Hand of the Assassin

6000 Words

         "We will not allow the United States or any other foreign power to use our country as a diving board," the translator repeated. "If you wish to enter our region it will be through another country. Not Somalia. I will not answer any further questions concerning this matter. It is closed. We do not wish for any trouble with the United States. Please honor our wishes."

         The King who was speaking in his native tongue glanced at his translator,  Matsu, and sat down.  Matsu looked around the room and slowly did the same.

         Voices rose from the group gathered in the room located in the west wing of the White House. The behind door negotiations had been going on for several days and seemed to be at a stalemate. Four Congressmen, three Senators, the Secretary of Foreign Affairs and several other high-ranking government officials had been in attendance. The newly crowned king of Somalia had an entourage of nine.

         "Your Majesty," the Congressman from Ohio spoke. "The United States has done so much for your country. We are asking little in return."

         The king snapped his fingers and stood. All those with him rose and as one, moved toward the door. King Yusuf waited at the table. He leaned menacingly toward the congressman.

         Looking into his eyes he spoke in perfect English, "I am not a fool and neither are my countrymen, Mr. Morgan. Never make that mistake.” He slammed his fist down on the table. “Your country has done little more than make a boar’s bone out of my homeland, something to be fought over by dogs. You, Mr. Morgan, are one of those dogs. In my country, when a dog becomes a problem, we slice its throat.” He made a slow, deliberate motion with his hand from his left ear, moving slowly across his throat and up to his right ear. “American dogs have become a problem, Mr. Morgan. Do not forget that. I have done far worse to my enemies.”
         
         He turned quickly and walked to the door. Some of the bodyguards exited before him while others followed. When the last of the entourage slammed the door the room full of Washington’s movers and shakers, congressmen, senators and others, sat in stunned silence. A slow buzz then began to build from the silence.

         Near the back of the room, away from the table, two men sat, both dressed in conservative, black suits; both focused on what had taken place.

         One of the men, tall and thin, leaned over and whispered to the other, "We can't let this happen, Steve."

"And what are we supposed to do about it, Congressman Ketchum?"

         "Isn't that your problem? You’re the head of the CIA," he shook his head in disgust and picked at a bandage on his hand. "Show some creativity here. We've got a king that we helped put in place. Now he suddenly grows a set," he stood. "Can't we work the same magic and put somebody else in there? Hell, why don't we put our own people in these godforsaken countries? Then we wouldn't have these problems."

         Steve, shorter than the congressman but built like a linebacker, jumped to his feet, "What you call magic takes years to bring to fruition, Congressman," Steve spoke in a strained whisper. "A snap of the fingers doesn't put a man in power. People lost their lives to put this man where he is." Steve pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped beads of sweat from his brow, "We need to give this some time. Just a few short months ago Somalia had a transitional government. A government the clans threatened to pull apart. Yusuf was our man until we wanted to put a naval base on his front porch. Change takes time."

         "Time is what we don't have," the congressman said, ripping the bandage from his hand and dropping it on a nearby tray. Somalia is positioned at the mouth of the Red Sea. From there we could monitor the growing problems in Yeman and Oman. Hell, we would be a stones throw from the Persian Gulf.” Congressman Ketchum slowly stood, “This is a matter of national security. I don’t need to remind you of the purpose of the CIA, do I?”

         “No, Sir,” Steve spit out.

         “Then get it done yesterday. Understood? One more thing,” the Congressman continued, “Don’t ever talk to me that way again. You’ve half made a scene in front of some of the most influential people in Washington. Your job is to fade into the background.”

         Abruptly Congressman Ketchum turned and called for the Senator from Florida, “Bob, hold on a minute.” Ketchum walked away without looking back.
         Steve Ford leaned against the cool marble of the wall. He had no allusions that being the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be easy but there were times it bordered on ridiculous. He looked around the richly appointed room. Polished, oak furniture, chandeliers, the movers and shakers of Washington, everything he wanted out of life and he wasn't happy. If he wanted to play politics he would have run for office. I'll tell Ketchum the next time he threatens me. Steve smiled at this thought. I think the American people are ready for a forty-three year old President who knows all the secrets. Wouldn’t that chafe his ass. Congressman Henry "Hank" Ketchum, Chairman of the Congressional Appropriations Committee, arguably the most powerful committee in Washington. The Appropriations Committee controls over $600 billion in discretionary funding. This fact alone ranked Henry Ketchum as one of the most powerful men in Washington. When someone with that much clout continues to breathe down your shirt collar it was sometimes hard to think about anything else.

         Steve knew one thing for sure. He was not going to eliminate a king on a whim, a king that took years and lives to put into place. It would take much more than the threats of a power hungry, egotistical, bastard. Even though this king could go down in history as the most bloodthirsty villain of all times he would need a better reason than Ketchum’s threats. Yusuf dealt swiftly and violently when it came to his enemies. Steve shivered remembering the pictures of those that had been skinned and cut into small pieces while still alive. Politics ran fast and hard with Ketchum leading the pack. He hoped that soon Ketchum would become involved in some other crusade and move this to a lower shelf. He dropped the tissue on the tray but then, deciding against it, took it and the bandage left by Ketchum placing them in his pocket. You could never be too careful in some circles. He convinced himself that everything would eventually calm down.

         Moving toward the door Steve saw the ashtray where King Yusuf was seated. In it the remains of two cigars he had smoked during the meeting. Casually he dropped a napkin over the items, picked them up and placed them in his pocket. Steve knew DNA samples from foreign dignitaries could always prove useful.

         By the time he said his good-byes he was in a much better mood. Steve checked the messages on his cell phone and with nothing pressing, decided to call it a day. It would be nice to get home early to his wife and kids.

                                                  ~
         Steve was sitting at the desk on the lower deck of his boat. His wife and kids were playing in the sand on the beach. Blue skies, blue-green water and a cool breeze blowing through his hair, a beer would make the scene perfect. His wife and kids waved from the beach. Suddenly the island seemed to drift away from the boat. The distance to the beach grew further and further. He was drifting away. Steve stood and ran to the back of the boat. He drifted on, away from his family. Suddenly he heard a ringing sound. He turned to see a phone on the desk. The ringing grew louder and louder. Out of nowhere a hand gripped his arm.

         "Are you going to answer that?" his wife asked.

         Steve opened his eyes to find he had been dreaming. He turned toward the nightstand. The alarm clock glowed in the darkness, 4:34 a.m. He picked up the phone.

         "Hello," he said.

         "Do you have a plan in place to solve our problem?"

         "What?" Steve asked. "Who is this?"
         "Listen, Cowboy," the voice was gruff, no nonsense. "This problem isn't going away. You either fix it or face the consequences. By the way, how are the wife and kids doing?" Following the question there was silence then dial tone.

         Steve jumped from the bed and ran to his sons' room. He found them fast asleep. Leaning against the doorframe the sound of his beating heart filled his ears. There was no doubt in his mind that Ketchum was responsible for that call. Anyone brazen enough to call a line they knew was always monitored was a very dangerous man.

                                                    ~

         Across town at the CIA Headquarters building two men sat in front of a bank of monitors. They were wearing headsets connected to the communications system.

         "Did you get a trace on that?" the first man asked, rubbing a hand through his closely trimmed beard.

         "Yeah, I have Hammer One on the way. The call was from a cell phone. Hammer One,” the agent spoke into the transmitter. “The phone is still stationary in the northeast corner of Lincoln Park."

         "Roger," Hammer One answered.
         
         “Phil, have you met the new Director?” Dave asked the bearded agent.

         “No. I’ve heard he’s pretty much a regular guy.”

         “I doubt that,” Dave said. “They never are.”

         “Here’s your chance to find out,” Phil said with a slight smile on his face. "Director Ford's calling on secure protocol line 549.”

         Dave adjusted his glasses and straightened his tie as if he were going to be on a video feed. “Thanks, Phil,” he said to the other agent. Then, addressing the Director, "Director Ford, this is Agent Berrel. Is your house secure?"

         "Fox Four Niner Two Five the nest is safe," Steve answered giving the all-clear code. If one number or word was wrong this would alert the agent to problems in the house.  "Every thing’s secure."
         
         "Sir, do you have any idea who just called you?" Agent Dave Berrel asked.

         "No, I don't," Steve said, even though he was sure he did.

         "We have agents watching your house, sir. Try to get some sleep before you come in."

         "Not likely but thanks," Steve answered.

         Agent Berrel ended the call and turned his attention to Agent Parks who was directing a “Hammer Team” toward the source of the call. Hammer teams were first response field teams scattered around Washington to be used against threats of terrorism, domestic or international. Even though the CIA was not supposed to have a presence in the States, their thought was what other Agencies don’t know won’t hurt them. At this time there was no way of knowing how to categorize this call to the Director.

         “He sounds like he could be a regular guy,” Agent Berrel said.

         “Even the most unlikely of things can happen,” Phil Parks answered. “Do you think he likes to dress up in his wife’s clothes?”

         “I think you should ask him in tomorrow’s briefing.”

                                                    ~


         "I was afraid of that," Agent Parks said. "Not much chance a guy would call in a threat and then wait for us to pick him up."

         "We'll take the phone to the lab," said the field agent. "Have you traced the owner?"

         "Yeah, Raymond Culpepper on Ottawa Street."
         "Forest Heights?" the agent asked.
         "Right," Parks answered.
         "Gonna be lost or stolen."
         "We've got to find out where, when and how. The address is on your palm top."

                                                      ~

         "What have you got?" Steve asked taking his seat in the briefing room.

         Agent Phil Parks, the shift leader who was on duty and initiated the early morning action answered, "The phone is in the lab as we speak. No surprise, it was wiped clean of all prints. However we did find a thread left behind possibly from the cloth used to wipe it down. The lab is also checking for possible DNA left on the phone by either saliva, skin or hair samples."

         "What are the chances of DNA being left behind after being wiped clean?"

         "The chances are slim but you have to remember that a cell phone is not tightly sealed against the elements. Lab technicians will be looking inside the phone as well as outside. There’s always a chance something was missed."

         "Sir, Field Agent Bill Marshal," another man at the table introduced himself. "We've detained the owner of the cell phone, a Mister Raymond Culpepper from the Forest Heights area. He claims the phone was lost or stolen on a visit to the Washington Monument early yesterday. His story checks out. We're holding him as long as we can. Not sure if there's a connection between the loss at the Monument and the phone being left at Lincoln Park."

         "Also," Agent Parks added, "We have the voice print from the call. The lab is running it against every voice recording we have of known terrorists." He paused, "Is there anything you can add that might help? Anyone you know that would want to hurt you? Anyone that would have . . ." Parks trailed off and hung his head.

         "Ask the question, man," Steve said. "This is an investigation. Do what you're paid to do."

         "Is there anyone who would have had a reason to ask you that question about a project?"

         Steve looked around the table. He knew this was a critical point in his career. This answer could make or break him.

         "No," he answered. "He or they obviously knew my phone was monitored. What other reason could there be for a call at that time of the morning. It stood out like a Baptist at a nudist colony."

         "Sorry, sir. I had to ask."

         "I understand," Steve said, standing. "If that's all I've got places to go, people to see, and not enough hours in the day."

         The others at the table stood and gathered their folders and notes. Steve shook hands with those around the table and walked into the hallway. He knew why that call was made and who made it. It looked like he was playing politics whether he wanted to or not. And it looked like a king was going to be toppled from his throne.

                                                      ~

         Steve’s cell phone rang as he pulled his chair up to his desk. He checked the number, all zeros. Not likely that someone with his number would call and disguise their number.

         “Hello,” Steve said.

         “Steve, my boy. This is your dear friend Senator Ketchum. How are you today?”

         “I’m doing fine and you can cut the crap. This is not being recorded. Unlike that prank you pulled last night.”

         “Ah, Steve. You need to realize that was no prank. Politics is a very serious business and I’m a very serious person.”

         “I told you yesterday that the problem would be handled. You’re really starting to annoy me.”

         “Annoy you,” Ketchum said. “You have no idea how annoying I can be. By the way, I was in your neck of the woods this morning and had a nice visit with your wife. I . . .”

         “You stay away from my home,” Steve shouted into the phone. “Do you understand me?”

         The other end of the phone was silent. Steve thought Ketchum might have hung up. He spoke suddenly and slowly.

         “I thought I made it clear that you are not to speak to me that way. Just keep in mind that I don’t have to hurt anyone physically. I have plenty of connections. I could have you declared dirty within twenty-four hours. Do you understand?

         Steve could tell the Senator was fighting to control his anger. So was he but it wasn’t easy, “I do understand,” Steve said. “Now I hope you understand that I need to do my job and that doesn’t include spending my day justifying my time and actions to you.”

         “You know that call you received from the “lost” cell phone?” Ketchum asked. “I can tie that phone to you with one call. You are wrapped up tight and ready for delivery. So, Steve, unless you want to spend the remainder of your years in a federal penitentiary you better play ball.”

         “I’ve been trying to do that,” Steve said. “Now, can you let me do my job?”

         “By all means. I’ll be in touch.”

         The line went silent followed by the dial tone. Steve was trying to understand how he had been pulled in so deep that his very freedom was now being threatened. Well, Steve thought, that’s better than a threat to my family. I can live with this. He knew Ketchum would not stop there. If he discovered Steve worried more about his family than his own safety and freedom Ketchum would quickly change his strategy. It looks like I’ve found a better reason to dethrone a king, he thought.

                                                    ~

         As Director of the CIA Steve was privy to information others in government were not. He was aware of a program underway in the Research and Development Area that dealt with nanotechnology and several recent breakthroughs. The latest research had all been directed at using the technology as a weapon, something undetectable. This was just what he needed.

         Early the next morning Steve parked outside a small, unassuming warehouse near Baltimore. He was to meet Professor Peter Clark. The front office was the home of a small trucking company. He was directed to enter what appeared to be a closet, which actually turned out to be an elevator that took him down several hundred feet. The doors opened to reveal a stainless steel receiving room with six armed guards. He then had to swipe his ID badge, place the palm of his right hand in the palm reader and was then subjected to a retina scan. Security overkill, he thought. Steve was then permitted to pass through to the next room.

         Inside a man in a white lab coat waited. His head was hairless and reflected the lights of the room, his skin ebony.

         "Professor Clark," Steve said, extending his hand.

         "Director Ford," Professor Clark said, taking his hand, "Please call me Peter."

         "Only if you call me Steve."

         "It's a deal, Steve. How do you like my underground digs so far?"

         "Very interesting. I don't guess you have too many visitors down here," he said, pointing back toward the receiving room.

         "Not many at all. Especially none of your, shall we say, stature in the government. R&D is only as good as the last big development," Peter shrugged. "Well enough about that. Let me show you what you came to see."

         Steve followed him down a stainless steel hallway. The smell of antiseptic was heavy in the air. They came to a small room with benches and lockers mounted on the wall.

         "Steve, you'll need to change into a white jumpsuit and place your clothes in one of the lockers. Make sure you remove all your jewelry. You don’t have any medical stainless steel in your body do you? You know, plate in your head, pin in a broken leg. That sort of thing."

         “No,” Steve answered.

         “Good. Now, everything off, including the underwear.”

         Without hesitation Steve did as he was told. Peter did the same. When they were finished dressing, Steve was led to a door that was about four inches thick. The door was constructed with a crank seal lock. It reminded him of a door on a submarine. Peter motioned for him to follow. He pointed to a window, again at least four inches thick, positioned beside the door.

         "Inside this room we work on nanobots. Are you at all familiar with nanotechnology or nanobots?"

         "Just what I’ve read here and there. I know that nanobots are supposed to be microscopic robots that can be programmed to operate on the atomic level. Moving atoms around, forming compounds, that kind of thing."

         "You just said a mouthful. If we were to the point of forming 'compounds' as you say, we would be at the optimum as far as nanotechnology is concerned. We could program our nanobots to build anything we wanted, from food, to buildings, to terraforming Mars for population expansion.

         We are, however, to the point of programming our little spiders, my pet name for them if you will, to do some amazing things. Unfortunately we are weapons centered here. With that being our focus, most of our developments have been in that area. We have discovered ways to inflict disease. Not only can we give someone a particular disease but we can target it to a individual’s DNA so we can pinpoint a strike."

         "Have you tried anything that's faster than a lingering disease?"

         "How about a heart attack, aneurysm, or stroke?" Peter said, sounding much like a proud parent. "Let me take you into the lab."

         The door opened with a hiss and Steve followed Peter into the airlock. When the door closed Steve could feel air pulling at his jumpsuit like a giant vacuum from the top and bottom. There was no spray or decontamination, just the vacuum. When the vacuum stopped the other door in the airlock opened with a hiss. Air tugged from inside the lab as evidence of negative air pressure. Steve followed Peter to a Scanning Electron Microscope. He heard the door hiss closed behind him.

         “Why was there no decontamination spray?” Steve asked.

         “There is no way to decontaminate a nanobot. We have to be sure that no nanobots enter or leave this facility. The vacuum makes sure of that. Unless, of course, the nanobots had already entered a host, that’s where the electromagnetic field comes into play. You wouldn’t have noticed that unless you were wearing jewelry, had surgical metal implanted or if there were nanobots inside you. Depending on how many or what size the surgical metal was you could have quite a hole ripped in you.”

         “Why didn’t you tell me this before I entered the chamber?’ Steve asked.

         “If you were contaminated you would be either trying to ‘infest’ our lab or compromised. Either way we couldn’t let it happen.”

         Peter looked into the SEM, twisted a few dials and looked up at Steve.

         "I believe this is what you came to see."

         Steve looked into the SEM eyepiece. "It looks like an eight legged spider, a spider with an Abrams tank on its back."

         "That's a pretty good description. That magnification, by the way, is x15,000. Our spiders can enter the human body through skin pores if necessary."

         "What type of field tests have you ran?"

         "Limited, very limited."

         "What modes of delivery have you used?"

         "Let me show you what we have in the other room."

         Peter led the way into a room where tables lined the walls. They were covered with weapons from guns to crossbows. Steve noticed a blowgun lying across a slingshot.

         "We've studied everything from bullets to hypodermic needles. It just depends on how much of a surprise you want it to be and how close you want to get."

         "You said you could program the spiders to an individual’s DNA. Have you tested that?" Steve asked.

         "Not on humans but it works unbelievably well on animals," Peter picked up a small piece of cloth from the table. "Let's say we program a few hundred thousand spiders with the DNA of the target. The program will also keep them dormant until they contact the target DNA. The cloth can be stamped with a design or even have a small ink spot. All the ink used will contain special messenger spiders that will transmit the contact message to the army elsewhere on the cloth waiting to attack.

         Within seconds the spiders will be on their way to the target. Let's say we want to give our target an aneurysm with a nice hemorrhage. The spiders move into the desired vein or artery in the brain and rip it open. They then retreat according to their program. Instructions can include a path to the feet or orders to leave the body and enter organic material at a predisposed depth."

         "Will the aneurysm kill the target?" Steve asked.

         "Not guaranteed," Peter shrugged. "Usually sixty percent of patients die within a year. It's a crapshoot. Some suffer a stroke while others may recovery fully. If you want a target out of the game for good the heart attack would be the best choice. The spiders build up a wall of plaque just like little masons. Then, they're on their way."

         "I think you may have solved a little international problem we have."

         "You do understand this is still in the test stage?" Peter asked.

         "Consider this a field test."

         "What about DNA?"

         Steve pulled a small glass bottle from his jacket pocket.

         "I always come prepared."
                                                        ~

         Steve stood on the top step of the Lincoln Memorial. The face of wisdom whose likeness had been wrought from white, Georgia marble stared back at him. He wondered if Abe could understand things that had to be done in the name of national security in this day and time. Things were so much simpler in Lincoln’s time.

         "Steve, good to see you."
         Steve turned to see Congressman Ketchum climbing the last few steps.

         "How's our problem?" Ketchum asked.

         "It will be resolved within the week."

         "Good. I don't want to know any of the details," Ketchum smiled. "I'll be surprised along with the rest of the world."

         "I wouldn't have it any other way," Steve said. "Promise me there will be no more middle of the night phone calls and threats that I have to explain."

         "As long as you do what you're told," Ketchum slapped him on the shoulder, "there'll be no need for those tactics. See you around town."

         Steve watched Congressman Ketchum walk back to his waiting SUV. Who, in Washington, would believe him if he told them what was happening? More to the point, who could do anything? His influence, his career would be ruined as soon as he opened his mouth. He had no choice but to play Ketchum’s game.

                                                      ~

         Mohamed Yusuf, King of Somalia, boarded the private jet bound for his homeland. He rested in a large, plush leather recliner. His group of loyal subjects buzzed around him like bees around their queen, attending to his every need. The jet left the runway and adjusted its course, flying over the Atlantic Ocean toward home.

         “Matsu,” the king called to his translator. They had only been introduced two short months ago. “How do you like your new position?” Mohamed asked.

         “It is very good. I like to travel and do anything I can to help our homeland.”

         The king slid to the edge of his seat. “I’m happy you enjoy your position.” He motioned for Matsu to be seated. Matsu obliged.

         “Thank you, your Excellency,” Matsu sat in the leather seat covered with plastic. Yusuf noticed Matsu’s glance at the seat cover.

         “The leather is torn and I want to protect it until it is repaired.” The king stared at Matsu, “You realize your position as translator is to say exactly what I do. No deviation.”

         “Yes, sir.”

         “Can you tell me why you deviated in my address to the group in Washington?

         Matsu squirmed in his seat, “I don’t know what you mean?”

         “I am not a fool. You added a plea to my words begging them to honor our request,” he spit the last words out as if he were trying to avoid a bad taste.

         “I . . . ,” Matsu started.

         “Silence. How dare you add words to your king’s statement? The infidels now see me as weak,” he withdrew a knife with an eight inch, very sharp blade from his robe.

         “I did it because I love Somalia,” Matsu screamed. “I do not want it torn apart as other countries have been that did not heed the American’s warnings.”

         King Yusuf lowered the blade, “Your intentions were honorable then? One cannot be punished for the love of country,” he paused and looked at Matsu as if he could see his very soul. “This, of course, is acceptable.”

Matsu visibly sighed and relaxed in his seat.

         “If you were the king,” Yusuf added. With one swift move he slit the throat of the translator. Others in the group were ready and quickly wrapped towels around the spurting throat of Matsu. He was then wrapped in plastic and moved to the tail segment of the jet before he took his last gurgled breath.

         King Mohamed Yusuf looked at his robe in disgust. Blood had sprayed on it. He leaned back and saw that it also sprayed the ceiling. ‘Why is being king such hard and dirty work?’ he thought.

                                                      ~

         In the cockpit of the plane the pilot and co-pilot were discussing their recent trip.
Their conquest of American whores was high on their list.

         “I love American women,” the pilot said. “They are so beautiful.”

         “And so willing to meet a man’s every need,” the co-pilot added.

         “That reminds me,” the pilot said. “There’s a box behind my seat. Can you grab it?

         The co-pilot pulled the box from behind the seat and read the card. “It says do not open until you are in the air. Don’t forget me. The signature read, Cinnamon.”

         “Open it for me,” the pilot said.

         The co-pilot ripped the wrapping from the box and pulled off the lid. He pulled a pair of red, silk panties from the box.

         “Let me see those,” the pilot said reaching for the panties. He grabbed them and put them to his nose and sniffed.

         The co-pilot noticed a picture in the bottom of the box. He pulled it out and saw Cinnamon in all her glory.

         “She is indeed beautiful,” he held the picture and stared.

         The tiny nanobots crawled onto both men. The pilot sucked thousands into his nose while the co-pilot had them crawling up his arm and disappearing into his skin pores. The first sign that anything was wrong was when the pilot grabbed his head and screamed while the co-pilot looked on in horror. Suddenly he felt a painful stab in his own head. With a scream he fell forward onto the steering yoke pitching the jet into a nosedive.

         Others were alerted by the screams and rushed for the cockpit. Both men lay across their perspective steering yoke. They tried to revive the men but had no luck.

         King Yusuf stood at the door of the cockpit. The last thought he had was that he should have taken flying lessons.

                                                      ~

         Steve Ford heard the news of the plane going down somewhere over the Atlantic. He smiled to himself for a job well done. The hookers had played a vital role in getting DNA samples of the two pilots. If not for them this could never have happened. To bad, he thought. The headlines of two hookers getting the Medal of Honor would be something to see. He called Ketchum with the news.

         “You’ve done a fine job,” Ketchum said. “Be proud. Your country owes you a great debt. Too bad no one will ever know.”

          “Thanks,” Steve said. “I only did it because the man was a tyrant and murderer. Not because you threatened me.”

         “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. See you around town.”

         Steve knew Yusuf had turned into a tyrant. He was not the man they helped into office to lead his country. There was no guilt and he would not have trouble sleeping.

                                                      ~

         Senator Ketchum hung the phone up and smiled. Everything is going as planned. He now had the director of the CIA in his back pocket. Any trouble from him and he would simply leak the possibility of his involvement in the death of King Mohamed Yusuf. He was sure the director would not want to be involved in any of the questions a Congressional committee might ask.

         He reached across his desk to gather his mail from the morning’s delivery, letters from complaining partisans and requests for money. It was a never-ending deluge of garbage. Ketchum decided then and there that he would have his assistant go through the mail from now on. He used to enjoy this part of his job but it now bored him. Complainers and beggars, he thought. I can’t make them all happy.

         No sensation alerted him, no itching, no stinging. A minute later the spiders were in three arteries feeding the heart. They began their wall building. Two minutes after opening the envelope he was experiencing chest pains. Another minute and the pain was shooting down his left arm.

         Ketchum stood and took a step toward the door. He fell to his knees and then his face. Managing to roll onto his back he grasped his chest. Pressure building in his heart felt as though a weight was pressing on him. His breath was labored, only coming in ragged gasps.

         Sweat beaded his forehead as his lunch surged into his mouth and then into the air. Vomit splattered around him as his bowels emptied into his sweat soaked clothes. Just before he lost all control he felt the pressure give in his chest as his heart exploded.

                                                      ~

         Steve slept late the next morning. After showering he joined his wife at the table for a cup of coffee. She handed him the Washington Post.

         "You aren't going to believe this," she said.

         "What?" Steve asked.

         The headlines of the Washington Post said it all. Senator Ketchum Dies of Heart Attack, the story continued, Senator "Hank" Ketchum died last night at approximately 7:30 p.m. of a massive heart attack, he was found on the floor of his office by his secretary.

         The story continued but Steve wasn't interested. He thumbed to the National section and read where the plain of King Yusuf of Somalia had gone down somewhere over the
Atlantic Ocean. Steve felt rather proud of himself. He had successfully saved many lives, put his career back on track, field-tested a very useful military weapon, and dethroned two tyrants. Not a bad days work. It was hard to keep the smile off his face. He would have to let Professor Clark know the field tests were a success.

                                                    # # #