She shook her head. “It won’t work. Part of the requirements for large transfers is that I appear at the bank. In person. I arranged it this way so if Dattar found out he couldn’t kill me.” She gave Khalil a direct stare and for a moment he was unsure whether to believe her or not. He pulled his fist back to punch her. She watched him do it and he saw her set her jaw in anticipation of the pain. He heard a noise from below and paused. After a moment, when it wasn’t repeated, he turned his attention back to her.
“Where is this bank?”
“The Cayman Islands.” Khalil had expected the answer. Many hid their money in the Caribbean.
“Transfer the small amounts first. Now. Then we shall go to get the rest.”
“I’ll need your information,” she said.
Khalil waved at the computer. “Initiate the transaction and I’ll type it in at the appropriate spot.”
Nolan bent her head to the computer. Khalil noticed that her hands still shook but she seemed to steady as her mind focused. He knew that the transfers could be scheduled for a date in the future. He’d have her complete the programming and then he’d kill her. He settled into a chair behind the desk while he waited.
31
Smith stepped into a drugstore and headed to the pharmacy section. He needed gauze, alcohol, bandages, and ibuprofen. His arm was throbbing again, from the original wound and now from the second. His shirtsleeve was wet with blood and he could feel it leaking over the back of his hand.
I’m becoming bullet-ridden, he thought. He wished he could purchase equipment to stitch up the second injury, but he didn’t want to spend all his cash on medical supplies. His next purchase would be a prepaid phone and he wouldn’t turn off his current one until then because he didn’t want to miss a call from Marty. His phone vibrated. Smith opened it to find a text from Marty that said, Nolan back online, followed by an address and the words Toss this phone now. Smith sent Marty a text asking him to notify the police. Then he sent a text to Klein.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Unknown number” appeared. Klein, Smith thought. He pressed the call button and put the phone to his ear.
“Jon, you have a lot of trouble.” Howell’s voice poured through the phone. Smith felt enormous relief at hearing the former MI6 agent’s voice.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m in the East Village. You?”
“You’re in New York City.” Smith’s voice was flat.
“Yes. I’m told you’re here as well.”
“I’m near the Flatiron District. A man just tried to kill me.”
“Khalil?” Howell’s immediate grasp of the situation and the adversary didn’t surprise Smith at all. Peter Howell was one of the best.
“Doubtful. American. I think CIA.” The pause on the line dragged out. “You there?” Smith said.
“I won’t ask why the CIA might want you dead. Have you asked Russell? Even though she’s CIA, I think she’d tell you if they were out to burn you,” Howell said.
“Russell’s in the ICU. Gravely ill. She thinks there’s a mole in the agency who’s funneling information outside to a hostile actor. She doesn’t know who or why. But I’m not one of theirs, so why hunt me?”
“I’m afraid I have further bad news. I found one of Khalil’s lackeys. He says that Dattar has a new weapon he intends to unleash here in twenty hours. Not a bomb. Any ideas?”
“A few. Let me be sure to shake the guy tailing me and we’ll meet in thirty minutes.” He told Howell about Nolan and gave the address.
“I have Beckmann with me.”
Now it was Smith’s turn to pause. Beckmann was CIA and therefore suspect. “Can you lose him?”
“If I have to, yes, but I’ve known him for several years. His adherence to corporate policy can be loose, but he wouldn’t turn on the CIA. He’s not your mole. I would stake my life on it.”
“If you bring him along, you’ll be doing just that,” Smith said.
He paid for the supplies and left the store, disassembling the old phone as he did. He passed a garbage can and lobbed the electronic components into it before waving down a taxi. Traffic was light and they made it across town in less than ten minutes. The cabbie dropped him a block from the pinpoint location. He walked the block, keeping a lookout for sentries along the way.
The address belonged to a gut rehab of what looked like a former warehouse stuck in between two new square apartment buildings. All three structures were no higher than three floors. The street was tree-lined on the house side, but across from it was a small parking lot. At the end of the street was a massive glass-and-steel conference center building. The area was desolate. Only the occasional car shot down the street, its occupant uninterested in what Smith was doing that early. Smith glanced up and saw a faint glow on the second floor. He moved to the gate opening and saw that, though it was closed, the padlock hung open. It would have been impossible for someone to lock it behind them. The dangling padlock told Smith that they were still inside. He removed his gun and inched the gate aside until he had an opening large enough to allow for a view of the interior. He knelt and put his eyes to the crack.
A sentry stood at the far side of the building’s empty shell smoking a cigarette. Smith debated whether shooting him would aggravate Nolan’s situation. He assumed that Khalil was forcing her to access Dattar’s money in order to return it to him. Once the transaction was complete, Khalil would have no further reason to keep her alive.
Smith opened the door wider and slid in, keeping low. The ground floor consisted of steel beams evenly spaced, and no walls. An elevator in the back looked as though it was original to the building; next to it was a plank stairwell that lacked handrails. There was nothing that he could use as cover. He crept around the edges, keeping to the shadows, and was relieved to see the sentry pull out a phone and dial it. After a moment the man started talking in a foreign language. Smith walked faster around the perimeter while the oblivious sentry was immersed in his conversation. He was within two feet of the man when the conversation ended. Smith rose and placed the muzzle of his pistol at the base of the guard’s skull.
“One word and you’re dead,” Smith whispered into his ear. The sentry froze.
“Show me with your fingers how many are upstairs.” The man held up two fingers. Smith was relieved that he was still only dealing with the initial three that he had seen kidnap Nolan. “Lie down face-first.” The guard lowered himself to the ground and stretched out. Smith flipped his gun around and swung the grip at the side of the man’s head, aiming at the temple. The man went limp.
Smith headed to the plank stairs. As he approached, he heard the murmur of voices. All sounded male. He crept upward, wincing as one board creaked with his weight. When his eyes became level with the floor above, he stretched a bit more and peered into the second floor.
The second floor was enclosed on three sides, one covered in plastic sheeting. The rest of the interior was unfinished. Nolan sat in a chair and Khalil leaned over her. Both kept their attention on the computer in Nolan’s hands while a second man stood about four feet away. Before Smith could duck, the second man turned and spotted him. He reached for a gun in his waistband, but before he could draw, Smith shot, hitting the man dead center in the chest. Khalil spun away from Nolan as he pulled a gun from a holster under his jacket.
Smith jerked downward, crouched low and stumbled down the stairs in order to avoid a shot to the head. He jumped the last few risers and headed to the far edge of the building, pressing his back against a steel beam. In the distance came the welcoming sound of an oncoming police siren. To his right he saw motion. The sentry was still unconscious, so it wasn’t him. Smith moved around one side of the beam and he felt it vibrate as a bullet clanked off it, but he barely heard the shot. Whoever was making his way around the first floor of the building had a suppressor on his weapon. CIA, Smith thought. His earlier attacker was back.