The Janus Reprisal

52

Klein saw the incoming call from Howell.

“Peter, what happened?”

“It’s Smith. I’m using his phone. Did Nolan call you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“What about Russell?”

“No. What’s going on?”

“Switch off the third rail. My hypothesis was right. And block all traffic to the target stop and one stop in either direction. Dattar threw mustard gas. The NYPD is going to have to send in a decontamination crew.”

Klein was on his feet and headed to his second secure phone.

“On the rail shutdown. Station only? Or system-wide?”

“System-wide. I don’t think we can take the risk. The rail’s been on for twenty minutes while I was in the tunnel.”

“Do you have Dattar?”

“I’m sorry, but no. He got away.”

“Does he have more of the bacteria? Can he spread it elsewhere?”

“I don’t know. It’s still imperative that we get him.” Klein heard the screaming of sirens in the background.

“What’s that?”

“Probably the NYPD. I just broke into a pharmacy. I needed something to wash off the gas.”

“I’ll ask for a hazmat crew to be sent to the location.”

“I’ll stay here until the hazmat team comes, but then I’m going after Dattar,” Smith said. “Can you call Ohnara? The clean-up crew may need his expertise.”

He hung up and handed Howell the phone. The sirens were increasing. Howell was busy putting on the clothes of another dead terrorist. Smith dressed as well. His shoes were only slightly wet, and Smith wondered how many gas molecules were embedded in them, but decided that the protection from the soles outweighed any risk from the gas.

When Howell was finished, he wore green cargo pants and a gray T-shirt, both two sizes too big for his slender frame. His eyes were still red and his cheeks raw looking. “I’m going to go get Russell. There’s no gain in my being here. You can handle the NYPD. Staying here will just blow my cover.”

Smith nodded. “Can I have the phone?” Howell handed it back.

“I’ll pick up another,” Howell said. “Russell’s one station away?”

“I hope so. Neither she nor Nolan checked in with Klein. I don’t like it.”

“I’m on it.” He slapped Smith on the shoulder and took off, cutting around the corner of the screen. Smith waited in the screened-off section for the NYPD. The canvas walls turned red with a flashing glow as the spinning lights threw their color.

The first police car blew by without stopping. The second and third followed suit. Smith picked up his gun and stepped out from behind the canvas just as a fourth car went screaming by. Two ambulances followed. All drove by. Smith dialed Klein.

“They’re not stopping. Do they know the gas is here?”

“They know exactly what to do. The president called the governor and he briefed the antiterrorism unit, but they received a call from Harcourt, the CIA’s liaison with the NYPD. He said that he received some intelligence that Dattar is at the 215th Street station. That’s where they’re going.”

“Is the subway off?”

“We’re doing it in sections, with the stations closest to the infection point shut down, and those farther away allowed to enter a station and unload before turning them off. Too many people would be trapped in the cars if they shut the entire system down. It would be a nightmare to evacuate. They’ve cut power to four stations on each side of the 191st Street station.” Smith ran a hand through his hair and started to pace.

“What about a hazmat team? They need to get down there and start scraping away the biofilm and figure out a way to stop it from spreading. I can’t go back down without a suit, the bacteria are active and so is the mustard gas.”

“It was notified. It’s not there?”

Smith looked up and down the streets. Only four cars and two cabs were on the road. The pharmacy alarm still shrieked.

“I don’t see anything.”

“I’m going to check. Hold tight.”

Klein rang off and Smith went back behind the screen. His left eye felt itchy and he rubbed it, relishing the feeling. He paused. In the distance came another siren, growing louder. This time he stepped out to greet it, waving his arms as the boxy emergency vehicle from the Fire Department of New York approached. It pulled to the side and two men stepped out.

“What’s going on? I’m Carter and this is Rolly.” Carter was a large, paunchy forty-something with a sharp nose and a buzz cut. His arms were huge. He wore a uniform and standard-issue shoes that squeaked as he walked. Rolly was the exact opposite, slender, with graying hair and a hawklike nose that took up a ton of acreage on his face. Smith pointed to the subway entrance.

“Mustard gas. Thrown twenty minutes ago. The entire station is contaminated.”

“Who are you?” Carter said.

Before Smith could answer, an NYPD patrol car came screaming around the corner. It angled halfway into an open area at the curb before coming to a halt. The officer catapulted out of his car with his weapon drawn, and Smith saw that it was Manderi, the same suspicious officer Smith had spoken to right after Jordan was found shot in his car.

“Down on the ground. Now!” he said.

Smith stood his ground. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases.”

“I know who you are, asshole. You’re the one who killed the lady at Landon. I said get down!”

Smith felt his fury rising. He pointed a finger at the cop. “You get on the phone to your superior, now. Because every minute you delay, the gas is filling the tunnel.”

“Get down or I’ll shoot you down,” Manderi said.

Smith kept his eyes on Manderi while he lowered himself to the ground. The grit from the asphalt bit into his cheek. He felt Manderi jerk his arms behind him and seconds later the cold metal of handcuffs tightened around his wrists.

Manderi glanced at the canvas screen. “What’s that?” He walked around the canvas and Smith heard him give an oath. He came back in sight. “There’s three dead guys here!” Carter and Rolly went around the screen. The squawk of a radio came from inside Manderi’s car.

“Watch him,” Manderi said to Carter when he came out from the screen.

Smith could see the car from his prone position, and he watched as Manderi crawled back inside. Manderi slammed the door and began a conversation on the radio. The words were unintelligible. After a moment he emerged.

“I’m taking him in,” Manderi said.

“Wait a minute, I want to ask him some questions.” Carter lowered himself down next to Smith’s head. “Tell me why you think there’s mustard gas in the tunnel.”

“I was there when the canister was thrown. An overpowering smell of garlic came with it,” Smith replied. “I got hit with it.”

“Funny, you look all right to me,” Manderi said.

“The symptoms don’t appear right away,” Carter told Manderi.

“You see anything? A smoke cloud?” Manderi said.

“Mustard gas is colorless. Stop wasting my time,” Smith said.

“Carter, that true?” Manderi said.

Carter nodded. “I was National Guard. Did a stint in Iraq during the Gulf War. He’s right. Mustard gas is colorless, and some guys can’t even smell the garlic when it’s thrown. That was the real danger because you didn’t even know you’d been exposed until the burns show up later. I wouldn’t mess around. It’s a bitch that they threw it in the deepest subway stop in the system. The stuff is heavier than the air and sinks. Ventilating the area is gonna be tough.”

A second vehicle pulled up to the patrol car. Smith lifted his cheek from the ground and craned his neck to see the new arrival. This one, a heavy American-made sedan, black with dents on one side, was an obvious undercover patrol car. A light on the dashboard circled in the dark. The door opened and the same black man in the long braids who had appeared from the darkness and given Smith the guitar case emerged. This time he wore a lanyard that displayed a large badge. He took in the scene, glancing at Smith on the ground and at Carter and Rolly.

“Hello, officers. What’s the status?” he said.

Manderi took a step toward the man.

“I’m Officer Manderi,” he said. “I got this under control. You are?” Manderi squinted as he tried to read the man’s badge.

“Agent James Brand. FBI. You’ve got a possible gassing and you’re standing around? Get moving.”

“Back off. This guy,” Manderi pointed to Smith, “claims someone threw mustard gas in the subway. I’ve seen him before, though. He’s a suspect in the Landon Investments killing and there are three dead guys behind that screen. I’m betting his claims are bullshit.”

Brand pointed at Smith. “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith of USAMRIID. Get those cuffs off him. Now. We’re going to need his assistance in clearing the gas.”

“Alleged gas,” Manderi said. “And maybe you don’t get it. I’m with the NYPD. A special operations terrorism unit. The NYPD has jurisdiction over hazmat incidents in the subway. We decide what gets cleaned up, and the Fire Department does the rest. We got jurisdiction here.”

Brand stepped closer. “If you’re with NYPD terrorism, why aren’t you at the 215th Street station with the rest of the unit? They’re up there battling a possible terrorist incident.”

“Who do you think you are, questioning me?” Manderi said.

“I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. The DHS trumps you when it comes to a domestic terrorism incident. While NYPD should be handling hazmat incidents, it’s clear that you’re screwing up. If Colonel Smith says there’s mustard gas down there, then there is.” He turned to Carter.

“In addition to the gas, there’s a bacterial agent that’s been applied to the third rail. A man named Ohnara is on his way to assist. He’s an expert.”

Carter nodded, looked at Manderi, gave a slight shrug, and he and Rolly headed to the rear of the truck.

Brand pointed at Manderi. “I don’t know who or what this special operations unit is that you claim to be a part of, but you’d better get those cuffs off that man now or the only special operations you’ll be handling will be at a desk in a file room. Get it?”

“I’ll be checking on you, too. Then we’ll see who runs this operation,” Manderi said.

“You do that. But I want those cuffs off him.”

Manderi was breathing heavily. He looked down at Smith with loathing, but Smith was relieved to see him pull the cuff keys out of his pocket. Smith breathed a sigh as the tight metal bands fell from his wrists. He sat up, rubbing them, and looked at Brand.

“Thanks,” he said.

Brand nodded. “How bad is it?”

Smith stood up. For a moment his head began to swim and a slight chill ran through him. The chill felt like the beginning of a fever.

“The gassing?”

Brand shook his head. “The bacteria.”

“Bad. The subway lit up again for twenty minutes. Long enough to give the carrier bacteria a hefty boost. You’ll need to get a crew down on the rails. Have them bring brushes and start brushing every inch of the third rail. The biofilm colonizing activity needs to be disrupted.”

Brand frowned. “Wouldn’t a chemical wash be better?”

Smith shook his head. “Won’t work. Biofilms are like plaque on your teeth. When you brush or floss, you are really disrupting the activity. Some washes help, sure, but the plaque can survive it, and once it colonizes, it becomes impenetrable.”

“Tartar.”

Smith nodded. “Exactly. Tartar on your teeth is a hardened biofilm. Let’s not let it get to that stage. And if the rail is still surrounded by water after you’re done brushing, you can turn it on and heat it up. The bacteria that haven’t yet colonized will die in the heat. That’s a risky move, though, because the bacteria will start to feed off the rail.”

“I’ll get on it. Anything else we can do?”

“The FBI has a friend of mine in custody, Andreas Beckmann. Can you spring him?”

Brand nodded. “Yes, Klein’s already contacted me about that. Sorry, we were unaware that you were running an operation, or we wouldn’t have interfered. I’ll handle it.”

Smith waved at Manderi. “And can you make him get lost?”

Brand snorted. “That, my friend, is too much to ask. But you want to suit up and join?”

Smith shook his head. “I need to hook back up with Russell and find Dattar. For all we know, he could be placing more at another location. I sent her back in the tunnel. I’ll go to the previous stop. Can you take me there?”

Brand opened the driver’s side door of the sedan and waved Smith to the passenger side. “Get in.”

Smith hesitated. “I’ve been gassed. These pants are from one of the dead guys, but I’d feel a whole lot better with some fresh clothes. I put these on before I completed washing off the vapor.”

Brand nodded. “Get in. I’ll call ahead and have someone meet us there with some clothes.”

“And a gun,” Smith said.

“Definitely a gun,” Brand replied.