Текст книги "Plague Ship"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“I don’t like this, Thom,” Cooper said, leaning forward. “There is too much at stake to risk exposure now, and I don’t believe in coincidences. I could discount the idea of a threat to our operation if we only had the Hanley kid’s abduction to consider. But now there are two separate incidents: the incursion in the Philippines and Zach Raymond’s death. Someone is on to us.”

“If that were the case, the FBI would have raided our California headquarters by now, and put enough pressure on Athens to do the same in Greece.”

The Responsivist founder didn’t have an argument for that.

“What if it’s the company Hanley hired to get his son back?” Kovac suggested. “They could still be operating under their original instructions and are probing our defenses, trying to find a way to rescue both the boy and his father.”

Cooper jumped at that idea. “It makes perfect sense.”

“So you don’t think they know about our plan?” Severance asked.

“It’s probable that they don’t,” Kovac replied. “But if they had time to interrogate Zach Raymond, then the raid Thom mentioned could be in the planning stages as we speak.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Yes, sir. I need to get to the Golden Skyto make certain the virus isn’t discovered. If it has been and is turned over to the authorities, it would give them a tremendous advantage to develop a cure before people start showing symptoms. I would also suggest that there be a complete communications blackout of the ship. No passengers should be allowed to use the Internet or make ship-to-shore calls. This way, the operatives on board won’t be able to contact their superiors.”

“Where is the ship heading now?”

“It’s en route from Istanbul to Iraklion, Crete. I could easily meet it as it comes down through the Greek islands.”

Few people outside of the organization were aware that the owner of Golden Lines, the company that operated the Golden Skyand her ill-fated sister ship, the Golden Dawn, was a Responsivist. He had come to the group because he and his wife were unable to have children, and Lydell Cooper’s teachings made them come to accept that fact and even celebrate it. Although he made substantial contributions to the cause and allowed them to use his boats for their Sea Retreats at a deep discount, the shipping mogul wasn’t part of the inner circle that had conceived the plan to use ocean liners to spread the genetically modified virus.

“You can call the president of the line,” Kovac continued, “and explain that the same group who targeted the Dawnmight be planning something similar for the Golden Sky. Let me on board, and keep the ship at sea until after the virus is released. That way, even if they discover it they can’t warn anybody about it.”

“If that’s the case, he will want to cancel the cruise entirely.”

“Tell him to do it as a favor, then. There are fifty Responsivists on that ship as part of a Sea Retreat.

Most of them have no idea what’s about to happen, but that gives me more than enough people to search for anyone acting suspiciously.”

Severance looked over to Lydell Cooper. The former researcher may owe his youthful appearance to surgery after surgery, but the fire burning behind his eyes was his own. It was the flame of utter conviction and total dedication to a belief.

“Thom,” Cooper said, “our species is teetering on the brink of disaster. There are too many mouths to feed, and natural resources are drying up at an ever-accelerating pace. We both know this is the only humane way to prevent the collapse of five thousand years of civilization. And it is from the very beginning of that civilization that we found the means of our salvation. This is just and right, and we must do whatever it takes to guarantee our success.

“I don’t like deviating from our plan, but I believe Mr. Kovac is correct. Somehow, someone knows something. I know that sounds vague but we can’t afford to take any chances now. We are just too close. Days rather than weeks. If they have people on the Golden Skysearching for our virus, they will be able to tell the maritime authorities how it is to be released and all our work will have been for nothing.”

Severance nodded. “Yes, of course you are right. I think it’s a bit of hubris on my part to think that we are so good as to be invulnerable. Zelimir, I’ll talk to the cruise line. Make whatever arrangements you need and bring whatever personnel and equipment you feel is necessary. I will make sure the captain knows to give you his full cooperation. Remember this: under no circumstances is that virus allowed to leave the ship. Do whatever it takes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever it takes.”

“Can’t you feel it?” Cooper asked. Both men looked at him questioningly. “We are fighting the dark influence from beyond our dimensional membrane. For thousands of years, they have shaped and molded man to become the self-destructive creature he is today. These forces have pushed humanity to the point that it is ready to consume itself. But we are now pushing back and taking control of our destinies again. I can feel it. I can feel their dismay that we are not bending to their will but starting to carve our own path.

“When we succeed, their grip on us will be over. We will flourish in a new world where they can no longer touch us. We are casting off the invisible shackles of a slavery most people haven’t known they were suffering under. But suffer we have. They made us unable to resist our baser instincts, and look where it has brought us. Wars, starvation, hunger, want. It was their subtle control, spanning countless generations, that brought us to this.

“Until I finally understood that no rational society would choose to live the way we do, I realized we were not in control at all, that there were influences from outside the universe. They have held sway over our thoughts and were leading us to Armageddon for reasons even I don’t comprehend. I was the first to see them for what they are, and like-minded people such as you have also come to understand that the world just wouldn’t be this way if not for something plotting against us.

“Their machinations are almost at an end. They will have no say in what comes next in our societal evolution because we will make certain that everyone understands who they were and what they did. Oh, gentlemen, I cannot tell you how excited I am. A great awakening is coming, and we will stand shoulder to shoulder to enjoy it.”

Kovac had always been uncomfortable about the transdimensional mind-control aspect to Dr. Cooper’s teachings. He understood the hard numbers of overpopulation and dwindling resources, and the ultimate result of the two colliding, so he said nothing. It was enough for him to be part of saving humanity from itself. And, right now, he was more interested in hunting possible enemies on the Golden Skythan any great awakening.

CHAPTER 29

JUAN CABRILLO SAT IN HIS CUSTOMARY SEAT IN THE Op Center listening intently to Hali Kasim’s presentation. Eddie Seng hung out near the back of the room with Linc and two gundogs, Mike Trono and Jerry Pulaski. With Eric Stone’s assistance, Hali had performed nothing less than a miracle.

“While Max was still broadcasting, I got in touch with a few amateur radio buffs I’ve gotten to know over the years and had them tune in to Max’s frequency. I had them jack the clocks that regulate our GPS satellites so we were one hundred percent synchronized. As each character came through, I had them write down the exact time they received it. Now the radio waves propagate at various speeds through various materials, so some extrapolations were necessary. That’s where Eric came in. He computed out those discrepancies so we had a clear time versus distance calculation, and we were able to triangulate the transmitter’s location.”

He typed at his computer for a moment, and an overhead picture of a barren island appeared on the main monitor. It was shaped like a teardrop ringed with cliffs, except for one inhospitable-looking rocky beach at the southern tip. The ground rose and fell in craggy hillocks, and there was virtually no vegetation except a few patches of grass and a couple of gnarled trees bent into odd shapes by the constant wind.

According to the scale at the bottom of the picture, the island was roughly eight miles long, and two wide at its thickest point.

“This is Eos Island. It’s located four miles off the coast of Turkey, in the Gulf of Mandalay. The Greeks and Turks have fought over it for a couple of centuries, though, judging by what we’ve found, I can’t understand why. Geologically, it’s interesting because it’s a chunk of Precambrian bedrock in an otherwise-active volcanic zone, but it is basically uninhabitable. This picture is dated four years ago.” Just seeing a picture of where Max was being held sent a jolt of energy firing through Juan’s body. It took him all he had not to order the Oregonto flank speed and charge in with guns blazing.

Hali flashed another shot of the island on the screen. “This was Eos Island last year.” Clustered near the southern part of the island were a dozen large earthmovers in distinctive yellow paint.

A huge pit had been excavated and a cement plant had been erected. A dock had been extended from the beach and a road graded up to the work site.

“The work was done by an Italian heavy-construction company and paid for through a numbered Swiss bank account, although there is little doubt who was behind it. The Turkish authorities were told it was going to be the largest movie set ever built.”

Up came another picture. “This shows the same site a few months later. As you can see, they have built concrete structures inside their excavation.”

Eric added, “Using the heavy equipment to establish scale, the facility’s footprint is nearly fifty thousand square feet. And, at this point in the construction, it has three levels.” Hali picked up their story again. “Eight months into construction, the bogus movie company said they ran out of money and were pulling the plug on the project. As part of the original contract with the Turks, they were supposed to return the island to its natural state. So that is, more or less, what they did.” He brought up a third picture on the main monitor. There was no sign of the massive excavation. It looked as if nothing had ever happened. All of the material removed from the pit had been returned to it, and the surface was reconfigured so to appear like natural stone. The only thing remaining was the dock, and a macadam road that led seemingly nowhere.

“This picture is from the official Turkish government environmental-impact report,” Hali continued. “We have to assume that some baksheesh exchanged hands and the report was doctored to indicate that Eos was back to normal.”

“Where’s the ELF antenna?” Juan asked.

“Buried beneath the underground bunker,” Eric replied. “Max was very specific when he said in his message to nuke it. He could have easily said bomb it. Same number of letters, so it wouldn’t have added to the transmission time, but he specifically used the word nuke.

“I would have liked to consult Mark about this, but I did a quick computer simulation, and if they were pouring concrete for five or six months and then piled the debris on top I estimate it will take probably two kilotons to crack that nut open.”

“Why not one of the Air Force’s bunker-buster bombs?” Juan asked smartly.

“That would work fine so long as we hit either the antenna or the power generators directly. But looking at this from a purely practical point of view, do you see us getting our hands on one of those?” Eric had a habit of not getting sarcasm. “No more than us finding two thousand tons of TNT,” Juan shot back, instantly regretting his sharp tone. “Sorry.” He tried to never take his frustrations out on his people.

“Commando raid seems the only way,” Eddie said, and moved up from the back of the Op Center. “We could hit the beach there, on the south tip of the island, or try to scale one of the cliffs.”

“The chance of success is, statistically, zero,” Eric replied. “Probability dictates that the entrance to the bunker is heavily defended and easily sealed. At the first sign of an attack, the outer defenses are closed off, and successive barricades within the bunker will be raised.”

“So we find a back door,” Juan suggested. “There have to be air intakes for the ventilation system, as well as vents for the exhaust from their power plant.”

“Both of which I believe lie under the dock.” Eric nodded to Hali, who brought the first construction picture back up on the screen. “Look carefully at where they are still working on the road.” Hali manipulated the picture to zoom in on where a paving machine was laying down a ribbon of asphalt.

Just ahead of the machine, graders were smoothing the track, while a bit farther ahead excavators were laying dirt into a deep trench.

“They dug out under where the road was going to be laid in order to bury the vent pipes and then layered blacktop over it. Again, we have to assume that the intakes and vents are well guarded and that at the first sign of an intrusion the facility goes on lockdown. A team might be able to gain access to the conduits, but, once inside, they would be trapped.”

Juan glanced at Eddie to get his opinion of Stone’s grim assessment.

Seng said, “One misstep and we would be targets at a shooting gallery. And even if we made it in, we’d have to cut ourselves out of those pipes with torches, not knowing who or what is waiting to greet us.”

“Okay, give me another option,” Juan said.

“Sorry, Chairman, but Eric’s right. Without knowing how that place is laid out—its security systems, guard strengths, and about a hundred other things—we can’t get inside.”

“Two weeks ago, we stole a pair of rocket torpedoes from the damned Iranian Navy. There has to be a way to get Max out of there.”

“With all due respect”—Eric’s voice was hesitant but determined—“our focus should be on silencing that transmitter rather than on Max’s rescue. If the attack is coordinated using an ELF signal to cruise ships scattered all over the globe, then its destruction should be our primary concern.” The silence was long and pregnant.

“Do you have a suggestion?” Juan asked with stiff formality.

“Actually, I do, sir. It’s called Stalin’s Fist.”

The code name rocked Juan back in his chair. “How do you know about that?”

“I read through the transcripts of our intercept between Ivan Kerikov and Ibn al-Asim.” Those transcripts were on Juan’s computer, but he hadn’t had the time to peruse them let alone read them in their entirety. Anyway, they were the CIA’s bailiwick, as far as he was concerned. They had been hired to eavesdrop, not sift through the information.

“Kerikov mentioned he had access to something called Stalin’s Fist. When he mentioned it, I did some research. You’re familiar with it?”

“Why do you think it doesn’t work?” Juan asked with a smirk.

“You boys mind filling us in?” Linc called.

Eric typed at his computer and brought up an artist’s rendition of a satellite, unlike anything ever orbited before. The main body was a long cylinder, and ringing it were five enclosed canisters that were more than thirty feet in length. No one needed to see the hammer-and-sickle emblem on its side to know it was Russian. The drawing itself had that distinctive Soviet style that was both pompous and amateurish at the same time.

Eric commenced, “Though its real code name was November Sky, it was known almost exclusively by the nickname Stalin’s Fist. It was launched in 1989 at one of the warmest periods during the Cold War in direct violation of about a dozen treaties.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” Linc grumbled, “but what in the heck is it?”

“Stalin’s Fist is an OBP, or Orbital Ballistic Projectile, weapon. Our military played around with the idea, calling it Rods from God. The theory is incredibly simple. Inside those tubes are tungsten rods weighting eighteen hundred pounds apiece. When fired, they fall through the atmosphere and hit whatever they are aimed at. Coming in at an orbital velocity of eighteen thousand miles per hour, multiplied by their mass, they hit with the kinetic energy of an atomic bomb, only there is no fallout, and defensive reaction time to such a weapon is cut in half because there is no ascent stage like with a conventional ballistic missile. You might see a flaming object in the sky for a moment, but that’s it. No warning and no chance to escape.”

“The Soviets intended it as a first-strike weapon,” Juan added. “The idea was to target several major Western cities lying along the same longitudinal axis and blame a freak meteor shower. With no radioactive fallout, and the rods themselves vaporized on impact, there would be no way to say it wasn’t.

They even had astronomers ready to show doctored photographs of the meteors moments before they entered our atmosphere. With the Western world reeling from losing five cities, the Sovs thought they could roll across the border and Europe would be theirs.”

“How do you know it didn’t work?” Eric asked Juan.

“Because one of my first Black Ops for the agency was to infiltrate the Baikonur Cosmodrome, where it was being launched on an Energia rocket, and disable it. I rigged it so the satellite couldn’t receive a signal from the ground because of earth’s magnetic field. It will only react if the order comes from above the atmosphere.”

“Why not just blow it up on the pad?”

“It was a manned mission. Two cosmonauts went up with it to manually deploy its solar panels. It was three days into the mission before they discovered the bird had been sabotaged.” Hali asked, “They couldn’t just boost a ground signal?”

“It would have fried the electronics.”

“Couldn’t they have sent a signal from Mir, their space station?”

“They knew the jig was up, so they left it floating around up there in a polar orbit.”

“Do you think it still works?” Eric asked.

“Unless it’s been hit by space debris, it should work perfectly.” Cabrillo was warming to the idea.

“Okay, hotshot, you found us an alternative to a nuke. How do you propose we get a transmitter sixty miles into space so we can commandeer the satellite?”

“If you can get me the codes from Ivan Kerikov”—Stone typed again and brought up yet another picture—“I’ll get it up there using this.”

Juan and the others stared slack-jawed for a moment at the audacity of the plan. Cabrillo finally found his voice. “Eric, you got yourself a deal. I’ll call Overholt to arrange your transport. Eddie and Linc, come up with a plan to get those codes from the Russian arms dealer tonight. Then, we leave port.”

“You still want to head to Eos Island? Eddie asked.

“I’m not abandoning Max.”

CHAPTER 30

LOOKING AT HIS REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR, JUAN couldn’t tell where his face ended and Kevin Nixon’s makeup began. He glanced at the enlarged pictures that Kevin had taped to the mirror as a guide and then at his face again. It was a perfect match. The wig he wore was the exact shade, and the style was the same as well.

“Kevin, you’ve outdone yourself,” Juan said, and plucked away the paper collar Kevin had put around his throat to protect the tuxedo shirt he was sporting.

“Making you look like Arab terrorist Ibn al-Asim is nothing. If you’d asked me to make you look like one of their floozies, then you can call me a miracle worker.” Juan deftly tied his bow tie and shrugged his broad shoulders into a white dinner jacket. While nearly every man looks good in a tux, Cabrillo pulled it off with extra aplomb, even with the padding around his middle that filled out his physique to match al-Asim’s. It didn’t hurt that their surveillance showed the terrorist financier favored Armani. He had a flat holster at the base of his spine for his preferred weapon, the FN, Five-seveN, automatic pistol.

“You look like James Bond with a paunch,” Mike Trono said from across Kevin’s cluttered workroom.

In his best Sean Connery brogue, Juan shot back, “The janitorial staff is to be seen and not heard.” Mike and Jerry Pulaski were wearing uniforms that matched the janitorial staff of the world-renowned Casino de Monte Carlo, having gotten the designs during a brief afternoon reconnoiter. Kevin and his staff kept hundreds of uniforms, everything from a Russian general to a New Delhi traffic cop to a Parisian zookeeper, so it took them only a few minutes to modify a standard jumpsuit to the style they wanted.

Mike and Jerry carried a heavy-duty trash can on rollers, as well as a rolling mop bucket, and a plastic sign warning SLIPPERY FLOOR.

The chief steward appeared at the doorway, silent and unobtrusive as always. He wore a crisp white apron over his suit. There was a debate among the crew as to whether he changed aprons before leaving the pantry or simply never spilled anything on himself. The odds favored the latter by a huge margin. He held a sealed plastic container in one hand like it was loaded with live snakes, and his face was cleaved by a deep frown.

“For Pete’s sake, Maurice,” Juan teased, “it’s not the real stuff.”

“Captain, I made it, so it is real enough.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Maurice set the container on Kevin’s makeup counter and stepped back, steadfastly refusing to remove the lid. Juan pried it off and quickly turned his head. “Whoa! Did you have to make it so pungent?”

“You asked me to make you fake vomit. I treated this as I would any dish. So smell is as important as appearance and texture.”

“Kinda smells like that fish thing you made for Jannike,” Mike quipped, resealing the lid and placing the container in his mop bucket.

Maurice threw him the look of a school principal dressing down a rowdy pupil. “Mr. Trono, if you want anything other than bread and water for the foreseeable future, I would apologize.”

“Hey, I liked that dish,” Mike said, backpedaling as fast as he could. No one on the Oregontook Maurice’s threats lightly. “So what’s in it?”

“The base is pea soup, and the rest of the recipe is a trade secret.” Juan looked at him askance. “You’ve done this before?”

“A prank in my youth against Charles Wright, the captain of a destroyer I was serving on. He made Bligh look like Mother Teresa. The prig prided himself on his iron stomach, so during an inspection we poured some of this concoction in his private head moments before a visiting admiral used it. The nickname Upchuck Chuck dogged the remainder of his career.”

They all laughed harder than the story warranted, as a means of releasing tension. They always played their emotions close to the vest, especially just before an operation, so any chance to vent was seized on immediately.

“Will that be all, Captain?”

“Yes, Maurice. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He bowed out of the room, passing Dr. Huxley as she made her way to the Magic Shop.

The men gave a chorus of catcalls and whistles. Hux wore a strapless dress in magenta silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair had been teased from its regular ponytail into an elegant halo of curls and ringlets. Makeup accentuated her eyes and mouth, and gave her skin a healthy glow.

“Here you go,” she said, and handed Cabrillo a slim leather case. He folded open the top to reveal three hypodermic needles in protective slots. “Inject this in a vein and it’s night-night in about fifteen seconds.”

“The pills?” Juan asked.

She pulled a standard plastic pill bottle from her matching clutch purse and shook the two capsules. “If al-Asim has kidney problems, he’s going to end up in the hospital before he needs to use the bathroom.”

“How long before they take effect?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen, minutes.”

“You’re sure he won’t taste them?”

Hux rolled her eyes. They had already gone over this three times. “Completely undetectable.” She also showed him she had her passport. Because native Monegasques aren’t allowed into the casino, identification is verified at the entrance.

“Everybody have phones?” Juan asked. Rather than draw attention to themselves with earbud radios and lapel microphones, they would use the walkie-talkie mode of their cell phones for communication. When everyone nodded, he said, “All right, then, let’s get ashore and do this.” DESIGNED BY CHARLES GARNIER, the architect of the fabled Paris Opera House, the Casino de Monte Carlo is nothing less than a cathedral dedicated to gambling. It was built in the sumptuous Napoleon III style that Garnier created, with beautiful fountains at its entrance, two distinctive towers, and an aged copper roof. The elegant atrium was lined with twenty-eight onyx columns, and marble and stained glass abounded in every room. When Juan arrived, there were three Ferraris and a pair of Bentleys lined up under the porte cochere. The clientele streaming inside were the crème of society. The men were uniformly dressed in tuxedos, while the women looked like jewels in their gowns and dresses.

He shot his cuff to check the time. Kerikov and al-Asim never arrived before ten, so he was a half hour early. More than enough time to find an unobtrusive place to pass the time. It wouldn’t do for al-Asim to meet his doppelgänger across the roulette wheel.

His phone chirped.

“Chairman, Ski and I are in position,” Mike Trono reported.

“Any problems?”

“Dressed like janitors, we’re practically invisible.”

“Where are you now?”

“Just off the loading dock. We’re keeping ourselves busy cleaning up a few jugs of cooking oil that Ski accidentally spilled on purpose.”

“Okay, hang tight, and wait for my signal.”

Cabrillo flashed his passport and paid his entrance fee. The crowds were all moving to the right, toward the elegant gaming rooms, so Juan followed the throng. He ambled his way upstairs to a bar, got himself a martini he had no intention of drinking but thought appropriate considering his surroundings, and found a dark corner to wait.

Hux called in moments later to announce she had also arrived and was in the Salon de l’Europe, the casino’s principal gambling hall.

While he waited, Juan put his mind to how he was going to rescue Max before they leveled Eos Island with the Orbital Ballistic Projectile. There was no question in his mind that he would follow through with the island’s destruction if they couldn’t get Max. The stakes were too high, and even Max would agree.

He wished there was a way to communicate back to Hanley using the ELF equipment, but it was a transmitter, not a receiver. Juan went through a dozen ideas, worked them in his mind, and ultimately rejected every one as being ill-conceived.

“They’re here,” Julia said over the phone, after he’d been at the bar for twenty minutes. “They’re heading for a chemin de fer table.”

“Let them get settled and have a few drinks first.”

Down in the casino, Julia Huxley divided her attention between the roulette wheel and their target. Her pile of chips ebbed and flowed as time wore on, while, across the room, Ibn al-Asim was on his third drink.

She thought it ironic that he was willing to finance arms for fundamentalist Muslim terror groups and yet flout one of the best-known Muslim laws by drinking alcohol. She suspected he thought of himself as a takfir, a true believer in Islam who ignored its tenets in order to infiltrate Western society. Of course, he accomplished this merely by eschewing traditional robes and not sporting a heavy beard. The drinking and the womanizing weren’t necessary. They were simply activities he obviously enjoyed.

“I think it’s time, Juan,” she said into her phone, pretending to check a text message.

“Okay. Do it. Mike, get ready for Operation V.”

Julia waited until the roulette ball dropped into the number six slot and the dealer raked the losing chips, hers included, from the table before tossing him a tip and collecting her remaining stack. She pulled the two pills from her purse and started across the room. A few men eyed her as she passed, but most everybody was concentrating on his or her game.

There were no empty seats at the table where Kerikov and al-Asim were playing, so Julia hung back, waiting for her opportunity. When the Russian won a particularly large hand, Julia leaned close to him and whispered “Congratulations” in his ear. He was startled at first, then smiled when he saw how Hux looked.

She did it again when another player hit it big, and, suddenly, her presence here wasn’t that of a stranger but part of the gaming circle. She then placed a small wager on top of this second player’s stack, so that if he won so would she.

When he didn’t win, he apologized, but Julia only shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal.

She then gestured to al-Asim, wordlessly asking permission to place chips with him. He nodded, and, when she reached across the table, she set her hand next to his drink to balance herself. When she straightened, she almost knocked the glass over. She grabbed it just before it spilled, dropped the two pills in it, and set it back on its coaster.

The pills were a homeopathic compound that addicts on probation use to flush their bodies of drugs prior to testing, as a way of avoiding more jail time. Julia had studied the compounds and found they didn’t really work, but they had a side effect of making a person need to urinate. Doping al-Asim with it was their way of getting him to the casino’s restroom on their schedule rather than on his.

Al-Asim didn’t suspect a thing. He played his hand and won, grinning wolfishly when he handed Julia her winnings.

“Merci, monsieur,”she said. She played one more time with a different player, lost, and drifted away from the table. When she stepped out of the gambling hall and back into the towering atrium, she called Cabrillo to tell him it was done.

“Okay, find a place to watch him, and let us know when he’s headed for the bathroom and then get yourself back to the marina,” Juan ordered as he headed down to the lavatory closest to the Salon de l’Europe. “Mike, you and Ski move into position.”

“On our way.”

There was a doorway a short distance from the restroom that led to the building’s service corridors, so the guests didn’t need to be bothered with seeing things like the janitors or the waitstaff who fetched patrons’ drinks. Juan loitered next to the door for just a moment before it opened slightly and Mike handed him the bottle of fake vomit. Juan let a few more minutes trickle by, to give the drug time to work, before entering the restroom.