He would collect them and the suitcases after he took care of some errands.

The first stop was the men’s room in the airline terminal at the airport in Pago Pago. The stench of sanitizing deodorizer bruised his nostrils as soon as he opened the door. The usual array of ceramic floor and wall tiles reflected the fluorescent lighting with almost an attractive pattern although the floral patterns of purple and yellow daisies peeking out of bright green backgrounds was a bit too effeminate for Ivan. He preferred the eggshell colored blanks that were gender-neutral to the froufrou that were more appropriate backdrops for shills marketing women’s cosmetics.

Ivan considered himself to be more macho than the Hollywood pretty boys who spent more time under a hair dryer than a clothes model. He approached the sink and surveyed himself in the mirror, grateful that the mirror was made of glass rather than the fog-ridden sheets of stainless steel that adorned the walls of the men’s rooms in New York. The mirrors confirmed Ivan’s hunch that the Pago Pago airport was not the host of rip-offs that typified the airports in New York.

His delight in the glory of his mirror image would have made Narcissus seem timid by comparison. Ivan stroked his firm chin and surveyed his flaring nostrils and cleft chin that punctuated a strong triangular face with full cheeks, bereft of worry lines. The crew cut blond hair that looked like it was planned by a carpenter’s level and a six-foot-three, 220 pound V-shaped torso chiseled into a muscular frame communicated the power of the weight lifter and the lithe speed of the track star. Handsome devil, he sang sotto voce as he enjoyed the resplendent display.

A few items in his carry-on bag transformed the neatly-attired Chief Financial Officer of Gene Odyssey into beach bum — a ponytail wig, sunglasses, yellow tank top, ragged dungaree shorts, and sandals completed the image. He then collected the sports utility vehicle reserved for Harold Spritchester at the Avis counter. With his accomplices and baggage in the SUV, Ivan unfolded his maps, choosing the public campground for what he hoped would be no longer than an overnight sojourn before returning to the States. He knew that sleeping in the van, especially in this humidity, would be impossible so he would have to rely on the Benzedrine to stay alert for his assignment.

The advance reports from the security people, dispatched by Tellson to monitor Mary Pitelli’s movements, warned that she was very popular, an open assault would encounter resistance. The report described the bond between Mary and her neighbors, especially the tribal chief who had taken an oath to protect her. One area where she might be vulnerable was her penchant for moonlight swims, a practice that she liked to do alone. Ivan read the report carefully. He figured that if she liked to swim alone, she must feel secure and was less vigilant than she had been in the past. After all, it had been ten years since she escaped to these remote islands with no hint of Tellson or his hirelings. She probably thinks that she’s invisible by this time. The invisible woman. The thought made Ivan snort. In a little while Mary Pitelli would discover that invisible and invincible were not synonyms.

The next morning Ivan went to Surf Crest, a retail establishment that outfitted the needs of divers and surfers in Samoa. The store was within walking distance of the beach. The computer sitting on the counter and extensive displays of diving gear were a surprise to Ivan who had expected a native hut with fish nets and seaweed underfoot.

The owner of Surf Crest, Jack LaPrance, recognized a fellow ocean-worshiper immediately and issued a smiling greeting to Ivan. Hi, you’re new around here. Aren’t you? Planning to do some diving?

LaPrance flipped a broken regulator into the trash as he silently measured Ivan’s diving potential by evaluating the triceps and thighs that would plummet Ivan into the ocean’s depths. Powerful swimmer was LaPrance’s unspoken conclusion as he envisioned the propulsion potential of Ivan’s limbs. His continuing evaluation of Ivan almost made LaPrance guffaw out loud. Women would pay through the nose to have those pecs, was LaPrance’s conclusion as he watched the rhythmic heaving of Ivan’s chest push the tank shirt into what would’ve been a naughty cleavage revelation if a woman was wearing Ivan’s outfit. Yeah, replied Ivan glumly. I’m on my way to Australia to dive the Barrier Reef. Thought I’d make a stopover here and check out the action. I guess my gear is on the way to Australia without me. It didn’t get off the plane with me, that’s for sure. Ivan returned LaPrance’s camaraderie with a side-glance, looking for clues that he aroused any suspicious questions in the mind of this surf-bum who evolved into a tanned entrepreneur.

LaPrance smiled. I hate to think of how many times that’s happened to us. I’ve been left stranded on the beach without my equipment more times than I want to remember. Want a complete outfit?

Yes. Soup to nuts.

I guess you want to rent. You’ll catch up with your gear sometime.

No, I’ll buy, Ivan responded. He had no intention of returning equipment that carried his fingerprints. Just do what you have to do, he reminded himself. And don’t leave a trail.

When he saw the puzzled expression on LaPrance, Ivan explained, I don’t know whether my stuff is on the way to Australia or continuing to New Zealand with the plane and the crew.

LaPrance chuckled. He was a slim man, about five-seven, wearing an unbuttoned half-sleeve shirt, cotton slacks, and sandals. The open shirt revealed a weathered torso that gave testimony to the years spent on a surfboard maneuvering the hollow of a swell. You like aluminum tanks or steel? he asked Ivan.

Aluminum. Small volume tanks. I don’t plan to go deep here. Make sure the hydrostatic sticker is current, I like to feel comfortable.

LaPrance turned to the stocked shelves. Call out your list.

Regulator, depth gauge, submersible pressure gauge, bottom timer, compass, and buoyancy compensator.

Okay, I’ll get them. Go over there and pick out your mask and fins.

Ivan paid cash for the equipment. It was unlikely that anyone would make a connection between him and the murder but there was no point in taking chances. It was eleven in the morning, there was still plenty of time. He drove back to the campground where his two accomplices were playing cards under a beach umbrella anchored in the sand. They had set up a bridge table alongside a cooler packed with ice and local beer. Both men jumped up when they spotted Ivan’s SUV approaching, stifling a salute when it occurred to them that they were working undercover as beach bums on a vacation jaunt.

Were you two adequately briefed by the advance reports? Ivan’s face was grim, an expression that was not attributable to the forthcoming assignment but to the rancid humidity. The air conditioner in the van hadn’t helped his discomfort or his disposition. The one consolation was his required task this evening, he was looking forward to it, even relished the anticipated outcome.

Yes sir, was the crisp response as both men stood at attention, arms stiffly extended down their sides. Their stance was incongruous for two men in beach wear.

Cut out the sir shit. We’re supposed to be beach bums searching the surf. Now you both know what to do tonight?

The taller man responded first. Yes sir...er...Harry. We got our orders down pat.

Good. Now I’m going to try to get some sleep in this infernal oven. If I do get to sleep, wake me around seven o’clock.

9:00 PM

The ocean was silent on this moonlit night. The moon’s image on the ocean’s surface looked like a translucent pathway to the stars. Silver slivers broke away from the main roadway of the moon’s reflection, snaking across the glimmering ocean canvas like a surreal chiaroscuro. Mary Pitelli, the clone’s surrogate mother, loved her swims in the cove at this time of day. The beach was deserted and her only companion was the pounding surf repeatedly announcing its presence like a stubborn drummer insistent on selling his wares.

The sand crunched under Mary’s bare feet. It was cool, refreshingly damp after having absorbed the humid moisture of the daylight hours. Each step taken by Mary left an imprint of the planted foot, an indelible trail that would have been easy to follow if the shifting winds and ebbing tide did not insist on erasing any trace of life on its domain.

She ran to the surf, deliberately kicking her feet in front of her, watching the droplets ascend, guiding her to deeper water. When the depth of the water reached her waist, she extended her arms and dove head first into the briny foam. She swam twenty feet underwater, enjoying the total immersion in darkness, like a fish in an aquarium in a darkened room. When she surfaced, she turned on her back and continued with a breaststroke, arms and legs gliding across the water in a concerted motion, tickling her thighs with the ripples. She turned her head for a quick glance at the reef about thirty feet away to gauge her distance, reminding herself to make a U-turn to avoid getting cut on the sharp coral rock.

While she was swimming, some air bubbles surfaced beside her. She thought it was a crab skittering on the bottom, probably trying to dislodge a mussel clinging to a rock. Suddenly the bubbles surfaced furiously, enveloping her body like a blanket of foam, popping threateningly as the bubbles emerged from the ocean into the atmosphere. The recognition that a scuba diver was swimming beneath her broke into her awareness simultaneous with the feeling that a human hand was tightened around her right ankle, pulling her down in a direction opposite to the ascending bubbles. She tried to scream but her open mouth broke the water’s surface during her descent. Water cascaded into her throat, making her gag. She wanted to spit out the water but realized that opening her mouth again would just intensify her problem. She kicked outward with the other foot but the hold on her ankle was like a vise, pulling her, holding her beneath the surface. As she descended alongside the diver, she pulled the mask off his face. It was Ivan, Tellson’s CFO. He had a wide, toothy grim as he grabbed her head in his hands and twisted her head more than ninety degrees to the right. The sharp crack of the vertebrae in her neck was the last sound that she heard.

Ivan released her limp body and watched it follow the current toward the ocean’s depths. He swam to the beach, lit a cigarette, and waited an hour, scanning the cove with his binoculars to ensure that there were no signs of Mary’s body or any other activity. Satisfied, he gathered his gear and returned to his SUV. His only thoughts revolved around kidnaping Larry (Tellson’s clone) and getting off the island. As for Mary, Good riddance, he muttered.

Chapter Two

1978

Watch those vitals, Adie. We need her asleep but strong. Don’t let her drift. The anesthesiologist scrutinized the monitor carefully as he watched the patient’s eyes above the mask. Periodically he twisted the vials that adjusted the mixture of halothane, nitrous oxide and oxygen that sang a compelling lullaby to the central nervous system while interfering with nerve transmission at the synapses and keeping the patient comatose.

She’s doing fine, doctor. BP is one ten over seventy, pulse is eighty, steady. Adie was annoyed at the anesthesiologist’s reminder. After ten years as an OR nurse, she didn’t need a personal tutor. Nor did she need an audience. She looked up at the two men sitting in the front row of the cavernous amphitheater on the second floor of the New York University Medical Center. They looked like two businessmen but their cheeky grins clashed with the wealthy-industrialist image of their Armani suits. Neither man spoke. Occasionally the nerdy-looking one turned to the one with the crew cut and made a thumbs-up gesture. Adie didn’t recognize either man other than noting that they weren’t faculty members of the medical school or involved in administration. She also noted that she wouldn’t mind giving a sponge bath to the one with the crew cut and watch the accelerating tempo of the metronome between his legs.

The patient (Mary Pitelli) on the operating room table was a medium height, white female with large breasts and a figure that would become more zaftig with age. Her rounded cheeks and turquoise eyes were a dull glaze under the soporific hypnosis of the administered anesthesia. It’s mostly the frumpy ones, thought Adie, who resort to surgery to get babies. The good-looking ones are mostly interested in aborting so they can go on to the next affair. The pleasantly plump ones have to settle for what they can get. They figure that babies will at least return some affection until they develop their wings and leave the nest, the little bastards.

Adie’s thoughts were beginning to conjure up the image of her own son, Michael, who wasted most of Adie’s savings for his college tuition on the latest mind-numbing drug when Dr. Chen’s snappish bark interrupted her reverie.

Adie, I told you to wipe my forehead! Chen’s command prompted Adie to frantically dab the beads of sweat on his forehead.

Come on girl, snap out of it. I don’t know where your head was but get it back into the OR. We’re finishing up the procedure. Dr. Chen was a slim, five-foot-four package of intimidation. Despite his oriental ancestry, his staff referred to him as il Duce (the Leader) because his emotional repertoire ranged only from workaholic obsession to incessant demands on others. The staff was well acquainted with his temper especially when he focused on his passion, performing surgery. The internal panic alarm in the staff rang the loudest when the vein in Chen’s right temple started throbbing. Standard operating procedure in those circumstances was follow Chen’s instructions or get the hell out of his way.

The surgical team worked feverishly, a team that had been drilled to perform in unison like the choreographed movements of a dance ensemble, each member anticipating the movement of the other, each poised to intervene seamlessly in the next step of the procedure. This was Dr. Chen’s surgical team, he called them his June Taylor Dancers, the crack, drill team of the medical center. Who else would John Tellson, the billionaire industrialist, go to with his request; Dr. Chen and his surgical team were world-renowned.

Sutures completed, Dr. Chen turned to his associate, uttered a terse, Okay, that’s it, Len, pulled down his mask, and smiled at the two men seated in the first row of seats encircling the operating theater. The two men returned his grin, gave each other a pat on the back and exited the amphitheater.

In the scrub room, Dr. Chen nudged the anesthesiologist who was washing his hands at the adjacent sink. Did you ever think it would happen? Chen was gloating with egotistical smugness.

Dr. Len Procos, the anesthesiologist, was a medium-height, Black man with a goatee dangling from a face that started oval then dipped into a triangle at the chin. The wrinkles in Procos’ brow betrayed his puzzlement when he asked, What did I think about what would happen? We’ve done this surgical implant of a fertilized egg into the uterus procedure almost a hundred times. It’s almost boring. What the hell are you so excited about anyway? I don’t understand it.

I couldn’t tell you. He made me swear not to tell anybody.

Not tell me what? Who made you swear?

John Tellson, the billionaire geneticist, the CEO of the biotech company, Gene Odyssey. We just implanted a cloned egg.

C…c…c…cloned egg! Procos almost gagged on the consonant, a reflexive act that provoked a suppressed chuckle that Chen swallowed in a gracious attempt to avoid embarrassing his colleague.

The furrows on the brow of the anesthesiologist flashed upward in an arc that reached the hairline. Are you kidding! Do you know what we’ve just done? We’ve violated every code of ethics. Our licenses will be suspended by the state board and we’ll be censured by the AMA.

"Stop worrying. I’ve already put out feelers to the New England Journal of Medicine, the Journal of the American Medical Association and Scientific American. They want to devote entire issues to what we’ve done. We’re already rich. Now we’re going to be famous too. I’ve made arrangements for us to present our results at the medical conference next month at the University of California at La Jolla. Tellson is even going to give us a chauffeured van to bus the whole team from the LA airport. Chen wrapped his arm around his colleague’s shoulders. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink."

The two men in the business suits exited the medical center and walked to the 1978 Chevrolet El Camino parked illegally in the bus stop zone. John Tellson, the nerdy-looking one, casually lifted the parking summons inserted behind the driver’s side windshield wiper and placed the parking ticket behind the windshield wiper of the car behind him parked at a meter with the expired time flag in sight.

What if the owner of that car checks the tags and realizes that the parking ticket doesn’t belong to him? asked Ivan Slovik casually.

Then I haven’t lost anything, replied the nerd. Either way I’m not paying it. Putting the ticket on the other car gives New York City the chance it might defray its expenses. After they entered the car and merged with the oncoming traffic Tellson gave Ivan an impatient glance.

Why are you looking at me like that? You know I never pay parking tickets.

It’s not that. I’m just wondering why you insist on driving this piece of shit when you can buy General Motors with your money.

Convenience and familiarity. It’s like an old shoe, broken in and very comfortable. Never mind that. Are you ready to take care of things?

All set, replied Ivan. Both men leaned back in their seat belts and surveyed the traffic. John Tellson was the famous Chief Executive Officer of Gene Odyssey a position and resource that he inherited from his father. His father was a brilliant microbiologist who developed several drug patents that were contracted to large pharmaceutical corporations and were too early in their development to be vulnerable to generic replication. His earnings enabled his father to develop a research corporation that grew into a valuation of a billion dollars. Despite his medical expertise Tellson’s father could not save his wife who died of breast cancer when Tellson was in his teens. Later when