He might not have all the details worked out in his head yet, but he had enough to get through today. The building stood non-conspicuously with only a single sign to the left side of the double glass doors labeling the place Avient Pharmaceuticals. No one would have any clue what occurred inside. It matched the surrounding business district, tucked away in the background. All the buildings looked similar: white stucco, blacked-out windows, square buildings of varying heights. This particular building appeared to be six floors, but Malcolm knew of the sub-terrain floors thanks to the blueprints Omar dredged up.
Malcolm marveled at how no matter the century, lawyers or clergy had no issues transitioning his identities. As if their clients were all nameless, faceless beings anyway. It took longer for him. For now, he still felt like Malcolm, and always Gabriel. It would take him a while before he started thinking of himself as Barnaby. The name didn’t sit well. He wouldn’t keep it for long.
They walked together toward the non-descript entrance. Malcolm cleared his throat. “Regarding our other matter.”
Omar held up a hand. “It’s already being taken care of. The sale of Eye of the Beholder will be complete within the week. The new owners will ask that Debbie Anderson stay on as general manager and operator. They will expect monthly status reports and review the finances with the company’s accountants. Her new pay and benefits will be effective immediately. That is unless you have changed your mind about her.” Omar stopped, sensing the sudden, chilly mood rolling off Malcolm.
“The new owners should open the position to applicants for at least a month. Miss Anderson is welcome to apply and will have to be interviewed along with any other potentially qualified employees,” Malcolm responded.
Omar raised one eyebrow as he held the door open for Malcolm. “Done. I thought you might change your mind. After all that she...” He stopped, closing his lips in a thin line in response to the death stare Malcolm gave him. Malcolm let the timeless power of his race flow out of him that caused a hard ball like Omar Bilal to pale. “I didn’t mean to pry. I needed to know what we were dealing with. Malcolm Jones is innocent. The report of one girl, with parents of a questionable nature, wouldn’t go far. A simple exam by a qualified psychiatrist would release any and all questions. You could keep your prior identity, if you wanted.”
He thought of everyone who had seen him carted off unconscious by a mental hospital. No, he couldn’t go back, even if he cleared his name. He could never go back to being the rich and sweet but mysterious European man who owned the bookstore. People would always wonder.
As if reading his mind, Omar said, quieting his voice as they approached the receptionist desk, “an evaluation wouldn’t be necessary now, since Miss Anderson dropped her charges. The sale could still go through, but Malcolm could move elsewhere.”
This piqued his interest. He could resume his identity as Malcolm; he’d grown fond of it. He could move abroad or to New York. Perhaps he could work with Makir in the Detroit police force. “I’ll consider it.”
Instead of a receptionist, three security guards met them by a large front desk. Each wore a white shirt, navy-blue pants, black shiny shoes, and walkie-talkies strapped to their shoulders. They strolled with a swagger that suggested they possessed some great authority, but pepper spray attached to their belts was the most dangerous thing on them. “Can I help you gentlemen?” a rather large black man asked in a deep voice.
“Yes. I’m Omar Bilal. This is Barnaby Hart. We are here to see Mr. Guo.”
The man nodded. “Uh huh. Do you have an appointment?”
Omar kept the man’s gaze. “Yes, at nine thirty.”
The main guard grabbed a phone, punched in some numbers, and eyed them while it rang. This man had a serious god-complex. Malcolm resisted the urge to make a snide comment.
“Yes. This is Jackson Goodwin at the security desk. There is an Omar Bilal and uh…” He bobbed his head toward Malcolm.
“Barnaby Hart,” Malcolm said.
“Barnaby Hurt.” Jackson looked him up and down, sizing him up. Malcolm had a distinct impression he got his name wrong on purpose. “Yes, ma’am.” Jackson put the receiver down. “Please have a seat. Mrs. Jagger will be with you shortly.”
Omar didn’t say a word and walked like he owned the place to a sitting area to the side. The black leather chair squeaked as Omar rested his considerable weight on it, but the steel legs underneath held his massive frame. Omar ran a finger across the sleek, black side table. Malcolm preferred comfort to luxury. He’d learned early how much more important it was to be comfortable than to look impressive. Impressiveness, in his opinion, should come from character and actions, not appearances. Omar reeked confidence as if he had the right to be anywhere, meet anyone, and do anything. Malcolm could be those things at times, namely when he had a target, but it never oozed out of him like it did with Zari and Aelia.
Malcolm sat, crossing one leg over the other, and observed the front lobby. Not much to see really: typical marble floors, black glittering pillars, and an entrance ramp where employees had to scan an ID card for access down a hallway where eight elevators stood four to a set, mirroring each other.
He couldn’t recall if the blueprints showed if those elevators would reach those seven sub-terrain floors. Malcolm had dug up anything and everything he could on the place. He’d stayed up most of the night, but he’d live. It wasn’t like lack of sleep could kill an immortal. He wasn’t sure if he needed sleep, but he found it enjoyable. He’d gone a max of five days without sleep, but he’d been slower in thought than he’d liked to admit and had to consume way more sugar than he could easily get his hands on at the time. It had gotten much easier in this day and age. In the past, honey had been a big part of his so-called diet. Now he avoided it like the plague. Centuries of eating the same thing would do that to a man. He had had an apiary in the past. Maybe he would get one again. Being a beekeeper had been an enjoyable career. Shaking his head to clear these random thoughts, he asked, “Who is Mrs. Jagger?”
Omar, a man always on top of things, had pulled up a tablet as soon as he sat, logged on, and was answering emails while he waited. Malcolm guessed he did this at stop lights as well. He was a workaholic to the core. Without looking up, he said, “She is Mr. Guo’s personal assistant.”
Ahh, the fancy title for a secretary. While speaking of the devil, the elevator doors chimed, and a woman stepped out. The fifty-year-old woman wore black dress pants and a green blouse with gray high heels. She smiled dutifully at the guards as she bypassed the security desk, and Malcolm and Omar stood. They met her halfway.
She took Omar’s outstretched hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Sharon Jagger. If you will come with me, I’ll take you to Mr. Guo.”
“Omar Bilal, and this is…”
“Barnaby Hart,” Sharon finished for Omar as she held onto Malcolm’s hand a second longer than was necessary, pouring on the charm. He supposed she would do this to anyone who planned on sinking a large sum of money in the company. Or maybe she found him handsome and needed to get laid.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Malcolm said. He retracted his hand as smoothly as he could and slid it into his pocket.
“The pleasure is all mine. Come this way.” Sharon waved them on while giving them her back. She brushed past the security desk and didn’t give them a second look. The big guard who had given them so much grief didn’t glance their way.
Sharon’s shoes clacked as she walked across the hallway. They reached the elevators, and she pushed the button going up. “Avient Pharmaceuticals was founded in 1957 by David Shealy. It began as a simple pharmaceutical company making the basics like aspirin and acetaminophen. However, with the insurgence of evidence-based medicine and scientific research, the company got a facelift.” The elevator doors dinged as they opened, and Omar and Malcolm followed Sharon inside. She kept speaking the whole ride up to the sixth floor. “At first, we dabbled at it, but in the last two decades, Avient Pharmaceuticals has beco
me one of the most powerful pharmaceutical and agricultural companies in the world. We lead the industry by at least fifteen years in our genetic research, specifically regarding new and improved cancer treatments. But nothing we have accomplished could have done without investors, generous men such as yourself, to help fund our progress.” In a feminine computer-generated voice, the elevator announced, “Sixth floor.”
The trio stepped out of the elevator into a well-lit hallway with thin, cream-colored carpet, which was good for not showing stains or tracks. Polished wooden walls lined the hallways with hand painted art along the ways, not the reprint stuff that businesses usually had. She led them to the very end of the hall through a heavy wooden door into a room with another reception desk. This one had a young, short-haired brunette with curling hair around her jawline. The phone rang, over and over, as they strolled passed her desk. A chorus of, “Avient Pharmaceuticals, please hold. Avient Pharmaceuticals, please hold,” followed them out of the room.
Passages of cubical type walls ran everywhere, like a strange labyrinth making no sense, but he suspected they hid various personal assistants’ desks. This place gave off a prison vibe, and escape would be futile. Malcolm pushed the thought away.
Sharon knocked on a door in the back, and a man called from inside, voice muffled through the walls. She opened the door leading them inside. An elderly Asian man with fine wrinkles, salted hair, and short, thin body walked toward them, all smiles. “Hello, I am Fu Guo. It’s an honor to have you here.”
They exchanged greetings, the first of many throughout Malcolm’s morning at Avient Pharmaceuticals. After many hours looking from lab to lab, hearing all about the company, and learning which divisions worked on what, Malcolm finally hit pay dirt. Mr. Guo was in his closing remarks, about to inquire how much and how soon Malcolm’s company would be investing when Malcolm spotted a sign on the elevator door: Agricultural division, sub 3. “Excuse me, Mr. Guo. I would like to see the Agricultural division. It is a personal interest of mine.”
“Of course,” he said at once, not denying him much of anything. He pressed the button for the appropriate floor and gave Sharon a look. Something passed between them, and she retrieved her phone from her pocket, typed with swift fingers that were surprising for an older woman, and just as fast, she slipped the phone back into her front pants pocket. She had probably warned someone of their approach.
He bet there weren’t a ton of investors interested in this department. Mr. Guo kept them confined to high dollar and high stakes departments that dealt with things like cancer, Alzheimer's, heart disease, and mental health. Most investors, if they had any kind of heart, would pick a company such as this because they lost their mother to cancer or their grandfather was in early stages of dementia. But plants would be low on many people’s radar. Malcolm knew Avient Pharmaceuticals had divisions in pain medications, gout, and toenail fungus, but what company wanted to back those? They certainly wouldn’t if they wanted good PR from such an investment.
Subfloor three lacked the impressiveness the others had. No prestigious reception desk greeted them on this floor. Instead, everything was white, bright white, hurting Malcolm’s eyes. They treaded down white tiled floors while a strong smell of disinfectant and bleach mixed with the earthy tang of fresh soil hung in the air. People milled around in lab coats behind glass doors. Various plants and flowers grew in makeshift greenhouses in the little labs. Many tables had been filled to the brim with miscellaneous papers while others held test tubes, Bunsen burners, and microscopes. This is what Malcolm had expected throughout the building tour, but he had been disappointed by the luxuriousness of the other departments. He told Mr. Guo this.
A graying brown-haired man in mud-stained khaki pants, white button-up shirt, and lab coat flew out of a lab on the right. His glasses slid down to the edge of his nose. “Mr. Guo, so good of you to come see us.”
Malcolm guessed Mr. Guo never came down to this section. The man introduced himself as Nicholas Cole, Ph.D. He appeared as flabbergasted as he looked, shaking everyone’s hands with an uncomfortably sweaty palm and dirt stains on the ends of his sleeves. When he got to Malcolm he blurted, “Not too many want to invest in our plants, Mr. Hart.”
Thousands of years had taught Malcolm to pick up on the subtle clues humans gave off. Mr. Guo, Sharon, and Omar cringed a little at Dr. Cole’s words. People who worked with plants all day, down three floors below ground without much human interaction weren’t always the most socially adept people. Malcolm didn’t mind in the slightest. “A man who gets straight to the point. Exactly the man I need. I’m sure this is not a moneymaker, but in my opinion, and in those of my constituent partners, the endless possibilities of plants are overlooked. How many billions of dollars are poured into this company on a yearly basis developing new and synthetic ways to cure illness and disease, when Mother Nature has already given us the tools?”
As he expected, Dr. Cole opened right up. “Exactly. Exactly.” Excitement shone from his eyes, and this time when he looked into Malcolm's face, he truly saw him, unlike the way this current generation of humans, who tended to see each other only in a polite flash. Malcolm had Dr. Cole’s attention now. “I have been saying very similar things for years, Mr. Hart. But this is true not just for illness and disease. My assistants and I work alongside the most brilliant minds in botany, horticulture, and genetic engineering. We study how different plants can be utilized in medical uses, of course, but also on ways to improve growth and on the functionality of plants. Imagine a world in which the foods we eat have fewer calories or boost our natural metabolism, causing weight loss. Obesity, especially in the United States, has skyrocketed in the last fifty years, with no end in sight. If we could decrease this by incorporating new foods into the diet of the population, then we could decrease diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and many types of cancers. We already know so many plants that already do that, but if we could enhance this natural ability, the sky is the limit.”
Mr. Guo coughed into his arm; subtlety was obviously not his strong suit.
Dr. Cole’s rant halted, and he sputtered, flushing red, “I’m only saying their potential is...”
“Limitless,” Malcolm and Dr. Cole finished in unison.
Dr. Cole brightened again. Mr. Guo gave a sharp intake of breath. This clearly wasn't what he had in mind. If there was a big-time investor going to drop a butt load of money in his company, he wanted to direct it, not throw it away into this money-sucking pothole that never resulted in any revenue for the company. Malcolm didn't have to be a genius to realize the only reason this branch of the company existed was to appease some protestors and corporate PR. Why would this company want to produce a plant to decrease obesity when that would mean all those moneymaking drugs for diabetes, blood pressure, and cholesterol would become useless? However, Malcolm had pushed the conversation where he wanted it to lead, wasted funds indeed.
He had neither interest in this company nor if they made money. He needed a tiny foothold in this company to get near Dharma Knight and halt whatever horrible future awaited humanity.
Malcolm threw Mr. Guo his most charming smile. “We have taken up so much of your time already, Mr. Guo. I would very much be interested in what Dr. Cole has to say. I’m sure someone could let Mrs. Jagger know when we’re done and show us the way out.”
Disgust flitted across Guo’s face. He was clearly not happy with being undermined or with Malcolm giving a sizable investment into this particular department, but his expression relaxed, and he dipped his head. No longer smiling or meeting Malcolm’s eyes, as he’d been deemed no longer useful, he nodded toward Sharon, strolling away toward the elevator.
Sharon controlled the annoyance present in her pinched eyebrows at having her time wasted. She smiled, the politeness not reaching her eyes, and extended a hand. “On behalf of Avient Pharmaceuticals, I want to personally thank the both of you for coming out today to see our company. I do look forward to working with you and your board
of directors if you choose to invest.”
Their hands remained clasped and each time she told a lie, Malcolm felt the quiver in the woman's fingers.
“We appreciate your time. I can only imagine how precious it is, with all the work you do saving lives. I’ll take everything I have learned back to the various interested parties, and we shall be in touch to let you know the final decision,” Malcolm said, not feeling the least bit sorry for the ruse.
“Wonderful. Mr. Hart. Bilal. Cole.” Sharon gave a curt nod before disappearing toward the elevator. She lifted a finger, following the CEO into the elevator. “Dr. Cole, you have my info. Contact me when you’re done.”
Dr. Cole nodded with an expression of utter disbelief.
While waiting for Dr. Cole to come to his senses, Malcolm’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. Dharma Knight was walking his way, and she looked pissed.
14
With bated breath, Malcolm watched Dharma approach. She didn’t spare him a glance. Her hair was pulled back tight against her head in a fierce ponytail. Her blue eyes flashed, anger bright behind them. “Nicholas. I cannot believe you left Charles in charge. I have spent the entire morning trying to figure out all the mistakes he’s made. He has set my department back by at least a week.”
Dr. Cole swallowed and flicked his eyes from her to Malcolm. “Mr. Hart, this is Dr. Dharma Knight, head of our genetic horticultural department. Dr. Knight, this is Mr. Hart, he is interested in investing in Avient, possibly in our department.” He laid the hint on thick.
The fire didn’t diminish in the slightest as she met his eyes while stretching out her hand. He did everything he could to hide any anxiety as he extended his hand to meet hers. As their hands clasped, her face changed. Suspicion shadowed it but vanished in an instant. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed it.
The Dream Thief Page 12