The Genesis Plague

9

The snow was staging an encore as GSC Special Agent Thomas Flaherty turned his ‘95 Chrysler Concorde off Huntington Avenue on to Museum Road. Rounding the corner, the car caught ice and began to skid. Shit! His heart went into overdrive. Gripping the steering wheel, he compensated by tugging it hard to the right. Steer into the turn, he told himself. Finally, the tyres caught salt and asphalt and he eased to a stop. He took a moment to catch his breath. Luckily, there’d been no cars in the oncoming lane.

‘Okay. Get it together.’ He accelerated nice and slow. Damned snow, he thought.

The promo banners hanging along the museum’s neoclassical cut-granite edifice were dusted with snow, but the words ‘Treasures from Mesopotamia, Sept. 21 — January 4’ were easy enough for him to make out.

The last time he’d visited the Boston Museum of Fine Arts had been during an eleventh-grade field trip hosted by the Boston Latin School. Not exactly a bragging point. Nowadays it was tough to find time for culture. At least that was the excuse he was going with.

When he steered to the kerb, his front right tyre thumped its way in and out of a pothole hard enough to make his teeth rattle. He rubbed the dashboard affectionately. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie,’ he told the old war horse. He put the transmission in park, cut the engine.

From the centre console, he grabbed his BlackBerry, punched in the PIN code for his secure e-mail account, and accessed the urgent find-and-deliver order he’d received from Global Security Corporation’s Boston office. Only ten minutes ago, he’d received a terse phone call confirming that the museum was the asset’s current location.

The woman’s profile was a bit lengthy, so he read aloud to himself to drive home the key points: ‘Brooke Thompson. Born and raised, Orlando, Florida. Thirty-three. No children. Single …’ He paused and looked back at the attractive photo, trying to reconcile the contradiction. ‘Hmm.’ Single? He could only assume that she came with an ex-husband, excessive emotional baggage, two cats and a worn copy of Twilight. Otherwise, the facts simply didn’t compute.

The highly agreeable face, nonetheless, was easy enough to remember.

He continued down the bulleted list. ‘PhD in palaeontology, Boston College … professor at same … Middle East antiquities curator, Boston Museum of Fine Arts … award, award, award … blah, blah, blah … lives in the Back Bay on Commonwealth Ave …’ Satisfied, he dropped the BlackBerry into his coat pocket.

Bracing for the cold, he threw open the door on groaning hinges, swung his boots out into the slush, and got out from the car. The chill immediately cut into his bones. One of these days, he might remember to bring along some gloves, maybe a scarf too. If he wasn’t a serial bachelor, maybe he’d have someone at home to remind him of these things.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he set a brisk pace towards the visitors’ entrance.

Inside he headed straight for the admissions desk and discreetly asked the sixty-something female docent with a beehive hairdo where he might find museum staffer, Professor Brooke Thompson.

‘You’re just in time, she’s just gone up to present. Here, take this.’ She handed him a glossy programme. Sensing his confusion, she explained, ‘Her lecture is simply fascinating. Adorable too, wouldn’t you say?’ she stage-whispered.

‘Uh, yes, a real gem.’

‘Just around the corner, in the Remis Auditorium.’ She pointed and made a shooing gesture. ‘Hurry now.’

Flaherty slipped through the auditorium door and a museum employee immediately came over with a finger pressed against his lip in a hushing gesture. Without a word, he waved for Flaherty to follow him and set off along the auditorium’s dimmed rear to the left side aisle. He pointed to an empty end seat six rows down.

Keeping his coat on, Flaherty eased into the seat, surprised that the place was practically filled to capacity. It took some shifting around to get a clear view of the main stage, thanks to the towering guy seated directly in front of him who should have been in the Celtics locker-room at the Fleet Center.

There was a huge viewing screen above the stage that along with the tiered seating made him feel like he’d come to watch an IMAX movie. However, the still image projected on to the screen — some glossy brownish skull with a heavy brow ridge, maybe ape, maybe primitive human — wasn’t exactly blockbuster material.

When Flaherty’s gaze finally settled on the lecturer whose sultry voice buttered the sound system, his eyebrows went up.

‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed to himself.

Roaming freely in front of the stage’s central podium, clicker in her hand, clip-on microphone wired to the lapel of a form-fitting navy pants suit, was Professor Brooke Thompson. What he’d seen of her on the BlackBerry was only a headshot that showed wavy hair shaped to the shoulder, a long graceful neck and a face straight off a magazine cover. The complete picture was far more impressive. She seemed taller than the five-nine indicated in her profile, lithe with a perfect blend of tight curves that suggested a conscientious diet and rigid fitness regimen. Certainly helped explain the predominantly male turnout, he thought, glancing once again at the attendees.

Finally he began to focus on what she was saying. And once again, he was impressed. Brooke Thompson was an engaging speaker. Though Flaherty thought he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about the seemingly arcane topic — listed on the programme as ‘Mesopotamia and the Origins of Written Language’ — she immediately hooked him.