The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Smith shook the Russian's hand. “I'll stay in touch, General. I think we got everything we could out of Beria, but if he says anything interesting…”

  “You'll be the first to know,” Kirov assured him. “Good-bye, Jon Smith. I hope that we will meet again, under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Smith waited until Kirov was onboard and the hatch was closed. By the time the jet was racing down the runway he was in his car, being waved through perimeter security. As he headed for the highway, his thoughts drifted from what had been accomplished to what was still left to do.

  * * *

  In Moscow it was the middle of the night, but the lights were still burning in the offices of the Bay Digital Corporation.

  In the conference room, Randi Russell was working on her fourth cup of coffee, watching Sasha Rublev as he worked to ferret out the secrets of the laptop Jon Smith had delivered. Surrounded by hardware wired into the laptop, Sasha had been at his keyboard for over seven hours, downing the occasional Coke to maintain his energy level. Three times Randi had suggested they quit for the night, but each time Sasha simply waved her words away.

  “I'm close,” he would mumble. “Just a few more minutes.”

  By now Randi had decided that Sasha did not measure time like mere mortals.

  She drained her coffee, stared at the dregs, and then said: “Okay, that's it. And this time I mean it.”

  Sasha held up one hand, kept typing with the other. “Wait for it…”

  He jabbed a key triumphantly and slumped in his chair. “Look,” he said proudly.

  Randi couldn't believe her eyes. The big monitor, which had been filled with nothing but a series of unintelligible symbols all evening, suddenly morphed into a string of deciphered E-mails.

  “Sasha, how ―?” Randi shook her head. “Never mind. I'd never understand.”

  Sasha beamed at her. “The person this computer belongs to used CARNIVORE, your FBI's latest encryption program.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I thought no one outside America had this.”

  “Me too,” Randi murmured.

  Using the mouse, she scanned the E-mails, unable to believe what she was reading.

  What the hell is the Cassandra Compact?

  * * *

  Returning to Bethesda, Jon Smith fixed himself a quick snack and took it into his study. The faint odor of drugs and a broken man's fear hung in the house. Smith opened a window and sat down with the files Nathaniel Klein had given him.

  Travis Nichols and Patrick Drake… both U.S. Army sergeants. Both from the same small town in central Texas where young men went either into the oil fields or the military. Seasoned combat veterans, they had seen action in Somalia, the Gulf, and most recently, Nigeria.

  Smith's interest was piqued when he read their fitness reports from the Advanced Warfare School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Nichols and Drake had graduated one and two in their class, cold, hard men whose keen edge had been further honed by instructors in the blackest combat arts.

  Then they disappear…

  Now Smith knew what Klein had meant about the lapses. In each of the last five years there were months where the soldiers' whereabouts could not be accounted for. No notations had been made by commanding officers; no ship-out or transport orders were available.

  Experienced in the ways of the military, Smith could guess where Nichols and Drake had disappeared. Scattered throughout the army were special units. The most public of these were the Rangers. But there were others, whose members were culled from the most experienced and battle-hardened troops. In Vietnam, they had been known as LRRPs-Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols; in other parts of the world, they had no designation whatsoever.

  Smith was aware of three such outfits but suspected there were more. He knew no one in any of them, and didn't have the time or the resources to start a hunt from scratch. There was only one way to go: with the phone number that Peter Howell had coaxed from the dying Travis Nichols's lips.

  For the next hour, Smith considered one plan of action after another. From each one he took away a detail or two that, when strung together, formed a coherent whole. Then he went over it again and again, probing for weaknesses, eliminating questions, trying to give himself the best possible advantage. He knew that the minute he made the call to that as yet unknown person at the other end of a number that didn't exist, his life would hang on his every word and action.

  Outside, the insects and birds began their nocturnal litany. As Smith rose to close the window, his phone rang.

  “Jon, it's Randi.”

  “Randi! What time is it over there?”

  “I don't know. I've lost track. Listen, Sasha broke through the laptop's firewalls. All the E-mails ― and everything else ― are in the clear.”

  By her tone, Smith knew that Randi wanted an explanation.

  “I need what you have, Randi,” he said quietly. “No questions asked. Not now.”

  “Jon, you asked me to do you a favor. I did. From the little I've read, this stuff's explosive. There are references to Bioaparat and to something called the Cassandra Compact―”

  “But I haven't seen any of that,” Smith said urgently. “That's why I need it ― to try to find out what's going on.”

  “You have to tell me one thing,” Randi replied. “This 'situation,' whatever it is, is it localized in Russia? Or has something gotten out?”

  Smith had come up against Randi's single-mindedness before. He knew she wasn't vying for glory; she was an intelligence agent trying to do her job. Somehow he had to convince her that his interests and hers were the same.

  “Something has gotten out,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Not like Hades, Jon. Not again!”

  “It isn't like that at all,” Smith assured her. “We have a situation here at home. Believe me, all stops have been pulled out on this. The orders come from the highest level. Do you understand? The highest level.” He allowed his words to sink in. “What you've done will help me enormously,” he continued. “Please believe me: there's nothing more you can do on your end. At least not right now.”

  “So I take it you don't want me to signal Langley.”

  “It's the last thing I want you to do. I'm asking you to trust me, Randi. Please.”

  After a moment's hesitation, she replied, “It's not a matter of trust, Jon. I just don't want… I couldn't bear to stand by and let another situation like Hades develop.”

  “No one does. And it won't happen.”

  “Will you at least keep me posted?”

  “As much as I can,” Smith replied truthfully. “Things are moving fast here.”

  “All right. But remember your promise.”

  “You won't hear it on CNN.”

  “I'll ship you the contents now. What do you want me to do with the laptop?”

  Smith considered his options. By all rights he should have the computer returned to Kirov. But what if Lara Telegin wasn't the only traitor? He couldn't run the risk that somehow vital secrets would fall into the wrong hands.

  “I'm sure that you have a secure safe,” he said. “Preferably something tamperproof.”

  “I have one of the new flash vaults. Anyone trying to get in is in for a nasty surprise.”

  “Good. One last thing: the cell phone.”

  “It had a bunch of numbers in its memory ― all on the Russian military exchange. I'll send you copies.”

  Hearing a ping! Smith turned to his monitor as an incoming message scrolled across the screen.

  “I'm receiving your feed,” he said.

  “I hope it's what you need.” Randi hesitated, then added, “Good luck, Jon. I'll be thinking of you.”

  Smith turned his attention to the screen and scanned the E-mails one by one. The sender was code-named Sphinx; the receiver, Mephisto.

  As he continued to read, the enormity of what was referred to as the Cassandra Compact grew before his eyes. Lara Telegin ― Sphinx ― had been in contact with Mephisto for over two year
s, feeding him top-secret information on Bioaparat, its personnel and security. The most recent notes mentioned Yuri Danko and Ivan Beria by name.

  Who were you feeding? Who is Mephisto?

  Smith worked his way deeper into the E-mails. Suddenly he spotted something and scrolled back. It was a congratulatory note. Mephisto had been awarded a citation. There was a reference to a ceremony on a certain date.

  Veterans Day…

  Using his USAMRIID access code, Smith got into the Pentagon site and punched in the date. Instantly the specifics of the ceremony appeared, including pictures. There was a shot of President Castilla holding the citation. And the soldier who was about to receive it.

  * * *

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Klein asked.

  Smith thought Klein sounded tired, but maybe it was just the connection.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “The E-mail refers to a specific date. There was only that one ceremony. Only one such citation was awarded. There's no mistake.”

  “I see… Given this new development, have you come up with a way to proceed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It had taken Smith two hours to revise the plan he'd come up with prior to Randi Russell's call. Quickly he gave Klein the details.

  “It sounds awfully dangerous, Jon,” Klein said softly. “I'd feel a whole lot better if you weren't going in alone.”

  “Believe me, I'd like to have Peter Howell around but there's no time to get him here. Besides, I need him in Europe.”

  “And you're sure you want to proceed immediately?”

  “As long as you can get those items I mentioned, I'll be ready.”

  “Consider it done. And Jon, you will be wearing a transmitter, won't you?”

  Smith held up a tiny fiberoptic patch that looked identical to a small round Band-Aid, the kind that might be used on a shaving cut.

  “If something goes wrong, sir, you'll at least know how far I got.”

  “Don't even think that.”'

  After hanging up, Smith took a moment to compose himself. He thought of everything that had happened up to this point, all the lives that had been sacrificed on the altar of the Cassandra Compact. Then he saw Yuri Danko coming toward him across St. Mark's Square… and Katrina, his widow.

  Without hesitation, he reached for the phone, made sure the scrambler was activated, and dialed the number Peter Howell had passed along. If anyone tried to trace the call, they'd find themselves zipping from one cutout to another all over the country.

  On the other end, the phone was ringing. The receiver was picked up and an unearthly voice, electronically distorted, answered: “Yes?”

  “This is Nichols. I'm home. Hurt. I need to come in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  General Frank Richardson inadvertently knocked the cigar burning in the cut-glass ashtray.

  “Say again,” he spoke into the phone.

  A patchy, mangled voice came back at him. “…is Nichols…Hurt…coming in.”

  Richardson clenched the receiver. “Go to safe point Alpha. Repeat: safe point Alpha. Copy?”

  “Copy,”

  The connection was broken.

  Richardson stared at the telephone as though he expected it to ring again. But the silence in his office was broken only by soft ticks of the grandfather clock and the distant drones of Humvees as security details went about their patrols around Fort Belvoir.

  Nichols… Hurt… Impossible!

  Richardson took a draw on his cigar to steady himself. A seasoned commander, he quickly reviewed his options and made his decision. The first call went out to the noncom barracks on the base. A crisp, alert voice answered.

  Richardson's second call was to NSA deputy-director Anthony Price. He too was awake, and luckily not that far away in his townhouse in Alexandria.

  While Richardson waited for the two men to arrive, he listened to the tape of the conversation. Even though his secure phone was hooked up to the latest recording equipment, the quality of the speaker's voice was scratchy. Richardson couldn't tell if the call was local or long distance. He didn't think that “Nichols” was all that far away, not if he was ready to rendezvous at safe point Alpha.

  But Nichols is dead!

  Richardson's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the office door. His visitor was a big, strapping man in his midthirties with straw-colored hair cut close to the scalp and bright blue eyes. Normally baggy fatigues were stretched taut over a linebacker's powerful muscles.

  “Good evening, General,” Sergeant Patrick Drake said, saluting crisply.

  “At ease,” Richardson replied. He gestured at the wet bar in the corner. “Help yourself to a drink, Sergeant. Believe me, you'll need it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Anthony Price was escorted into the room by the general's aide-de-camp.

  “Good evening, Tony.”

  Price looked at Drake and raised his eyebrows. “What's going on, Frank?”'

  “What's going on is this,” Richardson replied and jabbed the play button on the tape recorder.

  He watched the expressions of the two men as they listened to the brief exchange. He detected nothing except genuine surprise ― and in the case of Price, alarm.

  “How the hell could Nichols have made that call?” Price demanded. He turned to Drake. “I thought you said that he was dead, soldier!”

  “With all due respect, sir, Nichols is dead,” Drake replied tonelessly. He looked at Richardson. "General, I saw Nichols take a knife in the gut. You know that there's no way a man can survive that unless he gets immediate medical attention ― which wasn't forthcoming.

  “You should have made sure he was dead,” Price snapped.

  “Tony, that's enough!” Richardson cut in. “I remember your afteraction report, Sergeant. But you might want to explain the details to Mr. Price here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Drake turned to Price. “Sir, our contact, Franco Grimaldi, was careless. He allowed Peter Howell to spot the trap. Howell took him down first, then came after Nichols and myself as we were closing in. Howell managed to get Nichols's gun and shoot Grimaldi. At that point, I had no choice but to retreat. My orders were to conduct this operation in a clandestine fashion. If something went wrong, I was to fall back and wait for a better opportunity.”

  “Which never came,” Price said sarcastically.

  “The fortunes of war, sir,” Drake replied tonelessly.

  “Enough backbiting!” Richardson snapped. “Drake followed orders, Tony. That the operation went to hell in a handbasket was not his fault. The question is, who is passing himself off as Nichols?”

  “Peter Howell, obviously,” Price replied. “Clearly Nichols lasted long enough to give him the contact number.”

  Richardson glanced at Drake. “Sergeant?”

  “I agree that Nichols gave up the number, sir. And the rendezvous point, too. Otherwise your caller would have asked you to identify safe point Alpha. But I don't think it was Howell.”

  “Why?”

  “Howell lives in this country, sir. Although he's retired, we've long suspected that he's still available for certain operations, and it came out that he and Smith worked together during Hades. I think Howell would go active if Smith asked him to, but he would do so only outside the country. That's why he, not Smith, was in Palermo. I think Smith made that call, General.”

  Richardson nodded. “So do I.”

  “Smith…” Price muttered. “It all comes back to him. First he's in Moscow, then Beria disappears. Now he's here. Frank, you've got to take care of him once and for all.”

  “Yes,” Richardson agreed. “Which is why I instructed him to go to safe point Alpha.” He looked at Drake. “Where you'll be waiting.”

  * * *

  Wearing hightops, black pants and a turtleneck, and a dark nylon jacket, Jon Smith slipped out of his house and into his car. Driving out of Bethesda, he continually checked his mirrors. No vehicle fell in behind hirn on the quiet suburban streets. No tail p
icked him up on the beltway.

  Smith crossed the Potomac and entered Fairfax County, Virginia. At this time of night traffic was light, and he drove quickly through the horse country around Vienna, Fairfax, and Falls Church. South of Alexandria he found the river again and followed it almost to the border of Prince William County. Here the affluent landscape gave way to stretches of waterfront bordered by thick forest. As he approached the county line, Smith saw safe point Alpha.

  The Virginia Water and Power pumping station had been built in the 1930s, when coal was cheap and health issues nonexistent. The advent of newer, cleaner units, coupled with the outcries from environmentalists, were enough to close the plant in the early 1990s. Since then, all attempts to modernize the station had floundered on the rocks of budgetary considerations. So it continued to stand on the Potomac, a dark, hulking structure looking like some abandoned factory.

  Smith turned off the two-lane blacktop and, cutting his headlights, cruised up the access road. He parked under a copse of trees a quarter mile away and, setting his backpack on his shoulders, jogged the rest of the way.

  The first thing he noticed as he got close was the Cyclone fence ― still shiny, topped with glistening razor wire. A fat padlock, showing no rust, secured the heavy chain around the front gates. The perimeter was well lighted, the halogen lamps giving a winterlike glow to the deserted parking lot in front of the plant.

  Being used but not in use…

  Smith had come across buildings like this before. The army preferred the neglected, the abandoned, and the derelict, where it could give its special squads the kind of training impossible to duplicate on military reservations. The Virginia Water and Power plant had that peculiar feel about it… used but not in use.

  Perfect for safe point Alpha.

  Smith circled almost the entire perimeter before he found a suitable entry point, where the fence met the river's edge. Climbing over slippery rocks, he made his way around the fence, then sprinted across a section of the deserted parking lot to the nearest wall. After pausing to get his bearings he scanned the perimeter. He saw nothing, heard nothing except for the faint calls of night creatures near the water. Yet his intuition warned him that he was not alone. His call had sent a shiver along the web. He just couldn't see the spider… Yet.