Book of Nathan (32 page)

There was an uncharacteristic rattle in Russet’s voice. “You
don’t understand—Arcontius doesn’t have anything to do with the Almiras
Society.”

“Why? Because he’s Arthur Silverstein’s trusted sidekick?”

“That’s not the—”

“He’s a mole,” I interrupted. “The fox in Silverstein’s
chicken coop. Think about it. Arcontius intercepts information sent to Silverstein
by his pro-choice friends and then uses it to map out his own society’s game
plan.”

Russet said nothing, apparently weighing my words. When she
resumed the conversation, her words were missing their usual sharp edge. “What
are you planning to do—expose him?”

“I want Miklos Zeusenoerdorf freed,” I said. “If Arcontius
gets outted in the process, so be it.”

Russet took a deep breath. “I’ll call you later this
morning. There are people I need to talk to before we continue.”

Chapter 21

While
waiting for my second conversation of the day with Judith Russet, I called
Yigal Rosenblatt’s cell and was bounced into the lawyer’s voice mailbox—again.
I left a message reminding him that if Twyla wasn’t gainfully employed by
Universal Orlando on Monday at nine a.m., he would be learning a lot about
radical reconstructive surgery.

Shortly before noon, Russet was back on the phone. What I
heard was a woman who sounded like she had her moxie extracted.

“We can’t have you publicly exposing Arcontius. So we’re willing
to negotiate.”

“Why the change of heart?”
 

“Because Arcontius isn’t Arita Almiras.”

There was no uncertainty in Russet’s statement. “Really? And
you know that because—”

“Because Abraham has been working undercover for years. Not
for the Almiras Society. For
Quia
Vita
.”

This
I
didn’t expect. It was one of those unanticipated lightning bolts that frazzle
pre-conceived ideas. “He works for you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be goddamned!” Of course! It was Arcontius who sent
the note to Russet the night Doc and I crept into her Visio Dei meeting. Doug
had told Arcontius we’d be infiltrating the session and he fed that information
to Russet.
 

“Out of the blue you call me up and blow Arcontius’s cover,”
I said. “Why?”

“Because you’re on the verge of pulling him out of the
closet. The right kind of detective work will prove that Arcontius is actually
a
Quia Vita
operative. If that were to happen, our organization could be greatly
compromised.”
 

Compromised
was
an understatement, I thought. Ruined
was
more accurate.

“In a week, maybe two, Abraham’s going to leave his
position,” Russet continued. I figured it was information that was supposed to
make me feel better about keeping quiet. No reason to talk about a little
espionage if the secret agent was no longer on the job.

“You mean he’s going to quit? Just because you say so?”
  

“It will be a medical leave of absence,” Russet explained.
“Abraham will be sick for a few weeks and later on, he’ll tender his
resignation. For health reasons.”

I wondered what kind of trumped-up illness Arcontius was
about to contract or whether
Quia
Vita
would make the slimy rat bastard sick for real. “You’ll miss your deep-cover
spy.”
 

“Abraham hasn’t been as effective as he once was. It could
be his age or maybe he’s just tired.”

“Or maybe he’s been wearing three hats instead of two.”

“Meaning what?”

“How certain are you that Abe isn’t
running the Almiras Society? What if
he’s been skimming the cream from his undercover exploits and feeding it to the
Almiras crowd. All
Quia Vita
has been getting the last couple of years is low-fat milk.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I heard little conviction.
 

“Is it? Look, Silverstein thinks Arcontius works for him.
You think Abraham works for you. But didn’t it ever occur to you that Abe could
be pushing his own agenda?”

“Out of the question.”

“You know the man. Doesn’t he think your organization is too
soft? Hasn’t he been on your case to turn
Quia
Vita
into a more militant organization?”

It was pure supposition. I took Russet’s silence as a “yes.”

“Ida Kyzwoski told me the Almiras Society has connections to
big money. Well, supposing Arcontius found a way to tap into some of
Silverstein’s fortune. Would a billionaire miss a few million? Done the right
way, maybe not.”

“You’re reaching,” charged Russet.

“Possibly. But I think I’m cozying up to the truth. Abraham
Arcontius. Almiras Society. Same initials. Same man.”

“Arcontius is our problem,” said Judith. “We’ll handle him.
What we’re asking you to do is to keep all of this to yourself.”

“And in exchange, you’ll do what?”

“Give you what you said you wanted. Information about when
and where the
Book of Nathan
disk is to be handed over to us.”

I reacted too quickly, which made it obvious I had been
anticipating Russet’s offer. “I’ll think about it. But first, I need you to
answer a question. Le Campion’s notes that you bought for two point five
million—did they tell you anything about the
Book
of Nathan
’s
take
on abortion?”

Russet held back an answer. She was trying to figure out
where I was heading. “Henri interpreted certain parts of the book. But until we
see the translated text firsthand, we won’t know how accurate his notes are.”

“But whatever he put in his notes got your attention.”

“Our conclusions are likely to be different from Henri’s. Like
I said—we won’t know that until we get the disk and use the translation key to
pull apart the encrypted text.”

“Henri’s conclusions—what are they?”

“I’m not getting into that.” Russet punched out her words
like bullets.

Maybe a little provocation would keep the dialogue alive. “I
take that to mean Henri found something in the book that won’t sit well with
the pro-life world.”

“Le Campion’s notes aren’t explicit.”
 

“Explicit enough to convince
Quia Vita
to buy those notes and the
Book
of Nathan
translation for five million. Not a bad investment if the
disk turns out to be bad news for your organization. Buy it, then bury it.”

I could feel Russet’s irritation boil into anger. I knew she
wanted to tell me to go to hell, which is where she thought I was destined to
end up anyway. But I had picked at a scab that caused an automatic defensive
reaction.

“If you think the book dismisses ensoulment, you’re wrong.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Then Le Campion’s notes must have
told you when ensoulment actually starts.”

Russet was getting increasingly careful with her words. “In
a way.”

“And?”

“His notes are ours. We’re not about to give you or anyone
else free access to that information.”

“Here’s what I think. If the notes back up
Quia Vita
’s
position that ensoulment begins at conception, then you’re probably already
planning a national information campaign that can be launched when you get the
disk. If the notes say otherwise, you can’t wait to throw Henri’s translation
in the furnace.”

It was another stick in Russet’s eye and it poked out a few
words she probably should have kept to herself. “Ensoulment is a process, not
something that’s switched on at conception. At least that’s the way Henri Le
Campion interprets the
Book
of Nathan.”

“You can’t be ecstatic over that bit of news,” I said.
“After Mr. Sperm does his thing to Ms. Egg, whatever’s created is soulless.”

“We’re created with a receptacle, Bullock. According to
LeCampion’s interpretation of the book, what we put into that receptacle
determines the level of ensoulment. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.”

“Fascinating,” I replied. And actually it was
fascinating, although hardly intriguing
enough to justify killing a man or even coughing up five million bucks. “So,
where does that leave you and
Quia
Vita
?
If we’re conceived with a receptacle and not a soul, that sort of weakens your
pro-life argument, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t change the fact that personhood starts at
conception.”

“You can be a person without a soul?”

“Yes. People are created with the capacity to become
ensouled. That capacity is what defines personhood and personhood begins at
conception.”

“Unless the
Book
of Nathan
also blows that assumption apart.”

“Speculating on what’s in the book and what isn’t doesn’t
deal with the matter at hand,” said Russet. “What we need right now is your
word that you’ll keep the information you have about Arcontius confidential.”

“How do you know I’ll keep whatever promise I make?”

“I told you before, we’re quite good at learning as much as
we can about the people who can help us—or hurt us.”

I recalled Conway Kyzwoski’s video production featuring Rick
Bullock. “You and a lot of other people.”

“Of course, as trustworthy as we think you are, we still
need insurance that you won’t create—a problem for us.”

“Insurance?”

“We have information about your involvement with Manuel
Maglio. Pictures of you entering and leaving his office in Edison. Copies of
checks you received from one of his holding companies. Spending time at a place
called Climax
isn’t
likely to further your career.”

Russet apparently didn’t understand that managing a men’s
shelter isn’t on par with running IBM. A few Polaroids of a visit to an Edison
nudie bar would hardly be enough to get me fired. A payment or two from Manny
Maglio might be a different story—but my board of directors would most likely
let me off that hook as well because it’s a lot easier to forgive a
transgression than to go through the agony of hiring a new shelter director.
Even though Russet’s threat meant nothing, I was rankled by the tactic she was
using.
   

“Is blackmail something
Quia
Vita
does often or just on special occasions?” I asked, trying to keep the reins on
my anger. “And by the way, Maglio’s money was reimbursement for travel
expenses.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Russet said. “Just understand we have
what it takes to damage your reputation.” I picked up an undercurrent of
embarrassment that I took to mean the
Quia
Vita
chief wished she weren’t wading in this kind of muck. “Everything stays under
wraps as long as you stay quiet about Arcontius.”

“This intimidation nonsense isn’t just demeaning to you and
Quia Vita
,
it’s totally pointless,” I said heatedly. “I gave you my word and if you’ve
really done your homework, you know I don’t back off a promise. Now tell me
when and where you’ll be picking up the CD.”
 

Russet didn’t waste time. “We’re supposed to get delivery of
the
Book of Nathan
disk tomorrow night. It’s to be given to two of our Visio Dei officers.”

“Who’s going to make the delivery? The thief who took the
disk?”

“No. A middleman named Osman Seleucus. Once we’re in contact
with Seleucus, we’ll be told when and how to send a second two point five
million to the Cayman Islands.”

The news came as a setback. I had hoped there wouldn’t be an
intermediary involved. “Osman Seleucus—what do you know about him?”

“Nothing. He’s probably just a hired hand.”

“What about your two Visio Dei people who’ll be picking up
the disk? How will Seleucus recognize them?”

“As part of the deal, we posted their names and pictures on
our main Web site. That was done earlier today—their photos are the last
entries on a page we use to honor our volunteer leaders.”

It was becoming more apparent that whoever was selling Le
Campion’s CD was both smart and crafty. “How will you let me know when the disk
gets handed over?”

“One of our people will call you on your cell phone. You’re
to keep your distance until the transaction is finished. After that, you can
follow Mr. Seleucus or take whatever action you want as long as you don’t
implicate
Quia Vita
.”

“Where’s all this going to happen?”

The answer was matter-of-fact to Judith Russet and
staggering to me. “Ellis Island.”

“Ellis Island?”

“Yes. Tomorrow night.”

“There’s a testimonial dinner for Arthur Silverstein
tomorrow night. At the Registry Hall on Ellis Island.”

“Which is where Osman Seleucus is to turn over the
Book of Nathan
disk.”

Chapter 22

Noon.
My Manny Maglio apprehension needle was about to cross into the panic zone when
Yigal Rosenblatt finally called. Yes, he made it to Orlando. Yes, Twyla was
fine. And—oh, by the way—“she’s staying at my place.”

I wondered what the lawyer’s nest must look like. It
couldn’t be pretty—not if the interior design were as out-of-kilter as
Zeusenoerdorf’s defense attorney.

“You’re going to get Twyla to Universal Studios on Monday,”
I reminded Yigal.

“I will.”

“Before nine a.m.”

“I’ll drive her there,” Yigal assured me.

“And for the rest of the weekend, stay low. Maybe hang out
at your place.”

“Okay,” he said too quickly.

“And turn your damn cell on. I tried reaching you all
morning. No answer.”

The lawyer pledged to keep his phone at the ready.
Apparently it had been turned off last night and for most of the morning. Seems
Twyla and Yigal decided to sleep late. I didn’t ask for details. Better not to
know.

“If there’s a problem, call me.”

“I’ll call.”

“It’s important. If anything smells funny, get on the
phone.”

“I can do that.”

“I should be reachable all weekend. Except maybe tomorrow
night. I’m not sure what the cell reception is like on Ellis Island.”

Yigal’s reaction was uncharacteristically slow. “Ellis
Island?”

“Yeah, tomorrow night.”

“Why Ellis Island?” Yigal’s tone was even and deliberate. I
could feel his sense of concern.

“Going fishing,” I answered. “I’ll call Sunday and let you
know if I got lucky.”

After I disconnected, the change in Yigal’s tone of voice
nagged at me. Maybe there was more going on underneath the hopped-up attorney’s
exterior than I thought.
 

Doug
called just after lunch. “You in Orlando yet?”

“Getting there,” I said, trying to sound farther away than
in my office, which was just an hour southwest of the Hudson River.

“What do you mean, ‘getting there?’ Didn’t you fly? I told
you Manny was good for the tickets.”

“We’re driving.”

Doug instantly sounded concerned. “What does ‘we’re’ mean?”

“Remember Yigal Rosenblatt—Zeus’s lawyer?”

“Yeah, I remember. What’s going on, Bullet?”

“Nothing,” I replied just a tad too easily. My lie needed
some pumping up. “Yigal had to drive back to Orlando, so Twyla and I hitched a
ride. We left yesterday, spent last night in Savannah, and now we’re closing in
on Orlando. Let Manny know we’re saving him all kinds of money—maybe he’ll up
his United Way pledge.”

“Why do I think there’s more to this story?” asked Doug who
could smell a fabrication a mile away.

“Relax. Twyla will be parked in Orlando tonight, and I’ll be
on a plane back to New Jersey first thing in the morning. I have a car service
lined up to get Twyla to work on Monday.”

“Just don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” I told my pal. “Which brings us to
Doc Waters and Maurice Tyson. You’re sure they’re on the worker list for
tomorrow night’s dinner?”

“They’re on the list,” said Doug. “Be in Jersey City by five
o’clock tomorrow afternoon. And remember to get to Hinkle’s and pick up a
couple of tuxedos for your pals. You’ll never know how many strings I had to
pull to make this happen.”

“And you’ll never know what it’s like to handhold Manny
Maglio’s promiscuous niece.”

“Cry me a river. Listen, there’s one wrinkle—” He stopped.

Uh-oh.
“Wrinkle’s
a naughty word, Doug.”

“It’s a small thing.”

I braced myself. “What small thing?”

“The doctor you wanted to talk to—the guy at Overlook
Hospital in Jersey who worked on Ruth Silverstein.”

“What about him?”

“Roger Meseck’s his name and he’s heading out of town.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He and his wife are driving to Baltimore later today for a
medical conference and a long weekend with their daughter and grandson. So,
you’re going have to put off contacting him until he gets home.”

“Dammit,” I muttered.

“Did my best. The man isn’t going to be around.”

“You talked to him in person?”

“Called him at his house.”

“You have his number?”

The hesitation that followed told me Doug knew he had stepped
into quicksand. “Don’t hassle the guy, Bullet.”

“Any time you’re ready. Make sure you include the area
code.”

Dr.
Roger Meseck answered his phone a half hour before he and his wife were to
leave. I managed to convince him “it would really be helpful to those of us
working on the Ruth Silverstein Trust” if he could make a quick stop and meet
me at the East Brunswick Hilton just off exit 9 of the Jersey Turnpike. An hour
later, the Mesecks’ Jaguar pulled to a stop in front of the hotel.

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Meseck squealed. “You were on TV. The
kielbasa thing.”

It was now as obvious as Mrs. Meseck’s facelift that I had
become branded for life. As soon as I ended my campaign to save Zeus, the
Dubensko Polish Meat Products Company and I would have a little chat about a
multimillion dollar endorsement deal.

“We’re going to one of Roger’s dreary meetings,” Mrs. Meseck
informed me as if I had known her half my life. “I’ll be visiting with my
grandson, David, while Roger is doing who knows what.”

I smiled as politely as I could. “Sounds like a plan.”

“But here’s the thing,” Mrs. Meseck continued. “Little David
saw the Kielbasavan on television, Mr. Bullock. He simply adores
it.”

“It’s easy to love,” I concurred.

“I have Davey’s cap in the backseat of our car. Would you be
a dear
and
sign the brim? And you know what would be really special? Could you draw a
little picture of a kielbasa under your name?”

If I didn’t want answers from Roger Meseck, I would have
written a couple of words on Little Davey’s hat that would have gotten the kid
expelled from kindergarten.

“Dr. Meseck, I have a question about Arthur Silverstein’s
daughter,” I said after handing the autographed hat to the doctor’s wife
complete with a turd-like rendition of a sausage.

“Yes, Dr. Kool mentioned you’re updating the giving
guidelines for Ruth’s charitable trust?”

“That and we’re also trying to put together a few words for
Arthur’s testimonial dinner. You know about the Ellis Island event?”

“We weren’t invited,” the doctor said. “I don’t support the
United Way. It’s too socialistic, and they give money to causes we think are
left of center.”

Like a men’s homeless
shelter?
It would have been fun to poke at Dr. Meseck’s philosophy
of life, but there was a more pressing issue.

“I gather Ruth Silverstein died from severe blood loss,” I
said.

“I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with the trust or
the testimonial?”

“We’ve heard all kinds of rumors about Ruth—her life and how
she died. For purposes of the trust’s records, we want to reaffirm the facts.
As for tomorrow night’s testimonial, we want to make sure nothing is said about
Ruth that will set off more rumors.”

“I see,” said Dr. Meseck. “Well, you know those of us in the
medical field keep patient information confidential. That’s particularly true
when it comes to rich
patients.”
Both the doctor and his wife giggled.

“I realize that. But this has to do with a patient who died
a long time ago. Maybe you could give me just a little more information without
mentioning Ruth Silverstein’s name. You know—in consideration for—” I jerked my
head toward Davey’s cap that Mrs. Meseck was cradling like the Hope Diamond.

“Well, perhaps—”

“If a young woman came to you today with the symptoms you
ran across those many years ago—”