Fatal Prescription

by Don Pendleton

  “Look,” Stevenson said, “if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.”

  “Omelets?” Debussey queried, his eyes red. “All those people dead and you’re talking about omelets?”

  The man’s reply sent a surge of anger through Stevenson. How dare this little worm be so impudent? He felt like slapping him, but instead took a breath to calm himself, making a mental note to deal with the man later. For now, he was still very much needed.

  “Let’s say for the greater good, then,” Stevenson said.

  Debussey nodded, replaced his glasses, his fingers curling around his nose again. “When we were at the airport,” he said, his voice wavering, “I heard some reporters talking about a village being burned to the ground in Africa after a suspected Ebola outbreak. I wanted to talk to them. Perhaps, if I had, I could have explained and those people wouldn’t have been killed.”

  Stevenson’s eyes darted to Quarry, who sat impassively. He had followed orders and seen to Debussey’s removal prior to the “cleansing operation.”

  “Does that surprise you?” Stevenson asked. “You know how they are over there. We went to Africa in the first place because that was the only place we could adequately find conditions suitable for a rapid, covert test on human subjects.”

  Debussey’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

  Stevenson capitalized on the man’s stutter. “Besides, superstition runs rampant with those Third World types. You can’t blame yourself for the actions of some villagers who got scared because someone thought they recognized Ebola. We need to be ready in case our enemies used the Keller Virus here, in this country. As I said, look at the greater good.”

  Debussey didn’t look up. Stevenson knew he had to steer the professor away from the truth. “The hysteria was obviously exacerbated by that stupid aide getting infected. That’s where the notoriety came from. How the hell did that happen?”

  Debussey sat there, still unable to speak.

  His weakness disgusted Stevenson. He turned to Quarry. “Well?”

  “We had no prior notification that they were in the area giving inoculations, sir.”

  Stevenson turned back to Debussey. “I want all your findings documented and turned over to me in an ‘eyes only’ report. Understand?”

  The professor nodded then looked up at the taller man. “I will have everything to you as soon as possible,” he said. “But I would like to go to the hospital first to administer the antiviral to the aide. We were unable to administer anything to him in Africa.”

  “Administer an experimental drug that hasn’t yet been approved by the FDA,” Stevenson said with a bit of sarcasm.

  “It’s been done before, upon occasion,” Debussey noted. “I’m sure if I explained—”

  “Explain what?” Stevenson said, his voice booming. “That we were in Africa running some unlawful human testing experiment?”

  “But to do nothing...” Debussey’s voice trailed off.

  Nelson made a fractional nod toward the geneticist.

  A crooked grin twisted one side of Stevenson’s face. “All right. Perhaps, as you say, we should make the offer to the aide. And it would be a prelude to making the public aware that Stevenson Dynamics is working on an antiviral drug.”

  Debussey, still sniveling, nodded. The man was brilliant but essentially the weak link who had almost outlived his usefulness. Still, at this point, it wouldn’t hurt to placate him until his work was completed, though they couldn’t afford to allow Debussey to get into an environment where he might talk too much. Saying the wrong thing could bring disaster to the entire operation.

  Stevenson allowed his face to soften into a smile as he stepped forward and placed his hand on the professor’s shoulder. Touching the man repulsed him. He hated almost all kinds of human contact with members of his own gender.

  “Now, now, Arnold,” Stevenson said. “Don’t worry. Actually, I’ve already had the guy moved to one of our hospitals, and I’m personally taking care of all his medical expenses. In fact, I’m sending a man to look in on him shortly. If you want to prepare some of the antidotal drug to offer the hospital staff, I’ll have Quarry run you over there—” Stevenson glanced at Nelson, whose face tightened into a smile as he gave a slight nod “—later this afternoon.”

  Debussey looked up. “Could I?”

  “Certainly,” Stevenson said, giving Debussey’s shoulder a slight squeeze before removing his hand. “By all means. I agree. It’s the right thing to do.”

  He winked at Nelson and Quarry.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  BOLAN AND GRIMALDI walked into the War Room to find Hal Brognola seated at the head of the conference table. “Thanks for joining me so fast. I figured you’d want to be in on this latest development.” He picked up a remote and the image of a twenty-four-hour cable news program appeared on wall monitor at the far end of the room. There was no sound, but Bolan discerned that they were talking about some kind of incident in Africa. It looked to be on the western coast. Letters scrolling across the bottom of the screen advised of a possible Ebola outbreak. A U.S. aide with Doctors Without Borders had been infected and transported to the States from Luanda, the capital of Angola.

  “Don’t worry,” Brognola said. “That wasn’t anywhere near where you guys were during your last mission.”

  “Geez, Louise,” Grimaldi said. “I sure as hell hope not. We’re used to dodging bullets, but how the hell do you dodge a microbe?” He glared at the screen. “Aw, hell. Don’t tell me they’re bringing another one of those infected health care workers back here.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be placed in quarantine,” Brognola said. “But that’s not why I called you.” He pressed the remote again and the screen image changed to a picture of the Chevalier Institute, with the heading underneath saying Luxembourg, Belgium.

  Brognola froze the image. “I take it this looks a tad bit more familiar?”

  Bolan nodded. “The Belgium police were doing a pretty thorough job. Plus, it seemed to be more likely the work of a criminal rather than a terrorist group.”

  “Despite somebody writing Allah akhbar on the wall in blood,” Grimaldi added. He tapped Bolan’s shoulder. “I thought the lead investigator agreed with us on that?”

  “Inspector Albert Dorao of the federal police?” Brognola interjected.

  “That’s right,” Bolan said, his interest suddenly piqued. “Why?”

  “You gave him one of your cards with your special Justice Department sat number?” Brognola asked with a lopsided smile.

  “I did.” Bolan knew that although the information on the card said U.S. Department of Justice, the number was routed to a special phone bank here at Stony Man Farm. “I take it he tried to call me?”

  Brognola made a show of looking at his watch. “He did. I explained you were tied up and that you’d call him back right about now.” He leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone. “Hey, Bear, you got that satellite call to Brussels?”

  Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman was the head of Stony Man’s cybernetics team, and the go-to person for any type of satellite linkup. “It’s on hold. Coming to you.”

  Brognola pushed his chair out of camera range and then held the remote toward the big screen.

  The image of Albert Dorao’s face filled the monitor. The area behind the Belgian showed a dark wall. After exchanging greetings, Dorao raised an eyebrow. “It is good to see you again, my friend. But I must admit to being a bit confused.”

  “Oh?” Bolan said.

  “Oui. After you left, perhaps four or five hours, I was approached by two American gentlemen from the FBI inquiring about the massacre at the Chevalier Institute. They expressed much surprise that the Department of Justice had been to the scene already. Is this not a bit strange?”

 
“Not at all,” Grimaldi said. “Like we told you, we were in the neighborhood, and half the time the Bureau’s so busy patting themselves on the back that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing.”

  Dorao laughed. His face looked weary.

  “Have you got some new developments?” Bolan asked.

  The inspector nodded. “One that is especially important. I must tell you. For safeguarding your great country.”

  Bolan and Brognola exchanged glances.

  “How so?” the Executioner asked.

  Dorao took a deep breath before he started talking. He looked exhausted.

  “As we suspected,” he said, “ballistic examinations of the weapons we discovered at the secondary crime scene confirmed they were responsible for all of the killings. And the dead men at the second scene all had extensive criminal histories. The Arabic writing at the institute was apparently a ruse to throw suspicion on radical Muslims.”

  Dorao paused, put on a pair of reading glasses and then skimmed a sheet of paper. He removed the glasses and looked back at the camera. “We recovered numerous identifiable fingerprints on the rifles we found at the secondary scene, but no prints on the Heckler & Koch pistol. We even stripped the weapon to examine the internal parts.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “It would appear that the pistol shooter collected the rifles from his confederates prior to killing them,” Bolan said.

  “Exactly,” Dorao agreed. “I sent a message through Interpol asking for information on the dead criminals and if anyone had any recent murders with a 9 mm Heckler & Koch. I received a reply back, and ballistic tests matched a murder in Rome two days ago, or one day before the Chevalier massacre. One Henri Lupin.” Dorao paused again, his eyes narrowing. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said.

  “He was—how do you say?—the preeminent forger for the European underworld. Half French, half Italian, he was a modern-day Da Vinci when it came to forging papers. His specialty was passports.”

  “And you think he was killed by the same person who committed the murders in your country?” Bolan asked.

  “I am certain of it.” Dorao’s lower lip drew into a determined line. “His office area was destroyed by a fire, along with any records he may have had.” Dorao shrugged. “It is possible that he did not keep many—a man in his line of work.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “However,” Dorao said, “one point of interest...his computer was also destroyed and looked to have had the hard drive removed in a manner similar to the Chevalier Institute.” The inspector paused and flashed a weary smile. “Not such a coincidence now, is it?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Bolan said.

  Dorao sighed, shook his head. “Forgive me, mon ami. I have a tendency to ramble when I am so tired. But the reason I called was to inform you, to warn you. We were able to recover the smartphone of Henri Lupin. Notes for his appointments, we were able to recover, as well. One of them, the last one, mentions a passport he was to prepare for an assassin we call the Talon.”

  Bolan nodded. He’d heard the name someplace. “Sounds familiar.”

  “He is well-known here in Europe,” Dorao confirmed. “Many, many killings, and never has anyone ever seen him, or even described him. His face is totally unknown.”

  An uneasy feeling was beginning to creep up Bolan’s spine. “Why do I get the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop, Inspector?”

  Dorao’s expression seemed to lighten for an instant. “The other shoe? I must remember this delightful American saying.” He chuckled and then turned serious again. “It is our conjecture that the Talon is not only responsible for the murders here in Brussels and Rome, but we believe he is also now heading for your country.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances.

  “You see,” Dorao continued, “the information notes on his smartphone indicated that Lupin was to prepare for the Talon an American passport.” He paused again and shrugged sadly. “Unfortunately, that is all the information we have at this time.”

  “That’s certainly a start,” Bolan said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “My pleasure,” Dorao said. “But use extreme caution. And beware of the Talon. He is very, very dangerous.” He said goodbye and the screen faded to black.

  Bolan looked at Brognola, who was now leaning forward on the table and massaging his jaw. “Sounds like we’ve got a storm coming,” he said. “And the bad part is, we don’t have the slightest notion of when, where or why.”

  Winthrope Harbor Hospital

  Prince George County, Maryland

  THE TALON MOVED with extreme caution up the sidewalk of the immense, pristine-looking hospital. The building was like a massive white-brick box. Six stories behind a glass atrium entrance. The Talon had taken public transportation to the downtown area. He’d then caught a taxi and the driver, a talkative Pakistani, explained that this wasn’t really the downtown metro area.

  “If you want to see the real metro area,” the driver said, “you need to go to the Capitol. I can take you there if you wish, miss.”

  The Talon declined, appreciative that his current disguise as the fetching femme fatale who had allayed suspicions at the Chevalier Institute worked just as well here in the U.S. Although the blond wig and the facial makeup were the same, this time the Talon had opted for a more all-American-girl look: a gray-and-pink pantsuit, white running shoes and a nondescript black backpack, which contained the rest of the equipment necessary for this mission.

  Several males ogled the Talon as he traversed the pebbled walkway toward the main entrance. In deference to the possibility of any lobby camera surveillance, he kept on his large, oval sunglasses as he entered the doors, holding up his left hand as if to stifle a cough.

  A dispensing unit next to the entrance advertised the availability of Free Facial Masks, in case any visitors felt afflicted with respiratory distress or infection. The Talon reached out and plucked one of the masks from the container. His fingers nimbly tore open the plastic bag and he affixed the mask over his mouth as he walked past the throngs of people milling around. A uniformed security guard seemed to be watching everybody and nobody. Two women seated behind an oval-shaped desk checked computer monitors and dispensed information and fake smiles to people inquiring about patients.

  The Talon needed to make no such inquiries. He knew his party’s room number. All he had to do was penetrate whatever security curtain they had in place. He stopped by the elevators, four of them side by side, the cloth mask still covering his features.

  The more precautions, the better, he thought as he pressed the call button.

  The lighted panel above the elevator lit up and the doors opened. Two people, engaged in conversation, got out and the Talon entered, quickly pressing the button for the fourth floor.

  His quarry was on five. Room 502 to be exact.

  But he would need a bit of preparation before he was ready to execute the mission.

  The man who skipped reconnoitering was a fool, his sergeant used to say. The Talon briefly recalled his days as a French Legionnaire. They had taught the once-bullied, slender schoolboy a lot... Military tactics, weapons, martial arts skills and, most importantly, how to kill. The value of life was different from the perspective of a soldier, a Legionnaire, who was far from home in some godforsaken place, fighting for an insufficient salary and the glory of France. No French citizen complained very much about the death of a Legionnaire, and no Legionnaire complained about anything.

  He’d learned that life was cheap. When his hitch was up, he’d emerged as Augustine François, a totally new identity from his real self, and embarked on a career as the Talon. From that point on, the killing became more of an art form; something to be done to support his sometimes extravagant lifestyle. A lifestyl
e filled with beautiful women, handsome men and whatever luxury suited his fancy.

  The doors opened and he stepped out onto the tiled floor in front of the bank of elevators. Glancing both ways, the Talon saw hallways on both sides, leading to nurses’ stations and patient rooms. He looked back at the legend showing the directions of the rooms by number. He turned left toward room 402. The rooms were on either side of the hallway, with a brightly lighted exit sign fastened perpendicular to the wall at the end of the corridor. That would be the stairway. The Talon started counting his steps as he passed room 402, and kept walking to the exit sign. After thirty-nine more steps he was there. He reached down and twisted the knob to the stairwell.

  It opened noiselessly.

  The Talon reached around and tested the knob on the inside of the door. This one twisted easily, as well.

  After satisfying himself that accessibility was possible from inside the stairwell area, he let the door slip closed. That’s when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Are you looking for something?” a man said.

  The Talon turned and demurely looked over the top edge of the mask. The man wore a blue security guard uniform, replete with a badge, a black leather pistol belt, a radio, but no weapons of any kind. The guard was tall, but a roll of fat hung over the top of the belt. Two rows of ribbons were aligned over his right shirt pocket and his name tag read O’Keefe.

  “Oh, you startled me,” the Talon said, allowing the little whiskey tenor lilt to affect his voice. “I was trying to find the restroom. Is there one around here?”

  “It’s right down there,” the guard said, pointing back in the direction of room 402. “Right by the elevators. You’ll see the sign.”

  The Talon glanced down the hallway and lolled his head back, allowing a hint of mirth to merge with the whiskey tenor. “How could I have missed it?”

  The guard nodded and stood there, watching while the Talon moved back down the hallway.

  Another perpendicular sign jutted from the wall and the Talon noticed it had crude stick-figure pictures of a man and a woman. He took that to mean the restroom was unisex. Another plus for his plan. If necessary, he could enter as a woman and leave as a man. He removed the mask and smiled at the guard as he entered the room. Once inside he locked the door and surveyed the ceiling. Dropped ceiling tiles... Perfect.