The Janus Reprisal (22 page)

S
MITH LEANED BACK
IN THE SEAT
while he caught his breath. He’d given the cabbie a random address in Harlem to buy some time and to get as far away from the scene as possible. Nolan was sitting at a twisted angle, keeping her body from the backrest. She kept her head down, and her hair obscured her face. In her hand was her tote bag. Nothing, it seemed, was bad enough to make her leave it behind.

“We need a place to land,” Smith said.

Nolan raised her head to look at him. The pain in her face was clear, even in the dark of the cab.

“A hotel?”

Smith shook his head. “No credit cards. Perhaps an SRO that takes cash.”

“Worried about being traced?”

Smith nodded.

She pulled out her computer.

“Keep it off,” Smith said.

“I just need one minute, no more.”

“Every minute it’s on, they can track us. I don’t need them to know which way we’re headed.”

“Then let’s pull over. It will be just a minute, I promise. When I turn it off he’ll drive on, and they won’t know where we went.”

Smith leaned forward to address the cabbie. “Can you pull over for a second? We need to do something.” The cabbie shrugged and pulled to the curb.

“One minute only,” Smith warned. She nodded, but kept her eyes on the tablet.

“No accessing bank accounts either. Whatever you’re doing, it has to be untraceable.”

“Don’t worry, it is. I’m accessing my kilodollars. They’re on the hard drive. I don’t even store them in the cloud. The only place they exist is on this computer.”

“Is that money?”

Nolan rocked her hand back and forth. “It’s a form of currency, yes, but a cybercurrency. No paper bills or gold or silver coins. I store the bits on my hard drive and can transfer them to any other person who will accept them as payment.”

Smith had never heard of such a thing. “Are they backed by any government?”

“No. A central computer located God knows where spits them out and scatters them across the net. You download and run a mining program that locates and collects them and offers them to you in an anonymous computer-generated transaction. Then you use them to pay for goods and services. The main computer controls how many are produced so that they can never be devalued.” Smith was having a hard time wrapping his head around the concept.

“So you don’t earn them or work for them? You just mine them from the Internet?”

Nolan nodded. “The same as if you would mine gold or diamonds.”

“Who accepts such a thing as payment for anything?” Smith said.

“Mostly people who want to remain anonymous. Because no central bank holds the funds the accounts can never be frozen, no one can garnish them, and the IRS can’t confiscate them.”

“So the primary use is for illegal transactions.”

Nolan shot him a glance. “That’s probably true, but isn’t that the same when one uses paper dollars? That’s anonymous as well, and cash is the favored currency used to purchase drugs.”

“How in the world did you learn about this?”

“It’s money.” She acted as though that was explanation enough.

“And you love money,” Smith said. He kept his voice light to avoid making his statement sound like an accusation.

“I love the
accumulation
of money. The math of it. The puzzle of how to arrange trades that result in a net win. It fascinates me. The kilodollars are just another form of it.”

Smith decided he didn’t need to understand the details right then; he just needed to be sure she logged off in ten seconds. He was relieved when she did, shutting down the computer. She leaned forward and gave the cabbie a new address north of Harlem. The cab pulled back into traffic and Smith watched behind them, searching for any possible tails.

“Where are we heading?” he said.

“To a house. It’s a private club that operates as a type of bed and breakfast, except that one rents the entire house. I paid for two nights.”

“In kilodollars.”

She nodded. “This owner accepts them on a website, and they’ll be transferred from there. The site is anonymous, so untraceable, and the money is as well.”

“But the transaction still left a footprint.”

She shrugged and then winced. “Yes, but a minor one. I first accessed an anonymous service that blocked my computer’s cookies, never mentioned the address of the house, nor did the owner. I’ve used it once before. Anyone tracking me won’t be able to determine where the house is located.”

Smith was impressed. “You don’t need a CIA safe house, you can arrange your own.”

She flashed him a small smile. “Only for two nights. Then we need to move on.”

Ten minutes later they pulled up to a square beige brick building on a quiet street as far north as one could go and still be in Manhattan. Smith paid the cabbie and joined her at the steel door. The structure was four stories high and had multiple, evenly spaced doorways along the sidewalk. Each doorway had a small red metal awning with white trim, some with rusted supports as an overhang, which gave the building an old-fashioned air of faded former glory. The window-unit air conditioners that protruded from the façade at various locations only added to the impression that the building had been constructed many decades ago, before the onset of central air. Nolan punched in a code for the second door in the row, and there was a buzzing sound as the lock disengaged.

They entered a narrow foyer that contained a bank of steel mailboxes attached to the wall on their left. In front was another door that separated a small lobby area. Nolan pressed a different code on a second keypad and again the door buzzed. The lobby had an aging marble floor in a white and black checkerboard pattern. A single elevator was on their right. It seemed like an afterthought added to a vintage building. In front of them was a narrow stairway. They hiked up stairs covered in industrial gray carpeting to the first landing, which contained two doors. The door on the left was also steel and had a small round peephole and a keypad in place of a deadbolt. Nolan punched in a code on the keypad and the clicking sound indicated that the door was unlocked.

The duplex’s configuration was a shotgun, with a foyer, living room, and kitchen in the back and a narrow stairway on the right that led to a second level. The wood floors gleamed, and a piece of modern art hung above a fireplace on the living room far wall. The disparity between the interior of the apartment and the exterior was marked. Nolan waved him to the stairwell that led to the second floor. At the bottom of the stairs she paused.

“What’s wrong?” Smith said.

“I don’t know if I can climb them. It was different when we were running away. I didn’t really feel it so acutely then. But now, the pain might be too much.”

“Would you like me to carry you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe just lend your arm.”

He did, and she mounted up the first step, hissing through her teeth in pain. Despite it, she continued and gave a sigh of relief at the top.

“The master’s to the right,” she said.

He escorted her into a fairly large master bedroom with a king-size bed and a dark dresser against one wall. A flat-screen television rested on a console, and nightstands on either side of the bed held reading lamps. She waved him to a door next to the closet that led to the master bath.

The bathroom was spacious. Smith opened a cabinet and found a hair dryer, toiletries, and, most important, a box containing first aid items.

“I’m glad to see these. I’d just purchased some before I found you. They’re currently resting under a bush near that building,” Smith said.

Nolan shivered. “I never want to see that building again.”

“Looks like I’ve managed to ruin the shirt you gave me.” Smith turned to show her his left sleeve. She gasped.

“Is that a fresh wound?”

He nodded. “Yes. Who first?” Smith held up the alcohol swabs.

“I wasn’t shot. You first,” Nolan said.

“Could you do the honors once more?”

He unbuttoned the shirt and peeled it off, taking care not to yank at the fabric that was stuck to the wound with dried blood. She opened an alcohol swab and wiped it down. Now it was his turn to hiss in pain. She rooted around in the first aid box.

“No tweezers.”

“I don’t think the bullet embedded. It’s a graze wound only.”

“Ah, good, because I honestly don’t think I could do that again.” She wrapped the second injury in gauze and used some white tape to secure it. She twisted a bit to put the tape back and groaned. Her face turned white. He put a hand lightly on her arm.

“Let me see your back.”

“I don’t think I can take off the sweater. If I lift my arms would you take it off?”

He nodded. She lifted her arms and he pulled the sweater up and over, taking care not to let it scrape against her back or sides. She was wearing a raspberry-colored bra of mesh fabric that left nothing to the imagination, but though Smith noticed, he was more concerned about what he’d see when she turned around.

She pivoted and he gaped at her back. Huge red welts in straight lines bisected her from side to side. One had split open and oozed blood. More blood ran in a thin line from the steel hook and eye fastener of her bra. Her entire back was swollen and purpling from severe bruising, and he could see where the rod had hit her vertebrae. Smith felt his anger rise. He swallowed it and focused on the spine.

“I’m going to run my hands along your vertebrae—”

“I don’t think I can take that,” she said.

“Very lightly. I just want to see if they chipped one.”

“Okay,” she said.

He carefully ran his hands down her spine. She made no sound, but at one point jerked away from him. He was relieved to see that her bones seemed intact. A crushed vertebra would have consigned her to a lifetime of pain.

“I don’t think they broke anything.” He fished through the first aid box.

“What are you looking for?” she said.

“Some sort of salve, or antibiotic ointment. One of the welts is open.” He found an antibiotic gel. He first swabbed the cut with an alcohol wipe and then dabbed on the antibiotic. When he was finished, he put a large bandage on it, taking care to attach the adhesive edges with a light touch.

She turned. Her eyes were large and held a sad look. He wanted to comfort her somehow. He put his palms on either side of her face and kissed her lightly on the lips. He pulled away but kept his palms on her face.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to find you before they did that,” he said.

“You were right,” she said.

“About what?”

“What you said at the office. I wasn’t prepared for them to kill anyone, and I’m not prepared for this level of viciousness. Any of it. I can’t imagine how I thought I would be. Arrogance, I suppose. Once they have their money, they’ll kill me without a thought.”

He shook his head. “I won’t let them kill you.” Her sad expression shifted and a glint of light and hope returned to her eyes.

“I believe you,” she said.

“So you now think I’m one of the good guys?” He smiled at her.

“After what you just did for me in that building, I’d be crazy to think anything else.”

She reached up and pulled him back toward her. This kiss was different. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and he felt his body start to hum. She stepped into him and flattened her breasts on his naked chest. The image of her in the red bra rose in his mind. He put a hand on her through the sheer material. He reached an arm around to draw her closer and remembered her injury right before he touched her back. Instead he lowered his hands, grabbed her hips and pressed her into him. She moved in tight and rotated against him. After a moment he lifted his head.

“I don’t think you should be on your back,” he said.
But God, I wish you were
. She looked at him and the light in her eyes had been replaced with intensity. A bit of humor crept into them.

“I don’t think you should hold yourself up with your arms,” she said. She rose on tiptoe, sliding her body along his and kissing him again. “I have an idea that might work.”

R
USSELL WOKE UP AND FELT DANGER
. Her nerve endings prickled with it. The hospital room remained dark and the sounds of the city were muted. She shifted and was heartened to note that she felt slightly better, but the feeling of menace was palpable. She glanced around the room, but nothing seemed out of place. The tray holding the cup with the ice cubes remained by her bed, the IV needle still dug into her hand, and the faucet at the bathroom sink still dripped.

She reached out to the cup and shook an ice chip into her mouth. That’s when she heard it. A footfall. Stealthy. In the hall.

“Sir, who are you? This is an isolation floor.” The nurse’s voice rang out. Russell didn’t think. She pulled the needle out of her hand, wincing at the welling blood, flung the bedclothes away and rolled off the bed on the side away from the door. What she didn’t count on was that her legs wouldn’t support her. They collapsed and she hit the linoleum, hard. She lay flat and shifted under the bed. Not hard to do as the bed frame was elevated two feet off the floor. If it wasn’t dark in the room, any intruder would easily have seen her.

A pair of men’s wingtips appeared in the doorway and took one step into the room. Russell held her breath, waiting.

“Sir,” she heard the nurse say again, this time close. Russell watched the shoes turn as the intruder walked out. He paused in the entrance before carefully stepping left, out of Russell’s vision. Russell put her cheek against the linoleum and rested there. She didn’t think she had the energy to move just yet.

She heard the man’s shoes as he went down the hall and the murmuring of voices. After a moment the floor went silent once again. The muted sounds of the city and the dripping bathroom sink returned to her consciousness. There was a pinging sound as the elevator doors opened.

Russell saw a pair of feet encased in women’s running shoes step into the entrance.

“Ms. Russell?” Wendel said. Russell was relieved to hear her voice.

“Under here,” Russell replied. Wendel crouched down and peered under the bed. She wore a mask on her face to filter out bacteria. Russell inhaled deeply and almost instantly regretted it. The floor stank of antiseptic and dust.

“What are you doing under there?” Wendel said.

Russell rolled back the other way and sat up. Her eyes started to go black and dots appeared. She felt rather than saw Wendel brace her.

“I heard someone lurking outside the room and dropped and rolled to hide. Instinct, I guess. Why are you here?” Russell said.

“Thank God for your instincts. We need to get out of here. Now,” Wendel said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Your friend Marty says that the CIA mole is feeding information on Smith and Nolan to a prepaid phone that he then tracked here. He called me at the New York office, and I rushed over as soon as he did.”

Russell wished she could have seen the face of the owner of the wingtips. When she found out who the mole was, she was going to ensure that he or she never saw the outside of a prison again.

“Please go talk to the nurse. Get a description of the man in wingtips. See if he signed in on the floor.”

Wendel nodded. “Can you sit without my help?”

Russell leaned back against the bed frame. “Yes.” Wendel left. After a couple of minutes, she was back.

“There is no nurse. And the last person who signed in was over four hours ago.”

“There was a nurse only a few minutes ago. She confronted the man.”

“Well, there’s no one now. Perhaps she went to the coffee room or to get something.”

Or perhaps the man silenced her.
Russell shook off the thought. There would be no reason to bother with the nurse. The man hadn’t signed in, and the hospital didn’t have cameras on the floor. He wouldn’t be at risk of discovery.

“What does Marty have to say about the time delay?”

“The proprietary system is absolutely being tampered with from the inside. He also says that the mole may be onto the fact that you’re suspicious because he tried to counter some of Marty’s probes.” Wendel waved a hand in the air. “I don’t understand the details, but Marty was using your passcode to gain inside access and another person started cyberstalking him.” Wendel inhaled. “And that’s not all.” Russell’s eyes cleared and she was heartened to notice that she felt better once
sitting
.

“There’s more?” Russell said.

Wendel nodded. “Your tests came back positive for a respiratory virus related to the avian strain.” Russell hated that, but felt a resignation flow over her.

“I can’t say that I’m surprised. Can this one be treated?”

Wendel shook her head.

“What’s the fatality rate?”

Wendel clamped her lips shut.

“That good, huh?” Russell said. “How contagious am I?”

“It’s not easily transmitted human-to-human, but if it is, they say two to five days, depending on the person. Your doctor seems to think that you’re no longer contagious.”

Russell sighed. “How long have I been here?”

“Thirty-six hours.”

“You should leave.”

Wendel shook her head. “I’m not worried about catching it.”

“You should be. The doctor could be wrong. Especially if I have the mutated version.”

“You don’t.”

Russell paused. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t. It’s a variant, but not mutated.”

Russell almost sagged in relief. Misplaced relief, she knew, because traditional bird flu was deadly enough, but she would have felt worse if she knew that she had been Patient Number One for a deadly mutated virus.

“I think it has something to do with Dattar. All of it. I think he had someone infect you. Maybe this mole,” Wendel said.

Russell nodded. Wendel had finally put into words what Russell had feared since the moment she became ill. She gave a weak wave in the general direction of the metal locker across the room that acted as a closet.

“I’ll need my clothes and phone.”

Wendel nodded and glanced at her watch. “If the night nurse had been here, she would be scheduled to take a fifteen-minute break in two minutes. The second nurse will begin her rounds at the same time. That will last twenty and the main desk will be empty.” She left Russell’s line of sight. Seconds later Russell heard the locker door creak open. She clutched the top of the mattress and used it to pull herself upright, turned and sat on the edge of the bed. Wendel handed her the phone and placed the clothes next to her. Russell reached for them, but the idea of putting them on felt overwhelming.

“Can you help? I’m ridiculously weak.”

Wendel braced her as she dressed.

“Are there any medications you want to bring?” Wendel asked.

“They’ve had me on a saline drip. Nothing else.”

Wendel looked at her watch. “Wait here.” She went to the doorway and peered around the corner. She spun and came back to Russell. “It’s clear.” Russell wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I don’t think the elevators are safe. They all open onto the main floor facing a security station on the lower level.”

“There’s a stairwell to the left. I’m not sure where it leads,” Russell said. Wendel only nodded and helped Russell to stand. Her legs held and they started toward the door, moving in tandem. Russell leaned on Wendel, taking advantage of her strength. She didn’t want to waste all her energy walking on her own when she knew a long series of stairs still lay ahead of her. The only sound in the empty hall was the murmuring of a television, volume set low, somewhere to her right. To her left an overhead sign glowed red with the word “stairs.” Russell turned that way and was glad to feel the adrenaline begin to percolate in her system. It gave her a boost. They hit the door and pushed it open.

The interior stairwell consisted of metal and cement. The door closed and Russell saw the number four painted in navy block lettering on the back. The idea of walking down four flights made Russell want to groan, but she shoved the thought aside. She was about to start down when she heard a scrape from somewhere below. Wendel must have heard it too, because Russell felt the woman’s muscles freeze. Russell jerked her head toward the door. Wendel nodded, and they reversed. Russell opened the door with a gentle push and they were back through it and once again in the ICU hallway.

“Elevator to second floor. Stairs from there,” Russell said in a whisper. Wendel didn’t reply but started to the elevator bank. Russell pushed faster. Once inside the lift she leaned against the wall while it lowered to the second floor.

“If there’s a nurse let me take the lead,” Russell said. She waved Wendel off in favor of walking on her own. The doors whisked open and they stepped into a hall that matched the one they’d just left. Rooms stretched on either side and a nurse stood behind a tall counter operating a copy machine. She glanced up, took in Wendel and gave a slight frown when she looked at Russell.

“May I help you?” she said.

Russell nodded. “I’m a patient. I have a friend who wants to see Susan.” Russell indicated Wendel. “But she leaves for Europe tomorrow early and this is our only chance. It’s just down the hall, room 234. Do you mind?”

The nurse looked about to protest. “Mr. Skorich? He’s asleep.”

“I’ll just have a quick look. I promise to leave if he’s asleep,” Wendel said. A phone on a nearby desk rang. Hallelujah, Russell thought.

“Please be quick about it,” the nurse said. “The time for visitors is long past.” She turned her attention to the phone. Russell did her best to stand straight and tall as she walked down the hall. Her eyes locked on the sign for the stairs and she focused on reaching them. Wendel stayed close and pushed open the door, holding it for Russell. The minute they were through Russell wrapped her arm around Wendel’s shoulder.

“Go,” she said.

They started down, moving fast. Their feet rang on the metal stairs and the sound echoed through the stairwell. Within seconds they heard another set of footsteps running down the stairs from above.

“Faster,” Russell said. She was sweating and she began to get dizzy. “Do you have a weapon?”

“A knife. At my calf.” Not the worst weapon, and it had the advantage of silence, but if whoever was lurking in the stairwell was CIA, he’d likely have a gun with a suppressor. A quiet and efficient weapon. They reached the bottom and pushed through the door to the parking garage. A sedan that Russell recognized as a company car sat parked in a handicapped spot.

“It’s mine. Let’s go,” Wendel said. Russell got up and staggered a bit toward the driver’s side, but she made it there without passing out. She glanced at the parking garage exit. So far, no one burst through. Hauling open the car’s heavy door was about as much as Russell could manage.

“There are guns are in the trunk,” Wendel said.

“Excellent. Run. Get out of here. Go back to DC. I’ll handle this and will call you. I don’t want you involved in this any more than necessary.”

Wendel nodded and sprinted away. Russell fell into the seat and slammed the door behind her. She drove out of the parking garage and onto the street, where she accelerated at every opportunity, all the while watching the sideview mirror. While it appeared as though no one was tailing her, she wasn’t reassured. She picked up her phone and stared at it, wondering if she should risk using it. After a moment she decided that she needed Klein’s help badly enough to give it a try. Russell powered it up and dialed Klein. The Covert-One director answered on the first ring.

“We’ve got a mole in the CIA,” Russell said.

“A situation that appears to be depressingly familiar, Ms. Russell.”

“Whoever it is, they’re after Smith and Nolan and transmitting their location to an unknown assailant. Dattar is in this up to his eyeballs, I can just feel it. And you can bet that he has those coolers. Smith was right.”

“That’s a lot of speculation. But if even a portion is correct, the CIA can’t be allowed to take the lead on the search for them. The mole could undermine each move.”

“What if they’re here? On US soil? The CIA has no jurisdiction over the investigation then. It has to go to the Department of Homeland Security and FBI. CIA, and its mole, won’t know about it.”

“You’ve been overseas for a while. The DHS and FBI are now supposed to receive and exchange intelligence with the CIA when it’s required to assist in a national matter.”

“Okay, and then the NYPD is out as well. Since 9/11, the NYPD has deployed an intelligence-gathering unit. Its head is a CIA officer on loan named Harcourt. I presume he’ll be kept in the loop with the other agencies.”

“Are you telling me that the CIA and NYPD are acting in concert on US soil?”

“I am,” Russell said.

“That’s perilously close to domestic spying, which is illegal,” Klein said.

“And Covert-One? What are the rules between that organization and the others?”

Klein paused. Russell waited.

“Covert-One is autonomous.” Klein’s comment supported what Russell had thought since learning of Covert-One. The idea that Klein headed a covert operation completely free of organizational requirements and reporting duties was astonishing. However, it was just what Russell wanted to hear because she needed to operate free of the CIA.

“I want to bring in Beckmann,” she said.

“No others.”

“Hear me out. With Beckmann, Howell, and Smith all bases are covered. I know about the inner workings of the CIA, Smith knows about bacteria, Howell knows about staying alive.”

“And this Beckmann?”

“Beckmann knows how to skirt the edges and get results.”

Klein was quiet on the other end of the line, and Russell bit her tongue while she allowed him to ponder her request.

“I haven’t met this Beckmann, but Smith has. If he agrees, then Beckmann can be brought in. If not, he can’t.”

Russell breathed a sigh of relief. She was halfway home with her plan.

“I’ll be sure to keep Smith informed. If he says no, then Beckmann’s out, no questions asked.” She took a deep breath. “I was hoping for one more favor.”

“What do you need?”

“A steady stream of information from the DHS and the FBI in real time, not in weekly reports. Whatever they know I want access to.”