The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  “The lieutenant has my full confidence,” Kirov added. “You may speak freely here, Doctor.”

  “Fine,” Smith replied. “I will assume that this conversation is not being monitored and that the premises are secure.”

  “Take that as a given,” Kirov assured him.

  “Bioaparat,” Smith said.

  The single word elicited the reactions he'd expected: shock and concern.

  “What about Bioaparat, Doctor?” Kirov asked quietly.

  “General, I have good reason to believe that there's a security breach at the facility. If material has not already gone missing, there is a plan under way to steal some of the samples you hold there.”

  “Preposterous!” Lara Telegin snapped. “Bioaparat has some of the most advanced security systems in the world. We have heard these kinds of allegations before, Dr. Smith. Honestly, sometimes the West thinks that we are little more than unruly schoolchildren playing with dangerous toys. It's insulting and―”

  “Lara! ”

  Kirov's voice was soft, but the command behind it was unmistakable.

  “You must forgive the lieutenant,” he said to Smith. “She resents when the West appears to be patronizing or paternalistic ― which is sometimes the case, wouldn't you agree?”

  “General, I'm not here to criticize your security arrangements,” Smith replied. “I wouldn't have come all this way if I didn't believe that you have a serious problem ― or that you wouldn't at least hear me out.”

  “Then please, go on about our `problem.' ”

  Smith regrouped and took a deep breath. “The most likely target is your store of smallpox.”

  Kirov paled. “That's insane! No one in their right mind would try to steal that!”

  “ `Right minds' wouldn't try to steal anything you keep at Bioaparat. But we have information that the theft is in the works.”

  “Who is your source, Doctor?” Telegin demanded. “How reliable is he? Or she?”

  “Very reliable, Lieutenant.”

  “Would you produce him for us so that we might satisfy ourselves?”

  “The source is dead,” Smith replied, trying to keep his voice level.

  “Convenient,” she observed.

  Smith turned to Kirov. “Please listen to me. I'm not saying that you or the Russian government is involved in this. The theft is being engineered by third parties who, right now, are unknown. But for them to get the sample out of Russia requires the cooperation of people inside Bioaparat.”

  “You're suggesting that either the research or security personnel are involved,” Kirov said.

  “It could be anyone who has access to the smallpox samples.” Smith paused. “I'm not passing judgment on your people or your security, General. I know that most of those who work at Bioaparat are as loyal as the people who work in our facilities. But I am telling you that you have a problem ― which will become our problem, and probably the world's ― if those samples get out.”

  Kirov lit a cigarette.

  “You came all this way to tell me this,” he said slowly. “But you also have a plan, don't you?”

  “Shut down Bioaparat,” Smith said. “Right now. Throw a military cordon around it. Nothing goes in ― for sure, nothing and no one comes out. In the morning, you inspect the virus stocks yourself. If they're all there, fine, we're safe, and you can go after the mole.”

  “And you, Dr. Smith? Where would you be during all this?”

  “I would ask you to grant me observer status.”

  “Don't you trust us to tell you that all the stocks are intact, Doctor?” Telegin taunted.

  “It's not a matter of trust, Lieutenant. If the situation were reversed, wouldn't you want to be on-site at our facility?”

  “There's still the issue of your source,” Kirov reminded him. “Understand, Doctor. To do what you ask requires me to go to the president himself. Certainly I can vouch for your credentials. But I need a very good reason to disturb his sleep. If I have the name of your source, if I can check his pedigree ― that would validate a great deal of what you have told us.”

  Smith turned away. He had known that it might come down to this, trading Yuri Danko's identity in order to secure Kirov's cooperation.

  “The man has a family,” he said at last. “I need your word that they will not be punished and that if they want to, they can leave.” He held up his hand before Kirov could reply. “That man was not a traitor, General. He was a patriot. He came to me only because he didn't know how high up the conspiracy went. He gave up everything he had here so that Russia wouldn't be blamed if anything happened.”

  “I can understand that,” Kirov replied. “You have my assurance that the family will not be harmed. Furthermore, the only person I will speak to is President Potrenko ― unless you tell me that he is somehow tainted?”

  “I can't believe that to be the case,” Smith replied.

  “Then we are in agreement. Lara, call the duty officer at the Kremlin. Tell him that it's urgent and I'm on my way.”

  He turned to Smith. “Now, that name, please.”

  * * *

  “I think you are extending the American a great deal of trust,” Lara Telegin said as she and Kirov walked through the underground garage to his car. “Maybe too much trust. If he is a liar, or worse, a provocateur, you could end up having to answer some embarrassing questions.”

  Kirov returned his driver's salute and stepped aside to allow Lara to get into the car.

  “Embarrassing questions,” he said once they were settled. “Is that all?”

  She glanced at the partition that separated the driver's compartment from the rest of the car, making sure that it was all the way up. Such actions were ingrained in her, a result of her military intelligence training.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “For a soldier, you hold extremely progressive views. They have made you your share of enemies.”

  “If by 'progressive' you mean that I wish Russia to join the twenty-first century, then I plead guilty,” Kirov replied. “And if I have to take the odd risk to ensure that such views prevail against the Neanderthals who would send us back to a bankrupt political system, so be it.”

  He gripped the door handle as the car shot out into the wide boulevard that runs by Dzerzhinsky Square.

  “Listen to me, Lara,” he continued. “Men like Jon Smith do not recklessly give their word. You can be sure that he is not on some fool's mission. Individuals high in American government believe the information important enough to send Smith over. Do you see what I mean? What Smith has been allowed to do, told to do ― not his words ―-legitimizes what the Americans believe they have.”

  “A traitor's word,” she said bitterly.

  It had taken her all of twenty minutes to confirm that Yuri Danko was missing and that his whereabouts were unknown. Except the Americans, damn them, know that he's dead!

  “On the face of it, Danko was a traitor,” Kirov agreed. “But you can see his dilemma: what if he had gone to his superior, or even higher up the command chain, and that person had turned out to be part of this `conspiracy'? Danko would still be dead and we would know nothing.”

  Kirov stared through the bulletproof window at the streetlights flashing by.

  “Believe me, I hope that the Americans are wrong,” he said softly. “I would like nothing more than to show Smith that Bioaparat is totally secure and that he has been the victim of a hoax. But until I can do that, I must give him the benefit of the doubt. You understand, dusha?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Better than you think. After all, I have been learning at the feet of the master.”

  The big sedan bored through the Kremlin's Spassky Gate, stopping only at the security checkpoint where passengers' IDs were checked. A few minutes later, Kirov and Telegin were escorted into the section of the Kremlin that houses the president's apartment and personal working quarters.

  “I had better wait here,” Telegin said as they stood in the grand, domed foyer
built by Peter the Great. “There's bound to be more information coming through on Danko.”

  “There will be ― and Smith will give it to us,” Kirov replied. “But right now, I think it's time you got used to presenting yourself to your civilian masters.”

  Telegin could scarcely hide her surprise and trepidation as they followed the duty officer up the double staircase. They were shown into an elegantly appointed library where a figure wrapped in a thick robe sat by a crackling fire.

  “Oleg Ivanovich, you had better have good reason to rob an old man of his sleep.”

  Viktor Potrenko cut a patrician-looking figure as he rose to shake Kirov's hand.

  “May I present my adjutant, Lieutenant Lara Telegin,” Kirov said.

  “Lieutenant Telegin,” Potrenko murmured. “I have heard good things about you. Please, sit.”

  Lara thought that Potrenko lingered in holding her hand. Maybe the rumors about the seventy-five-year-old president were true ― that he had a fondness for young women, particularly ballerinas.

  When they were seated, Potrenko continued, “Now what is all this business about Bioaparat?”

  Swiftly, Kirov laid out the gist of his conversation with Smith. “I think that this is something we must take seriously,” he concluded.

  “Do you?” Potrenko mused. “Lieutenant Telegin, what are your thoughts?”

  Lara understood that her next words could very well put her career in the crosshairs. But she also knew that the two men before her were masters of nuance and inflection. They would spot a lie or an equivocation faster than a hawk sees a hare.

  “I'm afraid that I must play devil's advocate, Mr. President,” she said, then explained her reservations about taking Smith's words at face value.

  “Well spoken,” Potrenko commended her. He turned to Kirov. “Don't lose this one.” He paused. “So, what are we to do? On the one hand, the Americans gain nothing by crying foul. On the other, it stings to believe that a theft of this magnitude can occur under our very noses ― without us even being aware.”

  Potrenko rose and stepped close to the grate, warming his hands. It seemed a very long time before he spoke.

  “We have a Special Forces training facility outside Vladimir, do we not?”

  “We have, Mr. President.”

  “Call the commander and authorize a quarantine around Bioaparat effective immediately. You, Lieutenant Telegin, and Dr. Smith will fly there at first light. If a theft has occurred, you will notify me immediately. Either way, I want a comprehensive review of the security procedures.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Oleg?”

  “Sir?”

  “If even a gram of smallpox is missing, alert our virus hunters at once. Then arrest everyone on-site.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After landing at the Naples airport, Peter Howell took a taxi to the docks, where he boarded the hydrofoil for the thirty-minute ride across the Straits of Messina. Through the big windows of the lounge, he watched as Sicily came into view, first the craters of Mount Etna, then Palermo itself, nestled beneath the limestone bulk of Monte Pellegrino that tapered off into a plateau at sea level.

  Settled by Greeks, invaded by Romans, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards, Sicily has been a waystop for soldiers and mercenaries for centuries. As one of the breed, Howell had been on the island both as a visitor and a warrior. After stepping off the hydrofoil, he went into the heart of the city ― the Quattro Centri, or Four Corners. There he found accommodations in a small penzione where he had stayed before. It was well away from the tourist traffic yet within walking distance to the places Howell needed to go to.

  As was his habit, Howell reconnoitered those areas of the city he intended to visit. Not unexpectedly, nothing had changed since his last trip, and the map he carried in his head served him well. Returning to the penzione, he slept until the early evening, then headed for the Albergheria, a warren of narrow streets in Palermo's craftsmen's district.

  Sicily was famous for its knife makers and the quality of their wares and Howell had no problem buying a finely honed ten-inch blade with a sturdy leather handle. Now that he had a weapon, Howell proceeded to the docks, where the taverns and rooming houses were definitely not mentioned in the tourist guides.

  Howell knew that the bar was called La Pretoria, although there was no sign on the stone walls. Inside was a large, crowded room with sawdust on the floor and timbers lining the ceiling. Fishermen and boatbuilders, mechanics and sailors sat at long communal tables drinking grappa, beer, or cold, flinty Sicilian wine. Wearing corduroy pants, an old fisherman's sweater, and a knitted cap, Howell attracted little attention. He bought two grappas at the bar and carried the drinks to the end of one of the tables.

  The man sitting across from him was short and thickset, with an unshaven face scarred by the sea and wind. Cold gray eyes regarded Howell through the haze of cigarette smoke.

  “I was surprised to hear from you, Peter,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  Howell raised his thimbleful of grappa. “Salute, Franco.”

  Franco Grimaldi ― one-time member of the French Foreign Legion, now a professional smuggler ― put down his cigarette and lifted his glass. He had to do this because he had only his right arm, having lost the left one to a Tunisian rebel's sword.

  The two men tossed back their drinks and Grimaldi jammed the cigarette back between his lips.

  “So, old friend. What brings you to my parlor?”

  “The Rocca brothers.”

  Grimaldi's fleshy lips creased into what might have been misconstrued as a smile. “I hear things did not go well for them in Venice.” He looked at Howell shrewdly. “And you just came from there, didn't you?”

  “The Roccas executed a contract, then someone executed them,” Howell replied, his voice hard, flat. “I want to know who that was.”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “It's best not to inquire too closely into the Roccas' dealings ― even if they are dead.”

  Howell slipped a roll of American dollars across the table. “I need to know, Franco.”

  The Sicilian palmed the money like a magician.

  “I heard that there was a special contract,” he said, cupping the side of his mouth as he held his cigarette.

  “Specifics, please, Franco.”

  “I cannot tell you. Usually the Roccas made no secret about their contracts ― especially after a few drinks. But they were very quiet about this job.”

  “And you knew about it because…?”

  Grimaldi smiled. “Because I sleep with their sister, who kept house for her brothers. She knew everything that went on within those walls. She is also highly excitable and loves to gossip.”

  “Do you think you might use your charms to get a few more details?”

  Grimaldi's smile became even wider. “It would be difficult work, but for a friend… Maria ― that is her name ― probably hasn't heard the news yet. I will break it to her, then let her weep on my shoulder. Nothing like grief to lubricate the tongue.”

  Howell gave him the name of the penzione where he was staying.

  “I will call you later this evening,” Grimaldi said. “Meet me at the usual place.”

  As Howell watched Grimaldi slip his way around the tables and out the door, he noticed a pair of men sitting at one of the smaller tables near the bar. They were dressed like locals, but their bodybuilder physiques and close-cropped haircuts betrayed their true identities. Soldiers.

  Howell was familiar with the big American base outside Palermo. During his days with the SAS he'd had occasion to use it as a staging ground for joint operations with U.S. Navy SEALs. For security reasons, most of the personnel stayed within the base perimeter. When they ventured out, it was usually in groups of six or more, and then only to the popular clubs and restaurants. There was no reason for these strapping specimens to be here unless…

  C-12.

  The explosives used to kill the Rocca brothers were an American creation. Tightly
controlled. But certainly available at one of the largest U.S. bases in Southern Europe.

  Had the Roccas' paymaster ― possibly the individual who had hired them to kill Danko ― also been the one to booby-trap the gondola?

  As he rose from the table, Howell took another look at the two Americans.

  Or had it been a soldier's mission from the very beginning?

  * * *

  Just before midnight, the penzione's sleepy porter knocked on Peter Howell's door to inform him that he had a phone call. He was surprised to discover that his guest was dressed as though ready to go out.

  Howell spoke briefly on the phone, tipped the porter, and disappeared into the night. The moon rode high in the sky, illuminating the shuttered shops of the Vuccira market. Howell crossed the empty square to the Piazza Bellini, then drifted along the Via Vittorio Emannuele, the city's major thoroughfare. At the Corso Calatofini, he turned right, now just a hundred yards shy of his destination.

  Dominating the Via Pindemonte is the Convento dei Cappuccini ― the Convent of the Capuchins. While a striking example of Middle Ages architecture, the monastery's real attraction lies below ground. In the catacombs that surround the convento are buried over eight thousand bodies, belonging to both lay and religious persons. Preserved through various chemical processes, they are placed in the niches along the corridors, and are dressed in the clothes the interred themselves had provided prior to their death. Those bodies that aren't lined up along the cold, sweating limestone walls rest in glass coffins, stacked floor to ceiling.

  Although open to the public during the day, the catacombs had been a favorite hiding place of smugglers for centuries. There were a dozen ways in and out, and Peter Howell, who had studied the catacombs carefully, knew them all.

  As he approached the gates that fronted the parklike entrance to the monastery, Howell heard a low whistle. He pretended not to notice Grimaldi slip out of the shadows until the smuggler was only a few steps away. The moonlight created dancing pinpricks of light in Grimaldi's gray eyes.