Extreme Faction by Trevor Scott Page B

whacked quickly with the cleaver, and then slapped six pieces onto the grill. It might not be what the Americans were used to, but it would have to do. Then he cracked four eggs, and they sizzled instantly on the hot, flat surface. He slid a small salt shaker from the front pocket on his smock, glanced over his shoulder briefly, and then shook out a great deal onto the eggs and let the contents dissolve. He flipped the eggs once. In a moment, he carefully set the eggs and bacon onto each plate and handed them to a waitress.
    Disturbed, the older woman, whose job normally consisted of running coffee and refilling juice containers, snatched the plates from the young man and swept out through the swinging doors.
    The young man excused himself to go to the bathroom. Once in the back bathroom, he poured the remaining contents of the salt shaker into the toilet. He wrapped the shaker in a handkerchief, smashed the glass container into a thousand pieces and dumped it too into the toilet, and then he flushed everything. Next, he stripped off the white smock, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it under his right arm. Then he casually walked out and left the building from a back exit, throwing the chef’s clothes into a dumpster.
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    After nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, the older woman plopped the plates in front of the Americans and refilled their coffee cups. The eggs looked slimy and the bacon was more like a chunk of fat with tiny strips of brown thrown in for color. Neither looked cooked very well, but by now the two of them were extremely hungry. Besides, the continental fare had already been removed from the buffet tables. There was no turning back now.
    â€œUmmm... This looks good,” MacCarty said.
    Swanson didn’t seem to mind. He was already working on the eggs.
    MacCarty reluctantly took a bite of eggs. He noticed a strange flavor, but figured it was simply a difference in the spices used in the Ukraine. Swanson was scooping the eggs in as fast as his fork would work.
    â€œYou don’t think these taste a little funny?” MacCarty asked.
    â€œProbably free range chickens,” Swanson said, his mouth full of eggs.
    MacCarty ate one egg and switched to bacon. It wasn’t bad. It reminded him of the bacon he used to make on hunting trips in eastern Oregon.
    In just a few minutes Swanson had eaten every bite on his plate and was eyeing the leftovers MacCarty couldn’t stomach. Then they sat back and washed the food down with a final cup of coffee.
    It didn’t take long for Swanson to start feeling funny. In less than five minutes he felt pressure in his stomach. Then his chest felt like it would explode.
    MacCarty, who had eaten half as much as Swanson, felt fine for now. But he could see that something wasn’t right with Swanson. His eyes seemed to enlarge. He was sweating profusely. Much more than normal. When Swanson’s arms reached for his chest, MacCarty thought his assistant was having a heart attack. Then Swanson grasped his own throat and crashed to the floor, and MacCarty started yelling for help. In seconds the half-full dining area erupted into panic.
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    Sitting across the dining room at a table by himself, Omri Sherut watched the Americans. He had been able to pick up much of their conversation. But when the fat little bald man, who had thought he was so smart the night before, started gasping for air, Sherut knew it was time to leave.
    He threw down his cloth napkin to the table, disgusted.

14
    It was a clear, cold spring morning in Odessa. Jake stopped by a small coffee shop to meet with Sinclair Tucker prior to his morning meeting at Tully O’Neill’s office.
    Sinclair rushed in and took a seat across from Jake, nearly fifteen minutes late.
    â€œStill on London time?” Jake asked, looking at his watch.
    â€œSorry, Jake,” he said. “I had to stop by our front office to read a message. I see you’ve started without me.” He