“Lucky?” The Czech police officer left the word hanging uncomfortably in the air for a few moments before continuing. “Nevertheless, I would still like a more reasonable explanation of what you and Dr. Petrenko were doing together on the Charles Bridge.”
“There’s no great mystery,” Smith told him, regretting the need to lie. “After two days of lectures and symposia, I needed a short break from the conference. So did Petrenko. And we both wanted to see a bit more of Prague. The bridge just seemed a reasonable starting point.”
Karasek raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You were sightseeing? In the fog?”
The American said nothing.
The Czech policeman stared hard at him for a while longer and then sighed. “Very well. I see no reason to detain you here any longer.” He stood up smoothly, moved to the door, and pulled it open. Then, abruptly, he turned back. “One thing more, Colonel. I should tell you that we have taken the lib-erty of collecting your luggage from the conference hotel. It’s downstairs waiting for you at the main desk. I imagine that you will wish to shave and change your clothes before making your way to the airport. The next connecting flight to London and New York leaves in a few hours.”
Smith eyed him narrowly. “Oh?”
“In these unfortunate circumstances, I am sure that you will wish to cut short your stay in my country,” Karasek explained. “This is regrettable, of course, but entirely understandable.”
“Is that an order?” Smith asked quietly.
“At an official level? Not at all,” the other man said. “Our two governments are close allies, are they not?” He shrugged. “Consider it instead a strong un-official suggestion. Prague is a peaceful city, one whose prosperity depends largely on tourism. We try not to encourage Wild West-style shootouts on our scenic streets and historic bridges.”
“So you’re the sheriff and I’m the gunslinger you’re running out of town before there’s more trouble?” Jon said with a rueful grin.
For the first time, a hint of genuine amusement flashed across the inspector’s face. “Something like that, Colonel.”
‘Til need to contact my superiors,” Smith said pointedly.
“Certainly.” Karasek turned toward the hallway and raised his voice slightly. “Antonin! Please give our American friend here his phone.”
A taciturn sergeant brought in the cell phone they had found securely fastened inside the waterproof inner lining of his leather jacket.
With a brisk nod of thanks, Smith took the compact phone, flipped it open, and hit the power button. A small color display blinked on. Small icons flashed across the miniature screen as the machine ran a quick self-diagnostics check, making sure that it was undamaged and that no one had tampered with its special subroutines and codes.
“A very intriguing piece of equipment,” Karasek said coolly from the door.
“Our electronics experts were quite puzzled by several of its more advanced features.”
Smith made sure his face stayed blank. “Really? That’s a shame. They’re the hottest thing in the States right now. Next time, I’ll be sure to bring the user’s guide with me.”
With a slight smile, the Czech shrugged his shoulders, conceding defeat.
“I earnestly hope there will not be a next time, Colonel Smith. For now, I wish you a safe journey.”
The American waited until the door clicked shut and then punched in a preset code. He lifted the phone to his ear. There was a short delay before it began ringing on the other end.
“Hold one moment, please,” a woman’s soft voice said politely. Then, after a musical tone chimed twice, confirming that both ends of this call were being encrypted, she said, “We’re clear. Go ahead.”
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith calling from Prague,” Jon said carefully. “Look, I realize that it’s very late there, but I need to speak to
General Ferguson. This is important. Fully urgent, in fact.”
Anyone listening in would be able to confirm that Brigadier General Daniel Ryder Ferguson was the director of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. However, the number he had auto-dialed was not associated with any office at USAMRIID. Instead, his call was passed through an automated relay?one equipped to detect attempts to intercept the signal?before arriving at the Washington, D.C., headquarters of Covert-One.
Jon Smith led a double life. Most of his work was done out in the open, as a scientist and doctor assigned to USAMRIID. But there were also times when he took on special missions for Covert-One, a top-secret intelligence outfit, one that reported directly to the President of the United States. No one in Congress even knew it existed. Nor did anyone in the broader military and intelligence bureaucracy. Loosely organized around a small headquarters group, Covert-One relied on a clandestine network of operatives, professionals in a number of different fields with a wide range of skills and expertise.
Like Smith, they were largely free of family ties and other personal obligations that might hamper their secret work.
“General Ferguson has already gone home for the day, sir,” Maggie Templeton, the woman who ran communications for Covert-One, said without missing a beat, playing along with the fiction Smith was weaving. The phrase he had used ?”Fully urgent”?was a piece of voice code, a shorthand way for a field agent to report that he was in serious trouble. “But I can patch you through to the duty officer.”
“The duty officer?” he repeated aloud. He nodded. “Yes, that would be fine.”
“Very good. Wait one moment.”
The phone went dead for a brief moment and then a familiar voice spoke in his ear. “Good morning, Jon.”
Smith sat up straighter. “Good evening, sir.”
The chief of Covert-One, Nathaniel Frederick Klein, chuckled drily.
“You’re not usually so formal, Colonel. I assume that the walls around you have ears. Maggie told me you were in hot water of one sort or another.”
Smith hid a smile. He was fairly sure that at least one hidden microphone was bus) recording his end of this conversation. Inspector Karasek was clearly suspicious of him. “I’m calling from a police station in Prague,” he said simply. “Three men tried to kill me yesterday afternoon. They did kill a colleague of mine, a Russian research scientist named Valentin Petrenko.”
There was a short silence on the other end.
“I see,” Klein said at length. “You were quite right to report in. This is serious. Extremely so. You had better brief me, Jon.”
Smith obeyed, recounting the attack on the bridge. For the moment, he was careful to stay within the framework of the story he had already told the police. If they were listening in, it made sense not to give them any more reasons to interrogate him further. And Fred Klein was smart enough to fill in the obvious gaps for himself.
“The men who attacked you were professionals,” Klein said flatly after Smith had finished. “A hit team, with training in close-quarters combat and small arms.”
“No question about it,” Smith agreed.
“Were they Russians?”
Smith thought back, mentally replaying what he could remember of the long-haired man’s voice. Once the lead attacker had dropped the beggar act and started speaking English, there had been some kind of faint, underlying accent, but Jon was not sure now that he could pin it down. He shrugged.
“Maybe. But I wouldn’t swear to it.”
Klein was silent for another few moments. “And where did Dr. Petrenko work in Moscow?” he asked.
“He was a disease specialist attached to the Central Clinical Hospital,”
Smith told him. “A top-notch guy. One of the best in his field.”
“The Central Clinical Hospital? That is interesting,” Klein mused. “Very interesting, indeed.”
Smith raised an eyebrow. From his position in the shadows, Klein had un-hindered access to an incredible range of information and analysis. Were other U.S. or Western intelligence organizations already probing the disease outbreak in Moscow?
“All in all, I would have to say that you have been extremely fortunate,” the older man continued. “By rights,
