“It’s gone. Followed me one more turn and then broke away.”
“That’s some bad luck. Sorry. Wish we could have gotten there sooner. Any idea why you might be tailed?”
Try about a hundred ideas, Russell thought. Her field activities had been varied and dangerous, but most had been wrapped up cleanly. The only possible exception would be Africa.
“Has to be from the last mission. I’ll keep an eye out and if it happens again I’ll let Cromwell know they’ve found me. We’ll have to make alternate arrangements. I’ll probably sleep at a hotel tonight.”
“Fair enough. Watch your back.” Harcourt rang off.
Russell sighed. She really didn’t want to sleep in a hotel that night. Instead, she took a winding route to her rented house located thirty minutes from Langley, keeping a sharp eye on the road behind her. The house sat in a quiet, prosperous suburb, where trees lined the curving streets and large homes dominated three-quarter-acre lots. Once there she pulled into the attached garage and waited for the door to close behind her before exiting. She armed the house’s perimeter the minute she entered, using a keypad located on the wall next to the side entrance. Still, she held her gun while she did a quiet, thorough reconnaissance of each room. She checked in closets, under beds, and inside the master bedroom’s shower stall. Once she was satisfied, she returned to the keypad, disarmed, cleared the old code, created a new one, and rearmed. An hour later she was asleep.
It wasn’t a sound that woke her, it was the absence of any. The humidifier in her bedroom had shut off. It no longer made the soft whirring white noise that helped her fall asleep each night. She opened her eyes and glanced over at it. Not only was the humidifier silent, but the clock radio was dark as well. The electricity was down.
She sat up and reached for her gun, which she kept under the pillow next to the one she slept on. The heavy black around her felt ominous, and she slid out of bed and over to the alarm keypad on the wall. The green LED display blinked “Power Failure” in five-second intervals. The battery backup would keep the system functioning, and the phone line connection would allow for a direct call to the local police, assuming that the line was still operative. Russell moved back to the bedside table, where the only electricity-free phone sat. She picked up the receiver and heard nothing. The landline had been cut. Her cell phone was attached to a charging station on a credenza by the front door.
She went to the corner of her window, aligned herself with the wall, and pushed aside the curtain an inch to peer at the backyard. Beyond a brick-paved patio area was a lawn dotted with oaks that were just sprouting leaves after the long winter. The shapes of their branches were black forms in the night, and Russell could hear them shifting and clattering together in the wind. The alarm keypad beeped three times and Russell froze. Someone had disarmed the system. Now even the siren wouldn’t blare, but Russell considered that to be of minimal use since the house sat far from any neighbors. She didn’t want an amateur stumbling into the situation in any event. What concerned her most was the fact that the intruder was able to disarm a brand new code. These were professionals.
Russell responded the way she always did when in the game, her senses focused, her hand gripping her gun tightly. Her heart beat faster as she headed back to the display. The chime feature would respond each time a sensor was activated, and there were trigger points in each room and one on the stairwell to the second-floor bedrooms. Russell waited to see what location they used to breach the perimeter.
The keypad beeped and the words “front door” ran across the display. Pretty bold, walking right in the front door, she thought. She removed the safety on her gun and settled in with her shoulder against the wall, facing the bedroom door. Whoever was in the house was after her. She expected they’d make their way to her room. The words “living room sensor” came next. In her mind’s eye, Russell traced the path they were taking through the house. The alarm chimed again. This time the word “kitchen” lit the device. Russell strained to catch any sound. She heard a rattle of glass bottles: the same sound she always heard when the refrigerator door opened.
What, do they need a beer? Russell thought. The bottles rattled again as the door was closed. Another beep. “Living room” marched across the keypad. One more beep and “front door” appeared.
She heard it close.
She slid into the opening leading to the master bath, keeping back. The walls blocked her view of the hall leading to the bedroom’s entrance and, on the opposite side, the window, but kept her safe in case multiple attackers converged on her from both sides. But if the alarm system was correct and if they were once again outside, they’d come through the window.
The small battery-operated clock on the bathroom counter glowed, revealing that it was 3:02 in the morning. Then 3:03. Still silence. She waited until the clock glowed 3:18 before risking a move to peer past the doorway. The alarm pad emitted a loud clicking and the humidifier kicked back on. The electricity was restored.
She crept out into the hallway, tiptoeing quickly down the stairs to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was closed, but she wasn’t fool enough to open it. She moved across through the living room to the front door. She wasn’t fool enough to step outside and become a target dummy, either. She threw the deadbolt before picking up her cell phone. She dialed Langley, requested assistance, and settled down behind the arm of the living room couch to wait, hoping that the refrigerator’s walls would contain enough of the force of any explosion so that she would survive.
Within thirty minutes a large delivery truck pulled into the driveway. The words “Washburn Heating and Cooling” were lettered on the side. The truck idled there, not moving. Russell’s phone started ringing.
She answered and a man’s voice said, “We’ve canvassed the area and found no one lurking in the trees. Are you clear in there?”
“Yes. I’ll let you in.” Two men in coveralls fell out of the doors, keeping behind them while they stared at the front of the house. Russell threw open the door, letting in a gust of cold air that smelled like spring. They walked toward her. Both wore knit caps, and one was Nicholas Jordan, the new hire. The other was a black man in his forties, with hair graying at the temples and a cautious manner. He stuck his hand out.
“Ben Washington. Explosives expert. Should we be standing here discussing the weather when you think there’s a bomb?”
Oh boy, I like this one. All business, Russell thought. “I think it’s in the refrigerator,” she said.
Washington snorted. “So either timer activated or wired to blow when you open the door.”
“Or a dirty bomb,” Russell said.
Washington shook his head. “Nope, already checked for that. The truck is equipped with some of NASA’s spare parts and a jerry-rigged telescope that can scan an area for traces of high-energy radioactive isotopes. A dirty bomb would have left a trail of them in the air. You’re clear.” He gave her an assessing look. “You sat in that house all that time with a possible dirty bomb? That’s either a lot of guts or a lot of stupidity.”
Russell shrugged. “I was just playing the odds. Dirty bomb: rare. Attacker with bullets: common. I figured I was safer in the house with the bomb than outside with a sniper in the trees.”
She looked at Jordan. “On your basic explosives rotation?” The CIA’s training schedule required that each agent learn hand-to-hand combat, basic bomb creation, and disarmament and weapons instruction.
Jordan smiled. “I love this round.”
Washington snorted again. “All you young officers want to do is blow things up.” He looked at Russell. “Too many video games.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, let’s figure out if the bad guys put something in the fridge.”
Washington sauntered over to the back of the truck and reached in. He removed a metal bomb mask, a Kevlar jumpsuit, a coiled length of rope on a rolling reel, and a white plastic baby monitor. Russell watched with interest.
“Pretty low tech stuff y
ou have there. Not exactly a NASA telescope.”
Washington nodded. “Yep. But most bombs are homemade. With the exception of your basic C4 or Plastique, and you and I both know how tough it is to get your hands on that stuff these days.”
“What’s the baby monitor for?”
“Cheapest closed-circuit television system you can buy. This one’s wireless, and while the RF signal can be a problem around some devices, I think the refrigerator’s metal should blunt that a bit. Going to set it up so when the door opens we can see what’s inside. That is, assuming the door pull isn’t a trigger.”
“And the rope?”
“I’m going to tie it onto the handle and pull open the door.” He waved at Jordan. “Can you help me into the jumpsuit? They’re a two-person operation.”
“Can I go in?” Jordan said.
Washington shook his head. “You can only disarm after you’ve completed the written test.”
Jordan sighed and held the clothing while Washington stepped into the jumpsuit. It had large Velcro tabs on the back that held it in place, a high collar that stuck up six inches around Washington’s face; an additional, thicker Kevlar torso section added another layer of protection. The mask included a ventilator system, microphone, and installed web camera. Jordan lowered the helmet over Washington’s head.
“Don’t the web camera and microphone operate on a radio frequency too?” Russell asked.
Jordan nodded. “But it can be turned off.”
“All right, I’ll see you in five.” Washington’s voice was muffled behind the mask.
Washington grabbed the rope and one half of the baby monitor setup and started toward the house. It was clear from his gait that the cumbersome suit was hindering his stride. He disappeared inside and reappeared five minutes later, walking backward while he unspooled the rope. It extended almost thirty feet from the door, and Russell and Jordan retreated an additional thirty.
“I’m going to pull it,” Washington called to them.
“Just like that? What if it explodes? I’ve got my wallet in there, my car’s in the garage, not to mention a brand new laptop.”
“Casualties of war. Ready?”
Russell took a deep breath, held it, and nodded.
Washington hauled on the rope.
Nothing happened. Washington lifted off the heavy mask and glanced at his watch.
“Not a trigger. Maybe timer. Let’s have a look.” He lumbered to the back of the truck, where the two panel doors hung open, and plunked the mask down. Russell joined him, with Jordan right behind. The baby monitor was up and running and the screen gave an excellent view of the open refrigerator’s interior. Washington angled it so that Russell could see.
“Anything strange? Different? Condiment bottle where it wasn’t before?”
The refrigerator’s contents looked untouched. Russell shook her head.
“Nothing that I can see.”
“Why break into a house, open the refrigerator, look inside, and leave?” Jordan said. “Absolutely nothing was accomplished. If they wanted you dead, you’re not, and if they wanted to blow up the house, they didn’t. I don’t get it.”
“A display of expertise? Trying to make you jumpy?” Washington sounded as puzzled as Jordan.
Russell took a deep breath. “Maybe. But if it’s a warning, it’s a pretty subtle one, and I’ll be honest with you guys: the types of people that could be after my hide aren’t known for their subtlety.”
Russell stared at the image of the refrigerator. “There is one thing.”
Washington perked up. “What?”
She pointed to the plastic cover for the refrigerator light. “The cover is slimy looking. It almost looks like someone wiped it with petroleum jelly.” Jordan bent in to take a closer look.
“You sure it wasn’t that way before? I mean, the interior of my refrigerator could use a good scrubbing.”
Washington tapped him on the shoulder. “You single?”
Jordan nodded.
“Then you’ll learn. My wife sees dirt that I don’t even notice. Women don’t allow slime in the refrigerator.”
Russell smiled for the first time since the ordeal began. “You stereotyping me?”
Washington grinned back. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, you’re right…this time,” Russell said. “I’m certain I would have noticed that before.”
Washington rubbed his jaw while he stared at the monitor. “Not likely that a bomb is in that small a container. Besides, we’d see the outline of one through the plastic.”
“Perhaps something biological?”
Washington nodded. “That’s outside my area of expertise. We’ll need a lab tech to come in and take some swabs.”
“Now the only question is how did they get the alarm code and once they had it, why did they bother to shut down the electricity?” Russell told the men about the recently installed code.
“Got to be either a camera somewhere or a device implanted into the keypad that tracks your key strikes. I’ll check for both,” Jordan said. “As for the electricity, maybe they thought it would knock out the alarm system altogether?”
“Hard to believe guys sophisticated enough to enable a keystroke reader wouldn’t know that most alarm systems have backup batteries.”
“I think they wanted it dark in case you woke up and targeted them. Harder for you to see them to kill them,” Washington said.
Russell followed both men into the house, looking around the front yard before closing the front door. She threw the deadbolt and joined them in the kitchen. Washington was peering into the refrigerator and Russell joined him. From the closer view the slime on the light cover was even more pronounced. Washington closed the door.
Jordan removed the cover from the alarm keypad and said, “We’ve got a reader.” He removed a small circuit board, clipping the wires that attached it to the system and replacing them. The alarm pad beeped. “I’ll check all of the pads.”
While Jordan worked on the keypads, Russell and Washington searched the house for anything else suspicious that the intruder might have left. They found nothing. When they were done, Washington and Jordan left.
Russell sat at the kitchen table, her pistol within reach, and watched as the sky lightened with the new day. The refrigerator hummed.
12
SMITH TOUCHED DOWN AT Washington Dulles at three in the afternoon, having hopped a military charter that was scheduled to fly some members of the Department of Defense administrative staff home from The Hague. None had stayed at the Grand Royal, and all wanted Smith’s take on the attack. He gave little information, choosing to act the innocent bystander rather than the operative that he was. The terrorist’s plane ticket was in his pocket.
He’d faxed the photos and the plane ticket to Klein, and now he sat and worried about the unidentified woman in the photo. While he was sure Howell could take care of himself, he wasn’t sure about the woman.
Once he landed he turned on his phone and waited for it to load. As other passengers deplaned, one man, a DOD staff member, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Looks like you have an escort waiting.” The man waved to one of the windows. A military vehicle and two MPs he recognized from Fort Detrick waited on the tarmac. Smith stayed in his seat, however, and waited for his phone to load. He had two messages; one from Klein and one from Russell. He called Klein first.
“I’ve landed. Any luck on the photo?” Smith said. He heard Klein sigh over the phone.
“None. We loaded it into some face recognition software and accessed CIA personnel files for the past five years, Department of Defense, and the World Health Organization’s database of scientists, diplomatic envoys for various nations, and as many consular personnel records as we could find. Also, I pulled a search on every present and past judge of the International Criminal Court. Nothing. Whoever this woman is, she’s not military, diplomatic, or security. I even accessed present and former Secret Service personnel.”
Klein coughed. “I’m sorry to say that Peter Howell is missing. We’ve been unable to contact him through the secure line that he maintains for MI6. They’re as concerned as we are.”
Smith’s dread increased with this news. Howell wouldn’t ignore a contact from MI6 unless he was in deep cover, dire circumstances, or dead. Smith shook off the last thought.
“I have a call from Russell. Perhaps she has news?”
“I didn’t inform the CIA about the photos yet. Don’t need them digging into your status and possibly stumbling over your Covert-One activity. But feel free to follow up with her on the Dattar angle and the coolers. I assume that WHO’s director-general has briefed the CIA on the situation by now. Were you able to get any information out of the terrorist you found on the street?”
“Collecting intel from them is going to be a real problem, if not impossible. Each one we got our hands on died. Not from wounds, you understand. They just…died. Beckmann promised autopsy results. But for now I want to locate that woman. I think the photos, the attack on the hotel, and Dattar’s escape must be related. If I can find her, I might be able to find the coolers.”
“I agree, but I warn you, do not return home. And be prepared for what’s happening at Fort Detrick. The media is slavering to speak to you, and both areas are surrounded. I’ve arranged for a short press conference from DOD headquarters at 1600 hours. We’ll feed the media beast and hope they move on to other subjects.”
“I seem to have an escort waiting.”
“That was handled by USAMRIID. After the press conference I’ve arranged for you to stay a couple of nights at the Four Seasons Hotel.”
“Four Seasons. Pretty fancy stuff. Why not a safe house?”
“You’re bound to be followed by some overambitious paparazzo. Let’s do the unexpected until the media storm dies down. The hotel staff are experts at protecting their guests from anxious journalists.” Smith wasn’t worried about journalists, he was worried about assassins, but he figured that anything was better than heading to his home.
The Janus Reprisal Page 7