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.
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 Cafe 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
