The Janus Reprisal

16

Smith knocked the gun upward and spun left. He heard the compressed sound of a silenced bullet. Nolan swung her attaché case in an arc, hitting the attacker dead center in the torso, and he stumbled backward a step. She tripped forward, carried by the momentum. Smith fired, hitting the killer in the chest. The bullet thudded into what must have been a bulletproof vest and the man grunted with pain. A black balaclava covered his face, and Smith could hear the harsh rasp of the man’s breathing through the hole for his mouth. The killer sprinted sideways to hide behind a metal garbage can as the elevator doors began to close. Smith grabbed at Nolan to pull her back into the car.

“Get us to the lobby,” Smith said. Nolan swiped her key card and hit the button. Her hair had fallen out of its clip, and her knuckles were white on the handle of the case. She pressed herself against the elevator’s wall, her eyes wide with fear. Smith flipped the safety on his gun and re-holstered it, pulling the jacket over to hide it from view. “When the doors open, I want you to act with complete calm. Do you understand?”

“There are cameras in the parking lot. Security will have seen that,” she said. Her voice was scared.

Smith shook his head. “Doubtful. He managed to mess up the one in your reception area, he’ll block the lot ones as well.”

“I’m going to warn them. He could kill others.” Nolan sounded determined and she straightened. She pulled the clip out and the rest of her hair fell around her shoulders. Smith doubted that the killer would continue his rampage, and he couldn’t allow her to take the time to find a security guard, relay her story, and then wait in the lobby for the police. They had to move. The doors hissed open on the lobby level, and he saw several police officers standing at the reception desk speaking to building security. He grabbed her by the arm once again.

“Tell them, but be prepared to run. He’s after you and me. I’m not sure why he shot the receptionist, except perhaps to use her as a threat or to create a distraction while he hunted you. I’ll let the CIA know that he’s lurking in the parking lot.” Smith let go of her, pulled out his phone and began texting Russell while he headed toward the lobby.

“Go out the back,” Nolan said.

“No. He’d expect that. We’re strolling right out the front door. They may want to detain us, so be prepared to talk our way out of here.” He hit the door and swung it open. As he expected, the lobby was filling up with police. Three of them looked across at Nolan as she walked to the first one in the main reception area. A male officer swept a glance at them. Smith watched him catalog Nolan’s expensive dress, briefcase, and trench coat before turning his attention to Smith. Smith was aware that of the two of them Nolan looked more the part of a Wall Street banker than he did. He hoped she trusted him enough to help him leave the building. If she turned him over to the police, it would be hours before he could leave, and they’d likely hold him in full view while they did it. Smith had no wish to be a target.

“Officer, there’s a man in the parking lot waving a gun. I just went down there to get my car and saw him. He’s dressed in black and his face is covered as well. Hurry!” She indicated the stairs to the garage. The other officers and the lobby attendants heard her, and everyone seemed to begin talking at once. The officer and three others pulled their own weapons and headed to the stairwell. Smith took the opportunity to haul Nolan across the marble floor and out the revolving doors. They hit the street and Smith turned left, walking fast and moving through the crowd.

“Good work,” he said. Nolan didn’t reply. She stayed with him, but kept turning around and giving frightened glances behind her. “Try not to look so afraid. It’ll only draw attention to us,” Smith said.

“Where are you going?” Nolan replied. Smith couldn’t help but catch her use of the term “you” as opposed to “we.” She still expected to strike out on her own.

“Around the corner to a cab stand. We’ll grab one and get as far away as possible.”

“And from there?”

“To one of the CIA safe houses.” He glanced at her to see if she’d protest. To his relief, she seemed amenable to the idea. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Russell: Head to the West Side. Use this location and call me when you get there. She left an address and instructions. They hit the corner and crawled into a cab. Smith gave the cabbie instructions to an intersection on the Upper East Side.

“That’s a block from my house,” Nolan said.

“Nice area,” Smith said. She didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the address and got out. Smith waited until the cab disappeared around the corner before heading to the park. Nolan walked alongside, saying nothing. He hailed another cab.

“Where to now?” Nolan sounded exasperated.

Smith gave the new cabbie instructions to an intersection on the West Side near the safe house. Nolan gave a loud sigh, but remained silent while they crossed Central Park. Ten minutes later they were standing in front of Russell’s safe house. It was one of a series of four-story walk-ups, well maintained and with a realtor’s sign on the front. A lock box hung on the door handle.

Smith punched the button on the box, and it opened. A set of keys fell into his palm. He grabbed them and then reached for Nolan, wrapping his hands around her bicep.

“Quit grabbing me. I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

“Liar.” He pulled her with him, ignoring the annoyed sound she made.

The safe house door was located on the third and last landing. He was thankful for the runner that covered the wood stairs, muffling their steps. There were two doors per landing, but the quiet told Smith that the occupants were gone. When they reached the third landing, “3B” was to Smith’s right. Smith put the keys in the deadbolt, shooting it back, and swung the door open.

They entered a foyer that contained a small credenza with a wooden charging station for cell phones. Smith tossed the keys onto one of the felt-covered spaces on the station and walked into the living area, past an open door to his right that led into a kitchen. The living area was furnished with a minimalism that screamed disuse. A leather couch faced a television console that held a flat-screen television and, on the shelf below, a stereo system. A glass cocktail table sat between the two. To the left was a set of stairs that led to the next floor, where Smith presumed were the bedrooms. The entire first level would be considered small by most American standards, but large for a duplex in New York City. He estimated there to be no more than four hundred square feet on the first level, and the same on the second.

Next to the couch an end table held a remote control and a curved, sleek silver telephone on a stand. The phone started ringing. From the corner of his eye he saw Nolan step into the living room from the kitchen. She paused to watch him.

Smith walked over to peer at the small screen built into the handle that revealed the phone number. The display read “Unavailable,” which told him it was probably someone from the CIA checking on their status. He picked it up and put it to his ear to answer.

“You made it?” Russell said.

“Yes. Did you catch the shooter in the garage?”

“No. Long gone, or so we suspect. Has Nolan given you any information?” Smith looked at the woman in question, who was still gazing at him with her ever-present serious expression.

“Haven’t had a moment to breathe. Will let you know once I do.”

“Good. We’re still drawing blanks on Dattar’s location. Until we find him, it might be best if you both stayed inside. There’s food in the refrigerator and alcohol in the small bar at the corner of the living room. I stocked it with your favorite drink.” Smith spotted the corner wet bar. For a moment he was confused because, while he had a favorite drink, he didn’t recall filling Russell in on it.

“Which is?”

“Shaken, not stirred.”

Smith smiled. “Bond was cool under fire. In contrast, I’ll need liberal amounts while I debrief her.”

“Think she knows something?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Call me if you learn anything useful. Anytime. I’m in Manhattan — Midtown — and expect to stay here at least another twenty-four hours. We could use a break. Every terrorist has died before we could interrogate him, the coolers are still missing, and Dattar has vanished.”

“Any news on Howell?”

“Nothing. But no body either, so perhaps he’s still alive.”

“Who’s searching for him?”

“I pulled Beckmann out of The Hague and put him on it.”

“Excellent. I like that guy.”

“He’s the best, albeit a little unorthodox in his methods.”

“Keep me posted.” Smith hung up.

“Was that Ms. Russell?”

Smith nodded. “They were unable to catch the shooter. She’s suggesting we lie low for a while.”

Nolan looked around the room. “For how long?”

He put up his hands. “I don’t know.” He wanted to dive right in and demand some answers from her regarding her connection to Dattar, but he didn’t think she’d respond well to a blunt question. He decided to try to build a rapport with her first. “Are you hungry? I’m told there’s food here somewhere.”

She nodded. “Very.”

He smiled. “Then let’s have a look.” He shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a chair and stepped past her into the kitchen. He noticed that her eyes were locked onto his gun in the shoulder holster. She followed, which he counted as a win, given that it was the first time she had since he’d met her. It took him no time at all to find the ingredients for a sandwich. He made two, handed her a plate and a bottle of a tea drink.

“No bottled water, sorry.”

“Tea is fine,” she said. “I’m going to go upstairs to wash my hands first.” Smith nodded and settled into a chair by the kitchen table to eat.

Ten minutes later, when she still hadn’t returned, he shoved away from the table and headed upstairs to the second floor to investigate. The stairs ended in a long hallway, with two doors placed at the beginning and the end. He slowed and pulled his gun out of the holster. The first door opened into a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with a bed, a dresser with another flat-screen on top, and two nightstands. A door at the back opened into a compact bathroom with a shower and one sink. No Nolan.

He returned to the hallway and headed to the next door, which he now assumed must contain the master bedroom. He opened the door to find just that: a slightly larger room with a king-sized bed, standard dresser, and television. A bank of three separate double-hung windows were to his right, and a cool breeze flowed into the room from the one farthest from the door.

She was gone.

17

STUPID ME, SMITH THOUGHT, and sighed. He placed his free hand on the windowsill and leaned out. The fire escape was empty, the bottom rungs still retracted. She must have jumped from there to the ground. He looked around the area but could see no sign of her. He closed the window, locked it, returned to the kitchen, and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He dialed Marty, who picked up on the second ring.

“Jon, I’m surprised to hear from you. Did you find her?”

“I did. And just lost her again.”

Marty snorted. “I’m watching breaking news about the gunman in the Landon Investments building in New York. So the dead woman wasn’t her.”

“It was her receptionist. I brought her to a safe house, but she gave me the slip. Ms. Nolan is not as cooperative as I expected.”

“I told you she looked angry. Angry people never do what you want.”

Smith paused. Marty’s comment was astute, but once again he didn’t think “angry” was the right word to apply to Nolan. “I know she’s got a telephone on her, as well as a tablet computer. Can you track her through either?”

“What type of software on her phone?”

“No idea.”

“Number?”

“Nope.”

Marty gave a gusty sigh. “You’re not giving me much to go on here.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“I’m going to have to hack the major carriers, find her number, and then see if I can track her. Some systems have built-in GPS, which will pinpoint her exact location, but others only triangulate her signal from a nearby tower. In the last case I’ll only be able to get you a radius. You’ll have to canvass for her. How did she get away? Are you losing your touch?”

Marty’s comment served to raise Smith’s annoyance with himself. Marty was right; he should have predicted that she’d run, but the reality was that he couldn’t have held her in the safe house against her will in any event. “I made the mistake of assuming that as a civilian she’d be a whole lot more cooperative than she was. In fact, she’s not behaving like a civilian at all.” She’s behaving like someone with something to hide, Smith thought.

“What’s she like?”

“Serious, smart, and obsessed with her job. She reacted to the news that an assassin was after her with a lot less emotion than I expected.”

“She sounds like me,” Marty said. Smith raised an eyebrow. Once again, Marty was close to the truth. Smith wouldn’t be surprised if he was told that Nolan was somewhere on the spectrum for Asperger’s. Marty continued, “What are you going to do while I track her, again?” Marty seemed to be enjoying himself at Smith’s expense.

“I’m going to her home. As an amateur that’s probably the first place she’ll head.”

“You just told me she’s not acting like a civilian. Why are you treating her like one?” That brought Smith up short. There came a beep on his phone.

“I’ve got a call coming through. Let me know the minute you find anything.” Smith hung up and switched over.

“It’s Randi. I’m coming in the front door so don’t blow my head off.” Smith still had his gun in his hand. He shoved it back in the holster. He heard the door open and after a moment Russell stepped into the kitchen. She wore dark jeans topped by a loose-fitting cotton T-shirt and a short blue blazer. On her feet were black sneakers with white rubber soles.

“I lost Nolan,” he said.

“What? How?” Russell looked shocked. Smith told her the whole sordid story, finishing with the information that he had Marty tracking her cell. Russell looked down at Nolan’s sandwich, still sitting on the table. Smith followed her gaze.

“Do you want it? She didn’t touch it.”

Russell nodded. “I’m starving.” She pulled up a chair and uncapped the tea. Smith thought she looked pale and wan.

“Are you sick?” he said.

She nodded. “Picked up a bit of a virus, which is not surprising. We’ve been working around the clock in the hunt for Dattar.”

“Not from the swab, I hope,” Smith said.

She took a bite of the sandwich. “I wondered about that, too. I actually called Ohnara back and asked him, but he said cholera wouldn’t present with my symptoms or as a mild illness. If I had it, I would know it.”

“Well, that’s certainly true. I’ve seen it in action in Third World countries. It’s awful,” Smith said.

“What the hell does Nolan have to hide?” Russell said. “And I agree with you, she’s headed home.”

“Then let’s go. We’re only a few minutes behind.”

Russell pointed at his sandwich. “You haven’t finished. Don’t worry. I’ve got an officer stationed at her place. She shows up, he’ll lock her down for us. And I need to talk to you about something else.” Smith took a deep breath in relief. He should have known that Russell would have all angles covered. He sat at the table, but he found he was too keyed up to eat.

“Ohnara says the cholera sample is mutant, but he doesn’t think it poses a risk — at least not in this country. He ran it through our standard water treatment process and it died. In fact, he said it died so swiftly that he thinks the mutation weakened it somehow.”

Smith pondered that for a moment. “If that’s true, then he should start an experiment to introduce the mutation to the general cholera population. With a little tweaking, he could weaken the disease.”

Russell shook her head. “Don’t forget, without treatment it multiplied at an astonishing rate. It could just render the disease more virulent.”

“Well, that’s why you tweak it. Boost what you need and leave the rest,” Smith said.

Russell finished the sandwich and pushed the plate away. “My real concern is Dattar. We’re getting rumors that a full-scale attack on a major city in America is being planned. We can’t be sure Dattar is the mastermind, but I don’t like that he’s escaped.”

Smith stood. “We need to get our hands on Nolan again. She knows something, I’m almost sure of it. I asked her about Dattar and she shut down tight. Claimed client confidentiality. If he weren’t a client, she would have had no obligation toward him and could have just said no. The fact that she pulled the confidentiality card tells me that he was.” Smith heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Are we expecting someone?” he whispered. Russell shook her head and pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster under the blazer. The steps grew nearer, moving quietly. Smith pulled his own weapon out and pressed himself against the wall on the side of the entrance to the hall. Russell took up a position behind his left shoulder. The footfalls stopped on the landing and a key slid into the lock. The door opened, and a tall man with slicked hair and wearing a suit came into view. Smith put the muzzle of his gun against the side of the man’s head. He stilled.

“Colonel Smith?” he said.

Russell lowered her weapon and moved into view. “It’s all right,” she said to Smith, “he’s CIA.” Smith lowered his weapon. “You almost got your head blown off,” she said to the man. He turned to face her with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, Russell. I should have told you I was on my way.”

Russell holstered her weapon. “Jon Smith, meet Steve Harcourt. CIA’s head of the Mideast Division, currently on loan to the NYPD.”

Smith nodded a greeting. The man’s slick demeanor and expensive tailored suit spoke volumes about his position at the agency. Smith noted a small bump near the suit’s arm where he presumed Harcourt’s own weapon was holstered. He imagined the residents of New York’s Upper West Side would be surprised at how many people were walking around their neighborhood while carrying concealed. A buzzing noise made Russell jump. She pulled out a BlackBerry and read the screen.

“Jordan says that Nolan hasn’t returned to her house.”

“I thought she was here,” Harcourt said. Smith was prepared to once again tell of his blunder when Russell interrupted.

“She skipped. There’s a request out to track her by cell phone transmission. I stationed Jordan at her house early this morning just as a precaution.”

Harcourt rubbed his chin. “Is that really a good use of an officer? We haven’t any information that links her to anything that we’re investigating now.”

“We have the photos in the terrorist’s pocket that I told you about,” Russell said.

“I think she’s tied to Dattar in some way that may be significant,” Smith said. Harcourt leveled a glance at Smith.

“I understand that you’re a member of the military branch for infectious diseases? I appreciate your input, and I am glad to see you survived the attack at the Grand Royal, but tracking Dattar is the CIA’s job.” Smith felt his irritation grow. Harcourt’s attitude was that of a pure bureaucrat and his defensive posture was him marking his territory. Smith doubted that the man had actually worked in the field for years.

“It’s my job to protect myself. Someone’s been targeting me and Ms. Nolan and I intend to discover who.”

“It appears as though Ms. Nolan doesn’t want your help. Otherwise I imagine she’d still be here,” Harcourt said. Smith took a breath to respond, but Russell stepped between him and Harcourt.

“Let’s focus on the facts, shall we?” Russell said. “There’s an attack on the Grand Royal the same night that infectious disease specialists are convened there and that Dattar escapes from prison. Photos of Ms. Nolan, Smith, and a former agent from MI6 named Howell are found in one of the attacker’s pockets. Ms. Nolan is a money manager who may have done business with Dattar, and her receptionist is gunned down not twenty-four hours after the escape. Currently we have little information on Dattar’s whereabouts, and we should be interviewing anyone with any information about him. If that’s Nolan, then she needs to be found and questioned.”

“By the CIA,” Harcourt said. “Not by anyone else.” He shot a warning look at Smith.

Jerk, Smith thought.

“Which requires an officer at her home.”

“I still think it’s a waste of resources. But if you think it’s necessary…” Harcourt shrugged.

“I do,” Russell said. Her phone buzzed again. She punched the speaker button.

“Ms. Russell? It’s Jana Wendel. Jordan’s been shot.”

18

KHALIL WALKED CALMLY AWAY from his position opposite Nolan’s house and passed the car with its shattered windshield and occupant slumped over the wheel. He knew that the agent had survived long enough to call for help, for he’d seen him lift the cell phone to his ear and speak before falling unconscious. Khalil didn’t care. The agent should have been quicker, faster. He’d aimed at Khalil, which had forced Khalil to crouch before shooting; as a result, the shot was not a kill shot. Khalil was pushing thirty-five and should have slower reflexes than the young agent. That he didn’t revealed the CIA’s weakness.

Khalil was only angry that Nolan hadn’t appeared at the house. Shooting the agent was small recompense, but it was clear that the agent had noticed Khalil hanging about Nolan’s block. Khalil stayed a few minutes more after the shooting to see if Nolan would appear, but that was a risk because he could hear ambulance sirens in the distance. He turned a corner, entered the park, and began to jog. Here his running wouldn’t raise a question. Dozens of people ran around him, all getting their afternoon workout. When he was far enough away, he dialed a number on his phone.

“Did you get her?” Dattar said.

“She hasn’t appeared at her home. But a CIA agent did. At no time did you tell me that the CIA was involved regarding her.”

“I didn’t know they were! If anything, that was your mistake. You shouldn’t have killed the receptionist.”

Khalil stopped walking. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the receptionist at N— the target’s office. She was shot in the temple. Your signature style.”

“But not by me. Have you paid another to acquire this target?”

“No. And I won’t. But that was a foolish move because the police are now swarming the office. If you intend to take her there, you won’t be able to without being captured.”

“That’s of no importance to me. I never intended to take her there. It’s too visible. Whoever you paid in addition to me is screwing up, and I’d suggest you request your money back. That’s assuming you paid him at all.” Khalil’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“I paid no one else. I expect you to get to her. If not, then no money. You understand?” Dattar hung up.

Khalil stared at the phone still in his hand and told himself to stay calm, to breathe deeply. He would eliminate all rivals and acquire Nolan himself. He sat on a nearby bench and called his second, Manhar.

“Did you find him?”

“He’s in an SRO hotel in Harlem.”

Khalil smiled. “Excellent. Are you sure it’s him?”

“I am. Older Englishman. Soft. He’s going to be easy to kill. Do you want him shot?”

“Yes, but make it look like something else.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Mm. Good. I’m going for Nolan and Smith.”

“I heard a rumor about Smith.” Manhar hesitated.

“And?”

“He’s slippery.”

Khalil snorted. “He’s American. None are that smart.”

“I’ve heard he’s treacherous. He forced Dattar to allow vaccination in his village. Hundreds of children. Mine included.”

“Do they live?”

“Yes. When diphtheria raced through the next village, none in ours got it, but Dattar should have stopped it. The village elders are saying the UN brought the disease and infected the neighboring village deliberately to make it look as though their medicine worked. Who knows what the UN really injected them with? Dattar is weak.”

Khalil was up and walking again. “Dattar is irrelevant, but his vast utility holdings are not. I want a piece of them. Besides, he’s planning retaliation. Don’t worry. Soon disease will spread. None will be spared. Just focus on the Englishman.” He pocketed the phone and headed back to the East Side.

Dattar dialed the number he needed. When the man answered, Dattar plunged right in, not bothering to identify himself. “Did you eliminate Smith?”

“Not yet. Things were more complicated than I thought. But I know where he is, so it’s just a matter of waiting until he’s alone.”

“Did you shoot the receptionist? That was stupid.”

“You let me decide what’s stupid or not. Smith’s been cooperating with the CIA and is currently under CIA protection. In a safe house, and I can’t possibly kill him there, so I had a better idea. The police have been given a videotape of Smith entering the office. In less than three hours every cop in New York will be hunting him.”

“How is that better than just putting a bullet in his head?”

“The CIA won’t want to be seen as harboring a killer. Questions will arise as to his role in the Grand Royal attack. Suddenly he’ll go from a celebrated survivor to a possible co-conspirator. The CIA will want to wash their hands of him. Then I’ll shoot him and no one will care. Just another killer eliminated.”

Dattar smiled. “Excellent.”

“When are you going to pay me?”

Dattar’s smile fled. “I’m putting some time between my escape and accessing my accounts. This is better for both of us. You don’t want to be seen accepting my money directly after, either, do you?” Dattar gritted his teeth while waiting for the response.

“Fine, but make it soon. I don’t do this for free and my creditors are hounding me more and more each day.”

Dattar relaxed. “I will.” He hung up and exploded. “When I get my hands on that woman, I’m going to string her up and flay her alive. She’ll beg for death.”

Rajiid turned from his computer monitor. “But they continue to proceed despite the lack of payment?”

Dattar nodded. He moved over to the coffeepot and began to pour himself a cup. The ship rolled and Dattar stumbled back, spilling the coffee. “When do we dock at Cyprus? I can’t stand this vile freighter.”

“Another day at least. We’re working around the storm off the Italian coast.” The ship rolled again, but this time Dattar was able to correct for it. The coffee stayed in his cup.

“Tell me about the coolers. When will we be able to spread the disease?”

Rajiid shook his head. “I’ve received no news on the test. When I do, we’ll move quickly. I’m also considering adding a preschool to the target. No one will question an outbreak under such conditions.”

Dattar gazed at Rajiid’s placid demeanor. The man lacked any semblance of a soul, that was certain, but Dattar wouldn’t be concerned about the children of others, either. Better they not grow into enemies.

“You placed the weapon?”

Rajiid nodded. “In the engine room.”

Dattar sipped his coffee and continued to sway with the ship’s motion.

19

SMITH FOLLOWED RUSSELL, who ran down the brownstone’s stairs two at a time. Harcourt remained behind in the safe house, working the phones and coordinating a response. They hailed a nearby cab and tumbled into it. To Smith the ride across the park took forever, but he thought Russell seemed particularly affected. She was sweating, shaking, and turning pale.

“Have you known this agent long?” Smith said.

Russell shook her head. “Only a few weeks, but he’s smart and resourceful. I knew he was a bit inexperienced for a lot of field jobs, but I thought the Nolan stakeout would be fairly routine. All he needed to do was call in a sighting.”

Police cars and an ambulance already clogged the street. An officer stood at the corner, waving cars past the intersection. Russell bounded out and headed to the officer while holding her wallet open to show her identification, but closing it before the officer could scan it. Smith stayed with her, looking down the street and checking each window above, searching for movement. Most were empty. Only a couple of faces peered at the scene, and those were women. None were Nolan.

“I’ve been sent here by Johnson. This is my assistant,” Russell said. The officer waved her through.

“Who’s Johnson?” Smith said to her in low tones.

“His captain. Harcourt just texted me the name. He gave me the ID, too. It identifies me as a special consultant to the NYPD, just like Harcourt, but with a fake name. Technically I shouldn’t be here at all. It may blow my cover. But I can’t just leave him.”

Smith understood her concern. They moved to the car, now surrounded by officers. A bullet hole marred the windshield and blood was spattered over the glass and covered the top portion of the steering wheel.

“Where is he?” Russell said to a nearby officer.

“In the ambulance.”

“Is he alive?”

“So far,” the officer said.

Russell jogged to the emergency vehicle, where the EMTs were working on a man lying on a gurney inside.

“What’s his condition?” Russell said to a paramedic who stood between the open doors in back.

“We’re heading out. Bullet entered his cheek, we think. We can’t tell if it exited or is still in his skull. He’s bleeding pretty badly.” One of the paramedics said, “Let’s go” and Russell stepped back while the EMT closed the doors and slapped a hand on them. The siren started to wail as the vehicle began to wind its way through the parked squads.

Another officer, this one older than the first, wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, navy windbreaker, and a lanyard around his neck that contained a large badge and a nametag that read “Manderi” walked up to Russell.

“You know the victim?” He cast a sharp look at Smith before returning his gaze to Russell.

“I do. He works for me.”

“ID says he works for a technology company in McLean, Virginia. Only thing I know that’s there is the CIA.” The officer gave Russell a shrewd look.

“We do some of their… tech work.” The way Russell said the sentence left no doubt that she was CIA.

“He had a gun on him. Know why he’d have one as a computer technician?”

“Well, tech work for the CIA can be dangerous.” Once again, Russell emphasized the word “tech” and the officer responded with another knowing look. “I’ll ask my supervisor to contact yours. Perhaps they can work it out.”

The officer nodded. “You do that. I’d be interested to hear the details of that conversation.” He directed his attention to Smith.

“You together?”

Smith hesitated. Something in the officer’s demeanor made him wary. “Why do you ask?”

“Just heard on the radio that we’re looking for a man named Jon Smith in connection with a shooting.” The officer stared at Smith. “You look a lot like the photo.”

“What shooting?” Russell said.

The officer tore his gaze from Smith’s face long enough to address Russell. “Landon Investments. Receptionist shot. Video shows that this Jon Smith was the last one who spoke to her before she died.” He returned his gaze to Smith. “You have any identification?”

Smith stilled. “I do not.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have a license on you?”

Smith shook his head. “No.”

“You know this man?” The officer spoke to Russell.

“I’m going to look at the car.” She gave the officer a parting nod and stepped away, neatly sidestepping the questions and saying nothing to Smith. The officer watched her go, then turned his gaze back to Smith.

“Perhaps you’d better come with me. We’ll go together to find your identification.”

“It’s not a crime to walk the streets without identification. If I recall my constitutional law class correctly, there was a Supreme Court case that said so.”

The officer’s brows drew together. “You a lawyer?”

“I’m military. Excuse me.” Smith turned and headed toward Russell, his heart rate accelerating. She stood before Jordan’s car once again, looking into the driver’s side window, then she stepped away and waved Smith to follow her down the sidewalk.

“You have an alibi for the time that you were in Landon Investments? Because it sounds like you’re going to need one.”

Smith nodded. “I was in Nolan’s office. But I have no idea if she’ll vouch for me. Especially since she shows every sign of wanting to stay as far away from me as possible.”

“And you have to reacquire her first. Listen, I’ll arrange to keep your face out of the news for as long as I can.”

“How? That guy didn’t seem too cooperative.”

“Since 9/11 the NYPD has consulted with CIA officers on terrorist issues. Harcourt’s the latest guy out on loan. I’m pretty sure he’ll help bury the story. We’ll tell the authorities that it’s a matter of national security. Back them off a bit.”

Smith nodded. “Thanks. In the meantime, I’ll work on finding Nolan and shaking any information out of her that I can regarding Dattar. Let me know if you locate Howell. I really could use his help right now.” He peered at her. “Your flu getting worse? You don’t look well.”

Russell sighed. “It probably is, and I don’t have the time to be sick right now. We have to locate Dattar and those coolers, in that order.” She brushed her hair from the side of her face. When she did, Smith could see a line of sweat trickle down her temple, yet the air was cool. Smith looked past Russell in time to see the suspicious officer and another, this one in a suit, heading his way. “Here comes the cop. I’ll leave you to handle this.”

Smith spun on his heel and walked away, taking care to keep his steps even and his attitude relaxed. He knew that Russell would contain the situation, but he still didn’t breathe easier until he turned the corner. Once he did, he started jogging toward the park, heading back to the safe house. The phone in his pocket started to vibrate. A quick glance at the screen revealed that it was Marty calling.

“Give me some good news. I need it,” Smith said.

“She’s in a coffee shop near the Flatiron District.” Marty rattled off the address. Smith turned around and started jogging back toward the East Side and the nearest subway station.

“How’d you find her? Her phone?”

“No. Her tablet computer. I found her phone number first. Figured like most professionals she preferred a BlackBerry to a smartphone. I was right, but that meant that I could only give you a vague idea of her location because that technology is older. However, once I hacked her account, I discovered that she has a subscription for data management on her tablet computer. I hacked into that and found that she was online on an open network. She still is.” Smith dodged a turning cab as he crossed from the park back into the neighborhood. He was one block from the subway.

“Have any idea what she’s doing online?”

“Of course. When you hack an open network, you can see everything.” Marty sounded long suffering. He sighed over the line.

“Marty, don’t wear me out here. Just tell me what she’s doing.”

“She’s trading,” Marty said.

Smith came to a dead stop. “What do you mean? Trading?”

“Just that. She’s trading on the stock market. Buying, selling, you know.”

Smith couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Her life is in danger, she just discovered her receptionist lying flat on her back, dead, and she’s in a coffee shop trading stocks? Is this woman crazy?”

“I don’t think so. From what I can tell she’s covering earlier trades and moving investments around. She’s way ahead in most of her positions. If she were crazy, I imagine she’d be losing money, right?” Smith started walking again. Leave it to Marty to take his words literally.

“That was, in some ways, a rhetorical question. Listen, I’m headed into the subway. Keep an eye on her. Let’s hope she continues for the time it takes me to get there.”

“The market doesn’t close for another hour. I think she’ll stay there until it does. I mean, she’s really into this right now. She’s moving millions of dollars around in various accounts.” Smith heard applause in the background.

“I just heard clapping. Is someone else with you?”

Marty laughed. “No, that was me. I’m speaking to you through a headset. I was clapping at her latest trade. She covered a put with a corresponding call and made seventy-five cents on the spread. That account just gained one hundred and ten thousand dollars. This lady is a genius! A math machine. I can’t wait to see what her next trade is.” Marty sounded more excited than Smith had heard in a while. “I want her to manage my money. Do you think she’ll take me as a client?” Smith reached the subway and swung around the railing, taking the steps downward two at a time.

“Only if she manages to avoid getting killed.”

20

SMITH EMERGED FROM THE SUBWAY and headed to the coffee shop, doing his best to appear relaxed while scanning the area for any threats. He saw Nolan through the window and wanted to groan. She hadn’t even bothered to get a seat away from the glass. Her hair hung down while she tapped furiously on a small keyboard attached to the tablet computer. He grabbed the door handle and stepped inside.

The rich scent of roasting coffee filled the air. The small shop was shaped like a long rectangle and contained hundreds of tins of tea and coffee arrayed on shelves along the walls. One of the clerks worked a long wooden bar that ran the length of the store and at which several patrons stood and downed espresso. A second door at the back led to an attached hotel. Nolan sat at the corner of a counter next to the far wall, her concentration on the tablet complete. He walked toward her. When he was next to her, she glanced up. He sat down at the free barstool next to her and crossed his legs.

“So, should we just sit here until Dattar or one of his henchmen comes along to kill us?” She had stopped typing, which he took as a good sign.

“You need to leave me alone,” she said.

He shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s not going to happen until you either tell me what you’ve done to piss off Dattar or you’re dead. Frankly, at the rate that you’re screwing up, I expect the latter to be the most likely outcome.”

She frowned at him. “I’m taking steps to protect myself, which I told you I’m perfectly capable of doing. You should quit wasting your time with me and get back on the hunt for this assassin that’s out there.”

“A CIA agent stationed outside your house was just gunned down.” That got her attention.

“What was he doing there?”

“The assassin? Looking for you to kill.”

“Not the assassin, the agent.”

“Protecting you.” Smith saw dismay race across Nolan’s face.

“I didn’t ask for any protection.”

Smith leaned forward. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument that you, an account executive at an investment house, have enough survival acumen to outwit a paid, trained assassin. If that’s true, then kudos to you, but while you’re making the world safe for financial advisors, the rest of us need a little information. Like why is Dattar gunning for you?” The computer beeped and Nolan directed her attention back to it. “Touch that device and I’m going to throw it out the window.” Smith spoke in a conversational tone of voice. He watched the color rise in Nolan’s face.

“You’re a regular caveman, aren’t you? Threats are your first line of defense.”

“Answer the question.”

She downed the remaining coffee in the cup and dropped it onto the saucer, making a clattering sound.

“I stole his money.”

Smith couldn’t help it; he gaped at her. Her computer beeped and she slid her eyes to it, but didn’t reach for it. A million questions ran through his mind, but the beep reminded him of where he was, and that where they sat was not safe. They needed to keep moving. He stood.

“We have to go.” She shook her head, and the mulish expression he’d learned meant that she was going to refuse settled onto her face. Before she could respond he leaned over, bringing his lips close to her ear. “You’re sitting in the window. One shot to your brain and you’re dead.” Nolan glanced to the pane before returning to look at him. She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not dead, you are. He won’t kill me.” She folded the computer back into its holder and shoved it into her tote. During the whole maneuver Smith noticed that she remained calm.

Misplaced calm, Smith thought. “What makes you think that?”

She rose and moved next to him, so close that he could see the lighter flecks of brown in her dark eyes and smell the perfumed scent of rose and something else that wafted from her.

“Because only I know where the money is. He kills me, he’ll never find it again. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about people like Dattar, it’s that money reigns supreme.”

Her audacity astonished him. And her foolishness. But she was right. Dattar wouldn’t kill her until he recovered his cash. He would kidnap her and torture her until she told him where it was. Smith decided to fill her in on the breadth of her stupidity.

“You’re right, Dattar won’t kill you. He’ll do to you what he did to a health minister of his who had the nerve to urge vaccination for the helpless children under Dattar’s control. He’ll arrange for his henchmen to kidnap you, then peel off your skin piece by piece.”

Nolan’s eyes widened in horror. “I’ve read everything I can about Dattar and I know he’s an animal, but I never heard a thing about any health minister dying. How come the media didn’t report such an atrocity?”

“Because the man was rescued before he died. By me. Let me know how long you hold out.” Smith snapped his fingers. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean that. You won’t be around to tell me, because once you explain to your torturer exactly where the money is, he’ll finish you off.”

Smith turned on his heel and headed to the door. He figured she’d follow him now. Even she wouldn’t be stupid enough to believe she could outsmart Dattar’s assassins now that she knew the full extent of the man’s depravity. As he swung the door open, he glanced back and watched her disappear through the door that led to the hotel.

She was gone.

21

SMITH FOUGHT THE URGE to run through the café, charge into the hotel, grab her by the hair and shake her. Instead he pulled out his phone and called Marty.

“I found her right where you said she was,” Smith said.

“I know,” Marty responded. He sounded peeved. “You made her stop trading, didn’t you?”

“You bet I did.”

“Two of her calls expired at a deficit. If you hadn’t interfered, I bet she would have covered the loss.” Marty’s voice sounded accusatory.

Smith turned onto Broadway and kept moving, his eyes sweeping the area for suspicious activity.

“Now you’re on her side? She needs to agree to protective custody until Dattar is recaptured.”

“They won’t let her trade from there, you know that. No phones and no Internet so she can’t be tracked. What would happen to her positions during that time?” Smith was starting to understand Nolan’s confidence in the power of money. Even Marty seemed to think it mattered more than her life.

“A lot less than what would happen if she died. Forget about the trading. She took off again. Can you continue to track her for me?”

“As long as her computer remains on I can.”

“That’s enough for now. Stay with her. I’ll call you back shortly.”

Smith hung up and called Russell. “I found her again.”

“Great. I’ll meet you both back at the safe house.”

“But she took off.”

There was a silence. “Let me get this straight. You lost her again?”

Smith sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it at the safe house. Twenty minutes.” Once again Smith hit the subway, this time headed uptown. Twenty minutes later he was back at the CIA’s brownstone. He found Russell in the living room sitting at the desk against a far wall, typing furiously at the computer placed there. She turned to face him, and he was shocked to see that she was paler than before and her face glowed with sweat.

“You look terrible. Are you getting sicker?”

Russell nodded. “I am.”

“I don’t like it. That swab must have gotten to you.”

She sighed. “I called the bomb detection expert. He was close to the swab while we analyzed the refrigerator’s interior and he’s fine. I think it’s the regular flu. At least I hope it is.” She gave him a wan smile and waved him to the couch. “Tell me what happened. How’d you lose her?”

“She bolted and I let her go. Marty’s tracking her through the GPS chip in her computer and can continue to do so as long as it remains on.”

Russell frowned. “And if she turns it off. What then?”

Smith snorted. “Trust me, she won’t. She won’t want to miss a moment of stock market activity. This woman lives to trade.”

“The market’s closed.”

“But Japan is opening. She’ll leave it on, believe me. And there’s more. I know why Dattar’s after her. She says she stole his money.” Russell remained silent, then a smile spread across her face and she started laughing.

“Oh my God, that’s great.”

Smith sighed. He had expected a lot of responses from Russell, but her enthusiasm for Nolan’s brainless act was not one of them. He was starting to wonder if everyone he knew was losing their minds.

“You know she’s as good as dead once he gets his hands on her.”

Russell sobered. “Why did you let her go?”

“She refused to cooperate, so I’ve decided to use her as bait. Track her through the GPS and stay back far enough until Dattar’s man makes his move. Then grab him, hopefully before he grabs her.”

Russell nodded. “It’s a worthwhile idea, but I’d take it one step further. Let Dattar’s man grab her and follow them both back to the hiding spot and monitor communications. Eventually the guy will contact Dattar to obtain instructions and we’ll be able to follow the transmission.”

Smith didn’t like Russell’s use of the term “eventually.” “He could decide to torture her first before calling Dattar. We can’t just let that happen.”

“Let’s worry about that once we’re in the situation. Are you going to track her?”

Smith shook his head. “I was hoping one of your agents could take the job. How’s Beckmann doing on the search for Howell? I need him more than ever if I’m going to locate Dattar and, frankly, Ms. Nolan and I don’t get along.”

“I’ve already put another officer in front of her apartment, but I can switch it up if you’d like. Do you think a CIA officer will have better luck convincing her to come in?”

Smith sighed. “Probably not.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll track her and try one more time to knock some sense into her. If you hear anything about Howell, let me know. I really need him.” Russell stood, swaying.

Smith frowned. “You should rest.”

Russell waved him off, took one step, and began to crumple. Smith grabbed her before she hit the floor. He lifted her up and placed her gently on the couch. Her breath came in short gasps and she was sweating profusely. Her body started to jerk and her legs contracted in a spasm. Smith heard the front door open and close and Harcourt stepped into the room.

“Call an ambulance,” Smith said. He sat next to her on the couch and felt her head, which was cold to the touch. He checked her pulse.

Russell opened her eyes. “I think I’m going to throw up.” She struggled to rise.

“Stay down.” Smith ran to the small bathroom off the entrance hall and grabbed the wastebasket. He carried it to the side of the couch.

“You feel sick, just lean over and use this.”

Russell eyed the bucket. “This feels much worse than the flu. Almost like food poisoning.”

Smith heard the wail of a siren in the distance. Harcourt appeared next to him.

“That ours, you think?” Smith said.

“I hope so.” Harcourt crouched down next to Russell’s head. “I have an ambulance on the way. Don’t worry.”

Russell gave a slight nod. The wailing grew louder.

“I’m going out front to direct them here,” Harcourt said. Smith heard him run down the hall stairs.

“Hang on,” Smith said.

“What if it is the refrigerator smear?” Russell said. Smith didn’t want to answer her. If it wasn’t the cholera, then it would have been the H1N5. Avian flu was so virulent that he didn’t want to consider the possibility. Harcourt appeared at his side.

“It’s ours. They’re bringing up a stretcher.”

“Don’t let them see you,” Russell said to Smith.

He held her hand, giving it a brief squeeze. He nodded to Harcourt and jogged up the stairs to the same window that Nolan had used. As he climbed out onto the fire escape, he heard the clumping sound of feet on the lower floors. He ran down the stairs, feeling like the fugitive that he was.

22

MANHAR CROUCHED IN THE CORNER of the stinking utility closet and pressed his eye against the small space created by the open door. He’d cracked it an inch in order to see when the Englishman left the hotel room. The closet smelled of industrial cleaner and mold. A nearby washing pail gave off the ammonia odor and the spaghetti mop shoved inside it added the mildew top note. A cockroach scuttled past him in the darkened space, and Manhar reached out and crushed it with the plastic dustpan that leaned against the wall. Manhar hated New York, with its crowding and bugs and air filled with the smell of animal fat stewing in the hot dog carts. He wanted to finish off the Englishman and get on the next flight to Pakistan. He hoped Dattar’s weapon would kill everyone quickly. Manhar saw no value to be gained from America’s continued existence.

The door at the end of the hall creaked open and a man stepped out. He was slender, rangy, and in his fifties. He had the craggy, thin face of the stereotypical inbred Englishman and Manhar thought that he would be easy to kill. Manhar was the same build, but he was in his twenties and he clutched a gun that made the attack all that much easier. The Englishman appeared to be unarmed. The man turned to lock the door and Manhar rose, crossed the threadbare carpet and reached the Englishman in three quick strides. He shoved the metal gun tip into the man’s lower back and felt him freeze.

“Get back inside,” Manhar said. The man didn’t reply, but turned the key and opened the door. Manhar stepped in tandem with him as he reentered the room. Once inside, Manhar kicked the door shut. The cheap pressed-wood panel shook on impact with the jamb. Noise would travel easily through the paper-thin walls. Whatever he did, it would have to occur quietly or the other guests would hear, though Manhar thought that the types who would reside in such a filthy, dilapidated hotel might be inclined to ignore any criminal activity.

The shabby room held a bed with a sagging mattress, a chair with upholstery fraying at the arms, and a round coffee table with water ring stains. The tiny kitchenette had a small two-cup coffeepot and a toaster oven on its narrow counter. A white range, its burner pans covered with aluminum foil, and a small refrigerator were the only appliances in the room. The gray linoleum floor was grimy in the corners. Manhar saw that the stove was gas and an idea formed.

“May I turn around?” The Englishman sounded calm. Too calm, Manhar thought.

“Stay still and put your arms up.” The man did as he was told and Manhar frisked him, checking for a weapon and finding none. “Now get over to the bed.” The Englishman walked to the bed and slowly turned until they were face to face. He lifted an eyebrow.

“You’re older than I expected.”

Manhar felt the first stirring of alarm at the words “than I expected.” He decided to finish things fast. Something about the man’s blazing, intelligent eyes and detached manner made him seem lethal despite his lack of a weapon. Manhar shook off the thought. The man was old, after all. No danger. No danger at all.

“Shut up. Lay down face-first on the bed.” Manhar didn’t have a silencer and so would be required to shove a pillow against the man’s head and shoot through that. He’d done it before and found that it worked well enough. As the Englishman began to lower himself to the mattress, Manhar shot another look at the range. He backed up to it, keeping his gun trained on the bed. When he reached the stove, he placed a hand on it and pulled. It didn’t move. He needed help.

“Stop,” Manhar said. The Englishman reversed off the bed and once again gazed at Manhar, who waved at the stove with the gun. “Get over here and pull this away from the wall.” The man flicked a glance at the appliance.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Manhar said. He kept his gun at the ready. The man shrugged.

“I’m Peter Howell. And you are?”

“The man who’s going to kill you. Now shut up and pull the stove away from the wall.” Howell shrugged again and Manhar felt his anger rising at this deliberate display of nonchalance. He watched as Howell placed a hand on the back of the stove, another on the front handle, and strained. The heavy steel body shifted, scraping across the floor. For an old man he was strong, Manhar thought. Howell stopped when the range sat two feet from the wall. “Why are you stopping? Keep going.”

“Keep going where? My back’s already against the wall.” In fact Howell was sandwiched between the equipment and the edge of the opposite counter in the tiny galley kitchenette.

Manhar stepped aside. “Get back on the bed.”

Howell slid out and strolled back toward the small sleeping area. “Face-first again, I assume?” His voice was amused.

“Yes.”

Once Howell was prone, Manhar focused on the stove, reaching behind it and yanking on the gas line. He pulled it free and instantly smelled the unique odor. He smiled. His plan to cover the crime was good. They’d find a dead guy on the bed in a fleabag hotel that explodes from a gas leak. He returned his attention to the Englishman.

Howell was standing up, with his own gun aimed at Manhar’s heart. For a moment Manhar was disoriented by the speed with which control of the situation had shifted. Panic made his stomach clench. He’d never faced down a man with a gun before because he’d always taken his victims by surprise, sometimes simply shooting them in the back. He felt himself begin to perspire and sweat trickled down his face.

“A bit of advice: always get your victim away from their mattress. Untold numbers of people hide their guns underneath. Me included,” Howell said. Manhar started breathing fast while he gauged what would happen if he shot Howell first. Howell shook his head. “I can see what you’re thinking and I don’t advise it. I’ll certainly be able to get my own shot off as well, and you’re near the open gas line. It’s entirely possible that a spark from your gun will blow us both up. Now move toward the door slowly. We’re going to leave here and find a nice quiet place to talk.”

“Why? You can’t shoot either.”

Howell looked unmoved. “Oh, but I can. I’m not as close to the gas leak as you are and as long as my bullet sinks into your flesh, I’m fairly certain that the room will hold together long enough for me to leave.”

Manhar hesitated. Perhaps Howell was right. He could hear the gas flowing out of the tube’s mouth and the smell was growing stronger, but Howell stood a good six feet away. Before he could decide what to do, there was a knock on the door. If Howell was surprised at the interruption, he didn’t show it. He took two steps back, which took his body out of the direct line to the entrance.

“Who is it?” he said. The door swung open and a man stepped into the room. Tall, slender, with close-cropped hair and an angular face, he stood still and took in the scene. Manhar saw a lock-picking device in the man’s right hand and a gun in his left. The man focused on Howell.

“Thank you for not shooting me through that worthless door,” he said.

Howell chuckled. “Why, Herr Beckmann, how nice to see you again. When was it last? Prague?”

Beckmann’s lips turned up in a slight smile. “Isle of Man. As I recall, you were busy depositing money in your offshore account.” He looked around. “But you were considerably better housed there. This room is depressing. And you appear to have a gas leak.”

Howell nodded. “My friend here and I were just leaving.”

Beckmann eyed Manhar. “Ah, this one looks healthy for a change. Let’s hope he doesn’t fall over. I’ve been searching diligently for a living one to beat some answers out of. Leave it to you to find one that’s still breathing.”

“He found me. A feat that I doubt he managed on his own.”

“Who does he work for?”

“Khalil, I believe,” Howell said.

Beckmann frowned. “That’s sobering news. Khalil is extremely dangerous.”

Howell nodded. “Whatever is going on, it’s very big trouble.”

The smell of the gas was beginning to overwhelm Manhar and he staggered. In the next instant his legs gave out and he slammed onto the floor. The last thing he heard before falling unconscious was Howell, who said, “First the mattress mistake, then a little gas and he’s down. These young terrorists lack any training whatsoever.”

23

SMITH CALLED OHNARA the moment his feet hit the ground. He heard the scientist’s voice and plunged right in.

“Ms. Russell just fell ill with symptoms that resemble food poisoning or worse; cholera or bird flu. My concern is that the swab we brought you caused it. Any news on the cholera strain?”

“Yes. Our water filtration system handled it beautifully. Not a bit survived. And more good news, the virus died upon contact with the air almost immediately. I doubt that what Ms. Russell has is from the swab, but if you’re concerned they can run a check on both diseases at the hospital. Also you might do well to check on what she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.”

Smith hung up, puzzled, but relieved. Perhaps Russell had a run-of-the-mill influenza virus. His next call was to Marty.

“Still have a lead on her?”

Marty didn’t miss a beat. “Hotel on Park Avenue South.” He gave the address. “She’s using their Internet. I can’t tell if she’s checked in or just sitting in the lobby.”

Well, at least she’s still alive, Smith thought. “Trading?”

“No. Japan isn’t open yet. She’s researching.”

“Researching what?”

“You.”

“Me? Are you sure?”

Marty chuckled. “I’m sure. She’s typed in your name on three different search engines and read everything she can find. Which isn’t much, because, as you may recall, I was the one who washed the Internet clean of your presence.” Now Marty sounded quite pleased with himself. “She’s only getting the newest hits that show you hanging from the hotel room window.”

“I’m heading her way.” This time Smith hailed a cab. He needed a moment to think about Russell and what she could have contracted so suddenly.

He found Nolan in the lobby of a boutique hotel on Park Avenue. What he also saw in the lobby gave him pause. Two men, one reading the Wall Street Journal and another at the public computer set up for guest use, gave the definite air of inauthenticity. Neither the men nor Nolan saw him enter, which was for the best. He stepped deeper into a connecting hallway, where he could still watch them but stay out of the open. Watching the three gave Smith an idea. He rang Marty again.

“You there? Do you see her?” Marty said.

“I do. There’s a man using a dedicated computer in the lobby for guests. Can you hack into it? Tell me what he’s doing?”

“Give me a minute. I’ll call you right back.”

Smith hung up and continued to watch Nolan. She typed furiously. The man reading the paper turned the page in a leisurely fashion, but as he did, he also made a quick, professional scan of the lobby.

I’m on to you, Smith thought.

His phone vibrated. “Tell me,” Smith said.

“Get her and get out of there. Now.” Marty’s voice sounded strained.

“Why?”

“He’s just told a contact named ‘Khalil’ that a bomb in the hotel is set to go off in seven minutes.”

The man at the computer stopped typing, directed his attention to Nolan and removed a gun from underneath his shirt. Smith grabbed his own weapon and bolted into the lobby, heading straight for the computer. The man jerked to standing, knocking over his chair. Out of the corner of Smith’s eye he saw the paper-reading accomplice rise. Smith shot the man at the computer in the right shoulder and immediately turned his attention to the other man. He saw the newspaper flutter to the floor, and light glinted off a gun in the man’s hand. The desk clerk screamed in the distance, but Smith barely heard it. His senses were dulled while he stared in supreme concentration at the gun. Smith had been shot at before, had been in near-death situations before, and in every instance this single-minded focus occurred. In his peripheral vision he noted that Nolan had risen to her feet. Smith fired again, and this time the newspaper man acted in tandem. Smith saw the muzzle flash and felt the bullet sink into his left arm. Smith’s assailant dropped with a bullet in his heart. There were more screams but these were from a group of women sitting in the corner who had escaped Smith’s attention. He’d been so wrapped up in Nolan and the men who were tailing her that the rest of the lobby’s inhabitants hadn’t registered. When Smith glanced back at the computer, the first accomplice was gone.

“Clear the hotel, there’s a bomb,” Smith yelled at the lone front desk employee still at his post, a wild-eyed young man in his mid-twenties.

“I called the police! You can tell it to them,” the man said.

Smith stalked to the counter. “Listen to me very carefully. There’s a bomb in this building. Those two planted it. Activate the fire alarm. You need to evacuate. Now. You have,” Smith looked at his watch, “five minutes.” The young man’s mouth was open and he was gasping. He took a step backward.

“Don’t shoot me,” he said. Before Smith could respond, Nolan slipped past on his right, ran to the wall and pulled at the fire alarm mounted there. An intense shrieking filled the lobby. Smith holstered his gun and started searching the area. He pulled back the leaves of a potted tree next to the counter, found nothing, and moved to an armchair pushed against the wall. He crouched down to look under it. When he stood again he was momentarily dizzy. Blood flowed down his arm and dripped onto the carpeting.

The elevator doors opened and a crowd of people stumbled out of it. So many that Smith wondered how they all fit. He heard the young desk clerk yelling into a phone “They’re not supposed to be using the elevator!” The lobby filled with panicked people, all pushing toward the entrance. One caught sight of the dead terrorist and started screaming over and over and a man next to her dragged her away. Smith fought through the line of evacuees toward Nolan, who was moving along the lobby perimeter in her own search. She knelt down to peer behind a sofa against a bank of windows.

Smith grabbed his phone and dialed Klein. He was glad the number was set to speed dial, because he was becoming increasingly woozy. By the time Klein answered, Smith was across the lobby and next to Nolan.

“I need a bomb expert, fast,” Smith said.

“Of course. Where?” Klein’s calm voice flowed through the receiver. Smith glanced at his watch.

“I have to find it first, but if I do, then I’ll have less than four minutes to disarm it. Can you get someone to talk me through it?”

“Stay on the line,” Klein said. Smith switched his phone to speaker and joined Nolan in her search. She reached out a hand to move back a heavy curtain. He put his own on her arm to stay her.

“Very gently. It could be motion activated.”

Nolan gave him a piercing glance, but paused. She shifted closer to the curtain and slid her entire arm between the window and the fabric. She used the arm as a lever to pull the curtain away. Smith looked down.

An improvised explosive device was nestled next to the baseboard. Smith heard Nolan exhale a shaky breath. He lowered to the ground and put his phone on the carpet to free up his hands. His blood dripped next to it, the loss causing his eyes to blur for a moment, and he blinked furiously.

Three black wires led from the bomb to a cheap cell phone that was set to display an alarm clock. The display was at two minutes fifty-six seconds and clicking downward.

“This is Ben Washington. I’m an explosives expert. Can you hear me over that fire alarm?” Smith almost jerked in surprise when he heard the voice coming from his cell phone.

“I can,” Smith said.

“Tell me what you see.”

“An IED wired to a cell phone. Three wires, all black. Cell phone is counting down. We’re at two minutes.”

“Okay. You’ve got time. Just clip the wires to the phone. All three. Without the spark it won’t detonate as long as you are very gentle with it. You understand? No crazy motions. You know if you’re being watched?” Smith glanced at Nolan, who looked around the now empty lobby and shook her head.

“Not sure. One got away.”

“Because if you are, they can simply call the phone and set it off immediately. It starts to ring and you get the hell out of there. Got it?”

“Got it.” Smith looked around for something to clip the wires.

“Scissors,” Nolan said. She sprinted across the lobby and Smith heard her demanding a pair from the clerk who was at the door preparing to leave. He didn’t watch her though. His wound was a freakish pain that made his entire arm feel like someone was repeatedly stabbing it with a knife. Sweat formed on his forehead and he watched the timer click downward. They’d lost thirty more seconds while Nolan was scrambling for a tool.

Nolan returned and shoved a pair of scissors at him. He positioned the first wire between the open blades and cut. The timer displayed fifty-nine seconds when Smith angled the scissors in order to reach the second wire. This one was short and attached to something that Smith thought was a detonator cap. Reaching this wire was trickier due to its length, and Smith lost twenty more seconds while he maneuvered the tip into place. He snapped the wire. He shifted once again to gain access to the third wire. By now he was sweating freely and a sticky combination of blood and sweat peppered the floor.

The phone shivered on the carpet and the display lit up.

Smith leaped backward, pulling Nolan with him. He staggered with her weight as she stumbled. Smith could hear the phone start to ring over the still blaring fire alarm and smoke poured from the bomb. He turned and ran, holding on to Nolan’s arm while dragging her to the entrance.

Seconds before they hit the glass revolving door Smith remembered Washington’s warning about being watched. He yanked Nolan to the floor as two holes appeared in the glass right where his head had been only seconds before.

“It’s an ambush. Get out the back,” Smith said. Nolan nodded and regained her feet and ran to the lobby’s far end. The bomb continued smoking, but still hadn’t exploded. Smith could hear the scream of fire sirens growing louder. Nolan peeled off to the left and snatched her satchel off the chair, then corrected and ran to the narrow hallway where Smith had lurked not five minutes earlier. Smith hustled behind her through the hallway toward a door marked “Employees Only.” When they reached it, Nolan veered left into another hall. Smith saw a door marked “Exit” at the far end. He and Nolan pounded through it, ignoring the warnings that claimed an alarm would sound. The door closed and Smith followed Nolan onto a side street, coming even with her.

“Stay on my left, can you? I don’t want any passerby to see the blood,” Smith said.

Nolan glanced down. “It’s bad. You need to get to a hospital.”

Smith shook his head and kept moving. “Can’t. Too many questions when a gunshot wound is treated.” He moved in close to her, twining his arm through hers and using it to cover the wound on his. To the world they looked like a couple, their arms linked, taking a stroll. In reality he needed her support, because the pain and dizziness were coming in waves and threatening to engulf him.

Nolan snorted. “Afraid of the authorities? I thought you were one.”

Smith turned left and crossed the street, all the while scanning for the computer man from the lobby.

“Is your tablet in that satchel you’re carrying? Was it really worth detouring to get it? The bomb could have gone off in that time.” Nolan shot him a quick look, but said nothing. He saw that her knuckles turned white as she clutched the bag closer. Smith kept moving, thinking. His arm needed treatment, fast, he needed to debrief Nolan and discover why she’d foolishly stolen Dattar’s money, and he needed to connect with Beckmann about Howell. He silently cursed himself for not letting the computer assailant grab her, as it was clear the terrorist had intended, and then follow them both, but using her as a pawn bothered him. This time he was determined to get some answers from her. He kept walking.

“Where are we going?” Nolan said.

“I’m not sure. Someplace safe. I need a place to rest, work on this wound, and we need to talk.”

“We don’t need to talk.”

“Do you think you could cooperate? For a short while? I just saved your life. I think you owe me.” The pain in his arm was unbearable. He wasn’t sure that he could take much more and stay upright. He staggered. Nolan grabbed his arm, and he groaned at the pain her touch evoked.

“Give me your phone and tell me who to call for you,” Nolan said.

That was a good question, Smith thought. Normally he’d rely on Russell, but she was in no condition herself to help him. Klein would find a safe location for Smith to hole up, but Smith didn’t want to call his line too often. If the authorities refused the CIA’s request to ignore Smith in response to the receptionist’s death, then they would be tracking him the same way he tracked Nolan: through his cell phone. He’d have to toss this one and get a prepaid. Until then, the fewer calls to Klein the better.

“There’s no one,” Smith said. Nolan gave him a strange look, but Smith was in too much pain to try to analyze what she was thinking.

“No wife? Children? Parents? Siblings?”

Smith shook his head.

Now Nolan stared at him in open disbelief. “Best friend? Colleague at work?”

“I told you. No.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Smith gritted his teeth against another wave of pain. “Listen. We can discuss my complete lack of close personal relationships some other time. Right now we need a safe place to land.” They crossed another street, and Smith felt Nolan steering him toward a glass door covered by a red awning.

“Fine. Then let’s go here,” Nolan said. As they reached the entrance a doorman stepped out and held it for them. He nodded at Nolan.

“Good to see you, Ms. Nolan.” He gave Smith a penetrating glance and acknowledged him. Nolan headed straight to an elevator. Once inside she removed her arm from Smith’s grasp and pressed a code on a separate keypad on the wall and then the button marked “PH.” She stepped aside.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Smith said.

“My mother’s house.”

“Can she keep a secret?”

Nolan shook her head. “Not if her life depended on it. But she’s not here. She’s in Paris for the couture shows.”

“Who’s your mother?”

“Grayson Redding.”

Smith watched as the elevator lights climbed higher than the third floor. His anxiety rose along with the lift. He pulled his attention away from the display long enough for the name she had mentioned to register. He gave a low whistle.

“Of the railroad and utility fame?”

Nolan nodded.

“If you’re a Redding, how is it that you were so difficult to find on the Internet when I was searching for you? I would think the society pages would be filled with your face.”

“I told you, Landon Investments values privacy and confidentiality. We have a policy that requires us to be as discreet as possible. As well as an IT specialist who scrubs the Internet on a regular basis. I kept my married name after my divorce and that has helped, too.” The elevator made a pinging sound and the doors whooshed open directly into the residence. Smith stepped into a lavish, marbled hall with several doors leading off in different directions.

“Does she occupy the entire floor?”

Nolan tossed her keys into a glass bowl on an elaborately carved antique credenza that Smith figured cost more than his yearly salary.

“She does. And the staff is on vacation as well, so we’re alone. Come into the master bath. She keeps the first aid there.” Smith reached out and put a hand on her arm to stop her from leaving.

“I assume that an apartment as magnificent as this has an alarm system?”

“It does.”

“Set it, please.”

“Now?”

Smith nodded. “Right now.”

Nolan returned to the wall near the elevator and tapped some keys on a keypad. Smith heard the system give an answering beep as it armed, and he felt a little of the tension leave his body. The pain was steady, but the bleeding had tapered a bit.

“I’ll need some tweezers, a bowl filled with a mixture of alcohol and water, a washcloth, and some bandages.”

“Who’s going to use the tweezers?”

“You.”

Nolan sighed. He followed her through a hall lined with wallpaper that looked like silk and past open doors that gave him glimpses of a game room as well as a library. Smith thought the apartment lavish, but was having a difficult time with the fact that it was on the sixth floor and so vast that a man could run through it without being heard. They would not remain long there if he could help it.

He entered a bathroom that gave testament to the long history of money accumulated by generations of Reddings. It was larger than his kitchen at home. Quite a feat in the heart of New York City. Nolan fished around in a linen closet and removed the items he had requested. She pulled up a small stool padded in white leather and pointed him to it, positioning him in front of the first sink in the double vanity. He glanced in the mirror in front of him and was shocked to see that he was pale and drawn, with heavy pain lines bracketing his mouth.

“What’s first?”

“Help me out of this shirt. If I can’t get out, then we’ll cut it off.” He started to roll the shirt from the bottom, and Nolan reached over to assist. Some of his blood dripped next to her.

“Sorry,” he said. She waved him off.

“I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared, and Smith continued to bunch up the shirt. He was able to remove his right arm and maneuvered the fabric over to his neck. Pulling it the rest of the way was not as easy, because it strained against the wound. He winced at the first try and decided to wait until she returned. She stepped back into the bathroom wearing dark jeans and a V-neck navy sweater. Her feet were bare.

“Better,” he said. “I won’t feel as bad when I drip blood on you.”

“Let me help.” With her assistance, they were able to get the shirt over his head without causing too much pain. He only hissed once, when she pulled the bits of fabric that had crusted to the wound.

“Is it awful?”

“Not yet. ‘Awful’ will arrive when you start to dig out the bullet.”

She took a deep breath. “How do you want me to sterilize the tweezers?”

“In the alcohol full strength. No dilution.” He watched as she poured the alcohol over the tweezers.

“Does this kill everything?”

“Everything that reacts to alcohol.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Biofilms.”

She gave him a glance and stepped closer. “What are those?”

“Bacteria that colonize and become so strong that nothing kills them. Not even bleach. They have to be scraped away. The plaque on your teeth is a biofilm.”

“I can see the bullet easily. Are you ready?”

Not at all. “Yes,” he said.

She started in. He felt first the cold metal and then a lancing pain that made him groan involuntarily. She moved the tweezers a bit more and he could feel his entire body responding to the pain of this newest assault. The muscles in his arms clenched tight. His ears started to ring and his head to swim. She removed the tweezers and took a deep breath.

“I can’t reach it without first expanding the wound around it. Here.” She gave him a towel.

“What’s this for?” he said.

“You’re sweating. Round two. You ready?”

He nodded.

She put the tweezers in and the same lancing pain began. She expanded the tweezers and he felt the entire room spin. He passed out.

24

SMITH WOKE UP LYING flat on his back on the carpeted floor of one of the rooms in the apartment. A pillow had been placed under his head. From the complete darkness he assumed it was night. He heard sounds of the city rolling by outside, but nothing else. His left arm throbbed in a steady pulse to match his pumping heart, but the extreme, ice-pick pain had subsided. Next to his head came the buzzing sound of his cell phone and a small glow lit the area to his right. Smith managed to grab it with his right hand and answer without moving off the floor.

“Mr. Smith? This is Jana Wendel. I work with Ms. Russell. Can you meet me at the hospital? And please, don’t tell anyone about this call.” Wendel was whispering into the phone. Smith sat up and the small throw that someone had placed over him fell off. He groaned as his left arm reacted with renewed pain. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Why are you whispering?”

“Just meet me at the loading dock.” She gave him the directions and hung up.

Smith hauled himself to his feet. He was shirtless. A white gauze bandage was wrapped around his left bicep. In the gloom he saw that he was next to a billiard table. He went to the wall and switched on the overhead light, blinking in the sudden glare, and was happy to see his jacket and a shirt lying on the ground next to the pillow. He went back and retrieved both. The shirt wasn’t his, but was a man’s dress shirt in light blue chambray that buttoned up the front.

Thank God I don’t have to lift it over my head, Smith thought. He shrugged into it and headed to the hallway. He moved quietly, glancing into each doorway that he passed. He kept going to the kitchen, glanced around, and retraced his steps to the front door. The apartment was dark, quiet, and empty. Nolan was gone. The alarm display read OFF.

Smith hated the idea that he’d been lying unconscious in the vast apartment with an unarmed security system, but he supposed that she had no choice but to disarm it. Either that or leave him a note with the code and instructions. He already knew enough about Nolan to determine that she would never trust him to such an extent. He hit the elevator button and stepped onto it. While he rode the elevator down, he called Klein.

“I know why Dattar’s after her,” Smith said. “She stole his money.”

Klein was silent for a moment. “How ingenious. He was sentenced to life in prison. Had he not escaped, it would have been unlikely that he would have ever been able to regain the funds.”

“And now he’s gunning for her.”

“Whatever he’s doing about her, it sounds as though it has nothing to do with the coolers. Do you have any further ideas on where they might be?”

“I still think that Dattar has them. Russell and I are using her as bait to flush him out. When we do, we’ll get that information.”

“Excellent,” Klein said.

“Also, I’m a person of interest in the NYPD’s investigation of the Landon Investments killing. I’ve been able to dodge them so far.”

“Let’s see if they issue a warrant. If they do, then we’ll deal with it. I’ll monitor the situation until then.”

He found Jana Wendel pacing outside the hospital’s loading dock, holding a cigarette that she put to her lips. Smith strolled up to her, doing his best to appear relaxed and nonchalant. She spotted him and took another puff.

“You need to inhale if you intend to look like a real smoker,” Smith said. “Are you Ms. Wendel?” Wendel nodded and gave him a rueful look.

“I hate them, but it was the only thing I could think of that would allow me to hang out here without appearing to lurk.”

“How’s Russell?”

“Sleeping. They have her on an IV drip for dehydration.”

“Is it cholera?”

Wendel shook her head. “No. She asked them to check for that first and the avian flu virus second. Quick results showed that it’s not E. coli or salmonella, but indicated a possible variant of bird flu.”

Wendel’s words hit Smith in the gut, but he did his best to keep his face impassive. He must have failed because Wendel gave him a piercing look filled with worry.

“You looked grim just then. I know bird flu is dangerous, but I haven’t had time to check the statistics. What are her odds?”

“The average virulent pandemic virus can kill up to fifteen percent of those infected.”

Wendel looked thoughtful. “That’s bad, but I imagine we’re talking about the very young and the very old, right? She’s neither, and really strong.”

“Bird flu is not the average virulent virus. It’s like a terrible virus on steroids. It kills fifty percent of infected persons, and the age of the victim doesn’t seem to be a mitigating factor.”

Wendel swallowed. “So far they’re not ready to confirm that it’s the bird flu, but she seems to be getting sicker. They’re running some more tests, and she’s in isolation in the infectious disease area until they figure it out.”

“Currently bird flu isn’t easily transmitted from human to human.” Unless she has the mutated version. Smith had the thought, but didn’t voice it.

“Where is she?”

“Fourth floor. Room 422. No visitors allowed.”

“Why did you need to see me?”

Wendel gave both sides of the street a quick glance. “Come with me into the hospital lounge. I need a Wi-Fi connection to show you.”

Wendel tossed her cigarette into a sand-filled ashtray placed against the wall and headed to the hospital’s rear door. They entered to a rectangular room with a bank of windows at the far end. The near side contained rows of vending machines offering snacks and drinks. Smith detoured straight to the one that held sandwiches. He fed some money into the machine, grabbed the sandwich that dropped into the vending tray, and joined her at a far table. She had a laptop open to the home page of a software application. He unwrapped the sandwich and nodded for her to begin. She took a deep breath.

“First, you need to know that what I’m going to tell you is confidential. Highly confidential. The only reason I’m showing you this is because Ms. Russell asked me to.”

“Okay,” Smith said. He watched the screen. It appeared to be a dashboard of a software aggregator for social media sites. Updates for the sites appeared in each column assigned to them. Wendel pointed to the updates for BLACKHAT254.

“These are from one of our agents. This column is the public site, and this column is the proprietary CIA site. I’ve previously told Ms. Russell that there’s something wrong with the CIA site. It’s lagging behind the public site.” Smith watched the screen and saw that she was correct. BLACKHAT254’s updates appeared on the public site but not immediately on the proprietary site.

“Is that a problem? You can always look at the public site.”

“It seemed benign, and I didn’t really worry until Jordan got shot. After he did, I went back and looked at the feed and saw something shocking. I have a screen shot of it.” Wendel switched screens. The same dashboard appeared. She pointed to a line.

“This is what Jordan updated publicly ten minutes before he was shot and this is what appeared on the proprietary site seven minutes later. Moneywoman is our code name for Nolan and ‘friend’ is anyone that we think may be suspicious.”

Smith read the public first. Jordan had written “Watching Moneywoman and see friend on corner of 72nd and Lexington.” The proprietary site’s line was dated seven minutes later and said, “Watching Moneywoman and see friend on corner of 72nd and Central Park West.” Smith stopped chewing.

“They switched up the location. Put him all the way on the other side of the park.”

Wendel nodded. “Most of the time on stakeouts the agents will only use the proprietary site. The display is almost instantaneous, so faster than a phone call has the advantage of silence. The agents can update each other without bystanders hearing them. I had asked Jordan to use the public site too until I could figure out what was causing the lag. We had another agent as backup for him around the corner, but he was only screening the proprietary site. Not only did that second agent get the information late, but once he saw the code ‘friend’ he took off across the park.”

“And Jordan got shot. Is he still alive?”

“He is. They have him in an induced coma while they wait for the swelling in his brain to go down. Once it does they’ll be able to assess the damage.” Wendel swallowed and Smith noticed that her eyes gleamed with tears. She blinked them away.

“What did Russell say when you showed her this?”

“She told me that under no circumstances was I to take this to anyone at the agency. She said to find you, tell you about it, and said that you know someone who can search for the source.”

She means Marty, Smith thought. “It isn’t necessarily happening from within the agency, is it? Can someone from the outside be intercepting the feed and altering it before it gets to your proprietary site?”

Wendel got a dubious look on her face. “That’s really doubtful. Yes, we use Wi-Fi, but we have the site encoded and password protected. I think we have to assume first that it’s coming from within the CIA, and only then check outside possibilities.”

Smith finished the sandwich, bunched up the plastic wrapper, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can.

“Keep Russell’s phone on at all times. I’m going to have a man named Marty call you. He’s the one Russell knows. He’s a genius at computers. He has Asperger’s syndrome so bear with his oddities, but he can’t be beat for IT matters.”

He rose to leave.

“I’ll be checking in, but try not to call me unless it’s absolutely imperative. Someone is tracking me, and I don’t want to help him. I’ll be shutting off my phone soon.”

Wendel rose with him. Smith was glad to see the teary look replaced with one of determination. Wendel pushed through the exit doors and walked Smith back to the loading dock and smoking station. She put out her hand.

“Thank you for your help.”

Smith returned the handshake. “Is there a way you can keep me apprised of Russell’s condition? I’m worried about her.”

Wendel nodded. “Watch BLACKHAT254 on the public site. I’ll have him update on her status. In code, of course. Do you know her CIA cover name?”

Smith nodded. “I do. I’ll look for it.” Wendel disappeared into the hospital. He watched the door swing shut.

After a moment he headed in behind her. When he reached the lobby he consulted a directory and pinpointed the wing that contained the infectious disease patients. He stepped onto the elevator and hit the button. When he stepped out onto the fourth floor, he was in a long hall with rooms stretching on each side. To his left and twenty feet away was the nurses’ station where a lone nurse typed on a computer keyboard. A sign on the wall directly opposite the elevator stated that the floor was secure and asked all visitors to check in. It also listed room numbers in each direction. The nurse looked up.

“Can I help you?” she said. He walked to the counter.

“I’m with the army’s infectious disease unit.” He handed her his USAMRIID identification. “I need to speak to your patient in room 422.”

The nurse looked at his identification and then frowned. “This is the isolation floor. The only visitors allowed are her doctors or any consulting medical professionals.”

“Which is what I am. I’m a doctor and I’m here on official business.”

The nurse’s face became set. “It’s late. You’ll need to return during regular hours and have the permission of her physician.”

Smith leaned over the counter, picked up the phone, and handed it to the nurse. “Please page her doctor. Tell him or her that it’s an emergency. That a doctor with the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases requires immediate access to the patient.”

The nurse hesitated. “It’s really quite important. It can’t wait,” Smith said.

The nurse raised her eyebrows, took the phone and punched in a number. After a moment she said, “I have a doctor from the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases that wants access to Ms. Russell.” The nurse listened. “He says it’s an emergency. I’ve seen his credentials.” The nurse listened a moment more and then hung up.

“He says it’s okay, but he wants you to keep it short.” She held a clipboard out to him. “Sign in.”

Smith filled out the roster and signed his name. “Thank you. Do I need to suit up?”

The nurse reached across the desk and handed him a flat packet wrapped in thin plastic. “It’s a paper gown and mask.”

Smith took the package and ripped it open. He shook out the paper gown, put it over his clothes and tied it at the neck. He put on the mask while he walked toward Russell’s room.

Russell’s small private room was decorated in soft blues and tans, which Smith thought gave it the air of a spa or hotel rather than a hospital. The bed, though, was all business; with metal bars lowered and an attached table that held a remote for the headboard and a television, and a plastic water glass. A nightstand had a small desk lamp. Smith took one more step in and came even with an open door that led into a private bathroom. He caught a glimpse of the sink and the edge of a shower curtain.

A small, glowing bar attached to the wall near the bed acted as a night light for the nurses. Shadows covered large sections of the wall and the only sound was the occasional drip of the liquid from the sink in the bathroom.

Smith walked up to the bed and stood next to a holder that held an IV drip. Russell lay against the pillows, her eyes closed. Smith caught his breath when he got the first look at her face. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks and forehead glowed with sweat. Her lips were cracked from dehydration. Her skin was gray. Whatever ran through her system, it had accelerated since he saw her last. Her eyes opened and she focused on him.

“Hey,” she said in a weak voice. He settled next to her on the bed and took her hand. She tried to pull it away, but he tightened his grip. She frowned at him. “You shouldn’t be here. I could be contagious.”

“I’ll wash my hands after. How do you feel?”

“Terrible. Feverish and unable to keep anything down. Even the ice chips.” Smith looked at the water glass and saw that it was filled with ice.

“I understand it’s not cholera?”

She shook her head. “No, but it may be bird flu. The initial report wasn’t conclusive, though. Doctor said maybe a variant. It has to be related to that refrigerator swab. There is nothing else. It’s connected. I know it.”

“I also met with Wendel,” Smith said. “She made it clear that you think there’s a mole in the CIA.”

Russell nodded. “Got to be. That proprietary system is ironclad. Whoever is messing with it has to know the codes.”

“Any ideas?”

Russell shrugged. “I haven’t been inside long enough to draw any real conclusions. Langley employs hundreds in my area alone, so finding the leak could be difficult. My thought was that Marty might be able to follow an electronic signature. Trace it back.”

“Doesn’t an internal investigation require you to tell your superiors?”

Russell shifted. “Technically, yes, but I smell a rat here and close by. Jordan only reports to a couple of people in my immediate area, and I think he was deliberately targeted so that Nolan’s house would be left vulnerable.”

Smith groaned. “You realize then that I can’t use the safe house?”

“And neither can Nolan,” Russell said.

“What about Beckmann? Can I trust him?”

Russell began to cough, a deep, barking cough. It was an ugly sound and told Smith everything he needed to know about the severity of her condition. She got hold of herself after a minute.

“He’s on loan from another department, so maybe he’s clean, but it’s safest to be careful around him until you’re sure.”

“That leaves Howell as my best chance to survive this thing. Finding him will become my first priority. I’ll get Marty to do his magic, but if he comes up empty, you could be arrested for releasing classified information, you know that, right?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. There’s a mole in my area. I can feel it.” Smith could see that she was getting agitated, and he didn’t want to upset her any further.

“I agree that something is not adding up. I’ll keep on it. Let’s see what Marty can discover. In the meantime, you just concentrate on getting better.”

She sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

When her eyes closed again, Smith rose from the bed and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

Once he was sufficiently far from the hospital grounds, he removed the SIM card from his cell phone, put it in his pocket, and tossed the device. He headed to a drugstore, purchased a prepaid phone, and called Klein. He was inordinately relieved when the man answered on the first ring.

“I have a problem.” Smith told Klein about Russell’s concerns about a mole and Wendel’s claim that someone had tampered with the technology systems inside Langley. “Does the CIA manage the White House configuration? If so, your conversations with the president could be at risk.”

“They secure some of the information flow, of course. The president receives a daily briefing and a portion of that comes from Langley onto the White House’s data stream. It’s not inconceivable that whoever is hacking into the CIA grid could be accessing the president’s conversations as well, but I highly doubt it. We have endless redundant systems designed to thwart such an occurrence.”

“And Covert-One’s? Possible?”

“Again, anything is possible, but I doubt it. And it would be your phone at risk because, while it’s encrypted, it still uses the airwaves. They can’t be secured as readily as dedicated phone lines. I notice that your number has changed. Did you buy a prepaid?”

“Yes. I’m headed to Nolan to debrief her on the Dattar matter. As soon as I know something I’ll check in.”

“Don’t lose sight of the coolers. Unless she has vital information, debriefing her is a secondary consideration. And frankly, this new information about a mole has me convinced that Covert-One should take the lead on recovering them. Stay with it.”

“Understood.”

“But watch your back. A compromised CIA is extremely dangerous. The secrets they maintain can put this entire country at risk.”

Smith took a deep breath. “Also understood.”

25

MANHAR WOKE TO FIND HIMSELF tied to a metal girder that supported elevated tracks above his head. The cold steel chilled him from his neck to his ankles. Plastic handcuffs encircled his wrists, which were stretched behind him around the support. Other ties bound his ankles together, while even more wrapped around his legs just above the knees. There was one around his neck that cut into his throat every time he swallowed. He looked down and saw that in addition to the ties he was bound by rope around his waist and under his armpits. He twitched to test the hold and it was clear that he wasn’t going anywhere without assistance. It was night, and the only light was a weak glow from a streetlight nearly thirty feet away. The area was deserted. Piles of trash lay in heaps under the tracks along with the occasional paper napkin thrown away by someone or blown by the wind.

He saw Howell standing five feet away thumbing away on a phone. Beckmann sat on the ground with his back against the metal girder opposite Manhar’s. He smoked a cigarette, the tip glowing with each pull, and watched Manhar with a steady gaze.

“He’s awake,” Beckmann said.

Howell glanced up. “What’s your name?” Manhar spit on the ground. Howell rolled his eyes. “Spare me the theatrics. I’m English and Mr. Beckmann here is German. We don’t indulge in displays of emotion. Tell me your name or I’ll beat it out of you.” Howell shoved a toe at a metal pipe on the ground near his feet. The steel looked solid enough. Manhar decided that telling his name would be harmless.

“Manhar.”

Howell nodded. “Well, Mr. Manhar, I want to know who hired you to kill me and how you are communicating with him or her.”

Manhar snorted. That these two thought he’d simply divulge such things showed their stupidity. He spit on the ground again.

“Hmm. I thought that would be your answer. It really is quite shortsighted of you.” Howell kept tapping on the phone. “Got it,” he said to Beckmann.

Beckmann rose. “Excellent. Let’s leave this one to him.” He took another drag of the cigarette and then looked at his watch. “Don’t forget to tell him about the pipe. He may want to use it.” Manhar did his best to follow their cryptic conversation, but he had no idea what they were talking about. Howell pocketed the phone.

“We’re off. Good luck to you,” he said.

Manhar was astonished at his good fortune. They only intended to tie him to a post and leave him? He’d get free of the ropes eventually, and when he did he’d come after them. Next time he’d make them pay for humiliating him. He almost laughed out loud at the fools. Howell stepped closer and put up his phone.

“I’m taking a photo. Smile,” Howell said. Manhar looked at the back of the device and a small prickling of premonition started at the back of his neck. “I’ll send this to your colleague, Khalil, over an e-mail address that I believe he monitors. Of course I’ll also give him your location. He’ll be furious that you not only failed to kill me, but that you also managed to get yourself caught in the process. Khalil takes failure poorly, don’t you think? Knowing Khalil the way I do, I suspect he’ll be along shortly. I don’t think that you’ll enjoy these next few hours before your death.”

Manhar felt fear surge through him. He’d expected a beating or worse from these two, but nothing they could dream up could possibly match what he knew of Khalil and his torture techniques. Still, Manhar clamped his mouth shut. Perhaps he could convince Khalil that he’d kept silent. Beckmann finished the cigarette and tossed the butt into a nearby oil drum.

“He’ll start in right away. Khalil doesn’t allow failures to live long.” He looked at Manhar. “If you want to tell us now what you know, we’ll untie you. Give you a fighting chance to save yourself.” Beckmann shrugged. “I think it’s a fair deal, don’t you?”

A cool breeze blew and Manhar shivered. In that instant he decided to bargain. The idea of being tied to a post when Khalil started in on him was unimaginable.

“I don’t know anything,” Manhar blurted out. Beckmann shook his head, a sad look on his face.

“Send the e-mail,” he said to Howell.

“Wait!” Manhar said. Howell paused, his eyebrows raised. “I’m telling the truth. Khalil told me nothing. Only that he intended to kill you, Smith, and another American.”

“I’ve heard about the American. Who is it?”

Manhar shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Howell frowned. “I don’t believe you.” He looked back at his phone.

“Wait! It’s a woman. That’s all I know. But Khalil is in charge of Smith. He said he was hard to kill. I was to have you.”

Howell looked outraged. “Khalil thinks I’m easier to kill than Jon Smith? I’m appalled.”

Beckmann laughed, but suppressed it when Howell shot him a glance. “Sorry. You shouldn’t take it personally. I haven’t known Smith long but he seemed to be quite inventive in his techniques.”

Howell waved a hand. “Well, he’s overeducated so that’s to be expected.”

“Didn’t you go to Cambridge before you joined MI6?” Beckmann said.

“Yes, but I had the good sense to stop once finished. Smith just kept going.” Howell frowned and turned his attention back to Manhar. “Who’s paying Khalil?”

Manhar shook his head. He’d told these fools all that he would. “I don’t know.”

In an instant Howell had the pipe in his hand and smashed it against Manhar’s left knee. The speed of the attack and the shock of the extreme pain caused Manhar to scream. His knee felt like it was disintegrating. Manhar’s eyes filled with water, but he still saw Howell swing the pipe backward in preparation for another blow.

“Dattar! He’s the one paying.” Manhar yelled the name at the top of his lungs. “Please, let me go. If you break my legs I can’t run from Khalil.”

Howell paused. “What’s the plan?” Manhar’s nose was running and his knee was in agony. At first he didn’t understand the question.

“What do you mean?”

“You heard me. What’s Dattar’s plan?”

Manhar shook his head. “I don’t know exactly. He has some sort of weapon that he’s going to use against the US. He’s proud of it. Says it’s unbeatable.”

Howell and Beckmann exchanged a glance. Manhar was trembling in pain. He’d told all he was able to tell, and he hoped they believed him.

“A bomb?”

Manhar groaned. “That’s all I know. You said you’d let me go.”

“Is it a bomb? Answer that question and we’ll let you go.”

Manhar shook his head. “No. I don’t think it’s a bomb. It’s something else. Not a bomb.”

“When?” Beckmann said.

“What time is it?” Manhar whispered the question. Howell looked at his phone.

“Ten thirty.”

“In twenty-four hours,” Manhar said.

26

SMITH DIDN’T WANT TO CALL Marty and ask him yet again to track down Nolan, but it was the most efficient way to locate her, so he swallowed his pride and dialed.

“Let me guess, you lost her again,” Marty said. Smith felt his irritation rise, but he wasn’t sure if it was at Marty’s assumption or his own incompetence when it came to Nolan.

“How did you know?”

“She’s trading. I figured you wouldn’t let her.”

“I take it Japan opened?”

“It did. But there’s something else. She moved millions of dollars out of one account in the Cayman Islands to another, connected account in Antigua.”

“Connected? To whom?”

“It’s numbered only, so I can’t be sure. I can tell you that it’s fairly new. The first transaction was from a month ago and it came from an account of a wealthy individual in Pakistan.”

Dattar’s money, Smith thought. “Where is she?”

“Restaurant.” Marty rattled off an address close to the Redding penthouse.

“I’m there. Call me if she moves.”

The restaurant Nolan had chosen was a large eatery and marketplace that sold individual dishes, deli meats, and Italian food and was located in the Flatiron District across from Madison Square Park. He entered off Fifth Avenue and paused.

It was an ideal place for a hit.

The space was the size of a large warehouse and looked like a massive grocery store. The various locations sold produce and meat, and there were several restaurant sections. People, many of them tourists, were everywhere, and all were jostling to get near the section they desired. Smith could hear children crying, dining with their parents despite the late hour, and he cataloged the fact. An attacker could materialize out of the crowd, shoot, and disappear back into the masses of people. Smith wouldn’t be able to fire back for fear of hitting a civilian, and the presence of children made any retaliation a greater risk. He scanned the bedlam, looking for Nolan. To his right was a small coffee area that contained red bar-height tables and stools and he saw her there, sipping from a coffee cup with a wine chaser while watching her computer. She still wore the navy sweater and dark jeans. He took a quick tally of the other diners. All looked unremarkable, and he relaxed a bit. He reached the table and when he sat opposite her, Nolan flashed him a small smile, which was unexpected. She slid the wine glass toward him.

“It’s for you,” she said. “I took the liberty of ordering a heavy red. You don’t seem like a white wine type.”

“Depends on the meal. I generally drink whiskey neat, but this is fine. You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

She shrugged. “I’m not. I don’t know how you’re doing it, but I seem to be unable to shake you. How’s the arm?”

“Better. Sorry for passing out.”

She grimaced. “It was just as well. What a horrendous job. When I removed it, blood spurted from the wound. For a moment I thought the bullet was plugging an artery and I’d opened it by pulling it out.”

“If I’d been conscious, I’d have told you that it wasn’t at an artery.”

She gave him an amused look. “It was brutal. If you’d been conscious, I doubt you would have been capable of rational conversation.” He tipped his glass to acknowledge her, took a sip and then put it down.

“Remember Russell? The CIA agent you spoke with at your office?”

Nolan nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. “I do.”

“She’s in the hospital. Seriously ill. I think it has something to do with Dattar. You need to tell me everything. Now and quickly, because we have to leave. This place is a security disaster. You can start by explaining why you stole the money.”

Nolan stared into her cup. She inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Actually, I was stealing it back. The money belonged to my family. It was the proceeds of our holdings in Dattar’s region. Five years ago he confiscated everything my family had spent years amassing, including a possible new sapphire mine, three utility stations, and a research facility. He claimed that the land and buildings were actually owned by the government, despite the fact that my family had been there for generations when the borderlands region was still considered part of India. We built the roads, train lines, utilities, you name it. Practically the entire infrastructure of the region was the result of the blood, sweat, and tears of generations of Reddings.”

Smith refrained from pointing out that the Reddings had made their fortune from the land as well. Some in the early part of the nineteenth century were considered robber barons because they had amassed vast tracts of acreage in India and Africa while crushing any competition. Even so, there was no denying that the family had worked for their wealth and developed the area around their holdings.

“When one of our scientists at the research facility went missing and his papers were stolen, I suspected Dattar or one of his henchmen was involved. Dattar was already making noises that he would confiscate the Redding facilities, and that’s when I decided to take the money.”

“What scientist? What was he working on?”

Before Nolan could respond, a man slid into the chair next to them. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and wearing jeans and a light sweatshirt. He shrugged the strap off his shoulder, shook off the pack, and set it on the table. He pulled out a laptop computer followed by a chemistry workbook and placed both next to the pack. Duct tape held the worn textbook’s spine together, and when the man opened the book Smith could see yellow marks made by a highlighter pen. Smith relaxed a bit.

“He’d discovered a form of electrical bacteria,” Nolan said.

The coolers, Smith thought. He dredged the name of the electric bacteria from his memory.

“Shewanella MR-1?”

“So you’ve heard of it. Not surprising. I read about you online. Impressive résumé.”

“What was this scientist doing with the bacteria?”

Nolan shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure. He had an idea that it could be used as both an alternative fuel source and an efficient delivery system for healthy microbes. Apparently the bacteria communicate with electrical sources and both conduct and create electricity. The utility arm of Grayson Electric was funding the research.” Nolan’s gaze hardened. “It was after the scientist’s body was found that I realized Dattar had to be stopped. I discovered that he had several aliases that he used to hide the money that he extorted from anyone doing legitimate business in the area. A big chunk of it was held by Landon Investments. I moved it out. It was income that he’d derived from Redding holdings and so rightfully ours, anyway. Without his cash he won’t be able to hire his killers.”

Smith shook his head. “You’re wrong. He’s hired one of the best to get us. I presume you had an idea that he’d come after you once you took his money?”

She nodded. “Oh yes, I knew he’d try. I scattered the money so that it would take a tremendous amount of time to collect it again. It’s not a matter of a single transaction. I was banking on that fact, and the fact that only I can access it. They need me for voice and fingerprint recognition on several of the biggest accounts.” She sighed. “You can imagine how happy I was when I heard that he’d been arrested and convicted. I was counting on his imprisonment lasting for the rest of his life. I was concerned when I’d heard that he’d escaped. I knew that he’d eventually try to access his funds, and when he found them missing, he’d come after me.”

“Why did, or should I say do, you keep running from me then? I’m on your side.”

She leveled a stare at him. “I’m not sure just what to make of you. Something seems off, but I can’t put my finger on it. Your refusal to go to the hospital when you were shot just made me all the more suspicious, and it only got worse when you said that you had no one to call. Everyone has someone to call in their life. If they don’t, either something is seriously wrong with them or they’re lying, or both. Besides, I prefer to act alone. Especially since you told me that you’re being tracked by the same killer. It seems to me that we make it too easy for him when we’re together.”

“You’re far too confident in your own abilities to beat this thing. You may be great at financial matters, but survival against a paid assassin requires a set of skills that I doubt you’ve spent any time acquiring.”

She gave him a piercing look. “And you have? I understand that you’re military and must have received some training, but your résumé said that you specialize in infectious diseases, not in dodging killers.”

He lowered his eyes against her perceptive stare to sip his drink. When he was done, he looked up. “I need to keep moving because I have another mission to complete, and you should move, too.”

“And I’ve decided to go back to the safe house. It’s become clear to me from the attempted bombing at the hotel that I’m putting others at risk by staying outside. I was just waiting here for you to find me again so that I can get the code for that lockbox.” Smith rubbed his face with his hand. “What is it?” she said.

“You can’t go to the safe house.”

Nolan snorted. “You’ve been hounding me to go there and now, when I finally agree, you say that I can’t? Why not?”

Smith paused. He wasn’t about to tell a civilian about Russell’s concerns about a mole, but he also didn’t want Nolan to walk into a trap.

“There’s been a change of circumstances. The location and security of the safe house may have been breached.” Nolan went silent. She sipped her coffee and Smith thought he could see her brain whirring to process the information.

“So we’re on our own.”

Smith sighed. “For the most part, yes.”

“What about the third picture? The man you know?”

“His name’s Peter Howell.”

“What does Dattar have against him?”

“I’m not sure. Howell’s English, and Dattar might be lashing back at the UK for agreeing to jail him after a conviction. No other country was willing to bear the cost of imprisoning him for what most assumed would be a life sentence. England’s offer allowed the trial to go forward.” Smith sipped the wine again. “Howell’s missing. I assume he’s still alive, though. Howell’s hard to kill.” Nolan cocked her head to one side as she contemplated him.

“You’ve got some interesting friends. Especially for a man who claims to have no close personal relationships.”

Smith decided to leave that comment alone. The whole series of events had thrown the stark nature of his life into focus. Right now he preferred action to contemplation.

“We need to keep moving. We’ve been here too long. It’s not safe.”

Nolan glanced around the restaurant. “New York’s a big city. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of restaurants. Is this man so good that he can track me the way you can?”

“He may not have the precise tools that I do, but he’s been successful without them. You can bet he’s watching your home and your office.”

“How are you doing it?”

Smith shook his head. “Trade secret. We need to go.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Issuing orders?” He nearly bit his tongue. She was right. Something about her brought out the military in him. He was acting like a drill sergeant with a particularly recalcitrant recruit. And it was the exact wrong way to deal with her. He took a deep breath and went for honesty.

“Sorry. Absolutely not. I’ve learned how useless orders can be when dealing with you. It was a suggestion only.” His phone began vibrating in his pocket and he answered when he saw that it was Marty.

“Get out of there, now,” Marty said. “Someone’s accessing her tablet GPS just like I am, but they’re relaying the coordinates to an untraceable prepaid phone. And these hackers are the best.”

“Who is it?” Smith said.

“The CIA.”