Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  “Okay. Listen, I’m very sorry about the dog. I love animals. I deeply apologize. If you’d like, I will pay cab fare for the trip to the vet.”

  “Mao Mao, you sit here. I will be right back.” He looked at Thomas. “Come.”

  They walked down the hallway toward the front door for the final time. If Ethan and Bertram had gotten out, McAlister hadn’t heard them. He didn’t dare glance into the office this time.

  McAlister stopped and turned to once again apologize, but the door slammed in his face. He almost smiled, but saw the peephole and was sure the old man was glaring at him through it.

  He walked out to the sidewalk, paused, and looked both ways. Nothing. The only activity was across the street; a man and woman walking arm in arm, a retiree slowly trudging along with the help of a cane, and a man three houses over on his porch getting ready to open his front door. No sign of Ethan or Bertram. He turned toward Lexington and started walking.

  Successful or not, the agreed-upon meeting place was a pre-reserved table in the corner at the Oyster Bar at the Plaza Hotel. Without thinking, McAlister’s pace quickened, and a wave of nervousness swept over him. This was unlike any other time in his life. He had no back-up plan; there could be no back up-plan. Taylor could be hours from death and the Undertaker had sworn to release a virus in his home town the following day. The countdown was on, and if Ethan and Bertram were not there, with the Blue Beryl, Taylor was going to die.

  McAlister began to doubt his plan. He should’ve gone in with Ethan. Why had he relinquished control?

  He began to run.

  Chapter 44

  McAlister and Bertram left Ethan at the Oyster Bar. They went back to Taylor’s apartment in the Dakota the same way McAlister had left three days earlier—through the service door in back of the building that led to the basement storage area.

  They took the service elevator to avoid the lobby, careful to look for anyone who appeared to be watching for them.

  Fact was, the NYPD didn’t have the resources to place an officer 24/7 at a location to which McAlister was unlikely to return. Which was exactly why McAlister went there. He knew hotels were more likely to be monitored, plus their customer databases were screened by law enforcement nightly. All he had to do to remain safe at Taylor’s was keep lights turned off and stay off the phone.

  McAlister and Bertram were mentally and physically exhausted and needed a good night’s sleep. McAlister had been pushing Bertram hard, nearly nonstop, and it was beginning to show. He had bags under his eyes and took deep breaths from time to time, even when he was sitting still. Tonight was their night to sleep.

  The only thing keeping them from collapsing was the knowledge that they finally had the Blue Beryl in their possession.

  It was now sitting on Taylor’s coffee table. Inside the house of the man it had been stolen to cure. It was resting on the same piece of glass McAlister had used to cover the Ark of the Covenant less than a year earlier.

  The Blue Beryl was bound with three leather straps. The leather rings were an eighth of an inch thick and half an inch wide. They were glossy and smooth. Hai Cai had kept them moisturized.

  Dr. Li had died before showing McAlister his page from the book, but had explained that the page was torn in three places along the left margin. Now McAlister understood why. The page had been ripped from this three-ring binder.

  The meeting with Dr. Li seemed like months ago, yet it had been only a few days earlier.

  Tomorrow morning, McAlister would copy the book, then call the number on the card that Undertaker had given him.

  “The cover is beautiful. I didn’t expect it to be so ornate,” Bertram observed.

  The cover was a smooth piece of thick leather drawn tightly over a thin piece of wood. An artisan skilled in leather working had used common leather craft techniques—incising, modeling, stamping and dyeing—to create a beautiful three-dimensional mural of the Tibetan countryside.

  For McAlister, the book’s beauty was magnified by its value. If all the rumors and research were true, the book’s contents could heal people, and its value was unquantifiable. This was the earliest, and possibly the best, medical encyclopedia ever written. A true book of cures.

  “Do you think it’s the original?” Thomas asked.

  “It should be dated in a laboratory, which may never happen. My first impression is yes, it’s the real deal.”

  “Let’s have a look inside.”

  McAlister slowly opened the cover and the first page was blank. His heart skipped a beat; he swallowed and quickly turned to the middle of the book to make sure this book wasn’t a decoy.

  He let out an audible sigh when he opened to a page that was filled with hand-drawn, beautifully illustrated plants, with lush yet detailed lavender, yellow, purple and red leaves. The opposite page depicted a naked man being treated by a robed doctor holding a simple bowl. There was a list of ingredients beside the bowl.

  The next page was shocking in both its detail and anatomical accuracy. It was a drawing of a man, internal organs and intestines exposed, overlaid with a perfect grid. At most intersections there were black dots, but at others the dots were red or gray. These special dots each had an explanation written in ancient Tibetan.

  Bertram explained that this was a perfectly drawn acupuncture map. The facing page featured a rear view of the patient, again with the important pressure points marked. Lower on the page were close-ups of hands and genitals, each covered by a grid.

  There was page after page of lavish pictures and charts showing people bathing, eating, having intercourse, being treated, being operated on or being counseled. Every page listed specific ingredients, amounts, and the application or ingestion instructions—always written in easy Tibetan calligraphy.

  The beautifully drawn plants—some identified by Dr. Bertram as gerbera, yellow champa, nutmeg, saffron, chebulic ginger or thistle—were often pictured right next to the corresponding recipe so that there could be no question, no confusion, about the prescription. The drawings were good, and in many cases better, than anything McAlister had seen in ancient Egyptian medical documents from the same or even later periods.

  “What should we do with it? I mean, until we make the call tomorrow?” Bertram asked.

  McAlister looked up. It was a natural question. Like wondering what you’d do with a winning lottery ticket. Despite containing many artifacts, and a few handguns, Taylor’s apartment did not contain a safe.

  “I plan to sleep with it under my pillow.”

  Bertram looked puzzled, but smiled. “Certainly you want to get a little sleep tonight.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll put it here.”

  Bertram followed McAlister into the master bedroom. “I’m going to sleep here. There’s no safe, so I plan to keep it here on my bedside table. I guess this is the safest place for it. Plus I have this.”

  McAlister opened the cover of the Bible that sat on the bedside table, revealing a cutout containing a small black handgun.

  “Beretta?”

  “Yes.” Thomas answered.

  “Loaded?” Bertram asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And where shall I sleep tonight? I could go back to Brooklyn and meet you back here tomorrow morning, early.”

  “No, no. We’re both too exhausted to travel anymore without a good night’s sleep.” McAlister said. “Stay here. I’m sleeping in Taylor’s room, so you can have the guest room. It’s where I usually stay. It’s comfortable. You’ll sleep well.”

  Dr. Bertram simply nodded and followed McAlister to the guest room. Truth was, he wouldn’t sleep at all during the coming night. The only question was, would McAlister?

  Chapter 45

  Joel Wasserman had been asleep for half an hour when his phone rang at 11:30 p.m.. He almost didn’t answer it. It wouldn’t have mattered; they would’ve tracked him down another way.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Wasserman?”

  “Yes.”

>   “Valerie Pomone, Mr. Mortimar’s personal assistant.”

  “Yes, Valerie. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Wasserman, but Mr. Mortimar needs to have a word with you and the other members of The Leadership Council via video conference immediately.”

  “Is five minutes okay?”

  “Take fifteen, sir. The conference will begin at 11:45.”

  “Thanks, Val.”

  “Good bye, sir.”

  Joel smiled. He knew it was supposed to be Valerie, never Val.

  “Who was that?” his wife mumbled, half asleep.

  “Mortimar’s called a short meeting. No big deal. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Walking downstairs, he wondered if they’d obtained the Blue Beryl. Their last report had indicated The Clone was getting close.

  He took his laptop out of the Halliburton briefcase and fired it up, clipping the small video camera to the top of the screen. Once connected to the Internet, he clicked on the small icon representing the Council’s LAN and entered the numerical authentication code on his Secure ID card.

  Two screens appeared. The screen on the left showed members on the call, Brady Bunch style. The screen on the right was voice activated and showed whoever was currently speaking.

  “Evening, Bill,” Joel said after logging in and seeing Bill Smith waiting alone.

  “Hey Joel. Wake you up?”

  “Almost.”

  Charles Wheaton and William Casey joined the call next in quick succession, exchanging greetings as their pictures appeared.

  Finally The Ghoul joined.

  “Good evening, everyone. I’m sorry to convene so late, but we are on the cusp of a very important breakthrough and I thought this update critical.

  “As you know, our friend Uri was following McAlister as he was trying to track down the current whereabouts of the healing book, the Blue Beryl.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “I’m pleased to say that McAlister has been successful. Successful on two counts.” The Ghoul smiled, exposing his grizzly jaw. Joel’s stomach roiled.

  Joel cut in. The plan he and his wife were hatching required that he know how and where to reach McAlister, but up until this point Mortimar had never shared that information.

  Joel’s face appeared in the large box as he spoke. “Sam, early intelligence from the Clone included suppositions that McAlister might not be as . . . effective, or how should I say it, as talented, as we initially thought. Does that still hold true? Is he an amateur?”

  “No.” Mortimar responded flatly. “As it turns out, the Clone has changed his opinion. In fact, he’s of the opinion now that McAlister may be the preeminent treasure hunter of our time, that he’s efficient, and that McAlister could be one of the better con men operating today. If he wanted to be,”

  “What do you mean?” Casey asked.

  Mortimar sighed audibly, which caused his face to occupy the large box again, ensuring that everyone saw him roll his eyes.

  “McAlister’s exploits, and how he obtained the Blue Beryl, is not what I was planning on discussing, but . . . since you ask. Initially, Uri felt McAlister was a bungler. Charging into Tibet with no plan. No clues or clear objectives. He began to change his impression when McAlister was able to quickly locate a salient clue. McAlister then used that clue to trace and track down the man who currently holds the book. Uri’s opinion is that both tasks required considerable academic and field talent.”

  “Next, he thought McAlister lacked the skill needed to actually steal the book. He felt maybe McAlister was a cowboy who’d been lucky the first time but who would never be able to plan a complicated theft. Uri admits he was wrong. McAlister is a deep planner, and like all good leaders, when he doesn’t possess a certain expertise he finds someone who does. Egos often get in the way of that.”

  “Surround yourself with good people, I always say,” said Wheaton.

  “Did McAlister acquire the book, Sam?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. Today.”

  “How?”

  “He pulled a con on the housekeeper of one of the richest men in the world, a man with a state-of-the-art security system. The Clone watched from a distance, and--what did he call it? . . . oh yes, he said it was one of the greatest uses he’d ever seen of both low- and high-tech skill as part of a con. It required acting, timing, technology, technical skill, luck and an ability to predict what a human--a very suspicious human--would do in a given situation.”

  “So The Clone came away impressed.” Smith said.

  “Very. McAlister has obtained the Blue Beryl and he has it at an apartment in New York. The Clone plans to take possession early tomorrow.”

  “How will Uri do it?”

  “He’s going to get it the minute they emerge from the building. He can’t go in and he doesn’t need to. The Dakota is where John Lennon was killed and security is tight. He will hit them just after they come out of the building, when their guards are down and they’re defenseless.”

  “Do we think McAlister will call the number we provided him and give us the book anyway?”

  “He might, but he might not. He’s shrewd and we can leave nothing to chance. We don’t want him making a copy of it. We simply have to take it.”

  “How?” Joel asked.

  “Uri has orders to take the book. How he accomplishes his objectives is his business. This is a sensitive time and there will be no contact between us until we meet for the exchange. He will give me the book, I will pay him. That should occur day after tomorrow.

  “Uri did acknowledge he has no way of knowing who will emerge with the book. It could be McAlister, it could be Bertram, it could be both of them. Either way he’ll be ready.”

  “You’re going to meet with him personally?” Joel asked.

  Mortimar smiled. “Yes, and it will be a first, but I want to personally congratulate him. This will be bigger than Fleming discovering penicillin.”

  “Where will that be? Are you meeting in person?” Joel asked.

  “I see no reason for the question.” Mortimar spat back.

  Joel nodded and Mortimar continued. “I wanted to brief you, and get your concurrence, on the steps I’d like to take after that. I plan to have the book’s contents translated into English. I will then digitize both the book and the translation and send you each a secure copy. Your copies will be unable to be copied.”

  “After we’ve all had time to study the contents I’d like to meet upstate to discuss what we’ve got and what to do with it. We need a tight plan.”

  “Klaus Sterling will immediately start working on the HN51 vaccine. Then he will move on to the antidote. Once both are tested, we’ll stagger the release of the virus and then publicly announce that as a consortium we have both a vaccine and an antidote. I wouldn’t be surprised if our stock price doubles that very day.

  “Once the outbreak is under control, we’ll begin to rank other illnesses by commonality and severity and estimate their market value. We will prioritize based on the financials and begin working toward cures. We’ll pick the top six, divide them between us, and initiate R&D.”

  The Ghoul acted as though he wanted concurrence, but Joel knew this was all pre-determined. There would be no discussion. It would unfold exactly as The Ghoul planned.

  “Gentlemen, we will ensure that we each get equal access to the revenue streams. We will coordinate all of our activities. The research can be started on some cures immediately; others will take longer. We don’t want to ‘blow our load’ as they say. Wall Street likes continuity, so we must ensure the pipeline and earnings growth are steady.” The Ghoul’s eyes twinkled and he flashed a greedy smile.

  “Every year we will work together, collectively, to bring drugs to market in a planned fashion. The growth needs of each company will be our guide. It will be done mathematically, gentlemen. Improving stock performance is all that matters. Sustained, consistent revenue and earnings growth. That way,
we keep our jobs and get rich beyond our wildest dreams.”

  Mortimar sounded like could hardly contain his excitement.

  The Ghoul would withhold cures that might help thousands, possibly millions of people, in order to more evenly spread his company’s earnings over the coming years. He was even sicker than Joel had believed.

  One of the reasons Joel had joined Cabbot Pharmaceuticals was to help people. At the end of the day, after everyone was paid, and earnings were in, the company was still helping people. Helping them get well, or simply feel better. That had always been his bottom line.

  Of course revenue and earnings growth had to be there--and would be, if the drugs they brought to market were effective and met clearly defined market needs. That had always been Joel’s equation; serve the market and the money will flow your way. The Ghoul’s goal was to control the market through collusion and monopoly.

  Joel felt with all his heart that if the Blue Beryl did prove to have healing antidotes, then they must be made available to the patients who needed them, not locked in a safe in some large pharmaceutical company’s vault to be used only when a revenue boost was needed.

  The Ghoul began wrapping up the video conference, saying he would be in touch as soon as The Beryl was in his possession. As they signed off, Joel looked down at his notebook and wrote, “Put plan in motion.” Then he looked up, into the small lens of the camera and said, “Goodnight, everyone.”

  The Ghoul, still excited, smiled widely and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  After Joel’s’ computer was turned off and stowed away in his briefcase, ready for his morning commute, he said, “So will I, you freak. So will I.”

  Chapter 46

  Gusts of wind whipped the lead glass windows of Taylor’s apartment. Occasionally there was a low animalistic howl, but mostly just the constant straining and creaking of the century-old paint-thickened window boxes being flogged by squalls blowing through Manhattan that night.