“A traitor's word,” she said bitterly.
It had taken her all of twenty minutes to confirm that Yuri Danko was missing and that his whereabouts were unknown. Except the Americans, damn them, know that he's dead!
“On the face of it, Danko was a traitor,” Kirov agreed. “But you can see his dilemma: what if he had gone to his superior, or even higher up the command chain, and that person had turned out to be part of this `conspiracy'? Danko would still be dead and we would know nothing.”
Kirov stared through the bulletproof window at the streetlights flashing by.
“Believe me, I hope that the Americans are wrong,” he said softly. “I would like nothing more than to show Smith that Bioaparat is totally secure and that he has been the victim of a hoax. But until I can do that, I must give him the benefit of the doubt. You understand, dusha?”
She squeezed his hand. “Better than you think. After all, I have been learning at the feet of the master.”
The big sedan bored through the Kremlin's Spassky Gate, stopping only at the security checkpoint where passengers' IDs were checked. A few minutes later, Kirov and Telegin were escorted into the section of the Kremlin that houses the president's apartment and personal working quarters.
“I had better wait here,” Telegin said as they stood in the grand, domed foyer built by Peter the Great. “There's bound to be more information coming through on Danko.”
“There will be ? and Smith will give it to us,” Kirov replied. “But right now, I think it's time you got used to presenting yourself to your civilian masters.”
Telegin could scarcely hide her surprise and trepidation as they followed the duty officer up the double staircase. They were shown into an elegantly appointed library where a figure wrapped in a thick robe sat by a crackling fire.
“Oleg Ivanovich, you had better have good reason to rob an old man of his sleep.”
Viktor Potrenko cut a patrician-looking figure as he rose to shake Kirov's hand.
“May I present my adjutant, Lieutenant Lara Telegin,” Kirov said.
“Lieutenant Telegin,” Potrenko murmured. “I have heard good things about you. Please, sit.”
Lara thought that Potrenko lingered in holding her hand. Maybe the rumors about the seventy-five-year-old president were true ? that he had a fondness for young women, particularly ballerinas.
When they were seated, Potrenko continued, “Now what is all this business about Bioaparat?”
Swiftly, Kirov laid out the gist of his conversation with Smith. “I think that this is something we must take seriously,” he concluded.
“Do you?” Potrenko mused. “Lieutenant Telegin, what are your thoughts?”
Lara understood that her next words could very well put her career in the crosshairs. But she also knew that the two men before her were masters of nuance and inflection. They would spot a lie or an equivocation faster than a hawk sees a hare.
“I'm afraid that I must play devil's advocate, Mr. President,” she said, then explained her reservations about taking Smith's words at face value.
“Well spoken,” Potrenko commended her. He turned to Kirov. “Don't lose this one.” He paused. “So, what are we to do? On the one hand, the Americans gain nothing by crying foul. On the other, it stings to believe that a theft of this magnitude can occur under our very noses ? without us even being aware.”
Potrenko rose and stepped close to the grate, warming his hands. It seemed a very long time before he spoke.
“We have a Special Forces training facility outside Vladimir, do we not?”
“We have, Mr. President.”
“Call the commander and authorize a quarantine around Bioaparat effective immediately. You, Lieutenant Telegin, and Dr. Smith will fly there at first light. If a theft has occurred, you will notify me immediately. Either way, I want a comprehensive review of the security procedures.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Oleg?”
“Sir?”
“If even a gram of smallpox is missing, alert our virus hunters at once. Then arrest everyone on-site.”
CHAPTER NINE
After landing at the Naples airport, Peter Howell took a taxi to the docks, where he boarded the hydrofoil for the thirty-minute ride across the Straits of Messina. Through the big windows of the lounge, he watched as Sicily came into view, first the craters of Mount Etna, then Palermo itself, nestled beneath the limestone bulk of Monte Pellegrino that tapered off into a plateau at sea level.
Settled by Greeks, invaded by Romans, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards, Sicily has been a waystop for soldiers and mercenaries for centuries. As one of the breed, Howell had been on the island both as a visitor and a warrior. After stepping off the hydrofoil, he went into the heart of the city ? the Quattro Centri, or Four Corners. There he found accommodations in a small penzione where he had stayed before. It was well away from the tourist traffic yet within walking distance to the places Howell needed to go to.
As was his habit, Howell reconnoitered those areas of the city he intended to visit. Not unexpectedly, nothing had changed since his last trip, and the map he carried in his head served him well. Returning to the penzione, he slept until the early evening, then headed for the Albergheria, a warren of narrow streets in Palermo's craftsmen's district.
Sicily was famous for its knife makers and the quality of their wares and Howell had no problem buying a finely honed ten-inch blade with a sturdy leather handle. Now that he had a weapon, Howell proceeded to the docks, where the taverns and rooming houses were definitely not mentioned in the tourist guides.
Howell knew that the bar was called La Pretoria, although there was no sign on the stone walls. Inside was a large, crowded room with sawdust on the floor and timbers lining the ceiling. Fishermen and boatbuilders, mechanics and sailors sat at long communal tables drinking grappa, beer, or cold, flinty Sicilian wine. Wearing corduroy pants, an old fisherman's sweater, and a knitted cap, Howell attracted little attention. He bought two grappas at the bar and carried the drinks to the end of one of the tables.
The man sitting across from him was short and thickset, with an unshaven face scarred by the sea and wind. Cold gray eyes regarded Howell through the haze of cigarette smoke.
“I was surprised to hear from you, Peter,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Howell raised his thimbleful of grappa. “Salute, Franco.”
Franco Grimaldi ? one-time member of the French Foreign Legion, now a professional smuggler ? put down his cigarette and lifted his glass. He had to do this because he had only his right arm, having lost the left one to a Tunisian rebel's sword.
The two men tossed back their drinks and Grimaldi jammed the cigarette back between his lips.
“So, old friend. What brings you to my parlor?”
“The Rocca brothers.”
Grimaldi's fleshy lips creased into what might have been misconstrued as a smile. “I hear things did not go well for them in Venice.” He looked at Howell shrewdly. “And you just came from there, didn't you?”
“The Roccas executed a contract, then someone executed them,” Howell replied, his voice hard, flat. “I want to know who that was.”
Grimaldi shrugged. “It's best not to inquire too closely into the Roccas' dealings ? even if they are dead.”
Howell slipped a roll of American dollars across the table. “I need to know, Franco.”
The Sicilian palmed the money like a magician.
“I heard that there was a special contract,” he said, cupping the side of his mouth as he held his cigarette.
“Specifics, please, Franco.”
“I cannot tell you. Usually the Roccas made no secret about their contracts ? especially after a few drinks. But they were very quiet about this job.”
