The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  Smith and Danko started to meet outside the conference’s regular hours. By the time the parties were ready to return to their respective countries, the two men had forged a friendship based on mutual respect and trust.

  Over the next two years, they met again–in St. Petersburg, Atlanta, Paris, and Hong Kong–each time under the auspices of a formal conference. But on each occasion, Smith noticed that Danko was more and more troubled. Although he eschewed alcohol, he would sometimes ramble on about the duplicity of his military masters. Russia, he hinted, was violating its agreements with the United States and the world. While it was making a good show of reducing its bioweapons programs, advance research had actually accelerated. Worst of all, Russian scientists and technicians were disappearing only to surface in China, India, and Iraq, where there was high demand and unlimited funds for their skills.

  Smith was a keen student of human nature. At the end of one of Danko’s tortured confessions, he’d said: “I will work with you on this, Yuri. If that’s what you want.”

  Danko’s reaction was akin to that of a penitent who has finally been cleansed of his burden of sin. He agreed to provide Smith with information he thought the United States should have. There were only two caveats: he would deal only with Smith, not with anyone from the U.S. intelligence community; second, he wanted Smith’s word that Smith would look after his family in the event that anything happened to him.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Yuri,” Smith had said at the time. “You’ll die in your own bed, surrounded by your grandchildren.”

  Observing the crowds streaming out of the Doge’s Palace, Smith reflected on these words. At the time, he had meant them sincerely. But now, with Danko twenty-four hours late, they tasted like ashes in his mouth.

  But you never once mentioned Klein, Smith thought. That you already had a contact in the United States. Why, Yuri? Is Klein your ace in the hole?

  New arrivals were coming in by gondola and launch that tied up at the wharves in front of the lions of St. Mark’s. More exited the majestic basilica, glassy-eyed from the landmark’s overwhelming grandeur. Smith watched them all—the young couples holding hands, the fathers and mothers herding their children, the tour groups clustered around guides who shouted above the din in a dozen different languages. He held his newspaper at eye level, but his gaze roamed ceaselessly above the masthead, scanning faces, trying to find that special one.

  Where are you? What did you find that was so terrible you had to compromise your secrets and risk your life to bring it out?

  The questions gnawed at Smith. Since Danko had severed all contact, there were no answers to be had. According to Klein, the Russian would be coming across war-scarred Yugoslavia, hiding in and moving through the chaos and misery of that region until he reached the coast. There he would find a ship to ferry him across the Adriatic to Venice.

  Just get here and you’ll be safe.

  The Gulfstream was on standby at Venice’s Marco Polo Airport; a fast launch was moored at the dock next to the Palazzo delle Prigioni on the Rio di Palazzo. Smith could have Danko on the boat within three minutes of spotting him. They would be airborne an hour later.

  Where are you?

  Smith was reaching for his coffee when something drifted across his peripheral vision: a heavyset man skirting the edge of a tour group. Maybe a part of it, maybe not. He wore a weatherproof nylon jacket and a golfer’s cap; a thick beard and large wraparound sunglasses concealed his face. But there was something about him.

  Smith continued to watch, then saw it–a slight limp in the left leg. Yuri Danko had been born with a left leg one inch shorter than his right. Even a custom-made platform shoe could not fully disguise the limp.

  Smith shifted in his chair and adjusted his newspaper so that he could follow Danko’s movements. The Russian was using the tour group very effectively, drifting alongside, close enough to be mistaken for belonging, not so close as to get the leader’s attention.

  Slowly, the group turned away from the basilica and headed in the direction of the Doge’s Palace. In less than a minute it was abreast the outer row of tables and chairs of the Florian Café. A few tourists broke away from the group, heading for the small snack bar next to the café next door. Smith did not stir as they passed his table, chattering to one another. Only when Danko was passing by did he look up.

  “No one’s using this chair.”

  Smith watched as Danko turned, clearly recognizing Smith’s voice.

  “Jon?”

  “It’s me, Yuri. Go on, sit down.”

  The Russian slipped into the chair, bewilderment etched across his face.

  “But Mr. Klein…He sent you? Do you work—?”

  “Not here, Yuri. And yes, I came to bring you over.”

  Shaking his head, Danko flagged a passing waiter and ordered coffee. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it. Smith noticed that not even the beard could hide how gaunt Danko’s face had become. His fingers trembled as he worked to light the cigarette.

  “I still can’t believe it’s you….”

  “Yuri—”

  “It’s all right, Jon. I wasn’t followed. I’m clean.” Danko leaned back in his chair and stared at the pianist. “Wonderful, isn’t it? The music, I mean.”

  Smith leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

  Danko nodded. “I am now. Getting here wasn’t easy, but—”

  Danko broke off as the waiter brought his coffee. “It was very difficult in Yugoslavia. The Serbs are a paranoid bunch. I was carrying a Ukrainian passport but even that was closely checked.”

  Smith was straining to still the hundreds of questions swirling in his mind, trying to focus on what had to be done next.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, or give me—right now?”

  Danko appeared not to have heard him. His attention was on a pair of carabinieri—Italian militiamen—who were walking slowly among the tourists, their submachine guns slung across their chests.

  “Lots of police,” he murmured.

  “It’s the holidays,” Smith replied. “They always add extra patrols. Yuri…”

  “I have something to tell Mr. Klein, Jon,” Danko leaned across the table. “What they’re going to do—I never would have believed it. It’s insanity!”

  “What are they going to do?” Smith demanded, trying to control his tone. “Who’s they?”

  Danko looked around nervously. “Have you made the arrangements? Can you get me away from here?”

  “We can leave right now.”

  As Smith dipped into his pocket for his billfold, he noticed the two carabinieri moving between the café tables. One laughed as though the other had made a joke, then motioned in the direction of the sandwich bar.

  Smith counted out some lire, placed the bills under a plate, and was about to push back his chair when the universe exploded.

  “Jon!”

  Danko’s scream was cut short by the brutal sound of automatic weapons fired at point-blank range. After passing the table, the two carabinieri had whirled around, guns blazing. Death spat from the two barrels, riddling Danko’s body, the force of the bullets slamming him into the back of his chair, then flinging it over.

  Smith had barely enough time to register the carnage before he threw himself in the direction of the small grandstand. Bullets stitched the stone and wood around him. The pianist made the fatal mistake of trying to stand up; a fusillade cut him in half. Seconds seemed to move as though trapped in honey. Smith could not believe that the killers were taking so much time, working with deadly impunity. What he did know was that the grand piano, its glossy black frame and white keys horribly splintered, was saving his life, absorbing burst after burst of military-grade bullets.

  The killers were professionals; they knew when they had run out of time. Dropping their weapons, they crouched behind an overturned table and ripped off their military jackets. Underneath, they wore gray and tan windbreakers. From the pockets, they pulled out fis
hermen’s caps. Using the bystanders’ panic as cover, they broke and raced toward the Florian Café. As they burst through the front doors, one of them yelled: “Assassini! They are killing everyone! For the love of God, call the polizia!”

  Smith raised his head just in time to see the killers plunge into the screaming crowd of café patrons. He looked back at Danko, lying on his back, his chest shredded. A low animal growl rose in Smith’s throat as he leaped off the grandstand and elbowed his way into the café. The herd swept him away to the service doors and into the alley at the back. Gasping, Smith looked frantically in both directions. On the left, he caught a glimpse of gray jackets disappearing around a corner.

  The killers knew the area very well. They cut down two twisting alleys, then reached a narrow canal where a gondola was tied to a pier post. One jumped in and grabbed the oar, the other slipped the rope. In seconds they were moving down the canal.

  The killer who was oaring paused to light a cigarette.

  “A simple enough day’s work,” he said to his partner.

  “For twenty thousand American dollars, it was almost too simple,” the second replied. “But we should have killed the other one too. The Swiss gnome was very specific: the target and any contact with him.”

  “Basta! We fulfilled the contract. If the Swiss gnome wants—”

  His words were cut off by the oarsman’s exclamation. “The devil’s own!”

  The second gunman twisted around in the direction his friend was pointing. His mouth fell open at the sight of the victim’s partner pounding down the walkway alongside the canal.

  “Shoot the figlio di putana!” he screamed.

  The oarsman brought out a large-caliber handgun. “With pleasure.”

  Smith saw the oarsman’s arm come up, saw the pistol waver as the gondola rocked. He realized the insanity of what he was doing, chasing armed killers without so much as knife to protect himself. But the image of Danko kept his legs churning. Less than thirty feet and closing, because the oarsman could not steady himself to take the shot.

  Twenty feet.

  “Tommaso–”

  The oarsman, Tommaso, wished that his partner would shut up. He could see the demented one closing in, but what did it matter? Obviously he had no weapon, otherwise he would have used it by now.

  Then he saw something else, partially exposed beneath the floor planks of the gondola: a hint of a battery and multicolored wires…the kind he himself had used often enough.

  Tommaso’s scream was cut off by the explosion and the fireball that consumed the gondola, heaving it thirty feet into the air. For an instant, there was nothing but black, acrid smoke. Hurled against the brick wall of a glass factory, Smith saw nothing after the flash, but he smelled the burning wood and blackened flesh as they began to rain down from the sky.

  Amid the terror and fearful uncertainty that gripped the square, one man, hidden behind the pillar supporting one of the granite lions of St. Mark’s, remained calm. At first glance, he appeared to be in his early fifties. But possibly it was the mustache and goatee that made him look older. He wore a French-cut sport coat in windowpane check with a yellow rosette in the lapel. A paisley cravat was nestled against his throat. To the casual observer, he appeared a dandy, perhaps a tenured academic or a genteel retiree.

  Except that he moved very quickly. Even as the echoes of gunfire caromed around the piazza, he was already heading in the direction of the fleeing gunmen. A choice had to be made: follow them and the American who was in pursuit, or go to the wounded man. He didn’t hesitate.

  “Dottore! Let me pass! I’m a doctor!”

  Cowering tourists responded instantly to his perfect Italian. In seconds, he was kneeling by the bullet-ridden body of Yuri Danko. One glance told him that Danko was beyond anyone’s help except perhaps God’s. Still, he pressed two fingers to the man’s throat as though feeling for a pulse. At the same time, his other hand was busy inside Danko’s jacket.

  People were beginning to stand up, look around. Look at him. Some were moving his way. As shell-shocked as they were, they would still ask questions that he would rather avoid.

  “You there!” the doctor said sharply, addressing a young man who looked like a college student. “Get over here and help me.” He grabbed the student and forced him to hold Danko’s hand. “Now squeeze…I said squeeze!”

  “But he’s dead!” the student protested.

  “Idiot!” the doctor snapped. “He’s still alive. But he will die if he doesn’t feel any human contact!”

  “But you—”

  “I must get help. You stay here!”

  The doctor pushed his way through the crowd gathering around the slain men. He was not concerned about the eyes that darted to meet his. Most witnesses were notoriously unreliable under the best of circumstances. Under these conditions, not a single person would be able to describe him accurately.

  The first hee-haw of police Klaxons reached him. Within minutes, the entire square would be overrun by carabinieri and cordoned off. Potential witnesses would be rounded up; the interrogations would go on for days. The doctor could ill afford to be caught in the dragnet.

  Without seeming to, he moved swiftly to the Bridge of Sighs, crossed it, went past the stalls where hawkers peddled souvenirs and T-shirts, and slipped into the lobby of the Danieli Hotel.

  “Good afternoon, Herr Doktor Humboldt,” the concierge said.

  “A good day to you,” replied the man who was neither a doctor nor Humboldt. To the few who needed to know, his name was Peter Howell.

  Howell wasn’t surprised that word of the massacre hadn’t yet reached the august oasis of the Danieli. Very little of the outside world was permitted to penetrate this fourteenth-century palace built for the Doge Dandolo.

  Howell turned left into the magnificent living room and headed for the small bar in the corner. He ordered a brandy and, when the bartender’s back was to him, closed his eyes for an instant. Howell had seen his share of dead men, had initiated and been on the receiving end of extreme violence. But the cold, stark killing in St. Mark’s still managed to sicken him.

  He drank half the brandy in a single swallow. When the liquor hit his bloodstream and he felt himself relax, he reached into his coat pocket.

  Decades had passed since Howell had been taught the pickpocket’s skill. Feeling Danko’s note-paper between his fingers, he was glad to see that he hadn’t lost his touch.

  He read the sentence once, then a second time. In spite of knowing better, he had hoped that something on the page would give a clue as to why Danko had been slaughtered. And who might be responsible. But none of the words made any sense except one: Bioaparat.

  Howell refolded the page and tucked it away. He drained the remains of his brandy and signaled the bartender for a refill.

  “Is everything all right, signore?” the bartender asked solicitously as he served up the drink.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  The bartender retreated before Howell’s icy gaze.

  There’s nothing you can help me with, old boy. You’re not the one I need.

  When Smith opened his eyes, he was startled to see grotesque faces gazing down at him. As he pulled himself back, he discovered that he was slumped in the recess of a doorway to a mask and costume shop. Slowly, he staggered to his feet, instinctively checking for injuries. Nothing was broken, but his face stung. He passed a hand across his cheek and his fingers came away bloody.

  At least I’m alive.

  He couldn’t say that about the killers who had tried to flee in the gondola. The explosion that had caused the craft to disintegrate had also taken its occupants’ identities to eternity. Even if the police corralled eyewitnesses, they would be worthless: professional killers were often masters of disguise.

  It was the thought of police that got Smith moving. Because of the holidays, all the shops along the canal were closed. There were
no people around. But the telltale sound of the police launch Klaxon was growing louder. The authorities couldn’t have helped but connect the massacre at St. Mark’s with the explosion in the canal. Witnesses would tell them that the assassins had run in that direction.

  Where they’ll find me…The same witnesses will connect me to Danko.

  The police would want to know about Smith’s relationship to the dead man, why they had met, and what they had talked about. They would seize on the fact that Smith belonged to the American military and the interrogation would become even more intense. Yet, in the end, Smith could tell them nothing that would explain the massacre.

  Smith steadied himself, wiped his face as best he could, and brushed off his suit. He took a few tentative steps, then walked as quickly as he could to the end of the sidewalk. There, he crossed a bridge and slipped into the shadows of a boarded-up sequero, a gondola construction yard. Half a block up, he entered a small church, drifted among the shadows, and emerged through another set of doors. Several minutes later, he was on the promenade next to the Grand Canal, lost among the throngs that moved ceaselessly along the waterfront.

  St. Mark’s Square was cordoned off by the time Smith reached it. Grim-faced carabinieri, submachine guns held at port arms, created a human barrier between the granite lions. Europeans, particularly Italians, were well versed in what to do in the aftermath of what was clearly a terrorist attack: they looked straight ahead and kept on moving past the scene. So did Smith.

  He crossed the Bridge of Sighs, passed through the revolving doors of the Danieli Hotel, and made straight for the men’s washroom. He splashed cold water on his face, then little by little slowed his breathing. He looked in the mirror above the sinks but saw only Danko’s body, jerking as the bullets struck it. He heard the screams of passersby, the shouts of the killers as they spotted him racing toward them. Then the terrible explosion that had vaporized them…

  All this in a city that was one of the safest in Europe. What in God’s name had Danko brought with him that would merit destruction?