Russell finished the sandwich and pushed the plate away. “My real concern is Dattar. We’re getting rumors that a full-scale attack on a major city in America is being planned. We can’t be sure Dattar is the mastermind, but I don’t like that he’s escaped.”
Smith stood. “We need to get our hands on Nolan again. She knows something, I’m almost sure of it. I asked her about Dattar and she shut down tight. Claimed client confidentiality. If he weren’t a client, she would have had no obligation toward him and could have just said no. The fact that she pulled the confidentiality card tells me that he was.” Smith heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Are we expecting someone?” he whispered. Russell shook her head and pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster under the blazer. The steps grew nearer, moving quietly. Smith pulled his own weapon out and pressed himself against the wall on the side of the entrance to the hall. Russell took up a position behind his left shoulder. The footfalls stopped on the landing and a key slid into the lock. The door opened, and a tall man with slicked hair and wearing a suit came into view. Smith put the muzzle of his gun against the side of the man’s head. He stilled.
“Colonel Smith?” he said.
Russell lowered her weapon and moved into view. “It’s all right,” she said to Smith, “he’s CIA.” Smith lowered his weapon. “You almost got your head blown off,” she said to the man. He turned to face her with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, Russell. I should have told you I was on my way.”
Russell holstered her weapon. “Jon Smith, meet Steve Harcourt. CIA’s head of the Mideast Division, currently on loan to the NYPD.”
Smith nodded a greeting. The man’s slick demeanor and expensive tailored suit spoke volumes about his position at the agency. Smith noted a small bump near the suit’s arm where he presumed Harcourt’s own weapon was holstered. He imagined the residents of New York’s Upper West Side would be surprised at how many people were walking around their neighborhood while carrying concealed. A buzzing noise made Russell jump. She pulled out a BlackBerry and read the screen.
“Jordan says that Nolan hasn’t returned to her house.”
“I thought she was here,” Harcourt said. Smith was prepared to once again tell of his blunder when Russell interrupted.
“She skipped. There’s a request out to track her by cell phone transmission. I stationed Jordan at her house early this morning just as a precaution.”
Harcourt rubbed his chin. “Is that really a good use of an officer? We haven’t any information that links her to anything that we’re investigating now.”
“We have the photos in the terrorist’s pocket that I told you about,” Russell said.
“I think she’s tied to Dattar in some way that may be significant,” Smith said. Harcourt leveled a glance at Smith.
“I understand that you’re a member of the military branch for infectious diseases? I appreciate your input, and I am glad to see you survived the attack at the Grand Royal, but tracking Dattar is the CIA’s job.” Smith felt his irritation grow. Harcourt’s attitude was that of a pure bureaucrat and his defensive posture was him marking his territory. Smith doubted that the man had actually worked in the field for years.
“It’s my job to protect myself. Someone’s been targeting me and Ms. Nolan and I intend to discover who.”
“It appears as though Ms. Nolan doesn’t want your help. Otherwise I imagine she’d still be here,” Harcourt said. Smith took a breath to respond, but Russell stepped between him and Harcourt.
“Let’s focus on the facts, shall we?” Russell said. “There’s an attack on the Grand Royal the same night that infectious disease specialists are convened there and that Dattar escapes from prison. Photos of Ms. Nolan, Smith, and a former agent from MI6 named Howell are found in one of the attacker’s pockets. Ms. Nolan is a money manager who may have done business with Dattar, and her receptionist is gunned down not twenty-four hours after the escape. Currently we have little information on Dattar’s whereabouts, and we should be interviewing anyone with any information about him. If that’s Nolan, then she needs to be found and questioned.”
“By the CIA,” Harcourt said. “Not by anyone else.” He shot a warning look at Smith.
Jerk, Smith thought.
“Which requires an officer at her home.”
“I still think it’s a waste of resources. But if you think it’s necessary…” Harcourt shrugged.
“I do,” Russell said. Her phone buzzed again. She punched the speaker button.
“Ms. Russell? It’s Jana Wendel. Jordan’s been shot.”
18
KHALIL WALKED CALMLY AWAY from his position opposite Nolan’s house and passed the car with its shattered windshield and occupant slumped over the wheel. He knew that the agent had survived long enough to call for help, for he’d seen him lift the cell phone to his ear and speak before falling unconscious. Khalil didn’t care. The agent should have been quicker, faster. He’d aimed at Khalil, which had forced Khalil to crouch before shooting; as a result, the shot was not a kill shot. Khalil was pushing thirty-five and should have slower reflexes than the young agent. That he didn’t revealed the CIA’s weakness.
Khalil was only angry that Nolan hadn’t appeared at the house. Shooting the agent was small recompense, but it was clear that the agent had noticed Khalil hanging about Nolan’s block. Khalil stayed a few minutes more after the shooting to see if Nolan would appear, but that was a risk because he could hear ambulance sirens in the distance. He turned a corner, entered the park, and began to jog. Here his running wouldn’t raise a question. Dozens of people ran around him, all getting their afternoon workout. When he was far enough away, he dialed a number on his phone.
“Did you get her?” Dattar said.
“She hasn’t appeared at her home. But a CIA agent did. At no time did you tell me that the CIA was involved regarding her.”
“I didn’t know they were! If anything, that was your mistake. You shouldn’t have killed the receptionist.”
Khalil stopped walking. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the receptionist at N— the target’s office. She was shot in the temple. Your signature style.”
“But not by me. Have you paid another to acquire this target?”
“No. And I won’t. But that was a foolish move because the police are now swarming the office. If you intend to take her there, you won’t be able to without being captured.”
“That’s of no importance to me. I never intended to take her there. It’s too visible. Whoever you paid in addition to me is screwing up, and I’d suggest you request your money back. That’s assuming you paid him at all.” Khalil’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I paid no one else. I expect you to get to her. If not, then no money. You understand?” Dattar hung up.
Khalil stared at the phone still in his hand and told himself to stay calm, to breathe deeply. He would eliminate all rivals and acquire Nolan himself. He sat on a nearby bench and called his second, Manhar.
“Did you find him?”
“He’s in an SRO hotel in Harlem.”
Khalil smiled. “Excellent. Are you sure it’s him?”
“I am. Older Englishman. Soft. He’s going to be easy to kill. Do you want him shot?”
“Yes, but make it look like something else.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Mm. Good. I’m going for Nolan and Smith.”
“I heard a rumor about Smith.” Manhar hesitated.
“And?”
“He’s slippery.”
Khalil snorted. “He’s American. None are that smart.”
“I’ve heard he’s treacherous. He forced Dattar to allow vaccination in his village. Hundreds of children. Mine included.”