Mike opened it up and pointed to the items in it. The guard looked at the officer and asked something in Arabic.
“He asks if these are bombs?” the officer said, glancing at the items uncomfortably.
“Nyet,” Mike said. “Are not bomb. Are poison gas. Samples your leader asked to see.”
“That’s okay, then,” the officer replied, waving at the case and not asking for the material to be removed for further search. “We are very careful of the life of our president.”
“Da,” Mike replied, trying not to roll his eyes. As he closed the sample case, he heard a muffled shriek and paused.
“We are entertaining some American young ladies,” the officer said, looking at him carefully. “They are not enjoying the entertainment.”
“Good, is all American bitches are for,” Mike replied, closing the case.
“Glad you approve,” the officer said, gesturing at the door. One of the guards opened it and Mike stepped into darkness.
Chapter Eight
“Mr. President, I think you should see this,” Secretary Brandeis said, keying one of the overhead video screens. It was an oblique shot, probably from a satellite, of a line of soldiers and a helicopter. Two men were descending from the helicopter.
“We can’t get resolution on faces, Mr. President,” the secretary said. “But from the body shape and clothing, the man on the right is Basser Assad.”
“So it’s not a rogue Syrian operation,” Minuet said. “That’s good and bad to know. The tall one, though, is that who I think it is?”
“Probably,” the secretary replied. “Given his height, movements and the way that he holds his right arm.”
“Makes me tempted to nuke the facility right now,” the President said, darkly. “I’ve heard about the first video tape. Have we gotten the demands, yet?”
“A group calling itself The Popular Front for the Islamic Jihad was the contact to Al Jazeera,” the CIA director said. “They called for a withdrawal of all crusader forces from all areas of the Dar Al Islam. Now, that’s an incredibly broad demand. Arguably, it includes not only all of the Balkans but Spain and Southern France as well. Certainly, they’re referring to all European and American forces in the Middle East. Otherwise, they will do what they have already done to one girl every two hours, until their demands are met. I had analysts go over the video, which is already on the Internet. Several of the girls who were kidnapping victims have been identified from ‘audience shots.’ ”
“What’s the download rate like?” Brandeis asked.
“High,” the CIA director admitted. “It’s flying around the net. And, of course, the news media is all over it like flies on shit. They’re interviewing all the parents of the girls and various commentators are already talking about Stockholm syndrome.”
“Unlikely in this situation,” Minuet said. “Conditions are too extreme. And it takes some time to set in. Any word from Harmon?”
“Negative,” the defense secretary said. “And he’s overdue to check in. But security on the site has been increased. I’m not sure he can get out of his hidey-hole.”
“We give him five more hours,” the President said. “That is two and a half lives. Then we go whether we know where they are or not.”
The room was dark with the only light coming from a sheet of one-way glass. It took Mike’s eyes a moment to adjust.
“Come in, Doctor Chayanov,” a voice said in Oxford-accented English. “You are very welcome. Come watch the show.”
There was a desk set a meter or so from the window and Mike walked to it, setting the sample case on it and glanced through the window. A girl with dark brown hair was being raped and had had part of the skin on her side peeled off. The man on her was rubbing his hands into the exposed flesh as he thrust into her. Even through the thick glass, the screams were clearly audible.
Mike turned away from the scene with apparent indifference. He was horrified and repulsed by what was happening. But, at the same time, hating himself, it turned him on. However, the sexual turn-on was close enough to rage that he could channel it and he was well prepped to explode.
He controlled his reaction and glanced at the group in the room. There were two guards by the door and a short-coupled man, the one who had spoken in English, that he vaguely recognized and thought might be Basser Assad. His eyes widened, though, when he recognized the tall man at Assad’s side.
“I am truly honored,” he said, nodding. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir. You have done much damage to the American pig-bastards.”
“As I did to the Russian pig-bastards,” the tall man said darkly. “But as I worked with the Americans to defeat your kind, so I am happy to work with you to defeat them. Allah’s ways are complex, but he gives his servants opportunities such as yourself. What did you bring to Allah’s servants?”
As Mike opened the sample case, one of the guards stepped forward but all Mike pulled out at first was a pair of gloves. He tried to ignore the shrieks at his back as he pulled out the first of the gas grenades.
“Sarin,” he said, setting it down. “Lethal in low concentrations but very short-lived. Which means you can move in the area no more than five hours after dispersal. This grenade will, well…” He turned around and gestured at the room full of naked women. “If I tossed it in that room, there would be no women to torture in less than five minutes. And that is just the time it would take to disperse fully.” He turned back, set the grenade back inside and pulled out the next.
“VX. Lethal at the same level as Sarin, but persistent. Which means wherever it lands, it stays for from weeks to years. Decontamination after VX has been used widely is nearly impossible. For months after dispersal, people opening up a door will die from residue on the underside of the knob.
“This I particularly like,” Mike said, putting the canister back in the case and lifting out the spray can. “It can be painted to resemble the sort of can that is used in wasp spray. Currently, we only have it in mustard gas, which is a very simple material, but we may have it in VX or Sarin soon. The problem is that VX and Sarin need to be mixed to function.
“It is very simple to use,” he added, taking a subtle breath. “You simply point,” he continued, pivoting towards the guards, “and spray,” he added, depressing the tab.
The stream of yellow liquid hit the right guard square in the face then tracked across to the left guard. Assad was wearing a sidearm in a fancy buckle-down holster and was trying to draw it as Mike pivoted to him and hit him in the face.
The tall terrorist had ducked to the side and was heading for the guards, who had fallen to the ground, clutching at their throats and gurgling as the gas reached their lungs and began burning them. Mike stepped around the desk and tripped him, then stamped on his lungs to get him to exhale and sprayed a puddle on the floor in front of his face. Then he stepped back, set the can on the desk and donned the gas mask. First he pressed it down to get a seal, then breathed out. Then he covered the inlet and inhaled, slightly. The mask pressed in indicating a good seal and he released the inlet and took a cautious breath. No scent of sulfur, no burning. Thank God.
As soon as he had it clear, he stepped over to check on the terrorist. The tall man was rolling back and forth, red froth bubbling out of his mouth, trying to scream, the frantic inhalations causing his lungs to melt faster.
“Dulce et decorum est,” Mike murmured, looking the man in the eye as he died, “pro patria mori. You motherfucker.”
Two guards in the corridor, by the door. The door had been soundproofed and the nice thing about mustard was people couldn’t really shout when they’d been hit by it. So the guards probably weren’t even aware that anything had happened.