The Cloning Read online

  The

  Cloning

  Wisner Washam

  Copyright © 2011 Wisner Washam

  All rights reserved.

  Cover acrylic painting by Judith Barcroft

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER I

  The untimely and sudden deaths of two successive Popes had presented the Roman Catholic Church with unprecedented and difficult adjustments. However, although he had been crowned Pontiff only six months earlier, the new Pope, Gregory XVII, seemed totally at ease in his new role amidst the splendor of Saint Peter’s. Clad in a resplendent white and golden alb, much as his predecessors had worn for hundreds of years, he observed reverently as the deacons rustled about the altar, quietly preparing the elements of the Mass “The Lord be with you,” he then intoned, and the response of thousands echoed throughout the Basilica, “And also with you.”

  The ancient ceremony continued as the Sanctus was sung. A deep hush fell over the congregation as the Pope closed his eyes and uttered the prayer to transubstantiate the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. Once again, one of the great miracles of Christianity was about to occur.

  “Therefore we proclaim the mystery of faith,” he said.

  “Christ has died.

  Christ has risen.

  Christ will come again.”

  *

  Her back arched sharply, pressing her abdomen and breasts hard against Marc, then her pelvis shot upward in a long, powerful push that nearly threw him from the bed. But he managed to stay in place, holding on like a bronco rider as the wild animal under him arched her back again.

  “Oh. Oh! Oh!” she cried. “Please don’t stop, Marc. Don’t stop!”

  He managed a quick glance at her bedside clock. Shit! I’m already an hour late for work, and it’s a fifteen-minute drive to Cambridge. But what the hell? It doesn’t come along this good very often. His thrusts banged the headboard against the wall with such force that the small crucifix above tumbled silently onto a pillow near Marc, then slid to the floor into a pile of dust balls. But he failed to see it, and even if he had, he’d probably not have inferred anything portentous.

  *

  “You know him?” the Cardinal gasped, dropping the morning edition of the Boston Globe onto his massive, mahogany desk.

  “Yes. Marc and I were undergraduates together at Fordham,” Father Reilly replied nervously, pushing a shock of red hair back from his forehead. And even as he said the words, the young priest realized that he’d probably made a huge mistake, identifying himself with Marc in any way.

  “Did he show signs of genius even then?” the prelate pressed, topping off his morning coffee with a shot of Irish whiskey from an ornate crystal decanter.

  “Well no, not exactly,” Father Reilly hedged. “To tell you the truth, at that age we were all very deeply involved in . . . well, matters of the flesh. In fact, he was probably a little more engrossed with worldly pleasures than most.”

  “Obviously he’s managed to re-structure his life during the intervening years. Don’t you agree?”

  “I couldn’t honestly say, Your Eminence. Marc and I sort of lost track of each other after I entered the priesthood. We exchanged Christmas cards for a while, but . . . I’ve heard nothing from him since I came to Boston.”

  “But the fact that he’s already a full professor at Harvard—not to mention the honor he’s received today—must indicate that he’s a changed man. It’s unlikely that a person so young could achieve such heights without truly focusing his energies.”

  Finishing his coffee, Cardinal Dugan picked up the Globe again and looked carefully at Marc’s photo on the front page. The dark eyes and hair bespoke his Italian heritage, and he had a certain boyish quality that made him seem younger than his thirty-three years. “He has charisma. Unmistakable charisma. I believe he’s the man I’ve been seeking.”

  Father Reilly forced a thoughtful frown as if he were giving this statement deep consideration, but in fact he wished he’d not mentioned having known Marc Solovino.

  *

  Near the high altar of Saint Peter's, in a special section reserved for VIPs a man of about fifty, dressed in the uniform of a military officer, sat next to a young woman wearing a black mantilla and a diamond cross at her modest neckline. His uniform was not immediately recognizable as that of any major nation, but his chest was covered with an impressive array of ribbons and medals. Although silver was beginning to creep in at his temples, his impeccably trimmed mustache was still black, and his face was stern, with a severe expression implying that he dealt regularly with weighty matters. As the Pontiff began administering the sacraments, the man watched intently, obviously impressed by the solemnity of the occasion and his participation in it.

  His daughter—one might easily infer that relationship because of her youth and demeanor—had glossy brunette hair, which fell casually over her shoulders under the black lace, framing a slightly pouting face. Her skin had a rosy glow, suggesting that she spent a good deal of time out of doors, and her brown eyes sparkled under long, dark lashes. She wasn’t precisely beautiful but was pretty by any standard.

  The elements were now being distributed, and the officer leaned toward the young woman to whisper something in her ear. But she made no response other than a slight rhythmic move of her knees. Her eyes were focused somewhere above the altar as if she might be in a sort of religious trance, or was perhaps transported by the architectural magnificence of the Basilica. However, if one were to look closely, one would see that underneath the mantilla there was a small earphone in each ear from which a delicate wire lead down to her purse. And protruding slightly from the purse was an iPod nano whose tiny screen displayed Lady Gaga's latest album.

  *

  Cardinal Dugan stood facing the huge hand-carved crucifix that hung behind his throne-like chair. His face and balding head were flushed, either from his coffee or from the thoughts of the acclaim his plan would bring to the under-recognized U.S. branch of the Roman Catholic Church. The whole world would know his name, Dugan was certain, and there was no reckoning how this could raise his status in the Church hierarchy. Meanwhile, Father Reilly waited until the telephone had rung ten times, then tried to conceal his relief as he hung up. “No answer.”

  Cardinal Dugan turned to him. “Then try him at Harvard.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll probably be swamped with calls this morning,” the priest questioned, “after all the attention he’s getting?”

  “I don’t give a damn whether he’s swamped or not, Father. He has the Lord’s work to do, and nothing must stand in our way!”

  Father Reilly dutifully dialed.

  *

  “Professor Solovino’s office,” Nora said crisply into the receiver.

  “This is Father Stephen Reilly. I’m an old friend of Marc’s. Is he available by any chance?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. He’s not . . . at the moment,” Nora replied, managing to keep the tone of her voice reasonably calm even though she was feeling distinctly harried from the barrage of phone calls she’d fielded so far this morning. I’m too old for all this hassle, she thought.

  “I’m calling on behalf of Cardinal Dugan. Do you know where I might reach Ma
rc? I’ve already tried his apartment. “

  Casting a very annoyed look toward the doorway of Marc’s empty office, Nora managed to control her pique. “Believe me, if I knew where he was, I’d be more than happy to tell you.”

  “Oh,” Stephen muttered, giving another half-hearted smile to the Cardinal to cover his mounting concern that his friend might be up to his old tricks. “Well, would you ask him to call the Cardinal’s office as soon as possible? This is quite important.”

  “Of course,” Nora agreed, “if you’ll just leave the number.” She jotted it down on a message slip, then added it to a growing stack of similar slips. After hanging up, she gave a censuring—though tolerant—smirk toward Marc’s vacant chair.

  “You little bastard.”

  *

  Jane’s long auburn hair was still wet from their shower.

  “Here’s a cup of coffee,” she offered.

  “Thanks,” Marc replied as he pulled on his socks, then looked under the bed for his shoes. In addition to his shoes he also found his under shorts, but since he was already wearing his trousers, he simply stuffed the shorts into his pocket. Once again, he failed to note the crucifix.

  “You coming back soon?” Jane queried.

  “I’ll try as hard as I can.”

  “Oooh!” she grinned. “I sure hope so. Tonight?”

  God no, Marc thought to himself. My dick’s so sore, it’ll be a week before I can get it up again. He quickly slipped into his shoes.

  “I’m not sure about tonight,” he temporized.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I can’t make you any promises,” he stalled as he took another sip of the coffee, then grabbed his tweed jacket off the floor.

  “Danny shouldn’t have given you my number,” Jane pouted.

  “He was doing us both a favor. I had a good time. Didn’t you have a good time?”

  “Sure, but there ought to be more to it than just that.”

  “We hardly know each other,” Marc pointed out, “and you’re acting like we’re engaged or something.”

  “I just may be busy the next time you call,” she threatened.

  “That’s your prerogative. I’ve gotta go,” Marc informed her, then gave her a hurried peck on the cheek, and left before she could continue her harangue.

  “You horny bastard,” she hurled after his departing figure.

  *

  Cheeks flushed with anticipation, Cynthia Jordan strode into Nora’s office, expecting to find an exultant Marc. Even though she’d dressed hurriedly after hearing the news, Cynthia still managed to look as if she’d stepped out of Woman’s Wear Daily; not a hair out of place.

  “I just heard the report on television. Isn’t it fantastic . . .?” she stopped upon seeing Marc’s office empty and the agitated Nora at her own desk dealing with yet another phone call.

  “I quite understand that you’d like his first interview,” Nora informed the caller, running harried fingers through her graying hair, “but there are others who’ve called before you. Yes, I realize that your demographics are very high. Yes, I’ll tell him as soon as he arrives.” She returned the receiver to its cradle, trying to control her mounting annoyance. “New Yorkers!”

  “He’s not here?” Cynthia asked.

  “Not unless he’s hiding under his desk,” Nora shot back, adding the latest phone number to the ever-growing stack of message slips. Cynthia’s heart sank. This wasn’t the first time she suspected Marc of staying overnight with someone else, but it had never been quite so blatantly clear.

  “Where is he?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “You haven’t heard from him all morning?”

  Nora shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “The bastard,” Cynthia muttered to herself.

  *

  The ushers indicated that it was time for the general’s row of worshipers to approach the railing to receive the Eucharist. General Madeira rose promptly from his chair, but his daughter, Maria, still in her own little world, made no move. From his standing perspective, the general was mortified to glimpse the nano with its tiny glowing screen. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned down, unplugged the earphones, removed the miniscule machine from her purse, and quietly placed it on the floor. Then without calling attention to himself, he stepped forward, and with one crunch the heel of his boot made quick work of the offending device. Before Maria could react, her father took her arm and with a look of supreme piety led her toward the high altar.

  *

  Marc breathed the crisp November air deeply as he rattled along the Mass Turnpike in his VW Rabbit, a twenty-year-old heap with more than a hundred and ninety thousand miles on the speedometer. It had been his father’s car, and when the old man died, Marc inherited it. In the last decade he’d driven it coast to coast three times, to Florida once, on dozens of ski trips to Vermont, and had never had it washed. But he’d had a hell of lot of fun in it over the years. Still, he wasn’t such a sentimentalist that he wouldn’t gladly dump it for a new one if he had money to spare, but professors don’t make all that much, even at Harvard. Especially young professors. He hoped that the old Rabbit was good for another fifty thousand miles at least.

  He flipped on the radio, twisted the knob until he came across something with a beat. The music blared. It was Lady Gaga’s latest.

  Damn Jane! He mused. What’s wrong with women anyway? Why can’t they just enjoy a good fuck and leave it at that? But no . . . they all want to get their claws into you, get you to make a commitment. Well, to hell with that. No commitments for me . . . nothing longer than a weekend.

  “Don’t forget the big rally tonight on the Boston Common,” the announcer intoned. “It’s the big fund raiser for . . .”

  Marc grabbed the knob, gave it a quick twist to another station. “It was announced this morning that a member of the Harvard faculty, an expert in the field of molecular genetics, has won the coveted National Science Award. Three hundred thousand dollars is the prize for research performed by Doctor Marc Solovino.”

  “Holy shit!” Marc shouted, throwing his arms up in exultation. The Rabbit swerved, barely missing a car in the adjacent lane. “I won it! Goddamn! I won!”

  *

  Maria and General Madeira emerged from the huge doors of Saint Peter’s, arm in arm, squinting for a few moments in the bright Roman sunlight. But as soon as they were on the portico, Maria jerked her arm away and started down the stairs alone. Her father quickly caught up with her.

  “How dare you listen to that music in the Basilica? During the Mass! That is sacrilege. What is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you,” she snapped back, “destroying my nano? Now you’ll have to buy me another one.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “If you want me to go to the audience with the Pope tomorrow, you will.”

  The General was momentarily stymied because he dared not risk making a scene with his recalcitrant daughter on the stairway of Saint Peter’s. “We’ll talk about it later,” he replied. Having lost his advantage by the slight delay, he assumed his most military posture, took Maria by the arm once again, and continued with a formal gait down the stairway into the massive courtyard.

  *

  By the time he arrived on campus, Marc’s colleagues and friends had gathered for an impromptu celebration, everyone from secretaries to lab assistants. Corks popped and champagne flowed into plastic cups. Cynthia had stayed and was passing cookies from a paper plate. Marc hoped that no one questioned the awkward bulge in his pocket from the under shorts. Professor Lawrence Swanson, the senior member and chairman of Marc’s department, stood on a chair and called for everyone’s attention.

  “Let’s raise our glasses to the youngest winner ever of the National Science Award . . . a member of the faculty who has brought a very special honor not only to the University but most particularly to our department. Marc’s accomplishment is the result of not only a brilliant mind but
also years of devoted work—long hours in his lab, late nights at his desk, and holiday weekends spent in the library. It’s highly gratifying to see such dedication pay off so handsomely. Here’s to our own Marc Solovino, a man of boundless energy. We’re very proud of you, Marc.”

  Cups were raised with shouts of, “Here, here!” and “Speech!”

  “Unaccustomed as I am . . .” Marc began, eliciting a barrage of groans and catcalls. “If I’d known I’d get a party like this, I’d have won sooner. No, seriously . . . thank you very much. You know I couldn’t have done it without the support you’ve all given me. But don’t try hitting me up for a loan.”

  “What are you going to do with all that money, Marc?” Professor Swanson asked. “Buy a little house and settle down?”

  “Are you kidding?” Marc laughed. “I’m going to buy a little Ferrari . . . and do some traveling. No settling down for me, thanks.” In his euphoria, he failed to notice Cynthia’s jaw harden.

  “Good luck, whatever you do,” Swanson returned, and the group lifted their cups to that wish.

  A few minutes later, Nora managed to get Marc aside for a moment. “Where the devil have you been?”

  Marc dropped his head in mock contrition and gave his cocker spaniel look that was guaranteed to defuse her. “I got waylaid.”

  “I’ll just bet you did,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have come to work this morning if I’d known all this was going to happen.”

  “But aren’t you happy for me?”

  “Of course I am. You deserve it. But this place has been a madhouse, and there’s only so much I can handle alone. I’m not as young as I once was, you know.”

  “You look as frisky as a newborn colt to me,” he teased, then gave her a playful hug. “You know, I couldn’t get along without you, Nora.”