Soul

‘They also developed Gulf War syndrome, a third testicle and all kinds of other shit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it doesn’t exist; I’m just saying there’s a psychology that’s better suited to this job.’

A jet roared overhead, followed by the screeching departure of a coterie of crows that had been perched on the telegraph wires.

‘I guess I’m a rare kind of creature,’ Jensen went on. ‘Every time I was in combat, something would go click in my head and I just carried out my missions as efficiently as possible and as ruthlessly as necessary. You’ve interviewed my identical twin, Lance the accountant. You want to know why I think we are similar? We both hate mess, Professor Huntington. Lance hates messy numbers and I hate messy situations. He likes correcting the sums; I kill to save lives. That’s war. I have a gift, but I’ve used it for the common good. Another margarita, ma’am?’

He held up his empty tumbler, the slice of lime on the edge of the glass like a defiant balancing act. Julia smiled, ‘No, thanks.’

‘Then you won’t mind if I do, and you can switch that damned thing off.’ She clicked off the tape recorder.

He stood up lazily, muscles bunching in the varicose-vein-laced calves, and sauntered to the wet bar. Reaching for the plastic flask of tequila with one hand, he pulled open the bar fridge door with the other.

‘This report of yours…’ He poured the tequila then the margarita mix into the glass with the practised gestures of the habitual drinker. A bowl of limes sat on the counter already sliced and waiting. ‘…are you keeping the names of the soldiers involved out of it?’ He swung around, a new drink miracuously in hand.

‘Absolutely. All information remains confidential.’

‘Pity. I like the idea of immortality. My name immortalised in the pursuit of science. The only damn way this name is going to be remembered.’

She felt him watching her, like a predator sniffing out vulnerability in its prey—yet she sensed he liked her. Glancing around at the neglected, inherently masculine surroundings, she wondered whether it wasn’t simply because she was female; her maroon summer dress a seam of colour that blasted through the washed-out concrete, the bleached cane chairs, the desiccated cactus leaning against the stucco. Suddenly claustrophobic, Julia checked her watch and stood. ‘I should be going. Be good to avoid the afternoon pile-up on the freeway. Thanks for co-operating. I’ll ring you later with a time to come into the laboratory, Lieutenant Colonel.’

‘Sure. They can say what they like about Axel Jensen, but they can’t say I’m unpatriotic.’

She held out her hand and he shook it. He radiated a mix of cheap cologne and drying chlorine cut with the faint smell of coconut. The familiar aroma reminded Julia of a certain generation of men—her father’s generation—and she found that she had warmed to the soldier, regardless of his politics.

Sensing the change in her attitude, he held onto her hand a moment longer than necessary. Julia pulled it free.

‘One last thing,’ she ventured. ‘There was an incident in Brazil last year…’

The lieutenant colonel’s body language altered instantly; the first time that afternoon he appeared off guard.

‘They briefed you on that?’

Julia hesitated and in that split second he read the lie. Taking her by the elbow he started to lead her to the front gate.

‘I’m retired now. I’m way out of the loop, just an old dog waiting to die. It pays to play dumb, Professor Huntington, that’s one thing I’ve learned. Don’t be the branch they want to chop off—because they will do it. I guarantee it.’

Julia drove down the freeway analysing the two interviews. Lance, the accountant, sitting in his immaculate office, where even the paperclips looked as if they’d been filed, appeared almost autistic in his lack of social interaction. But he had identical mannerisms to his soldier brother, even down to a twitch under the left eyelid. Both men had married at the same age to similar-looking women; both had musical abilities; both professed to a faith—for Lance Jensen it was evangelism; for Axel Jensen, nihilism. Lance had left the army before he experienced any action, but was it possible that, in an extreme circumstance, he would be able to kill without experiencing remorse afterwards? Or if the mutant gene function existed, might it be lessened in the identical twin—only triggered by an extraordinary situation?

The thought led Julia to her own family. If her great-grandmother murdered her husband, what did that mean in terms of her own genetic inheritance?

I’m slipping into paranoia, Julia told herself. If there is such a mutant gene function, the chances that I’ve inherited it are slight—almost negligible.

As she parked the car, the image of the lieutenant colonel’s face when she asked him about the Brazil incident—the way it hardened, the sudden detachment that infused his gaze—came back to her, and lingered all afternoon.

37

THE HUM OF THE INCUBATORS was comforting. Julia loved this sensation of being in the kernel of activity; the laboratory was a sanctuary, a quiet place of study where she could escape and exist entirely within her work.

Having stained the chromosomes in selected cell samples from her subjects, she was now carefully manipulating the dish under the lens of the microscope. A small screen next to it displayed the magnification process, allowing her to focus her attention on the chromosomes’ arrangement and juxtaposition as she looked for any irregularities or distinguishing features.

After recording her microscope and DNA analysis in her workbook, Julia stood in the middle of the laboratory and stretched out her arms. The sudden inrush of the outside world terrified her—knowing she had to keep busy before the insidious sense of loss that haunted her crept back in, she packed away her notes and went to her office. She b

ooted up her laptop, then Googled five words: Brazil, 2001, US Special Forces. The only result was a concise description of a small squadron stationed outside of São Paulo. No mention of any ‘incident’.

Julia was tempted to phone Colonel Smith-Royston, her contact at the Defense Department, but Axel Jensen’s words troubled her. It would be foolish to assume she could trust the Defense department official entirely.

Logging off, she leaned back in her chair and realised that for the first time in two months she had nothing to do. It would take forty-eight hours before the next phase of her experiments could proceed, and the thought of driving back to an empty house on a Sunday was unbearably depressing.

As Julia walked up the hill to the observatory, she wondered whether she was the only single person in the whole of Griffith Park. Large Latino families wound their way out of the crowded car park, their dark-eyed children trailing behind, some chewing on twists of sugared churros; others clutching huge batons of ice cream that dripped white streaks down their T-shirts. Couples of every nationality were clustered on park benches staring down at the view, or promenading along hand in hand; the young men jaunty with self-importance, the girls in their Sunday finery. Some hobbled along in tight jeans and high shoes. Others looked as if they had come straight from church, with neat freshly ironed blouses and pleated skirts, their hair corn-braided, as if after the worship of God came the worship of Nature.