Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  “Do you see it, Mark?”

  “The jacket.”

  “Yes.”

  “This man is a professional assassin and a sadomasochist. I want that jacket off before he gets in the car,” Mortimar said.

  “If he’s going to try anything, the jacket is likely a distraction. It’s such an obvious violation of the meeting rules we agreed to. I’ll frisk him thoroughly and have him remove the jacket and his shoes before he gets in.”

  “Thank you, Mark.”

  The Ghoul watched through the side window. Mark had The Clone remove his jacket. Mark searched it and then laid it on the roof of the car. He then thoroughly frisked the Clone. As far as Mortimar could tell, there was nothing out of order. Maybe he’d forgotten he was not supposed to wear anything but a t-shirt. Mark finished with him, examined his shoes, had him leave them on the curb, and then opened the door.

  The Clone and the Ghoul, as they were widely known, gazed at each other. Uri Andropov and Sam Mortimar. Each irreparably scarred, one bodily, the other psychologically.

  Mortimar sat on the rear bench seat facing forward. Uri sat on the side bench. He settled in about three feet from Mortimar’s left knee. Mortimar had not seen Mark check inside the plastic bag. It looked like it was holding a book, but anything was possible.

  He began to perspire but he didn’t want The Clone to know he was nervous, so he smiled. His smile always disconcerted people, and he liked that.

  Mark got in the back with them and sat facing Uri with his 9mm resting on his thigh. Message sent.

  “Forgive my friend. He gets a little nervous around new people.”

  “I understand. Completely.” Uri said through pursed lips, his jaw stationary.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

  “Yes. You too.”

  “You look like your file picture, but I can’t help but notice that your mouth is wired shut. Did everything turn out all right the other night?”

  Mortimar raised his eyebrows and let a thin veneer of saliva drip between his tongue and the top of his mouth so that both s’s slurred. He’d spent hours in front of the mirror practicing both the eyebrow-raise and slur, and aside from a simple smile, they were his most disconcerting facial tools.

  Lips close together, the Clone said, “As you know, I had a problem with a . . . man. Everything is fine now. The wires holding my lower jaw in place will be cut in a few weeks. The contact you provided was very helpful.”

  The information concurred with what Mortimar had heard about what had happened outside the Dakota.

  “You must take care of yourself, Uri. There is so much to do. People with your talents are few. How is our . . . treasure?” The Ghoul asked.

  Uri said, “It is well,” because it was easier than saying “it’s fine.”

  “Please remove it from the bag slowly.” Mortimar let the word slowly slither off his tongue and he glanced at Mark.

  Mark adjusted the Beretta, pointing it directly at the Clone’s chest.

  Uri removed the Blue Beryl from the green felt pouch. He held it in both hands and slowly passed it to Mortimar. As he did, through barely open lips he said, “the Blue Beryl.”

  Mortimar’s heart raced. He couldn’t help but smile. He looked at the cover as if he were looking at his own newborn child.

  His eyes watered and he asked, “McAlister wanted this very very much, didn’t he, Uri?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “McAlister has a friend who is sick, does he not?”

  “Yes. Dying.”

  The Clone suddenly smiled, revealing angry veins along his gums. “I understand a man named DJ Warrant wanted it too, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Uri looked down, perhaps remembering his abbreviated time with Warrant.

  “Well, fuck them!” The Ghoul spat, his voice filled with hatred. “They’ve never had to walk around with a face like mine.”

  Spittle was dangling from his chin. He focused his unprotected eyeball, and then, finally, there it was. Uri had become uncomfortable. Mortimar had spent a lifetime observing how people reacted to his appearance. So far Uri had been impervious, but now, finally he was damn sure getting through.

  Mortimar starred at him a moment longer. Then, feeling he’d won the battle, he opened the book and gently paged through the thick pages of beautiful drawings. One after another, astounding illustrations of countless different kinds of flora and fauna. There were detailed instructions written next to each illustration.

  “It’s so beautiful.” He whispered under his breath.

  He continued paging through almost half the book, finally saying, “It’s beautiful. I can’t read a goddamn word of it, but it’s beautiful.”

  After a few more minutes he realized Uri was still patiently sitting across from him. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry, Uri. This book is slightly mesmerizing for someone like me. You understand, dear boy?”

  Uri nodded.

  The entire time, the Ghoul’s feet had been resting on a black Halliburton briefcase. He slowly extended his leg, his foot still on the case, and pushed it across the floor of the limousine. “There you are. Count it if you wish.”

  The Clone picked up the case and opened it. It was filled with money. Used hundreds, neatly stacked, wrapped in labels that read, “$10,000” in light green ink. “I trust it’s all here,” he said.

  “It is.” Mortimar said, looking down, still admiring the Blue Beryl. “It is, my dear boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you. Very good work. Take a vacation. Get well.”

  “I plan to.”

  Mortimar was once again engrossed in the illustrations in the Blue Beryl. He glanced up at Mark and nodded. Mark jumped out and held the door open.

  Uri moved toward the open door. “Good luck.”

  “Yes, yes goodbye, Uri, dear boy. Goodbye.”

  The Clone slid out, put on his shoes and jacket, and was gone, immediately blending into the city. Mortimar never looked up.

  Chapter 59

  The Clone smiled as he walked away from Mortimar’s limousine. The heft of the suitcase he was carrying made him giddy. He rounded 14th and hopped into a taxi waiting around the corner. Now, each move was choreographed.

  The Clone had the driver take him to the Hotel Tokyo on Canal Street and pull into the alley behind the hotel. At the rear entrance, he told the driver to wait and casually walked in and took the freight elevator to the 6th floor. At room 626, he inserted the time-worn key into the brass lock, turned the key, and slid inside the room.

  The room was a plain box. It featured scuffed white walls and dingy furniture with worn, tattered arm rests. The king bed had a six-inch valley through the middle. There were handprints and even some fingernail marks on the wall above the headboard.

  Joel Wasserman stood in the corner next to Lisa Goodwin, who was sitting on the bed. Joel had his hand on Lisa’s shoulder. When she saw the Clone, Lisa shuddered and put her hand on top of Joel’s, squeezing it tightly.

  The Clone put the suitcase on the bed and said, “It worked.”

  Joel was silent.

  The Clone walked over to a sink randomly attached to the middle of a wall and turned on the water. He reached up and pulled at the skin above his eyebrows. At first it stretched grotesquely away from his face and then it began to separate and peel away. Pulling down, he removed an entire layer down to his chin, wadded it up and threw it into the trash can below the sink.

  With the mask gone, there was an oval around his face. He washed it off using special soap designed to remove theatrical makeup, dried off, and turned toward Joel and Lisa.

  “I’m back.” said McAlister.

  “Again, I’ll say, that was an incredible make-up job.”

  “I’ll second that.” Lisa said, in a hushed tone.

  McAlister rushed over to her. She stood, and he held her gently, careful not to hurt her ribs. He could feel the tight layers of bandages wrapped around her torso.

&
nbsp; A nurse from the hospital had called last night. Lisa had woken in hysterics, demanding to be released. She’d refused to talk to anyone but McAlister. They had mildly sedated her and called him. He’d asked Joel to send a company limousine for her.

  “Did it fool Mortimar?” Joel asked nervously.

  “Fully.”

  Joel smiled for the first time. “Really?”

  “Totally.”

  McAlister regarded Joel critically. “I told you to wear something discreet. Something other than a Sunday-brunch-at-the-club outfit. What the hell is that? Nobody staying at this hotel dresses like that!”

  Joel glanced down at his blue blazer, khakis and loafers and then at McAlister’s angry face.

  “You did. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t care. Lisa and I are leaving first. After I’m gone, wait thirty minutes and then you leave. You can go out the front, but if you take a left at the front desk it leads you to the back way out. I recommend it.”

  “Do you have it?”

  Thomas slid the closet door open and reached up behind the soiled spare polyester blanket and pulled the book down. It was still in the original green felt pouch Elmo had used the night he’d stolen it.

  “It’s in here.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Of course. It’s in your care now.”

  Thomas slid the book out of the pouch and handed it to Joel.

  As Joel opened it, he asked, “How did you get it? From Nuan Cai and then from Warrant’s house?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Mortimar’s no fool. How did you figure out when to meet him?”

  “I didn’t have to. The night I went to DJ’s house, as I was leaving, I found Uri’s appointment book. The entire thing was in code. He’d used the Caesar shift, one of the oldest and easiest substitution ciphers to break. All you do is shift letters in the alphabet so that A become C and B becomes D and so on. Once you figure out how far the shift occurs, they’re simple to solve.”

  McAlister continued, “The time of the meeting was recorded as three o’clock instead of one o’clock. Similarly, the digits of Mortimar’s contact number and the meeting address were shifted. Once I determined he was using the Caesar shift, that was it. I knew when and where to meet him, how to get in touch with him, and how much money he was paying Uri.”

  “What did you sell him?”

  “A very old text I purchased from the library of the Chinese doctor who administered the medication to Taylor. It’s valuable, but not priceless. With what I paid, Dr. Hong will easily be able to replace it.”

  Joel shook his head. “I’m astounded Mortimar fell for it. He’s so shrewd. I think he’d spoken with The Clone over the phone. Were you worried about sounding like him?”

  “His jaw is wired shut, so his vocal range is limited. His voice was easy to fake. I heard him that night at DJ Warrant’s house. I’ve never been great at imitating people, but when you’re acting like you can’t move your jaw, it’s much easier.”

  “How did you arrange it so that the Clone didn’t arrive at the same time?”

  “I called and moved the meeting up by thirty minutes.”

  “Only thirty minutes?”

  “Yeah, if I’d changed it much more than that, it might’ve conflicted with another appointment and he might’ve changed the day or something. I couldn’t afford that.”

  “So the real Clone still thinks he’s meeting with Mortimar today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, my God. I’d love to see the look on his face when Mortimar isn’t there.”

  “Mortimar might still be there. My meeting took about twenty minutes. When I left, the limousine was still idling. Mortimar was just beginning to page through the book. If he stays long enough, Uri will arrive.”

  Joel said, “Someone could die at that meeting. Was his driver, Mark, there?”

  “Yes.”

  “That guy is ex-military. Special Forces.”

  “I figured.”

  “So is Uri. He was in a group called Spetznas, Russian Special Forces.”

  Thomas nodded.

  Joel shook his head again. “I can’t believe you cut it that close. If Uri shows up and Mortimar realizes he’s been conned, and Uri learns that Mortimar has given away his money to an imposter, they’re going to be a couple of pissed-off hornets. They’ll sting anything that moves.”

  “Yep.”

  “They’ll want revenge. They’ll come at you with everything they have. And they have a lot. They’ll stop at nothing to get to you.”

  “That’s why I’m leaving. In fact, we have to go right now.”

  Joel opened a brief case and put the Blue Beryl inside. “Thomas, I can’t believe you won’t let me pay you for this. There are many ways I could make it happen.”

  “Mortimar just paid me. I’m flush. More importantly, you’ve got the resources to turn these cures into medicines. I can’t do that. Plus, don’t forget you’re paying me on the backend. One percent?”

  Joel handed Thomas a packet. “Here’s our agreement. As we discussed, I will personally update you on our progress. It’s going to take a long time. Done properly, FDA approvals take years. Any marketable drugs, you’ll receive one percent of the gross revenue.”

  “That flew with your finance people?”

  “Right now it’s worth nothing, so they’re not worried about it. The CFO made it happen. We’ll bury the one percent in R&D. Don’t worry. We’ll make it happen. It’s here in the contract.”

  “I wish I had more time to review it.”’

  Joel patted him on the back. “Thomas, I give you my word. No tricks. It’s what you wanted. Any and all medicinal benefits contained in the book will be made available to the public by going through our drug development and testing process.”

  “Okay.” Thomas quickly perused the contract. The one percent commission was clearly spelled out. He saw the number of his account in the Caymans. He signed and dated the contract.

  “An important by-product of this may be that Cabbott overtakes Mortimar’s company as the dominant pharmaceutical company in the world. If that happens, I’ll secede Mortimar as leader of the Council. It will become about promoting good ideas, not suppressing drugs to drive up prices. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Just make sure you’re wearing body armor the day your company’s market cap surpasses his.”

  “In his own demented way, Mortimar does have a sense of fair play. If my company were to legitimately outperform his, he would accept that. He’d work his ass off to retake the lead. But he’d accept it.”

  Thomas handed Joel the contract. “Okay, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “It’s better if we don’t say. We’re going away for awhile. I’ve arranged for around-the-clock protection for Taylor and I’ll be getting updates twice a day. You should monitor his progress too. I’ve done all I can for him. You know how to get in touch with me if you need to.”

  Joel extended his hand. “Good luck. And thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means and, if this works, how much it will mean to the pharmaceutical industry.”

  “I hope it works. I’m glad you came along on this.”

  Joel walked over to Lisa and extended his hand. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at McAlister and quietly said, “I’m feeling better already.”

  Joel smiled. Lisa had been staring at McAlister since he’d walked in. “Good.”

  McAlister collected their bags and quickly left the room.

  They took the elevator to the second floor and then the back fire escape stairs down to the first floor. As he’d done that morning, they exited through the kitchen to the back alley. There, waiting for him, was the armored limousine he’d rented for the past few days. He opened the door for Lisa and helped her in.

  They stopped twice on the way to the airport. Once at the post of
fice, where McAlister mailed half the money Mortimar had given him to the address of his P.O Box in Miami.

  The next stop was the oldest bank in Manhattan, where McAlister put the other half into a safety deposit box.

  At Peterborough Airport, the driver drove them out onto the tarmac to the waiting jet. McAlister tipped his driver, and then tipped him again, to help him forget who his passenger had been for the past few days. Then he and Lisa hurried aboard.

  Chapter 60

  On the South side of Manhattan, Sam Mortimar’s limousine continued to idle as he excitedly paged through the book the Clone had sold him. Mark sat in front, at the wheel, waiting. He constantly scanned the horizon looking for ECs--enemy combatants--a habit acquired long ago.

  Mark rarely spoke unless spoken to, but suddenly he said, “Mr. Mortimar, twelve o’clock.” He caught himself and said, “Please look straight ahead, sir.”

  Mortimar looked up. “What, Mark?”

  “Ahead. On the sidewalk, walking toward us, sir.”

  Mortimar squinted and gazed ahead. “Is he coming back?”

  A man who looked very much like the one who’d just been in his car was walking toward them, limping, wearing only a t-shirt.

  “That’s not the same man. It’s got to be an imposter.” Mark said.

  “But look. He’s wearing a t-shirt, just as we requested.”

  “He’s got a pronounced limp too.”

  A wave of sickness consumed Mortimar. What if the other man had been the imposter? No, he told himself. That couldn’t be. That man had been too composed and he’d known too much.

  Mark added, “ The limp looks real. He looks….smaller. Wiry.”

  “No question, Mark. It’s a different man. Let’s find out who this guy is.”

  Inwardly, Mortimar knew something was amiss. Ice-like adrenaline surged into his veins. Without even knowing the outcome, he began plotting his revenge. If he’d been crossed, someone would pay dearly. With his life.