RainStorm

cups or with several other means of attachment, but there
    was no need: the marble countertop must have weighed at least
    a couple hundred pounds, and it was buttressed by a series of
    wooden supports, each of which provided a convenient gap for a
    cam. I attached the cams, tightened the horizontal straps of the
    sling, then hauled myself and the backpack up into it. I lay on my
    side, curled around the curve of the sink, the backpack tucked under
    my upper arm. It was uncomfortable, but not intolerable. I'd
    certainly put up with worse, and didn't expect to have to wait long
    in any event.
    I knew that the bodyguards, if they were any good, were likely
    to inspect the suite before Belghazi entered. But I also knew that, in
    his current condition, Belghazi would want to be alone and would
    therefore probably order them out--if he allowed them in at all-- before they had done a thorough sweep. Still, ever the good Boy
    Scout, I was equipped with a CIA-designed, .22-caliber single shot
    pistol, artfully concealed inside the body of an elegant Mont Blanc
    Meisterstiick pen, which I now removed from the backpack. If
    pressed, I would use the disposable pen to drop whoever was closest
    to me and, in the ensuing melee, improvise with whoever might
    be left. Of course, if it came to this, I wouldn't be paid, so the gun
    was only for an emergency.
    I didn't have to wait long. Twenty minutes after I had gotten in
    position, I heard the door to the suite open. A light came on in the
    outer room. Then the sound of feet, rapidly approaching. The
    door to the toilet stall slammed against the wall, followed immediately
    by the sounds of violent retching.
    Another set of footsteps. A male voice: "Monsieur BAghazi..."
    The bodyguard, I assumed. There was more retching, then Belghazi's
    voice, low and ragged: "Yallah!" I didn't know the word,
    but understood what he was saying. Get out. Now.
    I heard the bodyguard walk off, then the sound of the exterior
    door opening and closing. Belghazi continued to groan and retch.
    In his haste he hadn't bothered to turn on the bathroom light, but
    there -was some illumination from the suite beyond and I could
    make out shadows under the sink where I was suspended.
    I heard a metallic thump on the marble floor and wondered
    what had caused it. Then I realized: his belt buckle. Staph causes diarrhea,
    and he was struggling to keep up with the onset of symptoms.
    The sounds and smells that followed confirmed my diagnosis.
    After about ten minutes I heard him stumble out of the room.
    The bedroom light went off. A safe assumption that he had collapsed
    into bed.
    I raised my arm slightly and looked at the illuminated dial of the
    Traser. I would give him another half hour--long enough to ensure
    that the chloral hydrate had been largely processed through
    his system and therefore maximally difficult to detect, but not so
    long that he might start to wake up. The staph would turn up
    in a pathologist's exam, of course, but staph occurs naturally, if unfortunately,
    in food, so its presence postmortem wouldn't be a problem.
    With luck, in the absence of any other likely explanation, the
    staph might be blamed for the heart attack Belghazi was about to
    suffer.
    In fact, the heart trouble would be the result of an injection of
    potassium chloride. I would try for the axillary vein under the
    armpit, or perhaps the ophthalmic vein in the eye, both hard-to-detect
    entry points, especially with the 25-gauge needle I would
    use to go in. An injection of potassium chloride is a painless way to
    go, recommended, at least implicitly, by suicidal cardiologists the
    world over. The potassium chloride depolarizes cell membranes
    throughout the heart, producing a complete cardiac arrest, immediate
    unconsciousness, and rapid death. Postmortem, other cells in
    the body naturally begin to break down, releasing potassium into
    the bloodstream, and thereby rendering undetectable the presence
    of the very agent that got the ball rolling to begin with.
    Twenty minutes passed, with no sound other than Belghazi's
    occasional insensible groans. I rolled out of the harness and lowered
    myself silently to the floor. Just a few more minutes, and I would
    begin preparing the injection. I had a small bottle of chloroform
    that I would use if he started to stir during the procedure.
    I heard a card key sliding into the suite's door lock. I froze and
    listened.
    A moment passed. I heard the door open. It clicked closed.