The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Sipping the thick, sweet coffee, Kirov surveyed the foot traffic, noting the women's colorful blouses and skirts and the men's baggy pants and leather jackets. If Beria came here, he would wear the rough, practical clothing of a Yugoslav working man ― maybe a cap, too, to cast a shadow over his features. But Kirov had no doubt that he would recognize him. In his experience, the one aspect of his appearance an assassin could never disguise was the eyes.

  Kirov understood there was a good chance that given the opportunity Beria would recognize him as well. But Beria had no reason to think that Kirov was in the United States. His primary concern would be to avoid the police, as sparse as the patrols were in the area. He wouldn't expect a face from the past, so far from home. By the same token, Kirov did not expect to see Beria strolling up to the nearest pastry shop to buy a snack. He might know where the assassin was likely to venture out, but he had no idea where he was at that moment.

  With hooded eyes, Kirov surveyed the changing scene around him. He also scanned the entrances and exits to the quadrangle, where people appeared from and disappeared to. He noted the signs posted in the shop windows indicating the business hours, and made a mental note to check the alleys and the delivery bays.

  If Beria had to come out to perform his wet work, this was an area he would feel comfortable in. This might cause him to feel that he had the upper hand, and a confident man could sometimes be a blind one.

  * * *

  Three-quarters of a mile from where Kirov was contemplating the possible takedown zone, Ivan Beria opened the door to his two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building that specialized in short-term leases to the city's white-collar transients.

  Facing him was the driver of the Lincoln, a big, silent man with a nose that had been broken at least several times and a deformed left ear that resembled a tiny cauliflower. Beria had met such men before. Comfortable with violence and unerringly discreet, they were the perfect messengers for the principals who hired him.

  Motioning the driver inside, Beria locked the door and accepted the proffered envelope. He tore it open and quickly read the contents, written in Serb. Stepping away, he smiled to himself. The principals always underestimated the number of people who had to be eliminated. In this case, Beria had already been paid for the Russian guard and the American scientist. Now he was being asked to remove one more.

  Turning to the driver, he said, “Picture.”

  Silently, the driver took back the letter and handed over a picture of ion Smith, taken by a security camera. The subject was facing the lens, his face free of shadows. The resolution was very good.

  Beria smiled thoughtfully. “When?”

  The driver held out his hand for the picture. “As soon as possible. You must be ready to go the minute you're called.”

  The driver raised his eyebrows, silently asking if there was anything else. Beria shook his head.

  After the driver left, Beria went into the bedroom and removed a digitally encrypted satellite phone from his pack. A moment later, he was speaking to a Herr Weizsel at the Offenbach Bank in Zurich. The account in question had just been fattened by two hundred thousand American dollars.

  Beria thanked the banker and hung up. The Americans are in a hurry.

  * * *

  Naked, Dr. Karl Bauer stepped out of the final decontamination room. On the bench of the changing room were underclothes, socks, and a shirt. A freshly pressed suit hung on the door hook.

  A few minutes later, Bauer was dressed and on his way to the glass-enclosed mezzanine where his chief of staff, Maus Jaunich, waited.

  Jaunich gave a slight bow and held out his hand. “Magnificent work, Herr Direktor. I have never seen anything like it.”

  Bauer shook his hand and acknowledged the compliment. “Nor are we likely to witness something like that ever again.”

  After resting, Bauer had returned to the laboratory. Even though he had worked through most of the night, he felt elated and full of energy. He knew from experience that this was only the adrenaline flowing through his system and that fatigue would inevitably catch up to him. Nonetheless, Jaunich was right: it had been magnificent work. Using his laserlike concentration, he had applied a lifetime of knowledge and experience into taking the first steps that would transform an already deadly virus into an unstoppable, microscopic firestorm. Now he felt almost cheated because he would be unable to take those last few steps toward completion.

  “We knew from the beginning, didn't we, Klaus,” he said, voicing his thought. “That we would never be able to see this creation through to the end. The physics of this earth deny me my ultimate triumph. To complete it, I must give it away.” He paused. “Now it will be up to Reed to go where we cannot.”

  “So much trust in one man,” Jaunich murmured.

  “He will do what he's told,” Bauer replied sharply. “And when he returns, we will have what, until now, we've only dreamed of.”

  He patted the big man on the shoulder. “It will be all right, Klaus. You'll see. Now, the transport?”

  “The sample is ready for shipment, Herr Direktor. The aircraft is standing by.”

  Bauer clapped his hands. “Good! Then you and I must have a celebratory drink before I leave.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Beneath the blaze of lights, she looked like a sculpture heralding in the new millennium. From her vantage point three miles away, Megan Olson stared in awe at the space shuttle, mated to the giant external tank and the two slightly smaller solid rocket boosters.

  It was two o'clock in the morning on a windless, moonlit night at Cape Canaveral. Megan's nose tingled from the briny air and her nerves trilled with anticipation. Usually, the crew was up and about by three o'clock, but Megan had been unable to sleep much past midnight. The thought that in fewer than eight hours she would be onboard the shuttle, boring into space, left her breathless.

  Megan turned and walked the length of the path that ran by the ground floor of the building where the crew was quartered. A hundred yards away, razor wire glittered atop the Cyclone fence surrounding the compound. She heard the distant cough of a security Jeep as it ground its way around the perimeter. The security at the Cape was both impressive and unobtrusive. The uniformed air police were the most visible, always a magnet for the television cameras. But beyond them were the plainclothes detachments that roved the entire facility twenty-four hours a day, making sure that no one and nothing interfered with the launch.

  Megan was about to head back to her room when she heard footsteps nearby. Turning, she saw a figure move from the shadows of the building into the light.

  Dylan Reed?

  It was a standing joke that not only did Reed not hear his alarm clock, but that he could sleep through liftoff if allowed to do so. So what was he doing up and about an hour before roll call?

  Raising her arm, Megan was about to call out to him when a bright headlight appeared around the corner. Instinctively, she drew back as a sedan with the NASA logo on the door slipped close to where Reed was standing. Staying in the shadows, Megan watched an older man get out of the car and approach Reed.

  Someone he was expecting. Who? And why break the quarantine?

  Quarantine was a vital part of the launch process, although this time its duration had been reduced, of necessity, from the usual seven days. Allowing an outsider to come into direct contact with a crew member at this late stage was unheard of.

  As the visitor and Reed moved away from her and into a pool of light, Megan saw something around the man's neck: a health stabilization card, indicating that whoever he was, the visitor had been given a clean bill of health by NASA doctors.

  Satisfied that Reed's guest was cleared to be in a restricted area, Megan started to move away. But something in the back of her mind resisted. She'd always relied on her intuition and instinct; listening to both had saved her life more than once. They whispered to her now that she should not do the polite thing and walk away, giving Reed his privacy.

&nb
sp; Megan hung back. Because the two men stood facing each other, she couldn't hear what they were saying. But there was no mistaking that something passed from the visitor to Reed: a shiny, metallic cylinder about four inches long. Megan saw it only for a split second before it disappeared into the pocket of Reed's overalls.

  Megan watched the visitor grip Reed's shoulder, then get back into his car and drive away. Reed seemed to gaze after the taillights until they were reduced to two pinpricks, then he turned and began walking toward his quarters.

  He has preflight jitters, just like the rest of us. Someone close to him came out to see him off.

  But the explanation rang hollow. Reed was a veteran of six shuttle missions, almost nonchalant about the process. Nor could it have been a relative. Once the quarantine was in effect, family members had no contact with the crew. They were relegated to a special viewing area three miles from the launch.

  Someone in the program. Someone I never met.

  Before heading for the mess hall where the crew would have their last real meal until they returned, Megan stopped off at her room. She considered her options, one of which was to casually broach the subject with Reed. After all, he had been her supporter ever since she had arrived at NASA; over time, she'd come to think of him as a friend. Then she remembered Adam Treloar, the missing smallpox, and the desperate search that was secretly under way. Klein's directive had been unequivocal: she was to report anything suspicious. Although Megan was certain that there was a perfectly innocent explanation for Reed's behavior, she nonetheless reached for the phone.

  * * *

  At six-thirty, the crew entered the clean room to suit up. Since Megan was the only woman on the mission, she had a cubicle to herself. Closing the door, she cast a critical eye over her launch/entry suit or LES. Made to measure and weighing a hefty ninety pounds, it was comprised of more than fifteen individual pieces, including a flotation device, gravity pants, and a diaper. Megan had questioned the need for the latter until Reed had explained to her exactly how much pressure was exerted on the body during the entry into orbit. It was virtually impossible for the bladder not to void.

  “Looking very stylish, Megan,” Frank Stone, the mission pilot, commented when she stepped into the men's changing area.

  “I like the patches best,” Megan replied.

  “Tell my wife that,” Bill Karol, the commander piped up. “She designed them.”

  Each mission had a unique patch, designed either by the crewmembers or their relatives. This one depicted the shuttle racing into space. Inside the round borders were stitched the names of the crew.

  The crew paired off to check each other's suits, making sure that every piece was snug and secure. Then one of the mission specialists, David Carter, led the group in a brief prayer. The moment helped lift the pall created by Adam Treloar's untimely death.

  With a little over three hours to liftoff, they trooped out of their quarters and into a blaze of camera lights. The walkout was the last chance for outside observers, all carefully screened and wearing special passes, to see the astronauts. Passing through the gauntlet, Megan waved briefly for the media. When she smiled, a reporter called out, “One more! Just like that.”

  The ride to the gantry in the UPS-style van took only a few minutes. Once there, the crew boarded an elevator that took them up 195 feet to the white room, the final staging area where they put on their parachutes, harnesses, communications hats, helmets, and gloves.

  “How are you holding up?”

  Megan turned to see Reed beside her, dressed and ready.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Preflight butterflies?”

  “Is that what's going on inside my stomach?”

  He leaned closer. “Don't go spreading this, but I get them too.”

  “Not you!”

  “Especially me.”

  Maybe it was the way she was looking at him that brought out his next words: “Is anything wrong? You look like you want to ask me something.”

  Megan brushed the air with her hand. “It's the moment, I guess. You dream and train and work for it, and then one day, it's there.”

  Reed patted her shoulder. “You'll do fine. Just remember what Allenby said: we're all counting on those experiments you have scheduled.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time,” one of the prep crew called out.

  Megan breathed a sigh of relief as Reed turned away. During her telephone conversation with Klein, the head of Covert-One said that he would immediately check on Reed's mysterious visitor, try to establish a solid ID, and get back to her. Since she hadn't heard from him, Megan assumed that Klein was either still checking or that he had come up with a perfectly satisfactory answer that he hadn't been able to relay to her.

  “Showtime,” Reed announced. He gestured at Megan. “After you, ma'am.”

  Megan took a deep breath, crouched, and ducked through the flight-deck hatch. Making her way to the ladder, she descended to the mid-deck where, in addition to the sleep stations, food and storage lockers, and the bathroom, were three special liftoff chairs for her, Randall Wallace, another mission specialist, and David Carter, the payload specialist.

  Settling herself in the take-down chair, which would be folded and stored after liftoff, Megan found herself on her back, her knees pointed at the ceiling.

  “Third mission and I still can't get used to these seats,” Carter grumbled as he slipped into the chair beside hers.

  “That's because you keep putting on the pounds, my man,” Wallace needled him. “All that home cooking.”

  “At least I have a home to come back to,” Carter shot back.

  Tapping an imaginary cigar, Wallace did his imitation of Groucho Marx. “Must be love.”

  The banter died as the prep crew came in and strapped the astronauts into the seats.

  “Mikes?”

  Megan tested hers and nodded as much as she could, given the tight leeway. As her mates were strapped in, she listened to the orbiter crew going through the liftoff checklist with mission control.

  Their work finished, the prep crew stepped back. Although Megan couldn't see them, she imagined how solemn their expressions were.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Godspeed. Come home safely.”

  “Amen to that,” Carter muttered.

  “I should have brought a good book to read,” Wallace mused. “Megan, how are you doing there?”

  “Just peachy, thank you. Now if you boys don't mind, I have my own checklist to review.”

  * * *

  Several hundred miles to the northeast, Jon Smith finished his second cup of coffee and checked his watch. By now, Kirov would have had enough time to settle into position in Dupont Circle. On his way out, Smith took one last look at the monitors connected to the exterior security cameras. Located on a corner lot, his house was bordered by tall trees that effectively hid it from its neighbors. The backyard was all lawn, with no bushes or shrubs where an intruder could hide. Motion sensors embedded in the stone walls of the house continually scanned the area.

  If someone managed to get past the sensors, he would discover a sophisticated alarm system built into the dual-pane windows and the door locks. If these were somehow breached, pressure pads throughout the house would activate, triggering both an alarm and an incapacitating gas through the sprinkler system. Tested in federal prisons, the gas took down its targets in less than ten seconds, which was why Smith kept a gas mask in his night-table cabinet.

  Although Smith believed that Beria would not attempt to kill him with a long-range shot, he thought it prudent to double-check the perimeter. Satisfied that it was secure, Smith went back through the kitchen that connected directly to the garage. He was reaching to shut off the small television perched on the counter when he saw an image that made him stop. He hesitated briefly, then smiled and reached for the phone.

  * * *

  At twenty-one minutes to liftoff, the voice of the flight director, Harry Landon, came over the crew's
headsets.

  “Folks,” he said in his Oklahoma twang, “seems we got ourselves an unexpected development.”

  Even though they were aware that three hundred people at mission control were listening to every sound they made, the crew could not contain a collective groan.

  “Don't tell me we're going to have to do this all over again,” Carter groused.

  “What's the problem, mission control?” the pilot asked crisply.

  “Did I say a problem? No. I said a development.” There was a brief pause. “Olson, are you all done with your flight check?”

  “Yes, sir,” Megan replied, her heart racing.

  Don't tell me I screwed up. Anything but that.

  “In that case, do you want to take this call?”

  Involuntarily, Megan tried to sit up but got nowhere. Who could be calling her? Oh, Jesus!

  “Harry,” she said in panicky voice. “I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

  “Now don't you fret. I'll patch it through only to you.”

  The last thing she heard before the static was Carter's “Rats!”

  “Megan?”

  Her pulse quickened. “Jon? Is that you?”

  “I couldn't let you leave without saying good luck.”

  “Jon, how did you…? I mean, how could you―”

  “No time to explain. Are you okay? Are you ready?”

  “Ready, yes. Okay? Well, I'm still getting used to sitting on a ton of liquid fuel.”

  “I wanted to wish you well… Make sure you come home safe and sound.”

  Megan smiled. “I will.”

  “Sorry, folks,” Landon broke in. “Time's up.”

  “Thanks, Harry,” Megan said.

  “I'm going to put you back in the loop. Ready?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Megan steeled herself for some gentle ribbing, which never materialized. In the fifteen minutes to countdown, the rest of the crew were busy exchanging instructions and details. Closing her eyes, she whispered a few words from the Twenty-fourth Psalm. She had barely finished when the shuttle shifted a little. An instant later, the ignition procedure for the solid boosters kicked in and a loud, low rumble enveloped the craft.