The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  Smith punched the button on the box, and it opened. A set of keys fell into his palm. He grabbed them and then reached for Nolan, wrapping his hands around her bicep.

  “Quit grabbing me. I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  “Liar.” He pulled her with him, ignoring the annoyed sound she made.

  The safe house door was located on the third and last landing. He was thankful for the runner that covered the wood stairs, muffling their steps. There were two doors per landing, but the quiet told Smith that the occupants were gone. When they reached the third landing, “3B” was to Smith’s right. Smith put the keys in the deadbolt, shooting it back, and swung the door open.

  They entered a foyer that contained a small credenza with a wooden charging station for cell phones. Smith tossed the keys onto one of the felt-covered spaces on the station and walked into the living area, past an open door to his right that led into a kitchen. The living area was furnished with a minimalism that screamed disuse. A leather couch faced a television console that held a flat-screen television and, on the shelf below, a stereo system. A glass cocktail table sat between the two. To the left was a set of stairs that led to the next floor, where Smith presumed were the bedrooms. The entire first level would be considered small by most American standards, but large for a duplex in New York City. He estimated there to be no more than four hundred square feet on the first level, and the same on the second.

  Next to the couch an end table held a remote control and a curved, sleek silver telephone on a stand. The phone started ringing. From the corner of his eye he saw Nolan step into the living room from the kitchen. She paused to watch him.

  Smith walked over to peer at the small screen built into the handle that revealed the phone number. The display read “Unavailable,” which told him it was probably someone from the CIA checking on their status. He picked it up and put it to his ear to answer.

  “You made it?” Russell said.

  “Yes. Did you catch the shooter in the garage?”

  “No. Long gone, or so we suspect. Has Nolan given you any information?” Smith looked at the woman in question, who was still gazing at him with her ever-present serious expression.

  “Haven’t had a moment to breathe. Will let you know once I do.”

  “Good. We’re still drawing blanks on Dattar’s location. Until we find him, it might be best if you both stayed inside. There’s food in the refrigerator and alcohol in the small bar at the corner of the living room. I stocked it with your favorite drink.” Smith spotted the corner wet bar. For a moment he was confused because, while he had a favorite drink, he didn’t recall filling Russell in on it.

  “Which is?”

  “Shaken, not stirred.”

  Smith smiled. “Bond was cool under fire. In contrast, I’ll need liberal amounts while I debrief her.”

  “Think she knows something?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Call me if you learn anything useful. Anytime. I’m in Manhattan — Midtown — and expect to stay here at least another twenty-four hours. We could use a break. Every terrorist has died before we could interrogate him, the coolers are still missing, and Dattar has vanished.”

  “Any news on Howell?”

  “Nothing. But no body either, so perhaps he’s still alive.”

  “Who’s searching for him?”

  “I pulled Beckmann out of The Hague and put him on it.”

  “Excellent. I like that guy.”

  “He’s the best, albeit a little unorthodox in his methods.”

  “Keep me posted.” Smith hung up.

  “Was that Ms. Russell?”

  Smith nodded. “They were unable to catch the shooter. She’s suggesting we lie low for a while.”

  Nolan looked around the room. “For how long?”

  He put up his hands. “I don’t know.” He wanted to dive right in and demand some answers from her regarding her connection to Dattar, but he didn’t think she’d respond well to a blunt question. He decided to try to build a rapport with her first. “Are you hungry? I’m told there’s food here somewhere.”

  She nodded. “Very.”

  He smiled. “Then let’s have a look.” He shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a chair and stepped past her into the kitchen. He noticed that her eyes were locked onto his gun in the shoulder holster. She followed, which he counted as a win, given that it was the first time she had since he’d met her. It took him no time at all to find the ingredients for a sandwich. He made two, handed her a plate and a bottle of a tea drink.

  “No bottled water, sorry.”

  “Tea is fine,” she said. “I’m going to go upstairs to wash my hands first.” Smith nodded and settled into a chair by the kitchen table to eat.

  Ten minutes later, when she still hadn’t returned, he shoved away from the table and headed upstairs to the second floor to investigate. The stairs ended in a long hallway, with two doors placed at the beginning and the end. He slowed and pulled his gun out of the holster. The first door opened into a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with a bed, a dresser with another flat-screen on top, and two nightstands. A door at the back opened into a compact bathroom with a shower and one sink. No Nolan.

  He returned to the hallway and headed to the next door, which he now assumed must contain the master bedroom. He opened the door to find just that: a slightly larger room with a king-sized bed, standard dresser, and television. A bank of three separate double-hung windows were to his right, and a cool breeze flowed into the room from the one farthest from the door.

  She was gone.

  17

  STUPID ME, SMITH THOUGHT, and sighed. He placed his free hand on the windowsill and leaned out. The fire escape was empty, the bottom rungs still retracted. She must have jumped from there to the ground. He looked around the area but could see no sign of her. He closed the window, locked it, returned to the kitchen, and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He dialed Marty, who picked up on the second ring.

  “Jon, I’m surprised to hear from you. Did you find her?”

  “I did. And just lost her again.”

  Marty snorted. “I’m watching breaking news about the gunman in the Landon Investments building in New York. So the dead woman wasn’t her.”

  “It was her receptionist. I brought her to a safe house, but she gave me the slip. Ms. Nolan is not as cooperative as I expected.”

  “I told you she looked angry. Angry people never do what you want.”

  Smith paused. Marty’s comment was astute, but once again he didn’t think “angry” was the right word to apply to Nolan. “I know she’s got a telephone on her, as well as a tablet computer. Can you track her through either?”

  “What type of software on her phone?”

  “No idea.”

  “Number?”

  “Nope.”

  Marty gave a gusty sigh. “You’re not giving me much to go on here.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “I’m going to have to hack the major carriers, find her number, and then see if I can track her. Some systems have built-in GPS, which will pinpoint her exact location, but others only triangulate her signal from a nearby tower. In the last case I’ll only be able to get you a radius. You’ll have to canvass for her. How did she get away? Are you losing your touch?”

  Marty’s comment served to raise Smith’s annoyance with himself. Marty was right; he should have predicted that she’d run, but the reality was that he couldn’t have held her in the safe house against her will in any event. “I made the mistake of assuming that as a civilian she’d be a whole lot more cooperative than she was. In fact, she’s not behaving like a civilian at all.” She’s behaving like someone with something to hide, Smith thought.

  “What’s she like?”

  “Serious, smart, and obsessed with her job. She reacted to the news that an assassin was after her with a lot less emotion than I expected.”

  “She sounds like me,” Marty said. Sm
ith raised an eyebrow. Once again, Marty was close to the truth. Smith wouldn’t be surprised if he was told that Nolan was somewhere on the spectrum for Asperger’s. Marty continued, “What are you going to do while I track her, again?” Marty seemed to be enjoying himself at Smith’s expense.

  “I’m going to her home. As an amateur that’s probably the first place she’ll head.”

  “You just told me she’s not acting like a civilian. Why are you treating her like one?” That brought Smith up short. There came a beep on his phone.

  “I’ve got a call coming through. Let me know the minute you find anything.” Smith hung up and switched over.

  “It’s Randi. I’m coming in the front door so don’t blow my head off.” Smith still had his gun in his hand. He shoved it back in the holster. He heard the door open and after a moment Russell stepped into the kitchen. She wore dark jeans topped by a loose-fitting cotton T-shirt and a short blue blazer. On her feet were black sneakers with white rubber soles.

  “I lost Nolan,” he said.

  “What? How?” Russell looked shocked. Smith told her the whole sordid story, finishing with the information that he had Marty tracking her cell. Russell looked down at Nolan’s sandwich, still sitting on the table. Smith followed her gaze.

  “Do you want it? She didn’t touch it.”

  Russell nodded. “I’m starving.” She pulled up a chair and uncapped the tea. Smith thought she looked pale and wan.

  “Are you sick?” he said.

  She nodded. “Picked up a bit of a virus, which is not surprising. We’ve been working around the clock in the hunt for Dattar.”

  “Not from the swab, I hope,” Smith said.

  She took a bite of the sandwich. “I wondered about that, too. I actually called Ohnara back and asked him, but he said cholera wouldn’t present with my symptoms or as a mild illness. If I had it, I would know it.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true. I’ve seen it in action in Third World countries. It’s awful,” Smith said.

  “What the hell does Nolan have to hide?” Russell said. “And I agree with you, she’s headed home.”

  “Then let’s go. We’re only a few minutes behind.”

  Russell pointed at his sandwich. “You haven’t finished. Don’t worry. I’ve got an officer stationed at her place. She shows up, he’ll lock her down for us. And I need to talk to you about something else.” Smith took a deep breath in relief. He should have known that Russell would have all angles covered. He sat at the table, but he found he was too keyed up to eat.

  “Ohnara says the cholera sample is mutant, but he doesn’t think it poses a risk — at least not in this country. He ran it through our standard water treatment process and it died. In fact, he said it died so swiftly that he thinks the mutation weakened it somehow.”

  Smith pondered that for a moment. “If that’s true, then he should start an experiment to introduce the mutation to the general cholera population. With a little tweaking, he could weaken the disease.”

  Russell shook her head. “Don’t forget, without treatment it multiplied at an astonishing rate. It could just render the disease more virulent.”

  “Well, that’s why you tweak it. Boost what you need and leave the rest,” Smith said.

  Russell finished the sandwich and pushed the plate away. “My real concern is Dattar. We’re getting rumors that a full-scale attack on a major city in America is being planned. We can’t be sure Dattar is the mastermind, but I don’t like that he’s escaped.”

  Smith stood. “We need to get our hands on Nolan again. She knows something, I’m almost sure of it. I asked her about Dattar and she shut down tight. Claimed client confidentiality. If he weren’t a client, she would have had no obligation toward him and could have just said no. The fact that she pulled the confidentiality card tells me that he was.” Smith heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Are we expecting someone?” he whispered. Russell shook her head and pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster under the blazer. The steps grew nearer, moving quietly. Smith pulled his own weapon out and pressed himself against the wall on the side of the entrance to the hall. Russell took up a position behind his left shoulder. The footfalls stopped on the landing and a key slid into the lock. The door opened, and a tall man with slicked hair and wearing a suit came into view. Smith put the muzzle of his gun against the side of the man’s head. He stilled.

  “Colonel Smith?” he said.

  Russell lowered her weapon and moved into view. “It’s all right,” she said to Smith, “he’s CIA.” Smith lowered his weapon. “You almost got your head blown off,” she said to the man. He turned to face her with an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry, Russell. I should have told you I was on my way.”

  Russell holstered her weapon. “Jon Smith, meet Steve Harcourt. CIA’s head of the Mideast Division, currently on loan to the NYPD.”

  Smith nodded a greeting. The man’s slick demeanor and expensive tailored suit spoke volumes about his position at the agency. Smith noted a small bump near the suit’s arm where he presumed Harcourt’s own weapon was holstered. He imagined the residents of New York’s Upper West Side would be surprised at how many people were walking around their neighborhood while carrying concealed. A buzzing noise made Russell jump. She pulled out a BlackBerry and read the screen.

  “Jordan says that Nolan hasn’t returned to her house.”

  “I thought she was here,” Harcourt said. Smith was prepared to once again tell of his blunder when Russell interrupted.

  “She skipped. There’s a request out to track her by cell phone transmission. I stationed Jordan at her house early this morning just as a precaution.”

  Harcourt rubbed his chin. “Is that really a good use of an officer? We haven’t any information that links her to anything that we’re investigating now.”

  “We have the photos in the terrorist’s pocket that I told you about,” Russell said.

  “I think she’s tied to Dattar in some way that may be significant,” Smith said. Harcourt leveled a glance at Smith.

  “I understand that you’re a member of the military branch for infectious diseases? I appreciate your input, and I am glad to see you survived the attack at the Grand Royal, but tracking Dattar is the CIA’s job.” Smith felt his irritation grow. Harcourt’s attitude was that of a pure bureaucrat and his defensive posture was him marking his territory. Smith doubted that the man had actually worked in the field for years.

  “It’s my job to protect myself. Someone’s been targeting me and Ms. Nolan and I intend to discover who.”

  “It appears as though Ms. Nolan doesn’t want your help. Otherwise I imagine she’d still be here,” Harcourt said. Smith took a breath to respond, but Russell stepped between him and Harcourt.

  “Let’s focus on the facts, shall we?” Russell said. “There’s an attack on the Grand Royal the same night that infectious disease specialists are convened there and that Dattar escapes from prison. Photos of Ms. Nolan, Smith, and a former agent from MI6 named Howell are found in one of the attacker’s pockets. Ms. Nolan is a money manager who may have done business with Dattar, and her receptionist is gunned down not twenty-four hours after the escape. Currently we have little information on Dattar’s whereabouts, and we should be interviewing anyone with any information about him. If that’s Nolan, then she needs to be found and questioned.”

  “By the CIA,” Harcourt said. “Not by anyone else.” He shot a warning look at Smith.

  Jerk, Smith thought.

  “Which requires an officer at her home.”

  “I still think it’s a waste of resources. But if you think it’s necessary…” Harcourt shrugged.

  “I do,” Russell said. Her phone buzzed again. She punched the speaker button.

  “Ms. Russell? It’s Jana Wendel. Jordan’s been shot.”

  18

  KHALIL WALKED CALMLY AWAY from his position opposite Nolan’s house and passed the car with its shattered windshield and occup
ant slumped over the wheel. He knew that the agent had survived long enough to call for help, for he’d seen him lift the cell phone to his ear and speak before falling unconscious. Khalil didn’t care. The agent should have been quicker, faster. He’d aimed at Khalil, which had forced Khalil to crouch before shooting; as a result, the shot was not a kill shot. Khalil was pushing thirty-five and should have slower reflexes than the young agent. That he didn’t revealed the CIA’s weakness.

  Khalil was only angry that Nolan hadn’t appeared at the house. Shooting the agent was small recompense, but it was clear that the agent had noticed Khalil hanging about Nolan’s block. Khalil stayed a few minutes more after the shooting to see if Nolan would appear, but that was a risk because he could hear ambulance sirens in the distance. He turned a corner, entered the park, and began to jog. Here his running wouldn’t raise a question. Dozens of people ran around him, all getting their afternoon workout. When he was far enough away, he dialed a number on his phone.

  “Did you get her?” Dattar said.

  “She hasn’t appeared at her home. But a CIA agent did. At no time did you tell me that the CIA was involved regarding her.”

  “I didn’t know they were! If anything, that was your mistake. You shouldn’t have killed the receptionist.”

  Khalil stopped walking. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the receptionist at N— the target’s office. She was shot in the temple. Your signature style.”

  “But not by me. Have you paid another to acquire this target?”

  “No. And I won’t. But that was a foolish move because the police are now swarming the office. If you intend to take her there, you won’t be able to without being captured.”

  “That’s of no importance to me. I never intended to take her there. It’s too visible. Whoever you paid in addition to me is screwing up, and I’d suggest you request your money back. That’s assuming you paid him at all.” Khalil’s voice dripped with sarcasm.