The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  Dattar’s section of the prison was separated from the main building and was accessed by a door dedicated to the wing. Currently, Dattar and two other strongmen from small countries in Africa were being held there. The terms of the leaders’ detention differed greatly from that of the regular prisoners, a fact that was not lost on the populations of the varying areas. The people from Dattar’s region complained bitterly that Dattar, a war criminal, resided in comfort with amenities such as electric lighting, soft mattresses, and indoor plumbing, while the population that he’d terrorized lived in squalor and with limited access to clean drinking water. Many argued that he should be returned to his province to stand trial, but the United Nations had refused, saying the corruption there ensured that he would be granted a swift acquittal.

  They frog-marched him down the hall; one in front, one at his side, and two behind. The small entourage made their way down the darkened corridor and past several interior checkpoints. They reached the back door and an exit sign glowed red.

  Dattar gave a glance at a camera placed high on the wall and waited as the lead guard reached out and pushed open the final door. No alarm sounded. Dattar sighed deeply as he stepped into the evening air.

  The prison sat in a wooded area in Scheveningen, a suburb of The Hague and not far from the Grand Royal. They were in a small courtyard area, surrounded at the far end by a razor-wire — topped brick wall. The sharp blades glinted in the light thrown by the several large spotlights placed at the far corners of the rectangular area. Two guardhouses perched high in the corners as well. They were covered in satellite dishes and both had pedestal-mounted automatic weapons aimed at the interior. No one would simply walk out of the prison under normal circumstances.

  They headed to the main exit, a silent entourage. There was a double-gated security system, with a chain link fence forming a concentric circle ten feet from the final brick wall. The chain link was also topped by razor wire. They reached the second to final exit, and the guard opened it. They hustled through this door and waited for the link gate to close. The double locking system ensured that one door would not open until the door behind it had closed and locked. Dattar heard the snap of the electronic deadbolt as it moved home. They paused in the small area for the lead man to tap in a code to the last and final exit lock, and Dattar was relieved to hear a series of clicks as the second door responded to the input.

  The last step was to place him in the transport vehicle. The lead guard opened the panels and assisted him onto the benches. Once Dattar sat down, the guard attached leg chains bolted into the vehicle’s base to his ankles and arranged a second attachment to his wrists. When he was done he closed the doors. Dattar listened to the engine start and felt the truck begin to move. He smiled. They were headed to the airport for an early morning charter transport to England. Dattar sat back and waited, quiet and sweating. He wished he’d had a wristwatch to mark the time, but his had been confiscated when he was arrested. It seemed as though something had gone wrong because he felt time ticking away, and nothing was happening. The van bumped over a pothole and drove through the night.

  The attack came, but almost twenty minutes later than the time for which Dattar had arranged it. He heard the driver yell and felt the lurch as the vehicle’s wheels were shot. He knew that the transport van likely had specialty run-flat tires and it kept moving. Not for long, Dattar thought.

  He heard the sound of gunfire being exchanged and saw the flash of an explosive device. The driver fired back, and Dattar heard him yelling into a radio. Dattar did his best to bury his head into his shoulder and faced the wall. When they shot the rocket-propelled grenade at the cabin, he didn’t want the shrapnel to hit his eyes.

  An explosion rocked the truck and the front of it burst into flames. Dattar choked in the smoke and waited, his eyes streaming. The armored vehicle was fashioned to withstand the initial blast of a rocket-propelled grenade without exploding into a thousand pieces, but no armored vehicle could take such a hit and remain unscathed. The side wall buckled inward and a gash appeared in the wall between the driver and the back. Smoke began pouring through the hole and Dattar knew it would overcome him soon if he didn’t get out. He heard the back panels being opened and cool air rushed into the cabin. His men entered, holding a large bolt cutter, and went to work on the chains.

  His first man pulled him out of the back.

  “You’re late,” Dattar said.

  The man bobbed his head. “It’s true, but could not be helped. The first crew succumbed too quickly, and we were forced to stay and complete their mission as well as our own.” The man waved at two waiting Range Rovers then stepped back to allow Dattar to jog past him. They ran together to the cars. Dattar glanced back at the burning transport vehicle.

  “We placed a timed explosive underneath it. It will soon be gone,” Dattar’s man said.

  They reached the cars and Dattar grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the vehicle. Dattar was less than six feet tall and pushing fifty years old, but his stocky body held a lot of muscle. He easily slammed the smaller, thinner terrorist backward. He saw the man’s eyelids flutter as he flinched, and his head bounced off the car’s window.

  “You completed nothing. I saw the television footage, where Smith was using his gun to shatter the windowpane. That footage was live. Jon Smith still breathes and I want to know why.”

  “We need to go. The hotel crisis has focused the attention of the Dutch police, but not for long. They will be here soon.”

  Dattar’s volcanic temper was legendary, and he gave it free rein. He still had the man by the throat. “Tell me why he lives.”

  “Ali succumbed too early.” The man’s voice was strained and he spoke in a rush. “He was ill when he went in, swaying and sweating. He could barely hold his weapon. And there was a gun in Smith’s hand. We hadn’t counted on him reaching his weapon. He must have shot and killed Ali. Why does a medical doctor travel with a gun?”

  Dattar let go of the man’s throat. “Smith is a member of the United States Army. He’s never far from his gun, as am I. Just be happy that I don’t have one now, because I’d use it to puncture your worthless hide. Is Rajiid at the rendezvous point?”

  The man nodded.

  Rohnen Rajiid was Dattar’s vice minister and a cousin. Dattar only employed family members or close relatives to act as cabinet members because all others not related by blood could be twisted or bribed. Many of these kin managed to be both incompetent and corrupt, but all knew better than to steal directly from Dattar.

  Dattar crawled in the passenger side of the second car while his crew filled the lead and backup vehicles. They barreled out ahead, staying in formation. Dattar stared out the window. The failure to kill Smith was a problem, but not a dire one. They’d nearly cornered him once, and they would again.

  Twenty minutes later they entered a quiet area outside of the airport where a second row of black SUVs idled. Dattar left his and entered the passenger side of another. Rajiid sat behind the wheel and nodded to Dattar before turning his attention to driving. Rajiid was a rare creature in Dattar’s world because he had no wife, no children, and cared for nothing. Dattar considered himself to be ruthless, but he often wondered if Rajiid had any heart at all. He was the perfect jihadist, had Dattar needed another one, but Dattar was not concerned with jihad, he was concerned with money.

  “Did you bring the notebook?”

  Rajiid nodded and handed Dattar a slim tablet computer. Dattar accessed the Internet, typed in his Swiss account’s user name and password, and hit the “accounts” link. Six numbered accounts lined up on the screen. Dattar highlighted one and arranged to transfer a portion of the funds to another bank account he maintained in the Netherlands. The words “Unable to Transfer” appeared. Dattar frowned. He clicked on the second Swiss account and attempted the same transaction. Once again, “Unable to Transfer” lit the screen. His heart started pounding and he began to shake with equal parts rag
e and disbelief along with a slight dusting of fear. His fingers shook with the newfound adrenaline flowing in his system. He clicked on the third, fourth, and fifth accounts; same result. He swallowed as his throat became dry. He worked on the sixth and final Swiss account. It, too, failed to function. He scoured the page to find a reason for the inability to transfer. At the upper right he saw a small envelope icon and a note that said “You have six urgent messages.” He clicked the link and read them all. All said the same thing, “This numbered account has been suspended in response to a suspicious activity report (SAR) filed by a member country of the United Nations. Its use is suspended until further notice.”

  Dattar accessed his portfolio, the one that held over 200 million in currency and various forms of negotiable securities. This account was under a false name. As he had hoped, the account accepted his password and opened to a grid display that should have shown the value of every item within the account. Instead, it displayed zero. Dattar sat there, stunned. He’d taken great pains to hide his funds, moving the money from bank to bank within his own country, and then placing it in various offshore locations. He’d chosen the locations well, using only those countries that would not reveal the identity of the account holders, even if pressured by international authorities. He typed in the web address for a Cayman Islands bank that held a very small portion of his money. Once the account was open, he checked for messages. There were none. He initiated the same transfer. The tiny sand timer rotated while the page worked, and ten seconds later he received a confirmation that the transfer was complete. He flung the tablet against the windshield. It bounced back, clattered off the dashboard and fell on the hand rest between him and Rajiid.

  “What’s wrong?” Rajiid said.

  “The American froze my accounts and somehow moved the securities.”

  Rajiid looked at Dattar in alarm. “All of them?”

  “All six in Switzerland. There are three left in the Caymans, but they don’t hold much. The American must be stopped before those are located.”

  “I thought you neutralized the American threat.”

  “I thought so too. Give me the phone,” Dattar said.

  Rajiid got a wary look on his face. “You shouldn’t use mine. It can be traced. What do you wish to know?”

  “I wish to know why the American isn’t yet dead!” Dattar screamed the words at Rajiid, who blinked but didn’t remove his eyes from the road. They were on a highway, moving fast.

  “The American must be dead. You sent Khalil for that one. The best. He cannot be beaten.”

  “Like Ali? I sent him for Smith, and he still lives.”

  Rajiid kept his eyes on the road, but his lips were set in a tight line. “I heard about that. But that was an unusual circumstance. Ali succumbed early. Khalil wasn’t part of the suicide crew.”

  “Has anyone heard from him? Has he reported in?”

  Rajiid shook his head. “No, but if there is a job to do, Khalil will do it. If the American isn’t dead already, then it will happen soon. Along with the Englishman.”

  “We’ll need to get the freeze order reversed.” Dattar stared out the window while his mind raced with ideas.

  “To do that you must bring the United States to its knees. And to do that you must continue with the plan.”

  Dattar nodded. His plan was brilliant. The way to instill respect was to threaten the lives of the many. When they were controlled, the rest would fall into place.

  “Do we have the coolers?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  At least something went right, Dattar thought. “I want Smith dead. I won’t allow him to interfere with me again. And the American as well. Is that understood?”

  “It was always understood. It will be finished.”

  8

  Russell leaned over Wendel’s shoulder and watched the stream of updates. “Which one is the agent?” she asked. Wendel pointed to a sentence from Blackhat 254.

  “That’s Tyler Biggs. He’s positioned at the train station. And here,” she pointed to another stream of information, but this one coming from a secure CIA line, “is his personal system. Right now he’s transmitting on both, and pretty much the same information, from an aggregating software program. It sends the message to his CIA site, which verifies the sender and then posts it here.”

  “What if he messes up? Punches in CIA information on the public site?”

  Wendel shook her head. “Not likely. He needs to verify his CIA log-in before he can use the aggregator, and that aggregator software is proprietary to us. It’s not available to just anyone. He doesn’t use it unless he’s transmitting public information in any event.”

  Russell watched as Biggs gave a running description of what he was watching from a street corner in The Hague. His updates matched those of several other Dutch civilians standing around him who were also recording their observations on the public website. The CIA stream, however, didn’t match. Russell watched the sentences on a split-screen display.

  “Shouldn’t his CIA stream and the public stream match then?” Russell said.

  Wendel frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”

  “Then why don’t they?” Russell said.

  Wendel shook her head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps the ISP system used by the public site is built on a faster platform?”

  Russell didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since the CIA had updated their cable systems, but she hoped that they could manage to at least match a public-access Internet site in speed and quality. The Internet had become the largest, most lucrative trolling ground for criminals the world over, and keeping one step ahead of the hackers, phishers, and terrorists required that they stay cutting edge.

  “That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, though, because the public site is accessed by millions daily, and the CIA site is handling only a tiny percentage of that,” Wendel said. “Something else must be causing the lag.”

  “Maybe the aggregator software isn’t pushing out the two windows equally,” Jordan suggested.

  Russell felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Cromwell with a grave look on his face.

  “Can you join me? There’s been a new development.”

  Russell followed him out of the situation room. They moved down a long corridor with gray walls and dark industrial carpeting. Cromwell pushed through a door marked “Conference B.” The room contained a large dark wood table surrounded by black leather chairs. A triangular speakerphone sat in the table’s center, and a flat-screen television, this one turned off, hung on one wall. Seated at the conference room table was Steve Harcourt, the CIA’s Mideast senior operator currently on loan to the New York Police Department, where he was supposed to be providing assistance and intelligence on outside threats. Harcourt had an office in Langley and another in New York and shuttled between them. Tall, with slicked hair, a slender face, and intelligent eyes that swept over Russell in a quick, discreet assessment, Harcourt was only a bit older than Russell, in his late thirties, and had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He wore a dark sweater, black pants, and expensive wing-tip shoes that shone from a recent polishing. When the door closed behind them, Cromwell nodded to Harcourt, leaned against the table, and crossed his arms.

  “I don’t know if you two have met. Steve, this is Randi Russell. She’s heading up a test initiative in which we’re considering bringing in field officers on a rotating basis to analyze and improve our home base capabilities. With her lengthy field service, she brings critical knowledge to bear on our office operations here.”

  Harcourt rose to shake Russell’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your exploits. It must be difficult to work at a desk.”

  “Not at all. I’m finding the change refreshing.”

  “We’re here as you requested. You have news?” Cromwell said to Harcourt.

  “Oman Dattar escaped from Scheveningen prison.”

  Russell groaned. “The Butcher? You’ve got to be kidding. When?”r />
  “An hour ago. He escaped during transfer. The Mideast division got the call first, based on his connection to Pakistan, and contacted me.” He turned to Russell. “I work in connection with the NYPD, and New York is considered a first target, so whenever something occurs that involves possible terrorism, I get the call. I told them I’d brief the European Division, since he’s stomping around in your area of concern.”

  “I have to tell you, I’m thinking the escape and the attack on the Grand Royal can’t be a coincidence,” Russell said. Her alarm was growing; the situation in the Netherlands was fast spiraling out of control. She ran through in her mind the available operatives that could assist in a hunt for Dattar.

  “Any idea where he might be heading?” Cromwell said.

  Harcourt nodded. “I’ll bet any money that his ultimate destination will be the hills on the Pakistani/Afghan border. Once he’s there, the UN will never get their hands on him again. He can hide for years.”

  “Has Interpol been notified?” Russell said.

  Harcourt nodded again. “They’re working on issuing a red notice.” A red notice was the Interpol equivalent of a “Most Wanted” poster. It informed member countries that an individual was wanted for extradition to the country issuing the request. Execution was left to the police force of whatever member country found the fugitive. Some would be quick to apprehend Dattar, but many, not wanting to be involved, would steer clear.

  “How do we think he’ll get home? The Pakistani border is a long way from The Hague,” Cromwell said.

  Harcourt walked to a computer terminal located on a credenza pushed against the side wall and punched in a code. Within seconds the flat panel lit up with a map of the world. He placed a small arrow pointer on The Hague.

  “He’ll want to connect with a country friendly to him, which might include Russia to the northeast,” he put a pointer there, “and Cyprus to the south. He’s right on the North Sea, but I don’t think he’ll go all the way by boat. It’s a long haul up and over to Russia, and even longer going south to Cyprus. I think he’ll fly. All he needs to do is charter a flight under an assumed name. Or, better yet, get a friend to charter one for him.”