The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  “Believe me, it was more,” Treloar replied sullenly. “You weren’t there.”

  True. But you were never far from my mind….

  “Listen to me, Adam,” Reed said. “You’re safe. You did what was necessary and you made it back home. Think: what can anyone say? You went to visit your mother’s grave. That’s all documented. You saw a little bit of Moscow. No harm there. Then you came home. The airport? You were in a rush. You didn’t have time to pick up your bag. And Smith? You never actually got a good look at him, did you?”

  “But why was he after me in the first place?” Treloar demanded.

  Here, Reed realized, only a piece of the truth would work.

  “Because your contact at Sheremetevo was caught on tape—and you along with him.”

  Treloar groaned.

  “Listen to me, Adam! They have a tape of two men sitting side by side at an airport counter. That’s all they have. No voice, nothing to connect the two of you. But because they know what the courier was carrying, they’re looking at everyone.”

  “They know about the smallpox,” Treloar said dully.

  “They know it’s missing. And that the courier had it. But he’s the one they’re after, not you. No one suspects you of anything. You just happened to be sitting next to this guy.”

  Treloar washed his face with his hands. “I don’t know if I could stand it, Dylan…. To be questioned.”

  “You’ll be fine because you haven’t done anything,” Reed repeated. “Even if you were poly-graphed, what could you say? Did you know the identity of the man sitting next to you? No. Were you supposed to meet him? No. Because the contact could just as easily have been a woman.”

  Treloar swallowed more scotch. Looking at the situation that way, he felt a little better. There was so much he could say no to.

  “I’m exhausted,” he said. “I need to get some sleep, somewhere where no one will disturb me.”

  “Already arranged. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons. There’s a suite waiting for you. Take as much time as you need. Call me later.”

  Throwing his arm over Treloar’s shoulder, Reed walked him to the door. “The car’s outside. Adam, thank you. All of us thank you. Your contribution has been invaluable.”

  Treloar had his hand on the doorknob. “The money?” he asked under his breath.

  “There’s an envelope at the hotel. Inside, you’ll find two numbers. One is for the account, the other is the bank director’s private number in Zurich.”

  Treloar stepped out into the gloaming. The wind had picked up and he shivered. He looked back once and saw only the black door, closed.

  The car was not waiting in front of the townhouse. Treloar looked up and down the street, then spotted it halfway down the block. He thought he understood why: there were no parking spaces.

  Walking down the street, the scotch warming his belly, he replayed Reed’s reassuring words. He was right: everything that had happened in Russia was behind him. No one had any evidence against him. Besides, he knew so much about Reed, Bauer, and the others that they would always have to protect him.

  The idea of holding such power lulled Treloar. Looking up, he expected to see the Lincoln on his left. Instead, it was farther down the block, a stone’s throw from Wisconsin Avenue. He shook his head. He was more tired than he realized and must have miscalculated the distance. Then he heard the soft slap of leather on concrete, footsteps approaching.

  Treloar saw the shoes first, then the pant legs with razor-sharp creases. When he looked up, the figure was less than two feet away.

  “You!”

  Treloar’s eyes rolled wildly as he stared at Ivan Beria.

  Beria took a quick step toward him. Treloar could smell his breath, heard the soft whistle that escaped Beria’s nostrils.

  “I missed you,” Beria said softly.

  Treloar cried out weakly as a sharp pain shot through his chest. For an instant he thought he was having a heart attack.

  “When you were a little boy, did you prick balloons with a needle? That’s all it is, really. Just a balloon.”

  Absurdly, Treloar clung to the image even as the tip of Beria’s stiletto wriggled into his heart. He sighed once and felt all the air rush out of his lungs. Lying there on the sidewalk, he could see the people walking along Wisconsin and Beria stepping off the sidewalk. He must have tried to call out, because Beria turned and looked at him. Then, as his eyes closed, so did the door of the black Lincoln.

  Dr. Dylan Reed had put Adam Treloar out of his mind as soon as the door had closed behind him. Having made the arrangements himself, he knew what was in store for the hapless scientist. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Dr. Karl Bauer and General Richardson—the latter dressed in mufti—were waiting.

  Richardson held up a cell phone. “I just heard from Beria. It’s done.”

  “Then we have to get moving,” Reed replied.

  He glanced at Bauer, who had already removed the canister from the freezer and was opening it on the counter. At his feet was a lightweight titanium chest the size of a picnic cooler.

  “Are you sure you want to do that here, Karl?”

  Bauer finished opening the canister before replying. “Open the chest, please, Dylan.”

  Kneeling, Reed pulled the handles. There was a faint hiss as the seals came apart.

  The interior was surprisingly small, but Reed knew this was because the chest was merely a larger version of the canister that had been carried from Russia. Its thick walls were studded with liquid nitrogen capsules, which, when fully activated, would keep the interior at a steady temperature of minus two hundred degrees centigrade. Developed by Bauer-Zermatt A.G., the chest was standard issue when it came to the transport of toxic cultures.

  Using thick, specially lined gloves, Bauer removed the inner chamber in which the ampoules rested. Looking at them, he thought they resembled miniature missiles, lined up ready to fire. Except that by the time the protocols were altered, they would be vastly more potent than any nuclear weapon in the American arsenal.

  Although Bauer had been handling viruses for more than forty years, he never forgot what he was dealing with. He made sure that his hands were absolutely steady and that there was no moisture on the counter or anywhere near his feet before he slowly lowered it into a special cradle in the chest. Closing the lid, he entered an alphanumeric combination into the security lock pad and set the temperature.

  Looking up, he said, “Gentlemen, the clock is running.”

  The row houses of Volta Place shared a common characteristic: each had a small garage behind the backyard that opened up on an alley. Reed and Richardson carried the chest into the garage and stowed it in the cargo compartment of a Volvo station wagon. Bauer stayed behind a moment to make sure that nothing that could link the three men to this location had been left behind. He was not concerned about fingerprints or fibers or any other forensic minutiae; in a few minutes, a special NSA cleaning crew would arrive to wash and vacuum the interior. The NSA maintained several such safe houses in the Washington area. For the cleaners, this was just another stop in a busy schedule.

  As Bauer walked to the garage, he heard the wail of sirens coming from the direction of Wisconsin Avenue.

  “It would appear that Adam Treloar is about to play his final role,” he murmured as the three got into the station wagon.

  “Too bad he isn’t around to read the reviews,” Reed said, and edged the car into the alley.

  Chapter 17

  Peter Howell stood on the top tier of the wide steps leading into the Galleria Regionale on the Via Alloro. Sicily’s most prestigious gallery boasted paintings by Antonello da Messina as well as the magnificent fifteenth-century fresco Triumph of Death by Laurana, which particularly appealed to Howell.

  Staying well away from the tourists hiking up and down the steps, alert for anyone who might be taking an undue interest in him, Howell pulled out his secure phone and dialed the number Jon Smith had given him.r />
  “Jon? Peter here. We need to talk.”

  Forty-five hundred miles away, Smith pulled over onto the soft shoulder of Route 77.

  “Go ahead, Peter.”

  Continuing to scan the foot traffic around the gallery, Howell described his meeting with the smuggler, Franco Grimaldi, the subsequent attempt on his life, and his encounter with Master Sergeant Travis Nichols and his partner, Patrick Drake.

  “Are you sure they were U.S. military?” Smith asked.

  “Absolutely,” Howell replied. “I set up watch at the post office, Jon. An officer came to the box, just like Nichols said he would. But there was no chance to take him—and no way I can get on your base outside Palermo.” Howell paused. “What are your soldier boys up to, Jon?”

  “Believe me, I’d love to know.”

  The sudden appearance of American military personnel—soldiers as assassins—added a new dimension to an already complex equation, one that demanded to be addressed immediately.

  “If Nichols and his partner were sanctioned killers, someone had to be paying them,” Smith concluded.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Howell replied.

  “Any ideas as to how to ferret out the money man?”

  “Actually, yes,” Howell replied, then proceeded to explain.

  Ten minutes later, Smith pulled back on Route 77. Reaching the entrance to Camp David, he was given a military escort to Rosebud, the guest cabin closest to Aspen. He found Klein sitting in front of a fieldstone fireplace, talking on the phone.

  Klein waved Smith to sit, finished his monosyllabic conversation, and turned to Smith.

  “That was Kirov. His people are questioning everyone in the Bioaparat complex, trying to walk back the cat to Yardeni’s contacts. So far, no luck. Yardeni seems to have been one closemouthed SOB. He didn’t go around spending money he shouldn’t have had, or bragging about how soon he’d be living the high life in the West. No one remembers seeing him with any foreigners. Kirov’s checking his phone calls and mail, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “So whoever reached out to Yardeni did so very carefully,” Smith observed. “They made sure he was the right man for the job—no family, corrupt, someone who could keep his mouth shut.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “What else does Kirov have?”

  “Nothing. And he knows it.” Klein snorted. “He tried hard not to sound too relieved that it’s now our problem. Can’t blame him, though.”

  “It’s still Russian smallpox that’s at the root of all this, sir. If word gets out—”

  “It won’t.” Klein checked his watch. “The president is expecting my call in fifteen minutes. What do you have?”

  Smith spoke quickly and succinctly, describing everything that had happened in Russia as well as his confrontation with Treloar at Dulles. Klein’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when Smith detailed how U.S. soldiers were now involved. Then he presented his suggestions for the next course of action.

  Klein took a moment to consider. “I like most of it,” he said finally. “But a couple of points might be a hard sell.”

  “I don’t see where we have options, sir.”

  Klein’s reply was interrupted by a call his secretary put through. Smith noticed a gleam in his eyes as he listened.

  Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, he whispered, “The BOLO nailed Treloar!”

  Even as Smith leaned forward in his chair, Klein’s expression slackened.

  “You’re sure?” he demanded. After a pause: “No witnesses? No one saw anything?”

  Klein listened some more, then said, “I want the detectives’ reports and the crime-scene photos faxed to my desk immediately. And yes, cancel the BOLO.”

  The receiver rattled in its cradle.

  “Treloar,” Klein said, grinding his back teeth. “D.C. cops found him in Volta Place, near Wisconsin, stabbed to death.”

  Smith closed his eyes, picturing the frightened bald man with the funny eyes.

  “They’re positive?”

  “A passport and other ID were found on the body. It’s him. Someone got very close and stuck what the cops think was a stiletto into his heart. They’re saying it was a mugging.”

  “A mugging…Did they find anything around the body, a carry-on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Had he been robbed?”

  “Money and credit cards were gone.”

  “But not the wallet or the passport. Those would be left behind to help with the ID.” Smith shook his head. “Beria. Whoever was using Treloar knew he was the link. A weak link. They used Beria to get rid of him.”

  “‘They’ being…?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But the handoff’s been made. ‘They’ have the smallpox. Treloar was expendable.”

  “Beria…”

  “That’s why Beria went to St. Petersburg, why he was on that Finnair flight. He wasn’t running. He came over to eliminate the weak link.”

  “Anyone could have done that.”

  “The execution? Yes. But wouldn’t it be better to use a man who is—or was—unknown to us? We have a description, but no fingerprints, no real understanding of movement or methodology. Beria is perfect because he’s as anonymous as an assassin can be.”

  “So there was an exchange at Sheremetevo.”

  Smith nodded. “Treloar had the smallpox all along.” He paused. “And I was sitting thirty feet away from him.”

  Never taking his eyes off Smith, Klein picked up the phone. “Let’s not keep the president waiting.”

  Smith was surprised to see the chief executive in casual attire and informal surroundings. After Klein had made the introduction, Castilla said, “Your reputation precedes you, Colonel Smith.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “So, what are the latest developments?”

  Klein launched into the murder of Adam Treloar and how it factored into the overall situation.

  “Treloar,” the president said. “Is there any way you can use him to trace the rest of the conspirators?”

  “Believe me, sir, we’re going to put his life under a microscope,” Klein replied. “But I’m not holding out much hope. The people we’re dealing with have been very careful in choosing their allies. The one in Russia—Yardeni—yielded no clues as to who his paymasters might be. The same may be true with Treloar.”

  “Let’s get back to those ‘people’ you’re talking about. Do you believe that they might be foreign nationals? Someone like Osama Bin Laden?”

  “I don’t see Bin Laden’s fingerprints on this, Mr. President.” Klein glanced at Smith. “The fact that the conspirators’ reach is so great—from Russia all the way to NASA in Houston—indicates a certain level of sophistication. Someone who’s very familiar with how we and the Russians operate, where we keep our jewels, and how we guard them.”

  “Are you suggesting that someone in this country could have orchestrated the theft in Russia?”

  “The smallpox is in this country, Mr. President. The man who stole it, the man who carried it are both dead at the hands of an assassin who, until recently, was a relative unknown in the West. There is no Arab connection here. Add to that, the material we’re dealing with is not only lethal, but requires a sophisticated facility to turn it into a bioweapon. Finally there’s the involvement of U.S. military personnel, at least on the periphery.”

  “Military personnel?” the president asked.

  Klein turned to Smith, who gave the chief executive a précis of the events that took place in Palermo.

  “I’m going to start digging into the backgrounds of these two soldiers, Mr. President,” Klein said, then paused. “So the answer to your question is yes—it’s very likely that someone here is running the show.”

  The president took a moment to digest this.

  “Monstrous,” he whispered. “Unbelievably monstrous. Mr. Klein, if we knew why they want the smallpox, wouldn’t that tell us what they intend to do, maybe even who they are?�
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  Klein’s tone betrayed his frustration. “It would, Mr. President. But the ‘why’ is just another puzzle.”

  “Let me get this straight. There’s a potential plague source that may be somewhere in the D.C. area. You also have a killer loose—”

  “Mr. President,” Smith interrupted, “the killer may actually be our best bet.”

  “Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Smith?”

  “The conspirators have eliminated the two men whom we might have gotten to. They brought over their own assassin for precisely that reason. I think they’re holding him in reserve in case there’s more wet work to be done.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Beria is our last link to the conspirators, Mr. President. If we find him and manage to take him alive, he might give up enough to point us in the right direction.”

  “Does an all-out hunt for this killer run the risk of too much publicity? Maybe it’ll frighten him off.”

  “It would have, sir,” Klein broke in. “Except for one thing: Beria murdered a man in cold blood on a Washington street. He’s no longer a terrorist but a common murderer. If we link him to the killing, every law-enforcement agency in five states will be after him.”

  “Again: wouldn’t this only drive him deeper underground?”

  “Not really, sir. Beria and the men who control him would think they know exactly the kind of forces that are being marshaled against them. They would circumvent them. And they would feel safe because they’d think they knew exactly what law enforcement’s next step would be.

  “Plus, if we hunt Beria without publicity, and the conspirators have no idea what it is we’re doing, they might believe that the threat of his capture outweighs his usefulness,” Smith added. “In which case, he’d end up like Yardeni and Treloar.”

  “Point taken, Mr. Smith,” the president agreed. “I presume you have a plan for Beria?”

  “Yes, I do, sir,” Smith replied quietly, and began to describe it.