Treloar had baggage, but he wasn’t about to waste time waiting for it to come down the chute. The instructions had been very specific on that point: he was to get out of the terminal as quickly as possible. Walking past the carousels, Treloar dared to glance over his shoulder. At the other end, Jon Smith was at an immigration counter reserved for diplomats and aircrews. Why would he…? Of course! Smith was Pentagon. He would be traveling on a military ID, not on a civilian passport.
Holding his card, Treloar approached the customs agent.
“Traveling light, sir,” the agent commented.
Remembering his instructions, Treloar explained that he had had his bags sent on ahead, using a bonded courier service that catered to well-heeled travelers who were not inclined to wrestle with their own suitcases. Familiar with the arrangements, the agent waved him through.
Out of the corner of his eye, Treloar caught Smith walking up to the same agent. He veered right, so as not to walk across Smith’s line of sight.
“No, sir,” the agent called out. “You go left.”
Treloar turned abruptly and almost ran into the tunnel that connected to the terminal.
__________
“Dr. Smith?”
He turned to the customs agent walking up to him. “Yes?”
“There’s a call for you, sir. You can take it in there.”
The agent opened the door to an interview room where detained travelers were questioned. Pointing to a phone on the desk, he said, “Line one.”
“This is Smith.”
“Jon, it’s Randi.”
“Randi!”
“Listen. There isn’t much time. I just got a positive ID on that guy in the picture. He’s Adam Treloar.”
Smith clenched the receiver. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. We cleaned up the video enough to get a good print, which I shipped over to the embassy. Don’t worry. Whatever the cat is, it’s still in the bag. I made Treloar a prospective investor and asked for a standard background check.”
“What did you find out?”
“His mother was Russian, Jon. She died a while ago. Treloar comes over frequently, to pay his respects, I guess. Oh, and he was on the same flight as you— American 1710.”
Smith was stunned. “Randi, I can’t thank you enough. But I have to run.”‘
“What do you want me to do with the laptop and the cell phone you brought in?”
“Can you get your boy genius to work on it?”
“I figured as much. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
Smith left the office, quickly walked back to the customs counter and found the agent who had alerted him to the call.
“I need your help,” he said urgently, displaying his military ID. “There was a passenger onboard 1710. Can you find out if he’s cleared customs yet? The name is Adam Treloar.”
The agent turned to his terminal. “Got him right here. Treloar. Went through about two minutes ago. Do you want—?”
Smith was already on the move, heading out of the restricted area toward the concourse, dialing Klein’s number as he ran.
“Klein here.”
“Sir, it’s Smith. The guy with Beria is American. Dr. Adam Treloar. He’s a NASA scientist and he was on the London-to-Washington flight.”
“Can you find him?” Klein demanded urgently.
“He has a two-minute start on me, sir. I might be able to run him down before he leaves the terminal.”
“Jon, I’m at Camp David with the president. Hold on, please.”
Smith kept threading his way through the traffic in the concourse as he waited for Klein to come back on the line.
“Jon, listen to me. A FIREWALL alert was issued earlier, for Beria. But he slipped through it. Now that we know who he was seen with it’s imperative that you find Treloar. We have FBI agents in the area—”
“No good, sir. It’ll take too long to bring them up to speed. I think I have the best shot.”
“Then take it.”
Smith raced down the tunnel. He knew the layout of Dulles intimately. After clearing customs and immigration, passengers walked through the arrivals area to other gates, or, if D.C. was their final destination, to the area where the specially built transit buses waited. These vehicles could raise their platforms to reach the boarding area. Once the passengers were on, the chassis was lowered and the buses would go across the airport to the main terminal. There, the docking process would be repeated, and the passengers would disembark and head for the exits.
Smith ran past the shops and newsstands, darting among travelers, straining to catch a glimpse of Treloar. Reaching the end of the concourse, he found himself in a large holding area. Along one wall were elevator-style glass doors that passengers went through to get on the buses. Only one bus was parked at the dock. Smith shouldered his way through the crowd of twenty-odd travelers who were in the process of boarding.
Ignoring the shouts,of protest, Smith elbowed his way onto the bus, his eyes flitting from face to face. He checked every passenger. Treloar wasn’t there.
Smith rapped hard on the partition separating the cabin from the driver’s compartment. A startled, black face looked back at him and the ID he jammed against the glass.
“Did another bus just leave here?” he shouted.
The driver nodded and gestured at a bus that was better than halfway between the arrivals area and the main terminal.
Smith turned and cut his way through the growing crowd in the bus. He spotted an emergency exit and dashed toward it. Alarms sounded as he threw open the door with the large red warning sign stenciled across its face.
Flying down the ramp that led to gate aprons, Smith spotted an airport supervisor’s sedan idling next to a string of baggage carts. He flung open the door and jumped behind the wheel. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and the sedan shot onto the taxiways, narrowly missing an oncoming fueler.
The drive across the parking aprons took less than thirty seconds. Abandoning the vehicle, Smith raced up to the bus. Because the chassis was eight feet off the ground, he could make out only the heads of the passengers as they disembarked.
Swinging through another emergency door, Smith found himself in an identical holding area filled with passengers waiting to board. Turning, he saw the backs of those who had just come off the bus.
He scanned the sea of faces around him. Treloar couldn’t have slipped out. Not that fast.
Then he saw him, only a glimpse at first. But it was unmistakably Treloar, beyond the sliding glass doors that opened to the sidewalk outside where cabs, limousines, and private vehicles waited.
Barging ahead, Smith jammed through the doors in time to see his quarry about to step into a black Lincoln sedan with heavily tinted windows.
“Treloar!”
Charging down on him, Smith saw terror in those odd eyes, noted the way Treloar was clutching his carry-on tightly against his chest.
Treloar jumped into the car and slammed the door. Smith reached the vehicle just in time to get his fingers around the door handle. Then, without warning, the big car screeched away from the curb, throwing him heavily to the sidewalk. Smith tucked his shoulder, letting it absorb the impact, and rolled with the momentum. By the time he was back on his feet, the Lincoln was well into traffic.
Two airport policemen ran up and grabbed him by the arms. Thirty precious seconds were wasted as Smith struggled to identify himself. Finally he was able to get Klein on the line.
“Did you get the plate number?” Klein demanded after Smith told him about the car.
“No. But I saw the last three digits. And there was an orange sticker in the lower left corner. Sir, the Lincoln is registered to a U.S. government agency.”
___________________
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
___________________
“Where are we going?”
The heavily tinted glass between the front and rear compartments prevented Adam Treloar from seeing the driver. His voice, coming through hidden speakers, had a raspy quality.
“There is no need for concern, Dr. Treloar. Arrangements have been made. Please sit back and enjoy the ride. There will be no further communication until we’ve reached our destination.”
Treloar’s eyes darted to the door locks. He pushed the button to raise them, but to no avail.
What’s happening here?
No matter how hard he tried to calm himself, Treloar could not erase the image of Smith: on the plane, in the customs area, spotting him, the recognition dawning across his face. Treloar considered it a miracle that the transfer bus had pulled away from its bay before, Smith managed to get onboard. But that hadn’t stopped him. Smith was like some savage hound, refusing to give up the chase. Treloar had caught a glimpse of him in the main terminal, just seconds before he’d raced through the exit doors. But even then Smith had almost caught up to him. Treloar recoiled when he flashed on the hand curling over the door handle, trying to force it open.