building she had picked out as Wulf Renke’s lab facility.
Smith slowly lowered the powerful binoculars she had lent him. He handed them back to her with a tight, worried nod. “Yeah, I do. The damned place is practically a fortress.”
“A fortress is right,” Randi agreed, ticking off on her fingers the defenses she had observed. “We’re talking about lights, remotely controlled security cameras, motion sensors, bullet-proof windows, a solid steel main door, bank-vault quality locks plus maybe a dozen highly alert armed guards inside.”
He nodded again, grimly this time. “I think it’s time we held a council of war.”
Jon and Randi slid cautiously out of the shallow drainage ditch and faded back into the vineyard. Kirov and Fiona had set up some of their gear in a spot where a small fold in the ground offered concealment from the cameras and lights mounted on the lab building. They had their heads close together, studying the dozens of digital surveillance photos the CIA officer had shot during her long afternoon and evening vigil.
Kirov glanced up when Smith and Randi returned. “We’ve definitely come to the right place,” he said somberly. “See for yourself.”
While Jon watched, the Russian clicked through several color images taken with a telephoto lens. The first showed two black sedans arriving at the lab building. The next set showed a large group of men climbing out of the cars and moving toward the lab. Kirov zoomed in on two of those men.
Smith whistled softly, staring at the familiar faces of Erich Brandt and Konstantin Malkovic. The sight of the ex-Stasi officer’s cold gray eyes raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Jon’s jaw tightened. While he and Fiona Devin were being tortured, Jon had promised to kill that arrogant bastard. That was a promise he meant to keep. He looked away, fighting to regain a measure of control over his anger. This was a time for coolly rational thought, not aveng-ing blood lust. “Are Brandt and Malkovic still inside?” he asked.
“They are,” Fiona said. She sounded surprisingly calm. “Ms. Russell’s ad-mirably complete set of pictures shows no one else entering or leaving.”
“That’s one piece of good news anyway.” Smith squatted down on his haunches. The others grouped themselves around him. “The bad news is that our first plan to run a quick sneak-and-peek into that compound, looking for evidence isn’t going to fly. Their security is too tight. We’d be spotted the second we started toward the perimeter fence.”
Kirov shrugged. “Since we know where Renke’s lab is, I suggest we strike now, without worrying about stealth. Our enemies have done us the favor of putting themselves in one place,” he said coldly. “We should take advantage of their error.”
“I’d like to kick in the door,” Smith agreed. He grinned tightly. “But only if we had a full company of infantry, with a couple of M1AI Abrams tanks for fire support. And even then we’d be sticking our hands into a meat-grinder.”
“The building is that closely guarded?” the Russian asked.
Jon nodded. “It is.”
“There are F-16s based at Aviano,” Randi said coolly. “They could be here in an hour. Maybe less.”
“You want to call in an air strike?” Smith asked.
“Why not?” The CIA officer’s eyes were hard. “One laser-guided bomb would solve a great many problems.”
Jon understood her feelings. The vicious genetic weapon set in motion by the men inside that lab, Renke, Brandt, and Malkovic, was already responsible for dozens of cruelly painful deaths around the world. It was incredibly tempting to contemplate watching a single massive explosion engulf them in flame. But there were too many arguments against an air strike, both practical and political.
Sighing, he shook his head in regret. “The president would never approve an F-16 strike, Randi, and that’s how high up the decision would have to go.
Most of the Center’s work is legitimate scientific research, and there’s too much chance of collateral damage. Can you imagine how the EU would react if we dropped bombs on friendly territory, especially without permission or even consultation?” He frowned. “Our alliances are already too fragile as it is.”
“Destroying that lab would also destroy the evidence we needthe evidence that the Russians have been involved in creating and using this new weapon,” Fiona pointed out quietly. “So would killing these men, or at least all of them. We may need their testimony to make our accusations against the Kremlin stick.”
Kirov nodded heavily. “Ms. Devin is right. Whatever we do, we must try to take at least one of these men, Renke or Malkovic especially, alive.”
“Spiffy,” Ranch said, shaking her head. “This gets better and better.” She turned back to Smith. “Okay, Jon, you claim that you’re tied in w ith the Pentagon. Why don’t you whistle up a commando unit? Like the Delta Force or the SEALs?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the ECPR compound. “Kicking in doors is what thev train for, isn’t it?”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” Jon told her softly. “But there aren’t any Delta Force or SEAL teams in striking range. They’re either in the States refitting and training, or tied up in combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan.” One side of his mouth curved up in an ironic grin. “I’m afraid you’re looking at the only special-ops team available … and it’s the four of us.”
“What about the Italians?” Fiona broke in. She nodded at the darkened landscape around them. “This is their country. Don’t thev have special police or Annv units capable of raiding that lab?”
Smith thought about that. The Italians had two very highly regarded countcrterrorist units, the GIS (Groupe Interventional Speciale) and NOCS (Nucleo Operativo Gentrale de Sicurezza). And this was their jurisdiction.
Why not ask Fred Klein and the president to kick the responsibility over to the government in Rome? But how far would the Italian government be willing to go without seeing anything more than vague and circumstantial evidence?
Then another, even more unpleasant thought, occurred to him. He looked around at the others. “We know, from Randi here, that Malkovic is already being tipped off by someone in Germany, or maybe even inside Langley. But what if Malkovic has another molethis one in the Italian security services?”
“It seems likelv,” Kirov growled. “This financier has shown himself to be a man with a near-infinite capacity for corrupting others, in Russia, Germany, and many other countries. I doubt very much that he would leave himself blind and deaf here in Italy.”
Fiona frowned. “That’s pure speculation, Oleg.”
“Yes, it is,” Smith agreed. “But even if Malkovic doesn’t have a secret source in Rome, bringing the Italians into this operation would take some prettv fancy diplomatic maneuvering”
“For which there is no time,” Kirov said suddenly and forcefully.
The others looked at him in surprise.
“Our enemies must know that their cover here is tattered and perhaps even on the verge of falling apart completely,” Kirov explained. He showed his teeth. “Think, mv friends. Why else do you think a man like Malkovic would come all this way, especially now, with events in my country moving so fast toward war?”
“Renke and his pals are getting ready to pull another disappearing act,”
Smith realized.
“Could they really pull that off?” Randi asked curiously.
“Sure,” Smith said. He rubbed at his jaw, thinking it through out loud. “All Renke really needs to set up shop again somewhere else are his DNA samples, any special equipment he’s using, and a few of his trained technicians. Most of the equipment and other material would probably fit in one small truck or a couple of vans.”
“Then it’s simple,” Randi said coldly. “We wait until they drive out of here, and then we jump them.”
“Look more carefully at your photographs, Ms. Russell,” Kirov advised.
“Do vou see any trucks or vans outside that lab?”
She shook her head reluctantly. “No.”
“But there is a large stretch of bare concrete, is there not?”
Jon saw what the Russian was getting at. “Hell,” he muttered. “Malkovic and Renke are going to fly the stuff out.”
Kirov nodded. “Probably by helicopter to a jet waiting at Rome or Florence or any one of several other nearby airfields.” He shrugged his big shoulders gloomily. “Malkovic’s native Serbia is not far from Italy, not much more than an hour’s flying time across the Adriatic Sea. Libya and Syria are also within casv reach. As arc am number of other unsavory regimes that might offer so rich a man refuge.”
Frowning, Smith summed the situation up. “Which means if we wait too long, Renke will vanish again with everything he needs to restart Malkovic’s genetic weapons business.”
“So we can’t go in. We can’t bomb them. And we can’t wait for them to come out. Mind telling me what other options we do have, Jon?” Randi said sharply, reining in her temper with difficulty.
Smith gritted his teeth, feeling equally frustrated. “I don’t know.” He shook his head grimly. “But we’ve got to find a way to push these guys off their game, to make them react to our moves for a change.”
Unable to bear inaction any longer, he stood up and began pacing around their small campsite. There had to be something they could do, some angle they could play, to get at Malkovic and his subordinates, to pry them out of that fortified lab before it was too late.
Abruptly, Jon stopped and stood still, waiting while the faint glimmering of a wild idea took on real form and substance. Maybe Randi had already given them the hook they would need. A fierce gleam appeared in his eyes. He swung round to Kirov. “I need your phone, Oleg!” he snapped.
“Now!”
Nodding, the Russian tossed him the last of their Covert-One secure cell phones. “Use it wisely,” he suggested drily.
Smith grinned back at him. “Acting wisely is the last thing on my mind right now.”
He moved off out of earshot and punched in the code for Covert-One headquarters.
Fred Klein listened intently while he summarized the situation they faced.
“An ugly dilemma, Colonel,” he said quietly when Smith had finished. “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes, I do. But we need action from Washington to make it work. And we need it as soon as humanly possible.”
“What do you want me to do?” Klein asked.
Smith told him.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. At last, Klein spoke again, sounding troubled. “You’re asking me to skate very close to the line on this one, Jon.”
“I know I am.”
Klein sighed. “The president and I can probably conceal Covert-One’s existence from those involved here in Washington, but I’m worried about Ms.
Russell. She already knows far more about our activities and access than is prudent. What you suggest may very well give her enough information to break through this organization’s cover.”
“She’s already suspicious as hell, Fred.”
“There is a wide gulf between suspicion and certainty, Colonel,” Klein said tartly. “And I would prefer to keep Randi Russell on the proper side of that gulf.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “What choice do we really have?”
“None,” the head of Covert-One admitted at length. “All right, Jon. Stand by where you are. I’ll let you know when we’re reach to kick things off back here.”
“Standing by,” Smith acknowledged.
The line went dead.
February 22
Joint U.S.-Gennan Intelligence Secure Videoconference Large television monitors in Washington, D.C., Langley, Virginia, Berlin, Bonn, and Cologne flickered simultaneously to life, linking groups of men and women seated around conference tables separated by thousands of miles and hours of relative time. Those in Germany looked tired and nervous. It was already past midnight when they had been hurriedly summoned back to their various offices for what was being billed as an extraordinary emergency briefing by the new U.S. Director of National Intelligence, William Wexler.
Wexler himself appeared cool and collected. His body language radiated absolute confidence and conviction in what he was about to say. As he spoke, he looked straight into the camera, maintaining the illusion that he was making eye contact with everyone else on the secure circuit.
What none of those joining in this satellite-linked videoconference knew was that a feed was also going straight to the White House. And Fred Klein, watching the transmission with President Castilla from the Oval Office, cynically suspected one reason for Wexler’s apparent ease was because the former senator was used to delivering televised speeches that he either did not understand or did not believe.
After a few preliminary formalities, Wexler jumped straight to the core of the matter. He spoke clearly and concisely. “Intelligence agencies of the United States have now definitively identified the production site of the biological weapons being used against us, against our NATO allies, and against countries around the border of the Russian Federation.”
Those listening and watching sat up straighter.
The screen split, with half showing a satellite photo taken months before.
It depicted a large fenced-in complex spread across what appeared to be a low ridge. One of the several buildings was circled. “These weapons are being secretly manufactured at a laboratory near Orvieto, in Italy,” Wexford said firmly. “A lab that is part of the European Center for Population Research, the ECPR.”
Shocked murmurs spread through the background audio feed.
Wexler overrode them. “The intelligence confirming this target is clear and irrefutable. Accordingly, the President of the United States has authorized an immediate all-out military assault on this clandestine weapons facility.”
The German and American intelligence officials fell silent, plainly stunned by what they were hearing.
The satellite photo disappeared, replaced by a map showing Italy and the seas around it. Another circle appeared on this map, enclosing a graphic of ships positioned in the Mediterranean Sea, off Italy’s western coast. “A U.S.
Marine Corps quick-reaction force is now prepping aboard the ships of the Sixth Fleet,” Wexler continued. “This force will be in position to conduct the raid within two hours. Several teams from our Special Operations Command are already in place several kilometers to the north and south of Orvieto preparing to set up roadblocks on the main highway.”
One of the Germans spoke up. A crawl beneath the screen identified him as Bernhard Heichler, a high-ranking officer in the Bundesamtes fiir Verfassunsschutz. “What do the Italians think of this riskv plan of yours?” he asked stiffly.
“To ensure complete surprise, this assault is being made without the knowledge or consent of the Italian government,” Wexler replied coollv.
Heichler’s mouth fell open, a reaction shared by many of his colleagues, of both nationalities. “Then why are you giving us this information?”
With a slight smile, Wexler dropped his next bombshell. “Because the man responsible for creating this biological weapon is Professor Wulf Renke,” he told them. “One ot your own countrymen, and a dangerous criminal von have long hunted.” Speaking firmly and forcefully, he outlined what U.S. intelligence now knew about Renke, including his escape from German justice with Ulrich Kessler’s assistance.
“We would like you to form a task force of experts to assist us in exploiting every scrap of intelligence our Marines lay their hands on,” Wexler said carefully. “Their mission will be to ferret out any critical information contained in the lab’s phone logs, computer files, and shipping records, and to interrogate the prisoners we intend to capture.” He smiled winningly. “Now? Are there any questions?”
Immediately, a confused babble of voices broke out, with everyone trying to speak at once.
Castilla hit the mute burton on his remote. The agitated voices fell silent.
He turned toward Klein, with a th
in smile on his broad, blunt face. “Looks like that little stunt of ours just tossed a coyote right into the middle of some real nervous cattle.”
“Yes, sir,” Klein agreed.
“You think this will actually work the way Colonel Smith hopes?” Castilla asked quietly.
“I hope so,” Klein said, equally quietly. “If not, Jon and the others are not likely to survive the next several hours.” He checked his watch. The furrows on his high forehead grew deeper. “One way or the other, we should know very soon.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Estelle Pike sat primly at her desk in the antechamber outside the Oval Office, typing up one of President Castilla’s handwritten action memos to the National Security Council. Her eyes flicked rapidly from the screen in front of her to the scrawled notes on her desk, and then around the rest of the room.
The other desks and workstations were empty. She smiled slightly. One by one, she had found errands for her assistants to run in widely scattered parts of the White House office complex.
A white-gloved steward entered the room, carrying a covered tray.
She stopped typing and looked up with a frown. “Yes? What is that?”
“The president’s meal, ma’am,” the steward told her politely.
Estelle Pike nodded to the empty corner of her desk. “You can leave it there. I’ll take it in to him in a moment.”
One of the steward’s eyebrows went up in astonishment. The president’s secretary was well known and widely disliked among the White House household staff for her strict insistence on protocol and rank. She only rarely, if ever, volunteered for duties she considered beneath her station.
“The president is extremely busy, Anson,” she explained coolly. “He does not wish to be disturbed at the moment.”
The steward looked at the closed door behind her and then shrugged. “Yes, ma’am. Please don’t wait too long, though. Otherwise the salad will start to wilt.”
Estelle Pike waited until the door closed behind him and then bent down to open her purse. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, she found the small sealed glass vial she had retrieved earlier from the Maryland countryside. Then, moving calmly and precisely, she opened the vial, lifted the silver cover off Castilla’s salad and sprinkled the liquid contents liberally over the tossed greens, salsa, sour cream, cheese, and pieces of grilled chicken. She dropped the vial back into her purse and stood up, reaching for the tray.
The Moscow Vector c-6 Page 40