The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Now the tricky part.

  Diforio went back the way she'd come, stepped into the business section, came around the partition, then went back into economy. Arching her back, she made it look like she was trying to work out cramped muscles. Curious male faces turned sympathetic ― and appreciative ― when her breasts pushed against the shell beneath her jacket. She encouraged the ogling with a slight smile as she moved down the right-hand aisle, her gaze flitting over but never alighting on individual faces. Again, her luck held. All the seats were occupied; the male passengers either asleep, reading, or working on business papers. She was grateful that the movie had ended and most of the window shades were up, allowing the sunlight to pour in.

  Once again, Diforio found herself at the back of the plane. She walked past the lavatories, then up the left-hand aisle, double-checking to make sure that she hadn't overlooked any seats. A moment later, she was in the flight deck.

  “Negative on the target,” she reported to the pilot.

  “You're sure?”

  “First and business are clean. No one even remotely resembles this guy. You have a full house in economy ― two hundred thirty-eight people. One hundred seventeen are women ― and believe me, they are women. Twenty-two are children under the age of fifteen; forty-three are kids in their twenties. Out of sixty-three possible males, twenty-eight are over sixty-five and look it. Another sixteen are over fifty. That leaves nineteen possibles ― and no match.”

  The pilot nodded with his chin at the copilot. “Danny'll set up a link with Dallas. Tell 'em what you found ― or didn't.” He paused. “Does this mean I can start breathing again?”

  * * *

  The communications gear on the C-22 allowed Smith to eaves drop on the French security operations channel. He listened as agents of the Deuxième Bureau reported on the disembarkation of Air France flight 612. Three-quarters of the passengers were off and still there was no sign of Beria. Smith was turning his attention to the American flight, less than twenty minutes from touchdown, when the satellite phone chirped.

  “It's Klein. Jon, I just got a report from Dallas. The marshal on 1710 reports that there's no one onboard who resembles Beria.”

  “That's impossible! The French have just about off-loaded. Nothing there. He has to be on American.”

  “Not according to the air marshal. She's almost positive that Beria isn't there.”

  “Almost isn't good enough.”

  “I realize that. I've relayed her findings to the Brits. They're grateful, but they're not going to ease up. The SAS is in position and will stay there.”

  “Sir, I think we have to consider the possibility that Beria took some other flight or that he's using another way to get into the States.”

  Klein's breath whistled over the line. “Do you think he'd be so brazen as to try that? He must know that we've pulled out all the stops to bring him down.”

  “Beria started a job, sir. He's killed in the course of carrying it out. Yes, I think he's determined enough to try to reach us.” He paused. “Moscow is the main point for flights to the West, but it's not the only way out.”

  “St. Petersburg?”

  “It handles a lot of flights to and from Scandinavia and northern Europe. Aeroflot, Scandinavian Airlines, Finnair, Royal Dutch ― they all have steady traffic in and out of there.”

  “Kirov will have an embolism when I suggest that Beria might have gotten as far as St. Petersburg.”

  “He's gotten awfully far as it is, sir. This guy isn't running; he's following a well-thought-out plan. That's what's keeping him one step ahead of us.”

  Smith heard something on the French channel. He excused himself, listened briefly, then got back to Klein. “Paris confirms that their flight's clean.”

  “What's your next step, Jon?”

  Smith thought for a moment. “London, sir. That's where I get off.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  With puffs of blue tire smoke and the stink of superheated brakes, American 1710 touched down at London's Heathrow Airport. Per instructions from the Special Air Service commander, the pilot informed his passengers that a mechanical problem had developed with the jetway assigned to their gate. The control tower was rerouting them to another part of the field where ramps could be rolled up against the hatches.

  The flight attendants passed through the first- and business-class cabins, reassuring passengers that they would make their connecting flights.

  “What about the continuation to Dulles?” Treloar asked.

  “Our time on the ground will be as brief as possible,” the steward replied.

  Treloar prayed that he was right. The nitrogen charges inside the canister were good for another twelve hours. The stop at Heathrow was usually ninety minutes; the flying time to Dulles, six hours fifteen minutes. After customs and immigration, he would have a three-hour window to get the smallpox into a refrigerated facility. There was little room for the unforeseen.

  Stepping out onto the ramp, Treloar discovered that the aircraft was parked next to a giant maintenance hangar. As he descended the steps, he saw baggage carts being loaded and two airport buses idling near the hangar doors. At the bottom of the steps, a pleasant young customs officer invited him to step into the hangar, which was set up as a temporary processing and in-transit facility.

  As Treloar and his fellow travelers shuffled along, they had no idea that hard eyes tucked against sniperscopes were scrutinizing their every move. They could not have guessed that the young men in customs and immigration uniforms, along with the baggage handlers, bus drivers, and maintenance people, were all heavily armed undercover SAS operatives.

  Just before Treloar disappeared through the door leading into the hangar, he heard a high-pitched shriek. Turning, he saw a trim, executive jet land gracefully on the runway two hundred yards away. He imagined that it belonged to an obscenely wealthy entrepreneur, or to some sheik, never suspecting that inside the Ilyushin C-22 a man was, at that moment, receiving a detailed description of him from a sniper who happened to have Treloar's forehead in his crosshairs.

  * * *

  “The Brits say that 1710 is clean, sir.”

  Klein's voice whistled through the secure link. “I got the same report. You should have heard Kirov when I gave him the news. All hell's breaking loose in Moscow.”

  Sitting in the parked Ilyushin, Smith continued to watch the activity around the American 767. “What about St. Petersburg?”

  “Kirov's compiling a list of all flights that have left up to now. He's scrambling to get the terminal's departure tapes, as well as putting men on the ground to start interviewing employees.”

  Smith bit his lip. “It's all taking too long, sir. With every hour, Beria gets farther and farther away.”

  “I know. But we can't hunt until we have a target.” Klein paused. “What's your next move?”

  “There's nothing I can do in London. I asked American to get me on 1710 and they obliged. It's scheduled to leave in about seventy-five minutes. That'll put me in Washington sooner than if I were to wait for military transport.”

  “I don't like the idea of your being without a secure link.”

  “The flight deck crew will know that I'm onboard, sir. If there's any word from Moscow, you can radio the plane.”

  “Under the circumstances, that'll have to do. In the meantime, try to get some rest on the flight. This thing is just getting started.”

  * * *

  Anthony Price was in his expansive office on the sixth floor of the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. As deputy director, Price was responsible for the agency's day-to-day operations. Right now, that meant keeping his staff on top of the situation in Moscow. So far, the Russians were sticking with the story that Chechen rebels were responsible for the massacre ― which suited Price just fine. It gave him a legitimate reason to cover the incident. And the longer the Russians chased the phantom terrorists, the easier it would be for Beria and Treloar to slip through the net. />
  Price looked up when he heard the knock on his door. “Come in.”

  Price's senior analyst, a stout young woman with a librarian's fussy air about her, entered.

  “The latest update from our resources on the ground in Moscow, sir,” she said. “Seems that General Kirov is very concerned about some surveillance video out of Sheremetevo in Moscow.”

  Price felt a constriction in his chest but managed to keep his voice level. “Really? Why? Who's on the tape?”

  “No one knows. But for some reason the Russians red-flagged it. Apparently the video is very poor.”

  Price's mind was racing. “That's it?”

  “For now, sir.”

  “I want you to stay on top of that video. Anyone hears word one about it, I want to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the analyst left, Price turned to his computer and called up the flights coming into Dulles. There was only one reason that the Russians would be so interested in the video surveillance tapes: Beria had been seen with somebody. And that person could only be Adam Treloar.

  American 1710 was scheduled to arrive in a little over six hours. Russian photo analysis and enhancement was hardly state of the art. It would take their machines hours to float up images. By that time, 1710 should be on the ground and Adam Treloar would be safe.

  Price sat back in his executive leather chair, removed his glasses, and tapped a stem against his front teeth. The situation in Moscow had degenerated into a near-fiasco. That Beria had escaped the carnage at the train station was nothing short of miraculous. Equally amazing was the fact that he'd gotten to Sheremetevo in time to hand off the smallpox to Adam Treloar.

  But the surveillance cameras had caught a connection between the two men. Kirov had the connection. As soon as he'd reconstructed Treloar's picture, he would run it against the customs and immigration databanks. He would discover exactly when Treloar had entered and left Russia. He would alert the CIA and FBI liaisons at the embassy.

  Then we'd start running Treloar to ground, if for no other reason than he was seen with Beria… But does Kirov suspect that Treloar is the actual courier?

  Price didn't think so. So far, everything indicated that the hunt was centered on Beria. And the Russians were getting close. The bulletins coming in from NSA assets in St. Petersburg indicated intense counterintelligence activity in there.

  Price pulled up another set of arrivals. There it was, the Finnair flight, five hours out of Dulles. Could the Russians pull together their information and confirm that Beria had flown out of St. Petersburg? If they sounded the alarms, how long would it take FBI to throw a net over Dulles?

  Not long.

  “That's all the time you have, friend,” Price said to the screen.

  Reaching for the phone, he punched in Richardson's secure number. The master plan had called Beria's presence in the United States a contingency. But with the exposure of Treloar inevitable, that status was about to change.

  * * *

  Major-General Kirov had been on his feet for the better part of twenty-four hours. Painkillers, Lara Telegin's unspeakable betrayal, and an insatiable desire to find Ivan Beria kept him going.

  Staring out his office window at the gathering twilight, Kirov reviewed the situation. In spite of what he had told Klein, the search for Beria was still concentrated in Moscow. He had listened to what the American had had to say, and had been openly skeptical about his theory that the killer had run to St. Petersburg in order to get out of Russia. Kirov believed that the fiasco at the train station had completely shattered Beria's intricate plan. Obviously a contact, perhaps ready to take the smallpox, had been waiting close by. Equally true was that the shooting would have frightened him off. Certainly there would have been a fallback rendezvous point. But between the police, the militia, and the security forces, Kirov had more than eight thousand men scouring the city, all searching for a single face. The monster from the Balkans could move around only at great peril to himself ― and to his contact. Knowing Beria as well as he did, Kirov believed that he had gone to ground somewhere in the city. That being the case, it was just a matter of time before he was flushed and the stolen smallpox retrieved.

  But for all his certainty, Kirov knew better than to place all his bets on a single roll of the dice. Honoring his promise to Klein, he had called the head of the Federal Security Service in St. Petersburg. The FSS and the police already had Beria's description and particulars; the call from Moscow put some starch into their search. Kirov had instructed the FSS commander to concentrate his resources on the train and bus stations ― places where Beria would most likely have entered the city ― and on the airport. At the same time, passenger manifests and airport security videos were to be thoroughly checked. If there was the slightest possibility that Beria had been or still was in St. Petersburg, Kirov was to be notified immediately.

  * * *

  Two hours after American 1710 had departed London, Adam Treloar finished his dinner wine and stowed his meal tray into the armrest of his seat. Ambling to the lavatory, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth using the supplies provided in the amenities kit. On the way back to his seat, he decided to stretch his legs.

  Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into business class and walked down the left-hand aisle of the darkened compartment. Some of the passengers were watching a movie on their personal video screens; others were either working, reading, or sleeping.

  Treloar continued all the way to the back of the economy section, made the turn at the lavatories, and returned up the right-hand aisle. Back in the business section, he stopped abruptly as a calculator fell at his feet. He leaned down to pick it up and was handing it to the passenger in the aisle seat when he chanced to look across at the man by the window, asleep.

  “Are you all right?” the passenger whispered.

  Treloar nodded and took two quick steps forward, slipping behind the curtain into first class.

  Impossible! It can't be him.

  His breath came in deep gasps as he tried desperately to calm himself. The sleeping man in the window seat had had his face to him: Jon Smith.

  “Can I get you something, sir?”

  Treloar stared at the flight attendant who'd come up to him. “No… thank you.”

  He hurried back to his seat, settled in, and pulled a blanket over himself.

  Treloar remembered meeting Smith in Houston. He had made the mistake of revealing that he had overheard Reed talking about Venice and Smith. Reed had warned him that Smith was not his business. He had assured Treloar that there was no reason why the doctor should ever again cross Treloar's path.

  Then what's he doing here? Is he following me?

  The questions pounded at Treloar as he glanced down at his carry-on, tucked beside the bulkhead. In his mind's eye, he saw the shiny canister, and inside, the ampoules with their deadly golden-yellow liquid. Too paralyzed to move, he tried to rein in his panic.

  Think logically! I f Smith knew about the smallpox, would he have allowed you to get onboard in London? Of course not! You'd be in chains right now. So he doesn't know. His being here is a coincidence. It must be!

  His reasoning calmed him a little, but as soon as one set of questions was answered, another popped up: Maybe Smith was aware that he was carrying the virus, but there hadn't been time to safely arrest him in London. Maybe the British had refused to go along. Maybe Smith was allowing him to get back home because he needed the time to establish a controlled situation at Dulles. They would fall on him as soon as he disembarked…

  Treloar pulled the blanket up closer under his chin. Back in the sunshine and safety of Houston, Reed's plan had sounded so easy, so perfect. Yes, there was an element of danger, but it was infinitesimally small compared to the rewards he stood to reap. And before the danger, there had been the delights of Moscow.

  Treloar shook his head. He had memorized what it was he was supposed to do upon arrival at Dulles. Now, Smith's unexplained presence had turne
d a careful plan to ashes. Guidance, explanations, reassuring words were needed.

  Reaching out from under the blanket, Treloar pulled out the inflight phone. At this point in the operation, communications were strictly forbidden. But with Smith only a few feet away that rule no longer applied. Treloar fumbled with his credit card and scanned it in the slot cut into the hand unit. Seconds later, the transaction was approved and he was on-line.

  * * *

  The room next to Randi's office had been set up as a small conference center, complete with the latest audio-visual equipment, flatscreen monitors, and a professional video/DVD-editing unit that rivaled anything found in Disney's animation department. On most Friday afternoons, the staff would get together, eat junk food, and watch the latest movies on DVD courtesy of Amazon.com.

  Sitting next to Sasha Rublev, Randi watched as the gangly teenager used the editing and enhancement software to massage the blurred image of the face on the tape. Sasha hadn't moved from the computer for hours. Every now and again he stopped just long enough to chug down a Coke; then, fortified, he'd return to his task.

  All the while Randi had been nothing more than a silent observer. She was fascinated how Sasha coaxed pixel after pixel out of what appeared to be nothing more than a smudge. Little by little the image of a man's face came into focus.

  Sasha made one final pass at the keyboard, then rolled his head to work out the kinks in his neck.

  “That's it, Randi,” he said. “I can't get it any better.”

  Randi squeezed his shoulder. “You did great.”

  She stared at the picture of a fleshy face punctuated by puffy cheeks and thick lips. The eyes were the most startling features: large and egg-shaped, they seemed to bulge from their sockets.

  “He's an ugly man.”

  Randi started at the sound of Sasha's voice. “What do you mean?”