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Chapter 1
Sterling J. Waterhouse III thudded his knuckles on the plate-glass doors of the main entrance of the Getty Museum. He checked his gold Rolex again. 10:02, three hours past closing.
He had decided to fly to Los Angeles to confront the old tycoon in person. Sterling Waterhouse did not suffer fools gladly, unless they were extremely rich fools. But he was not about to let a senile robber baron jeopardize the operation.
At forty-five, he had faith in only one thing: the bottom line. He was a man who set his own rules. He believed in getting ahead by cutting corners, taking risks. He believed in answering when opportunity knocked — and if it didn't knock, kicking the door down. Most of all, he believed he was entitled. The world owed him, and he fully intended to collect.
He had the look of an aristocrat — six-foot-one, lean frame, imperious baritone voice, sculpted silver hair, bronzed skin. He favored immaculately tailored suits, handmade cotton shirts from Turnbull and Asser, silk foulard neckties and black boar shoes. The Look, as he called it, was not so important for his position as chief financial officer of Eden Enterprises, where he was second on the corporate depth chart behind only CEO Alex Wyatt. But it did come in handy for meeting with investors in his secret side venture, Progeny Technologies.
And the old tycoon was his biggest investor of all.
A kick of thunder came from somewhere in the distance. Overhead, a huge banner snapped angrily in the wind, the spotlights throwing a pale gold wash over it. FRANCISCO GOYA: A RETROSPECTIVE. Rain hissed down on the pavement. The wind whipped his hair and ran up the back of his suit jacket. He pounded on the door, and a security guard finally appeared in the lobby. Come on, he thought, I don't have all night. The guard, a fiftyish black man with a beaten-down look, slowly fingered a big ring of keys and unlocked the door.
Waterhouse stepped into the vast, empty cathedral of a lobby and saw a figure lean over the second-floor balcony.
"You're late." T.R. Silvero, the petrochemical magnate, hovered overhead like a vulture spying a kill.
Waterhouse climbed the winding metal staircase, and the two men faced each other at the top of the landing. Waterhouse didn't ask how Silvero had managed to pry open the Getty at this hour, but he knew the old man wasn't above putting his power on display. Silvero had connections, influence, great wealth — all the things that Waterhouse was owed. But those would come soon.
"I take it there's a reason you've summoned me here?"
"I've run out of patience," Silvero said, his voice still filled with enough steel to ring off the walls.
He turned, balancing himself on a walking stick, something Waterhouse hadn't seen before. "I want you to see something," Silvero said and headed down the hallway into a gallery where a small sign announced: THE BLACK PAINTINGS, c. 1819-23, Courtesy of the Prado.
"Do you like Goya?" Silvero said. "Not as trendy today as Matisse or the Impressionists. But his grotesqueries could be a metaphor for our own age."
Waterhouse squinted at the paintings, taking in the madness that leaped from the walls. He decided to cut to the chase. "We need to push back the timetable on the genetic center."
Silvero turned slowly, and his eyes seemed darker now — bottomless, ageless. He gave Waterhouse a penetrating stare, as if trying to yank out his soul. "I won't hear that. You're already behind schedule." He thrust out his plutocratic jaw. "Where do we stand?"
Waterhouse ran his fingertips down the peaked lapels of his $2,400 double-breasted Italian wool suit, trying to feel richer. He wasn't sure where to begin. Not much good news to report.
Silvero decided the issue with a question. "Has our friend caught wind of our plan?"
Waterhouse smiled. When the President's idiot science adviser refused to step down, Waterhouse admired the cool, businesslike manner with which Silvero had him dispatched. "No one suspects a thing," Waterhouse reported. "Our sources tell us the President will offer him the science post this week."
"So you think he'll accept?"
"Oh, he'll accept. And sail through the Senate confirmation hearings."
"You'd better be right." Silvero moved down the wall of paintings. "What else do you have?"
Waterhouse followed. "You asked for a status report on the genetic center. We're still on track with phase one, the genetic screening aspect. A few months behind schedule, but that's to be expected." He adjusted his tie. "Phase two, the DNA Legends phase, has run into a few snags."
Silvero's face went to stone. The two of them had been discussing the DNA Legends project for nearly six years. At first, Silvero was content to bide his time, knowing the technological and legal obstacles Waterhouse was up against. But in the past few months, Silvero had begun badgering Waterhouse about it at every turn. He had become obsessed by the topic. And now he was insisting that the genetic center must be up and running by the deadline that Waterhouse had originally agreed to: September 1, just one month from now.
Impossible.
"The long and short of it is, we're having some problems obtaining licensing rights.'' Waterhouse lowered his voice to conspirator level. "The agents for the basketball Hall of Famers have finally gotten back to us. A flat no, even after we upped our offer to $5 million apiece. Five million dollars for a few drops of blood, and they turn us down." Not that cut and dried, but Silvero understood.
Waterhouse went on. "The agents for the movie stars made an insulting counter-offer. They wanted ninety-five percent of the gross revenues donated to AIDS research or to the Rainforest Foundation — plus complete veto power over how we market the product."
Silvero raised his walking stick, caressed its gold handle, and strolled to the far wall. Waterhouse followed, speaking as they went.
"The singer's attorney is giving us the same old song and dance. He won't sign over all rights, no matter how high we go." Waterhouse glanced behind a wall divider to make sure the security guard wasn't within earshot. No sign of him. "The agents for the baseball greats and the Hollywood supermodels — they all say that cloning their clients' genes is out of the question."
Silvero showed no reaction. "What about the dead legends?"
To Waterhouse, this was one of the great wonders of DNA. Whether the celebrity was living or dead was of no consequence, from a scientific point of view. Their genetic code could be lifted either way. All that mattered was that their DNA was famous. Unfortunately, even celebrity corpses had talent agencies or heirs or estate attorneys.
"We've made some discreet inquiries at the agencies that handle Marilyn Monroe, Einstein, James Dean. They absolutely ruled it out, despite the very attractive royalties package we offered. They're concerned about image."
Waterhouse paused, waiting for a word of encouragement. None came. "As for Mount Vernon and Monticello, the curators there won't even talk to us."
"What about the Vatican? The relic?"
"You think the Pentagon has layers of bureaucracy? Try dealing with the Vatican."
Silvero's jaw tensed. "My people are upset at the lack of results."
"I've run into some unforeseen roadblocks."
"Roadblocks!" Silvero's neck muscles drew taut. "Every start-up business in the world runs into roadblocks. The difference between success and failure is finding a way to push ahead — in spite of any and all obstacles."
Waterhouse marveled at the arrogance of the super-rich. Every conversation turned into a lecture about their accomplishments. Just look at my high station, all that I've achieved, you'll see that I know these things.
Silvero moved down the wall of paintings, stopping in front of a blood-filled canvas of two men clubbing each other.
"Do you remember our first meeting, Waterhouse? Your proposal took me by surprise. What a bold pitch! I still remember it. You said the human genome was like the gold hills of 1849 California, just waiting to be plundered. A mere $48 million in start-up costs, and your genetics factory — pardon me, DNA sequencing company — would dominate the biotechnology field, right out of the gate. Progeny would become the next General Motors, the next Sony —"
"The Microsoft of human genetics," Waterhouse offered.
"The Microsoft of genetics, that's right. Frankly, you had me dazzled. But it wasn't just the financial return that drew me in. It was the idea of being part of something monumental, something epic. DNA Legends, genes from historical figures — what a grand, audacious vision! Progeny Technologies would be a veritable Genetic Hall of Fame." He turned to Waterhouse and narrowed his cesspool eyes. "But now I'm having second thoughts. I'm wondering if you're up to the task."
Second thoughts! It's far too late for second thoughts, old man.
Silvero plucked a Palm Pilot from his lapel, saw that a stock trade had been executed, and checked the score of the Yankees game. He was a part owner. "Have I ever mentioned what our background check on you turned up? Not a flattering portrait." Silvero began reciting from memory. "Sterling J. Waterhouse III. Born into a family of substantial means. But his parents' marriage was cold and loveless. The boy had a difficult childhood, piling up a juvenile record for vandalism and grave desecration. He eloped at eighteen — and was cut off from the family fortune. The marriage ended after a few months, but not before the young man's parents died in a plane crash."
Silvero's gray lips glistened. "That must have been a bitter pill to swallow. Seeing all those millions go to an endowment at Wharton."
"What's your point?"
Silvero raised his walking stick like a staff. "Simply this. My partners and I have staked you $48 million — quite a sum for an unproven operation like yours. Most men don't get a chance like this in a lifetime. And yet, here you are, asking for a delay in your commitments to us."
That rocked him. The ingratitude! "What I'm asking is simply that your partners appreciate what I'm up against. Progeny isn't like any other start-up business in history. Have you forgotten what I've accomplished in six years? I've got the lab running at full throttle. Progeny's other divisions are operating ahead of schedule. I've recruited a world-class team of scientists and kept a lid on their findings. I've done as much as humanly possible."
"You disappoint me, Waterhouse. I'm wondering if you have what it takes to pull this off. I'm beginning to think I overestimated you."
Waterhouse popped open the top button on his vest and told himself, Keep cool. This is business, nothing more, nothing less.
Silvero leaned into a narrow beam of track light. "We have an investment that we intend to safeguard. We intend to hold you to the agreement. We expect you to deliver by the September 1 deadline."
Waterhouse now saw that Silvero wasn't interested in reality. He wanted his fantasy played out on his terms.
"We've had setbacks —"
Silvero brought up his walking stick and set it against a painting of a giant biting off the head of a man. Slowly, he ground the bottom of his cane into the canvas. "I don't want to hear about setbacks. My people want results." He looked at his watch. "Today is August 2nd. You have thirty days to get the genetic center up and running. Otherwise we will execute the default clause."
Thirty days? He was bluffing!
But what if he wasn't? He could foreclose and seize all of Progeny's assets. I'd lose everything. All my equity in the operation. My house, my Ferrari. I'd be wiped out.
Silvero turned and stalked down the hallway, the walls echoing his retreat. "I don't care how you do it. Results. Nothing else matters. Results!"
Waterhouse leaned against a canvas and fished a cell phone from his suit pocket, flipped the mouthpiece down, then thought better of it and put it away. He closed his eyes, took in deep breaths, tried to steady himself. The old days were coming to him again, wisping through his thin veins, spreading its milky warmth to every cell, every molecule in his body. But this time, he accepted it like a cleansing mist, welcomed the change that he knew must come to him now. Silvero wanted to resort to treachery? Betrayal? So be it! He would not let a shortsighted old man undermine his plans, his vision. He would remove any and all obstacles in his way. He would do whatever it took to out-Silvero Silvero.
From somewhere in the bowels of the Getty, he heard a faint echo:
"Thirty days!"
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