Ohnara tilted his hand back and forth. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Some of the sample succumbed as I transferred it to the dish, so it’s far from robust. If you like, I can subject it to the standard chemicals that it would encounter during our current water treatment protocols. See if it manages to survive.”
Smith nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”
Russell looked back into the viewer. “Dr. Ohnara, is it possible to type the strain? Determine where these bacteria originated?”
Ohnara nodded. “I already did that. They match that found in sections of India and Pakistan.”
Russell’s head shot up and Smith saw the color drain from her face. “Did you say Pakistan?”
“I did. Is that significant?”
“That’s a known area of concern for terrorism,” Smith said, deliberately keeping his voice neutral. He trusted Ohnara to retain a confidence, but saw no need to draw the lines between Pakistan, the escaped Dattar, and a virulent strain of cholera. He’d ask Klein to get him some more information on the stolen biomaterial. Perhaps this particular strain was in one of the coolers.
Ohnara looked doubtful. “I just don’t think it could be an effective form of terrorism. As I said, it’s difficult to see how cholera can be used in such a fashion, at least in modern countries like ours. Obviously, if this strand survives some of the chemicals I’m going to subject it to, then my opinion may change.”
Smith put out a hand to shake Ohnara’s. “Let’s hope not.”
Smith and Russell walked to the front of the building, but as they reached the door, Smith hung back.
“Still worried?” Russell said. “How about I go out and drive around to the back. You can jump in as before.”
He smiled at her, letting the relief show in his face. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Smith repeated what he now called the “run to the car” game and was relieved when Russell drove away from the campus.
“Well, what do you make of the swab?” he asked.
Russell frowned. “I don’t like that it’s from Dattar’s region, but I guess you picked up on that.”
Smith nodded. “I did. Could you be targeted? Have you run into him in the past?”
Russell turned down a street and Smith saw a Metro stop at the end. “No. I’ve never had any contact with him. It could be completely unrelated, but it doesn’t feel like it is.” She seemed to want to say something further.
“Yes?” Smith prodded.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Back to the Four Seasons?” she said.
“Can you drop me here? I’ll take the Metro. I have some errands to run.”
“Certainly. You should be fine. No one tailed us.”
Smith smiled. “I’ll take your word on that. I know it’s good.”
She smiled back, but grew serious. “There’s a situation brewing with regard to some missing bacteria. I may ask you for some more assistance.”
The coolers, Smith thought. “Of course.”
He angled out of the sedan, sketched a wave, and headed to the Metro. The minute he was out of sight, he called Marty. There was no answer, but he left a message saying he was on his way over. He boarded the train and settled in for the ride to Marty’s house, eyeing the other passengers. Most either read books or newspapers or stared off into space. None noticed Smith. He got off the Metro at Dupont Circle and prepared to walk the rest of the way, making sure to keep moving and giving quick glances behind him as he headed into a quiet residential area. As he neared Marty’s house, he spotted the small, rotund man pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. He looked agitated and held an open laptop in his hands. When he saw Smith, a smile creased his face.
“Jon! Jon! I got the message that you were coming! I’ve been waiting for you. I’m here.” He waved a hand excitedly. Smith gave a small groan and glanced around. He wished Marty had waited for him inside the house. The last thing he needed was Marty announcing his presence to the entire neighborhood, but there was no stopping Marty once he was wound up; fortunately the street appeared quiet. Marty closed the gap between them, still holding the laptop. He shoved it at Smith.
“I’ve found her!” he said.
14
Smith stood in the marble and wood lobby of Landon Investments in New York City and wondered anew why Pakistani terrorists wanted Rebecca Nolan dead, why a Pakistani-derived strain of cholera was smeared on Russell’s refrigerator light, and how Dattar might have figured into it all. He’d spent the entire train ride from DC reading the documents about Nolan that Marty had amassed and printed for him. What he’d learned about her had impressed him, but also left him returning to the key question about who wanted her dead and why. He’d given her name to Russell, who was throwing the additional strength of the CIA’s research capabilities into the project.
Now he gave his name to the front desk clerk, obtained a pass, and headed to the gleaming elevator banks. The elevator was equipped with a television and he watched as a female spokesperson on a financial channel analyzed a complex transaction involving counterbalancing puts and calls in order to gain a dollar spread on a trade. Through it all the screen kept a running ticker tape showing the stock market’s performance minute to minute. Smith kept some of his money in the markets, but tended to purchase blue chip stocks through a fund and then held them during good times and bad. The woman on the small screen could have been speaking in tongues for all he knew.
The doors opened with a pneumatic sound and he stepped directly into the Landon Investments offices. A petite woman wearing a telephone headset manned a massive mahogany reception desk. The sheer opulence of the offices attested to the success of Landon Investments. Thanks to Marty’s research, Smith knew that the company had over $3 billion under management with a growing private-wealth customer base and a stellar reputation. Rebecca Nolan alone managed over $900 million and was considered a rising star within the company. One article in Fortune magazine had described the company as “the finest fund that no one knew.” The article stated that managers in the company deliberately eschewed the limelight, preferring to act in a discreet manner that matched the wishes of their extremely wealthy clients. The young Asian woman behind the desk smiled at him as he approached.
“Mr. Smith, I apologize for the lack of a waiting pass, but I was unaware of your visit.”
Smith smiled at her. “Please don’t apologize. Ms. Nolan is not aware that I wish to see her. It’s important that I do, though. Is she available?”
A slight frown appeared on the woman’s face. “Did you say Ms. Nolan?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head sadly. “I’m so sorry, but Ms. Nolan does not take meetings while the markets are open. Perhaps you can return after four o’clock when they’ve closed?”
Smith shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no. I must speak to her now. Can you please ring her?”
The woman’s frown became more pronounced. “Are you one of Ms. Nolan’s clients?”
“No. I’m a member of the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases and I must speak to her.” He handed her his business card.
“Army? Is this about the Wingspan anthrax vaccine? The announcement moved the shares of that company quite nicely.” The very idea seemed to make the woman brighten, and he decided to go with it.
“It is about bacteria, though not that one.”
“Then I’m sure she’ll speak to you the minute the market closes.”
“I need to see her now, please,” he replied.
Smith watched the receptionist struggle to maintain her composure, which he found fascinating. He thought his request was simple enough, yet the woman acted as though he’d asked to see the pope during Sunday mass. The receptionist punched a button. After a moment she announced his presence and said, “he’s with the Army,” listened and then said, “of course.” She switched off the line and returned her attention to Smith.
“Ms. Nolan says that she’s sorry, but she
can’t take a meeting at this time. She asked that I reschedule you after the markets have closed.”
Smith was done with the niceties. Behind the receptionist was a frosted glass wall that separated the lobby from the working offices. Smith could see the blurry outlines of people sitting at desks and moving around the room. He started toward the glass doors set into the wall.
“Mr. Smith, I’m sorry, but where are you going?” Anxiety rang in the receptionist’s voice and she rose from her chair. She was petite, lovely, and extremely agitated. Smith was sorry to have to upset her, but he needed to do what he must to see Ms. Nolan. He reached the doors and pulled on a handle. It didn’t move. He looked back at the receptionist.
“Please unlock the door.” The receptionist straightened to her full height, which Smith estimated to be five feet. Despite her small size, she would defend Ms. Nolan’s schedule come what may.
“I can’t, sir. I would have called security already, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re with the army. You must come back here. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for you promptly at 4:00 when the markets close.”
He strode back to her, stepping into her personal space and moving to within inches of her. She didn’t shrink back, a fact that he liked — she was no pushover — but he needed to see Ms. Nolan and at that moment she was impeding his progress. He swept his eyes over the desk area and spotted the button that he assumed released the lock.
“Ms.,” he looked at her name tag, “Lee. I appreciate your dedication to protecting Ms. Nolan’s schedule, but my news won’t wait and I’m confident that she will agree once she has heard it. If not, then I’ll leave immediately. Either way, I’ll be sure to let her know that you did your best to keep the United States Army at bay.” He gave her his most winning smile, and after a moment he saw a flicker of an answering amusement in her face. He reached over and pressed the button and was rewarded with the clicking sound as the lock disengaged.
Smith stepped onto the Landon Investments trading floor. Rows of desks, perhaps fifty in all, each equipped with a computer monitor and a corresponding trader, were arranged in a horseshoe configuration with a break in the center to create an aisle. The end of the pattern reached to the windows on the far side of the room to his right and left. The traders all wore headsets similar to the one he had seen on the receptionist in the lobby and most were speaking into the microphone. The noise of fifty different conversations rose and fell around him.
At the center of the horseshoe stood Ms. Nolan. She looked exactly like her photo, except today, rather than the conservative blue suit, she wore a red sheath dress that fit her slender body to perfection. Her hair was pulled back and in her ears were drop earrings with what looked to Smith’s untrained eye like yellow diamonds. She stood in front of a semicircle of four computer monitors and frowned at them. He made his way toward her, walking down the center aisle. A few of the traders cast him looks, but the majority stared at their screens, ignoring him. Ms. Nolan, too, ignored him, never taking her eyes off the computers. He noticed that she stood about five foot eight and estimated her age to be in the mid-thirties. She looked up when he was within three feet of the wall of monitors.
She had dark brown eyes that maintained the same serious expression that she wore in the photo. He watched her as she ran her gaze from his face to his shoes and back up again. She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Mr. Smith from the army, I presume?”
He nodded. “I apologize for barging in like this, but it’s imperative that I speak with you. It’s a matter of life or death.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her features. “Life or death? Whose?”
“Yours,” he said.
That got her complete attention. Her face registered shock and her body swayed backward. She reached down, pressed a button on a desktop phone and said, “Gerald, watch the pharmaceuticals for me, can you? I need to take a short meeting.” When she was done, she removed her headset and nodded to him. “We’ll go to my office.”
She waved him to the right and they began to make their way past the desks to a frosted glass door that entered into a hallway where muted gray tones on the walls and the plush carpeting underfoot muffled their steps. Smith thought that the entire presentation at Landon Investments was geared to give an impression of great wealth, calm, and competence. The expensive furnishings were easy to purchase, but Smith thought the feeling of calm was much more difficult to accomplish. The world markets were roiling at the moment, and he imagined that there were many millions of dollars slipping through the hands of most of the investment advisors in the world, including Landon’s employees. She paused at an open door at the corner of the building and nodded for him to precede her.
The corner office was a study in sleek minimalist design. On the black walnut desk sat another row of three computer monitors, each showing different financial networks with scrolling ticker running along the bottom. Smith saw Nolan’s eyes lock onto the screens while she closed the door behind her. The rest of the office was stark. A single-serving coffee maker sat on a credenza behind the main desk, along with a tray bearing black cups, some for espresso and two for coffee. An abstract print on the wall to Smith’s right was the only artwork in the room. There were no diplomas, awards, photos of famous people, or even family photos anywhere. Linen blinds were lowered against the morning sun.
“Would you like a coffee or espresso?” she asked.
“Coffee black,” Smith said. She walked to the coffeepot and inserted a pod.
“Please sit down.”
Smith sat in a black leather chair facing the desk. The machine beeped and she handed him a cup. She took her place behind the desk. The screens sat to her left, but this time she didn’t glance at them. “Please tell me about the life-or-death matter.”
Smith had spent a great deal of time on the train preparing what he hoped would be a believable story. Now, in the face of her calm, he was afraid he would sound hysterical.
“I have reason to believe that a Pakistani terrorist organization has ordered a hit on you.”
Nolan’s eyes widened briefly, but she didn’t show any of the surprise or fear that he had expected. That, in and of itself, was interesting. Either she didn’t believe him or something else was at play here.
“That’s a remarkable claim, Mr. Smith. What do you do that you would receive such information? Are you a member of the FBI? Do you have any identification?”
She remained calm, but her voice was tinged with disbelief. Smith could tell that she thought him a bit crazy. He half expected her to call for security to have him escorted out of her office any minute. She gave another sweeping glance at his clothing, as if to assess his mental health, and her eyes came to rest on his military watch.
He handed her his driver’s license along with a copy of his business card from USAMRIID. While she read both, he rushed to fill the silence.
“I just returned from The Hague. I was staying at the Grand Royal and was there during the attack. If you watched the reports then you saw me crawl out the third-story window. It was during that time that I learned that you were targeted. Do you have any idea why a terrorist halfway around the world would carry your photo in his pocket?”
She focused on his face, staring intently. “Of course I am aware of what happened at the Grand Royal. I watched the reports. I did see the man crawl out of the window to escape, and if that was you, then I’m pleased that you survived. The attack reverberated across the markets. The holding company that owns the hotel chain saw its share value drop four dollars on the news.”
Smith was dumbfounded and was for a brief moment unsure how to respond to that. He was fast losing patience with her. He’d spent most of his waking moments since the attack thinking of her and how to find her to warn her, and she was only concerned that the hotel’s stock was dropping.
“Honestly, Ms. Nolan, I don’t give a damn about the hotel chain’s financial condition. I’m here to tell you that your life is
in danger. I can’t give you any more details about how I know this, but I can tell you the danger is real and you need to address it. Now. Not two hours from now and certainly not after the market closes.” He pulled another business card out of his pocket and placed it on her desk. “This is the number of a woman at the CIA named Randi Russell. She’s prepared to have one of her agents take you to a safe house outside the DC area while they track the intelligence and attempt to find whoever is responsible for the hit. I suggest that you call her now. She’ll confirm that what I’m telling you is true.”
Nolan picked up the card and rose. “I’ll do that. Please, feel free to make yourself another cup of coffee while I verify what you’ve said.”
She left. Smith waited, sipping the coffee and watching the ticker scroll across the computer screens. After ten minutes, Nolan returned. She looked pale but determined, and Smith guessed then that the meeting wasn’t going to end as he wanted it to, because she should have looked much more helpful than she did. She resumed her seat behind the console.
“Ms. Russell confirmed your version of events. I asked her this question, and now I’ll ask you: How long do you expect it will take to find this assassin?”
Smith hesitated. That was, of course, the dilemma. He didn’t know who had hired the man in the Grand Royal, what organization he was working for, or whether he worked alone or with the others in the crew that had demolished the hotel. He didn’t have any real credible information to give Nolan, or Russell, for that matter.
“I don’t know. It could take days, or even months. There’s no way to tell when the attack on you will take place.”
She looked alarmed. “Months? The CIA wishes to put me in a safe house for months? No. That won’t work. I have a job to do. A life. I’ll hire a bodyguard this afternoon. Two, if necessary, but I’m not just walking away for months. If I do, I’ll have nothing left when I return.”
Smith inhaled. “If you don’t go, you may have no life at all. You have to get to a safe place while the CIA works this situation out.”
The Janus Reprisal c-9 Page 10
