The Moscow Vector c-6

by Robert Ludlum

  Jon shrugged. “If it came down to that, Fred, I could isolate your DNA from your fingerprints on a dirh glass —or from hair clippings given to me by your barber. It’s not as easy or as cost-effective, but it can be done.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that Renke or the Russians or Malkovie have been bribing even barber and bartender in Washington, London, Paris, and Berlin to collect samples for them, are you?” Klein asked wryly.

  Smith shook his head. “No, sir. Not en masse.”

  “Then how?”

  Jon stiffened suddenly as a horrible possibility occurred to him. “lake a good hard look at anyone with unrestricted access to the OMEGA medical database,” he advised grimly.

  There was a long silence on the other end as Klein considered his suggestion. OMEGA was a top-secret program designed to ensure the ability of the U.S. government to continue functioning in the event ot a catastrophic terrorist attack on Washington and its suburbs. The OMEGA medical database was just one small part of that much larger program. To assist in identifying the dead from any large-scale attack, it contained tissue samples taken from tens of thousands of American government and military personnel.

  “Good God,” the head of Covert-One said at last. “If you’re right, this country is in even graver danger than I had first supposed.” I Ic sighed. “And it also seems that we’re running out of time faster than I had anticipated.”

  “Meaning?” Smith asked.

  “Meaning this is not just a biological weapons threat, Jon,” Klein said quietly. “Those rumors Kirov passed on from his FSB contact were solid. It now appears almost certain that Dudarev and his allies in the Kremlin are ready to launch a major military campaign, one designed to take advantage of the confusion caused by this new weapon.”

  Smith listened elosely while the other man brought him up-to-date on the most recent military and political developments along Russia’s frontiers. If anything, the Pentagon’s time estimate struck him as optimistic. Russian tanks and aircraft could begin rolling to the attack at any moment. His blood ran cold, thinking about the carnage that would be caused by a war of the scope Klein feared. “What countermeasures are we taking?”

  “The president is scheduled to meet with representatives of our key allies in less than twenty-four hours,” Klein told him. “His goal is to persuade them that we must act to deter Russia before it is too late, before the first bombs fall.”

  “Will they listen to him?”

  The head of Covert-One sighed again. “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “We need evidence, Colonel,” Klein said flatly. “The problem is still the same as it was when I ordered you to Moscow. No matter how persuasive they may be, we need more than theories. Without better proof that the Russians are behind this disease, we cannot persuade our allies to act—or force the Kremlin to stand down by ourselves.”

  “Listen, Fred, get us to Italy with the right equipment, and we’ll do our damnedest to find that evidence,” Smith promised.

  “I know you will, Jon,” Klein told him somberly. “The president and I are counting on the three of you.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Washington, D.C.

  Nathaniel Frederick Klein looked up from his desk to the large monitor on the wall of his office. It was set to display a computer-driven map of Europe. A small icon blinked on the map, showing the position of the aircraft earning his three agents. He followed its progress for a moment, watching as it slowly slanted southwest through Hungarian airspace, en route to the U.S. Air Force base at Aviano, in the northeast corner of Italy. Another aircraft icon indicated the heightened alert status of the U.S. fighter wing based there.

  He touched a key on his computer and saw more aircraft icons appear on the map, some in Germany, others in the United Kingdom. Like the icon at Aviano, they depicted the tactical fighter, bomber, and refueling wings alerted by Sam Castilla for possible emergency deployment to Ukraine, Georgia, and the other threatened republics around Russia.

  Klein took off his glasses and rubbed wearily at the bridge of his long nose.

  Right now, no American combat aircraft were going anywhere. The F-16s, F-15s, and refueling tankers were just sitting near runways or in their hardened shelters, waiting. Approached quietly through back channels, the NATO allies were expressing grave doubts about allowing the use of their airspace for any U.S. military deployment to the east. Ironically, the conference the president had summoned for tomorrow morning was now working against him because it gave the French and Germans and others an excuse to delay any decisions until after their representatives reported back. Perhaps even more important, none of the countries that were threatened by Russia were willing to invite U.S. forces into their territories.

  Renke’s DNA-based weapons had done their work well, Klein decided sourly. Too many of the best and bravest political and military leaders in Ukraine and the other smaller states were dead. Those who were left alive were too frightened of angering Moscow. They were paralyzed, fearing the blow that might be about to fall —but unwilling or unable to take actions that might deter a Russian attack. If the United States could prove that what it said about Dudarev’s actions was true, they might find the courage to decide. Otherwise, they would not, preferring the uncertainty of inaction to the perils of action.

  He put his glasses back on. Almost unwillingly, Klein found himself staring again at the small dot representing the plane carrying Jon Smith, Fiona Devin, and Kirov, as though he could somehow urge the 747 to even greater speed by sheer willpower.

  “Nathaniel?”

  Klein looked up. His longtime assistant, Maggie Templeton, stood in the doorway that separated their two offices. “Yes, Maggie?”

  “I’ve finished running that search you asked for,” she told him quietly, walking all the way into the room. “I cross-checked every file we had on OMEGA with the FBI, CIA, and other databases.”

  “And?”

  “I found one serious correlation,” Maggie told him. “Take a look at your in-box.”

  Klein obeyed, using his keyboard to call up the documents she had downloaded and sent to his computer. The first was a local news story from the archives of The Washington Post, dated roughly six months ago. The second was a copy of an updated police investigative report covering the same incident. The last was a personnel file from the Bethesda Naval Medical Center.

  He compared them quickly. One eyebrow rose. He looked up. “Very good work, Maggie,” he said. “As always.”

  Before she left his office, he had already hit the button that would connect him to President Castilla’s private line.

  The president answered it on the second ring. “Yes?”

  “Unfortunately, Colonel Smith was right,” Klein told him flatly. “I’m convinced that OMEGA has been compromised.”

  “How?”

  “Six months ago, the metropolitan police found a body floating in one of the canals near Georgetown,” Klein said, reading the relevant facts from the Post story. “Eventually, they identified the dead man as a Dr. Conrad Home.

  According to the police, Dr. Home appeared to be the victim of a routine mugging that went very badly wrong. But no one was ever arrested for his murder and there are no pending leads.”

  “Go on,” Castilla said.

  “It turns out that Home was a senior researcher at the Bethesda Naval Medical Center,” the head of Covert-One told him.

  “With clearances for the OMEGA medical database,” Castilla guessed bleakly.

  “Exactly,” Klein said. He went through the police report, noting key details. “Home was divorced, with huge, court-mandated alimony and child-support payments. His bank balances were always near zero. And his colleagues often heard him complaining about the lousy pay given to government-employed scientists. But the detectives searching his apartment after the murder found several thousand dollars in cash and thousands more in brand-new furniture and consumer electronics. There were also indications t
hat he had been shopping around for a brand-new car, probably a Jaguar.”

  “And you think he was selling access to the tissue samples in the database?” Castilla interjected.

  Klein nodded solemnly. “Yes, I do. What’s more, I think he got greedy—or that he was simply too indiscreet—and that he was murdered to keep his mouth shut.”

  Castilla sighed. “So what you’re telling me is that Professor Renke and his patrons could already have the DNA for every key player in our government?”

  “Yes, sir,” Klein replied grimly. “Including yours.”

  Aviano Air Base

  The U.S. Air Force base at Aviano lay in the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region, roughly fifty kilometers north of Venice, right at the foot of the Italian Alps.

  From the flight line at Area F, Mount Cavallo dominated the northern horizon, towering nearly twenty-three hundred meters above the surrounding highlands. The pale rays of the rising moon glittered off vast expanses of snow and ice covering the mountain’s rugged slopes.

  With its engines howling as the TranEx pilot reversed thrust, the 747 rolled down the long, main runway at Aviano, braking hard as it passed rows of hardened aircraft shelters. Each had its blast doors open, revealing brightly lit interiors where hangar crews were busy prepping the F-16s of the 31st Tactical Fighter Wing for a long flight east into possible combat.

  At the end of the runway, the massive cargo aircraft swung off onto a wide stretch of concrete apron and came to a full stop. A truck equipped with a set ot mobile stairs appeared and maneuvered into position at the 747’s forward door. As soon as thev were in place, Smith hurried down them, with Fiona Devin and Kirov following close behind.

  A young Air Force captain in a green flight jacket stood waiting for them at the bottom. He carried a helmet with night-vision goggles clipped to the visor.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Smith?” he asked, rather dubiously eyeing the three apparent civilians, all of whom looked verv much the worse for wear.

  Jon nodded. “That’s right.” He grinned at the worried expression on the younger officer’s face. “Don’t worry. Captain. We’ll try not to bleed all over your nice shiny aircraft.”

  The Air Force officer looked abashed. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No problem,” Smith told him. “Are you ready for us?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re right over that way,” the captain said, nodding toward a large black helicopter sitting off by itself across the concrete. Smith recognized it as an MH-53J Pave Low, one of the world’s most advanced special missions aircraft. I heavily armored, bristling with weapons, and crammed hill of sophisticated navigation systems and electronic countermeasures. Pave Lows were built to carry commandos deep into enemy-held territory, flying as low as thirty to forty meters off the ground while dodging enemy radar detection and surface-to-air missiles.

  “What about our gear?” Smith asked the captain.

  “Your clothing, weapons, and other equipment are already stashed aboard the bird, Colonel,” the younger man assured him. “Our orders are to get von and your party airborne as soon as possible.”

  Five minutes later, Smith, Fiona, and Kirov were strapping themselves into seats in the twenty-one-ton Pave Low’s gray-painted rear compartment. One of the helicopter’s six crewmen handed around helmets and earplugs. “You’ll need them when we crank this baby up,” he said cheerfully, hooking them into the intercom system. “Otherwise, the noise will pretty much pound your brains into mush.”

  Overhead the huge rotor blades began turning, spinning faster and faster as the two turbo-shaft engines rewed up. Bv the time the engines were at full power, the whine and roar were deafening. The aircraft rattled and shook, vi-brating and rocking from side to side.

  Through the intercom. Smith heard the flight engineer, a sergeant with a thick Texas drawl, running through the checklist with the MH-53J’s pilot and copilot. “Ready to taxi,” the sergeant said at last.

  The helicopter crept down the taxiwav.

  The three Air Force crewmen in back with Smith and the others leaned out through the open hatches and rear ramp, watching carefully through their night-vision goggles. In flight, their job was to help warn the pilots of any obstacles that could endanger the helicopter —mostly trees and power lines.

  Slowly, the Pave Low lifted off the runway. Wind whipped up by the pounding rotors screamed through the crew compartment. Smith tightened his seat belt. He noticed Kirov helping Fiona with hers and hid a grin.

  For a few minutes more, the huge black helicopter hovered in place while the crew finished its last-minute navigation and systems checks. Then, with its engines howling, the MH-53J spun right and flew south at nearly one hundred and twenty knots, racing low over the Italian countryside with all of its running lights off.

  Near Orvieto

  Erich Brandt struggled to control his mounting impatience. The main HYDRA lab was a hive of activity as Renke shepherded his assistants through the time-consuming task of crating up their DNA databases and specialized equipment. The work was necessarily complex, but once it was complete, the scientist and his team would be able to vanish, and then restart their lethal production line in a new and even more secure location. Almost as important, any American agents investigating the European Center for Population Research would find only an ordinary lab dedicated to routine genetic analysis.

  He turned to Renke. “How much longer?”

  The scientist shrugged. “Several more hours. We could cut that time significantly, but only at the cost of leaving precious equipment behind.”

  Standing at Brandt’s side, Konstantin Malkovic frowned. “How much delay would that cause in reopening your lab?”

  “Perhaps as much as several weeks,” Renke told him.

  The billionaire shook his head firmly. “I have promised Moscow that HYDRA will be back in operation by the time their armies go into action.

  Even with Castilla already marked for death, our Russian allies want the abil-itv to act directly against others in Washington if the new president is also stubborn and refuses to accept their fait accompli.”

  “Dudarev will still deal with you?” Renke asked curiously.

  Now it was Malkovic’s turn to shrug. “What choice does he have? The secrets of the HYDRA weapon are mine, not his. Besides, I’ve promised him that our security problems are being resolved. Once your equipment and scientists are safely out of Italy, what proof can Washington possibly find in time —especially with its agents in Moscow already dead? Anyway, once the shooting starts, it will be far too late for the Americans to intervene.”

  The financier’s secure cell phone beeped suddenly. He flipped it open.

  “Malkovic here. Go ahead.” He glanced at Brandt. “It’s Titov, reporting from Moscow.”

  Brandt nodded. Malkovic had left the manager behind to monitor developments in the Russian capital.

  Malkovic listened intently to his subordinate’s report. Slowly, his face tightened to a rigid, expressionless mask. “Very well,” he said at last. “Keep me informed.”

  He flipped the phone closed and turned back to Brandt. “It seems that the Moscow militia have found two bodies outside that old, ruined monastery you use for vour dirty work.”

  “Alas for poor Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin,” the former Stasi officer quipped, with grim amusement.

  “Save your sympathy for them,” Malkovic snapped icily. “Smith and Devin are still alive. The dead men were yours.”

  Brandt stared back at his employer in shock. Smith and Devin had escaped? How could that possibly be true? For a moment, he felt a shiver of superstitious dread course down his spine. Who were these two Americans?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Near Orvieto

  With its rotors churning, the Pave Low helicopter swept low over a steep, wooded ridge and dove into the broader valley beyond. Treetops flashed by only meters below. Bathed in moonlight, a narrow river, the Paglia, snaked south, roughly paralleling the wide autostrada and the railway. Vineya
rds, groves of gnarled olive trees, and rows of tall, shapely cypresses spread across the gently rolling landscape. Patches of square black shadow marked the location of old stone farmhouses. Lights that seemed to float in the sky ahead outlined the towers and spires of Orvieto, set high on its volcanic plateau. More lights gleamed on a shallow ridge west of the city.

  “ECPR in sight,” one of the pilots commented. “Two minutes out from in-filtration point.”

  Gradually, the MH-53J began decelerating, slowing as it began its approach to the designated landing zone. Occasionally, the nose of the helicopter flared higher as the pilots climbed sharply to avoid colliding with taller trees or the telephone and power lines crisscrossing the Paglia valley.

  Jon Smith hung on tight to a strap dangling from the ceiling. His stomach lurched.

  “Hell of a ride, isn’t it, Colonel?” one of the crewmen commented, flashing a quick grin over his shoulder. “Beats the best roller coaster in the whole wide world!”

  Smith forced himself to smile back. “I was always more partial to the bumper cars myself.”

  “That’s a sure sign you were meant to be a ground-pounder, Army-type, sir,” the same crewman said with a laugh, again craning his head out through the open hatch to keep a careful eye on their flight path. “Begging your pardon, of course.”

  “Guilty as charged, Sergeant,” Smith said, smiling more genuinely now.

  He hung his head in mock surrender.

  Fiona Devin, sitting across from Jon, offered a sympathetic shrug. Beside her, Oleg Kirov appeared to be deeply asleep, leaning back against the bulk-head with his eyes closed.

  The Pave Low slowed further, turning more to the west as it crossed the ridge well to the north of the ECPR compound. It slid lower, flying over a spur of forest spilling down across the slope. Tree branches swayed and rocked behind the large helicopter, pummeled by its powerful rotor wash.