The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Through the chatter of ground control double-checking liftoff, Megan heard: “Houston, we have Discovery liftoff!”

  As the external tank fed the shuttle's main engines, Megan felt as though she were strapped to a bone-jarring roller coaster ― except that there was no stopping this ride. Two minutes and six seconds after liftoff, the solid boosters separated from the orbiter, falling away to the ocean, where they would be retrieved. Powered by the fuel from the external tank that fed her main engines, Discovery struggled to break free of gravity. The higher and faster she ascended, the closer the crew got to the maximum 3-G pressure. Megan had been warned that it would be like having a gorilla strapped to your chest.

  Wrong. More like an elephant.

  Six minutes later, at an altitude of 184 miles, the main engines stopped firing. Its job done, the external fuel tank separated and fell away. Megan was amazed by the sudden silence and by how smooth the ride had suddenly become. Turning her head, she understood why: beyond the sliver of a window in her line of sight were the stars. She and Discovery were in orbit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The preceding evening, Ivan Beria had rendezvoused with the driver of the Lincoln outside the Metro stop at Q Street and Connecticut Avenue. The driver had further information and instructions for Beria, who studied them as the car wended its way out of the city toward Bethesda.

  The driver was necessary because Beria could not afford to be seen on the streets ― and because he had only the most rudimentary driving skills. A killer who could carve a man up in seconds, he was lost in and confused by the traffic streaming in and out of the city. In an emergency, he could not be sure of executing an escape. There was one other advantage to the car besides transport: it was perfect for surveillance. Washington was filled with executive sedans. This one would not look out of place in a neighborhood such as Bethesda.

  Approaching Smith's house, the driver slowed as though searching for a particular number. Beria got a good look at the rambling ranchstyle house, set well back from the street. He noted the trees that ran along the property line and that, he surmised, continued around the back. There were lights in the windows but no shadows indicating movement.

  “Come around again,” Beria told the driver.

  Next time, Beria looked closely at the other houses on the block. Most had toys and bicycles on the front lawn, a basketball hoop over the garage door, a small powerboat perched on a trailer chocked in the driveway. By contrast, Smith's house looked vacant, brooding. It was, Beria thought, the house of a man who lives alone and prefers it that way, whose work demands solitude and secrecy. Such a house would have a far more sophisticated ― and deadly ― warning system than anything advertised by the security company patches on the doors of the other homes.

  “I have seen enough,” he told the driver. “We will come back tomorrow morning.”'

  Now, a few minutes after nine o'clock in the next morning, Beria was in the backseat of the Lincoln as it idled at the far corner of Smith's street. The driver was standing outside, smoking. To passing joggers and dog walkers, he appeared to be waiting for a client.

  In the cool stillness of the interior, Beria reviewed all the information on Smith. His principal wanted the American doctor out of the way quickly. But there were obstacles. Smith did not go to an office. His home appeared to have good security. Therefore, the execution would have to be done out in the open, wherever an opportunity presented itself. Another problem was the unpredictability of Smith's movements once he was outside his home. He had no set schedule, so the principal could not say where he would be at any given time. This meant that Beria had to follow Smith as closely as possible and look for an opening. Working in his favor was the fact that the American did not have an escort, did not ― as far as the principal knew ― carry a weapon. Most important, he had no inkling that he was in any kind of danger. Beria checked his watch; forty-five minutes had elapsed since he'd arrived.

  The Lincoln listed as the driver got back behind the wheel. “Smith's coming out.”

  Beria looked through the windshield down the street where a navy blue sedan was backing out of a garage. According to the principal, this was Smith's vehicle.

  “And we begin,” Beria said softly.

  * * *

  As Smith drove into the city, he constantly checked his mirrors. After a few miles he tagged the black Lincoln that changed lanes whenever he did. He called Kirov on the cell.

  “It's the Lincoln from the airport. On my tail. I think Beria's nibbling.”

  “I'm ready,” Kirov assured him.

  Breaking for a light, Smith checked his rearview. The Lincoln was still three cars back.

  Once in the city, Smith drove as fast as traffic permitted, changing lanes, leaning on his horn. He hoped Beria would buy the image of a man late for an important appointment, a man preoccupied, his guard down, easy prey. He wanted the assassin to focus on him to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. That way, he would never see Kirov coming.

  He's in a hurry, Beria thought. Why?

  “He's headed for Dupont Circle,” the driver said, keeping his eyes on the traffic.

  Beria frowned. His apartment was in that area. Could Smith have already discovered it? Was that his destination?

  The sedan picked up speed on Connecticut Avenue, turned left on R Street, and then right on Twenty-first Street.

  Where's he going?

  The sedan slowed as Smith approached the top of the triangle at S Street. Beria watched him park the car in a lot, then cross Twenty-first Street. This area, with its Eastern European restaurants and shops, was familiar to him. Since arriving in Washington, it was the only place he had ventured into where he felt comfortable.

  He's here to try to pick up the scent. Or maybe someone saw my picture.

  Beria had seen the police composite on the news. He thought it a poor rendering, nothing like him at all. But maybe someone had seen him in the area, even though Beria rarely left his apartment until after dark.

  No. If he suspects I'm here, he would not have come alone. He's not sure. He's guessing.

  “Stay where I can find you,” Beria told the driver.

  The driver pointed to a restaurant called Dunn's River Falls. “I'll be in the lot.”

  Stepping out of the car, Beria trotted across the street in time to see Smith duck under an archway bordered by a bar and a poster shop. Now he knew exactly where his quarry was headed: the small quadrangle between Twenty-first Street and Florida Avenue. He thought it quite clever of Smith to hunt him in a place that Beria might naturally gravitate to. But it was also a location Beria knew he could control.

  Beria disappeared under the arch, then stepped under the awning of a Macedonian coffee shop. At one of the tables, a group of old men were playing dominoes; the soft crooning of a native folk song crackled over indoor-outdoor speakers. There was Smith, walking toward the fountain in the center of the quadrangle. Not so quick now, looking around as though expecting someone. Beria thought he could smell Smith's discomfort, the unease of someone who realizes that he's out of place. His hand dipped into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the cork handle of his spring-loaded stiletto.

  Thirty paces ahead, Smith felt his pager vibrate against his kidney. Kirov was signaling that Beria was in the zone, within fifty feet of Smith. Slowing his pace even more, Smith drifted across the front of a stall with rugs draped over clotheslines. Stopping, he checked his watch, then looked around as though searching for someone in particular. Given the hour, there were customers about ― mostly people on their way to work or to open their shops, stopping to get a coffee and pastry. Smith thought Beria would accept that this was a logical time to meet an informer who might be passing through.

  The pager vibrated again ― twice. Beria was within twenty-five feet and closing. Smith felt a cold tingle dance along his spine as he moved past the carpet display. Still looking around, he saw neither Beria nor Kirov. Then he heard soft footfalls behi
nd him.

  From his vantage point in the doorway of a closed dry goods store, Kirov had picked up Beria the instant he'd stepped through the arch. Now he approached him on the diagonal, his specially designed sneakers making his footsteps soundless.

  Don't look around,]on. Don't bolt. Trust me.

  Beria was now less than a dozen feet behind Smith, closing fast. As his hand came out of his pocket, Kirov caught a glimpse of the cork handle and a flash of stainless steel as Beria depressed the mechanism that causes the blade to spring into place.

  Kirov carried his ordinary-looking black umbrella. It swung lightly in his grip as he closed the distance to Beria. At the precise moment when the assassin took another step, his back leg lifted slightly, calve raised, Kirov brought the umbrella down. The razor-sharp tip sheared the fabric of Beria's pant leg, caught flesh, and cut down a quarter inch. Beria whirled around, stiletto glinting in the pale sunlight. But Kirov was already two steps away. Beria caught sight of him and his eyes widened in shock. The face from Moscow! The Russian general from the train station!

  Beria took a step toward Kirov but never reached him. His right leg faltered and gave way. The stiletto fell from his grip as he pitched forward. The drug that had coated the umbrella tip was singing through his veins, blurring his vision, turning his muscles to putty.

  Glassy-eyed, Beria was faintly aware of being propped up by a pair of strong arms. Kirov was holding him, smiling, talking in Serb, telling him what a bad boy he'd been and how he'd been looking for him everywhere. Beria opened his mouth but could only gurgle. Now Kirov was drawing him close, whispering something. He felt Kirov's lips brush his cheek, then a shout, in Serb, from someone insulting his manhood.

  “Come on, lover,” Kirov said softly. “Let's get you out of here before this turns nasty.”

  Beria twisted around and saw the old men making rude gestures at him. Now Smith was beside him, propping him up by his other shoulder. Beria tried to move his feet but found that he could only drag them. His head lolled and he saw the underbelly of the arch. Outside the quadrangle, the roar of traffic was like that of a giant waterfall. Kirov was sliding open the door to a blue van, bringing out a collapsible wheelchair. Hands on his shoulders forced him to sit. Leather straps snaked around his wrists and ankles. He heard the whine of an electric motor and realized that the wheelchair had been rolled onto a ramp that was being raised. Then Kirov was pushing the chair into the van, locking the wheels. Suddenly everything disappeared except for the Russian's cold, blue eyes.

  “You don't know how lucky you are, you murdering bastard!”

  After that, he heard nothing at all.

  * * *

  The back porch of Peter Howell's hideaway on the Chesapeake shore looked out on a still pond fed by a meandering stream. It was early evening, almost eight hours since Beria had been taken. The low sun warming his face, Smith sat back and watched a pair of hawks circling for prey. Behind him, he heard Kirov's heels fall on the tongue-and-groove boards.

  Smith had no idea who really owned this rustic retreat, but as Peter Howell had told him in Venice, it was both very private and well equipped. Clean and comfortable, the cabin had a larder stocked with dry goods. Under the floorboards in the main room, in a small oubliette, was a cache of arms, medicines, and other essentials, indicating that the owner was undoubtedly in Howell's line of work. Out back, in what looked like a large toolshed, was something else.

  “It's time, General.”

  “He should be left a little while longer, Jon. We don't want to do this again.”

  “I read the same medical literature you do. Most men break after six hours.”

  “Beria isn't most men.”

  Smith walked across the porch and leaned on the railing. From the moment he and Kirov had conceived the operation, they had known that, when taken, Beria would not talk. Not without inducements. It wouldn't be anything so primitive as electroshock or rubber truncheons. There were sophisticated chemicals that, in certain combinations, were very effective and reliable. But they had drawbacks. One could never be sure if the recipient might have an unexpected reaction, go into shock, or worse. Such a risk could not be taken with Beria. He had to be broken cleanly, completely, and above all, safely.

  Smith did not deceive himself. Whether it was electricity, chemicals, or anything else, it all amounted to torture. The idea that he had to sanction its use sickened him, both as a human being and as a physician. He'd told himself over and over again that in this case, such tactics were justified. What Beria was a party to could expose millions to a horrible death. It was vital to get at the information in his head.

  “Let's go,” said Smith.

  * * *

  Ivan Beria was surrounded by white. Even if he kept his eyes closed, which was most of the time, he saw white.

  When he had regained consciousness, he discovered that he was standing in a deep, cylindrical tube, a kind of silo. About fifteen feet high, its walls were perfectly smooth, coated with plaster that had been painted and then finished with something to make it shine. High beyond his reach were two big flood lamps that burned continuously. There was a total absence of darkness, not even a hint of shadows.

  At first, Beria thought that it was some makeshift holding cell. The thought had reassured him. He'd had brief experiences with jail cells. But then he discovered that the diameter of the silo was barely large enough to accommodate his shoulders. He could lean a few inches in any direction, but he could not sit down.

  After a while, he thought he heard a faint hum, like a distant radio signal. As the hours passed, the signal seemed to get stronger and the walls whiter. Then they started to close in on him. That was the first time Beria had closed his eyes, briefly. When he opened them, the whiteness was even starker, if such a thing were possible. Now he dared not open his eyes at all. The hum had crescendoed into a roar and beyond it, Beria heard something else, something that might have been a human voice. He had no idea that he was screaming.

  Without warning, he staggered back, falling through a concealed door that Kirov had opened. Grabbing Beria's arm, he yanked the assassin out of the silo and immediately slipped a black hood over his head.

  “Everything's going to be all right,” Kirov whispered in Serb. “I'm going to take away the pain, all of it. You'll have some water, then you can talk to me.”

  Suddenly, violently, Beria threw his arms around Kirov, holding him as a drowning man would a piece of driftwood. All the while Kirov continued to talk to him and still him, until Beria took his first halting steps.

  * * *

  Smith was shocked by Beria's appearance ― not because he was scared or hurt, just the opposite: he looked exactly as he had the last time Smith had seen him.

  But there were differences. Beria's eyes were glassy and washed out, like those of day-old fish on ice. His voice was a monotone, with no timbre or texture to it. When he spoke, it was as though he'd been hypnotized.

  The three of them sat on the porch around a little table with a small running tape recorder. Beria sipped water from a plastic cup. Next to him, Kirov watched his every move. In his lap, covered by a cloth, was a gun, the barrel pointed at Beria's shoulder.

  “Who hired you to kill the Russian guard?” Smith asked softly.

  “A man from Zurich.”

  “You went to Zurich?”

  “No. We spoke on the telephone. Only the telephone.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “He called himself Gerd.”

  “How did Gerd pay you?”

  “Money was deposited into an account at the Offenbach Bank. It was handled by Herr Weizsel.”

  Weizsel! The name Peter Howell had gotten out of the corrupt Italian policeman, Dionetti…

  “Herr Weizsel… Did you meet him?” Smith asked softly.

  “Yes. Several times.”

  “And Gerd?”

  “Never.”

  Smith glanced at Kirov, who nodded, indicating that he believed Be
ria was telling the truth. Smith agreed. He had expected that Beria would have worked through cutouts. Swiss bankers were some of the best frontmen in the business.

  “Do you know what it was you took from the Russian guard?” Smith continued.

  “Germs.”

  Smith closed his eyes. Germs…

  “Do you know the name of the man you passed the germs to at the Moscow airport?”

  “I think it was David. It wasn't his real name.”

  “Did you know that you would have to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Gerd tell you to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Gerd ever mention any Americans? Were you ever contacted directly by any Americans?”

  “Only my driver. But I don't know his name.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about Gerd or anyone else?”

  “No.”

  Smith paused, trying to keep his frustration in check. Whoever was running this operation had constructed seemingly impenetrable firewalls between themselves and the assassin.

  “Ivan, I don't want you to listen to this.”

  “All right.” Beria looked away, his expression vacant.

  “Jon, he's got nothing left to give up,” Kirov said. “We might be able to get a few more details, for what they're worth.” Kirov spread out his hands. “What about the Lincoln?”

  “It's a NASA fleet vehicle. Dozens of drivers use it. Klein's still running down the particulars.” He paused. “We should have snatched the driver. By now, he's reported that Beria's missing. The controllers will assume the obvious. They'll be much more careful from here on in.”

  “We talked about that,” Kirov reminded him. “It would have been impossible for just the two of us to take down Beria and the driver. We would have needed reinforcements.”

  “Beria gave us two names: the Offenbach Bank and this Herr Weizsel,” Smith said, and told Kirov about the Venice connection.