The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  “Smile,” he said conversationally. “We are two friends sharing a drink before one of us has to leave.” Treloar's eyes bulged as Beria unscrewed the container. “And because we can't finish the bottle, I give you the rest to enjoy during your flight.”

  Carefully, he poured a few ounces of brandy into the container. “Now, if the inspectors wish to check, you open it and let them smell what's inside.”

  Pushing back his stool, Beria gripped Treloar's shoulder. “Have a safe flight.” He winked. “And forget that you ever saw me.”

  * * *

  The all-points bulletin on Ivan Beria reached Sheremetevo security just as Adam Treloar was going through the metal detector. The guard manning the scanner noted a cylindrical object in the carry-on and asked the American to step aside. Another guard opened the bag, removed the container, and unscrewed it. Smelling a distinctive plum odor, he smiled and closed the top.

  Handing it back to Treloar, he offered some advice: “Your brandy is too cold. It tastes much better when it's warm.”

  By the time a squad of militia flooded the international terminal, Treloar was safely ensconced in his first-class seat. The American Airlines 767 was pulled back from the gate just as airport security began reviewing their surveillance tapes, searching for anyone who resembled Ivan Beria.

  American flight 1710, nonstop to London with continuing service to Washington's Dulles Airport, was number two for takeoff behind a Paris-bound Air France Airbus. The call from the minister of defense reached the flight director in the control tower as 1710 was given the go signal by traffic control.

  “Shut it down!” the director screamed over the loudspeaker.

  Twenty-two faces turned and stared at him as if he were quite insane.

  “Shut what down?” one of the controllers asked.

  “The airport, you imbecile!”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes! Nothing leaves the ground.”

  All activity in the tower was focused on relaying a FULL-STOP message to aircraft taxiing into position on the active runways and waiting on the aprons. No one had time to think about the planes that had taken off. By the time they did, American 1710 had banked over Moscow and was climbing smoothly to its designated cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Because of the time difference between Moscow and the eastern seaboard of the United States, it was still the middle of the night when Anthony Price pulled up to the northern guard house at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.

  After the computer had scanned his credentials, he drove up the crushed-shell driveway to General Richardson's quarters, a stately Victorian surrounded by a manicured lawn. Lights were burning on the third floor, as Price had expected.

  The deputy director of the National Security Agency found Richardson in his study, the gleaming bookshelves filled with leather volumes, mementos, and framed military citations. The general rose behind his desk and gestured at the coffee tray.

  “Sorry to have dragged you out of bed, Tony, but I wanted you to see this for yourself.”

  Price, who seldom slept more than four hours a night, helped himself to coffee, then came around so that he could see the computer screen.

  “The latest message from Telegin,” Richardson said, indicating the descrambled text.

  Price read the first few sentences, then looked up. “So everything at Bioaparat went according to plan. What's the problem?”

  “Read the rest.”

  Price's eyes narrowed. “Jon Smith? What the hell is he doing in Moscow?”

  “According to Telegin, poking around in our business. Seems that he almost tipped Kirov off in time.”

  “But both Beria and Treloar escaped… Haven't they?”

  Richardson rubbed his tired eyes. “That's the reason I called you: I don't know. Telegin was supposed to report once both men were safely away. She hasn't. Check this out.”

  Richardson hit several keys and the latest CNN updates filled the screen.

  “A problem at the Moscow train station,” he said. “Someone decided to have an O-K-corral shootout. The Russians clamped down hard and fast, so the details are sketchy. But you have to wonder: what happened to Telegin?”

  “If you haven't heard from her, she's dead,” Price said flatly.

  “Or taken. If Kirov has her―”

  “He doesn't! Telegin was a pro. She never would have let herself be taken alive.” He pointed to the screen. “Says here there are at least five dead ― all security personnel. I know Beria is good, but to take out that many he had to have had help. I think Telegin stepped in.”

  After a moment's silence, Richardson said, “Assuming that Beria got away clean, we still have a problem. Kirov and Smith will be all over Telegin ― her movements, contacts, the works. She may have left footprints.”

  Price paced along Richardson's museum-quality Oriental rug. “I'll head for Fort Meade. A shooting in a Moscow train station? Hell, that's a terrorist act, NSA territory. Nobody will raise an eyebrow when I get people working on this.”

  “What about Smith?” Richardson asked.

  “He's army, so you start checking. He's got to be working for someone, and as far as I'm concerned, he's making way too many connections. First Yuri Danko, now showing up in Russia…”

  “Randi Russell is CIA undercover in Moscow.”

  “I don't think that Smith flew seven thousand miles for a piece of ass, Frank. We need to know who's issuing him his marching orders ― then we cut him off at the knees!”

  * * *

  The first thing Randi Russell noticed when she deactivated the alarm and opened the door to Bay Digital was that she was not alone Although the security system indicated no intrusion, she caught the faint odor of clove tobacco smoke.

  “Carrot Top, is that you?” she called out.

  “I'm in here, Randi.”

  Sighing, Randi locked the door behind her. She'd come in early, hoping to use the peace and quiet to catch up on some reports.

  “Where in here?”

  “The file room.”

  “Damn!”

  Gritting her teeth, Randi marched to the very back of the office. The file room was really a large, walk-in vault where the latest computer equipment was kept. Theoretically, she was the only one with the combination.

  Randi stepped into the temperature-controlled chamber where she found the intruder busy downloading the latest video game from the confidential files of a Japanese electronics company.

  “Carrot Top, I warned you about that,” she said, trying to sound severe.

  Sasha Rublev ― nicknamed Carrot Top for his mass of wiry, reddish-orange hair ― beamed at her. Tall and lanky, with liquid green eyes that Randi knew drove girls crazy, he was all of seventeen years old ― and undoubtedly Russia's premier computer genius.

  “Sasha, one of these days you'll trip an alarm and you'll be calling me from the local militia precinct.”

  Sasha feigned hurt. “Randi, how could you possibly think that? Your security is very good, but…”

  A cakewalk for someone like you.

  Randi had discovered Sasha Rublev at a computer seminar Bay Digital hosted for Moscow University students. The gangly teenager had caught her attention not only because he was the youngest person in the room but because he was quietly working at a laptop, hacking his way into the Russian Central Bank's mainframe to check on the level of gold reserves.

  Randi knew at once that Rublev was an undiscovered prodigy. Over cheeseburgers and Cokes, she was amazed to learn that this son of a Moscow subway conductor possessed an IQ that was off the charts but, because of the bureaucracy, remained mired in the antiquated high school system. Eventually she got permission from Sasha's family for him to work for Bay Digital a few hours a week and on weekends. As the bond between mentor and mentee grew, Randi gave him access to some of the most advanced equipment in the office, in return for Sasha's solemn promise not to misuse it. But like a playful puppy, Sasha insist
ed on bringing her gifts ― information whose sources she didn't want to know about.

  “Okay,” she said. “What's so important that it couldn't wait until I got in?”

  “The shooting at the railroad station.”

  “I was listening to the news on the way in. What about it?”

  Sasha's fine-boned fingers danced over the keyboard. “They're saying it was the work of Chechen rebels.”

  “And?”

  “So why shut down the Moscow airport?”

  Randi stared over his shoulder at the screen. Sasha had hacked his way into the Federal Security Service's mainframe and was reading the latest traffic about the imminent shutdown of Sheremetevo Airport.

  “The Chechens are targeting the airport?” he asked skeptically. “I think not. Something big is happening, Randi. And the FSS doesn't want anyone to know.”

  Randi thought for a moment. “Close the link,” she said quietly.

  “Why? I'm using five cutouts. Even if they pick up on the intrusion, they'll think that it's coming from Bombay.”

  “Sasha…”

  Mindful of her tone, he quickly closed the laptop.

  “Randi, you look worried. Don't be. The cutouts are―”

  “It's not the cutouts, Sasha. It's what you said: why close the airport?”

  * * *

  The logistics of shutting down a major airport are the stuff of nightmares. Smith and Kirov arrived to find hundreds of bewildered travelers milling around in the concourse, besieging the check-in counters, seeking explanations from harried airline employees who had none to offer. Armed militia were stationed at every entrance and exit, making the travelers virtual prisoners. Three-man patrols swarmed through the concourse shops, lavatories, and stockrooms, checking the baggage and cargo areas, the employees' lounges and changing areas, even the chapel and the day-care center. Rumors flew and anger mounted. As the two combined, the level of fear among those trapped in the international terminal grew exponentially.

  “Someone in the surveillance room thinks he spotted Beria on the tape,” Kirov told Smith as they threaded their way through the concourse.

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Smith replied as the two men headed for the airport's security command post.

  Smith and Kirov burst into the security command room, which resembled a large television studio. In front of a twenty-foot console sat six technicians monitoring the ninety cameras strategically placed throughout the complex. The cameras were on timers and were operated by remote control. With a few taps of the keyboard, technicians could focus or shift them to cover a particular area.

  Above the console were wall-mounted screens that offered the security director a real-time, bird's-eye view of the terminal. Hidden away in a temperature-controlled area were the video machines, faithfully recording everything that the cameras picked up.

  “What do you have?” Kirov demanded.

  The security director pointed to one of the monitors. The black-and-white picture showed two men sitting at a refreshment counter.

  “The image is poor,” he conceded. "But that appears to be your man.

  Kirov moved in for a closer look. “That's him all right.” He turned to Smith. “What do you think? You saw him at close distance.”

  Smith studied the image. “It's him. Do you think he's talking to the man beside him?”

  Kirov turned to the director. “Can you enhance the image?”

  The director shook his head. “I've done as much as possible with the equipment I have.”

  “Do you have any other shots of them together?” Smith asked.

  “That's the only one. The cameras are on timers. They captured only that one shot of Beria before moving to another sector.”

  Smith took Kirov aside. “General, I realize that Beria is our principal target, but we need to know who that guy is. What if your service were to scan the tape?”

  Kirov pointed to the blurred faces on the screen. “Look at how the light falls. And that column there ― there's nothing we can do to improve the photograph. We don't have the software.”

  Smith tried another tack: “You know Beria better than anyone else. Has he ever worked with a partner?”

  “Never. Beria has always been a solo operator. That is one of the reasons he has eluded capture: he leaves no one we can connect him to. I think he's using the other man for cover.”

  Something about the picture refused to let Smith go.

  “General, I may be able to get the tape enhanced.”

  “At your embassy?” Kirov asked.

  Smith shrugged. “What do you say?”

  Kirov considered. “Very well.”

  “Telegin ― did she have a laptop or a cell phone?”

  “Both.”

  “I can check them too.”

  Kirov nodded. “I'll have a security officer escort you to my building. Both items are in the kitchen.”

  “Which brings me to my last question,” Smith said. “What if Beria isn't in the terminal?”

  Kirov's eyes widened as he grasped the implications of Smith's words. “I need the designations and destinations of the last three flights that left before shutdown,” he told the director.

  Smith looked at the time imprinted on the videotape, then at the screen where the security director was pulling up the departures schedule.

  “Swissair 101, Air France 612, American 1710. Beria could have made it onboard any one of them.”

  “Get me the tapes of the cameras that cover the jetways to those flights,” Kirov snapped. “And the passenger manifests.”

  As the director hurried away, Kirov turned to Smith. “It's possible Beria made those flights, Jon, but unlikely. The odds are that he got out of the airport but is still in the city.”

  Smith knew what Kirov was intimating. There were three airliners, with a combined load of over a thousand people, headed into Western Europe. Was Smith prepared to create a series of international incidents on the possibility that Beria was onboard one of those planes?

  “And if the situation were reversed, General?” Smith asked. “If the destination wasn't Zurich, Paris, or London, but Moscow? Wouldn't you want to know? Or would you be okay with the 'odds'? ”

  Kirov stared at him, nodded, then reached for the phone.

  * * *

  Kirov was closer to the truth than he realized: Beria had gotten out of the airport, and he was still in Moscow. But not for much longer.

  Beria had left the airport the way he'd arrived ― by shuttle bus. Except this one took him directly to Moscow's central bus depot.

  Entering the chilly, dilapidated building, Beria went directly to the counter and purchased a one-way ticket to St. Petersburg. With twenty minutes to spare, he went into a washroom that smelled of urine and industrial cleaner and splashed water on his face. When he came out, he bought several greasy pastries from a woman behind a stall and wolfed them down with a glass of tea. Fortified, he joined the line of passengers waiting at the departure bay.

  Beria scanned the faces around him. They belonged mainly to older people, some of whom, he guessed, were traveling with all their worldly possessions packed into cardboard suitcases or taped-up packages. Beaten down by circumstances, invisible to the new moneyed class, they were less than anonymous. No militia would ever bother checking their papers; no cameras would record their departure. Best of all, everyone would keep to themselves, not wanting to borrow from their neighbor's hardship.

  Beria slipped to the back of the bus, to the long seat that ran the width of the vehicle. He huddled in the corner and listened to the grinding of the transmission as the driver backed out. Soon afterward, the roar of the engine diminished, the traffic beyond the window stilled, and at last, he slept.

  * * *

  It took Smith and Kirov thirty minutes to review the jetway tapes of the passengers who'd boarded the three flights to Europe.

  “Four possibles,” Smith said. “That's what I come up with.”

  Kirov nodded. “
No distinct resemblance to Beria, just faces we couldn't quite define.”

  Smith checked the clock in the security command post. “The first plane, Swissair 101, will reach Zurich in two hours.”

  “Let's make the calls,” Kirov said heavily.

  Ever since the golden age of terrorism in the early 1980s, plans have been in place to deal not only with aerial hijackers carrying explosives but with those armed with chemical-biological weapons. Kirov got on the line to his counterparts in Swiss Internal Security, the French Deuxieme, and England's MI5. When representatives of the three agencies were ready, he motioned to Smith, who was talking to Nathaniel Klein on a separate line. He then patched Klein into the conference call without informing the others that the American was listening in.

  “Gentlemen,” he opened. “We have a developing problem.”

  Kirov did not dwell on the background of the crisis; he told his listeners what they needed to know at that moment. Every minute that passed meant that much less time to prepare.

  “You say that it's possible, but by no means certain, that this Beria character is onboard our flight,” the Frenchman said. “Is there any way you can confirm this?”

  “I wish that were possible,” Kirov replied. “But unless I find Beria in the next two hours, we must work on the assumption that he made it onboard one of those aircraft.”

  “What about his file?” the deputy director of MI5 asked. “I'm told that we, for one, have precious little on this creature.”

  “Everything we have is being shipped via secure E-mail,” Kirov responded.

  “Does Beria know you followed him to the airport?” the Swiss asked. “Is it possible that he already suspects that he might be apprehended? I ask because it is imperative we know what we're dealing with: does Beria have any reason to unleash this bioweapon in midair?”

  “Beria is acting as a courier, not as a terrorist,” Kirov told him. “It is in his financial interest to deliver what was stolen from Bioaparat. He is not an ideologue or a martyr.”

  The three Europeans on the line began to discuss how best to react to the crisis hurtling toward them. Their options were few, the choice predictable.