Smith thought about that. The Italians had two very highly regarded counterterrorist units, the GIS (Groupe Interventional Speciale) and NOCS (Nucleo Operativo Centrale de Sicurezza). And this was their jurisdiction. Why not ask Fred Klein and the president to kick the responsibility over to the government in Rome? But how far would the Italian government be willing to go without seeing anything more than vague and circumstantial evidence?
Then another, even more unpleasant thought, occurred to him. He looked around at the others. “We know, from Randi here, that Malkovic is already being tipped off by someone in Germany, or maybe even inside Langley. But what if Malkovic has another mole—this one in the Italian security services?”
“It seems likely,” Kirov growled. “This financier has shown himself to be a man with a near-infinite capacity for corrupting others, in Russia, Germany, and many other countries. I doubt very much that he would leave himself blind and deaf here in Italy.”
Fiona frowned. “That’s pure speculation, Oleg.”
“Yes, it is,” Smith agreed. “But even if Malkovic doesn’t have a secret source in Rome, bringing the Italians into this operation would take some pretty fancy diplomatic maneuvering—”
“For which there is no time,” Kirov said suddenly and forcefully.
The others looked at him in surprise.
“Our enemies must know that their cover here is tattered and perhaps even on the verge of falling apart completely,” Kirov explained. He showed his teeth. “Think, my friends. Why else do you think a man like Malkovic would come all this way, especially now, with events in my country moving so fast toward war?”
“Renke and his pals are getting ready to pull another disappearing act,” Smith realized.
“Could they really pull that off?” Randi asked curiously.
“Sure,” Smith said. He rubbed at his jaw, thinking it through out loud. “All Renke really needs to set up shop again somewhere else are his DNA samples, any special equipment he’s using, and a few of his trained technicians. Most of the equipment and other material would probably fit in one small truck or a couple of vans.”
“Then it’s simple,” Randi said coldly. “We wait until they drive out of here, and then we jump them.”
“Look more carefully at your photographs, Ms. Russell,” Kirov advised. “Do you see any trucks or vans outside that lab?”
She shook her head reluctantly. “No.”
“But there is a large stretch of bare concrete, is there not?”
Jon saw what the Russian was getting at. “Hell,” he muttered. “Malkovic and Renke are going to fly the stuff out.”
Kirov nodded. “Probably by helicopter to a jet waiting at Rome or Florence or any one of several other nearby airfields.” He shrugged his big shoulders gloomily. “Malkovic’s native Serbia is not far from Italy, not much more than an hour’s flying time across the Adriatic Sea. Libya and Syria are also within easy reach. As are any number of other unsavory regimes that might offer so rich a man refuge.”
Frowning, Smith summed the situation up. “Which means if we wait too long, Renke will vanish again—with everything he needs to restart Malkovic’s genetic weapons business.”
“So we can’t go in. We can’t bomb them. And we can’t wait for them to come out. Mind telling me what other options we do have, Jon?” Randi said sharply, reining in her temper with difficulty.
Smith gritted his teeth, feeling equally frustrated. “I don’t know.” He shook his head grimly. “But we’ve got to find a way to push these guys off their game, to make them react to our moves for a change.”
Unable to bear inaction any longer, he stood up and began pacing around their small campsite. There had to be something they could do, some angle they could play, to get at Malkovic and his subordinates, to pry them out of that fortified lab before it was too late.
Abruptly, Jon stopped and stood still, waiting while the faint glimmering of a wild idea took on real form and substance. Maybe Randi had already given them the hook they would need. A fierce gleam appeared in his eyes. He swung round to Kirov. “I need your phone, Oleg!” he snapped. “Now!”
Nodding, the Russian tossed him the last of their Covert-One secure cell phones. “Use it wisely,” he suggested drily.
Smith grinned back at him. “Acting wisely is the last thing on my mind right now.”
He moved off out of earshot and punched in the code for Covert-One headquarters.
Fred Klein listened intently while he summarized the situation they faced. “An ugly dilemma, Colonel,” he said quietly when Smith had finished. “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes, I do. But we need action from Washington to make it work. And we need it as soon as humanly possible.”
“What do you want me to do?” Klein asked.
Smith told him.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. At last, Klein spoke again, sounding troubled. “You’re asking me to skate very close to the line on this one, Jon.”
“I know I am.”
Klein sighed. “The president and I can probably conceal Covert-One’s existence from those involved here in Washington, but I’m worried about Ms. Russell. She already knows far more about our activities and access than is prudent. What you suggest may very well give her enough information to break through this organization’s cover.”
“She’s already suspicious as hell, Fred.”
“There is a wide gulf between suspicion and certainty, Colonel,” Klein said tartly. “And I would prefer to keep Randi Russell on the proper side of that gulf.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “What choice do we really have?”
“None,” the head of Covert-One admitted at length. “All right, Jon. Stand by where you are. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to kick things off back here.”
“Standing by,” Smith acknowledged.
The line went dead.
February 22
Joint U.S.-German Intelligence Secure Videoconference
Large television monitors in Washington, D.C., Langley, Virginia, Berlin, Bonn, and Cologne flickered simultaneously to life, linking groups of men and women seated around conference tables separated by thousands of miles and hours of relative time. Those in Germany looked tired and nervous. It was already past midnight when they had been hurriedly summoned back to their various offices for what was being billed as an extraordinary emergency briefing by the new U.S. Director of National Intelligence, William Wexler.
Wexler himself appeared cool and collected. His body language radiated absolute confidence and conviction in what he was about to say. As he spoke, he looked straight into the camera, maintaining the illusion that he was making eye contact with everyone else on the secure circuit.
What none of those joining in this satellite-linked videoconference knew was that a feed was also going straight to the White House. And Fred Klein, watching the transmission with President Castilla from the Oval Office, cynically suspected one reason for Wexler’s apparent ease was because the former senator was used to delivering televised speeches that he either did not understand or did not believe.
After a few preliminary formalities, Wexler jumped straight to the core of the matter. He spoke clearly and concisely. “Intelligence agencies of the United States have now definitively identified the production site of the biological weapons being used against us, against our NATO allies, and against countries around the border of the Russian Federation.”
Those listening and watching sat up straighter.
The screen split, with half showing a satellite photo taken months before. It depicted a large fenced-in complex spread across what appeared to be a low ridge. One of the several buildings was circled. “These weapons are being secretly manufactured at a laboratory near Orvieto, in Italy,” Wexford said firmly. “A lab that is part of the European Center for Population Research, the ECPR.”
Shocked murmurs spread through the background audio feed.
Wexler overrode
them. “The intelligence confirming this target is clear and irrefutable. Accordingly, the President of the United States has authorized an immediate all-out military assault on this clandestine weapons facility.”
The German and American intelligence officials fell silent, plainly stunned by what they were hearing.
The satellite photo disappeared, replaced by a map showing Italy and the seas around it. Another circle appeared on this map, enclosing a graphic of ships positioned in the Mediterranean Sea, off Italy’s western coast. “A U.S. Marine Corps quick-reaction force is now prepping aboard the ships of the Sixth Fleet,” Wexler continued. “This force will be in position to conduct the raid within two hours. Several teams from our Special Operations Command are already in place several kilometers to the north and south of Orvieto—preparing to set up roadblocks on the main highway.”
One of the Germans spoke up. A crawl beneath the screen identified him as Bernhard Heichler, a high-ranking officer in the Bundesamtes für Verfassunsschutz. “What do the Italians think of this risky plan of yours?” he asked stiffly.
“To ensure complete surprise, this assault is being made without the knowledge or consent of the Italian government,” Wexler replied coolly.
Heichler’s mouth fell open, a reaction shared by many of his colleagues, of both nationalities. “Then why are you giving us this information?”
With a slight smile, Wexler dropped his next bombshell. “Because the man responsible for creating this biological weapon is Professor Wulf Renke,” he told them. “One of your own countrymen, and a dangerous criminal you have long hunted.” Speaking firmly and forcefully, he outlined what U.S. intelligence now knew about Renke, including his escape from German justice with Ulrich Kessler’s assistance.
“We would like you to form a task force of experts to assist us in exploiting every scrap of intelligence our Marines lay their hands on,” Wexler said carefully. “Their mission will be to ferret out any critical information contained in the lab’s phone logs, computer files, and shipping records, and to interrogate the prisoners we intend to capture.” He smiled winningly. “Now? Are there any questions?”
Immediately, a confused babble of voices broke out, with everyone trying to speak at once.
Castilla hit the mute button on his remote. The agitated voices fell silent. He turned toward Klein, with a thin smile on his broad, blunt face. “Looks like that little stunt of ours just tossed a coyote right into the middle of some real nervous cattle.”
“Yes, sir,” Klein agreed.
“You think this will actually work the way Colonel Smith hopes?” Castilla asked quietly.
“I hope so,” Klein said, equally quietly. “If not, Jon and the others are not likely to survive the next several hours.” He checked his watch. The furrows on his high forehead grew deeper. “One way or the other, we should know very soon.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Estelle Pike sat primly at her desk in the antechamber outside the Oval Office, typing up one of President Castilla’s handwritten action memos to the National Security Council. Her eyes flicked rapidly from the screen in front of her to the scrawled notes on her desk, and then around the rest of the room. The other desks and workstations were empty. She smiled slightly. One by one, she had found errands for her assistants to run in widely scattered parts of the White House office complex.
A white-gloved steward entered the room, carrying a covered tray.
She stopped typing and looked up with a frown. “Yes? What is that?”
“The president’s meal, ma’am,” the steward told her politely.
Estelle Pike nodded to the empty corner of her desk. “You can leave it there. I’ll take it in to him in a moment.”
One of the steward’s eyebrows went up in astonishment. The president’s secretary was well known and widely disliked among the White House household staff for her strict insistence on protocol and rank. She only rarely, if ever, volunteered for duties she considered beneath her station.
“The president is extremely busy, Anson,” she explained coolly. “He does not wish to be disturbed at the moment.”
The steward looked at the closed door behind her and then shrugged. “Yes, ma am. Please don’t wait too long, though. Otherwise the salad will start to wilt.”
Estelle Pike waited until the door closed behind him and then bent down to open her purse. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, she found the small sealed glass vial she had retrieved earlier from the Maryland countryside. Then, moving calmly and precisely, she opened the vial, lifted the silver cover off Castilla’s salad and sprinkled the liquid contents liberally over the tossed greens, salsa, sour cream, cheese, and pieces of grilled chicken. She dropped the vial back into her purse and stood up, reaching for the tray.
“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Pike,” a quiet voice said from behind her.
Startled, she froze and then slowly turned around toward the door into the Oval Office. Nathaniel Frederick Klein stood there, framed in the open doorway. His narrow, long-nosed face was impassive. Two uniformed Secret Service agents stood ready on either side of him, both with drawn weapons.
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Klein?” Estelle Pike demanded icily, trying to brazen it out.
“The meaning, Ms. Pike,” Klein said bluntly, “is that you are under arrest.”
“On what grounds?”
“The attempted assassination of President Samuel Adams Castilla will do for a start,” he replied. His eyes were cold. “No doubt other charges will arise as we dig deeper into your conduct and background.”
Later, sitting across from a visibly shocked Castilla, Klein slid the glass vial across the president’s big pine table desk. “We’ll have what remains of the contents analyzed, but if Jon Smith’s suspicions are accurate, I doubt that we’ll find much of use inside.”
Grimly, Castilla nodded. His mouth turned downward. He shook his head in disbelief. “Estelle Pike! She’s been with me for years, ever since I came to the White House.” He looked up at the head of Covert-One. “What made you suspect her?”
Klein shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Suspicion is too strong a word, Sam. Once we learned how easily this targeted biological weapon might be administered to its victims, I had a quiet chat with the head of your Secret Service detail. They’ve been monitoring every aspect of White House food preparation ever since. Ms. Pike’s domain was the only potential gap in our security, so it was one I’ve had closely observed. When she started finding reasons to send her people away after you called down to the kitchens for that salad, I thought it would be a good idea to see what she might be planning.”
Castilla tapped the vial gently. His eyes were still troubled. “But why? Why would she do this?”
“I rather think we will find that your Ms. Pike has a great many hidden depths,” Klein said flatly. “I’ve sometimes wondered about her. Her position here at the White House gave her access to an enormous range of secret information. And her background—widowed at an early age, no family, no real friends—well, it just seems too convenient, too perfect. If I wanted to create a legend, a cover, for a deep-penetration mole, that’s exactly the sort of thing I would work toward.”
“You think she’s a Russian spy?” the president asked.
Klein nodded again. “Almost certainly.” He stood up. “But we’ll find out for sure. You can count on that.”
“I do, Fred,” Castilla said with a grateful smile. “I always do.” Then his smile slowly faded. “Just as I am counting on Colonel Smith and the others.”
Near Orvieto
Konstantin Malkovic stared down at the decoded message on his laptop in dismay. “Impossible!” he muttered. He turned to Brandt, who was standing at his shoulder. “How could this be?”
“The Americans are closer to us than we realized,” Brandt snapped, reading through the urgent warning sent by the financier’s agent in Germany. “That’s all.”
“But what can we do?” the other man asked. His v
oice, usually a deep baritone, now sounded shrill.
Brandt stared at his employer in disgust. Malkovic was crumbling in front of him. All of the rich man’s bluster, all of his famous self-confidence, was largely a charade, the gray-eyed man realized coldly. Oh, the Serbian-born financier was brave enough when he was winning, or when he speculated in abstractions—like currencies, or oil and natural gas, or other men’s lives—but he was a physical coward, a man who flinched when his own life was in peril. Like many greedy men, always hungry for more power or for more money, he was fundamentally hollow inside.
“We must evacuate at once,” Brandt said carefully. “Professor Renke’s DNA databases and his design files are ready to go. We’ll take them, and Renke, and leave now.”
Malkovic stared back at him in confusion. “But his equipment—”
“Can be replaced,” Brandt said brutally.
“What about Renke’s assistants? His lab team?” the financier stammered. “The helicopters won’t arrive until it is too late, and we don’t have room for them in the cars.”
“No,” Brandt agreed coolly, looking out into the main lab where the scientists and technicians were still working hard, preparing their expensive machines for a move that would now never be made. He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “We’ll have to leave them behind. Along with the Italian security guards.”
Malkovic paled. “What? Are you mad? When the Marines storm this building, they will be captured and then they will talk.”
“No,” Brandt said bluntly. “They won’t.” He drew the Walther pistol from his shoulder holster and inspected the weapon quickly. As a last measure, he checked that he had a full fifteen-round magazine, and then slid the clip back in.
The financier looked sick under the lab’s bright fluorescent lights. He sat down heavily, staring at the sterile tile floor between his feet.
Turning slightly, Brandt waved one of the bodyguards over.
“Yes, Herr Brandt?” the man said, sounding bored. “What is it?’
The Moscow Vector Page 40