The Janus Reprisal

by Robert Ludlum

  “Tell me your urgent news,” Castilla said.

  “I think we’ve figured out why the terrorists stole the bacteria.” He laid out Smith’s theory and told him about the subway malfunction.

  Castilla shifted. “I think I should inform you that the DNI briefed me on the situation involving Russell and Smith. He said that the CIA believed that she’s gone rogue, and he’s one of her more questionable assets.”

  Klein wasn’t surprised. The director of national intelligence usually gathered information from a broad range of agencies before preparing his daily report. The CIA would have notified him of the action against Russell and Smith.

  “And the DNI? Did he believe it? I mean, technically, placing field officers in responsible positions within the CIA was his policy decision. The CIA didn’t like the idea from the start.”

  “Actually, that was my decision. I thought we needed to close some of the disconnects that I was seeing between the knowledge of the officers in the field and that of the officers Stateside. At the time the DNI agreed with me.” Castilla shook his head. “He, too, thought that Russell was a convenient scapegoat. However, he said that he wouldn’t interfere with the CIA and their handling of the situation unless it became clear that they were trumping up false charges against her.”

  Klein sat down in a chair opposite the president. “I’m convinced that Smith is solid, of course, but I’m also fairly certain that Russell is as well. I haven’t known her that long, but I know she’s very good at what she does. I think there’s a mole in the CIA, but I don’t think it’s Russell.” Castilla stared at Klein and said nothing. Klein let him think it through.

  “Let’s put the question aside for the moment. Tell me about the subway. Did you send the NYPD to check it out? Along with an FBI officer responsible for the region?”

  Klein shook his head. “Neither yet. Smith was concerned that they’d fill the station with personnel and, if he’s right, all will get infected with the virus. That’s a concern of mine as well. I’m afraid the Seventy-second Street station has already been swarmed with MTA personnel because it malfunctioned first. The good news is that they’ve done a routine check of the rail and reported to the NYPD that they found nothing unusual. With regard to the 191st Street station, I’ve agreed to give him some time to verify his theory.”

  “Have the NYPD called in hazardous incident teams?” Castilla said.

  Klein shook his head. “The NYPD is currently under the mistaken impression that Smith is a killer and Russell a mole, and I’m concerned that they’ll tip off the real one to our knowledge of the plan and he’ll get Dattar out of there before we can nab him. Especially since they have a CIA officer working in their intelligence-gathering arm. His name is Harcourt, and he has a direct pipeline to the agency. Whatever they discover might immediately be transferred to the agency and, by extension, the mole. This problem is best resolved by Covert-One operating alone.”

  “Dattar is the least of our problems. Let’s secure the subway from the top and let Smith do the initial reconnaissance. After that we can send in the NYPD to sweep the area and flush any suspects,” Castilla said.

  “With all due respect, I don’t think we can afford to let Dattar slip through our hands now. What if Smith’s theory is wrong? Then we’ll be back to square one, and Dattar will be long gone. We need to buy Smith some time to check it out.”

  Castilla paused and again Klein let him consider all the angles.

  “Okay. We’ll do it your way. Give me worst-case scenario.”

  Klein inhaled. “Assuming that Russell and Smith don’t find the source and stop it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Shewanella multiplies rapidly and begins to communicate through the nanowires feeding the virus upward. It travels along the electrical current through to the grid and outward. To everywhere the grid touches, disseminating the virus throughout the New York City region. Then nature takes its normal course and everyone who is infected becomes a carrier. The New York subway has over five hundred miles of track and five million riders each day on a weekday. Once the bacteria starts pumping the virus into the air, those five million will be exposed.”

  “So a flu pandemic. Survival rate?”

  “We believe it’s a mutation of H5N1 or avian flu. Regular avian flu has a fifty percent death rate. This one kills ninety-seven percent. No treatment or cure.”

  Castilla was up and pacing. Klein could sympathize with his agitation. It was all Klein could do to deliver the scenario in a calm voice.

  “How about turning off the third rail at the affected station? Can the MTA shut down in sections? Then the bacteria will lose its transportation source.”

  “Yes, the rail control center can shut down individual sections of track, and that will slow the progress, definitely, but the bacteria can also generate its own electricity that will be conducted through the metal rails. Given enough time, it will reunite with a live section.”

  “How much time?”

  Klein shook his head. “I’ve heard it can reproduce every forty minutes. How far down the track can it get in that time without an outside source of electricity? I don’t know. And there is the additional problem that we may have the wrong station.”

  “Or the wrong theory entirely,” Castilla said.

  “Agreed. This theory could be wrong. But if it’s right, the most effective way to stop the bacteria is to shut down the entire subway system.”

  Castilla stopped pacing. “That’s a massive undertaking. Not pulling the plug, mind you, but ensuring that after you do, thousands of people on every line remain safely inside the trains. Plus, if I make such a drastic call, it’s likely that someone in the NYPD is going to learn of it. If they do, then that information will be shuttled to the mole, and Smith is at risk and Dattar takes off.”

  “I thought of that as well. NYPD often deals with the rail control center,” Klein said.

  “I think we roll the dice and shut down the affected station. It’s an occurrence that won’t raise too many eyebrows, and we’ll keep it short enough to ensure that the riders stay put, and long enough for Smith to determine whether his theory is solid.”

  Klein nodded. “Agreed.”

  “I’ll give Smith half an hour. That enough time for him to make his way through the station with the malfunction?”

  “I think so. And at this time of night there’s a fifteen- to twenty-minute headway between trains, which should buy him a bit more if we time the shutdown right. Can you black out the area around the suspected subway station? Target a small section on either side? Maybe just the electric substation that handles the neighborhoods in question?”

  Castilla thought a moment. “Probably, but why?”

  “Two reasons. The signals work on an AC circuit separate from the track, and Smith wants it dark in there. Also, some stations have cameras. Fifty percent don’t work anyway, but I’ve made inquiries and can’t get a straight answer on whether those at the affected stations are functioning. I don’t want one catching Smith and Russell on the job. Another chance that a cop could get ideas and interfere.”

  “Done. And if they find that it’s already spread? What then? Tell everyone to turn off their lights? Shut down every appliance? At least then they won’t be drawing the stuff into their homes, and it can buy us some time to address how to destroy the bacteria.”

  “Even if we could ensure one hundred percent compliance, there would be the televisions to consider,” Klein said.

  Castilla resumed pacing and frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Your television is never really off. The power switch just makes it appear so.”

  Castilla rubbed his forehead. “Okay, total blackout. We shut down New York City. No power whatsoever.”

  Klein nodded. “Yes, that’s what I keep coming back to. The bacteria can double every forty minutes under ideal conditions, but destroying just that should be manageable if Smith gets there in time.”

  Castilla sat down
. “So we’ll start slow. First, shut down a section. Half hour maximum. Give Smith some time to reconnoiter at the affected station. He finds it, fixes it, we’re done. He doesn’t, we shut down the entire city. What will he need to eliminate it? Bleach? Alcohol wash?”

  Klein inhaled again. And Castilla put up both hands.

  “Whenever you do that, I know you’re preparing to give me more bad news.”

  “I’m sorry, but I am. Shewanella can form a biofilm. One of a few found in nature. It can’t be killed with any substance. Even bleach won’t get to it. Heat will initially kill the individual bacteria, but once it’s formed the biofilm, it will be immune. It needs to be scraped away manually. So now you see the problem. If it’s allowed to spread, there’s no way we can conceivably scrape over five hundred miles of track effectively.”

  Castilla headed to a phone. “I’m making the call now.”

  45

  SMITH FOUND HIMSELF once again in a drugstore, though not the same one he’d been in the last time when he bought first aid. He moved through the aisles collecting flashlights, batteries, and two pairs of rubber gloves, one for Russell and one for him. Russell was in a separate aisle looking for water bottles and aspirin. They met in the middle.

  If anything, Russell looked worse under the drugstore’s fluorescent lights. Her skin remained pasty and slick from sweat, her lips were chapped, and her hair lank. She had pulled it into a ponytail and wisps fell around her face. She’d insisted on coming despite her weak condition, and Smith knew better than to try to stop her.

  “What’s the tape for?” she said, indicating the duct tape in his grocery basket.

  “To tape the lights to our waists. Allows for freedom of movement.”

  She nodded. “Think Klein will be able to come up with some more weapons?”

  Smith shrugged. “Maybe, but we can’t wait for it. Every minute that goes by, the bacteria spread.”

  “If we’re right.”

  “If we’re right, yes. And I’ve got to hope that we are. I don’t want to be the one who missed the ball so completely.” She turned toward the cash registers and he followed.

  “We have it right. I can just feel it.”

  He didn’t reply. The clerk behind the counter didn’t seem to notice Russell’s condition, or perhaps working the late shift meant that he was used to seeing dreadful-looking people buying aspirin. They left the store and climbed back into the rental.

  Ten minutes later, Russell pulled within thirty feet of the 181st Steet subway stop and killed the engine.

  “Klein’s going to orchestrate a partial blackout,” Smith said. “We’ll have thirty minutes from when it starts.” He had his bulletproof vest on, but Russell had none.

  “We need better equipment. You take the vest. I’ll take the rifle.”

  Russell shook her head. “Not a chance. You’re the one we need to address removing the bacteria. I’m just the hired muscle.”

  “I hardly think of it in those terms.”

  “Well, you should. We need your expertise to get through this thing. Mine, not so much.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. When we get closer to the target, you walk in front. You draw their fire while I work on the track. For that, you’ll need the vest.”

  She held out her hand. “Fine. Give it to me.”

  They both opened their doors and slid out of the car. Smith shrugged out of the vest and handed it to her. As they did, a shadow emerged from behind two buildings. It was Howell.

  “Out for a stroll?” he said.

  Smith clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad to see you. Klein fill you in?”

  Howell nodded. “All the gory details. Where’s Beckmann?”

  “In FBI custody.”

  “Shame,” Howell said. “So what’s the plan?”

  Smith turned to the subway stop. “This is the next station down from the target. We go in, jump down to track level, and make our way to the 191st Street platform.”

  “Subway crawling.”

  Russell nodded. “Beats dying.”

  “That it does,” Howell said. He showed them his sniper rifle. “I’m armed and ready to take someone out. Lead on.”

  Before he did, Smith spotted a black man in his early thirties with long braids and a soft-sided guitar case slung over his shoulders like a backpack. He kept a steady eye on Smith and Russell as he walked toward them. He stopped when he reached Smith.

  “Nice night for some rat hunting. Special delivery. My friend, Mr. Klein, asked me to give you this.” He shook one shoulder out of the pack’s straps and then the other. Smith took it from him and nearly dropped it in surprise at the sudden weight.

  “Heavy for a guitar,” Smith said.

  The man smiled. “I agree but it’s the best. Good luck.” He nodded at Russell and Howell and sauntered off.

  “What’s in it?” Howell said.

  “My weapons, I presume. I asked for an AK-47, two Berettas, and some tear gas bombs. You know, just in case.”

  Howell nodded. “Of course. May I suggest a pincer movement? I will approach from the Dyckman station, you approach from this one. They try to run through the tunnels at least then we’ll catch them. Drive them toward me. I’ll be up on the platform ready to ambush them when they come even.”

  “Good. We’ll give you twenty minutes to get into place. That work?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “The streetlights will go dark first. Remember, that doesn’t affect the third rail, which is on a different system. I’ll wait until you’re in place and then give the signal to cut power to the third rail. Good luck,” Smith said. Howell jogged away and as he did, the streetlights went dark. Smith kept a close eye on his watch. After twenty minutes, he sent a text to Klein.

  “Thirty minutes,” Smith said. He headed down the stairs.

  Smith was surprised at the depth of the blackness, both on the street and in the subway. He dodged a woman heading upstairs and mumbled an apology that he doubted she heard. Two more people slogged up the stairs with resigned looks on their faces. A young man wearing skater pants and a graphic T-shirt and carrying a backpack with a skateboard lashed to it waved at him.

  “Lights went out. Don’t think the trains are coming.”

  “I’m MTA and you’re right. Many people waiting?”

  “Nah. Only me, those two, and that lady.”

  “Good. Hope you don’t have too far to go to get home.”

  “I got the board. It’ll be cool.”

  Smith joined Russell at the bottom.

  “New Yorkers are a resilient group, aren’t they?” he said.

  “Yes, they are.” She headed to the turnstile and vaulted over it. Smith followed, jumping up onto the support, swinging his legs, and landing on the other side. He switched on his light and kept moving. The light was taped to his belt at his hip and faced forward, throwing a beam that was easy to follow. The platform was empty.

  “Let me get the AK out of this guitar case.” Smith carefully removed the case from his back and unzipped it halfway. He felt around inside and his fingers closed on a metal weapon. He pulled out an AK-47 with a carry strap. He felt around again and found a pistol that he shoved into his waistband. He reached back inside and pulled out a small bulging nylon bag. It had carry ropes to make it a backpack. He ran his fingers over it, found the opening and pulled it wider so that he could put his hand inside and figure out what was there. He felt a cylindrical portion that held the filter of a gas mask. He smiled when he realized that it contained two. He transferred the tear gas from the larger pack to the smaller and left the guitar bag on the ground. He put the smaller nylon bag over his shoulders. They jumped down onto the tracks, and water splashed upward.

  “The flooding’s going to slow us down.”

  “Wish we could fan out. I hate to be stuck single file if we come upon Dattar and his crew,” Russell said.

  “I’m equally afraid of the third rail. It’s mostly covered, but there are small open sec
tions. If somebody gets the idea to switch the electricity back on, I don’t want to be anywhere near it,” Smith said.

  He continued forward, with Russell behind him. The tunnel smelled of mildew and dust, but overall it wasn’t as foul as he’d expected. The tunnel’s ceiling was made of jack-arch concrete and the walls were tiled. The sound echoed, as if he were in a shower, so they maintained silence.

  Smith figured it would take them 15 minutes to walk it. The water, with its tendency to splash and make noise, slowed them a bit, but they still kept a brisk pace. Smith felt the dirt beneath his feet begin to suck at his shoes, and his feet and calves were soaked. He felt something squish under his sole. It felt dense, like the body of a small animal.

  Mouse or rat, Smith thought.

  After ten minutes they came upon a recessed opening. Smith turned his hips so that the light shone into the area, but he found nothing. He waved Russell on. After another five minutes, he thought he heard a sound ahead of him. He stopped and switched off his flashlight; Russell did the same. Smith stayed perfectly still. The sound of another soft splash, this one closer, made his skin crawl and his heart start racing. Someone or something was in the tunnel with them.

  46

  DATTAR, KHALIL, MANHAR, and Rajiid had taken three steps toward the exit, when the lights went off.

  The blackness shocked Manhar and, for a moment, he thought the world had come to an end. He heard shuffling and a smothered oath from Khalil.

  “What did they do? Shut the rail down again?”

  “The lights are on a different system.” Rajiid’s voice came from Manhar’s right. “This is more extensive than just the station.”

  “You have a flashlight?” Dattar’s harsh voice grated on Manhar’s ears. He thought he heard a soft splash from behind him, and it made his skin crawl. The rats were jumping in the water.

  “There’s one in the cooler. Let me get it.” Manhar heard Rajiid making his way to the trash bin. The total dark was disorienting. He heard the sound of a siren far in the distance and the steady drip of water that still fell from the hose. A hollow sound and then another oath, this one from Rajiid.