A Star Called Lucky

by Bapsy Jain

  “The one what?”

  Lobsang looked at Lucky with the saddest eyes she had ever seen. “The ones with the immunity.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Lucky said.

  “You said that already. And, as I said, your belief or disbelief won’t change the facts. The mushroom boosts immunity and; therefore, prolongs life.”

  “Then why not share it with the world?”

  “Two things,” Lobsang said. “First, what makes you think this is the only life or that prolonging it unnaturally is a good idea? All men die. Not all will truly live even while they are alive. The wheel turns and we return and try again. This is the order of things. The seasons, the years, the clouds, the rain, and the ocean all tell us this. And, second, what makes you think having this power will save lives anyway?”

  “Well,” Lucky said, “scientists could…”

  “Yes yes yes, they could synthesize the ingredients and make the elixir of immortality — your Fountain of Youth. But they’re not ready for that.”

  “Of course they’re ready.”

  “No,” Lobsang said, standing. “They’re not. They wouldn’t share. Your nations are busy making and stockpiling biological weapons. They don’t want the elixir of life. They want immunity so they can take life and survive the war.”

  There was a loud smack and the crowd rose as a majestic “six” floated into the bleachers, the ball landing only a few rows behind Lucky.

  “Quite a shot, that,” Lobsang said.

  “Do you play?”

  “What, cricket? No. That’s a British game, and Indian. As a boy, I flew kites and played chess.”

  “What about in England?”

  “I didn’t have time to play games in college. I wanted to be a doctor, remember?” He turned to go but Lucky caught his arm.

  “Do you really believe Coleman is running a weapons lab?” “Back to that again. What better place to hide?”

  Lucky stirred in her seat.

  “I know a little about biology and chemistry,” Lobsang said. “I am a doctor. I have been to medical school. What is the one place in all the world where you could bring all of this necessary equipment together and not raise eyebrows?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Lucky said.

  “That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

  “I know. And you’re going to say that belief or disbelief won’t change the facts.”

  “Funny,” Lobsang said. “People will depend on gravity day in and day out, on photosynthesis, on the oxygen/carbon dioxide cycle, on rain, on the power of the sun, but when confronted with something natural, they will claim it cannot work. And in turn, when confronted with logical evidence, they would rather believe that statues weep, and that ghosts cure paralysis, and that politicians are good and pure and have our best interests at heart.”

  He pulled away.

  “Where are you going?” Lucky asked.

  “I’m going to confront the people who are looking for me,” Lobsang said. “They’ll find me anyway, eventually. It might as well be on my terms. Usko must have told you that. We met thanks to you, my dear, and we have found our common purpose.”

  “Wait!” Lucky said. She followed him into the aisle, toward the exit. “You know, I came to find you to free myself, but something in me has changed. I now want to see you safe, even if it means jail for me. Why did you agree to see me?”

  “Because I want to confront them, and, as I said and say again, only on my terms.”

  “But this could be the end.”

  “There you go,” Lobsang said, “talking about death in this life as if it mattered, as if it were the only life that counted.”

  “But if you want to stop them,” Lucky said, “I think I know a better way.”

  Lobsang turned. “Just how do you propose to do that?” he asked, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I have an idea,” Lucky said, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket. She dialed the number she knew by heart.

  They left the stadium, cutting back to the hotel the way that Lucky had gone earlier in the day. From the lobby she dialed the number. “I’d like to speak to Clevis Coleman,” she said. “Tell him it is Lucky Boyce and that I have something he’s looking for.”

  Chapter 20

  The meeting was fixed for the Taj Hotel, in Mumbai for the next day at 6 p.m. Coleman was to come with two associates and nobody else. The American Consul General and his legal team were to be there, as well. Nobody else.

  They were back in the apartment, the headquarters — Usko, Karsan Kaka, Kamala, and Lobsang. They sat on the dhurries on the floor, drinking tea, Lucky close by Usko’s side. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said to him.

  Usko shook his head. “It’s fate,” he said. “We have no choice but to follow our destiny.”

  “But isn’t the whole thing about choice?” she replied. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to learn as we go — to gain enlightenment, so to speak.”

  “It’s our fate,” Usko said, “and it’s inevitable. It’s only a matter of when, not if.”

  “Even Coleman?” Lobsang asked.

  Usko hesitated. “Even Coleman, in his own time. Is that a leading question? I mean, after all, you’re the doctor. I’m just a poor follower.”

  “A poor follower? Are you sure? I think there’s something that you’re not telling us.”

  All eyes were on Usko.

  Lobsang continued. “If you were a poor follower, you would have come to rescue the young woman. If you were not a follower at all, you would have come to see Coleman stopped. Don’t you think I could have done that a long time ago? Don’t you think, had I wanted, that I could have walked into one of his traps and been executed? I could have even reversed the trap, to his detriment. Do you think that I fear death?” Lobsang shook his head. “No, there is much more to you, my young monk, than meets the eye.”

  “I don’t…I mean…what…” Usko went to set his mug down and spilled it on the floor. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I believe there are some files you would like to discuss? Something that has come up unexpectedly in the past few days?”

  Usko paled. Then he stood up and crossed the room, took up a black backpack from the corner, took out an envelope, and returned to the circle of friends. He held the envelope up head-high and looked from face to face. “Who read this?” He stared long at Kamala, but they all shook their heads.

  Lucky was watching Lobsang intently. His expression never changed, but she had the sense that he was suppressing a smile.

  Usko sat down and opened the envelope.

  “Here it is, in black and white,” he said. He grinned. “I don’t know how you know, and it doesn’t matter. What we were after for years, Collette and Yazma found in hours. E-mails, bank accounts, details on a lab in Latvia that’s funded with black money to research disease. I thought, for a while, that Coleman just wanted to be president of the WHO. God knows what his real aims are. If I wanted, I could make a case that Coleman wanted to blackmail the world. Who knows? Maybe that’s his way of ruling the world. He introduces diseases and holds everybody hostage for the cure. Maybe he wants to sell immortality, or maybe he just wants to make certain it stays a secret.”

  He looked at Lucky. “That’s how the mushroom fits into the puzzle. The pieces are now in place. Coleman gets a sample of the ice mushroom, synthesizes it in his lab in Latvia, perhaps even chemically increases its potency, then mass produces it! Abracadabra! He holds the golden key that humanity quests after — in his own little hands. He fulfills his deepest desires and he is the King of the World! And Lucky, the little courier,” Usko continued, winking at her, “he has blackmailed or silenced you with Bloodhound! Quite easily done!”

  Then turning to Lobsang, Usko’s tone was somber now, “You know, meeting him may be the end of you.”

  Lobsang chuckled. “Maybe it’s my time to die,” he said. “And what is death, anyway? Does Coleman really think he can kill me or p
reserve anyone else’s life? His perception is skewed. We neither create nor destroy life. We try to help, but in reality, we only shift from one location to another. It is all an illusion. Besides, the source of this mushroom has dried up. Blame the environment, blame climate change, blame pollution. Coleman knows this, hence the urgency to get his hands on the remaining few. Maybe he can research its properties and reproduce it and maybe he cannot. This is the only chance the world has to benefit from this ice mushroom. Like I said before, I meet Coleman now on my terms.” With a hint of a smile, Lobsang added, “So I don’t think he would have any more interest in the life of a poor doctor.”

  Usko began to pass around documents, as Lucky looked on in astonishment. “This came from Yazma?” she asked.

  “It did,” Usko replied. “The software goes both ways. He’s mirroring you, but we injected the same software into his system. We have it all. And I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.”

  Abruptly, Lobsang got up and walked to the window. Kamala stood, and then Lucky stood up to. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “If only it were so simple not to want not to die,” he replied. He turned from the window, knelt, and bent his head in concentration. “It’s not even me I’m worried about. I should leave—for your safety.”

  Usko came to stand by Lucky. “The documents are out there now. If something happens to us, our friends will spill the beans. If not,” he shrugged, “the problem goes away. Coleman might hurt me, but I’ll hurt him worse.” Turning to Lucky, Usko said, “But you — I think we had better send you home. Lobsang and I can do the meeting.”

  Lucky shook her head and grinned. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said. “I’ve come this far. And besides, I owe him.”

  Usko looked at Lobsang, then Kamala, then Lucky. “Maybe I can e-mail him a teaser. Maybe that will hold him up just enough…”

  The meeting, Lucky later thought, was as nondescript as brushing your teeth in the morning. As Lobsang had said, there was no killing, for it was just the opposite of what Lucky expected. Again, her imagination had led her away! No black-suited men. No Navy SEALs. No nothing. Just a quiet room where Lobsang handed over a box of mushrooms.

  Coleman’s team was matter-of-fact. There were only three of them, but no sign of Coleman. The man in charge looked around at each of them and then took the box with the mushroom. The bulky aides put the box in a briefcase and handed it to the chief, who chained it to his wrist like a jeweler. And then they left. No hello. No goodbye. No nothing.

  When he was gone, Lucky turned to Usko and asked, “Why didn’t Coleman come? What did you send him?”

  “I sent him a copy of his mirror software. Now he knows we have the mirror software, but this won’t bother him. What he doesn’t know is we have wrecked his firewalls and used the same mirror to mirror him. Well, that’s enough for today.”

  “And now?”

  Usko looked her. “And now we go back to Washington to finish the job.”

  EPILOGUE

  A bank account at Lloyds. Another with Banca del Gottardo in Switzerland. Another in Vanuatu. A chop account in Hong Kong. A bank in Nauru holding 5,000 shares of Captain Cook stock obtained as part of a finance deal for export licenses for cryogenic equipment for a hospital in Kenya. A shell company incorporated in Aruba with real-estate investments from Austria to Zimbabwe — most made under fictitious names and financed by similarly fictitious companies, with transactions filtered through more banks in more countries with more corporations. An 8,000-square-foot riverfront property in Leesburg and a 25th floor flat in Manhattan. A $25,000 Persian rug in his living room and another in his bedroom. He had a Tibetan mastiff in the back yard that cost almost that much. He had a wife who was devoted to him and a mistress who was addicted to him. He was about to be sworn in as the new Secretary of Health and Human Services, and his name was being tossed out in articles coast-to-coast as the next sure-thing for the president of the World Health Organization.

  Clevis Coleman, Coleman thought, as he adjusted his tie in the mirror, you are one smart son-of-a-bitch.

  Take his suit: Tussar silk, gathered in the wild in India and dyed with natural indigo to a deep, perfect navy blue, hand-tailored by a seventh-generation Hong Kong tailor, and adorned with gold-plated buttons. Only a week ago, he had ordered the suit — from Punjab House — and here it was, delivered last night to Washington on a Navy transport flight. He smiled at the mirror. His hair was perfectly trimmed, just a touch of gray showing on the temples at just the right place. A distinguished look. Military, yet not ignorant, not violent. He had even traded in his trademark black plastic-framed glasses for a new pair of “memory metal” nickel/titanium alloy glasses, with self-tinting glass. The only flaw was the little red line on his chin. He had cut himself shaving. A little styptic had stopped the bleeding. His makeup men would cover it up before his acceptance speech.

  He was just putting on his cufflinks when he noticed the right sleeve of his coat. The buttons on it were not gold-plated. They were plain old silver-colored, probably tin. He looked at the buttons on his left sleeve. They were gold. He looked at the buttons on the front. They were all gold. How had this happened? He looked on the inside of his coat — the place where all good tailors sew on extra buttons — just in case. Sure enough, there was an extra gold-plated button. But the sleeves had three. Three on each side. No matter. Coleman smiled. There were tailors in Washington, too. Not as good as Hong Kong, maybe, and pricier, but they could fix a couple of buttons. He would call one. He would have his suit repaired. They could cut one button off the left and add it with the extra button on the right. His sleeve would be perfect, his suit would be perfect, his speech would be perfect, and his day was going to be… “perfect,” he said out loud.

  He kissed his wife goodbye at the door and went outside to his limo. The driver was waiting. But not his regular driver — that other one, the tall annoying one. What was his name? Irving? “Good morning, Irving,” Coleman said. “Where’s Carl?”

  “Evan, sir. And Carl came down with the flu, sir. He called in this morning. Where to?”

  “White House, Evan. We’re meeting the President this morning.”

  They took the Leesburg Pike onto McLean and then caught 267 down to Arlington. Traffic was slow and they inched along. “I should have asked for an escort,” Coleman said.

  Evan ignored him, turning off 267 and cutting down 120 like they were going to Reagan International. “Where are you going, Evan?”

  “Sorry, sir. There’s a blockage up ahead. We’ll take the circle around.”

  “Just don’t make me late, boy. I’ve got a speech to give.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, sir.”

  Worry? Coleman thought. What, me worry? “Just get me there on time.”

  “Just relax,” Evan said. “Would you like the morning paper, sir?” He extended the Post back to Coleman without waiting for a response, and Coleman took it, more out of annoyance than anything else. He folded it on his lap and stared out of the window. His phone rang. It was the tailor. He was waiting with scissors and thread to make the repair. Two minutes, at most. Coleman smiled.

  And then he looked down at the headline: BLACK OPS OR HOAX? What the hell? he thought. What kind of shit is this? Wait till I get a hold of Steuver. He bent closer to read. The article was claiming that someone in the government housed a top-secret and highly illegal lab, funded with black-op money and housed in a former Soviet military base in Latvia. They had informants. Photos. Agents in the field. Lists of equipment. Disbelieving, Coleman checked the top of the page again — no, it really was the Washington Post — and the date — no, it really was today. How the hell did they get all this? He wondered. They even had air and water and ground samples! Someone had told them everything!

  Reading on, Coleman saw that the top brass of the HHS could be interrogated. He bristled at the suggestion. What could they prove? Nothing. He’d counter that it was a smear
campaign. A sham. He’d find a way to spin the publicity into something good — something the voting public would remember.

  “I’ll have this guy’s ass,” Coleman said out loud. He lit a cigarette.

  The car slowed and Coleman looked up, annoyed. They had turned down a side street. They were nowhere near the capital. They hadn’t even crossed the Potomac yet. “What the hell?” Coleman asked. They had driven into the middle of a crowd. There must have been a hundred men and women. They were at the Marine Corps War Memorial — the famous statue of Ira Hayes and his friends mounting the flag on top of Iwo Jima. Evan shut off the car.

  “What’s this?” Coleman demanded.

  Evan turned around and smiled. “End of the line, sir,” he said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Coleman said, reaching for his cell. But even as he did, the doors opened. On one side stood Usko Tahti. On the other, Lucky Boyce.

  “Hello, Clevis,” Lucky said. “Or should I call you Mr. Coleman now?”

  Coleman rose from the car, as if pulled by unseen strings. Usko came around and stood beside Lucky. The crowd began to gather in a tight circle around them.

  Coleman looked at Usko. “What the hell is this about?”

  Usko’s face was tight, expressionless. “I said I was going to get you one day.”

  Coleman stared at him, then at Lucky. Finally, comprehension dawned.

  “You haven’t got anything,” Coleman said. “Oh, that story in the press that nobody in their right mind will believe? Ha! Nothing! And if you hang me, I’ll hang her! If anybody hangs, it’ll be her. She’ll be tried for treason. Something about some stolen government software, I believe. And some money I slipped into a bank account in your name, Lucky, in the Cayman Islands.” He turned to Lucky. “I cover my tracks, I still have you. But the lab, how did you…the last we heard…”

  “All it took was a program and a few hackers.”

  “A few hackers? I had that lab locked down with top-secret government technology! There’s no way you did this by yourselves. Someone must have talked. Who talked?”