She maintained eye contact with him during the meeting. It was ironic that he only drank bottled water while his fellow council members slurped poisoned coffee.
Thallium sulphate is soluble in water, colorless and virtually tasteless and odorless. It's mechanism of action was mainly from the fact that charged thallium atoms are almost exactly the same size as potassium ions, which are critical to many bodily functions. It essentially mimics the action of potassium, replacing working ions with inert ones that cripple the nervous system. One decent-sized dose was generally enough to kill someone if it wasn't caught in time.
Yes, there was a cure for it — potassium ferric ferrocyanide, a chemical better known as the dye Prussian blue. But the treatment had to be started very quickly otherwise a horrible death would result. There was an irony in her dosing of the coffee pot labeled “For use of the City Council ONLY!!!” Their snobbishness would lead to their death.
As the meeting was wrapping up, she retired to where she had set her trap — a nearby hotel bar. Van Wyk was single; divorced and, despite him being an obese slob in her eyes, had managed to do pretty well scoring young women — power was always a powerful aphrodisiac.
The implication was that if her proposed 'meeting' went well, they would retire to a room in the hotel for consummation of the deal.
She settled into a darkened corner booth, luxuriating in the feel of use softened leather on her legs. The air conditioning blew cool, tasteless air into her face. There were several other couples scattered throughout the place, all in similarly secluded tables and booths. A travel weary salesman, his ill-tailored suit revealing that he should have replaced it ten years or fifty pounds ago, hit on everything that walked by with a vagina. He had given her lecherous stare as she had passed by and she had ignored him, hopefully letting him know that she was completely outside his class. It didn't stop him from completely undressing her with his eyes, and it almost made her wish that she wasn't on a job, otherwise she'd have shown him that it wasn't right treating women like disposable pieces of meat. Death, after all, was the final high and she had a couple things in her purse that could make that more than true.
Right on time, Phil Van Wyk waddled into the bar. Thank goodness, Denver had a ban on smoking in bars — she hated the smell of cigarettes and this job was thankless enough. As he approached, the overwhelming stench of his body made her reconsider her dislike for the smell of cigarettes.
He settled into the booth, causing it to creak in protest and gave her a toothy smile.
“Hello, Ms. Martin. I understand you have a proposal for me?”
Fluttering her eyelashes, she said, “Why yes.” She deliberately lengthened out her vowels, almost like a soft drawl. In her experience, vulnerable men loved that way of speaking — it melted their hearts kind of thing and made it easier to kill them.
Eight years of advanced education ending in a doctorate in pharmacology with a minor in bioengineering meant that, unless she was willing to be a slave for a drug company, she would not be able to even service her student loans while earning thirty percent less than her male colleagues, and led to this career choice. She was one of five highly trained killers in a highly secret organization and had fifty-six operational kills to her credit — not including tonight's tally. She had been able to pay off her student loans within one year and purchase beach houses on both coasts and in several places around the world so she could continue to study poisons from ocean, sea and lake dwelling creatures.
She could hardly wait to get back to her studies of the Blue-ringed Octopus — the venom contained in one golf-ball sized creature was enough to kill twenty-six people.
The bartender, in obvious deference to the powerful man at her table, shuffled over and handed Van Wyk a wine list. “Councilman Van Wyk, thank you for gracing us with your presence this evening. What can I get you both this evening?”
Van Wyk's piggish eyes glanced over the wine list. “How about a 1978 Leroy Meursault Narvaux, if you have it. If not, I guess we'll have to suffer with the 2003, but don't bother with the 2002.”
She tried to keep her expression neutral — he'd just ordered a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Yes, she did indulge herself occasionally with a bottle of outstanding wine and did know a bit about them. Chemistry was chemistry to her, be it a complex neurotoxin or a fine Burgundy.
Hopefully, he was paying for it. But that probably wasn't in the cards for her. And what the hell was a hotel bar doing stocking such an expensive wine? There was something fishy going on here. Probably it was a relabeled crap wine of a lesser vintage and the pin heads that Van Wyk picked up wouldn't know the difference and be impressed enough to shed their good taste and panties.
No matter, she realized that she wasn't going anywhere with this man further than this bar and kept from vomiting. She had a backup plan — the Saxitoxin was best used when injected, but could be taken orally — death would occur later, but it would still happen.
The bartender came over with a bottle and made a great show of uncorking it in front of them, handing the cork to Van Wyk for sniffing and examination, before pouring a couple of ounces into Van Wyk's glass. He swirled it around in the glass, stuck his pig nose into the glass and snorted. Van Wyk, apparently satisfied, took a tentative sip, swirled it around in his mouth and then nodded in satisfaction.
She had to appreciate the entire performance although it disgusted her.
The bartender finished his pour into Van Wyk's glass and then poured a similar amount into hers. Taking a cautious sip, she knew that the whole show was an act — this wine had come no farther than from California. Yes, it was a decent wine, but was a Merlot, not a Burgundy — not even with a stretch of the imagination.
She nodded, playing along. The bartender set the bottle on the table and shuffled off to leave them in peace.
Van Wyk raised his glass and said, “A toast.”
Tapping her glass against his, she said, “To a successful future business relationship.” Where I kill you and then go buy a great bottle of wine with the proceeds.
Taking a large swallow, he said, “I agree. What did you wish to discuss with me tonight?”
While fiddling with her small satchel under the pretense of finding some papers, she palmed the container of Saxitoxin.
She handed over the fake proposal for a new shopping mall in Van Wyk's district and watched as he poured through them. If the plans had been for real, they would bring a multimillion dollar project, providing lots of new jobs from construction to store clerks. It was a scam that she had used before with some success — just changing the names, dates and locations as appropriate.
His eyes gleaming in anticipation, Van Wyk said, “Are these for real?”
Taking a sly sip of wine, she nodded. “All I need is some help with getting rezoning. I have the financing, tentative contracts with a dozen stores and a couple that want to be anchors.”
“And you put this together?”
“Yes. I represent a consortium of real estate brokers, financiers, banks and interested investors. They put up the money and I speak for the group.”
“What do you get out of this?”
“I set it up, getting a percentage off the top of the gross for the first five years. The percentage then lessens, but I do pretty well for myself.”
He glanced at the documents again. “I need a moment here. I'll be right back.”