A Star Called Lucky

by Bapsy Jain

  Coleman said, “This man is Lobsang Telok. He was born in Dharamsala in 1959; his mother fled from Lhasa to India with the Dalai Lama’s entourage earlier that year. This is the only photo we have of him. He’s kind of in hiding. It is said that he is shy of cameras, in fact, resistant to all technology.” He pulled the memory stick from Lucky’s laptop and put it back in his inner jacket pocket, giving his chest a final pat, and continuing:

  “His father was the personal physician to the Dalai Lama, but he was murdered right as the Dalai Lama fled to India. The boy and his mother escaped.”

  “All right.”

  “I’d like to find this man. I’d like to meet him. I need your help.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucky said, “I’m an accountant and a volunteer yoga teacher and work for the Department of Corrections. I just don’t…”

  Coleman stood up and placed his hands palm down on the desk. He leaned across at Lucky and said, “I need someone smart to help me out with a small project. It won’t take long, and I’ll pay you very, very well. And I want someone from outside of my organization, someone familiar with Mumbai. I’ve already asked your boss if I can borrow you for a few weeks. Didn’t he tell you? I know this isn’t your line of work, but you’ve got some kind of gift when it comes to this software thing. I’d like you to help my people find this man, Lobsang.”

  “But why me? Why not someone on the software team?”

  “Because you’re from Mumbai, you have lived there and that is where Lobsang visits. He runs a temporary clinic there.”

  Lucky laughed. “So are half the engineers writing code. They could have fielded a cricket team!”

  “Yes, but only two of them actually lived in India recently. The rest were born in the USA or moved here young with their parents. Believe me, I’ve checked. You weren’t on my radar at first, but I did my research. You would have connections with your business background there, I mean, you know the lay of the land, the culture, the people, and can perhaps charm them into talking.” Looking deep into Lucky’s eyes, he continued, “And that demonstration I asked for was no accident—it was a test. Shall I say you exceeded my expectations? Besides that, there’s something else—the guys here are all engineers. They’re good as far as their thinking goes, but they think like engineers. You don’t. Where I’m asking you to go, and what I’m asking you to do, they wouldn’t have a clue. You think out of the box, and I need people who see things differently. I have boatloads of engineers at my disposal. Buildings full of them. You’re intuitive in ways they’re not. And you already showed me that you could use the software intelligently. I can’t ask my local staff, this is 100% confidential.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucky said. “I’ve got a home, my son to think of.”

  “I’m not asking you to go away for months, just a few days or weeks.” He sighed. “If it works out, then perhaps something more—later, down the line. Who knows? Maybe I can find a place for you in Washington. Leave this little side-show burg.”

  Lucky looked at Coleman. His expression was both grave and sincere.

  “What’s so important about this guy, anyway?” Lucky asked. “Why is the GWC interested in a poor Tibetan refugee?”

  Coleman walked around the desk and sat on the edge, right in front of Lucky. “This influenza we talked about today—it’s not a theory. Have you ever had the flu? Or heard about the new strain of Influenza?” Coleman paused and looked Lucky over. “Of course you’ve had the flu. Everybody has. But not like this. The first flu epidemic was in 1918. Spanish Influenza, they called it. Killed more people than the First World War. Twenty million died. And you know what was strange about it? It wasn’t the old and the young and the sick and the lame and so forth who died—it was mostly healthy men and women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.

  “Why them? Why the healthy and not the old and the sick and the weak? That was what was so frightening—so unexpected about it. We’ve studied the epidemic for years, and the gene sequences of the virus, and now we think we know why that was.

  “Picture a tickle in your throat. Just a tickle, mind you, a little feather of goose down in your esophagus. Five, maybe ten minutes later you cough, just a little ‘hut-hut’ to clear the airway. But it doesn’t go away and so you get a drink of water and think that will help. And it does, for maybe fifteen minutes or so. Then you get hot. You get hot so fast you might even feel dizzy. You want to go lie down but you’re young and strong, maybe you’re at work, so you tough it out. But in an hour or two, you go lie down anyway. You cancel your plans for the day. You’re not hungry, you just want to sleep. You don’t know it, but your metabolism has been hijacked. Not just hijacked—enslaved. You see, your body has been taken over by this virus and now that virus is launching a coordinated attack. Anywhere there’s mucus, your cells are churning out new viruses, and those cells burst and die. The body’s response is to swell. Your chest tightens, you feel like someone has cinched a belt around you. Worse. With every exhale, you find that you cannot fully inhale. You struggle to breathe. And at the same time, you begin to cough in earnest. You throw up lung-oysters, fat gobs of sticky green mucus. You are trying to inhale and trying to cough at the same time. Your heart races. You’ve become oxygen deficient and you don’t even know it. You’re no longer thinking clearly. Now, if you’re old or sickly, or if you’re young and mommy is still watching over you, right away you ask for help, or someone asks for help for you. Your chances might not be good, but if they rush you to the hospital and a nurse inserts a tube in your throat to keep the bronchial passages open, you might live. They’ll start an IV to keep you hydrated, bathe you in ice to control the fever.

  “But suppose you are young and healthy. Two things work against you. First, you don’t seek help right away. Second, your body’s defenses, the very ones that are supposed to purge your lungs of contagion, have become the instruments of your destruction. The healthier you are, the more your body tries to kill you. In a few hours you are gasping for breath. Your chest tires. You cannot draw air and you cannot clear the mucus. You drown, Miss Boyce. Or you suffocate. By the time you realize that you are in over your head—it’s too late. You might get out of bed, but you haven’t the strength, you haven’t the oxygen, to walk. You drop to your knees if you feel it coming, and then to your face on the floor. Or maybe you just topple like a tree in whichever direction the wind blows you. They’ll find you like that in morning. Onset to mortality in as little as six hours.

  “Recovery, if one is so fortunate, may take months. And the hell of it is, Miss Boyce, that you have been quietly incubating the virus for weeks. Who knows how many people you have infected? By the time you are well enough to tell someone where you have been, what you have done, and who you might have come in contact with—in all probability they’re already dead.”

  “And this Lobsang…” Lucky said. “Let me guess. He has the cure?”

  “More than the cure,” Coleman replied. He got up and walked around the desk, stood facing the screen where Lobsang’s picture was displayed. “Lobsang’s father was the personal physician to the Dalai Lama. I’m not one for medical fads, Miss Boyce, but do you realize how many discoveries happened by accident?”

  “Like Fleming and penicillin?”

  “Yes, yes. And Archimedes. And Rontgen, and Plunkett, and Mistral, and Brandenberger, and Chesebrough. History is paved with accidental discoveries.” He looked at his watch.

  “And Lobsang?”

  “What do you know about Ayurveda, Miss Boyce?”

  “It’s the oldest practice of medicine in the world.”

  “How old?”

  Lucky shrugged. “The writings go back 5,000 years.”

  “Yes,” Coleman said. He turned and faced Lucky. “And we know, now, that much of what they learned 5,000 years ago was right.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, tell me, have you heard of the ice mushroom?”

  Lucky arched her eyebrows. “No.”

 
; Coleman nodded. “Neither had I. As as far as I know, neither had anybody else—until some time in the early 1960s.”

  “Is this some kind of psychedelic thing?”

  “Far from it. What happened was, there was an outbreak of dengue fever in a refugee camp. The people, you see, had no natural exposure or resistance to dengue. They should have died. But a few of them didn’t.”

  “Let me guess,” Lucky said. “This happened in a Tibetan refugee camp?”

  Coleman nodded. “It did. There were some stories, a few people came back with wild tales about this stuff, but in the West, it was dismissed as bullshit. Except that it wasn’t bullshit. Apparently, somewhere high in the Himalayas, there really does exist a mushroom or fungus or something that, well, extends life. Unnaturally.”

  “The fountain of youth?”

  “Not exactly,” Coleman said. “But apparently there is something that boosts the immune system in ways that we don’t yet understand. If administered, in most cases, say 80%, it prevents disease. But mainly if taken before one is infected. And that is why I want to find this man.”

  “Because you think he has this thing?”

  “Or knows someone who does. Or where to get it. That’s classified.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucky said. “It sounds pretty far-fetched to me. I mean, I lived in Mumbai for years and I never heard of this ‘ice mushroom’”

  “Nor would you have, if it was a closely-guarded family secret.”

  “Well, sure,” said Lucky. “But that doesn’t mean it exists.” Coleman scowled. “Look, can you imagine what a thing like this would be worth if it could be grown, studied or synthesized, or in some way reproduced? Imagine we can take the properties and make it into a vaccine. Imagine being injected with this vaccine every year, year after year and then staying fighting fit for the rest of your life. No illness, no disease. Just perfect health.” He narrowed his eyes. “Think of the pain and suffering that would be alleviated. Imagine a world without cancer or disease. Imagine a cure for AIDS or hepatitis C, ebola, or Spanish influenza, or any of the myriad ills that plague mankind. What does the old song say, ‘What a wonderful, world this would be.’”

  Lucky pictured Sean in the emergency room. Worse, she pictured herself in the ER, choking to death on her own mucus while Sean watched. “And you believe this stuff exists? And that it could do all that?”

  “I know it exists,” Coleman said. “And I think it can do a great deal. Who knows what? Our guess is it would contain complex sugar molecules called polysaccharides, which studies show stimulate virus-fighting cells in the immune system. But who knows what secrets it might unlock, just studying it?”

  “And you want to do that?”

  “It’s my job,” Coleman said. “And I do it well and sincerely.”

  “But you’re not a doctor or scientist, you’re a politician.”

  Coleman smiled. “Somebody’s been talking about me, have they? Yes, I’m a politician. And as such, it’s my job to get things done. It doesn’t mean I do them myself. But I do get them done. Can you imagine, Miss Boyce, what the ‘Discovery of the Century’ might do for mankind? Can you imagine what it might do for my career? Or yours?”

  “But this…mushroom…if it exists, it would be…”

  “Worth its weight in gold?”

  “Or something like that?”

  “No, Miss Boyce, it would be worth much, much more than gold. What was it Jesus said?” Coleman smiled a wry smile. “‘What would man give in exchange for his life?’”

  Lucky shivered. “But you say you’re sure this stuff exists? It’s not just another bullshit story about miracle drugs from the Amazon?”

  Coleman stood up. “There may be drugs in the Amazon, too, but what’s different about this is that we know it exists. I’ve met a man who’s taken it.”

  “Who?”

  Coleman fidgeted. He looked Lucky over carefully. “His name is Sun Lin.”

  “So why don’t you ask him?” Lucky asked.

  “We did,” Coleman replied. “But his knowledge is limited. The epidemic was raging. Sun Lin was the head of the camp and was given a few mushrooms to distribute, although he can’t remember the doctor who gave them to him. It was done at night. It was all very chaotic. The mushrooms were made into bits and distributed, and the people not infected were all saved. It helped some of the sick, although he claims there were only three survivors. His daughter was one. That’s why I give it only an 80% chance. But again, that is the best clue we have. It’s not mythology. We know this thing exists—only we don’t know how to find it.”

  Lucky thought about this. “How is he so sure it worked?”

  “Three things,” Coleman said. “Sun Lin said his daughter knew what happened because she was dead and looking down from above. We have her testimony.”

  “Great,” Lucky said. “Maybe she can predict the next Kentucky Derby winner while she’s at it.”

  “They had no other medication available.”

  “That’s a bit more reliable,” Lucky said. “And the third thing?”

  “And the third thing is that we tested Lin’s immune system. He has near-perfect immunity against everything from the common cold to the AIDS virus. His daughter was also tested, but she had lower immunity levels.”

  Lucky frowned. “You tested them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s so interesting about that?” Lucky said. “With immunity.”

  “Because,” Coleman interrupted, “In 1950, Sun Lin was the Commander of the People’s Liberation Army at Qamdo.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lucky began counting on her fingers.

  “That’s right,” Coleman said. “Add it up. In 1950, Commander Sun Lin was already 42 years old.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that Sun Lin is still alive?”

  “Yes,” Coleman said. “He’s 105 years old, in near-perfect health. He has never ever been ill since. Then he tried unsuccessfully for years to find the doctor and the mushroom and that’s why he finally came to us through a friend as a last resort. Someday, he’ll die. He knows that. An accident or perhaps his body will just give out. He didn’t want to die without the world knowing, so he came to us personally with a plea to find this medicine.”

  Coleman paused as if deep in thought and then said, “In fact, he also gave us a warning that we are not the only ones looking for it.”

  “You mean the Chinese?”

  “Again, that’s classified,” Coleman said. “And I’m trusting you not to repeat this to anyone. But there’s another reason why we want to find this Lobsang. We have reason to believe that the Chinese were looking for the drug when they killed Lobsang’s father. And that also might explain his desire to remain hidden all these years. We think he’s in Mumbai, but when things heat up he moves in and out. Hard fellow to catch. His clinic is mobile. It has no fixed address. His followers guard him with their lives. They’re devoted to him. Now you know why.

  “My people will call you. We’ll double your salary. Meanwhile, I need you to come to Washington for a few days and get up to speed with my staff. We’ll set you up with a nice little office there. You’ll have plane tickets in the morning.

  “Remember,” Coleman said, “you heard it here first. Anyway, I can use a few closed-minded, tight-lipped, smart people on my staff. Hitch your wagon to me and you’ll go far.”

  “Mr. Coleman—” Lucky said.

  Coleman straightened up. “Call me Clevis. After you leave, you can call me Mr. Coleman again.” He turned to go. At the door, he looked back. “Not a word of what you’re working on, understand? What I have just told you is of the highest level of national security. If you leak a word of this—you’ll end up in some place that’ll make Guantanamo look like a Carnival Cruise.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chater 4

  Lucky stared for a long time at the door. She shook her head. Perfect immunity? A long life? A race with the Chinese? Bad luck to even think about it. Bu
t Coleman was right about a few things. She was good with Bloodhound. At least somebody had finally noticed her talents. Her mind raced as she thought about the possibilities. If what Coleman said was true, this was a worthy project. Even if it wasn’t true, she could hitch her wagon to a rising star. A lot of good could come of this—even if the Lobsang story turned out to be complete bullshit, which she was sure it would be. She would have to make arrangements for Sean, though. Perhaps Amay would look after him.

  There was a knock at the door. Barkley. “Has the devil vanished with a flash and a bang?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “So what’s the new assignment?”

  “I can’t talk about it, but I’m not sure I want it, either.”

  Barkley sat down in one of the chairs opposite Lucky’s desk. “What’s to think about,” he said, “Hate to lose a fine worker like you, of course—won’t find another. Someone will take your desk, but nobody can take your place.” He laughed.

  Lucky looked around the office. Coleman’s offer was looking more appealing by the minute. Here in New York, what did Lucky have to look forward to? A bulging, bureaucratic middle age of meaningless assignments in a decrepit state government office? Then again, there was something creepy about Coleman. Lucky felt like she had been hustled into taking the post. “What happens,” Lucky asked, “if I don’t want the assignment?”