The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  “I think our troubles are over,” Nihal said. He sat back, a smirk on his face. “I have an e-mail from the American. She wants to cut a deal.”

  37

  Smith walked with Nolan down the street in front of the apartment and crossed Broadway. Despite the early hour, they had passed bodegas with men sitting on flimsy wooden crates drinking from bottles kept in paper bags. They continued east of Broadway and to Smith it seemed like they’d entered an entirely different neighborhood. Instead of neat but dated buildings, they saw trash strewn across the sidewalks and collected against the curb. Closed storefronts were covered by protective grates secured with padlocks. A currency exchange on the corner offered legal services upstairs that advertised divorces for $500.

  Smith indicated the sign.

  “Beckmann should have hired this guy. Would have saved him some money.”

  Nolan smiled. “It’s that cement building across the street.”

  They were headed to a Pakistani gold merchant who Nolan said would gladly exchange her dollars for gold bullion. They expected Dattar to demand his money in full by wire transfer, but they needed him to appear in person for the plan to work. Also, she was hesitant to fire up her tablet and tip off whoever was watching her at the CIA. It was Nolan who had suggested tempting Dattar to appear in person with a good-faith offer of gold bullion.

  “What’s a Pakistani doing in this neighborhood? Seems mostly Spanish.”

  “Dominican, actually. But Bilal has been here for years.”

  “Do they know that he trades in gold?”

  Nolan smiled again. “Take a look.” She pointed to an ugly two-story square building with a neon sign with the word “Pawnbrokers” across the top and another, smaller neon tube light sign that said “We Buy Gold.” They stepped into the street and across to the other side. Nolan headed to a side door made of steel and guarded by a closed-circuit camera mounted at eave level. She pressed a button on the intercom, and Smith heard a buzzing sound somewhere deep in the center of the building. Within seconds the door gave an answering sound, and Nolan pushed it open and stepped inside. As Smith crossed the threshold, he heard a beeping noise and the door closed behind him with a decisive click. The only light came from an open door at the end of the hallway.

  “Miss Rebecca, back here,” a man’s voice with a heavy accent called to them. Nolan stepped into the office. A Middle Eastern — looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache and dark eyes, and dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans, stood behind an L-shaped green metal desk. He pointed a gun at Smith.

  “Your friend here has a weapon,” the man said, then turned to Smith. “Put your hands in the air.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll vouch for him,” Nolan said. “Bilal, this is Jon Smith. He’s trustworthy.”

  Bilal didn’t lower the pistol. “Interesting name, Jon Smith. Quite common.”

  Smith kept his eyes on Bilal. “Someone has to have it.”

  “Miss Rebecca, please remove your friend’s gun from its holster and put it on the table.”

  Nolan stepped up to Smith, and he smelled the fresh scent of shampoo that came from her hair. She unzipped his jacket, glanced up at him, and ran her hands along his chest until she reached his gun in the shoulder holster.

  “Is the safety on? I’d hate to shoot you accidentally.”

  Smith nodded. “It’s okay. You can remove it.” She pulled out the weapon and held it muzzle down while she took the few steps to Bilal’s desk.

  “How did you know it was there?” she said after she placed it on the desk.

  “I have a metal detector at the door.”

  “Ahh, that was the beep I heard,” Smith said.

  Bilal nodded. “I have a lot of expensive items stored on the premises and, as I’m sure you saw while walking here, the neighborhood is sketchy. Are you police?”

  Smith shook his head. “Military.”

  “Here to sell gold?”

  “Here to be sure that Ms. Nolan remains safe.”

  Bilal gave Smith a speculative look. “Miss Rebecca and I are old friends. She is always safe with me.”

  “So I’ve been told. But one can never be too sure,” Smith said. In fact, Nolan had explained to him that most of the traders in the city knew of Bilal, and many routinely converted their cash to either Krugerrands or gold bullion there. Apparently Bilal was known for his honesty in an industry where that commodity was scarce.

  Bilal turned his attention to Nolan. “Are you here to sell gold?”

  “To buy it, actually. I’d like to exchange some cash for bullion.”

  “Wire transfer your account to mine?”

  Nolan nodded.

  “Then please take a seat.” He included Smith in the offer but reached out and put Smith’s gun on a small desk behind him.

  “May I use your computer?” Nolan said. Bilal nodded and opened a drawer in front of him and placed a laptop on the desk. She scooted her chair forward to access it.

  “It’s on,” he said. Nolan started tapping away, and Bilal turned to a second PC to his right. After a moment he rose and opened a closet door to his left, revealing a massive safe. He kept the door tilted so that neither Smith nor Nolan could see his hands, and after a moment Smith heard the sound of a lock disengaging.

  “Is it there yet?” Nolan asked.

  “The computer will give a signal.” A moment later, Bilal’s PC pinged.

  “Let’s see.” Bilal held some bars of gold in his hands while he walked back to his monitor and peered at it.

  “Just so.” He placed one bar on the back desk next to a scale. The second bar he put on the scale’s pan. “You wish to verify the weight?” Nolan got up and stood next to Bilal, watching as he placed bar after bar on the pan.

  “The London fix?” Nolan said.

  “Down a bit. Here.” Bilal reached to the computer and tapped on the keyboard. From his location across the desk Smith couldn’t see the screen, but Nolan watched it for a moment before returning her attention to the scale. When Bilal was finished, he reached below and opened the cabinet, removing a black briefcase. Nolan gave a soft laugh, and Bilal turned his head to smile at her. “You recognize it?”

  “I wondered where it had got to.”

  Bilal looked over his shoulder at Smith. “See? Everything is safe with me.”

  Smith waited patiently while Nolan finished her transaction, rising to carry the briefcase. He estimated that it weighed close to sixty pounds. If Dattar expected to ambush them and steal the gold, no one who had it would be able to run away. Or at least not very fast. Bilal locked his safe and gave a short bow to Nolan.

  “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Rebecca,” Bilal said. He handed Smith his gun. “Mr.…Smith.”

  Smith slid the gun back into the holster. “Thank you.” They left by the side door, and Smith blinked in the sudden sunlight.

  “That was an extraordinary transaction. What’s the London fix?”

  “London banks are the primary gold traders. Twice each day they set the settling price for their contracts. The price is called the London fix.” Smith carried the case as they walked to Broadway.

  “Do you know what type of precautions he takes to protect the shop? Besides the metal detector, of course.”

  “I know he has a gun as big as a cannon taped under the desk. That metal front is perforated for a reason. There are solar roof tiles for electricity that will kick on and keep his security system running should there be a blackout. They feed excess to the grid. Bilal’s quite proud that he often gets paid by Con Ed for electricity rather than the other way around. And I’ve heard that his car is armored, and the office loaded with every type of weapon imaginable.”

  “I still find it hard to believe that no one has tried to rob him,” Smith said.

  “Oh, there are rumors that some have.”

  “And?”

  “And they were never seen again.”

  38

  Manhar stood i
n the back of the magnificent house on Long Island and watched as Dattar’s men started to outfit two large trucks with square trailers. First went in a long fireman’s hose, several reflective vests, steel poles, and canvas along with several three-foot-long metal wrenches. On the outside of the first vehicle two men were affixing a large decal that read MTA.

  Manhar stopped one of Dattar’s men and pointed at the logo.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Runs the New York subway.” The man walked away and Manhar gave a low whistle. He’d heard that some wanted to attack the New York subway the way the terrorist organization in Japan had attacked Tokyo’s, but he would not have believed that Dattar had the guts to do it. Dattar went up several notches in Manhar’s esteem. At that moment Dattar waved him over.

  “You’re blowing up the subway?” Manhar said.

  “No. How’s Khalil tracking Nolan?”

  “He’s had a man watching her every moment for the last month. He knows her schedule, favorite places, everything.”

  Dattar’s face turned red. “Are you saying he’s had a month to take her out and he didn’t? Why?”

  Manhar didn’t like the direction the conversation was turning. It was simple: Khalil hadn’t taken out Nolan because Dattar hadn’t yet paid him. But Manhar didn’t want to tell Dattar this bit of information. Dattar tended to kill the messenger. He tried to change the subject.

  “You’re using sarin gas in the subway. Like in Japan?”

  “No. Why didn’t Khalil take out Nolan?”

  Manhar saw no way around the question. Rajiid and the other men had stopped outfitting the truck and were all staring at Manhar.

  “He claimed he was waiting to get paid.”

  Dattar’s face worked and his breath came fast. Rajiid slid his eyes sideways, noticed that the men had halted, and barked an order. They began working again, and Manhar felt the tension subside.

  “Get in the truck. You’re going on the mission with the others,” Dattar said.

  Manhar did as he was told, but his stomach was twisting. He crawled in the rear of the truck and joined the others sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall. Rajiid appeared and started handing each man two small pills and a bottle of water. He handed them to Manhar.

  “What’s this?” he said.

  “A drug. It will make you strong.”

  Manhar hesitated.

  “Take them,” Rajiid said.

  Manhar made an elaborate show of tossing the pills in his mouth. He shoved them under his tongue as he swallowed some water. Rajiid watched the entire maneuver before nodding and walking away. Manhar spit the still intact pills back into his hand and tossed them onto the steel bed. He wasn’t so foolish as to take any pills given to him by a viper such as Rajiid.

  He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to know what Dattar had in mind with the false trucks. Manhar’s goal in coming here was only to arrange for Dattar to kill Khalil. With Khalil dead, Manhar would never have to look over his shoulder, wondering when retribution would come. What Manhar didn’t want to do was die like a jihadist on some elaborate suicide mission. He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which Dattar’s men could bomb, gas, or shoot up a New York City subway and survive the inevitable aftermath. He sat in the back of the truck and did his best to keep calm as they began the drive to the city. After ten minutes Manhar turned to the nearest man riding with him. He was able to see his face in the illumination from a high window. The light flickered each time they passed a light pole.

  “Will we get away before the gas is released?” Manhar said.

  “We’re not using gas.”

  Manhar pointed to two small canisters. “That’s gas, I know it. I saw it used in Iraq.”

  The man shook his head. “That’s only a backup. It’s not the main plan. And why do you care? Our families back home will be well compensated for our deaths and we will bask in greater glory.”

  “Will the plan work?” Manhar said.

  He heard the man chuckle in the dark. “Oh yes, it will work. In three hours most of Manhattan will begin to die. And no one will be able to stop it.”

  “Will Dattar die too, then?”

  “No, he will not. He must live, of course, to pay our families.”

  “And us?”

  “In the kingdom of the everlasting life.”

  Manhar wanted to shake him. The only kingdom he wanted to experience was in Pakistan, with multiple women and a large house with many rooms. He needed to get away from Dattar’s crew before they put their mission in place. The only problem was, he needed to know which way to run, and to learn that, he needed to know what Dattar had in store for the city.

  “What is the plan, then?”

  “I don’t know. We will be told what to do by Nihal when we arrive.”

  Manhar didn’t believe him. “You don’t know? Then how can you be so sure it will work?”

  “Nihal told me it will. I believe him.”

  Manhar sat in the back of the truck and began plotting his escape.

  Dattar rode in the lead car and ran through the plan a final time with Rajiid.

  “You have the bacteria?”

  “We have the coolers in place,” Rajiid said.

  “And the guns?”

  Rajiid nodded. “Ready. If there are any disturbances, or a too curious police officer, the men know what to do.”

  “Killing an officer is to be a last resort. Try to talk your way out first. We just need enough time to place the bacteria.” When Rajiid didn’t reply, Dattar began checking the pistol he kept in a holster at his waist.

  “Will you kill Nolan?” Rajiid said.

  “Yes. After she tells me where the rest of the money is located.”

  “And Smith?”

  “Him too.”

  “He is savvy, so you’ve always told me.”

  “He is nothing against me,” Dattar said. “And besides, I will have Khalil with me.”

  “And Howell?”

  “Khalil must have already killed him. I’ve heard nothing.”

  Rajiid pressed his lips together.

  Dattar was no longer worried. After learning that Nolan wanted to meet to “end this thing,” as she’d put it in the message, he’d called Khalil back. He’d pretended to be calmer, and cajoled Khalil into joining him. “Together we’re stronger than alone,” he’d said. Khalil had agreed.

  Dattar had already contacted his informer at the CIA to ensure that the plan went his way and only his way.

  Dattar sat back and watched the lights on the expressway whiz by.

  Smith stood at a street corner back at the CIA safe house on the Upper West Side and watched as a van embossed with the logo of a well-known cable company pulled alongside the curb. The driver’s window lowered and Howell stuck his head out.

  “Climb in back and see what we’ve got.” Smith swung open the rear panel doors and was greeted by clouds of smoke and Beckmann, who sat on a short stool in the middle of a neatly arranged row of wires and technological equipment, puffing on a cigarette. A television system, complete with multiple screens and several computer towers, was packed into the interior. The air was stale from the cigarettes as well as the fumes of several PCs running at once.

  “Quite an operation,” Smith said. “Are you sure it’s safe to smoke in there? I can practically feel the electromagnetic waves. One spark and something’s going to blow up.”

  “Without a cigarette that something’s going to be me,” Beckmann said. “What organization can produce a setup like this on such short notice?” Beckmann indicated the machinery all around him. “It would take me several days and a stack of paperwork to complete before I could obtain it at the CIA. And the FBI doesn’t even have equipment this new.”

  Smith had called Klein first, for procurement, then Marty, for assembly. In fact, the interior held the stamp of Marty all over it, from its perfectly a
rranged PC consoles to the wires encased in color-coded cable organizers. Not a thing was out of place and each item hummed with precision. Smith had asked Marty to man the vehicle as well, but he’d refused, preferring to continue his search for the mole at the CIA.

  “No one else can hunt this man the way I can. The CIA’s systems are proving ridiculously difficult to crack,” Marty had said. The gleam in his eye made it clear to Smith that Marty was actually enjoying the challenge. Engaging in a stakeout couldn’t compete.

  Smith handed Beckmann a long-nosed rifle. Beckmann put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth while he inspected the weapon.

  “Nice. What is it?”

  “A dart gun. It’s for big game, but the theory is the same for humans. We need him alive to tell us what it is he’s planning on doing.” Beckmann transferred the gun to one hand while he resumed smoking.

  “I’d rather just shoot the bastard.”

  Smith nodded. “Me too.”

  “Howell has one of these as well?”

  “And a regular sniper rifle. He’s going to get into position now. Good luck.”

  Beckmann saluted Smith and grabbed a panel to close it. Smith swung the other and secured them both. As he did, he checked them. Each had what appeared to be a secondary logo in the form of a black circle with spirals, but in reality they were two-way mirrors engineered to allow a man from the inside to see out. A flick of a lever and they would slide out of the way, giving Beckmann enough space to aim and shoot without opening the back doors.

  Smith strode across the street and up the stairs to the safe house apartment. They’d picked the exchange location after some discussion. They needed a spot that allowed them to cover the position from above as well as below. The safe house had the added advantage of being empty of neighbors; the CIA owned the entire building. The “For Sale” sign was a ruse by the CIA to allow the nearby apartments to remain empty without raising suspicion. Howell had canvassed the street thoroughly before they re-entered the apartment, and they figured it was as safe as it was going to be for the few hours that they needed it. Smith hoped to be long gone by the time the CIA mole discovered they had returned to the original safe house that he and Nolan had used. Howell was in the kitchen inspecting the sniper rifle.