The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Richardson held up a cell phone. “I just heard from Beria. It's done.”

  “Then we have to get moving,” Reed replied.

  He glanced at Bauer, who had already removed the canister from the freezer and was opening it on the counter. At his feet was a lightweight titanium chest the size of a picnic cooler.

  “Are you sure you want to do that here, Karl?”

  Bauer finished opening the canister before replying. “Open the chest, please, Dylan.”

  Kneeling, Reed pulled the handles. There was a faint hiss as the seals came apart.

  The interior was surprisingly small, but Reed knew this was because the chest was merely a larger version of the canister that had been carried from Russia. Its thick walls were studded with liquid nitrogen capsules, which, when fully activated, would keep the interior at a steady temperature of minus two hundred degrees centigrade. Developed by Bauer-Zermatt A.G., the chest was standard issue when it came to the transport of toxic cultures.

  Using thick, specially lined gloves, Bauer removed the inner chamber in which the ampoules rested. Looking at them, he thought they resembled miniature missiles, lined up ready to fire. Except that by the time the protocols were altered, they would be vastly more potent than any nuclear weapon in the American arsenal.

  Although Bauer had been handling viruses for more than forty years, he never forgot what he was dealing with. He made sure that his hands were absolutely steady and that there was no moisture on the counter or anywhere near his feet before he slowly lowered it into a special cradle in the chest. Closing the lid, he entered an alphanumeric combination into the security lock pad and set the temperature.

  Looking up, he said, “Gentlemen, the clock is running.”

  The row houses of Volta Place shared a common characteristic: each had a small garage behind the backyard that opened up on an alley. Reed and Richardson carried the chest into the garage and stowed it in the cargo compartment of a Volvo station wagon. Bauer stayed behind a moment to make sure that nothing that could link the three men to this location had been left behind. He was not concerned about fingerprints or fibers or any other forensic minutiae; in a few minutes, a special NSA cleaning crew would arrive to wash and vacuum the interior. The NSA maintained several such safe houses in the Washington area. For the cleaners, this was just another stop in a busy schedule.

  As Bauer walked to the garage, he heard the wail of sirens coming from the direction of Wisconsin Avenue.

  “It would appear that Adam Treloar is about to play his final role,” he murmured as the three got into the station wagon.

  “Too bad he isn't around to read the reviews,” Reed said, and edged the car into the alley.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Peter Howell stood on the top tier of the wide steps leading into the Galleria Regionale on the Via Alloro. Sicily's most prestigious gallery boasted paintings by Antonello da Messina as well as the magnificent fifteenth-century fresco Triumph of Death by Laurana, which particularly appealed to Howell.

  Staying well away from the tourists hiking up and down the steps, alert for anyone who might be taking an undue interest in him, Howell pulled out his secure phone and dialed the number Jon Smith had given him.

  “Jon? Peter here. We need to talk.”

  Forty-five hundred miles away, Smith pulled over onto the soft shoulder of Route 77.

  “Go ahead, Peter.”

  Continuing to scan the foot traffic around the gallery, Howell described his meeting with the smuggler, Franco Grimaldi, the subsequent attempt on his life, and his encounter with Master Sergeant Travis Nichols and his partner, Patrick Drake.

  “Are you sure they were U.S. military?” Smith asked.

  “Absolutely,” Howell replied. “I set up watch at the post office, Jon. An officer came to the box, just like Nichols said he would. But there was no chance to take him ― and no way I can get on your base outside Palermo.” Howell paused. “What are your soldier boys up to, Jon?”

  “Believe me, I'd love to know.”

  The sudden appearance of American military personnel ― soldiers as assassins ― added a new dimension to an already complex equation, one that demanded to be addressed immediately.

  “If Nichols and his partner were sanctioned killers, someone had to be paying them,” Smith concluded.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Howell replied.

  “Any ideas as to how to ferret out the money man?”

  “Actually, yes,” Howell replied, then proceeded to explain.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Smith pulled back on Route 77. Reaching the entrance to Camp David, he was given a military escort to Rosebud, the guest cabin closest to Aspen. He found Klein sitting in front of a fieldstone fireplace, talking on the phone.

  Klein waved Smith to sit, finished his monosyllabic conversation, and turned to Smith.

  “That was Kirov. His people are questioning everyone in the Bioaparat complex, trying to walk back the cat to Yardeni's contacts. So far, no luck. Yardeni seems to have been one closemouthed SOB. He didn't go around spending money he shouldn't have had, or bragging about how soon he'd be living the high life in the West. No one remembers seeing him with any foreigners. Kirov's checking his phone calls and mail, but I'm not holding my breath.”

  “So whoever reached out to Yardeni did so very carefully,” Smith observed. “They made sure he was the right man for the job ― no family, corrupt, someone who could keep his mouth shut.”

  “That's my guess.”

  “What else does Kirov have?”

  “Nothing. And he knows it.” Klein snorted. “He tried hard not to sound too relieved that it's now our problem. Can't blame him, though.”

  “It's still Russian smallpox that's at the root of all this, sir. If word gets out―”

  “It won't.” Klein checked his watch. “The president is expecting my call in fifteen minutes. What do you have?”

  Smith spoke quickly and succinctly, describing everything that had happened in Russia as well as his confrontation with Treloar at Dulles. Klein's eyebrows shot up in surprise when Smith detailed how U.S. soldiers were now involved. Then he presented his suggestions for the next course of action.

  Klein took a moment to consider. “I like most of it,” he said finally. “But a couple of points might be a hard sell.”

  “I don't see where we have options, sir.”

  Klein's reply was interrupted by a call his secretary put through. Smith noticed a gleam in his eyes as he listened.

  Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he whispered, “The BOLO nailed Treloar!”

  Even as Smith leaned forward in his chair, Klein's expression slackened.

  “You're sure?” he demanded. After a pause: “No witnesses? No one saw anything?”

  Klein listened some more, then said, “I want the detectives' reports and the crime-scene photos faxed to my desk immediately. And yes, cancel the BOLO.”

  The receiver rattled in its cradle.

  “Treloar,” Klein said, grinding his back teeth. “D.C. cops found him in Volta Place, near Wisconsin, stabbed to death.”

  Smith closed his eyes, picturing the frightened bald man with the funny eyes.

  “They're positive?”

  “A passport and other ID were found on the body. It's him. Someone got very close and stuck what the cops think was a stiletto into his heart. They're saying it was a mugging.”

  “A mugging… Did they find anything around the body, a carry-on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Had he been robbed?”

  “Money and credit cards were gone.”

  “But not the wallet or the passport. Those would be left behind to help with the ID.” Smith shook his head. “Beria. Whoever was using Treloar knew he was the link. A weak link. They used Beria to get rid of him.”

  “ 'They' being…?”

  “I don't know, sir. But the handoff's been made. 'They' have the smallpox. Treloar was expendable.”


  “Beria…”

  “That's why Beria went to St. Petersburg, why he was on that Finnair flight. He wasn't running. He came over to eliminate the weak link.”

  “Anyone could have done that.”

  “The execution? Yes. But wouldn't it be better to use a man who is ― or was ― unknown to us? We have a description, but no fingerprints, no real understanding of movement or methodology. Beria is perfect because he's as anonymous as an assassin can be.”

  “So there was an exchange at Sheremetevo.”

  Smith nodded. “Treloar had the smallpox all along.” He paused. “And I was sitting thirty feet away from him.”

  Never taking his eyes off Smith, Klein picked up the phone. “Let's not keep the president waiting.”

  * * *

  Smith was surprised to see the chief executive in casual attire and informal surroundings. After Klein had made the introduction, Castilla said, “Your reputation precedes you, Colonel Smith.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “So, what are the latest developments?”

  Klein launched into the murder of Adam Treloar and how it factored into the overall situation.

  “Treloar,” the president said. “Is there any way you can use him to trace the rest of the conspirators?”

  “Believe me, sir, we're going to put his life under a microscope,” Klein replied. “But I'm not holding out much hope. The people we're dealing with have been very careful in choosing their allies. The one in Russia ― Yardeni ― yielded no clues as to who his paymasters might be. The same may be true with Treloar.”

  “Let's get back to those 'people' you're talking about. Do you believe that they might be foreign nationals? Someone like Osama Bin Laden?”

  “I don't see Bin Laden's fingerprints on this, Mr. President.” Klein glanced at Smith. “The fact that the conspirators' reach is so great ― from Russia all the way to NASA in Houston ― indicates a certain level of sophistication. Someone who's very familiar with how we and the Russians operate, where we keep our jewels, and how we guard them.”

  “Are you suggesting that someone in this country could have orchestrated the theft in Russia?”

  “The smallpox is in this country, Mr. President. The man who stole it, the man who carried it are both dead at the hands of an assassin who, until recently, was a relative unknown in the West. There is no Arab connection here. Add to that, the material we're dealing with is not only lethal, but requires a sophisticated facility to turn it into a bioweapon. Finally there's the involvement of U.S. military personnel, at least on the periphery.”

  “Military personnel?” the president asked.

  Klein turned to Smith, who gave the chief executive a précis of the events that took place in Palermo.

  “I'm going to start digging into the backgrounds of these two soldiers, Mr. President,” Klein said, then paused. “So the answer to your question is yes ― it's very likely that someone here is running the show.”

  The president took a moment to digest this.

  “Monstrous,” he whispered. “Unbelievably monstrous. Mr. Klein, if we knew why they want the smallpox, wouldn't that tell us what they intend to do, maybe even who they are?”

  Klein's tone betrayed his frustration. “It would, Mr. President. But the 'why' is just another puzzle.”

  “Let me get this straight. There's a potential plague source that may be somewhere in the D.C. area. You also have a killer loose―”

  “Mr. President,” Smith interrupted, “the killer may actually be our best bet.”

  “Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Smith?”

  “The conspirators have eliminated the two men whom we might have gotten to. They brought over their own assassin for precisely that reason. I think they're holding him in reserve in case there's more wet work to be done.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Beria is our last link to the conspirators, Mr. President. If we find him and manage to take him alive, he might give up enough to point us in the right direction.”,

  “Does an all-out hunt for this killer run the risk of too much publicity? Maybe it'll frighten him off.”

  “It would have, sir,” Klein broke in. “Except for one thing: Beria murdered a man in cold blood on a Washington street. He's no longer a terrorist but a common murderer. If we link him to the killing, every law-enforcement agency in five states will be after him.”

  “Again: wouldn't this only drive him deeper underground?”

  "Not really, sir. Beria and the men who control him would think they know exactly the kind of forces that are being marshaled against them. They would circumvent them. And they would feel safe because they'd think they knew exactly what law enforcement's next step would be.

  “Plus, if we hunt Beria without publicity, and the conspirators have no idea what it is we're doing, they might believe that the threat of his capture outweighs his usefulness,” Smith added. “In which case, he'd end up like Yardeni and Treloar.”

  “Point taken, Mr. Smith,” the president agreed. “I presume you have a plan for Beria?”

  “Yes, I do, sir,” Smith replied quietly, and began to describe it.

  * * *

  Inspector Marco Dionetti of the Venice Questura stepped nimbly from the police launch to the dock in front of his palazzo. He returned the constable's salute and watched the boat as it disappeared into the passing canal traffic, the vessels lit up from bow to stern.

  At the front door Dionetti deactivated the security system before entering. His cook and servant were both old women who had been in his household for decades. Neither was any match for a burglar, and since the palazzo had enough treasures to fill a small museum, precautions were necessary.

  Dionetti picked up the mail waiting for him in the foyer. Proceeding to the drawing room, he settled into a club chair and slit open the letter from the Offenbach Bank in Zurich. He sipped his aperitif and nibbled on black Kalamata olives while scrutinizing the balance in his account. The Americans might be many things ― none of them good ― but they never missed a payment.

  Marco Dionetti did not concern himself with the big picture. He did not care why the Rocca brothers had to kill or why they had to die. True, his conscience had been pricked when he'd sold Peter Howell. But Howell had traveled to Sicily and would never be heard from again. In the meantime, the Dionetti legacy, courtesy of American dollars, would continue to flourish.

  After a refreshing shower, Dionetti took his solitary meal at the great table that could seat thirty. When coffee and dessert had been served he dismissed the servants, who retired to their quarters on the fourth floor. Lost in thought, Dionetti nibbled on strawberries drenched in Cointreau and daydreamed of where he might vacation, courtesy of American largesse.

  “Good evening, Marco.”

  Dionetti choked on the fruit in his mouth. He stared in disbelief as Peter Howell entered the room as calmly as if he were an invited guest and took a seat at the other end of the long table.

  From inside his smoking jacket Dionetti whipped out a Beretta, leveling it across twenty feet of ancient cherrywood.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “Why, Marco? Was I supposed to be dead? Is that what they told you?”

  Dionetti's mouth worked like that of a landed fish. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

  “Then why hold a gun on me?”

  Very carefully Howell opened his palm and placed a small vial on the table.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Marco? The risotto di mare smelled excellent. And the strawberries ― are you enjoying them?”

  Dionetti stared at the vial, then at the few berries at the bottom of his bowl. He tried to push away the dark thoughts crowding his mind.

  “Are you guessing that I somehow managed to poison the fruit, Marco? After all, I got past your security. Your servants never suspected there was anyone in the house. Would it have been so difficult to drop a little atropine into the dessert?�
��

  The gun barrel began to waver as Dionetti absorbed what Howell was saying. Atropine was an organic poison found in the belladonna family. Tasteless, odorless, it killed by attacking the central nervous system. Frantically Dionetti tried to remember how fast the poison worked.

  “On someone of your height and weight, I should think about four, five minutes ― given the amount I used,” Howell informed him. He tapped the vial on the table. “But here is the antidote.”

  “Pietro, you have to understand―”

  “I understand that you betrayed me, Marco,” Howell replied harshly. “That is all I need to understand. And if you didn't have something I need you'd be dead by now.”

  “But I can kill you right now!” Dionetti hissed.

  Howell shook his head in reproof. “You took a shower, remember? You left your gun in its holster on the bathroom counter. I took the bullets, Marco. If you don't believe me, shoot.”

  Dionetti squeezed the trigger. All he heard were clicks, like nails being driven into his coffin.

  “Pietro, I swear―”

  Howell held up his hand. “Time is crucial to you, Marco. I know that American soldiers killed the Roccas. Did you help them?”

  Dionetti licked his lips. “I told them how the Roccas intended to make their escape.”

  “And you knew this how?”

  “I received my instructions over the telephone. The voice was electronically altered. I was told to first help the Roccas, then the soldiers who would follow.”

  “And me.”

  Dionetti's head bobbed furiously. “And you,” he whispered.

  His mouth was dry. His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “Pietro, please! The antidote…”

  “Who pays you, Marco?” Howell asked softly.

  It would be a waste of time to ask Dionetti about the Americans. They never would have revealed themselves to him. Following the blood money would be the best bet.