“They are. But Treloar was the chief medical officer, an important member of the NASA team. I was sent down here to find out if something in Treloar’s background and activities might give us a lead as to why he was killed.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Megan, listen to me. You’re taking his place on the flight. You must have worked with him. Anything you can tell me about him would help.”
They lapsed into silence as the waitress returned with their orders. The idea of food suddenly made Megan nauseated. She steadied herself and organized her thoughts.
“First of all, almost all my training was supervised by Dylan Reed. In a way, the title of chief medical officer is misleading. It’s not like you go up there to hand out aspirins or Band-Aids. The duties are pure research. As head of the biomedical research program, Dylan worked closely with his chief medical officer, Treloar. And he duplicated those experiments with me, in case I had to take Treloar’s place. So I never really worked closely with Treloar at all.”
“What about personally? Was he close to anyone? Was there any gossip about him?”
“He was a loner, Jon. I never heard that he dated, much less had anyone steady. I can tell you that working with him wasn’t much fun. A brilliant mind, but no personality, no humor, nothing. It was as if a part of him—the medical genius—flourished, while the rest of him never grew up at all.”
She paused. “Your investigation isn’t going to impact the launch, is it?”
Smith shook his head. “No reason it should.”
“Look, the best I can do is give you the names of the people who worked directly with Treloar. Maybe they’ll have something for you.”
Smith was certain that he already had those names—and more. He’d spent half the night going over Adam Treloar’s files, forwarded from the FBI, the NSA, and NASA. Still, he listened carefully as Megan ran down her list.
“That’s really all I know,” she concluded.
“Plenty for me to work with. Thank you.”
Megan managed a smile. “Given what you’re doing, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your getting down to the launch? I could get you great seats.”
“I wish I could,” he replied, and meant it. “But maybe I’ll see you at Edwards when you touch down.” Edwards Air Force base in California was the shuttle’s primary landing station.
They were silent for a moment, then Megan said, “I’ve got to get going.”
He reached across the table and, covering her hand, held it tightly. “Come home safe.”
Lost in thought, Megan walked back to her apartment. Adam Treloar was dead—murdered—and Jon Smith had suddenly materialized in Houston. He had neatly sidestepped the issue of who had sent him. He had questioned her skillfully but had given nothing in return. What was Smith really doing here? Who was he after and why? There was only one way to find out.
Back in her apartment, Megan took out her digitally encrypted phone and dialed the number she had memorized long ago.
“Klein here.”
“It’s Megan Olson.”
“Megan…I thought you’d be on your way to the shuttle launch by now.”
“I’m leaving in a little while, sir. There have been developments I felt you should know about.”
Quickly she outlined her conversation with Jon Smith. “That he was being evasive is putting it mildly,” she said. “Is there anything you want to do for him?”
“Negative,” Klein replied briskly. “Smith is involved because of his USAMRIID expertise.”
“I don’t understand, sir. How does that come into play?”
Klein paused. “Listen carefully, Megan. There’s been a leak in Russia, at Bioaparat.” He paused as Megan caught her breath. “A sample was stolen. Adam Treloar was in Moscow at the time. The Russians have him on tape with the courier who was carrying the material. A handoff was made. We’re certain that Treloar carried the stuff into this country. Then, when his usefulness had run out, he was murdered.”
“What happened to what he was carrying?”
“Gone.”
Megan closed her eyes. “What did he bring in?”
“Smallpox.”
“Dear God!”
“Listen to me, Megan. You’re at ground zero. We thought that Treloar might be dirty. Now we’re sure that he was. The question is, did he have accomplices in the shuttle program?”
“I don’t know,” Megan replied. “It seems impossible. These are all dedicated individuals. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing suspicious going on.” She shook her head. “But then again, I missed Treloar, didn’t I?”
“Everybody missed him,” Klein replied. “Don’t beat yourself up over that. The key is to find the smallpox. Covert-One is working on the assumption that it’s somewhere in the D.C. area. Whoever has it would not want to transport it any more than is absolutely necessary. And from London, Treloar could have taken a nonstop flight anywhere—Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. He chose D.C. for a reason. We think that’s where the storage facility has been set up.”
“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 if 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 i
t, 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 19
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,” Klein 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,” Klein 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 shirtfront 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.
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