58

HAYSTACKS

The broker didn’t understand; she thought the Canadian wanted to renegotiate the terms and was trying to explain the absolute impossibility of such a thing. “I am so sorry, Mr. Butler, I thought I made it clear. The price you paid was for a year in advance and as you have already signed the contrat and taken possession... I don’t understand—”

Jordan interrupted with a soft smile, “No, Claire, it’s all right. I’m not trying to back out of the deal. It’s fine. I am asking if you will find a tenant for me. A sublet. You understand? My work situation has changed and I will no longer be staying in Rennes. However, there are—” he paused and struggled to find the words “—certain tax implications and residence requirements... You understand, I am sure. So I wish to sublet the house. I am willing to rent it for well below what I paid if you can find a tenant who can offer cash. In advance.”

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, yes, this is all flirting with the boundaries of strict legality but we are all adults here, people of the world who know how life works. And, of course, as in all such things, there would be financial rewards for facilitating such an arrangement. Best not to speak too directly lest one be obliged as a result to lie to the authorities at some future date... Claire seemed to grasp immediately all the subtext his arched brows meant to convey and instantly brightened, regaining her customary brisk, professional demeanor. And he was certainly not unattractive in a somewhat serious, unfashionable way. And he clearly had money; his bank approval had come through instantly.

She glanced at her watch. “Why don’t you let me see what I can do tomorrow and I can come by, say, around six and let you know how it looks?”

He pressed her hand warmly as he got to his feet. “Thank you, Claire. I knew I was right to call you. Tomorrow, then.”

* * *

Jordan checked his Gmail account.

Good. He typed a quick reply.

Sent.

* * *

“I know how it sounds,” she said. “I’m sure you think I’ve lost it, rampant denial or something, but humor me for a minute.” Simon had a pained expression.

“Listen, you know him. Can you really imagine him inserting a vector permanently into his own DNA with the start codon misplaced?”

Simon just looked at her with an expression Stephanie took as pity for the crazy lady.

“All right,” she said, exasperated, “let’s just say, for the sake of argument, I’m right. If you were Jordan and were trying to send me a message, how would you do it? You’d wave a flag you know I’d recognize and be able to read. But then what? Come on, Si! Where do we look? He wants us to find it but no one else. Something in the procedure... I don’t know. Obviously he doesn’t expect us to randomly sift through millions of bases. Damn it, Si, help me. I’m not fucking crazy. He’s alive. I know it. And he needs help. Help me!” Tears ran down her cheeks but she ignored them, staring fixedly across her kitchen table at the struggling Perry.

He searched her face, for what? Madness, he supposed. She looked rational, but then crazy people usually did. He took a deep breath, unable to withstand the force of Stephanie’s will. “Okay, listen. I’ll do whatever you want but promise me you’ll stop this and let him go when there’s nothing there and all this turns out to be an artifact of a decade-old experiment in vector uptake. I need you to promise me. Otherwise, I’ll be guilt-racked forever for bringing anything up in the first place.”

“I promise, Simon.” She smiled and took his hand between hers. “I knew I could count on you.”

“A better friend would have nothing to do with this.”

“Not true. I couldn’t ask anyone else. I need you, Si, and you’re coming through like you always do.”

“What does Alex think?”

She paused. “I haven’t said anything to anyone else yet. I think we should leave it between us for now, don’t you? You don’t want everyone thinking we’re nuts.”

He nodded.

She plowed ahead. “Come on, it’s a puzzle. You love a good puzzle. Imagine you want to hide something in plain sight for someone who knew to look. How do you do it?”

He sighed, knowing when he was beaten. “I’d use a marker.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, in your crazy scenario I would use the bit we found—the ATG, GTG, CTG sequence—to flag any other sequence I wanted to be found.”

“And is there a way to search for that string in the sequence?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’d make a probe, an oligo of the complementary sequence with a radioactive marker. The probe would stick to the sample DNA wherever that exact sequence occurs.”

Her eyes bored in on his. “How hard is that?”

“Not hard, we do it all the time.”

Her eyes asked the question.

“Slow down,” he said, “our DNA is around three billion bases long. A sequence that short is going to turn up all over the place. Even assuming there’s anything to your theory and we’re right about the marker, it’s still a needle in a haystack, a haystack full of other needles. There’s no way.”

“But you’ll try,” she said. “Thank you.”

“No expectations.”

“You’ll see.”