The effect was extremely deceptive. In truth, what had once been Fort Howard now lay three stories beneath the earth.
“We're cleared to land, General,” the pilot informed him.
Richardson took a last glance out the window and saw a toylike figure tracking the helicopter's flight.
“Take us down,” he replied.
He was a short, muscular man in his early sixties, with swept-back silver hair and a carefully trimmed goatee. He stood with his feet apart, his back ramrod straight, hands clasped at the small of his back ? an officer of wars past.
Dr. Karl Bauer watched the helicopter drift down, flutter above the grassy landing area, then settle. He knew that his visitors would have hard questions for him. As the rotors wound down, he carefully reviewed just how much he would tell them. Herr Doktor did not take kindly to having to provide explanations or apologies.
For over a hundred years, the company founded by Bauer's great-grandfather had been at the forefront of chemical and biological technology. Bauer-Zermatt A.G. held a myriad of patents that, to this day, were a revenue- producing stream. Its scientists and researchers had developed pills and potions that remained household staples; at the same time they had brought to market esoteric drugs that had won the company international humanitarian awards.
But for all the medicines and vaccines it distributed to health-care workers in the Third World, Bauer-Zermatt had a dark side that its well-paid spinmeisters and glossy brochures never alluded to. During World War I, the company had developed a particularly noxious form of mustard gas that was responsible for the slow deaths of thousands of Allied soldiers. A quarter century later, it supplied German companies with certain chemicals that were then combined to subsequently create the gas used in the death chambers throughout Eastern Europe. The firm had also closely monitored the ungodly experiments of Dr. Josef Mengele and other Nazi physicians. At the end of the war, while other perpetrators and accomplices were rounded and hanged, Bauer-Zermatt retreated behind the Swiss cloak of anonymity while quietly extrapolating on Nazi medical research. As for Bauer-Zermatt's owners and principal officers, they disclaimed any knowledge of what might have been done with the corporation's products once they'd left the alpine borders.
In the second half of the twentieth century, Dr. Karl Bauer had not only kept the family firm in the forefront of legitimate pharmaceutical research, but had also broadened its secret program of developing biochemical weapons. Like a locust, Bauer went where the fields were most fertile: Gadhafi's Libya, Hussein's Iraq, the tribal dictatorships of Africa, and the nepotism-infested regimes of Southeast Asia. He brought with him the best scientists and the most modern equipment; in return, he was showered with largesse that was transferred by computer keystroke into the vaults beneath Zurich.
At the same time, Bauer maintained and upgraded his contacts with the military in both the United States and Russia. A prescient student of the global political condition, he had foreseen the breakup of the Soviet Union and the inevitable decline of the new Russia struggling to adopt democracy. Where the twin streams of Russian desperation and American ascendancy met, Bauer fished.
Bauer stepped forward to greet his visitors. “Gentlemen.”
The three men shook hands, then fell in step to the two-story, Colonial-style command building. On both sides of the gracious, wood-paneled lobby were the offices of Bauer's hand-picked staff, who looked after the administrative duties of the facility. Farther along were the cubbyholes where the scientists' assistants toiled, inputting data from the laboratory experiments. At the very back were two elevators. One was hidden behind a door that could be opened only with a key card. Built by Hitachi, it was a high-speed unit that linked the subterranean labs with the command building. The second elevator was a beautiful brass birdcage. The three men got in, and in a few seconds were in Bauer's private office, which occupied the entire second floor.
The office might have belonged to a colonial governor from the nineteenth century. Antique Oriental rugs graced polished hardwood floors; mahogany bookcases and South Pacific art filled the walls. Bauer's massive partner's desk stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire compound and the ocean below the cliffs, straight across to the black lava fields in the distance.'
“You've made a few improvements since the last time I was here,” Richardson commented dryly.
“Later, I will take you to the staff and quarters and recreation area,” Bauer replied. “Life here is not unlike on an oil rig: my people have leave only once a month, and then only for three days. The amenities I provide are well worth the expenditure.”
“These furloughs,” Richardson said. “Do you let your people go off by themselves?”
Bauer laughed softly. “Not likely, general. We book them into an exclusive resort. The security is there, but they're never aware of it.”
“From one gilded cage to another,” Price remarked.
Bauer shrugged. “I've had no complaints.”
“Given what you pay them, I'm not surprised,” Price said.
Bauer stepped over to a well-stocked liquor cart. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Both Richardson and Price chose the fresh pineapple juice over ice and crushed fruit. Bauer stayed with his usual mineral water.
After the others were seated, Bauer took his place behind his desk.
'Gentlemen, let me recapitulate. The project that we have devoted five years of our lives to is almost ready to bear fruit. As you know, during the Clinton administration, smallpox, which was to have been destroyed in 1999, had been granted a reprieve. Currently, there are two consignments left in the world: one is in the Center for Communicable Diseases in Atlanta, part of the CDC; the other is in central Russia, at Bioaparat. Our entire plan rested on the ability to procure a sample of the smallpox virus. Efforts to get such a sample from the CDC had proved futile; the security was simply too stringent. However, such was not the case at Bioaparat.
“Given the Russians' dire need for hard currency, I was able to make certain arrangements. I am pleased to tell you that within days, a courier carrying a sample of the virus will be leaving Russia.”
“Are your Russians guaranteeing delivery?” Richardson asked.
“Of course. In the unlikely event that the courier fails to rendezvous with our people, the second half of the payment will not be released.” Bauer paused, polishing his sharp, small teeth with his tongue. “There will also be other, more far-reaching, consequences. I can assure you that the Russians are very much aware of this.”
“But there's a problem, isn't there?” Richardson said bluntly. “Venice.”
Bauer did not reply. Instead, he slipped a disk into a DVD player. The monitor went from blue to jagged images, then to a startlingly clear picture of St. Mark's Square.
“This footage was caught by an Italian journalist who was enjoying the day with his family,” Bauer explained.
“Does anyone else have it?” Price asked at once.
“No. My people got to the journalist immediately. Not only will he never have to spend a cent on his children's education, he can retire ? which, in fact, he has.”
Bauer pointed to the screen. 'The man on the right is Yuri Danko, a high-ranking officer in the medical division of Russia's security service.
“And that's Jon Smith, on the left,” Price added. He looked at Richardson. “Frank and I know Smith from his involvement in the Hades Project. Before that, he was with USAMRIID. Rumor had it he was close to someone in the Russian Medical Intelligence Division. NSA wanted in, but Smith refused to share. He claimed that he had no such source.”
“Now you see his source: Danko,” Bauer continued. “A month ago, I began receiving reports that Danko was sniffing around Bioaparat as part of his security rotation. As the day approached for our courier to depart, Danko bolted. But he was in such a hurry to get out that he became sloppy. The Russians discovered that he was on the run and passed that information to me.”
“At which point you arranged for the triggermen,” Richardson said. “You should have paid for better talent.”
“The executioners were top grade,” Bauer said coldly. “I had used them before and the results had always been satisfactory.”
“Not this time.”
“It would have been better to get Danko while he was still in Eastern Europe,” Bauer admitted. “However,
