“Hello, Vlad,” Aboud said. “It’s been a long time.”
The man nodded in agreement. “Many years.” His eyes flicked over his acquaintance, registering the custom-made suit and Rolex on the doctor’s wrist. “You’ve done well for yourself, I see.”
Aboud noted that despite a decade spent in America, Vlad’s accent was still heavily Slavic.
The waitress returned with the man’s order and carefully placed it on the table.
The Russian raised his glass. “Za vashe zdorovie.”
Aboud mirrored his action. “And to your health as well.” They both drank and set their glasses down.
Vlad cast a wary eye toward the bar, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. He leaned forward. “I am told you have a very interesting product for sale.”
Aboud also sat forward and replied in a subdued voice. “It’s still in the development phase and not quite ready for market. I thought it was time I began to shop the idea around. Of course,” he hastened to add, “I immediately thought of you.”
“That’s good to hear,” Vlad replied approvingly. “I know very few of the details. A form of pneumonic plague?”
“The most lethal form imaginable,” Aboud concurred. “I have created a strain that is resistant to all known antibiotic treatments. In fact, I still haven’t developed an antidote for it. That will take additional time.”
“Impressive.” Vlad took another sip of vodka.
“It’s only a start,” Aboud retorted. “Thus far, I have only tested the effects on animal species. I have yet to learn how quickly human subjects succumb to the virus.”
The Russian raised skeptical eyebrows. “Collecting test subjects who won’t survive is not an easy task.”
“Not so difficult as all that,” the doctor demurred. “My benefactor has already made arrangements to supply me with as many live bodies as I require.”
“Ha!” the Russian gave a bark of a laugh. “Your benefactor must have a long list of people he doesn’t like!”
“Quite true, since practically everyone offends him in some way, including me.” Aboud peered sourly into his now-empty glass.
“Who are you working for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“A lunatic.” The doctor rolled his eyes. “The leader of a group of religious fanatics.”
“Ah!” Vlad exclaimed in disgust. “It’s always the religious nuts who want to start trouble. Of course, I shouldn’t complain. They’re good for business. This leader of yours, is he Taliban? Al-Qaeda? ISIS?”
“Worse. He’s a fundamentalist Christian. I’m developing a lethal strain of airborne plague for him, and I have no idea who his intended target is.”
“Like all religious crackpots, it’s somebody who doesn’t believe exactly what he does.” Vlad consumed a few slices of dill pickle before downing the rest of his vodka. He motioned for the waitress to bring him another.
Aboud also beckoned for a refill before continuing. “The real problem with religious types is that they have no capacity for strategic thinking. Their vendettas against a particular enemy blind them to the big picture. The global potential of this product I’m developing has clearly eluded my benefactor.”
The waitress set down their drinks and discretely retreated out of earshot.
“And that’s where I come in?” Vlad asked, reaching for another pickle.
“Precisely. You understand that nations, not demented individuals, should wield the power of this weapon.”
The Russian gave a sardonic smile. “I also understand which nations would be most eager to obtain such a valuable item.”
“And which among them would be willing to pay the highest price to get it,” Aboud completed the thought. “What I have to offer is really a bargain to the purchaser. No need to bear the cost of research and development. My benefactor has already assumed that burden. At some point in the not-too-distant future, I will be able to deliver a fully-tested biological weapon.”
“In that case, I would be happy to broker this transaction for you.”
“For a significant fee, I assume?” Aboud asked pointedly.
“Of course,” Vlad agreed. “We all must make a little something.” He chuckled and raised his glass. “To a successful transaction.”
“To a successful transaction,” Aboud echoed as they clinked glasses. “I’ll keep you posted of my progress.”
***
Leroy Hunt sat hunched over the bar in the Peninsula Hotel trying to keep one ear turned in the direction of the conversation occurring by the fireplace. He was too far away to hear any of the details but judging by the clinking glasses he guessed that the two fellers had just struck some kind of deal.
His eyes slid around the room. He didn’t like this place. It was too high brow for his taste. He favored drinking establishments that spread sawdust on the floor. He also objected to being pulled away from tracking down little Miss Hannah to go traipsing after somebody else old Abe wanted to keep tabs on. Leroy thought peevishly back to the chain of events that had brought him to this bar stool.
Oddly enough, it had all started on another bar stool, right after he and the preacher’s boy Daniel had gotten back from their trip to Africa. They’d just retrieved another one of Abe’s doodads, and Leroy had felt like blowing off a little steam at his neighborhood tavern. Considering the drubbing he’d taken at the tiny hands of Miss Cassie and the way the antique lady had given him the slip, he was looking for a little payback from somebody. It turned out Leroy ran into several other somebodies who were spoiling for a tussle even worse than he was. The result was a sprained wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and two cracked ribs. Once he was released from the Emergency Room, Leroy thought it wise to hole up in his apartment to nurse his injuries as well as his grievances against the world in general.
His recuperation was plagued by daily phone calls from Metcalf demanding to know how soon he’d be back on his feet. That initial question was usually followed by a lengthy sermon about the evils of drink. The old man was steamed mainly because Leroy’s injuries delayed the search for his little
