The Janus Reprisal (4 page)

O
MAN DATTAR SAT ON HIS BED
in his cell in the International Criminal Court’s special unit within the Scheveningen prison system and watched the live CNN footage of the attack at the Grand Royal occurring only a few kilometers away. The picture on the small analog television bolted onto a shelf on the wall wasn’t ideal, but it was enough to reveal the extent of the damage so far. He chuckled when he saw the flames leaping out of the building’s roof and was pleased at the panic he heard in the voices of the English-speaking reporters. They needed to understand that detention of a man like him was not to be tolerated. Crimes against humanity! That the International Criminal Court and the United Nations had the nerve to try and convict him for such activity was infuriating.

It was appalling that the necessary steps he’d taken to rid the Pakistani territory that he controlled of undesirable elements should be designated as crimes against humanity. The individuals he’d ordered killed were not human, so killing them could not be classified as a criminal act. He’d cut off limbs of those who dared raised a weapon against him, yes, but didn’t the Bible itself, the West’s favorite book, assert that one should take an eye for an eye? Yet they called his action barbarism. They decried his use of child soldiers, but their own gangs used children to deal drugs, and none of the leaders of those gangs stood accused in such a manner. As for the cannibalism, well, he didn’t worry about what happened to those already dead, and eating the flesh of one’s enemies made one stronger.

He’d paid well for the hotel’s destruction and would pay more for the acts that he knew were to follow, and he fully expected the result to be a lesson to the ICC and the countries that had supported it. But he saved his special hatred for the United States and England. The United States was the country that had pushed hardest for his arrest and extradition to the Netherlands, and England had agreed to imprison him on their soil after the trial was completed. Both countries had been instrumental in his incarceration, so both would be punished.

He watched as the camera focused on a man hanging from the ledge. When the image was enlarged, he stood up, unable to believe his eyes. That Jon Smith was still alive and clinging to the outside of the hotel was not possible. Dattar felt his rage rise as he watched the American doctor make his way around the ledge.

The clanging sound of an opening gate caught his attention. He moved to the cell door, peered through the small window and sighed with satisfaction when he was able to see the four prison guards walking toward him. The first two were assigned to Scheveningen and the second were from elsewhere. England, presumably. He’d been sentenced to life in prison and the time had come to transfer him. The Dutch guard opened the cell door.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He spoke in English. Dattar’s English was impeccable. He had been educated in America and had been for a while the darling of Washington, DC. He’d told them what they wanted to hear: that he believed in their government and would bring democracy to his homeland. Lies all, of course, and when they’d learned of his deception, they’d moved quickly to arrest him.

He turned and placed his hands on the wall. The door sprung open on the guard’s signal, and he entered the cell. He took down each arm and secured them behind Dattar’s back with handcuffs. The sound of an explosion came from the small television. Dattar smiled at the man.

“Your country is under attack. Apparently not all agree with what goes on here,” he said.

The guard didn’t reply.

Dattar’s section of the prison was separated from the main building and was accessed by a door dedicated to the wing. Currently, Dattar and two other strongmen from small countries in Africa were being held there. The terms of the leaders’ detention differed greatly from that of the regular prisoners, a fact that was not lost on the populations of the varying areas. The people from Dattar’s region complained bitterly that Dattar, a war criminal, resided in comfort with amenities such as electric lighting, soft mattresses, and indoor plumbing, while the population that he’d terrorized lived in squalor and with limited access to clean drinking water. Many argued that he should be returned to his province to stand trial, but the United Nations had refused, saying the corruption there ensured that he would be granted a swift acquittal.

They frog-marched him down the hall; one in front, one at his side, and two behind. The small entourage made their way down the darkened corridor and past several interior checkpoints. They reached the back door and an exit sign glowed red.

Dattar gave a glance at a camera placed high on the wall and waited as the lead guard reached out and pushed open the final door. No alarm sounded. Dattar sighed deeply as he stepped into the evening air.

The prison sat in a wooded area in Scheveningen, a suburb of The Hague and not far from the Grand Royal. They were in a small courtyard area, surrounded at the far end by a razor-wire–topped brick wall. The sharp blades glinted in the light thrown by the several large spotlights placed at the far corners of the rectangular area. Two guardhouses perched high in the corners as well. They were covered in satellite dishes and both had pedestal-mounted automatic weapons aimed at the interior. No one would simply walk out of the prison under normal circumstances.

They headed to the main exit, a silent entourage. There was a double-gated security system, with a chain link fence forming a concentric circle ten feet from the final brick wall. The chain link was also topped by razor wire. They reached the second to final exit, and the guard opened it. They hustled through this door and waited for the link gate to close. The double locking system ensured that one door would not open until the door behind it had closed and locked. Dattar heard the snap of the electronic deadbolt as it moved home. They paused in the small area for the lead man to tap in a code to the last and final exit lock, and Dattar was relieved to hear a series of clicks as the second door responded to the input.

The last step was to place him in the transport vehicle. The lead guard opened the panels and assisted him onto the benches. Once Dattar sat down, the guard attached leg chains bolted into the vehicle’s base to his ankles and arranged a second attachment to his wrists. When he was done he closed the doors. Dattar listened to the engine start and felt the truck begin to move. He smiled. They were headed to the airport for an early morning charter transport to England. Dattar sat back and waited, quiet and sweating. He wished he’d had a wristwatch to mark the time, but his had been confiscated when he was arrested. It seemed as though something had gone wrong because he felt time ticking away, and nothing was happening. The van bumped over a pothole and drove through the night.

The attack came, but almost twenty minutes later than the time for which Dattar had arranged it. He heard the driver yell and felt the lurch as the vehicle’s wheels were shot. He knew that the transport van likely had specialty run-flat tires and it kept moving. Not for long, Dattar thought.

He heard the sound of gunfire being exchanged and saw the flash of an explosive device. The driver fired back, and Dattar heard him yelling into a radio. Dattar did his best to bury his head into his shoulder and faced the wall. When they shot the rocket-propelled grenade at the cabin, he didn’t want the shrapnel to hit his eyes.

An explosion rocked the truck and the front of it burst into flames. Dattar choked in the smoke and waited, his eyes streaming. The armored vehicle was fashioned to withstand the initial blast of a rocket-propelled grenade without exploding into a thousand pieces, but no armored vehicle could take such a hit and remain unscathed. The side wall buckled inward and a gash appeared in the wall between the driver and the back. Smoke began pouring through the hole and Dattar knew it would overcome him soon if he didn’t get out. He heard the back panels being opened and cool air rushed into the cabin. His men entered, holding a large bolt cutter, and went to work on the chains.

His first man pulled him out of the back.

“You’re late,” Dattar said.

The man bobbed his head. “It’s true, but could not be helped. The first crew succumbed too quickly, and we were forced to stay and complete their mission as well as our own.” The man waved at two waiting Range Rovers then stepped back to allow Dattar to jog past him. They ran together to the cars. Dattar glanced back at the burning transport vehicle.

“We placed a timed explosive underneath it. It will soon be gone,” Dattar’s man said.

They reached the cars and Dattar grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the vehicle. Dattar was less than six feet tall and pushing fifty years old, but his stocky body held a lot of muscle. He easily slammed the smaller, thinner terrorist backward. He saw the man’s eyelids flutter as he flinched, and his head bounced off the car’s window.

“You completed nothing. I saw the television footage, where Smith was using his gun to shatter the windowpane. That footage was live. Jon Smith still breathes and I want to know why.”

“We need to go. The hotel crisis has focused the attention of the Dutch police, but not for long. They will be here soon.”

Dattar’s volcanic temper was legendary, and he gave it free rein. He still had the man by the throat. “Tell me why he lives.”

“Ali succumbed too early.” The man’s voice was strained and he spoke in a rush. “He was ill when he went in, swaying and sweating. He could barely hold his weapon. And there was a gun in Smith’s hand. We hadn’t counted on him reaching his weapon. He must have shot and killed Ali. Why does a medical doctor travel with a gun?”

Dattar let go of the man’s throat. “Smith is a member of the United States Army. He’s never far from his gun, as am I. Just be happy that I don’t have one now, because I’d use it to puncture your worthless hide. Is Rajiid at the rendezvous point?”

The man nodded.

Rohnen Rajiid was Dattar’s vice minister and a cousin. Dattar only employed family members or close relatives to act as cabinet members because all others not related by blood could be twisted or bribed. Many of these kin managed to be both incompetent and corrupt, but all knew better than to steal directly from Dattar.

Dattar crawled in the passenger side of the second car while his crew filled the lead and backup vehicles. They barreled out ahead, staying in formation. Dattar stared out the window. The failure to kill Smith was a problem, but not a dire one. They’d nearly cornered him once, and they would again.

Twenty minutes later they entered a quiet area outside of the airport where a second row of black SUVs idled. Dattar left his and entered the passenger side of another. Rajiid sat behind the wheel and nodded to Dattar before turning his attention to driving. Rajiid was a rare creature in Dattar’s world because he had no wife, no children, and cared for nothing. Dattar considered himself to be ruthless, but he often wondered if Rajiid had any heart at all. He was the perfect jihadist, had Dattar needed another one, but Dattar was not concerned with jihad, he was concerned with money.

“Did you bring the notebook?”

Rajiid nodded and handed Dattar a slim tablet computer. Dattar accessed the Internet, typed in his Swiss account’s user name and password, and hit the “accounts” link. Six numbered accounts lined up on the screen. Dattar highlighted one and arranged to transfer a portion of the funds to another bank account he maintained in the Netherlands. The words “Unable to Transfer” appeared. Dattar frowned. He clicked on the second Swiss account and attempted the same transaction. Once again, “Unable to Transfer” lit the screen. His heart started pounding and he began to shake with equal parts rage and disbelief along with a slight dusting of fear. His fingers shook with the newfound adrenaline flowing in his system. He clicked on the third, fourth, and fifth accounts; same result. He swallowed as his throat became dry. He worked on the sixth and final Swiss account. It, too, failed to function. He scoured the page to find a reason for the inability to transfer. At the upper right he saw a small envelope icon and a note that said “You have six urgent messages.” He clicked the link and read them all. All said the same thing, “This numbered account has been suspended in response to a suspicious activity report (SAR) filed by a member country of the United Nations. Its use is suspended until further notice.”

Dattar accessed his portfolio, the one that held over 200 million in currency and various forms of negotiable securities. This account was under a false name. As he had hoped, the account accepted his password and opened to a grid display that should have shown the value of every item within the account. Instead, it displayed zero. Dattar sat there, stunned. He’d taken great pains to hide his funds, moving the money from bank to bank within his own country, and then placing it in various offshore locations. He’d chosen the locations well, using only those countries that would not reveal the identity of the account holders, even if pressured by international authorities. He typed in the web address for a Cayman Islands bank that held a very small portion of his money. Once the account was open, he checked for messages. There were none. He initiated the same transfer. The tiny sand timer rotated while the page worked, and ten seconds later he received a confirmation that the transfer was complete. He flung the tablet against the windshield. It bounced back, clattered off the dashboard and fell on the hand rest between him and Rajiid.

“What’s wrong?” Rajiid said.

“The American froze my accounts and somehow moved the securities.”

Rajiid looked at Dattar in alarm. “All of them?”

“All six in Switzerland. There are three left in the Caymans, but they don’t hold much. The American must be stopped before those are located.”

“I thought you neutralized the American threat.”

“I thought so too. Give me the phone,” Dattar said.

Rajiid got a wary look on his face. “You shouldn’t use mine. It can be traced. What do you wish to know?”

“I wish to know why the American isn’t yet dead!” Dattar screamed the words at Rajiid, who blinked but didn’t remove his eyes from the road. They were on a highway, moving fast.