The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  Treloar continued all the way to the back of the economy section, made the turn at the lavatories, and returned up the right-hand aisle. Back in the business section, he stopped abruptly as a calculator fell at his feet. He leaned down to pick it up and was handing it to the passenger in the aisle seat when he chanced to look across at the man by the window, asleep.

  “Are you all right?” the passenger whispered.

  Treloar nodded and took two quick steps forward, slipping behind the curtain into first class.

  Impossible! It can’t be him.

  His breath came in deep gasps as he tried desperately to calm himself. The sleeping man in the window seat had had his face to him: Jon Smith.

  “Can I get you something, sir?”

  Treloar stared at the flight attendant who’d come up to him. “No…thank you.”

  He hurried back to his seat, settled in, and pulled a blanket over himself.

  Treloar remembered meeting Smith in Houston. He had made the mistake of revealing that he had overheard Reed talking about Venice and Smith. Reed had warned him that Smith was not his business. He had assured Treloar that there was no reason why the doctor should ever again cross Treloar’s path.

  Then what’s he doing here? Is he following me?

  The questions pounded at Treloar as he glanced down at his carry-on, tucked beside the bulkhead. In his mind’s eye, he saw the shiny canister, and inside, the ampoules with their deadly golden-yellow liquid. Too paralyzed to move, he tried to rein in his panic.

  Think logically! If Smith knew about the smallpox, would he have allowed you to get onboard in London? Of course not! You’d be in chains right now. So he doesn’t know. His being here is a coincidence. It must be!

  His reasoning calmed him a little, but as soon as one set of questions was answered, another popped up: Maybe Smith was aware that he was carrying the virus, but there hadn’t been time to safely arrest him in London. Maybe the British had refused to go along. Maybe Smith was allowing him to get back home because he needed the time to establish a controlled situation at Dulles. They would fall on him as soon as he disembarked….

  Treloar pulled the blanket up closer under his chin. Back in the sunshine and safety of Houston, Reed’s plan had sounded so easy, so perfect. Yes, there was an element of danger, but it was infinitesimally small compared to the rewards he stood to reap. And before the danger, there had been the delights of Moscow.

  Treloar shook his head. He had memorized what it was he was supposed to do upon arrival at Dulles. Now, Smith’s unexplained presence had turned a careful plan to ashes. Guidance, explanations, reassuring words were needed.

  Reaching out from under the blanket, Treloar pulled out the in-flight phone. At this point in the operation, communications were strictly forbidden. But with Smith only a few feet away that rule no longer applied. Treloar fumbled with his credit card and scanned it in the slot cut into the hand unit. Seconds later, the transaction was approved and he was on-line.

  The room next to Randi’s office had been set up as a small conference center, complete with the latest audio-visual equipment, flat-screen monitors, and a professional video/DVD-editing unit that rivaled anything found in Disney’s animation department. On most Friday afternoons, the staff would get together, eat junk food, and watch the latest movies on DVD courtesy of Amazon.com.

  Sitting next to Sasha Rublev, Randi watched as the gangly teenager used the editing and enhancement software to massage the blurred image of the face on the tape. Sasha hadn’t moved from the computer for hours. Every now and again he stopped just long enough to chug down a Coke; then, fortified, he’d return to his task.

  All the while Randi had been nothing more than a silent observer. She was fascinated how Sasha coaxed pixel after pixel out of what appeared to be nothing more than a smudge. Little by little the image of a man’s face came into focus.

  Sasha made one final pass at the keyboard, then rolled his head to work out the kinks in his neck.

  “That’s it, Randi,” he said. “I can’t get it any better.”

  Randi squeezed his shoulder. “You did great.”

  She stared at the picture of a fleshy face punctuated by puffy cheeks and thick lips. The eyes were the most startling features: large and egg-shaped, they seemed to bulge from their sockets.

  “He’s an ugly man.”

  Randi started at the sound of Sasha’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  “He looks like a troll. There’s something evil about him.” He paused. “The train station…?”

  “I don’t know,” Randi replied truthfully. She gave Sasha a quick hug. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help. I need a couple minutes to finish up in here and then we’ll go get us some Egg McMuffins. Okay?”

  Sasha pointed to the laptop and the cell phone on the conference table. “What about those?”

  Randi smiled. “Maybe later.”

  As soon as she was alone, Randi established a secure E-link with the embassy’s senior foreign service officer who was, in fact, the CIA station chief. As soon as he acknowledged her, she fired off an urgent request for any and all information about the man whose photo would follow.

  Randi fed a printout of the image into the fax machine and, checking her watch, thought that she should get a reply in about thirty minutes. As she reached for her purse, she thought of Jon Smith and wondered why this “ugly” man was so important to him.

  “Stay calm, Adam. Just stay calm.”

  Adam Treloar sat jammed into the corner of his spacious window seat. He was grateful for the privacy afforded in the first-class cabin and the drone of the engines. Nonetheless he spoke in whispers.

  “What am I supposed to do, Price?” he demanded. “Smith is onboard this plane. I saw him!”

  Anthony Price swiveled his chair to face the windows fitted with bulletproof, one-way glass. He chose a random point in the sky and fixed his gaze on it. Then he emptied his mind of everything except the issue at hand.

  “But he hasn’t seen you, has he?” he said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “And he won’t. Not as long as you’re careful.”

  “But what’s he doing here in the first place?”

  Price would have dearly loved to know that.

  “I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “As soon as we’re through I’ll start checking. But remember: Smith is not your concern. And there is absolutely no reason for him to be interested in you.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Treloar hissed. “You think I don’t know about Smith’s role in the Hades horror?”

  “Smith is no longer with USAMRIID,” Price replied. “And here’s something you may not know: his fiancée was killed during Hades. Her sister works in Moscow for a venture capital firm.”

  “Are you saying Smith was there for personal reasons?”

  “Could well be.”

  “I don’t know…” Treloar muttered. “I don’t like coincidence.”

  “But sometimes that’s all it is,” Price said soothingly. “Adam, listen to me. I have you flagged at Dulles. You’ll breeze through customs and immigration. One of our people will be waiting for you with a car. You’re home free. So just relax.”

  “Just make sure nothing goes wrong. If they find—”

  “Adam!” Price said sharply. “We don’t need to get into that.”

  “Sorry…”

  “Call me as soon as you’re in the car. And don’t worry.”

  Price broke the connection. Treloar had always been the weak link in the chain. But also indispensable. He was the only member of the Compact who had established a reason for going to Russia on a regular basis. He was also a scientist who knew how to handle smallpox. But that didn’t stop Price, who hated the weak, from despising him.

  “Just make it home, Adam,” he whispered to the sky. “Make it home and you will certainly get your just rewards.”

  Chapter 15

  After leaving the Washington city limits, Nathaniel Klein drove along U.S.
15 until he reached Thurmont, Maryland. There he took Route 77, slipped past Hagerstown, and followed Hunting Creek until he reached the Catoctin Mountain Park Visitors Center. Skirting the forest ranger’s station, he headed up two-lane blacktops until he came to a sign that read NO STOPPING, SLOWING, TURNING OR STANDING HERE. To reinforce the message, an army Humvee rattled off the shoulder and into the middle of the road.

  Klein pulled over his nondescript Buick sedan, lowered his window, and held out his ID. The officer, who had been alerted to expect Klein, scanned the card. Satisfied, he instructed Klein to proceed. As soon as he was under way, the car phone sounded.

  “Klein here.”

  “Kirov in Moscow. How are you, sir?”

  By the sounds of it, better than you. But all he said was, “Fine, General.”

  “I have information.” There was a slight hesitation, as if the Russian was trying to find the right words. Finally, they came out in a rush: “Beria made it to St. Petersburg, just as you suspected. Frankly, I am at a loss to understand how this is possible.”

  “You’re sure?” Klein demanded.

  “Positive. A bus driver was stopped at a checkpoint on the Moscow-St. Petersburg highway. He was shown a photograph and identified Beria.”

  “How far outside St. Petersburg was this checkpoint?”

  “A little bit of luck here: only an hour. I immediately concentrated my resources in the city, particularly the airport. No American carriers had left up to that point.”

  Klein breathed a little easier. Wherever Beria was going, it wasn’t here.

  “But there was a Finnair flight that left almost ten hours ago,” Kirov said. “It’s carrying an American tour group.”

  Klein closed his eyes. “And?”

  “The immigration officer remembers the tour leader giving him a stack of passports. He took his time going through them. One of the names caught his attention because it was a Russian name on an American passport. Ivan Beria now calls himself John Strelnikov. If the Finnair flight is on schedule, it will land at Dulles in fifteen minutes.”

  Klein stared through the windshield at the lodges coming into view.

  “General, I’ll have to call you back.”

  “I understand. Godspeed to you, sir.”

  Klein drove past the rustic dwellings until he saw the largest one, fronting a small pond. He pulled in, got out, and hurried to the front door. Nathaniel Klein had arrived at Aspen, the presidential lodge at Camp David.

  Developed in 1938 as a retreat for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the area known as Camp David had been called the Catoctin Recreational Demonstration Area (RDA), used by federal employees and their families. Its security fence surrounded one hundred and twenty-five acres sheltered by a thick growth of oak, hickory, aspen, poplar, and ash. The guest lodges—used by foreign dignitaries, the friends and family of the president, and other visitors—were set in private surroundings and connected to Aspen by a series of footpaths.

  Through the trees Klein caught a glimpse of Marine One, the presidential helicopter. Under the circumstances, he was glad that the flying time to Washington was only thirty minutes.

  The Secret Service agent opened the door for him and Klein stepped into a small, pine-paneled foyer. A second agent escorted him through the homey living room to the large, comfortable room that served as the presidential office.

  Samuel Adams Castilla, the chief executive, sat behind a stressed-pine desk, going through paperwork. Wearing a cardigan over a denim shirt, the former New Mexico governor rose and offered Klein his large, weathered hand. Behind titaniumrimmed glasses, cool, slate-gray eyes appraised the visitor.

  “Usually I’d say it’s good to see you, Nate,” the president said. “But since you mentioned it was urgent…”

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your privacy, Mr. President, but this can’t wait.”

  Castilla ran a palm across his five o’clock shadow. “Does it relate to what we talked about in Houston?”

  “I’m afraid it does.”

  The president gestured at one of the couches. “Bring me up to speed,” he said crisply.

  Five minutes later, Castilla knew more than he had ever wished to know.

  “What’s your recommendation, Nate?” he asked quietly.

  “Commence FIREWALL,” Klein said tightly. “We don’t want a single one of those passengers walking out of the terminal.”

  Developed in collaboration with the FAA, the FBI, and the Pentagon, FIREWALL was a dedicated response to any terrorist incursion into the United States. If the warning came early enough, every port of entry would be flooded by security officials waiting for a target whose description and particulars were already in hand. Klein knew that it was too late to do this at Dulles. The best he could do was to alert every available uniformed and undercover officer in the complex and initiate a hunt. Even as agents were scrambling, the FAA would be faxing a passenger manifest to the central command post.

  The president stared at him, nodded, and reached for the phone. In seconds he had Jerry Matthews, the head of the FBI, on the line, and was explaining what had to be done.

  “I don’t have time to give you all the details right now, Jerry. Just get FIREWALL going. I’m faxing you a description of the suspect as we speak.”

  The president took the sketch Klein held out and fed it into the machine.

  “His real name is Ivan Beria, Jerry. He’s a Serb national. But he’s calling himself John Strelnikov and is traveling on a fake U.S. passport. He is not, I repeat not, an American citizen. And Jerry? This is a level-five situation.”

  Five was the highest designation, meaning that the individual in question was to be considered not only armed and dangerous but a clear and immediate danger to national security.

  The president hung up and turned to Klein. “He’ll get back to me as soon as the ball’s rolling.” He shook his head. “He asked—respectfully, mind you—what my sources were.”

  “I appreciate your position, sir,” Klein replied.

  “It’s one of my making.”

  After the nightmare of Hades and the subsequent election, Samuel Castilla had sworn that the United States would never again be caught off-guard. While he respected the work of the traditional agencies, he saw a dire need for a new group—small, elite, run by a single individual beholden to no one, reporting only to the chief executive.

  After a great deal of thought, Castilla had chosen Nathaniel Klein to head what would become known as Covert-One. Using funds carefully siphoned off from various government departments, employing only the most talented and trustworthy men and women, Covert-One had grown from an idea into a presidential iron fist. This time, Castilla thought, we have the chance to stop the monster instead of wading through the horror it’ll spawn.

  The ringing phone intruded on his reverie. “Yes, Jerry.”

  Castilla listened, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and turned to Klein.

  “They have a hit on Strelnikov. Immigration clocked him in eight minutes before FIREWALL went into effect.” He paused. “Do you want to maintain the alert, Nate?”

  Suddenly, Klein felt very old. Beria had fooled them again. Eight minutes was an eternity to someone like him.

  “It’s a whole different ballgame now, sir. We have to go to a backup plan.” Quickly he outlined what he had in mind.

  The president got back on the line. “Jerry, listen carefully….”

  Even as Castilla spoke, the director of the FBI scrambled the Bureau’s elite antiterrorist teams stationed at Buzzard’s Point. A description of Beria was being sent to the computer screens of their cars. Within thirty minutes, the first squads would be interviewing taxi dispatchers, skycaps, limousine drivers, anyone who might have seen or come into contact with the suspect.

  “Let me know the minute you have something,” Castilla said and ended the call. He turned to Klein. “Exactly how much smallpox was stolen?”

  “Enough to start a wildfire of an epidemic across the eastern s
eaboard.”

  “What about our vaccine supplies—besides the amount stockpiled by USAMRIID for military use?”

  “Barely enough to inoculate half a million people. I’m anticipating your next question, Mr. President: how long to manufacture enough? Too long. Weeks.”

  “Nonetheless, we have to try. What about Britain, Canada, Japan—can we buy from them?”

  “They have less than we do, sir. And they would need that to protect their own populations.”

  For a moment, there was silence.

  “Is there any reason to believe that Beria came here with the express intent of unleashing the virus?” the president asked.

  “No, sir. Ironically, that’s our one ray of hope. Beria has never been anything other than a killer for hire, a facilitator. His politics revolve around the price paid for services rendered.”

  “Facilitator? Are you suggesting that he’s delivering the smallpox to someone over here?”

  “I appreciate that it’s a difficult concept to entertain, Mr. President. After all, if a terrorist wanted to stage a biochem attack against us, it would be much safer to assemble the weapon outside the country, rather than here.”

  “But the smallpox is already a weapon, isn’t it, Nate?”

  “Yes, sir. Even in its raw form, it is extremely potent. Deposit it in New York City’s water supply and you create a crisis of massive proportions. But, Mr. President, if you take the same amount and reconfigure it so that it can be used in an aerosol dispersal system, you can crop dust, if you will, a much greater area.”

  The president grunted. “You’re saying, why waste the potential when you can maximize it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Assuming, for a moment, that Beria is a courier, how far can he get?”

  “Hopefully we can contain him to the D.C. area. Beria has a couple of problems: he doesn’t speak English well, and he’s never been in this country, much less in this specific area. One way or another, he will draw attention to himself.”

  “In theory, Nate. But he won’t be signing up for tours of the White House. He’ll deliver the virus and get the hell out of Dodge. Or try to.”