The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  “Do you propose we inform Kirov—or anyone else?”

  “It’s our plane, sir. If the agent spots him, we can give the French the all-clear and warn the British that he’s on the way. Any lead time we could give them would be invaluable.”

  Another moment of silence followed.

  “All right, Jon. I’ll get things going on this end. The flight’s ninety minutes out of Heathrow. Stay airborne until I call back.”

  Catching a whiff of exotic perfume, Adam Treloar stirred in his spacious first-class seat. He heard the faint rustle of silk against flesh, then caught a pair of shapely buttocks swaying past his line of sight. As though she sensed she was being watched, the woman, a long-legged redhead, turned. Treloar blushed as her eyes settled on him; his embarrassment deepened as she smiled and raised her eyebrows as though to say, you naughty boy! Then she was gone, disappearing behind the partition into the area where the drinks and food were prepared.

  Treloar sighed, not because he coveted the girl; females of any age did not interest him sexually. But he appreciated beauty in all its forms. In certain parts of the Caribbean, on private yachts, he had watched, rapt, as loveliness like that was subjugated in order to stimulate the appetites of the audience.

  An announcement from the pilot interrupted his reverie:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to inform you that the latest weather in London calls for light drizzle, with a temperature of sixty-two degrees. We are on schedule, with an estimated time of arrival of one hour and five minutes from now.”

  Boring, Treloar thought.

  He was still musing about the inanity of such announcements when the woman reappeared. She seemed to be walking more slowly, as though taking time to stretch her legs. Once again, Treloar felt himself brushed by her cool gaze; his blush returned.

  The woman’s name was Ellen Diforio. She was twenty-eight years old, a certified martial arts expert, and championship shooter. She was in her fifth year in the federal marshal service, her second in the sky marshal division.

  Wouldn’t you know it? My last gig, and this has to happen.

  Fifteen minutes earlier, Diforio had been thinking about a date she had that night with her Washington lawyer boyfriend. Her daydreams had been interrupted by a seemingly innocuous announcement that the in-flight duty-free shop had a special offer on Jean Patou 1000 perfume. The code words had snapped Diforio back to reality. She had counted off ten seconds, picked up her bag, and left her business-class seat, heading in the direction of the washrooms. She had kept on going into first class, around the panel into the service area, and then, surreptitiously, into the cockpit.

  Diforio read the security director’s message and studied the photofax intently. Her orders were clear: determine whether or not this individual was onboard. If she spotted him, she was not to make any contact or attempt to restrain him. Instead, she was to report back to the cockpit immediately.

  “What about a weapon?” Diforio had asked the pilot. “It doesn’t say anything about a gun or a bomb. There’s no bio, either. Who is this guy?”

  The pilot shrugged. “All I know is that the British have scrambled the SAS guys. It’s that serious. If he’s onboard and we make it down, they take him out on the ground.” He looked pointedly at her handbag. “Do me a favor: no Annie Oakley stuff back there.”

  Making her way through the first-class cabin, Diforio noted the embarrassment of the man with the funny, egg-shaped eyes.

  Not this clown.

  She was very much aware of the effect she had on men and planned to put it to good use. Seventeen or seventy, they all took notice; some were a little subtler than others. But if she wanted to, she could get them to look at her directly. A hint of a smile, a twinkle in her eyes was all it would take.

  The first-class and business cabins were a wash. Not that she had expected to find the target there. Guys like this Beria character liked to hide themselves in a mob. Diforio pulled back the curtain and stepped into the economy section.

  The cabin was configured for 3-3-3 sitting, the seats separated by two aisles. While pretending to check the magazine rack, Diforio scanned the first six rows along the left-hand aisle: retirees, kids on a college break, young families traveling on a budget. She began walking to the back of the plane.

  A few minutes later, Diforio was at the lavatories at the end of the bulkhead. She’d gotten a good look at all the passengers in the perimeter, plus two who had exited the washrooms. The rest of the seats were filled; none of the occupants resembled the target.

  Now the tricky part.

  Diforio went back the way she’d come, stepped into the business section, came around the partition, then went back into economy. Arching her back, she made it look like she was trying to work out cramped muscles. Curious male faces turned sympathetic—and appreciative—when her breasts pushed against the shell beneath her jacket. She encouraged the ogling with a slight smile as she moved down the right-hand aisle, her gaze flitting over but never alighting on individual faces. Again, her luck held. All the seats were occupied; the male passengers either asleep, reading, or working on business papers. She was grateful that the movie had ended and most of the window shades were up, allowing the sunlight to pour in.

  Once again, Diforio found herself at the back of the plane. She walked past the lavatories, then up the left-hand aisle, double-checking to make sure that she hadn’t overlooked any seats. A moment later, she was in the flight deck.

  “Negative on the target,” she reported to the pilot.

  “You’re sure?”

  “First and business are clean. No one even remotely resembles this guy. You have a full house in economy—two hundred thirty-eight people. One hundred seventeen are women—and believe me, they are women. Twenty-two are children under the age of fifteen; forty-three are kids in their twenties. Out of sixty-three possible males, twenty-eight are over sixty-five and look it. Another sixteen are over fifty. That leaves nineteen possibles—and no match.”

  The pilot nodded with his chin at the copilot. “Danny’ll set up a link with Dallas. Tell ’em what you found—or didn’t.” He paused. “Does this mean I can start breathing again?”

  The communications gear on the C-22 allowed Smith to eavesdrop on the French security operations channel. He listened as agents of the Deuxième Bureau reported on the disembarkation of Air France flight 612. Three-quarters of the passengers were off and still there was no sign of Beria. Smith was turning his attention to the American flight, less than twenty minutes from touchdown, when the satellite phone chirped.

  “It’s Klein. Jon, I just got a report from Dallas. The marshal on 1710 reports that there’s no one onboard who resembles Beria.”

  “That’s impossible! The French have just about off-loaded. Nothing there. He has to be on American.”

  “Not according to the air marshal. She’s almost positive that Beria isn’t there.”

  “Almost isn’t good enough.”

  “I realize that. I’ve relayed her findings to the Brits. They’re grateful, but they’re not going to ease up. The SAS is in position and will stay there.”

  “Sir, I think we have to consider the possibility that Beria took some other flight or that he’s using another way to get into the States.”

  Klein’s breath whistled over the line. “Do you think he’d be so brazen as to try that? He must know that we’ve pulled out all the stops to bring him down.”

  “Beria started a job, sir. He’s killed in the course of carrying it out. Yes, I think he’s determined enough to try to reach us.” He paused. “Moscow is the main point for flights to the West, but it’s not the only way out.”

  “St. Petersburg?”

  “It handles a lot of flights to and from Scandinavia and northern Europe. Aeroflot, Scandinavian Airlines, Finnair, Royal Dutch—they all have steady traffic in and out of there.”

  “Kirov will have an embolism when I suggest that Beria might have gotten as far as St. Petersburg.” />
  “He’s gotten awfully far as it is, sir. This guy isn’t running; he’s following a well-thought-out plan. That’s what’s keeping him one step ahead of us.”

  Smith heard something on the French channel. He excused himself, listened briefly, then got back to Klein. “Paris confirms that their flight’s clean.”

  “What’s your next step, Jon?”

  Smith thought for a moment. “London, sir. That’s where I get off.”

  Chapter 14

  With puffs of blue tire smoke and the stink of superheated brakes, American 1710 touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. Per instructions from the Special Air Service commander, the pilot informed his passengers that a mechanical problem had developed with the jetway assigned to their gate. The control tower was rerouting them to another part of the field where ramps could be rolled up against the hatches.

  The flight attendants passed through the first- and business-class cabins, reassuring passengers that they would make their connecting flights.

  “What about the continuation to Dulles?” Treloar asked.

  “Our time on the ground will be as brief as possible,” the steward replied.

  Treloar prayed that he was right. The nitrogen charges inside the canister were good for another twelve hours. The stop at Heathrow was usually ninety minutes; the flying time to Dulles, six hours fifteen minutes. After customs and immigration, he would have a three-hour window to get the smallpox into a refrigerated facility. There was little room for the unforeseen.

  Stepping out onto the ramp, Treloar discovered that the aircraft was parked next to a giant maintenance hangar. As he descended the steps, he saw baggage carts being loaded and two airport buses idling near the hangar doors. At the bottom of the steps, a pleasant young customs officer invited him to step into the hangar, which was set up as a temporary processing and in-transit facility.

  As Treloar and his fellow travelers shuffled along, they had no idea that hard eyes tucked against sniperscopes were scrutinizing their every move. They could not have guessed that the young men in customs and immigration uniforms, along with the baggage handlers, bus drivers, and maintenance people, were all heavily armed undercover SAS operatives.

  Just before Treloar disappeared through the door leading into the hangar, he heard a high-pitched shriek. Turning, he saw a trim, executive jet land gracefully on the runway two hundred yards away. He imagined that it belonged to an obscenely wealthy entrepreneur, or to some sheik, never suspecting that inside the Ilyushin C-22 a man was, at that moment, receiving a detailed description of him from a sniper who happened to have Treloar’s forehead in his crosshairs.

  “The Brits say that 1710 is clean, sir.”

  Klein’s voice whistled through the secure link. “I got the same report. You should have heard Kirov when I gave him the news. All hell’s breaking loose in Moscow.”

  Sitting in the parked Ilyushin, Smith continued to watch the activity around the American 767. “What about St. Petersburg?”

  “Kirov’s compiling a list of all flights that have left up to now. He’s scrambling to get the terminal’s departure tapes, as well as putting men on the ground to start interviewing employees.”

  Smith bit his lip. “It’s all taking too long, sir. With every hour, Beria gets farther and farther away.”

  “I know. But we can’t hunt until we have a target.” Klein paused. “What’s your next move?”

  “There’s nothing I can do in London. I asked American to get me on 1710 and they obliged. It’s scheduled to leave in about seventy-five minutes. That’ll put me in Washington sooner than if I were to wait for military transport.”

  “I don’t like the idea of your being without a secure link.”

  “The flight deck crew will know that I’m onboard, sir. If there’s any word from Moscow, you can radio the plane.”

  “Under the circumstances, that’ll have to do. In the meantime, try to get some rest on the flight. This thing is just getting started.”

  Anthony Price was in his expansive office on the sixth floor of the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. As deputy director, Price was responsible for the agency’s day-to-day operations. Right now, that meant keeping his staff on top of the situation in Moscow. So far, the Russians were sticking with the story that Chechen rebels were responsible for the massacre—which suited Price just fine. It gave him a legitimate reason to cover the incident. And the longer the Russians chased the phantom terrorists, the easier it would be for Beria and Treloar to slip through the net.

  Price looked up when he heard the knock on his door. “Come in.”

  Price’s senior analyst, a stout young woman with a librarian’s fussy air about her, entered.

  “The latest update from our resources on the ground in Moscow, sir,” she said. “Seems that General Kirov is very concerned about some surveillance video out of Sheremetevo in Moscow.”

  Price felt a constriction in his chest but managed to keep his voice level. “Really? Why? Who’s on the tape?”

  “No one knows. But for some reason the Russians red-flagged it. Apparently the video is very poor.”

  Price’s mind was racing. “That’s it?”

  “For now, sir.”

  “I want you to stay on top of that video. Anyone hears word one about it, I want to know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the analyst left, Price turned to his computer and called up the flights coming into Dulles. There was only one reason that the Russians would be so interested in the video surveillance tapes: Beria had been seen with somebody. And that person could only be Adam Treloar.

  American 1710 was scheduled to arrive in a little over six hours. Russian photo analysis and enhancement was hardly state of the art. It would take their machines hours to float up images. By that time, 1710 should be on the ground and Adam Treloar would be safe.

  Price sat back in his executive leather chair, removed his glasses, and tapped a stem against his front teeth. The situation in Moscow had degenerated into a near-fiasco. That Beria had escaped the carnage at the train station was nothing short of miraculous. Equally amazing was the fact that he’d gotten to Sheremetevo in time to hand off the smallpox to Adam Treloar.

  But the surveillance cameras had caught a connection between the two men. Kirov had the connection. As soon as he’d reconstructed Treloar’s picture, he would run it against the customs and immigration databanks. He would discover exactly when Treloar had entered and left Russia. He would alert the CIA and FBI liaisons at the embassy.

  Then we’d start running Treloar to ground, if for no other reason than he was seen with Beria…. But does Kirov suspect that Treloar is the actual courier?

  Price didn’t think so. So far, everything indicated that the hunt was centered on Beria. And the Russians were getting close. The bulletins coming in from NSA assets in St. Petersburg indicated intense counterintelligence activity in there.

  Price pulled up another set of arrivals. There it was, the Finnair flight, five hours out of Dulles. Could the Russians pull together their information and confirm that Beria had flown out of St. Petersburg? If they sounded the alarms, how long would it take FBI to throw a net over Dulles?

  Not long.

  “That’s all the time you have, friend,” Price said to the screen.

  Reaching for the phone, he punched in Richardson’s secure number. The master plan had called Beria’s presence in the United States a contingency. But with the exposure of Treloar inevitable, that status was about to change.

  Major-General Kirov had been on his feet for the better part of twenty-four hours. Painkillers, Lara Telegin’s unspeakable betrayal, and an insatiable desire to find Ivan Beria kept him going.

  Staring out his office window at the gathering twilight, Kirov reviewed the situation. In spite of what he had told Klein, the search for Beria was still concentrated in Moscow. He had listened to what the American had had to say, and had been openly skeptical about his theory that the ki
ller had run to St. Petersburg in order to get out of Russia. Kirov believed that the fiasco at the train station had completely shattered Beria’s intricate plan. Obviously a contact, perhaps ready to take the smallpox, had been waiting close by. Equally true was that the shooting would have frightened him off. Certainly there would have been a fallback rendezvous point. But between the police, the militia, and the security forces, Kirov had more than eight thousand men scouring the city, all searching for a single face. The monster from the Balkans could move around only at great peril to himself—and to his contact. Knowing Beria as well as he did, Kirov believed that he had gone to ground somewhere in the city. That being the case, it was just a matter of time before he was flushed and the stolen smallpox retrieved.

  But for all his certainty, Kirov knew better than to place all his bets on a single roll of the dice. Honoring his promise to Klein, he had called the head of the Federal Security Service in St. Petersburg. The FSS and the police already had Beria’s description and particulars; the call from Moscow put some starch into their search. Kirov had instructed the FSS commander to concentrate his resources on the train and bus stations—places where Beria would most likely have entered the city—and on the airport. At the same time, passenger manifests and airport security videos were to be thoroughly checked. If there was the slightest possibility that Beria had been or still was in St. Petersburg, Kirov was to be notified immediately.

  Two hours after American 1710 had departed London, Adam Treloar finished his dinner wine and stowed his meal tray into the armrest of his seat. Ambling to the lavatory, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth using the supplies provided in the amenities kit. On the way back to his seat, he decided to stretch his legs.

  Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into business class and walked down the left-hand aisle of the darkened compartment. Some of the passengers were watching a movie on their personal video screens; others were either working, reading, or sleeping.