Dead Water

12

Ryyaki Ali was holding a meeting with Jamil Abdul-Nasir, Rijah Ellhad, and Imad al-Bin. "I have given much thought to where we should strike. I would like your opinions on each. I have contemplated a public water supply; however, the timetable of the agent may not work to our advantage. I have considered a holiday spot involving water. This American holiday they refer to as Labor Day seems to bring these infidels out in celebration. There are many locations they flock to. One is Lake Mead in Nevada. Thousands of people will go out in their decadent lack of clothing on their boats. It also is the water supply for the center of these Western degenerate infidels, Las Vegas. We may also be able to infiltrate that source. Regardless, thousands will die along with everything in that lake. I believe it would make a very strong statement of our hatred for these depraved people. I will now listen."

The three men were silent. They knew better than to oppose any idea he suggested. Agreement was mandatory. All three nodded. No words were spoken.

"No one has anything to say?" Ali asked, feigning surprise.

Rijah Ellhad spoke. "It sounds like a good plan. I would suppose that you have worked out the timetable, the method of delivery, and the rest of the operational plans."

"I have. Now listen closely."

Bernard Backersley had decided to go ahead and investigate this new suspected terrorist activity on his own, despite the CIA's edict of only working outside the borders of the United States. Not like it hasn't been done before. If he found something out that he felt needed sharing, well, then he'd cross that bridge. If he got called on the carpet from the president, he would claim he was only performing investigative research in an attempt to be helpful. He knew the president wouldn't buy it, but as long as he didn't initiate any physical action, he felt he'd be safe.

Ever since he'd had questions about the Department of the Presidential Office, he had changed his routine slightly. For this particular action, he'd begun using simple burn phones for communication rather than the official CIA phone lines. He'd already made several calls on one, so he decided to ditch that one. He grabbed a second unit and dialed a number. Everything discussed now with regard to what they were doing was outside normal channels. He didn't want anyone, including his own agency, to know what he was doing. Only the team operating under his direct control was aware. He was calling that team leader now.

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."