Authors: Gary Braver

ELIXIR (36 page)

BOOK: ELIXIR

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LEXINGTON, MASSACHUSETTS

“
I
don’t know how the videos got out. It’s been thirteen years. People steal things,” explained Quentin Cross. “No one’s left from the old lab. They’re all gone—some retired, some dead. I don’t know how they got out.”

“It was still careless,” Antoine said. He was calling from his Lear jet. “You should have had those locked in your vault.”

“Duplicates were made. What can I say?”

“The important thing is, can you still reproduce the compound if you had samples?”

“Of course we can. You know that.”

It had taken years to pull themselves out of the debt Chris Bacon had left them in, but Darby had a first-rate laboratory with all the necessary technology to determine molecular composition of most compounds. And what they lacked, they could buy.

“All we need is a few cubic centimeters and we can make the stuff by the gallon,” Quentin said.

“What about the technical staff?”

“We have the right people.”

“People we can trust, not just clever technicians?”

“Trust can be bought. All you need is enough capital.”

He could hear Antoine chuckle. “You’re getting cynical in your old age.”

“I have every reason to be,” he said, tasting the sourness in his own voice. “Do you have any idea where they are?”

“I have ideas, yes.”

Vince had boasted about an extensive computer network and ace
hackers who could infiltrate the file systems of major corporations, departments of motor vehicles, local hospitals, the Social Security Administration, even a few banks. “If you’ve got a pulse, we’ll find you,” he had said.

“May I ask where?”

“You may, but I’m not going to tell you. Your job is geniuses and test tubes. Stay well, my friend.
Bon sir.
”

Quentin hung and recalled why he disliked Antoine. He was a slick, arrogant thug. Other people were just rungs on his ladder. But that was not why Quentin needed him. His Consortium was an aging lot of multimillionaires who were hankering for the promised land.

And they needed him and not just to reproduce the stuff. He had people ready to get their hands on the body fluids and brain tissue of Roger Glover to see what made him tick.

It was a little after nine when Quentin got off his office phone. For the last six days, Darby Pharms had been crawling with media and protesters. Twice he had to call the police to break up fights between factions trying to break inside the plant.

He had even hired armed security guards to patrol the premises night and day. That and an enhanced monitoring system had cost him thousands.

But it would be worth it when they brought Glover in. And it wasn’t just a cash cow come home. Every time Quentin looked at the photo of Robyn on his desk he saw in the glass the reflection of a tired middle-aged man, grown heavy in body and spirit, and weighted by the same dull routine of running a midsize pharmaceutical company. Perhaps it was a decade of struggling to get back on his feet, but he had lost his old belly fire. He missed those days when they were scrambling about for their great bonanza, pushing out walls and buying fancy staff and equipment. No, it wasn’t the old man he missed. Ross was a prick who dismissed his ideas as pipe dreams, who never showed him respect as an equal. The only reason he had made him CFO was to keep the company in the family. The old bastard had deserved to die. No, what Quentin missed was a younger Quentin, so full of dreams and fight and years.

What passed for belly fire these days was the yearning to get his hands on Chris Bacon for what he had done to those dreams.

He glanced at the clock. Maybe there was hope still.

As he gathered his stuff to leave, Quentin noticed the red security light flash silently on the far wall.

His back had been turned to it while talking to Antoine, so he had no idea how long it had been flashing. It had gone on and off all day, but with the full security contingent to hold back the crowds there was no reason for alarm.

Motion sensors that rimmed the building had apparently picked something up earlier but had not been cleared.

Quentin cut to the security office across the hall. He flicked a switch to light up a panel of twelve surveillance monitors which gave him a full sweep of the property in real light and infrared. Maybe it was a stray dog or raccoon, because the lights showed nobody anywhere around the building.

The security guard sat conspicuously out front in a black vehicle. He would drive around the grounds through the parking lot periodically.

Another light flicked on.

Movement in the storage room at the rear of the building.

That was odd. At night, the security guards patrolled only the outside of the building. Even during the day, that area was a restricted zone of high-security substances. Also, that end of the building was a cinderblock-and-steel structure essentially impregnable. There were no windows, and the only doors were the service bay for trucks and a single entrance made of steel and wired to an alarm. The only way inside was a battery of keys or an infantry tank.

Quentin left the office area.

He walked down the long corridor to the storage area. With his keys, he let himself inside. The heavy steel door closed behind him with a loud snap of the lock sliding into place.

The place was dim but for the night lights. And quiet. The only sound was the soft hum from the air circulation system.

Quentin slowly walked past the long aisles where they stored thousands of chemicals in bottles and boxes. The heels of his shoes snapped on the clean cement floor.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Overhead he spotted the security cameras and motion sensors that lit up red as he moved by. In the security office the silent red lights would be blinking wildly.

Because the place was so tightly sealed, there was no way an animal could have gotten inside. Unless it was a pigeon that had strayed in through the delivery bay during the day. That had happened occasionally. But he could see none. If it were perched in the rafters, they would have to get it out tomorrow or the red lights would never go off.

With his key Quentin let himself into the restricted area set off behind a thick steel mesh. Against the back wall was the dark vault of specialized compounds.

He checked behind the vault and the various shelves. Nothing. He also opened the vault to be certain nothing was missing. In the rear he removed a small brown jar containing tubarine chloride. He looked at it, thinking of Ross and that bastard Bacon.

Clink.

Quentin froze in place, the tubarine clutched in hand.

Clink. Clink.

Quentin turned.

There was somebody behind him, on the other side of the steel grating. A man wearing a black Minuteman Security uniform.

“You startled the hell out of me,” Quentin said. “H-how did you get in here?”

The man did not answer, and his face was shadowed by the brim of his cap.

“I asked you how you got inside the building.”

Clink.

“I’m the president of this company. I hired you people. Will you please answer me?”

Clink. Snap.

“What are you doing?”

The man had padlocked shut the door with his own lock.

Quentin crossed to the grating. “What are you doing? Take that off. Let me out of here.”

The man said nothing.

Quentin closed his fingers through the steel mesh and shook the gate. It was fastened shut. “Let me out of here. I own this place. This is my company. Who do you think you are?”

The man raised his head so that the security light caught his face.

A familiar face.

A television face.

“You’re going to hell, sinner.”

Reverend Colonel Lamar Fisk.

It was his people who had camped out on the grounds outside for the last week. The fanatics with the signs calling for Armageddon.

“Who the hell do you think you are coming in here like this?”

“Who?” Fisk’s eyes were perfect orbs. “A soldier of the Lord is who. You’ve bitten into His forbidden fruit for the last time.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Quentin shook the door again. “Let me out of here. Let me out of here.”

Fisk did not respond but glared at him with such an intensity that Quentin backed away.

He then shot to an emergency phone on the wall near the vault. He raised it to punch 911 but could not get a dial tone. The line was dead.

Fisk raised his hand. “And I heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth,’” he shouted. The veins of his neck stood out like thick cords of rope.

From behind Fisk half a dozen others in black uniforms appeared. One held a torch in his hands.

No, not a torch. A Molotov cocktail.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

But Fisk moved back to the others. The man with the torch passed the flaming bottle to him. Then in a booming voice that reverberated in the steel chamber, Fisk raised his torch hand high and bellowed forth:

“‘And I saw the beast was taken and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him with which he had deceived them that had received the mark of the beast and them that worshipped his image. And they were both cast alive into a lake of fire.’”

Then he threw the torch toward Quentin. With a shattering whoosh, the floor erupted in a spreading pool of orange flame.

In the light Quentin saw two men rush into the interior of the building, to the labs and offices. A moment later he heard loud explosions.

It was then the remaining men let fly incendiary grenades into all corners of the storage chamber and down each of the aisles.

Quentin screamed as if his throat were shattering.

But he was drowned out by the sound of the grenades and exploding chemicals, the rage of flames, and the wailing alarms.

In mere moments, the place was a thick vortex of smoke and fire. All along the shelves containers of chemicals blew up, spreading more flames and noxious fumes until the chamber was a roaring toxic inferno.

Inside the security cage Quentin shook the gate and howled until the smoke choked his lungs and filled his eyes with killing heat, and he fell to the floor, his fingers still clutching the small brown jar of tubarine.

A
ccording to the thermometer outside the kitchen window the temperature was 30 degrees the next morning. Fresh snow covered the yard. The lake remained unfrozen, however the water in the old fountain was iced over and pillowed in white.

But a warming trend was in the forecast. In a few hours the world would be green again. In a few hours the place would also be swarming with police and media people with vans surmounted by radio dishes. And by early afternoon it would be all over, Laura told herself. There was a strange roundness to it all. The saga had been born in the wilderness half a world away, and it would end in the wilderness of her old backyard.

Laura had gotten up before Roger and Brett. She made some coffee to get her heart going. She felt lousy and she looked it in the mirror. The skin of her face was a loose gray dough and her eyes were puffy. She had slept soundly until about four o’clock when she woke up with a bolt of panic at the bargain Roger had cut with the president.

It had crossed her mind yesterday, but she was so wracked with horror and grief that the realization had not registered. But two hours ago it hit her. In the effort to save her and Brett, Roger had signed his own death warrant.

He came down a little before seven.

Laura gave him a mug of coffee. On the television in the living room the “Elixir Unrest” story continued. Over the last few days it had become
so prominent and widespread that CNN created its own graphics and crash chords.

Laura sat next to Roger and took his hand.

The news was worse than last night. Another rash of bombings of American corporations in foreign countries. More cries for a holy war. “An Elixir Jihad,” someone had called it.

What particularly shocked them was the story of the torching of Darby Pharms and the death of its president. Some lunatic fundamentalist group had claimed responsibility. The same group that proclaimed Christopher Bacon a false prophet attempting to conjure the devil.

Meanwhile, a huge rally was scheduled in Washington that day at noon in protest of the government coverup. All efforts by the White House to downplay Elixir had failed miserably. A whirlwind of madness was whipping across the world, and it had Roger’s name on it.

Laura turned off the set. “What’s going to happen to you when you turn it over?”

“I guess I’ll be given a regular supply to keep me going. Probably administered by some medical clinic wherever we end up.”

She knew that even without the notebook protocol, the compound could be broken down into its molecular constituents which meant that it could be duplicated. All one needed was a lab and good organic chemists. “You won’t be safe.”

“Why not?”

“People will be after you as long as you live.”

He had used the compound as a bargaining chip, but she knew it meant more anxiety. As long as he was on the stuff, they would remain forever prey to every maniac wanting a sample. Just as bad, he would be the number-one infidel on top of every religious crazy’s hit list.

She squeezed his hand. “It scares me.”

“But we’ll have federal protection.”

His answer was too pat and resolve was missing in his voice. It would be the first time the compound was out of their hands. The agreement was for Public Citizen to assume full responsibility for the compound. But who knew where that could lead? If some got out, it could be like one of those renegade nukes from the old USSR floating around on the black market.

“I pray we’re not making a mistake.”

“We’re not,” he said.

But she didn’t believe him.

About seven-thirty Laura woke Brett. While he got dressed, Roger put the call to the White House.

They were expecting him, and instantly he was transferred to the office of Kenneth Parrish. The rendezvous was to be one o’clock at the Black Eagle Lake lodge. Roger gave the location. Then he placed calls to the major television networks as well as
The New York Times
, the Associated Press, UPI, Reuters, and CNN.

One o’clock. That gave all parties over five hours to assemble. The last remaining step was unearthing the solitary backup stash of Elixir.

They packed a few things into a duffel bag. Roger stuffed his pistol inside his jacket.

When Brett came down, he asked, “So, what are we doing?”

“First, you’re going to have a good breakfast,” Roger said. “Then we’re going to visit a cave.”

The call to Eric Brown’s home phone came while he was in the middle of his morning shower.

His wife handed him the portable. It was Assistant Deputy Director Richard Coleman in Washington. Brown dried his hands and face and took the phone.

“We got him,” Coleman said. “He’s in upstate New York.”

“What was the break?”

“He called the White House direct to cut a deal.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well, can’t always corner them at the 7-Eleven. The legal stuff will be worked out, but the long and short is that they’re turning themselves and the Elixir in for immunity.”

“Couldn’t get better leverage.”

“Yeah, the fountain of youth.”

Coleman said that an agency jet was waiting for Brown and his men at the Madison airport. They should be airborne within the hour. The rendezvous was at one P.M. and it would take three and a half hours to touch down at Lake Placid, New York, where a car would be waiting.

“And what happens to the stuff?”

“That’s what we’ve got to talk about, Eric. We’re up to our earlobes in religious crazies, so we’re asking you to act as liaison to the FDA.”

“You mean courier the stuff to Washington?”

“We’ll have a chopper waiting for you in New York.”

He knew it was out of line to ask but he did anyway. “Why exactly do you need agency courier service?”

There was a slight hesitation before Coleman responded. “It’s possible there may be a conflict with Glover over the exact disposition of the stuff. His stipulation is that it goes directly to Public Citizen.”

“What’s that?”

“One of those consumer medical advocacy groups. I guess he’s trying to keep it out of federal control.”

“But that’s not the plan.”

“Eric, I’m only reporting the news, not making it.”

“Sure.” It was not Eric’s place to dispute government agenda. “Dick, I don’t know if you saw the autopsy photos of Olafsson and the Kaminsky kid. The meddies don’t know if the victims overdosed, underdosed, or what, but the stuff did a number on them.”

“I saw them, and the old animal videos,” Coleman said.

“Then you know what I’m saying.”

Elixir wasn’t exactly the Ebola virus, but what bothered Brown was that Glover knew the downside of the stuff better than anybody else. He wanted it quarantined even though it had turned him into some kind of modern-day Methuselah.

“Yeah, I know,” Coleman said. “I also saw the shots of Glover. He looks like an Olympic athlete.”

“Right.”

“One more thing,” Coleman added before hanging up. “The Glovers are carrying an audio tape he made of his conversation with the president. Retrieve it and any backups.”

“You mean unofficially.”

“Correct.”

When they clicked off Brown finished his shower, trying to dispel the uneasy flutter in his gut.

BOOK: ELIXIR

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