by Jeff S.
"How is that possible?"
"Let's simply say, they know all the players on the field, including you." The agent paused for a moment. Nketia could hear papers shuffling in the background. "You've made the big time."
"I thought I was already in the big time."
"Corporations, government agencies, small nations, yes. But now, you've entered a level above those. You may have worked for world leaders, before, but they were only puppets with some minor freedom of movement. These are the puppet masters."
Nketia felt a chill run up his spine. It had been years since he felt anything akin to fear, but this feeling included a thrill he had nearly forgotten—like his first kill, or his first million dollar job.
"Where?"
"An envelope with instructions is waiting for you at your hotel front desk."
"How much?"
"Fifty times your minimum." The agent coughed half a laugh, dry and humorless. "Minus my own fifteen percent, of course."
"Of course."
There was a click. His agent had hung up.
His companion had been watching him, trying to look alluring. He grabbed his things, pulled a couple of hundreds out of his wallet and tossed them at her. Without looking in her direction, he said, "Done."
The envelope included a plane ticket to Washington, DC, plus instructions to register at the Barton Inn. Reservations were already there under the name Caleb Smith for room 4311.
His flight arrived just before ten in the evening.
At the hotel front desk, he checked in.
"Room reserved under the name Caleb Smith—room 4311."
The desk clerk checked his monitor. "Yes, sir. And I see we have an envelope waiting for you." He ducked behind the counter and returned holding a slender white envelope. "Here you are, sir. And your key. Do you need help with any bags?"
"No. Thank you," said Nketia. "I would like to reserve another room for an associate."
"Certainly, sir." The clerk clacked at the keys for a moment. "Room 4312 is available, right across the hall."
"Perfect."
In room 4312, he opened the envelope which held directions to a meeting at 10 AM the next morning. He decided to make this room his office. Outside, he placed the "Do Not Disturb" sign and then opened room 4311, depositing his luggage there. Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was the escort he had requested—a well-endowed blonde with dancer's legs and enough intelligence to make a late night dinner more than a little interesting. Her name was Moira.
He called the front desk for a 6 AM wakeup call and a 6:30 breakfast.
Chapter 2: The Interview
When the call finally came, he rolled out of bed, took a quick shower and had a leisurely breakfast with his new friend. Both of them had omelets with diced shallots and portobello mushrooms, crisp bacon, dry toast and black coffee.
As he finished dressing, he looked at Moira, eying every curve in and around the partially open bathrobe, and remembering how it all felt to the touch. "Stick around," he said. "Order anything you want from room service. Anything."
She tilted her head to the side and gave him a seductive nod.
The taxi got him to his destination more than thirty minutes before the meeting. He spent the time analyzing the place. On the surface, it seemed to be a market analysis firm. The lobby contained copies of Adweek and posters of Clio-award-winning advertisements. The few wisps of conversations he could snag with his sensitive hearing told him otherwise. The place was a front for some agency. He recognized all the signs. In most real corporations, his unusual appearance, even with a good tan, caught more than a few lingering glances. Here, everyone studiously avoided looking in his direction. Sometimes missing behavior is more telling than the visible.
Nketia prided himself on being able to recognize all cabinet members in the top four Western governments. He had a passing familiarity down to third level CIA. When finally he was directed to the private room with a secret elevator, he was not surprised to see Richard Balfour, Assistant Secretary for Planning and Evaluation, in the United States Department of Health and Human Services. He remembered that Balfour had once been United States Assistant Secretary for Financial Institutions, in the Treasury Department. Between his two stints in federal government, he had been VP Finance at a major pharmaceutical company. At the moment, Nketia could not remember which drug company, but that didn't seem to matter.
Nodding in the assistant secretary's direction, Nketia said, "Mr. Secretary." Balfour did not respond directly, but seemed gratified that someone had recognized him.
Balfour, was 62 and largely bald. He and two others rode with Nketia in the elevator, down to sub-basement level four.
One of the others—a trim man in his mid-forties—Nketia recognized as CIA, but could not remember the name or exact position. The third man, in his late sixties or early seventies, Nketia had never seen before.
Room 407 was moderately small, with a meeting table which could seat twelve.
As soon as they had taken their seats toward one end of the table, Balfour, sitting at the head of the table said, "We have eighteen targets, all of them in alternative medicine."
As Balfour spoke, Nketia gauged the faces of the other two men, sitting opposite him. Neither one gave a reaction. In fact, both of them seemed to be entirely without emotion.
"We need your complete focus on this," said CIA. "Lose the blonde."
Nketia smiled. His cold eyes drilled into CIA man as he spoke. "No one tells me how to do my job or brush my teeth, comb my hair. Are we done, here?"
Mystery Man spoke, "Bill has his own way of doing things and you have yours. I'm sure we can work with you, so long as you meet our specifications."
Nketia shrugged, closing his eyes in a slow blink. His single nod was barely perceptible.
"Here are the specs," said Balfour, shoving a thick envelope across the table in Nketia's direction.
Inside were eighteen folders, each for a different target.
Balfour lifted his right hand and appeared to nudge some air toward the folder. "If we don't eliminate all of these, the pharmaceutical industry stands to lose billions of dollars in the long run."
This time, the mystery man spoke. "We have to make certain that each dies in a different manner. There can be nothing to tie their deaths together."
"Nothing but the statistically improbable cluster of their deaths," said Nketia. "I see you want this all done by March next year."
"Conspiracy nuts will always make something of such coincidences," said Bill of the CIA. "The objective is to give them as little ammunition as possible."
"I'm glad you said that," said Nketia. "I don't normally have such conspiratorial meetings with prospective clients. Your statement raises numerous questions I need answered if I'm to do this job to your specifications."
"Like what?" asked Mystery Man.
The assassin looked at the man and let the stare linger in silence for several long moments before speaking. "Like why you want these specific doctors taken out."
"I told you," said Balfour.
"No," replied Nketia. "You gave me a generality. Corporations stand to lose lots of money. But why will they lose money? And is that the only motivation? I suspect that it isn't, otherwise this would have been an ordinary job. This is definitely not ordinary. For one thing, I want to remain alive to collect my paycheck. I want to understand the bigger picture. For another, I need to know more so I can ensure all the proper details are covered. I need to be able to anticipate public and media reactions to each of these, individually, and to all of these, collectively."
For the next hour, the Mystery Man detailed the medical industry and its recent history. He indicated that the media would not be a problem and how nearly all reporters had been trained in recent decades not to make connections their editors did not make for them. He educated Nketia on the industry strategy to manage diseases against the threat of painful death. Cures had long ago been outlawed. Anyone who claim
ed to have a cure was immediately ridiculed and sometimes arrested in order to protect the far more lucrative disease management trick. If cures could not be bought out, the people peddling them were arrested, run out of the country or killed.
"I still don't understand what your long-range goals are," said Nketia.
This time, Mystery Man remained silent, staring at the assassin.
Nketia nodded and smiled. "There is something big you're not telling me. If you want to keep it a secret, you may as well kill me now and get it over with. Secrets at this level?" He uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Don't play with me. I can smell how big this is and so far you're holding back. You either tell me now or I walk. And I suspect you don't let people refuse—ever. You want the job done right, you make me a partner. I need to know what you know. I need to know this job is survivable."
"Fair enough." Mystery Man shifted his weight forward in his chair a few millimeters. "Mr. Balfour, please step outside. I think you're done for today."
The assassin felt his heart pounding. The seasoned politician was asked to leave, but young Bill CIA had enough clout to stay. Interesting, he thought to himself.
When Balfour had left, Mystery Man continued, "Long range, we need to reduce the population of the planet to about half a billion. Cures and effective health treatments run counter to that goal. We need people dependent upon the medical system. When everything is in place, we require everyone to respond the same way."
"What?" asked Nketia, "Epidemic, quarantines and deadly vaccinations by the boat load?" He chuckled softly.
Mystery Man paused before answering. "That's one tool—of many. I don't have time to discuss every program."
"I don't need you to," replied Nketia. "I merely needed to understand the broad arc of things. And that answers that question. Now, let's talk specifics."
For another hour and a half, Nketia received information on each target and how they fit into the larger scheme of things.
When done, he left feeling guardedly confident in his ability to complete the contract and to survive his hefty payday. Still, having an electronic recording of the meeting gave him a modicum of insurance against forced early retirement.
On the other side of the country, as Nketia's meeting had started, Dr. Lisa Holt was waking from a nightmare, seconds before her alarm rang. After a few moments taken to catch her breath, she reached for her pad of paper—the one she always kept next to her bed. Before the dream could evaporate, she wrote down every detail she could remember.
In the dream, she had seen a man missing two front teeth holding a knife pointed at her. The man had thinning black hair which seemed to be going in every direction. A fat scar sliced diagonally across his upper lip, covering his missing teeth. Behind him stood an African-American man in his thirties, with a pale complexion and light orange, nappy hair.
Chapter 3: Suicide
Joseph Nketia sat with crossed legs on a rooftop across the street from a diner in a rough part of Richmond, Virginia. It was a sunny, autumn day, but cool enough to be uncomfortable without a coat. He had been sitting for a little over ten minutes when a young man wearing a red windbreaker walked down the sidewalk toward the diner, looked both ways and then entered.
Still wearing his windbreaker, the young man took a seat next to the front window. At 10:30 in the morning, there were not very many other customers.
Nketia pulled out his cell phone and selected a number recently added to his list of contacts. It rang a couple of times and another young man answered.
"Hello, sir. I'm ready."
"Good," said Nketia. "Deliver the package to Daisy's Diner on Ferguson Street. There's a man sitting at the front, next to the window. He's wearing a red jacket. Simply deliver it and say nothing. Follow my instructions, and you get another twenty."
"Thanks, mister."
Nketia hung up and turned his attention back to the man in the diner. With his cell phone out, he selected another contact and selected "call." With binoculars in one hand and cell phone in the other, he watched the young man pull out his own cell phone.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Macullagh, thanks again for answering my ad. I'm sorry, but something came up. I can't make it there, but I have a messenger delivering you the job particulars in a few minutes."
"Oh, oh, okay. Sure. No problem." The young man shrugged and looked out the window to see if he could see the messenger, and frowned when no one looking like a messenger appeared.
"This is embarrassing," said Nketia. "I really wanted to be there to talk to you about this. You see, this is supposed to be a surprise for an old college buddy. Several of us got together to pull a prank on him to pay him back for all the pranks he had pulled on us. We've always been able to laugh at these and they're great fun, but it has to be a complete surprise."
"I—How can I help?" Macullagh shrugged again. "I'm not an expert on this sort of thing."
Nketia laughed. "That's okay. I doubt if anyone is. This is not your usual type of job, but I like your attitude from the first time we talked."
"Yeah, sure. Thanks," he replied. "But I'll do anything for a job. Times are tough."
"Sure," said Nketia. "I know, but my friends and I—we've been lucky. Glad to help you out for helping us out. Now, for this prank to work, you need to remain anonymous. You need to use cash and a fake name. We can't have Tommy finding out how to get back to us until the prank is complete. Okay? So, for this job, you're Bill Johnson, okay?"
"Bill Johnson. Check."
"The envelope you will receive contains pictures, names, an addresses and a timetable, plus enough cash for you to hire a photographer. Now, it's important. You need to find a photographer who's okay working on a prank. We're going to have a woman jump on Tommy and shower him with kisses. I need at least a dozen pictures of that, plus a dozen more of the woman leaving, full body and facial close-up. All of this is detailed in the instructions. When the photos are ready, take them to your hotel room. I'll have a messenger pick them up. The photos must not have anything on them to identify the photographer. Include all prints and negatives."
"And for this, I make two thousand? Wow. That's great."
"I've included two thousand five hundred in the envelope, for you. From that, you'll need to travel to Athens, Georgia, hire a photographer from some city in the vicinity and follow the remainder of the instructions. If you complete all of this successfully, you'll get another two thousand."
"What?" Macullagh nearly stood up in his excitement. "Oh, thank you, sir. I won't let you down. This will be the best prank ever."
"Stay focused. You'll do just fine, but don't do anything more than the instructions, otherwise you won't get the bonus. Okay?"
The messenger was a teenager, about sixteen. He entered the diner, plopped the envelope on Macullagh's table, startling the approaching waitress, and promptly left.
The object, thought Nketia, was to set players in motion, none of whom could ever lead back to him. He had already used a similar technique to hire a New York call girl to do her part in the prank. In another four days, all the pieces would be in place.
By the time he had descended from the roof to the street, Macullagh had left the diner having not placed an order. Nketia had eaten breakfast at five and felt like having an early lunch. He crossed the street to the diner and picked a table toward the back. Only one waitress was working at this hour. From what he saw of her through the binoculars, she looked pretty good. Up close, she looked even better, especially without a wedding band to complicate things. He had already visited Athens, Georgia and knew the layout. A couple days of play would help him recharge his batteries. While the waitress finished out her shift, he contacted his teenage messenger and gave him his bonus. He figured that satisfied help quickly forgot their short-term employers. Helpers who had been stiffed would never forget. He counted on satisfaction drowning nearly all memories of him.
The preparation in Richmond had been on a Friday. By Monday evening, Nketia had ret
urned to Athens to prepare for the big event.
Tommy Sievers was a dentist. He worked out of a residential home turned into a dental office. On Tuesdays, he always arrived at 10:00 AM. Samantha was waiting on the front porch, wearing a fur coat, panties, bra and stiletto high heels. As a puzzled dentist approached the porch, Samantha expertly stepped off the porch in her high heel shoes, opened her coat and leapt into Tommy's arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck and kissing him squarely on the mouth, again and again and again.
At first, Tommy was too shocked to respond. For half a second, he found himself enjoying the affections of this $3,000-per-hour hooker. Then, when hormones had reached their peak, and he realized that he was standing out in public, holding a beautiful woman other than his wife, he took his hands off of her buttocks and let her slide off of him. Finally, he found the presence of mind to push her away.
Promptly, Samantha closed her coat, walked past the startled dentist and down the sidewalk toward her own rental car.
In the distance, a photographer with an automatic camera was snapping pictures as fast as the mechanism could advance the film. Some of these frames he vowed to keep for himself. The woman was too incredibly beautiful not to be admired.
On Tuesdays, Dr. Amanda Sievers always left her offices at 3:00 PM and went home. For the last several weeks, she had been working on her latest book. All of her books involved health techniques based on nature, rather than on petrochemical pharmaceuticals. This one manuscript proved to be a potential blockbuster in alternative medicine. The key focus of this book was on Gc Macrophage Activating Factor, also known as GcMAF. As she described in her manuscript, healthy people create GcMAF naturally and this protects their immune systems. Nagalase is a foreign protein that is introduced during vaccination, but is also produced by cancer cells and viruses like HIV, influenza, herpes, hepatitis and many others. Nagalase inhibits the body's ability to produce GcMAF, thus threatening the immune system. Also, Nagalase produces conditions which trigger autism in some children. Though Dr. Sievers was an M.D., she had long worked to include more natural and nutritional methods of maintaining health for all her patients. Many of her peers criticized her for what they characterized as abandoning her training.