“Why? You can’t shoot either.”
Howell looked unmoved. “Oh, but I can. I’m not as close to the gas leak as you are and as long as my bullet sinks into your flesh, I’m fairly certain that the room will hold together long enough for me to leave.”
Manhar hesitated. Perhaps Howell was right. He could hear the gas flowing out of the tube’s mouth and the smell was growing stronger, but Howell stood a good six feet away. Before he could decide what to do, there was a knock on the door. If Howell was surprised at the interruption, he didn’t show it. He took two steps back, which took his body out of the direct line to the entrance.
“Who is it?” he said. The door swung open and a man stepped into the room. Tall, slender, with close-cropped hair and an angular face, he stood still and took in the scene. Manhar saw a lock-picking device in the man’s right hand and a gun in his left. The man focused on Howell.
“Thank you for not shooting me through that worthless door,” he said.
Howell chuckled. “Why, Herr Beckmann, how nice to see you again. When was it last? Prague?”
Beckmann’s lips turned up in a slight smile. “Isle of Man. As I recall, you were busy depositing money in your offshore account.” He looked around. “But you were considerably better housed there. This room is depressing. And you appear to have a gas leak.”
Howell nodded. “My friend here and I were just leaving.”
Beckmann eyed Manhar. “Ah, this one looks healthy for a change. Let’s hope he doesn’t fall over. I’ve been searching diligently for a living one to beat some answers out of. Leave it to you to find one that’s still breathing.”
“He found me. A feat that I doubt he managed on his own.”
“Who does he work for?”
“Khalil, I believe,” Howell said.
Beckmann frowned. “That’s sobering news. Khalil is extremely dangerous.”
Howell nodded. “Whatever is going on, it’s very big trouble.”
The smell of the gas was beginning to overwhelm Manhar and he staggered. In the next instant his legs gave out and he slammed onto the floor. The last thing he heard before falling unconscious was Howell, who said, “First the mattress mistake, then a little gas and he’s down. These young terrorists lack any training whatsoever.”
23
SMITH CALLED OHNARA the moment his feet hit the ground. He heard the scientist’s voice and plunged right in.
“Ms. Russell just fell ill with symptoms that resemble food poisoning or worse; cholera or bird flu. My concern is that the swab we brought you caused it. Any news on the cholera strain?”
“Yes. Our water filtration system handled it beautifully. Not a bit survived. And more good news, the virus died upon contact with the air almost immediately. I doubt that what Ms. Russell has is from the swab, but if you’re concerned they can run a check on both diseases at the hospital. Also you might do well to check on what she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.”
Smith hung up, puzzled, but relieved. Perhaps Russell had a run-of-the-mill influenza virus. His next call was to Marty.
“Still have a lead on her?”
Marty didn’t miss a beat. “Hotel on Park Avenue South.” He gave the address. “She’s using their Internet. I can’t tell if she’s checked in or just sitting in the lobby.”
Well, at least she’s still alive, Smith thought. “Trading?”
“No. Japan isn’t open yet. She’s researching.”
“Researching what?”
“You.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
Marty chuckled. “I’m sure. She’s typed in your name on three different search engines and read everything she can find. Which isn’t much, because, as you may recall, I was the one who washed the Internet clean of your presence.” Now Marty sounded quite pleased with himself. “She’s only getting the newest hits that show you hanging from the hotel room window.”
“I’m heading her way.” This time Smith hailed a cab. He needed a moment to think about Russell and what she could have contracted so suddenly.
He found Nolan in the lobby of a boutique hotel on Park Avenue. What he also saw in the lobby gave him pause. Two men, one reading the Wall Street Journal and another at the public computer set up for guest use, gave the definite air of inauthenticity. Neither the men nor Nolan saw him enter, which was for the best. He stepped deeper into a connecting hallway, where he could still watch them but stay out of the open. Watching the three gave Smith an idea. He rang Marty again.
“You there? Do you see her?” Marty said.
“I do. There’s a man using a dedicated computer in the lobby for guests. Can you hack into it? Tell me what he’s doing?”
“Give me a minute. I’ll call you right back.”
Smith hung up and continued to watch Nolan. She typed furiously. The man reading the paper turned the page in a leisurely fashion, but as he did, he also made a quick, professional scan of the lobby.
I’m on to you, Smith thought.
His phone vibrated. “Tell me,” Smith said.
“Get her and get out of there. Now.” Marty’s voice sounded strained.
“Why?”
“He’s just told a contact named ‘Khalil’ that a bomb in the hotel is set to go off in seven minutes.”
The man at the computer stopped typing, directed his attention to Nolan and removed a gun from underneath his shirt. Smith grabbed his own weapon and bolted into the lobby, heading straight for the computer. The man jerked to standing, knocking over his chair. Out of the corner of Smith’s eye he saw the paper-reading accomplice rise. Smith shot the man at the computer in the right shoulder and immediately turned his attention to the other man. He saw the newspaper flutter to the floor, and light glinted off a gun in the man’s hand. The desk clerk screamed in the distance, but Smith barely heard it. His senses were dulled while he stared in supreme concentration at the gun. Smith had been shot at before, had been in near-death situations before, and in every instance this single-minded focus occurred. In his peripheral vision he noted that Nolan had risen to her feet. Smith fired again, and this time the newspaper man acted in tandem. Smith saw the muzzle flash and felt the bullet sink into his left arm. Smith’s assailant dropped with a bullet in his heart. There were more screams but these were from a group of women sitting in the corner who had escaped Smith’s attention. He’d been so wrapped up in Nolan and the men who were tailing her that the rest of the lobby’s inhabitants hadn’t registered. When Smith glanced back at the computer, the first accomplice was gone.
“Clear the hotel, there’s a bomb,” Smith yelled at the lone front desk employee still at his post, a wild-eyed young man in his mid-twenties.
“I called the police! You can tell it to them,” the man said.
Smith stalked to the counter. “Listen to me very carefully. There’s a bomb in this building. Those two planted it. Activate the fire alarm. You need to evacuate. Now. You have,” Smith looked at his watch, “five minutes.” The young man’s mouth was open and he was gasping. He took a step backward.
“Don’t shoot me,” he said. Before Smith could respond, Nolan slipped past on his right, ran to the wall and pulled at the fire alarm mounted there. An intense shrieking filled the lobby. Smith holstered his gun and started searching the area. He pulled back the leaves of a potted tree next to the counter, found nothing, and moved to an armchair pushed against the wall. He crouched down to look under it. When he stood again he was momentarily dizzy. Blood flowed down his arm and dripped onto the carpeting.