“What I don’t understand-and I should understand, Otto-is why and how this happens when we systematically and exhaustively treated every person on the science team to deactivate VMAT2.”

VMAT2-Vesicular Monoamine Transporter 2-was a membrane protein that transports monoamines like dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, and histamine from cellular cytosol into synaptic vesicles. Geneticist Gene Hamer had pioneered the belief that the gene was more active in persons who held strong religious beliefs and less so in those who held little or no beliefs. Cyrus accepted this as likely and subscribed to several similar neurotheological views. He had spent years exploring the links between N, N-Dimethyltryptamine levels in the pineal gland and spiritual beliefs.

“None of the team should be capable of religious beliefs of any kind,” Cyrus said gruffly.

“We’ve had this discussion before, Mr. Cyrus. You told me that you did not totally accept the ‘God gene’ theory.”

“That’s not what I said, dammit,” Cyrus barked. He leaned close and shouted at Otto. “I said that I don’t believe it accounts for all faith. It doesn’t account for true faith. False faith may be controlled by genetics. Faith in ideals and deities that are clearly unrelated to the divine path of racial development. No one with a pure genetic line, no one who believes in the right and only way, requires a gene for faith. That’s a fundamental truth to faith itself. It’s the so-called mystery of faith that those Catholic swine have been beating themselves up over for two thousand years.”

Otto wiped Cyrus’s spittle from his shirtfront.

“As you say.”

Cyrus leaned back, his eyes still hot and his face flushed.

“The gene therapy must be flawed.”

“Of course, sir,” said Otto neutrally. “That must be it.”

“We’ll run the sequence again. We’ll do a new round of gene therapy.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t want any more inconvenient attacks of conscience.”

“God forbid,” said Otto with a smile. He left before Cyrus began throwing things.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Private airfield near Denver, Colorado

Saturday, August 28, 2:29 P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 93 hours, 31 minutes E.S.T.

Top and Bunny met me as I got off the jet. They were dressed in black BDUs and wearing shoulder rigs but had no other obvious weapons. Neither of them looked very happy. There was a lot of that going around.

Hanler shook hands all around but stayed with his plane as we headed to a small hangar at the edge of the field. There was a Mister Softee truck parked inside; however, the man who leaned against the rear corner didn’t look like he sold ice-cream cones for a living. He looked like the actor Ving Rhames, except for the artificial leg and the shrapnel scars on his face.

“Cap’n,” said Top, “this is Gunnery Sergeant Brick Anderson, head of field support for the Denver office.”

Brick fit his name and he had a handshake that could crush half-inch pipe.

“Good to meet you, Cap,” said Brick. “I’ve heard stories.”

“You look like you could tell a few stories of your own, Gunny,” I said. “How’d you slip the NSA?” I asked.

“They heard I was a cripple. Only sent two guys to pick me up.” He shrugged. “Didn’t go like they planned.”

Bunny murmured, “Not handicapped-handi-capable.”

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

Brick shrugged. “Big Man back home said to give you whatever on the ground support I can manage. Deep Iron’s a half hour from here. I pretended to be a potential customer and asked if I could come out sometime this week. Asked what their hours are. They’re open now. Head of sales is on the grounds. Name’s Daniel Sloane. Here’s his info.” Brick handed me a slip of paper with contact numbers. Then he handed me a slim file folder. “This is basic stuff I pulled off their Web site. Specs and such.”

“Good job.” I flipped open the folder, took a quick glance, and closed it. “I’ll read it on the way. How are we set for equipment? I have a handgun and two magazines. Can you load me up?”

The big man grinned as he led us to the back of the truck and opened the door. The whole thing was a rolling arsenal. I saw just about every kind of firearm known to modern combat, from five-shot wheelguns to RPGs.

“My-oh-my-oh-my,” Top said, breaking out into a big grin. “I’m so happy I could cry.”

“It’s like Christmas, isn’t it?” said Bunny.

A FEW MINUTES later we were cruising down an industrial side road that curved toward the snowcapped Rockies. Along the way we read and discussed the facility. Deep Iron was tucked away in the foothills of the Rockies southwest of Denver, built into a vast series of limestone caverns that honeycombed the region. Records were stored in various natural “floors” of the cavern system, and the highest security materials-meaning the stuff people were willing to pay the highest fees to squirrel away-were in the lowest levels, nearly a mile underground. I punched in the secure number for the DMS Warehouse back in Baltimore and asked to speak to the head of the computer division-Bug.

He was born as Jerome Taylor but he’d been a computer geek so long even his family called him Bug. His understanding of anything with circuits and microchips bordered on the empathic.

“Hey, Cap,” he said brightly, as if none of what was happening was any more real to him than the events in a video game. “What’s the haps?”

“Bug, listen-Top, Bunny, and I are in Denver at a place called Deep Iron and-”

“Oh, sure. Big storage facility. They filmed a couple of sci-fi movies there back in-”

“That’s great,” I said, cutting him off before he could tell me details of everything from the source material of the films down to the Best Boy’s shoe size. He really was a geek’s geek and could probably give Hu a run for his money. “See if you can hack their computer system.”

He snorted. “Don’t insult me.”

I laughed. “What I need are floor plans for the whole place. And I need an exact location for anything related to Haeckel. Dr. Hu has the basic info, but I want you to go deeper and download everything to my PDA.”

“How soon?”

“An hour ago.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

It took nine.

When he called back he said, “Okay, you have the floor plans and a searchable database of all clients. There’s only one Haeckel in their directory. First name Heinrich. It’s an oversized bin, thirty by forty feet, located on J-level.”

I pulled up the schematic on my PDA and cursed silently. J-level was all the way at the bottom, a mile straight down.

“What can you get me about what’s stored there?”

“Minute,” he said, and I could hear him tapping keys. “Okay, the main hard drive says ‘records,’ but there’s a separate database for inspections and that specifies the contents as file boxes times three hundred fifty-one. The bin has two doors-both locked by the estate attorneys. Contents are listed as mixed paper records. One box is listed as MF. My guess is that’s microfiche or microfilm.”

“Any idea what they’re records of?”

“Nope. It says the boxes were sealed by Haeckel prior to his death and there was a provision in his will that they not be opened except by a proven family member. No living family is listed, though. His estate provides for storage and oversight of the whole thing by a law firm. An inspection of the seals is required every year. Looks like it’s an attorney who checks the seals. Several attorneys over the years, all from the same firm. Birkhauser and Bernhardt of Denver. The seals are also witnessed by a representative of Deep Iron. Looks like it’s still there because they haven’t found an heir. I’ll hack the law firm and see if they have anything.”

I thanked him and brought Top and Bunny up to speed.

“No heir,” mused Top, “except for Gunnar Haeckel, who is apparently back from the dead and hunting unicorns in South America. Funny old world.”