The Widow's Strike pl-4

by Brad Taylor

  He hurried deeper into the vault, acting like he had a destination in mind. He began running his fingers down a row as if he was searching a library shelf and noticed the drawers were color coded. He recognized many of the labels and realized he was in the dermatology section.

  Where would they hide it? Where would I put it if I were going to hide it? Would I use the sections to camouflage it, or would I use the space, regardless of what section it was in?

  He decided it would be a little bit of both. They’d want it out of sight from casual discovery, but also in a section that had little habitual traffic. Which meant something old. Something no longer hot in the research hierarchy.

  Having a healthy knowledge of the goings-on of the lab, he knew that Cailleach’s current focus was dermatology, or, more precisely, acne, so he immediately dismissed that entire section.

  He scooted to the back and began searching each section on the lower level, near the floor. He recognized every label as legitimate and wondered if he should just begin opening drawers to see what was inside. He glanced at his watch and felt the panic rise.

  He was killing his son. His hands began to tremble at the futility of it all. There were over five hundred drawers, and he didn’t even know if there was a sample to begin with.

  He reached a section with labels marking a failed attempt at a new form of eyedrop. Dr. Nakarat remembered it well because they’d dumped an enormous amount of money into the research but just couldn’t get rid of some nasty side effects. In the end, they’d chalked it up as a loss and kept the patent samples just in case something in the future would bring them value.

  The drawers were all low to the floor, and the section was definitely not one that would be accessed any time soon. He began running his fingers down each one, looking for something that didn’t fit. Praying for a miracle. He found it in the second drawer from the bottom. A label that held the number 33 and As. The chemical symbol for arsenic.

  Poison.

  He pulled open the drawer and found a small Pelican box with a biohazard symbol. Now trembling from fear of what was in front of him, he fought to remain calm. He glanced back at the door and saw the guard had lost interest in him.

  He opened the box, seeing a single vial inside, stoppered in rubber and padded with foam. No labels on it at all. He reverently slid it out of its foam cocoon, holding it gently in both hands.

  He looked at his watch and saw his fifteen minutes were up. Carefully, gently, he placed the vial in the small of his back, trapped by the elastic of his underwear. He waddled to the front of the vault, moving stiffly to prevent the vial from shifting.

  He passed the guard and thanked him for his time, shuffling to the door, feeling the sweat rolling down his sides.

  The guard said, “Hang on.”

  Nakarat turned, his heart racing, knowing he was caught.

  “You have to sign out the sample. You can’t just take it.”

  What sample? Can he see the vial in my underwear?

  Then it hit home: He’d forgotten to take out the sample for his concocted experiment. The excuse that gave him the reason to enter in the first place.

  He felt light-headed and faint. He wiped his brow and said, “I decided to try something else. While I was looking, a thought came to me about another solution. You just never know when inspiration will strike.”

  The guard said, “Yeah, well, you need to sign to that effect. Every time the reefer is opened, I have to account for the actions that occurred. They’ll marry up the time of opening with the log. Something’s gotta go down in it.”

  Nakarat walked back to the desk and slowly bent over, dreading that he would feel the vial sliding down his haunch, then down his leg, only to break on the floor.

  He made his statement, then placed his hand on the small of his back as he stood upright, grimacing as if he was in pain. He felt nothing. No lump. No vial.

  Satisfied, the guard bade him good day. Nakarat stood for a moment, afraid to move. The vial had slipped from the elastic in the small of his back, which meant it was now somewhere in his underwear. Hopefully snagged in the crotch, but possibly about to slide down his leg.

  The guard gave him a strange look, and Nakarat came close to blurting out the problem. He caught himself and turned away stiffly, feeling the vial for the first time. Against his rump. He took a small step forward and sensed it shift lower. Another step, and he felt it caress the back of his thigh, held precariously by the fabric of his pants. The door was a mere three steps away.

  Three paces. Three paces of slippage. This is insane.

  He stared at the portal of freedom for an eternity, his conscious mind unwilling to cause his muscles to trigger potential disaster. From somewhere far away, he heard the guard ask if he was all right. He needed to move. He forced his legs to function, walking like a marionette. One. Two. Three.

  He turned the corner and clamped his hands on his calf, trapping the vial before it could travel farther. He slid it down, cupped it in his hands, and walked as fast as he dared back to his office. He closed the door and gingerly set the vial down. He created his own padded case using a box of gauze and locked the makeshift ensemble in his lower desk drawer, next to the two samples of the vaccine he’d already taken from his laboratory. Then he collapsed into his chair.

  He was breathing in a rapid pant, his eyes closed, wiping the clammy sweat from his neck, when his intercom buzzed.

  “Dr. Nakarat? Could you come downstairs to the front office? There are a couple of policemen who need a word with you.”

  * * *

  Malik scooted his chair back into the shade of the canopy, pushing away the plate of “Persian” food. The restaurant claimed to be authentic, but the Indian doing the cooking could have used a few hometown lessons.

  All in all, he was pleased with the progression of the mission. He’d put Sanjar and Roshan on the doctor his first day back at work following the meeting. When he’d left the lab and traveled in a beeline to the Marina Bay Sands, Malik was convinced he was in the pocket and would do nothing stupid.

  Thailand was coming to closure as well. After getting briefed on the plan for the disposal of the boy from the team, he’d given the go-ahead, and one more loose end was done, he was sure. The body wouldn’t be found for weeks, if not months, and there would be no way to tie it to his team. He was looking forward to getting a complete report later today, at the prearranged contact time.

  The only glitch in the entire operation was from his own hierarchy. The IRGC had demanded the vaccine before he could proceed, something he obviously couldn’t provide. He’d assured them it was on the way and had set things in motion anyway.

  He held no illusions about what he was doing but knew that his choice was the right path. If you wanted to take on the superpowers, you needed to be willing to risk it all. He was now convinced the mullahs were defeatist sheep, afraid to step into the arena. Afraid to risk what was necessary. He knew the West would be brought to its knees long before the virus struck Iran. By then, they’d be able to use the Great Satan’s own research to overcome any pandemic in Iran. He didn’t have a vaccine now, but he would before it was needed.

  Let it destroy America first. By the time she is a smoldering ember, she will have figured out how to stop the onslaught. And give us the solution for free, as a gesture of humanity.

  The IRGC, of course, didn’t see it that way. He’d had to think about how to keep them at bay until the mission was done.

  The groundwork in place and with nothing else to do, he was burnishing his cover on the off chance he would need it as an alibi. Exploring Little India, he’d found an Arabic section, with the streets named after Middle East capitals, like Baghdad and Muscat. Sprinkled throughout were various Persian-carpet stores, along with shops selling other textiles he could plausibly claim, such as scarves, drapes, and raw fabric.

  He plied them all and had even managed to get further contacts for two who had shown interest in his “business.” Somethi
ng that would go a long way to backing up his story, should he ever be pushed.

  He’d eventually tired of the charade and had stopped for lunch within view of the great Sultan Mosque, toying with the idea of attending midday prayers. When the call came through the loudspeakers of the mosque, he pushed his plate away, waving at the waiter to bring his bill.

  He’d decided that consideration of prayer was good enough, but the guilt forced him to leave. He couldn’t listen to the rhythmic chanting while sitting in a restaurant drinking tea. He paid his bill and began walking back the way he’d come, away from the mosque and toward the Bugis MRT stop.

  Moving south on North Bridge Road, he rounded the corner to a large hospital and felt his phone vibrate. He snatched it out of his pocket, saw it was the doctor’s number, and smiled. The mission was going as smoothly as he could have wanted.

  “Hello, Dr. Nakarat. You called quicker than I thought you would. I guess getting my material wasn’t as hard as you predicted.”

  What he heard next came out in a jumble, and he was sure he’d misunderstood.

  “I don’t have it! The police showed up at the lab. They were looking for me. I didn’t call them, I swear! I don’t know what they wanted.”

  “Slow down. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I went to the patent reefer and found the virus. When I got back to my office the secretary on the first floor told me some police were there to see me. I swear to God I didn’t call anyone!”

  All Malik heard was that he’d found the virus. The fact that the doctor was calling meant he wasn’t in police custody. Malik wasn’t even upset at the lack of operational security on the phone.

  “So you have the material now? What did the police say when you met them? How did you get away?”

  “I didn’t meet them! I went down a back stairwell and fled!”

  “With the material?”

  “No, it’s in my office. I swear I didn’t call anyone. Please don’t hurt my son.”

  “In your office? With the police?”

  “I don’t know…. I ran out of there…. I’m not sure what they wanted. Maybe there was an alarm on the virus case or something.”

  “An alarm that triggered someone to come from the outside in? Instead of the internal security already in place? No. That’s not it. It’s a coincidence. You need to return to your office and obtain the virus. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t! They’ll just capture me! Please! I tried…. I tried….”

  Malik heard the doctor break down, with nothing but sobbing coming from the phone.

  He said, “Doctor, listen,” and waited for the weeping to fade. When it did, he continued. “Wait until late tonight, then go back to your office. Get the material and call me.”

  His voice hitching, Nakarat said, “But I’ll have to go through a security gate. The guard will stop me.”

  “Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. We won’t know until you try. Let me clear things up for you, because it’s really quite simple. One, you do nothing, in which case your son dies. Two, you attempt to get the material and get arrested, in which case your son dies. Three, you get the material and call me. In this case your son lives. This is the only option favorable to you. Understand?”

  After a moment of breathing hitches, Malik heard, “Yes, yes. I understand.”

  27

  “I could climb to it. Get in from underneath the SkyPark. Then I could just access his floor from the service stairwell.”

  Looking at the map of the Marina Bay Sands hotel, that was possibly the dumbest idea anyone could have ever come up with. Not to mention I was completely surprised at who had broached it.

  “Jennifer, please. It’s almost sixty stories in the air. You’ll have to work your way under the SkyPark platform. It’s not like a straight rappel. I know you don’t want to give up the lead you found, but let’s not do something stupid.”

  Before we’d left Thailand, we’d done a pretty thorough dig into the general, trying to get a handle, and had initially come up empty. Everything we had on him under the name Malik died in Thailand. No credit card usage, passport, or anything else in Singapore. We’d used digital reach-back with the analysts in the rear to build a thorough targeting matrix and had come up blank. He’d cleaned his tracks completely, and we were having no luck with any historical patterns.

  Jennifer had asked the hackers to forward his room bill from the hotel in Bangkok. They’d initially refused, saying it was scrubbed and clean. No information we didn’t already have. I’d ordered it anyway, even though I thought they were right.

  While the rest of the team went back to the targeting matrix, trying to find some angle we had missed, Jennifer stared at the bill. She knew all we needed was one little bit of digital fingerprint to work with, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t find it.

  “Have you cracked the hotel itself, looked at the initial reservation?”

  Via our “company VPN” the analyst said, “No. We got that from the credit card statement. Takes too long to get into the hotel and find his reservation. Too risky, and there won’t be anything we don’t already have.”

  I could tell he was miffed at someone questioning his job but I also knew nobody was perfect. I let it run.

  Jennifer said, “Even with the confirmation code? It’s on this bill. Should be easy. I want to see the initial reservation.”

  The analyst started to protest, and I said, “Just do it. Can’t hurt.”

  Thirty minutes later, while the rest of us were spinning our wheels, Jennifer turned away from the reservation on her screen and said, “Run this number through.”

  The analyst, interrupted from talking to the team, said, “Why? What now? You’re slowing down progress.”

  “It’s some sort of frequent flyer/hotel bonus points number. See where else it’s been used.”

  It turned out to be registered to some bogus Iranian carpet manufacturer and was now tied to a different reservation, under a different name. At the Marina Bay Sands hotel in Singapore. I couldn’t help but feel a little smug for no reason whatsoever. After all, it was Jennifer who had found it, and yet she was part of my team.

  I was also astounded at the utter stupidity of the slip, but that’s the way with this type of work. It was a stark reminder of how easy it was to be compromised. You never knew what was going to get you. How many digital scraps were tied to the Taskforce? From Thailand? From other missions? Something to worry about later. For now, we had a mission to accomplish, and the Iranians had given us the means to do so.

  Lucky for us, the IRGC likes collecting bonus points on their secret missions.

  Getting the deployment order from the Oversight Council, we’d immediately packed our bags and headed to Singapore, leaving Buckshot to play escort for Kavi Nakarat, getting him out of Thailand via other Taskforce assets. The police in Singapore had not been able to locate the father, Dr. Sakchai Nakarat, so we were still in play. The intent of our mission was the same as before: Get a handle on the Iranian general and pass off his pattern of life to the inbound team.

  In my mind, the easiest way to do that was to get a block of rooms at the Marina Bay Sands. Unfortunately, it was way, way over our authorized per diem. I knew Taskforce finance would bust a gasket when they got the bill, but hey, sometimes you sleep in a swamp, sometimes you get a five-star resort.

  The Sands was a technological marvel that encompassed a high-end mall, casino, and convention center. The hotel was three separate fifty-five-story towers capped with what looked like a cruise ship on top, called the SkyPark. The tower construction was what was causing our current dilemma.

  We were in tower one, and our target room was in tower three. Ordinarily, this would have been no issue whatsoever, but there was also some rock star celebrity delegation in tower three, and its elevators were now manned with uniformed security to keep out the paparazzi. You had to have a key that registered in that tower to go up, as the three towers weren’t connected horizontal
ly. Only on the top and bottom.

  We’d learned quickly that, due to the size of the hotel, establishing a base of surveillance to catch the general leaving was impossible. There were simply too many exits. We needed early warning, a trigger that he was on the move and a direction. Which meant we needed access to his room.

  Initially, we were just going to forge a key-card for access to the elevator, using a special device that would spoof the door locks — which was how we would access his room — but the guards ran the key-card through a wireless reader. Connected to the reception desk, the reader showed who you were, when you checked in, your room number, and when you were scheduled to check out.

  The forged key only tricked the door. It couldn’t access the database. Basically, we’d have to spoof quite a few different systems to trick the guards, and we didn’t have time to test all of the intricacies. Too many single points of failure, which led us to our current predicament and Jennifer’s idea of climbing from the top of the building down.

  Decoy said, “Pike’s right. There’s no way you’re going to free-climb underneath forty meters of outcropping hanging two hundred meters above the ground. This isn’t Yellowstone, with a bunch of pitons already seated.”

  Jennifer said, “Wait, I’m not talking about going underneath the observation deck. Look at the blueprint. I can rappel right over the side near tower three and only have to go under about ten meters, on a curve. From there, I can get into the service stairwell through the window-cleaning balcony.”

  I said, “Still the same problem. What are you going to do, rappel down, and then start swinging until you collide underneath with the pylon on top of the tower? No way.”

  “Kurt said he gave us a complete package, didn’t he?”

  I didn’t like where this was going, knowing she was way ahead on something. “Yeah, so what?”

  “Well, it has climbing gear. Right?”