“Much.” Aldrich collected himself. “I performed a thorough analysis using the new gene scanner and mapped out the DNA’s coding, comparing it with published genome maps. You know what I’d be looking for?”
“Anomalies in the three billion base pairs,” she replied.
The typical genome molecular diagram resembled a spiral ladder or double helix with horizontal “rungs” formed from pairs of adenine and thymine or guanine and cytosine—otherwise known as the building blocks of life. Three billion of these rungs were spread out over the tightly wound chromosome strands, forming “genes”—unique DNA segments specific to bodily organs and functions. With the laser scanner, gene sequences could be analyzed to detect corrupted coding resulting in mutation.
Aldrich leaped up and paced around. “Well, I found that the sample you’d sent me registered less than ten percent of the total expected genetic material found in the standard human genome.”
Charlotte eased back into her armchair, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
“Me either,” Aldrich replied. “So I did a lot more testing. Using our new system to compare the genome to all known anomalies, I came up with ...ready for this? No matches. Nothing! Not a single one!”
For a moment her rational mind shut down. No explanation came. “What does that mean?”
“This sample has no junk DNA!” Aldrich was shouting.
Before the Human Genome Project’s completion in 2003, scientists believed human superiority over other organisms—especially in intelligence— would translate to a substantially larger, more complex genetic code. But the human genome had fallen far short of expectation, having only onetwelfth of the genetic content of an ordinary onion. Geneticists attributed the differential to junk DNA—garbage heaps of defunct genes along the DNA strands rendered obsolete by evolution.
It sounded like a scientific fairy tale. But recalling the flawless 3-D physical profile the DNA sample suggested—the absence of a known ethnicity, the androgyny, the unique coloring and features—it made sense. “Evan, are you seriously telling me that this sample has DNA with a perfect genetic structure?”
He nodded. “I know it seems too good to be true.”
A flawless genome implied the absence of an evolutionary process. An organism in its purest, most unadulterated form.
Perfection, she thought. But how could a human possibly exhibit that kind of profile? It certainly didn’t jibe with what Darwin or modern science presented as the explanation for human development from primates.
Evan Aldrich waved a shaking hand at the screen. “This DNA could potentially be used as a template to spot anomalies in comparative samples. And it could be replicated using bacterial plasma.”
Charlotte stared at him. “Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?”
“It would take stem cell research to an entirely new level. I mean, this is perfect DNA in a viral form! Unimaginable.” He spoke slowly. “A miracle, in fact. It got me thinking about the real consequences of making this public, how the world would respond. At first I thought how many lives could be saved, the effect on disease. Then I envisioned biotech companies scrambling to customize cures for the rich. And designer babies. And rationed healthcare. Biological elitism. It will only benefit the rich—the poor won’t get a piece of this. And even if they did— using such a broad brush to wipe out disease would be devastating. Widespread longevity would lead to unprecedented population growth that would place enormous strain on all the world’s resources.”
She felt overwhelmed. “I see what you mean, but—”
“Let me finish,” he urged. “There’s a point to all this.” He reached over with his right hand and pinched the vial between his fingers, holding it up in front of her. “This.”
66
******
Vatican City
Cardinal Antonio Carlo Santelli stared dejectedly out of his office window at the expanse of Piazza San Pietro and the giant obelisk at its center that glowed pure white in the morning sunlight. He panned over to the basilica and the statues of saints lining the rooftop. If Catholics knew his noble intentions—to protect the faithful as a true servant of God—would his image too be immortalized and adored there one day? Would he become a modern-day martyr? A saint?
It hadn’t been just the high drama of the past few weeks. As far back as the Banco Ambrosiano scandal, the revelations he had witnessed during his tenure in the Vatican had gradually made him question his devotion to the Church. He wondered if his life had truly been in the service of a greater good, or whether he was fast becoming everything he’d once loathed as a young and idealistic priest.
Late yesterday morning, after personally seeing to Conte’s release from the Swiss Guard detention cell, he’d given the reckless mercenary the goahead to eliminate the last potential complications that could implicate the Vatican in the Jerusalem debacle: the ossuary and its contents, of course; Father Patrick Donovan, next; then Dr. Charlotte Hennesey; and finally, her American lover, Evan Aldrich.
Yet more blood on his hands.
Last night, he had expected an update from Conte to confirm that both the relics had been eliminated. No call had come. Now he was starting to worry that the mercenary had double-crossed him, convinced that the next call from him would involve more money—blackmail.
Worse, only minutes ago, he’d heard a news report concerning the death of a docent at the Torlonia catacombs—not exactly the type of thing that made headlines. But the seemingly mundane incident had prompted a routine police inquiry from the only name listed on a visitors’ sign-in sheet found in the docent’s office. That had led investigators to the visitor’s distraught wife who had just contacted the police to report that her husband hadn’t come home last night. A search of the catacombs ensued. It hadn’t taken the authorities long to find Giovanni Bersei’s broken body at the base of a shaft. Perhaps under better circumstances the incident could have been classified as an accident—a strange intersection of misfortune for two men who happened to be in the same place. However, police had spoken to a witness—a young woman jogger—who had reported seeing a stranger exiting the site and loading the anthropologist’s scooter onto a van. The photofit she had provided happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to another sketch coming out of Jerusalem.
The media was eating it up.
Any minute now, Santelli expected a call from the investigators.
