“Well, then, Dr. Scott. You are a pathetic, selfish bastard, aren’t you? It ought to bother you. You ought to be asking questions. Do you think anyone is interested in saving the world with this technology?”

“What is it that you want?”

“I want my life back,” he said. “What’s left of it. I want my son. And I want your word that Brent Higgins will not be harmed in any way. He walks. Oh, and while you’re at it, I’ll take my money, too—the whole ten million.”

“Your money? You’ve broken the contract, Mr. Adams. We don’t owe you anything.”

“Yeah? Take me to court.”

Scott sat down again in his leather chair and drummed his fingers on the desk as though waiting for something.

“So, you expect to just walk back into your life? And what would you have us do with your clone, Mr. Adams?” he asked. “Do you expect that we’ll simply destroy it?”

“That isn’t my problem,” he said coolly. “Do whatever it was you planned to do with him before. I’m just pushing up your deadline. And speaking of deadlines, tick-tock, Dr. Scott.”

“I need to make some phone calls,” he said. “Wait here.”

Scott opened a hardly visible paneled door in the wall behind his desk and walked into an ancillary room, closing it firmly behind him. He was gone nearly ten minutes, during which Jeremiah checked his watch at about ten-second intervals. He could hear nothing behind the wall, and by the time Scott came back out there was less than fifteen minutes left before Brent would mail the package to the New York Times.

“Well, Dr. Scott?” he asked. “What’s it going to be? Do I make that phone call or do you start packing for federal prison?”

“My partners have suggested a compromise.”

“No compromise,” he said firmly. “I want all of my demands met. I want my son. You have just over ten minutes.”

“You’ll have your son—and your money, Mr. Adams. But we would like the opportunity to salvage at least part of this experiment. Surely you can appreciate that. There is too much at stake. We need to continue it in some capacity.”

“You mean you need to continue it. What’s your idea?”

“You can have your son. We’ll get him out for you. But we’d like the chance to clone your son and place that clone with your own. That way we would at least be able to continue our monitoring, and perhaps even gain additional insight. Keep the funding coming in. Everybody wins.”

“There is no fucking way you are cloning my son! Are you out of your mind? No.”

“Hear me out,” Scott said quickly, “just hear me out.” There was a distinct hint of desperation in his voice. “We would get your son and establish new identities for both of you. There are high-level officials from the CIA and FBI who have a stake in this, Mr. Adams. It could be easily arranged. Totally fresh start—anywhere you wanted—with enough money to do whatever you like for the rest of your life. All we ask in return is the chance to see this thing through to some conclusion. And Higgins—he’ll walk away with a $1 million bonus in hand. You have my word on that.”