The Moscow Vector

by Robert Ludlum

  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 long-time 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 Horne. According to the police, Dr. Horne 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 Horne 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. “Horne 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 that 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 of mobile stairs appeared and maneuvered into position at the 747’s forward door. As soon as they 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 very 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. Heavily armored, bristling with weapons, and crammed full 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 you 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 revved up. By the time the engines were at full power, the whine and roar were deafening. The aircraft rattled and shook, vibrating 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 taxiway.

  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 mu
ch 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 ability 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 your 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. Vineyards, 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 infiltration 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 bulkhead 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.

  “LZ dead ahead. One hundred feet, fifty knots,” the flight engineer drawled out.

  Smith let go of the strap and sat up straighter. His right foot nudged the bag wedged under his seat, making sure that it was still in easy reach. It contained an assortment of clothing, weapons, and other equipment drawn from U.S. Special Operations Command caches stored at Aviano. He glanced up and saw Kirov and Fiona making their own preparations for landing. The silver-haired Russian gave him a quick thumbs-up.

  Guided by constant chatter from his crew, the Pave Low pilot edged slowly forward and brought his big helicopter safely into their landing zone, a wide clearing in the woods. The ridge running south toward the ECPR compound rose off on the left, a dark mass against the paler, moonlit sky. The wheels thumped down. Immediately, the engine noise began fading, descending rapidly from a shrill, howling roar, to a deepening whine, and then to absolute dead silence. The rotors slowed and stopped turning.

  The helicopter crew had orders to wait here until Smith or one of the others called for a pickup. But the six Air Force officers and enlisted men aboard the big MH-53J were also under strict orders to sit tight and do nothing else. Once their feet touched the ground, the improvised Covert-One team would be completely on its own. If they met with disaster while breaking into the ECPR labs, this mission had to be completely deniable by the U.S. government.

  Smith unbuckled his seat belt with a feeling of intense relief. It wasn’t that he minded hazardous, nap-of-the-earth flying so much, he told himself, it was just that he preferred having his fate in his own hands. He bent down and tugged the heavy duffel bag out onto the metal deck. Fiona Devin and Kirov followed suit. Together, they slung the bags over their shoulders, trotted down the ramp, and moved off to the east, heading straight across the clearing and into the deeper darkness among the trees.

  Jon led the way, pushing up the gentle slope at a fast walk until they were well away from the helicopter. Near the top of the ridge, they entered another clearing, this one much smaller. A little heap of roughly hewn stones, mostly covered by moss and bracken, lay in the center of the clearing. Were those tumbled stones all that remained of an ancient shrine? he wondered. This was an old, old land, fought over for thousands of years by the Umbrians, Etruscans, Romans, Goths, Lombards, and other peoples. Their ruins and tombs dotted the landscape, buried in some places by new towns and cities, swallowed up by forests and ivy in others. Seen by moonlight, the small open space glowed eerily.

  “This will do,” Smith whispered to the others. “We’ll change into our gear here, before moving closer to the Center.” He lowered his duffel bag to the ground and knelt to unzip it. Swiftly, he started tugging out articles of clothing and equipment and handing them out to his companions.

  Shivering in the cold night air, the three shifted out of the ordinary street clothes and shoes they had been wearing, rapidly donning dark-colored sweaters and jeans. Camouflage sticks blackened their faces and foreheads. Comfortable hiking boots and thick leather gloves gave better protection and traction for their feet and hands. Night-vision goggles offered them the ability to see in the dark once the moon went down. Padded cases stuffed inside the duffel bags contained a collection of high-tech digital cameras, lightweight tactical radios, laser-surveillance equipment, bolt-cutters, and other tools.

  “No body armor?” Kirov asked, pulling an assault vest studded with equipment pouches out of his duffel. He slipped both arms through the vest and zipped it up, checking the fit.

  Smith shook his head. “Nope. Arm
or’s too heavy and too bulky for what we’re supposed to do. If possible, we want to get inside the Center, find out what the hell’s going on in there, and then get out without being spotted. But if we have to run, we’re going to want to run fast.”

  “And if someone starts shooting at us?” Kirov asked drily. “What then?”

  “Try very hard not to get hit,” Jon advised, with a quick grin. He handed the Russian a 9mm Makarov pistol and three spare magazines, then took a SIG-Sauer sidearm for himself, along with extra ammunition. Both men slung Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns across their backs. Spare thirty-round clips went into pouches on their vests.

  Fiona Devin slid a lightweight Glock 19 pistol into the holster belted around her waist and then stood back, watching the two men finish checking their weapons. “That’s quite an arsenal you requested from Fred Klein, Colonel,” she said with a slight, impish smile. “Didn’t you just tell Oleg we were here to walk softly?”

  Smith nodded. “Yep.” He patted the pistol at his side. “But frankly, I’m getting tired of being outgunned. This time, if someone starts shooting at us, I want enough firepower along to hit back hard and fast.”

  Groves of age-bent olive trees and ancient vineyards surrounded the European Center for Population Research, running right up to the edge of the fifty-meter-wide clear space maintained all the way around its chain-link perimeter fence. Most of the compound’s modern steel-and-glass buildings were totally dark this late at night. The sole exception was a large laboratory set apart from the rest. Lights glowed behind the blinds on every window. And bright white arc lights and television cameras mounted on its flat roof covered every square centimeter of the approaches to the lab. Between the cameras and the complete absence of any cover, no one could hope to get across the fence and up close without being spotted first.