The Janus Reprisal Read online

  “Because the man was rescued before he died. By me. Let me know how long you hold out.” Smith snapped his fingers. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean that. You won’t be around to tell me, because once you explain to your torturer exactly where the money is, he’ll finish you off.”

  Smith turned on his heel and headed to the door. He figured she’d follow him now. Even she wouldn’t be stupid enough to believe she could outsmart Dattar’s assassins now that she knew the full extent of the man’s depravity. As he swung the door open, he glanced back and watched her disappear through the door that led to the hotel.

  She was gone.

  21

  SMITH FOUGHT THE URGE to run through the café, charge into the hotel, grab her by the hair and shake her. Instead he pulled out his phone and called Marty.

  “I found her right where you said she was,” Smith said.

  “I know,” Marty responded. He sounded peeved. “You made her stop trading, didn’t you?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “Two of her calls expired at a deficit. If you hadn’t interfered, I bet she would have covered the loss.” Marty’s voice sounded accusatory.

  Smith turned onto Broadway and kept moving, his eyes sweeping the area for suspicious activity.

  “Now you’re on her side? She needs to agree to protective custody until Dattar is recaptured.”

  “They won’t let her trade from there, you know that. No phones and no Internet so she can’t be tracked. What would happen to her positions during that time?” Smith was starting to understand Nolan’s confidence in the power of money. Even Marty seemed to think it mattered more than her life.

  “A lot less than what would happen if she died. Forget about the trading. She took off again. Can you continue to track her for me?”

  “As long as her computer remains on I can.”

  “That’s enough for now. Stay with her. I’ll call you back shortly.”

  Smith hung up and called Russell. “I found her again.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you both back at the safe house.”

  “But she took off.”

  There was a silence. “Let me get this straight. You lost her again?”

  Smith sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it at the safe house. Twenty minutes.” Once again Smith hit the subway, this time headed uptown. Twenty minutes later he was back at the CIA’s brownstone. He found Russell in the living room sitting at the desk against a far wall, typing furiously at the computer placed there. She turned to face him, and he was shocked to see that she was paler than before and her face glowed with sweat.

  “You look terrible. Are you getting sicker?”

  Russell nodded. “I am.”

  “I don’t like it. That swab must have gotten to you.”

  She sighed. “I called the bomb detection expert. He was close to the swab while we analyzed the refrigerator’s interior and he’s fine. I think it’s the regular flu. At least I hope it is.” She gave him a wan smile and waved him to the couch. “Tell me what happened. How’d you lose her?”

  “She bolted and I let her go. Marty’s tracking her through the GPS chip in her computer and can continue to do so as long as it remains on.”

  Russell frowned. “And if she turns it off. What then?”

  Smith snorted. “Trust me, she won’t. She won’t want to miss a moment of stock market activity. This woman lives to trade.”

  “The market’s closed.”

  “But Japan is opening. She’ll leave it on, believe me. And there’s more. I know why Dattar’s after her. She says she stole his money.” Russell remained silent, then a smile spread across her face and she started laughing.

  “Oh my God, that’s great.”

  Smith sighed. He had expected a lot of responses from Russell, but her enthusiasm for Nolan’s brainless act was not one of them. He was starting to wonder if everyone he knew was losing their minds.

  “You know she’s as good as dead once he gets his hands on her.”

  Russell sobered. “Why did you let her go?”

  “She refused to cooperate, so I’ve decided to use her as bait. Track her through the GPS and stay back far enough until Dattar’s man makes his move. Then grab him, hopefully before he grabs her.”

  Russell nodded. “It’s a worthwhile idea, but I’d take it one step further. Let Dattar’s man grab her and follow them both back to the hiding spot and monitor communications. Eventually the guy will contact Dattar to obtain instructions and we’ll be able to follow the transmission.”

  Smith didn’t like Russell’s use of the term “eventually.” “He could decide to torture her first before calling Dattar. We can’t just let that happen.”

  “Let’s worry about that once we’re in the situation. Are you going to track her?”

  Smith shook his head. “I was hoping one of your agents could take the job. How’s Beckmann doing on the search for Howell? I need him more than ever if I’m going to locate Dattar and, frankly, Ms. Nolan and I don’t get along.”

  “I’ve already put another officer in front of her apartment, but I can switch it up if you’d like. Do you think a CIA officer will have better luck convincing her to come in?”

  Smith sighed. “Probably not.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll track her and try one more time to knock some sense into her. If you hear anything about Howell, let me know. I really need him.” Russell stood, swaying.

  Smith frowned. “You should rest.”

  Russell waved him off, took one step, and began to crumple. Smith grabbed her before she hit the floor. He lifted her up and placed her gently on the couch. Her breath came in short gasps and she was sweating profusely. Her body started to jerk and her legs contracted in a spasm. Smith heard the front door open and close and Harcourt stepped into the room.

  “Call an ambulance,” Smith said. He sat next to her on the couch and felt her head, which was cold to the touch. He checked her pulse.

  Russell opened her eyes. “I think I’m going to throw up.” She struggled to rise.

  “Stay down.” Smith ran to the small bathroom off the entrance hall and grabbed the wastebasket. He carried it to the side of the couch.

  “You feel sick, just lean over and use this.”

  Russell eyed the bucket. “This feels much worse than the flu. Almost like food poisoning.”

  Smith heard the wail of a siren in the distance. Harcourt appeared next to him.

  “That ours, you think?” Smith said.

  “I hope so.” Harcourt crouched down next to Russell’s head. “I have an ambulance on the way. Don’t worry.”

  Russell gave a slight nod. The wailing grew louder.

  “I’m going out front to direct them here,” Harcourt said. Smith heard him run down the hall stairs.

  “Hang on,” Smith said.

  “What if it is the refrigerator smear?” Russell said. Smith didn’t want to answer her. If it wasn’t the cholera, then it would have been the H1N5. Avian flu was so virulent that he didn’t want to consider the possibility. Harcourt appeared at his side.

  “It’s ours. They’re bringing up a stretcher.”

  “Don’t let them see you,” Russell said to Smith.

  He held her hand, giving it a brief squeeze. He nodded to Harcourt and jogged up the stairs to the same window that Nolan had used. As he climbed out onto the fire escape, he heard the clumping sound of feet on the lower floors. He ran down the stairs, feeling like the fugitive that he was.

  22

  MANHAR CROUCHED IN THE CORNER of the stinking utility closet and pressed his eye against the small space created by the open door. He’d cracked it an inch in order to see when the Englishman left the hotel room. The closet smelled of industrial cleaner and mold. A nearby washing pail gave off the ammonia odor and the spaghetti mop shoved inside it added the mildew top note. A cockroach scuttled past him in the darkened space, and Manhar reached out and crushed it with the plastic dustpan that leaned against the wall. Manhar hated New York
, with its crowding and bugs and air filled with the smell of animal fat stewing in the hot dog carts. He wanted to finish off the Englishman and get on the next flight to Pakistan. He hoped Dattar’s weapon would kill everyone quickly. Manhar saw no value to be gained from America’s continued existence.

  The door at the end of the hall creaked open and a man stepped out. He was slender, rangy, and in his fifties. He had the craggy, thin face of the stereotypical inbred Englishman and Manhar thought that he would be easy to kill. Manhar was the same build, but he was in his twenties and he clutched a gun that made the attack all that much easier. The Englishman appeared to be unarmed. The man turned to lock the door and Manhar rose, crossed the threadbare carpet and reached the Englishman in three quick strides. He shoved the metal gun tip into the man’s lower back and felt him freeze.

  “Get back inside,” Manhar said. The man didn’t reply, but turned the key and opened the door. Manhar stepped in tandem with him as he reentered the room. Once inside, Manhar kicked the door shut. The cheap pressed-wood panel shook on impact with the jamb. Noise would travel easily through the paper-thin walls. Whatever he did, it would have to occur quietly or the other guests would hear, though Manhar thought that the types who would reside in such a filthy, dilapidated hotel might be inclined to ignore any criminal activity.

  The shabby room held a bed with a sagging mattress, a chair with upholstery fraying at the arms, and a round coffee table with water ring stains. The tiny kitchenette had a small two-cup coffeepot and a toaster oven on its narrow counter. A white range, its burner pans covered with aluminum foil, and a small refrigerator were the only appliances in the room. The gray linoleum floor was grimy in the corners. Manhar saw that the stove was gas and an idea formed.

  “May I turn around?” The Englishman sounded calm. Too calm, Manhar thought.

  “Stay still and put your arms up.” The man did as he was told and Manhar frisked him, checking for a weapon and finding none. “Now get over to the bed.” The Englishman walked to the bed and slowly turned until they were face to face. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “You’re older than I expected.”

  Manhar felt the first stirring of alarm at the words “than I expected.” He decided to finish things fast. Something about the man’s blazing, intelligent eyes and detached manner made him seem lethal despite his lack of a weapon. Manhar shook off the thought. The man was old, after all. No danger. No danger at all.

  “Shut up. Lay down face-first on the bed.” Manhar didn’t have a silencer and so would be required to shove a pillow against the man’s head and shoot through that. He’d done it before and found that it worked well enough. As the Englishman began to lower himself to the mattress, Manhar shot another look at the range. He backed up to it, keeping his gun trained on the bed. When he reached the stove, he placed a hand on it and pulled. It didn’t move. He needed help.

  “Stop,” Manhar said. The Englishman reversed off the bed and once again gazed at Manhar, who waved at the stove with the gun. “Get over here and pull this away from the wall.” The man flicked a glance at the appliance.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” Manhar said. He kept his gun at the ready. The man shrugged.

  “I’m Peter Howell. And you are?”

  “The man who’s going to kill you. Now shut up and pull the stove away from the wall.” Howell shrugged again and Manhar felt his anger rising at this deliberate display of nonchalance. He watched as Howell placed a hand on the back of the stove, another on the front handle, and strained. The heavy steel body shifted, scraping across the floor. For an old man he was strong, Manhar thought. Howell stopped when the range sat two feet from the wall. “Why are you stopping? Keep going.”

  “Keep going where? My back’s already against the wall.” In fact Howell was sandwiched between the equipment and the edge of the opposite counter in the tiny galley kitchenette.

  Manhar stepped aside. “Get back on the bed.”

  Howell slid out and strolled back toward the small sleeping area. “Face-first again, I assume?” His voice was amused.

  “Yes.”

  Once Howell was prone, Manhar focused on the stove, reaching behind it and yanking on the gas line. He pulled it free and instantly smelled the unique odor. He smiled. His plan to cover the crime was good. They’d find a dead guy on the bed in a fleabag hotel that explodes from a gas leak. He returned his attention to the Englishman.

  Howell was standing up, with his own gun aimed at Manhar’s heart. For a moment Manhar was disoriented by the speed with which control of the situation had shifted. Panic made his stomach clench. He’d never faced down a man with a gun before because he’d always taken his victims by surprise, sometimes simply shooting them in the back. He felt himself begin to perspire and sweat trickled down his face.

  “A bit of advice: always get your victim away from their mattress. Untold numbers of people hide their guns underneath. Me included,” Howell said. Manhar started breathing fast while he gauged what would happen if he shot Howell first. Howell shook his head. “I can see what you’re thinking and I don’t advise it. I’ll certainly be able to get my own shot off as well, and you’re near the open gas line. It’s entirely possible that a spark from your gun will blow us both up. Now move toward the door slowly. We’re going to leave here and find a nice quiet place to talk.”

  “Why? You can’t shoot either.”

  Howell looked unmoved. “Oh, but I can. I’m not as close to the gas leak as you are and as long as my bullet sinks into your flesh, I’m fairly certain that the room will hold together long enough for me to leave.”

  Manhar hesitated. Perhaps Howell was right. He could hear the gas flowing out of the tube’s mouth and the smell was growing stronger, but Howell stood a good six feet away. Before he could decide what to do, there was a knock on the door. If Howell was surprised at the interruption, he didn’t show it. He took two steps back, which took his body out of the direct line to the entrance.

  “Who is it?” he said. The door swung open and a man stepped into the room. Tall, slender, with close-cropped hair and an angular face, he stood still and took in the scene. Manhar saw a lock-picking device in the man’s right hand and a gun in his left. The man focused on Howell.

  “Thank you for not shooting me through that worthless door,” he said.

  Howell chuckled. “Why, Herr Beckmann, how nice to see you again. When was it last? Prague?”

  Beckmann’s lips turned up in a slight smile. “Isle of Man. As I recall, you were busy depositing money in your offshore account.” He looked around. “But you were considerably better housed there. This room is depressing. And you appear to have a gas leak.”

  Howell nodded. “My friend here and I were just leaving.”

  Beckmann eyed Manhar. “Ah, this one looks healthy for a change. Let’s hope he doesn’t fall over. I’ve been searching diligently for a living one to beat some answers out of. Leave it to you to find one that’s still breathing.”

  “He found me. A feat that I doubt he managed on his own.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “Khalil, I believe,” Howell said.

  Beckmann frowned. “That’s sobering news. Khalil is extremely dangerous.”

  Howell nodded. “Whatever is going on, it’s very big trouble.”

  The smell of the gas was beginning to overwhelm Manhar and he staggered. In the next instant his legs gave out and he slammed onto the floor. The last thing he heard before falling unconscious was Howell, who said, “First the mattress mistake, then a little gas and he’s down. These young terrorists lack any training whatsoever.”

  23

  SMITH CALLED OHNARA the moment his feet hit the ground. He heard the scientist’s voice and plunged right in.

  “Ms. Russell just fell ill with symptoms that resemble food poisoning or worse; cholera or bird flu. My concern is that the swab we brought you caused it. Any news on the cholera strain?”

  “Yes. Our water filt
ration system handled it beautifully. Not a bit survived. And more good news, the virus died upon contact with the air almost immediately. I doubt that what Ms. Russell has is from the swab, but if you’re concerned they can run a check on both diseases at the hospital. Also you might do well to check on what she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Smith hung up, puzzled, but relieved. Perhaps Russell had a run-of-the-mill influenza virus. His next call was to Marty.

  “Still have a lead on her?”

  Marty didn’t miss a beat. “Hotel on Park Avenue South.” He gave the address. “She’s using their Internet. I can’t tell if she’s checked in or just sitting in the lobby.”

  Well, at least she’s still alive, Smith thought. “Trading?”

  “No. Japan isn’t open yet. She’s researching.”

  “Researching what?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Are you sure?”

  Marty chuckled. “I’m sure. She’s typed in your name on three different search engines and read everything she can find. Which isn’t much, because, as you may recall, I was the one who washed the Internet clean of your presence.” Now Marty sounded quite pleased with himself. “She’s only getting the newest hits that show you hanging from the hotel room window.”

  “I’m heading her way.” This time Smith hailed a cab. He needed a moment to think about Russell and what she could have contracted so suddenly.

  He found Nolan in the lobby of a boutique hotel on Park Avenue. What he also saw in the lobby gave him pause. Two men, one reading the Wall Street Journal and another at the public computer set up for guest use, gave the definite air of inauthenticity. Neither the men nor Nolan saw him enter, which was for the best. He stepped deeper into a connecting hallway, where he could still watch them but stay out of the open. Watching the three gave Smith an idea. He rang Marty again.

  “You there? Do you see her?” Marty said.