“Good to see you,” Castilla said as he shook Klein’s hand. “I suppose you’ve seen the images from The Hague?”
Klein nodded. “Believe it or not, I have a Covert-One operative on site. He was attending the WHO conference as an expert.”
Castilla raised an eyebrow. “Did he make it out of there?”
“He was the man hanging from the window ledge. I haven’t had any contact since he pulled himself back into the hotel.”
Castilla’s eyebrows flew up even higher. “For a moment there I thought we were going to see a terrorist kill an innocent man live on television. I don’t have to tell you what a coup that would have been for the attackers.”
“I was impressed with the sniper. Was it a member of a Dutch SWAT team?”
Castilla shook his head. “No, he was CIA. He’s still on site, but deploying to a new location. I’m told that the terrorists are fanning out.” Castilla waved Klein to a seating area with four armchairs and a coffee table in the center.
“That’s not good. Has anyone taken responsibility?”
“Not yet. In fact, the main terrorist organizations are denying responsibility.”
Klein grunted. “Unusual for them.”
“The CIA believes that attacking during a WHO conference is most likely not a coincidence. My concern is that the attackers’ real target is either one of the attending scientists or the biological products that several brought with them.”
“My operative found a handful of photos in the pockets of one of the attackers.” Klein recounted Smith’s information about the photos.
Castilla sat back while he listened. “Let’s put aside the photo of the MI6 agent and focus on the woman. Could she be an attendee? Maybe one of the scientists?”
“That’s a definite possibility. Once I get my hands on the photos, I’ll have them analyzed as quickly as I can.”
“I have some further bad news, though. I received a call from WHO’s director-general. Three of the scientists at the conference brought with them samples of a new strain of cholera, an antibiotic-resistant strain of hepatitis B, and some particularly nasty E. coli. They were to be transferred to a secure site for analysis by an international consortium of biologists. The samples themselves were initially considered small enough to be of limited use to any potential terrorist, but we’ve just learned that the cholera strain can multiply with astonishing speed. In two weeks that sample will have grown exponentially. If any of these get into the hands of the terrorists, we’ve got to assume they’ll dump it into the water supply somewhere. I don’t need to tell you the kind of mass deaths that could occur if such a thing were to happen.”
“Are these the only samples we should be worried about?”
Castilla pondered the question. “The rest were ‘good’ bacteria. Everything ranging from live yeast cultures to a newly discovered bioelectric bacteria that can charge batteries without the need for a separate electrical source.”
“Where were they kept?”
“On site in the hotel safe in two different locked stainless-steel coolers. The good bacteria as well as the resistant strains. Because the samples were so small, extra security measures were deemed unnecessary, particularly in light of the quality of the Grand Royal’s safe. It’s one of the best. Over the years, the jewels of several royal families have been secured there while their owners conducted diplomatic affairs. I’m told it can withstand a blast of the nature of what we’re seeing, but the concern is that the terrorists will have found the code that opens it. Covert-One needs to begin tracking down these samples and the scientists that carried them and we need to reacquire any that are taken before they become viable bioweapons.”
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.