A SILIEN GIFT
Principality of Sil Dorsett
City of Norvalle
The marina glittered in the evening, lanterns and streetlights aglow like fallen stars, the scent of sea salt and fine dining filled the air. Music seemed to emerge from every bar and every moored yacht, an eclectic and discordant mix of refined classicism and the anarchic tones of the digital era. The Silien riviera was alive, the revels of the nation's patricians clothing the principality in a vibrant cloak of exclusivity and extravagance that one could not help but stare at in jealous awe.
For Julien Bechard, however, the lights may as well have been the eyes of hateful gods, mocking his every waking moment. The music and opulence had once inspired a longing for all life's luxury, now the riviera served as a reminder of how far he had fallen. Bechard had come so close to his dreams, power, wealth and pleasure, only for his own cowardice to doom him to his present misery. From a trusted associate of the great Clement Northway to a steward of the same yacht, he had once conspired to steal from.
The work served as a constant reminder of his failure, but it also provided at least a modicum of protection, his moment of indecision had made many enemies that would love to see him depart the earth. The baroness Covington had ramped up her security in the years since the ill-fated heist and his face had never been revealed, where better to hide than in the last place any sensible person would conceal themselves
Still, his days were far from serene, Julien constantly looked over his shoulder, always wondering if the day ahead would be his last and if today would be the one when the consortium came to collect. His nights were worse, nightmares of angry judgment by those he had damned to the slow rot of a life in prison. His cowardice had cost his employers a fortune and his colleagues their freedom, neither would ever be forgiven.
Tonight, though such thoughts merely lingered at the edge of his troubled mind, the frantic pace of the aristocratic night temporarily exercised his demons. He didn’t have time to worry about far-off assassins or vengeful organizations, the duchess was throwing a party and he was ten minutes late to his shift in the ship’s extensive bar.
Security was tight and a gauntlet of grey-suited bodyguards with submachine guns awaited all glaring from behind dark glasses. He received an uncountable number of ID requests and pat downs before he was finally allowed aboard the boat and a further five minutes late. He hurried to the locker room and changed into his steward's uniform, the white trousers and polo shirt marking him as crew, the red waistcoat meanwhile signifying Bar staff. From would-be thief to pourer of overpriced drinks, the shame was never far from his mind.
“Merde!” he hissed as he fumbled through his locker, the flask was stowed at the far back, a singular comfort
Checking to make sure no one was present, Julien opened the flask and took a quick swig of cheap brandy, the sickly-sweet fluid burning like fire as it flowed down his gullet. Closing the cap, he stashed the flask again and emptied a small legion worth of breath mints into his mouth before heading for the main deck. The corridors were long stretches of tasteful white juxtaposed by the warm hui of the redwood decks and despite their scale, somehow someone always managed to miss the mark and collide with him.
A tall waiter in the same uniform crashed into Bechard with a clattering thud, the tray he was carrying clattering to the ground. Chunks of half-eaten shellfish and Tatar now stained his previously pristine waistcoat. The waiter mouthed frantic apologies and fussed over Bechard's uniform, Julien felt impotent rage build as the waiter sprayed his coat with a water bottle, frequently hitting him in the face instead of the stains.
“So sorry mousier, maybe we go to the laundry and get you a new coat!?”
“It's fine! I'm late as it is!” Bechard said forcing his way past the apologetic waiter
He didn’t look back as he ascended the stairs and promptly was greeted by the booming music of a party in full swing and the immediate shouts and threats of dismissal from his supervisor. He mouthed his apologies, swallowing any pride he might have still retained, he needed this job, and it wouldn’t do to anger a man who had a regular line to the ship's paymaster.
“Enough, get out of my sight! Go do your job!” The supervisor yelled in a haughty tone
Bechard did as he was told, hating every moment of the submission that was now his life, he fantasized about strangling the supervisor as he took up his tray of champagne.
*************************************************************************************
“Another bottle garcon!” came the inevitable request
Baroness Covington was celebrating tonight, perhaps just eager to drink in post-kidnapping life or maybe eager to impress her clique of obscenely wealthy friends. Either way, the elite salon of the extended royal family was in full swing, and the duchess had no intentions of modesty or restraint. The champagne was flowing, each bottle downed a small fortune expended. Everywhere one looked, the eye was greeted by a scene of elegance and excess in equal measure.
It was hot too, strange that an open-air party should be hot. Yet as he collected a fresh bottle and headed for the duchess's private booth, he felt an unbearable mix of sweltering heat and nausea. Julien briefly wondered if the brandy had been too cheap After all, he started to feel dizzy as he got closer to the duchess.
A look of concern crossed her features as the duchess observed the profusely sweating Bechard and noted that he was visibly swaying. Julien felt his vision begin to blur, he tried to say something, an apology for the wait perhaps...but words didn’t come out properly, they seemed to ooze from his mouth like tar or treacle. He felt his arms go limp, the bottle and tray smashing on the deck as his legs began to buckle.
He tried to mouth another slurred apology.... only a deluge of vomit to spray across the ground as he fell to his knees, his insides burning. At first, the discharge was merely the eggs he had eaten for supper, then came the blood, a red stream that wouldn’t abate. He crashed to the ground, gore flowing from his mouth as his body was gripped by seizure-like death spasms. Bloodshot eyes stared out lifelessly as the duchess let out a horrified scream that echoed across the marina.
*************************************************************************************
Ricin had always amused Carlos, the thought of a bean containing one of the deadliest poisons known to man. Still, it was far from a full-proof killer, it could take hours, even days to shut down the vital organs and send the body into a fatal shock, far too slow for a kill that needed to happen in half the time. Thankfully B&K had long since solved this problem during one of their many military research contracts.
Compound P34 was a highly engineered form of Ricin, airborne and rapid-acting, the offspring of military necessity and unscrupulous corporate innovation. Its Life had started out in the ’70s a quick fix for overly opinionated communists, but Astragonese military intelligence had rarely used it, reform and a gentler political climate making assassinations less tolerable.
The formula, a deadly mix of Ricin and Fentanyl, was deadly at close range, deployed in the aerosol form it could infect and kill an unvaccinated adult male in the space of around ten minutes. Ten minutes, just long enough for the late Mr. Bechard to get to his place of work and move into full view of Baroness Covington.
Had Carlos been more prone to ethics or questioning, he would likely have noted that P34 was extremely difficult and expensive to synthesize. He might also have noted that the poison and its corresponding vaccine were relatively obscure, only the truly wealthy could afford to create such a deadly poison and an even smaller number had the influence to manufacture the vaccine. Whoever had ordered the hit had money, influence, and access to very good chemists.
Carlos was neither interested in ethics nor questions, money was money and the so-called western consortium had given him plenty. P34 was also rare enough that he seldom got to use it, it was a special treat to have access to such an unusual tool of death. He doubted Bechard would have shared the sentiment of course, but then, Bechard was now able to share precious little of anything.
Carlos had already changed, the waiter had been replaced, and a handsome gentleman in a dark blue suit descended the ramp of the Princess Liselle. Mobotu Mpalande, wealthy oil magnate and prince, made his way past security, his trademark Astro and easy charisma smoothing the path to the street. The guards had seen him arrive in the fancy sports car, he was just another rich guest, nothing to stress about.
The screams didn’t start till he was already off the vessel and driving down the harbor road, he would cross into Mintoria and from there take a chartered jet back to Rio, he had business on home turf to attend to and a great deal of cash to spend.
