The Janus Reprisal (21 page)

K
LEIN GOT THE CALL
about the freighter from the director general of the World Health Organization while he was at a dinner reception for a major contributor to President Castilla’s campaign. He stepped outside the ballroom to take the call.

“Mr. Klein? I’ve been asked to convey this information to you by the president. We’ve discovered a freighter floating off the coast of Syria. It was disabled, and aerial reconnaissance revealed that every member of the crew was dead.”

“Because you’re calling me and not Syrian diplomatic personnel, I presume the deaths were not battle related but disease related?” Klein said.

“We’re not sure. The freighter floated into Syrian waters shortly after our reconnaissance. Syria is refusing us access to the ship.”

Klein walked farther away from the ballroom, nodding at an acquaintance passing in the hall.

“How many crew members?”

“Thirty-three. Their last port of embarkation was Cyprus approximately six hours ago.”

“Were they alive then?”

“Yes. All of them. And they appeared healthy.”

“That has to be a mass shooting. What disease can kill that quickly?”

“Our reconnaissance photos managed to snap pictures of at least fifteen crew members scattered on the boat. We’ve zoomed in on each, and none show any signs of gunshot wounds or blast injuries. Three are lying in pools of vomit.”

“Poison?”

“Doubtful.”

“Why not?”

“Because while Syria is refusing us access, it’s also flatly refusing to send a medical or forensic crew to it. They intend to fly over and drop a bomb on the ship to destroy it.”

Klein stopped walking. “They’re going to blow the thing out of the water? What in the world is on that ship that they don’t want us to discover? Polonium-210?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Polonium-210 is what the Russians slipped to their unfortunate former spy. He died in a London hospital days later. It’s highly toxic, but requires a lot of expertise to use.”

“I think they’re afraid to set foot on it. I’m concerned that this may have something to do with the missing mutated avian flu strain. The freighter began its journey from the port in Rotterdam.”

“Ah, now I understand,” Klein said. “The attack on the Grand Royal and the coolers.”

“Exactly.”

“How many can a mutated avian flu strain kill?”

“Avian flu is rare, deadly, and carries a fifty percent death rate. The mutation is new and we’re just compiling statistics, but our computer models suggest a mutation that would allow human-to-human transmission could kill up to ninety-seven percent of those infected.”

“Do you think it can kill with the kind of speed that you’re describing? Can someone go from appearing healthy to dead that quickly?”

“I can’t answer your question except to tell you this: During the 1917 Spanish flu that killed over seventeen million people, there was a story of four women in a bridge club who played into the early hours of the morning. They broke up, went home, and three never saw the sun rise.”

Amir learned of his crippled freighter when a member of his crew operating in Syria sent him the intelligence. An hour after that, he received a demand from Dattar to wire the money immediately and without repayment terms. Dattar said that if he did not receive the funds, he would release his weapon in Cyprus.

Amir sent the wire.

K
HALIL KNEW THAT MANHAR
had been captured when the hour struck and he didn’t receive the call that he expected, but it no longer mattered now that he had the American in his control. They crossed town, headed west. The woman stayed silent, her eyes fixed in a forward stare and her hands clutching a tote. Khalil thought she didn’t appear nearly as emotional as he would have expected from a female. But then he’d read that American women were hardened and this one seemed to fit that profile. The car pulled onto a nearby street and stopped in front of a large construction project. A chain-link fence wrapped in green mesh surrounded a gutted three-story building. Temporary lights placed high on metal poles cast a harsh glare over a small area, while shadows danced in the rest. The door next to her opened and Khalil’s man, Ali, wrapped his hand around her arm and yanked her out of the car.

Khalil followed, watching his men hustle Nolan toward the fence. They used a key to open the padlock and swung open a portion of the gate. Khalil followed them inside and strolled to the freight elevator. His men hauled open the metal divided doors and he joined them last. He waved at his third.

“Stay here and watch the entrance.” The man nodded and reversed out of the lift. Ali pulled the rope handle to close the elevator’s doors. Khalil was interested to see Nolan flinch at the clanging sound of the metal barriers slamming shut. So she’s not as unaffected as she seems, he thought.

They exited at the second floor, where Khalil had set up a battered wooden table, two black aluminum folding chairs, and a light on a tall base that was powered by a long extension cord that snaked to the one exposed electrical outlet hanging from the wall. The developer had run out of money for the project and was currently battling creditors in a bankruptcy proceeding. No further work would happen until after the project was bought in a liquidation sale or the banker convinced a new lender to give him a cash infusion. Khalil paid a minuscule sum for the use of the entire building and the electrical outlet. This was the only floor that had walls and even then only three. One side of the long
rect
angular room was open to the night air. His men forced Nolan onto a chair. Khalil sauntered up to her.

“You are to die,” he said. “I’m paid very well to kill you.”

The woman blinked but said nothing. He watched her swallow once.

“I want to know why.”

She said nothing.

Khalil waved at Ali, who grabbed her by the arms once again and shoved her onto the floor. She knelt and Ali pushed her head down until she was face-first on the cement and then held her head against it. Khalil reached to the desk and picked up a rattan pole used in caning. He wound up and swung it onto Nolan’s back. The pole had been soaked in water to ensure that it wouldn’t break from the force and it didn’t. Khalil suspected that Nolan’s spine would snap before the cane would. Her body shivered after the hit, but her bones remained intact. He didn’t really care as long as she didn’t die before he got his information. He aimed between her shoulder blades and hit her a second time. This time she moaned.

“Tell me why I’m paid so well to kill you,” Khalil said. The woman was silent. He swung the cane again, hitting her on the mid-back. She groaned again and tried to curl into a ball, curving a bit to the side and bringing her knees to her chest. “The next time I hit the kidneys. You may die a short time after in agony. I suggest you talk. Now.”

“Money,” she whispered.

“What money?”

“Dattar’s. I have it.”

Khalil wasn’t sure that he’d heard right. “How much?”

“All of it,” she said.

Khalil couldn’t believe his ears. The lying bastard had no money. Khalil was on a fool’s errand. He felt his rage rise and he started to breathe in short gasps. Khalil prided himself on being smarter than all the others and now Dattar had tried to use him.

“Where is it?”

“Computer,” she whispered.

“I said where is it?” Khalil raised his cane again.

“
Computer.
It’s on the computer.”

Khalil paused with his hand in the air and the pole poised to smash into her. He used computers to pick up e-mail, surf the Internet, and read the occasional headline. He knew that many banked on them, but he made sure that he didn’t. His clients paid him in wire transfers directly into a Swiss account. When he needed funds, he used a traditional credit card issued in a stolen identity to withdraw the funds from ATMs across the world that bore the logo of a famous network. Such transactions were traceable but would be lost amid the massive number of similar transactions.

“Put her in the chair.”

Ali pulled her up and forced her into the chair, pushing backward, and she gave a strident shriek. She sat upright in order to keep her spine from touching anything. Khalil reached into the tote that she had clutched in the limousine and withdrew her thin computer in its custom leather holder. He shoved it at her. “Show me,” he said, “and don’t think you can access anything else. You do and I’ll put a bullet in your head.” She was pale, and her hands shook as she took the computer from him. He watched her power it on and wait for it to establish a connection. When it did, Khalil watched her type in a web address and wait for it to load. She input a username and password at the prompt, and the account’s balance appeared.

Khalil sucked in his breath. The number was huge, but Khalil knew that there must be more. Much more. He glanced from the screen and saw that she was staring at him; once again her face was set, her lips in a straight line. If it weren’t for her shaking hands, he would not have discerned that she was in pain.

“Where’s the rest?”

“Scattered all over,” she said.

“Move it to my account.”

She inhaled. “To which bank in what country? Such a large transaction will be recorded. Depending on what country, the bank will have to notify the authorities.”

Khalil wasn’t sure that what she said was correct. He had experience with moving large sums around in the Middle East, but not in America and nothing as large as this.

“You moved it out of his account. I expect you to be able to move it into mine.”

“I did it by taking small amounts each day. Under the limit for scrutiny. The rest I diverted from the beginning by placing it in an account offshore first. It took me months to move it all.”

Khalil bent close to her face. “This time it will take three days. Three separate wire transfers.”

She shook her head. “It won’t work. Part of the requirements for large transfers is that I appear at the bank. In person. I arranged it this way so if Dattar found out he couldn’t kill me.” She gave Khalil a direct stare and for a moment he was unsure whether to believe her or not. He pulled his fist back to punch her. She watched him do it and he saw her set her jaw in anticipation of the pain. He heard a noise from below and paused. After a moment, when it wasn’t repeated, he turned his attention back to her.

“Where is this bank?”

“The Cayman Islands.” Khalil had expected the answer. Many hid their money in the Caribbean.

“Transfer the small amounts first. Now. Then we shall go to get the rest.”

“I’ll need your information,” she said.

Khalil waved at the computer. “Initiate the transaction and I’ll type it in at the appropriate spot.”

Nolan bent her head to the computer. Khalil noticed that her hands still shook but she seemed to steady as her mind focused. He knew that the transfers could be scheduled for a date in the future. He’d have her complete the programming and then he’d kill her. He settled into a chair behind the desk while he waited.

S
MITH STEPPED INTO A
drugstore and headed to the pharmacy section. He needed gauze, alcohol, bandages, and ibuprofen. His arm was throbbing again, from the original wound and now from the second. His shirtsleeve was wet with blood and he could feel it leaking over the back of his hand.

I’m becoming bullet-ridden, he thought. He wished he could purchase equipment to stitch up the second injury, but he didn’t want to spend all his cash on medical supplies. His next purchase would be a prepaid phone and he wouldn’t turn off his current one until then because he didn’t want to miss a call from Marty. His phone vibrated. Smith opened it to find a text from Marty that said,
Nolan back online
, followed by an address and the words
Toss this phone now
. Smith sent Marty a text asking him to notify the police. Then he sent a text to Klein.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Unknown number” appeared. Klein, Smith thought. He pressed the call button and put the phone to his ear.

“Jon, you have a lot of trouble.” Howell’s voice poured through the phone. Smith felt enormous relief at hearing the former MI6 agent’s voice.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m in the East Village. You?”

“You’re in New York City.” Smith’s voice was flat.

“Yes. I’m told you’re here as well.”

“I’m near the Flatiron District. A man just tried to kill me.”

“Khalil?” Howell’s immediate grasp of the situation and the adversary didn’t surprise Smith at all. Peter Howell was one of the best.

“Doubtful. American. I think CIA.” The pause on the line dragged out. “You there?” Smith said.

“I won’t ask why the CIA might want you dead. Have you asked Russell? Even though she’s CIA, I think she’d tell you if they were out to burn you,” Howell said.

“Russell’s in the ICU. Gravely ill. She thinks there’s a mole in the agency who’s funneling information outside to a hostile actor. She doesn’t know who or why. But I’m not one of theirs, so why hunt me?”

“I’m afraid I have further bad news. I found one of Khalil’s lackeys. He says that Dattar has a new weapon he intends to unleash here in twenty hours. Not a bomb. Any ideas?”

“A few. Let me be sure to shake the guy tailing me and we’ll meet in thirty minutes.” He told Howell about Nolan and gave the address.

“I have Beckmann with me.”

Now it was Smith’s turn to pause. Beckmann was CIA and therefore suspect. “Can you lose him?”

“If I have to, yes, but I’ve known him for several years. His adherence to corporate policy can be loose, but he wouldn’t turn on the CIA. He’s not your mole. I would stake my life on it.”

“If you bring him along, you’ll be doing just that,” Smith said.

He paid for the supplies and left the store, disassembling the old phone as he did. He passed a garbage can and lobbed the electronic components into it before waving down a taxi. Traffic was light and they made it across town in less than ten minutes. The cabbie dropped him a block from the pinpoint location. He walked the block, keeping a lookout for sentries along the way.

The address belonged to a gut rehab of what looked like a former warehouse stuck in between two new square apartment buildings. All three structures were no higher than three floors. The street was tree-lined on the house side, but across from it was a small parking lot. At the end of the street was a massive glass-and-steel conference center building. The area was desolate. Only the occasional car shot down the street, its occupant uninterested in what Smith was doing that early. Smith glanced up and saw a faint glow on the second floor. He moved to the gate opening and saw that, though it was closed, the padlock hung open. It would have been impossible for someone to lock it behind them. The dangling padlock told Smith that they were still inside. He removed his gun and inched the gate aside until he had an opening large enough to allow for a view of the interior. He knelt and put his eyes to the crack.

A sentry stood at the far side of the building’s empty shell smoking a cigarette. Smith debated whether shooting him would aggravate Nolan’s situation. He assumed that Khalil was forcing her to access Dattar’s money in order to return it to him. Once the transaction was complete, Khalil would have no further reason to keep her alive.

Smith opened the door wider and slid in, keeping low. The ground floor consisted of steel beams evenly spaced, and no walls. An elevator in the back looked as though it was original to the building; next to it was a plank stairwell that lacked handrails. There was nothing that he could use as cover. He crept around the edges, keeping to the shadows, and was relieved to see the sentry pull out a phone and dial it. After a moment the man started talking in a foreign language. Smith walked faster around the perimeter while the oblivious sentry was immersed in his conversation. He was within two feet of the man when the conversation ended. Smith rose and placed the muzzle of his pistol at the base of the guard’s skull.

“One word and you’re dead,” Smith whispered into his ear. The sentry froze.

“Show me with your fingers how many are upstairs.” The man held up two fingers. Smith was relieved that he was still only dealing with the initial three that he had seen kidnap Nolan. “Lie down face-first.” The guard lowered himself to the ground and stretched out. Smith flipped his gun around and swung the grip at the side of the man’s head, aiming at the temple. The man went limp.

Smith headed to the plank stairs. As he approached, he heard the murmur of voices. All sounded male. He crept upward, wincing as one board creaked with his weight. When his eyes became level with the floor above, he stretched a bit more and peered into the second floor.

The second floor was enclosed on three sides, one covered in plastic sheeting. The rest of the interior was unfinished. Nolan sat in a chair and Khalil leaned over her. Both kept their attention on the computer in Nolan’s hands while a second man stood about four feet away. Before Smith could duck, the second man turned and spotted him. He reached for a gun in his waistband, but before he could draw, Smith shot, hitting the man dead center in the chest. Khalil spun away from Nolan as he pulled a gun from a holster under his jacket.

Smith jerked downward, crouched low and stumbled down the stairs in order to avoid a shot to the head. He jumped the last few risers and headed to the far edge of the building, pressing his back against a steel beam. In the distance came the welcoming sound of an oncoming police siren. To his right he saw motion. The sentry was still unconscious, so it wasn’t him. Smith moved around one side of the beam and he felt it vibrate as a bullet clanked off it, but he barely heard the shot. Whoever was making his way around the first floor of the building had a suppressor on his weapon. CIA, Smith thought. His earlier attacker was back.

Smith pressed his shoulder into the beam’s side, doing his best to stay in line with the metal, but the span was too narrow to provide complete cover. Smith gasped as a bullet zipped past him. He was breathing hard while he tried to gauge the shooter’s direction and angle. The man must be moving around the perimeter, getting in line for a clean shot. With nowhere to run in the gutted and open-air lower level, Smith’s options were few. It was the devil below or the demon above. Nolan was above, so Smith raced back to the stairs, taking them two at a time, heedless of the noise he made. The police siren was near, and the piercing whine had grown loud. He slowed at the floor level and rose into the room just as Khalil leaped off the back of the building. Smith ignored him while he went toward Nolan, who had risen from the chair and stood, strangely hunched over. She seemed unable to straighten. She threw the computer into a tote. When Smith reached her, she gave him a look filled with panic. Smith heard the second attacker start pounding up the stairs.

“We’ve got to jump like Khalil did. Now,” Smith said. He aimed at the stairwell and fired. The pounding of feet stopped, the sound of the siren increased.

“He’ll run from the police just like Khalil did,” Nolan said.

Smith shook his head. “He’s CIA. The police won’t worry him.”

Smith waved her to the building’s edge where Khalil had disappeared and she didn’t hesitate. She ran in a stilted manner but still managed to move. Smith reached the edge, looked back and saw the attacker step onto the second floor. Nolan jumped and Smith followed her, bending his knees to soften the impact. He glanced at the plank stairs and saw the attacker’s feet starting back down. Smith fired a round at them. The angle was off, but the shot had the desired effect because the person retreated back up.

They had landed at the back of the building, which pressed up against the neighboring buildings on three sides.

“Through the building,” Smith said. “The ceiling will protect us until we reach the street side.” Nolan sprinted next to him, still hunched over. Smith felt his heart beating in a crazy rhythm. They made it to the far end without incident, and Smith paused at the perimeter. The run to the gate would be the most dangerous part. He turned to Nolan. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

Smith burst out first, jogging backward and laying down fire in intervals, all aimed at the second floor. Nolan raced by, running in the stilted manner with her back hunched and her head down. He didn’t see the attacker, but heard a bullet hit a temporary lamppost directly behind him. The angle was beneficial to Smith, because he was still below and the attacker stuck several feet back from the ledge, but the attacker would get a much cleaner shot when Smith reached the open gate. Smith briefly considered running parallel to the building and climbing over a section of the chain link, but dismissed the idea. He’d be shot in the back as he did. He kept jogging in reverse and firing as he did. He was at the gate when he fired his last round.

He stumbled through the opening. A hole ripped through the mesh only inches from his left shoulder. Smith was relieved at the miss, knowing that he couldn’t take many more hits. Eventually an artery would be nicked and he’d bleed to death. Nolan ran on a forty-five-
​degree
angle across the street and through the opposite parking lot. Smith glanced to his left to check the area before he followed. He ran with her through the lot and around the building on the other side. As he hit the corner, he saw the flashing lights of the police strobe flickering off the trees. Nolan was still moving fast, the tote clutched in her hand. Smith was relieved to see a lone cab turn and head toward them. He hailed it. Ten seconds later they were inside, and the cab turned left again, heading north and away.