“No one does. And it won't happen.”
“Will you at least keep me posted?”
“As much as I can,” Smith replied truthfully. “Things are moving fast here.”
“All right. But remember your promise.”
“You won't hear it on CNN.”
“I'll ship you the contents now. What do you want me to do with the laptop?”
Smith considered his options. By all rights he should have the computer returned to Kirov. But what if Lara Telegin wasn't the only traitor? He couldn't run the risk that somehow vital secrets would fall into the wrong hands.
“I'm sure that you have a secure safe,” he said. “Preferably something tamperproof.”
“I have one of the new flash vaults. Anyone trying to get in is in for a nasty surprise.”
“Good. One last thing: the cell phone.”
“It had a bunch of numbers in its memory ? all on the Russian military exchange. I'll send you copies.”
Hearing a ping! Smith turned to his monitor as an incoming message scrolled across the screen.
“I'm receiving your feed,” he said.
“I hope it's what you need.” Randi hesitated, then added, “Good luck, Jon. I'll be thinking of you.”
Smith turned his attention to the screen and scanned the E-mails one by one. The sender was code-named Sphinx; the receiver, Mephisto.
As he continued to read, the enormity of what was referred to as the Cassandra Compact grew before his eyes. Lara Telegin ? Sphinx ? had been in contact with Mephisto for over two years, feeding him top-secret information on Bioaparat, its personnel and security. The most recent notes mentioned Yuri Danko and Ivan Beria by name.
Who were you feeding? Who is Mephisto?
Smith worked his way deeper into the E-mails. Suddenly he spotted something and scrolled back. It was a congratulatory note. Mephisto had been awarded a citation. There was a reference to a ceremony on a certain date.
Veterans Day…
Using his USAMRIID access code, Smith got into the Pentagon site and punched in the date. Instantly the specifics of the ceremony appeared, including pictures. There was a shot of President Castilla holding the citation. And the soldier who was about to receive it.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Klein asked.
Smith thought Klein sounded tired, but maybe it was just the connection.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “The E-mail refers to a specific date. There was only that one ceremony. Only one such citation was awarded. There's no mistake.”
“I see… Given this new development, have you come up with a way to proceed?”
“Yes, sir.”
It had taken Smith two hours to revise the plan he'd come up with prior to Randi Russell's call. Quickly he gave Klein the details.
“It sounds awfully dangerous, Jon,” Klein said softly. “I'd feel a whole lot better if you weren't going in alone.”
“Believe me, I'd like to have Peter Howell around but there's no time to get him here. Besides, I need him in Europe.”
“And you're sure you want to proceed immediately?”
“As long as you can get those items I mentioned, I'll be ready.”
“Consider it done. And Jon, you will be wearing a transmitter, won't you?”
Smith held up a tiny fiberoptic patch that looked identical to a small round Band-Aid, the kind that might be used on a shaving cut.
“If something goes wrong, sir, you'll at least know how far I got.”
“Don't even think that.”'
After hanging up, Smith took a moment to compose himself. He thought of everything that had happened up to this point, all the lives that had been sacrificed on the altar of the Cassandra Compact. Then he saw Yuri Danko coming toward him across St. Mark's Square… and Katrina, his widow.
Without hesitation, he reached for the phone, made sure the scrambler was activated, and dialed the number Peter Howell had passed along. If anyone tried to trace the call, they'd find themselves zipping from one cutout to another all over the country.
On the other end, the phone was ringing. The receiver was picked up and an unearthly voice, electronically distorted, answered: “Yes?”
“This is Nichols. I'm home. Hurt. I need to come in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
General Frank Richardson inadvertently knocked the cigar burning in the cut-glass ashtray.
“Say again,” he spoke into the phone.
A patchy, mangled voice came back at him. “…is Nichols…Hurt…coming in.”
Richardson clenched the receiver. “Go to safe point Alpha. Repeat: safe point Alpha. Copy?”
“Copy,”
The connection was broken.
Richardson stared at the telephone as though he expected it to ring again. But the silence in his office was broken only by soft ticks of the grandfather clock and the distant drones of Humvees as security details went about their patrols around Fort Belvoir.
Nichols… Hurt… Impossible!
Richardson took a draw on his cigar to steady himself. A seasoned commander, he quickly reviewed his options and made his decision. The first call went out to the noncom barracks on the base. A crisp, alert voice answered.
Richardson's second call was to NSA deputy-director Anthony Price. He too was awake, and luckily not that far away in his townhouse in Alexandria.
While Richardson waited for the two men to arrive, he listened to the tape of the conversation. Even though his secure phone was hooked up to the latest recording equipment, the quality of the speaker's voice was scratchy. Richardson couldn't tell if the call was local or long distance. He didn't think that “Nichols” was all that far away, not if he was ready to rendezvous at safe point Alpha.
But Nichols is dead!
Richardson's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the office door. His visitor was a big, strapping man in his midthirties with straw-colored hair cut close to the scalp and bright blue eyes. Normally baggy fatigues were stretched taut over a linebacker's powerful muscles.
“Good evening, General,” Sergeant Patrick Drake said, saluting crisply.
“At ease,” Richardson replied. He gestured at the wet bar in the corner. “Help yourself to a drink, Sergeant. Believe me, you'll need it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Anthony Price was escorted into the room by the general's aide-de-camp.
“Good evening, Tony.”
Price looked at Drake and raised his eyebrows. “What's going on, Frank?”'
“What's going on is this,” Richardson replied and jabbed the play button on the tape recorder.
He watched the expressions of the two men as they listened to the brief exchange. He detected nothing except genuine surprise ? and in the case of Price, alarm.
“How the hell could Nichols have made that call?” Price demanded. He turned to Drake. “I thought you said that he was dead, soldier!”
“With all due respect, sir, Nichols is dead,” Drake replied tonelessly. He looked at Richardson. 'General, I saw
