The Codex

15

On the computer screen nestled discreetly among the cherrywood paneling in his office, Lewis Skiba watched the progress of Lampe-Denison Pharmaceuticals on the New York Stock Exchange. Investors had been hammering the stock all day, and it was now trading at close to ten. Even as he watched, the stock ticked down another eighth of a point to trade at ten even.

Skiba did not want to see his company go into single digits. He flicked off the screen. His eyes flickered to the wood panel that hid the Macallan, but it was too soon for that. Too soon. He needed a clear head for the call.

Rumors were circulating that Phloxatane was in trouble at the FDA. The short sellers were all over the stock, like maggots on a corpse. Two hundred million dollars of R&D had gone into that drug. Lampe had worked with the best medical researchers and scientists at three Ivy League universities. The double-blind tests had been well conceived, the data massaged and patted into the best possible shape. Their friends at the FDA had been wined and dined. But nothing in the end would save Phloxatane. No matter which way you cut the data, Phloxatane was a failure. And here he was sitting on six million shares of Lampe stock he couldn’t unload — no one had forgotten what happened to Martha Stewart — as well as two million paper options so far out of the money that they would be more useful as toilet tissue in his Carrara marble bathroom.

More than anything else in this world, Skiba loathed short sellers. They were the vultures, the maggots, the carrion flies of the market. He would give anything to see Lampe’s stock turn against them and start rising; he would love to see their panic as they were forced to cover their positions. He would love to think of all the margin calls they would be receiving. It would be a beautiful thing. And when he got his hands on the Codex and made the announcement, this beautiful thing would happen. It would burn the short sellers so badly that it would be months, maybe years, before they came back.

A soft trill came from the phone on his desk. He glanced at his watch. The satellite call was right on time. He really hated talking to Hauser; he loathed the man and his principles. But he had to deal with him. Hauser had insisted on “keeping him in the loop”; even though Skiba was usually a hands-on CEO, he had hesitated. Some things were better left in the dark. But in the end he agreed, if only to keep Hauser from doing something stupid or illegal. When he got the Codex, he wanted it clean.

He picked up the receiver.

“Skiba here.”

The voice of Hauser, made Donald-Duckish by the scrambler, came over the line. As usual, the PI wasted no time on pleasantries.

“Maxwell Broadbent went up the Patuca River with a bunch of highland Indians. We’re on his track. We don’t know yet where he was headed, but my guess is somewhere in the interior mountains.”

“Any problems?”

“One of the sons, Vernon, jumped the gun and got ahead of us upriver. It seems the jungle might take care of that problem for us, though.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He hired two drunken guides from Puerto Lempira, and they’ve gotten themselves lost in Meambar Swamp. It seems unlikely they will, ah, ever see sunshine again.”

Skiba swallowed. This was a lot more information than he needed to know. “Look, Mr. Hauser, just stick to the facts and leave the opining to others.”

“We had a minor setback with the other one, Tom. He’s got a woman with him, a graduate student in ethnopharmacology from Yale.”

“Ethnopharmacology? She knows about the Codex?”

“You bet your ass she does.”

Skiba winced. “That’s rather inconvenient.”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Look, Mr. Hauser,” he said briskly, “I’ll leave it all in your capable hands. I’ve got a meeting to go to.”

“Those people will have to be taken care of.”

Skiba didn’t like the way the conversation kept doglegging back to that subject. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know. I’m content to let you handle the details.”

There was a small chuckle at the far end. “Skiba, how many people are dying in Africa right now because you insist on charging twenty-three thousand dollars a year for that new TB drug that costs you a hundred and ten dollars to make? That’s all I’m talking about. When I say ‘take care of them,’ all I mean is adding a few more numbers to your total.”

“Damn you, Hauser, that’s outrageous—” Skiba broke off and swallowed. He was just letting Hauser bait him. This was talk, nothing more.

“This is beautiful, Skiba. You want your Codex nice and clean and legal, you don’t want anyone popping up to claim ownership, and you don’t want anyone hurt. Don’t worry, no white people will be killed without your permission.”

“You listen to me. I will not countenance the killing of anyone, white or nonwhite. This reckless talk has got to stop.” Skiba could feel the sweat trickling down his neck. How had he allowed Hauser to take control of the situation like this? His hand fumbled with the key. The drawer slid open.

“I understand,” said Hauser. “Like I said—”

“I’ve got a meeting.” Skiba ended the connection, his heart pounding. Hauser was down there, out of control, with no supervision, liable to do anything. The man was a psychopath. He bit down, chewed, washed the bitterness down with a slug of Macallan, and sat back, breathing deeply. The fire was burning merrily in the fireplace. The talk of killing made him feel agitated, sick to his stomach. He gazed into the flames, seeking their soothing influence. Hauser had promised to ask his permission, and Skiba would never give it. Neither the company nor even his own personal fortune was worth taking that step. His gaze wandered over to the row of silver photographs on his desk: his three children, gazing back at him with towheaded grins. He regulated his breathing. Hauser was full of tough talk, but it was just that: talk. Nobody was going to get killed. Hauser would retrieve the Codex, Lampe would recover, and in two or three years he would be the toast of Wall Street for pulling his company back from the brink.

Skiba glanced at his watch: The markets had closed. With a feeling of anxiety and reluctance he flicked on the computer screen. Late bargain hunting had pushed the stock up in the last twenty minutes. It had closed at ten and a half.

Skiba felt a wisp of relief. It hadn’t been such a bad day after all.