The Janus Reprisal (24 page)

W
ENDEL DROVE INTO THE
parking lot near CIA headquarters, killed the engine, and sat back with a sigh. She’d driven through the night, gone to her house for a short nap, and come straight to the office. She collected her things, along with her keycard and a briefcase, and headed inside. Marty was due to call in thirty minutes. He needed her help from within the compound in order to continue his search for the mole. Russell had given him her password and access codes, but now that the stalker had found him through that patch, he wanted hers as a new entry point. He also wanted both women’s computers turned on so that he could delve deeper.

The building was beginning to bustle in the morning. She passed through the security checkpoints in a tired daze. She made her way to her office, keeping her face neutral for the benefit of the security cameras that lined the halls. Inside, though, she was shaking. Turning on the computer was of minor assistance, but if the agency discovered that she’d helped an outsider to breach their network, she’d be charged with aiding and abetting treason. Yet she knew that it was necessary. The delayed transmissions had nearly killed Jordan and were compromising God knows how many other missions. Her office was past Russell’s. As she got nearer to Russell’s office, she saw that the door was closed, which was odd. She was almost sure it had been open when she’d last seen it. She slowed, not sure that she wanted to confront whoever was in the office. She knocked once and opened the door.

Steve Harcourt sat in Russell’s chair and George Cromwell sat opposite. Harcourt was typing on the computer keyboard, but paused when he saw Wendel.

“We’ve been preparing to speak to you, Ms. Wendel,” Cromwell said. Wendel’s already sick stomach gave a wrench that made her want to bend over in pain. Instead she took a deep breath and stood straighter.

“Why is that, sir?”

Cromwell gave her a grave look. “Someone’s accessing the CIA database from the outside. They’re using Russell’s passcode. We’re not sure how much damage was done as yet. Luckily her computer is offline, and the IT specialist says that unless it’s open there are only a few areas that can be accessed from outside, even with the passcode. We’re monitoring the threat. Letting him use the code for the moment. Trying to trace the hacker back to the source.”

Wendel’s mouth was dry. She managed a nod but didn’t trust herself to speak. Harcourt stood, and she looked across the desktop at him.

“We just called the hospital and were told that she was gone. The night nurses described the woman who was with her and the sign-in sheet. Your name was on the sign-in sheet. Then we had hospital security check the security camera feed. You were seen smoking outside when Russell’s asset, Jon Smith, appeared and spoke to you, and later you were found on the parking lot security tape with Russell.”

Wendel swallowed, which was of little use to her parched throat. Her hands were shaking, but she clasped them in front of her to control them.

“I understood from Ms. Russell that Smith was assisting in this investigation.”

Harcourt nodded. “She suggested that he be involved in the investigation early on and agreed to manage him. Why were you at the hospital?”

“I was with Ms. Russell.”

Cromwell pointed to an empty chair. “Perhaps you should tell us everything you know. In particular, we want to hear everything you know about Smith. He’s been implicated in one shooting at an office building in New York and another at an empty construction site where a body was found.”

Wendel had no trouble looking shocked at this statement. She knew so little about Smith, but watching him hang from the wall of the hotel during the attack and then his instant grasp of the technology breach along with his access to a man with Marty’s talents left her with little doubt that he was capable of protecting himself. One only had to speak to the man for a few minutes to tell that his survival skills far surpassed those of most civilians. Whether or not he was truly on the right side of things was something that Wendel couldn’t know. All she had to rely on were her instincts and Russell’s confidence in him.

“I’m sure he had nothing to do with that, sir.”

“Just tell us what he said to you,” Harcourt’s voice was harsh.

Wendel sank into the empty chair. Her mind raced with possible explanations for her conversation with Smith, but she decided to stick as close to the truth as possible. Russell had already coached her on what to say if Marty’s activities were discovered. She was to be forthcoming and lay it all on Russell.

“Ms. Russell asked that I speak with him. She had concerns about the CIA.”

Cromwell leaned forward. “What type of concerns?”

Both men stared at her. Wendel hesitated. Even with Russell’s insistence on taking the blame, fingering Russell felt as though Wendel were throwing her under the bus. She swallowed again and then plunged on.

“She thought there was a mole. On the inside. Feeding information to the outside.” Harcourt and Cromwell exchanged glances.

“Did she say who?” Cromwell said.

Wendel shook her head.

Harcourt snorted. “Well, it’s her passcode that’s compromised. I’d say she’s the mole. And I don’t like that Smith is receiving information from her. He’s supposed to be an asset, not a confidant. What is she thinking?”

Cromwell nodded. “So much for bringing in field officers. Clearly she’s gone rogue and he’s assisting her.” He stood. “We need to bring them both in.”

“I suggest that we use the FBI for this one. Send out a bulletin. The New York City police are already looking to speak with him about the Landon Investments killing, but Russell managed to back them down.”

Cromwell looked surprised. “She did? How?”

Harcourt frowned. “I’m sorry to say that she asked me to call one of my contacts on the force and get him to sit on the Smith connection for a little while. Refocus their attention away from him. She said she needed Smith’s expertise to assist in the search for Dattar and the coolers.” Harcourt held out his hands, palms up, and a contrite look passed over his face. “I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

Cromwell waved him off. “You acted appropriately. Nothing wrong with assisting another officer and Smith was her asset to manage. Call the FBI. Get them on it now. I want Russell found, and I want Smith dragged off the street.”

“Unharmed?”

Cromwell got a pensive look on his face. “Her, absolutely. Him? I’d like to bring him here and get some answers, but they should know that he’s armed and dangerous and if he puts up a fight then they should use their own judgment. If he responds with deadly force, they shouldn’t hesitate to do the same.” Wendel did her best not to gasp out loud. Harcourt reached over and shut off Russell’s computer.

“I’ll be sure to have this office sealed and let the IT department track the hacker for a little longer before inactivating her passcode.” Cromwell walked to the open door.

“Ms. Wendel, come with us. I’d like you to prepare a formal statement for inclusion in the file.” Cromwell stood at the door and indicated that she should precede him out. She gave one glance to the darkened computer and left.

M
ANHAR WATCHED DATTAR’S
limousine pull into the gated drive of a house in Long Island. True to their word, Howell and Beckmann had let him go, and he had spent the first few hours holed up next to Khalil’s base camp. He’d been unable to decide what to do. To return home without having accomplished his goal meant death; that was certain. To admit failure to Khalil meant death by slow torture. He had huddled in a dark corner watching the half-finished building for any signs of his boss, and it was then that he saw Khalil’s limo pull up. He’d seen them push the woman into the construction site and later watched Smith stroll down the street and disappear inside. It was to his great dismay that he saw Khalil run away. He’d hoped that Smith would kill him.

He’d kept his ear to the ground during the entire mission and had heard a rumor that Dattar was flying into the States to stay at the home of a Pakistani nationalist who lived in Long Island. To the neighbors, this man was a Turkish import-export entrepreneur, but he was actually an arms trader. The rumor was that Dattar was renting the house for his own use.

Now Manhar stepped out of the bushes and ran behind the car in an awkward, limping motion due to his injured knee, and slid into the compound before the gates closed completely. The driveway was not long, perhaps fifty feet. He walked slowly toward the house, trying to stay calm as Dattar’s bodyguards climbed out from inside the limousine. Dattar himself stepped out next. Both he and the three bodyguards pulled weapons and trained them on him. He put his hands in the air.

“I’m unarmed. I just come to give you a proposition, Mr. Dattar, on how to recoup your stolen money.”

Dattar looked Manhar up and down. “Who are you?”

“Manhar. Khalil’s man. He plans on double-crossing you, and I thought you should know.”

Manhar was pleased to see the two bodyguards exchange a glance. Dattar raised an eyebrow but didn’t move. It was clear that Manhar had his attention.

“Why should I believe you?” Dattar said.

“I also know that he managed to let Howell slip out of his hands, and Smith nearly killed him one day ago. Smith
did
kill his first lieutenant.”

“And?”

“And I know where you can find Khalil. I know all of his safe houses. I’ll give you the information.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Safe passage home.”

Dattar shook his head. “Not enough. Leaving me with an address gets me nowhere, as I still have to get Khalil. And that will not be easy. You want to go home? You’ll have to assist me in catching him.”

Manhar didn’t like this development at all. He would rather never see Khalil again. Dattar must have noted Manhar’s hesitation because he frowned.

“You’re either in all the way or out. Make a choice. Now.” Manhar’s choices had been taken from him the minute he’d screwed up on killing Howell, this much he knew. He sighed.

“I’m in. Tell me what it is you want me to do.”

Dattar waved him forward. “In the house. We’ll lay it out for you.”

Manhar followed Dattar into the spacious home and through the main entrance to a kitchen filled with dark wood cabinets, granite countertops, and a large central island. Manhar had never seen such a kitchen. It was all he could do not to stare, his mouth open. He did his best to act nonchalant and took a seat at the table while Dattar reached into the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water. Dattar poured himself a glass, but offered nothing to Manhar.

A second, thin man entered the room and flicked a glance Manhar’s way. Dattar jerked a chin at him. “That’s Rajiid.” A third man appeared and placed a laptop computer on the island. He stared at the screen. “And that’s Nihal. My lead strategists. You will listen to them. This one,” he waved the glass in Manhar’s direction, “wishes to bring us to Khalil. He says Khalil is intent on taking my money from the American and pocketing it himself.”

Rajiid frowned. “Is Smith dead? Khalil was to have killed him days ago. He said it would be easy.”

Manhar shook his head. “Not only is Smith alive, but it was
he
who nearly killed
Khalil
.”

“And the American?”

“She’s with Smith.”

Dattar stopped drinking in what looked to Manhar like mid-swallow. He put the glass down.

“Smith has her? How did he know about her?”

Manhar shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Dattar started to pace.

“How he knows of her is unimportant,” Rajiid said. “What is important—”

“What is important is that she lives long enough to tell me where the money is!” Dattar’s voice carried an intensity that made Manhar sit up straighter. Rajiid inhaled.

“What is important is that we can still go forward with the plan,” Rajiid said. “After we do, you’ll have all the money and power you need.”

Dattar leveled a stare at Rajiid. “No one steals from me and gets away with it. Especially not hundreds of millions whisked away while I rotted in jail.”

“She won’t die immediately. We can begin and still have enough time to find her.”

“And who will stay when the weapon is placed, huh? I won’t be coming back here to die from my own weapon, will you?”

Rajiid shifted in his seat.

“I thought not,” Dattar said. “This is why I wanted Smith dead and her captured before we began, remember? I hired the best in the business to kill him, and now I’m told that Smith not only lives, but he survived an attack.”

“But—”

Nihal barked a laugh. It was such a strange reaction that Manhar stared at him. Both Rajiid and Dattar looked at Nihal as well, and the fury on Dattar’s face was evident.

“I think our troubles are over,” Nihal said. He sat back, a smirk on his face. “I have an e-mail from the American. She wants to cut a deal.”

S
MITH WALKED WITH NOLAN
down the street in front of the apartment and crossed Broadway. Despite the early hour, they had passed bodegas with men sitting on flimsy wooden crates drinking from bottles kept in paper bags. They continued east of Broadway and to Smith it seemed like they’d entered an entirely different neighborhood. Instead of neat but dated buildings, they saw trash strewn across the sidewalks and collected against the curb. Closed storefronts were covered by protective grates secured with padlocks. A currency exchange on the corner offered legal services upstairs that advertised divorces for $500.

Smith indicated the sign.

“Beckmann should have hired this guy. Would have saved him some money.”

Nolan smiled. “It’s that cement building across the street.”

They were headed to a Pakistani gold merchant who Nolan said would gladly exchange her dollars for gold bullion. They expected Dattar to demand his money in full by wire transfer, but they needed him to appear in person for the plan to work. Also, she was hesitant to fire up her tablet and tip off whoever was watching her at the CIA. It was Nolan who had suggested tempting Dattar to appear in person with a good-faith offer of gold bullion.

“What’s a Pakistani doing in this neighborhood? Seems mostly Spanish.”

“Dominican, actually. But Bilal has been here for years.”

“Do they know that he trades in gold?”

Nolan smiled again. “Take a look.” She pointed to an ugly two-story square building with a neon sign with the word “Pawnbrokers” across the top and another, smaller neon tube light sign that said “We Buy Gold.” They stepped into the street and across to the other side. Nolan headed to a side door made of steel and guarded by a closed-circuit camera mounted at eave level. She pressed a button on the intercom, and Smith heard a buzzing sound somewhere deep in the center of the building. Within seconds the door gave an answering sound, and Nolan pushed it open and stepped inside. As Smith crossed the threshold, he heard a beeping noise and the door closed behind him with a decisive click. The only light came from an open door at the end of the hallway.

“Miss Rebecca, back here,” a man’s voice with a heavy accent called to them. Nolan stepped into the office. A Middle Eastern–looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache and dark eyes, and dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans, stood behind an L-shaped green metal desk. He pointed a gun at Smith.

“Your friend here has a weapon,” the man said, then turned to Smith. “Put your hands in the air.”

“It’s all right. I’ll vouch for him,” Nolan said. “Bilal, this is Jon Smith. He’s trustworthy.”

Bilal didn’t lower the pistol. “Interesting name, Jon Smith. Quite common.”

Smith kept his eyes on Bilal. “Someone has to have it.”

“Miss Rebecca, please remove your friend’s gun from its holster and put it on the table.”

Nolan stepped up to Smith, and he smelled the fresh scent of shampoo that came from her hair. She unzipped his jacket, glanced up at him, and ran her hands along his chest until she reached his gun in the shoulder holster.

“Is the safety on? I’d hate to shoot you accidentally.”

Smith nodded. “It’s okay. You can remove it.” She pulled out the weapon and held it muzzle down while she took the few steps to Bilal’s desk.

“How did you know it was there?” she said after she placed it on the desk.

“I have a metal detector at the door.”

“Ahh, that was the beep I heard,” Smith said.

Bilal nodded. “I have a lot of expensive items stored on the premises and, as I’m sure you saw while walking here, the neighborhood is sketchy. Are you police?”

Smith shook his head. “Military.”

“Here to sell gold?”

“Here to be sure that Ms. Nolan remains safe.”

Bilal gave Smith a speculative look. “Miss Rebecca and I are old friends. She is always safe with me.”

“So I’ve been told. But one can never be too sure,” Smith said. In fact, Nolan had explained to him that most of the traders in the city knew of Bilal, and many routinely converted their cash to either Krugerrands or gold bullion there. Apparently Bilal was known for his honesty in an industry where that commodity was scarce.

Bilal turned his attention to Nolan. “Are you here to sell gold?”

“To buy it, actually. I’d like to exchange some cash for bullion.”

“Wire transfer your account to mine?”

Nolan nodded.

“Then please take a seat.” He included Smith in the offer but reached out and put Smith’s gun on a small desk behind him.

“May I use your computer?” Nolan said. Bilal nodded and opened a drawer in front of him and placed a laptop on the desk. She scooted her chair forward to access it.

“It’s on,” he said. Nolan started tapping away, and Bilal turned to a second PC to his right. After a moment he rose and opened a closet door to his left, revealing a massive safe. He kept the door tilted so that neither Smith nor Nolan could see his hands, and after a moment Smith heard the sound of a lock disengaging.

“Is it there yet?” Nolan asked.

“The computer will give a signal.” A moment later, Bilal’s PC pinged.

“Let’s see.” Bilal held some bars of gold in his hands while he walked back to his monitor and peered at it.

“Just so.” He placed one bar on the back desk next to a scale. The second bar he put on the scale’s pan. “You wish to verify the weight?” Nolan got up and stood next to Bilal, watching as he placed bar after bar on the pan.

“The London fix?” Nolan said.

“Down a bit. Here.” Bilal reached to the computer and tapped on the keyboard. From his location across the desk Smith couldn’t see the screen, but Nolan watched it for a moment before returning her attention to the scale. When Bilal was finished, he reached below and opened the cabinet, removing a black briefcase. Nolan gave a soft laugh, and Bilal turned his head to smile at her. “You recognize it?”

“I wondered where it had got to.”

Bilal looked over his shoulder at Smith. “See? Everything is safe with me.”

Smith waited patiently while Nolan finished her transaction, rising to carry the briefcase. He estimated that it weighed close to sixty pounds. If Dattar expected to ambush them and steal the gold, no one who had it would be able to run away. Or at least not very fast. Bilal locked his safe and gave a short bow to Nolan.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Rebecca,” Bilal said. He handed Smith his gun. “Mr.…Smith.”

Smith slid the gun back into the holster. “Thank you.” They left by the side door, and Smith blinked in the sudden sunlight.

“That was an extraordinary transaction. What’s the London fix?”

“London banks are the primary gold traders. Twice each day they set the settling price for their contracts. The price is called the London fix.” Smith carried the case as they walked to Broadway.

“Do you know what type of precautions he takes to protect the shop? Besides the metal detector, of course.”

“I know he has a gun as big as a cannon taped under the desk. That metal front is perforated for a reason. There are solar roof tiles for electricity that will kick on and keep his security system running should there be a blackout. They feed excess to the grid. Bilal’s quite proud that he often gets paid by Con Ed for electricity rather than the other way around. And I’ve heard that his car is armored, and the office loaded with every type of weapon imaginable.”

“I still find it hard to believe that no one has tried to rob him,” Smith said.

“Oh, there are rumors that some have.”

“And?”

“And they were never seen again.”