The Janus Reprisal (7 page)

Smith flung open his door and made his way to the fallen man, keeping his gun aimed, but only from an abundance of caution. He had an idea that this terrorist, like all the others, was dead. At three feet away he saw the wires extending from the backpack up and around to the man’s collar, disappearing down into his jacket. He smelled the acrid scent of burning Lycra and nylon as the jacket smoldered. Just the sight of it sent a shock of adrenaline through him.

“Run like hell—he’s wired,” Smith yelled. He leaped over the body and sprinted down the cobblestone lane, Beckmann pounding right behind him. After ten seconds, the explosive pack blew. Smith felt the force of the blast hammer his back, and he flew forward onto the street. When he landed, he curled into a ball, covering his head with his hands. Heat washed over him along with bits of something that he hoped was not pieces of the terrorist’s body. The hail of debris ended and he lowered his arms to look back.

The main force of the blast centered on the town car’s engine block. The grille was a tangled mass of metal and the hood was bent. Smoke poured from the front, sides, and top of it and the windshield was a crazy kaleidoscope of cracked glass. Smith sat up, his hands hanging over his knees and his right still holding his gun. He watched the smoke billow out into the air. Beckmann rose to a sitting position next to him and gazed at the smoldering vehicle in silence.

“That car’s totaled,” Smith said.

Beckmann nodded. “I must have been wrong about it being armored. No armored car would sustain that much damage from one small backpack bomb.”

“Hard to believe it wasn’t, though. Handled like a tank,” Smith said. The up-and-down wail of an ambulance Klaxon started howling in the distance. He rose, dusting bits of ash and other matter that he did his best not to look at from his shoulders. Lights had sprung on in the windows around them, and he glanced up to see several people standing on the balconies of the apartments on the third and fourth floors above the ground-floor shops.

“Let’s get out of here. The other guy dead?”

“He is. I found this in his pocket.” Beckmann handed him an airline folder. “It’s a flight to Washington. Leaves tomorrow. This one expected to survive.”

“A logical expectation, given the fact that his buddy was wearing the bomb. I wish I knew why the other guys are dying.” The disabled car belched out some more smoke.

“Our fingerprints are all over that car,” Beckmann said. “The North Koreans are going to be furious.”

Smith hesitated. Beckmann had a point. For a brief moment he considered braving the smoke cloud and using his shirt to wipe down the dashboard, but a flicker of flame started to rise from the engine’s interior.

“Ahh, perfect. It’s going to combust,” Smith said.

Beckmann slid his rifle back under his coat, once again hiding it from view. “Good, because I do not want to report this to Russell. I don’t know her well enough to predict what the repercussions would be.”

Smith pocketed his gun and waved Beckmann away from the car. “Don’t worry about Russell. She’s blown up more cars than you and I combined, not to mention the time she shot up an entire warehouse filled with Plastique.”

Beckmann whistled. “Who was she after?”

“A band of Russian killers out to use it on civilian targets.” The wailing sirens were getting closer. Smith turned another corner, putting more distance between them and the burning car.

“What’s next?” Beckmann said.

Smith held up the airline envelope. “I’m going to Washington.”

D
ATTAR SLID OUT OF THE SUV
onto the dock’s parking lot. He heard the creaking of metal and wood as the buoys rocked from side to side. The air smelled like engine oil and rotting fish, and one of the sodium lights on the dock fizzed in response to a failing ballast. Dattar stared at the light for a moment, thinking about the mass of electrical power that ran through even such a small device.

“The captain’s been paid. He knows to stay on the bridge and not look below,” Rajiid said.

“And the coolers?”

“Already on the airplane. I have a sample here, as well.”

One of his lieutenants, a man without a history or background known to the authorities, was transporting the coolers via a previously arranged private jet. Dattar wished that he could fly in quick and easy comfort to his destination, but the risk was far too high. He stepped off the planks onto a waiting boat that was to take him to the freighter. The man at the wheel never looked his way. Rajiid untied the ropes that kept the craft in place, tossing them onto the deck before climbing on board. The engine engaged and the cruiser began a slow turn away from the dock.

Dattar felt the muscles in his neck relax as they headed out to sea. He’d contact Khalil from the freighter and impress upon the man the need for quick action, especially regarding the additional assignment. The cargo ship loomed over them when they pulled alongside. Dattar crawled up the metal ladder, stepping over onto the deck. He looked back at the boat and saw the wheel man preparing to return to the dock. The man’s head was lowered, so he didn’t see Rajiid pointing a gun at him. There was the sound of a compressed bullet, and the man crumpled. Rajiid shoved the gun in his waistband and reached down to grab the body. He hauled it to the boat’s side and threw it overboard. Rajiid stepped across to the ladder, releasing the ropes that bound the boat to the larger ship. He used his foot to push the smaller craft free, and it began a slow turn away.

A crew member materialized out of the dark to Dattar’s left, and he motioned both Dattar and Rajiid to follow. He led them to a large cabin. A small table was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and a steel lamp swung on a chain above it. On the far wall was a bunk, and to the left a long counter held a telephone and a computer with a monitor. A desk lamp bathed the area in light. Rajiid picked up the phone and dialed a number. When the man on the other end answered, he handed the phone to Dattar.

“Smith is alive. Why?” Dattar said without preamble.

He heard the man on the other side breathing heavily into the receiver. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I paid quite a bit of money to ensure that Smith would die. I’m told that it was the CIA who shot my men. Is this true?”

“Yes, but I’ll make up for that. Smith works out of Fort Detrick in Maryland. I’ve already arranged to take him out once he arrives Stateside.”

“How did they manage to get a man in place? That was part of the payment, to ensure that the agency was crippled.”

“There’s a new head of the European division. Don’t worry, she’s temporary, and I’ll handle it as well.”

“You’d better. The coolers arrive in six hours. In twenty-four we go live. I expect no more mistakes.”

“There won’t be.”

“Did you run the test?”

“That will happen in the next two hours. We’re not using the actual weapon, but even this less potent version should give an idea of the viability. I’ll let you know if it’s successful.”

“You do that.” Dattar hung up.

He heard the freighter groan to life as the turbines began to churn. Rajiid sat down at the computer and logged on. Dattar sat at the table and watched the e-mail program light up.

“Any news?” he said.

Rajiid nodded. “A message from Khalil. He received ours regarding Smith, and he wants to know how hard a target he may be.” Rajiid gazed at Dattar, who was taking slow breaths in order to calm himself.

“Tell Khalil that Smith is best handled at a distance, with a gunshot to the head. He becomes more dangerous the closer you get. Also, warn him that Smith is a microbiologist. Khalil should neither eat nor drink anything in the man’s presence. He’s a coward and will attempt to poison him, as he did me.”

Rajiid typed the response into the computer. After a moment a pinging sound indicated that another message had been received. Rajiid opened the link and read out loud.

“He wants to know how much more he will be paid, and when.” Rajiid shot Dattar a look full of worry. “Should I tell him that he must wait? Stall him while we work on unfreezing the accounts?”

Dattar shook his head. “No. No one must know about the freeze order. Besides, I consider the problem to be temporary. Ask him first if the American is dead.”

Rajiid typed, waited, and the responding ping came quickly.

“He says the American just returned to the United States. He is waiting for the precise moment to do the deed to ensure that there are no witnesses. He says not to worry about the American and to tell him when he will receive the deposit for Smith.” Dattar hesitated. He weighed the cost of doubling up on Smith, but his US contact had already failed once. Better have two aiming at the same target than one that continued to fail. “Tell Khalil that he will be paid the same amount for Smith as the others, but his deposit may be delayed due to the fact that I can’t access my accounts from this computer.”

Rajiid looked doubtful. “He might not believe that.”

“Tell him!” Dattar snapped. Rajiid turned to the keypad and typed for a moment. At the return ping he peered at the screen.

“He says that his focus is currently on the American, but planning the attack on Smith will begin immediately and may take some hours. He hopes that you will have access to the money soon,” Rajiid shot Dattar a look of warning, “and assures you that Smith is no match for him. He will die.”

Dattar smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Smith was the recipient of some good luck back at the hotel. His luck will run thin now that Khalil is after him.”

“No one beats Khalil,” Rajiid said.

Dattar nodded. It was true.

R
USSELL CLOCKED THE TAIL
halfway through her drive home. It kept a modest two vehicles behind, but turned each time she did, breaking the usual rule of thumb that when you see the same car a third time, it’s not a coincidence. She turned again in a direction that led away from her home and stopped at a red light. Four seconds later the black Ford sedan appeared in her rearview mirror. She sighed. She was tired and didn’t really feel like a confrontation at the moment, but it was clear she was going to have one. Her gun nestled in the console between the front seats of her car. Russell popped open the lid and pulled out the weapon, placing it next to her right thigh.

While in the States, Russell had acquired a supercharged Audi A4. It had the advantage of being less flashy than some of the more obvious sports models, but it still packed a lot of torque under the hood for those moments when she might need it. At the moment, though, she was in a CIA-authorized vehicle. That auto, a sedan also chosen for its standardized appearance, had half the guts of her private car and weighed twice as much. The agency vehicle came equipped with a GPS tracking system that allowed the CIA to keep tabs on it at all times. What the car didn’t have was Bluetooth capability, because the wireless feature left a phone vulnerable to hacking. She put her cell phone’s hands-free unit into her right ear and scrolled through her contacts list. She wouldn’t call Cromwell to address such a field problem—as a director he didn’t deal with day-to-day street operations—but Harcourt had offered his assistance and had the added advantage of perspective because he’d held the position that Russell now filled. She dialed his number, and he answered on the third ring. Russell didn’t bother with preliminaries, but jumped right into the problem.

“I’m being tailed. Black Ford four-door. Maybe a Taurus, but I can’t tell in the dark. Can you send an intercept and let me know when to expect it?”

Harcourt hesitated a beat. “Of course. Where are you?” Russell named the upcoming intersection.

“That’s five miles from here. It’s going to take twenty minutes at least. Unless you want me to notify the authorities.”

“No, I don’t need the jurisdictional hassles right now. I’ll keep them on the hook and turn around while you send backup. Can you lock onto the GPS?”

“Will do. Sit tight.” Harcourt rang off and Russell took another turn. The Ford appeared ten seconds later. One more turn and Russell was on her way back to headquarters. She watched for the sedan. Ten seconds passed, twenty, then thirty. She kept flicking her eyes to the rearview mirror and back to the road, but the sedan was gone.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself.

Three turns again and she picked out the second tail. Her phone rang.

“My guys are behind you in a silver SUV. They don’t see a black Ford,” Harcourt said.

“It’s gone. Followed me one more turn and then broke away.”

“That’s some bad luck. Sorry. Wish we could have gotten there sooner. Any idea why you might be tailed?”

Try about a hundred ideas, Russell thought. Her field activities had been varied and dangerous, but most had been wrapped up cleanly. The only possible exception would be Africa.

“Has to be from the last mission. I’ll keep an eye out and if it happens again I’ll let Cromwell know they’ve found me. We’ll have to make alternate arrangements. I’ll probably sleep at a hotel tonight.”

“Fair enough. Watch your back.” Harcourt rang off.

Russell sighed. She really didn’t want to sleep in a hotel that night. Instead, she took a winding route to her rented house located thirty minutes from Langley, keeping a sharp eye on the road behind her. The house sat in a quiet, prosperous suburb, where trees lined the curving streets and large homes dominated three-quarter-acre lots. Once there she pulled into the attached garage and waited for the door to close behind her before exiting. She armed the house’s perimeter the minute she entered, using a keypad located on the wall next to the side entrance. Still, she held her gun while she did a quiet, thorough reconnaissance of each room. She checked in closets, under beds, and inside the master bedroom’s shower stall. Once she was satisfied, she returned to the keypad, disarmed, cleared the old code, created a new one, and rearmed. An hour later she was asleep.

It wasn’t a sound that woke her, it was the absence of any. The humidifier in her bedroom had shut off. It no longer made the soft whirring white noise that helped her fall asleep each night. She opened her eyes and glanced over at it. Not only was the humidifier silent, but the clock radio was dark as well. The electricity was down.

She sat up and reached for her gun, which she kept under the pillow next to the one she slept on. The heavy black around her felt ominous, and she slid out of bed and over to the alarm keypad on the wall. The green LED display blinked “Power Failure” in five-second intervals. The battery backup would keep the system functioning, and the phone line connection would allow for a direct call to the local police, assuming that the line was still operative. Russell moved back to the bedside table, where the only electricity-free phone sat. She picked up the receiver and heard nothing. The landline had been cut. Her cell phone was attached to a charging station on a credenza by the front door.

She went to the corner of her window, aligned herself with the wall, and pushed aside the curtain an inch to peer at the backyard. Beyond a brick-paved patio area was a lawn dotted with oaks that were just sprouting leaves after the long winter. The shapes of their branches were black forms in the night, and Russell could hear them shifting and clattering together in the wind. The alarm keypad beeped three times and Russell froze. Someone had disarmed the system. Now even the siren wouldn’t blare, but Russell considered that to be of minimal use since the house sat far from any neighbors. She didn’t want an amateur stumbling into the situation in any event. What concerned her most was the fact that the intruder was able to disarm a brand new code. These were professionals.

Russell responded the way she always did when in the game, her senses focused, her hand gripping her gun tightly. Her heart beat faster as she headed back to the display. The chime feature would respond each time a sensor was activated, and there were trigger points in each room and one on the stairwell to the second-floor bedrooms. Russell waited to see what location they used to breach the perimeter.

The keypad beeped and the words “front door” ran across the display. Pretty bold, walking right in the front door, she thought. She removed the safety on her gun and settled in with her shoulder against the wall, facing the bedroom door. Whoever was in the house was after her. She expected they’d make their way to her room. The words “living room sensor” came next. In her mind’s eye, Russell traced the path they were taking through the house. The alarm chimed again. This time the word “kitchen” lit the device. Russell strained to catch any sound. She heard a rattle of glass bottles: the same sound she always heard when the refrigerator door opened.

What, do they need a beer? Russell thought. The bottles rattled again as the door was closed. Another beep. “Living room” marched across the keypad. One more beep and “front door” appeared.

She heard it close.

She slid into the opening leading to the master bath, keeping back. The walls blocked her view of the hall leading to the bedroom’s entrance and, on the opposite side, the window, but kept her safe in case multiple attackers converged on her from both sides. But if the alarm system was correct and if they were once again outside, they’d come through the window.

The small battery-operated clock on the bathroom counter glowed, revealing that it was 3:02 in the morning. Then 3:03. Still silence. She waited until the clock glowed 3:18 before risking a move to peer past the doorway. The alarm pad emitted a loud clicking and the humidifier kicked back on. The electricity was restored.

She crept out into the hallway, tiptoeing quickly down the stairs to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was closed, but she wasn’t fool enough to open it. She moved across through the living room to the front door. She wasn’t fool enough to step outside and become a target dummy, either. She threw the deadbolt before picking up her cell phone. She dialed Langley, requested assistance, and settled down behind the arm of the living room couch to wait, hoping that the refrigerator’s walls would contain enough of the force of any explosion so that she would survive.

Within thirty minutes a large delivery truck pulled into the driveway. The words “Washburn Heating and Cooling” were lettered on the side. The truck idled there, not moving. Russell’s phone started ringing.

She answered and a man’s voice said, “We’ve canvassed the area and found no one lurking in the trees. Are you clear in there?”

“Yes. I’ll let you in.” Two men in coveralls fell out of the doors, keeping behind them while they stared at the front of the house. Russell threw open the door, letting in a gust of cold air that smelled like spring. They walked toward her. Both wore knit caps, and one was Nicholas Jordan, the new hire. The other was a black man in his forties, with hair graying at the temples and a cautious manner. He stuck his hand out.

“Ben Washington. Explosives expert. Should we be standing here discussing the weather when you think there’s a bomb?”

Oh boy, I like this one. All business, Russell thought. “I think it’s in the refrigerator,” she said.

Washington snorted. “So either timer activated or wired to blow when you open the door.”

“Or a dirty bomb,” Russell said.

Washington shook his head. “Nope, already checked for that. The truck is equipped with some of NASA’s spare parts and a jerry-rigged telescope that can scan an area for traces of high-energy radioactive isotopes. A dirty bomb would have left a trail of them in the air. You’re clear.” He gave her an assessing look. “You sat in that house all that time with a possible dirty bomb? That’s either a lot of guts or a lot of stupidity.”

Russell shrugged. “I was just playing the odds. Dirty bomb: rare. Attacker with bullets: common. I figured I was safer in the house with the bomb than outside with a sniper in the trees.”

She looked at Jordan. “On your basic explosives rotation?” The CIA’s training schedule required that each agent learn hand-to-hand combat, basic bomb creation, and disarmament and weapons instruction.

Jordan smiled. “I love this round.”

Washington snorted again. “All you young officers want to do is blow things up.” He looked at Russell. “Too many video games.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, let’s figure out if the bad guys put something in the fridge.”

Washington sauntered over to the back of the truck and reached in. He removed a metal bomb mask, a Kevlar jumpsuit, a coiled length of rope on a rolling reel, and a white plastic baby monitor. Russell watched with interest.

“Pretty low tech stuff you have there. Not exactly a NASA telescope.”

Washington nodded. “Yep. But most bombs are homemade. With the exception of your basic C4 or Plastique, and you and I both know how tough it is to get your hands on that stuff these days.”

“What’s the baby monitor for?”

“Cheapest closed-circuit television system you can buy. This one’s wireless, and while the RF signal can be a problem around some devices, I think the refrigerator’s metal should blunt that a bit. Going to set it up so when the door opens we can see what’s inside. That is, assuming the door pull isn’t a trigger.”

“And the rope?”

“I’m going to tie it onto the handle and pull open the door.” He waved at Jordan. “Can you help me into the jumpsuit? They’re a two-person operation.”

“Can I go in?” Jordan said.

Washington shook his head. “You can only disarm after you’ve completed the written test.”

Jordan sighed and held the clothing while Washington stepped into the jumpsuit. It had large Velcro tabs on the back that held it in place, a high collar that stuck up six inches around Washington’s face; an additional, thicker Kevlar torso section added another layer of protection. The mask included a ventilator system, microphone, and installed web camera. Jordan lowered the helmet over Washington’s head.

“Don’t the web camera and microphone operate on a radio frequency too?” Russell asked.

Jordan nodded. “But it can be turned off.”

“All right, I’ll see you in five.” Washington’s voice was muffled behind the mask.

Washington grabbed the rope and one half of the baby monitor setup and started toward the house. It was clear from his gait that the cumbersome suit was hindering his stride. He disappeared inside and reappeared five minutes later, walking backward while he unspooled the rope. It extended almost thirty feet from the door, and Russell and Jordan retreated an additional thirty.

“I’m going to pull it,” Washington called to them.

“Just like that? What if it explodes? I’ve got my wallet in there, my car’s in the garage, not to mention a brand new laptop.”

“Casualties of war. Ready?”

Russell took a deep breath, held it, and nodded.

Washington hauled on the rope.

Nothing happened. Washington lifted off the heavy mask and glanced at his watch.

“Not a trigger. Maybe timer. Let’s have a look.” He lumbered to the back of the truck, where the two panel doors hung open, and plunked the mask down. Russell joined him, with Jordan right behind. The baby monitor was up and running and the screen gave an excellent view of the open refrigerator’s interior. Washington angled it so that Russell could see.

“Anything strange? Different? Condiment bottle where it wasn’t before?”

The refrigerator’s contents looked untouched. Russell shook her head.

“Nothing that I can see.”

“Why break into a house, open the refrigerator, look inside, and leave?” Jordan said. “Absolutely nothing was accomplished. If they wanted you dead, you’re not, and if they wanted to blow up the house, they didn’t. I don’t get it.”

“A display of expertise? Trying to make you jumpy?” Washington sounded as puzzled as Jordan.

Russell took a deep breath. “Maybe. But if it’s a warning, it’s a pretty subtle one, and I’ll be honest with you guys: the types of people that could be after my hide aren’t known for their subtlety.”