Boyd Morrison
The Adamas Blueprint
CHAPTER 1
Michael Ward’s fingers trembled as he lifted his hands from the keyboard. He’d tried calling Kevin three times, but Ward kept getting the damned answering machine, and leaving a message was out of the question.
He needed a cigarette badly. His hand fumbled through his shirt pocket and removed the pack of Benson and Hedges. Only one left. He’d have to get another pack before they left for the airport.
He lit the cigarette despite the shaking and took a deep drag, trying to pull every milligram of precious nicotine into his system. He felt the smoke fill his lungs, and the trembling subsided. His attention returned to the words on the screen. He almost laughed at their absurdity, but he was afraid if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.
A wave of nausea hit him. Ward shook off the feeling. There wasn’t much left in his stomach anyway, just half a bottle of Pepto Bismol he’d drained when he got home. He’d been spending the Friday in his South Texas University office working and listening to the radio when he’d heard the news of Herbert Stein’s death. The story had been short, but it was enough. An execution-style shooting, the body thrown in a dumpster. Ward got sick twice, once in his office trash can and again before climbing into his Mercedes. Even now, he still didn’t feel like a man who was about retire to the Bahamas with $10 million.
With the cigarette stuck in his mouth, he continued typing.
“May we come in, Dr. Ward?”
Ward jerked visibly at the sound of the voice. He recognized the distinct enunciation of each syllable and his heart started racing. He turned his head to see two men standing in the doorway to his study. David Lobec and behind him, Richard Bern, Clay Tarnwell’s men here to finalize the deal. They were early. The meeting wasn’t supposed to start for another two hours.
He silently cursed himself for not grabbing their passports and running as soon as he saw his wife.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blinking cursor on the screen and realized that the words on the computer might be seen from the front of his desk. Without glancing back at the monitor, he pressed the F4 key as he turned the chair to face his visitors. The message disappeared from the screen.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lobec,” Ward said, rising from his seat. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.” The waver in his voice betrayed his attempt to remain calm. He took another puff from the cigarette.
Lobec smiled and strode in without waiting for the invitation he had asked for.
“Disgusting habit,” he said, plucking the cigarette from Ward’s lips. He stubbed it out in a heavily stained brass ashtray. “Much better. Now we can all breathe while we talk.” He sat in one of the leather chairs. Bern remained standing behind him.
“Please sit down,” Lobec said.
“You’re early,” said Ward, lowering himself into his chair. “I wasn’t expecting you until 6:30.” The clock on the study’s mantle said 4:23.
“Of course you weren’t. You expected to be far away by the time we arrived. I’m happy to surprise you.”
He wasn’t tall, no more than 5’10”, but Lobec carried a quiet confidence that made him more imposing than a man six inches taller. His thick ebony hair, a marked contrast to his fair complexion and slate gray eyes, was combed straight back. His gray suit was tailored, perfectly fitting his trim, athletic frame, but otherwise rather ordinary. Lobec was not a handsome man, his nose angled slightly downward and crooked, his chin weak, but his eyes were always alert and focused. Despite being intimidated by Lobec, Ward couldn’t help admiring the man’s presence.
Lobec’s younger associate, on the other hand, was the same height as Lobec, but about fifty pounds heavier, although Ward couldn’t tell how much of that was muscle. Bern also lacked Lobec’s sense of style, wearing an ill- fitting blue suit that looked a size too large for his bulky frame. His brown hair was cut in a Marine-style crew, and boredom wafted from his perpetual frown and sleepy eyes. Beyond the visual, Ward knew hardly anything about the man. He’d never uttered more than a few unintelligible greetings.
Ward forced a smile, knowing he’d never be able to overpower either one of them, let alone both. Despite his four-inch height advantage over the two men, his large paunch and fleshy jowls gave him away as a professor whose sole exercise was swinging a golf club. Since the fall semester didn’t begin until next week, he was dressed in the $300 sweatsuit he normally wore on weekends, not the Sansabelt slacks and tight short sleeve shirts his colleagues seemed to prefer. Otherwise, Ward was the archetype of a distinguished professor, down to the thin, graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Judging by Lobec’s attitude, he wasn’t much of a threat.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ward said. “I was just finishing up some…”
“You do know what I mean.” Lobec seemed more amused than annoyed. “We’ve been searching for you for the last hour. It seems that you did not take your normal route from the office today. Perhaps you could tell us why.”
He had suspected they were watching him, and now Lobec’s statement confirmed it. After hearing the news about Herbert Stein’s murder, Ward had taken the precaution of leaving through the subbasement to another building, hoping to elude his observers for just ten minutes. It was all the time he needed to hide the key to his insurance. Apparently, he had been successful.
“How do you know what route I take?” He was stalling, trying to think.
“The same way we know that your mandatory tenure has been denied.”
Ward’s eyebrow twitched. Lobec was trying to shake him. But the decision had been made over a month ago, the same day he had finally decided to sell his notebook on Adamas rather than turn it over to the university. The tenure decision wasn’t common knowledge, but at least a dozen people at STU knew.
Before Ward could respond, Lobec said, “The same way we know how you’ve been able to afford a half- million dollar home and a Mercedes on a professor’s salary.” Lobec looked around at the tastefully decorated study, with its mahogany desk, black leather sofa, golf awards, and memorabilia. Over Ward’s shoulder, he could see the 18-hole championship golf course in the final stages of construction. His eyes returned to Ward. “Although lately, your situation has taken a turn for the worse, hasn’t it? Mr. Tarnwell mentioned your successful ventures in the stock market. It’s a pity your appraisal of Genetix wasn’t as shrewd.”
Ward’s jaw dropped. Ward had gotten lucky on some Internet stocks and cashed out before the crash. Then Ward got a hot tip about a local company called Genetix about to issue a press release about a new drug it was developing. FDA approval was a sure thing, his source had said. Seeing how well other biotechs had done, Ward pounced on it.
In the first week after the press release, the stock soared to twice its price and Ward was ecstatic. He bought even more shares, leveraging himself to the hilt. But within a month, a report leaked test results detailing serious side effects of the new drug. The probability of FDA approval was virtually nonexistent. The stock plummeted. Ward couldn’t give shares away. Before the deal with Tarnwell came along, he was on the verge of bankruptcy. Not even Irene knew about it.
As Ward sat dumbfounded, Lobec continued. “I mention these facts merely to impress upon you that our resources for gathering information are quite formidable. Should you and your wife think of leaving Houston, we
