Chapter 14

In a small secluded airfield just edging the border with Romania, Theodore Tomazko boarded his private Lear jet in the dead of night. Some of his most treasured possessions had been left behind in his vast country estate in his haste to get out of the country before he was implicated in the attempted assassination of President Yuri Danzic. It was really just a matter of time before they came for him, and no amount of deal-making by his fancy lawyers or advisors would be able to save him, so he had taken the decision to run while he still could.

The expensive leather briefcase he carried with him contained all he would ever need to survive; the complicated codes to access his Swiss bank account and details of his other off-shore investments, along with discs containing some of Arnaud De Fehrn's virtually priceless Quicksilver Gland research - including a complete medical and personal profile of Darien Fawkes. At the very least he knew he could use these to negotiate some form of political asylum with a foreign government. The Chinese were among the many who had already expressed keen interest.

Almost without thinking he handed the briefcase over to Frederick, his most loyal and trusted subordinate, and settled back as he strapped himself into one of the luxurious leather seats, not really paying that much attention as the man moved back through the cabin towards the cockpit.

"I'll stow this for you and then check our estimated take off time, sir," Frederick called back over his shoulder, and Tomazko gave him an almost disinterested grunt in return. He was too depressed and exhausted to really pay that much attention. The sooner they were airborne and away from this godforsaken place, the better. He felt no sense of patriotism or allegiance to Latovania or her people. They could all go to hell and back as far as he was concerned.

Lost in his own self-absorbed musing, it took some time for Tomaszko to realize that all around him was strangely quiet. The twin jet engines were still idling in readiness for take-off and the outer door was firmly closed, but Frederick hadn't returned and was nowhere to be seen.

Tomaszko barked out the man's name several times, but when no response was forthcoming, he loosened his seat belt and with a bad tempered hiss made his way to the cockpit and pushed open the door, fully expecting to find Frederick seated with the pilot.

Instead it was empty.

"Frederick!" he shouted again as he rushed back into the cabin. Where was the stupid idiot? He pulled at the handle on the outer door but it was wedged firmly in place and even though he applied as much force as possible, it wouldn't budge. Something drew him to one of the small windows on the port side, and that was when unadulterated terror really struck. A figure that could only be Frederick was barely visible moving away from the jet and swinging the briefcase to match his casual stride. Another figure - this one a female - stood some distance away Tomaszko beat his fists in desperation against the reinforced glass until they bled.

Only when 'Frederick' was a safe distance away did he turn and as he did the plane - with Theodore Tomaszko on board - exploded into a thousand pieces. The initial explosion was heard by villagers some distance away, who thought it was a roll of thunder.

Mikhail Tzarnov handed the briefcase to Lili so that he could use both hands to peel off the strange latex mask provided by his American Agency counterparts. They both stared at Tomaszko's funeral pyre dispassionately.

The media would report that Theodore Tomazko's death as just another tragic air accident.


The young customs officer was weary. It had been a long, boring day and he was now just counting the minutes to the end of his shift and relishing the prospect of a hot meal and, perhaps, some time with his hot new girlfriend.

He gave the official papers what he considered to be a thorough check, though not really understanding or caring for the complex medical jargon, before glancing up at the doctor standing in front of his desk.

"It says you're carrying human organs for transplant, is that correct… Dr. De Franks?" he asked superciliously, earning himself a slight nod from the doctor and a glint of amusement in the keen eyes staring out from the disguise of the elderly medic.

"That is quite correct," De Franks responded courteously with his clipped accent - French his passport advised. "I am more than happy to show you…" and with that he lifted the large sealed medical container and placed it on the desk. On the side printed in glaring red letters it read: Human Organs for Transplant.

"No," the officer gulped audibly., turning slightly green at the prospect of having to actually inspect any of the gory contents. "That's okay, sir. No reason to open the box. We wouldn't want them to spoil…or anything…" he gulped.

He quickly brought his stamp down with a resounding thump on to the doctor's documents and passed them back.

"Have a good journey, sir."

"Oh, I fully intend to," Arnaud De Fehrn responded emphatically, nodding curtly to the officer as he returned the beautifully forged documents to the inside pocket of his jacket.

Then with a confident grin, he retrieved the container concealing his life's work beneath a fake top layer of pig hearts - just in case anyone had actually taken him up on his offer to check the contents - then strolled through the airport terminal and out into the bright Canadian sunshine.