Fugue State (13 page)

“How about one more round of drinks for the survivors in our party tonight?” She glanced back at the girl passed out in the corner. She needed some alcohol back in her system in order to complete the thoughts that were brewing in her mind.

Serge laughed wholeheartedly. “I like the American woman! Let us drink shots!”

It was one round of vodka shots followed by another. The group sang some French tune that only Serge really knew.

Then Serge approached Alexa. “If you don’t want a French lover tonight, how about an Arabian one?” He motioned to the Castro character with the mole under his eye. “They say powerful men make great lovers.”

Alexa absorbed Serge’s words with disgust, but turned up her lips politely nonetheless.

“No. Powerful men
take
great lovers.”
It is a very different concept.

“Ha, ha. Americans,” he retorted. “Fine. We leave. If not tonight, perhaps another night,
chérie
. We see him next Friday, no doubt.”

Her lids fluttered in confusion. “What’s next Friday?”

Serge raised an eyebrow. “It is your soon-to-be new lover’s birthday gala. We attend. No? It will be perfectly amazing time.” Serge flashed his enticing smile.

Internally, Alexa winced. But she wouldn’t let the emotion surface.
Am I ready for another fabulous French party?

“Let us go, pet.” They roused their crew and headed toward the exit.

“Your man is watching you.” Serge whispered with anticipation.

An idea came into her mind. The crazy, wild, capricious idea turned her blood cold. Yet the timing seemed so unbelievably fitting that she couldn’t shake the idea — so she succumbed to it. Moreover, she embraced it and acted upon it. She turned, looked the terrorist straight in the eye, and gave him her most provocative, come-hither, passionate, full-lipped smirk.
Yes. Castro, remember this face. Burn it into your memory. Lock your eyes on my lips and accept that you want to taste them. I want you too, Castro. I want to kill you.

Alexa held the man’s gaze for two long seconds before pulling away from his glance. She watched his lips slowly part as his jaw inched lower. Then she casually reached out for Serge’s arm, and their entourage departed. Even the blonde girl who had passed out in the chair woke to leave with her fellow partygoers.

CHAPTER 16

T
hat night, Alexa dreamed of being back at the shooting range with Smokey Joe. She shot targets with the small handgun she had bought from Joe at their first meeting. She aimed at circles with bull’s-eyes. Then Joe pulled out a target that was a picture of a man — a man that resembled Jamar.

She looked at Joe questioningly. He gave a stiff nod. She shot at the paper target, and the bullet pierced the forehead of the man pictured. A second bullet pierced through the paper where the man’s heart would lie. She felt satisfied, yet she sensed something more. The door to the indoor shooting range creaked open. Alexa saw a black hand on the knob and Jamar’s body followed. She shot him once in the forehead, and his body started to slump. She shot him in the chest, piercing his heart just like the target.

She woke calm and collected. Her heart didn’t race. She wasn’t screaming or sweating.
Maybe I’ve finally come to terms with Jamar’s death. Maybe I can handle the death of Mohammed Ahmed
.
Maybe I’m ready to kill Mohammed
. She was tired of being the victim. “Maybe I’m ready to kill Mohammed,” she whispered.

She couldn’t explain why she wanted to kill him. But she wanted him dead. She wanted to know he wouldn’t be around to hurt anyone else. She thought of the bus bombings and the night raids, and the deaths of all of those children. She needed him to be dead in order to feel safe. She also knew, with a little seduction, Castro would let her get close enough to him to carry it off successfully. What’s more, she wasn’t afraid to try.
Haven’t I lost everything already?
What’s left to lose?

The details of the project would be a difficult. She didn’t know where to start. She tried to solidify what she did know. She knew she would see Castro again on Friday night. It would be at a party —
his
birthday party. His bodyguards would surround him, no doubt. He would be the host of the event, and, therefore, the center of attention.

Doubt crept into her mind like a fog. She pushed it aside and tried to focus. She knew she couldn’t get Castro alone with her. She’d have to be subtle. Shooting him in public wasn’t an option; therefore, she couldn’t use a gun.
Kill him in public without harming others.
She found only one real option: poison.

Alexa knew little about poisons of any type, but she could research the matter. The first possibility that came to mind was cyanide. Flashbacks of Michael Marin’s trial immediately filled her mind. She had learned from videos of the trial that the drug was lethal even in small doses, making it easier to administer discreetly. She needed to find out how to acquire it and how to convince Castro to willingly ingest it without detecting it.

Crushing the pill into a powder and mixing it with a stiff drink would be optimal. But will he taste it?
She didn’t know if cyanide had a taste, but the laws of nature implied anything deadly to humans would be noxious. She assumed the same for cyanide, but hoped the Internet would tell her otherwise.

Another thought weighed on Alexa’s mind. She needed an escape plan. She would need to flee the scene immediately after watching Castro consume the poison. She imagined the fiasco his death would cause. If they suspected her, she might be pursued as she fled.
I’ll carry a weapon to defend myself, if necessary
.

She considered a new possibility.
Even if I escape, if they suspect I did it, how long would they pursue me? I could be running indefinitely. “
Maybe a new identity would keep me safe.” Alexa reached over to the nightstand where she kept the worn business card the cab driver had given her. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. She decided she would visit this man and get a fake passport.

If Castro’s comrades catch me, they’ll kill me. Maybe even torture me first.
She decided to keep an extra cyanide pill for herself, in case the alternative seemed intolerable.

Alexa pulled out her laptop to search for information regarding cyanide and how to obtain it. When she pulled up the search engine, however, her fingers had another idea. She searched for Mohammed Ahmed. She needed to be sure before she took this plan any further.

He is still on the FBI’s most wanted list.
The picture she saw definitely matched the man she’d met on the ship. The reassurance quickened her pulse, and her eyes scanned the text eagerly. The website mentioned a monetary reward for information on the man and/or his capture,
alive or dead
. She hesitated. She could receive one million dollars for the death of Mohammed Ahmed from the U.S. government, with dividends up to five million dollars for his capture
alive.

Alive? But that would be nearly impossible, and even more dangerous than killing him.
She contemplated merely giving his whereabouts to the FBI. That would be easy enough. She didn’t see a set reward for information on the man, but it was a safe and easy alternative.
But he needs to die; he has to die.
The idea brought her a sense of relief. She found justice in ending the life of someone cruel. It had been the same with Jamar.
Doesn’t ridding the world of someone terrible make the world a better place
?

She had to help a murderer once. She had a prisoner for a patient. Alexa vividly remembered the man she had known as “Hannibal the cannibal.” The gray-haired middle-aged man transferred to her hospital from a nearby prison in order to have a swallow study to rule out aspiration after suffering an episode of pneumonia. Alexa was the radiologist performing the exam. A stern guard warned her that the convict had murdered his mother and ate her remains. His record of violence continued even in prison, where he allegedly bit the ears off two other prisoners and tried to strangle a prison guard.

Although cautious, she remained polite and kind, as with any patient, and pushed the judgment from her mind. “Hannibal” stumbled forward when he arose from his chair, and Alexa stepped in and let her body brake his fall. It was her duty as a physician, yet she couldn’t help but think to herself:
please don’t eat my face off.
She cringed at the thought.
That duty is gone. I won’t help another monster!

Yes. Alexa would continue with her original plan. She proceeded with her Internet search for cyanide. She concentrated on cyanide salts of sodium and potassium. These were the same crystalline solids consumed by Michael Marin, Eva Braun (Hitler’s wife), and even consumed by Hitler himself just before he put a pistol to his head. It was the ultimate suicide pill utilized throughout history. It seemed a very humane way to die for such an inhumane man. The drug inhibited the enzyme cytochrome C oxidase in mitochondria, resulting in histotoxic hypoxia — essentially suffocating the cells in the human body.

Lethal doses of two-hundred milligrams resulted in lethargy that quickly progressed to a comatose state. The victim would suffer cardiac arrest within minutes of ingestion, and the body would develop a pink hue due to the build up of methemoglobin. It would be the tale-tell sign that Castro had been poisoned. Alexa knew that this only gave her minutes to escape.

Conveniently, cyanide came with a medley of antidotes. The simplest of these was hydroxcobalamin, a form of vitamin B12, which combined with the cyanide to form an innate compound that would be eliminated in the urine.
Hmm, the antidote may prove handy if I keep the last pill for myself.

Acquiring the toxin would be a dilemma. Certain clinics and physicians scattered throughout Europe participated in forms of euthanasia and assisted suicide in which cyanide might be utilized. Perhaps she could purchase the drug from a local apothecary or French pharmacist. Alexa would explore her options when she went to look for the man who could provide her with her new identity.

She grabbed the worn, handwritten business card. Fearing where she was heading may be a sketchy venue, she packed her small handgun in her Burberry handbag prior to hailing a cab. She gave the cab driver the address of a bakery a block away from the counterfeit passport maker. They arrived at the bakery within thirty-five minutes. It smelled of fresh bagels and sweet pastries. Alexa paused at the window front and gazed at the sugary delicacies until the cab drove away. She walked down the sidewalk and around the corner, heading to the address stated on the card. She read it to herself: 42 Rue Cardinet 75017. The name on the card was Vincent.

The address corresponded to a small gray stone shop flanked by a large vacant building on the left and a cigar shop on the right. Alexa tried the door; it was locked. She pressed a small buzzer next to it but didn’t hear anything. She grabbed the card and rechecked the address. The number “42” was tacked on the door in metal numbers. She looked around. There were no windows facing the street to peer into. She groaned in frustration when she heard a voice next to her.

“
Qui se trouve present
?” The voice came from the intercom next to the buzzer she had pressed.

“Pardon? English?” She struggled for the right French words. “
Parlez-vous Anglais
?”

She grimaced at her lackluster accent and cleared her throat.

“Vincent?”

Silence. After a few seconds, the door eased opened, but only a few inches. A skinny, dark-haired man peppered with stray gray hairs peeked out. His worn oversized clothes hung on his bony frame.

“What do you want with Vincent?” he questioned with a harsh scowl. His shrewd eyes and long, pointy nose exemplified the sharp words that fell from his tongue.

Alexa displayed the card for him to view.

“I need papers,” she stated, but it sounded more like a child’s plea.

He gave the card a quick glance, then his gaze fixed on her. She could feel her pulse quivering in her temporal artery. Her tension mounted.

“Papers. Passport. American identification. Can you help me or not?”

“Try the Embassy. I cannot help you.” He pushed the door closed. She stopped it with her boot.

“Can Vincent help?”

The door opened halfway. The man revealed a cigar that had been hidden in his right hand. He took a long puff. The wretched smoke filled Alexa’s lungs.

“There is no Vincent. You stupid American.” He paused and snarled his lips at her. She didn’t waiver. She stared intently into the cold eyes of the Frenchman.

“You want me to go the Embassy because you don’t want my stupid American money?” She raised an eyebrow. The man scoffed. She shrugged.

“All right, I’ll go to the Embassy.” She turned slowly, her steps deliberate. The air turned sweet as she walked away.

“Four thousand.”

She paused and took a couple small steps back toward the man cloaked in smoke.

“U.S.?”

His eyes rolled around in his head before responding.

“Fine,” she stated, unsure if he’d given her a deal with dollars over Euros based on the exchange rate.

“What do I get for four thousand?”

He cocked his head to the side. “What do you want?”

Alexa paused as she took a mental inventory. She wanted a new identity, but she needed to preserve the old one — at least to be able to get the money out of her accounts. Two passports would probably do.

“Two passports.” She said the words with trepidation.

The man, who Alexa could only assume was Vincent, nodded slowly.

“Fine,” he answered.

Vincent stopped puffing on the remains of his cigar. He pulled it into his mouth with his tongue and began to chew the residual into a black mush that he intermittently spat out into the trash.

“Four thousand U.S.” he repeated.

Alexa’s heart raced. She fumbled for her bag, which was clutched close to her chest. She pulled out a crisp stack of hundreds carefully folded down the middle.