The Cassandra Compact - Страница 4

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At precisely one forty-five in the afternoon, just as he'd done the past two days, Smith threaded through the rows of tables set out in front of the Florian Café on the Piazza San Marco. He always chose the same table, close to a small, raised platform upon which stood a grand piano. The pianist would arrive in a few minutes, and punctually on the hour, notes written by Mozart or Bach would dance above the chatter and footsteps of the hundreds of tourists who crowded the square.

The server who had waited on Smith the last two days hurried over to his customer. The American ― he could only be that, given his accented Italian ― was a good customer; that is to say, one who didn't recognize bad service and so tipped generously anyway. Judging by the smart charcoal-gray suit and hand-tooled shoes, the waiter took Smith for a prosperous business executive who, having concluded his transactions, was enjoying a few days' sightseeing at his company's expense.

Smith smiled at the waiter, ordered his usual Gaffe latte and prosciutto affumicatio sandwich, and flipped open the day's edition of The International Herald Tribune to the business section.

His late-afternoon snack arrived just as the pianist struck the opening chords of a Bach variation. Smith dropped two sugar cubes into his coffee and took his time stirring. As he opened his newspaper, he scanned the open area between his table and the Doge's Palace.

Most anytime, St. Mark's, with its inevitable crowds, was the perfect place to pick up a running man. But the runner was a day late. He wondered if Yuri Danko had even made it out of Russia at all.

Smith had been with USAMRIID when he had first met Danko, his counterpart in the Russian army's Medical Intelligence Division. The venue was the palatial Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel near Berne. There, representatives of the two countries came together in an informal setting to brief one another on the progress of the gradual shutdown of their respective bioweapons programs. The meetings were an adjunct to the formal verifications made by international inspectors.

Smith had never been in the business of recruiting agents. But, like every other member of the U.S. team, he had been thoroughly briefed by CIA counterintelligence officers as to how the other side might make its approaches and overtures. During the first few days of the conference, Smith found himself partnered with Danko. Always careful, he nonetheless took a liking to the tall, burly Russian. Danko did not hide the fact that he was a patriot. But, as he told Smith, his work was important to him because he did not want his children to live with the possibility of some madman unleashing a bioweapon for terror or revenge.

Smith was very much aware that such a scenario was not only possible but a grave likelihood. Russia was in the throes of change, crisis, and uncertainty. Meanwhile, it still had an enormous stockpile of bioweapons stored in rusting containers under the halfhearted supervision of researchers, scientists, and military personnel who, more often than not, weren't paid enough to feed their families. For these men, the temptation to sell a little something on the side could be overwhelming.

Smith and Danko started to meet outside the conference's regular hours. By the time the parties were ready to return to their respective countries, the two men had forged a friendship based on mutual respect and trust.

Over the next two years, they met again ― in St. Petersburg, Atlanta, Paris, and Hong Kong ― each time under the auspices of a formal conference. But on each occasion, Smith noticed that Danko was more and more troubled. Although he eschewed alcohol, he would sometimes ramble on about the duplicity of his military masters. Russia, he hinted, was violating its agreements with the United States and the world. While it was making a good show of reducing its bioweapons programs, advance research had actually accelerated. Worst of all, Russian scientists and technicians were disappearing only to surface in China, India, and Iraq, where there was high demand and unlimited funds for their skills.

Smith was a keen student of human nature. At the end of one of Danko's tortured confessions, he'd said: “I will work with you on this, Yuri. If that's what you want.”

Danko's reaction was akin to that of a penitent who has finally been cleansed of his burden of sin. He agreed to provide Smith with information he thought the United States should have. There were only two caveats: he would deal only with Smith, not with anyone from the U.S. intelligence community; second, he wanted Smith's word that Smith would look after his family in the event that anything happened to him.

“Nothing's going to happen to you, Yuri,” Smith had said at the time. “You'll die in your own bed, surrounded by your grandchildren.”

Observing the crowds streaming out of the Doge's Palace, Smith reflected on these words. At the time, he had meant them sincerely. But now, with Danko twenty-four hours late, they tasted like ashes in his mouth.

But you never once mentioned Klein, Smith thought. That you already had a contact in the United States. Why, Yuri? Is Klein your ace in the hole?

New arrivals were coming in by gondola and launch that tied up at the wharves in front of the lions of St. Mark's. More exited the majestic basilica, glassy-eyed from the landmark's overwhelming grandeur. Smith watched them all ― the young couples holding hands, the fathers and mothers herding their children, the tour groups clustered around guides who shouted above the din in a dozen different languages. He held his newspaper at eye level, but his gaze roamed ceaselessly above the masthead, scanning faces, trying to find that special one.

Where are you? What did you find that was so terrible you had to compromise your secrets and risk your life to bring it out?

The questions gnawed at Smith. Since Danko had severed all contact, there were no answers to be had. According to Klein, the Russian would be coming across war-scarred Yugoslavia, hiding in and moving through the chaos and misery of that region until he reached the coast. There he would find a ship to ferry him across the Adriatic to Venice.

Just get here and you'll be safe.

The Gulfstream was on standby at Venice's Marco Polo Airport; a fast launch was moored at the dock next to the Palazzo delle Prigioni on the Rio di Palazzo. Smith could have Danko on the boat within three minutes of spotting him. They would be airborne an hour later.

Where are you?

Smith was reaching for his coffee when something drifted across his peripheral vision: a heavyset man skirting the edge of a tour group. Maybe a part of it, maybe not. He wore a weatherproof nylon jacket and a golfer's cap; a thick beard and large wraparound sunglasses concealed his face. But there was something about him.

Smith continued to watch, then saw it ― a slight limp in the left leg. Yuri Danko had been born with a left leg one inch shorter than his right. Even a custom-made platform shoe could not fully disguise the limp.

Smith shifted in his chair and adjusted his newspaper so that he could follow Danko's movements. The Russian was using the tour group very effectively, drifting alongside, close enough to be mistaken for belonging, not so close as to get the leader's attention.

Slowly, the group turned away from the basilica and headed in the direction of the Doge's Palace. In less than a minute it was abreast the outer row of tables and chairs of the Florian Café. A few tourists broke away from the group, heading for the small snack bar next to the café next door. Smith did not stir as they passed his table, chattering to one another. Only when Danko was passing by did he look up.

“No one's using this chair.”

Smith watched as Danko turned, clearly recognizing Smith's voice.

“Jon?”

“It's me, Yuri. Go on, sit down.”

The Russian slipped into the chair, bewilderment etched across his face.

“But Mr. Klein… He sent you? Do you work ―?”

“Not here, Yuri. And yes, I came to bring you over.”

Shaking his head, Danko flagged a passing waiter and ordered coffee. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it. Smith noticed that not even the beard could hide how gaunt Danko's face had become. His fingers trembled as he worked to light the cigarette.

“I still can't believe it's you…”

“Yuri―”

“It's all right, Jon. I wasn't followed. I'm clean.” Danko leaned back in his chair and stared at the pianist. “Wonderful, isn't it? The music, I mean.”

Smith leaned forward. “Are you all right?”

Danko nodded. “I am now. Getting here wasn't easy, but―”

Danko broke off as the waiter brought his coffee. “It was very difficult in Yugoslavia. The Serbs are a paranoid bunch. I was carrying a Ukrainian passport but even that was closely checked.”

Smith was straining to still the hundreds of questions swirling in his mind, trying to focus on what had to be done next.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, or give me ― right now?”

Danko appeared not to have heard him. His attention was on a pair of carabinieri ― Italian militiamen ― who were walking slowly among the tourists, their submachine guns slung across their chests.

“Lots of police,” he murmured.

“It's the holidays,” Smith replied. “They always add extra patrols. Yuri…”

“I have something to tell Mr. Klein, Jon,” Danko leaned across the table. “What they're going to do ― I never would have believed it. It's insanity!”

“What are they going to do?” Smith demanded, trying to control his tone. “Who's they?”