The Cassandra Compact

  Inspector Marco Dionetti of the Venice Questura stepped nimbly from the police launch to the dock in front of his palazzo. He returned the constable’s salute and watched the boat as it disappeared into the passing canal traffic, the vessels lit up from bow to stern.

  At the front door, Dionetti deactivated the security system before entering. His cook and servant were both old women who had been in his household for decades. Neither was any match for a burglar, and since the palazzo had enough treasures to fill a small museum, precautions were necessary.

  Dionetti picked up the mail waiting for him in the foyer. Proceeding to the drawing room, he settled into a club chair and slit open the letter from the Offenbach Bank in Zurich. He sipped his aperitif and nibbled on black Kalamata olives while scrutinizing the balance in his account. The Americans might be many things—none of them good—but they never missed a payment.

  Marco Dionetti did not concern himself with the big picture. He did not care why the Rocca brothers had to kill or why they had to die. True, his conscience had been pricked when he’d sold Peter Howell. But Howell had traveled to Sicily and would never be heard from again. In the meantime, the Dionetti legacy, courtesy of American dollars, would continue to flourish.

  After a refreshing shower, Dionetti took his solitary meal at the great table that could seat thirty. When coffee and dessert had been served he dismissed the servants, who retired to their quarters on the fourth floor. Lost in thought, Dionetti nibbled on strawberries drenched in Cointreau and day-dreamed of where he might vacation, courtesy of American largesse.

  “Good evening, Marco.”

  Dionetti choked on the fruit in his mouth. He stared in disbelief as Peter Howell entered the room as calmly as if he were an invited guest and took a seat at the other end of the long table.

  From inside his smoking jacket Dionetti whipped out a Beretta, leveling it across twenty feet of ancient cherrywood.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “Why, Marco? Was I supposed to be dead? Is that what they told you?”

  Dionetti’s mouth worked like that of a landed fish. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Then why hold a gun on me?”

  Very carefully Howell opened his palm and placed a small vial on the table.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner, Marco? The risotto di mare smelled excellent. And the strawberries—are you enjoying them?”

  Dionetti stared at the vial, then at the few berries at the bottom of his bowl. He tried to push away the dark thoughts crowding his mind.

  “Are you guessing that I somehow managed to poison the fruit, Marco? After all, I got past your security. Your servants never suspected there was anyone in the house. Would it have been so difficult to drop a little atropine into the dessert?”

  The gun barrel began to waver as Dionetti absorbed what Howell was saying. Atropine was an organic poison found in the belladonna family. Tasteless, odorless, it killed by attacking the central nervous system. Frantically Dionetti tried to remember how fast the poison worked.

  “On someone of your height and weight, I should think about four, five minutes—given the amount I used,” Howell informed him. He tapped the vial on the table. “But here is the antidote.”

  “Pietro, you have to understand—”

  “I understand that you betrayed me, Marco,” Howell replied harshly. “That is all I need to understand. And if you didn’t have something I need you’d be dead by now.”

  “But I can kill you right now!” Dionetti hissed.

  Howell shook his head in reproof. “You took a shower, remember? You left your gun in its holster on the bathroom counter. I took the bullets, Marco. If you don’t believe me, shoot.”

  Dionetti squeezed the trigger. All he heard were clicks, like nails being driven into his coffin.

  “Pietro, I swear—”

  Howell held up his hand. “Time is crucial to you, Marco. I know that American soldiers killed the Roccas. Did you help them?”

  Dionetti licked his lips. “I told them how the Roccas intended to make their escape.”

  “And you knew this how?”

  “I received my instructions over the telephone. The voice was electronically altered. I was told to first help the Roccas, then the soldiers who would follow.”

  “And me.”

  Dionetti’s head bobbed furiously. “And you,” he whispered.

  His mouth was dry. His voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “Pietro, please! The antidote…”

  “Who pays you, Marco?” Howell asked softly.

  It would be a waste of time to ask Dionetti about the Americans. They never would have revealed themselves to him. Following the blood money would be the best bet.

  Howell rapped the table with the vial. “Marco…”

  “Herr Weizsel…the Offenbach Bank in Zurich. For God’s sakes, Pietro, give me the antidote!”

  Howell slid his cell phone the length of the table. “Call him. I’m sure that a client of your stature has his home number. Make sure I can hear the access codes.”

  Dionetti fumbled the phone and jabbed at the keypad. As he waited for the connection he could not take his eyes off the vial.

  “Pietro, please!”

  “All in good time, Marco. All in good time.”

  Chapter 18

  The LearJet touched down at Kona Airport on the Big Island shortly before twilight, Hawaii time. Under Bauer’s supervision, three technicians offloaded the virus container and placed it in a waiting Humvee. The ride to the Bauer-Zermatt compound took forty-five minutes.

  Because the complex had once been an army medical research facility, certain construction requirements had been met. Both to prevent intruders from getting in and highly lethal bugs from escaping into the island population, the area between the sea cliff and the lava fields had been cored out. The giant pit had been lined with thousands of cubic yards of concrete, creating an enormous, multi-story cradle. This was then divided into three levels, or zones, the deepest one reserved for the laboratories that would house the most dangerous viruses. When Bauer had taken over the facility, virtually everything he needed was already in place. After one year and a hundred million dollars, the required updating had been completed and the operation went on-stream.

  Once the Humvee was safely inside the massive garage, the container was off-loaded onto a mechanized trolley, which took it to a waiting elevator. Three floors below, Bauer was greeted by Klaus Jaunich, the head of his handpicked research staff. Jaunich and his team of six had been brought over from the company’s Zurich headquarters for the express purpose of working on the smallpox. All of them had been with Bauer for years; all had profited beyond their wildest dreams from their association with him.

  And all understand that I am privy to secrets that could break them in an instant, Bauer thought, smiling at Jaunich.

  “It’s good to see you, Klaus.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Herr Direktor.”

  Jaunich was a study in contrasts. A big, bearlike man in his late fifties, he had an uncommonly soft voice. His bearded moon face bespoke a lumberjack, yet the image was dispelled as soon as he smiled, revealing tiny baby teeth.

  Jaunich motioned to his two waiting associates, their orange containment suits making them look like astronauts. They lifted the container off the trolley and, carrying it between them, proceeded to enter the first of four decontamination chambers, waystations to the laboratory itself.

  “Does the Direktor wish to view the procedure?” Jaunich inquired.

  “Naturally.”

  Jaunich led the way to a glass-enclosed mezzanine that overlooked both the decontamination chambers and the lab. From this vantage point, Bauer watched as the delivery team moved from one chamber to the next. Because the decontamination procedure was necessary only when leaving the lab, going in took only a few minutes.

  Inside
the lab, the team opened the chest. Bauer leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.

  “Be very careful with the transfer,” he cautioned the two men.

  “Ja, Herr Direktor,” came the tinny response over the loudspeakers.

  Bauer tensed as the pair dipped their hands into the cloud of nitrogen and slowly withdrew the revolverlike chamber that housed the ampoules. In the background, the door to the refrigerated vault, not much different from the Coke machine at Bioaparat, opened.

  “We haven’t much time,” Bauer murmured. “Is the rest of the team ready?”

  “More than ready,” Jaunich assured him. “The entire process will be completed in less than eight hours.”

  “You will start the procedure without me,” Bauer said. “I will retire, then join you for the final steps in the recombination process.”

  Jaunich nodded. Obviously Bauer would want to be present at the beginning of what would eventually be viewed as a milestone in biochemical engineering. But the circumstances that had brought the smallpox here—whatever they were—had clearly taken their toll on the old scientist. Before venturing into the tense laboratory atmosphere, he needed to rest.

  “Be assured that every step of the procedure will be videotaped, Herr Direktor.”

  “As it should be,” Bauer insisted. “What we will accomplish here today has never been attempted before. The Russians couldn’t do it at Bioaparat. The Americans are too frightened to even try. Think, Klaus: the first steps in the genetic alteration of one of mankind’s greatest scourges, the beginning of a transformation that will render all past and present vaccines impotent! The result? The perfect battlefield weapon.”

  “For which there is only one cure,” Jaunich finished. “Strict quarantine.”

  Bauer’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Exactly! Since there is no known antidote, whichever country is infected must immediately shut down its borders. Take Iraq, for example. Baghdad pays no heed to our warnings to desist from a certain course of action. The decision is made to engage in a preemptive strike. Our little princess is introduced into the water or food supply. People contract the disease; the death toll mounts swiftly and exponentially. The population is desperate to flee, but the borders are sealed. The word has spread: any Iraqi must be considered infected. Even those trying to escape through the mountains would be hunted down and slaughtered.”

  Bauer opened his hands like a magician releasing his dove. “Poof! In one fell swoop the enemy is no more. He cannot fight because there’s no longer an army. He cannot resist because his infrastructure has collapsed. He cannot remain in power because what is left of his people will turn on him. The only option is unconditional surrender.”

  “Or pleas for a vaccine,” Jaunich observed.

  “A plea that will fall on deaf ears, since there is no vaccine.” Bauer savored the moment. “Or so the victim will be told.” He smiled. “But first things first: the samples must be readied for the recombination. If all goes well, we can see about the antidote.”

  He clamped his hand on Jaunich’s shoulder. “I leave the undertaking in your more than capable hands and will see you in a few hours.”

  Several time zones to the east, in Houston, Megan Olson pulled her cherry-red Mustang into the NASA parking area reserved for members of the space shuttle. She locked the car and walked quickly into the administration building. Dylan Reed’s message had interrupted her dinner with a pleasant but boring aerospace engineer. The last word to scroll across her beeper had been URGENT.

  Megan went through the security checkpoints and stepped into an elevator that whisked her to the sixth floor. Although the area was brightly lighted, there was an eerie silence in the corridors. The door to Reed’s office was ajar, the light slanting into the hall. Megan knocked and entered.

  The office was divided into a working space and a much larger conference area dominated by a long, oval table. Megan blinked. Seated at the table were the shuttle mission pilot, Frank Stone, and the commander, Bill Karol. Next to them sat the mission director, Harry Landon, and the deputy director of NASA, Lorne Allenby. The latter two appeared tired, their clothes rumpled as if they’d just gotten off a long flight. Megan thought that might actually be the case. With the launch date less than forty-eight hours away, Landon and Allenby should have been at the Cape.

  “Megan,” Dylan Reed said. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I think you know everyone here.”

  Megan exchanged murmured greetings as she slipped into a chair beside the mission pilot, Frank Stone.

  Reed massaged the back of his neck, then braced himself on the table with both arms, his attention focused on her.

  “Have you heard?”

  Megan shook her head. “Heard what?”

  “Adam Treloar was killed this afternoon in Washington.” He paused. “A mugging gone bad.”

  “Oh my God! How? What happened?”

  “The D.C. police don’t have a lot to give us—or to go on,” Reed replied. “Adam had just returned from Russia—his mother is buried there. He had a reservation at a hotel so I assume he was going to stay overnight before flying down to the Cape. He was walking near Wisconsin Avenue—not a bad area, I’m told—when the son of a bitch accosted him.” Reed ran his fingers through his hair. “What happened next is anyone’s guess. No one saw or heard anything. Adam was dead by the time a passerby finally happened upon him and called the police.” He shook his head. “Such an incredible waste!”

  “Dylan, we’re all pretty shook up over what happened,” Lorne Allenby, the NASA executive said. “But we have to move things along.”

  Reed waved his hand to acknowledge as much. When he turned to her, Megan felt her heart pounding.

  “You’re Treloar’s backup. Because of the situation, you’re being moved up to active duty as one of the mission specialists. Are you ready, Megan?”

  Her mouth went dry, but she thought her words sounded strong and confident. “Absolutely. It’s not the way I wanted to get the slot, but yes, I’m ready.”

  “You don’t know how glad all of us are to hear that,” Reed said. He looked around the table. “Questions?”

  Frank Stone, the mission pilot, spoke up. “No questions, just a vote of confidence. I’ve trained with Megan. I know she’s ready.”

  “Second that,” added Bill Karol, the commander.

  “Landon?” Reed asked.

  The mission director shifted in his seat. “I’ve read the training reports. I know that Megan can handle the experiments Adam and you set up.” He offered a thumbs-up.

  “Glad to hear it,” Allenby said. “The bean counters in Congress are watching this mission like vultures. Having played up what we expect to glean from these experiments, I have to pony up results.” He turned to Megan. “Bring back something that makes all of us look good.”

  Megan managed a weak smile. “I’ll do my best.” She looked around the table. “And thank you all for your vote of confidence.”

  “Okay, then,” Reed said. “I’ll call the rest of the team tomorrow. I know that some of you are jet-lagged, so why don’t we call it a night and meet again tomorrow morning before flying out?”

  Everyone nodded gratefully and the room emptied quickly, leaving only Reed and Megan.

  “You’re the chief of the biomedical research program, Dylan,” she said quietly. “You and Treloar were pretty close. How do you feel about my being onboard?”

  “At the end of the day, I can’t say that I knew Adam all that well. You know how he was—taciturn, kept to himself mostly. Not the kind of guy who went for a few beers after work or played Saturday softball. But he was part of the team—a vital part—and I will miss him.” He paused. “As far as you’re concerned, I couldn’t ask for a better backup up there.”

  Megan tried to harness her conflicting emotions. A part of her was already racing ahead to all the details that had to be looked after: preparation at the Cape, integrating herself into the team and the launch procedure. She knew
that normally the crew was quarantined for seven days prior to launch, although recently the period had been shortened. Still, she would have to undergo an extensive physical to make sure she wasn’t harboring any bugs.

  Another part of her couldn’t get the image of the odd-looking Treloar out of her mind. Reed was right: Treloar had been something of a loner. Not having known him personally made it easier to accept the fact of his death. Still, the way he had died made her shudder.

  “You okay?” Reed asked.

  “Fine. Just trying to take it all in.”

  “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car. Try to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, you hit the ground running.”

  Megan had a small unit in an apartment complex that catered to short-term NASA personnel. After a restless, toss-filled sleep, she woke up and hit the pool before anyone else was there. Returning to her apartment, she discovered a note taped to her door.

  Getting over her initial shock, Megan dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. Setting a fast pace, she reached the coffee shop on the next block a few minutes later. Given the hour, the place was almost empty. She had no problem spotting him.

  “Jon!”

  He rose from a booth in the corner. “Hello, Megan.”

  “My God, what are you doing here?” she asked, slipping into the seat across from him.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.” He paused. “I heard about your being assigned to the mission. You deserve the shot, no matter the circumstances.”

  “Thank you. Obviously I’d rather it didn’t happen this way, but—”

  The waitress came by and they ordered breakfast.

  “I wish you’d called,” she said. “I leave for the Cape in a few hours.”

  “I know.”

  She studied him carefully. “You didn’t come all this way just to congratulate me—although I’d like to think so.”

  “I’m here because of what happened to Treloar,” Smith said.

  “Why? According to the media, D.C. homicide is handling the case.”