The innermost capsule opened at one end and the viscous fluid began to seep into the second capsule.
“Christ!” Wylings released the capsule and it plopped into the bath water. He depressed the lever to open the drain, but he left the water running.
The bathtub in this flat had intentionally been plumbed incorrectly. The water didn’t drain into the sewer; it was pumped directly into the water main from which it had come. The flat had been chosen for its proximity to the big pipe that channeled water to most of the residents of the capital city.
The plastic would be eaten away by what was inside, and then what was inside would drain into the water main and begin to spread. Soon enough…
A box of gasoline additive was resting on the loo, filmy with dust. A rolled-up piece of paper was sticking out of the top—actually a slow-burning fuse. A box of matches sat on the sink. Wylings had placed all the items here months ago.
There were some aspects of this operation that he had to handle personally. Some aspects that Sykes and Dolan didn’t even know about.
Wylings lit the paper and got out of the flat in a hurry. The taxi driver was waiting for him and they started back to the airport.
“Forget something, sir?” the driver asked. “You weren’t there long.”
Wylings could see smoke coming over the tops of the buildings. The flat would be in flames already. Even if the contamination was traced back to the rented apartment, there would be no evidence left in the ashes.
But would there be enough time for the contents of the capsules to escape into the water main? Heat, after all, was the one thing that could kill them. But still, the water would protect them for minutes or longer. The contents would have escaped by then.
“Sir?”
“What?” he snapped. He had forgotten the driver. The man had asked him some sort of question.
“Forget something, sir? Need me to turn around?”
“Get me to the airport. I’m in a hurry. There’s an extra ten pounds in it for you.”
“Yes, sir.” The cabdriver hit the gas. These days, he was getting maybe one or two fares a day. This strange British gentleman might be rude, but he was a godsend for the cabdriver. He could afford groceries.
The cabdriver didn’t realize that he would be dead before he reached his neighborhood market. The man who ran his favorite shop would be dead, too. Everybody in his poor but friendly little neighborhood would be dead. Most of the people he knew would be dead.
The man in the back seat was their killer.
“I’m doing my best to get you there quickly, sir,” the cabdriver said. He could sure use the extra ten pounds.
“Five more pounds if you shut up.”
The driver happily shut up. He was an easygoing kind of guy, and he could tolerate a rude Englishman in silence—for free, let alone for fifteen pounds. He didn’t know he would never get a chance to spend the fifteen pounds.
The cabdriver was hungry and thirsty. He’d celebrate his good fortune with lunch at the new Burger Triumph outlet, which was still in operation despite the recent coup d’etat. He’d get their new Triple Triumph Megarific Meal. It came with an order of Trium-Phries and a large soda.
The bloke in the back seat was watching his telephone.
Not much for gadgets, Wylings had bought the telephone for the great undertaking. There would be times when he needed to be in touch, no matter where in the world he was. Right now he was in the armpit of Africa and needed to see a legitimate news station. He got one, relayed to his phone via satellite from Gibraltar.
Breaking news on the BBC announced that parliament had taken an important vote. The prime minister had been on the scene and had scheduled a press conference within the next half hour, but unofficially the results were well-known. Great Britain had finally “come to its senses,” as one of the fast-walking parliamentarians said. There would be a parliamentary condemnation of the recolonization movement and an official declaration that the Proclamation of the Continuation of the British Empire was not legal and never had been legal.
Even before the prime minister was allowed to make the announcement to the world, dissent was in the works.
There was his good man Sykes, Dolan at his side, orating for the news and taking just the right tone. “Of course a statement must be made to the world regarding the proclamation and retaking of British colonies,” Sykes started out with—nicely worded so as to not actually commit to any instance against the proclamation or the colonizers. “But parliament has done everything wrong this time. Firstly, parliament has no authority to discard British law in such a sweeping fashion. It is especially ludicrous to believe that the lawmakers can go on record saying one of the laws of the land was never a law. That’s patently absurd.”
Well spoken, Sykes, Wylings thought.
