The Cassandra Compact

by Robert Ludlum

  His words trailed off.

  “What’s wrong?” Richardson asked.

  Price picked up the microcassette recorder, examined the casing, and popped open the cover. “Say it ain’t so,” he muttered.

  “What?” Richardson demanded. “Smith brought it along so that he could tape a confession.”

  “Maybe…”

  Price removed the cassette and pulled one of the two pins that held it in place. The assembly came away in one piece.

  “And maybe not!” His face was mottled with rage. “I knew I recognized this thing! Take a look, Frank.”

  In the cavity Richardson saw a state-of-the-art transmitter.

  “The latest in surveillance technology!” Price hissed. “Your boy’s been had! Smith knew that if something went wrong, his killer was sure to take the backpack. Somebody’s heard every word we said!”

  “Sergeant!” Richardson roared.

  Drake bolted out of the bathroom, gun in hand. Richardson marched up to him and showed him the gutted recorder. “Tell me again, is Smith dead?”

  Drake recognized the transmitter instantly. “Sir, I didn’t know…”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “All that means is that he can’t tell us where the receiver is,” Price said. He looked at Richardson. “Are you a religious man, Frank? Because prayer might be the only thing we have left!”

  The front door to the unit opened and Richardson, Price, and Drake stepped out fast, heading for their cars.

  Fifty feet away, in the shadows, Jon Smith watched them through the windshield of his vehicle.

  “It’s Richardson, Price, and Drake,” he said into the phone.

  “I know,” Klein replied. “I recognized their voices—except for Drake’s. So did the president.”

  Smith glanced at the transmitting unit, set in the passenger-seat well, that had relayed the conspirators’ words to Camp David.

  “I’m going to move in, sir.”

  “No, Jon. Look around you.”

  Smith saw two black sedans moving into position to block the front entrance of the motor court. Another pair was closing off the rear exit.

  “Who are they, sir?”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’ll deal with Richardson and Price. Just stay low until it’s all over, then get the hell away. I’ll expect you at the White House at first light.”

  “Sir—”

  The windshield exploded as a bullet shattered the safety glass. Smith threw himself across the seat as two more shots whistled into the sedan.

  “You said he was dead!” Price screamed.

  “He will be,” Richardson said grimly. “Get in the car. Sergeant, you make sure this time!”

  Drake didn’t bother to look back. He had spotted the blacked-out sedan the instant he’d stepped out of the unit. Smith’s vehicle was parked in the shadows of some Dumpsters, a good call. But Smith had forgotten about the moon. Cold and bright, it washed the car’s interior, illuminating him perfectly. Drake had taken his first shot before Smith had realized he’d been made. Now Drake was moving to make sure of his kill.

  He was fifteen feet from the car when suddenly the headlights snapped on, blinding him. Drake heard the roar of the engine and realized what was happening. But even he wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way in time. As Drake launched himself into the air two tons of cold metal smashed into him, catapulting him over the car.

  Behind the wheel, Smith straightened up and kept his foot on the accelerator. His peripheral vision registered dark shapes spilling out of the sedans forming the blockade, but that didn’t stop him. He saw Richardson and Price jump into a car and back up fast. Turning the wheel, he tried to cut them off. For a split-second, he saw Richardson’s expression through the window, then felt a tremendous jolt as the two cars mashed together in a tangle of metal.

  Smith hung on to the steering wheel, trying to push Richardson’s car off to the side. Then he looked up and saw the two sedans at the exit. Spinning the wheel, he hit the brakes and went into a controlled skid.

  Frank Richardson felt his car rock as Smith’s vehicle spun away. Then he too saw the blockade.

  “Frank!” Price screamed.

  Richardson slammed on the brakes, but too late. Just as he threw his hands over his face the car smashed into the front ends of the angled sedans. Seconds later, a piece of jagged metal tore through his throat as he was hurled through the windshield.

  Smith leaped out of his car, running hard. He got close enough to see Richardson’s body sprawled across the hood before a pair of strong arms caught him.

  “It’s too late, sir!” a voice called out.

  Smith struggled but was dragged back. A moment later, a huge explosion slammed him to the ground.

  Gasping and coughing, Smith struggled to breathe. Lifting his head off the asphalt, he saw a giant fireball engulf the three vehicles. Slowly he rolled away, oblivious to the shadows darting around him, the urgent voices calling to one another. A pair of hands hauled him to his feet and he found himself looking at a young, hatchet-faced man.

  “You don’t belong here, sir.”

  “Who…are you?”

  The man pressed a set of keys into Smith’s palm. “There’s a green Chevy around the corner. Take it and go. And, sir? Mr. Klein said to remind you about your meeting at the White House.”

  Chapter 27

  Numb and exhausted, Smith somehow managed to drive himself to Bethesda. Walking into the house, he dropped his clothes on the way to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood under the hot, stinging spray.

  The pounding water drowned out the screams and explosions of the night. But no matter how hard he tried, Smith couldn’t erase the image of Richardson’s car slamming into the blockade, the fireball erupting, the sight of Richardson and Price, human torches.

  Smith stumbled into the bedroom and lay down naked on the covers. Closing his eyes, he set his soldier’s mental clock and let himself be swept away into a long, dark tunnel. He felt himself floating end over end, like an astronaut who’d lost his tether and was doomed to tumble endlessly through the cosmos. Then he felt something bump him and with a start woke up to discover that he was clawing for the gun on the night table.

  Smith showered again and dressed quickly. He was heading for the door when he remembered that he hadn’t checked his phone messages off the secure cell. Quickly he scanned the list and discovered a note from Peter Howell. Something was waiting for him on his computer.

  Smith fired up his machine, ran the encryption program, and downloaded the file Howell had left. Reading it, he was stunned. After making a copy, he saved the text in a secure file and typed in a quick E-mail Howell would get on his mobile phone: Job well done—and better. Come home. Drinks are on me. J. S.

  As dawn broke, Smith left the house and drove through the empty streets to the west gate of the White House. The guard checked his ID against the computerized list and waved him through. At the portico, a marine corporal escorted him through the silent corridors of the West Wing and into a small, cluttered office where Nathaniel Klein rose to greet him.

  Smith was startled by Klein’s appearance. The head of Covert-One hadn’t shaved and his clothes looked as if they had been slept in. Wearily, he indicated that they should sit.

  “You did a tremendous job, Jon,” he said quietly. “People owe you a debt of gratitude. I’m assuming you came through unscathed.”

  “Bumped and bruised but otherwise intact, sir.”

  Klein’s wan smile faded. “You haven’t heard a thing, have you?”

  “Heard what, sir?”

  Klein nodded. “Good…That’s good. That means the blackout is holding.” He took a deep breath. “Eight hours ago, Harry Landon, mission director at the Cape, was told that there was an emergency onboard Discovery. When he managed to reestablish voice communication, he learned that…that the crew was all dead except for one member.”

  He looked at Smith sadly and
the tremor in his voice betrayed his loss. “Megan’s gone, Jon.”

  Smith felt his body stiffen. He tried to speak but couldn’t find the words. The voice he heard didn’t seem to belong to him.

  “What was it, sir? A fire?”

  Klein shook his head. “No. The orbiter is functioning perfectly. But something ripped through the craft and killed the crew.”

  “Who’s the survivor?”

  “Dylan Reed.”

  Smith raised his head. “The only survivor? We’re sure?”

  “Reed’s gone through the entire craft. Everyone is accounted for. I’m sorry.”

  Smith had lost people before to sudden, violent death. He knew that his reaction was typical of a survivor: his mind flashed on the last time he’d seen Megan in that coffee shop near the NASA compound in Houston.

  Now she was gone. Just like that.

  “Landon and the rest of NASA have been tearing out their collective hair,” Klein was saying. “They still can’t figure out what went wrong.”

  “How did Reed survive?”

  “He was in one of those suits they use on space walks. Apparently he was preparing some experiment.”

  “And the rest of the crew were in their normal work outfits, the overalls,” Smith said. “No protection gear.” He paused. “You said there was no fire, that something ripped through them.”

  “Jon—”

  “Megan told you that she saw someone with Reed just before the launch,” Smith cut him off. “You already suspected a link between Treloar and Reed….” He thought for a moment. “What did the bodies look like?”

  “Landon said that Reed described them as bloated, covered with sores, bleeding from the orifices.”

  Smith felt a tingle as the connections snapped together in his mind.

  “I had a message from Peter Howell,” he told Klein. “He had a long chat with Herr Weizsel. He was so cooperative that he insisted on taking Peter back to his apartment, where he accessed the Offenbach Bank’s computers through his laptop. It seems that Ivan Beria had a long and profitable relationship with the bank, especially when one client employed him exclusively: Bauer-Zermatt A.G.”

  Klein was stunned. “The pharmaceutical giant?”

  Smith nodded. “Over the last three years, Bauer-Zermatt made a total of ten deposits into Beria’s account, two of the last three just before the Russian guard and Treloar were eliminated.”

  “What about the third one?” Klein demanded.

  “That was for the contract on me.”

  After a moment’s silence, Klein said, “Do you have proof?”

  As though he were moving a piece in for checkmate, Smith pulled out a floppy disk. “Proof positive.”

  Klein shook his head. “All right. Bauer-Zermatt is—was—paying Beria for assassinations. These included the Russian guard and Treloar. That links Bauer-Zermatt to the stolen smallpox. But there are two questions: why would Bauer-Zermatt want the smallpox? And who at the company authorized the hits and the payments?” He pointed to the disk. “Is there a name?”

  “No name,” Smith replied. “But it’s not hard to guess, is it? Only one man could have authorized the use of someone like Beria: Karl Bauer himself.”

  Klein’s breath whistled through his nostrils. “Okay…But finding Bauer’s fingerprints on the authorization to use Beria, or on the payments themselves, that’s another matter.”

  “They won’t exist,” Smith said flatly. “Bauer’s much too careful to leave such an obvious trail.” He paused. “But why would he want the smallpox to begin with? To make a vaccine? No. We can already do that. To play with it? Tweak it genetically? Maybe. But why? Smallpox has been studied for years. It can’t be used as a battlefield weapon. The incubation period is too long. The effects are not a hundred percent predictable. So why would Bauer still want a sample? Want it so badly that he would murder for it?”

  He looked at Klein. “Do you know how people die from smallpox? The first symptoms are a rash on the roof of the mouth, which then spreads to the face and forearms, then to the rest of the body. The pustules erupt, scabs form, erupt again. Eventually, there’s bleeding from the orifices….”

  Klein stared at him. “Just like the shuttle crew!” he whispered. “They died the way smallpox victims do! Are you saying Bauer got the stolen smallpox onboard Discovery?”

  Smith rose and tried to dispel the image of Megan, how she had died, her last, terrible moments. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “But—?”

  “In space—in microgravity—you can reengineer cells, bacteria, virtually anything in a way that can’t be done on earth.” He paused. “We wiped smallpox off the planet but we kept two sets of samples—one here, one in Russia. Ostensibly, we did this because we could not bring ourselves to eradicate a species into extinction. The truth is darker than that: we never knew when we might need it. Maybe years from now we would find a way to convert it into a weapon. Or if someone else did, we’d have enough material with which to produce a vaccine—hopefully.

  “Bauer didn’t want to wait years. Somehow he discovered a process he thought would work. Maybe he was fifty or sixty percent of the way there, but he couldn’t finish. He couldn’t be certain. The only way to prove that he was right was to arrange for an experiment in a unique environment where bacteria grow like lightning. He needed to do it onboard the shuttle.” Smith paused. “And he did.”

  “If you’re right, Jon,” Klein said tightly, “that means Dylan Reed is his handmaiden.”

  “He’s the only survivor, isn’t he? The director of NASA’s biomedical research program. The guy who was conveniently suited up when all hell broke loose.”

  “Are you suggesting that Reed murdered his own crew?” Klein demanded.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Two reasons: To get rid of any possible witnesses, and…” Smith’s voice broke. “And to run a controlled experiment on human test subjects to see how fast the virus would kill.”

  Klein slumped in his chair. “It’s insane.”

  “Only because whoever devised it is insane,” Smith said. “Not raving, not foaming at the mouth. But insidiously, malignly insane. Yes.”

  Klein stared at him. “Bauer…”

  “And Richardson, Price, Treloar, Lara Telegin…”

  “To nail Bauer, we need hard evidence, Jon. We can try to trace his communications—”

  Smith shook his head. “There’s no time. Here’s the way I see it: we assume there’s a bioweapon onboard the shuttle and that Reed is in control of it. Bauer and his accomplices will want to destroy all the evidence of what happened up there. Also, I’m sure that we’ll find no evidence of any dealings with either Richardson or Price. But Bauer still has to make sure that the shuttle comes down safely. He has to get Reed and the sample out of there. When is NASA bringing down the orbiter?”

  “In about eight hours. They have to wait for an atmospheric window to open in order to land it at Edwards Air Force Base in California.”

  Smith leaned forward. “Can you get me in to see the president—right now?”

  Two hours later, after speaking with the president, Smith and Klein found themselves in the small conference room next to the Oval Office. While they waited for the president to finish his meeting, Klein received a call from the Cape.

  “Mr. Klein? It’s Harry Landon at mission control. I have that information you were asking for.”

  Klein listened in silence and thanked Landon. Before hanging up, he asked: “What is the status of the descent?”

  “We’re bringing her down as gently as we can,” Landon replied. “I have to tell you, we’ve never done anything like this—outside of simulations, that is. But we’ll get our people down. You have my word on that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Landon. I’ll stay in touch.”

  He turned to Smith. “Landon called everyone in the Black Book—and someone who Reed personally a
sked for.”

  “Let me guess. Karl Bauer.”

  “On the money.”

  “Makes sense,” Smith said. “He’d want to be onsite when Reed comes down with his baby.”

  Klein nodded and pointed to the closed-circuit monitor that suddenly showed a picture. “Showtime.”

  Despite the nest of worry lines and crow’s-feet, the president, seated behind his desk, projected an image of authority and control. As he waited for the last member of the working group to arrive, he surveyed the individuals around him.

  The Central Intelligence Agency was represented by Bill Dodge, cool, austere, his expression betraying nothing as he leafed through the latest update from NASA.

  Martha Nesbitt, the national security adviser, sat next to Dodge. A veteran of the State Department, Marti, as she was called, was famous for the speed with which she assessed a situation, formulated a decision, and got the ball rolling.

  Opposite her was the secretary of state, Gerald Simon, picking nonexistent lint off his hand-tailored suit, a ritual indicating that he was racked by indecision.

  “I hope you’ve had time to gather your thoughts,” the president said. “Because under the circumstances, we have to make the right decision the first time around.”

  He looked around the group. “As of now Discovery will reach its ‘window’ to reenter the earth’s atmosphere in approximately one hour. At that point, it will be another four hours before it begins its descent procedure. Seventy-five minutes later, it will land at Edwards. The question before us is simple: do we allow the craft to land?”

  “I have a question, sir,” Martha Nesbitt spoke up. “At what point do we lose the ability to destroy the orbiter?”

  “There’s really no such cutoff point,” the president replied. “The fact that the shuttle carries an autodestruct package of high explosives has, for obvious reasons, never been publicized. However, using satellite relays, we can activate the mechanism at any point between the orbiter’s present position and touchdown.”

  “But the package, Mr. President, was really designed to blow the orbiter in space,” Bill Dodge said. “The whole point being not to introduce any contaminants into our atmosphere.”