Here was the first draft of the chapter entitled “August 2021 – January 2022” that was later rewritten from scratch. If you’ve read the novel, you’ll see the problems. (I did not double-check my French, either, so…)
The pub was dark and cold. It reeked of body odor, alcohol, and urine. I had never been in this part of Paris, and I didn’t like it. I had taken the Metro all the way past the Grande Arche, finally disembarking at the Conflans Fin d’Oise stop. Five cross streets later, I had arrived at this dingy hell-hole.
“You are lost in your head again, monsieur.”
I looked up at the man across from me. He was more disgusting than the pub. He fit in perfectly. But Tasta research had said his connections were the best for this type of work. I took a sip of my whisky.
“Yes.” I wasn’t used to this. It was not my realm, and I didn’t approve. But I was learning. Break some eggs, as they say. “You understand what I am asking of you?”
The man took a large gulp of the cheap brandy I had ordered for him. At his request—I would never have ordered such swill. He leaned over the side of the chair, held one nostril closed with a finger, and blew his nose on the floor.. He smiled at me. His yellowed, crooked teeth peered out like a lighthouse in a nasty storm.
“Mais oui, mon ami—my people are the best. Better than MI6, better than CIA. Better because we are not traditional. Beyond the box as the Americans say. Much best to avoid the merde of regulations, ça va?”
I winced. So inelegant. “Yes. But this is not an illegal operation. Moving around the edges of law enforcement is fine. Not being bound by their codes or directives is excellent.”
He laughed. “Putain, oui, mon ami!” He leaned in, as if he understood perfectly and we were co-conspirators. We were not. He was a tool I needed.
He took a last gulp, belched, and smiled again. “We love to say va te faire foutre to the officials, eh bien? They are merde…”
I cut off his steam of profanity. “Yes, yes.” I was no prude, but the language one chose mattered, and gratuitous swearing betrayed a lack of imagination and culture, not to mention context—he did not know me. Still, those traits were not indicative of the skills he had. “When can I interview him?”
He sat back, frowning. “Qua?”
I involuntarily rolled my eyes. “Your boss. I need to talk to him.”
He laughed. “You do not think I am boss?”
I did not laugh. “I know you’re not.”
He nodded, eyes glinting. “Tu es un salaud intelligent.”
“Yes. I am.”
He laughed again, a belly laugh that made the booth we were sitting in shake.
“Tres bien, mon ami,. Give me the number for your handy. I will have him call you.”
In the near future, when biotechnology is stretching the limits of ethics and legality, a man, a woman, and a young child are caught up in a heavily funded project based on the work of a brilliant geneticist. But bio-research firms, Big Pharm, governments, and black marketeers see a way to become wealthy and powerful. Kidnappings, payoffs, political intrigue, and murder follow the test subjects, who must decide what to do with the data and the lives that have been destroyed—and find a way to save the child.
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