A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [152]
“Xi, Ibn,” Corum said to the men watching the events via video, “if you have any celebratory drinks nearby, I suggest now is the time to pour them. Along with Mr. Whitehead and Mlle. Prideaux, we are soon to appear on lists of the wealthiest men—and women—in our countries.”
Prideaux handed over the magnum to the head of the mercenary force and passed out flutes she had purchased in the package store. Then she raised her glass toward the two grinning men half a world away. The group assembled in the old warehouse did the same, and Song and al-Basarth responded in kind.
“To the trade show in Las Vegas, and the evening when the visionary Roger Corum first brought us all together,” Prideaux said while hoisting her glass.
“To the trade show,” everyone sang out.
“Speech, Roger,” Whitehead demanded.
Corum stepped forward, glass raised once more.
“I think we owe Speaker of the House Ellis a few moments of grateful silence for being such a perfect foil, and for obviously not being aware of the folk tale of Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox.”
“What is this folk tale?” Song asked.
“Well, Br’er Fox was about to eat Br’er Rabbit when the Rabbit started crying and carrying on that the Fox could do anything he wanted to, up to and including having the rabbit for dinner. ‘But please,’ the shrewd rabbit begged, ‘just don’t throw me in that there briar patch.’ Well, Br’er Rabbit had caused Br’er Fox so much grief over the years that Fox decided he could always catch another meal. But he could not always cause his nemesis such terrible and feared discomfort.”
“But, of course,” al-Barsarth said, “the patch was precisely where this Br’er Rabbit wanted to go.”
“In fact,” Corum said, “he had a lovely vacation home there. By presenting the foolish, off-the-charts left-wing bill I crafted, Speaker Ellis was in essence throwing us in the briar patch. If Genesis was for it, when Rappaport took office all the world would be against it.”
“To Br’er Rabbit,” Song said, raising his glass.
“Br’er Rabbit,” all the others echoed.
“Now,” Corum said, after the laughter had died down, “it is time we disposed of the contents of these jars.”
With the help of Prideaux he brought the serum to an industrial-sized double sink against one of the walls.
“Five jars,” the Frenchwoman said. “One for each of us. Xi, I’ll do the honors for you, and Roger will represent Ibn.”
So saying, she removed a label across the top that read: STERILIZED. Then she unceremoniously dumped the contents down the drain.
After a second pouring, Corum moved to the sink.
“Ibn, this is yours,” he said.
As the last of the golden liquid spilled from the bottle, something metallic dropped out of the bottom and fell, with a soft clink, into the steel sink. Corum reached down and picked up a dollar-sized, gold-colored disc, an eighth of an inch thick.
“Oh, holy shit! It’s a homing device. One of ours—”
Corum’s words were cut short by a series of loud explosions at the front of the warehouse. Pulverized concrete, debris, and large, deadly fragments of metal siding instantly penetrated the room as the front wall and part of the ceiling burst apart. The prolonged blast of powerful sonic waves that followed the explosions shattered all the glass in the room and knocked everybody within it to the floor. A rolling wall of dust engulfed them.
Some were coughing, some were dead, others were writhing in pain from gashes and broken bones. Then the soldiers stormed in.
Lights and lasers mounted atop assault weapons penetrated the dense cloud of dust and debris. Dozens of soldiers followed the winter wind into the warehouse, some pushing mobile spotlights.
“Hands behind your head!” General Frank Egan cried out, brandishing his pistol. “Get down, arms behind you, or we’ll shoot you dead! I swear we will! Get down!”
One mercenary whirled and got off an errant shot. The hailstorm of automatic weapon fire that slammed into his body sent him dancing off the floor