that was not an option. He was moving too quickly, covering his tracks very well. Venice was our best chance. When my people reported seeing Danko with a contact, I knew immediately that this man would have to be disposed of as well.”
“But he wasn't,” Price said.
“A mistake that will be rectified,” Bauer replied. “At the time we had no idea who Danko would contact. The key thing is that Danko, who was last stationed at Bioaparat, is dead. Whatever he knew died with him.”
“Unless he managed to tell Smith,” Richardson cut in.
“Study the footage,” Bauer suggested. “Check the time.”
He played back the disk. Richardson and Price stared intently at the screen. The carnage at St. Mark's lasted only seconds.
“Play it again,” Price said.
This time, the two men concentrated on Danko's actual meeting with Smith. Richardson had produced a stopwatch and was timing the brief encounter as he focused on Danko's hands. Nothing passed between the Russian and Smith.
“You're right,” Price said at last. “Danko comes up, sits down, orders a coffee, he and Smith talk…”
Bauer pulled out two copies of a transcript and handed one to each man. “I had a lip-reader prepare this. Small talk is all it was. Nothing more.”
Richardson scanned the page. “Looks like you were right: Danko didn't have a chance to say anything. But you can be sure that Smith won't fold up his tent and disappear into the night. He's going to dig hard and deep.” The general paused. “Who knows what other contacts he has in the Russian military.”
“I realize that,” Bauer replied. “Believe me, I do not intend to underestimate Dr. Jon Smith. That is part of the reason I asked you here, so that we can decide how to proceed with him.”
Price, who had been using the remote control to jog the images on the screen, froze a particular frame.
“This guy here, the Good Samaritan. He looks familiar.”
“According to my sources, he identified himself as an Italian doctor.”
“Did the police interview him?”
“No. He disappeared into the crowd.”
“What's wrong, Tony?” Richardson asked.
Price's cell phone trilled. Flipping it open, he identified himself; then, looking at the others, held up his finger.
“Hello, Inspector Dionetti. I'm glad you called. I have a few questions for you about the second man at the shooting…”
Sitting in his elegant, book-lined study, Dionetti contemplated an Etruscan bust. “You said that you wanted to know if anyone came around asking about the Rocca brothers,” he said.
“And?”
“An old friend of mine ? Peter Howell, the former SAS?”
“I know who he is,” Price interrupted. “What did he want?”
Dionetti described his meeting with the Englishman and finished by saying: “I regret I won't be able to get more information. But to ask too many questions…”
“What did you tell Howell?”
Dionetti licked his lips. “Howell asked if we had identified the bodies. I told him they were the Rocca brothers. I had no choice. Howell has other contacts in Venice. If I hadn't told him, they would have.”
“What else?” Price demanded.
“He saw the results of the explosion?”
“And you volunteered that it was a C-twelve.”
“What else could I do. Howell was a soldier. He knows about these things. Listen to me, Antonio. Howell is on his way to Palermo, where the Roccas came from. He is traveling alone, an easy target.”
Price thought about that. “All right,” he said finally. “But if Howell contacts you from Palermo I want to know about it.”
After hanging up, Price looked at the face on the screen. “It's Peter Howell,” he announced to the others.
He encapsulated what Dionetti had told him and gave an overview of Howell's career.
“What would such a man be doing with Jon Smith?” Bauer demanded.
“Covering his back,” Richardson said grimly. “Smith's no fool. He wasn't about to go meet Danko alone.” He turned to Price. “That bastard Dionetti has a big mouth. Can we still trust him?”
“As long as we pay him,” Price replied. “Without us Dionetti's one step away from bankruptcy. Five hundred years of family tradition?” He snapped his fingers. “ ?gone! Just like that. And he was right: Howell would have found out about the Roccas and the C-twelve, one way or another.”
“It seems that Smith is not the only loose end,” Bauer observed.
“True,” Richardson agreed. “But Palermo is a dangerous place ? even for a man like Peter Howell.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Upon arriving from Houston, Jon Smith drove directly from Andrews to his Bethesda home. He showered, packed a change of clothes for a week, and called a car service to take him to Dulles Airport.
He was arming the security system when the secure phone rang.
“Klein here, Jon. Have you made the necessary arrangements?”
“I'm booked on the Delta flight to Moscow, sir. It leaves in three hours.”
“Good. I've spoken with the president. He's given Covert-One the green light to proceed as it sees fit ? but fast.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Here's the information you'll need.” After Klein gave him the details, he added: “I know there's history between you and Randi Russell, Jon. Don't let it get in the way of what you need to find out.”
Smith reined in his anger. Tact wasn't one of Klein's strong suits.
“I'll report in every twelve hours, sir.”
“Good luck then. Let's hope that whatever the problem is, the Russians have a handle on it.”
As the Delta L-1011 lumbered into the night sky, Smith settled himself in the comfortable business-class seat. He ate sparingly, then slept all the way to London. After refueling, the aircraft continued its easterly journey, landing at Sheremetevo early in the morning. Traveling on his military ID, Smith had no problem at customs and immigration. After a forty-minute cab ride he arrived at the new Sheraton hotel near Red Square.
Smith placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door, washed away the travel grit, and slept another four hours. Like most soldiers, he had long ago mastered the art of getting rest when he could.
A little after noon, he stepped out into the raw Moscow spring and walked the six blocks to a covered arcade fronting a nineteenth-century building. The shops were upscale, offering everything from furs and perfumes to precious icons and Siberian “blue” diamonds. Smith threaded his way past prosperous-looking shoppers, wondering which belonged to Russia's new business elite and which were outright criminals. In the new Russia the distinction blurred.
He walked almost to the end of the arcade before he saw the address Klein had given him. The gold lettering ? in Cyrillic and English ? read: BAY DIGITAL CORPORATION.
Through the plate-glass window Smith saw a reception desk, and behind it, a series of workstations as modern as any found on Wall Street. Elegantly dressed men and women went about their business with brisk efficiency, but a particular one caught his eye. She was in her mid-thirties, tall, with gold hair cut short. She had the same straight nose and firm chin that belonged to another woman he'd known, the same dark eyes… as Sophia had had.
Smith took a deep breath and entered. He was about to introduce himself to the receptionist when the blond woman looked up. For an instant Smith couldn't breathe. It was as if his Sophia had suddenly come back to
