Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“I’m sorry, sir,” Whalid said. “I don’t know if you are aware that I ran a mill in my own country before the overthrow. I’d be very interested—”

Hickman cut him off rudely. His mind was racing. “Send me a résumé, Whalid,” he said, “and I’ll see it goes to the proper person.”

“I understand, sir,” Whalid said meekly.

Hickman hung up the telephone without as much as a good-bye.

PIETER VANDERWALD ANSWERED his cellular telephone as he was driving down the road just outside of Palm Springs, California.

“It’s me,” the voice said.

“This is not a secure line,” Vanderwald said, “so speak in generalities and let’s keep the call to less than three minutes.”

“The substance we spoke about,” the man said, “can it be applied in an aerosol form?”

“That’s one way it could be used. It would then transfer by air or get distributed along a human chain by touch or coughing.”

“Would the substance then transfer from person to person if it was on their clothing?”

Vanderwald stared at the digital clock on the radio of his rental car. Half the allotted time was gone. “Yes, it would transfer from clothing and skin, even through the air.”

“How long would it take for someone to die from exposure?”

The digital clock on the dash flipped over a number. “Within a week—maybe less. I’ll be at my land line tonight if you want to talk more.”

The line went dead and the man sat back in his chair. Then he smiled.

“JUST OVER TWO million seems a steep price, considering last year’s revenue,” the lawyer said over the telephone. “Once they fill the contracts they have, their books are a little bare going ahead.”

“Just do the deal,” Hickman said quietly. “I’ll write off any losses against the gains on my Docklands property.”

“You’re the boss,” the lawyer said.

“You got that right.”

“Where do you want the funds to come from?”

Hickman scrolled through a screen on his computer. “Use the Paris account,” he said, “but I want to close the transaction tomorrow and take possession of the company within seventy-two hours at the latest.”

“You think there’ll be a shortage of British mills for sale in the next couple of days?” the lawyer said. “Or do you know something I don’t?”

“I know a lot you don’t,” Hickman said, “but if you keep talking you’ll only have seventy-one hours to put this together. You just do what you’re paid to do—I’ll take care of planning.”

“I’m on it, sir,” the lawyer said before disconnecting.

Sitting back in his chair, Hickman relaxed for a moment. Then he picked up a magnifying glass on his desk and stared at the aerial photograph in front of him. Placing the magnifying glass down, he examined a map. Lastly he opened a file folder and flipped through the photographs inside.

The photographs were of victims of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bombings at the end of World War II. And although the photographs were graphic and disturbing, the man smiled. Vengeance is mine, he thought.

THAT EVENING HE called Vanderwald on his land line.

“I found something better,” Vanderwald said. “It’s an airborne plague that affects the lungs. Very toxic, it should kill eighty percent of the population of the country.”

“How much?” Hickman asked.

“The amount you need will be six hundred thousand dollars.”

“Have it delivered,” Hickman said, “along with as much C-6 as you can find.”