On the screen, the black cloud continued to be all that was visible.
Carl pressed another button. At the distant structure, metal clanked. The window coverings opened. The black cloud emerged from the gaps. On the TV screen, daylight struggled through the black haze.
"The gas kills only when breathed," Carl said. "This particular batch isn't full strength. It'll lose its potency by the time it disperses this far. Even so, you might want to put on this."
He gave the man a gas mask. Then he too put on a mask.
A bird flew over the structure. Skirting the edge of the dispersing black cloud, it folded and fell, crashing onto the building's roof.
Another bird fell.
Then another.
"As you see," Carl said, pointing toward the screen, where the black cloud dispersed enough to reveal that all the chickens were dead, "it's extremely effective."
Another bird plummeted.
*
In the warehouse, Carl glanced from the knapsacks and made a final assessment of the men on the cots. They slept restlessly, primed for the morning. Satisfied, he took his own advice and left the building. He closed the door and went down an alley to a parking space where he entered the van Raoul had used to transport the six men who'd chosen not to participate. Crawling into a sleeping bag, he reviewed what needed to be done the next day. His knife in one hand, his pistol in the other, he practiced hard-learned bio-feedback techniques and drifted off to sleep. The last thing his mind considered was the end of the conversation at the training camp.
"For the actual event," the man asked, "the gas will be full strength?"
"Absolutely."
"How much area will it cover?"
"Spreading the men out, arranging them in a strategic pattern? All of downtown New Orleans."
12
"I once had the privilege of meeting Frank Sinatra when he performed in my country," the Japanese trade minister said. He wore a white bathrobe over gray pajamas. His thinning hair was rumpled. With sleep-puffed eyes, he peered over slim spectacles.
Seated across from him, Cavanaugh waited.
"Indeed, some months later, in Los Angeles, I was invited to an event at Mr. Sinatra's home, something one of his Republican politician friends asked him to host," the official continued. "There was a sign next to the intercom at the gate. It said, 'You'd better have a damned good reason for ringing this bell.' I assume you had a good reason for waking me at this hour."
"I apologize." Cavanaugh bowed slightly.
The official gave no indication of caring about apologies.
"I want you to think twice about continuing with the conference, Mr. Yamato." Out of habit, Cavanaugh scanned the suite, pleased that the draperies were closed and that security personnel were on duty. "You're one of the most influential members of the World Trade Organization. I strongly recommend that you persuade your associates to move the conference to another location."
"Because of your friend."
"Former friend," Cavanaugh said. "He's capable of anything."
"And you aren't capable of anything? Such as stopping him?"
"It doesn't make sense to risk-"
"You think this is about money, don't you?" Yamato asked.
Cavanaugh didn't reply.
"About multi-national industries and power," the official continued. "Or pride? Do you think this is about pride? Six months ago, the demonstrators forced us into a premature conclusion of a conference. Now we refuse to be humiliated again. Is that what you believe?"
"That's one of the theories I've heard," Cavanaugh said.
"This isn't about wealth or power or pride. This is about survival."
Cavanaugh leaned forward, listening closely as more sirens wailed outside in the darkness.
"And this isn't about demonstrations as a voice in a debate," Yamato said. "If you're right, your former friend wants to extend the rioting into something far more extreme."
"The only motive that makes sense to me is that he's being paid by terrorists."
"Whose purpose, by definition, is to destroy the underpinnings of our system."
"That's right."
"If we allow them to intimidate us, if we run and hide, we surrender to that intimidation. Eventually, it becomes easier to continue running and hiding. If we don't resist at every opportunity, we can never win. Am I afraid? Yes. Do I believe people will die tomorrow? Yes. Perhaps I myself will die. But if there's an atrocity, perhaps public outrage against the terrorists will make it less likely that future atrocities will occur. You fight in one way. We fight in another. I cannot recommend canceling or moving the conference."
"I admire your bravery," Cavanaugh said, "but-"
"It's not bravery," Yamato told him. "It's the refusal to act like a coward."
An alarm suddenly blared.
Shrill. Ear-torturing. Outside the suite.
Cavanaugh and Yamato swung toward the door.
Someone pounded on the door. "Mr. Yamato!"
Cavanaugh drew his pistol.
"Mr. Yamato!" a voice yelled. "Cavanaugh!"
Through doors on each side of the suite, Japanese protectors rushed in from adjacent rooms. They held pistols. Cavanaugh took for granted that they'd been electronically monitoring the conversation and knew that he wasn't a threat. Stepping in front of the trade minister, shielding him, they directed their fierce attention toward the main door as the alarm kept blaring and the pounding persisted. Next to it, a television camera revealed the corridor outside and a security agent yelling Mr. Yamato's name.
Cavanaugh hurried to the door, glanced back at Yamato's protectors, got a nod of agreement from them, and freed the lock.
Inching the door open, ready with his weapon, Cavanaugh saw other agents pounding on other doors, shouting the names of occupants.
The agent told him, "Smoke in the elevator shaft!"
Before Cavanaugh could respond, another shouted, "And the front stairwells!"
"Fire?"
"Or toxic gas! We don't know yet!"
As the alarm blared, sirens wailed outside the hotel, presumably from fire trucks and other emergency vehicles.
"What about the back stairwells?" Cavanaugh asked.
Protectors and trade ministers peered starkly from doors along the corridor, security agents talking urgently to them.
"So far, they're clear."
"This could be a way to funnel us into a trap," Cavanaugh said.
Behind him, the suite's phone rang. Past the open doors in the corridor, Cavanaugh heard other phones ringing.
At the end of the corridor, abrupt movement made Cavanaugh stare toward an agent who jerked his gaze from the elevators and frowned at the ceiling. Gray vapor swirled above him. "The air conditioning vent! Something's coming from the-"
"Gas! I smell it!" another agent yelled. Coughing, he shifted back from a vent in the ceiling.
Cavanaugh pivoted toward a security agent, who set down the phone in Yamato's suite and raised his voice to be heard above the fire alarm. "I've just been told that the hotel lobby is filled with smoke."
"Can we use the service elevator?" Yamato asked.
"No. Even if it's clear of smoke, you can't use it. What if it stops between floors? Plus, we don't know what we'll face when the door opens."
Yamato headed toward the corridor. "Can we use the back stairs?"
"Seven floors. Do you have a heart condition, any problem that makes the distance too far for you?"
"No." Yamato hurried along the corridor. "But what if, as you noted, this is a way to funnel us into a trap?"
Cavanaugh smelled the acrid vapor wafting from the air-conditioning vents. Along the corridor, agents and clients were coughing as they rushed. Peering back, Cavanaugh saw black smoke at the bottom of the elevator doors. "At the moment, all we know is we can't stay here."
An EXIT sign marked the door to the rear stairwell. Eyes burning, Cavanaugh turned toward Yamato and the other officials. He gestured to the GPS agents who'd been watching the elevator and the stairwells. "Tony, use your phone. Tell the FBI what's happening. Arrange for plenty of vehicles to meet us downstairs. The rest of you, let's clear the way."