Book of Cures (A Thomas McAlister Adventure 2)

by Hunt Kingsbury

  If he were picked up and charged with the theft of the virus, he’d never be released in time to find the Blue Beryl and return with it in time to cure Taylor. The police would never release someone accused of stealing a deadly virus until they’d found the virus and had proof the suspect in custody had not stolen it in the first place.

  He called the building’s concierge and ordered the freight elevator to be sent to floor twelve as soon as possible.

  As he threw boots and a fleece into the threadbare Filson duffel he always used for international travel, two things were bothering him.

  Whoever these people were, they seemed to think he was a lot closer to finding the Blue Beryl than he actually was. He was far from knowing its actual location.

  McAlister had recently found the last known statement about the Blue Beryl’s whereabouts, but that was a scrap of papyrus hundreds of years old with a message that had been quickly scrawled during the 1751 Chinese incursion.

  No one had seen hide nor hair of the Blue Beryl since the day China invaded the palace. That kind of total and longstanding disappearance was troubling because it usually meant an artifact was either sequestered in someone’s private collection, languishing in a forgotten archive, or had been destroyed. Plus, books were notorious for degrading over time, especially in moist conditions.

  The other thing bothering McAlister was whether or not he could get out of the country. He’d been so expertly framed that getting to Tibet--a requirement--was going to be difficult. Had the framers been too effective at making him look guilty?

  McAlister knew, as he threw wool socks into the bag, that he was being expertly manipulated by someone, or a group of people, with immense power. Everything had been scripted before he’d walked through the door. He needed time to think, to get ahead, but that wasn’t going to happen. He had to move fast.

  He dug a box out from behind some sweaters in the guest bedroom closet. In the box were three removable trays of gambling chips which formed a false bottom originally used for storing playing cards.

  He pulled the three trays of chips out and opened the false bottom. Underneath were two envelopes, each containing passports, drivers’ licenses, and credit cards with McAlister’s picture, but different names--different identities.

  Months ago, prior to another risky operation, a thief named Ethan had created two false identities for him in case they were caught and needed to leave the country. They hadn’t been caught, and McAlister had kept the forged documents, not knowing when they might come in handy.

  They were about to come in very handy.

  They were high quality and he’d paid thousands of dollars for each item, in addition to maintaining the accounts from which the credit cards drew.

  He chose the envelope entitled “Kraig Kenning” and shoved the other one into his bag.

  He’d have to switch the cards and licenses out of his wallet in the taxi and leave the real ones in a locker at the airport.

  He walked out into the living room. Undertaker was leaning back on the couch, legs crossed, hands behind his head.

  McAlister said, “Has it occurred to you that you might have done too good a job of framing me? I need to leave the country and may not be able to.”

  “You’ll find a way, Thomas. You always do. We’re confident.”

  There was a business card with a number printed on it sitting on the table. Undertaker picked it up and held it out to McAlister, “The minute you find the book, call this number. You don’t have long. Taylor is not well.”

  “Is this your number?”

  “No.”

  “What if I don’t call it?”

  “Taylor dies, a deadly plague will be released, and you, as the man who stole the virus in the first place, will be charged for all of it. You’ll be hunted down and put in jail for the rest of your life. Possibly executed, depending on what state you’re convicted in.”

  “Say I find the book and copy it before giving it to you.”

  “Exact same outcome.”

  “How would you even know?”

  “We’ll know.”

  “How?”

  “We will. If you haven’t already noticed, Dr. McAlister, we’re a resourceful bunch. Once you hand the book over, you will be cleared of stealing the virus, it will be returned to the research center, and we will immediately provide the best antidote we can for Taylor.”

  “I’m leaving Taylor’s apartment and I’d like you to leave also.”

  “My pleasure.” Undertaker stood. He was shorter than McAlister thought he would be.

  “I wish you could take that god-awful smell with you.”

  “That’s the frustrating thing about bacteria, germs, and microbes. They’re invisible. You can’t see them. Sometimes you can smell them. But of course by then it’s too late. You know?” Undertaker unleashed a wide, secretive smile.

  A sour, burning liquid rose in McAlister’s throat. He swallowed, feeling nauseous. They wouldn’t infect him. They needed him. He tried to think of something, anything other than the smell. It was giving him a headache.

  He put his bag down and went back for the final item, a tan-colored Filson briefcase. It contained all the important research he’d done on the Blue Beryl, even a map of a subterranean room where the Blue Beryl was last seen.

  As he slung the bridle leather strap over his head, the phone rang.

  Caller ID told him it was Lisa.

  “Lisa?”

  “You shouldn’t have!”

  He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play games, Thomas. You really didn’t have to do this.”

  “What if I said I didn’t?”

  “Seriously, Thomas. There was no need for this. The delivery woman said these southern magnolia flowers aren’t even in season for another two months.”

  McAlister’s face turned white and he felt as though his heart might jump out of his chest. He gripped the receiver and said, “Lisa, is the person who delivered those still there?”

  “She just left. Why? Beautiful woman. Redhead. Said she was part-owner of the shop.”

  McAlister’s grip on the receiver tightened and he raised his voice. “Lisa, listen to me carefully. Do not smell those flowers. Oh my God, Lisa, whatever you do don’t smell them. Put them down! Put them in the trash!”

  “What? Why, Thomas? Why are you acting like this? I told you they’re beautiful.”

  He took a deep breath and in a more controlled voice said, “Lisa, have you turned on the TV?”

  “No.”

  “I’m wanted for stealing a deadly virus this morning.”

  “But you were with me this morning.”

  “I know that. Listen to me. Please. This is very serious. They’ve infected Taylor with a virus. He’s very sick. There’s a man here with me now. He’s threatened you. Since I got back here, there’s been a weird magnolia smell and the guy that’s here was just commenting on how you can’t see viruses but you can sometimes smell them. Lisa, I think those flowers might be infected somehow.”

  The line was silent.

  “Lisa, are you there? Get rid of the flowers now. Please. Do it now. Whatever you do, don’t smell them!”

  Just then the call waiting beeped. Thomas held the phone away and looked to see who was calling. Caller ID read: NY Police Dept.

  “I’ve got to get out of here right now!”

  Undertaker smiled and said, “It’s starting.”

  “It’s already started.” McAlister said under his breath.

  He put the phone back to his ear. “Lisa, are you there?”

  Silence.

  “Lisa?”

  Chapter 9

  Detective O’Brian stepped over the flowers on the curb outside the Dakota. They were always there, scattered where John Lennon had fallen after being gunned down by Mark David Chapman.

  O’Brian stood outside with his cell phone to his ear. He was trying Taylor’s apartment in hopes of getting McAlister to pick up.


  A first responder Hazmat team was scheduled to arrive any minute. They would be using a new device, still being beta-tested, called the canary. The canary collected air samples every five seconds, and an alarm would go off if H5N1 or any of a variety of other germs or viruses were present. He’d also requested SWAT team backup to cover the perimeter of the building.

  He was using a lot of departmental resources, but earlier that morning he’d been told with no uncertainty by a cranky, hung-over Mayor that finding the virus and apprehending whoever stole it was top priority.

  Deflecting blame over the security breach at the Biomedical Research Center would be a full-time job among the city’s politicians for weeks to come. The sooner they found it, the faster the already-brewing political storm would blow over.

  O’Brian had just received confirmation that the tap he’d requested was in place on the landlines and cell phones belonging to Taylor Fullbright, Lisa Goodwin, and Thomas McAlister.

  Additionally, Central Communications had just played him a recording of McAlister speaking to his girlfriend from inside the Dakota.

  They must’ve known their lines would be tapped, because their conversation was so obviously pre-arranged that it was nearly comical.

  McAlister had been telling Lisa not to smell flowers she’d just received because there was a man in Taylor’s apartment who also smelled like flowers of the same type. McAlister had also used the conversation to explain to her that he was being framed for the theft of the virus. It was a smart move; it enabled Lisa to verbally give him an alibi. If the conversation was being legally recorded, it would be admissible in court.

  O’Brian chuckled to himself. If they thought he’d fall for a cheap ruse like that, they’d better think again. Magnolias. Ha. What a couple of academics. They probably thought it was so obscure that it would be believable.

  He looked north and then south down Central Park Avenue. Where the hell were the teams he’d ordered? Did they think this was a goddamn drill?

  Taylor’s phone rang and rang. He’d had the voicemail taken off the line.

  O’Brian was considering hanging up when suddenly someone answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Thomas McAlister, please,” O’Brian asked.

  “Speaking.”

  “Dr. McAlister, this is Detective O’Brian, NYPD. I need to talk to you about any connection you may have to the theft of a dangerous virus from the New York Biomedical Research Center this morning.”

  “I presumed as much after seeing the news alert on television. I was nowhere near that facility today. I was with my girlfriend, Lisa Goodwin. She can confirm that.”

  “Dr. McAlister, as you might deduce, girlfriends don’t always make the most reliable alibis. So naturally we’d like to ask you to come down to the precinct and talk about this in more detail.”

  “I would be happy to.”

  “It so happens I’m outside of your building now. Can I come up?”

  “Absolutely, or I could come down there.”

  O’Brian paused. He’d just received a text message; the Hazmat team was five minutes away. He was worried about being exposed to the virus. He could stall, but didn’t want to lose McAlister.

  If McAlister had been exposed to the virus he’d likely already be showing signs of being sick.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel fine. Why shouldn’t I?”

  O’Brian rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “Stay there. I’m coming up now. Stay on the line as I ride up, okay?” The doorman held the door as O’Brian walked into the ornate lobby.

  At the elevators, the attendant held the door as O’Brian stepped in and pushed twelve.

  As the doors closed he said, “McAlister, you still there?”

  “Yes. I’m pouring you a cup of coffee.”

  The edges of O’Brian’s mouth curved up, forming the only smile he would manage for the rest of the day. The last thing he would do was drink coffee served to him by a suspect accused of stealing a deadly virus.

  “Detective, we’ll probably lose our connection while you’re in the elevator shaft. I’m in apartment twelve-six. One, two, six. I’ll see you when you get up here.”

  O’Brian said, “That’s fine, but please stay on the line. Let’s see how long the connection can last; if it breaks I’ll see you in a few seconds. All right, Dr. McAlister?”

  No answer. He glanced at his phone. The line was already dead.

  Chapter 10

  Joel Wasserman opened his folder. The first page was a numbered list of ten topics. Number one read: THE BLUE BERYL. Number two was ORGAN THEFT, then eight more topics--some related to healthcare, others seemingly not.

  Mortimar said, “Let me give a quick overview to get Joel up to speed.”

  Joel noticed Mortimar did not have a thin folder like the rest of them. In front of him was a thick three-ring binder. Once it was open, he didn’t look at it, but rather began speaking from memory.

  “Gentleman, a threat like the one I’m about to describe comes along once in a lifetime. This is one that could put us all out of business, and fast.

  “As you all probably know, Tibetan medicine is one of the oldest forms of medicine on the planet. They understood anatomy and physiology long before other cultures did. The Blue Beryl was a healing document derived from the Tibetan Four Tantras, which are believed to have been written by Buddha himself, thousands of years ago.

  “There are many references to the Tantras and the Blue Beryl in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Asian medical writings. Almost every time the Blue Beryl is mentioned, it’s in the context of an incredible healing. We’ve found many documents stating that the formulas in the Blue Beryl can cure any ill. We’ve also found hundreds of documented cases of its healings.

  “We, meaning those of us here around this table, have done in-depth research, and we’ve found much evidence corroborating the Beryl’s healing powers. We’ve also analyzed Tibetan medical records from each of the past epidemics and pandemics. What we’ve found, Joel, is that from the Justinian Plague forward, all the way through the Spanish Flu of 1918, Tibet remained relatively unaffected, despite some major East-West trading routes going right through the country.”

  “Black Death,” Joel said, “What about the Black Death in the fourteenth century?”

  “Tibet was unscathed.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “We’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on this research.”

  Joel nodded. In spite of his revulsion for this group and its premises, he found this fascinating. “Where is the Blue Beryl now?”

  Mortimar smiled; he was pleased to see Joel become engaged. “I’m coming to that. The actual Beryl was written by Sangye Gyamtso, regent to the fifth Dalai Lama. It was based on the Tantras, but Gyamtso did something that had never been done before, something that would change medicine forever: he commissioned drawings, based on the cures in the Beryl, depicting all aspects of human anatomy, all the flora and fauna used in the cures, and directions on their application.

  “This makes the Blue Beryl the first illustrated medical ‘how to’ manual ever written. It’s a beautifully illustrated encyclopedia with diagnoses and treatments. It actually showed the reader, using pictures and text, which herbs to combine and in what quantities.”

  “Very advanced,” Casey added.

  “In addition to medicines, other topics rumored to be covered are herbal-, gemstone-, mineral-, and animal-based medications, pulse divination, and mind-body connections. It goes into great depth regarding human anatomy and physiology. By all accounts it is the most thorough healing manual ever written. A Bible of cures.”

  “What kind of illness does it address?” Joel asked.

  “Everything you could imagine. Written observations from witnesses say it can cure blindness, internal growths--which we take to mean tumors and cancers--hemorrhagic fever, cholera, typhoid, measles, mumps, all types of flu and, apparently, the comm
on cold. Of course ancient Tibetans didn’t call illnesses by the same words we do today, but they gave detailed descriptions, and in most cases, it was easy to discern what they were describing.”

  “So basically what you’re saying is that if you’re sick, it can heal you.”

  “Yes.”

  “If it’s lost, how do you know the illustrations are accurate? How do you know they’re beautiful? How do you know anything specific about it?”

  “Two ways: the first is multiple descriptions from doctors who’ve used it, from patients who were helped by it, and from observers who saw it.”

  “What’s the second?”

  Silence.

  Mortimar shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “One page survived.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. We’ve recently learned one page survived. We’ve interviewed people who have seen it. Apparently, the illustration and detail is staggering.”

  “Moreover, it works!” Smith added triumphantly.

  “What is it curing?” Joel asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  “Blindness,” Mortimar answered.

  “You’re kidding.” Joel was mesmerized.

  “Not in the slightest. It’s working. In some cases it takes a while, but overall, it’s working.”

  “My God, where is it?”

  Mortimar glanced at Casey. “Tibet, outside of Lhasa. There’s a doctor there with a free clinic.”

  Joel was flabbergasted. “A free clinic? My God.”

  “Yes. We have a man who’s going to Asia soon to get a better look.” Casey shuffled papers, Smith looked down, and Wheaton looked at Mortimar, who was grinning.

  “Where is the Blue Beryl now?”

  Smith answered, “No one knows. Possibly destroyed. It was kept in a section of the Potala Palace in Tibet, in a room called the Hall of Scriptures, in a wing known as the Red Palace. The Chinese invaded in 1751. The wing of the palace that held the book was sacked and burned. No one has seen it since.”

  Wheaton spoke up. “Fact is, we can’t take a chance with it. If it can do half of what they say, there’s no question it would impact us. My God, if it’s the cure for the common cold, it would be a nightmare. I sell fifteen products, all of which treat different symptoms of a cold. Every time there’s a news story about Echinacea, our sales numbers drop.”