“Let’s just hope it’s enough. We have to reacquire those coolers just to be sure that the virus isn’t the mutated version. I’d love to get our hands on the research papers as well, but I suspect they’re copying them as we speak. Unless we can find them quickly. Now, while they’re still on the run. Any idea where that crew was headed?”
“I lost sight of them the minute they ran out of the hotel. Randi Russell asked that we go to the train station. Oman Dattar escaped from prison, and apparently the thought is that he will attempt to flee by train. I’m accompanying one of her officers there. I told her and I’ll tell you that I think Dattar is involved in some way. It’s no coincidence that he managed to escape on the same night as a deadly attack.”
“I agree, but my primary concern is the coolers.”
“If we find Dattar, I’ll lay odds that we’ll find the bacteria. If not on his person, then I’ll beat the location out of him.”
“While you’re searching, can you find a scanner and input those photos? E-mail them to me? I want to start some inquiries. Perhaps the woman is a scientist at the convention.”
Beckmann pointed through the windshield at a man dressed in black who was staggering down the street. He passed under a streetlight and Smith could see a sheen of sweat on his face.
“That’s one of them,” Beckmann said. He reached between them where his rifle was propped with its muzzle in the foot well and its stock on the edge of the seat. Smith reached under his jacket and pulled out his gun.
“I’ve got to go. We’ve just spotted one of the attackers. We’ll grab him and shake some answers out of him.”
“Call me the minute you have some,” Klein said and clicked off. Beckmann pulled the car even with the stumbling man.
“He looks drunk,” he said.
“Pull ahead and then stop. Keep the engine running. I’ll corral him.”
Beckmann shook his head. “My orders were to protect you, not allow you to get yourself killed in a scuffle with a jihadist. I’ll go.” But Smith already had the door open. The overhead light turned on, illuminating the car’s interior. Smith slipped out quickly, closing the door.
The cool night air felt bracing. He crossed between two parked cars onto the sidewalk and began to stroll toward the attacker, holding his gun down by his thigh and out of sight. They were twenty feet apart, and Smith was closing the distance fast, keeping his strides slow. The attacker continued his swaying, stumbling progress with his head down, watching the sidewalk, his entire concentration on each step. At ten feet apart Smith could see that the man was seriously ill. Smith closed the distance quickly, grabbing the man’s arm just as he crumpled, and lowered him to the ground. Beckmann jogged up and crouched down.
“He’s been shot?” he said.
Smith ran his hands over the man’s jacket, feeling the lump of a weapon in his right pocket. He reached in and removed a 9 mm gun. He handed it to Beckmann, who pocketed it. The man’s breath was rasping in and out and his eyelids fluttered. Each time they opened, Smith could see that his pupils were rolled back. Smith continued his search for a wound, finding none.
“Help me lift him. I want to check his back.”
Beckmann put his rifle on the ground and assisted in lifting the man from the pavement and turning him to the side. He held him while Smith ran his hands over his back.
“Nothing. But we need to get him to a hospital fast or he’s not going to make it.”
Beckmann laid the attacker back down. The man gave a last gasp, then stilled. His head lolled to the side.
“Damn,” Smith said.
Beckmann made an irritated sound. “There goes our chance at interrogation.”
“Two others at the hotel died just the same way.”
“Cyanide?” Beckmann said.
“No. I checked. I’d like to get an autopsy done. Perhaps we can find out what’s going on here.” Beckmann pulled out his phone and sent a text.
“I asked for a team to come collect the body and deliver it to the Dutch authorities. They’re on their way, but I think we should continue to the train station. Let me take some photos.” Smith moved away while Beckmann took several shots. “Done.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket. “Do we leave the weapon? Sig Sauers are my favorite. Not flashy, but solid.” Smith cocked his head.
“I like them too, but if he fired it, it could be traced. You sure you want to keep it?”
“I’m lacking a pistol. I think we take it. Just in case.”
They returned to the car, which was double-parked with its emergency lights flashing. Smith slid into the driver’s seat and was struck once again by the car’s comfort. His eyes felt grainy and his body seemed to deflate in exhaustion.
“What time is it?” he said.
“Five AM. Tired?”
“You have no idea.”
Beckmann nodded. “There’s a safe house two blocks from here. I’ll direct you there. Go get some rest.”
Smith sat up. “Not on your life. If Dattar shows at that train station, he’ll have to deal with me. Again.”
“I sincerely doubt Dattar will show. He’s on his way to Rotterdam. To the ports.”
Smith paused. “Russell think that too?”
Beckmann nodded. “She sent me a text. Said she’d deploy us there if she thought we had a chance to intercept him.”
“So he gets away because we haven’t enough people available to stop him,” Smith said.
Beckmann sighed. “It’s frustrating. But it won’t be our last opportunity. He may not use the station, but his operatives will. The one we just found was probably on his way there. Let’s find another and beat some intelligence out of him. Then we go hunt for Dattar.”
“I’ll drop you at the station and keep the car. You won’t need it there.”
Beckmann gave Smith a look full of suspicion. “What do you need the car for?”
“To drive it to Rotterdam port.”
Beckmann raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll be able to find Dattar? Where do you expect to look?”
“Wherever contraband is sold. He has a shipping company called Karachi Naman Shipping. When I worked there on the cholera outbreak, WHO had used the company to ship medical supplies. Supplies that never got there. Dattar diverted and sold them to India.”
“I thought India and Pakistan hated each other.”
“Dattar would trade with the devil if he thought it would bring him more money or more power.”
Smith typed on his smartphone, tapping in a search for the company name and a possible address for shipping activities out of Rotterdam. He scrolled through several results, but most contained nothing more than the address for the parent company in Pakistan. Frustrated, he quit the application.
“Forget the port,” Beckmann said. “Russell’s right, you’ll never find him in that vast place. Come with me to the train station. I could use the extra hands.”
Beckmann had a point. They had a better chance locating one of Dattar’s minions doing his best to flee the country and prying the information out of him. Smith started the car and headed down the street.
“You can guide me there?”
Beckmann reached out and tapped on the built-in GPS on the dash and within seconds a breathy female voice began giving them instructions in Korean. Beckmann fiddled a bit, but only managed to turn up the volume.
“Sorry, can’t get it to switch languages,” he said. He peered at the map displayed on the small screen. “Right turn ahead.”
Twenty minutes later they approached the train station. Smith entered a no-parking zone and cut the engine. Several police cars idled in front, and he counted at least twenty officers, most in riot gear, stationed at various entry points. They gazed at each person who walked toward the building. Smith watched one officer hold out a hand to a swarthy complexioned young man with a black backpack slung over one shoulder. The young man lowered the pack to the ground and unzipped it. He opened the sack and tilted it so that the policeman could see the contents. With a curt nod, the officer allowed the man to continue into the building.