“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.
“I do. There’s a man using a dedicated computer in the lobby for guests. Can you hack into it? Tell me what he’s doing?”
“Give me a minute. I’ll call you right back.”
Smith hung up and continued to watch Nolan. She typed furiously. The man reading the paper turned the page in a leisurely fashion, but as he did, he also made a quick, professional scan of the lobby.
I’m on to you, Smith thought.
His phone vibrated. “Tell me,” Smith said.
“Get her and get out of there. Now.” Marty’s voice sounded strained.
“Why?”
“He’s just told a contact named ‘Khalil’ that a bomb in the hotel is set to go off in seven minutes.”
The man at the computer stopped typing, directed his attention to Nolan and removed a gun from underneath his shirt. Smith grabbed his own weapon and bolted into the lobby, heading straight for the computer. The man jerked to standing, knocking over his chair. Out of the corner of Smith’s eye he saw the paper-reading accomplice rise. Smith shot the man at the computer in the right shoulder and immediately turned his attention to the other man. He saw the newspaper flutter to the floor, and light glinted off a gun in the man’s hand. The desk clerk screamed in the distance, but Smith barely heard it. His senses were dulled while he stared in supreme concentration at the gun. Smith had been shot at before, had been in near-death situations before, and in every instance this single-minded focus occurred. In his peripheral vision he noted that Nolan had risen to her feet. Smith fired again, and this time the newspaper man acted in tandem. Smith saw the muzzle flash and felt the bullet sink into his left arm. Smith’s assailant dropped with a bullet in his heart. There were more screams but these were from a group of women sitting in the corner who had escaped Smith’s attention. He’d been so wrapped up in Nolan and the men who were tailing her that the rest of the lobby’s inhabitants hadn’t registered. When Smith glanced back at the computer, the first accomplice was gone.
“Clear the hotel, there’s a bomb,” Smith yelled at the lone front desk employee still at his post, a wild-eyed young man in his mid-twenties.
“I called the police! You can tell it to them,” the man said.
Smith stalked to the counter. “Listen to me very carefully. There’s a bomb in this building. Those two planted it. Activate the fire alarm. You need to evacuate. Now. You have,” Smith looked at his watch, “five minutes.” The young man’s mouth was open and he was gasping. He took a step backward.
“Don’t shoot me,” he said. Before Smith could respond, Nolan slipped past on his right, ran to the wall and pulled at the fire alarm mounted there. An intense shrieking filled the lobby. Smith holstered his gun and started searching the area. He pulled back the leaves of a potted tree next to the counter, found nothing, and moved to an armchair pushed against the wall. He crouched down to look under it. When he stood again he was momentarily dizzy. Blood flowed down his arm and dripped onto the carpeting.
The elevator doors opened and a crowd of people stumbled out of it. So many that Smith wondered how they all fit. He heard the young desk clerk yelling into a phone “They’re not supposed to be using the elevator!” The lobby filled with panicked people, all pushing toward the entrance. One caught sight of the dead terrorist and started screaming over and over and a man next to her dragged her away. Smith fought through the line of evacuees toward Nolan, who was moving along the lobby perimeter in her own search. She knelt down to peer behind a sofa against a bank of windows.
Smith grabbed his phone and dialed Klein. He was glad the number was set to speed dial, because he was becoming increasingly woozy. By the time Klein answered, Smith was across the lobby and next to Nolan.
“I need a bomb expert, fast,” Smith said.
“Of course. Where?” Klein’s calm voice flowed through the receiver. Smith glanced at his watch.
“I have to find it first, but if I do, then I’ll have less than four minutes to disarm it. Can you get someone to talk me through it?”
“Stay on the line,” Klein said. Smith switched his phone to speaker and joined Nolan in her search. She reached out a hand to move back a heavy curtain. He put his own on her arm to stay her.
“Very gently. It could be motion activated.”
Nolan gave him a piercing glance, but paused. She shifted closer to the curtain and slid her entire arm between the window and the fabric. She used the arm as a lever to pull the curtain away. Smith looked down.
An improvised explosive device was nestled next to the baseboard. Smith heard Nolan exhale a shaky breath. He lowered to the ground and put his phone on the carpet to free up his hands. His blood dripped next to it, the loss causing his eyes to blur for a moment, and he blinked furiously.
Three black wires led from the bomb to a cheap cell phone that was set to display an alarm clock. The display was at two minutes fifty-six seconds and clicking downward.
“This is Ben Washington. I’m an explosives expert. Can you hear me over that fire alarm?” Smith almost jerked in surprise when he heard the voice coming from his cell phone.
“I can,” Smith said.
“Tell me what you see.”
“An IED wired to a cell phone. Three wires, all black. Cell phone is counting down. We’re at two minutes.”
“Okay. You’ve got time. Just clip the wires to the phone. All three. Without the spark it won’t detonate as long as you are very gentle with it. You understand? No crazy motions. You know if you’re being watched?” Smith glanced at Nolan, who looked around the now empty lobby and shook her head.
“Not sure. One got away.”
“Because if you are, they can simply call the phone and set it off immediately. It starts to ring and you get the hell out of there. Got it?”
“Got it.” Smith looked around for something to clip the wires.
“Scissors,” Nolan said. She sprinted across the lobby and Smith heard her demanding a pair from the clerk who was at the door preparing to leave. He didn’t watch her though. His wound was a freakish pain that made his entire arm feel like someone was repeatedly stabbing it with a knife. Sweat formed on his forehead and he watched the timer click downward. They’d lost thirty more seconds while Nolan was scrambling for a tool.
Nolan returned and shoved a pair of scissors at him. He positioned the first wire between the open blades and cut. The timer displayed fifty-nine seconds when Smith angled the scissors in order to reach the second wire. This one was short and attached to something that Smith thought was a detonator cap. Reaching this wire was trickier due to its length, and Smith lost twenty more seconds while he maneuvered the tip into place. He snapped the wire. He shifted once again to gain access to the third wire. By now he was sweating freely and a sticky combination of blood and sweat peppered the floor.
The phone shivered on the carpet and the display lit up.
Smith leaped backward, pulling Nolan with him. He staggered with her weight as she stumbled. Smith could hear the phone start to ring over the still blaring fire alarm and smoke poured from the bomb. He turned and ran, holding on to Nolan’s arm while dragging her to the entrance.
Seconds before they hit the glass revolving door Smith remembered Washington’s warning about being watched. He yanked Nolan to the floor as two holes appeared in the glass right where his head had been only
seconds before.
“It’s an ambush. Get out the back,” Smith said. Nolan nodded and regained her feet and ran to the lobby’s far end. The bomb continued smoking, but still hadn’t exploded. Smith could hear the scream of fire sirens growing louder. Nolan peeled off to the left and snatched her satchel off the chair, then corrected and ran to the narrow hallway where Smith had lurked not five minutes earlier. Smith hustled behind her through the hallway toward a door marked “Employees Only.” When they reached it, Nolan veered left into another hall. Smith saw a door marked “Exit” at the far end. He and Nolan pounded through it, ignoring the warnings that claimed an alarm would sound. The door closed and Smith followed Nolan onto a side street, coming even with her.
“Stay on my left, can you? I don’t want any passerby to see the blood,” Smith said.
Nolan glanced down. “It’s bad. You need to get to a hospital.”
Smith shook his head and kept moving. “Can’t. Too many questions when a gunshot wound is treated.” He moved in close to her, twining his arm through hers and using it to cover the wound on his. To the world they looked like a couple, their arms linked, taking a stroll. In reality he needed her support, because the pain and dizziness were coming in waves and threatening to engulf him.
Nolan snorted. “Afraid of the authorities? I thought you were one.”
Smith turned left and crossed the street, all the while scanning for the computer man from the lobby.
“Is your tablet in that satchel you’re carrying? Was it really worth detouring to get it? The bomb could have gone off in that time.” Nolan shot him a quick look, but said nothing. He saw that her knuckles turned white as she clutched the bag closer. Smith kept moving, thinking. His arm needed treatment, fast, he needed to debrief Nolan and discover why she’d foolishly stolen Dattar’s money, and he needed to connect with Beckmann about Howell. He silently cursed himself for not letting the computer assailant grab her, as it was clear the terrorist had intended, and then follow them both, but using her as a pawn bothered him. This time he was determined to get some answers from her. He kept walking.
“Where are we going?” Nolan said.
“I’m not sure. Someplace safe. I need a place to rest, work on this wound, and we need to talk.”
“We don’t need to talk.”
“Do you think you could cooperate? For a short while? I just saved your life. I think you owe me.” The pain in his arm was unbearable. He wasn’t sure that he could take much more and stay upright. He staggered. Nolan grabbed his arm, and he groaned at the pain her touch evoked.
“Give me your phone and tell me who to call for you,” Nolan said.
That was a good question, Smith thought. Normally he’d rely on Russell, but she was in no condition herself to help him. Klein would find a safe location for Smith to hole up, but Smith didn’t want to call his line too often. If the authorities refused the CIA’s request to ignore Smith in response to the receptionist’s death, then they would be tracking him the same way he tracked Nolan: through his cell phone. He’d have to toss this one and get a prepaid. Until then, the fewer calls to Klein the better.
“There’s no one,” Smith said. Nolan gave him a strange look, but Smith was in too much pain to try to analyze what she was thinking.
“No wife? Children? Parents? Siblings?”
Smith shook his head.
Now Nolan stared at him in open disbelief. “Best friend? Colleague at work?”
“I told you. No.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Smith gritted his teeth against another wave of pain. “Listen. We can discuss my complete lack of close personal relationships some other time. Right now we need a safe place to land.” They crossed another street, and Smith felt Nolan steering him toward a glass door covered by a red awning.
“Fine. Then let’s go here,” Nolan said. As they reached the entrance a doorman stepped out and held it for them. He nodded at Nolan.
“Good to see you, Ms. Nolan.” He gave Smith a penetrating glance and acknowledged him. Nolan headed straight to an elevator. Once inside she removed her arm from Smith’s grasp and pressed a code on a separate keypad on the wall and then the button marked “PH.” She stepped aside.
“May I ask where we’re going?” Smith said.
“My mother’s house.”
“Can she keep a secret?”
Nolan shook her head. “Not if her life depended on it. But she’s not here. She’s in Paris for the couture shows.”
“Who’s your mother?”
“Grayson Redding.”
Smith watched as the elevator lights climbed higher than the third floor. His anxiety rose along with the lift. He pulled his attention away from the display long enough for the name she had mentioned to register. He gave a low whistle.
“Of the railroad and utility fame?”
Nolan nodded.
“If you’re a Redding, how is it that you were so difficult to find on the Internet when I was searching for you? I would think the society pages would be filled with your face.”
“I told you, Landon Investments values privacy and confidentiality. We have a policy that requires us to be as discreet as possible. As well as an IT specialist who scrubs the Internet on a regular basis. I kept my married name after my divorce and that has helped, too.” The elevator made a pinging sound and the doors whooshed open directly into the residence. Smith stepped into a lavish, marbled hall with several doors leading off in different directions.
“Does she occupy the entire floor?”
Nolan tossed her keys into a glass bowl on an elaborately carved antique credenza that Smith figured cost more than his yearly salary.
“She does. And the staff is on vacation as well, so we’re alone. Come into the master bath. She keeps the first aid there.” Smith reached out and put a hand on her arm to stop her from leaving.
“I assume that an apartment as magnificent as this has an alarm system?”
“It does.”
“Set it, please.”
“Now?”
Smith nodded. “Right now.”
Nolan returned to the wall near the elevator and tapped some keys on a keypad. Smith heard the system give an answering beep as it armed, and he felt a little of the tension leave his body. The pain was steady, but the bleeding had tapered a bit.
“I’ll need some tweezers, a bowl filled with a mixture of alcohol and water, a washcloth, and some bandages.”
“Who’s going to use the tweezers?”
“You.”
Nolan sighed. He followed her through a hall lined with wallpaper that looked like silk and past open doors that gave him glimpses of a game room as well as a library. Smith thought the apartment lavish, but was having a difficult time with the fact that it was on the sixth floor and so vast that a man could run through it without being heard. They would not remain long there if he could help it.
He entered a bathroom that gave testament to the long history of money accumulated by generations of Reddings. It was larger than his kitchen at home. Quite a feat in the heart of New York City. Nolan fished around in a linen closet and removed the items he had requested. She pulled up a small stool padded in white leather and pointed him to it, positioning him in front of the first sink in the double vanity. He glanced in the mirror in front of him and was shocked to see that he was pale and drawn, with heavy pain lines bracketing his mouth.
“What’s first?”
“Help me out of this shirt. If I can’t get out, then we’ll cut it off.” He started to roll the shirt from the bottom, and Nolan reached over to assist. Some of his blood dripped next to her.
“Sorry,” he said. She waved him off.
“I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared, and Smith continued to bunch up the shirt. He was able to remove his right arm and maneuvered the fabric over to his neck. Pulling it the rest of the way was not as easy, because it strained against the wound. He winced at the first try and decided
to wait until she returned. She stepped back into the bathroom wearing dark jeans and a V-neck navy sweater. Her feet were bare.
“Better,” he said. “I won’t feel as bad when I drip blood on you.”
“Let me help.” With her assistance, they were able to get the shirt over his head without causing too much pain. He only hissed once, when she pulled the bits of fabric that had crusted to the wound.
“Is it awful?”
“Not yet. ‘Awful’ will arrive when you start to dig out the bullet.”
She took a deep breath. “How do you want me to sterilize the tweezers?”
“In the alcohol full strength. No dilution.” He watched as she poured the alcohol over the tweezers.
“Does this kill everything?”
“Everything that reacts to alcohol.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Biofilms.”
She gave him a glance and stepped closer. “What are those?”
“Bacteria that colonize and become so strong that nothing kills them. Not even bleach. They have to be scraped away. The plaque on your teeth is a biofilm.”
“I can see the bullet easily. Are you ready?”
Not at all. “Yes,” he said.
She started in. He felt first the cold metal and then a lancing pain that made him groan involuntarily. She moved the tweezers a bit more and he could feel his entire body responding to the pain of this newest assault. The muscles in his arms clenched tight. His ears started to ring and his head to swim. She removed the tweezers and took a deep breath.
“I can’t reach it without first expanding the wound around it. Here.” She gave him a towel.
“What’s this for?” he said.
“You’re sweating. Round two. You ready?”
He nodded.
She put the tweezers in and the same lancing pain began. She expanded the tweezers and he felt the entire room spin. He passed out.
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