The Janus Reprisal c-9

by Jamie Freveletti

  “He all set?”

  Smith nodded. “As good as he’ll ever be.” Smith picked up a vest as well as the wire transmitter that Nolan would wear for the meet. “She upstairs?”

  “Yes. She said she’ll wait for you.”

  Smith headed to the master bedroom. He found Nolan in the bathroom wearing only jeans and the bra while she inspected her wounds using a hand-held mirror to view her reflection.

  “I didn’t want to get dressed until you arranged for the wire,” she said. He held it up for her to see. “That’s small.”

  “Has to be if it’s going to be concealed. It’s wireless, and should easily transmit to Beckmann and me in the van. Anything happens, we’re right here.”

  “What’s the other?”

  He held up a vest. “Bulletproof. Nice and slim, isn’t it?”

  Nolan nodded. “Looks nothing like the kind the police march around in.”

  “It’s a dense weave of silk and other fibers. Don’t let the thin profile fool you, it will stop a bullet as well as Kevlar.”

  “From Ms. Russell at the CIA?”

  Smith shook his head. “From a friend.” Klein had arranged for the vest.

  He clipped the tiny microphone to the edge of her bra strap and ran the wire to the transmitter no larger than a deck of cards and attached that to her waistband. He held the vest open while she put her arms through the armholes. He stopped a moment and caught her looking at him intently.

  “Don’t look so grim. He won’t kill me until he has access to the money.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know. How did you get to this stage in life and not realize that it’s all about money?” There was a puzzled look in her eye. For a moment he felt the gulf between his experiences and those of the average person get even larger. He’d long ago lost confidence in the idea that money could solve the evils of the world.

  “Because I’ve seen many whose ambitions revolve around power and righteousness and just plain craziness. You think it’s about money because you live on a small island and are surrounded by people in the pursuit of it. But Dattar and others like him don’t think the way you do. If he shows the first sign of killing you in a rage or before you’ve given up all of the accounts, I want you to say the code word and I’ll take him out.” Her face took on its usual set look.

  “You can’t. Howell told me the truth.”

  Smith frowned. “What did Howell tell you?”

  “That if it came down to me or Dattar, your orders were to let me die. Dattar can’t be killed until he reveals his plan. Howell said that your superiors were clear on this.”

  Smith wasn’t sure how to respond. He was given orders: One may have to be sacrificed to save many. He, Klein, and Howell agreed in a private conversation that the stakes were too high. Dattar had to be stopped before he used his weapon. While Smith knew this to be true, an image of them together from the night before flashed through his mind, and all his instincts recoiled against the idea of letting Dattar harm her.

  “I don’t usually make love to a woman and then feed her to a dog like Dattar.” He focused on securing the straps on the vest. He could feel her eyes on him as he did and he didn’t raise his own until he was done.

  “I stole his money and by doing so brought this on myself. I’ve told you time and again that I’ll take care of myself. What happened last night doesn’t change that.”

  He felt himself getting angry with her. That she thought him so mercenary.

  “I don’t use civilians as shields, no matter what my orders.”

  She held his gaze a moment and then reached up and brought her lips to his in a soft kiss.

  “Don’t worry. I’m right. This one’s about money. I’ll be fine.” Smith wished he could believe it, but in his experience everything and anything could go wrong. His only hope was that whatever occurred, it wouldn’t be something catastrophic. He picked up her sweater and helped lower it over her head, taking care not to touch her injuries.

  “I’ll be happy when we have Dattar.”

  Nolan nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Smith followed her down the stairs past the kitchen. Howell was gone.

  The plan was simple. Nolan would sit on a wooden bench that wrapped around the trunk of a tree with the bag of bullion next to her. Its weight ensured that whoever appeared and took the bag would be slowed; this was an added security measure to counteract any possible grab-and-run attempts. She’d negotiated by e-mail with Dattar and arranged a series of these drops every day over the course of a month, each physical drop to be followed by a million-dollar wire transfer from one of the hundreds of accounts that she’d set up to hide the money. In this way, they hoped to keep Dattar on the hook and returning time and again. If they missed taking him down on the first round, they’d get him on the second.

  Dattar had insisted that she keep her computer on and ready to accept e-mails. None of them had liked that aspect of his demands, but he refused to appear unless she did, so they had Marty watching the data stream and prepared to relay any message that Dattar sent. For her part, Nolan had emphasized that she would give the account numbers and passwords to Dattar only. If an intermediary appeared, the deal was off. When Dattar appeared, they would close in.

  They continued out the front door and down to the street where she headed to the bench where the bag was already arranged. He walked to the van, rapped twice and opened the doors. He found both Howell and Beckmann inside.

  “She’s in place, I see,” Howell said.

  “She told me that you gave her the worst-case scenario. I wish you hadn’t.”

  Beckmann stopped fiddling with a walkie-talkie and glanced in Howell’s direction. Howell grabbed his gun with one hand, rose to a crouch and jumped off the back of the van, stopping to stand next to Smith.

  “I thought she should know the parameters of our assistance. I’ve learned that it doesn’t pay to lie to a woman.”

  Beckmann snorted and Howell shot him a quelling glance.

  “I’m not going to let Dattar kill her.”

  Howell didn’t look surprised at all by this statement.

  “The orders were clear. If she were a man, would you go so far? If she were Russell?” That question gave Smith pause. He would go very far for Russell, but the two couldn’t be compared.

  “Russell’s a soldier. She isn’t. And if she were a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because I wouldn’t have gotten so close.”

  “Exactly,” Howell said. “You’re letting your emotions get in the way of your good sense.”

  “Maybe I’m just tired of living on the fringes. Fighting animals like Dattar by crawling into the same pit.” He sighed. “I need to get into position.” He turned to go, and Howell put a hand on his arm.

  “The fact that this is bothering you so much shows that you’re not the same. You’ve got me and Beckmann behind you. We’ll get him and do our best to keep her alive.”

  Smith knew that there was nothing left to say on the subject. He headed back to the building and into the apartment. He opened the bay window and settled in, facing the street. He liked the high angle for viewing purposes, but it had the disadvantage of keeping him far from the action. If anything went awry, he would have to descend several sets of stairs to reach Nolan. As one of the youngest and most fit in the group — Beckmann’s smoking made him a poor choice for an extended sprint — Smith was stuck with the perch. Smith picked up a sniper rifle and settled in to wait.

  Dattar reached the corner of the street near the rendezvous and stopped to check his weapon. In the next instant he felt the muzzle of a gun press against the back of his neck.

  “I take half,” Khalil said. Dattar knocked the weapon away.

  “We’ll talk about it once we have her. In the meantime, keep your threats to yourself.” Khalil’s eyes were hard, but Dattar noticed that he didn’t raise his weapon again.

  “It’s an ambush. It must be,” Khalil said.

 
Dattar nodded. “Of course.” He handed Khalil a small set of binoculars. “We’re more than a block away. Take a look.”

  Khalil looked through the lenses. “In the van. And probably from an upstairs window. It’s what I would do.” He returned the binoculars to Dattar.

  “The bag at her feet contains a million in gold bullion.”

  Khalil whistled. “Heavy. How do you intend to get your hands on it and her? They’ll shoot you the moment you get close.”

  “I’m not going to get anywhere near her.”

  “So how do you get the money?”

  “I’m going to make her come to me,” Dattar said. He tapped on a smartphone. “I just sent her an e-mail.”

  “What did it say?”

  “That she is to pick up the bag and come to the end of the street. If she does not, I send a signal to my men and she will be responsible for what happens next. I suggested to her that money was not worth the number of innocent lives that would be lost if she didn’t comply.”

  Dattar put the binoculars to his eyes and watched as Nolan consulted her tablet. She typed something and sat back. Dattar’s phone beeped. He opened the reply, read it, and hissed through his teeth.

  “What did she say?”

  “That money is worth a lot and people die every day.”

  Smith saw movement at the end of the street. Seconds later the shadows formed into several men making their way toward both Nolan and Beckmann’s van. When Smith put his eye to the scope they came into focus. Six men in dark uniforms, combat boots, Kevlar vests, and sniper rifles. All wore communication headsets. Smith placed his sight on the first and waited as the man drew closer to Howell’s hiding place. Nolan sat over fifty feet away and they had to see her. None targeted her, though, a fact that gave Smith pause. Howell’s voice came over the speaker of the phone that Smith had placed next to him.

  “You see this crew?” Howell’s whisper sounded soft in the darkened apartment.

  “I do. Dattar’s?” Smith kept his sight trained on the first. The man slowed and as he drew even with Howell’s hiding place, he turned back to speak to one of the team. For a moment the letters on his shirt became visible in Smith’s sight.

  “Beckmann, Howell, don’t shoot. They’re FBI. Probably a SWAT team.”

  “Who the hell called them?” Howell said.

  “I have no idea, but they’re going to blow the plan sky high. Dattar sees them, he’ll run for sure.”

  Smith’s phone beeped. “Hold tight, everyone.” Smith switched the line. It was Marty.

  “He’s contacting her. He told her to come to the corner or he’d unleash his weapon.”

  Smith was on his feet and headed to the door with the phone at his ear and the rifle in his hand. If she walked to the corner, Dattar would get her.

  “What did she say?”

  “That money is worth a lot and people die every day.” Marty made a noise between a laugh and a snort. “She’s calling his bluff.”

  “He’s not bluffing,” Smith said. He opened the apartment door and stared into the eyes of Harcourt and the barrel of a gun.

  39

  Put down your gun and walk into the apartment or I’ll put a large hole where your forehead used to be,” Harcourt said. Smith lowered the rifle to the floor. It dropped with a clattering sound onto the wood.

  “What are you talking about? I’m on your side,” Smith said. “We’re using Nolan as bait. Dattar is close. You’re interrupting a mission here.”

  “Shut up,” Harcourt said. He tapped out a text.

  “Jon, they’re lying to her. Dattar just told her that he has you and demanded she move to the corner. She’s doing it.” Marty’s voice held a manic tone and it startled Harcourt, who twitched.

  “Who the hell is that?” he said. Smith felt his blood pressure spike. Because of him, Nolan had surrendered. Bitterness welled up in him and then anger washed over him. He kept his hand that held the phone still.

  “Howell. MI6. He knows I’m up here. You kill me and he’ll kill you.” Smith hoped the lie was effective, but Harcourt shook his head.

  “Forget about lying to me. The FBI has surrounded both of your buddies. Or should I say both of Russell’s buddies? CIA knows she’s a mole and we’ve requested that the FBI pick up her, you, and Beckmann. Everyone she brought with her when she came inside. They’ll detain Howell long enough to transfer him back to England and into the loving arms of MI6. Give me that phone.” Smith tossed it at Harcourt’s feet and tensed, waiting for the moment Harcourt would glance down. When he did, Smith would make his move. It didn’t work. Harcourt kept his eyes on Smith and his gun pointed.

  “Pick it up and hand it to me,” Harcourt said. “You don’t think I’m that stupid, do you?”

  Smith reached down to the phone, all the while hoping that Marty had kept listening to the open channel and had the good sense to remain quiet.

  “Russell’s not a mole. You’ve got to know that.” Smith spoke loud enough that Marty must have been able to hear. No sound came from the phone, but the screen lit again as Smith handled it. The connection was still live. He handed it over. Harcourt powered it down.

  “It’s Russell’s password that’s being used to hack the system. Lie on the floor, face down.”

  Harcourt glanced at the phone and in that instant Smith took a fast slide step, raised his leg at a ninety-degree angle, knee bent, and extended it out as he kicked at the other man’s face. The blow was backed by the rage that consumed him. Harcourt sensed the action, but moved a split second too late, and Smith’s foot hammered into Harcourt’s chest, knocking him backward. The gun went off and fired dead center into Smith’s breastbone. He grunted as he felt the bullet’s punch into the protective vest, and he stumbled with the force. Harcourt lost his footing and landed hard on his lower back. Smith kept coming on, his fury eclipsing his good sense, and he aimed another kick at Harcourt’s face, connecting with his nose at the same moment that Harcourt fired again. The second shot whizzed past Smith but his foot hit its mark. He felt the man’s nose shift to the right with the blow and a plume of blood sprayed with it.

  Smith grabbed at the gun and yanked it out of Harcourt’s hand with his left while he delivered another punch to the man’s nose with his right. Pain reverberated through his knuckles when he hit Harcourt’s hard cheekbone instead of the soft cartilage of his nose. Harcourt swung a fist that managed to land on Smith’s injured left arm, but the resulting sting hurt far less than the bullet to the vest had.

  The sound of pounding feet on the stairs told Smith that the SWAT team had heard the shots and were coming to Harcourt’s rescue. Smith leaped over Harcourt’s prone body and ran back up the stairs to the room with the fire ladder that Nolan had used days ago. The window was still open and Smith clambered through it, not bothering to check whether the team had shown enough foresight to cover the rear of the apartment. If they had, then he would be forced to surrender. He jumped on the stairs to release them and held on as the bottom ladder portion swung downward. He heard rather than saw the men above him. Their voices got louder as they reached the window. Smith didn’t look up at them or down at the street. He kept his focus on the ladder and the left-right motion of crawling lower as fast as he could. Above him a man’s voice yelled.

  “I got him. On the fire stairs. Hold tight.” In the next instant Smith heard the sound of a compressed air shot fired from a rifle. They had either Beckmann’s or Howell’s gun.

  The dart hit him in the back of the neck. A small part of Smith’s brain, the one that was in charge of his logical thinking, informed him that the dart had missed his vertebrae and hit his upper shoulder where the neck met the collarbone. It sank into his flesh and he winced from the rush of tranquilizer that pumped into his system.

  His legs kept moving despite the fact that several milligrams of a powerful animal sedative was pouring into his bloodstream. He made it to the corner before the real effects hit him. Each step was becoming an uncoordinated mess an
d his vision started to blur. He stumbled forward, functioning on adrenaline more than anything else.

  He turned the corner and a silver car jumped the curb and slammed up onto the sidewalk. It came to a halt five feet away from Smith, which was a good thing, because Smith was in no condition to dodge out-of-control cars. Simply walking was becoming a feat unto itself. The car’s window lowered and Russell stuck her head out.

  “Get in.”

  Smith lurched to the passenger’s side, wrenched open the door, and collapsed inside. His feet weren’t off the ground when Russell slammed the car into reverse. She hit the gas and the car shot back, bouncing off the curb, the front swinging into place as she twisted the steering wheel. The rear window on the passenger side cracked and Smith heard the bullet whiz past. Smith was still wrestling with the door when Russell shifted into drive and the car jumped ahead. She drove down the street and turned at the first corner. Despite all the motion around him, Smith was having a hard time staying awake. He tried to thank Russell for saving him, but his lips wouldn’t follow his brain’s command and form the words. She seemed to deform in front of his eyes, her body undulating like a flag in the wind. He knew it was the tranquilizer setting in, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that particular moment. He decided to let the languor take him and he closed his eyes.

  40

  Manhar emerged from the truck near the 191st Street subway station. They’d dropped off a first crew at the 72nd Street subway entrance and now the rest filed out. Manhar wore a reflective vest and a hardhat. It was ten o’clock at night, well past rush hour. Rajiid was laying out orange street cones in a circle around the truck and added a horse with a sign that said “Men at Work.” Next to that he placed a yellow plastic model of a man holding a red flag. He went back to the trailer and began giving orders. Soon the men had used the poles and canvas to create a large cube that screened the area from prying eyes. They arranged the cube to hide the grates over the subway.