Uri the Clone, disguised as a palace guard, slowly backed away from the entrance to the catacomb. He’d been able to hear McAlister and Bertram perfectly. He smiled, happy for their success. It meant his assignment, this wonderful Tibetan vacation during which he could kill people while wearing complex disguises, would continue.
The Tibetan disguises required for this job were so much more fun and challenging than anything required in the United States. There, he was forced to be audacious just to feel challenged, which was risky, since his goal was typically to blend in and go unnoticed.
Unfortunately, the States had become so homogenized that many times, a pair of khakis, loafers and a golf shirt purchased from “anystore” in “anytown” was enough to ensure that he’d blend in, regardless of where he was going or what he was doing.
As he slowly walked away from the entrance to the catacomb, his whole body tingled with hope. Hope for the luscious dream that McAlister would actually find the Blue Beryl and that Mortimar would order him to steal it and kill McAlister.
This would enable him to use his new toy, the steel fangs that he’d just received from a metal smith in Lhasa.
The Clone slunk back into the darkness. Since the death of Dr. Li, McAlister and Bertram had become more suspicious, and he didn’t want to get caught listening at the mouth of the entrance.
The Clone was in the process of reassessing McAlister. He had been trying to convince himself that McAlister was a formidable opponent. It was probably wrong to underestimate him in the first place, but in New York, he’d seemed so . . . cavalier.
Since they’d arrived in Tibet, Uri had seen McAlister become more careful and wary. Now Uri saw proof that he was a skilled and competent archeologist. He understood that it was McAlister’s investment of time on previous trips, time spent in the archives, that had enabled him to successfully find Ming Wu’s armor.
The whole of Lhasa, the massive Potala Palace...and McAlister had managed to locate the one correct spot to dig, and successfully. Uri respected and admired what McAlister had done.
But that wouldn’t make him pause, even for a split second, before killing him.
Now, despite McAlister's paranoid behavior and the addition of the NYPD, Uri would have to stay extra close to McAlister. Everything would hinge on whether or not Ming Wu’s armor yielded any clues.
The Clone personally believed that the Beryl must have survived the incursion and not burned in the palace fire. Who would destroy such a treasure? Plus, how else could the page that he’d stolen from Dr. Li, detailing how to heal the blind, have survived?
That page had been perfect. He’d held it and smelled it before packing it and sending it back to his boss--Sam Mortimar in the States.
Chapter 24
DJ Warrant rested the most recent report detailing McAlister’s actions on the edge of his desk and reclined in his chair. McAlister was in Lhasa, working near the Potala Palace, apparently having some success. He picked up the report and looked at the executive summary again. There was that word again: Success.
He wished Elmo was around to help him pull data on the Chinese incursion of 1751 and the Blue Beryl. He knew little of that part of the world, and nothing of Tibetan history. He wanted more information on the Beryl itself. Was it possible that a collection of ancient healing techniques that really worked could exist?
It was widely known that pharmaceutical companies derived many of their medicines from plant compounds found in the wild. He’d recently seen a television program that focused on rural healing and how many of these shamans, after two thousand years of medical trial and error, actually did make medicines that could cure certain ills.
With Elmo out, if DJ wanted information, he would have to fill out the departmental data request form and submit it to the Analytics department. A team of researchers would spend a few weeks building an analysis for him. If Elmo had been around, gathering the information would’ve taken five minutes.
He swiveled around and looked at the calendar hanging on the wall of his cubicle. He wondered if he should plan a trip to Tibet. He knew from experience that once he was onto something, McAlister worked fast. But was it too soon? Would he end up waiting a week or even more before McAlister actually found something? What if the book actually had burned in the fire--what then?
He decided to wait, at least until the next field report arrived. He had to be patient and remind himself that until McAlister had something of value, there was nothing for him to confiscate.
Out of habit, DJ looked at McAlister’s picture that was pinned to the wall of his office. Lately, he’d been sharpening pencils and throwing them at the photo as if it were a dart board. None of them had stuck.
He picked up a brand new number two pencil, the end still flat, and stuck it into his electric sharpener. As the machine ground the pencil, he remembered the last time he’d dealt with McAlister.
Approximately one year ago, he’d had his final briefing with the President. Something had snapped inside of him that day. His primordial instinct, to hurt or maim people who offended him, overpowered his internal control to keep that instinct in check. He remembered how close he had come to actually attacking the President by grabbing his throat and choking him to death.
He remembered the pencil, and pulled it out of the grinder. It was reduced to half its size, roughly as long as a dart. The point was as sharp as a needle. He put the pad of his thumb over it and firmly pressed down. The point popped through his skin, and a drop of blood ran down the pencil. DJ felt nothing. Lately, secretly, he’d been trying to hurt himself to see if he could still feel. Usually, it didn’t work.
With a flick of his wrist, he whipped the pencil at McAlister’s picture. For once, it landed and stuck firmly. It had hit McAlister in the cheek, just below his left eye, and the drop of blood that had been on the pencil lead now ran down McAlister’s face like a bloody tear. DJ smiled. It was symbolic of the pain McAlister would soon feel.
Chapter 25
Slimy drool dripped onto the conference table from the damaged side of Sam Mortimar’s face. He angrily wiped it up with his sleeve, glancing at the sleeve when he was finished.
Joel Wasserman, sitting in his private video conference room at Cabbott Pharmaceuticals, couldn’t help but smile at the pathetic sight on the screen in front of him. The Ghoul--what a perfect nickname. Drooling on his two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Louis Quartorze desk and wiping it up with his five-thousand-dollar Savile Row suit.
The Ghoul quickly looked up, catching Joel before the smile had faded.
“I can see you, Mr. Wasserman. I see you smiling, sir.” The Ghoul snapped.
Joel had not realized the video conference had begun and that the other participants could now see him in real time.
“Laughing at a deformed man--shame on you,” the Ghoul spat. “Shame!” he yelled, his face flushed.
Joel was silent; he couldn’t explain away his indiscretion. Would this fanatic hold a grudge?
The Ghoul snarled, “Let’s proceed. Does everyone see the red icon on the bottom of your screen? The one shaped like a closed handcuff?”
It was the same group that had been together a month earlier, at the high security retreat in upstate New York. Sam Mortimar, William Casey, Charles Wheaton, Bill Smith and Joel Wasserman. They all responded affirmatively.
Though this group met in person at the regular quarterly meetings, this time they were brought together by The Ghoul for a special video conference. Joel could see each of them in boxes on his flat panel television screen.
“Good, then we have a secure connection, gentlemen. I want to thank you for making yourselves available for this impromptu meeting today. It will be a short meeting; I have just two important topics I want to update you all on. Let’s get started. Are each of you alone in your video conference room?”
Again, each of the men responded in the affirmative.
“Then please open the sealed packets that I had delivered to you earlier
today.”
Joel tore open the seal of the thick, cream-colored envelope that he had personally signed for earlier that day. There were two strips of pre-printed tape that said “Personal and Confidential” wrapped around it. Interestingly, the flap of the envelope had been sealed with wax and then stamped, the way the eighteenth-century English monarchs used to stamp secret documents.
As Joel opened his envelope, the wax stamp popped off and fell onto the carpet. Joel leaned down to pick it up. As he did, he noticed there was writing in the wax. He turned it right side up and was shocked at what he saw. In circular writing around the inside edge, it read, “From the desk of ‘The Ghoul.’ ” In the center was a picture of Mortimar smiling wickedly.
Joel looked up at the video monitor. Clearly, Mortimar had been watching him read the wax. His face was stretched tight, and his teeth, gums and jaw produced a bone-white smile.
What a freak, Joel thought. He’s perpetuating the nickname “The Ghoul.”
Joel quickly pulled an agenda and two manila folders from the envelope. There were two discussion topics typed neatly on the agenda page. Number one was the Blue Beryl, and number two was Organ Theft Update.
Mortimar continued, “The primary reason I called this meeting is to give you an update on our quest to recover the Blue Beryl. Or should I say, our quest to have young archeologist Thomas McAlister find it, so that we can quickly steal it from him.”
Unable to help himself at the thought of committing pure, unadulterated theft, the Ghoul again flashed an unsettling smile.
“We’ve had a significant development that I wanted to make you all aware of immediately.”
Eyes wild with excitement, The Ghoul continued, looking directly at the camera.
“Mr. McAlister is currently working in a catacomb near the Potala Palace in Lhasa. The man we have following him, Uri--The Clone as we fondly call him--is ingeniously posing as a palace guard. As you can imagine, this disguise enables him to keep excellent tabs on McAlister’s progress.”
Bill Smith spoke up. “Is McAlister working alone?”
“No, he’s still with the history professor from NYU, Dr. Bertram. It’s working well. He’s a small, bookish sort of fellow who seems to know his way around Tibet.”
“As you remember from our previous meeting, I told you there was a healer outside of Lhasa who was using a page from the Blue Beryl to heal the blind.”
The men all nodded.
“His name was Wen Li. He was rumored to actually be healing people using a page long ago torn from the Blue Beryl. I am happy to report, my friends, that we have successfully acquired that page.”
The room was silent as each member of the panel digested the information, the implications of which were gargantuan. Finally, Wheaton asked, “What happened to Li? I’m sure he wasn’t willing to voluntarily hand it over.”
“Charles, Dr. Li died in a fire and was therefore unable to resist. His remains were unrecoverable.”
There was a pause as the men soberly pondered the fate of Dr. Li. Each knew their own fate could be similar if they ever crossed Mortimar.
Mortimar continued in a voice devoid of any feeling related to the death of Dr. Li. “Please open the first folder in your packet.”
Joel broke the taped seal and opened the folder. Before him was a color copy of the page Li had been using from the Blue Beryl.
The actual page itself was six inches by nine inches, but it had been copied onto a normal 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper. The edges were framed in white, accentuating beautifully illustrated Tibetan herbs and other plants that bordered, encircled, and occasionally intertwined with the main text.
The first half of the text looked like a list of ingredients, and the bottom half was arranged like a recipe in a cookbook. Joel turned the page.
The next picture was a color copy of the other side of the page. It was even more incredible than the first. The entire second page was a perfectly drawn diagram of the human eye. Joel was not an expert in ophthalmology, but he knew enough to know that the diagram was anatomically correct.
In the center was a blue oval lens surrounded by the iris, aqueous, pupil, and cornea. Behind a perfectly illustrated ciliary body and ora serrata was the vitreous humor, with life-like veins branching out from the center, just as Joel remembered from cadaver dissections. Next were the macula, retina, choroid, sclera, and optic nerve.
It was clear to Joel that whoever had drawn this knew as much about human eye anatomy as today’s ophthalmologists.
Joel’s perusal was interrupted by the Ghoul’s harsh voice.
“As you can see, gentleman, whoever illustrated this book knew what they were doing. The flora species on the first page is expertly drawn, and the anatomy depicted on the end sheet is accurate and to scale.”
“This answers two of the questions we’ve had all along: does the Blue Beryl really exist: and if it does, could it really provide valuable medical information? If this is truly a page from the great book, then I think we can all agree that the answer to the former question is a resounding yes.
“Regarding whether or not it could really provide medical information, despite all of the Tibetan text, I think we can preliminarily answer yes.”
Casey spoke up. “Sam, before we can say this stuff really works, we need to have this text deciphered. We need to understand what all of this writing means. Clearly, it looks like a prescription with the ingredients illustrated on the page, but we need to translate the text.”
Mortimar smiled. “Good point, William, so good that I’ve already started it. That’s why I called this meeting. Please open the second folder in your packet.”
Joel tore open the second folder.
The Ghoul continued, “Here, gentleman, is the translated text from the first page that I showed you earlier. As you can see, it is comprised of two parts. The first contains instructions to formulate three things: a paste or pap which is applied directly to the eye; a mixture that can be ingested; and lastly, dried crust that can be smoked like tobacco. Below that is the list of active ingredients.
“These are raw ingredients, meant to be taken directly from nature. As I was unfamiliar with many of them, I had Klaus Sterling take a look.”
All the men nodded their approval. Sterling was Trans-Continental’s primary research and development scientist. Other than Trans-Continental’s Chief Financial Officer, Klaus Sterling was the only person in the company in whom Mortimar fully confided. Sterling was also the finest pharmaceutical developer alive in the world--a living legend who had led development of all of Smith Cline’s major drugs.
Though no one but Mortimar and his CFO knew it, Klaus was also the highest-paid person in the entire company. Mortimar paid Sterling more than he gave himself, just to ensure that Sterling would never be tempted to defect. It was the combination of Klaus’ scientific genius and Mortimar’s ruthlessness that had made Trans-Continental the largest and most successful pharmaceutical company in the world.
“Some of these herbs are indigenous to Tibet, so it is taking some time for Klaus to track them down and figure out what their contribution might be when mixed with other compounds. But he is reasonably sure, based upon the data he was able to find, that he has been able to determine what the possible healing effects might be based on the Beryl’s prescription.
Mortimar paused for dramatic effect. “Gentleman, what we found is astonishing. Basically, what this mixture does is combine various compounds to create an external antimicrobial peptide. As I’m sure you all know, antimicrobial peptides are not well understood yet. However, they have been known to kill bacteria, clear infection, promote healing, and enliven dendritic and adaptive immune response.
“Most importantly, gentlemen, they are known to alter host gene expression. In other words, they work like antibiotics, but they also may perform natural gene therapy. It’s fantastic.”
“Holy mother of God,” Bill Smith said, under his breath.
“Klaus believes the base in
gredient comes from an indigenous Tibetan herb with which we are not familiar. Some of them are from a species called Pedicularis, which we’re learning more about. There are over 500 Pedicularis species in a region of Tibet called Hengduan.”
“Coincidentally, in trials at Smith Cline over the past few months, we were just beginning to take a look at the Pedicularis as phagocyte stimulators, but we have yet to find one strong enough to perform in any statistically significant manner.
“Klaus tells me the Tibetans may have found a combination that introduces antimicrobial peptides into the human body, a combination of Pedicularis flora that might have created a super-peptide, more potent than any other--capable of incredible healing with unbelievable restorative powers.
“We won’t know until we identify these herbs and get them into the labs, but at face value, based on the compound and the eyewitness accounts--of which there are many--Klaus and I think there could be significant curative powers locked in the molecular structure of these mixtures.”
Smith interjected, “If not handled properly, Sam, this could be extremely threatening. We have our new version of Laxis in the final phase of FDA approval; once that’s achieved, product rollout is already built into our stock price. There is no room in the market for a cure! Market share for eye correction is already one of the most competitive markets for us, already split five ways. To grow my share in that market, I’d have to buy somebody.”
Mortimar smiled. “You see, Joel. You see why we’ve formed this little committee. On a daily basis, the financial health of our companies is threatened! What if we didn’t know about McAlister’s quest? We would get blindsided.”
“What about the patients?” Joel mumbled under his breath.
Mortimar perked up in his chair. “What was that, Joel?”
“I said ‘what about the patients?’ What if this compound is better than Laxis, or even Cabbot’s Retinex? We should get it on the market and start to heal people, right?”
Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2) Page 11
