John Abbott - Scimitar

From this moment on, his life was in imminent danger.

What he was running was technically called the nucleophilic displacement of fluoride by alkoxide, a reaction in which a molecule of alcohol combined with a molecule of DF to produce equal amounts of hydrogen fluoride and the deadly nerve agent known as sarin.

Drop by careful drop, he dribbled the DF into the white plastic bottle containing his other reagents and his solvent.

He could not allow any of the product he was making to touch his skin.

He could not breathe in any of it.

Ten grams of DF in that ampoule, less than a half-ounce. Drop by drop into the plastic bottle to create his deadly brew. The solution darkening as the reaction occurred. Darkening. Darkening.

The clock kept ticking behind him.

In just eight hours, the President of the United States would take his seat on the Baroque Room dais.

And Sonny would kill him.

The ampoule was empty now. He dropped it into a plastic bag, and went to the refrigerator for the second ampoule. Patiently, he repeated the procedure until he’d emptied this one as well.

The plastic bottle now contained sarin.

Making certain the nozzle tip was turned to the OFF position, he screwed the green cap tightly onto the bottle, and set it down on the counter. Opening the bottle of quick-setting glue, he applied it to the seam where cap met bottle, creating a tight seal. He then cut a strip off the roll of transparent tape and wrapped it around the nozzle, securing it firmly in the OFF position. He set the bottle down in the corner of the counter where the walls joined. He did not think it could now accidentally spill its contents. He hoped not. Because if it did, the released sarin would kill on the spot whoever or whatever it touched — human, animal, or insect.

He put the second empty ampoule into the plastic bag, together with the stirring rod and the dropper. With his gloved right hand, he peeled the glove off his left hand so that only the fingertips were still covered. Using those fingertips, he peeled off the other glove entirely, dropped it into the plastic bag, and then shook his left hand until that glove fell into the bag as well. He dropped the goggles into the bag, sealed it, and carried it outside to Martin Hackett’s garbage bin.

When he came back into the kitchen, the clock on the wall read twelve thirty-two P.M.

He was ready to leave for New York City, where he would welcome whatever destiny God had planned for him.

At two-thirty that afternoon — while Alex Nichols was reading through a mass of intelligence information about a phony British naval officer the allies had deliberately washed ashore during World War II — Sonny Hemkar was checking into a room at the Plaza Hotel.

The name he signed to the register was Anthony Logan. The American Express credit card he handed to the clerk was made out to that name. He gave two dollars to the bellhop who carried his bag to his room on the eighth floor, and exchanged only a few words of conversation with him. The bag contained a navy blue tropical-weight suit, a white shirt, a tie almost as dark as the suit, black shoes, blue socks, a white handkerchief, and a clean pair of striped boxer shorts. It also contained a 9-mm Walther P-38 pistol, half a dozen loaded magazines for the gun, and all the fake identity cards McDermott had made for him. The sealed plastic bottle of sarin was nestled in one of his shoes, in a snug corner of the suitcase. Sonny figured he had three hours before he should begin getting ready for tonight’s festivities.

And a little name plate , the loquacious Miss Lubenthal had told him. White lettering on black plastic. Totally discreet . In this city, in the midtown area alone, there were dozens of shops specializing in the instant manufacture of such things. He would find one of them and have a tag made with the name G. RAMSEY on it — for Gerald Ramsey, the name on his Plaza Hotel security card. Then he would buy a walkie-talkie from the first Radio Shack he passed, and a Walkman radio wherever he could find one.

Then...

Ah, yes, then.

While he was still in medical school and students everywhere around him were studying for finals round the clock, popping pills and drinking coffee in desperate attempts to stay awake, Sonny would go to a movie. He’d walk over to Westwood, spend a few hours in a movie theater, sometimes went to two movies in the same afternoon. Then he’d go back to the dorm and study intensely for five or six hours before taking another break. Went for a hot fudge sundae with strawberry ice cream, his favorite. Almonds on it, too. Then went back to studying again. Paced himself and never panicked. World enough and time.

Later this afternoon, Sonny just might go to a movie.

The Secret Service men Dobbs had brought with him from Washington followed him up the fire stairs to the first floor.

“What we’re doing here is blocking off rear access to the room,” Dobbs told them. “No one in or out without proper ID. Dave, you take the top of the steps here...”

“See you later,” Dawson said, and hung back from the group already walking toward the elevator at the end of the corridor.

“You here, Hank,” Dobbs said, “outside the elevator. Rest of you follow me.”

Dobbs planted another of his men at the top of the steps leading down to the Baroque Room, and a fourth one at the bottom. Two British agents were already there, flanking the doors leading into the room. The men introduced themselves all around. One of the Brits told Dobbs there were two Mexican agents on the other side of the doors, and then wondered aloud if it’d be all right to have himself a smoke before the guests started arriving. Dobbs told the Brit he thought it would be okay, and then led his remaining agent into the pantry, where he planted him at the doors leading to the Baroque Room.

He felt he had the place pretty well covered.

Nodding curtly, he told the man in the pantry to keep a sharp eye out, and then went to check the Baroque Room itself, see who else was on the job.

A limousine was waiting at the curb.

She was thoroughly impressed. A limo, my, my. The last time she’d been in a limo was when her mother’s sister, Aunt Hildy, got married in Teaneck, New Jersey.

The chauffeur came around to open the rear door for them as they came out of the building. Geoffrey glanced at her sidelong, gauging her reaction. She turned to him and smiled. A casual, accepting smile, this was a mature young woman who was used to stepping in and out of limousines wearing an ice blue gown cut dangerously low over the swelling tops of her breasts. Long blond hair piled on top of her head. Pearls her grandmother Constance had given her on her eighteenth birthday. Her mother’s blue Judith Lieber bag with the larger pearl to match, which she’d taken from its flannel pouch on the top shelf of her mother’s closet, even though she’d never been able to reach her to ask permission. There were some things you just did .

“Thank you,” she said to the chauffeur, using the voice Princess Di might have used to a menial, not even glancing at him as she pulled back the skirt of the gown and stepped into the car. Geoffrey came in behind her, looking quite handsome in a dinner jacket, although the tie was knotted somewhat crookedly.

“I have to call my mother,” she said.

“What?” he said.

The chauffeur had come around to the driver’s side now, and was getting into the car. The door eased shut with the solid simple click of luxury. “Excuse me,” Geoffrey said to her, and then leaned forward and said to the chauffeur, “We’ll be going directly to the Plaza now.”

“Thank you, sir,” the chauffeur said, and eased the sleek long limo away from the curb. Elita felt as if she were inside a tinted glass spaceship gliding soundlessly through the stratosphere, the city far below, obliter...