The Janus Reprisal

by Robert Ludlum

  Russell kept her gaze on the map of the region while she tried to put herself in Dattar’s shoes. In her years undercover she’d learned a lot about getting from point A to point B undetected. With Belgium to the south and Germany to the north, Dattar had the disadvantage of being in the heart of a cluster of United Nations member countries that had the will to arrest him should they find him. His face would soon be on every television screen in the developed world, along with the details of his escape. His chances of slipping past layer after layer of security on a land journey covering several countries and their border guards seemed remote.

  “I think he’ll want to leave the continent the minute he can. The quickest way to do that is by boat.”

  Harcourt frowned. “I thought you agreed that a boat north to Russia was out.”

  Russell nodded. “I do, but that doesn’t mean he won’t head south. He’s ten miles from one of the largest industrial seaports in the world.” Russell walked to the flat screen and reached up to point at Rotterdam. “He’d be nuts to hang around waiting for a train when Rotterdam is so close. The sheer volume of cargo throughput makes it difficult for customs to monitor every single vessel. He gets the added advantage that many freighters head straight toward Cyprus, where we all know he’d find any number of organizations eager to help him.” She put her finger on the small island off the coasts of Turkey and Syria. “If I were him, I’d pay a willing ship’s captain to take me. Within hours he could be far from the mainland and into international waters.”

  “I think you’re onto something,” Cromwell said.

  Harcourt, though, looked less than convinced. “Rotterdam’s large, I’ll grant you that, but he still has to arrange for a freight captain to let him stow away, and then he has to stay put for at least thirty-six hours while the ship sails south. With a train he has the advantage of mobility. If things begin to look like they’re headed in the wrong direction, all he has to do is hop off.”

  “But he hops off into hostile territory.”

  “Still. If he can blend in, he has the possibility to keep moving, make a run for it.”

  Cromwell pushed off the edge of the table and looked at Russell. “Can you put agents in both places? Cover the train station and the Rotterdam port?”

  Russell hesitated. She’d been to Rotterdam port and didn’t think Cromwell understood the sheer impossibility of what he was suggesting. She stepped to the computer keyboard that Harcourt had used and navigated to the Rotterdam seaport web page. From there she highlighted an integrative map with a sidebar listing the port’s statistics. They were staggering, even to her, who had seen it in person.

  “Four hundred million gross metric tons of throughput per year, 30,000 freighters, and 10,500 hectares stretching 40 kilometers. That’s 26,000 acres of land over 24 miles long. I don’t have the manpower to cover that effectively.”

  “Which I think leads us to the conclusion that we should use our available resources in the most efficient manner,” Harcourt said. “Let’s blanket the train station and leave the port alone. One or two extra men there won’t make a dent, but they have a fighting chance to help at the train station.”

  Cromwell looked over. “Russell?”

  A look of slight irritation washed over Harcourt’s face. Russell noted the reaction and decided to tread carefully. It was appropriate that Cromwell consult her because tracking terrorists was what she’d done to great effect in the field, but she couldn’t blame Harcourt for being slightly put out. Most decisions at Langley came from headquarters to the field, not the other way around. But Russell knew how it felt to be hunted, Harcourt didn’t. Until Dattar was caught, he’d be hunted, and Russell knew every trick there was to move undercover. The whole point of the new initiative was to get field experience back into the offices.

  “Beckmann’s located Smith and they’re headed to the airport. I’ll divert them and they can watch for anything unusual.”

  “I know Beckmann, but who’s Smith?” Harcourt said.

  “He’s a doctor with the US Army who was attending the World Health Organization conference.”

  “What do we know about this guy? Has he been cleared to receive orders from the CIA?” Now Harcourt was frowning, his mouth set in a thin line. Russell saw the objection coming to Smith’s acting in any way that might appear to be managed by the CIA, and she strove to head it off.

  “I’ve worked with Smith before on missions where army and agency interests collide. I’m positive that he’s had high-level clearance at one time or another, so I don’t believe we’re taking any risks or breaching any security in bringing him into the loop. As a microbiologist he’s there on other business, clearly, but his military skills are excellent and he’s already in position. It might be worthwhile to ask the army to loan him out for this emergency.”

  Harcourt shook his head. “We don’t need a microbiologist.”

  “But we might. It’s highly suspect that the attacks occurred during the WHO conference. We think the terrorists may have located some biomaterial on the premises,” Russell said.

  “I’ll defer to your judgment on this Smith character, but then he’s your asset to manage. If he screws up, you’re going to have to go to the mat for him. ” Harcourt gave Russell a slight smile.

  “I’ll be in the situation room,” Cromwell said. “Whatever you need to do, do it.” He swung back out the door.

  “If you require anything, just call,” Harcourt said. He logged off the computer system and followed Cromwell out.

  Russell reached for the phone on the credenza and dialed Beckmann. She heard the other end engage, and Jon Smith’s voice poured through the receiver.

  “Please give me some good news.”

  “Smith? Why are you answering Beckmann’s phone?”

  “He’s busy hot-wiring a car.” Russell heard Beckmann’s voice in the background, muffled by the roaring of a vehicle’s engine as it revved.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He’s saying I shouldn’t have told you that. Apparently he’s not supposed to be committing auto theft on foreign soil. I haven’t known your officer long, but he appears to break a lot of the CIA’s rules. Kind of reminds me of you in that way.”

  Russell smiled. “I rarely break rules. Merely bend them.” She heard Smith’s snort of disbelief through the phone. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Tell him I’ve got new orders. Go to the train station after all. Oman Dattar’s escaped. We think he may leave by train and we’d like some eyes on the station.”

  “I’m going with him. Two extra eyes could make the difference.”

  Russell hesitated. She had no control over Smith, he was free to go or stay, but she knew from Harcourt’s pointed question about Smith’s status that she wouldn’t be able to extend CIA protection to him without at least a tacit understanding between her organization and his military superiors. She decided to let him go and request emergency clearance for him should the need arise.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him? Or should I send a photo to Beckmann’s phone?”

  “I know Dattar very, very well. I assisted with a UN contingent of doctors to contain the cholera outbreak in the Pakistani region that he controls. He initially refused to allow treatment for anyone that he deemed an enemy. That included infants and small children. I persuaded him otherwise.” Russell was intrigued. Few people were capable of persuading Dattar to do anything he didn’t want to do.

  “Persuaded him? How?”

  “A gun, a rotavirus, and duct tape were involved. I’ll give you the whole story sometime. He hates me and promised retribution. You can believe that if I see him I’ll do my best to detain him.”

  “But try not to risk blowing Beckmann’s cover. Just keep Dattar in your sights and transmit any coordinates to me. I’ll arrange for the local authorities to handle the recapture.”

  “I assume a red notice went out?”

  “Any minute now.” Wendel stuck her head through the conference ro
om door and waved a hand at Russell.

  “Hold on.” Russell put her hand over the mouthpiece. “News?”

  Wendel nodded. “Two more bombs. One took out a famous restaurant near the city center, and a second at the train station.”

  Russell pointed to the map on the screen. “Can you switch that up to show them?”

  “Of course.” Wendel tapped on the computer keyboard and Russell’s prior photo of the Rotterdam port was replaced with a detailed map of The Hague. She highlighted two areas.

  “Can you send that screen shot to Beckmann’s phone?”

  Wendel punched a few more keys and the image was copied and sent.

  “I’m afraid there’s more news.” Russell spoke into the phone. “Two more bombs just exploded. One downtown and the other at the train station. I’m sending a map with the locations to you now.”

  “Dattar’s got to be involved in this attack,” Smith said.

  “I agree. Watch your backs, both of you. He’s not to be messed with. He’s lethal.”

  “The next time I get him in my sights, he’s going to wish he’d never been born. I’m out.”

  Smith hung up.

  9

  SMITH CRAWLED INTO THE passenger seat of the vehicle that Beckmann had managed to start. It was a black Lincoln town car complete with consular plates. The leather seats were remarkably plush and comfortable, and Smith felt his body ease into them.

  “Let’s see which ambassador’s car you managed to steal.” He fished in the glove compartment while Beckmann maneuvered onto the road. He pulled out a slim leather document holder that contained several folded pieces of paper.

  “With any luck it will be the US envoy to the Netherlands,” Beckmann said. “Then it won’t be theft. Merely borrowing.”

  Smith opened the papers. “Drive carefully, it’s owned by North Korea. We get stopped driving a stolen North Korean diplomat’s car and we’ll spark an international incident.”

  “That explains it,” Beckmann said.

  “Explains what?”

  “The poor maneuverability. This car must be armored. No North Korean diplomat would settle for less.”

  “Armored. I like that. Just what we need tonight,” Smith said. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen. Klein was calling.

  When he answered, he heard Klein say, “You’re alive! Excellent.”

  “I’m in a stolen North Korean ambassador’s car with an officer of the CIA.” When Klein didn’t respond immediately, Smith said, “Are you there?”

  “Yes. I was just considering the implications of that sentence. All I can say is that I’m extremely pleased that you survived, and I have orders. It appears as though the terrorists may be in search of some of the biomaterial and a research report that your fellow scientists brought to the conference. In particular, bacteria stored in the hotel’s safe.” Smith glanced at Beckmann, who seemed focused on driving. Even so, Smith took care with his response.

  “Not anymore. I saw them remove three coolers of biomaterial. I didn’t see any research papers, but they could have found them, stuffed them under their shirts or in a backpack and I wouldn’t have been the wiser. I checked the safe after they’d left, and only jewelry remained. No reports either. What’s in those containers?”

  “Various bacteria. Some recently discovered and all antibiotic resistant, as well as a version of H5N1.”

  “Avian flu,” Smith said. “That’s a nasty virus with a terrible survival rate, to be sure, but bird flu is not easily transmissible from human to human. Most often bird to human and then in very unique circumstances.”

  “But we just learned some alarming news. A group of scientists in the Netherlands have managed to mutate H5N1 so that it is airborne transmissible, and they acknowledged that one of the attending scientists at the convention was going to make an announcement about the research. They’re concerned that he brought the mutated version with him.”

  “Where is this scientist?”

  “He was staying on the fourth floor. They just found his body.”

  “And the research?”

  “His thesis and report were also in the safe.”

  “What kind of scientist deliberately mutates a virus and then carries a report on it around on his person?”

  That got Beckmann’s attention. He glanced at Smith with a frown on his face and then swore in German under his breath.

  “A scientist searching for fame,” Klein said. “I have a question for you. What are the rules for carrying around hazardous biomaterial? Doesn’t it have to be locked down in a lab?”

  “There are a lot of workplace safety rules for employees that handle the material, but surprisingly few rules regarding security. Avian flu, the nonmutated version, only needs to be kept locked because it’s not easily transmitted. The hotel safe would suffice.”

  “And if it’s mutated?”

  “Perhaps then it would be considered biosafety-level 4 and the rules would be much stricter, but it’s not easy to mutate a virus,” Smith said. “If what they say is correct and if they have the nonmutated version in the cooler, it will take some work to alter it, even with a road map provided by the scientist. That should buy us some time,” Smith said.

  “Let’s just hope it’s enough. We have to reacquire those coolers just to be sure that the virus isn’t the mutated version. I’d love to get our hands on the research papers as well, but I suspect they’re copying them as we speak. Unless we can find them quickly. Now, while they’re still on the run. Any idea where that crew was headed?”

  “I lost sight of them the minute they ran out of the hotel. Randi Russell asked that we go to the train station. Oman Dattar escaped from prison, and apparently the thought is that he will attempt to flee by train. I’m accompanying one of her officers there. I told her and I’ll tell you that I think Dattar is involved in some way. It’s no coincidence that he managed to escape on the same night as a deadly attack.”

  “I agree, but my primary concern is the coolers.”

  “If we find Dattar, I’ll lay odds that we’ll find the bacteria. If not on his person, then I’ll beat the location out of him.”

  “While you’re searching, can you find a scanner and input those photos? E-mail them to me? I want to start some inquiries. Perhaps the woman is a scientist at the convention.”

  Beckmann pointed through the windshield at a man dressed in black who was staggering down the street. He passed under a streetlight and Smith could see a sheen of sweat on his face.

  “That’s one of them,” Beckmann said. He reached between them where his rifle was propped with its muzzle in the foot well and its stock on the edge of the seat. Smith reached under his jacket and pulled out his gun.

  “I’ve got to go. We’ve just spotted one of the attackers. We’ll grab him and shake some answers out of him.”

  “Call me the minute you have some,” Klein said and clicked off. Beckmann pulled the car even with the stumbling man.

  “He looks drunk,” he said.

  “Pull ahead and then stop. Keep the engine running. I’ll corral him.”

  Beckmann shook his head. “My orders were to protect you, not allow you to get yourself killed in a scuffle with a jihadist. I’ll go.” But Smith already had the door open. The overhead light turned on, illuminating the car’s interior. Smith slipped out quickly, closing the door.

  The cool night air felt bracing. He crossed between two parked cars onto the sidewalk and began to stroll toward the attacker, holding his gun down by his thigh and out of sight. They were twenty feet apart, and Smith was closing the distance fast, keeping his strides slow. The attacker continued his swaying, stumbling progress with his head down, watching the sidewalk, his entire concentration on each step. At ten feet apart Smith could see that the man was seriously ill. Smith closed the distance quickly, grabbing the man’s arm just as he crumpled, and lowered him to the ground. Beckmann jogged up and crouched down.

  “
He’s been shot?” he said.

  Smith ran his hands over the man’s jacket, feeling the lump of a weapon in his right pocket. He reached in and removed a 9 mm gun. He handed it to Beckmann, who pocketed it. The man’s breath was rasping in and out and his eyelids fluttered. Each time they opened, Smith could see that his pupils were rolled back. Smith continued his search for a wound, finding none.

  “Help me lift him. I want to check his back.”

  Beckmann put his rifle on the ground and assisted in lifting the man from the pavement and turning him to the side. He held him while Smith ran his hands over his back.

  “Nothing. But we need to get him to a hospital fast or he’s not going to make it.”

  Beckmann laid the attacker back down. The man gave a last gasp, then stilled. His head lolled to the side.

  “Damn,” Smith said.

  Beckmann made an irritated sound. “There goes our chance at interrogation.”

  “Two others at the hotel died just the same way.”

  “Cyanide?” Beckmann said.

  “No. I checked. I’d like to get an autopsy done. Perhaps we can find out what’s going on here.” Beckmann pulled out his phone and sent a text.

  “I asked for a team to come collect the body and deliver it to the Dutch authorities. They’re on their way, but I think we should continue to the train station. Let me take some photos.” Smith moved away while Beckmann took several shots. “Done.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket. “Do we leave the weapon? Sig Sauers are my favorite. Not flashy, but solid.” Smith cocked his head.

  “I like them too, but if he fired it, it could be traced. You sure you want to keep it?”

  “I’m lacking a pistol. I think we take it. Just in case.”

  They returned to the car, which was double-parked with its emergency lights flashing. Smith slid into the driver’s seat and was struck once again by the car’s comfort. His eyes felt grainy and his body seemed to deflate in exhaustion.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “Five AM. Tired?”