The Janus Reprisal (6 page)

“Would you recognize him if you saw him? Or should I send a photo to Beckmann’s phone?”

“I know Dattar very, very well. I assisted with a UN contingent of doctors to contain the cholera outbreak in the Pakistani region that he controls. He initially refused to allow treatment for anyone that he deemed an enemy. That included infants and small children. I persuaded him otherwise.” Russell was intrigued. Few people were capable of persuading Dattar to do anything he didn’t want to do.

“Persuaded him? How?”

“A gun, a rotavirus, and duct tape were involved. I’ll give you the whole story sometime. He hates me and promised retribution. You can believe that if I see him I’ll do my best to detain him.”

“But try not to risk blowing Beckmann’s cover. Just keep Dattar in your sights and transmit any coordinates to me. I’ll arrange for the local authorities to handle the recapture.”

“I assume a red notice went out?”

“Any minute now.” Wendel stuck her head through the conference room door and waved a hand at Russell.

“Hold on.” Russell put her hand over the mouthpiece. “News?”

Wendel nodded. “Two more bombs. One took out a famous restaurant near the city center, and a second at the train station.”

Russell pointed to the map on the screen. “Can you switch that up to show them?”

“Of course.” Wendel tapped on the computer keyboard and Russell’s prior photo of the Rotterdam port was replaced with a detailed map of The Hague. She highlighted two areas.

“Can you send that screen shot to Beckmann’s phone?”

Wendel punched a few more keys and the image was copied and sent.

“I’m afraid there’s more news.” Russell spoke into the phone. “Two more bombs just exploded. One downtown and the other at the train station. I’m sending a map with the locations to you now.”

“Dattar’s got to be involved in this attack,” Smith said.

“I agree. Watch your backs, both of you. He’s not to be messed with. He’s lethal.”

“The next time I get him in my sights, he’s going to wish he’d never been born. I’m out.”

Smith hung up.

S
MITH CRAWLED INTO THE
passenger seat of the vehicle that Beckmann had managed to start. It was a black Lincoln town car complete with consular plates. The leather seats were remarkably plush and comfortable, and Smith felt his body ease into them.

“Let’s see which ambassador’s car you managed to steal.” He fished in the glove compartment while Beckmann maneuvered onto the road. He pulled out a slim leather document holder that contained several folded pieces of paper.

“With any luck it will be the US envoy to the Netherlands,” Beckmann said. “Then it won’t be theft. Merely borrowing.”

Smith opened the papers. “Drive carefully, it’s owned by North Korea. We get stopped driving a stolen North Korean diplomat’s car and we’ll spark an international incident.”

“That explains it,” Beckmann said.

“Explains what?”

“The poor maneuverability. This car must be armored. No North Korean diplomat would settle for less.”

“Armored. I like that. Just what we need tonight,” Smith said. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen. Klein was calling.

When he answered, he heard Klein say, “You’re alive! Excellent.”

“I’m in a stolen North Korean ambassador’s car with an officer of the CIA.” When Klein didn’t respond immediately, Smith said, “Are you there?”

“Yes. I was just considering the implications of that sentence. All I can say is that I’m extremely pleased that you survived, and I have orders. It appears as though the terrorists may be in search of some of the biomaterial and a research report that your fellow scientists brought to the conference. In particular, bacteria stored in the hotel’s safe.” Smith glanced at Beckmann, who seemed focused on driving. Even so, Smith took care with his response.

“Not anymore. I saw them remove three coolers of biomaterial. I didn’t see any research papers, but they could have found them, stuffed them under their shirts or in a backpack and I wouldn’t have been the wiser. I checked the safe after they’d left, and only jewelry remained. No reports either. What’s in those containers?”

“Various bacteria. Some recently discovered and all antibiotic resistant, as well as a version of H5N1.”

“Avian flu,” Smith said. “That’s a nasty virus with a terrible survival rate, to be sure, but bird flu is not easily transmissible from human to human. Most often bird to human and then in very unique circumstances.”

“But we just learned some alarming news. A group of scientists in the Netherlands have managed to mutate H5N1 so that it
is
airborne transmissible, and they acknowledged that one of the attending scientists at the convention was going to make an announcement about the research. They’re concerned that he brought the mutated version with him.”

“Where is this scientist?”

“He was staying on the fourth floor. They just found his body.”

“And the research?”

“His thesis and report were also in the safe.”

“What kind of scientist deliberately mutates a virus and then carries a report on it around on his person?”

That got Beckmann’s attention. He glanced at Smith with a frown on his face and then swore in German under his breath.

“A scientist searching for fame,” Klein said. “I have a question for you. What are the rules for carrying around hazardous biomaterial? Doesn’t it have to be locked down in a lab?”

“There are a lot of workplace safety rules for employees that handle the material, but surprisingly few rules regarding security. Avian flu, the nonmutated version, only needs to be kept locked because it’s not easily transmitted. The hotel safe would suffice.”

“And if it’s mutated?”

“Perhaps then it would be considered biosafety-level 4 and the rules would be much stricter, but it’s not easy to mutate a virus,” Smith said. “If what they say is correct and if they have the nonmutated version in the cooler, it will take some work to alter it, even with a road map provided by the scientist. That should buy us some time,” Smith said.

“Let’s just hope it’s enough. We have to reacquire those coolers just to be sure that the virus isn’t the mutated version. I’d love to get our hands on the research papers as well, but I suspect they’re copying them as we speak. Unless we can find them quickly. Now, while they’re still on the run. Any idea where that crew was headed?”

“I lost sight of them the minute they ran out of the hotel. Randi
Russell
asked that we go to the train station. Oman Dattar escaped from prison, and apparently the thought is that he will attempt to flee by train. I’m accompanying one of her officers there. I told her and I’ll tell you that I think Dattar is involved in some way. It’s no coincidence that he managed to escape on the same night as a deadly attack.”

“I agree, but my primary concern is the coolers.”

“If we find Dattar, I’ll lay odds that we’ll find the bacteria. If not on his person, then I’ll beat the location out of him.”

“While you’re searching, can you find a scanner and input those photos? E-mail them to me? I want to start some inquiries. Perhaps the woman is a scientist at the convention.”

Beckmann pointed through the windshield at a man dressed in black who was staggering down the street. He passed under a streetlight and Smith could see a sheen of sweat on his face.

“That’s one of them,” Beckmann said. He reached between them where his rifle was propped with its muzzle in the foot well and its stock on the edge of the seat. Smith reached under his jacket and pulled out his gun.

“I’ve got to go. We’ve just spotted one of the attackers. We’ll grab him and shake some answers out of him.”

“Call me the minute you have some,” Klein said and clicked off. Beckmann pulled the car even with the stumbling man.

“He looks drunk,” he said.

“Pull ahead and then stop. Keep the engine running. I’ll corral him.”

Beckmann shook his head. “My orders were to protect you, not allow you to get yourself killed in a scuffle with a jihadist. I’ll go.” But Smith already had the door open. The overhead light turned on, illuminating the car’s interior. Smith slipped out quickly, closing the door.

The cool night air felt bracing. He crossed between two parked cars onto the sidewalk and began to stroll toward the attacker, holding his gun down by his thigh and out of sight. They were twenty feet apart, and Smith was closing the distance fast, keeping his strides slow. The attacker continued his swaying, stumbling progress with his head down, watching the sidewalk, his entire concentration on each step. At ten feet apart Smith could see that the man was seriously ill. Smith closed the distance quickly, grabbing the man’s arm just as he crumpled, and lowered him to the ground. Beckmann jogged up and crouched down.

“He’s been shot?” he said.

Smith ran his hands over the man’s jacket, feeling the lump of a weapon in his right pocket. He reached in and removed a 9 mm gun. He handed it to Beckmann, who pocketed it. The man’s breath was rasping in and out and his eyelids fluttered. Each time they opened, Smith could see that his pupils were rolled back. Smith continued his search for a wound, finding none.

“Help me lift him. I want to check his back.”

Beckmann put his rifle on the ground and assisted in lifting the man from the pavement and turning him to the side. He held him while Smith ran his hands over his back.

“Nothing. But we need to get him to a hospital fast or he’s not going to make it.”

Beckmann laid the attacker back down. The man gave a last gasp, then stilled. His head lolled to the side.

“Damn,” Smith said.

Beckmann made an irritated sound. “There goes our chance at interrogation.”

“Two others at the hotel died just the same way.”

“Cyanide?” Beckmann said.

“No. I checked. I’d like to get an autopsy done. Perhaps we can find out what’s going on here.” Beckmann pulled out his phone and sent a text.

“I asked for a team to come collect the body and deliver it to the Dutch authorities. They’re on their way, but I think we should continue to the train station. Let me take some photos.” Smith moved away while Beckmann took several shots. “Done.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket. “Do we leave the weapon? Sig Sauers are my favorite. Not flashy, but solid.” Smith cocked his head.

“I like them too, but if he fired it, it could be traced. You sure you want to keep it?”

“I’m lacking a pistol. I think we take it. Just in case.”

They returned to the car, which was double-parked with its emergency lights flashing. Smith slid into the driver’s seat and was struck once again by the car’s comfort. His eyes felt grainy and his body seemed to deflate in exhaustion.

“What time is it?” he said.

“Five
AM
. Tired?”

“You have no idea.”

Beckmann nodded. “There’s a safe house two blocks from here. I’ll direct you there. Go get some rest.”

Smith sat up. “Not on your life. If Dattar shows at that train station, he’ll have to deal with me. Again.”

“I sincerely doubt Dattar will show. He’s on his way to Rotterdam. To the ports.”

Smith paused. “Russell think that too?”

Beckmann nodded. “She sent me a text. Said she’d deploy us there if she thought we had a chance to intercept him.”

“So he gets away because we haven’t enough people available to stop him,” Smith said.

Beckmann sighed. “It’s frustrating. But it won’t be our last opportunity. He may not use the station, but his operatives will. The one we just found was probably on his way there. Let’s find another and beat some intelligence out of him. Then we go hunt for Dattar.”

“I’ll drop you at the station and keep the car. You won’t need it there.”

Beckmann gave Smith a look full of suspicion. “What do you need the car for?”

“To drive it to Rotterdam port.”

Beckmann raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll be able to find Dattar? Where do you expect to look?”

“Wherever contraband is sold. He has a shipping company called Karachi Naman Shipping. When I worked there on the cholera outbreak, WHO had used the company to ship medical supplies. Supplies that never got there. Dattar diverted and sold them to India.”

“I thought India and Pakistan hated each other.”

“Dattar would trade with the devil if he thought it would bring him more money or more power.”

Smith typed on his smartphone, tapping in a search for the company name and a possible address for shipping activities out of Rotterdam. He scrolled through several results, but most contained nothing more than the address for the parent company in Pakistan. Frustrated, he quit the application.

“Forget the port,” Beckmann said. “Russell’s right, you’ll never find him in that vast place. Come with me to the train station. I could use the extra hands.”

Beckmann had a point. They had a better chance locating one of Dattar’s minions doing his best to flee the country and prying the information out of him. Smith started the car and headed down the street.

“You can guide me there?”

Beckmann reached out and tapped on the built-in GPS on the dash and within seconds a breathy female voice began giving them instructions in Korean. Beckmann fiddled a bit, but only managed to turn up the volume.

“Sorry, can’t get it to switch languages,” he said. He peered at the map displayed on the small screen. “Right turn ahead.”

Twenty minutes later they approached the train station. Smith entered a no-parking zone and cut the engine. Several police cars idled in front, and he counted at least twenty officers, most in riot gear, stationed at various entry points. They gazed at each person who walked toward the building. Smith watched one officer hold out a hand to a swarthy complexioned young man with a black backpack slung over one shoulder. The young man lowered the pack to the ground and unzipped it. He opened the sack and tilted it so that the policeman could see the contents. With a curt nod, the officer allowed the man to continue into the building.

“He should be stopping them a hell of a lot farther away. If that pack had contained a bomb, it would have taken out the front entrance,” Beckmann said.

Smith swept his eyes over the area, getting the lay of the land and counting security and riot control personnel. He shifted the car into gear and pulled from the spot.

“Let’s head to the rear. This much heat almost guarantees that these guys aren’t going to waltz into the front door.” He drove around the building, pulling the vehicle close to its far end. Steel tracks snaked in all directions. Smith watched as a train car appeared, slowly making its way out of the railway terminal. A lone officer stood at the corner, keeping vigil. He eyed the town car with great interest.

“Keep moving. That guy is looking like he wants to stop us,” Beckmann said.

He kept going, driving past the officer, whose head moved in tandem with them as they passed, and turned onto a narrow cobblestone lane. Parked cars lined the road, one set of wheels on the sidewalk, the other on the street, their mirrors folded. Even so, the sedan was a tight fit. Smith kept his eyes in front of him, keeping the car in the center with a few feet of clearance on each side.

Two masked men burst around the corner. They ran flat-out, their arms pumping, pistols in their hands flashing; the lead man had a backpack that banged against his shoulder blades with each footfall.

“I’m on it.” Beckmann rolled out the passenger door, smacking it against a metal mesh garbage can before slamming it closed. He raised his rifle in a fluid motion and squeezed off a shot, hitting the following man in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the right. The terrorist stumbled and went down between two vehicles, dropping out of Smith’s sight.

The lead man didn’t hesitate or even flinch at the sound of the gunshot. He sprinted straight at the car, never slowing. Smith kept the car moving as well. They were ten feet apart and on a collision course when the attacker’s legs crumpled. One second he was standing, the next he wasn’t. He smacked, face first, onto the stones and lay in the harsh pool of light thrown by the town car’s headlamps. Smith hit the brakes, skidding to within two feet of the fallen man. He threw the transmission into park and watched as Beckmann flitted past, running toward the man he’d shot and ignoring the body on the ground.