“Peter, I got to Beria. He gave up Weizsel but that’s it. I need to know the name of the paymaster.”
“If Weizsel knows, so will you. I’ll talk to you from Zurich, Jon.”
“Good. Now, do you happen to have a tape recorder handy? I have something that might be useful….”
Smith walked back into the living room and told Klein that Peter Howell was on his way to Switzerland. “Has there been any word on the Lincoln, sir?”
Klein shook his head. “As soon as you called to say that you had Beria, I reached out to a contact in the D.C. metropolitan police force. He put the car on the hot sheets, making it look like it had been involved in a legitimate hit-and-run. Nothing so far. And nothing on the driver either.” He paused. “At first I thought that there was a logical explanation for the NASA sticker on the car. Now…”
“Treloar was NASA,” Smith said. “Why wouldn’t he have had a car waiting to pick him up at Dulles? He wasn’t expecting to be followed or chased.”
“But then that same vehicle trailed you, didn’t it?” He looked at Smith carefully. “And something else that’s connected to NASA. Dr. Dylan Reed had a late-night visit from an individual we haven’t been able to identify.”
Smith glanced at Klein sharply. He knew that Klein lived in a world where secrets were shared only when absolutely necessary. Now the head of Covert-One was admitting that he had a source right in the heart of NASA.
“Megan Olson,” Smith said. “At this point, with the launch so close, it can’t be anyone else. You should have told me, sir.”
“There was no need for you to know about Megan,” Klein replied. “By the same token, she doesn’t know about you.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because we still don’t have any lead on the smallpox. You’ll recall that I believed it was in the D.C. area because that’s where Treloar flew in.”
“Right. From London, he could have gone anywhere.”
“Now I’m thinking that perhaps there’s a connection between Treloar and Reed.”
“Is that why Megan is down there, to watch Reed?” Smith demanded.
“Why don’t you tell me if there’s anything you know about Reed that might indicate he could be involved in something like this.”
Smith shook his head. “I don’t know Reed all that well. But his reputation at USAMRIID was sterling. Do you want me to go back and see what I can find?”
“No time,” Klein replied. “I need you for something else. If we don’t solve this mystery, there’ll be plenty of time to investigate Reed when the shuttle comes home.”
Klein picked up two dossiers. “These are the files on the two soldiers Howell encountered at Palermo.”
“They look pretty thin, sir,” Smith observed.
“Don’t they? The records have been sanitized. Dates, locations, assignments, chain of command—a lot unaccounted for. And the phone number Nichols gave up doesn’t exist.”
“Sir?”
“Not officially. Jon, I haven’t done more because I don’t know what we’re dealing with here. But we must find out where this military thread leads. I want you to do exactly what you did in Houston: touch the web and see what kind of spider crawls out.”
Three hours after leaving Venice, Peter Howell checked into Zurich’s Dolder Grand Hotel.
“Do you have any messages for me?” he asked the front desk clerk.
Howell was handed a thick vellum envelope. Opening it, he found a single sheet of scented notepaper with an address written on it. Although the message was unsigned, Howell knew its author—an octogenarian grande dame who had been involved in espionage ever since World War II.
How on earth can Weizsel afford to dine at Swan’s Way on a banker’s salary? Howell wondered, and thought it might be a good idea to find out.
After changing into a business suit, Howell took a taxi into the heart of the city’s financial district. By now it was eight o’clock and the area was deserted except for several brightly lighted storefronts. One of them had a golden swan perched over the doorway.
The interior was pretty much what Howell had expected: upscale rathskeller with beamed ceilings, stucco, and heavy furniture. The waiters were in black tie, the silver was heavy and gleaming, and the maître d’ seemed puzzled why this tourist thought he could dine at his establishment without a reservation.
“I’m Herr Weizsel’s guest,” Howell told him.
“Ah, Herr Weizsel…you are early, sir. Herr Weizsel’s table is prepared for nine o’clock. Please have a seat in the lounge, or the bar, if you prefer. I will direct him to you.”
Howell drifted off into the lounge where, a few minutes later, he was involved in an animated conversation with a young woman whose bosoms threatened to overflow the confines of her evening dress. Nonetheless, he still managed to spot the maître d’ talking to a young man, pointing him out.
“Should I know you?”
Howell glanced over his shoulder at a tall, thin man with swept-back hair and eyes so dark they appeared black. He guessed that Herr Weizsel was in his late thirties, spent a small fortune on his clothes and stylist, and looked down at most of the world with undisguised contempt.
“Peter Howell,” he said.
“An Englishman…Do you have business with the Offenbach Bank?”
“I have business with you.”
Weizsel blinked rapidly. “There must be some mistake. I have never heard of you.”
“But you’ve heard of Ivan Beria, haven’t you, old son?”
Howell had his hand on Weizsel’s arm, just above the elbow. Weizsel’s mouth worked furiously as Howell pressed down on a nerve.
“There’s a nice, quiet table in the corner. Why don’t we have a drink?”
Howell steered the banker into the corner of a banquette and slipped in beside him, effectively trapping Weizsel.
“You can’t do this!” Weizsel gasped, rubbing his elbow. “We have laws—”
“I’m not here about your laws,” Howell cut him off. “We’re interested in one of your clients.”
“I can’t discuss confidential matters!”
“But the name Beria rang a bell, didn’t it? You service his account. I don’t want the money. All we need to know is who sends it in.”
Weizsel glanced around, looking at the growing crowd at the bar. He strained to catch the maître d’s eye.
“Don’t bother,” Howell told him. “I gave him money not to disturb us.”
“You are a criminal!” Weizsel declared. “You are holding me against my will. Even if I give you what you want, you will never leave—”
Howell placed a small recorder on the table. Plugging in an earpiece, he handed it to Weizsel. “Listen.”
The banker did as he was told. After a moment, his eyes widened in disbelief. Yanking out the earpiece, he flung it across the table. Peter Howell thought that it had been farsighted of Jon Smith to provide that particular portion of the interrogation where Beria mentioned Weizsel.
“So my name is spoken. What of it? Who is this man?”
“You recognized his voice, didn’t you?” Howell said softly.
Weizsel fidgeted. “Perhaps.”
“And perhaps you remember it belonging to someone called Ivan Beria.”
“What if I do?”
Howell leaned in close. “Beria is an assassin. He works for the Russians. How much Russian money do you handle, Herr Weizsel?”
The banker’s silence was telling.
“I thought so,” Howell continued. “So let me tell you what will happen if you don’t cooperate. I will make sure the Russians learn that you were quite forthcoming when it came to their money—where it comes from, how and when it’s moved, all those little details they thought were safe because, after all, they paid you handsomely for your discretion.”
Howell paused to let the import of his words sink in.
“Now,” he picked up, “once the Russians know this, they will be upset—understandably s
o. Explanations will be demanded. Excuses will not be tolerated. And once trust has been broken, my dear Weizsel, you are finished. You’ve dealt with enough Russians to know that they never forget, never forgive. They’ll want revenge, and your precious Swiss laws and police won’t stand in their way. Am I making myself clear?”
Weizsel felt his stomach sour. The Englishman was right: the Russians were barbarians, swaggering about Zurich, flaunting their newfound wealth. And every banker wanted a piece of their booty. No questions were asked. Demands made became demands satisfied. The Russians groused about the fees, but in the end they paid. They also made it very clear to brokers like Weizsel that they could not run, could never hide, if they broke trust. The Englishman was the kind of man who could make it seem that Weizsel had betrayed his clients. And nothing the banker could say or do would change the Russians’ minds once they were convinced of his treachery.
“What was the name again?” Weizsel asked almost inaudibly.
“Ivan Beria,” Howell replied. “Who feeds him his money?”
Chapter 23
Five hours had elapsed since Dylan Reed had sequestered himself in the Spacelab. During this time, he had monitored the crew’s movements and conversations via his headset. Twice, Megan Olson had asked if he needed some help; another time she wanted to know how much longer he would be. She was eager to start her own experiments.
She wouldn’t be so anxious if she knew what was going on in here, Reed thought grimly.
Politely but firmly he told Megan that she and the others would have to wait until he was finished.
Because Reed had to monitor the crew, the work was taking much longer than he had hoped it would. Another distraction was the almost nonstop conversation between the crew and mission control. Nonetheless, Reed worked as quickly as he could, pausing only to rest his hands, which, encased in the long rubber gloves attached to the box, tended to cramp.
The enormity of what he was doing almost overwhelmed him. Staring through the microscope, he gazed upon a world of smallpox that had never been seen before—except by its creator, Karl Bauer. In his Hawaii laboratory, the Swiss scientist had managed to take the variola virus and reengineer it so that it tripled in size. He was then able to open it up so that it would be receptive to even further growth. But Bauer had been constrained by earth’s gravity; Reed was not.
The genesis of Bauer’s work could be traced back to one of the first shuttle missions. Astronauts had discovered a two-day-old bag of sandwiches that they had forgotten to eat. The food was stored in a sealed plastic bag that was floating like a beach ball. Opening the bag, the crew thought the sandwiches would be fine—until one member pointed out that the only way the bag could float was because the bacteria in the food had produced enough gas to make the bag puff up.
This impromptu observation gave scientists incontrovertible proof that bacteria grow faster and bigger in a microgravity environment.
When Karl Bauer read the NASA report on the phenomenon, he immediately concluded that what was true for bacteria might also apply to viruses. The initial research proved heady, but hampered by gravity, Bauer was unable to reach a definitive conclusion. Years would pass until he found Reed and a way to conduct the final experiments in space.
Now what Reed observed was a variola ten times as large and potent as anything on earth. Its protein bubbles, which on earth would burst at a certain size, retained their integrity and lethal capacity. As a battlefield weapon, this strain would have no equal. Reed shuddered when he imagined how quickly entire populations would be decimated if this variant was released through an air-burst bomb. The variola would speed its way from the respiratory tract to the lymph nodes, then spread to the spleen, bone marrow, and other lymphatic organs. Eventually it would make its way to the small blood vessels in the skin. With a normal strain of smallpox, such a process would take five to ten days. Reed estimated that the incubation and infection period would now be measured in minutes. The body would simply have no chance to rally any defense.
Reed withdrew his hands from the Glovebox, wiped them, and took a moment to compose himself. Then he activated his throat mike.
“Hey, folks. I’m just about done here. Is it dinnertime yet?”
“We were just about to call you,” Stone replied. “Everyone’s ordered steak and eggs.”
Reed managed to laugh. “Wait until you see what it looks like.” He paused. “I’d like everybody in the mess so I can go over the schedule.”
“Roger that. We’ll save you some of that steak. See you in a little while.”
Reed closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm. He switched off his mike but not his earpiece. He did not want to hear the next sounds the crew would make. They would be nothing human. But to gauge how fast the variola acted, he had no choice but to listen.
Returning to the Biorack, he once again donned the rubber gloves and carefully filled the small tube with the altered variola. Securing the tube, he removed it from the Glovebox through a small air lock and placed it in the freezer.
Using the footholds, he moved to the back of the lab and opened a locker. Inside was a fully contained extravehicular mobility unit, or EMU, the suit used on space walks. After slipping inside it, Reed was reaching for his helmet when he caught his reflection in the visor. He hesitated as the faces of his fellow crew members floated in the coated Plexiglas, people he had worked and trained with for months, even years, people whom he genuinely liked. But not enough to show them compassion or mercy.
In that reflection, Reed also saw the faces of his two brothers, killed during a terrorist attack on the U.S. embassy in Nairobi, and that of his sister, a Peace Corps volunteer, abducted, tortured and finally murdered in the Sudan. What Reed was doing was not for the greater glory of science, and certainly not for public recognition or acclaim. This new strain would never see the light of day—unless circumstances dictated that it be unleashed. General Richardson and Anthony Price were the kind of men who did not tolerate the kind of losses Reed had suffered. To them, payback wasn’t just a few cruise missiles lobbed into some tents or bunkers, but a swift and total devastation by an invisible, unstoppable army. By helping build this army, Reed believed he was laying a marker at the graves of his kin, keeping a promise made long ago that their sacrifices would never be forgotten.
Securing his helmet, Reed made his way back to the Biorack. He plugged his air-supply hose into an independent feed that crew members used during space walks. Calmly and deliberately he broke the seal on the Glovebox. Within seconds, the dried variola particles in the dish began forming spores as tiny as dust particles. Inexorably they found their way to the rent on the Glovebox seals and outside. Reed stared in fascination as spores seemed to hang there. For an instant, he was seized by the irrational thought that they might attack him. Instead, the circulation stream caught them and they swirled like a minuscule comet into the connecting tube linking the Spacelab to the main body of the orbiter.
“Are you coming, Megan?” Carter asked as the two of them completed their report to mission control.
Maneuvering past the sleep stations, Megan called over her shoulder, “Yup. I’m starving.”
At that moment, both crew members heard a squawk over their headsets. “Discovery, this is mission control. We understand you’re looking to break for dinner?”
“That’s affirmative, mission control,” Carter replied.
“Discovery, our instruments show a possible pressure leak in the air lock on the lower deck. Be much obliged if someone could check it out.”
Stone’s voice came over the sets: “Megan, Carter, you’re the closest.”
Carter looked at Megan with puppy-dog eyes. “I’m really hungry!”
Reaching into one of the sleep stations, Megan pulled out a deck of cards from under a strapped-down pillow. She tore away the cellophane, shuffled carefully so that no cards would slip out, and held the deck out to Carter.
“Cut. High card wins.”
Ca
rter rolled his eyes, reached for the deck and turned over a ten. Megan came up with a seven.
Carter laughed and propelled himself toward the food station. “I’ll save you some Oreos!” he called back.
“Sure, thanks.”
“You okay to do it, Megan?” Stone asked.
She sighed. “I’m fine. Just make sure that Carter doesn’t hog the veal cutlets or whatever.”
“Roger that. See you in a bit.”
Megan knew that “a bit” meant at least an hour. Checking out an air lock meant getting into an EMU.
Gripping the handles, she descended the ladder to the lower deck. Tucked behind the cargo and the equipment that the shuttle carried was the air lock. The red light over its door was blinking, indicating a possible malfunction.
“Damn wire is all it is,” Megan muttered and pushed off.
“Watch this.”
Carter tore open a packet of orange juice, held it up, and squeezed out some of the liquid. Forming a rough sphere, the juice floated in front of Carter, who pierced it with a straw and began to sip. In seconds, the solid that was a liquid had disappeared.
“Very nice,” Stone said. “You can come do magic tricks at my kid’s next birthday.”
“Uh-oh, the sauce is loose,” Randall Wallace called out.
Stone turned to find that while he had been talking to Carter, the shrimp-cocktail sauce had lost contact with his spoon. He picked up a tortilla and made a swiping motion to catch it.
“Wonder what’s keeping Dylan,” Carter said through a mouthful of chicken with gravy, which he was eating out of a plastic baggie.
“Dylan, do you copy?” Stone said into his mike.
There was no reply.
“Probably in the can,” Carter said. “He has this thing for barbecue beans. Maybe he smuggled some on board.”
Beans, along with broccoli and mushrooms, were never on the shuttle menus. Excess gas was much more painful in space, and flight physicians still weren’t sure how gases behaved in microgravity.