The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  “Since the first flight lands on our soil, it begins with us,” the Swiss said. “We will treat this as a potential terrorist threat and take appropriate measures. If Beria is on that plane, he will be rendered harmless by all available means. We will have personnel and equipment ready to secure the smallpox.” He paused. “Or to deal with it as best we can should contamination occur. If, on the other hand, we find that Beria is not onboard, we will let everyone know immediately.”

  “Even sooner than that, mon vieux,” the Frenchman said. “Air France arrives in Paris seventy-five minutes after the Zurich flight.”

  “I recommend that an open line be established to monitor events as they develop,” the Englishman interjected. “That way, we can follow the process of elimination ― if there is one.”

  “I'd like to remind you of one thing, London,” Kirov spoke up. “The flight is headed for your capital, but it's an American crew and plane. I have an obligation to inform the ambassador.”

  “As long as that doesn't result in a jurisdictional squabble here,” London replied.

  “I'm sure it won't,” Kirov said. “Now, if there are no further comments or suggestions, I recommend that we terminate this call to allow you to deploy your resources.”

  There were none. One by one, the parties hung up until only Klein remained on the line.

  “Are you coming home, Jon?” he asked.

  “A suggestion, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think it'd be better for me to remain in the arena, sir. If General Kirov can provide me with transportation, I can be in European airspace before the Swissair flight touches down. I can monitor the situation in-flight, then direct the pilot to whichever city the target plane lands in. I'll be at ground zero, giving both of you real-time reports.”

  “What do you think, General?” Klein asked.

  “I like the idea of having our own bioweapons expert on-site,” the Russian replied. “I'll arrange for transportation immediately.”

  “That would have been my recommendation, too. Good luck, Jon. Keep us posted.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Jon Smith was being escorted into Kirov's apartment. Under the watchful eyes of the security man, he went into the kitchen, where he found the laptop and the cell phone that had belonged to Lara Telegin.

  The escort drove Smith to the embassy, watching as he cleared the marine guard post and disappeared behind the gates. Driving off, what he didn't see was Smith doubling back.

  Smith walked fast to the arcade, only a mile away from the embassy. He was relieved to see Randi as soon as he stepped through the front door.

  “Why is it I expected to see you today?” she asked quietly.

  “We need to talk, Randi.”

  Smith's arrival drew amused smiles from the staff, in particular a redheaded boy whose look made Randi blush.

  “They think you're my lover,” she told Smith after they were in her office.

  “Oh…”

  She laughed at having caught him off-guard. “It's not the worst thing people could think of you, Jon.”

  “Actually, I'm flattered.”

  “Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what can I do for you?”

  Smith brought out the videotape, laptop, and cell phone.

  “As you probably heard, there's a situation at the airport.”

  “A 'situation' as in the Russians are shutting it down.”

  “Randi, all I can tell you is that they're looking for someone. Believe me, it's important to us that they find him.”

  He explained the problem with the videotape. “It's a question of enhancement. The Russians just don't have the software and expertise to do it fast.”

  Randi pointed to the laptop and phone. “What about those?”

  “The massacre at the railroad station and the situation at Sheremetevo are direct results of communications between two conspirators,” Smith replied. “I don't expect the phone to give up much. But the laptop… Maybe E-mails were exchanged. I don't know.”

  “If your conspirators were professionals ― and I assume they were ― they'd be using encryption and firewalls. It could take a while to crack them.”

  “I'd appreciate your taking a shot.”

  “Which brings us to the next problem. You don't think that I can just waltz this stuff into the embassy, do you? I'm here on nonofficial cover. My contact with the CIA station chief is nonexistent. I'd have to contact Langley and have them alert the SC. The minute I do that, headquarters will want to know why I'm hitting the panic button.”

  She paused. “Going that route means you have to tell me a whole lot more than I think you want to ― or can.”

  Smith shook his head in frustration. “Okay, I understand. I thought that maybe―”

  “I didn't say there wasn't an alternative.” Quickly, Randi went on to tell him about Sasha Rublev.

  “I don't know…” Smith said.

  “Jon, I know what you're thinking. But consider this: the FBI hires teenage hackers to help track down cyber terrorists. And I'd be looking over Sasha's shoulder every minute.”

  “You trust the kid that much?”

  “Sasha is part of the new Russia, Jon, a Russia that looks out to the world, not one that keeps it at bay. As for politics, to Sasha it's the most boring thing in the world. Besides, I'm guessing that you didn't just trip over this laptop. The Russians must have sanctioned the hunt.”

  Smith nodded. “They have. All right. I have to leave Moscow in about an hour. You have my number. Call me the minute your boy genius comes up with anything.”

  He smiled at her. “And thanks, Randi. Very much.”

  “I'm happy to help, Jon. But there is a quid pro quo. If there's anything I need to know―”

  “You'll hear it from me, not CNN. Promise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Swiss have one of the most highly organized terrorist-response teams in the world. Superbly trained, expertly equipped, the twenty-man unit known as the Special Operations Group was on its way to Zurich International Airport within minutes of receiving the go signal from the minister of defense.

  By the time Swissair 101 was twenty minutes out, the commandos were in position. Half of them wore the uniform of the Swiss border patrol, whose ubiquitous presence at airports and railroad stations went unnoticed by travelers accustomed to visible security. The other half were dressed as mechanics, fuelers, baggage handlers, and caterers ― the kind of people anyone would expect to see around parked aircraft.

  The plainclothes contingent, heavily armed with MP-5 submachine guns and smoke and stun grenades, would be the first-wave assault troops if the situation degenerated into a hostage crisis. The uniformed patrols were the second perimeter, ready to move if Beria somehow managed to slip past the invisible cordon that would be established around the aircraft.

  Finally, there was a third ring, made up of Swiss Army sharpshooters who had positioned themselves on the roofs of the international terminal and the maintenance hangars. They would have an unobstructed view of the plane as it taxied to the last gate. There, an attempt would be made to collar the jetway to the fuselage. The attempt would fail. The captain would announce a malfunction and advise his passengers that a ramp would be wheeled up to the forward hatch.

  Once the passengers started moving down the ramp, the snipers would try to pick out Beria and lock on to him. If successful, there would be no fewer than three rifles covering the target at any given moment. According to plan, the plainclothes commandos would execute the takedown, wrestle Beria to the ground, and neutralize him. But if for any reason there was a problem, the snipers were cleared for center-mass/head-shot fire.

  Wearing a caterer's baggy white overalls, the SOG commander quietly radioed the control tower and received the latest word: flight 101 was on final approach. Word was passed along; the safeties of weapons were thumbed off.

  * * *

  The bus rattled into the St. Petersburg stat
ion just as Swissair 101 touched down in Zurich. Following the crowds, Ivan Beria drifted into the terminal, headed for the lockers. Removing a key, he opened a locker and pulled out a cheap suitcase.

  The washroom was abominable, but a tip to the attendant got Beria a private stall that was reasonably clean. He took off his coat, jacket, and pants, and from the suitcase pulled out a new navy blue blazer, gray slacks, a sports shirt, and comfortable loafers. Also in the suitcase were a fleece-lined jacket, several plastic bags filled with souvenirs from the Hermitage Museum, and a billfold containing an airline ticket, passport, credit cards, and American currency. Beria flipped open the passport and scrutinized his picture, in which he wore the clothes he'd just put on. He thought he looked like a John Strelnikov, a naturalized American citizen who worked as a civil engineer for a Baltimore-based construction company.

  Beria packed up his old clothes in the suitcase and left the bathroom. In the station, he stopped at a refreshment stand, put down the suitcase, bought himself a Coke, and moved on. Given the homeless population that meandered through the station, the suitcase would disappear before he reached the front doors.

  Outside, he got into a cab and offered the driver ten American dollars over the negotiated rate if he got him to the airport in thirty minutes. The driver made it with two minutes to spare.

  Beria knew that by now his photograph and particulars had been wired to every major transportation facility in the country. It didn't matter. He had no intention of coming into contact with the authorities.

  Walking through the newly refurbished terminal, he reached the area reserved for tour groups and slipped into a gaggle of sixty-odd travelers clustered in front of the Finnair counter.

  “Where's your badge? You need your badge.”

  Beria smiled pleasantly at the harried young woman whose badge read OMNITOURS: TREASURES OF THE CZARS.

  Handing over his passport and ticket, he mumbled, “Lost it.”

  The woman sighed, grabbed his paperwork, and steered him to a counter where she brought out a paper badge.

  “John Strel…” `

  “Strelnikov.”

  “Right. We'll just put down `John,' okay?”

  Using a felt pen, she wrote the name on the badge, peeled away the backing to expose the adhesive, and pressed it firmly onto Beria's lapel.

  “Don't lose it!” she scolded. “Otherwise you'll have problems at customs. Do you want to do any duty-free shopping?”

  Beria said that might be nice.

  “You'll get your passport and tickets back after immigration,” the woman said, already moving to quell another crisis elsewhere in the group.

  Beria was counting on that. Much better to have some exhausted American tour guide deal with the exit visas and airline tickets.

  After purchasing some cologne that he placed in his Hermitage souvenir bag, Beria joined the line shuffling through immigration. He watched as in the booth, two bored officials stamped the passports that the tour guide had brought them. Hearing his name, he stepped forward, retrieved his passport, and proceeded through customs into the departure lounge.

  Beria took a seat beside a middle-aged couple who turned out to be from San Francisco. Since he pretended that his English was only passable, his new friends did most of the talking. Beria learned that the Finnair flight to Washington's Dulles Airport would take about ten hours and that the dinner service would likely be decent but certainly not memorable.

  * * *

  The Ilyushin C-22 executive jet had just crossed into German airspace when Smith received word that Beria was not onboard Swissair 101.

  “That's a positive confirmation?”

  “Absolutely,” Klein replied over the satellite phone. “They eyeballed every single passenger. He wasn't there.”

  “The Paris flight comes down in nineteen minutes. Are they ready?”

  “The people I talk to say yes. Privately, they're telling me that the government is passing peach pits. If something happens and later word gets out that they allowed the plane to land… well, you can imagine the fallout.”

  “Do you think the government will spring a leak?”

  “It's a real possibility. The French have an election coming up in two weeks. The opposition is looking for any kind of ammunition it can get its hands on.”

  Smith returned to an idea that had occurred to him back in Moscow, but which he hadn't voiced.

  “Sir, what if we were to give the French a hand?”

  “How?”

  “Their Airbuses aren't equipped with the SecFax system. American 1710 can receive secure satellite facsimile transmissions. You could talk directly to the captain, bring him up to speed, then ship him a photofax of Beria.”

  Smith waited out the silence. What he proposed was, at the very least, dangerous. If his suggestion was carried out and something went terribly wrong on the American flight, the consequences would be nothing short of disastrous.

  “Let me check something,” Klein said finally. "I'll get back to you.

  A few minutes later, he was back. “I spoke with American's director of security in Dallas-Fort Worth. He says 1710 is carrying a sky marshal.”

  “Even better. Get him―”

  “Her, Jon.”

  “Forgive my presumption. The pilot must have a way to communicate with her. Once he does, she can cover the plane.”

  “We have to allow for the possibility that Beria is traveling incognito.”

  “Kirov never mentioned that Beria was a master of disguise. Possibly that's because he's never operated outside familiar borders before. A trained agent would be able to see through makeup and prosthetics.”

  “Do you propose we inform Kirov ― or anyone else?”

  “It's our plane, sir. If the agent spots him, we can give the French the all-clear and warn the British that he's on the way. Any lead time we could give them would be invaluable.”

  Another moment of silence followed.

  “All right, Jon. I'll get things going on this end. The flight's ninety minutes out of Heathrow. Stay airborne until I call back.”

  * * *

  Catching a whiff of exotic perfume, Adam Treloar stirred in his spacious first-class seat. He heard the faint rustle of silk against flesh, then caught a pair of shapely buttocks swaying past his line of sight. As though she sensed she was being watched, the woman, a long-legged redhead, turned. Treloar blushed as her eyes settled on him; his embarrassment deepened as she smiled and raised her eyebrows as though to say, you naughty boy! Then she was gone, disappearing behind the partition into the area where the drinks and food were prepared.

  Treloar sighed, not because he coveted the girl; females of any age did not interest him sexually. But he appreciated beauty in all its forms. In certain parts of the Caribbean, on private yachts, he had watched, rapt, as loveliness like that was subjugated in order to stimulate the appetites of the audience.

  An announcement from the pilot interrupted his reverie:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we'd like to inform you that the latest weather in London calls for light drizzle, with a temperature of sixty-two degrees. We are on schedule, with an estimated time of arrival of one hour and five minutes from now.”

  Boring, Treloar thought.

  He was still musing about the inanity of such announcements when the woman reappeared. She seemed to be walking more slowly, as though taking time to stretch her legs. Once again, Treloar felt himself brushed by her cool gaze; his blush returned.

  The woman's name was Ellen Diforio. She was twenty-eight years old, a certified martial arts expert, and championship shooter. She was in her fifth year in the federal marshal service, her second in the sky marshal division.

  Wouldn't you know it? My last gig, and this has to happen.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, Diforio had been thinking about a date she had that night with her Washington lawyer boyfriend. Her daydreams had been interrupted by a seemingly innocuous announcement that the in-flight duty-free shop ha
d a special offer on jean Patou 1000 perfume. The code words had snapped Diforio back to reality. She had counted off ten seconds, picked up her bag, and left her business-class seat, heading in the direction of the washrooms. She had kept on going into first class, around the panel into the service area, and then, surreptitiously, into the cockpit.

  Diforio read the security director's message and studied the photofax intently. Her orders were clear: determine whether or not this individual was onboard. If she spotted him, she was not to make any contact or attempt to restrain him. Instead, she was to report back to the cockpit immediately.

  “What about a weapon?” Diforio had asked the pilot. “It doesn't say anything about a gun or a bomb. There's no bio, either. Who is this guy?”

  The pilot shrugged. “All I know is that the British have scrambled the SAS guys. It's that serious. If he's onboard and we make it down, they take him out on the ground.” He looked pointedly at her handbag. “Do me a favor: no Annie Oakley stuff back there.”

  Making her way through the first-class cabin, Diforio noted the embarrassment of the man with the funny, egg-shaped eyes.

  Not this clown.

  She was very much aware of the effect she had on men and planned to put it to good use. Seventeen or seventy, they all took notice; some were a little subtler than others. But if she wanted to, she could get them to look at her directly. A hint of a smile, a twinkle in her eyes was all it would take.

  The first-class and business cabins were a wash. Not that she had expected to find the target there. Guys like this Beria character liked to hide themselves in a mob. Diforio pulled back the curtain and stepped into the economy section.

  The cabin was configured for 3-3-3 sitting, the seats separated by two aisles. While pretending to check the magazine rack, Diforio scanned the first six rows along the left-hand aisle: retirees, kids on a college break, young families traveling on a budget. She began walking to the back of the plane.

  A few minutes later, Diforio was at the lavatories at the end of the bulkhead. She'd gotten a good look at all the passengers in the perimeter, plus two who had exited the washrooms. The rest of the seats were filled; none of the occupants resembled the target.