Book of Nathan

by Curt Weeden

  “We can’t have you publicly exposing Arcontius. So we’re willing to negotiate.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Because Arcontius isn’t Arita Almiras.”

  There was no uncertainty in Russet’s statement. “Really? And you know that because—”

  “Because Abraham has been working undercover for years. Not for the Almiras Society. For Quia Vita.”

  This I didn’t expect. It was one of those unanticipated lightning bolts that frazzle pre-conceived ideas. “He works for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be goddamned!” Of course! It was Arcontius who sent the note to Russet the night Doc and I crept into her Visio Dei meeting. Doug had told Arcontius we’d be infiltrating the session and he fed that information to Russet.

  “Out of the blue you call me up and blow Arcontius’s cover,” I said. “Why?”

  “Because you’re on the verge of pulling him out of the closet. The right kind of detective work will prove that Arcontius is actually a Quia Vita operative. If that were to happen, our organization could be greatly compromised.”

  Compromised was an understatement, I thought. Ruined was more accurate.

  “In a week, maybe two, Abraham’s going to leave his position,” Russet continued. I figured it was information that was supposed to make me feel better about keeping quiet. No reason to talk about a little espionage if the secret agent was no longer on the job.

  “You mean he’s going to quit? Just because you say so?”

  “It will be a medical leave of absence,” Russet explained. “Abraham will be sick for a few weeks and later on, he’ll tender his resignation. For health reasons.”

  I wondered what kind of trumped-up illness Arcontius was about to contract or whether Quia Vita would make the slimy rat bastard sick for real. “You’ll miss your deep-cover spy.”

  “Abraham hasn’t been as effective as he once was. It could be his age or maybe he’s just tired.”

  “Or maybe he’s been wearing three hats instead of two.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “How certain are you that Abe isn’t running the Almiras Society? What if he’s been skimming the cream from his undercover exploits and feeding it to the Almiras crowd. All Quia Vita has been getting the last couple of years is low-fat milk.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I heard little conviction.

  “Is it? Look, Silverstein thinks Arcontius works for him. You think Abraham works for you. But didn’t it ever occur to you that Abe could be pushing his own agenda?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “You know the man. Doesn’t he think your organization is too soft? Hasn’t he been on your case to turn Quia Vita into a more militant organization?”

  It was pure supposition. I took Russet’s silence as a “yes.”

  “Ida Kyzwoski told me the Almiras Society has connections to big money. Well, supposing Arcontius found a way to tap into some of Silverstein’s fortune. Would a billionaire miss a few million? Done the right way, maybe not.”

  “You’re reaching,” charged Russet.

  “Possibly. But I think I’m cozying up to the truth. Abraham Arcontius. Almiras Society. Same initials. Same man.”

  “Arcontius is our problem,” said Judith. “We’ll handle him. What we’re asking you to do is to keep all of this to yourself.”

  “And in exchange, you’ll do what?”

  “Give you what you said you wanted. Information about when and where the Book of Nathan disk is to be handed over to us.”

  I reacted too quickly, which made it obvious I had been anticipating Russet’s offer. “I’ll think about it. But first, I need you to answer a question. Le Campion’s notes that you bought for two point five million—did they tell you anything about the Book of Nathan’s take on abortion?”

  Russet held back an answer. She was trying to figure out where I was heading. “Henri interpreted certain parts of the book. But until we see the translated text firsthand, we won’t know how accurate his notes are.”

  “But whatever he put in his notes got your attention.”

  “Our conclusions are likely to be different from Henri’s. Like I said—we won’t know that until we get the disk and use the translation key to pull apart the encrypted text.”

  “Henri’s conclusions—what are they?”

  “I’m not getting into that.” Russet punched out her words like bullets.

  Maybe a little provocation would keep the dialogue alive. “I take that to mean Henri found something in the book that won’t sit well with the pro-life world.”

  “Le Campion’s notes aren’t explicit.”

  “Explicit enough to convince Quia Vita to buy those notes and the Book of Nathan translation for five million. Not a bad investment if the disk turns out to be bad news for your organization. Buy it, then bury it.”

  I could feel Russet’s irritation boil into anger. I knew she wanted to tell me to go to hell, which is where she thought I was destined to end up anyway. But I had picked at a scab that caused an automatic defensive reaction.

  “If you think the book dismisses ensoulment, you’re wrong.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Then Le Campion’s notes must have told you when ensoulment actually starts.”

  Russet was getting increasingly careful with her words. “In a way.”

  “And?”

  “His notes are ours. We’re not about to give you or anyone else free access to that information.”

  “Here’s what I think. If the notes back up Quia Vita’s position that ensoulment begins at conception, then you’re probably already planning a national information campaign that can be launched when you get the disk. If the notes say otherwise, you can’t wait to throw Henri’s translation in the furnace.”

  It was another stick in Russet’s eye and it poked out a few words she probably should have kept to herself. “Ensoulment is a process, not something that’s switched on at conception. At least that’s the way Henri Le Campion interprets the Book of Nathan.”

  “You can’t be ecstatic over that bit of news,” I said. “After Mr. Sperm does his thing to Ms. Egg, whatever’s created is soulless.”

  “We’re created with a receptacle, Bullock. According to LeCampion’s interpretation of the book, what we put into that receptacle determines the level of ensoulment. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.”

  “Fascinating,” I replied. And actually it was fascinating, although hardly intriguing enough to justify killing a man or even coughing up five million bucks. “So, where does that leave you and Quia Vita? If we’re conceived with a receptacle and not a soul, that sort of weakens your pro-life argument, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that personhood starts at conception.”

  “You can be a person without a soul?”

  “Yes. People are created with the capacity to become ensouled. That capacity is what defines personhood and personhood begins at conception.”

  “Unless the Book of Nathan also blows that assumption apart.”

  “Speculating on what’s in the book and what isn’t doesn’t deal with the matter at hand,” said Russet. “What we need right now is your word that you’ll keep the information you have about Arcontius confidential.”

  “How do you know I’ll keep whatever promise I make?”

  “I told you before, we’re quite good at learning as much as we can about the people who can help us—or hurt us.”

  I recalled Conway Kyzwoski’s video production featuring Rick Bullock. “You and a lot of other people.”

  “Of course, as trustworthy as we think you are, we still need insurance that you won’t create—a problem for us.”

  “Insurance?”

  “We have information about your involvement with Manuel Maglio. Pictures of you entering and leaving his office in Edison. Copies of checks you received from one of his holding companies. Spending time at a place called Climax isn’t likely
to further your career.”

  Russet apparently didn’t understand that managing a men’s shelter isn’t on par with running IBM. A few Polaroids of a visit to an Edison nudie bar would hardly be enough to get me fired. A payment or two from Manny Maglio might be a different story—but my board of directors would most likely let me off that hook as well because it’s a lot easier to forgive a transgression than to go through the agony of hiring a new shelter director. Even though Russet’s threat meant nothing, I was rankled by the tactic she was using.

  “Is blackmail something Quia Vita does often or just on special occasions?” I asked, trying to keep the reins on my anger. “And by the way, Maglio’s money was reimbursement for travel expenses.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Russet said. “Just understand we have what it takes to damage your reputation.” I picked up an undercurrent of embarrassment that I took to mean the Quia Vita chief wished she weren’t wading in this kind of muck. “Everything stays under wraps as long as you stay quiet about Arcontius.”

  “This intimidation nonsense isn’t just demeaning to you and Quia Vita, it’s totally pointless,” I said heatedly. “I gave you my word and if you’ve really done your homework, you know I don’t back off a promise. Now tell me when and where you’ll be picking up the CD.”

  Russet didn’t waste time. “We’re supposed to get delivery of the Book of Nathan disk tomorrow night. It’s to be given to two of our Visio Dei officers.”

  “Who’s going to make the delivery? The thief who took the disk?”

  “No. A middleman named Osman Seleucus. Once we’re in contact with Seleucus, we’ll be told when and how to send a second two point five million to the Cayman Islands.”

  The news came as a setback. I had hoped there wouldn’t be an intermediary involved. “Osman Seleucus—what do you know about him?”

  “Nothing. He’s probably just a hired hand.”

  “What about your two Visio Dei people who’ll be picking up the disk? How will Seleucus recognize them?”

  “As part of the deal, we posted their names and pictures on our main Web site. That was done earlier today—their photos are the last entries on a page we use to honor our volunteer leaders.”

  It was becoming more apparent that whoever was selling Le Campion’s CD was both smart and crafty. “How will you let me know when the disk gets handed over?”

  “One of our people will call you on your cell phone. You’re to keep your distance until the transaction is finished. After that, you can follow Mr. Seleucus or take whatever action you want as long as you don’t implicate Quia Vita.”

  “Where’s all this going to happen?”

  The answer was matter-of-fact to Judith Russet and staggering to me. “Ellis Island.”

  “Ellis Island?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night.”

  “There’s a testimonial dinner for Arthur Silverstein tomorrow night. At the Registry Hall on Ellis Island.”

  “Which is where Osman Seleucus is to turn over the Book of Nathan disk.”

  Chapter 22

  Noon. My Manny Maglio apprehension needle was about to cross into the panic zone when Yigal Rosenblatt finally called. Yes, he made it to Orlando. Yes, Twyla was fine. And—oh, by the way—“she’s staying at my place.”

  I wondered what the lawyer’s nest must look like. It couldn’t be pretty—not if the interior design were as out-of-kilter as Zeusenoerdorf’s defense attorney.

  “You’re going to get Twyla to Universal Studios on Monday,” I reminded Yigal.

  “I will.”

  “Before nine a.m.”

  “I’ll drive her there,” Yigal assured me.

  “And for the rest of the weekend, stay low. Maybe hang out at your place.”

  “Okay,” he said too quickly.

  “And turn your damn cell on. I tried reaching you all morning. No answer.”

  The lawyer pledged to keep his phone at the ready. Apparently it had been turned off last night and for most of the morning. Seems Twyla and Yigal decided to sleep late. I didn’t ask for details. Better not to know.

  “If there’s a problem, call me.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “It’s important. If anything smells funny, get on the phone.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I should be reachable all weekend. Except maybe tomorrow night. I’m not sure what the cell reception is like on Ellis Island.”

  Yigal’s reaction was uncharacteristically slow. “Ellis Island?”

  “Yeah, tomorrow night.”

  “Why Ellis Island?” Yigal’s tone was even and deliberate. I could feel his sense of concern.

  “Going fishing,” I answered. “I’ll call Sunday and let you know if I got lucky.”

  After I disconnected, the change in Yigal’s tone of voice nagged at me. Maybe there was more going on underneath the hopped-up attorney’s exterior than I thought.

  Doug called just after lunch. “You in Orlando yet?”

  “Getting there,” I said, trying to sound farther away than in my office, which was just an hour southwest of the Hudson River.

  “What do you mean, ‘getting there?’ Didn’t you fly? I told you Manny was good for the tickets.”

  “We’re driving.”

  Doug instantly sounded concerned. “What does ‘we’re’ mean?”

  “Remember Yigal Rosenblatt—Zeus’s lawyer?”

  “Yeah, I remember. What’s going on, Bullet?”

  “Nothing,” I replied just a tad too easily. My lie needed some pumping up. “Yigal had to drive back to Orlando, so Twyla and I hitched a ride. We left yesterday, spent last night in Savannah, and now we’re closing in on Orlando. Let Manny know we’re saving him all kinds of money—maybe he’ll up his United Way pledge.”

  “Why do I think there’s more to this story?” asked Doug who could smell a fabrication a mile away.

  “Relax. Twyla will be parked in Orlando tonight, and I’ll be on a plane back to New Jersey first thing in the morning. I have a car service lined up to get Twyla to work on Monday.”

  “Just don’t screw this up.”

  “I won’t if you won’t,” I told my pal. “Which brings us to Doc Waters and Maurice Tyson. You’re sure they’re on the worker list for tomorrow night’s dinner?”

  “They’re on the list,” said Doug. “Be in Jersey City by five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. And remember to get to Hinkle’s and pick up a couple of tuxedos for your pals. You’ll never know how many strings I had to pull to make this happen.”

  “And you’ll never know what it’s like to handhold Manny Maglio’s promiscuous niece.”

  “Cry me a river. Listen, there’s one wrinkle—” He stopped.

  Uh-oh. “Wrinkle’s a naughty word, Doug.”

  “It’s a small thing.”

  I braced myself. “What small thing?”

  “The doctor you wanted to talk to—the guy at Overlook Hospital in Jersey who worked on Ruth Silverstein.”

  “What about him?”

  “Roger Meseck’s his name and he’s heading out of town.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “He and his wife are driving to Baltimore later today for a medical conference and a long weekend with their daughter and grandson. So, you’re going have to put off contacting him until he gets home.”

  “Dammit,” I muttered.

  “Did my best. The man isn’t going to be around.”

  “You talked to him in person?”

  “Called him at his house.”

  “You have his number?”

  The hesitation that followed told me Doug knew he had stepped into quicksand. “Don’t hassle the guy, Bullet.”

  “Any time you’re ready. Make sure you include the area code.”

  Dr. Roger Meseck answered his phone a half hour before he and his wife were to leave. I managed to convince him “it would really be helpful to those of us working on the Ruth Silverstein Trust” if he could make a quick stop an
d meet me at the East Brunswick Hilton just off exit 9 of the Jersey Turnpike. An hour later, the Mesecks’ Jaguar pulled to a stop in front of the hotel.

  “Oh, my God,” Mrs. Meseck squealed. “You were on TV. The kielbasa thing.”

  It was now as obvious as Mrs. Meseck’s facelift that I had become branded for life. As soon as I ended my campaign to save Zeus, the Dubensko Polish Meat Products Company and I would have a little chat about a multimillion dollar endorsement deal.

  “We’re going to one of Roger’s dreary meetings,” Mrs. Meseck informed me as if I had known her half my life. “I’ll be visiting with my grandson, David, while Roger is doing who knows what.”

  I smiled as politely as I could. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “But here’s the thing,” Mrs. Meseck continued. “Little David saw the Kielbasavan on television, Mr. Bullock. He simply adores it.”

  “It’s easy to love,” I concurred.

  “I have Davey’s cap in the backseat of our car. Would you be a dear and sign the brim? And you know what would be really special? Could you draw a little picture of a kielbasa under your name?”

  If I didn’t want answers from Roger Meseck, I would have written a couple of words on Little Davey’s hat that would have gotten the kid expelled from kindergarten.

  “Dr. Meseck, I have a question about Arthur Silverstein’s daughter,” I said after handing the autographed hat to the doctor’s wife complete with a turd-like rendition of a sausage.

  “Yes, Dr. Kool mentioned you’re updating the giving guidelines for Ruth’s charitable trust?”

  “That and we’re also trying to put together a few words for Arthur’s testimonial dinner. You know about the Ellis Island event?”

  “We weren’t invited,” the doctor said. “I don’t support the United Way. It’s too socialistic, and they give money to causes we think are left of center.”

  Like a men’s homeless shelter? It would have been fun to poke at Dr. Meseck’s philosophy of life, but there was a more pressing issue.

  “I gather Ruth Silverstein died from severe blood loss,” I said.

  “I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with the trust or the testimonial?”