feeling. An odd linguistic nuance, she told herself, learned in medical school, probably, maybe to establish solidarity with the patient which hardly existed in this case. One of her first summer jobs in college had been working at a dog pound. The animals had been given seven days. and if nobody claimed them, they were euthanized - murdered, as she thought of it, mainly with heavy doses of phenobarbital. The injection always went into the left foreleg. she remembered, and the dogs just went to sleep in five seconds or so. She'd always cried afterward-it had always been done on Tuesday, right before lunch, she recalled, and she'd never eaten lunch afterward, sometimes not even supper if she'd been forced to terminate a particularly cute dog. They'd lined them up on stainless-steel treatment tables, and another employee had held them still to make the murders easier. She'd always talk soothingly to the dogs, to lessen their fear and so give them an easier death. Archer bit her lip, feeling rather like Adolf Eichmann must have well, should have, anyway.
'Pretty rotten,' Mary Bannister replied finally.
'Well, this will help,' Archer promised, pulling the syringe out and thumbing off the plastic safety cover from the needle. She took the three steps to the left side of the bed, reached for F4's arm, and held it still, then pushed the needle into the vein inside the elbow. Then she looked into F4's eyes and slid the plunger in.
Mary's eyes went wide. The potassium solution seared the veins as it moved through them. Her right hand flew to the upper left arm, and then, a second later, to her upper chest, as the burning sensation moved rapidly to her heart. The potassium stopped the heart at once. The EKG machine next to the bed had shown fairly normal sinus rhythm, but now the moving line jumped once and went totally flat, setting off the alarm beeper. Somehow Mary's eyes remained open, for the brain has enough oxygen for up to a minute's activity even after the heart stops delivering blood. There was shock there. F4 couldn't speak, couldn't object, because her breathing had stopped along with her heart, but she looked straight into Archer's eyes… rather as the dog had done, the doctor thought, though the dog's eyes had never seemed to accuse her as these two did. Archer returned the look, no emotion at all in her face, unlike her time at the pound. Then, in less than a minute, F4's eyes closed, and then she was dead. One down. Nine more to go, before Dr. Archer could go to her car and drive home. She hoped her VCR had worked properly. She'd wanted to tape the Discovery Channel's show on the wolves in Yellowstone, but figuring the damned machine out sometimes drove her crazy.
Thirty minutes later, the bodies were wrapped in plastic and wheeled to the incinerator. It was a special model designed for medical applications, the destruction of disposable biological material such as fetuses or amputated limbs. Fueled by natural gas, it reached an extremely high temperature, even destroying tooth fillings, and converted all to an ash so fine that prevailing winds lifted it into the stratosphere, and then carried it out to sea. The treatment rooms would be scrubbed down so that there would be no lingering Shiva presence, and for the first time in months the facility would have no virus strands actively looking for hosts to feed upon and kill. The Project members would be pleased by that, Archer thought on her drive home. Shiva was a useful tool for their objective, but sufficiently creepy that they'd all be glad when it was gone.
Popov managed five hours of sleep on the trip across and was awakened when the flight attendant shook his shoulder twenty minutes out of Shannon. The former seaplane facility where Pan American's Boeing-made clippers had landed before flying on to Southampton-and where the airline had invented Irish coffee to help the passengers wake up was on the West Coast of Ireland, surrounded by farms and green wetlands that seemed to glisten in the light of dawn. Popov washed up in the lavatory, and retook his seat for the arrival. The touchdown was smooth, and the roll-out brief as the aircraft approached the general aviation terminal, where a few other business jets sat, similar to the G-V that Horizon Corporation had chartered for him. Barely had it stopped when a dingy official car approached the aircraft, and a man in uniform got out to jump up the stairs. The pilot waved the man to the back.
'Welcome to Shannon, sir,' the immigration official said. 'May I see your passport, please?'
'Here.' Popov handed it across.
The bureaucrat thumbed through it. 'Ah, you've been here recently. The purpose of your trip, sir?'
'Business. Pharmaceuticals,' the Russian added, in case the immigration official wanted to open his bags.
'Mm-hmm,' the man responded, without a shred of interest. He stamped the passport and handed it back. 'Anything to declare?'
'Not really.'
'Very well. Have a pleasant time, sir.' The smile was as mechanical as his movement forward, then he left to go down the steps to his car.
Popov didn't so much sigh in relief as grumble at his tension, which had clearly been wasted. Who would charter such an aircraft for $100,000 to smuggle drugs, after all? Something else to learn about capitalism, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich told himself. If you had enough money to travel like a prince, then you couldn't be outside the law. Amazing, he thought. He put on his overcoat and walked out of the aircraft, where a black Jaguar was waiting, his bags already loaded into the boot. 'Mr. Serov?' the driver asked, holding the door open. There was enough noise out here that he didn't have to worry about being overheard.
'That's right. Off to see Sean?'
'Yes, sir.'
Popov nodded and got into the back. A minute later. they were heading off the airport grounds. The country roads were like those in England, narrower than those in America - and he was still driving on the wrong side of the road. How strange, Popov thought. If the Irish didn't like the English, then why did they emulate their driving patterns?
The ride took half an hour, and ended in a farmhouse well off the main roads. Two cars were there and a van, with one man standing outside to keep watch. Popov recognized him. It was Roddy Sands, the cautious one of this unit.
Dmitriy got out and looked at him, without shaking hands. He took the black drug-filled suitcase from the boot and walked in.
'Good morning, losef,' Grady said in greeting. 'How was your flight?'
'Comfortable.' Popov handed the bag over. 'This is what you requested, Sean.' The tone of voice was clear in its meaning. Grady looked his guest in the eye, a little embarrassment on his face. 'I don't like it, either, but one must have money to support operations, and this is a means of getting it.' The ten pounds of cocaine had a variable value. It had cost Horizon Corporation a mere $25,000, having bought it on the market that was open to drug companies. Diluted, on the street, it would be worth five hundred times that. Such was another aspect of capitalism, Popov thought, dismissing it now that the transfer had been made. Then he handed over a slip of paper.
'That is the account number and activation code for the secure account in Switzerland. You can only make withdrawals on Monday and Wednesday as an added security measure. The account has in it six million dollars of United States currency. The amount in the account can be checked at any time,' Popov told him.
'A pleasure to do business with you, as always, Joe,' Sean said, allowing himself a rare smile. He'd never had so much as a tenth of that much money under his control, for all his twenty plus years as a professional revolutionary. Well, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, they weren't businessmen, were they?
'When will you move?'
'Very soon. We've checked out the objective, and our plan is a thing of beauty, my friend. We will sting them, Iosef Andreyevich,' Grady promised. 'We will hurt them badly.'
'I will need to know when, exactly. There are things I must do as well,' Popov told him.
That stopped him, Dmitriy saw. The issue here was operational security. An outsider wanted to know things that only insiders should have knowledge of. Two sets of eyes stared at each other for a few seconds. But the Irishman relented. Once he verified that the money was in place, then his trust in the Russian was confirmed-and delivery of the ten pounds of white powder was proof of the fact in and of itself-assuming that he wasn't arrested by the Garda later this day. But Popov wasn't that sort, was he?
'The day after tomorrow. The operation will commence at one in the afternoon, exactly.'
'So soon?'
Grady was pleased that the Russian had underestimated him. 'Why delay? We have everything we need, now that the money is in place.'
'As you say, Sean. Do you require anything else of me?'
'No.'
