Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

Slip it under the crack. When I see some valid ID, I'll let you in.

So far, the knock hadn't come. But he'd played the scene over and over in his head while he sat there, maybe two hundred times. He had come up with ten or twelve variations. One time he'd move confidently over to the door, check the ID, and verify it. He saw himself opening the door to someone who would stride inside and assume command, and who, without question, could lead him out of this mess. Another time, he imagined himself picking up the photo and badge, realizing that something was wrong, and then he'd freeze, knowing they'd found him and were going to kill him. After playing out this scenario, he'd nervously scan the room, trying to figure a way out. He'd gone into the bathroom several times, at least five or six, during his five-hour wait, and tried to imagine whether he could squeeze his frame through the small window. Each time he'd decide that it wasn't possible. But then he'd start to sweat at the thought of someone trying to force his way into the room, so he'd go back to the bathroom and try to come up with a more positive scenario. Then he'd return to his corner, reimagine the scene, and this time in his mind he'd pick up a lamp and when the door opened, he'd swing it, crash it against the stranger's skull, and race out of the room to safety.

Now it was for real.

There was the knock.

His eyes went to the bathroom door, picturing the small window. His glance flickered over to the lamp on the desk. Then he looked at the front door.

Ed Marion swallowed, tried to speak, found that he couldn't. He cleared his throat, tried again, cleared his throat one more time. He saw that his hands were shaking and did his best to steady them. No such luck.

"Who is it?"

"Assistant Director Leonard Rollins. FBI."

"I need to s-see s-s-some identification." Shit. He hadn't seen himself stuttering in any of his mental run-throughs.

"I've got a photo ID and badge. You want me to put them under the door?"

"Y-yes. Please."

Marion waited, heard the shuffle of something being shoved along the floor, then something peeked through the crack under the door. Time to move. He gingerly walked across the room, reached for the ID. It looked official. But, of course, he didn't have a clue what a real FBI identification looked like. This one seemed to say all the right things. And wait a second-he remembered the cop, Westwood, on the phone, talking to the FBI. He said that the agent he was talking to was named Rollins.

"I thought you weren't coming yourself," Marion said to the person on the other side of the door. "You said you were going to send someone else."

"That's right," the man outside the door said. "I told Westwood I was going to send someone from a closer bureau. But I couldn't get anyone. At least not today. It was easier for me to come myself. If you're not going to let me in, would you mind slipping me out my ID? The bureau's pretty stingy with things like this and they'll actually charge me if I have to get a replacement."

"What'll you do if I don't open the door?" Marion asked.

"Is Westwood coming back?"

Marion wasn't sure. But he didn't want to admit that. "Yes," he said.

"I'll slip my cell-phone number under the door so you can call me. Then I'll find a place to wait and when he shows up he can verify me. But I'm hoping you don't make me do that. This is kind of a busy time for me. I'm in the middle of a murder investigation."

The guy sounded genuine enough. He knew Westwood and he knew the exact conversation they'd had on the phone. This guy Rollins had the right name, and he didn't seem very anxious. There was no pressure to be let in. He struck Marion as extremely professional.

Wondering how the hell he'd allowed himself to get into this situation, Ed Marion reached for the doorknob and turned it. With his other hand, he simultaneously unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Standing before him was a dark-haired man, a little over six feet tall. Not heavy but muscular. Powerful-looking upper body. He had the aura of an athlete, someone who was very confident of his physical capabilities. Marion glanced down at the photo ID, looked back up at the man. It was a match.

"May I come in?" the FBI agent said.

Marion nodded and stepped farther inside the room. Agent Rollins followed, closing the door behind him. Marion sat down on the corner of the bed. Rollins remained standing by the black Formica desk against the wall opposite the bathroom. There was a phone on it and an oval mirror on the wall over it. Other than the curtains and the loud, matching bedspread, the mirror was the only attempt at decoration in the room.

"Nice place," Agent Rollins said.

"Where are you going to take me?"

"Nowhere yet. This looks like an excellent place for a chat."

"We have to get certain guidelines out of the way first. I need to know exactly what you're willing to do for me."

"What would you like me to do?" Rollins asked.

"I'm going to need immunity from any prosecution. And I'm going to need guaranteed safety for me and my family."

"You'd better have a lot of information for that kind of deal."

"Where do you want to start?" Ed Marion said.

Rollins pulled the one chair out from under the desk and sat facing Marion. "How much did you tell Westwood?" he asked.

"I didn't tell him anything. I said I'd only talk to you guys."

"Why?"

"He didn't exactly make me feel safe. He seemed like a small-timer. He doesn't know the kind of people who are involved."

"He does now. You told him about Newberg and Kransten."

Marion felt his hands go clammy. "I didn't tell him. The names slipped out. I thought he was working for them."

"You told him about Aphrodite."

"He doesn't know what it means."

"Do you?"

"I know some of it. I've pieced together other parts. Nobody knows everything except Douglas Kransten."

"And Louise Marshall."

"You already know about all this?" Marion asked.

"Like you, we know about some of it."

"How? You've been investigating them?"

Rollins nodded.

"Why?"

"How about if you tell me what you know, then I'll decide if there's anything for me to tell you."

"You don't have a cigarette, do you?"

"I don't smoke."

"No, neither do I. I've been pretty tense waiting for you to show up. I don't know why I asked for a cigarette. I haven't eaten. And I could really use a drink. That cop, Westwood, he scared the shit out of me, if you want to know the truth. I thought he was going to kill me."

"Why don't you just relax for a little while and tell me what you know. After you talk, you can eat and drink all you want." When Marion nodded, Rollins said, "You work at Ellis, right? Tell me your job, exactly. Are you a researcher?"

"I have a medical and research background. Stanford. But these guys, the people Kransten has working for him, I was never in their league. These are Nobel-level minds. So now I'm a manager."

"What needs to be managed?"

"We do medical research," Ed Marion said. "And we specialize in three different areas. When you're talking about this level of brilliance, there's an extraordinary amount of competition. And greed. Someone's got to allocate the funds, make decisions about various directions and priorities. That's what I do, up to a certain level. After that, it's in the hands of my superiors."

"What are the priorities now?"

"We're biotech. We're all about genetic engineering. Kransten's been enough of a visionary to move to the forefront in three different areas. He's been there for years. We're the market leader in stem-cell research derived from human embryos. There's only one other U.S. company that's even really functional at the moment. There's no funding for it."