The Genesis Key Read Online Free PDF Page A

car. He never called her “Kathleen”—a sign of respect and a carryover from his twenty years in the Marines.
    â€œHmmm?”
    â€œI meant to ask you earlier, but do you have plans for Easter Sunday? Ana and I would love to have you join us for dinner.”
    â€œOh, thank you, Carlos, that’s very kind.” Kathleen genuinely appreciated the offer, though it made her feel vaguely sad. Carlos knew she had no family except for her elderly grandfather, so he always made a point of inviting her to spend holidays with his family. A sweet gesture but totally unnecessary. “I’ve already made plans,” she lied. “Thank you, though.”
    â€œWell, if you change your mind, just let me know.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œGood night, Dr. Sainsbury.”
    A cross the street from Azteca, a black Lincoln Navigator was parked lengthwise across three parking spaces in a Burger King parking lot. Its sole occupant—Semion Zafer—sat motionless in the driver’s seat, staring out the side window at Azteca’s front door. The Navigator’s dark tinted windows made him practically invisible from the street.
    Zafer was tall and gaunt, with oily black hair and a pale, unshaven face. His dark eyes were deeply recessed above protruding cheekbones, giving his face an angular, skeletal appearance. His lips were thin and tight, expressionless.
    Through the telephoto lens of his Hasselblad H2D–39 camera, he spotted Dr. Kathleen Sainsbury—his target—exiting Azteca with three other people. “Well hello,” he croaked in a heavy Israeli accent, “aren’t you a pretty one?” The corners of his mouth curled up slowly as he increased the zoom and surveyed Kathleen’s slender body from head to toe. She wore tight jeans and a fashionable silk blouse that accented her figure tastefully.
    Zafer quickly zoomed in on each member of the QLS foursome, snapping several face shots of Kathleen, Julie, Jeremy, and Carlos in a matter of seconds. He then followed Kathleen and Carlos with his lens as they walked to Kathleen’s car, snapping several shots along the way.
    Three minutes later, as Kathleen pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto Route 355, Zafer snapped one last shot of her silver Subaru Outback, being sure to capture the license-plate number.
    His work today was done.

Chapter Two
    Washington,
D.C.
    L uce
Venfeld leaned back in his plush leather chair and flipped open the business
section of the Washington Post . He was a lean,
serious man in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a square,
clean-shaven face. His appearance was refined in every respect, save for an
ugly, purplish scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek, betraying a life
that had once been far less luxurious.
    Venfeld’s K-Street office was spacious and
beautifully appointed with expensive leather and mahogany furniture, an
intricate Turkish rug, and several tasteful oil paintings on the wood-paneled
walls. In a corner by the door, partially obscured by a Kentia palm, a half
dozen framed photographs showed Venfeld posing with some of the most notorious
characters of the past three decades. In one, he stood next to Manuel Noriega.
The Panamanian dictator was smiling broadly, his arm draped casually over
Venfeld’s shoulder. In another, Venfeld was shaking hands with a handsome man
with deeply tanned skin and white hair, dressed entirely in white. They stood
before a palatial hacienda somewhere on the Mexican coast. The photograph was
inscribed in blue ink: “Many thanks. —Guillermo.”
    Venfeld was a lawyer by education but had never
actually practiced law. Instead, upon graduating from Georgetown Law School some
twenty-five years earlier, he’d gone straight into the CIA, where he worked his
way up from analyst to field agent. During his last ten years at the agency,
he’d successfully infiltrated the business hierarchy of some of