‘We are going straight home?’
‘That’s what the big boys promised.’
Rain splattered against the windows of the limousine. Julia stared out at the miniature oil wells that stood at the edge of the La Brea freeway; the scaled-down mechanisms with the one metal arm ceaselessly pumping had always fascinated her. Colonel Smith-Royston sat beside her. A muscular man in his forties, radiating a humorous irony that Julia suspected helped keep him both buoyant and optimistic in a job that was often grim. He had an empathetic air that allowed one to be comfortably silent in his company.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Professor,’ he said smiling.
‘You too, Colonel, but I’m kind of surprised.’
‘Indeed. I apologise for my audacity.’ He checked his watch. ‘I promise we’ll have you and your husband home within the hour.’
‘You’re forgiven. Anyhow, it’s good to know my tax dollar now stretches to a military chauffeur service.’
He laughed. Julia glanced across at Klaus, who was sitting with the driver in the front, behind the glass partition. She couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but from his animated gestures she guessed he was probably engaging the driver in one of his endless anecdotes about the entertainment industry. Klaus loved an audience, and he also loved extracting stories from lay people—gardeners, chauffeurs, cable technicians—the hidden nuggets of suburban fables.
The colonel spoke again, lowering his voice. ‘I know this is a little unorthodox, but there is some urgency involved, as well as high security.’
Julia looked at the briefcase resting next to her companion. ‘If it’s about the ambush…’
‘Professor Huntington, we’re in Los Angeles now. Whatever happened over there stays over there.’
‘I don’t want anyone to know.’ She indicated Klaus. ‘Not even my husband.’
‘I understand.’
Relieved, Julia relaxed into the plush leather seat. Why was she so ashamed of how she had reacted in the ambush? What was she—some kind of aberration? She examined her psychology with a forensic objectivity: she had acted in self-defence and therefore there was some moral justification to the killing. But what she found so disturbing was the very private acknowledgement that she had experienced a complete lack of remorse, or any other emotion.
‘Trust me, Professor, the whole incident is buried. I’m here on an entirely different matter. As you’re aware, the DOD has followed your work for a good decade now, and certainly in my division we’re all big fans.’
‘Thank you.’ She replied cautiously, slightly suspicious about where all this flattery was leading to.
‘To put it bluntly, we’re offering you a job. A commission. We want you to establish whether there is any possible link between genetic make-up and violence that we could use to identify potential crack combat soldiers specifically to recruit for our Delta Force. We’re looking for people with a genetic propensity for close combat without emotional engagement, who will not, and I repeat, not, suffer from PTSD. In other words, the two per cent you are so obsessed with, Professor. Now I know genetic profiling is currently illegal, but we’re looking to the future here when everyone will be profiled at birth, and we will be allowed to approach those natural born soldiers. Look at it this way: we’re offering to finance—and finance generously—the natural trajectory of your current research.’
Julia struggled to conceal her excitement. To discover such a gene function would ensure her own scientific legacy, and would secure enough funding to keep the small laboratory she ran at the University of California going for decades. Yet she was aware of the potential pitfalls: the scientific complexity of the research, as well as the ethical questions surrounding the location of such a gene function. Indeed, some research indicated that a gene could lie dormant for generations until an external event—occurring either in utero or in the developing adult—triggered it into activity. Julia’s work involved eliminating the obvious candidate genes, whose various functions were already known, and isolating new genes that may be linked to a psychological and emotional predisposition for close combat. If such a gene function could be identified, Julia knew the army would be quick to capitalise on it.
The colonel opened his briefcase and pulled out a large brown file. He pushed it across the seat towards her.
‘Five hundred twins from the veterans database—all potential subjects for the research. Thought a little ground work might make it easier for you.’
She waited for a moment, watching him lean forward. She knew he was anxious for her to jump at the opportunity.
‘Professor, we both know the terrible cost of posttraumatic stress disorder on ex-soldiers, their families and society itself. If we can locate the men who don’t ever suffer from it, we’ll be doing society and humanity an immense favour.’
In the ensuing pause while Julia contemplated the offer, the sound of the rain against the windows seemed to grow louder. The colonel glanced out of the window. Julia looked down at his hands; one of them was clenched, betraying his casual façade.
‘You don’t have to make a decision now. Sleep on it,’ he murmured.
The limousine turned into Los Feliz Boulevard then drove past Julia’s local diner. To the colonel’s relief, she lifted the file and rested it on her lap.
‘I don’t have to. I’ll take the commission.’
4
‘IT TOOK OVER AN HOUR TO get through customs. I’m amazed they didn’t confiscate my samples.’
‘Homeland security,’ Klaus said wryly. ‘The getting of wisdom for this land fair and free.’
Since the lethal attack on the twin towers of the World Trade Center the previous September, security had become terrifyingly rigorous. Fear laced the air like a sudden chill in every public space, from car parks to baseball grounds.