The Janus Reprisal

13

Aloud truck horn blared from a nearby street. Smith jerked his head to look, but kept his hand with the phone in the same position. A searing pain entered his palm, piercing the flesh, and he reacted by dropping the phone. The bullet slammed into the metal dumpster to his right, and ricocheted off at an angle. Smith needed no further incentive to move. He sprinted to the entrance five feet in front of him, yanked the handle to swing open the door and tumbled through the opening. A second shot hammered into the metal panel. Smith kept moving, running down the narrow hallway and deeper into the hotel’s interior. The door slammed closed behind him.

Smith jogged through a warehouse area, past pallets of supplies and through another door. This one led to a quiet, carpeted hallway, with soft lighting. He slowed to a fast walk, shoving his bleeding hand into his jacket pocket, still clutching the small duffel with his other. His palm burned and he was sweating freely. He thought the presence of the cameras in the alley would keep the shooter from following him through the back area, but the lobby would be crowded and a perfect location for someone to slip up behind him and slide a knife into him before moving off.

The registration area lay before him, and he headed that way but kept sweeping his gaze around the lobby, looking for anyone suspicious. He scanned the area, looking for more security cameras, but found none. He figured he had a few minutes before the shooter made his way around the building and into the hotel. That is, if he intended to try a second time. Smith moved fast to the registration desk.

A young male employee smiled at him as he approached. Smith swallowed, and did his best to settle his jangling nerves and affect a pleasant, unconcerned attitude as he stepped up to the counter.

“Jon Smith, checking in. And I understand I have a package waiting for me?”

The young man greeted him, but Smith found it difficult to follow the conversation. He uttered some inane response to the clerk’s questions, and retrieved, one handed, a credit card from his wallet. He turned and leaned against the counter, bending his body to once again watch the room, but finding nothing out of the ordinary.

“Mr. Smith? Your keys and your package. Have a nice stay.” The clerk’s voice snapped Smith back to attention. He gave an absentminded nod and collected the room key and the small Federal Express box with his name on it. He looked at the room number.

“904? Is that on the ninth floor?”

The clerk nodded. “Yes. It’s our concierge level.”

Smith pushed the key back across the table to the clerk. “Could you give me a room on the second floor?”

The clerk got a puzzled look on his face. “But you’ve reserved a concierge level room.”

Smith gritted his teeth at the delay. “It’s a superstition of mine. Afraid the fire ladder won’t reach to the ninth floor.”

A look of understanding passed over the clerk’s face. “Oh yes. Of course. We saw the images from the Grand Royal. I do apologize. Let me just change that. I’ll put you in a suite instead.”

“But please use a different name. I don’t need a horde of reporters tracking down my room number.”

“Our system requires a name next to a room number. Is there any pseudonym you wish to use instead?”

“Robert Koch.”

Smith steered clear of the elevator, opting instead to take the stairs. When he entered the room, he crossed to the side of the window and closed the curtains, flipping on a light over the desk. He shrugged out of his jacket, taking care to keep the injured hand steady as he went to the bathroom to check the wound.

It was an angry red slash on the fleshy part of the palm, but not deep and not serious. The pain far outweighed the damage done. Smith washed it with soap and wrapped it in a washcloth. He returned to the desk and ripped open the box, revealing a lightweight laptop and a set of keys along with a valet ticket, presumably to the car. He logged onto the Internet and sent an immediate e-mail update, telling Klein about the attack and that for security purposes he might not spend the night at the hotel. As it was, he would be hard pressed to leave safely. He weighed the idea of taking the car now, before the shooter had time to move into a new position, but decided against it. He was safe enough for the moment, and he needed some time and access to the Internet. He propped the woman’s picture next to the screen, typed in Google’s webpage and got to work.

For the next hour he stared at the display, tapping in the word “Dattar” with a list of others and reading the first few pages in the search result. He looked into the woman’s eyes in the photo. Her serious expression appeared intelligent and powerful. Her clothes — a navy suit, white shirt open at the throat, the hint of a chain around her neck, and diamond studs — gave the impression of understated wealth. Smith worked with medical professionals, biologists, and PhDs every day of the week, and this woman looked nothing like them. The female scientists that he knew had massive brain power matched with a scientific bent. Most donned lab coats for their daily uniform, and as a result they often wore simple shirts and slacks underneath. The woman in the photo was a part of the corporate world, Smith would put money on it, and while her brain power looked as massive, it appeared powerful as opposed to academic.

He picked up the phone, ordered room service, and kept typing, switching it up to Google images every time a woman’s name was highlighted next to Dattar’s. Another forty-five minutes passed with no success. His conviction that Dattar was somehow involved in the attack at the Grand Royal was faltering. Perhaps the timing of the attack and Dattar’s escape was a coincidence.

Frustrated, he started searching for software that could apply face recognition to the Internet. He found a commercial website claiming that it was testing a program that could read an image and then search the Internet for every place in which that image appeared. The software was in the beta testing stage and available only by invitation. Smith clicked the link, asked to be included, and then called the company. When a woman’s friendly voice answered the phone, he asked her to speed his inclusion.

“May I ask why you need this information?” The woman’s voice now carried a slight hint of suspicion.

“I’m a member of the United States Army looking for a business contact given me by a friend of a friend. I have the photo of her, but not her name, and my friend can’t remember her name either.”

Smith waited, hoping his white lie would be swallowed. It wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, we do have to be careful about who we allow to use the software. We have already had an incident in which a stalker contacted us and was attempting to locate a woman he was under orders to avoid. We never granted him access, thank goodness, but you can see the problem.”

“I can, but why bother to have a trailer on the Internet and invite users if you don’t intend to allow them access?”

“We’re building our subscription list to make the company attractive for a possible stock offering. We’re unable to grant access at this moment, but hope to in the next year; those on the list will get priority.”

“Would it help if I had a member of the military police contact you? I assume your company could trust them to use the information in a positive manner.”

“I’m sorry, but no. We’re in negotiations with the Department of Homeland Security to allow them to access the software, but those negotiations are ongoing. The fee has yet to be determined, and until then we are not granting access to any law enforcement authority.”

“All right, well thank you for your time.” Smith hung up and called Martin Zellerbach, the one man he knew who could hack into any computer, anywhere, any time.

“Hello, Jon, how nice to hear from you.” Marty’s voice sounded formal, and the sentence was delivered in a stilted voice lacking any real warmth, but Smith was pleasantly surprised. Marty suffered from Asperger’s, a high-functioning form of autism. He’d never really learned the social cues that most people took for granted, and if he answered the phone at all he often answered with an inappropriate greeting.

Smith pulled up a mental picture of the small, plump, green-eyed man sitting in the house that he rarely left, surrounded by his beloved computers. Growing up, Smith had protected Marty from the schoolyard bullies and taunts that often came his way as a result of his Asperger’s and at times was forced to protect others against Marty when he lashed back in a manner far in excess of the perceived wrong. Marty stood too close to others, sometimes thrusting his face into theirs, or made hurtful comments about them. People shied away from him and his strange, intense manner, and the man was isolated as a result. He’d never married, had few friends, and over the years had grown increasingly out of touch.

“You sound good, Marty.”

“Thank you. I’ve been working on a new form of therapy. I saw you almost died in Europe. I’m happy that you didn’t.”

Smith smiled. Marty recited the words in an almost bored fashion and didn’t sound as though he believed what he was saying for a moment, but once again, Smith appreciated the effort.

“How did you see me? I thought television gave you a headache,” Smith said.

Marty snorted. “The clip was on CNN’s website. I’ll bet you got a few hundred thousand views. Do you need my help?” Now Marty sounded eager.

“I do. I’m trying to get access to a software company’s beta test. It’s an image-reading search software.” Smith filled Marty in on the problem, using the same innocuous story that he was looking for a colleague. “Have you heard of this? Can Google images do this as well?”

“I’ve heard of it, and that company’s work is very exciting. And no, Google images won’t do that. Google searches the Internet for keywords in text and then shows you where that text is located. So if I put up a picture of us on a blog site and I caption the photo with our names, Google images will read the text under the photo, not the photo itself. But the software you mentioned will read the image’s actual pixels and then search the Internet for a pixel match. Great stuff.”

Smith felt a small surge of hope. “So it’s almost like reverse engineering. If I have a name but no photo I search Google images to obtain one, but with a photo and no name I use this software to locate the photo and then find the name.”

“Yes. Is that what you need?”

“That’s exactly what I need. Do you think you can do it? I’m sending you a jpeg of the photo that I need analyzed.”

“Let me work on it and get back to you.”

Smith crawled into the shower, loving the feel of the hot water cascading down his back. He closed his eyes and, unbidden, thought of the woman and her air of determination. She reminded him of another determined woman he knew. He turned and held his face up to the spray. A series of images ran through his mind’s eye. Russell grinning at him as they climbed into a vintage car that Peter Howell drove, Howell himself wearing a disguise as he chauffeured them around, Russell standing over him as she fired back at a double agent bent on killing him, Russell piloting a helicopter. The thought came to him, what if the woman in the photo was an agent herself? Perhaps MI6, or other? That would explain the Internet’s complete lack of information on her. He switched off the water and stepped out, grabbing at a nearby towel.

Ten minutes later he was back at the computer, keying in “Dattar” and the names of security agencies the world over when his cell phone rang. He picked it up to hear the excited voice of Marty.

“I’m in! I cracked their passwords.”

Smith felt a surge of excitement. “And? Did you find the photo?”

“The software is wonderful! A piece of art.”

Smith did his best to keep the frustration from his voice. “Okay, but I need to find the woman. Did you run the photo?”

“Yes, but it didn’t get a hit. The photo is too blurry. Worthless actually. And the software only scanned 450 million images, though, so only a tiny portion of the Internet. The lag is understandable. They’re working on inputting more, but it’s time consuming.”

Smith was surprised at the depth of his disappointment. The image-search software was his only hope. “Is that software looking for the entire photo?”

“Yes. I told you, it looks for a pixel match.” Marty sounded slightly frustrated himself at Smith’s ignorance.

“Can you focus it on her face and search for that section alone?”

Smith heard Marty’s raspy breathing through the phone. “The software does that already.”

“Can you make it search for her photo in areas that aren’t already included in their database?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you try?”

“Okay, but I’m going to have to alter the registry. That’s going to take some time.”

“I really need this. I’m afraid the woman is in danger. There must be a photo of her face on the Internet, just not this particular photo.”

“She looks like she runs a company or something,” Marty said. “I really like her face, but she looks angry.”

“Maybe ‘determined’ is a better word?”

“No. Angry. Like she’s mad about something. She’s not smiling. Women usually smile a lot.” Marty surprised him again. As long as Smith had known him he hadn’t commented on the social aspect of anyone else. Yet he still had it wrong. The woman did not look angry.

“Thanks for helping me.”

“I always help you,” Marty said, in a matter-of-fact way.

Smith hung up feeling a bit more optimistic than before. He abandoned his search, logged into his e-mail, and read a note from Russell informing him that the refrigerator swab had arrived at George Mason. He called her. “Care to join me? We can look at the swab together.”

“You’re on.”

“Can you pick me up at the Four Seasons? In an armored car? I’m surrounded by reporters all waiting to get my photo.”

“I’ll be happy to pick you up, but how about I leave the armored car parked and use my own. Last I heard no one needed bulletproof glass to ward off a camera.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you came in an armored car.”

Russell was silent a moment. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I was entering the back door of the Four Seasons when someone shot at me. They missed. I feel the need for more protection.”

“If Covert-One’s involved, perhaps you should let me know as well. We can pool our resources.”

“I’ll bear it in mind. But for now, I’m feeling a bit like a target.”

“I’ll bring a car and an Uzi. Will that make you feel better?”

“You have no idea.”

Twenty minutes later Russell called from the lower-level parking lot.

“I’m in a black sedan parked directly in front of the parking garage elevator. The passenger door will be ajar. When the elevator doors open, just jump in.”

Smith changed from his uniform back to his black civilian clothes. The different attire might buy him a couple of seconds if the attacker was watching for a man in uniform. He wished that he had a hat and sunglasses to help disguise his face. He grabbed the car key and laptop, and took the elevator to the parking level, bypassing the lobby and emerging into a dank lower level that consisted of concrete and autos. It smelled like damp earth and exhaust fumes. A black sedan, its door open, idled in front of him. He ducked into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. The car started moving the second the door engaged.

Russell turned to look at him. Her blond hair was longer than he remembered and streaked with bleached strands among the golden ones, as if she’d been out in the sun. Her brown eyes were arresting on someone with such light-colored hair, and when she smiled at him, she seemed genuinely happy to see him. His heart clutched a bit at that. Perhaps General Randolph was right. He did have people who cared about him.

“It’s good to see you. I‘m glad you’re all right,” Russell said, as if she’d read his thoughts.

“It’s good to see you too.”

She nodded and directed her attention to driving, pulling up to a gated exit and honking. The gate went up and they drove out of the lot into the late afternoon light. Smith scanned the area, looking for possible snipers, but he doubted he’d actually spot anything. Good snipers wouldn’t set up in a place where they could be located.

“Did you bring the Uzi?” Smith said, keeping his voice light. Russell pointed a thumb to the backseat. Smith twisted to look. An Uzi lay there. “I thought you were joking.”

Russell shook her head. “I never joke about guns.”

“Is this a company car?”

“Yes. One of the fleet we have at our disposal.” She gave him a sideways glance. “You want to tell me what’s up? The Grand Royal is a long, long way from here and yet you’re targeted as you walk into the hotel.” He told her about the photos and Covert-One’s ongoing attempts to find both the woman and Howell.

“Have you seen or heard from Howell?” he asked. Russell shook her head.

“Not at all, but that isn’t unusual. We’re not in casual contact.”

“I’m not thrilled that Dattar is out there somewhere. Feels dangerous and feels like he’s targeting me, both there and here, but to arrange a second hit so far from the first and so quickly would imply that he’s a bigger player than I think. ”

Russell sighed. “I agree. His sphere of influence never seemed to reach this far, but it’s dangerous to have him running free. Half the agencies in Europe are looking for him, but they’ve found nothing. He’s vanished.” Smith gazed out the passenger window and thought about the woman, the coolers, and Dattar.

Fifty minutes later they turned into George Mason University’s laboratory. Stepping out of the car left Smith feeling too exposed, so he jogged to the modern entrance. Russell caught up behind him.

His friend, Professor Jinchu Ohnara, met them at the entrance to the biochemical lab. In his sixties, slight, with a full head of gray hair, and bright brown eyes, Ohnara was the leading genetic researcher on the East Coast. His research into DNA parsing was praised the world over. Smith had worked with him on a short-term project while a student at UCLA and still relied on him when he needed a fresh perspective on established science.

“Very happy to see you made it out of the hotel alive,” Ohnara said as he shook Smith’s hand.

“Did everyone see me hanging from the ledge?”

Ohnara nodded. “Everyone.”

“My fifteen minutes of fame. May I introduce Randi Russell? She works in the public health sector of the government.” Smith delivered the cover identity Russell had suggested.

“A pleasure. I can see why a public health official would be interested in this particular bacteria.”

Russell frowned. “That sounds ominous. You found something disturbing?”

Ohnara nodded. “Well, it’s something that can be detrimental to the public’s health in certain parts of the world.” He looked at Smith. “When the specimen arrived, I took a look at it. I think you should too.” He waved Smith into the lab. A slight scent of isopropyl alcohol hung in the air, the smell growing stronger as they stepped inside.

“You didn’t open it in the containment lab?” Smith had specifically requested that Ohnara alone handle the specimen and that he do it in a controlled setting.

“I did. When I was done I transferred the sample to a biosafety box, much like a glove box. It has its own airflow system. You won’t be handling it, merely looking at it.” Ohnara gave him a glance filled with speculation. “I handled it at the appropriate level for the avian virus. Is there a reason to take even higher precautions?”

“I’m not sure what it is. In this day and age…” Smith let his voice trail off.

Ohnara sighed. “You don’t have to tell me. Virulent, antibiotic-​resistant bacteria will someday be the death of us all, I’m afraid, but I saw nothing that rose to the level of, say, the Ebola virus. You will, though, have to suit up.”

All three suited up in disposable suits, gloves, and shoe covers. Ohnara handed them respirators as well. When they were done, Ohnara used a key card to open a locked door into another, sealed area of the lab and waved Smith to the right. Near the far wall was a square island with stools arranged around it. A large see-through cube on the island encased a microscope. Rubber gloves extended into the box through sealed holes and provided access to it, while built-in viewers, one on each side of the cube, allowed several people to view the slide at once. A long tube extended into the box where a scientist could insert a sample, move it into position, and reseal the entrance. Smith could see that a slide was already loaded.

“Tell me what you think,” Ohnara said. “Ms. Russell, feel free to look through one of the other viewers.”

Smith put his eyes to the viewer and the slide immediately sprang into focus. Several rod-shaped bacteria presented, intermingled with another form that he didn’t recognize. He focused on the rod-shaped creatures.

“Vibrio cholerae,” he said. “It’s the bacteria that causes cholera. This other bacterium, the one that’s not moving, is floating around with an attached strain of H5N1 virus.” Smith directed his last statement at Russell before returning his attention to Ohnara. “Is the bird flu virus mutated in any way?”

“You asked me to check and from what I can see, it’s not.”

Thank God for that, Smith thought. But even regular bird flu was so virulent that the presence of it in the swab was cause for worry. He watched the sample for a moment. The bacteria moved.

“Still alive,” Smith said. While he watched, one bacterium split in two. “They seem to be multiplying.”

“They didn’t at first, but now they are, and faster than I’ve ever seen before. Where did this come from?” Ohnara asked.

“A refrigerator light in an outlying suburb.” Russell supplied the information.

“Odd place to find cholera bacteria and bird flu. Did they just wash it? Wipe the light down with a wet rag? Cholera needs water to grow.”

Russell shook her head. “No, nothing like that. We believe it was placed there deliberately. I’ve only heard of cholera in hot weather climates. Will it survive in the cold?”

“Oh yes. It can survive several days in freezing temperatures. But warmth really sets it off. When I first loaded a small portion of the swab onto the dish the cholera was dormant, probably from the cool refrigerated air, but since warming up it has really started to multiply.”

“And the bird flu virus?”

“It died as readily as the cholera strain. Bird flu isn’t readily transmissible through the air, either, though we’ve confirmed a couple of cases that may have been human to human transmission. They were caretakers and family members all exposed to the same birds that carried the disease in the first place. Avian flu’s nasty, to be sure, but encased in the gel as it is, in such minute amounts, and the fragility that I’m seeing makes it not likely to be transmitted to people.”

“But it is possible, isn’t it?” Russell said.

“Possible, yes. Probable, no. The cholera is the more worrisome factor here. I don’t like it.”

Smith didn’t either. The bacteria became more active even as he watched them. In contrast, the strange species sat unmoving.

“What’s the other species that I see? The one with the H5N1 attached to it?” he asked.

“Shewanella MR-1. It’s fascinating and quite common in the DC area. A large source is right here in the silt at the bottom of the Potomac River, and we’ve been analyzing it in our labs for a year now. Let me switch up to the atomic force microscope.” While Smith watched, the image changed and the strange bacteria sprang into finer focus. Long, hair-like strands extended from the sides of the creature.

“Ahh, thank you. I see the pili growing from it.”

“Are those a type of cilia?” Russell asked.

“Yes, but these are only three to five nanometers in width. Ten thousand times finer than a human hair. The atomic microscope is necessary to see them. We know that these pili are electrically conductive microbial nanowires. Almost like fine wire filament. We’ve determined that they can conduct electricity even underwater and in anaerobic environments.”

“Is it another microbial fuel cell? Like Geobacter?” Smith said.

Ohnara peered into a second viewer. “Have you worked with MFCs?”

Smith had, but only on a superficial level. “Not much. I’ve heard that there have been some recent breakthroughs in our understanding of how they function.”

“Very exciting breakthroughs. We now know that electrons are moving down those wires, but what the bacteria do with the electrons and what their purpose is still remains a mystery. Nevertheless, they’re a potential power source and we’re extremely excited about the possibility that they can create enough energy on their own to charge batteries. Very beneficial bacteria.”

Smith refocused on the cholera. “Will freezing temperatures slow the cholera’s multiplication? Can you freeze this sample? Buy me some time to investigate this further?”

Ohnara stepped away from the viewer. “Let’s take it to zero centigrade and see.”

“Is there a possibility that this came from the kitchen faucet? That someone dumped this into the water supply?” Russell asked the question.

Ohnara pulled over a stool on rollers and sat down. He leveled a serious stare at her. “Cholera is dangerous, no doubt, but it would take a tremendously strong strain to overcome our Western methods of disinfection. Chlorine kills it, and boiling does too.”

“What good does it do to wipe cholera in a refrigerator, then?” Russell said.

Ohnara looked perplexed. “I suppose it would spread to a person if the bacteria were placed on the mouth of something one drank. Like a water bottle, for instance, but it’s a fairly weak way to injure someone and it’s not a way to injure a large number of people. For that you need a contaminated water source that manages to avoid treatment, as we’ve seen in areas like Haiti. Even then, while thousands can die from lack of treatment, they most often initially contract it through the water source. It’s not normally transferred from person to person.”

Smith stepped back. “But the rapid multiplication and the viral strain attached are worrisome and unusual. Perhaps this is a form of super cholera?”

Ohnara tilted his hand back and forth. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Some of the sample succumbed as I transferred it to the dish, so it’s far from robust. If you like, I can subject it to the standard chemicals that it would encounter during our current water treatment protocols. See if it manages to survive.”

Smith nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

Russell looked back into the viewer. “Dr. Ohnara, is it possible to type the strain? Determine where these bacteria originated?”

Ohnara nodded. “I already did that. They match that found in sections of India and Pakistan.”

Russell’s head shot up and Smith saw the color drain from her face. “Did you say Pakistan?”

“I did. Is that significant?”

“That’s a known area of concern for terrorism,” Smith said, deliberately keeping his voice neutral. He trusted Ohnara to retain a confidence, but saw no need to draw the lines between Pakistan, the escaped Dattar, and a virulent strain of cholera. He’d ask Klein to get him some more information on the stolen biomaterial. Perhaps this particular strain was in one of the coolers.

Ohnara looked doubtful. “I just don’t think it could be an effective form of terrorism. As I said, it’s difficult to see how cholera can be used in such a fashion, at least in modern countries like ours. Obviously, if this strand survives some of the chemicals I’m going to subject it to, then my opinion may change.”

Smith put out a hand to shake Ohnara’s. “Let’s hope not.”

Smith and Russell walked to the front of the building, but as they reached the door, Smith hung back.

“Still worried?” Russell said. “How about I go out and drive around to the back. You can jump in as before.”

He smiled at her, letting the relief show in his face. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Smith repeated what he now called the “run to the car” game and was relieved when Russell drove away from the campus.

“Well, what do you make of the swab?” he asked.

Russell frowned. “I don’t like that it’s from Dattar’s region, but I guess you picked up on that.”

Smith nodded. “I did. Could you be targeted? Have you run into him in the past?”

Russell turned down a street and Smith saw a Metro stop at the end. “No. I’ve never had any contact with him. It could be completely unrelated, but it doesn’t feel like it is.” She seemed to want to say something further.

“Yes?” Smith prodded.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Back to the Four Seasons?” she said.

“Can you drop me here? I’ll take the Metro. I have some errands to run.”

“Certainly. You should be fine. No one tailed us.”

Smith smiled. “I’ll take your word on that. I know it’s good.”

She smiled back, but grew serious. “There’s a situation brewing with regard to some missing bacteria. I may ask you for some more assistance.”

The coolers, Smith thought. “Of course.”

He angled out of the sedan, sketched a wave, and headed to the Metro. The minute he was out of sight, he called Marty. There was no answer, but he left a message saying he was on his way over. He boarded the train and settled in for the ride to Marty’s house, eyeing the other passengers. Most either read books or newspapers or stared off into space. None noticed Smith. He got off the Metro at Dupont Circle and prepared to walk the rest of the way, making sure to keep moving and giving quick glances behind him as he headed into a quiet residential area. As he neared Marty’s house, he spotted the small, rotund man pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. He looked agitated and held an open laptop in his hands. When he saw Smith, a smile creased his face.

“Jon! Jon! I got the message that you were coming! I’ve been waiting for you. I’m here.” He waved a hand excitedly. Smith gave a small groan and glanced around. He wished Marty had waited for him inside the house. The last thing he needed was Marty announcing his presence to the entire neighborhood, but there was no stopping Marty once he was wound up; fortunately the street appeared quiet. Marty closed the gap between them, still holding the laptop. He shoved it at Smith.

“I’ve found her!” he said.