Free The Codex by Douglas Preston Page A

looked up. There, standing in front of him, was a cheap hustler in a wide-lapel suit wearing too much gold. He was one of those types who combed five hairs across half a continent of bald skull and thought that solved the problem.
    “Jesus Christ, Graff—”
    “Lewis,” said Graff, forging ahead, “this is Mr. Marcus Hauser, a private investigator formerly with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He has something he wants to show us.” Graff took a piece of paper from Hauser’s hands and passed it to Skiba.
    Skiba stared down at the page. It was covered with strange symbols, the margins drawn with curling vines and leaves. This was insane. Graff was cracking up.
    Graff pushed on. “That’s a page from a ninth-century Mayan manuscript. It’s called a codex. It’s a two-thousand-page catalog of rainforest drugs, how to extract them and use them.”
    Skiba felt a sensation of heat on his skin as the import sank in. It simply could not be true.
    “That’s right. Thousands of indigenous pharmaceutical prescriptions identifying medically active substances found in plants, animals, insects, spiders, molds, fungi—you name it. The medical wisdom of the ancient Maya in a single volume.”
    Skiba looked up, first at Graff, then at Hauser. “Where’d you get this?”
    Hauser stood with his plump hands folded in front of him. Skiba was sure he smelled some kind of aftershave or cologne. Cheap.
    “It belonged to an old friend of mine,” said Hauser. His voice was high and irritating, with what sounded like a Brooklyn accent. A pre-pubescent Pacino.
    Skiba said, “Mr. Hauser, it’ll be ten years and half a billion in R&D before any of these drugs come on-line.”
    “True. But think what it’ll do to your stock price now. As I understand it, you’ve got a bargeful of shit drifting down your little river here.” He swept a plump hand in a circle, taking in the room.
    Skiba stared at him. The insolent son of a bitch. He should throw him out now.
    Hauser went on. “Lampe stock opened this morning at fourteen and three-eighths. Last December it was trading at fifty. You, personally, have two million stock options at a strike price of between thirty and thirty-five laddered out to expire over the next two years. All of which are now worthless unless you can get the stock price back up. On top of that, your major new cancer drug, Phloxatane, is a dog and is about to be disapproved by the FDA—”
    Skiba rose from his chair, his face red. “How dare you speak these lies to me like this, in my office? Where are you getting this false information?”
    “Mr. Skiba,” said Hauser mildly, “let’s cut the bullshit. I’m a private investigator, and this manuscript will be coming into my possession in about four to six weeks. I want to sell it to you. And I know you need it. I could just as easily take it to GeneDyne or Cambridge Pharmaceuticals.”
    Skiba swallowed hard. It was amazing how fast clear-headedness could return. “How do I know this isn’t some kind of swindle?”
    Graff said, “I’ve checked it out. It’s as good as gold, Lewis.”
    Skiba stared at the huckster in the tasteless suit. He swallowed again, his mouth dry. This was how far they had sunk. “Tell me your proposal, Mr. Hauser.”
    Hauser said, “The Codex is in Honduras.”
    “So you’re selling a pig in a poke.”
    “To get it, I need money, weapons, and equipment. I’m running a big personal risk. I’ve already had to undertake one urgent piece of business. This isn’t going to come cheap.”
    “Don’t hustle me, Mr. Hauser.”
    “Who’s the hustler here? You’re up to your neck in accounting irregularities as it is. If the SEC were to hear about how you and Mr. Graff here have been booking marketing costs as long-term amortizable R&D these past few quarters, you’d both be leaving the building in handcuffs.”
    Skiba stared at the man, and then at Graff. The CFO had turned white. In the long silence, a piece of wood