The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  “Beria has to have help on this end,” Klein conceded. “But again, the geographic area is limited. We should also remember that the people using Beria do not want the virus released until it suits them to do so. That means they have to store it—safely. And that requires a very good laboratory. We’re not looking in tenements or abandoned warehouses, Mr. President. Somewhere in the surrounding counties is a state-of-the-art lab that was created just for this purpose.”

  “All right,” he said finally. “The hunt for Beria is under way. We’ll also start searching for this lab. Right now, we keep a lid on what’s happening. Total media blackout. Is that about right?”

  “Yes, sir. About the media: Kirov has done a yeoman’s job of keeping the situation in Russia under wraps. But if there’s a leak, that’s where it will spring. I suggest that when you call President Potrenko, you ask him what steps he’s taking to hold the blackout in place on his end.”

  “Noted. Now what about this second man you mentioned, the one Beria may or may not have met in Moscow?”

  “He’s the wild card, sir,” Klein said softly. “If we can finger him, we can use him to get to Beria.”

  As soon as he heard the double ping indicating that the aircraft was at the gate, Adam Treloar was out of his seat and moving to the forward hatch. The rest of the first-class passengers fell in behind him, creating a buffer between him and the man who could not be allowed to catch a glimpse of him.

  Treloar drummed his fingers on his carry-on, impatient for the hatch to roll up. His instructions had been precise. He repeated them over and over again until he knew the litany by heart. The only question was, would he be able to carry them out without interference?

  The hatch disappeared into the bulkhead, the flight attendant stepped back, and Treloar charged past her. He set a fast pace, moving through the jetway and into a harshly lit corridor that dead-ended at an escalator. He walked down it and found himself at the immigration booths. Beyond them were the baggage carousels and the customs checkpoints.

  Treloar had expected and would have preferred crowds. But Dulles was not as busy as Kennedy or Los Angeles, and no international flights had come at the same time or just a little ahead of American 1710. He went up to an empty counter and offered his paperwork to an officer who scanned the passport and asked inane questions about where he’d been. Treloar gave him the truth about his mother, how he had gone to Russia to visit her grave and tend to it. The officer nodded solemnly, scribbled something on the customs form, and waved him along.

  Treloar had baggage, but he wasn’t about to waste time waiting for it to come down the chute. The instructions had been very specific on that point: he was to get out of the terminal as quickly as possible. Walking past the carousels, Treloar dared to glance over his shoulder. At the other end, Jon Smith was at an immigration counter reserved for diplomats and aircrews. Why would he…? Of course! Smith was Pentagon. He would be traveling on a military ID, not on a civilian passport.

  Holding his card, Treloar approached the customs agent.

  “Traveling light, sir,” the agent commented.

  Remembering his instructions, Treloar explained that he had had his bags sent on ahead, using a bonded courier service that catered to well-heeled travelers who were not inclined to wrestle with their own suitcases. Familiar with the arrangements, the agent waved him through.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Treloar caught Smith walking up to the same agent. He veered right, so as not to walk across Smith’s line of sight.

  “No, sir,” the agent called out. “You go left.”

  Treloar turned abruptly and almost ran into the tunnel that connected to the terminal.

  “Dr. Smith?”

  He turned to the customs agent walking up to him. “Yes?”

  “There’s a call for you, sir. You can take it in there.”

  The agent opened the door to an interview room where detained travelers were questioned. Pointing to a phone on the desk, he said, “Line one.”

  “This is Smith.”

  “Jon, it’s Randi.”

  “Randi!”

  “Listen. There isn’t much time. I just got a positive ID on that guy in the picture. He’s Adam Treloar.”

  Smith clenched the receiver. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. We cleaned up the video enough to get a good print, which I shipped over to the embassy. Don’t worry. Whatever the cat is, it’s still in the bag. I made Treloar a prospective investor and asked for a standard background check.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “His mother was Russian, Jon. She died a while ago. Treloar comes over frequently, to pay his respects, I guess. Oh, and he was on the same flight as you—American 1710.”

  Smith was stunned. “Randi, I can’t thank you enough. But I have to run.”

  “What do you want me to do with the laptop and the cell phone you brought in?”

  “Can you get your boy genius to work on it?”

  “I figured as much. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  Smith left the office, quickly walked back to the customs counter and found the agent who had alerted him to the call.

  “I need your help,” he said urgently, displaying his military ID. “There was a passenger onboard 1710. Can you find out if he’s cleared customs yet? The name is Adam Treloar.”

  The agent turned to his terminal. “Got him right here. Treloar. Went through about two minutes ago. Do you want—?”

  Smith was already on the move, heading out of the restricted area toward the concourse, dialing Klein’s number as he ran.

  “Klein here.”

  “Sir, it’s Smith. The guy with Beria is American. Dr. Adam Treloar. He’s a NASA scientist and he was on the London-to-Washington flight.”

  “Can you find him?” Klein demanded urgently.

  “He has a two-minute start on me, sir. I might be able to run him down before he leaves the terminal.”

  “Jon, I’m at Camp David with the president. Hold on, please.”

  Smith kept threading his way through the traffic in the concourse as he waited for Klein to come back on the line.

  “Jon, listen to me. A FIREWALL alert was issued earlier, for Beria. But he slipped through it. Now that we know who he was seen with it’s imperative that you find Treloar. We have FBI agents in the area—”

  “No good, sir. It’ll take too long to bring them up to speed. I think I have the best shot.”

  “Then take it.”

  Smith raced down the tunnel. He knew the layout of Dulles intimately. After clearing customs and immigration, passengers walked through the arrivals area to other gates, or, if D.C. was their final destination, to the area where the specially built transit buses waited. These vehicles could raise their platforms to reach the boarding area. Once the passengers were on, the chassis was lowered and the buses would go across the airport to the main terminal. There, the docking process would be repeated, and the passengers would disembark and head for the exits.

  Smith ran past the shops and newsstands, darting among travelers, straining to catch a glimpse of Treloar. Reaching the end of the concourse, he found himself in a large holding area. Along one wall were elevator-style glass doors that passengers went through to get on the buses. Only one bus was parked at the dock. Smith shouldered his way through the crowd of twenty-odd travelers who were in the process of boarding.

  Ignoring the shouts of protest, Smith elbowed his way onto the bus, his eyes flitting from face to face. He checked every passenger. Treloar wasn’t there.

  Smith rapped hard on the partition separating the cabin from the driver’s compartment. A startled, black face looked back at him and the ID he jammed against the glass.

  “Did another bus just leave here?” he shouted.

  The driver nodded and gestured at a bus that was better than halfway between the arrivals area and the main terminal.

  Smith turned and cut his way through the growing crowd in the bus
. He spotted an emergency exit and dashed toward it. Alarms sounded as he threw open the door with the large red warning sign stenciled across its face.

  Flying down the ramp that led to gate aprons, Smith spotted an airport supervisor’s sedan idling next to a string of baggage carts. He flung open the door and jumped behind the wheel. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and the sedan shot onto the taxiways, narrowly missing an oncoming fueler.

  The drive across the parking aprons took less than thirty seconds. Abandoning the vehicle, Smith raced up to the bus. Because the chassis was eight feet off the ground, he could make out only the heads of the passengers as they disembarked.

  Swinging through another emergency door, Smith found himself in an identical holding area filled with passengers waiting to board. Turning, he saw the backs of those who had just come off the bus. He scanned the sea of faces around him. Treloar couldn’t have slipped out. Not that fast.

  Then he saw him, only a glimpse at first. But it was unmistakably Treloar, beyond the sliding glass doors that opened to the sidewalk outside where cabs, limousines, and private vehicles waited.

  Barging ahead, Smith jammed through the doors in time to see his quarry about to step into a black Lincoln sedan with heavily tinted windows.

  “Treloar!”

  Charging down on him, Smith saw terror in those odd eyes, noted the way Treloar was clutching his carry-on tightly against his chest.

  Treloar jumped into the car and slammed the door. Smith reached the vehicle just in time to get his fingers around the door handle. Then, without warning, the big car screeched away from the curb, throwing him heavily to the sidewalk. Smith tucked his shoulder, letting it absorb the impact, and rolled with the momentum. By the time he was back on his feet, the Lincoln was well into traffic.

  Two airport policemen ran up and grabbed him by the arms. Thirty precious seconds were wasted as Smith struggled to identify himself. Finally he was able to get Klein on the line.

  “Did you get the plate number?” Klein demanded after Smith told him about the car.

  “No. But I saw the last three digits. And there was an orange sticker in the lower left corner. Sir, the Lincoln is registered to a U.S. government agency.”

  Chapter 16

  “Where are we going?”

  The heavily tinted glass between the front and rear compartments prevented Adam Treloar from seeing the driver. His voice, coming through hidden speakers, had a raspy quality.

  “There is no need for concern, Dr. Treloar. Arrangements have been made. Please sit back and enjoy the ride. There will be no further communication until we’ve reached our destination.”

  Treloar’s eyes darted to the door locks. He pushed the button to raise them, but to no avail.

  What’s happening here?

  No matter how hard he tried to calm himself, Treloar could not erase the image of Smith: on the plane, in the customs area, spotting him, the recognition dawning across his face. Treloar considered it a miracle that the transfer bus had pulled away from its bay before Smith managed to get onboard. But that hadn’t stopped him. Smith was like some savage hound, refusing to give up the chase. Treloar had caught a glimpse of him in the main terminal, just seconds before he’d raced through the exit doors. But even then Smith had almost caught up to him. Treloar recoiled when he flashed on the hand curling over the door handle, trying to force it open.

  I’m safe now, he thought, trying to reassure himself. The car was waiting as they promised. Smith won’t be able to touch me where I’m going.

  The rationale provided some comfort, but it could not still other questions: Why was Smith after him? Did he suspect that Treloar was carrying the smallpox? Did he know?

  Impossible!

  Treloar was well versed in the protocols regarding a bioweapons alert. If Smith had had the slightest suspicion that he was the courier, Treloar never would have made it off the jetway without being arrested.

  Then why? What had prompted Smith to focus on him?

  Treloar sat back in the soft leather seat, gazing out at what appeared to be nightscape. The car was moving swiftly along the highway that led from the industrial parks around Dulles into the city proper. The driver didn’t seem to be worried about being stopped for speeding.

  Just as well, as far as Treloar was concerned. The sooner they reached their destination, the sooner he would have his answers.

  The news of Adam Treloar’s escape did not sit well with Nathaniel Klein.

  “I know you did your best, Jon,” he said, speaking over a secure line. “But now we have Beria and Treloar to deal with.”

  Smith was huddled next to a pillar outside the main terminal.

  “I understand, sir. But with Treloar, we have a break. The tags on the car that picked him up were government.”

  “I’m running them even as we speak,” Klein replied. “What I don’t understand is why he bolted.”

  “Because he’s guilty, sir,” Smith said coldly. “There was no reason for Treloar to evade me. It was clear that he remembered me from Houston. So why run? What was he so afraid of?” Smith paused. “And where was he going in such a hurry? He didn’t even pick up his luggage.”

  “But according to you, he had a carry-on.”

  “That he was holding on to as if the crown jewels were inside.”

  “Hold for a moment,” Klein said. “Something’s coming through on those tags.”

  Smith heard the sound of a printer, then Klein was back on the line.

  “The car that was waiting for Treloar is registered to NASA.”

  Smith was stunned. “Okay. Treloar has enough seniority to have a driver meet him. But that still begs the question: why run?”

  “If he is running, Jon, would he have arranged for such obvious transport?”

  “Sure—because he never expected to see me or to be the object of any attention.” Smith paused. “Let’s find the car and ask him, sir.”

  “Let’s do one better. I’ll have a federal BOLO alert put out on Treloar.”

  The implications of what Klein suggested were far reaching. A BOLO alert meant that every law enforcement officer within a hundred miles of the capital would have Treloar’s description and orders to pick him up on sight.

  “In the meantime,” Klein concluded, “I want you here at Camp David. The president is expecting a briefing on Beria. I want him to hear your report firsthand.”

  The Lincoln wound its way up Wisconsin Avenue and crept down a quiet, leafy street. An alumnus of Georgetown University Medical School, Treloar recognized the area as Volta Place—a neighborhood on the fringe of campus, slowly being gentrified block by block.

  The locks popped up and the driver held the door open. Treloar hesitated, then, picking up his carry-on, slowly stepped out of the car. He took his first good look at the driver—built like a linebacker, with a square, expressionless face—and at his destination, a pleasant, recently renovated townhouse with painted white brick and black trim on the door and shutters.

  The driver opened the gate in the wrought-iron fence that bordered the tiny lawn. “You’re expected, sir.”

  Treloar walked up the flagstone path and was reaching for the lion’s-head knocker when the door swung open. He stepped into a postage-stamp-size foyer of polished hardwood and Oriental carpet.

  “Adam, it’s good to see you.”

  Treloar almost fainted at the sound of Dylan Reed’s voice behind the door.

  “Don’t be so shocked,” Reed said, closing and locking the door. “Didn’t I tell you that I’d be here? Everything’s all right now.”

  “It isn’t all right!” Treloar exploded. “You don’t know what happened at the airport. Smith—”

  “I know exactly what happened at Dulles,” Reed cut him off. “And I know about Smith.” He eyed the carry-on. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  Treloar handed him the carry-on and followed Reed into a small kitchen that looked out on a patio.

  “Excel
lent job, Adam,” Reed was saying. “Truly excellent.”

  Picking up a towel, he removed the canister from the carry-on and deposited it in the freezer.

  “The nitrogen charge—” Treloar began to say.

  Reed checked his watch. “I know. It’s good for another couple of hours. Don’t worry. We’ll have it safely stored by then.” He gestured at a round table in the breakfast nook. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me everything.”

  Treloar heard the rattle of ice cubes and the clink of glass. When Reed returned, he was carrying two tall glasses filled with ice and a bottle of good scotch.

  After pouring generous measures, he raised his glass: “Well done, Adam.”

  Gulping his drink, Treloar shook his head violently. Reed’s equanimity was driving him crazy.

  “I’m telling you, everything’s not all right!”

  Fueled by the whiskey, the words rushed out of him. He held back nothing, not even his exploits at the Krokodil, not caring because Reed had made it clear long ago that he knew all about those proclivities. Every minute of his trip was accounted for so that Reed could follow his reasoning.

  “Don’t you see?” he asked plaintively. “It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Smith was on the same flight as me. Something must have happened in Moscow. The contact, whoever he was, must have been followed. They saw us together, Dylan. They can link him to me!

  “And then that scene at the airport—Smith trying to catch me. Why? Unless he knew—”

  “Smith doesn’t know anything.” Reed poured Treloar more scotch. “Don’t you think that if you were a suspect, half the FBI would have been waiting for you?”

  “Yes, I thought of that! I’m not an idiot. But the coincidence—”

  “There—you just said it: coincidence.” Reed leaned forward, his expression earnest. “I think that a lot of this has been my fault. When you called me from the plane, I gave you instructions that, I realize, you followed to the letter. But I was wrong. I should have told you not to run if Smith approached you. It would have been curiosity on his part, remembering you from Houston. Nothing more.”