Kevin’s heart skipped a beat. Despite the rain and the mist, he could see what he’d feared he’d see. Just like a week ago there was the unmistakable wisp of smoke lazily undulating toward the leaden sky.

Kevin slumped into his desk chair and cradled his head in his hands. He asked himself what he’d done. Having minored in the Classics as an undergraduate, he knew about Greek myths. Now he questioned if he’d made a Promethean mistake. Smoke meant fire, and he had to wonder if it was the proverbial fire inadvertently stolen from the gods.

6:45 P.M.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

While a cold March wind rattled the storm windows, Taylor Devonshire Cabot reveled in the security and warmth of his walnut-paneled study in his sprawling Manchester-by-the-Sea home north of Boston, Massachusetts. Harriette Livingston Cabot, Taylor’s wife, was in the kitchen supervising the final stages of dinner scheduled to be served at seven-thirty sharp.

On the arm of Taylor’s chair balanced a cut-crystal glass of neat, single-malt whiskey. A fire crackled in the fireplace as Wagner played on the stereo, the volume turned low. In addition there were three, built-in televisions tuned respectively to a local news station, CNN, and ESPN.

Taylor was the picture of contentment. He’d spent a busy but productive day at the world headquarters of GenSys, a relatively new biotechnology firm he’d started eight years previously. The company had constructed a new building along the Charles River in Boston to take advantage of the proximity of both Harvard and MIT for recruitment purposes.

The evening commute had been easier than usual, and Taylor hadn’t had time to finish his scheduled reading. Knowing his employer’s habits, Rodney, his driver, had apologized for getting Taylor home so quickly.