The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  “I’m not receiving. Is your transmitter down?”

  Megan nodded, then floated up and pointed to the commo unit built into the chest of her EMU. She gave the universal thumbs-down signal and worked her way back to the porthole.

  Reed looked at her. “Okay. I understand. Not that it makes any difference.”

  Megan wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly and mimed a shrug.

  “You don’t understand,” Reed said. “Of course you don’t. How could you? Megan…” He hesitated. “I can’t help you get out.”

  Her eyes widened in terror and disbelief.

  “Let me tell you what’s out here, Megan. A virus. The kind the world has never seen before because it’s not of this world. It was born on earth, but it was given life here, in the Spacelab. That’s what I was working on.”

  She was shaking her head, her lips moving frantically in soundless words.

  “You should try to stay calm,” Reed continued. “You heard me talking to mission control. They know everyone’s dead. They have no clue what happened up here. And they never will.”

  Reed wet his lips. “Discovery has become a kind of Marie Celeste, a doomed ghost ship. Of course, there are differences. I’m still alive and so are you—for the time being. NASA can and will bring the orbiter down on autopilot. As long as I’m alive, they’re not going to push the autodestruct button.”

  Reed let a beat go by. “They won’t have to.”

  Megan felt hot tears spill over her cheeks. She was faintly aware that she was screaming but that had no impact on Reed. His expression remained as cold and remote as arctic ice.

  “I wish it were someone other than you, Megan,” he was saying. “Really I do. But Treloar had to be eliminated and you were his backup. Now, I don’t expect you to understand. But since I was the one who brought you into the program and gave you this chance, I feel I owe you an explanation. You see, we need to keep our bioweapons’ arsenal strong. All those treaties we signed—do you think places like Iraq, Libya, or North Korea give a damn about them? Of course not. They’re too busy developing their own weapons. Well, now we’ll have something that will trump whatever they come up with. And we’ll be the only ones to have it.

  “The sample I made? A thimbleful is enough to eradicate any country we choose. I realize that’s not a very scientific measurement, but you get my drift. If you don’t believe me, look at what happened here, how quickly the smallpox went to work, the consequences…”

  Never in her life had Megan felt so powerless. Reed’s voice droned in her ears like something from a nightmare. She could not believe such words coming from a man she had thought she knew, a colleague, a mentor, someone she’d trusted implicitly.

  He’s insane. That’s all I need to know. And what I need to do is get out of here!

  When Reed spoke again, it was as though he’d read her mind.

  “You’ve done most of my job for me, Megan, locking yourself in like that. The fire will do the rest. I didn’t mention that? Well, there’s going to be an awful lot of confusion when this thing lands. The only thing on mission control’s mind will be to get me out of here safely. After that, if something explodes, well…” He shrugged. “You’ve been a part of history, Megan. I’ll never forget you—or the others.”

  His eyes never left hers as he touched a panel on his commo unit. “Mission director, this is Reed. Do you copy?”

  She heard Landon’s voice: “Copy, Dylan.”

  “I have an update. I…I found Megan. She’s dead…like the others.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end. “I copy, Dylan. I’m so sorry. Listen, we’re working to bring you home. Can you get to the flight deck?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We won’t need any help, but if something goes wrong…”

  “Understood. Harry?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve opened the Black Book, right?”

  “Yes, Dylan.”

  “There’s a name that’s not in there. Dr. Karl Bauer. He knows more about bugs than anyone alive. I think you might want to consult with him about the quarantine.”

  “Roger that. We’ll get Bauer to the landing site. We’re running emergency descent models right now. As soon as we have a firm trajectory, we’ll let you know.”

  Reed smiled faintly and, looking directly at Megan, said, “Roger, mission director. Discovery, signing off.”

  Chapter 25

  The helicopter ferrying Jon Smith from Camp David landed in the cargo transport area of Andrews Air Force Base. Smith hopped out and trotted across the tarmac to the white panel truck parked next to a sleek executive jet.

  “Hello, Jon,” Major-General Kirov said, watching the corpsmen pull a stretcher out of the truck.

  “Did everything go as planned?” Smith asked.

  “It did,” Kirov replied. “These men”—he indicated the corpsmen—“arrived at your house exactly on schedule. They were very quick, very efficient.”

  Smith glanced at Ivan Beria, a blanket tucked up to his chin, as he was wheeled by.

  “Is he all right?”

  “The tranquilizers worked perfectly,” Kirov replied.

  Smith nodded.

  As the stretcher disappeared into the jet, Kirov turned to Smith. “I am grateful to you—and to Mr. Klein—for allowing me to help. I only wish I could do more.”

  Smith shook the Russian’s hand. “I’ll stay in touch, General. I think we got everything we could out of Beria, but if he says anything interesting…”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Kirov assured him. “Good-bye, Jon Smith. I hope that we will meet again, under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Smith waited until Kirov was onboard and the hatch was closed. By the time the jet was racing down the runway he was in his car, being waved through perimeter security. As he headed for the highway, his thoughts drifted from what had been accomplished to what was still left to do.

  In Moscow it was the middle of the night, but the lights were still burning in the offices of the Bay Digital Corporation.

  In the conference room, Randi Russell was working on her fourth cup of coffee, watching Sasha Rublev as he worked to ferret out the secrets of the laptop Jon Smith had delivered. Surrounded by hardware wired into the laptop, Sasha had been at his keyboard for over seven hours, downing the occasional Coke to maintain his energy level. Three times Randi had suggested they quit for the night, but each time Sasha simply waved her words away.

  “I’m close,” he would mumble. “Just a few more minutes.”

  By now Randi had decided that Sasha did not measure time like mere mortals.

  She drained her coffee, stared at the dregs, and then said: “Okay, that’s it. And this time I mean it.”

  Sasha held up one hand, kept typing with the other. “Wait for it…”

  He jabbed a key triumphantly and slumped in his chair. “Look,” he said proudly.

  Randi couldn’t believe her eyes. The big monitor, which had been filled with nothing but a series of unintelligible symbols all evening, suddenly morphed into a string of deciphered E-mails.

  “Sasha, how—?” Randi shook her head. “Never mind. I’d never understand.”

  Sasha beamed at her. “The person this computer belongs to used CARNIVORE, your FBI’s latest encryption program.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I thought no one outside America had this.”

  “Me too,” Randi murmured.

  Using the mouse, she scanned the E-mails, unable to believe what she was reading.

  What the hell is the Cassandra Compact?

  Returning to Bethesda, Jon Smith fixed himself a quick snack and took it into his study. The faint odor of drugs and a broken man’s fear hung in the house. Smith opened a window and sat down with the files Nathaniel Klein had given him.

  Travis Nichols and Patrick Drake…both U.S. Army sergeants. Both from the same small town in central Texas where young men went either into the oil fields or the military.
Seasoned combat veterans, they had seen action in Somalia, the Gulf, and most recently, Nigeria.

  Smith’s interest was piqued when he read their fitness reports from the Advanced Warfare School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Nichols and Drake had graduated one and two in their class, cold, hard men whose keen edge had been further honed by instructors in the blackest combat arts.

  Then they disappear…

  Now Smith knew what Klein had meant about the lapses. In each of the last five years there were months where the soldiers’ whereabouts could not be accounted for. No notations had been made by commanding officers; no ship-out or transport orders were available.

  Experienced in the ways of the military, Smith could guess where Nichols and Drake had disappeared. Scattered throughout the army were special units. The most public of these were the Rangers. But there were others, whose members were culled from the most experienced and battle-hardened troops. In Vietnam, they had been known as LRRPs—Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols; in other parts of the world, they had no designation whatsoever.

  Smith was aware of three such outfits but suspected there were more. He knew no one in any of them, and didn’t have the time or the resources to start a hunt from scratch. There was only one way to go: with the phone number that Peter Howell had coaxed from the dying Travis Nichols’s lips.

  For the next hour, Smith considered one plan of action after another. From each one he took away a detail or two that, when strung together, formed a coherent whole. Then he went over it again and again, probing for weaknesses, eliminating questions, trying to give himself the best possible advantage. He knew that the minute he made the call to that as yet unknown person at the other end of a number that didn’t exist, his life would hang on his every word and action.

  Outside, the insects and birds began their nocturnal litany. As Smith rose to close the window, his phone rang.

  “Jon, it’s Randi.”

  “Randi! What time is it over there?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost track. Listen, Sasha broke through the laptop’s firewalls. All the E-mails—and everything else—are in the clear.”

  By her tone, Smith knew that Randi wanted an explanation.

  “I need what you have, Randi,” he said quietly. “No questions asked. Not now.”

  “Jon, you asked me to do you a favor. I did. From the little I’ve read, this stuff’s explosive. There are references to Bioaparat and to something called the Cassandra Compact—”

  “But I haven’t seen any of that,” Smith said urgently. “That’s why I need it—to try to find out what’s going on.”

  “You have to tell me one thing,” Randi replied. “This ‘situation,’ whatever it is, is it localized in Russia? Or has something gotten out?”

  Smith had come up against Randi’s single-mindedness before. He knew she wasn’t vying for glory; she was an intelligence agent trying to do her job. Somehow he had to convince her that his interests and hers were the same.

  “Something has gotten out,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Not like Hades, Jon. Not again!”

  “It isn’t like that at all,” Smith assured her. “We have a situation here at home. Believe me, all stops have been pulled out on this. The orders come from the highest level. Do you understand? The highest level.” He allowed his words to sink in. “What you’ve done will help me enormously,” he continued. “Please believe me: there’s nothing more you can do on your end. At least not right now.”

  “So I take it you don’t want me to signal Langley.”

  “It’s the last thing I want you to do. I’m asking you to trust me, Randi. Please.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “It’s not a matter of trust, Jon. I just don’t want…I couldn’t bear to stand by and let another situation like Hades develop.”

  “No one does. And it won’t happen.”

  “Will you at least keep me posted?”

  “As much as I can,” Smith replied truthfully. “Things are moving fast here.”

  “All right. But remember your promise.”

  “You won’t hear it on CNN.”

  “I’ll ship you the contents now. What do you want me to do with the laptop?”

  Smith considered his options. By all rights he should have the computer returned to Kirov. But what if Lara Telegin wasn’t the only traitor? He couldn’t run the risk that somehow vital secrets would fall into the wrong hands.

  “I’m sure that you have a secure safe,” he said. “Preferably something tamperproof.”

  “I have one of the new flash vaults. Anyone trying to get in is in for a nasty surprise.”

  “Good. One last thing: the cell phone.”

  “It had a bunch of numbers in its memory—all on the Russian military exchange. I’ll send you copies.”

  Hearing a ping!, Smith turned to his monitor as an incoming message scrolled across the screen.

  “I’m receiving your feed,” he said.

  “I hope it’s what you need.” Randi hesitated, then added, “Good luck, Jon. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  Smith turned his attention to the screen and scanned the E-mails one by one. The sender was code-named Sphinx; the receiver, Mephisto.

  As he continued to read, the enormity of what was referred to as the Cassandra Compact grew before his eyes. Lara Telegin—Sphinx—had been in contact with Mephisto for over two years, feeding him top-secret information on Bioaparat, its personnel and security. The most recent notes mentioned Yuri Danko and Ivan Beria by name.

  Who were you feeding? Who is Mephisto?

  Smith worked his way deeper into the E-mails. Suddenly he spotted something and scrolled back. It was a congratulatory note. Mephisto had been awarded a citation. There was a reference to a ceremony on a certain date.

  Veterans Day…

  Using his USAMRIID access code, Smith got into the Pentagon site and punched in the date. Instantly the specifics of the ceremony appeared, including pictures. There was a shot of President Castilla holding the citation. And the soldier who was about to receive it.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Klein asked.

  Smith thought Klein sounded tired, but maybe it was just the connection.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “The E-mail refers to a specific date. There was only that one ceremony. Only one such citation was awarded. There’s no mistake.”

  “I see…. Given this new development, have you come up with a way to proceed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It had taken Smith two hours to revise the plan he’d come up with prior to Randi Russell’s call. Quickly he gave Klein the details.

  “It sounds awfully dangerous, Jon,” Klein said softly. “I’d feel a whole lot better if you weren’t going in alone.”

  “Believe me, I’d like to have Peter Howell around but there’s no time to get him here. Besides, I need him in Europe.”

  “And you’re sure you want to proceed immediately?”

  “As long as you can get those items I mentioned, I’ll be ready.”

  “Consider it done. And Jon, you will be wearing a transmitter, won’t you?”

  Smith held up a tiny fiberoptic patch that looked identical to a small round Band-Aid, the kind that might be used on a shaving cut.

  “If something goes wrong, sir, you’ll at least know how far I got.”

  “Don’t even think that.”

  After hanging up, Smith took a moment to compose himself. He thought of everything that had happened up to this point, all the lives that had been sacrificed on the altar of the Cassandra Compact. Then he saw Yuri Danko coming toward him across St. Mark’s Square…and Katrina, his widow.

  Without hesitation, he reached for the phone, made sure the scrambler was activated, and dialed the number Peter Howell had passed along. If anyone tried to trace the call, they’d find themselves zipping from one cutout to another all over the country.

  On the other end, the phone was ringing. The receiver was picked
up and an unearthly voice, electronically distorted, answered: “Yes?”

  “This is Nichols. I’m home. Hurt. I need to come in.”

  Chapter 26

  General Frank Richardson inadvertently knocked the cigar burning in the cut-glass ashtray.

  “Say again,” he spoke into the phone.

  A patchy, mangled voice came back at him. “…is Nichols…Hurt…coming in.”

  Richardson clenched the receiver. “Go to safe point Alpha. Repeat: safe point Alpha. Copy?”

  “Copy.”

  The connection was broken.

  Richardson stared at the telephone as though he expected it to ring again. But the silence in his office was broken only by soft ticks of the grandfather clock and the distant drones of Humvees as security details went about their patrols around Fort Belvoir.

  Nichols…Hurt…Impossible!

  Richardson took a draw on his cigar to steady himself. A seasoned commander, he quickly reviewed his options and made his decision. The first call went out to the noncom barracks on the base. A crisp, alert voice answered.

  Richardson’s second call was to NSA deputy-director Anthony Price. He too was awake, and luckily not that far away in his townhouse in Alexandria.

  While Richardson waited for the two men to arrive, he listened to the tape of the conversation. Even though his secure phone was hooked up to the latest recording equipment, the quality of the speaker’s voice was scratchy. Richardson couldn’t tell if the call was local or long distance. He didn’t think that “Nichols” was all that far away, not if he was ready to rendezvous at safe point Alpha.

  But Nichols is dead!

  Richardson’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the office door. His visitor was a big, strapping man in his midthirties with straw-colored hair cut close to the scalp and bright blue eyes. Normally baggy fatigues were stretched taut over a linebacker’s powerful muscles.

  “Good evening, General,” Sergeant Patrick Drake said, saluting crisply.

  “At ease,” Richardson replied. He gestured at the wet bar in the corner. “Help yourself to a drink, Sergeant. Believe me, you’ll need it.”