Free Key West Connection by Randy Wayne White Page A

in stealth, I assume.”
    â€œThat’s right, colonel.”
    â€œThere are many ways to create the illusion of accidental death. But it can take more time, and you sometimes forfeit efficiency.”
    â€œI have plenty of time. All the time in the world, colonel.”
    He studied me for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I see that you do.” He walked to the wall, pushed an unseen button, and a small patch of workshop floor slid open to reveal a large gunmetal-colored floor safe. He twisted the dial, pulled the door open. “I have been working on a few things which might interest you. But before we get to them, is there anything . . . more obvious . . . that you might need?”
    I handed him my list. He went over it quickly. “The RDX explosives are excellent—but a little obvious. If they are detected, they would, of course, implicate a military man, or a former military man.”
    â€œI’m dealing with a mob, and wars between mobs are not all that uncommon. At any rate, I will use the explosives only when and if I have to.”
    He nodded, still studying the list. “Of course. The smoke bombs will be perfect for diverting attention. And you need more clips for that AK-47 of yours. A beautifully efficient weapon, but . . . ”
    â€œI have no permit for it, colonel. It can’t be traced. And the Cuban army uses them.”
    The slightest smile crossed his face. “Forgive me, captain. You see, I am so used to command. I’m not questioning your judgment.”
    â€œI would be proud to serve under you anyplace, anytime, colonel. And I welcome your suggestions.”
    He nodded, reflecting for a moment. “So!” He glanced at the rest of the list. “I have all these things. You are welcome to them.” He walked to his marble workbench, lighted the paper with a match, and washed the ashes down the sink. “But I have some other things I want you to look at.” He reached into the floor safe and pulled out a Webber 4-B dart pistol. I recognized it from Vietnam.
    â€œYou are familiar with this, I see.”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell, this one is just a little different. The one you used had twenty-six steel darts, all armed with saxitoxin. Saxitoxin is—”
    â€œâ€”made from the sex glands of the southern puffer—or blowfish. A deadly poison,” I finished.
    â€œYes! But the problem with the saxitoxin is that when a medical examiner finds traces of it—especially in concert with the dart wound, which he may or may not discover—he must immediately suspect foul play. It’s fine for wartime, but not ideal, I’m afraid, for these ostensibly peaceful times when an enemy’s death must look . . . ”
    â€œAccidental?”
    â€œYes. So I have devised a new dart, a better poison. The dart is made with lignum vitae—one of the strongest woods in the world. The needle is made of superhardened glucose. The poison is from pelvic and anal spines of the scorpionfish, which, like the southern puffer, is a tropical species. But unlike the southern puffer—which can poison a person only through ingestion—the scorpionfish can sting anyone unlucky enough to pick it up, or step on it, or swim over it. The dart’s needle dissolves upon the release of the poison; the dart becomes just another stub of sunken wood. And the victim immediately feels a shocking wave of pain over his entire extremity. He begins to swell, goes into convulsions, and then dies a very ugly death. Did you read about the KGB agent who had the misfortune of stepping on a scorpionfish while wading in the shallows off the Isla de Pinos in Cuba? No? Very sad. He was one of their best men—the one behind all of the problems they’re now having in Haiti, I understand.”
    He didn’t break a smile as he said it. I had always respected him, but now I felt slightly in awe of this methodical inventive genius.
    â€œI assume it is best if the