The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Howell rapped the table with the vial. “Marco…”

  “Herr Weizsel… the Offenbach Bank in Zurich. For God's sakes, Pietro, give me the antidote!”

  Howell slid his cell phone the length of the table. “Call him. I'm sure that a client of your stature has his home number. Make sure I can hear the access codes.”

  Dionetti fumbled the phone and jabbed at the keypad. As he waited for the connection he could not take his eyes off the vial.

  “Pietro, please!”

  “All in good time, Marco. All in good time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Learjet touched down at Kona Airport on the Big Island shortly before twilight, Hawaii time. Under Bauer's supervision, three technicians off-loaded the virus container and placed it in a waiting Humvee. The ride to the Bauer-Zermatt compound took forty-five minutes.

  Because the complex had once been an army medical research facility, certain construction requirements had been met. Both to prevent intruders from getting in and highly lethal bugs from escaping into the island population, the area between the sea cliff and the lava fields had been cored out. The giant pit had been lined with thousands of cubic yards of concrete, creating an enormous, multistory cradle. This was then divided into three levels, or zones, the deepest one reserved for the laboratories that would house the most dangerous viruses. When Bauer had taken over the facility, virtually everything he needed was already in place. After one year and a hundred million dollars, the required updating had been completed and the operation went on-stream.

  Once the Humvee was safely inside the massive garage, the container was off-loaded onto a mechanized trolley, which took it to a waiting elevator. Three floors below, Bauer was greeted by Klaus Jaunich, the head of his handpicked research staff. Jaunich and his team of six had been brought over from the company's Zurich headquarters for the express purpose of working on the smallpox. All of them had been with Bauer for years; all had profited beyond their wildest dreams from their association with him.

  And all understand that I am privy to secrets that could break them in an instant, Bauer thought, smiling at Jaunich.

  “It's good to see you, Klaus.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Herr Direktor.”

  Jaunich was a study in contrasts. A big, bearlike man in his late fifties, he had an uncommonly soft voice. His bearded moon face bespoke a lumberjack, yet the image was dispelled as soon as he smiled, revealing tiny baby teeth.

  Jaunich motioned to his two waiting associates, their orange containment suits making them look like astronauts. They lifted the container off the trolley and, carrying it between them, proceeded to enter the first of four decontamination chambers, waystations to the laboratory itself.

  “Does the Direktor wish to view the procedure?” Jaunich inquired.

  “Naturally.”

  Jaunich led the way to a glass-enclosed mezzanine that overlooked both the decontamination chambers and the lab. From this vantage point, Bauer watched as the delivery team moved from one chamber to the next. Because the decontamination procedure was necessary only when leaving the lab, going in took only a few minutes.

  Inside the lab, the team opened the chest. Bauer leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.

  “Be very careful with the transfer,” he cautioned the two men.

  “Ja, Herr Direktor,” came the tinny response over the loudspeakers.

  Bauer tensed as the pair dipped their hands into the cloud of nitrogen and slowly withdrew the revolverlike chamber that housed the ampoules. In the background, the door to the refrigerated vault, not much different from the Coke machine at Bioaparat, opened.

  “We haven't much time,” Bauer murmured. “Is the rest of the team ready?”

  “More than ready,” Jaunich assured him. “The entire process will be completed in less than eight hours.”

  “You will start the procedure without me,” Bauer said. “I will retire, then join you for the final steps in the recombination process.”

  Jaunich nodded. Obviously Bauer would want to be present at the beginning of what would eventually be viewed as a milestone in biochemical engineering. But the circumstances that had brought the smallpox here ― whatever they were ― had clearly taken their toll on the old scientist. Before venturing into the tense laboratory atmosphere, he needed to rest.

  “Be assured that every step of the procedure will be videotaped,Herr Direktor.”

  “As it should be,” Bauer insisted. “What we will accomplish here today has never been attempted before. The Russians couldn't do it at Bioaparat. The Americans are too frightened to even try. Think, Klaus: the first steps in the genetic alteration of one of mankind's greatest scourges, the beginning of a transformation that will render all past and present vaccines impotent! The result? The perfect battlefield weapon.”

  “For which there is only one cure,” Jaunich finished. “Strict quarantine.”

  Bauer's eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Exactly! Since there is no known antidote, whichever country is infected must immediately shut down its borders. Take Iraq, for example. Baghdad pays no heed to our warnings to desist from a certain course of action. The decision is made to engage in a preemptive strike. Our little princess is introduced into the water or food supply. People contract the disease; the death toll mounts swiftly and exponentially. The population is desperate to flee, but the borders are sealed. The word has spread: any Iraqi must be considered infected. Even those trying to escape through the mountains would be hunted down and slaughtered.”

  Bauer opened his hands like a magician releasing his dove. “Poof! In one fell swoop the enemy is no more. He cannot fight because there's no longer an army. He cannot resist because his infrastructure has collapsed. He cannot remain in power because what is left of his people will turn on him. The only option is unconditional surrender.”

  “Or pleas for a vaccine,” Jaunich observed.

  “A plea that will fall on deaf ears, since there is no vaccine.” Bauer savored the moment. “Or so the victim will be told.” He smiled. “But first things first: the samples must be readied for the recombination. If all goes well, we can see about the antidote.”

  He clamped his hand on Jaunich's shoulder. “I leave the undertaking in your more than capable hands and will see you in a few hours.”

  * * *

  Several time zones to the east, in Houston, Megan Olson pulled her cherry-red Mustang into the NASA parking area reserved for members of the space shuttle. She locked the car and walked quickly into the administration building. Dylan Reed's message had interrupted her dinner with a pleasant but boring aerospace engineer. The last word to scroll across her beeper had been URGENT.

  Megan went through the security checkpoints and stepped into an elevator that whisked her to the sixth floor. Although the area was brightly lighted, there was an eerie silence in the corridors. The door to Reed's office was ajar, the light slanting into the hall. Megan knocked and entered.

  The office was divided into a working space and a much larger conference area dominated by a long, oval table. Megan blinked. Seated at the table were the shuttle mission pilot, Frank Stone, and the commander, Bill Karol. Next to them sat the mission director, Harry Landon, and the deputy director of NASA, Lorne Allenby. The latter two appeared tired, their clothes rumpled as if they'd just gotten off a long flight. Megan thought that might actually be the case. With the launch date less than forty-eight hours away, Landon and Allenby should have been at the Cape.

  “Megan,” Dylan Reed said. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I think you know everyone here.”

  Megan exchanged murmured greetings as she slipped into a chair beside the mission pilot, Frank Stone.

  Reed massaged the back of his neck, then braced himself on the table with both arms, his attention focused on her.

  “Have you heard?”

  Megan shook her head. “Heard what?”

  “Adam Treloar was killed this afternoon in Washington.�
� He paused. “A mugging gone bad.”

  “Oh my God! How? What happened?”

  “The D.C. police don't have a lot to give us ― or to go on,” Reed replied. “Adam had just returned from Russia ― his mother is buried there. He had a reservation at a hotel so I assume he was going to stay overnight before flying down to the Cape. He was walking near Wisconsin Avenue ― not a bad area, I'm told ― when the son of a bitch accosted him.” Reed ran his fingers through his hair. “What happened next is anyone's guess. No one saw or heard anything. Adam was dead by the time a passerby finally happened upon him and called the police.” He shook his head. “Such an incredible waste!”

  “Dylan, we're all pretty shook up over what happened,” Lorne Allenby, the NASA executive said. “But we have to move things along.”

  Reed waved his hand to acknowledge as much. When he turned to her, Megan felt her heart pounding.

  “You're Treloar's backup. Because of the situation, you're being moved up to active duty as one of the mission specialists. Are you ready, Megan?”

  Her mouth went dry, but she thought her words sounded strong and confident. “Absolutely. It's not the way I wanted to get the slot, but yes, I'm ready.”

  “You don't know how glad all of us are to hear that,” Reed said. He looked around the table. “Questions?”

  Frank Stone, the mission pilot, spoke up. “No questions, just a vote of confidence. I've trained with Megan. I know she's ready.”

  “Second that,” added Bill Karol, the commander.

  “Landon?” Reed asked.

  The mission director shifted in his seat. “I've read the training reports. I know that Megan can handle the experiments Adam and you set up.” He offered a thumbs-up.

  “Glad to hear it,” Allenby said. “The bean counters in Congress are watching this mission like vultures. Having played up what we expect to glean from these experiments, I have to pony up results.” He turned to Megan. “Bring back something that makes all of us look good.”

  Megan managed a weak smile. “I'll do my best.” She looked around the table. “And thank you all for your vote of confidence.”

  “Okay, then,” Reed said. “I'll call the rest of the team tomorrow. I know that some of you are jet-lagged, so why don't we call it a night and meet again tomorrow morning before flying out?”

  Everyone nodded gratefully and the room emptied quickly, leaving only Reed and Megan.

  “You're the chief of the biomedical research program, Dylan,” she said quietly. “You and Treloar were pretty close. How do you feel about my being onboard?”

  “At the end of the day, I can't say that I knew Adam all that well. You know how he was ― taciturn, kept to himself mostly. Not the kind of guy who went for a few beers after work or played Saturday softball. But he was part of the team ― a vital part ― and I will miss him.” He paused. “As far as you're concerned, I couldn't ask for a better backup up there.”

  Megan tried to harness her conflicting emotions. A part of her was already racing ahead to all the details that had to be looked after: preparation at the Cape, integrating herself into the team and the launch procedure. She knew that normally the crew was quarantined for seven days prior to launch, although recently the period had been shortened. Still, she would have to undergo an extensive physical to make sure she wasn't harboring any bugs.

  Another part of her couldn't get the image of the odd-looking Treloar out of her mind. Reed was right: Treloar had been something of a loner. Not having known him personally made it easier to accept the fact of his death. Still, the way he had died made her shudder.

  “You okay?” Reed asked.

  “Fine. Just trying to take it all in.”

  “Come on. I'll walk you to your car. Try to get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, you hit the ground running.”

  * * *

  Megan had a small unit in an apartment complex that catered to short-term NASA personnel. After a restless, toss-filled sleep, she woke up and hit the pool before anyone else was there. Returning to her apartment, she discovered a note taped to her door.

  Getting over her initial shock, Megan dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. Setting a fast pace, she reached the coffee shop on the next block a few minutes later. Given the hour, the place was almost empty. She had no problem spotting him.

  “Jon!”

  He rose from a booth in the corner. “Hello, Megan.”

  “My God, what are you doing here?” she asked, slipping into the seat across from him.

  “I'll tell you in a minute.” He paused. “I heard about your being assigned to the mission. You deserve the shot, no matter the circumstances.”

  “Thank you. Obviously I'd rather it didn't happen this way, but―”

  The waitress came by and they ordered breakfast.

  “I wish you'd called,” she said. “I leave for the Cape in a few hours.”

  “I know.”

  She studied him carefully. “You didn't come all this way just to congratulate me ― although I'd like to think so.”

  “I'm here because of what happened to Treloar,” Smith said.

  "Why? According to the media, D.C. homicide is handling the case.

  “They are. But Treloar was the chief medical officer, an important member of the NASA team. I was sent down here to find out if something in Treloar's background and activities might give us a lead as to why he was killed.”

  Megan's eyes narrowed. “I don't understand.”

  “Megan, listen to me. You're taking his place on the flight. You must have worked with him. Anything you can tell me about him would help.”

  They lapsed into silence as the waitress returned with their orders. The idea of food suddenly made Megan nauseated. She steadied herself and organized her thoughts.

  “First of all, almost all my training was supervised by Dylan Reed. In a way, the title of chief medical officer is misleading. It's not like you go up there to hand out aspirins or Band-Aids. The duties are pure research. As head of the biomedical research program, Dylan worked closely with his chief medical officer, Treloar. And he duplicated those experiments with me, in case I had to take Treloar's place. So I never really worked closely with Treloar at all.”

  “What about personally? Was he close to anyone? Was there any gossip about him?”

  “He was a loner, Jon. I never heard that he dated, much less had anyone steady. I can tell you that working with him wasn't much fun. A brilliant mind, but no personality, no humor, nothing. It was as if a part of him ― the medical genius ― flourished, while the rest of him never grew up at all.”

  She paused. “Your investigation isn't going to impact the launch, is it?”

  Smith shook his head. “No reason it should.”

  “Look, the best I can do is give you the names of the people who worked directly with Treloar. Maybe they'll have something for you.”

  Smith was certain that he already had those names ― and more. He'd spent half the night going over Adam Treloar's files, forwarded from the FBI, the NSA, and NASA. Still, he listened carefully as Megan ran down her list.

  “That's really all I know,” she concluded.

  “Plenty for me to work with. Thank you.”

  Megan managed a smile. “Given what you're doing, I don't suppose there's any chance of your getting down to the launch? I could get you great seats.”

  “I wish I could,” he replied, and meant it. “But maybe I'll see you at Edwards when you touch down.” Edwards Air Force base in California was the shuttle's primary landing station.

  They were silent for a moment, then Megan said, "I've got to get going.

  He reached across the table and, covering her hand, held it tightly. “Come home safe.”

  * * *

  Lost in thought, Megan walked back to her apartment. Adam Treloar was dead ― murdered ― and Jon Smith had suddenly materialized in Houston. He had neatly sidestepped the issue of who had sent him. He had questioned her skillfully but had given no
thing in return. What was Smith really doing here? Who was he after and why? There was only one way to find out.

  Back in her apartment, Megan took out her digitally encrypted phone and dialed the number she had memorized long ago.

  “Klein here.”

  “It's Megan Olson.”

  “Megan… I thought you'd be on your way to the shuttle launch by now.”

  “I'm leaving in a little while, sir. There have been developments I felt you should know about.”

  Quickly she outlined her conversation with Jon Smith. “That he was being evasive is putting it mildly,” she said. “Is there anything you want to do for him?”

  “Negative,” Klein replied briskly. “Smith is involved because of his USAMRIID expertise.”

  “I don't understand, sir. How does that come into play?”

  Klein paused. “Listen carefully, Megan. There's been a leak in Russia, at Bioaparat.” He paused as Megan caught her breath. “A sample was stolen. Adam Treloar was in Moscow at the time. The Russians have him on tape with the courier who was carrying the material. A handoff was made. We're certain that Treloar carried the stuff into this country. Then, when his usefulness had run out, he was murdered.”

  “What happened to what he was carrying?”

  “Gone.”

  Megan closed her eyes. “What did he bring in?”

  “Smallpox.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Listen to me, Megan. You're at ground zero. We thought that Treloar might be dirty. Now we're sure that he was. The question is, did he have accomplices in the shuttle program?”

  “I don't know,” Megan replied. “It seems impossible. These are all dedicated individuals. As far as I can tell, there's nothing suspicious going on.” She shook her head. “But then again, I missed Treloar, didn't I?”

  “Everybody missed him,” Klein replied. “Don't beat yourself up over that. The key is to find the smallpox. Covert-One is working on the assumption that it's somewhere in the D.C. area. Whoever has it would not want to transport it any more than is absolutely necessary. And from London, Treloar could have taken a nonstop flight anywhere ― Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles. He chose D.C. for a reason. We think that's where the storage facility has been set up.”