The Janus Reprisal (5 page)

“The American must be dead. You sent Khalil for that one. The best. He cannot be beaten.”

“Like Ali? I sent him for Smith, and he still lives.”

Rajiid kept his eyes on the road, but his lips were set in a tight line. “I heard about that. But that was an unusual circumstance. Ali succumbed early. Khalil wasn’t part of the suicide crew.”

“Has anyone heard from him? Has he reported in?”

Rajiid shook his head. “No, but if there is a job to do, Khalil will do it. If the American isn’t dead already, then it will happen soon. Along with the Englishman.”

“We’ll need to get the freeze order reversed.” Dattar stared out the window while his mind raced with ideas.

“To do that you must bring the United States to its knees. And to do that you must continue with the plan.”

Dattar nodded. His plan was brilliant. The way to instill respect was to threaten the lives of the many. When they were controlled, the rest would fall into place.

“Do we have the coolers?” he said.

“Yes.”

At least something went right, Dattar thought. “I want Smith dead. I won’t allow him to interfere with me again. And the American as well. Is that understood?”

“It was always understood. It will be finished.”

R
USSELL LEANED OVER
WENDEL’S
shoulder and watched the stream of updates. “Which one is the agent?” she asked. Wendel pointed to a sentence from Blackhat 254.

“That’s Tyler Biggs. He’s positioned at the train station. And here,” she pointed to another stream of information, but this one coming from a secure CIA line, “is his personal system. Right now he’s transmitting on both, and pretty much the same information, from an aggregating software program. It sends the message to his CIA site, which verifies the sender and then posts it here.”

“What if he messes up? Punches in CIA information on the public site?”

Wendel shook her head. “Not likely. He needs to verify his CIA log-in before he can use the aggregator, and that aggregator software is proprietary to us. It’s not available to just anyone. He doesn’t use it unless he’s transmitting public information in any event.”

Russell watched as Biggs gave a running description of what he was watching from a street corner in The Hague. His updates matched those of several other Dutch civilians standing around him who were also recording their observations on the public website. The CIA stream, however, didn’t match. Russell watched the sentences on a split-screen display.

“Shouldn’t his CIA stream and the public stream match then?” Russell said.

Wendel frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”

“Then why don’t they?” Russell said.

Wendel shook her head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps the ISP system used by the public site is built on a faster platform?”

Russell didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since the CIA had updated their cable systems, but she hoped that they could manage to at least match a public-access Internet site in speed and quality. The Internet had become the largest, most lucrative trolling ground for criminals the world over, and keeping one step ahead of the hackers, phishers, and terrorists required that they stay cutting edge.

“That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, though, because the public site is accessed by millions daily, and the CIA site is handling only a tiny percentage of that,” Wendel said. “Something else must be causing the lag.”

“Maybe the aggregator software isn’t pushing out the two windows equally,” Jordan suggested.

Russell felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Cromwell with a grave look on his face.

“Can you join me? There’s been a new development.”

Russell followed him out of the situation room. They moved down a long corridor with gray walls and dark industrial carpeting. Cromwell pushed through a door marked “Conference B.” The room contained a large dark wood table surrounded by black leather chairs. A triangular speakerphone sat in the table’s center, and a flat-screen television, this one turned off, hung on one wall. Seated at the conference room table was Steve Harcourt, the CIA’s Mideast senior operator currently on loan to the New York Police Department, where he was supposed to be providing assistance and intelligence on outside threats. Harcourt had an office in Langley and another in New York and shuttled between them. Tall, with slicked hair, a slender face, and intelligent eyes that swept over Russell in a quick, discreet assessment, Harcourt was only a bit older than Russell, in his late thirties, and had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He wore a dark sweater, black pants, and expensive wing-tip shoes that shone from a recent polishing. When the door closed behind them, Cromwell nodded to Harcourt, leaned against the table, and crossed his arms.

“I don’t know if you two have met. Steve, this is Randi Russell. She’s heading up a test initiative in which we’re considering bringing in field officers on a rotating basis to analyze and improve our home base capabilities. With her lengthy field service, she brings critical knowledge to bear on our office operations here.”

Harcourt rose to shake Russell’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your exploits. It must be difficult to work at a desk.”

“Not at all. I’m finding the change refreshing.”

“We’re here as you requested. You have news?” Cromwell said to Harcourt.

“Oman Dattar escaped from Scheveningen prison.”

Russell groaned. “The Butcher? You’ve got to be kidding. When?”

“An hour ago. He escaped during transfer. The Mideast division got the call first, based on his connection to Pakistan, and contacted me.” He turned to Russell. “I work in connection with the NYPD, and New York is considered a first target, so whenever something occurs that involves possible terrorism, I get the call. I told them I’d brief the European Division, since he’s stomping around in your area of concern.”

“I have to tell you, I’m thinking the escape and the attack on the Grand Royal can’t be a coincidence,” Russell said. Her alarm was growing; the situation in the Netherlands was fast spiraling out of control. She ran through in her mind the available operatives that could assist in a hunt for Dattar.

“Any idea where he might be heading?” Cromwell said.

Harcourt nodded. “I’ll bet any money that his ultimate destination will be the hills on the Pakistani/Afghan border. Once he’s there, the UN will never get their hands on him again. He can hide for years.”

“Has Interpol been notified?” Russell said.

Harcourt nodded again. “They’re working on issuing a red notice.” A red notice was the Interpol equivalent of a “Most Wanted” poster. It informed member countries that an individual was wanted for extradition to the country issuing the request. Execution was left to the police force of whatever member country found the fugitive. Some would be quick to apprehend Dattar, but many, not wanting to be involved, would steer clear.

“How do we think he’ll get home? The Pakistani border is a long way from The Hague,” Cromwell said.

Harcourt walked to a computer terminal located on a credenza pushed against the side wall and punched in a code. Within seconds the flat panel lit up with a map of the world. He placed a small arrow pointer on The Hague.

“He’ll want to connect with a country friendly to him, which might include Russia to the northeast,” he put a pointer there, “and Cyprus to the south. He’s right on the North Sea, but I don’t think he’ll go all the way by boat. It’s a long haul up and over to Russia, and even longer going south to Cyprus. I think he’ll fly. All he needs to do is charter a flight under an assumed name. Or, better yet, get a friend to charter one for him.”

Russell analyzed the map on the screen. She agreed with Harcourt that a boat north to Russia would be a crazy idea. The logistics were a nightmare. But she didn’t agree with his assessment that Dattar would fly.

“I agree that he won’t try to sail north, but I don’t think he’ll fly,” she said. “Too risky. The authorities will be expecting that. Plus, we just had a report of a blast in a cargo area by the freight terminals at Schiphol airport. They’re on high alert.”

“That leaves car or train,” Cromwell said. “Both are excellent options. He gets a train ticket, joins the hordes of people commuting every day, and disembarks at a town one or two stops from the border. From there he either picks the busiest checkpoint to drive through, or gets on a second train to cross the border during peak hours.”

Harcourt put an arrow pointer on the main train station. “This shouldn’t be too hard to monitor. In fact, I’m certain that the Dutch have a contingency plan for security at the train station.”

Russell kept her gaze on the map of the region while she tried to put herself in Dattar’s shoes. In her years undercover she’d learned a lot about getting from point A to point B undetected. With Belgium to the south and Germany to the north, Dattar had the disadvantage of being in the heart of a cluster of United Nations member countries that had the will to arrest him should they find him. His face would soon be on every television screen in the developed world, along with the details of his escape. His chances of slipping past layer after layer of security on a land journey covering several countries and their border guards seemed remote.

“I think he’ll want to leave the continent the minute he can. The quickest way to do that is by boat.”

Harcourt frowned. “I thought you agreed that a boat north to Russia was out.”

Russell nodded. “I do, but that doesn’t mean he won’t head south. He’s ten miles from one of the largest industrial seaports in the world.” Russell walked to the flat screen and reached up to point at Rotterdam. “He’d be nuts to hang around waiting for a train when Rotterdam is so close. The sheer volume of cargo throughput makes it difficult for customs to monitor every single vessel. He gets the added advantage that many freighters head straight toward Cyprus, where we all know he’d find any number of organizations eager to help him.” She put her finger on the small island off the coasts of Turkey and Syria. “If I were him, I’d pay a willing ship’s captain to take me. Within hours he could be far from the mainland and into international waters.”

“I think you’re onto something,” Cromwell said.

Harcourt, though, looked less than convinced. “Rotterdam’s large, I’ll grant you that, but he still has to arrange for a freight captain to let him stow away, and then he has to stay put for at least thirty-six hours while the ship sails south. With a train he has the advantage of mobility. If things begin to look like they’re headed in the wrong direction, all he has to do is hop off.”

“But he hops off into hostile territory.”

“Still. If he can blend in, he has the possibility to keep moving, make a run for it.”

Cromwell pushed off the edge of the table and looked at Russell. “Can you put agents in both places? Cover the train station and the Rotterdam port?”

Russell hesitated. She’d been to Rotterdam port and didn’t think Cromwell understood the sheer impossibility of what he was suggesting. She stepped to the computer keyboard that Harcourt had used and navigated to the Rotterdam seaport web page. From there she highlighted an integrative map with a sidebar listing the port’s statistics. They were staggering, even to her, who had seen it in person.

“Four hundred million gross metric tons of throughput per year, 30,000 freighters, and 10,500 hectares stretching 40 kilometers. That’s 26,000 acres of land over 24 miles long. I don’t have the manpower to cover that effectively.”

“Which I think leads us to the conclusion that we should use our available resources in the most efficient manner,” Harcourt said. “Let’s blanket the train station and leave the port alone. One or two extra men there won’t make a dent, but they have a fighting chance to help at the train station.”

Cromwell looked over. “Russell?”

A look of slight irritation washed over Harcourt’s face. Russell noted the reaction and decided to tread carefully. It was appropriate that Cromwell consult her because tracking terrorists was what she’d done to great effect in the field, but she couldn’t blame Harcourt for being slightly put out. Most decisions at Langley came from headquarters to the field, not the other way around. But Russell knew how it felt to be hunted, Harcourt didn’t. Until Dattar was caught, he’d be hunted, and Russell knew every trick there was to move undercover. The whole point of the new initiative was to get field experience back into the offices.

“Beckmann’s located Smith and they’re headed to the airport. I’ll divert them and they can watch for anything unusual.”

“I know Beckmann, but who’s Smith?” Harcourt said.

“He’s a doctor with the US Army who was attending the World Health Organization conference.”

“What do we know about this guy? Has he been cleared to receive orders from the CIA?” Now Harcourt was frowning, his mouth set in a thin line. Russell saw the objection coming to Smith’s acting in any way that might appear to be managed by the CIA, and she strove to head it off.

“I’ve worked with Smith before on missions where army and agency interests collide. I’m positive that he’s had high-level clearance at one time or another, so I don’t believe we’re taking any risks or breaching any security in bringing him into the loop. As a microbiologist he’s there on other business, clearly, but his military skills are excellent and he’s already in position. It might be worthwhile to ask the army to loan him out for this emergency.”

Harcourt shook his head. “We don’t need a microbiologist.”

“But we might. It’s highly suspect that the attacks occurred during the WHO conference. We think the terrorists may have located some biomaterial on the premises,” Russell said.

“I’ll defer to your judgment on this Smith character, but then he’s your asset to manage. If he screws up, you’re going to have to go to the mat for him. ” Harcourt gave Russell a slight smile.

“I’ll be in the situation room,” Cromwell said. “Whatever you need to do, do it.” He swung back out the door.

“If you require anything, just call,” Harcourt said. He logged off the computer system and followed Cromwell out.

Russell reached for the phone on the credenza and dialed Beckmann. She heard the other end engage, and Jon Smith’s voice poured through the receiver.

“Please give me some good news.”

“Smith? Why are you answering Beckmann’s phone?”

“He’s busy hot-wiring a car.” Russell heard Beckmann’s voice in the background, muffled by the roaring of a vehicle’s engine as it revved.

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s saying I shouldn’t have told you that. Apparently he’s not supposed to be committing auto theft on foreign soil. I haven’t known your officer long, but he appears to break a lot of the CIA’s rules. Kind of reminds me of you in that way.”

Russell smiled. “I rarely break rules. Merely bend them.” She heard Smith’s snort of disbelief through the phone. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Tell him I’ve got new orders. Go to the train station after all. Oman Dattar’s escaped. We think he may leave by train and we’d like some eyes on the station.”

“I’m going with him. Two extra eyes could make the difference.”

Russell hesitated. She had no control over Smith, he was free to go or stay, but she knew from Harcourt’s pointed question about Smith’s status that she wouldn’t be able to extend CIA protection to him without at least a tacit understanding between her organization and his military superiors. She decided to let him go and request emergency clearance for him should the need arise.