The Omega Seed Page 7

  Chapter Six

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire

  Berlin, Germany

  Motioning to the handcuff on his wrist, "I'll sure be glad to get rid of this," Mason remarked to Henry, who was now his new NSC escort. They were leaving the Hotel Berliner after freshening up from their fateful train ride. Armstead had a five p.m. appointment with Ambassador Otto Rhinemann at the American Embassy to deliver the troublesome briefcase.

  Hollyfield nodded, "We're almost home free, sir. Once we get behind the gates with your Marine guards, you should be quite safe."

  "It can't happen soon enough. I'm tired of being a bull's eye on a cloak and dagger shooting range."

  The agent patted the courier on the back as they entered the waiting sedan, "You're doing jolly well, lad." Giving further reassurance, "And look, we have a lead and trail vehicle for extra protection."

  Mason scoped them out. Feeling better, he took a seat in the rear with Henry sliding in next to him, "It would take a bloody rocket attack to stop us now, old chap."

  Their sedan and the two suv's formed a tight line then joined in the moderate flowing traffic. "Has that ever happened?"

  "Pardon?"

  "A rocket attack."

  "Well er, yes, but not often... and never in Europe... so far."

  "Swell," which prompted Mason to begin scanning the passing rooftops for hooded figures carrying long tubes on their shoulders - like he'd seen in the movies.

  The Berlin police were providing traffic control and had barricaded a four block stretch; only official vehicles were permitted approach to the embassy complex. Armstead's mini-convoy soon joined a line of diplomatic limos waiting to enter the grounds. The procession was slow; the sentries were being extremely thorough. "There must be VIP's of considerable importance already inside," he reasoned and indeed there were. First and foremost, the President of the German Republic was in attendance.

  American ambassador Otto Rhinemann and German President Hans Mitzelfeld observed the cavalcade from their red brick balcony window. "Things are proceeding well," commended the President. "It appears we'll be able to start on time, at seven p.m."

  "Yes, thanks to a little trick I learned many years ago when dealing with one of my own family members," explained Rhinemann. "My younger sister always arrived late for the family functions; no matter how much advance notice I gave her, invariably she would arrive thirty to sixty minutes after the appointed time. So I started telling her to come one hour ahead of the time I told the rest of our family - the same principle being applied here."

  The President smiled, "I'll have to remember that one for my next Cabinet meeting; there's one or two knot-heads who are always tardy. Ah, I see the courier's coach entering the gate."

  Rhinemann checked his watch, "Four forty-five. Excellent! We'll have two hours to translate the document into the respective languages of the representatives."

  "Have all the representatives confirmed attendance?" questioned Mitzelfeld.

  "Yes, all twenty-six in our sector responded. Who would want to be left out?"

  The Honorable Sven Johansen of the World Security Council, who would chair the meeting, entered the room, "I've been advised the courier has arrived gentlemen. Do you have his dossier and photo?"

  "Yes, your Honor." Rhinemann opened a manila envelope and laid Mason's picture on the table. An office secretary escorted in Armstead, Hollyfield and a Marine sergeant who carried a locked, wooden box which contained a digital scanner. Introductions were made and Mason verified the ambassador's identity with a photo from his own itinerary packet. With protocol security procedures being satisfied, Rhinemann said, "I believe you have something for us Mister Armstead," as he extracted a small, odd-shaped key from his own pocket."

  "Yes sir, do I ever," Mason stated fervently as he set the attaché case on the table. "May I please be first, if you gentlemen would be so kind to relieve me of the handcuffs."

  "Certainly," as the ambassador smiled.

  Mitzelfeld, standing to the side, had a concerned look on his face as he observed Mason relinquish the case.

  Hollyfield unlocked the handcuff and it dropped free. Mason rubbed his wrist and breathed a, "Thank you". Next, Henry produced the microchip he had cut out of Doan's forearm and the sergeant scanned the chip then showed the six numbers to Rhinemann who inputted the code after the Marine had left the premises. As the Ambassador leaned over to insert his special key, he noticed the marks made by the cable cutters, which Mitzelfeld had spotted right away. He stopped and declared, "The case has been damaged! Have we been compromised?" He quickly inserted his key to see if the locks were still operable, the levers popped up smoothly. Still, he looked about for an explanation.

  Mason stated, "There was an attempt to steal the document on the train and the case has been opened."

  "The devil... what the?" muttered the Ambassador and looked to the WSC representative for clarification.

  Johansen responded, "I'm aware of the attempted interception, Mister Ambassador. The two Omega operatives involved were neutralized and the contents of the case remained intact. Am I correct, Mister Armstead?"

  Mason snapped to attention, "Yes sir, it was forced open. The envelope was removed and its seal broken, but the document inside never left my sight."

  Johansen fixed his gaze on Mason. "Did you read the document, Mister Armstead?"

  Mason paused; the group watched him intently. He suddenly knew with certainty and sure instinct he must not reveal the complete truth... and at the same time he must answer without lying, "No, I placed it back into the envelope and its case, then relocked it after Henry killed the second O...," he caught himself, "neutralized the second operative." Rhinemann and Johansen seemed satisfied, Mitzelfeld still appeared troubled.

  "Is there a problem, Mister President?" from Otto.

  "No, no, please continue."

  "Very well, then. Mister Armstead, you may be excused. Thank you for a job well done, very well done. It is regrettable you had to go through such a harrowing experience. I hope you'll remain in our fair city a few days to enjoy our hospitality and recuperate."

  "You're most welcome, sir and thank you for your consideration but I think I'll be getting back to the States first thing in the morning. I had planned to take the three-day InterRail tour, but I've had my fill of trains for a while, if you know what I mean."

  "I understand completely," and they all shook his hand with Mitzelfeld being the last. The German held it a moment longer than usual while staring deep into Mason's eyes. The courier bade them all a goodbye and left.

  Again, Rhinemann asked Mitzelfeld, "Are you sure there's no problem, Mister President?"

  The State bureaucrat looked from one man to the other and in a low, urgent tone, dropped the proverbial bombshell. "Armstead's one of them. He's an Omega."

  "What?" scoffed the American ambassador. "That's utterly preposterous! I've read his personnel file; Armstead's been with the Department for over ten years. There's no way he could have slipped through our intense pre-employment screening. Especially, and in addition to... why we even have mandatory blood testing every year! The United States State Department prides itself with being through, sir"

  Johansen shook off his initial shock and the American's refute, "Sorry, I must agree with Otto; this sounds a bit too far-fetched. Even so, what makes you think he's an Omega, Hans?"

  Mitzelfeld rubbed his chin, "A number of things gentlemen. Little things, added together, apart from your pathetic and extremely lax screening which is overloaded with testing for recreational drugs and STD's while ignoring other categories."

  Ignoring the German's caustic criticism of U.S. policies, Johansen politely asked, "Please, sir, explain further. This accusation is alarming, especially in light of our conference.

  "Number one, his handshake. Did you notice his hand felt cool?" answered Mitzelfeld.

  "Not in particular, after all, it's cold outside."

  "Even so, his hand stil
l felt cool when he left," countered the German president."

  "Meaning?" challenged Rhineman.

  "The Omega have a body temperature of ninety-five degrees."

  "Is that true, Johansen?" The WSC man nodded assent.

  The American ambassador challenged, "That's it? A cold hand?"

  "Also, his eyes. They were oversized."

  Otto protested, "I've met numerous big-eyed people, especially women. They weren't Omega either." Becoming annoyed, "Anything else, sir?"

  "His manner... what you Americans call vibes... I can't put it into exact words."

  "So, is this what you base your conclusions on? A gut feeling? You are condemning a man to being an Omega based on vibes?"

  "Plus a little more; I've been with them." The German President then waited for his words to sink into his tight little audience.

  "The Omega? You've actually met an Omega's in person?" marveled Rhinemann.

  "Yes, I've toured our camp here in Germany several times, out of curiosity nothing more." Taking the offensive now, "You are aware of all the differences between them and normal people aren't you, Otto?"

  "Uh, no... sorry to admit, no"

  "We all should be, particularly in light of these proceedings and I regret that I can't go into all the details at the moment, time won't permit. However, I strongly recommend you have an expert brief you as soon as possible. What I'm alluding to is that there are more factors involved other than the known physical attributes. In addition to the visual, they possess a mental aura coupled with diverse abilities, resulting in a sort of intuitive power. Are you familiar with what I'm referring to, your Honor?"

  "Not first hand. I've read the reports but never had any direct contact as yourself."

  Rhinemann paced as he spoke, "Disturbing, your accusation, but this won't have any bearing on our conference or course of action. Gentlemen, you can rest assured I shall investigate this matter fully and forthwith," then signaled for his receptionist to join them. "Frankly, I still don't see how it's possible." She entered, "Get Chad Parkerson on the line; find him no matter where he is. State it is an emergency."

  "Yes, Mister Ambassador."

  "We'll get to the bottom of this in short order," as he opened the envelope and laid the paper on the table for all to read.

  September 13, 0600 Zulu.

  A similar scenario was in progress at five other locations throughout the world: Hong Kong, Tehran, Sao Paulo, Dakar and Washington D.C. for the delivery of the letter and a conference of their sector's representatives, advising them of the designated date and time. The World Security Council was coordinating the operation; the couriers were unaware of the magnitude of the plan or of each other's participation.

  Tehran, Iran: the Russian embassy

  Mehrdad Iravani poured cool water into the sparkling crystal goblets then quickly retreated to the far wall to await further bidding. The Minister of Defense signaled for him to depart the premises and the embassy majordomo servant glided out on silent feet with his head respectfully bowed.

  Here too, there were three men in attendance discussing the pending conference to convene in thirty minutes. The courier had already made his delivery; there had not been an interception attempt made on him or the other messengers, only Mason Armstead. Twenty-three thin folders with the information transcribed into the representatives' native languages lay in front of the WSC overseeing administrator. As he placed them in alphabetical order, he accidentally bumped his glass. It teetered and fell to the marble floor. The Minister pulled a tasseled cord which summoned a black-bearded servant who instantly appeared in the doorway, noted the shattered pieces and disappeared to summon Mehrdad. The Russian ambassador stood in respect as he addressed the Ayatollah Khorramani, "Your Eminence, as I explained earlier to your esteemed Minister, my government does not expect any problems with security. I'm confident the Iranian and Iraqi armies will be able to maintain order if there is any dissent. However, if you should require assistance, the sovereign state of Russia, your friend and ally, is more than happy to aid you in any way possible."

  Seeing Mehrad enter with a dustpan, broom and towel, the World Security Council agent scooted away from the table and took a seat on the opposite side. Mehrdad lifted the velvet cushioned chair and placed it out of the way so he could get down on his hands and knees to clean up the accident.

  The Ayatollah grunted in response to the Russian's offer: the Shiite Moslem leader commanded a smattering of Russian as well as five other foreign languages. The Defense Minister, having been an exchange student to Moscow in his younger years, spoke fluent enough to translate if a misunderstanding arose. Speaking in his native tongue, Farsi, the Ayatollah, the highest authority in Iran, berated the Russian ambassador, who didn't understand a word. "How long will they continue to send these infidels of no respect? Did not our banishment of the great Satan, America, teach them a lesson? The fool knows neither our language nor customs; he speaks of the contemptible Iraqi as if they were our friends. Yet, my heart is heavy that our blood-brothers in Islam still stand divided and against us - now due to the new Western-controlled, war mongering, self-serving council to our west. Is there no end to their ignorance and our suffering? I have prayed for the day their souls return to the true fold. Let us remain humble and thankful it is drawing nigh. Praise, Allah."

  Iravani finished his cleaning task and hurried back to the kitchen for a new goblet. His face radiated pride at having the ultimate honor of being permitted presence in the same room with the nation's most prominent religious leader. Mehrdad quickly returned with the pitcher and a new glass, his face and eyes were always cast down in awed respect.

  The Ayatollah was still venting his displeasure as the ignorant Russian sat quietly, pleased with himself, believing the Iranians were discussing his country's generosity. "And does not this heathen infidel know that when the Devil's demons in their warships descend from the heavens our salvation is at hand? The murderous invaders from the stars who will render Allah's wrath on evil mankind are the tools of our deliverance as foretold in the Koran. Praise Allah; our Day of Atonement and liberation from this sinful existence is almost upon us. Praise Allah, may it begin! Let the sharia (law) be fulfilled and the jihad (holy war) commence. Muslim brothers worldwide shall rise to the bosom of Abraham and leave the unbelievers to the cleansing fires of destruction. Our beloved Prophet's words shall ring true to all; his spirit is present to lead us to Allah's enlightenment. Our redemption is nigh!" His eyes rolled back in his head as he flung his arms upward, "Praise Allah!"

  The Minister kicked his chair aside, dropped prone on the floor, arms outstretched, facing Mecca, the Holy City as the birthplace of Mohammed and chanted, "Praise Allah" three times. Mehrdad followed suit lying lengthways next to him. He trembled at joining them in prayer.

  After the ritual, Iravani completed his tasks and backed out of the room bent even lower at the waist. His hands shook with excitement in the realization that he, in person, had heard the irrefutable truth spoken direct from the mouth of Islam's most esteemed Ayatollah! Mehrdad's mind bubbled with the joyous news. "The end is near and I, his most humble servant, have been chosen to hear the message first, before my brethren, that the prophet Mohammed is soon to return. He shall descend in a cloud of glory to take his children to Paradise!"

  He observed the cluster of multinational representatives arrayed in their distinctive costumes and apparel. "Of course! That's why the nations are assembled here today: For the Master to teach them the path to redemption and salvation! It is so clear. But wait, blessed judgment could befall us any day, surely within a week at the most. I must go and prepare!"

  Berlin

  Hollyfield was driving Mason to the Hotel Berliner, traveling an indirect route, using the Autobahn, the first European freeway without speed limits. Despite their speedometer reading 120 kph, cars were passing them on the left side as if their BMW were dragging a four-pronged grappling hook. Mason refrained from asking Henry what was going on
- the answer was etched on his face. Fantastic as it seemed, this is how the man subdued his demons and cleansed the blood-letting from his soul: by emptying his mind of all but the fleeting images on the other side of the tempered glass. For certain, it was not Armstead's method of rebounding from stress, especially perched in the front passenger seat watching the needle creep up to 130 kph. Henry's eyes crinkled in delight, an ever so slight devil-may-care smile curved the corner of his mouth. He had become totally absorbed in playing the Sterling Moss role and reminded Mason of a teenager setting record scores at a video arcade. He checked his seatbelt for the third time while wishing he really was at an arcade or on a go-cart track, waving safely from a side rail. There... a large green sign stretched across the road a half a mile ahead - Whoosh! and it was gone! Mason recalled reading that all the signs on the Autobahn were oversized because the traffic traveled so fast the drivers required extra reaction time - as the German Department of Transportation belatedly discovered after the superhighway had first opened. Scores of motorists lost control negotiating the turnoffs; fortunately, back then most autos were built like tanks, unlike today's plastic and lightweight cracker-boxes. The signs were quickly updated.

  Hollyfield expertly feathered the brakes and turned onto an extra-long off-ramp. He appeared petulant, akin to a child realizing the end of a carnival ride loomed imminent and Daddy had run out of tokens. He deftly blended in with the usual parkway commuter, rush-hour traffic leading back toward their hotel which he had intentionally overshot by ten miles.

  "Exhilarating, eh, old chap?" Henry caressed the steering wheel as it slid through his custom-made driving gloves.

  Mason noted the twinkle in his eye and uplifted mood, "The Autobahn? Exhilarating is a pleasant word." There was no need to mention the lump in his throat and that his eyes were glued shut after he had seen the speedometer hit 140. "So, whatta you do for relaxation at home in England, Henry? Bungee jumping, sky diving, Russian roulette?"

  "Ha, well put, lad. You're making light of my driving, I see. Hope I didn't alarm you too badly; I apologize and all that. Back in the day when I was a young man, I drove in the English stock car circuit a few years... that was before I met me wifey, of course. Seems there's still a bit of the old spark left in the tank, eh?"

  Armstead assured Henry it was no big deal but underneath, his old nemesis, the demon of self-doubt and fear had reared its ugly head again. He wondered how this diminutive and somewhat foppish man could stand so tall and possess such courage. "Was Henry ever afraid, hesitant or haunted by past failures?"

  "Back to your question, Mason, bungee jumping and falling out of an aeroplane are a bit too risky for a bloke as myself at this point in my life now, 'sides the Missus wouldn't permit it. Again, many a year ago, when I was a young lad as you, I did develop an interest in sky diving and signed up for a jump school. Mumsy, me wife, discovered my intended venture, via the school's confirmation letter and promptly set her foot down. She's a good-old girl, concerned for my safety and whatnot. In the meantime, I lost my bloody deposit, another row ensued and I learned most emphatically not to attempt such foolishness again, without her approval first. Yes, indeed, that I did! Now, I engage in more docile pastimes: parasailing and scuba diving. Mumsy enjoys riding in the boat."

  Satisfied with his story telling, Henry then changed the subject, "I say, old man, I'm dining at the Reichland Restaurant this evening. They have excellent German fare, of course. Would you care to join me? I extended an invitation to our freelance, contract employee prior to his little mishap but he declined. He said he was going to find himself a little tart... no, a big tart and Par-tay, whatever that is."

  Mason accepted Henry's offer but made a mental note to be sure to keep his wrists on the table in plain sight this evening in case a late, ill-informed snatch and run team was checking him out; they'd see the case had already been delivered. Besides, having Hollyfield in close proximity was a good insurance policy in itself. The man's small stature and dandified demeanor hid the killing machine hidden within so an assailant would discard the possibility he would be a security escort - a second reason to believe the attaché case had been passed on.

  "Jolly good, I'll rap on your post at eight bells sharp. I've an exciting fish tale to tell you, one which I can't impart to the Missus; it involves a dicey affair with a bit of bugger: Mister Shark." Henry parked in the underground garage, donned his derby and bade Armstead a chipper, "Cherrio, mate"

  Hollyfield's chosen eatery proved delightful in every respect as touted and the evening progressed most famously. Henry proved to be a most pleasant companion, a confortable conversationalist and Mason in return found himself recounting his two disturbing childhood experiences to him. Describing the chicken incident, he went on to say he felt it had led him to his current vocation, a peacemaker in a broad interpretation. Henry asked, "Why not an arbitrator or negotiator?" Mason explained such efforts weighed too heavy on his conscience because to gain a truce or settlement, sometimes deception or a shading of the truth may be required. As for the Empire State building incident and his fear of heights, he admitted not much progress had been made on that issue.

  The NSC agent didn't belittle his perceived weaknesses, but instead listened with respect and patience, drawing out fuller explanations and offering parallels in his own life. He said, "All men experience fear, it's instinctive, logical; higher reasoning and determination are the implements of control. Not everyone is a blood and guts Comic book Super-Hero, Mason. Certainly not I. Real people have faults and fears. If you're not happy with a particular aspect of your life, then work on it until it changes." Henry let the suggestion sink in for moment then added, "Chin up, lad. You took the first step when you identified the problem; congratulations, you're half-way home." Hollyfield continued, relating stories of his own personal setbacks: school yard bullies taunting the pipsqueak, too small for sports, not an exceptional student, rejected by the military and so on. Then he expounded on the victories made possible by perseverance and the valuable lessons he had learned in the field.

  Mason was inspired and grateful but not exactly anxious to put himself into a position where he must seriously challenge his dreads by enduring a real test of fire. He wondered, "All these years, will it take a man like Henry to show me the way? I hope so." In the past, Armstead had dismissed professional psychiatric therapy as a viable option. Mason reasoned these vexations were small hang-ups in the grand plan of life. There were several people he'd known who had enlisted such services and ended up with so many mental crutches they became incapable of organized or intelligent thought, and more often than not, were worse off than before they began.

  They exchanged their good-byes on the elevator, Armstead exited to the second floor - the lowest level, and Henry on the sixth. Mason took Hollyfield's London telephone number and promised he would ring him and the Missus whenever he got over his way again - and it that shouldn't be too far off since he passed through Heathrow Airport often.

  It was eleven p.m., he had returned to his suite an hour ago and was folding his clothes, making ready for his departure tomorrow morning when there came a knock at the door. "I'm not expecting anyone, perhaps room service has made an error," he speculated. He peered with one eye through the peephole. "It's Henry. A nightcap? It can't be; he knows I don't drink." Mason unlatched the door, swung it wide and with a questioning smile on his face, "Henry, what can I...," stopping short. Two strange men were flanking Hollyfield, one on either side - they had been out of view of the peephole. Was this intentional?

  One fellow was short, thin and carried a black, leather medicine bag while his associate was large, brutish and donned brown leather gloves. Both were clad in gray trench coats with black felt hats pulled low - the big man reminded Mason of a 1930's Chicago mobster, deadpan and hostile. Henry appeared ill-at-ease, his clothes were disheveled as if he'd thrown them on in a hurry and rushed here. Always the gentleman, he mumbled, "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mason..." His apol
ogy was cut short by his two companions, who each grabbed one of Armstead's arms and dragged him back into the center of the room, his bare heels burning on the nylon carpet.

  "Hey! Ow, that hurts." His eyes darted to Henry standing shamefaced outside the doorway and wondered, "Why doesn't he do anything to help me? There must be a third person in the hallway holding a gun on him. I'll bet these fellows still think I have the case!"

  "Stop please, I don't have it! You're making a mistake; I delivered it to the American Ambassador,"... and then to Henry, "Tell them!"

  Hollyfield gave a deaf ear to Mason's outburst as he turned to check the corridor in both directions. A hotel maintenance man fifty feet away working on the elevator button control panel appeared to be too absorbed to notice anything amiss. When Henry stepped inside and quietly latched the door Armstead realized the British NSC agent was actually a party to whatever was happening - or at least permitting it - there was no gun pointed at him.

  "Henry, who are these people? What is going on?"

  The big thug, who smelled as if he had spent the night in trash dumpster, kicked the coffee table aside and pushed Mason down into the center of the couch. Dropping with an "Oof!" but with his arms now free, he started to rise and make a verbal challenge to this unruly treatment only to be met with a smack to his forehead by a beefy palm which sent him bounding back into the cushions.

  "Hey! You could break a man's neck doing that!" he protested. The bully sneered and flashed two rows of jagged, uneven capped teeth. It seemed quite clear he didn't care one way or another. Mason decided to stay put.

  Henry remained silent, blocking the door to his back, hands clasped in front. The smaller thug set the black bag on the askew table while the big fellow planted himself menacing above Armstead. Unzipping the bag, "Roll up your sleeve," Mason was ordered by a sharp, nasal voice.

  "What? My sleeve?"

  The brute leaned over, "You heard him, want me to do it for you?"

  "No, no, I'll do it. Whatever you say." He watched the thin man remove a paper packet, rip it open and extract a syringe and needle. After connecting the two, he placed it on the table then took out a capped vial containing a clear, syrupy liquid, held it up to the light, swished it around and set it next to the syringe and mumbled, "It doesn't look right."

  Mason ventured a guess, "Truth serum? You don't need that. Ask me whatever you want, I've nothing to hide." He assumed, "They must know I no longer have the document, but are trying to find out what it contained." In an effort to conceal his knowledge he babbled on, "I didn't read it. Honest. Ask Henry."

  Holding the needle straight up in the air and poised to make the injection, the small thug hissed, "Armstead, shut up. I don't give a damn about your lousy document. I want a blood sample."

  "A blood sample? Whatever for?"

  The brute grabbed his left forearm, pulled it forward and squeezed. His prominent elbow joint vein popped out. "Keep still you sniveling, whiney butt or I'll take it the way I like, by slicing off a piece of your arm." The thin man leaned over, exhaling tobacco halitosis through his beak-shaped nose. Mason turned his head aside in repulsion. The hollowed needle point found the vein and his dark red blood seeped into the syringe. Five c.c.'s were drawn. The thin man then deposited six drops of Mason's blood into the vial's fluid and held it up to the light a second time - to observe the reaction.

  Mason rubbed his arm, "Now, may I ask what this is about?" Receiving no response, he redirected his question to his supposed friend, Hollyfield, "Henry, can you please tell me?"

  "He's watching to see if the test solution turns blue, Mason"

  "Blue. Are you kidding?" Using a far reaching nervous attempt at joking, "Will it mean I'm pregnant?" Armstead quickly became serious again and glanced from one person to another, "Did you know that I take a mandatory urinalysis every six months and a yearly blood test as part of my required comprehensive medical package. This doesn't make any sense. You don't need these strong-arm tactics."

  The liquid in the vial changed to pale blue. The big thug's eyes widened in delight, "Aw right! Our first one." He reached into his back pocket, retrieved a large pearl-handled knife and pressed the release button. 'Swit' - a six inch stainless steel switchblade sprang out. "You maggot; I'm gonna do you good!"

  Mason cringed and held his arms up in defense. "Henry, help me!"

  Hollyfield sadly shook his head, then stared at the floor, "I'm truly sorry, old man... it's out of my hands."

  "Hold up a minute," ordered the small thug. "There's something wrong here. The color's too light. It should be darker, a much darker blue. This may be a false test, or the vial has been contaminated. I'll have to test it again... we only get paid for doing it right" The bully, visibly disappointed, obediently stepped back still holding his blade at the ready as his partner searched his black bag for fresh supplies.

  "Damn, I have another syringe kit, but no testing solution. Wait... not a problem. There's another vial in the trunk. Let's take him down to the car where I can retest him."

  "You bought a little more time, dead man," as the big man lovingly stroked the chrome blade. "I saw a nice, dark alley nearby too." He roughly yanked Mason to his feet, "Let's go, maggot. We're taking a little walk. Hey, whatta they say in the movies? Dead man walkin'," and then howled at his own joke as Mason paled.

  Henry unlocked the door and peeked out. The same workman, still at the elevator, had now been joined by a second fellow with a pushcart. "Most odd," Hollyfield thought to himself, "I don't think it should take so long to fix a control button panel unless of course, he was waiting for a replacement part."

  The two men half-turned as the door opened; both were wearing sunglasses. The NSC agent recognized the scenario immediately: two men, at night, indoors after ten p.m., wearing sunglasses. Henry couldn't see their hands but he assumed they were either holding or had easy access to machine pistols and appeared to be waiting. "But why are they here?" his mind raced. "To free Mason, of course! Everyone on the ruddy planet must know by now all of the documents have been delivered. It all makes sense - these two thugs banging on the door in the middle of the night, relaying orders for me to assist them in the capture and blood testing of Armstead. These fake maintenance workers, more Omegas no doubt, must have been told some people were coming to make the test.

  "And as for Mason himself, the silly sod, he probably has no idea he's an Omega, not a clue. What a mess! The testing solution problem has slowed these two clods down a tad; the chemicals must have been diluted or too old. But after Armstead retests a hundred percent dark blue, these blokes will drag him into an alleyway and gut him like a fish. They said the World Security Council has ceased with their apprehending and incarcerations (the big one liked that). Instead, they are executing the Omega on the spot and making it look like a street crime! The current WSC Deputy Chairman Yamoto has ordered four terminations in the last two days... I wonder if he's aware of the heinous methods being employed? Or, does he even give a damn for that matter?"

  Evaluating his tactical position: "The soft lighting and dark carpet decreases my visibility; the so-called, repairmen will wait until we're almost upon them before firing. I could be caught in a crossfire from front and behind. It'll be a bloodbath - mine and these two thugs... and possibly even Mason's! My handgun against their automatic weapons and no place to hide, a very bad scenario indeed. Perhaps we could hole-up in our suite and call for reinforcements, but I don't believe that's what these two buggers behind me would agree to. They'll kill Armstead for sure, then high-tail it out the window and leave me to fend for myself while the two Omega attempt to break in to free an already dead man. Bloody bastards, these contract employees! They have no loyalties. Besides, Armstead doesn't deserve this roll of the dice; he's a decent sort of chap. E' wouldn't hurt a church mouse, not he."

  Henry's decision had been made. "Let me have him up front with me, fellows. If he gets any fancy notions I'll cut him down with my pistol."

  Mason was aghast
, "Henry?" The two temporary NSC hired hands pushed him forward and lined up to file out, the big thug was last.

  Hollyfield whispered, "Run to the elevator when I make my move," and to the other two, "Ready lads, lets step lively now." He then he flung himself backward into the thin man carrying the medical bag, knocking him sideways to the floor. "Armstead pushed me!" declared Henry. "I'll stop him," and fumbled for his Walther as Mason scrambled down the hallway. The two workers straightened up and reached under the cloth cover lying on top of the push cart.

  The big man squeezed past Hollyfield, waving his knife in the air, "You idiot!"

  Henry located his pistol and accidentally (on purpose) dropped it on the floor, "Oops." He leaned over to retrieve it and kicked it with his foot, "Oh my, clumsy me!" He was betting his life the Omega would not open fire, unless threatened.

  The big thug, with rage in his eye started to chase Mason, but in short order he encountered the two workmen pointing machine pistols at him. He stopped on a dime, raised both arms and dropped the switchblade.

  The thin man rushed out, barely brushing Henry, who theatrically sprawled on the carpet as if he had been hit by a NFL linebacker. He prayed the gunmen didn't misinterpret his intentional theatrics.

  The Omega watching this comedy of errors, held their fire (of rubber bullets) and waited for Mason. "Hurry, Armstead!" one of them called and pointed at the blocked open elevator compartment. All three of them dove inside.

  Henry spied out of the corner of his eye that Mason had joined the others in temporary safety and jumped up shouting, "After them, men." He trotted toward the elevator cautiously, "Careful, lads, it may be a trap. They may be waiting inside to blast us." The two contract men stepped aside, letting the real NSC agent assume command... after all, he was the high-paid professional. "Look men, the panel indicates they exited on the fourth floor. You two take the stairway. I'll wait ten seconds before taking the elevator and meet you there. We'll hit them from both sides. And above all, be careful. Don't shoot me when I pop out!" then the pair scurried to the stairwell, cursing every step of the way. Henry pressed the button, the car arrived and he casually walked inside, thinking, "That gives them plenty of time to make their getaway." He had to laugh to himself, being aware that transposing the numbers in the display panel was certainly one of the oldest tricks in the books.