“Do you still want me to go ahead and fly on the shuttle?”
“Absolutely. But until that bird is off the pad, don't draw attention to yourself. If you spot anything suspicious, call me immediately.” He paused. “And Megan, if we don't have a chance to talk again, good luck and come home safely.”
Klein broke the connection and Megan found herself staring at a dead phone. She had been very tempted to ask Klein if Jon Smith also worked for Covert-One, if that had been the reason for his evasiveness. Like her, Jon was someone with no commitments, few attachments, and was a crisis-proven specialist. Megan recalled the day when, during one of her brief visits stateside, Klein had materialized in her life, quietly offering to make her part of something special, unique, giving her a greater sense of purpose and direction. She also remembered him telling her how she would probably never meet another member of Covert-One, that part of her usefulness lay in the worldwide contact network she had built up, men and women she could turn to for information, favors, sanctuary.
Klein would never tell me… And neither would Jon i f he were involved.
As she double-checked her packing, Megan thought of what Klein and Jon had said to her, to come home safely. But if Klein didn't find the smallpox, would there be anything to come home to?
* * *
The NASA security office occupied the northeast corner of the administration building's second floor. Smith handed over his Pentagon ID and waited as the duty officer scanned it into the computer.
“Where's your commanding officer?” Smith asked.
“Sir, I'm sorry. We're in the middle of a shift change. Colonel Brewster has left the building; Colonel Reeves is running late due to… ah, personal matters.”
“I can't wait around for the colonel. Clear me through.”
“But, sir―”
“Lieutenant, what is my clearance?”
“COSMIC, sir.”
“Which means that I can examine anything in this facility, right down to your last fitness report. Correct?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now that we're clear on that, here's what we'll do: you will follow the appropriate procedures to log me in. You will not mention my arrival to anyone except Colonel Reeves, with whom you will talk to face to face. If the colonel wishes to speak with me, inform him that I will be in the Records Room.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything the Records Room can get for you?”
“Just tell the staff to ignore me. Now let's get moving, Lieutenant.”
As he was buzzed through the bulletproof doors, Smith thought that his bad-guy act had achieved the desired effect: the subordinate was cowed; his peer, Colonel Reeves, would be annoyed and curious, but also wary. There was good reason why Reeves would not likely go around asking about Smith.
Technically, NASA is a civilian program. But in the early 1970s, when the agency finally decided on the kind of shuttle it needed and how to launch it, it discovered that it had no alternative but to turn to the air force. A devil's bargain was struck: in return for the Pentagon's deeming the shuttle “an essential military requirement,” NASA would not only get to use the air force's Atlas and Titan booster rockets for its launches, it would also be the beneficiary of a steady revenue stream. The other side of the coin was that the agency was at the mercy of the Pentagon's whims and interference. Colonel Reeves held senior rank with the NASA hierarchy, but those who carried the Pentagon's coveted COSMIC pass represented the true masters.
Smith followed the lieutenant through a maze of corridors that dead-ended at a fireproof door. After punching in the codes, the officer pulled back the door and stepped to the side to allow Smith to enter. The room was at least ten degrees cooler than the rest of the floor. There was no sound save for the hum of machines, ten of the fastest computers ever built, linked to data-storage towers and PC units nestled in individual workstations.
Smith felt the eyes of the Records Room staff flicker over him, but their curiosity was short-lived. He followed the officer to a workstation well away from the others.
“This is Colonel Reeves's unit,” the duty officer explained. “I'm sure he won't mind if you use it.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I don't expect to be too long ― assuming I'm not interrupted.”
“Understood, sir.” He handed Smith a cell phone. “Just dial three-zero-nine when you're through, sir. I'll come and get you.”
Smith settled himself in front of the monitor, activated the computer, and fed in the floppy he'd brought with him. Within seconds, he had overridden all the security blocks and had the entire Houston NASA network at his fingertips.
The information on Adam Treloar that Smith had received from the other federal agencies was merely a starting point. Smith had traveled to Houston to begin tracking Treloar where he had lived and worked. He needed the internal and external phone logs, interoffice E-mail, anything that resembled a trail ― electronic or otherwise. There he would learn how Treloar had lived, whom he'd spoken with and met, how often, where, for how long. He would peel back the traitor's life like a stalk of celery, searching for that one anomaly, coincidence, or pattern that would be the first link in the chain leading to Treloar's coconspirators.
Smith tapped a few keys and began at what seemed like a logical point: who knew that Treloar had been to Russia? Hidden in these wafer-thin chips and fiber optics might be instructions ― and names to go with them.
* * *
When Dylan Reed arrived at his office, he had no way of knowing that Smith had already begun his search. So intent was he on the morning's crowded agenda that he almost ignored the ping from his computer, signaling an alert. Absently, he punched in a sequence of numbers, his mind still on the first meeting of the day. The name that popped up on the screen got his immediate attention: Adam Treloar.
Someone's snooping!
Reed's hand flew to the phone. Seconds later, he was listening as the security duty officer explained Smith's presence in the Records Room.
Reed strained to remain calm. “No, it's fine,” he told the officer. “Please tell Colonel Reeves that our visitor is not to be disturbed.”
Our visitor! An intruder!
Reed took a moment to steady himself. What the hell was Smith doing here? Word out of Washington was that the police were treating Treloar's death as just another mugging, albeit with unintended consequences. Even the newscasts found the story mundane, a development that had pleased Reed, Bauer, and Richardson.
Reed slammed his palm against the leather blotter on his desk. Damn Smith! He recalled how frightened, almost terrified, Treloar had been of Smith. Now, the same iciclelike fingers that had danced up and down Treloar's spine had turned themselves on him.
Reed took a deep breath. Bauer had been right to suggest that Reed flag all files relating to Treloar, in case someone came looking.
And someone has…
The more Reed thought about it, the less surprised he was that Smith was the intruder. Smith had a reputation for tenacity that made an already dangerous man potentially lethal. Reed made sure that his nerves were settled before he dialed General Richardson at the Pentagon.
“This is Reed. That potential problem we talked about? It's real.” He paused. “Hear me out, but I think you'll agree: we have to activate the solution.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Secret Service sedan was waiting for Jon Smith when he stepped out of Ronald Reagan National Airport. Halfway to Camp David, the call he had been expecting came through.
“Peter, how are you?”
“Still in Venice. I have some interesting news for you.”
Without going into the details of his interrogation of Dionetti, Peter Howell told Smith about the Swiss connection ― Herr Weizsel at the Offenbach Bank in Zurich.
“Would you like me to have a chat with the Swiss gnome, Jon?”
“Better hold off on that until I get back to you. What about Dionetti? We don't want him sounding any alarms.”
“He
won't be doing that,” Howell assured him. “He has a severe case of food poisoning and is expected to be in the hospital for at least a week. Plus he knows that I have all his financial records and can ruin him with one phone call.”
Howell didn't think it necessary to delve into details.
“I'll stay put until I hear from you,” Howell said. “If necessary, I can be in Zurich in two hours.”
“I'll keep you posted.”
The driver dropped Smith off at Rosebud, where Klein was waiting for him.
“Good to have you back, Jon.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Any word on the smallpox?”
Klein shook his head. “But have a look at this.” He passed Smith a rolled-up sheet of paper.
The ink sketch contained some of Beria's features but wasn't precise enough to clearly define the assassin. Beria's appearance was nondescript to begin with ― a major advantage for a hired killer. The composite reflected a man who could have been just about anyone. It would be sheer, blind luck if law enforcement stumbled across him ― which was precisely what Klein wanted Beria's handlers to believe. With a few cosmetic changes to his appearance, Beria was perfectly safe: his controllers would continue to believe that his usefulness outweighed his potential liability.
Rolling up the sheet, Smith tapped it against his palm. He thought that Klein was taking an enormous risk: by denying law enforcement access to the true likeness of Beria, he was effectively limiting the hunt. But on the other end of the scale was a collateral benefit: when the composite hit the street and Beria's controllers saw it, they would not be spooked. Investigation of Treloar's death would be expected. That an eyewitness had provided police with a general description would not be seen as suspicious. Smith did not think that the controllers would become careless, but they would remain relaxed, presuming no immediate threat to their long-range plans.
“How'd it go in Houston?” Klein asked.
“Treloar was damn careful,” Smith said. “Whatever contacts he made, he was meticulous in covering up his tracks.”
“Nonetheless you accomplished your primary mission.”
“I've chummed the waters, sir. Whoever was running Treloar knows I'm snooping.” He paused. “Is the president going along with your recommendation about the vaccine, sir?”
“He's been talking to the drug companies,” Mein replied. “They're coming onboard.”
Given the circumstances, it was vital that the major pharmaceutical companies realign their production facilities in order to produce as much smallpox vaccine as possible in as short a time as possible. Even if the stolen smallpox was genetically altered, the current vaccine might prove at least partially effective. But to manufacture the necessary amount would mean stopping the flow of other products. The losses incurred would be staggering, as would those related to manufacturing the vaccine. That the president had already agreed to underwrite the companies' losses was only half the battle. The companies would want to know why the vaccine was needed so urgently, and where such a large outbreak had occurred. Since it was impossible to hold back such information ― it would inevitably find its way to the media ― the location of the alleged epidemic had to be remote, yet fairly populated.
“We decided to use the Indonesian archipelago,” Klein said. “The internal chaos in that region has pretty much closed off all incoming and outgoing traffic. There are no tourists left, and Jakarta has banned foreign media from the country. Our play is that there have been sporadic outbreaks of smallpox, leading to the possibility that the virus can multiply and spread if left unconfined. Thus the need for such a large amount on such short notice.”
Smith considered. “I like it,” he said finally. “The current Indonesian regime is a pariah in the eyes of most governments. But there will be panic when word leaks.”
“Can't be helped,” Mein replied. “Whoever has the smallpox will put it to use very soon ― a matter of weeks, if not days. As soon as we identify and take down the conspirators ― and recover the virus ― we can spin the story to indicate that the initial diagnoses and reports were wrong. It wasn't smallpox after all.”
“God willing that will be the case.”
Smith turned as Major-General Kirov, dressed in mufti, entered the room. He was startled by the Russian's appearance.
The fit, middle-aged Kirov had morphed into a slightly seedy-looking individual in a well-worn, off-the-rack suit. His tie and shirt-front were dotted with food and coffee stains; his thin-soled shoes were as badly scuffed as his cheap briefcase. His hair ― now a wig ― was long and unruly; a touch of makeup ― expertly and judiciously applied ― added an alcoholic's redness to his eyes and deepened the dark crescents under them. Kirov had re-created himself in the image of a man who was uncomfortable for the eye to dwell on. He reflected failure, dissolution, and hopelessness ― the attributes of a failing salesman that the smart set, living and working in the chic area around Dupont Circle, wouldn't care to acknowledge.
“My compliments on your makeover, General,” Smith said. “Even I had to look twice.”
“Let's hope the same is true for Beria,” Kirov replied somberly.
Smith was glad to have the burly Russian by his side. After the debacle at Bioaparat and Moscow, Kirov had convinced the Russian president to send him to the United States to help with the hunt for Ivan Beria. Klein had thought that Kirov, who had spent a year in Washington and knew the ethnic districts well, would be invaluable. He had argued as much to the president, who had concurred with Potrenko and allowed Kirov to come over.
But in Kirov's hard, bright eyes Smith saw the real reason why the general was here. Kirov had been betrayed by a woman he'd loved and trusted, who had been corrupted by unknown forces linked to a killer he'd let slip away. Kirov badly needed to make amends, to regain his honor as a soldier.
“How do you want to proceed, Jon?” Kirov asked.
“I need to stop at home,” Smith replied. “After you get settled in, we can go to Dupont Circle.”
Since no one at the Russian embassy was aware of Kirov's presence in the city, Smith had suggested that the general stay with him and use the Bethesda house as the base for their hunt for Beria.
“Are you sure you don't want long-range cover?” Klein asked.
As much as Klein trusted Kirov's abilities and instincts, he was still reluctant to put both men out in the field without cover. True, Smith had gone to Houston to find a trail that Treloar might have left behind. But his real intention had been to touch the tendrils of the web that still linked Treloar to the conspirators, his controllers. By letting them know that he was ready to investigate the very heart of where Treloar had lived and worked, Smith hoped to provoke a response that would force the controllers to come after him… Which meant bringing Beria out of his hole.
“We can't take the chance that Beria would spot the cover, sir,” Smith replied.
“Mr. Klein,” Kirov said, “I understand ― and share ― your concern. But I promise you I will not let anything happen to Jon. I have a distinct advantage over any cover you might provide. I know Beria. If he's wearing a disguise, I'll see through it. There are characteristics and mannerisms that he won't be able to hide.” He turned to Smith.
“You have my word. If Beria is out there, if he comes for you, he is ours.”
* * *
Ninety minutes later, Smith and Kirov arrived at Smith's ranchstyle home in Bethesda. As Smith walked him through the house, Kirov noted the paintings, wall hangings, and objets from cultures around the world. The American was indeed a well-traveled man.
While Smith showered and changed, Kirov made himself comfortable in the guest bedroom. They met in the kitchen where, over coffee, they pored over a large-scale map of Washington, focusing on the multiethnic neighborhood around Dupont Circle. Since Kirov was already familiar with the area, a plan came together quickly.
“I know we didn't talk about this with Klein,” Smith said as they got ready to leave. “But…” He held ou
t a SIG-Sauer pistol.
Kirov looked at it then shook his head. He went into the bedroom and came back with what looked like an ordinary black umbrella. He held it at a forty-five degree angle, moved his thumb along the handle, and suddenly, a one-inch blade popped out of the tip.
“Something I brought along from Moscow,” Kirov said conversationally. “The blade has a fast-acting animal tranquilizer ― Acepromazine. It can bring down a hundred-kilo boar in seconds. Besides, if for some reason your police were to stop me, I could explain away an umbrella. A gun would be much harder.”
Smith nodded. He might be the bait, but Kirov would be the one doing the close-in work. He was glad that the Russian wasn't going to face Beria unarmed.
Smith slipped the SIG-Sauer into his shoulder holster. “All right, then. I'll give you forty minutes lead time, then follow you in.”
* * *
Moving along the streets like a wraith, Kirov studied the human traffic swirling around him. Like other areas close to Washington's core, Dupont Circle had undergone a revival. But tucked in between trendy cafés and designer boutiques were the Macedonian bakeries, Turkish carpet shops, Serbian emporiums filled with beaten brass and copper planters, Greek restaurants, and Yugoslav coffeehouses. Kirov knew how strong the pull of the familiar would be to a man operating in an unfamiliar environment, even if that man was a vicious killer. This ethnic mix was just the kind of environment that Ivan Beria would gravitate to. There he could find familiar food, listen to music he had grown up with, overhear accents he recognized. Kirov, who could eavesdrop in many Slavic languages, was also perfectly at home there.
Turning into an open-air quadrangle bordered by shops and stalls, Kirov took a seat in the shade of an umbrella-topped table. A Croat woman who spoke only halting English took his order for coffee. The Russian held back a smile as he overheard her running invective at the proprietor.
The Cassandra Compact c-2 Page 21