chapter four

Interpol’s Global Complex for Innovation, or GCI, resembled a fortified modern art

museum. Originally built in the teens of the twenty-first century, it had been

expanded and hardened against attack over the years. It now covered several

acres of prime real estate in Singapore’s diplomatic quarter across Napier Road

from the US embassy.

As he approached the entrance, Kenneth Durand nodded to armed guards

watching from beyond transparent aluminum blast shields marked with

Interpol’s sword-and-globe logo. The entrance split into a dozen sealed chutes,

only one of which opened to admit Durand. The chute doors operated on a

randomized algorithm—with each visitor following a separate, illuminated path.

The entire entry system was designed to identify and categorize people into risk

tranches—moving them through without stopping and quickly isolating

suspected threats. This way no one queued up, which itself would have presented

a target to terrorists.

And the GCI was definitely a target.

Organized into financial, cyber, genetic, and counterterrorism divisions,

Interpol’s GCI employed advanced technologies in the fight against

transnational crime—though, contrary to popular perception, Interpol agents

themselves had no police powers (at least outside their home countries).

Likewise, Interpol itself had only two facilities worldwide—this GCI complex

and a headquarters in Lyon, France.

Instead, 190 national police organizations around the world maintained their

own Interpol National Central Bureaus, assigning officers to liaise with

Interpol’s network, receiving and issuing a kaleidoscope of colored Notices—

Red, Orange, Yellow, Blue, Green, Purple, Black—advising other nations on the

activities of global criminals and the increasingly borderless world of crime.

Whether other nations followed up on those Notices depended on local politics

and priorities. But if national police organizations wanted cooperation from

other national police around the world, ignoring Interpol Notices wasn’t the way

to get it. This quid pro quo arrangement had worked with varying levels of

success over the decades.

Member nations occasionally assigned—or seconded—investigators directly

to Interpol headquarters, usually to learn or teach about new types of crime. And

when it came to catching the next generation of high-tech criminals, Interpol was

prepared to recruit from more than just the ranks of police.

Kenneth Durand was fortunate to be one of those recruits. And it couldn’t

have come at a more propitious time for him, personally.

He cleared two more security checkpoints before arriving on the third floor

and passing through another transparent aluminum blast wall emblazoned with

the seal of the Genetic Crime Division—Interpol’s standard logo with the

addition of a twining double helix of DNA around the sword, itself an alarming

mutation to Asclepius’s staff.

Durand entered the busy offices, nodding at a passing lab technician. The

floor plan was sleek, modern—but crowded with makeshift workstations.

Proprietary DNA theft, custom viruses, and baby labs were fast becoming the

world’s most profitable criminal enterprises. That meant the Genetic Crime

Division was growing fast, too.

Durand entered the small, windowless office he shared with Detective

Sergeant Michael Yi Ji-chang. “Morning, Mike.”

“Hey.” Yi stared at an AR screen (or screens) only he could see. Yi was an

athletic, handsome man. He’d been seconded to Interpol from the Korean

National Police Agency in Seoul, which had been in turmoil ever since the

reunification. He was here to share his expertise in embryo clinic cartels—and it

was Yi who’d referred Durand to Interpol.

“Something up?” Durand removed his suit jacket.

“Oh, sorry. No. Just reading a note from my new cousin.”

“New? They found another one?”

“Yeah. Ministry of Health ran his DNA. Confirmed he’s related.”

“Congratulations. You’re getting quite an extended family.”

“Wants to come live with me.”

“Shit.”

“Blew through his reuni check. No marketable job skills. Fan-fuckingtastic.” Yi dismissed the virtual screen that was distracting him. “You look better

than you sounded on the phone.”

Durand hung his suit jacket behind the door. “Haven’t changed my mind,

though.”

“Let’s schedule an argument. Right now we’ve got our eight o’clock.” Yi

“Let’s schedule an argument. Right now we’ve got our eight o’clock.” Yi

got up and grabbed his own suit jacket from the back of his chair, then headed

out through the cubicles.

“Oh, right.” Durand grabbed his coat again and caught up. “The calendar just

said ‘external briefing.’ What’s this about—the Mumbai raid?”

Yi shook his head. “Two hundred and sixty-three embryo mills shut down on

three continents last month, and you think top brass is upset about Mumbai?”

“I’m telling you, it matters.”

• • •

Durand’s division lead, Detective Inspector Claire Belanger, stood at the head of

the briefing room. She was a slim, elegant woman in her early fifties, with a

sweep of gray hair and piercing blue eyes. She wore a tailored pantsuit and no

jewelry save for a platinum wedding band. Durand knew it had been placed there

by her late husband—before the bioweapon attack in Paris, an attack that not

only killed Belanger’s husband but also sterilized thousands of Parisians,

Belanger among them. Calm but intense, originally a biochemist, she had joined

the Police Nationale in France and was later seconded to Interpol—where she

now led the war against genetic crime. Life had delivered her here. Durand could

think of no one more capable.

Belanger spoke English with a slight French accent. “Good morning. I

realize this briefing was called with little notice, but it will cover new

intelligence critical to our mission.”

Belanger studied the faces of the two dozen members in her section.

Satisfied she had their attention, Belanger continued. “We are joined today by

Detective Inspector Aiyana Marcotte, head of Interpol’s Human Trafficking

Task Force. She will bring you up to speed. Inspector Marcotte comes to

Interpol from the US Federal Bureau of Investigation. She is an experienced

field agent who, as you’ll soon learn, has unique expertise in global human

trafficking networks. I expect your full attention to all she has to say—because it

will change what we do.” Belanger nodded to someone in the audience.

“Inspector Marcotte.”

“Thank you, Inspector Belanger.” A statuesque African woman in her early

thirties stood, her skin dark black, hair cropped short. She had a strong jawline

and slender neck. Marcotte wore a dark blue business suit. Interpol identification

hung around her neck on a lanyard, though Durand knew this was primarily for

the convenience of staffers—the GCI’s security systems recognized all people

the convenience of staffers—the GCI’s security systems recognized all people

within its walls.

Belanger took a seat in the first row as Marcotte moved to the head of the

room to stand before Interpol’s official seal. Marcotte gazed out at the expert

agents and analysts.

“In 2039, sixty million people attempted migrations northward and

southward, away from regions stressed by drought, groundwater depletion, rising

seas, corruption, war, or economic despair. By 2043, that number had swelled to

seventy million. This year, the number is expected to increase yet again.

“Trafficking human beings involves more than just transporting migrants

over borders. When people leave behind everything they own and everything

they know—language, culture, family—they become vulnerable to exploitation.

And exploitation is primarily what human trafficking gangs engage in.”

Marcotte gestured and a virtual map of the world’s continents appeared in

midair. Opaque and vibrant, the image was beamed directly into the retinas of

her audience by the room’s LFP—or light field projection—system. It closely

tracked the eye movement of every person in the room, and was capable of

beaming to a full audience.

Marcotte gestured to the map of the world. Moving arrows illustrated paths

of human migration away from equatorial climes.

“You may be familiar with these migration routes. Prostitution, manual labor

—or worse—awaits the unlucky at the end of these journeys. Stripped of their

few possessions, many will have accrued massive ‘debts’ to the traffickers who

smuggle them—debts that must be repaid wherever they arrive.”

Marcotte waved and the map was replaced by a gallery of life-sized and

extraordinarily lifelike 3D scenes of refugees from all around the world—

Caucasians, Africans, Latinos, Arabs, Central and Southeast Asians—men,

women, children. These life-sized, realistic forms brought the full emotional

impact of poverty to the audience in a way mere photos could not. The victims,

frozen in time, had seemingly been brought into the room, new scenes fading in

as old ones faded out. A never-ending procession of hardship.

Marcotte walked among the virtual migrants and stood. She gazed out at her

audience.

“I, too, was trafficked as a child. In Sudan, my mother sold me into slavery

at the age of six—so that my brothers could attend school. I was sold to a

wealthy family, consular officials, who later brought me with them to the United

States as a domestic. And it was in their home in a gated suburb of Los Angeles

that I worked seven days a week and was chained to a bed each night. It was

only when neighbors became suspicious that the police were called and I was

only when neighbors became suspicious that the police were called and I was

freed. The arresting female officer later adopted me. Raised me as her own. And

it is her name that I took.”

She met the eyes of her audience. “Slavery is not an abstraction to me. I have

experienced it. I have firsthand knowledge of the despair it brings, and that it is

not in our past. In fact, there are more slaves in existence now than at any point

in human history. The question is: What are we going to do about it?”

The entire room sat in stunned silence.

“I’ve come to seek the assistance of the Genetic Crime Division. Your group

is one of the few success stories in the fight against high-tech transnational

crime. All of Interpol has much to learn from you.”

She studied the faces in the room. “And today I’m going to show you

evidence that the worlds of human trafficking and genetic crime are

converging.”

A brief susurration spread through her audience.

She motioned and the images of refugees dissolved, soon replaced by a

dozen full-body, hyperrealistic 3D booking scans of heavily tattooed criminals

slowly rotating as if on a vertical rotisserie. Each virtual prisoner held a plaque

displaying their name and booking number. The group was ethnically diverse—

Caucasians, Africans, Asians, Latinos—hard-eyed men, plus a couple of women.

“These are captured leaders of human trafficking gangs that my task force

disrupted in the past year.” She pointed. “Asia; Africa; Russia; Europe; North,

South, and Central America. These gangs all have one thing in common: they’ve

been harvesting genetic material from the refugees they traffic—and selling that

data to a single genediting cartel, a group known as the Huli jing. Does that

name mean anything here in the GCD?”

Durand nodded with others around him. “We’re familiar with the name,

Inspector. They’re a black market, on-demand cloud computing service. Used by

embryo mills for genetic modeling.”

Yi added, “Their ties to human trafficking is news to us. You say they pay

for DNA samples?”

Marcotte nodded. “Digitized samples. The per-head bounty varies by

country. We first learned of it from informants who were being required to

extract DNA samples from refugees—saliva swabs mostly. Petabytes of genetic

information were being sent from four continents to the Huli jing on a daily basis

in exchange for cryptocurrency payments.”

Durand took notes on a virtual surface. “It sounds like they’re building a

global genetic database.”

global genetic database.”

Marcotte nodded. “That’s precisely what the Huli jing is doing, Mr. Durand.

In fact, we have evidence they were involved in the recent compromise of the

Chinese National Genetic Registry—the largest digital storehouse of human

genetic information in the world.”

More murmurs spread through the audience.

Marcotte paced. “The Huli jing is well funded, disciplined, and extremely

low-profile—with a data-gathering operation that gives them globe-spanning

influence over both illicit editing labs and human trafficking rings. So far

they’ve fallen between the cracks because they don’t directly participate in either

activity. But it’s time we realized how pivotal they are to both and put our heads

together to deal with them. So who are the Huli jing?”

Her entire audience was tapping notes into virtual devices now.

“The name Huli jing refers to a mythological nine-tailed fox spirit from

Chinese lore, an entity able to assume any form—able to perpetrate mischief

while remaining undetected.” With a gesture, an inset image of a stylized fox

appeared:

“The fox spirit has long been a popular tattoo throughout Asia and the West.

But don’t look for it among the Huli jing; unlike most gangs they themselves

bear no distinguishing marks. No tattoos or brands. Like the mythological fox

spirit, they prefer to remain hidden. How do we know?”

She waved her hand and the nine-tailed fox image faded away—replaced by

3D morgue scans of a dozen dead men of many different races—their faces in

various stages of decomposition. Nude, the bodies had not one tattoo among

them. “Because until recently these men were members of the Huli jing’s inner

circle—referred to as the Nine Tails—and they bore no gang symbols

whatsoever.”

Yi grunted. “They’re dead.”

“Good eye, Sergeant. Yes, they are dead.”

And then another set of equally dead faces appeared. And then another.

And then another set of equally dead faces appeared. And then another.

“And so are these. And these. This last batch from just a month ago. None of

the Nine Tails live long. Many were already dead before they’d been identified

by our informants. We only discovered their identities later.”

Durand frowned in confusion. “Murdered by rival gangs?”

“No. Poisoned by the leader of the Huli jing—Marcus Demang Wyckes. Our

best guess is that he murders his inner circle on a regular basis.”

Looks of confusion spread throughout the audience.

Yi frowned. “Then who on earth would want to become one of the Nine

Tails?”

“An excellent question.”

Marcotte pointed at the rogues gallery. “These men were all refugees.

Perhaps they admired Wyckes—because, like them, Wyckes grew up in refugee

camps. And yet he rose to become a major arms smuggler to a dozen

insurgencies and terrorist groups. Wyckes gave these men a life of unimagined

luxury and power for a brief time. Let them send significant sums of money to

their extended families back home. And when they were no longer useful, he

eliminated them. Apparently there is no shortage of desperate people willing to

make that deal. Only one man always survives among the leadership of the Huli

jing—and that’s Marcus Wyckes.”

Durand watched the procession of morgue scans continue. Each dead face

both a victim and a willing participant. “I don’t see how men with little

education or training could manage—”

“Neither do we, Mr. Durand. That’s what I’m hoping your group will help us

explain. The Huli jing is a highly technical criminal organization with complex

logistical needs, and yet somehow it continues to operate even though its

leadership is constantly dying off. It’s like no other cartel we’ve seen. There’s no

way to place high-level informants. Or to make arrests. Anyone who knows

anything important soon dies. All except Wyckes.”

Marcotte dismissed the dead men with a wave of her hand. “And as ruthless

as Wyckes is with his own people—he is even more terrible to his enemies . . .”

She gestured, and several gruesome, hyperrealistic crime-scene scans

appeared onstage—as real as if they were in the room. Each depicted victims

dead of some hemorrhagic agent, blood streaming from eyes, nose, mouth. The

victims clearly died screaming. “The preferred weapon of the Huli jing is poison

—specifically custom-designed synbiotoxins that are difficult to detect and

which maximize the victim’s agony.”

The audience reacted with muted disgust.

Molecular diagrams appeared alongside each image. “We suspect these

Molecular diagrams appeared alongside each image. “We suspect these

biotoxins are developed in Huli jing labs—possibly customized to exploit

genetic weaknesses of individual targets, meaning doses can be microscopic.

Government officials, police, journalists are all fair game—anyone who tries to

interfere with the Huli jing’s business, which is developing and selling new

genetic edits.”

The entire room was furiously tapping notes.

“They have, in effect, created a franchise operation—one where they do not

directly operate genetic labs, but provide the logistical, research, and even

marketing support to gangs that do. Huli jing partner labs benefit from access to

the most sophisticated technology. They’ve even branded their select franchisees

with a premium label.” Marcotte waved her hand and a three-sided knot replaced

the crime-scene images:

It rotated, showing the depth of the knot in three-dimensional space.

“Do any of you recognize this symbol?”

Durand, Yi, and most people in the division nodded. “Yes. That’s the logo

for Trefoil Labs.”

Marcotte walked around the image. “Trefoil is the public face of the Huli

jing.”

Durand captured the logo and pasted it into his notes. “That’s a very useful

piece of intelligence, Inspector.”

Marcotte nodded. “Their impressive edit library is expanding because they

use massive photonic computing clusters to comb through oceans of global

genetic data, discovering novel, commercially valuable mutations.”

Durand: “They’re expanding the edits available to parents.”

“Correct—meaning your challenge here at the GCD is going to grow.”

Another murmur swept through the crowd.

“More worrisome, the Huli jing is performing unethical research to confirm

the viability of the edits their computer models predict . . .” With a wave of her

hand, grainy two-dimensional photos appeared, depicting hideously deformed

infants. Horrifying mutations.

The audience reacted with gasps.

“These images were taken by hidden camera. This is what Marcus Wyckes is

capable of. The Huli jing is mapping not just the human genome, but epigenetics

—gene expression—turning genes on and off. And they’re doing it with no

regard for human suffering. They’ve also been paying human traffickers to steal

the eggs of young women unfortunate enough to fall under their control. To

provide raw material for their research.”

Durand noticed smoldering rage in Belanger’s eyes as she looked up at the

images.

“They’re developing new edits and searching for commercially valuable

mutations present in the population at large. And as you know, mutation

laundering can revise the provenance of genetic IP—potentially turning single

mutations into multibillion-dollar commercial products. Providing a strong

economic incentive for governments to turn a blind eye to their activity.”

Durand felt a burden lift from him as he exchanged looks with Yi. The

sergeant had been right after all—their work was indeed critically important.

More important than he’d ever guessed. He felt a renewed sense of purpose.

Marcotte swept the images all away. “One individual lies at the center of all

of this: Marcus Demang Wyckes. He is the single unchanging fact of the Huli

jing—its founder and its reclusive leader. If we can locate him, I think we can

break their organization—and remove its support of both illicit baby labs and

human trafficking cartels.”

Marcotte studied the faces in the room. “Here is the last known photograph

of Marcus Wyckes . . .” Marcotte waved her hand and a two-dimensional, oldtime police booking photo appeared. It showed a dark-haired, burly Eurasian

teenager with tan skin. Still young, Wyckes was nonetheless physically

intimidating, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and menacing eyes. “This is

from a 2029 arrest in Vietnam on weapon smuggling charges.”

Yi piped in, “That picture is fifteen years old.”

“Which is why DNA samples taken from Vietnamese and Australian

authorities were so useful. We were able to extract his complete genetic

sequence and model his physical appearance at his current age of thirty-eight.

We’ve predicted his height within five centimeters precision, his BMI within

eight kilograms of precision, his eye color, skin color, and his facial structure.”

She looked out at her audience. “This is Marcus Wyckes now.”

A virtual, photographically real computer model of Marcus Wyckes

appeared bald-headed and nude, rotating before them, hands held at his side—a

modesty filter blurring out his genitals. His facial expression neutral. One could

clearly see the Malay-Australian ethnic mix with his tan skin. He looked

physically powerful. Average height, but muscular, with a thick neck and slim

waist even in his late thirties. Wyckes’s physical stats appeared in text alongside

—height, weight, age, eye color, and more.

—height, weight, age, eye color, and more.

“Yesterday my group issued a Red Notice for Wyckes’s capture in every

Interpol member country. I’m hoping I can count on your assistance in that

effort.”

A strong chorus of assent spread throughout the room.

Belanger stood. “Inspector, I speak for everyone here when I say we will do

all within our power to assist you.”

“Thank you, Inspector Belanger.” She turned to the other agents and

analysts. “I thank you for your time.”

Belanger turned to her division staff. “You will find the dossier for Marcus

Wyckes, the Huli jing, and all relevant intelligence relating to their activities on

the GCD Commons. Within the next forty-eight hours I expect to see action

plans from group leaders on how to pursue the Huli jing—with an eye in

particular on locating Marcus Wyckes. That is all.”

As the briefing broke up, Marcotte approached Durand and Yi, extending her

hand to Durand. “Mr. Durand.”

Surprised, Durand met her eyes and shook firmly. “Great detective work,

Inspector Marcotte. I hope you know you can count on us.”

Marcotte nodded. “I have it on good authority that your data mining is the

root of the GCD’s success against embryo labs.”

Durand cast a glance at Belanger, who just now joined them.

Belanger nodded the okay to Durand.

He turned back to Marcotte. “I prefer the term geospatial analysis.”

“Call it what you like, it means culling through oceans of data—not unlike

the Huli jing.”

“I think it’s very different. My work doesn’t involve genetic data at all. Just

data on human activity.”

“Where do you get it?”

“We purchase it just like any marketing company—but instead of targeting

customers, we’re looking for criminal enterprises.”

Marcotte studied Durand for a moment. “I was told that early in your career

you helped locate serial killers by modeling honey bees.”

Durand was surprised she knew of his master’s thesis. Apparently Marcotte

had done her homework. “I just found a useful behavior pattern shared by both.”

“And what behavior do honey bees and serial killers have in common?”

“Bee brains are fairly simple, so it’s easier to model how bees are recruited

to flowers than it is to understand how serial killers are drawn toward victims.

However, both follow certain elemental behaviors. Bees, for example, maintain a

buffer zone around their hive—a zone where they do not forage—in order to

avoid bringing unwanted attention to the location of their home. Likewise, the

data indicates most serial killers kill in the region of their home, but not in the

immediate vicinity of it, where they’re more likely to run into someone who

recognizes them. Therefore, mapping the geographic spread of a killer’s victims

helps to further pinpoint the home base of a killer—narrowing the search area

with every murder. The mathematical model closely correlates with bee-foraging

algorithms.”

“Interesting. Your CV says you spent eight years with US Naval Intelligence

—hunting down gene-drive bioweapons. Why’d you leave?”

Durand felt an emotional scar itch somewhere deep. “I can’t discuss that.”

Yi interjected, “Ken did his share, Inspector.”

Marcotte relented. “Of course. In any event, it’s Interpol’s gain. Mr. Durand,

your group has achieved more against the Huli jing in the past six months than

the rest of Interpol combined. You’ve seriously hampered their lab network.”

Durand nodded. “Good.”

“Your success is one reason I’ve come. I’d like you to focus your datamining skills on the effort to locate Marcus Wyckes.”

Durand exchanged looks with Yi, then Belanger. Then he looked back to

Marcotte. “We find criminal activity, not individuals.”

“My task force wants to stop human trafficking, and you want to stop

genetic crime. The Huli jing are now at the center of both. And Marcus Wyckes

is its driving force. Without him, we’re confident his group will splinter.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“Without question we’ll assist you any way we can, Inspector. But

regardless of what you’ve heard, geospatial analysis is not suited to locating

specific individuals. I learned that the hard way. What it is useful for is

identifying a pattern consistent with certain activities.”

“Wyckes must have a pattern.”

“Which we can’t possibly know.” Durand felt old fears awakening.

“Individuals are far too variable. Too specific. You will get false positives.

Innocent people will die.”

Yi touched Durand’s shoulder. “Ken.”

Durand took a moment. “My algorithms have located hundreds of illegal

CRISPR labs in dozens of countries—but we weren’t looking for individuals.

We were looking for a pattern of illicit commercial activity—a specific location

that attracted would-be or existing parents who matched a consistent profile.

Parents who had recently deviated from their established behavior patterns.

Parents who had recently deviated from their established behavior patterns.

Spent money on fertility treatments. Changed their usual travel and social

patterns—especially after meeting with friends who’d recently done the same.

We’ve issued Orange Notices to police agencies based on that analysis, but not

Red Notices calling for individual arrests. That lies beyond the data.”

“There must be some way to narrow down the search area for Wyckes or for

his center of operations, like you did with your serial killer algorithms.”

Durand was already shaking his head. “Again, organizations don’t behave

like individuals, and in any event, I doubt that Wyckes is taking part directly in

crimes. Those would most likely be these Nine Tails you showed us.”

“Then the activities of the Huli jing create a pattern.”

“Yes, and if the Huli jing are selling new edits to illicit genetic editing labs

on several continents, then our efforts will impact their business. However,

locating Marcus Wyckes cannot be part of our mission—not directly.” Durand

looked up to realize he was raising his voice. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Perhaps in

one of these lab raids we’ll get lucky, and intel on Wyckes’s whereabouts will be

found.”

Yi added, “You must understand, Inspector, Ken’s analysis has been forced

to fit a pressing need before. Didn’t turn out so well.”

Marcotte relented. “I understand.”

Belanger stepped in. “Inspector Marcotte, what you’ve shown us today

makes the Huli jing our most pressing priority.”

Marcotte nodded. “Sorry if I pressed you, Mr. Durand. I’d heard that you

have a knack for locating things hiding in the data. But I also respect that you

know the limits of your tools.” She reached into her coat pocket. “If by chance

anything does occur to you—a moment of inspiration perhaps—don’t hesitate to

contact me directly.” She handed Durand an actual physical business card.

Puzzled, Durand took it and examined the inscrutable email address on it.

“I gather you don’t get handed a lot of business cards.”

He laughed. “No. It’s kind of quaint. So you still use email?”

“It’s helpful for informants. Some of the people who need to reach me are

very poor and don’t trust social media platforms.”

Durand blinked at the card, and his LFP glasses scraped the data into his

contacts.

Before she turned to go, Marcotte touched Durand’s elbow. “If you don’t

mind my asking, how did a guy who can’t locate individual criminals wind up

finding so many of them?”

Durand thought for a moment. “No offense, but I think the mistake of

traditional law enforcement technique is its focus on individuals. Here, we try to

limit the damage and spread of criminal activity—and that’s what drives arrests

at the local level. Individual criminals are in some ways beneath our notice here.

What we defeat are rising trends. That’s why guys like Wyckes never see us

coming—because, in many ways, not even we realize we’re looking for them.”

Marcotte stared. “I see. Well, I look forward to working with you in the

future, Mr. Durand.”

“Likewise, Inspector.”