“Miguel!” Salinas said, from his recliner. His beige silk suit was wrinkled where it bunched around his rolls of fat, and his gold-toothed smile was humorless. “You’re late!” Mr. Fatso Drug Lord didn’t like to be kept waiting?
Tough. Snake wasn’t about to incite Salinas, but he wasn’t going to kiss his ass either.
“Had to arrange to get some medicine for the kid,” Snake said pointedly. “You know, the kid no one knew was sick? Took me longer than I’d anticipated.”
“But it is all taken care of, no?”
“Yeah. All taken care of.”
“Excellent!” Now his smile was genuine. “Alien, pour our friend a drink.
Scotch, right?“
“Right. A little soda.”
“Give him the good stuff.” Salinas’s financial butt boy hopped to the task.
“We’ve got some beautiful sixty-year-old MacCallan single malt here,” Alien Gold said. “Cost Carlos thirteen big ones at auction.”
Thirteen grand for a bottle of Scotch? Now that was conspicuous consumption. Snake glanced around. Just like the rest of this dive. Look at the furniture, all dark and heavy and intricately carved, with real Tiffany lamps and Persian rugs; the walls were worse, hung with heavy burgundy drapes and all shades of garish Colombian art.
And in among the paintings, a signed photo of Tricky Dick. Very weird.
Gold handed Snake his Scotch, neat. “I held off on the club soda,” he said. “You don’t want bubbles getting in the way of the taste of this stuff.” Snake bit back a sharp retort. No profit in being ungracious, but he wondered about a guy with an MBA acting as gofer.
“To the success of the project,” Salinas said, raising a glass of red wine.
They all drank. Snake smacked his lips around the sixty-year-old Scotch. Pretty good, but not worth five hundred bucks a pop.
“Alien,” Salinas said, wiping off his mustache, “give Miguel his next installment.” Gold bent and lifted a leather attachê case. He handed it to Snake.
“You want to count it?”
“Not now,” Snake said. “I’ll count it later.” He smiled to make it clear he was joking.
Salinas chuckled and his gut shook like the proverbial bowl full of jelly. A round man, Salinas—a round face with a round mouth on a round body. His smile was all white and gold except for the space between his upper front teeth—a gap big enough to shoot watermelon pits through.
Always polite, soft-spoken, almost formal. Yet Snake knew that behind that jolly exterior hid a diamond-hard, laser-sharp mind. An obsessively security-conscious mind. He’d realized that the first time they’d met here.
Snake had recorded the conversation—he admitted to his own security hang-up—with a standard transmitter mike, but when he’d checked the tape, all he heard was thirty minutes of hiss. Which meant Salinas had a bug jammer in his office. A good one—randomly varying frequency and amplitude. But there were ways around that…
Snake took another sip of Scotch and dropped into a chair. “All right. I’ve got the kid. I’ve got her daddy dangling on a string. What’s this service he’s supposed to do?” Salinas looked at Gold.
“Alien, will you please excuse us?”
Gold looked hurt. “You don’t think you can trust me with this?”
“I think you can be trusted with anything. Alien. But I do not think you want to be trusted with this. Comprende?”
Gold stared at him a moment, glanced at Snake, then shrugged. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” He started for the door.
“It is not a burden you wish. Alien,” Salinas said, smiling solicitously.
“Fine. I’ll be at the bar.”
As the door closed, Salinas said, “He is upset. He thinks he should know everything about my business. And perhaps he is right. But in this matter, I am not so sure.” Snake was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about “this matter.”
“I believe your question,” Salinas said, “was what service do I expect Dr. John Vanduyne to perform?” He took another sip of his wine. After he swallowed, his smile was gone. His voice was coldly matter of fact. “I expect Dr. John Vanduyne to remove his old friend Thomas Winston from the White House.” Snake felt the Scotch glass begin to slip from his fingers.
“The P-President?” He’d never stuttered before in his life. “The President of the United States?”
Salinas nodded.
Snake had a strange, floating sensation. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. All along he’d known that the stakes in this job would be high—nobody offered you that kind of money just to put the screws to a doctor bureaucrat in HHS. He’d tried to figure the angle but couldn’t come up with any reason why Vanduyne would be so valuable.
The stakes were high, all right. Too high.
He opened his eyes. “Winston’s legalization thing… that’s what this is all about, right?”
Salinas nodded again. “This coward wants to ruin our business. Fifty billion dollars a year—gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that! You can understand why we cannot allow such a thing.”
“Yeah, sure,” Snake said. Fifty billion a year justified just about anything. What had he got himself into? “But how’s this Vanduyne going to solve your problem?”
Salinas smiled. “Vanduyne is President Winston’s personal physician. We will instruct him to administer a dose of chloramphenicol to his old friend.”
“Chloram—what?‘’
Salinas gestured to the pad on the table to Snake’s right. “Write it down.”
Snake spelled it out phonetically as Salinas repeated it. Klor… aw… PHEN… uh… call, then got the proper spelling from Salinas.
“What’s that? A poison?”
“No. That is the beauty of it. Chloramphenicol is an antibiotic. An old one that is rarely used anymore.”
Snake stared at the word on the sheet of paper in his hand. “I don’t get it.”
“One of the reasons chloramphenicol is rarely used is its effect on the bone marrow of a small percentage of patients.”
“What’s that?” Snake said.
“Like the atomic bomb on Hiroshima: The bone marrow stops producing blood cells. The condition is called aplastic anemia. I have never heard of it, but then, what do I know about medicine? However, I have educated myself over the past few months… ever since a certain source informed me that Thomas Winston almost died from aplastic anemia at age three. The cause was chloramphenicol.”
“So?”
“So, if he gets another dose, the same thing will happen: His bone marrow will go on strike. He will sicken. He may well die.”
“May die? What if he doesn’t?”
Salinas shrugged. “He does not need to die. I would prefer that he did, but at the very least he will be gravely ill, much too sick to attend the drug summit in The Hague. And if he survives, he will have a long recovery. Too long to continue in office. He will have to resign.”
“Which puts Robert Baldwin in the White House. What if he decides to push legalization too?”
Salinas smiled and shook his head. “We know Vice President Baldwin. We have him…” He made an elaborate gesture of slipping his hand into his jacket pocket.
“So why not just plug Winston?” Snake said. “Be a helluva lot easier and more efficient than this’may die‘ crap. Then you know he’s out of office.”
“No-no,” Salinas said, for the first time leaning forward. He explained why la compania had discarded that idea.
Snake nodded, only half listening. Already he could see problems.
“Okay. Whacking him wouldn’t work. But what happens when Vanduyne gets his kid back and tells the world he was forced to give Winston the chlor-whatever it’s-called? Same result: Winston’s a martyr and you’re out of business.” Salinas smiled. “But he will not get his child back. At least not for long. Immediately after their joyous reunion, they will have a terrible accident.”