“Two others at the hotel died just the same way.”
“Cyanide?” Beckmann said.
“No. I checked. I’d like to get an autopsy done. Perhaps we can find out what’s going on here.” Beckmann pulled out his phone and sent a text.
“I asked for a team to come collect the body and deliver it to the Dutch authorities. They’re on their way, but I think we should continue to the train station. Let me take some photos.” Smith moved away while Beckmann took several shots. “Done.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket. “Do we leave the weapon? Sig Sauers are my favorite. Not flashy, but solid.” Smith cocked his head.
“I like them too, but if he fired it, it could be traced. You sure you want to keep it?”
“I’m lacking a pistol. I think we take it. Just in case.”
They returned to the car, which was double-parked with its emergency lights flashing. Smith slid into the driver’s seat and was struck once again by the car’s comfort. His eyes felt grainy and his body seemed to deflate in exhaustion.
“What time is it?” he said.
“Five AM. Tired?”
“You have no idea.”
Beckmann nodded. “There’s a safe house two blocks from here. I’ll direct you there. Go get some rest.”
Smith sat up. “Not on your life. If Dattar shows at that train station, he’ll have to deal with me. Again.”
“I sincerely doubt Dattar will show. He’s on his way to Rotterdam. To the ports.”
Smith paused. “Russell think that too?”
Beckmann nodded. “She sent me a text. Said she’d deploy us there if she thought we had a chance to intercept him.”
“So he gets away because we haven’t enough people available to stop him,” Smith said.
Beckmann sighed. “It’s frustrating. But it won’t be our last opportunity. He may not use the station, but his operatives will. The one we just found was probably on his way there. Let’s find another and beat some intelligence out of him. Then we go hunt for Dattar.”
“I’ll drop you at the station and keep the car. You won’t need it there.”
Beckmann gave Smith a look full of suspicion. “What do you need the car for?”
“To drive it to Rotterdam port.”
Beckmann raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll be able to find Dattar? Where do you expect to look?”
“Wherever contraband is sold. He has a shipping company called Karachi Naman Shipping. When I worked there on the cholera outbreak, WHO had used the company to ship medical supplies. Supplies that never got there. Dattar diverted and sold them to India.”
“I thought India and Pakistan hated each other.”
“Dattar would trade with the devil if he thought it would bring him more money or more power.”
Smith typed on his smartphone, tapping in a search for the company name and a possible address for shipping activities out of Rotterdam. He scrolled through several results, but most contained nothing more than the address for the parent company in Pakistan. Frustrated, he quit the application.
“Forget the port,” Beckmann said. “Russell’s right, you’ll never find him in that vast place. Come with me to the train station. I could use the extra hands.”
Beckmann had a point. They had a better chance locating one of Dattar’s minions doing his best to flee the country and prying the information out of him. Smith started the car and headed down the street.
“You can guide me there?”
Beckmann reached out and tapped on the built-in GPS on the dash and within seconds a breathy female voice began giving them instructions in Korean. Beckmann fiddled a bit, but only managed to turn up the volume.
“Sorry, can’t get it to switch languages,” he said. He peered at the map displayed on the small screen. “Right turn ahead.”
Twenty minutes later they approached the train station. Smith entered a no-parking zone and cut the engine. Several police cars idled in front, and he counted at least twenty officers, most in riot gear, stationed at various entry points. They gazed at each person who walked toward the building. Smith watched one officer hold out a hand to a swarthy complexioned young man with a black backpack slung over one shoulder. The young man lowered the pack to the ground and unzipped it. He opened the sack and tilted it so that the policeman could see the contents. With a curt nod, the officer allowed the man to continue into the building.
“He should be stopping them a hell of a lot farther away. If that pack had contained a bomb, it would have taken out the front entrance,” Beckmann said.
Smith swept his eyes over the area, getting the lay of the land and counting security and riot control personnel. He shifted the car into gear and pulled from the spot.
“Let’s head to the rear. This much heat almost guarantees that these guys aren’t going to waltz into the front door.” He drove around the building, pulling the vehicle close to its far end. Steel tracks snaked in all directions. Smith watched as a train car appeared, slowly making its way out of the railway terminal. A lone officer stood at the corner, keeping vigil. He eyed the town car with great interest.
“Keep moving. That guy is looking like he wants to stop us,” Beckmann said.
He kept going, driving past the officer, whose head moved in tandem with them as they passed, and turned onto a narrow cobblestone lane. Parked cars lined the road, one set of wheels on the sidewalk, the other on the street, their mirrors folded. Even so, the sedan was a tight fit. Smith kept his eyes in front of him, keeping the car in the center with a few feet of clearance on each side.
Two masked men burst around the corner. They ran flat-out, their arms pumping, pistols in their hands flashing; the lead man had a backpack that banged against his shoulder blades with each footfall.
“I’m on it.” Beckmann rolled out the passenger door, smacking it against a metal mesh garbage can before slamming it closed. He raised his rifle in a fluid motion and squeezed off a shot, hitting the following man in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the right. The terrorist stumbled and went down between two vehicles, dropping out of Smith’s sight.
The lead man didn’t hesitate or even flinch at the sound of the gunshot. He sprinted straight at the car, never slowing. Smith kept the car moving as well. They were ten feet apart and on a collision course when the attacker’s legs crumpled. One second he was standing, the next he wasn’t. He smacked, face first, onto the stones and lay in the harsh pool of light thrown by the town car’s headlamps. Smith hit the brakes, skidding to within two feet of the fallen man. He threw the transmission into park and watched as Beckmann flitted past, running toward the man he’d shot and ignoring the body on the ground.
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 th
e 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.”
10
Dattar 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 th
e 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.
11
Russell 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.
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