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.
Dattar’s section of the prison was separated from the main building and was accessed by a door dedicated to the wing. Currently, Dattar and two other strongmen from small countries in Africa were being held there. The terms of the leaders’ detention differed greatly from that of the regular prisoners, a fact that was not lost on the populations of the varying areas. The people from Dattar’s region complained bitterly that Dattar, a war criminal, resided in comfort with amenities such as electric lighting, soft mattresses, and indoor plumbing, while the population that he’d terrorized lived in squalor and with limited access to clean drinking water. Many argued that he should be returned to his province to stand trial, but the United Nations had refused, saying the corruption there ensured that he would be granted a swift acquittal.
They frog-marched him down the hall; one in front, one at his side, and two behind. The small entourage made their way down the darkened corridor and past several interior checkpoints. They reached the back door and an exit sign glowed red.
Dattar gave a glance at a camera placed high on the wall and waited as the lead guard reached out and pushed open the final door. No alarm sounded. Dattar sighed deeply as he stepped into the evening air.
The prison sat in a wooded area in Scheveningen, a suburb of The Hague and not far from the Grand Royal. They were in a small courtyard area, surrounded at the far end by a razor-wire — topped brick wall. The sharp blades glinted in the light thrown by the several large spotlights placed at the far corners of the rectangular area. Two guardhouses perched high in the corners as well. They were covered in satellite dishes and both had pedestal-mounted automatic weapons aimed at the interior. No one would simply walk out of the prison under normal circumstances.