CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The helicopter ferrying Jon Smith from Camp David landed in the cargo transport area of Andrews Air Force Base. Smith hopped out and trotted across the tarmac to the white panel truck parked next to a sleek executive jet.
“Hello, Jon,” Major-General Kirov said, watching the corpsmen pull a stretcher out of the truck.
“Did everything go as planned?” Smith asked.
“It did,” Kirov replied. “These men” ?he indicated the corpsmen ? “arrived at your house exactly on schedule. They were very quick, very efficient.”
Smith glanced at Ivan Beria, a blanket tucked up to his chin, as he was wheeled by.
“Is he all right?”
“The tranquilizers worked perfectly,” Kirov replied.
Smith nodded.
As the stretcher disappeared into the jet, Kirov turned to Smith. “I am grateful to you ? and to Mr. Klein ? for allowing me to help. I only wish I could do more.”
Smith shook the Russian's hand. “I'll stay in touch, General. I think we got everything we could out of Beria, but if he says anything interesting…”
“You'll be the first to know,” Kirov assured him. “Good-bye, Jon Smith. I hope that we will meet again, under more pleasant circumstances.”
Smith waited until Kirov was onboard and the hatch was closed. By the time the jet was racing down the runway he was in his car, being waved through perimeter security. As he headed for the highway, his thoughts drifted from what had been accomplished to what was still left to do.
In Moscow it was the middle of the night, but the lights were still burning in the offices of the Bay Digital Corporation.
In the conference room, Randi Russell was working on her fourth cup of coffee, watching Sasha Rublev as he worked to ferret out the secrets of the laptop Jon Smith had delivered. Surrounded by hardware wired into the laptop, Sasha had been at his keyboard for over seven hours, downing the occasional Coke to maintain his energy level. Three times Randi had suggested they quit for the night, but each time Sasha simply waved her words away.
“I'm close,” he would mumble. “Just a few more minutes.”
By now Randi had decided that Sasha did not measure time like mere mortals.
She drained her coffee, stared at the dregs, and then said: “Okay, that's it. And this time I mean it.”
Sasha held up one hand, kept typing with the other. “Wait for it…”
He jabbed a key triumphantly and slumped in his chair. “Look,” he said proudly.
Randi couldn't believe her eyes. The big monitor, which had been filled with nothing but a series of unintelligible symbols all evening, suddenly morphed into a string of deciphered E-mails.
“Sasha, how ??” Randi shook her head. “Never mind. I'd never understand.”
Sasha beamed at her. “The person this computer belongs to used CARNIVORE, your FBI's latest encryption program.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I thought no one outside America had this.”
“Me too,” Randi murmured.
Using the mouse, she scanned the E-mails, unable to believe what she was reading.
What the hell is the Cassandra Compact?
Returning to Bethesda, Jon Smith fixed himself a quick snack and took it into his study. The faint odor of drugs and a broken man's fear hung in the house. Smith opened a window and sat down with the files Nathaniel Klein had given him.
Travis Nichols and Patrick Drake… both U.S. Army sergeants. Both from the same small town in central Texas where young men went either into the oil fields or the military. Seasoned combat veterans, they had seen action in Somalia, the Gulf, and most recently, Nigeria.
Smith's interest was piqued when he read their fitness reports from the Advanced Warfare School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Nichols and Drake had graduated one and two in their class, cold, hard men whose keen edge had been further honed by instructors in the blackest combat arts.
Then they disappear…
Now Smith knew what Klein had meant about the lapses. In each of the last five years there were months where the soldiers' whereabouts could not be accounted for. No notations had been made by commanding officers; no ship-out or transport orders were available.
Experienced in the ways of the military, Smith could guess where Nichols and Drake had disappeared. Scattered throughout the army were special units. The most public of these were the Rangers. But there were others, whose members were culled from the most experienced and battle-hardened troops. In Vietnam, they had been known as LRRPs-Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols; in other parts of the world, they had no designation whatsoever.
Smith was aware of three such outfits but suspected there were more. He knew no one in any of them, and didn't have the time or the resources to start a hunt from scratch. There was only one way to go: with the phone number that Peter Howell had coaxed from the dying Travis Nichols's lips.
For the next hour, Smith considered one plan of action after another. From each one he took away a detail or two that, when strung together, formed a coherent whole. Then he went over it again and again, probing for weaknesses, eliminating questions, trying to give himself the best possible advantage. He knew that the minute he made the call to that as yet unknown person at the other end of a number that didn't exist, his life would hang on his every word and action.
Outside, the insects and birds began their nocturnal litany. As Smith rose to close the window, his phone rang.
“Jon, it's Randi.”
“Randi! What time is it over there?”
“I don't know. I've lost track. Listen, Sasha broke through the laptop's firewalls. All the E-mails ? and everything else ? are in the clear.”
By her tone, Smith knew that Randi wanted an explanation.
“I need what you have, Randi,” he said quietly. “No questions asked. Not now.”
“Jon, you asked me to do you a favor. I did. From the little I've read, this stuff's explosive. There are references to Bioaparat and to something called the Cassandra Compact?”
“But I haven't seen any of that,” Smith said urgently. “That's why I need it ? to try to find out what's going on.”
“You have to tell me one thing,” Randi replied. “This 'situation,' whatever it is, is it localized in Russia? Or has something gotten out?”
Smith had come up against Randi's single-mindedness before. He knew she wasn't vying for glory; she was an intelligence agent trying to do her job. Somehow he had to convince her that his interests and hers were the same.
“Something has gotten out,” he said.
She stared at him. “Not like Hades, Jon. Not again!”
“It isn't like that at all,” Smith assured her. “We have a situation here at home. Believe me, all stops have been pulled out on this. The orders come from the highest level. Do you understand? The highest level.” He allowed his words to sink in. “What you've done will help me enormously,” he continued. “Please believe me: there's nothing more you can do on your end. At least not right now.”
“So I take it you don't want me to signal Langley.”
“It's the last thing I want you to do. I'm asking you to trust me, Randi. Please.”
After a moment's hesitation, she replied, “It's not a matter of trust, Jon. I just don't want… I couldn't bear to stand by and let another situation like Hades develop.”
