Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

“Are you and Maggie going to the Japanese Embassy reception tonight?” asked Matali.

“Yeah, maybe we should sneak away to McDonald’s and get some real food instead of sushi.”

“I can’t eat a Big Mac! It is unclean food.”

“So put curry sauce on the chicken nuggets and french fries.”

Jock Matali looked up as a waiter approached and handed him a large cream-colored envelope. “A gentleman at the front desk asked that you personally receive this, General.”

He opened it. “Strange,” he said and shook out a letter and some photographs. The dark eyes became serious and scanned the restaurant, which was almost empty. No one was watching.

Taffe also peered around. “So, what’s up?”

Matali lowered his voice. “It’s a contact about London. Someone calling himself Saladin has claimed responsibility and is setting terms.”

“Oh, no, not another Saladin. Let me guess,” said Taffe. “This latest savior of the downtrodden Middle East wants direct discussions with the president of the United States. Same answer as always, Jock: We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Matali shook his head, reached over, and put a strong hand on Taffe’s forearm. “No, my friend. That is not it at all. This is an invitation for the finance ministers of Muslim nations, terrorist organizations, and countries that oppose the United States to participate in an auction for the formula of the weapon used in England.”

Taffe rocked back hard in his chair. Matali let him have the note while he looked through a set of photographs. As he read, Taffe’s blood chilled.

The London attack was part of an experiment, the note said. A true demonstration of the weapon, which had been years in development, would be unleashed soon in a very public and well-known place, which was not identified.

Parties interested in bidding were to send a buy-in fee of ten million dollars to a Swiss bank account, all but one million of it refundable by the bank escrow officers if the potential bidder did not agree after the demonstration that the weapon was worthwhile. After all, for a measly million, they would be helping sponsor a huge attack against the infidels at no risk to themselves.

If they chose to bid, then the rest of the ten million dollars locked in as the final entry fee, and bids could be submitted. Details would be worked out with the winner to exchange the formula for the cash.

The United States and its major allies in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East would not be allowed to participate.

J UBA CAUGHT A B RITISHAirways Boeing 727 out of Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris for the long jump to Tehran, more than 2,600 weary miles. He slept much of the way in the darkened first-class cabin, having learned as a soldier to grab sleep whenever it was available, but questions kept pestering him. The director of the site promised that the formula would finally be complete, but so many earlier pledges had been made, then something always went wrong and more tests, time, and money were needed. Unit 999 had labored for years in various places to piece together the extraordinarily lethal mix, something stable enough to transport to a target zone, then able to lock into the area and not blow away with the first puff of air. London had been good, but not quite good enough. Could this really be the time?

The BA plane landed at Mehrabad Airport, and Juba took a taxi to a four-star hotel. He could have pushed things and made the one-hour hop over to Sanandaj on the only Iran Aseman Airlines domestic flight of the day but chose not to. A long drive to the west of Sanandaj also was needed to reach the site and he would be exhausted by the time he arrived. Staying in Tehran also was much better than remaining among the Kurds over there any longer than he had to. They were a dangerous people and would be even more so when they found out what he had been cooking in their back yard.

The test was to be performed tomorrow afternoon. Tonight he would have dinner with three men who would make the trip with him. He would go to the site, watch it, make the decision, and get out, never to return.

THE WHITE HOUSE

Brunei was thirteen hours ahead of Washington, so it was late at night in Washington, D.C., as the president of the United States was climbing into bed in the White House. Every day was a long day in his job; he welcomed the down time, and his staff tried to protect it.

Secretary of State Kenneth Waring knew that, but after receiving the flash traffic from the ambassador in Brunei, he had no choice. Waring telephoned the president’s chief of staff, Steve Hanson, and within twenty minutes, all three had gathered in the Oval Office for an emergency meeting.

The president slowly read the message. Smoothed the edges with his hands. Said nothing.

Steve Hanson had known the president for years, and part of his job was to be outspoken on any topic. The Boss wanted it that way. “Secretary Waring and I believe this to be authentic, Mr. President.”

“A classic backchannel communication from Saladin, whoever he is,” said Waring. “The police over in Brunei are questioning everyone who was in the hotel at the time, trying to find who delivered it. Nothing yet.”

Chief of Staff Hanson moved to a different point. “Why an auction? Why not keep this thing as his own little devastating secret, like the formula for Coca-Cola? Or sell a batch once in a while to al Qaeda and the other fanatics?”

The president crossed the spotless carpet, a giant depiction of the Great Seal of the United States, and leaned an elbow against the fireplace mantel. “Production, Steve. Think back to when we were earning an honest dollar out in the business world. We could have made some of our gadgets in the garage, but constructing them one at a time would never bring real success. We needed manufacturing plants, which is exactly what we eventually had.”

Hanson agreed. “So this psychopath claims to have the magic formula for a super-deadly biochem weapon but can only churn it out in limited quantities. If he sells it to a nation, say, North Korea or Iran, then the state can produce any amount it wants to brew.”

“Scary thought,” said Secretary of State Waring. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “What’s next?”

Hanson had been thinking about that. “Standard policy would be to get the entire cabinet in for an emergency meeting and turn loose the military and CIA.”

The president studied him. “You don’t think that’s the way to go? This is among the most important things we have ever handled.”

The secretary of state said, arms crossed, “It will be impossible to keep it a secret for long if he is reaching out to bidders.”

Hanson was excited. “It’s already out there, Mr. Secretary, but we don’t have to throw fuel onto the fire. The president can remain in the background for a while, and all press queries will be directed to you at the State Department. Your statement can be something along the lines that we have heard about some strange new terrorist demands but we have not been contacted directly. Although we take all terrorist threats seriously, we remain confident that our security forces are up to any new challenge, and we pledge again to do whatever is needed to protect this nation.”

The president had been analyzing the information while the others talked, just as he had done when he ran one of the biggest electronic and computer companies in the world. Finally he said, “I think this Saladin fellow made a mistake. He gives no deadline for responses to the auction idea because he knew that any potential bidders will need time to get their acts together.”

The secretary of state interrupted. “True. But what do we do with the extra time?”