The Janus Reprisal c-9 Read online

  Klein rose. “I’ll get a crew on it. And my first member will be the man hanging from the ledge.” He walked to the door. “That is, if he makes it out alive.”

  6

  Smith opened the room door and peered out, glancing down both sides of the hall. The muffled sound of rapid gunfire came somewhere from above, but this floor appeared to be abandoned. He moved to his former room. He needed a weapon in addition to the Beretta in his hand and he figured the terrorists had no further use for theirs. The door hung lopsidedly on its hinges and he pushed past it, holding his gun high and easing into the chamber. The assassin remained at the foot of the bed and the two terrorists’ bodies at the window, one still hanging half in and half out, the other slumped next to him.

  Smith moved toward them, but stopped cold when he saw a fourth terrorist’s body three feet from the other two. This man lay on his side, still holding his weapon, an AK-47 with a folding stock. Smith approached him slowly, looking for any signs of life or any indication that the man was playing dead, but the body lay there, unmoving. Smith stepped next to it, bent down, and curled his fingers under the attacker’s ski mask. He pulled it off, revealing the swarthy features and dark hair of a man possibly of Middle Eastern descent; his face was clean shaven and line-free. Perhaps in his early thirties, no more. Smith checked for a pulse. Nothing. He ran his eyes over the body but could find no signs of a wound. The man wore a hunting vest of greased army-green canvas with several pockets. Smith searched them all, coming up with spare bullets for the AK, and a hotel-room key. He rolled the man over, looking for signs of an entry wound on his back, and opened the man’s mouth, once again checking for cyanide pills and once again coming up empty. Neither this man nor the attacker slumped at the foot of his bed had any outward reason to be dead. A part of Smith wanted to analyze the body, figure out why the man had died, but he had no time to spare.

  Smith pulled the AK out of the terrorist’s hands and collected the extra ammunition. He began to fill his pajama pockets, but they were bulging with the earlier attacker’s money, his own cell phone, and the photos. He placed the items on the carpet and moved to his suitcase. The sprinkler system in the room had stopped working, but not before it had doused the army uniform remaining in the case. Smith dug under the top layer and grabbed some underwear, socks, and the shoulder holster for his Beretta before moving to the closet where he pulled a pair of black corduroy pants off a hanger along with a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and a short black jacket in a technical fabric. At least these clothes were dry. He dressed quickly, strapping on the holster and reaching for his running shoes. Smith hesitated. The shoes were also black, a good color for blending into the darkness, but the heels were striped with reflective tape. He took a glance at the one dress shoe left under the suitcase. It appeared dry, but even across the room he could see that the one he’d thrown at the lamp was soaking. He put on the athletic shoes. He’d find a way to obscure the tape when he had more time. He shoved his wallet and passport into a pocket, put the cell phone, photos, and money in another, and grabbed the AK and the spare ammo.

  Armed with two weapons, Smith headed back into the hall, moving fast toward the north stairwell. He pushed open the door and stepped onto the landing. Clouds of ash hung in the air. He sucked some in and felt his throat clutch as the acrid soot hit it. He slipped down the metal stairs, slowing at the second landing and placing his hand on the metal fire door. It burned his palm, and he jerked it back at the extreme heat he felt there. His eyes started streaming with tears from the thickening smoke as he continued downward, taking care that his footfalls made no sound. The building shook when he was at the last few steps to the street level, and bits of plaster fell off the stairwell walls. The smoke accumulated to a level where Smith felt as though he was inhaling nothing but ash. He reached a corner and began to move around it inch by inch, keeping his back to the wall and his gun raised. His weapon came muzzle to muzzle on the receiving end of a rifle.

  Smith’s world stopped spinning for a moment, and he felt his trigger finger tighten as his brain registered the threat. He locked eyes with the man staring back at him. They were green, an inch below the edge of a dark wool cap. Smith saw recognition grow.

  “Mr. Smith?” the man whispered.

  Smith jerked his head in a quick nod.

  “Thank you for not pulling the trigger. I’m Andreas Beckmann. I shot the two men in the window.” The building shook again with another explosion.

  “Cover me, point to point,” Smith said. He moved around Beckmann and kept going downward, swinging his gun in an arc. At the next landing he pressed himself against the wall and Beckmann moved into position again. They made their way to the first floor, taking turns advancing and waiting until they reached the final door.

  Smith pushed open the door half an inch. Cool air rushed past him, mixing with the heavy fumes in the stairwell. He was happy to breathe fresh oxygen again. He peered out. The stairs opened into the hotel’s lobby. Here the destruction wrought by the terrorists was evident.

  The hotel’s gleaming parquet floor, marble pillars, and plush velvet furniture had absorbed the effect of what looked to Smith like a hand grenade thrown dead center. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and several chairs lay in a jumble where the bomb’s force had blown them. A settee, which Smith had noticed when he’d checked in, was shattered. Two of its four legs were cracked in half, and the dark brown velvet fabric smoldered from a stray spark. The pillar at the center of the lobby had sustained the most damage. A ragged chunk of the marble was cut from the side, and the parquet floor below had a deep crater in it.

  “Clear?” Beckmann said.

  “So far. Let’s go.”

  Smith moved into the far end of the lobby, keeping his back against the wall and sweeping his eyes around to catch any sign of movement. He held the AK up, ready to fire as he continued to slink along the room’s perimeter and toward the door and freedom. Beckmann followed, edging around corners with the same silent step. Smith heard a sound in front of him and to the left. He waved Beckmann to a halt. Twenty feet more and the lobby would widen into an L-shaped section recessed to the right that contained the hotel’s registration desk. There was no way to see from the perimeter if anyone lurked there. A thick marble pillar five feet from the wall would provide cover yet still allow him to see into the recessed area, but he would be exposed for the few seconds it would take to get there. He gauged the darkness, trying to decide if it, coupled with his black clothes, would camouflage his movement.

  “I’m going to the pillar,” Smith said. Beckmann nodded.

  Smith lowered to a crouch, took a deep breath and slipped out, reaching the column in two long strides. He pressed against the cool stone. Beckmann joined him two seconds later, crouching next to him and placing his back against the pillar. Smith’s heart hammered at the risk he’d taken, but one glance told him that it had been necessary.

  Three men stood in formation at the head of the recessed area, shoulder to shoulder, their heads turning from side to side as they scanned the lobby. All three wore stocking masks over their faces, and all three held submachine guns at the ready. Behind them the registration desk with its granite-topped counter had been shattered, along with the mahogany-paneled wall behind. A gaping hole allowed Smith to see directly into the offices behind.

  “We’ve got company,” he whispered to Beckmann.

  “How many?” Beckmann said.

  “Six. Three sentries and three others.”

  Beckmann turned and rose a bit to see over Smith.

  The three others were also masked, and they stood in front of what Smith assumed was the hotel safe. Though it was covered in black dust, the steel container appeared to have survived the blast without sustaining enough damage to cause the lock to fail. The door remained closed. One man held a piece of paper in front of his face, placing it close to his eyes to enable him to read it, and used his other hand to work a keypad. After he had pressed a series of b
uttons, the door opened with a loud clicking noise. The attacker operating the keypad reached in and removed a small insulated cooler. A decal on one side of it read, Bioelectrical agent. Handle with care.

  “What’s in those containers that they want them so badly?” Beckmann whispered.

  Smith shook his head. “I don’t know, but there are six of them, two of us. I don’t like that they’re taking the containers, but I don’t like the odds, either.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Beckmann said.

  Smith had to agree. He counted five Uzi submachine guns and one AK-47 against his Beretta and AK and Beckmann’s rifle. It would be a bloodbath, and all one way. Nothing would be accomplished, except that he and Beckmann would be dead.

  “We’ll let them go and track them,” Smith said.

  The men collected two more coolers before backing away from the safe, leaving its door gaping and keeping their guns at the ready; they jogged away from the entrance toward the back of the hotel and disappeared. “How do they expect to leave? The front of the hotel is surrounded,” Smith said.

  “But the back isn’t,” Beckmann replied. “It leads onto the beach and they have snipers covering the sides. The Dutch police are staying well away. They’re waiting for the Dutch Special Forces.”

  “Then the terrorist crew must have arrived by boat,” Smith said.

  Beckmann nodded. “I came from the beach side as well. We should leave that way. I don’t want to risk using the front door unless the police are warned that we’re friendly.”

  “Let’s go.” He crossed the lobby and made his way to the safe, stepping over the branches of an overturned tree in a large terra-cotta pot. He reached the safe and peered into it. The interior contained several shelves, with each shelf divided further into compartments marked with numbers from one to fifty. Nearly all held something placed there for safekeeping. Smith reached out and removed a flat jewelry box from compartment number thirty-six. He flipped it open to find a stunning sapphire necklace with a center pendant stone of several carats surrounded by diamonds. A heavy gold chain also inset with diamonds accompanied the piece. Smith was astonished that the terrorists had left such a treasure trove behind, opting instead for coolers of biomaterial.

  “Interesting that they didn’t even look at these jewels,” Beckmann said. “They’re worth a fortune. What was in those coolers?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s worth more than diamonds.” Smith replaced the necklace and closed the safe door, ensuring that it was locked. Whatever had happened to the owners of the valuables inside, he hoped that someone would eventually sort it out and get the pieces to the family members.

  “Let’s get moving. We don’t want them to have too much of a head start.” Smith headed to the back and left through a door that led onto a small terrace. After checking for sentries, he took a few steps toward the beach. A trail of footsteps in the sand indicated the attackers’ direction and he headed that way. Ten feet from the hotel entrance he was hit with a cool breeze and took in his first full breath of fresh air. Smith thought nothing could smell sweeter.

  “Which way?” Smith said.

  Beckmann jerked his chin to the left. “There. Toward the train station. Let’s cross here and enter that park on the far side. We can stop there and get our bearings.” Smith nodded and jogged ahead. He breathed a sigh when they reached the park without any further incident. Beckmann waved him into the darkness of a nearby tree and took out a phone. He dialed a number, said, “I have him” into it, and handed it to Smith. “My employer would like a word with you.”

  Smith took the phone. “Smith here.”

  “How is it that if there is any disaster in the world at any given time, you’re there?”

  Smith heard the voice, which sounded so close to that of his late fiancée, Sophia Russell, yet wasn’t, and felt the usual bittersweet emotions wash through him. Relief followed on the heels of that emotion, because Randi Russell was very, very good at what she did, and she was on his side.

  “Thanks for the assistance. Was touch and go there for a minute.”

  “You’re welcome. Beckmann says he saw some more terrorists headed toward the train station. Can you find a car? Use it to get the hell out of there?”

  “Do I bring Beckmann?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t spare him. If you can get him close to the train station, I’d appreciate it. He’ll move on there. We need to keep tracking the attackers.”

  “Who’s claiming responsibility?”

  “No one yet.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “A couple. We think it’s tied to the WHO conference, but can’t really pin down the target. Do you know anyone there who might be important enough for them to stage such an attack?”

  Smith fell silent. Perhaps he was the target. He wondered if he should tell Russell about the first assassin and the photos. She knew Peter Howell, after all, and she would be the logical choice to contact MI6 and deliver a warning, but years of Covert-One activity had made him cautious. She knew of the organization, but he assumed that she was calling on a CIA telephone. Covert-One operatives didn’t exist in the usual chain of intelligence hierarchy and no one, not even the CIA, was aware of their existence. He’d tell her more when he was sure they were on a secure phone. He kept his counsel for now and would leave it to Klein to probe into the photos and the possible target of the hotel attack. Instead he ran the other attending scientists through his mind.

  “The entire conference is filled with infectious disease specialists. We’ve all been at the scene of disasters throughout the world. Any one of us could have angered someone in some of the less stable areas that we address,” he said.

  “I agree, but something here feels off.” Smith heard someone address Russell in the background. When she spoke next, her voice held a world of strain. “Tell Beckmann to forget the train station. Go to the airport.”

  “Why?” Smith asked.

  “A bomb just detonated there.”

  7

  Oman Dattar sat on his bed in his cell in the International Criminal Court’s special unit within the Scheveningen prison system and watched the live CNN footage of the attack at the Grand Royal occurring only a few kilometers away. The picture on the small analog television bolted onto a shelf on the wall wasn’t ideal, but it was enough to reveal the extent of the damage so far. He chuckled when he saw the flames leaping out of the building’s roof and was pleased at the panic he heard in the voices of the English-speaking reporters. They needed to understand that detention of a man like him was not to be tolerated. Crimes against humanity! That the International Criminal Court and the United Nations had the nerve to try and convict him for such activity was infuriating.

  It was appalling that the necessary steps he’d taken to rid the Pakistani territory that he controlled of undesirable elements should be designated as crimes against humanity. The individuals he’d ordered killed were not human, so killing them could not be classified as a criminal act. He’d cut off limbs of those who dared raised a weapon against him, yes, but didn’t the Bible itself, the West’s favorite book, assert that one should take an eye for an eye? Yet they called his action barbarism. They decried his use of child soldiers, but their own gangs used children to deal drugs, and none of the leaders of those gangs stood accused in such a manner. As for the cannibalism, well, he didn’t worry about what happened to those already dead, and eating the flesh of one’s enemies made one stronger.

  He’d paid well for the hotel’s destruction and would pay more for the acts that he knew were to follow, and he fully expected the result to be a lesson to the ICC and the countries that had supported it. But he saved his special hatred for the United States and England. The United States was the country that had pushed hardest for his arrest and extradition to the Netherlands, and England had agreed to imprison him on their soil after the trial was completed. Both countries had been instrumental in his incarceration, so both would be punished.

 
He watched as the camera focused on a man hanging from the ledge. When the image was enlarged, he stood up, unable to believe his eyes. That Jon Smith was still alive and clinging to the outside of the hotel was not possible. Dattar felt his rage rise as he watched the American doctor make his way around the ledge.

  The clanging sound of an opening gate caught his attention. He moved to the cell door, peered through the small window and sighed with satisfaction when he was able to see the four prison guards walking toward him. The first two were assigned to Scheveningen and the second were from elsewhere. England, presumably. He’d been sentenced to life in prison and the time had come to transfer him. The Dutch guard opened the cell door.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He spoke in English. Dattar’s English was impeccable. He had been educated in America and had been for a while the darling of Washington, DC. He’d told them what they wanted to hear: that he believed in their government and would bring democracy to his homeland. Lies all, of course, and when they’d learned of his deception, they’d moved quickly to arrest him.

  He turned and placed his hands on the wall. The door sprung open on the guard’s signal, and he entered the cell. He took down each arm and secured them behind Dattar’s back with handcuffs. The sound of an explosion came from the small television. Dattar smiled at the man.

  “Your country is under attack. Apparently not all agree with what goes on here,” he said.

  The guard didn’t reply.