Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  Mortimar took over again. “Joel, years ago we gave the National Security Agency a list of key words we wanted them to listen for. With our strong lobby and some additional incentives, they readily agreed.

  “The NSA lets us know when any of our keywords are intercepted over normal communications traffic. About a month ago they picked up the words Blue Beryl in an e-mail written by an Egyptologist splitting time between New York and Miami. The archeologist had a clue as to where the Blue Beryl might be.”

  Wheaton said, “Joel, we have a highly pathogenic human-to-human strain of H5N1 sitting in a lab ready to go. There’s been so much media coverage, the public has gotten to the point where they’re expecting a pandemic. Hell, they’re wondering why it hasn’t happened yet. We need to release this thing soon, but we simply can’t without a vaccine and a cure. We’re convinced the Blue Beryl holds the key.”

  “It has to!” Mortimar hissed. “There’s simply no other way Tibet could’ve made it through all of those plagues. The corroborating evidence is irrefutable.”

  “How close is the archeologist to finding it?” Joel asked.

  “Very close. We think he knows where it is. He’s getting ready to go look for it. This guy is good. If anyone can find it, he can. He found a tomb in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt once. He’s very enterprising.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “McAlister. Thomas McAlister.”

  “How do you plan to get him to give it to you?”

  Casey spoke up. “We’ve--how to say this, we’ve--given him an incentive to find it quickly and hand it over to us.”

  Joel could tell Casey didn’t want to go into detail.

  “What if he doesn’t give it to us after he finds it?”

  “He will. But let’s say he didn’t. Then we’d swipe it. He’s a simple archeologist. We employ professionals.”

  “Professionals?”

  “Freelance black ops. Ex-military from the U.S. and elsewhere.”

  Mortimar’s face produced a tight skeletal smile and Joel again detected a deranged humor in the eye.

  Mortimar said, “Gentlemen, can you imagine having pharmacological recipes to all of the major illnesses? Cancer? Diabetes? Heart Disease? Blindness?”

  “How much money would a blind person pay to see again?”

  “Depends how much money he has,” Smith blurted.

  Joel watched as they all laughed.

  Wheaton, half-serious, said, “We’re going to have a pricing problem, gentleman.” They all laughed again, but not as hard this time.

  Mortimar added, “We’ll have to introduce these cures, these antidotes, slowly, a la carte, to get top dollar for each. We’ll have to protect them too. If they fell into the hands of another company, they could run us out of business, good night and thank you ma’am.”

  “Who are we using, Sam? For this assignment?” Wheaton asked.

  “The best available. Russian ex-Special Forces.”

  “Spetznaz?” Casey said.

  “He’s the best disguise artist in the world.”

  “The Clone?” Wheaton said.

  “Precisely. The Clone.” Mortimar answered confidently.

  Wheaton nodded in full approval.

  “It’s settled. Does anyone have any questions? Joel?

  “When does this all start?”

  “Funny you should ask, Joel,” Mortimar said, “It started just this morning. McAlister is learning his fate now. Vials of H5N1 have been stolen from a laboratory in New York. We’ve arranged it so the authorities believe McAlister took them. To strengthen the case, the man McAlister is staying with has just contracted a flu-like virus. McAlister has been told to find the Blue Beryl or there’ll be an escalation of the bad things happening around him. If I had to guess, I’d say he will be on the first plane he can find heading east toward Asia.”

  Joel nodded, still struggling to find his ground regarding his colleagues’ revelations, their aggressive and illegal approach to business. Were these his peers? Was this what it took to be CEO of a healthcare company?

  Mortimar said crisply, “Okay, next subject. Organ Theft.”

  As Mortimar was opening his three-ring binder to the Organ Theft section, Casey leaned over the table, smiled at Joel, and said, “I hope the archeologist doesn’t give The Clone a problem when he tries to take the Blue Beryl.”

  “Why?” Joel asked.

  Bill Smith leaned in to hear.

  “Why do you think someone would become a disguise artist in the first place? He uses disguises as a way to get close to people.”

  “Why?”

  “His real specialty is assassination.”

  Mortimar had been listening, and he smiled. The corner of his mouth on the good side of his face edged up, while his mouth on the burned side pulled back, almost reaching his ear. Joel saw small blue veins pulsing through blood-red scar tissue.

  For Joel, seeing the blue, pulsing veins on Mortimar’s face only worsened the feeling of dread that had settled into the pit of his stomach during the strip search.

  Now he was absolutely positive that his new “partner,” Sam “The Ghoul” Mortimar, was a psychopath.

  Chapter 11

  McAlister pushed “End Call,” hanging up on Detective O’Brian.

  He picked up his duffel and ran down the hall toward the elevator bank, briefcase snug under an arm.

  He paused just before turning the corner and looked back at the creepy white-haired man who’d entered his life less than an hour ago.

  Undertaker had a pleasant look on his face; amused and confident . . . like a father sending a nervous kid off to college.

  McAlister said, “If Taylor dies, or if Lisa is harmed in any way, I’ll find you.”

  Undertaker said nothing.

  “Earlier you said you knew I could do this. You said I always accomplish what I set out to do. If they’re harmed, remember your words.”

  He didn’t wait for a response; he turned and flew around the corner past the four elevators. At the far end he turned right and sprinted down the hallway to the freight elevator.

  As he rounded the corner he heard the elevator bell, indicating someone was arriving on the floor. It had to be O’Brian.

  The freight elevator was waiting for him. He slid open the decorative door, grabbed the strap, and yanked the safety door up. As the top half went up, the bottom went down, clanging loudly once it was fully open.

  McAlister cursed inwardly and held his breath, listening and waiting for the detective to appear around the corner.

  He slid into the freight elevator and pushed the button for the sub-basement. The sub-basement was where residents’ storage cages were located.

  McAlister wondered if O’Brian would run into Undertaker.

  He pulled his wireless phone out. No signal.

  The elevator rumbled to a stop. McAlister slung it open and sprinted past the storage cages toward a metal staircase at the far end that led up to street level. Thank God he’d helped Taylor move stored items in the past, or he wouldn’t have known about this way out of the building.

  This door was his only hope.

  He slowly walked up the stairs to street level. When his eyes were level with the bottom of the door, he tried to look out to see if there were feet waiting just outside but there was a weather strip and he couldn’t even see daylight.

  There was no time to waste. He looked at his watch: 12:30.

  He counted to three and then burst through the door.

  Chapter 12

  As Detective O’Brian approached apartment twelve-six, it smelled like a woman wearing buckets of perfume had walked down the hallway just before him.

  The door to the apartment was wide open.

  He stopped at the entry. He sensed no human energy. Intuitively he knew McAlister was gone, but he had to clear the apartment to be sure.

  “McAlister!” He yelled, his voice echoing back at him from inside.

  No response.

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nbsp; He took out his gun, a compact Colt 9mm, and went room to room. He ended in the kitchen. McAlister had said he was pouring a cup of coffee, but the coffee maker was empty. He put his hand on the pot. It wasn’t even warm. Of course McAlister had lied.

  “Shit.”

  O’Brian pulled out his cell phone and called Central Communications again.

  “Connect me to both teams.”

  There was a pause and then the voice said, “Connected, sir.”

  He walked out of the apartment, leaving the door open, and went down to the elevator bank. “O’Malley?”

  Steve O’Malley, leader of the Hazmat team, responded. “I’m on.”

  “Pierzenski?”

  Scott Pierzenski, SWAT team leader, answered, “Loud and clear, sir.”

  “Guys, it’s O’Brian. McAlister’s gotten out of the Dakota. He was here moments ago and can’t have gone far. I need Hazmat up here now. SWAT and Central Communications, let’s issue a fresh APB with last known location as the Dakota. I want all available units over here working in concentric circles. Let’s get him before he gets too far.”

  The Central Communications operator interrupted. “Detective O’Brian, we’re intercepting a call from McAlister’s wireless phone to Lisa Goodwin right now, sir.”

  “Put it through.”

  There was another pause, and they were dropped into the middle of the conversation.

  McAlister was speaking. “Thank God you’re okay. I’m fine too. I got away but need your help. I had to leave Taylor’s before I could pack or get any of my materials.”

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  “Let’s do this. Meet me in Central Park, at the little restaurant by the sailing pond, the one where we had lunch a few weeks ago after we visited the Met. Okay?”

  “Sure, what time?”

  “I’ll be there at 1:00. Can you make it?”

  “No problem.”

  “Okay, I need to go now, but Lisa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want you to know something. I love you. I love you so much.”

  There was a pause. He heard her sucking in air, trying not to cry. “I know you do, and I love you too, Thomas.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  There were two beeps and the lines were clear. O’Brian breathed a sigh of relief. They’d get another shot at McAlister, but they’d have to hurry.

  “Guys, you heard that. Cancel the units and let’s redirect to 74th, one-half block east of the Conservatory Pond. Pierzenski, we’ll stage from your truck. Make it quick, we don’t have much time.”

  “10-4.”

  “O’Malley, I’d like your team to be with us at Central Park, so let’s get a second team over to the Dakota to see if they can find anything. There is a weird smell here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Flowers or something. I’m not sure.”

  “Got it.”

  “Guys, I’m getting in the elevator now. I’ll see you on 74th Street. You’re going to beat me there, so get a map of Central Park and start plotting surveillance positions. We’ve only got about thirty minutes to plan this entire op. Basically we need to shut off 5th Avenue as an escape route and do the same for any areas north, south, or west of the pond. Over.”

  He closed his phone and stepped into the elevator with a determined look on his face.

  He’d get McAlister at Central Park and this whole nightmare would be over.

  Chapter 13

  McAlister closed his wireless phone, ending the call with Lisa.

  He opened the back of the phone, took out the battery and the small chip that identified it as ‘his’ phone, and put the back panel back on.

  “Pull over at the corner, please.” When the cab stopped, he jumped out and threw the phone in a garbage can.

  He got back in the cab and said, “Okay, keep going. Thanks.”

  He jammed the battery between the seat and backrest, then dropped the chip on the floor of the cab and crushed it under his heel.

  Crossing the 59th Street Bridge, McAlister leaned back and wondered who would want to release a virus that could cause a pandemic.

  Terrorists had to be at the top of the list, but Undertaker did not look like he was affiliated with a terrorist group.

  He might be deranged. He might be certifiably crazy. But a terrorist?

  There were other groups that might want to get their hands on a virus, like militias or paramilitary groups, but again, Undertaker did not strike him as someone who would affiliate with one of those groups.

  Undertaker had hinted that they already had a virus capable of human-to-human transmission that previously did not exist outside of a laboratory. So they’d engineered it. That meant the people he was representing had scientists and a sophisticated laboratory.

  So, who would want to unleash a virus that would likely cause a pandemic, and then sell everyone a cure? Who would benefit?

  It would be of tremendous value to the healthcare industry, of course, but would they be so brazenly greedy and calculating?

  While researching the Blue Beryl, McAlister had learned--as Undertaker had confirmed--that communities in Tibet that had used the Blue Beryl for thousands of years had actually avoided large-scale pandemics. Pandemics that had afflicted Europe, Asia, and the rest of the globe.

  He’d also come across cases where both the government and healthcare institutions had created mutant strains of disease. Thousands of well-documented cases existed of people being injected with cancer cells and then studied, all in the hope of finding a better medication that could be sold in the rapidly growing cancer treatment market.

  During one study, conducted in 1963 and funded by the U.S. Public Health Service and the American Cancer Society, researchers at the Jewish Chronic Disease Hospital in New York injected live cancer cells into unsuspecting patients to see if cancer could be induced by injection. These patients had not given consent and many of them developed cancer.

  There were many other examples: Cornelius Rhoades in San Juan (funded by the Rockefeller Institute), the children’s experiments at Brooklyn Doctors Hospital, the 1963 study at University of California’s Department of Pediatrics, the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center study performed in conjunction with Genetic Systems Corporation, and countless others.

  It was clear that the healthcare industry was profit-oriented, and the entire structure was built around treating, not preventing.

  Would they go as far as a pandemic, though? Could they be that greedy?

  McAlister leaned up and asked the driver of the cab, “Can I borrow your cell phone? I need to make a local call.”

  The driver was Jamaican. “Yeah, sure, mon. What about the minutes?”

  “Twenty bucks?”

  “You all right, mon. You ride with me anytime.” He handed McAlister his phone.

  As McAlister dialed, he felt sure that Undertaker wasn’t affiliated with terrorists or militias. He couldn’t see it. He could, however, picture him being affiliated with a healthcare institution. At least it would explain the hair . . . and the Rolex.

  Chapter 14

  It was 2:20, and Detective O’Brian had a sinking feeling as he watched Lisa Goodwin sip tea outside the small food stand next to the sailing pond. The fact that she was strikingly beautiful, feline even, was lost on him.

  It was clear Lisa was also concerned; she’d tried to call McAlister twice and was continually glancing left and right.

  Anger rose within O’Brian. Deploying expensive assets to capture a felon and coming up empty was no way to get promoted. He’d already begun to think of ways he might somehow position a failure positively in his report.

  Where the fuck was McAlister? He’d told his girlfriend he’d be here. That was normally a guarantee!

  O’Brian closed his eyes and replayed McAlister’s earlier conversation with Lisa and the answer came to him. It was a sudden realization, and he knew instantly he was right. />
  “Christ,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Please don’t let it be true.”

  He’d been observing Lisa from a nearby table. He stood up and quickly walked over to her.

  She took off her sunglasses and looked up at him quizzically. It was the first time he’d seen her piercing blue eyes. Her brown hair, sun-bleached golden, fell softly around her face. She was tanned, and her lips were full and moist from the tea. She was sitting, but O’Brian could tell she’d be tall when she stood. She was athletically slender, but strong and healthy, and could easily have been a model or an actress. However, she had chosen to pursue something noble, something academic, instead.

  He swallowed, collected himself, and said, “My name is Detective O’Brian. I have ten men stationed at various points around this pond. I could point their locations out to you, but I’d rather you just believed me.” He flipped open his badge and showed it to her.

  She nodded and he saw she believed.

  “I’m going to ask you one question, Lisa, and by God if you don’t answer it truthfully I’m going to drag your elegant ass down to a precinct cell and lock you up until that brown hair of yours turns gray. Got it?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Today, when McAlister, when Thomas, called you, the call when he asked you to meet him here at 1:00...at the end of the call, he told you he loved you. Was that the first time he’d ever said that?”

  She smiled, and O’Brian’s confidence shrank in half. Beautiful women were the only people on earth who had ever been able to intimidate Detective Steven O’Brian.

  He saw her considering her answer.

  “Was it the first time, or not?”

  She smiled again, her blue eyes coming alive with the thought.

  Her voice was lower than he would’ve suspected, throaty and exotic. “Yes.”

  “Damn it!”