“Thank you, sir. You know what, though, sir? If they really hoped to kill you, this is just Plan A. There will be a Plan B.”
“Well, plan A seemed clumsy; let’s hope they are equally inept with Plan B.” Markis grabbed for the wastebasket and vomited into it again, bringing up nothing but some thin bile as cramps wracked his guts.
Karl nodded, waiting until the fit passed. “Plan A did seem half-assed. Even if we couldn’t prove it we would know, and it would poison any chance at relations for a while. Or will. It didn’t even have to kill you to do that. It just doesn’t make sense."
"Maybe someone wanted to poison relations. So I think it does, Chief. I think it does. Let me rest.” Markis said no more right then, despite his security chief’s obvious interest. Speculating on motives wouldn’t help Karl do his job any better; in fact it might distract him. He lay back in bed and mulled the whole thing over.
Markis had always told himself he wasn’t a thinker, but he gradually accepted that it was his role to be one anyway. He sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been copping out as a young man. Not thinking, just following orders, was an easier way to live. Looking for something or someone to make his decisions for him, to simplify his life, to reduce his hard choices down to just a few easy ones. He was sure God was rolling with laughter right now at where his life had ended up. He drifted off to sleep with that gnawing thought.
He woke up to the feel of a cool swab on his inner arm; not strictly needed on an Eden, but old sanitary habits died hard. He watched the application and felt the sting of a hypodermic needle.
Bettina smiled as she drew a blood sample, then swapped tubes and took three more. “If you approve I want to give two of these to the Swiss and keep two for ourselves. I should have thought of it sooner. Whatever is in your bloodstream, we want to have samples before it’s all cleaned out. That means you need to pee in the cup too, and get a stool sample if possible.”
“Oh, joy. All right, give me the kits.” He got up, shaky but able, to perform those ablutions in the sparkling hotel lavatory. This was a case where the bidet turned out to be a welcome fixture.
He ate a little bit and went back to sleep; he would have to be as rested as possible for the morning. He woke up early, and sent the duty PSD for Rogett.
Karl arrived a moment later, looking fresh and mean. “Sir, the Swiss have redoubled their security arrangements, and they have disarmed and scrutinized the other side, to include full body scans for everyone but the PM. They are also going to provide sterile gloves for Portmanteaux and for you as well. Short of using biohazard suits, they are making every effort to eliminate whatever contagion it was while allowing the meeting to go forward. But sir, I urge you not to shake his hand. What if he has some other trick? An implanted spring-loaded needle or something? What if he’s a double with implanted explosives?”
“Thanks, Karl, but you’re getting paranoid. That is, a little too paranoid even for this job. They took a shot and failed; they won’t do anything at the meeting. Whatever else they have planned, it will be afterward. What about the plane?”
“We’ve had two people plus the pilots on it at all times. They aren’t happy that they didn’t get to see Geneva. I promised them they could come back on their own. I told them to do a full inspection every two hours, regardless. The Swiss are securing the hangar.
“Departure?”
“Hartmann assures me they have it covered.”
“Well, that’s all we can do. Someone bring me the tablet, I need to review the notes.”
Two hours later they were walking into the Swiss Foreign Ministry’s secure conference room again. The only difference was that this time each of the principals was handed a set of gloves before entering.
Markis put his on, shook hands sharply with Portmanteaux, then peeled them off immediately and tossed them to the waiting Swiss technologist, to be put straight into a sample bag. He sat down disdainfully, without waiting for the others, slouching disrespectfully back in his seat, his eyes deliberately aflame.
Portmanteaux took his off more slowly, handing them to the staffer on his right, then sat as well. He kept his eyes off Markis.
“I’m sorry, I must insist that those be given back.” Hartmann held out the sample bag for the gloves.
Portmanteaux’s security man, big to match Rogett across from him, looked as if he was going to object until the Canadian Prime Minister made a preemptory gesture. He gave up the gloves.
“What was that all about?” asked the PM.
Markis’ expression was cold fire, his voice hard as iron. “I had hoped we were not playing games, Mister Prime Minister. I refuse to do so. So on the naive assumption that you are sincere, I will tell you. Immediately after I left the meeting yesterday, I became gravely ill. The nature of the disease was not clear, though we have taken samples and we – or our hosts – will soon know. But I find it extremely suspicious that as a Plague carrier I have not been ill in ten years, yet I suddenly contract something and almost die from it immediately after shaking hands with you?”
Portmanteaux’s color had been slowly draining from his face as the Chairman spoke. Now he bowed his head and spoke quietly. “I apologize on behalf of my government and I assure you I had nothing to do with it. If any of my people know anything, I also assure you I will hold them responsible and I will deal with them, and I will inform you of the results of the investigation. Peter, you will handle this, yes?”
The man to his right nodded, his brow furrowed and angry.
Markis caught his emphasis - 'my government' - and sighed. “I am going to take a leap of faith – again – and assume you are sincere. But it is incidents just such as this that are blocking the way to peace. Some people, some power blocs, do not want settlement. They only want victory at any cost, Pyrrhic victory. Have you heard from your government regarding my proposals?”
Portmanteaux folded his naked hands on the table, then unfolded them, pouring himself a glass of water, which he sipped slowly.
He’s stalling. Why? Just regaining his composure? Or is it some kind of act? Markis compared this demeanor with the man’s masterful performance yesterday, and made a decision. He stood up, startling everyone.
“These talks are now suspended. You obviously do not have an answer, which makes me suspect you are a catspaw whose only purpose was to try to kill or otherwise incapacitate me. Despite my doubts I believe you might be an honorable man. Feel free to contact me through the usual channels and perhaps in a month or two we may make some kind of progress.”
“Mister Chairman, I assure you –"
“Don’t bother. If you want to implement some of the terms of our proposals and rebuild a modicum of good faith, release the Eden carriers in your concentration camps. They are meaningless except as hostages, and you have no need of human shields with us. As soon as that is done I will order our cyber attacks suspended. Perhaps we can proceed from there.”
Portmanteaux seemed deflated, the stuffing knocked out of him, but he stood up and straightened manfully, holding out his hand.
Markis stared at it with neither movement nor change of expression, his own hands clasped firmly behind his back. He felt like spitting on it but he thought that might be going too far.
After a moment, the Prime Minister withdrew his gesture and turned to go. “Very well. I bid you good day, Mister Chairman.”
They all left the room in silence.
Markis stared out the window of the limousine as they drove back to the hotel, his hopes dashed and his thoughts darkening. “Well, Millie, that could have gone better. But to look on the bright side, if we can get some kind of trace from the samples we might be able to figure out just what they were trying to do.”
“Do you think he was really ignorant?”
“What did you think?”
Her brow furrowed. “I tend to think so. I think he hoped to drive a hard bargain, that maybe he was going to come back today with the usual conditions and ‘oh I’m sorry my
government needs concessions’ but basically he was sincere. It seemed to me he was genuinely embarrassed.”
“That’s my impression, too, but neither of us are as good at this game as he is. That’s why I broke it off – I want to talk to Cassie and some others, try to ferret out what the hell might really be going on.”
She nodded, making notes on her tablet as they drove into the underground hotel garage. “When are we leaving, sir?”
“Just as soon as we can. Maybe we can upset someone’s timetable if we move fast. Karl, you approve?”
“Now you’re thinking like your old self, sir. Always do the unexpected.”
They got out of the limo and walked briskly toward the elevators. As soon as they were out of earshot of the Swiss guards, Markis said in a lowered voice, “Good. Now go charter a plane.”
-21-
The smile on Skull’s face froze as he heard the rattle of the nearby gate. Swearing silently, he scuttled back and peered through the cracks in the back wall. There was a Swiss security truck parked outside it, and two officers were just closing the gate. Obviously they intended to check his shed.
He shoved the hatchet into his belt and descended the outside of the building from his window before they could get too close, hanging from the sill by his fingertips to drop quietly to the ground. The bulk of the shed shielded him from view, and he crept clockwise to his left as far as the front corner. He looked through the double crack there, nothing but a few flimsy angled boards between him and the two paramilitary police.
He cursed the Swiss efficiency that prompted them to inspect buildings this far out, and he cursed himself for not risking buying a silenced handgun back in Sicily. He wasn’t a close-in killer, wasn’t more than usually adept with blades, and these two men with firearms could wreck his whole situation. Not to mention kill him.
They walked up casually, shooing away curious clinking cowbelled calves. The first man unlatched the door and looked inside, then stepped in. The other stood in the open doorway. Skull crouched low to avoid being seen through the large spaces in the barn boards. Just go away, don’t check in the loft.
His silent request, his prayer, went unanswered. He heard a sound of surprise, then words in rapid French, and knew he was blown.
He rose to his feet and slipped around the corner. With his left hand he snatched the open door out of the way. With his right he buried the hatchet in the man from behind, just at the unprotected place where the officer’s neck and right shoulder connected, severing muscles and tendons, arteries and veins.
The cop collapsed with a gurgle.
Shoving past the falling body, Skull swung wildly at the other officer perched halfway up the loft ladder, his head at the level of the ceiling. The hatchet connected awkwardly, more of a hammer blow than a chop, and the man yelled in pain, scrabbling for his sidearm. He had it out and nearly pointed before Skull brought the hatchet back for an overhand chop to the man’s kneecap, splitting the patella and bringing forth a scream of agony.
The policeman’s handgun barked and Skull felt a hot poker run through the skin of his flank. The man fell heavily onto his side. Two more meaty chops from Skull’s hatchet directly into the man’s chest and he was still. He made sure of the other one as well, rolling him so he would bleed out, then tipping a heavy workbench on top of both dying men. He ripped their radios off of them and took the handguns, tossing everything into a corner.
His breath heaved in his lungs; close combat was a completely different animal from the kill shot, and his blood pounded through his veins, exactly the wrong physiological state for a sniper. He took deep gulps of air, trying to calm himself. Reaching his left hand down to his wound, he felt the flaps of skin and the welling blood. Stripping off his shirt, he tied it around his torso as best he could to stanch the flow.
Than he heard it.
Bolting up the ladder, he scrabbled for the rifle as he slithered behind it into prone position. Wiping sweat out of his right eye, he ended up getting blood in it. He spent precious seconds clearing his vision then looked through the sight.
The kill team was setting up, any noise covered by the roar of jet engines from the airport. The aircraft had already commenced its takeoff run. Skull didn’t have to look at the plane, or review his video. If the kill team was getting ready to shoot, all he had to do was put them down.
He had just seconds to set up the shot.
Shots.
He saw two shooters, two missile launchers. They weren’t taking any chances. It seemed like overkill, though; too much possibility of fratricide, one missile locking on to the other’s hot exhaust and both missing. He had time to hope they didn’t have another whole kill team that he had missed somehow before the first man lifted his launcher to his shoulder.
Skull settled the crosshairs on the man’s chest, center mass. Without enough time and without a calm heart pumping gently at sixty beats per minute, a head shot was asking Murphy to ruin everything. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and naturally until it stopped, than he squeezed.
The report deafened him as the heavy rifle punched his shoulder; he'd had no time to put in earplugs. Through the sight he saw his target fall to the ground. The 7.62mm round didn’t have the body-shattering force of the .50 caliber from his Barrett, but it was still a mankiller.
If Lee Harvey Oswald could assasinate JFK with a smaller bullet from a mediocre rifle, then I can damn sure do the job with this.
***
Karl did a double-take at the Chairman’s words. “What? Sir? Charter a plane?” He stopped, bringing the entourage to a halt in the middle of the cleared underground space.
“You said it yourself. They have a plan B. It has to involve the return trip. By now they will have backtracked our flight at least one or two legs. There will be some kind of trouble waiting for us somewhere. So charter a plane, use the emergency cash. One of our pilots will fly all of us direct to Caracas while the other plane goes back to Africa.”
“Whatever you say, sir. I’ll make sure it has enough legs to make it.”
“That would be good, yes. I really don’t want to have to repeat Jill’s feats of swimming just to get home,” Markis said drily. “Let’s go.”
A quick stop in the hotel room and they were back in the limousine. Karl went ahead to arrange the charter. The protests of short notice were soothed by stacks of Brazilian reals, now one of the world’s strongest currencies.
In short order the airplane was fueled and ready to go, and everyone but the more junior of their two pilots boarded and rolled down the runway for takeoff.
***
Skull shifted his aim immediately to the other missile shooter, who with impeccable discipline was standing with his back to the airport, waiting for his target to fly over his head and into his field of fire. Perhaps he had not noticed the man fall to the ground next to him with the jet noise and his intense concentration; perhaps he was willing to die to take the shot.
Skull stroked the trigger, watched for the bullet to go home. The man staggered, then fell to his knees. He swore; he had pulled the shot, missed the vitals, probably hitting his left shoulder. He fired again, snapshot, then again. A fourth bullet finally put the kneeling man on the ground.
He shifted his sight picture back to look for the third man, the spotter. Icy fingers of fear wrapped around his heart – not fear of death, but fear of failure, as he saw the man’s hand clench on the oversized firing trigger of the first man’s recovered missile launcher.
Squeezing the trigger activated the missile’s seeker head cooling and authorized the system to fire as soon as it had good view of the target; unlike a gun, it didn’t fire immediately. The delay could be overridden by the operator, but Skull had hoped – had bet Markis’ life – that the spotter wouldn’t have the presence of mind to do it.
He shifted his aim point from the man to the body of the missile and immediately squeezed off a shot. The bullet was still in the air as his thumb jammed the selector
switch on the assault rifle to full automatic. Holding down the trigger, the rest of the magazine emptied, a long string of heavy bullets slamming into the beaten zone.
He was never sure whether it was his aimed shot or the hail of automatic fire that did it but one of the projectiles struck the missile, causing an immediate explosion of fuel and warhead, vaporizing the three men there. It had been his one chance, granted him because of the idiot-proof design of the missile system.
Have a nice trip home, Markis, you self-righteous bastard. You’re welcome.
***
The small intercontinental executive charter, an ultramodern Swiss model, lifted them smoothly and powerfully into the air, and after a superb view of the springtime alps, was soon at cruising altitude and heading for South America.
Behind them their original craft took off safely and as soon as it left local airspace turned southward, bound for South Africa with its samples of Markis’ precious bodily fluids and the drinking glass Karl had retrieved.
“Looks like we foiled their Plan B,” remarked Millicent.
“Or there never was one,” responded the Chairman.
“Oh yes, sir, there was one,” Karl claimed darkly. “There’s always a Plan B. Your change fooled them, I bet. Good TTPs.”
“Thank you, Karl. Tactics, techniques and procedures are all well and good but it was your quick thinking that is really going to pay off – whatever we find on the glass and in the fluid samples.”
“If you two kiss each other I’m going to puke,” Millicent remarked drily.
“Don’t worry. Elise would never forgive the infidelity – Karl are you all right? Did I say something funny? You seem to be choking.”
***
Skull saw flashing lights and wailing sirens converging on the construction yard. The explosion had lit the stubble of the field on fire, and smoke marked the place for miles around.
The Demon Plagues Page 13