“What have you found out?” Howell demanded.
“Something worth getting out of bed for,” the smuggler replied. “The name of the man who hired the Roccas. He's frightened. He thinks that after the Roccas, he's next. He wants money to get off the island and hide on the mainland.”
Howell nodded. “Money isn't a problem. Where is he?”
Grimaldi motioned the Englishman to follow him. They skirted the tall wrought-iron fence, moving into the shadows created by the monastery's high walls. The smuggler slowed, then crouched by a small gate cut into the fence. His fingers were busy working the lock when Howell spotted the anomaly.
The lock was already open!
Howell moved like a wraith. As soon as Grimaldi pushed open the gate, he delivered a blow meant to stun, not kill, to the side of the head. Grimaldi let out a soft sigh and dropped, unconscious.
Howell didn't pause. Slipping through the gate, he made his way along the hedgerow that formed a corridor to the entrance of the catacombs. He spotted nothing, which meant ―
The trap was outside the perimeter, not inside!
Just as he whirled around, Howell heard the creak of the gate's hinge. Two shadows hurtled toward him. In the split-second that the moonlight caught their faces, he recognized the soldiers from the tavern.
Instantly the knife appeared in his hand. Howell held his ground until the last possible second, then, like a matador, pivoted to allow the first soldier to rush past him. He swung the blade up and across, its cutting edge drawing across the man's midsection.
Howell didn't wait to see the killer drop. Feigning right, he moved left, but that didn't fool the second soldier. He heard a soft shut! as a silenced automatic spat. The hot breath of the bullet almost kissed his temple. Howell dropped low, kicked out with his legs, and drove his heel into his assailant's kneecap.
Instantly Howell grabbed the pistol, but before he could train the weapon on the soldier he saw Grimaldi stagger to his feet. The bullet meant for the soldier tore through Grimaldi's throat, dropping the smuggler. As the second soldier fled, Howell tucked the gun into his waistband, ran over to Grimaldi, and dragged him inside the gate up to the entrance of the catacombs. As he expected, this door was also unlocked.
A few minutes later, Howell was deep inside the monastery's tunnels. The light from a lamp he had found revealed his catch for the night: Grimaldi lay next to a large, concrete-lined ring whose cover had already been pried off. The wounded soldier, the front of his jacket covered with blood, was propped up against the three-foot-high concrete ring as well.
“Name.”
The soldier's breathing was ragged, his face turning gray from the blood loss. Slowly he raised his head. “Screw you!”
“I went through your clothes,” Howell said. “No wallet, no identification, not even labels on your shirts. Only people with a great deal to hide go to those lengths. So what are you hiding?”
The soldier spat, but Howell was too quick. Standing, he hauled his captive up to the lip of the ring.
“Did you kill the monastery watchmen?” he demanded. “Is that where you disposed of them?”
Grabbing the soldier by the neck, he forced him halfway over the concrete ledge.
“Is that where you were going to throw me?”
The soldier screamed as Howell, holding him by his jacket collar, forced him over the yawning black hole. From fifty feet below rose the stench of brackish water.
Howell looked down at the red dots that darted at the very bottom.
“Rats. There's probably enough water down there so that the fall won't kill you. But they will. Slowly.” He jerked the man back.
The soldier licked his lips. “You wouldn't…”
Howell stared at him. “You're wounded. Your partner is long gone. Give me what I need and I promise you won't suffer. Listen.”
Howell pushed him to the ground, then went over and picked up the inert form of Franco Grimaldi. He carried him to the well and without the slightest hesitation heaved him over the side. A second later there was a terrific splash followed by the high-pitched chatter of rats embracing their victim.
The soldier's eyes rolled in terror.
“Name?”
“Nichols. Travis Nichols. Master Sergeant. My partner is Patrick Drake.”
“Special Forces?”
Nichols groaned as he nodded.
“Who sent you after me?”
Nichols stared at him. “I can't…”
Howell grabbed him and jerked him close. “Listen to me. Even if you live you'd be nothing more than a loose thread that needs cutting. Especially when they discover that I'm not dead. The only chance you have is to tell me the truth. Do that and I'll do what you need.”
Nichols slumped against the concrete ring. His words stumbled out on bright red bubbles.
“Drake and I were part of a special squad. Wet work. Communications by cutouts only. One of us would get a phone call ― a wrong number, only it wasn't. Then we'd go to the post office where we had a rented box. The orders would be waiting.”
“Written orders?” Howell asked dubiously.
“On flash paper. Nothing more than a name or a place. After that, we'd meet a contact and he'd fill us in.”
“In this case, the contact was Grimaldi. What were your orders?”
“To kill you and get rid of the body.”
“Why?”
Nichols looked up at Howell. “You and I are the same. You know nobody gives reasons for things like that.”
“Who is 'nobody'?”
“The orders could have come from any one of a dozen sources: the Pentagon, army Intel in Frankfurt, the NSA. Take your pick. But with wet work, you know that the source had to be right up there, real high. Listen, you can throw me to the rats but that's not going to get you a name. You know how these things work.”
Howell did.
“Does the name Dionetti mean anything to you?”
Nichols shook his head. His eyes were glassy.
Howell knew that no one except Marco Dionetti ― the man who had opened his home and extended him his friendship ― knew that he was traveling to Palermo. Dionetti… with whom he would have to have a little chat.
“How were you to report that this mission was successful?” Howell asked Nichols.
“Drop off a message at another post office box ― no later than noon tomorrow. Number sixty-seven. Someone will come by… Oh, Christ, it hurts!”
Howell brought his face very close to Nichols's lips. He needed one last thing from Nichols, and prayed that the soldier had enough strength left to give it up. He strained to hear as the soldier finally let slip his most precious secrets. Then he heard the soft gurgle of the death rattle.
Leaving the lamp where it was, Howell took a moment to compose himself. Finally he hoisted the corpse and dropped it over the side of the well. Quickly, so that he wouldn't have to listen to the rats, he pushed the heavy lid in place and locked it down.
CHAPTER TEN
At first glance, the Bioaparat complex might have been mistaken for a small college campus. The slate-roofed, red-brick buildings were accented with white-trimmed doors and windows, and were connected to one another by flagstone walks. Dew sparkled in the grass beneath old-fashioned carriage lamps. There were several quadrangles with stone benches and precut concrete tables where employees could enjoy lunch or a game of chess.
The effect was slightly less bucolic during the day, when it was easy to see the razor wire topping the twelve-foot-high concrete wall encircling the compound. Then as now, guard patrols with machine guns and Dobermans were visible. Inside some of the buildings was more elaborate, sophisticated security.
There was a reason why no expense had been spared when it came to Bioaparat's appearance: the facility was open to international bioweapons inspectors. The consulting psychologists had recommended that the facility evoke a warm, familiar environment that was nonthreatening yet that commanded a level of respect. Many designs had b
een studied; in the end, a campus layout had been chosen. The psychologists had argued that most of the inspectors were or once had been academics. They would feel comfortable in such surroundings, which spoke of pure, benevolent research. Having been put at ease, the inspectors would be more likely to allow themselves to be guided along, rather than play medical detectives.
The psychologists had been right: the multinational teams who had visited Bioaparat were impressed as much by the ambience as by the state-of-the-art facilities. The illusion was fostered by familiarity. Almost all the equipment at Bioaparat had come from the West: American microscopes, French ovens and test tubes, German reactors, and Japanese fermenters. The inspectors associated such tools with specific research, primarily into Brucella melintensis, a bacterium that preys on livestock, and a milk protein called casein, which stimulates high growth in various seeds. Scores of workers dressed in starched white lab coats going about their business in pristine laboratories completed the desired effect. Having been lulled by the sense of order and efficiency, the inspectors were prepared to take what they saw in Building 103 at face value.
Building 103 was a Zone Two structure, built along the lines of a matryoshka doll. If the roof were removed, one would see a box-within-a-box complex. The outermost shell was reserved for administrative and security personnel who were directly responsible for the safekeeping of the smallpox samples. The first of the two inner shells was a “hot” area that contained animal cages, specially designed labs for work with pathogens, and giant, sixteen-ton fermenters. The second shell, the actual kernel, held not only the vaultlike refrigerator where the smallpox was stored, but rows of stainless steel centrifuges and drying and milling machines. There, experiments designed to ferret out the mystery of Variola major were conducted. The nature of the tests, their duration, the amount of smallpox used, and the results all were tabulated in a computer that only the international inspection teams could access. Such safeguards had been designed to prevent unauthorized use of smallpox in experiments such as gene splicing or replication.
The inspection teams had never found evidence of anything other than approved research in Building 103. Their reports praised the Russian scientists for their attempts to discover whether or not smallpox might hide the key to diseases that still plagued mankind. Finally, after reviewing the formidable security arrangements ― which relied almost exclusively on electronic and video surveillance, and so kept the need for human beings to a minimum ― the inspectors signed off on the integrity of Building 103. After all, not so much as a gram of variola had ever been unaccounted for.
* * *
Russian President Potrenko's call to the Special Forces training unit outside Vladimir was logged in at 1:03 A.M. Six minutes later, one of the duty officers was knocking on the door to Colonel Vassily Kravchenko's cottage. At half past the hour, Kravchenko was in his office, listening to Potrenko's detailed orders to install an undetectable quarantine that would seal Bioaparat from the outside world.
A short, stocky man, Kravchenko was a veteran of Afghanistan, Chechnya, and other places where his Special Forces had been sent. Wounded in action, he'd been relieved of active duty and sent to Vladimir to oversee the training of new recruits. After hearing what Potrenko had to say, the timing of the call gratified him: he had two hundred soldiers who had just completed their field exercises. With them, he could seal off the entire town of Vladimir, much less the Bioaparat complex.
Kravchenko answered Potrenko's questions quickly and succinctly, assuring him that within the hour, he could have his men in position. No one inside the compound or in the town would be any the wiser.
“Mr. President,” he said. “What are my exact orders if someone attempts to exit Bioaparat after the quarantine is in place?”
“Give one warning, Colonel. Only one. If he resists or attempts to escape, use of deadly force is hereby authorized. I need not remind you why.”
“No, Mr. President.”
Kravchenko was all too familiar with the hellish concoctions stored in the ultrasecret holds of Bioaparat. He had also witnessed chemical warfare in Afghanistan, and its results were indelibly printed on his memory.
“I will execute your directive as ordered, Mr. President.”
“And I will expect to hear from you when the cordon is in place, Colonel.”
* * *
While Kravchenko and Potrenko were finishing their call, Lieutenant Grigori Yardeni of the Bioaparat Security Detail (BSD) was in his office in Building 103. He was watching the bank of closed-circuit television monitors when the cell phone in his pocket went off.
The voice was garbled by a synthesizer and sounded like a strangled whisper. “Do it now. And prepare to use the Option Two. Do you understand?”
Yardeni managed to get the words out, barely: “Option Two.”
He sat there for a moment, frozen by the implications of what he'd just heard. So many nights he had imagined receiving the call that now, having come, it seemed unreal.
You've been waiting your whole life for this chance. Get on with it!
There were sixty cameras situated throughout Zones One and Two, all of them hooked up to video players. The machines themselves were in a fireproof cabinet equipped with a time lock that could be opened only at the end of a shift, and only by Yardeni's superiors. In addition, the video players were absolutely tamperproof. Yardeni had long ago realized that he had no options as to how to carry out the theft.
The lieutenant was a strapping young man, well over six feet, with curly blond hair and chiseled features. He was a favorite at the Little Boy Blue cabaret, a male strip club in Vladimir. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Yardeni and a few other BSD officers rubbed baby oil over their bulked-up frames and gyrated in front of screaming women. They made more money in those few hours than in a month working for the state.
But Yardem had always had bigger ambitions. A fanatical devotee of action films, his favorite star was Arnold Schwarzenegger, except that he was getting a little too old. Yardeni thought there was no reason why someone with his looks and physique couldn't replace Arnold. He'd heard that Hollywood was a mecca for tough, goodlooking hustlers with attitude.
For the past three years, Yardeni had been scheming to get to the West. A problem he had in common with thousands of other Russians was money: not only for the prohibitive exit taxes and air tickets, but enough to live on afterward. Yardeni had seen pictures of Bel Air; he had no intention of arriving in Los Angeles penniless, forced to live in the Russian-immigrant ghetto.
The lieutenant checked the clock above his desk and rose, his military-style tunic straining across his chest. It was after one o'clock, that time of night when the body is in its deepest slumber, when it is most vulnerable to death. Except for the human and animal patrols outside and the security inside, Bioaparat, too, slept.
Yardeni reviewed the procedures he already knew by heart, then steadied himself and opened the door. As he made his way through Zone One, he thought about the man who'd approached him almost a year ago. Contact had been made at the Little Boy Blue, and at first he had thought that the man, one of the very few in the audience, was a homosexual. That impression lasted only until the man revealed just how much he knew about Yardeni's life. He described his parents and sister, detailed his high school and army careers, how Yardeni had been his division's boxing champion only to be cashiered when in a fit of rage, he had almost killed a fellow soldier with his bare fists. The man had commented that for all intents and purposes, Yardeni's career would flatline here in Bioaparat, where he would sit daydreaming about what might have been while baby-sitting those who actually got to go to the shining cities.
Of course, one could always change one's destiny…
Trying not to think about the cameras, Yardem proceeded to Zone Two through a corridor that was referred to as a “sanitary passageway.” It was really a progression of small, sterile rooms linked by connecting doors equipped with coded locks. The locks did not hinder Yardeni; he h
ad a key card and the master codes.
Entering the first cubicle, a changing room, he stripped and hit the red button on the wall. A fine decontamination mist enveloped him.
The next three cubicles held separate items of the antiplague suit: blue socks and long underwear; a hood and cotton smock; the respirator, goggles, booties, and safety glasses. Before leaving the last changing room, Yardeni reached for something that he had put in a locker at the beginning of his shift: a brushed aluminum Thermos-type container, the size of a flask.
He lifted the container in his gloved hand. It was a marvel of engineering. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than an expensive Western toy, functional but overly extravagant. Even if one unscrewed the top and looked inside, nothing would seem amiss. Only when the base was twisted counterclockwise would the container reveal its secret.
Carefully, Yardeni inched the base around until he heard the click. Inside the double walls, tiny canisters released their contents of nitrogen. Immediately, the container became cold to the touch, like a glass filled with shaved ice.
Slipping it into the pocket of his antiplague suit, Yardeni opened the door to the Zone Two lab. Inside, he made his way past stainless-steel worktables to what the researchers jokingly referred to as the Coke machine. It was actually a walk-in refrigerator with a door of specially constructed, hermetically sealed Plexiglas. It always reminded Yardeni of the bulletproof barriers at the cashiers' booths in the American Express office.
He slipped the coded key card into the slot, punched in the combination, and listened to the long, slow hiss as the door swung back. Three seconds later, it closed behind him.
Pulling open one of the drawers, Yardeni gazed down at row after row of vials made of tempered glass. Working quickly, he unscrewed the container at its midsection and placed the top half to one side. Set in the base were six slots, much like the chambers of a revolver. He placed one ampoule into each of the slots, then replaced the top section, making sure that it was tightly in place.
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