The Ninth Dominion (The Jared Kimberlain Novels) by Jon Land Page B

specify where and when they would meet. It was sent by fax to a contact in London with specific instructions pertaining to delivery: when Christopher Hanley’s father opened his newspaper that evening or the next morning, he would find an envelope taped to the business section. If all went well, he would have his son back tomorrow afternoon and Hedda would have a greater understanding of the reasons behind what had happened on the bridge.
    “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
    “Don’t thank me yet,” Hedda told the man by her side in Doha’s open-air market. “You’ve got lots more ahead of you, and little of it will be pleasant.”
    They strolled about listening to the vendors make their pitches in the afternoon heat. The market was nothing more than an alleyway covered with a ramshackle corrugated tin roof. The more fortunate vendors were housed in actual storefronts rimming the alley. But the great majority had laid their wares out on blankets or small tables. The enclosed nature of the market trapped the smells and sounds within, the result being a constant throbbing clamor and assault on the nostrils from the pungent scents of spice and fresh fish.
    “You’re sure we’re safe?” Lyle Hanley wanted to know.
    He had come alone, as requested. If he hadn’t, Hedda would not have approached him.
    “They’d stand out if they were here.”
    “Just like we do.”
    “That’s the point.”
    “What about my son? Where is he?”
    “I don’t want you seeing him until you understand what you’re facing.”
    “Just tell me, is he hurt? Your note …”
    “He was wounded the night before last.”
    “Wounded?”
    “Shot.”
    Lyle Hanley wavered on his feet. “By whom?”
    “It doesn’t matter. What matters is taking steps to insure it doesn’t happen again. You’re both liabilities to them. They can’t afford to let either of you live.”
    “I followed your instructions. Nobody knows I left London.”
    “Somebody knows. Somebody always knows. But that doesn’t matter because you’re not going back.”
    “ What? ”
    “Not for a while. You’re going to take your son, sir, and disappear.”
    “I’m not prepared, not—”
    “That’s the point, Mr. Hanley. From here you’ll go somewhere where no one knows you. You’ll remain there for three weeks to a month. Use intermediaries to get a message to your wife. Have her join you. Immediately. The three of you must disappear, perhaps forever.”
    “My God …”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Hanley. You have to hear this. They tried to kill your son, and they’ll try to kill you. And now you’re going to tell me why.”
    Lyle Hanley stiffened.
    “My superiors told me Christopher was kidnapped by Arabs because you worked for Aramco,” Hedda continued. “But Christopher tells me you’re an organic chemist, and I know now that his kidnapping seems to have been arranged by my own people. They tried to kill me two nights ago, Mr. Hanley. They tried to kill your son.”
    “They gave me their word!” Hanley had raised his voice enough to draw stares from the booths they were passing before. “My son was to be safely returned when my role was done. I was given assurances.”
    “Role in what?”
    They stopped near an alley where there was no shop or stall. Hanley swallowed hard and made sure to lower his voice before resuming.
    “They came to me because of my work in toxic materials used mostly in agriculture.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Much of my career has been devoted to developing pesticides that linger on plants and crops to kill insects and parasites over a long period of time. In itself that’s nothing new. What was new was that in my versions, the poisons were transdermal.”
    Hedda looked at him questioningly.
    “Meaning that the compound is absorbed through the skin or outer shell,” Hanley explained. “In all other cases pesticides had to be either inhaled or digested by the pest. Transdermal means that simple touch was all