Steven James - The Bishop

She turned back to his policy statements.

He supported ways to “enhance human potential and reduce unnecessary suffering,” which included his endorsement, along with that of the National Science Foundation, of nanotechnology and transhumanism-the emerging field of genetically altering DNA to treat blindness, epilepsy, paralysis, cancer, and so on.

Margaret wasn’t familiar with transhumanism, but it didn’t take her long online to discover that it was controversial since much of it involved not just augmentation but species advancement-through neuro-implants and gene therapy-creating humans with better eyesight, strength, or mental capabilities than the human race had ever developed on its own.

Through genetic manipulation, scientists would soon be able to give people the reflexes of a panther or the strength of a gorilla or the eyesight of a falcon. And by implanting chips into their brains, provide them the ability to remember nearly everything they learned or experienced. Because of transhumanism’s ultimate goal of improving the human race, transforming it even, into a superior species altogether, some people were calling it twenty-first-century eugenics.

Neuroscience. Nanotechnology.

Metacognition.

The primate research. Could the Gunderson Foundation be doing transhumanism research? Gene splicing with animals?

Hmm.

Perhaps approach this from a different angle.

She’d heard that Vice President Fischer wasn’t exactly best buddies with his brother-resentful of how the congressman had tapped into his political clout to promote his own standing in the House. She decided it might not be a bad idea to have a chat with the former vice president.

It took a few calls, but finally she found out he was at a climate change conference in Tokyo. His people said he’d return her call as soon as he could, but she knew how soon “as soon as possible” could be for a politician, so she wasn’t about to hold her breath.

The congressman was pulling Rodale’s strings. She didn’t like Or maybe it’s the other way around.

She paused.

Now that was an interesting thought.

Yes. Very interesting.

She found Doehring and told him she was heading to her office at FBI headquarters for a couple hours to catch up on a few things.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hold down the fort,” he said.

“I know you will.”

She left the command post with a realization that she was on a trajectory that would either end her career or just possibly land her in the job she’d been eyeing since she joined the Bureau.

6 hours left…

3:29 p.m.

Brad opened his laptop.

He knew that the task force had unwittingly found the bomb.

And he knew that ever since the anthrax scare nearly a decade ago, the FBI Headquarters and all of the field offices had been x-raying all incoming mail, packages, shipments, and deliveries as well as checking them for traces of biological or chemical compounds.

However, the Bureau did not x-ray or bio-scan evidence that was collected at crime scenes unless the specific nature of a crime warranted such action, such as evaluating evidence from an arsonist’s or bomb maker’s home.

And so.

Good.

Brad sent the email that would start the computer’s internal timer.

An anonymous-looking Viagra ad.

In exactly six hours, the bomb he’d prepared on Wednesday morning, the one he’d left for the task force to find, would go off.

Now, he just needed to wait.

The explosion would set up everything for the perfect ending to the game.

He set his watch to vibrate at 9:29 p.m. so that whatever he was doing he would know.

Dr. Calvin Werjonic.

Gregory Rodale.

Annette Larotte.

A puzzle with so many interlocking pieces.

And Bowers would see all the pieces laid so neatly in place.

But only in retrospect.

Only after it was too late to save the girl.

The Law Offices of Wilby, Chase amp; Lombrowski

Suite 17

4:05 p.m.

“I’m sorry.” Paul Lansing’s lead lawyer, Keegan Wilby, shook his head. “We simply cannot allow her into the meeting.”

Wilby had a squarish face and a Clark Kent curl of black hair on his forehead that only served to make him look like a middle-aged middle-schooler. His clothes told me he had wealth; his smug grin told me he knew it.

We’d arrived on time, over half an hour ago, but incomprehensibly, Wilby hadn’t even shown up until 3:55 and had subsequently spent the last ten minutes arguing about letting Tessa attend the meeting. She was standing beside me, seething, but I had my hand on her shoulder to let her know she needed to keep quiet.

Missy said sternly, “Mr. Wilby, tell Mr. Lansing that this is not up for debate. She comes in or we are leaving.”

He drew in a sigh. “All right. I’ll go and speak with my client one last time.” He spoke condescendingly, as if Missy were a child. “But I am not guaranteeing anything.”

He left.

Tessa’s teeth were clenched. “I feel like I’m a piece of furniture people are trying to shuffle around.”

“I understand,” Missy said. “However, Mr. Wilby does have a point. It would be highly unusual for the child-for you-to be present at a meeting like this.”

“Yeah, well, unusual works for me.”

Five minutes later Wilby returned shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my client said he does not want to upset her.”

“Good.” Tessa strode toward the hallway to the conference room.

“No, I mean by having you attend the meeting.”

“ This is upsetting me!”

“Tessa,” I said. “Come here.”

She didn’t move.

I signaled for her to join me. “Please.”

At last she came, staring at Wilby with blisteringly hot eyes the whole time.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her in that tone of voice people use when they’re not sorry at all. Then he directed his words to all of us. “I suppose if you insist that she be present, we will have to cancel this meeting.”

“All right.” Missy picked up her purse. “Good day, Mr. Wilby.”

However, I wasn’t so sure. I conferred with her for a moment and explained that I didn’t like the idea of putting this off. I wanted to hear what Lansing had to say, to clear up my questions regarding his Secret Service involvement. After a short debate, she gave in. “As long as it’s acceptable to Tessa.”

I assured Tessa that she could sit in on future meetings, but for now to just let it be. “We need to get a feel for what’s going on here. I promise I’ll fill you in.”

She was clearly not happy about it but finally complied. “When the meeting’s over you’ll tell me everything?”

“I will.”

As Wilby invited me and Missy to follow him, he had a satisfied look on his face that made it clear he felt like round one belonged to him.

A wooden cabinet with a dozen cubby holes hung just outside the conference room door. Wilby unpocketed his iPhone. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave your mobile devices here. After far too many interruptions in meetings in the past, our law firm had to create a policy. I’m sure you understand.”

That was definitely not going to happen and I was about to tell him so, but Missy beat me to the punch. “My client is a federal agent. His phone contains highly sensitive and confidential information, so quite obviously it cannot leave his person. And my phone contains his private number so I cannot leave mine either. I’m sure you understand.”

I was really starting to like this lawyer of ours.

“I’m afraid she’s right,” I said.

Wilby looked like he might argue, decided against it and opened the door.

Round two: Missy Schuel.

As we entered the room, she said to me softly, “Now remember, let me do the talking.”