The Janus Reprisal (3 page)

N
ATHANIEL FRED KLEIN NODDED
to the Secret Service officer manning the entrance to the White House as he passed. About sixty, Klein was medium height, with a craggy, lean face and lanky body. To an outsider, Klein’s rumpled suit, ever-present pipe, and piercing eyes that revealed a mind constantly churning with ideas lent the impression that he was either an academic at a nearby university or a member of a Washington, DC, think tank. He stood erect and moved easily, and more astute observers of human nature would have noticed that he carried with him an air of authority. In fact, as the head of Covert-One, Klein managed one of the deepest black operations in the US intelligence community. Covert-One was bankrolled with discretionary funds that were available only to the president and were not tracked by any oversight committee or taxpayer-accountable governmental office. The president alone directed their activities and had formed the unit after an earlier terrorist incident involving a virus that nearly spread a pandemic across the country. Klein ran the day-to-day operation, and now he was headed to a private meeting called by the president. He walked through the White House halls, headed to the Oval Office. Another sentry there nodded him forward.

President Castilla rose from behind his desk and moved around it to meet Klein halfway. In his forties, trim and driven, the former governor of New Mexico appeared young enough for the demands of the job, yet mature enough to have the experience the position required. Klein found him to be a thoughtful and intelligent man, but he noticed that the bits of gray in his dark hair had increased. The presidency had a way of taking a significant toll on the men elected to the position, and Castilla was no different in that regard. This latest bad news from The Hague certainly didn’t help.

“Good to see you,” Castilla said as he shook Klein’s hand. “I suppose you’ve seen the images from The Hague?”

Klein nodded. “Believe it or not, I have a Covert-One operative on site. He was attending the WHO conference as an expert.”

Castilla raised an eyebrow. “Did he make it out of there?”

“He was the man hanging from the window ledge. I haven’t had any contact since he pulled himself back into the hotel.”

Castilla’s eyebrows flew up even higher. “For a moment there I thought we were going to see a terrorist kill an innocent man live on television. I don’t have to tell you what a coup that would have been for the attackers.”

“I was impressed with the sniper. Was it a member of a Dutch SWAT team?”

Castilla shook his head. “No, he was CIA. He’s still on site, but deploying to a new location. I’m told that the terrorists are fanning out.” Castilla waved Klein to a seating area with four armchairs and a coffee table in the center.

“That’s not good. Has anyone taken responsibility?”

“Not yet. In fact, the main terrorist organizations are denying responsibility.”

Klein grunted. “Unusual for them.”

“The CIA believes that attacking during a WHO conference is most likely not a coincidence. My concern is that the attackers’ real target is either one of the attending scientists or the biological products that several brought with them.”

“My operative found a handful of photos in the pockets of one of the attackers.” Klein recounted Smith’s information about the photos.

Castilla sat back while he listened. “Let’s put aside the photo of the MI6 agent and focus on the woman. Could she be an attendee? Maybe one of the scientists?”

“That’s a definite possibility. Once I get my hands on the photos, I’ll have them analyzed as quickly as I can.”

“I have some further bad news, though. I received a call from WHO’s director-general. Three of the scientists at the conference brought with them samples of a new strain of cholera, an antibiotic-resistant strain of hepatitis B, and some particularly nasty E. coli. They were to be transferred to a secure site for analysis by an international consortium of biologists. The samples themselves were initially considered small enough to be of limited use to any potential terrorist, but we’ve just learned that the cholera strain can multiply with astonishing speed. In two weeks that sample will have grown exponentially. If any of these get into the hands of the terrorists, we’ve got to assume they’ll dump it into the water supply somewhere. I don’t need to tell you the kind of mass deaths that could occur if such a thing were to happen.”

“Are these the only samples we should be worried about?”

Castilla pondered the question. “The rest were ‘good’ bacteria. Everything ranging from live yeast cultures to a newly discovered bioelectric bacteria that can charge batteries without the need for a separate electrical source.”

“Where were they kept?”

“On site in the hotel safe in two different locked stainless-steel coolers. The good bacteria as well as the resistant strains. Because the samples were so small, extra security measures were deemed unnecessary, particularly in light of the quality of the Grand Royal’s safe. It’s one of the best. Over the years, the jewels of several royal families have been secured there while their owners conducted diplomatic affairs. I’m told it can withstand a blast of the nature of what we’re seeing, but the concern is that the terrorists will have found the code that opens it. Covert-One needs to begin tracking down these samples and the scientists that carried them and we need to reacquire any that are taken before they become viable bioweapons.”

Klein rose. “I’ll get a crew on it. And my first member will be the man hanging from the ledge.” He walked to the door. “That is, if he makes it out alive.”

S
MITH OPENED THE ROOM DOOR
and peered out, glancing down both sides of the hall. The muffled sound of rapid gunfire came somewhere from above, but this floor appeared to be abandoned. He moved to his former room. He needed a weapon in addition to the Beretta in his hand and he figured the terrorists had no further use for theirs. The door hung lopsidedly on its hinges and he pushed past it, holding his gun high and easing into the chamber. The assassin remained at the foot of the bed and the two terrorists’ bodies at the window, one still hanging half in and half out, the other slumped next to him.

Smith moved toward them, but stopped cold when he saw a fourth terrorist’s body three feet from the other two. This man lay on his side, still holding his weapon, an AK-47 with a folding stock. Smith approached him slowly, looking for any signs of life or any indication that the man was playing dead, but the body lay there, unmoving. Smith stepped next to it, bent down, and curled his fingers under the attacker’s ski mask. He pulled it off, revealing the swarthy features and dark hair of a man possibly of Middle Eastern descent; his face was clean shaven and line-free. Perhaps in his early thirties, no more. Smith checked for a pulse. Nothing. He ran his eyes over the body but could find no signs of a wound. The man wore a hunting vest of greased army-green canvas with several pockets. Smith searched them all, coming up with spare bullets for the AK, and a hotel-room key. He rolled the man over, looking for signs of an entry wound on his back, and opened the man’s mouth, once again checking for cyanide pills and once again coming up empty. Neither this man nor the attacker slumped at the foot of his bed had any outward reason to be dead. A part of Smith wanted to analyze the body, figure out why the man had died, but he had no time to spare.

Smith pulled the AK out of the terrorist’s hands and collected the extra ammunition. He began to fill his pajama pockets, but they were bulging with the earlier attacker’s money, his own cell phone, and the photos. He placed the items on the carpet and moved to his suitcase. The sprinkler system in the room had stopped working, but not before it had doused the army uniform remaining in the case. Smith dug under the top layer and grabbed some underwear, socks, and the shoulder holster for his Beretta before moving to the closet where he pulled a pair of black corduroy pants off a hanger along with a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and a short black jacket in a technical fabric. At least these clothes were dry. He dressed quickly, strapping on the holster and reaching for his running shoes. Smith hesitated. The shoes were also black, a good color for blending into the darkness, but the heels were striped with reflective tape. He took a glance at the one dress shoe left under the suitcase. It appeared dry, but even across the room he could see that the one he’d thrown at the lamp was soaking. He put on the athletic shoes. He’d find a way to obscure the tape when he had more time. He shoved his wallet and passport into a pocket, put the cell phone, photos, and money in another, and grabbed the AK and the spare ammo.

Armed with two weapons, Smith headed back into the hall, moving fast toward the north stairwell. He pushed open the door and stepped onto the landing. Clouds of ash hung in the air. He sucked some in and felt his throat clutch as the acrid soot hit it. He slipped down the metal stairs, slowing at the second landing and placing his hand on the metal fire door. It burned his palm, and he jerked it back at the extreme heat he felt there. His eyes started streaming with tears from the thickening smoke as he continued downward, taking care that his footfalls made no sound. The building shook when he was at the last few steps to the street level, and bits of plaster fell off the stairwell walls. The smoke accumulated to a level where Smith felt as though he was inhaling nothing but ash. He reached a corner and began to move around it inch by inch, keeping his back to the wall and his gun raised. His weapon came muzzle to muzzle on the receiving end of a rifle.

Smith’s world stopped spinning for a moment, and he felt his trigger finger tighten as his brain registered the threat. He locked eyes with the man staring back at him. They were green, an inch below the edge of a dark wool cap. Smith saw recognition grow.

“Mr. Smith?” the man whispered.

Smith jerked his head in a quick nod.

“Thank you for not pulling the trigger. I’m Andreas Beckmann. I shot the two men in the window.” The building shook again with another explosion.

“Cover me, point to point,” Smith said. He moved around Beckmann and kept going downward, swinging his gun in an arc. At the next landing he pressed himself against the wall and Beckmann moved into position again. They made their way to the first floor, taking turns advancing and waiting until they reached the final door.

Smith pushed open the door half an inch. Cool air rushed past him, mixing with the heavy fumes in the stairwell. He was happy to breathe fresh oxygen again. He peered out. The stairs opened into the hotel’s lobby. Here the destruction wrought by the terrorists was evident.

The hotel’s gleaming parquet floor, marble pillars, and plush velvet furniture had absorbed the effect of what looked to Smith like a hand grenade thrown dead center. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and several chairs lay in a jumble where the bomb’s force had blown them. A settee, which Smith had noticed when he’d checked in, was shattered. Two of its four legs were cracked in half, and the dark brown velvet fabric smoldered from a stray spark. The pillar at the center of the lobby had sustained the most damage. A ragged chunk of the marble was cut from the side, and the parquet floor below had a deep crater in it.

“Clear?” Beckmann said.

“So far. Let’s go.”

Smith moved into the far end of the lobby, keeping his back against the wall and sweeping his eyes around to catch any sign of movement. He held the AK up, ready to fire as he continued to slink along the room’s perimeter and toward the door and freedom. Beckmann followed, edging around corners with the same silent step. Smith heard a sound in front of him and to the left. He waved Beckmann to a halt. Twenty feet more and the lobby would widen into an L-shaped section recessed to the right that contained the hotel’s registration desk. There was no way to see from the perimeter if anyone lurked there. A thick marble pillar five feet from the wall would provide cover yet still allow him to see into the recessed area, but he would be exposed for the few seconds it would take to get there. He gauged the darkness, trying to decide if it, coupled with his black clothes, would camouflage his movement.

“I’m going to the pillar,” Smith said. Beckmann nodded.

Smith lowered to a crouch, took a deep breath and slipped out, reaching the column in two long strides. He pressed against the cool stone. Beckmann joined him two seconds later, crouching next to him and placing his back against the pillar. Smith’s heart hammered at the risk he’d taken, but one glance told him that it had been necessary.

Three men stood in formation at the head of the recessed area, shoulder to shoulder, their heads turning from side to side as they scanned the lobby. All three wore stocking masks over their faces, and all three held submachine guns at the ready. Behind them the registration desk with its granite-topped counter had been shattered, along with the mahogany-paneled wall behind. A gaping hole allowed Smith to see directly into the offices behind.

“We’ve got company,” he whispered to Beckmann.

“How many?” Beckmann said.

“Six. Three sentries and three others.”

Beckmann turned and rose a bit to see over Smith.

The three others were also masked, and they stood in front of what Smith assumed was the hotel safe. Though it was covered in black dust, the steel container appeared to have survived the blast without sustaining enough damage to cause the lock to fail. The door remained closed. One man held a piece of paper in front of his face, placing it close to his eyes to enable him to read it, and used his other hand to work a keypad. After he had pressed a series of buttons, the door opened with a loud clicking noise. The attacker operating the keypad reached in and removed a small insulated cooler. A decal on one side of it read,
Bioelectrical agent. Handle with care
.

“What’s in those containers that they want them so badly?” Beckmann whispered.

Smith shook his head. “I don’t know, but there are six of them, two of us. I don’t like that they’re taking the containers, but I don’t like the odds, either.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Beckmann said.

Smith had to agree. He counted five Uzi submachine guns and one AK-47 against his Beretta and AK and Beckmann’s rifle. It would be a bloodbath, and all one way. Nothing would be accomplished, except that he and Beckmann would be dead.

“We’ll let them go and track them,” Smith said.

The men collected two more coolers before backing away from the safe, leaving its door gaping and keeping their guns at the ready; they jogged away from the entrance toward the back of the hotel and disappeared. “How do they expect to leave? The front of the hotel is surrounded,” Smith said.

“But the back isn’t,” Beckmann replied. “It leads onto the beach and they have snipers covering the sides. The Dutch police are staying well away. They’re waiting for the Dutch Special Forces.”

“Then the terrorist crew must have arrived by boat,” Smith said.

Beckmann nodded. “I came from the beach side as well. We should leave that way. I don’t want to risk using the front door unless the police are warned that we’re friendly.”

“Let’s go.” He crossed the lobby and made his way to the safe, stepping over the branches of an overturned tree in a large terra-cotta pot. He reached the safe and peered into it. The interior contained several shelves, with each shelf divided further into compartments marked with numbers from one to fifty. Nearly all held something placed there for safekeeping. Smith reached out and removed a flat jewelry box from compartment number thirty-six. He flipped it open to find a stunning sapphire necklace with a center pendant stone of several carats surrounded by diamonds. A heavy gold chain also inset with diamonds accompanied the piece. Smith was astonished that the terrorists had left such a treasure trove behind, opting instead for coolers of biomaterial.

“Interesting that they didn’t even look at these jewels,” Beckmann said. “They’re worth a fortune. What was in those coolers?”

“Whatever it is, it’s worth more than diamonds.” Smith replaced the necklace and closed the safe door, ensuring that it was locked. Whatever had happened to the owners of the valuables inside, he hoped that someone would eventually sort it out and get the pieces to the family members.

“Let’s get moving. We don’t want them to have too much of a head start.” Smith headed to the back and left through a door that led onto a small terrace. After checking for sentries, he took a few steps toward the beach. A trail of footsteps in the sand indicated the attackers’ direction and he headed that way. Ten feet from the hotel entrance he was hit with a cool breeze and took in his first full breath of fresh air. Smith thought nothing could smell sweeter.

“Which way?” Smith said.

Beckmann jerked his chin to the left. “There. Toward the train station. Let’s cross here and enter that park on the far side. We can stop there and get our bearings.” Smith nodded and jogged ahead. He breathed a sigh when they reached the park without any further incident. Beckmann waved him into the darkness of a nearby tree and took out a phone. He dialed a number, said, “I have him” into it, and handed it to Smith. “My employer would like a word with you.”

Smith took the phone. “Smith here.”

“How is it that if there is any disaster in the world at any given time, you’re there?”

Smith heard the voice, which sounded so close to that of his late fiancée, Sophia Russell, yet wasn’t, and felt the usual bittersweet emotions wash through him. Relief followed on the heels of that emotion, because Randi Russell was very, very good at what she did, and she was on his side.

“Thanks for the assistance. Was touch and go there for a minute.”

“You’re welcome. Beckmann says he saw some more terrorists headed toward the train station. Can you find a car? Use it to get the hell out of there?”

“Do I bring Beckmann?”

“I’m afraid I can’t spare him. If you can get him close to the train station, I’d appreciate it. He’ll move on there. We need to keep tracking the attackers.”

“Who’s claiming responsibility?”

“No one yet.”

“Any ideas?”

“A couple. We think it’s tied to the WHO conference, but can’t really pin down the target. Do you know anyone there who might be important enough for them to stage such an attack?”

Smith fell silent. Perhaps he was the target. He wondered if he should tell Russell about the first assassin and the photos. She knew Peter Howell, after all, and she would be the logical choice to contact MI6 and deliver a warning, but years of Covert-One activity had made him cautious. She knew of the organization, but he assumed that she was calling on a CIA telephone. Covert-One operatives didn’t exist in the usual chain of intelligence hierarchy and no one, not even the CIA, was aware of their existence. He’d tell her more when he was sure they were on a secure phone. He kept his counsel for now and would leave it to Klein to probe into the photos and the possible target of the hotel attack. Instead he ran the other attending scientists through his mind.

“The entire conference is filled with infectious disease specialists. We’ve all been at the scene of disasters throughout the world. Any one of us could have angered someone in some of the less stable areas that we address,” he said.

“I agree, but something here feels off.” Smith heard someone address Russell in the background. When she spoke next, her voice held a world of strain. “Tell Beckmann to forget the train station. Go to the airport.”

“Why?” Smith asked.

“A bomb just detonated there.”