Deadly Additive

by Donn Taylor

  “They’re definitely making chemical weapons,” the decon team leader reported. “We’re sure of a nerve gas—probably sarin—and some kind of blister agent. There’s a bunch of other stuff we don’t know about. As near as we can figure, they must have been putting all of it into the same mortar shell. I never heard of anything like that.”

  “How about documents?” Sledge asked.

  “Very few, and the ones we found don’t help. They log quantities of chemicals received and the number of shells produced and shipped, but they don’t say where the shipments went.”

  Another dead end.

  The intelligence officer jumped as a cell phone clipped to his belt began ringing. “We took that phone off the man you questioned,” he said.

  He and Sledge exchanged glances. Should they answer or not?

  “Can’t hurt,” the officer said and answered. He listened, then asked, “Who did you want to speak to?” He made a disgusted face and returned the phone to his belt. “They hung up.”

  “No information?” Sledge asked.

  “He told me to authenticate. The challenge was mananza, the Spanish word for apple. When I asked who he wanted, he broke contact. The only clue I have is that I think he spoke with a German accent. But with so few words spoken, I can’t be sure.”

  Sledge walked back to the airstrip, where the medevac aircraft was taking off. His adrenaline rush from the firefight had changed to a deficit, leaving him weak and depressed.

  They’d told him U.S. casualties were light. But still, good men’s lives had been lost. They’d taken out this factory, but apparently there were others in locations unknown. And behind it all, an unknown mastermind was dealing in a new and unbelievably dangerous kind of weapon. Sledge remembered Kristin’s photographs of the corpses in the clearing. His anger rose. Not flaming anger, but quiet, deep, and white-hot against the man who had made these horrors possible.

  Sledge sighed. He’d fought his way through another valley up to another hilltop, and still he was not finished. The master villain represented yet another hill to climb, and Sledge would not know complete rest until that man was brought low.

  But how?

  Today’s attack on the factory had been necessary. Yet after so much expenditure of blood and treasure, what did they have?

  Another dead end.

  23

  Houston, Texas

  At noon three days later, Sledge’s flight home landed at Houston’s Bush Intercontinental Airport, and he took a cab to his apartment. The days following the raid had been busy but routine. A technical intelligence team had collected samples from the factory and flown them out for analysis. Sledge was excluded from that process and worked mostly as liaison with the Colombian army as it accepted the guerrilla prisoners and relieved U.S. forces at the factory site. That placed him among the last U.S. troops to leave. Back at Ft. Bragg, he endured a three-hour debriefing before being released to his reserve unit.

  The cabdriver eyed Sledge’s uniform and asked if he’d participated in “the invasion of Colombia.” Thankful for the technical distinction between a raid and an invasion, Sledge replied truthfully that he had not. For the rest of the trip, the driver recited the media’s creative version of the operation. Sledge tipped him handsomely for the entertainment.

  He approached his apartment door cautiously: no use repeating the peril of his first meeting with Steve Spinner. The billionaire probably wouldn’t bother, but the bodyguards might carry a grudge. Sledge set his bags down, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.

  The security system gave no warning beep.

  Temper blazing, Sledge moved so quickly that his actions seemed one continuous motion. Crouched low, he knocked the door wide open and threw his carry-on bag in at head height. He hoped that would momentarily distract any gunman who might be waiting. Still crouched, he charged in as if tackling a runner in football, ready to disarm and punish the intruder.

  But no one stood near the door.

  Relaxed and smiling in easy chairs in the living room sat Roger Brinkman and Kristin Halvorsen.

  Sledge glowered at Brinkman. “How did you get in without setting off the alarm? How did you know when I was coming?”

  The older man grinned. “Trade secrets. Didn’t they tell you I was unscrupulous?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t come in shooting.”

  “You couldn’t.” Brinkman looked smug. “The airline wouldn’t let you carry a weapon, and you have none in your truck. All you could bring in were your hands and a bad temper.”

  Kristin smiled. “I warned him about your habit of throwing a grenade in first.”

  “This time I would have pulled the pin.”

  She wore an eye-catching yellow sweater and a lime-green knee-length skirt. Reluctantly, he realized he was glad to see her. But he wasn’t going to give in too quickly. “OK,” he grumbled. “You’re both here. What’s the occasion?”

  Brinkman took over. “Brian Novak says you did a fine job in Colombia. They’ve put you in for a Bronze Star.”

  “That and a dollar or two will buy a cup of coffee in most restaurants.” The ancient cliché seemed appropriate.

  “He also said the Colombia raid went well, though it didn’t produce the leads we hoped for. Your and Kristin’s sighting of Erich Staab was promising, but my men lost him in Seattle. Meanwhile, the Ramirez family called in some good information. Raúl and Jocelyn overheard Steve Spinner planning illegal weapons sales with a man we believe is the Williams who set up Diego Contreras with the factory. They tried to kill Raúl, but he escaped and made the report.”

  “I heard from Jocelyn. She’s left her father again,” Kristin said. “This time for good. Raúl drove her from New Orleans to Glenn Vickers’ church here in Houston. She hopes Vickers can help put her life together again when he gets back from Colombia.”

  “Raúl went back to New Orleans.” Brinkman grinned. “He said that Spinner’s and Williams’s attempt to kill him was ‘impolite,’ and he intends to teach some people manners. We hear that one of Spinner’s bodyguards has gone missing. While Raúl is conducting his school of etiquette, we hope he’ll develop some leads on Williams and his crew.”

  Sledge’s suspicions grew. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “It means that a dangerous master villain is at large, and we don’t know who he is.”

  “I’ll applaud when you catch him.” He turned to Kristin and spoke softly. “What brings you to Houston?”

  Brinkman answered for her. “Her magazine killed her story. Said it was implausible—”

  “That was the party line,” Kristin’s voice vibrated with anger. “A friend told me privately the editor had published several articles favorable to the guerrillas and refused to believe they committed the massacre. On top of that, Steve Spinner told him I was unreliable and had a history of psychological problems. So I quit.”

  “She called me,” Brinkman said, “and we worked something out. The editor of National Events says he’ll be happy to embarrass one of his competitors. Kristin has not one story, but three on file with him now. The first one is due out next week, but the other two have to wait for Novak’s OK. The stories will make her a superstar.”

  Sledge grinned in spite of himself. “Nice going, brat. I wanted to wring your neck when you went back for the memory card, but I guess it’s a good thing you did. So what do you do now?”

  Kristin’s chin lifted a fraction of an inch. “The first thing is tell you to forget that name. Then Mr. Brinkman wants me to do a job for him.”

  “We’re looking for a transshipment point for the chemical weapons that have already been flown out of Colombia,” Brinkman said. “We think Steve Spinner’s ship carrying food and medicine for North Korea may add those weapons to its cargo somewhere in the Lesser Antilles. We lost track of it in that area. This is conjectural, but we have reports of aircraft without flight plans leaving Colombia and turning east north east. That also points to the Lesser Antilles.”r />
  “What’s that got to do with Kristin?” Sledge didn’t like the idea. “It sounds like a job for the CIA.”

  “Novak’s people can’t cover all the bases. I’ve gotten help from people who owe me favors, and I’ve hired others. Kristin fits into the latter category.”

  “That’s no job for a woman.”

  Kristin bristled. “Neither was finding that factory.”

  Brinkman stood. “Kristin will fly into Saint Kitts tomorrow and take a boat to a small resort island called Mary’s Garden. That ought to be safe.”

  “Famous last words,” Sledge said. Another cliché, but it fit. “I still don’t see the reason for your visit.”

  “An errand of mercy. I didn’t want Kristin to be bored on her last night in town, and I’ve heard you know a good Italian restaurant. She’s staying at the Renaissance.”

  Kristin looked embarrassed.

  To Sledge’s surprise, his bad temper vanished. He showed Kristin what he hoped was a pleasant countenance. “Pick you up at seven?”

  Something of value might yet be salvaged from a day of dull routine.

  ****

  That afternoon, Sledge tried to plan his new life, but he couldn’t keep his mind on it. Kristin’s photographs of the second massacre haunted him. So did his memory of the airborne soldiers killed and wounded in taking out the factory. There was a great evil here. Diego Contreras had been only an agent. So were the pilots who flew the chemical weapons out of Colombia and the men who received them at their destination, wherever that might be. This shadowy organization had to be guided by someone with brilliant intelligence. Sledge told himself that Brinkman and Novak would handle that job, but he knew he could not fully rest until the guilty men were...well...neutralized, at least.

  His mood remained grim when he called for Kristin at the Renaissance. She wore a black knee-length skirt beneath a cream-colored boat neck blouse topped by pearl earrings and a single-strand pearl necklace. She advanced with the straightforward gaze of a person ready to meet the world on its own terms. Sledge’s glum mood retreated into the small recesses of his mind.

  To Kristin’s credit, she didn’t check Sledge’s used Toyota pickup for cleanliness before getting in.

  “You look great,” he said. “Better than you did with camouflage on your face.”

  She laughed. “I still have camouflage on my face. It’s just a different kind.”

  His glum mood retreated further. “I’m sorry about your story.”

  “An educational process.” Her chin lifted again. “I already knew the kind of people I was working for but didn’t let myself admit it. Mr. Brinkman got me in with a better crew.”

  Sledge nodded. “He fixes more things than he’ll ever get credit for.”

  As they drove east on Westheimer, Kristin looked disapprovingly at a complex of grimy-looking apartments.

  “That’s the new architectural style in Houston,” Sledge said. “It’s called Neo-hideous.”

  She rewarded him with a smile. “Don’t apologize. I’ve seen it in other cities, too. It must be inexpensive.”

  He turned north on Montrose for several blocks, then parked on a street a few blocks away. “We have to walk from here,” he said. “Fabrizio’s parking lot is being repaired.”

  They walked west past a store that catered to the teenage crowd. Its window advertisements featured life-size pictures of youngsters wearing belligerent expressions and very little else.

  “I’m sorry,” Sledge said. “I’d forgotten about that store.”

  “It’s sad, but don’t worry about it,” Kristin said, her eyes holding to the front. “The bare bodies and suggestive poses bother me less than those empty faces. There’s nothing there except resentment.”

  Sledge felt a twinge at the mention of emptiness, but he said nothing. He wasn’t ready to face that problem.

  Inside Fabrizio’s, Sledge relished again the sudden impression of silence, all city noises blocked out by well-designed walls. A courteous sign requested patrons to turn off their cell phones. A modestly dressed hostess greeted them with a soft voice and guided them to a table in a quiet corner. The impression of silence proved deceptive. Hidden speakers emitted restful music barely above the level of audibility. A dark-clad young waiter served glasses of water and retreated without comment.

  “I recommend the veal scaloppini,” Sledge said.

  “Fine,” Kristin said. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know they still had restaurants like this.”

  “I hoped you’d like it.”

  As Sledge laid his menu on the table, the waiter appeared at his elbow. “May I take your order, sir?”

  “I don’t believe this,” Kristin said when Sledge had ordered. “He didn’t introduce himself.”

  “Fabrizio tells his workers they aren’t entertainers, that people come here to talk to each other while they eat. He’s built a good business that way, and the workers who stay find out they get good tips.”

  Dinner arrived and required their full attention. Both passed on dessert but ordered coffee.

  “Those kids in the store window,” Kristin said. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m really very different. Since high school, I’ve known where I was going. I’ve worked hard to get there and now, thanks to Roger Brinkman, I’m about to break into the big time. But somehow I feel there’s an empty place in me, too.”

  Sledge looked at her in surprise. “I thought I might be the only one.”

  A pleasant feeling of harmony swept through him, a sense that all the swirling conflict and contention of the outer world could not touch them in this special place. He’d felt this way before only with Alita, so different from Kristin in personality as well as appearance. Alita possessed the quiet beauty of one who knew exactly who she was, content to let her magnetism draw the world in to her. Kristin had the dynamic energy of one who went out eagerly to meet the world.

  He realized she was speaking. “…something we’re lacking. How do we find out what it is?”

  He paused for thought. “Maybe Glenn Vickers would know. He ought to be back in Houston soon.”

  “That’s a great help with me heading for Saint Kitts tomorrow.” She made a face and looked at her wristwatch. “Speaking of which…”

  He took the hint and called for the check. At least she looked like she’d rather not go, and the feeling of being in harmony remained.

  It continued during their drive back to the Renaissance, though they said little. In the lobby she handed him her key card, and he felt complimented that she let him see her up to her room.

  “I had a wonderful evening,” she said as they left the elevator. The radiant expression on her face showed that she meant it. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Anytime you’re in Houston,” he said, putting the key card in the lock and opening the door for her.

  They stood by the door, and she seemed as reluctant as he to end the evening. He bent over her to say something—what, he didn’t know—just something to postpone the parting a few moments longer.

  Her face distorted in alarm, and she shrank away from him as she had on the helicopter.

  “What…?” he stammered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Tears poured from her eyes. “I had a wonderful time. Good night.”

  She fled into the room and closed the door.

  Sledge’s surprise slowly metamorphosed into puzzlement as he gazed at the key card still held in his hand. He bent down and slid it under the door. He certainly wasn’t going to knock and hand it to her.

  His dissatisfaction grew as he drove home, dodging the foolish drivers on I-45 and trying not to become one. They’d been so compatible all evening, sharing thoughts and mostly agreeing, and then, boom! She’d pulled that harebrained shrinking act. Maybe he’d had it right in Colombia when he’d called her brat.

  At his apartment complex he parked in the designated spot and walked to his quarters.

  Somewhere behind an apartment
door, an unseen dog said either “Wurf” or “Worse.”

  Sledge thought he knew which.

  24

  Mary’s Garden, Leeward Islands

  Kristin felt close to tears as she approached the tiny island’s one hotel. She and Sledge had spent such a beautiful evening together, and she had to ruin it with that silly phobia. For years she’d told herself that big men could stand conversationally close and be innocent of any threat. But the telling did no good. Whenever one leaned over her, that old irrational reaction took control.

  The memory ruined what should be an enjoyable trip: all expenses paid in a tropical paradise. And she couldn’t complain about variety in her life—first the Andean cold and now the burning Caribbean sun that forced her into sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat.

  The flight to Saint Kitts had been uneventful, and she’d paused there only long enough to glimpse the bulk of Mount Misery before taking the small passenger boat to Mary’s Garden. From there it would proceed west to something called the Isle of Saint Mark before returning.

  In her hotel room she scanned her tourist map of the island and reviewed her assignment. Check the dock facilities and find out what cargo ships had been here recently, especially the Preening Peacock. That shouldn’t be difficult because the island was so small.

  A wave of depression swept over her as she again recalled the previous evening. She forced the incident from her mind. This was her first assignment from the influential Roger Brinkman. It might be simple, but she’d give it everything she had.

  And no fit of megrims was going to spoil it.