The Cassandra Compact - Страница 3

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They were a diverse group: a doctor in Egypt whose patients included most of the country's ruling elite; a computer entrepreneur in New Delhi who provided his skills and equipment to his government; a banker in Malaysia adept at moving, hiding, or ferreting out offshore funds anywhere in the world. None of these people knew each other. They had nothing in common beyond their friendship with Klein and the computer notebook he had given each one of them. They accepted Klein as a midlevel bureaucrat but knew that secretly he was much more than that. And they agreed to serve as his eyes and ears not only out of friendship and belief in what he represented, but because they trusted him to help them if, for any reason, their respective homelands suddenly became a dangerous place for them.

Vector Six was one of the handful.

“Nate?”

Klein, glanced at Maggie.

“Who gets the call?” she asked.

Good question…

Klein always used his Pentagon ID when traveling abroad. If he was going to meet a contact, he made sure it would be in a public place, at a secure location. Official functions at a U.S. embassy were the best choices. But Vector Six was nowhere near an embassy. He was on the run.

“Smith,” Klein said at last. “Get him on the line, please, Maggie.”

* * *

Smith was dreaming of Sophia when the insistent beep of the telephone intruded. He was watching the two of them sitting on a riverbank, in the shadows of immense triangular structures. In the distance was a great city. The air was hot, filled with the attar of roses and of Sophia. Cairo… They were at the pyramids of Giza, outside Cairo.

The secure line…

Smith sat up fast on the couch where he had fallen asleep, fully dressed, after coming home from the cemetery. Beyond the windows streaked with rain, the wind moaned as it drove heavy clouds across the sky. A former combat internist and battlefield surgeon, Smith had developed the gift of waking up fully alert. That ability had served him well during his time at USAMRIID, where sleep was often snatched between long, grueling hours of work. It served him well now.

Smith checked the time at the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor: almost nine o'clock. He had been asleep for two hours. Emotionally spent, his mind still filled with images of Sophia, he had driven himself home, heated up some soup, then stretched out on the couch and listened to the rain churn overhead. He had not intended to fall asleep, but was grateful that he done so. Only one man could call him on that particular line. Whatever message he had could signal the beginning of a day of infinite hours.

“Good evening, Mr. Klein.”

“Good evening to you too, Jon. I hope I'm not disturbing your dinner.”

“No, sir. I ate earlier on.”

“In that case, how soon can you get out to Andrews Air Force base?”

Smith took a deep breath. Klein usually had a calm, businesslike demeanor. Smith had seldom found him curt or abrupt.

Which means there's trouble ― and it's closing fast.

“About forty-five minutes, sir.”

“Good. And Jon? Pack for a few days.”

Smith stared at the dead phone in his hand. “Yes, sir.”

Smith's drill was so ingrained that he was hardly aware of going through the motions. Three minutes for a shower and shave; two minutes to dress; two more to double-check and add a few things to the ready bag in the walk-in closet. On his way out, he set the security system for the house; once he had the sedan out in the driveway, he armed the garage using the remote.

The rain made the ride to Andrews Air Force base longer than usual. Smith avoided the main entry and turned in at the supply gate. A poncho-covered guard examined his laminated ID, checked his name against those on the list of approved personnel, and waved him through.

Smith had flown out of Andrews often enough to know his way around. He had no trouble finding the hangar housing the fleet of executive jets that, most times, ferried around the brass. He parked in a designated area well away from the aircraft taxi lanes, grabbed his ready bag from the trunk, and splashed his way into the immense hangar.

“Good evening, Jon,” Klein said. “Crappy night. It'll probably get worse.”

Smith set down his bag. “Yes, sir. But only for the navy.”

The age-old joke didn't get a grin out of Klein this time.

“I'm sorry to have dragged you out on a night like this. Something's come up. Walk with me.”

Smith looked around as he followed Klein to the coffee station. There were four Gulfstream jets in the hangar, but no maintenance personnel. Smith guessed that Klein had ordered them out to ensure privacy.

“They're fueling a bird with long-range tanks,” Klein said, glancing at his watch. “Should be ready in ten minutes.”

He handed Smith a Styrofoam cup filled with steaming black coffee, then looked at him carefully.

“Jon, this is an extraction. That's the reason for the rush.”

And the need for a mobile cipher.

Given his army background, Smith was familiar with the terms “extraction,” as Klein had used it. It meant getting someone or something out of a place or a situation as quickly and quietly as possible ― usually under duress and on a tight schedule.

But Smith also knew that there were specialists ― military and civilian ― who handled this kind of work.

When he said as much, Klein replied, “There are certain considerations in this case. I don't want to involve any other agencies ― at least not yet. Also, I know this individual ― and so do you.”

Smith started. “Excuse me, sir?”

“The man you are going to meet and bring out is Yuri Danko.”

“Danko…”

In his mind's eye Smith saw a bearlike man, a few years older than he, with a gentle moon face pockmarked by childhood acne. Yuri Danko, the son of a Dobnets coal miner, born with a defective leg, had gone on to become a full colonel in the Russian army's Medical Intelligence Division.

Smith couldn't shake his surprise. Smith knew that before signing the security agreement that had made him part of Covert-One, Klein had put his entire life under a microscope. That meant Klein was aware that Smith knew Danko. But never in all the briefings had Klein ever hinted that he had a relationship with the Russian.

“Is Danko part of ―?”

“Covert-One? No. And you are not to mention the fact that you are. As far as Danko is concerned, I'm sending a friendly face to bring him out. That's all.”

Smith doubted that. There was always more to Klein than met the eye. But one thing he was sure of: Klein would never place an operative in harm's way by not telling him everything he needed to know.

“The last time Danko and I met,” Klein was saying, "we established a simple code that would be used only in an emergency scenario. The code was a menu. The price ― 8 euros ― indicates the date, April 8, two days from now. One, if we're working on European time.

“The specialty is seafood, which stands for the way Danko will be coming: by sea. The Bellini is a cocktail that was first made in Harry's Bar in Venice. The hours that the restaurant is closed, between two and four in the afternoon, is the time the contact is supposed to be at the rendezvous point.” Klein paused. “It's a simple but very effective code. Even if the encryption was compromised and the message intercepted, it would be impossible to make sense of the menu.”

“If Danko isn't due in for another twenty-four hours at least, why hit the panic button?” Smith asked.

“Because Danko hit it first,” Klein replied, his concern obvious. “He might get to Venice ahead of schedule; he might run late. If it's the former, I don't want him twisting in the wind.”

Smith nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Understood. Now, for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What made Danko jackrabbit?”

“Only he'll be able to tell us his reasons. And believe me, I want to know them. Danko is in a unique position. He would never have compromised it…”

Smith raised an eyebrow. “Unless?”

“Unless he was on the verge of being compromised.” Klein put down his coffee. “I can't say for sure, Jon, but I think Danko is carrying information. If so, it means he thinks I need to have it.”

Klein glanced over Smith's shoulder at an air police sergeant who entered the hangar.

“The aircraft's ready for takeoff, sir,” the sergeant announced smartly.

Klein touched Smith's elbow and they walked to the doors.

“Go to Venice,” he said softly. “Pick up Danko and find out what he has. Find out fast.”

“I will. Sir, there's something I'll need in Venice.”

Smith needn't have lowered his voice as they stepped outside. The drumbeat of the rain drowned out his words. Only Klein's nod indicated that Smith was talking at all.

CHAPTER THREE

In Catholic Europe, Easter week is a time of pilgrimages and reunions. Businesses and schools close their doors, trains and hotels are overbooked, and the denizens of the Old World's landmark cities brace themselves for an onslaught of strangers.

In Italy, Venice is one of the most popular destinations for those seeking to combine the sacred and the profane. The Serenissima is a rich tapestry of churches and cathedrals, enough to satisfy the spiritual needs of even the most devoted pilgrim. Yet it is also a thousand-year-old playground whose narrow streets and cobblestone alleys shelter enterprises catering to a whole spectrum of earthly appetites.