The Janus Reprisal

55

Smith sat in front of his computer screen in the quiet of his kitchen early on a Sunday morning. The sores on his arms had healed within three weeks thanks to his rapid cleansing of the mustard gas, but his eyes were still mending. Bright light bothered him, and he wore sunglasses continuously when outside. He’d received word that Howell was recuperating as well, but at a much slower pace due to a higher level of exposure. Wendel told him that Jordan also was healing well, but wouldn’t return to active duty for at least another three months, and Russell checked in periodically. The decontamination of both the bacteria and the gas had gone well thanks to Ohnara, who had stepped up to assist with cleanup once it became clear that Smith could not.

He logged onto his e-mail and left the laptop whirring while he made a fresh pot of coffee. He heard the sound of his Internet phone ringing and headed back to the computer. It was Russell calling. He turned on the web camera.

“Good morning,” she said. She had been recuperating at an undisclosed location. In the past three weeks she’d gained back some of the weight she’d lost, and her skin was less pale. Smith held up his empty coffee cup.

“Good morning to you. How are you feeling?”

“Very good, and you?”

“Better. My eye doctor seems to think I’ll heal just fine. It’ll be nice to be able to walk around in the sun without getting a migraine. How’s Howell?”

“He checked himself out of the hospital and returned to his house in the mountains. Said he couldn’t take all the interruptions. I guess they woke him up late at night once too often.”

“Beckmann?”

“Back in Europe. And Brand says hello and to tell you that the man on the roof that Beckmann shot was another of Dattar’s crew. A man named Rajiid. And they were finally able to identify the bodies in the building as Bilal, Manderi, Dattar, and Harcourt.”

“Why’d he do it?”

“Harcourt?”

“Yes.”

Russell sighed. “Cromwell’s keeping a lot close to the vest since the news broke of the CIA and NYPD liaison. Seems as though the agency’s lawyers are screaming bloody murder. They claim the sharing program with the NYPD was never approved by them, and they’re afraid that it appears as though the CIA was engaging in domestic spying. The most I could get out of Cromwell is that Dattar had promised Harcourt and Manderi hundreds of millions of dollars and large tracts of land back in his country. Both men were deeply in debt. Apparently there’s also some evidence that Harcourt was intending to pull a double cross and turn Dattar over to the agency before the bacteria was placed. He’d then look like a hero.”

“Like the fireman who starts the fire so he can put it out?”

Russell sighed. “I guess so. And we’ve received intelligence that a group of countries may have been bankrolling Dattar. They call themselves the Janus Consortium. All of the countries deny it vehemently, of course.”

“Of course,” Smith said.

“And the large tracts of land that Dattar was promising actually belonged to the Reddings. Their utility holdings have been returned to them. Have you heard from Nolan?”

“Nothing.”

Russell shook her head. “For a civilian she does a pretty good job of dropping out of sight, doesn’t she?”

“That she does.”

“Well, enjoy your Sunday.”

“You, too.” Russell smiled at him and logged off. Smith went to the coffeepot to refill his cup. The pinging sound of an incoming message brought him back to the table.

The screen contained a picture of a stylized “KD” logo. Beneath it were the words:

“This is an automated message. Please do not reply. You have been sent 23,500 kilodollars mined from various points on the web for your use should you ever need them. Please click the link below to download them to your hard drive.” There was a hyperlink below the notice. Farther down was one word:

SAFE