“You want buy? Buy these?”
Webb looked away from the pockmarked, scarred face, the dead eyes, the lank hair and filthy clothing, to the merchandise on the table. Surprisingly, it was the opposite of the man — clean, new, advanced.
The man coughed harshly. “It cream of crop, yes? Those others they too big. Old. Dangerous. This new and only one left. Yes?”
Webb tried to keep his face blank. What the hell was he looking at? Assuming the nuke was already inside then the delivery system was everything he’d dreamed about. “How did you get it so small? If an employee presented me with a suitcase nuke the size of those I’ve just seen I’d terminate his contract with excessive prejudice.”
Rat Breath, as Webb now designated him, just shrugged. “New,” he said. “Best.”
Webb nodded. What he found of most interest about suitcase nukes was that, according to several high-ranking Russian defectors, since the Cold War many of these devices had gone missing. It turned out that the number of “missing” nukes was almost identical to the number of targets on which they might be deployed. Might it be possible then, that they may already be deployed on US soil? Wired to batteries with several redundant backups. Just waiting…
They claimed to have hidden untold caches of weapons, sleeper agents and bomb-making materials. Of course, these days it was getting harder to smuggle anything into the States, but most of the stuff was already there. Webb snapped his thoughts back to the present, focusing on the wheeled suitcase that lay on the table.
“Is it wired to the case?” he asked, then sighed. “Remove?” he asked. “Can weapon be removed?”
“Oh, no.” Rat Breath looked terrified. “All one. Only detonate.”
“Nobody ever admitted to building one smaller than a foot-locker,” Webb breathed to Beauregard. “And yet here we are. Imagine if governments, for the last thirty years, had poured as many resources into disease control, famine prevention and catastrophe awareness as they have weapons. The world would be a far different place, my friend.”
Beauregard inclined his head. “Shocked to hear you say it but also pleased.”
Webb shrugged. “Hey, not that I give a fuck, right? They make their own beds, these war mongers. Tie them to what they reap. Let them burn.”
“Is that really you, sir?”
Webb laughed. “Oh, perhaps the wine has gone to my head. Or whatever that concoction was. Rice vodka? Who cares, right? Anyway, back to work. Julian should have arrived about an hour ago and will be fretting. How much for this new weapon, Mr. Rat—” Webb coughed to cover his error, then finished lamely. “Mr. Man?”
“One million dollars. The larger ones are half that.” Rat Breath shrugged.
Webb threw his arms in the air. “Then we celebrate!” He reeled off an account number and then privately entered a pin that allowed these dealers to extricate funds the potential buyers had deposited earlier.
“Transaction good.” Ratty showed his rodent-like teeth at Webb. “You take.”
“That I will,” Webb smiled. “That I will. Oh, and what guarantee do I have that this thing actually works?”
Rat Breath looked understandably nonplussed. “Can’t test,” he said with a verminous smile. “That would be problem. Have clever man check wiring.”
Webb leaned forward, grinning too. “But carefully, eh? Super careful?”
“Oh, very careful!” Rat Breath cried.
“It will be checked,” Webb said seriously. “And any problems will be taken up by my associate here.”
Beauregard hefted the suitcase at arm’s length.
Rat Breath said nothing, but grinned.
Webb exited the tent, still smiling and feeling good about himself. With all prospects of even the lightest, mildest forms of stalking currently on hold he had expected this trip to be more than depressing. But on the contrary, it had injected a feisty little spirit into him that he quite liked. The path outside twisted among dark boughs and Webb took a moment to lean against one as he checked his cell. To hell with the creepy-crawlies. To hell with anything else. Tonight was for living…
Marsh was here. Webb felt instant depression. Marsh was a frigging oddball, one part of him normal the other part, well, odd. The man’s message said to meet near the caiman pit so Webb took some bearings, headed off, and then switched to the opposite direction at Beauregard’s wry insistence. He’d never been particularly good at finding his way around.
Not exactly right, he thought. I’ve always been good at finding my way around people’s homes. And lives.
Water dripped without end, a constant accompaniment to whatever revelries were happening tonight. Webb trudged through wet leaves and piles of mud, passing the slave tent once again and the sports pavilion. Many were inside catching up on live matches and results they were missing, but Webb had never cared for games of any kind. Beyond the pavilion lay the caiman pit, bordered by a high fence and still well-lit, but now patronized only by one man — Julian Marsh.
Webb blinked twice as he saw Marsh climbing the fence to peer over the top, face pressed firmly between wrought-iron barbs, as if he couldn’t see straight through the gaps between the uprights. This was not a good man to send out into the world with a nuclear weapon. Not a good man at all.
Webb coughed loudly. “Julian?”
“Yessss?” Marsh turned, still clinging to the uprights.
“Come down from there. I have our merchandise.”
Marsh leapt from the railings, arms and legs out in a star-shape, landing awkwardly but without injury. Webb stared openly at the contrast of sheepskin jacket and tailored pants, the luminous green gloves and purple rain boots. The doubts in his mind suddenly gelled.
“Julian,” he said carefully. “Are you okay?”
“Never been better!” the last of the Pythian generals squeaked. “And you and the French condom? Okay?”
Webb gave in. The end-game here was actually the scroll, not the damn nuke. “Well, here we are. As agreed. Smuggle this into the US and then New York City. Once you’re there, let me know and we will start the show.”
Marsh reached out both hands for the suitcase. “Looks a little small, boss. Some FBI agent gets a look at this he’ll pee himself laughing.”
Webb hadn’t had time to formulate a believable story. “It’s real, I’m sure. Get it checked before you reach the United States though. And be careful, Marsh. This is the Pythian swan song.”
“Cool, cool. So… what do I do with it when we’re done? Throw it in the Hudson?”
Webb winced. “Umm, no. Let me get back to you on that. Use the burner phone method. No dead drops anymore. They got that covered these days. Code words as we agreed. This is it now, Julian. You are a Pythian carrying out his duty. Possibly the last. Do not stray from the road, my friend.”
Webb needed the distraction. Ramses’ new ultimatum may have painted this picture with a wholly different brush, but Webb needed it to happen one way or another. Once the Saint Germain angle was in play Webb would be free, whole, able to live and stalk and destroy without restraint or restriction. Quickly, he sent Marsh on his way, marveled at how the man stayed upright in those rain boots, and then used a two-way radio to contact Ramses.
“The matter we spoke of? It is in play right now. My man is on his way to the final destination, but carefully. It will take some time.”
Ramses voice was deep and sonorous. “Not too long I hope.”
“Next week perhaps.”
“That is acceptable. So now I assume you require this scroll?”