Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  Styles came out the stairwell door in the lobby and immediately stopped. He never used the elevators, always the stairs. One pair of eyes had noticed his entrance. Styles nonchalantly walked over to the large breakfast area and poured himself a cup of coffee. He tried to act as an employee of the hotel. He grabbed a table near the entrance, where he could observe the entire lobby. The hair on his neck was immediately standing on end. He grabbed his cell and texted Starr, "Hold up." What had caught his attention instantly was the sight of four men in suits. Two were at the check-in desk while two were stationed near the elevators. The man who had noticed him was not paying an unusual amount of attention to Styles, though he did look over on a regular basis. Trying to decide if I'm anyone worth watching, he thought. Styles studied every aspect of the men, their dress, their attitude, the way they walked, the way the two at the service desk talked.

  His cell buzzed slightly. Starr had replied, "?"

  Styles texted back, "CIA. Coming back up." He finished his coffee and went back up the stairs. He entered the room, with the three looking at him with concern.

  Starr spoke. "You say the CIA is downstairs?"

  "No doubt."

  "What are they doing here?"

  "I think I can answer that," Phillips interjected. "Look, the CIA isn't completely stupid. My guess is they connected Northern Hunting Expeditions, had the place under surveillance, and followed J. C. and me back here."

  Starr said, with a hint of sarcasm, "And you were followed?"

  "It's a strong possibility," Phillips stated.

  Styles interceded. "To be fair, they wouldn't have had a reason to think they might have been. This is not on them."

  Starr continued, "Well, how did they get out here so fast? I mean, we just got here."

  Phillips answered, "Starr, the CIA was already here. Even our jet can't go as fast as a phone call."

  "How did they know to follow us?" Starr asked.

  Phillips spoke again. "Another guess, but I'd say facial recognition on J. C. or me. We know the CIA is doing a search on me; it only stands to reason. Styles is the only one of us who is pretty much safe from facial recognition. The rest of us have photos on file somewhere. Even I can't delete all of them, though I'm trying."

  "So what do we do?" J. C. asked.

  Styles declared, "We get out of here. Phillips, can you delete all photos of us from the hotel's security systems? For the next fifteen minutes would also be good."

  "Yes. It will take me about five minutes, maybe less."

  "Do it," Styles directed. "We're going to leave the Yukon that J. C. and Phillips were driving here. We'll all go back in ours. Starr, you and J. C. get all our gear together on one of those hotel carts. Starr, find a hotel jacket, put it on, and then take everything to the Yukon and stow it. J. C., you and Phillips get ready to move the second she's finished. Take the stairs; there's two agents watching the elevators. Open the door, find me, and when I nod, you guys move to the Yukon. Don't stop, no matter what!"

  Starr looked at Styles. "What are you going to do?"

  "Make sure we get out of here without the CIA up our ass."

  "Three minutes and I'm finished," Phillips informed them.

  "Good. Starr, go find your jacket and get the gear to the Yukon. J. C., you and Phillips go down the stairs in six minutes. Wait for my signal." Then Styles was out the door and headed for the stairs. Silent as a ghost, he opened the door and stepped out into the concrete landing.

  Director Lang called the president. He waited only twenty seconds before the president picked up.

  "Yes, Michael. What have you found out?" President Williams demanded.

  "As we suspected, it's synthetic. Man-made. Somehow water seems to activate this agent. It coagulates the blood, rendering it useless. Death is probably rather quick. The shelf life on this new toxin appears to be short, but the effect is devastating. Any living organism that has blood in its system is susceptible. Nothing can survive its onslaught. The ramifications are unimaginable. Presently, once this agent has started, it's unknown if it can be stopped, so the key is prevention." Lang held his breath, waiting for the president to explode.

  "Nice job on the report, Michael. Short and to the point, just how I like them. So where do you go from here?"

  "We continue to study it, sir. Honestly, though, I don't know just how much more we can find out. We really need a live sample, and that won't be easy to procure."

  "No, Michael, it won't. Keep me posted." The conversation ended.

  The president thought for a moment, and then grabbing a secure phone, he called Starr.

  "Sir?"

  "Richard, I just wanted to bring you up to speed on the latest from the CDC."

  "Ah, sir, would it be permissible to call you back? We're in a bit of a bind at the moment."

  "What's the problem?"

  "CIA."

  "How in the hell is the CIA giving you a problem?" President Williams exploded.

  "Mr. President, it would really be helpful if I could get back with you," Starr implored.

  "All right, Richard, but don't take long. Backersley is already getting on my nerves. I want to know what he's up to."

  "ASAP, sir. Thank you." Starr hung up quickly.

  The president immediately called Coverley Merritt. Upon answering, the president inquired with fervor, "Has the CIA been keeping you in the loop?"

  "Difficult to say, Mr. President. We get pieces of information from them but, curiously, nothing about this latest toxic threat. That seems rather odd. Far as I'm concerned, there's no way Backersley is keeping his nose out of this. Yet we've heard nothing."

  "I'm not surprised, and I tend to agree. I'll handle Backersley. Keep me informed every step of the way. How are the others doing?" he asked, referring to the directors of the other agencies.

  "Fine as far as I can tell. I suspect they keep a little to themselves, but nothing that concerns me, at least not at the moment. If that moment comes, I'll be on the horn to you immediately."

  "Good to hear," the president replied, ending the call.

  The elderly gentleman, who appeared to be in his late sixties, was disembarking at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He had spoken very little during the flight that originated in Miami, Florida. He had one of those grandfatherly smiles, one that would instantly make anyone feel comfortable. His eyes twinkled with innocence. The flight attendants immediately took a strong liking to him, giving him special attention. They brought him a blanket without being asked, along with a bottle of water, free of charge, which was unusual considering the state of the airline industry. A mere "Thank you," along with a nod of his head, was all that he offered in return. A young female attendant had assisted him to the restroom once during the flight. He walked with a pronounced limp, using a cane to compensate. As he reached the exit door of the plane, two of the flight attendants made a concerted effort to say good-bye and for him to be careful. The gentleman paused, and one at a time, he grasped their hands softly and said, "Bless you." Then he slowly walked away. He had brought no luggage, so he made his way to the shuttle that would carry him to the main terminal. Upon arriving, he made his way outside to the taxi stand. He easily hailed a taxi.

  "Please take me to the Quality Suites motel near Halethorpe," he instructed pleasantly.

  "Yes, sir. Do you have any luggage?" the taxi driver asked.

  "No, young man, I'm much too old to bother with luggage. My son is meeting me, and he will have clothing for me."

  "What brings you to Baltimore?" the driver asked.

  "My grandson is getting married," he lied.

  "Well, we are certainly having beautiful weather for a wedding."

  "Yes. The weather is beautiful for anything. Anything at all."

  Styles had just silently closed the door behind him, standing on the concrete landing
on the fifth floor, when he heard the lobby door, five floors down, open and then close. Then a voice that said, "I'm in position," filtered up. Jeez, where do they get these guys? He was dressed in what had become his usual attire. Stretch blue jeans for ease of movement, dark T-shirt (this one black), with black sneakers. Silently, he made his way down the stairs, taking care to pay attention to any shadows the stairway lighting might create. Reaching the fourth floor, Styles was appreciative that the lighting threw the shadows back toward the railing and the rear of the stairwell, meaning behind his back.

  Cautiously, he made his way down to the second floor. He was now two short flights of stairs, plus the center landing, above the fellow below him. He recognized him as the second man he'd seen at the registration desk. He knelt down to the floor and sneaked a glance over the edge of the concrete. The agent was looking through the crack of the door to the lobby, as he had not closed it securely. He was paying no attention to the stairway. Styles almost felt sorry for him. Worse, he had his back to the stairway. Styles watched him for two minutes. Not once did the agent move, continuing to watch the lobby. Styles straightened up and started down the second-to-last flight of stairs toward his quarry. At the landing, he paused, double-checked any shadows, and proceeded. Two steps above him and four feet away, he pounced. He simultaneously cupped his hand over the man's mouth and punched him hard in his right kidney and then immediately put him in a rear choke hold.

  "Relax; I'm only going to put you to sleep. Don't fight it," Styles whispered.

  In ten seconds, the man was out. Styles kept the hold for another five seconds and then lowered him to the floor. He reached down and pulled the man's communication earpiece from him. He inserted it into his own ear, making sure he turned off the microphone. Might as well hear what they have to say. He opened the door and checked the lobby. The two agents were still at the elevators. He looked around but didn't see the fourth. He texted Phillips, "Cameras down?"

  "Yes."

  He texted her again. "Move in two."

  Slowly, he emerged from the stairwell so as not to draw attention. He moved over toward the main entrance as though he were entering from the street. He noticed a bit of a commotion over at the service desk. A door opened from behind the counter, and the fourth agent exited, followed by who Styles guessed was probably a manager. Styles knew they would all be armed. He had his silenced Beretta in the small of his back but did not plan on drawing it. He judged the distance between the elevators and the service desk to be about thirty feet. He knew he could travel that and be over the counter in about two seconds. He judged the agent behind the counter to be early forties and probably the agent in charge at this scene. There was a large decorative pillar halfway between the elevators and the counter. Checking the angle, he knew it was partially concealing the area immediately in front of the elevators. That would give him an extra couple of seconds before anyone realized what was happening. Nothing beats the element of surprise. Walking casually toward the elevators, he noticed that none of the men were communicating.

  Right then, the elevator chime rang, announcing its arrival. When the door opened, both agents riveted their attention to it. Out came a rolling luggage cart. A familiar figure dressed in a lavish hotel jacket with matching hat appeared. Styles had to suppress a smile as he strode quickly toward the elevator.

  "Hold that for me, please?" he half shouted. One of the agents took three steps toward it and held the door. These guys really need serious training. He glanced toward the stairwell door and nodded. Then all his attention was devoted toward the two agents. As he walked past the first agent, Styles's fist shot out and caught the agent square in the side of his neck. Without stopping, he caught the agent and threw him into the second agent, knocking them both into the open elevator. Styles sprang after him. The second was fumbling, trying to get out from under the first agent, when Styles struck him with a vicious palm strike to his solar plexus. The air wheezed from his lungs. Though not knocked out, the man was sent to his back, helpless, gasping for breath. Whirling, Styles hit the button for the top floor and exited the elevator, heading for the registration counter. Guy doesn't have a clue. He glimpsed over to see Phillips and Christman going through the front door.

  Styles was three feet from the granite countertop when the fourth agent realized he couldn't see the two that had been stationed in front of the elevators. He moved slightly to his own right for a better view of the elevators. As he started to become aware, Styles sprang onto the counter, landing on both his hands, pivoted, and kicked the agent square in the forehead, sending him sprawling back against a wall. Styles, immediately over the man, realized he was unconscious. Without a word, and avoiding looking at the two employees, he was back across the counter and headed out the door. He crossed the wide sidewalk, turned to his right, and began walking alongside the road. Walking less than one hundred feet, the Yukon that Starr and he had been driving pulled alongside, and he jumped in.

  "What happened inside?" questioned Starr.

  "Not much. Those guys were definitely not field agents."

  Christman queried, "You didn't have to---"

  "No, just knocked them out. Well, three of them. One I just knocked the breath out of and sent him and his partner for a ride up in the elevator."

  "Aren't you worried about the witnesses?" Phillips asked.

  "No. Eyewitnesses are the worst. You can have five people who will give five different descriptions. Unless someone has been trained by the military or law enforcement, generally people make lousy witnesses. That's why I needed you to remove us from the security tapes."

  Phillips confirmed, "Taken care of. I deleted the last ten hours, so they have no image of us anywhere. Like I said, soon as I have time, I've got to do a better job of trying to get the three of us out of any system anywhere. I feel like it's my fault that they even knew about us."

  Styles answered firmly. "Not true. Any of us can be found if someone looks hard enough, and apparently the CIA is. If this Backersley wasn't sticking his nose up our asses, it wouldn't have happened. End of conversation."

  "Airport?" inquired Starr.

  "Yes," Styles said. "I don't think there's anything here that Phillips can't find faster. Let's get to Alaska."

  Reaching into a bag, Starr produced a cell phone. "J. C., be sure you don't speed. We don't need to be stopped for anything."

  13

  The elderly man who had checked into the Quality Suites immediately went into the bathroom. In less than ten minutes, he had removed the disguise that had taken over four hours to apply, including the liquid latex that had dried into a remarkable mask. He then stepped into a steaming-hot shower. What emerged was a man of obvious Middle Eastern descent. Toweling off, he retrieved a cell phone and dialed the only number programmed into it. A voice answered a simple "Yes."

  "I have arrived."

  "Good. The van will be parked in the motel's parking lot within the hour. The key will be inside the driver's front tire on the ground. Everything you need will be inside. May Allah guide you in your mission."

  "Allahu Akbar."

  Sirhan al-Razar had come into America under a student visa. He had attended New York University and graduated with a perfect 4.0 grade point average. The day after graduation, he went underground. He had volunteered for this mission. It was generally acknowledged he would martyr himself, but he had no plans on dying. He was doing this for the money. He had been promised US $5 million should he survive. With an IQ of 160, he firmly believed he was smart enough to carry out his plan. He spotted several menus on the bureau the television was placed upon for restaurants that specialized in room delivery. He ordered a chicken dinner from KFC and waited for his food.

  He had just finished eating when he heard vehicles pull into the parking lot. Looking out the window, he saw a dark van park. The driver got out and bent down as though he were tying his shoe. He then walked over and got
into a dark sedan that promptly drove away. As anxious as he was to see the contents, he had decided to wait until it was late in the evening. He did not want anyone to notice that he was no longer an elderly gentleman.

  He turned on the television in time to catch the local evening news. All of Baltimore was abuzz with the impending arrival of the president of the United States to honor the governor of Maryland. With any luck ...

  The flight up to Nome, Alaska, was routine. Starr spent the trip in the copilot seat beside Christman and continued to learn more about flying the jet. Phillips was on her computers and spoke little. It was obvious she still felt responsible for the group being discovered. Styles spent the trip exercising. Christman had made arrangements for a private hangar, and Phillips had secured rooms at a Ramada Inn just opposite the airport. Once again, she booked four rooms to continue a random choice. When the plane was stowed in the hangar, three Ford Explorers were dropped off, the keys left in the ignition.

  "Those for us?" inquired Christman.

  "Yes," replied Phillips.

  "Why three?"

  "I want to stop doing patterns. Just trying to be cautious," she responded.

  "Good idea, Phillips," agreed Styles.

  By the time the four had checked into their rooms, it was past time for dinner. Phillips had said she preferred to have room service, as she had work to do. The three men decided to go to the in-house restaurant. They had requested a large table. After having their orders taken, with all deciding on cold beer, Christman brought up Phillips.

  "I think she's blaming herself for us getting made."

  "Wasn't her fault," said Styles again.

  "We know that, but she's having a hard time buying off on it," injected Starr.