“It’s all in there,” he said.
Lubarsky opened it and looked through the stacks of bills inside, a smile widening on his face.
“You are a man of your word, Cobra.”
Morgan wasn’t interested in compliments. “Novokoff?”
“It is set up for today, like we discussed.”
“Where?”
Lubarsky snorted. “He will not say until we are on the road. He is a paranoid bastard.”
“I’m guessing he learned it the hard way,” said Morgan. “Twenty years in the KGB will do that to a man. You don’t get to be his age in this business without a healthy paranoia.”
“And your side of the bargain?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. All loaded up in a freezer truck and ready to go wherever he is,” said Morgan.
Lubarsky grinned his hideous yellow grin. “I tell you, Cobra, you are in the wrong business. This high-tech junk—biological weapons and nerve gas and smart bombs—they are crap business. All the special transportation, the lack of supply. And it’s all middlemen, middlemen, middlemen. Never a direct sale. The percentage is shit. The good business is in selling Kalashnikovs and grenades to African warlords. Get paid in diamonds, and no fucking middlemen.”
“But you’re still gracing us with your presence today, Lubarsky?” said Morgan.
Lubarsky laughed. “I am making an introduction. Whole other animal. Little exposure, cash up front. Plus,” he added, “for Novokoff, I do this.”
“How sweet of you.”
“It is good for business. Not to mention, I’m scared shitless of the bastard.” He seemed serious all of a sudden. “You do not mess this up, you hear me, Cobra?”
“You’re telling me? Screw you, Lubarsky. Are you even planning on putting on some goddamn clothes?”
Lubarsky laughed. “You know, I like you, Cobra. I believe this is—how do you say?—the start of a wonderful friendship.”
Morgan looked at him disdainfully and hoped powerfully that he might have the opportunity to kill this man before this was over.
CHAPTER 4
Budapest, December 27
Dr. Eugenia Barrett, Zeta Division’s own engineering wiz, opened the metal crate slowly and deliberately, and a thin mist poured out from inside, like a liquid overflowing over the lip of a glass. Morgan crouched for a better look and ran his hand along the flowing mist. It felt cold to the touch. The crate itself was a reinforced metal cube that stood about waist high, sitting strapped into the back of a small refrigerated truck. Morgan looked inside, and the mist slowly dispersed to reveal four rows of metal cylinders.
“This is the real thing,” said Barrett. “A tiny whiff of this stuff will kill a grown man in forty seconds. Same if you get any on your skin. Violent convulsions, projectile vomiting.” She was speaking in a tone that was a disconcerting mixture of pride and fascination. “The good news is you probably wouldn’t be conscious for most of it.”
“Yeah, I got the CliffsNotes stateside,” said Morgan, shuddering. He looked down at the sixteen canisters, the mist from the refrigeration still playing around them. He had lost count of how many times he had been close to death in his life, but few dangers even came close to the chilling prospect of being killed by nerve gas.
“I’d say that, in this case, you could use the refresher.” She gestured toward the canisters, each of which was about as tall as a fire extinguisher, though about half as thick. They were made of polished metal, rendered cloudy by a thin layer of frozen condensation. “To remove a canister,” she said, as she put on heavy temperature-resistant gloves, “you twist, then pull.” With gloved hands, she gripped one corner canister, turned it a hundred and eighty degrees, and pulled. “Why don’t you put on your gloves and hold this, so you can see what it feels like?”
He put on the gloves she had given him, and then took it with nervous but steady hands. He could feel the cold of the metal even through the gloves, and wondered what it would feel like to touch it with bare hands. “It’s surprisingly light,” he said.
“Titanium,” she said. “We’re not taking any chances.”
He examined the canister. There was a green light on the top surface, which indicated the integrity of the container. The sides were mostly featureless, except for the locking mechanism toward the bottom, and one round hole about three quarters of the way up with a mechanism for attaching a hose.
“Put it back so you can see how it’s done,” said Barrett.
He inserted the canister in the slot as gently as possible, and then turned it until he heard a satisfying mechanical click. He then helped Barrett put the lid back on the crate.