The Janus Reprisal (12 page)

Smith felt his disbelief rising. “Do you ever consider anything else except money in your analysis? Because I’ve got to tell you, all the money in the world isn’t going to matter once you’re dead.”

She leaned forward. “Mr. Smith, think about what you’re asking. You’re asking me to simply grab my things and leave.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. Not tell my clients, my secretary, or my colleagues where I’m going or how long I’ll be gone. You haven’t given me an opportunity to arrange for my household bills to be paid, my boss to be told, or my client files to be handed over. You’re asking me to walk away from my life now, for months, while the CIA attempts to locate some sort of shadowy assassin who may never get caught. Who could do such a thing? Could you?”

He opened his mouth to tell her he could, but paused. As a member of Covert-One he would continue to draw a salary, and his job at USAMRIID would be waiting for him when he returned. He had no close family, no spouse, no lover, and no one to account to before he would disappear. For that moment the difference between his own life and the life of an average person was thrown into stark contrast. He felt a pang and shoved it back. She had to leave. Her life depended on it.

“You have to do this. Money is worthless compared to your life and shouldn’t even figure into your plans. Your clients shouldn’t expect you to allow their money to play a role in your decision.”

She frowned. “My clients care very deeply about the funds that they place in my control. Some care about their money with more devotion than they give to either their health or their families.”

“Well then, they certainly aren’t going to give a damn about you when you’re gone, are they? Especially after you’re found with a bullet between the eyes.” He’d chosen his words deliberately to shock her. Instead, they seemed to have the opposite effect; they angered her. She stood.

“Thank you for coming to warn me. I appreciate your concern and your candor. Please rest assured that I’ll do what it takes to protect myself, and I wish you and Ms. Russell quick success in getting to the bottom of this problem. Let me walk you to the lobby.”

Smith stared at her, dumbfounded. She was dismissing him. He’d gone to all this trouble to find her, to warn her, and she was dismissing him. And yet he had a strong suspicion that she was the key to the entire mess, because she was the only civilian in the equation. She was the wild card. Both he and Howell had long histories of dealing with sordid criminals in the international arena and the fact that someone wanted them dead, in and of itself, meant nothing. Unless she too was an operative, but as soon as Smith had that thought, he rejected it. Klein had found no evidence of her in his intelligence agent database. He felt his fury rising at her cavalier attitude. He rose, and though she was tall, he was taller and for a moment he was glad of it.

“You can’t be serious. There was a terrorist in the hotel that tried to kill me. He had in his possession a photograph of you, me, and a man I know. The photograph was taken while you were on the street.” Smith pointed out the window. “Probably that street. And you had no idea that it was being taken. Bodyguards are not going to help. You need to get to that safe house now. And before you do you can explain why he carried your photo. As one of the other two at risk, I have a right to know your connection in order to protect myself.” He stepped toward her, using his superior height to drive his point home. Her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t see what you or I could ever have in common that this man wanted us both dead.”

“Dattar.” Smith said the name without thought. He was too angry to think. A startled look passed over her face, telling him that he’d hit a nerve. “What is it? Is Dattar one of your clients?”

Her expression closed. “Landon Investments maintains the confidentiality of their clients.”

“I don’t give a damn about Landon Investments!” Smith was practically shouting. Her face became suffused with red, and for a brief moment he thought she’d punch him. Her body practically vibrated with her rage. He watched her struggle to bring herself under control.

“If you’re finished delivering your news, then let me walk you to the door.” Her voice rang with finality. He stayed next to her, keeping the pressure on.

“Let me tell you one more thing, and then I’ll go and leave you to whatever fate these killers have in store for you. Your life has already changed and it won’t change back. You’re going to be looking over your shoulder from now until either we catch the killers or they catch you. Welcome to the world of the hunted.”

She kept her eyes on him, and he could almost see her thoughts as her expression shifted from angry to scared and then back to stern. It was clear to him that she still thought she would control the situation. After a few seconds Smith managed to give a small nod and took a step back. She stalked past him. He followed her down the hall to the frosted glass door and waited as she pressed a button on the wall. The lock clicked open, and she stepped into the reception area. He heard her breath hitch.

“Oh no.” Her voice was full of anguish. Before Smith could stop her, she ran toward the mahogany console.

The petite receptionist lay on the carpet behind the desk. Her eyes were open and blood leaked from a bullet hole in her chest.

N
OLAN GRABBED AT THE PHONE
and Smith saw her pound out a number. He bent down next to the body and checked for a pulse. The woman was gone. Nolan still stood behind the desk while she spoke to building security.

“Is she dead?” Nolan said to Smith.

He nodded. “Does this desk have a button that will lock the front doors?”

Nolan pressed a button on the edge of the desk opposite to the one that Smith had used earlier to open the doors behind them, and he heard the entrance deadbolt click home. The desk was ten feet from the doors. Beyond them and extending left was a short hall that opened right into a rectangular area that had elevators on both sides. The killer could be waiting just steps from the door to pick off anyone leaving the offices.

“Get down.” He spoke in a whisper and pulled at her arm. She knelt behind the desk while she continued her conversation with building security.

“I just called an ambulance for her,” she said. Nolan’s voice cracked on the word “her.”

“We’ve got to get out of here. This man’s after you. You stay and he’ll kill more people to get at you. Either he’s making his way through the office right now, searching, or he’s waiting in that front hall to pick you off when you leave.”

“There are security cameras that record this area. Let me replay the video.” She kept low while she pulled out a sliding shelf that held a keyboard. Smith watched her access the security program. Within seconds the screen split into four quadrants and displayed various locations inside the office.

“Wait, before you go back in time, do you see anyone new? Someone who doesn’t belong there?” He saw her checking each display. All the hallways were empty. She shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said. She switched up the view to zoom in on the reception area, but the screen went blank. Smith looked at the ceiling and saw the round cover that masked the closed-circuit camera. He couldn’t discern whether the lens still functioned.

“Wouldn’t I see an LED pinpoint if the camera was working?”

“Yes,” Nolan whispered.

“Well, there’s nothing.”

“He did something to the circuit for the reception area only,” Nolan said.

“So most likely he’s waiting in the hallway. Go back into the interior,” he said. She punched the button that opened the door and darted through it. Smith followed, catching the door on the return swing before it closed and locked once again. She was headed straight to her office. It was an amateur’s move, because even though she hadn’t seen anything suspicious on the video, that didn’t mean the man wasn’t hiding in there. It was exactly where an assassin would look for her.

“Don’t go in there.” It was all Smith could do not to shriek through the hall. Nolan disappeared through the door as if she hadn’t heard him. He sprinted in behind her.

She was standing at her desk sliding a tablet computer into a black leather attaché case. An electric power cord followed as well as a Filofax with a burgundy cover and a small clutch purse. She zipped the bag closed and headed back out, passing to his left. She shot him a quick look, but said nothing as she raked a short, navy trench coat off a hook on the door. He grabbed her arm before she had a chance to step through the entrance and held her in place while he reached into his windbreaker and removed his gun from its shoulder holster. Nolan’s eyes widened in fear when she saw it.

“Relax, I’m not going to use it on you. Though I should,” he said in a low voice. “Which way is the exit to the stairwell?”

“To the right. Let go of me.” He didn’t. He’d had enough and he wasn’t about to take orders from her.

“Not a chance. We’ll leave together. What about the other employees? How many are in their offices?”

She looked at her watch. “Probably none. They’re all in the boiler room and will stay there until the market closes.”

“Is that the big room that you were in before we came here?”

She nodded.

“What about bathrooms?”

“The boiler room has two connected to it.”

“Good. There’s safety in numbers and I doubt he’ll approach that room. They should be safe enough until security arrives. I’ll go out first and make sure the hall is clear.”

“You do that.” Her voice was tight with anger. He ignored it.

Smith let go of her, moved to the door and edged out, looking both ways before waving to her to follow. He spied the stairwell exit sign to the right at the far end and started in that direction. He was ten steps closer to the stairs before he realized that she wasn’t behind him. He glanced back and saw her vanish around a corner.

My God, I’m going to kill her myself, he thought. He turned and followed, catching up with her as she stood in a small alcove that held a freight elevator. She swiped a key card across the panel and hit the down button. She confronted him and her face held a mixture of distrust, determination, and barely controlled panic.

“I don’t know who you really are or why you came here, but the minute you did, you brought death and violence. I neither want nor need your help. Take the stairs. I’m taking the freight elevator. If you follow me, I’ll scream bloody murder.”

The elevator doors opened. Smith was relieved to see that it was empty. She stepped in and he followed, wrapping one hand around her mouth and the other around her waist, once again holding her still. Once he was sure of his grip he pushed her into the elevator’s corner and out of view of the open door. She began to struggle, and he could feel her open her lips as if she intended to bite his hand. He leaned his weight into her, holding her against the elevator wall.

“Now you listen to me,” he said into her ear. “There’s an assassin out there who intends to kill both me and a man that I like very much. He also happens to want to kill you and even though right now that outcome is starting to sound appealing, I want some answers before you die. Until I get them, I’m not leaving your side. So scream all you want. I’ll have Russell at the CIA talk to whatever rent-a-cop Landon Investments hires to protect its employees, and I can assure you the outcome will be that you and I will leave here together.” He punched the down key. It didn’t light. He hit it again. Nothing. “Use your damn key card and get us off this floor. Now.” He lowered his hand from her face and stepped back. She was once again flushed with rage, but now also with outright fear. She swiped her key card across the panel and hit the down button again. The doors closed. He felt remorse starting to creep into his consciousness and tamped it down immediately. This was life or death. She’d have to deal with her distrust on her own.

“When the doors open, what floor will it be?” he said. He sounded harsher than he intended.

“Loading dock.” She replied in a calm voice despite her high color and obvious distress. She was cool in a crisis, he had to give her that.

“Do you have a car?”

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“Do you have one at home that we can use?”

Her face set. She didn’t reply.

“It’s to drive to the safe house. Otherwise I have to call the CIA to get us.”

She nodded. “Call the CIA. I feel safer with them than you.” He found he was actually a bit upset with that statement. He wasn’t used to being cast as a villain. Once again he tamped down the feeling. If he’d acted badly, it was not only understandable but necessary. She was alive because he had.

“Fine. I’ll do that.” He opened his phone but didn’t have a signal. He’d get to the street and call then.

The elevator doors opened and Smith stared down the barrel of a gun.

S
MITH KNOCKED THE GUN
upward and spun left. He heard the compressed sound of a silenced bullet. Nolan swung her attaché case in an arc, hitting the attacker dead center in the torso, and he stumbled backward a step. She tripped forward, carried by the momentum. Smith fired, hitting the killer in the chest. The bullet thudded into what must have been a bulletproof vest and the man grunted with pain. A black balaclava covered his face, and Smith could hear the harsh rasp of the man’s breathing through the hole for his mouth. The killer sprinted sideways to hide behind a metal garbage can as the elevator doors began to close. Smith grabbed at Nolan to pull her back into the car.

“Get us to the lobby,” Smith said. Nolan swiped her key card and hit the button. Her hair had fallen out of its clip, and her knuckles were white on the handle of the case. She pressed herself against the elevator’s wall, her eyes wide with fear. Smith flipped the safety on his gun and re-holstered it, pulling the jacket over to hide it from view. “When the doors open, I want you to act with complete calm. Do you understand?”

“There are cameras in the parking lot. Security will have seen that,” she said. Her voice was scared.

Smith shook his head. “Doubtful. He managed to mess up the one in your reception area, he’ll block the lot ones as well.”

“I’m going to warn them. He could kill others.” Nolan sounded determined and she straightened. She pulled the clip out and the rest of her hair fell around her shoulders. Smith doubted that the killer would continue his rampage, and he couldn’t allow her to take the time to find a security guard, relay her story, and then wait in the lobby for the police. They had to move. The doors hissed open on the lobby level, and he saw several police officers standing at the reception desk speaking to building security. He grabbed her by the arm once again.

“Tell them, but be prepared to run. He’s after you and me. I’m not sure why he shot the receptionist, except perhaps to use her as a threat or to create a distraction while he hunted you. I’ll let the CIA know that he’s lurking in the parking lot.” Smith let go of her, pulled out his phone and began texting Russell while he headed toward the lobby.

“Go out the back,” Nolan said.

“No. He’d expect that. We’re strolling right out the front door. They may want to detain us, so be prepared to talk our way out of here.” He hit the door and swung it open. As he expected, the lobby was filling up with police. Three of them looked across at Nolan as she walked to the first one in the main reception area. A male officer swept a glance at them. Smith watched him catalog Nolan’s expensive dress, briefcase, and trench coat before turning his attention to Smith. Smith was aware that of the two of them Nolan looked more the part of a Wall Street banker than he did. He hoped she trusted him enough to help him leave the building. If she turned him over to the police, it would be hours before he could leave, and they’d likely hold him in full view while they did it. Smith had no wish to be a target.

“Officer, there’s a man in the parking lot waving a gun. I just went down there to get my car and saw him. He’s dressed in black and his face is covered as well. Hurry!” She indicated the stairs to the garage. The other officers and the lobby attendants heard her, and everyone seemed to begin talking at once. The officer and three others pulled their own weapons and headed to the stairwell. Smith took the opportunity to haul Nolan across the marble floor and out the revolving doors. They hit the street and Smith turned left, walking fast and moving through the crowd.

“Good work,” he said. Nolan didn’t reply. She stayed with him, but kept turning around and giving frightened glances behind her. “Try not to look so afraid. It’ll only draw attention to us,” Smith said.

“Where are you going?” Nolan replied. Smith couldn’t help but catch her use of the term “you” as opposed to “we.” She still expected to strike out on her own.

“Around the corner to a cab stand. We’ll grab one and get as far away as possible.”

“And from there?”

“To one of the CIA safe houses.” He glanced at her to see if she’d protest. To his relief, she seemed amenable to the idea. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Russell:
Head to the West Side. Use this location and call me when you get there.
She left an address and instructions. They hit the corner and crawled into a cab. Smith gave the cabbie instructions to an intersection on the Upper East Side.

“That’s a block from my house,” Nolan said.

“Nice area,” Smith said. She didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the address and got out. Smith waited until the cab disappeared around the corner before heading to the park. Nolan walked alongside, saying nothing. He hailed another cab.

“Where to now?” Nolan sounded exasperated.

Smith gave the new cabbie instructions to an intersection on the West Side near the safe house. Nolan gave a loud sigh, but remained silent while they crossed Central Park. Ten minutes later they were standing in front of Russell’s safe house. It was one of a series of four-story walk-ups, well maintained and with a realtor’s sign on the front. A lock box hung on the door handle.

Smith punched the button on the box, and it opened. A set of keys fell into his palm. He grabbed them and then reached for Nolan, wrapping his hands around her bicep.

“Quit grabbing me. I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

“Liar.” He pulled her with him, ignoring the annoyed sound she made.

The safe house door was located on the third and last landing. He was thankful for the runner that covered the wood stairs, muffling their steps. There were two doors per landing, but the quiet told Smith that the occupants were gone. When they reached the third landing, “3B” was to Smith’s right. Smith put the keys in the deadbolt, shooting it back, and swung the door open.

They entered a foyer that contained a small credenza with a wooden charging station for cell phones. Smith tossed the keys onto one of the felt-covered spaces on the station and walked into the living area, past an open door to his right that led into a kitchen. The living area was furnished with a minimalism that screamed disuse. A leather couch faced a television console that held a flat-screen television and, on the shelf below, a stereo system. A glass cocktail table sat between the two. To the left was a set of stairs that led to the next floor, where Smith presumed were the bedrooms. The entire first level would be considered small by most American standards, but large for a duplex in New York City. He estimated there to be no more than four hundred square feet on the first level, and the same on the second.

Next to the couch an end table held a remote control and a curved, sleek silver telephone on a stand. The phone started ringing. From the corner of his eye he saw Nolan step into the living room from the kitchen. She paused to watch him.

Smith walked over to peer at the small screen built into the handle that revealed the phone number. The display read “Unavailable,” which told him it was probably someone from the CIA checking on their status. He picked it up and put it to his ear to answer.

“You made it?” Russell said.

“Yes. Did you catch the shooter in the garage?”

“No. Long gone, or so we suspect. Has Nolan given you any information?” Smith looked at the woman in question, who was still gazing at him with her ever-present serious expression.

“Haven’t had a moment to breathe. Will let you know once I do.”

“Good. We’re still drawing blanks on Dattar’s location. Until we find him, it might be best if you both stayed inside. There’s food in the refrigerator and alcohol in the small bar at the corner of the living room. I stocked it with your favorite drink.” Smith spotted the corner wet bar. For a moment he was confused because, while he had a favorite drink, he didn’t recall filling Russell in on it.

“Which is?”

“Shaken, not stirred.”

Smith smiled. “Bond was cool under fire. In contrast, I’ll need liberal amounts while I debrief her.”

“Think she knows something?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Call me if you learn anything useful. Anytime. I’m in Manhattan—Midtown—and expect to stay here at least another twenty-four hours. We could use a break. Every terrorist has died before we could interrogate him, the coolers are still missing, and Dattar has vanished.”

“Any news on Howell?”

“Nothing. But no body either, so perhaps he’s still alive.”

“Who’s searching for him?”

“I pulled Beckmann out of The Hague and put him on it.”

“Excellent. I like that guy.”

“He’s the best, albeit a little unorthodox in his methods.”

“Keep me posted.” Smith hung up.

“Was that Ms. Russell?”

Smith nodded. “They were unable to catch the shooter. She’s suggesting we lie low for a while.”

Nolan looked around the room. “For how long?”

He put up his hands. “I don’t know.” He wanted to dive right in and demand some answers from her regarding her connection to Dattar, but he didn’t think she’d respond well to a blunt question. He decided to try to build a rapport with her first. “Are you hungry? I’m told there’s food here somewhere.”

She nodded. “Very.”

He smiled. “Then let’s have a look.” He shrugged off his jacket, draped it over a chair and stepped past her into the kitchen. He noticed that her eyes were locked onto his gun in the shoulder holster. She followed, which he counted as a win, given that it was the first time she had since he’d met her. It took him no time at all to find the ingredients for a sandwich. He made two, handed her a plate and a bottle of a tea drink.

“No bottled water, sorry.”

“Tea is fine,” she said. “I’m going to go upstairs to wash my hands first.” Smith nodded and settled into a chair by the kitchen table to eat.

Ten minutes later, when she still hadn’t returned, he shoved away from the table and headed upstairs to the second floor to investigate. The stairs ended in a long hallway, with two doors placed at the beginning and the end. He slowed and pulled his gun out of the holster. The first door opened into a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with a bed, a dresser with another flat-screen on top, and two nightstands. A door at the back opened into a compact bathroom with a shower and one sink. No Nolan.

He returned to the hallway and headed to the next door, which he now assumed must contain the master bedroom. He opened the door to find just that: a slightly larger room with a king-sized bed, standard dresser, and television. A bank of three separate double-hung windows were to his right, and a cool breeze flowed into the room from the one farthest from the door.

She was gone.