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the gene and that would mean a death sentence from Huntington’s.”
    “Umm, yes,” Barry Sindler said, nodding. “That could render her unfit to be the primary caregiver to the children.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I’m surprised she hasn’t been tested already.”
    “She doesn’t want to know,” Diehl said. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance she may have the gene. If she does, she’ll eventually develop the disease and die writhing in dementia. But she’s twenty-eight. The disease might not appear for another twenty years. So if she knew about it now…it could ruin the rest of her life.”
    “But it could also relieve her, if she didn’t have the gene.”
    “Too big a risk. She won’t test.”
    “Any other tests you can think of?”
    “Hell yes,” Diehl said. “That’s just the beginning. I want her tested with all the current panels. There are twelve hundred gene tests now.”
    Twelve hundred! Sindler licked his lips at the prospect. Excellent! Why had he never heard of this before? He cleared his throat. “But you realize that if you do this, she will demand you be tested, as well.”
    “No problem,” Diehl said.
    “You’ve already been tested?”
    “No. I just know how to fake the lab results.”
    Barry Sindler sat back in his chair.
    Perfect.

CH004
    B eneath the high canopy of trees, the jungle floor was dark and silent. No breeze stirred the giant ferns at shoulder height. Hagar wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced back at the others, and pushed on. The expedition moved deep into the jungles of central Sumatra. No one spoke, which was the way Hagar liked it.
    The river was just ahead. A dugout canoe on the near bank, a rope stretched across the river at shoulder height. They crossed in two groups, Hagar standing up in the dugout, pulling them across on the rope, then going back for the others. It was silent except for the cry of a distant hornbill.
    They continued on the opposite bank. The jungle trail grew narrower, and muddy in spots. The team didn’t like that; they made a lot of noise trying to scramble around the wet patches. Finally, one said, “How much farther is it?”
    It was that kid. The whiny American teenager with spots on his face. He was looking to his mother, a largish matron in a broad straw hat.
    “Are we almost there?” the kid whined.
    Hagar put his finger to his lips. “Quiet!”
    “My feet hurt.”
    The other tourists were standing around, a cluster of bright-colored clothing. Staring at the kid.
    “Look,” Hagar whispered, “if you make noise, you won’t see them.”
    “I don’t see them anyhow.” The kid pouted, but he fell into line asthe group moved on. Today they were mostly Americans. Hagar didn’t like Americans, but they weren’t the worst. The worst, he had to admit, were the—
    “There!”
    “Look there!”
    The tourists were pointing ahead, excited, chattering. About fifty yards up the trail and off to the right, a juvenile male orangutan stood upright in the branches that swayed gently with his weight. Magnificent creature, reddish fur, roughly forty pounds, distinctive white streak in the fur above his ear. Hagar had not seen him in weeks.
    Hagar gestured for the others to be quiet, and moved up the trail. The tourists were close behind him now, stumbling, banging into one another in their excitement.
    “Ssssh!” he hissed.
    “What’s the big deal?” one said. “I thought this was a sanctuary.”
    “Ssssh!”
    “But they’re protected here—”
    “Ssssh!”
    Hagar needed it quiet. He reached into his shirt pocket and pressed the Record button. He unclipped his lapel mike and held it in his hand.
    They were now about thirty yards from the orang. They passed a sign along the trail that said BUKUT ALAM ORANGUTAN SANCTUARY . This was where orphaned orangs were nursed to health, and reintroduced into the wild. There was a veterinary facility, a research station, a team of researchers.
    “If it’s a sanctuary, I don’t understand