In the second half of the twentieth century, Dr. Karl Bauer had not only kept the family firm in the forefront of legitimate pharmaceutical research, but had also broadened its secret program of developing biochemical weapons. Like a locust, Bauer went where the fields were most fertile: Gadhafi’s Libya, Hussein’s Iraq, the tribal dictatorships of Africa, and the nepotism-infested regimes of Southeast Asia. He brought with him the best scientists and the most modern equipment; in return, he was showered with largesse that was transferred by computer keystroke into the vaults beneath Zurich.
At the same time, Bauer maintained and upgraded his contacts with the military in both the United States and Russia. A prescient student of the global political condition, he had foreseen the breakup of the Soviet Union and the inevitable decline of the new Russia struggling to adopt democracy. Where the twin streams of Russian desperation and American ascendancy met, Bauer fished.
Bauer stepped forward to greet his visitors. “Gentlemen.”
The three men shook hands, then fell in step to the two-story, Colonial-style command building. On both sides of the gracious, wood-paneled lobby were the offices of Bauer’s hand-picked staff, who looked after the administrative duties of the facility. Farther along were the cubbyholes where the scientists’ assistants toiled, inputting data from the laboratory experiments. At the very back were two elevators. One was hidden behind a door that could be opened only with a key card. Built by Hitachi, it was a high-speed unit that linked the subterranean labs with the command building. The second elevator was a beautiful brass birdcage. The three men got in, and in a few seconds were in Bauer’s private office, which occupied the entire second floor.
The office might have belonged to a colonial governor from the nineteenth century. Antique Oriental rugs graced polished hardwood floors; mahogany bookcases and South Pacific art filled the walls. Bauer’s massive partner’s desk stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire compound and the ocean below the cliffs, straight across to the black lava fields in the distance.
“You’ve made a few improvements since the last time I was here,” Richardson commented dryly.
“Later, I will take you to the staff and quarters and recreation area,” Bauer replied. “Life here is not unlike on an oil rig: my people have leave only once a month, and then only for three days. The amenities I provide are well worth the expenditure.”
“These furloughs,” Richardson said. “Do you let your people go off by themselves?”
Bauer laughed softly. “Not likely, general. We book them into an exclusive resort. The security is there, but they’re never aware of it.”
“From one gilded cage to another,” Price remarked.
Bauer shrugged. “I’ve had no complaints.”
“Given what you pay them, I’m not surprised,” Price said.
Bauer stepped over to a well-stocked liquor cart. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Both Richardson and Price chose the fresh pineapple juice over ice and crushed fruit. Bauer stayed with his usual mineral water.
After the others were seated, Bauer took his place behind his desk.
“Gentlemen, let me recapitulate. The project that we have devoted five years of our lives to is almost ready to bear fruit. As you know, during the Clinton administration, smallpox, which was to have been destroyed in 1999, had been granted a reprieve. Currently, there are two consignments left in the world: one is in the Center for Communicable Diseases in Atlanta, part of the CDC; the other is in central Russia, at Bioaparat. Our entire plan rested on the ability to procure a sample of the smallpox virus. Efforts to get such a sample from the CDC had proved futile; the security was simply too stringent. However, such was not the case at Bioaparat.
“Given the Russians’ dire need for hard currency, I was able to make certain arrangements. I am pleased to tell you that within days, a courier carrying a sample of the virus will be leaving Russia.”
“Are your Russians guaranteeing delivery?” Richardson asked.
“Of course. In the unlikely event that the courier fails to rendezvous with our people, the second half of the payment will not be released.” Bauer paused, polishing his sharp, small teeth with his tongue. “There will also be other, more far-reaching, consequences. I can assure you that the Russians are very much aware of this.”
“But there’s a problem, isn’t there?” Richardson said bluntly. “Venice.”
Bauer did not reply. Instead, he slipped a disk into a DVD player. The monitor went from blue to jagged images, then to a startlingly clear picture of St. Mark’s Square.
“This footage was caught by an Italian journalist who was enjoying the day with his family,” Bauer explained.
“Does anyone else have it?” Price asked at once.
“No. My people got to the journalist immediately. Not only will he never have to spend a cent on his children’s education, he can retire—which, in fact, he has.”
Bauer pointed to the screen. “The man on the right is Yuri Danko, a high-ranking officer in the medical division of Russia’s security service.”
“And that’s Jon Smith, on the left,” Price added. He looked at Richardson. “Frank and I know Smith from his involvement in the Hades Project. Before that, he was with USAMRIID. Rumor had it he was close to someone in the Russian Medical Intelligence Division. NSA wanted in, but Smith refused to share. He claimed that he had no such source.”
“Now you see his source: Danko,” Bauer continued. “A month ago, I began receiving reports that Danko was sniffing around Bioaparat as part of his security rotation. As the day approached for our courier to depart, Danko bolted. But he was in such a hurry to get out that he became sloppy. The Russians discovered that he was on the run and passed that information to me.”
“At which point you arranged for the triggermen,” Richardson said. “You should have paid for better talent.”
“The executioners were top grade,” Bauer said coldly. “I had used them before and the results had always been satisfactory.”
“Not this time.”
“It would have been better to get Danko while he was still in Eastern Europe,” Bauer admitted. “However, that was not an option. He was moving too quickly, covering his tracks very well. Venice was our best chance. When my people reported seeing Danko with a contact, I knew immediately that this man would have to be disposed of as well.”
“But he wasn’t,” Price said.
“A mistake that will be rectified,” Bauer replied. “At the time we had no idea who Danko would contact. The key thing is that Danko, who was last stationed at Bioaparat, is dead. Whatever he knew died with him.”
“Unless he managed to tell Smith,” Richardson cut in.
“Study the footage,” Bauer suggested. “Check the time.”
He played back the disk. Richardson and Price stared intently at the screen. The carnage at St. Mark’s lasted only seconds.
“Play it again,” Price said.
This time, the two men concentrated on Danko’s actual meeting with Smith. Richardson had produced a stopwatch and was timing the brief encounter as he focused on Danko’s hands. Nothing passed between the Russian and Smith.
“You’re right,” Price said at last. “Danko comes up, sits down, orders a coffee, he and Smith talk…”
Bauer pulled out two copies of a transcript and handed one to each man. “I had a lip-reader prepare this. Small talk is all it was. Nothing more.”
Richardson scanned the page. “Looks like you were right: Danko didn’t have a chance to say anything. But you can be sure that Smith won’t fold up his tent and disappear into the night. He’s going to dig hard and deep.” The general paused. “Who knows what other contacts he has in the Russian military.”
“I realize that,” Bauer replied. “Believe me, I do not intend to underestimate Dr. Jon Smith. That is part of the reason I asked you here, so that we can decide how to proceed with him.”
Price, who had been usin
g the remote control to jog the images on the screen, froze a particular frame.
“This guy here, the Good Samaritan. He looks familiar.”
“According to my sources, he identified himself as an Italian doctor.”
“Did the police interview him?”
“No. He disappeared into the crowd.”
“What’s wrong, Tony?” Richardson asked.
Price’s cell phone trilled. Flipping it open, he identified himself; then, looking at the others, held up his finger.
“Hello, Inspector Dionetti. I’m glad you called. I have a few questions for you about the second man at the shooting….”
Sitting in his elegant, book-lined study, Dionetti contemplated an Etruscan bust. “You said that you wanted to know if anyone came around asking about the Rocca brothers,” he said.
“And?”
“An old friend of mine—Peter Howell, the former SAS—”
“I know who he is,” Price interrupted. “What did he want?”
Dionetti described his meeting with the Englishman and finished by saying: “I regret I won’t be able to get more information. But to ask too many questions…”
“What did you tell Howell?”
Dionetti licked his lips. “Howell asked if we had identified the bodies. I told him they were the Rocca brothers. I had no choice. Howell has other contacts in Venice. If I hadn’t told him, they would have.”
“What else?” Price demanded.
“He saw the results of the explosion—”
“And you volunteered that it was a C-twelve.”
“What else could I do? Howell was a soldier. He knows about these things. Listen to me, Antonio. Howell is on his way to Palermo, where the Roccas came from. He is traveling alone, an easy target.”
Price thought about that. “All right,” he said finally. “But if Howell contacts you from Palermo I want to know about it.”
After hanging up, Price looked at the face on the screen. “It’s Peter Howell,” he announced to the others.
He encapsulated what Dionetti had told him and gave an overview of Howell’s career.
“What would such a man be doing with Jon Smith?” Bauer demanded.
“Covering his back,” Richardson said grimly. “Smith’s no fool. He wasn’t about to go meet Danko alone.” He turned to Price. “That bastard Dionetti has a big mouth. Can we still trust him?”
“As long as we pay him,” Price replied. “Without us Dionetti’s one step away from bankruptcy. Five hundred years of family tradition—” He snapped his fingers. “—gone! Just like that. And he was right: Howell would have found out about the Roccas and the C-twelve, one way or another.”
“It seems that Smith is not the only loose end,” Bauer observed.
“True,” Richardson agreed. “But Palermo is a dangerous place—even for a man like Peter Howell.”
Chapter 7
Upon arriving from Houston, Jon Smith drove directly from Andrews to his Bethesda home. He showered, packed a change of clothes for a week, and called a car service to take him to Dulles Airport.
He was arming the security system when the secure phone rang.
“Klein here, Jon. Have you made the necessary arrangements?”
“I’m booked on the Delta flight to Moscow, sir. It leaves in three hours.”
“Good. I’ve spoken with the president. He’s given Covert-One the green light to proceed as it sees fit—but fast.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Here’s the information you’ll need.” After Klein gave him the details, he added: “I know there’s history between you and Randi Russell, Jon. Don’t let it get in the way of what you need to find out.”
Smith reined in his anger. Tact wasn’t one of Klein’s strong suits.
“I’ll report in every twelve hours, sir.”
“Good luck then. Let’s hope that whatever the problem is, the Russians have a handle on it.”
As the Delta L-1011 lumbered into the night sky, Smith settled himself in the comfortable business-class seat. He ate sparingly, then slept all the way to London. After refueling, the aircraft continued its easterly journey, landing at Sheremetevo early in the morning. Traveling on his military ID, Smith had no problem at customs and immigration. After a forty-minute cab ride he arrived at the new Sheraton hotel near Red Square.
Smith placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door, washed away the travel grit, and slept another four hours. Like most soldiers, he had long ago mastered the art of getting rest when he could.
A little after noon, he stepped out into the raw Moscow spring and walked the six blocks to a covered arcade fronting a nineteenth-century building. The shops were upscale, offering everything from furs and perfumes to precious icons and Siberian “blue” diamonds. Smith threaded his way past prosperous-looking shoppers, wondering which belonged to Russia’s new business elite and which were outright criminals. In the new Russia the distinction blurred.
He walked almost to the end of the arcade before he saw the address Klein had given him. The gold lettering—in Cyrillic and English—read: BAY DIGITAL CORPORATION.
Through the plate-glass window Smith saw a reception desk, and behind it, a series of workstations as modern as any found on Wall Street. Elegantly dressed men and women went about their business with brisk efficiency, but a particular one caught his eye. She was in her mid-thirties, tall, with gold hair cut short. She had the same straight nose and firm chin that belonged to another woman he’d known, the same dark eyes…as Sophia had had.
Smith took a deep breath and entered. He was about to introduce himself to the receptionist when the blond woman looked up. For an instant Smith couldn’t breathe. It was as if his Sophia had suddenly come back to life.
“Jon?”
Randi Russell could not hide her surprise, which drew curious looks from the rest of the staff. She hurried over to the receptionist’s desk.
“Why don’t we talk in my office?” she said, trying to keep her tone businesslike.
Smith followed her to a small but pleasantly decorated office, filled with framed watercolors of the Santa Barbara coastline. Randi Russell closed the door and looked him up and down.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “When? How…?”
“It’s good to see you again, Randi,” Smith said quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming. It was a last-minute trip.”
Randi’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing is last-minute with you, Jon. How did you know where to find me?”
Smith knew that in the aftermath of the Hades tragedy Randi had been stationed as a CIA field operative in Moscow. But it had taken Klein to ferret out the exact nature of her cover and where Smith could locate her.
Smith looked around the room. “Is it safe to talk here?”
Randi pointed to what looked like a DVD player. “The latest in bug detection. Besides, our cleaners ‘sweep’ the place every night.”
Smith nodded. “All right. First, I knew you were in Moscow but not where to find you. Others helped with that. Second, I need your help because a man—a good man—is dead and I want to find out what happened to him.”
Randi considered his words. She could tell when people were lying, even professionals whose stock in trade was mendacity. Her instincts told her that Smith was giving her the truth—or at least as much of it as he could.
“I’m listening, Jon.”
Smith sketched out who Danko was, then described his encounter with the Russian in minute detail. He did not shy away from the grisly details of the massacre at St. Mark’s. Randi was no stranger to violence.
“Are you sure the hunters weren’t after you as well?” she asked.
“If I’d been the primary target, I’d be dead,” Smith replied grimly. “Their target was Danko; they made sure he was dead. Only then did they turn on me.”
Randi shook her head. “Saved by a piano. My God! I can’t believe that you chased after them unarmed. You’re lucky
that someone got to them first.” She took a deep breath. “What is it you want, Jon—to avenge Danko or to get into Bioaparat?”
“Yuri sacrificed his life to bring me a secret,” he replied. “If I uncover it, I’ll find whoever killed him. But I think that whoever it is, he or they are also linked to Bioaparat.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Your best contacts in Russia, people in authority, people you would trust.”
She stared at the watercolors. “Oleg Kirov, a major-general in the Russian Federal Security Service. He’s very much like the Danko you describe: realistic, trustworthy, a patriot. His number two is Lara Telegin. Very bright, politically savvy, very good in the field.”
“I remember meeting Kirov when I was working for USAMRIID,” Smith said. “But I don’t know him well enough to call out of the blue. Can you set up a meeting?”
“Of course. But Kirov will want to know if you’re acting in any official capacity—and so would I.”
“I’m not working for USAMRIID or any intelligence agency. That’s the truth.”
She looked at him wryly. “As far as it goes.” She held up her hands to ward off his protest. “Hey, I know how these things work. So does Kirov.”
“This means a lot to me, Randi.”
She brushed away his thanks, and an uncomfortable silence descended between them.
“There are things I need to tell you,” Smith said at last. “Personal things.”
The Cassandra Compact Page 7
