The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  “I have no choice,” Klein said grimly. “I must tell the president.”

  “Which could make it a government-to-government situation,” Smith pointed out. “Then the question becomes: do we trust the Russians enough to go after the leak and the courier? We don't know whom we're dealing with at Bioaparat, how senior he is, or who gave him his marching orders. It's possible that this isn't some rogue scientist or researcher looking to make a quick buck by delivering a package to New York City. This could travel all the way up to the Kremlin.”

  “You're saying that if the president were to speak to the Russian prime minister we might be tipping our hand ― to the wrong people. I agree ― but give me an alternative.”

  It took Smith three minutes to lay out the contingency plan he had come up with during the flight. He noticed Klein's skeptical expression and was prepared to argue, but Klein surprised him.

  “I agree. It's the only course of action we can take immediately ― and that has a chance of success. But I'll tell you this: the president won't give us much time. If you don't get results fast he'll have no choice but to come down hard on the Russians.”

  Smith took a deep breath. “Give me two days. I'll check in every twelve hours. If I miss a signal by more than sixty minutes, assume that I won't be calling in at all.”

  Klein shook his head. “That's a hell of a gamble, Jon. I don't like sending men in on a wing and a prayer.”

  “A prayer is all we have right now, sir,” Smith said somberly. “There's something else you might want to tell him. We stopped manufacturing smallpox vaccine years ago. Right now, all we have are a hundred thousand inoculations ― at USAMRIID, strictly for military use. We couldn't inoculate even a fraction of our population.” He paused. “There's even a lousier scenario: if someone is stealing smallpox because they can't do Stage Two development in Russia, they're bringing it here because they can ― something's already waiting for the courier on this end. If that's the case, and the object is not only to create a mutant strain but to disperse it in this country, then we're defenseless. We could manufacture all the vaccine in the world, but none of it would be effective against a new strain of variola.”

  Klein's eyes locked on Smith. His voice was low and harsh.

  “Go and find out what kind of hell the Russians are letting loose. Find out fast!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Megan's heels echoed smartly off the polished concrete floor as she walked through the giant hangar and into daylight. Although she'd been in Houston for almost two months, she still wasn't used to its climate. It was April but already the air was humid. She was glad her training wouldn't extend into the summer.

  Sandwiched between buildings G-3 and G-4 was the new visitors' center. Megan walked past the flotilla of NASA buses, which ferried guests from the main gates into the compound, and entered the atrium-style lobby. Suspended from the overhead girders was a halfsize mock-up of the shuttle. Slipping around groups of schoolchildren who were staring wide-eyed at the mock-up, she headed for the security desk. Visitors to NASA, as well as their destinations within the facility, were logged into a computer. Megan was wondering where she would find Jon Smith when she caught a glimpse of him walking beneath the mock-up.

  “Jon!”

  Smith was startled to hear his name, but his frown turned into a smile when he saw Megan.

  “Megan… How wonderful to see you again.”

  Megan came up to him and took his arm. “You look like a man on a mission ― all so serious. Don't tell me you weren't even going to look me up.”

  Smith hesitated. His thoughts had wandered to Megan Olson but nothing had prepared him for actually running into her.

  “I wouldn't have known where to begin to look for you,” he replied truthfully.

  “And you being such a resourceful man,” Megan teased him. “What are you doing down here? Did you come in with the president's party?”

  “Hardly. I had a meeting, something that came up at the last minute.”

  “Uh-huh. And now you're galloping off. Do you at least have time for a drink or a cup of coffee?”

  Although he was anxious to get back to Washington, Smith decided he didn't want to raise any suspicions, especially since Megan seemed to have accepted his vague explanation for his presence at NASA.

  “I'd love a drink,” he said, then added, “You seemed to be looking for me ― or am I imagining things?”

  “I was,” Megan replied, leading them toward the elevators. “Actually, a friend of yours, Dylan Reed, mentioned that he'd heard you were on-site.”

  “Dylan… I see.”

  “Where do you know him from?”

  “Dylan and I worked together when NASA and USAMRIID were retooling the biochem program for the shuttle. That was a while back. I haven't seen him since.”

  Which begs the question: how the hell would Reed or anyone else know that I was here?

  Since the air space around NASA was restricted, the Gulfstream pilot would have filed a crew/passenger manifest with the NASA controllers, who would have passed it on to security. But that information should have remained confidential ―unless someone was monitoring flight arrivals.

  Megan slid a card key into the slot of the glass-enclosed elevator that went up to the private dining room. Upstairs, she and Smith walked past the dining room's floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the center's air-training facilities. Megan couldn't help but smile when she saw a KC-135, a converted aerial tanker, lumber down the runway.

  “Fond memories?” Smith asked her.

  Megan laughed. “Only in retrospect. That one-thirty-five has been especially modified to pretest various experiments and equipment for the low gravity of shuttle flights. It climbs steeply until its acceleration reaches two Gs, then freefalls, creating a weightless environment for twenty or thirty seconds. When I took my first ride, I had no idea how greatly reduced gravity stresses the body's internal systems.” She grinned. “That's when I discovered why the one-thirty-five has onboard a generous supply of emesis bags.”

  “And why they call it the Vomit Comet,” Smith added.

  Megan was surprised. “Have you ever ridden in that thing?” she asked.

  “Wouldn't dream of it.”

  They took a table by the window. Megan ordered a beer but Smith, about to get back in the air, chose orange juice. When their drinks arrived, he raised his glass.

  “May you reach the stars.”

  Megan met his glance. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  Smith and Megan glanced up to find Dr. Dylan Reed standing by their table.

  “Jon, it's good to see you again. I was waiting for someone on another flight when I saw your name on the arrivals roster.”

  Smith returned Reed's strong handshake and invited him to pull up a chair.

  “Are you still with USAMRIID?” Reed asked.

  “Still attached. And you've been down here for what, three years?”

  “Four.”

  “Are you onboard the next mission?”

  Reed grinned. “Couldn't keep me away. I've become a shuttle junkie.”

  Smith raised his glass again. “To a safe, successful flight.”

  After the toast, Reed turned to Megan. “You never told me how you two met.”

  Megan's smile faded. “Sophia Russell was a childhood friend of mine.”

  “Sorry,” Reed apologized. "I heard about Sophia's death, Jon. I'm very sorry.

  Smith listened as Reed and Megan discussed the morning's exercise in the mock-up, noting the affectionate way Reed treated her. Smith wondered if there was something more than just a professional relationship between them.

  Even if there is, it's none of my business.

  Smith felt heat at the back of his neck. Casually, he shifted so that he could see the entire room in the reflection of the windows. Standing by the hostess's station was a slightly overweight man of medium height, in his early forties. His head was completely sh
aved, the scalp shiny beneath the lights. Even from this distance, Smith could tell that the man was staring directly at him, his mouth open slightly.

  I don't know you, so why are you so interested in me?

  “Dylan?”

  Smith gestured in the direction of the hostess's station. His motion made the watcher duck, unsuccessfully.

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  Reed glanced around. “Right. That's Adam Treloar, the mission's chief medical officer.” He waved. “Adam!”

  Smith watched as Treloar approached reluctantly, like a child dragging his feet to the dinner table.

  “Adam, meet Dr. Jon Smith, with USAMRIID,” Reed said.

  “My pleasure,” Smith said.

  “Yes, nice to meet you,” Treloar mumbled, betraying the remnants of a British accent.

  “Have we met before?” Smith inquired pleasantly.

  He wondered why the polite question would make Treloar's eggshaped eyes bulge.

  “Oh, I don't think so. I would have remembered.” Hastily, Treloar turned to Reed. “We have to go over the crew's last physical. And I must make that meeting with Stone.”

  Reed shook his head. “Things get a little hectic as we approach launch date,” he apologized to Smith. “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. Jon, it was great to see you. Let's not leave it so long, okay?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Megan, I'll see you at three o'clock in the biolab.”

  Smith watched the two men take a booth at the far end of the room.

  “Treloar's a little strange,” he commented. Especially since he wanted to discuss physical exams but wasn't carrying any medical files.

  “Yes, he is,” Megan agreed. “As a doctor, Adam's one of the best. Dylan stole him from Bauer-Zermatt. But he is eccentric.”

  Smith shrugged. “Tell me about Dylan. What's he like to work with? I remember that he was a by-the-numbers kind of guy.”

  “If you mean he's really focused, that's true. But he always challenges me, makes me think harder, do better.”

  “I'm glad you found someone like that to work with.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get going.”

  Megan rose with him. “Me, too.”

  When they stepped out of the elevator on the main floor, she touched his arm. “It was good to see you again, Jon.”

  “You, too, Megan. The next time you get to Washington, the drinks are on me.”

  She grinned. “I'll take you up on that.”

  * * *

  “Don't stare at them!”

  Adam Treloar jerked his head, startled by the harshness of Reed's command. He could not believe how Reed, with an easy smile on his face, could be so cold.

  Using his peripheral vision, Treloar watched as Jon Smith and Megan Olson made their way to the elevator. He heard a soft ping when the car arrived and finally let out his breath. Reaching for a napkin, he dabbed his face and crown.

  “Do you know who Smith is?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “As a matter of fact I do,” Reed replied calmly. “I've known him for years.”

  He pressed his back against the banquette, anything to get farther from the sour odor that seemed to follow Treloar wherever he went. Reed didn't care that his gesture was so obviously rude; he had never made a secret of the contempt he felt for the shuttle mission's chief medical officer.

  “If you know who he is, then tell me what he's doing here,” Treloar demanded. “He was the one with Danko in Venice!”

  Reed's hand shot out like a cobra, seizing Treloar's left wrist, his powerful grip squeezing the delicate nerves. Treloar rolled his eyes and his mouth fell open as he gasped.

  “What do you know about Venice?” Reed demanded softly.

  “I… overheard you talking about it!” Treloar managed to say.

  “Then forget that I ever did, do you understand?” he said in his silky voice. “Venice is not your concern. Neither is Smith.”

  He released Treloar's wrist and was pleased by the residual pain he saw in the medical officer's eyes.

  “It just seems too much of a coincidence that first, Smith was in Venice, now he's here,” Treloar said.

  “Believe me, Smith knows nothing. He has nothing. Danko was dealt with before he could say anything. And there's a simple explanation as to why he was in Venice. Danko and Smith knew each other from international conferences. Obviously they were friends. When Danko decided to bolt, Smith was the man he decided he could trust. Nothing more complicated or sinister than that.”

  “Then it's safe for me to travel?”

  “Very safe,” Reed assured him. “In fact, why don't we have another drink and go over the arrangements.”

  * * *

  Peter Howell let several hours go by before he left the Danieli Hotel and threaded his way to the Rio del San Moise, where the assassins had gone to their fiery deaths. As he anticipated, there was only a handful of carabinieri patrolling the perimeter to ensure that no tourists wandered into the roped-off crime scene.

  The man he expected to see there was examining the charred remains of the assassins' gondola. Behind him, divers continued to scour the canal for more evidence.

  A carabinieri blocked Howell's path.

  “I wish to speak with Inspector Dionetti,” the Englishman said in fluent Italian.

  Howell waited as the policeman walked up to the short, trim man, thoughtfully stroking his goatee while he examined a piece of blackened wood.

  Marco Dionetti, an inspector in the Polizia Statale, looked up and blinked when he recognized Howell. He stripped off his rubber gloves, brushed imaginary lint off the lapels of his hand-tailored suit, then came to Howell and embraced in the Italian fashion.

  “Pietro! A pleasure to see you again.” Dionetti looked Howell up and down. “At least I hope it will be pleasant.”

  “It's good to see you too, Marco.”

  During the golden age of terrorism in the mid-1980s, Peter Howell, on loan from the SAS, had worked with high-level Italian policemen on kidnappings involving British citizens. One of the men he had come to admire and respect was a soft-spoken but tough-as-nails aristocrat by the name of Marco Dionetti, then a rising star in the Statale. Over the years, he and Howell had kept in touch. Howell had a standing invitation to stay at Dionetti's ancestral palazzo whenever he was in Venice.

  “So here you are in the Serenissima but you have not called on me, much less allowed me to be your host,” Dionetti chided him. “Where are you staying? I Danieli, I'll wager.”

  “My apologies, Marco,” Howell replied. “I just arrived yesterday and things have been a little hectic.”

  Dionetti looked behind him at the wreckage strewn on the embankment. “Hectic? Of course, the classic British understatement. May I be so bold as to ask whether you know anything about this outrage?”

  “You may. And I'll be happy to tell you. But not here.”

  Dionetti let out a sharp whistle. Almost instantly a blue-and-white police launch purred up to the steps leading from the embankment to the water.

  “We can talk on the way,” Dionetti said.

  “On the way to where?”

  “Really, Pietro! We are going to the Questura. It would be bad manners for me to expect you to answer my questions if I do not answer yours.”

  Howell followed the inspector to the stern of the craft. Both men waited until the boat had cleared the Rio del San Moise and throttled out into the Grand Canal.

  “Tell me, Pietro,” the inspector said over the rumble of the diesels. “What do you know of that little horror that erupted in our fair city?”

  “I'm not running an operation,” Howell assured him. “But the incident involved a friend of mine.”

  “And did your friend happen to be the mysterious gentleman at the Piazza San Marco?” Dionetti asked. “The one seen with the shooting victim? The one who chased after the killers, then disappeared?”

  “The same.”

  Dionetti sighed theatrically. “Tell me t
his has nothing to do with terrorism, Pietro.”

  “It doesn't.”

  “We found a Ukrainian passport on the victim, but little else. He looked like he had had a hard journey. Should Italy be concerned as to why he came here?”

  “Italy needn't be concerned. He was only passing through.”

  Dionetti stared at the traffic on the river, the water taxis and water buses, the garbage scows and the elegant gondolas bobbing in the wakes of the larger vessels. The Grand Canal was the main artery of his beloved Venezia, and he felt its pulse keenly.

  “I do not want trouble, Pietro,” he said.

  “Then help me,” Howell replied. “I'll see to it that trouble leaves.” He paused. “Did you find enough to identify the killers and how they were murdered?”

  “A bomb,” Dionetti said flatly. “More powerful than need be. Someone wanted to obliterate them. However, if that was their intention, they failed. We found enough for identification ― assuming those two were in our records. We shall see shortly.”

  The launch slowed as it reached the Rio di Ca Gazoni, then rumbled slowly into the dock in front of the Questura, the Polizia Statale headquarters.

  Dionetti led them past the armed guards stationed outside the seventeenth-century palazzo.

  “Once the home of a proud family,” Dionetti said over his shoulder. “Repossessed for back taxes. When the government took it over, it became a fancy police station.” He shook his head.

  Howell followed him down a wide corridor into a room that looked like it had once been a formal drawing room. Beyond the windows was a garden, lying fallow.

  Dionetti went around his desk and tapped on the computer keyboard. A printer whirred to life.

  “The Rocca brothers-Tommaso and Luigi,” he said, handing Howell the printouts.

  Howell contemplated the photographs of two very tough-looking men in their late twenties. “Sicilians?”