Reed slammed his palm against the leather blotter on his desk. Damn Smith! He recalled how frightened, almost terrified, Treloar had been of Smith. Now, the same iciclelike fingers that had danced up and down Treloar’s spine had turned themselves on him.
Reed took a deep breath. Bauer had been right to suggest that Reed flag all files relating to Treloar, in case someone came looking.
And someone has…
The more Reed thought about it, the less surprised he was that Smith was the intruder. Smith had a reputation for tenacity that made an already dangerous man potentially lethal. Reed made sure that his nerves were settled before he dialed General Richardson at the Pentagon.
“This is Reed. That potential problem we talked about? It’s real.” He paused. “Hear me out, but I think you’ll agree: we have to activate the solution.”
___________________
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
___________________
A Secret Service sedan was waiting for Jon Smith when he stepped out of Ronald Reagan National Airport. Halfway to Camp David, the call he had been expecting came through.
“Peter, how are you?”
“Still in Venice. I have some interesting news for you.”
Without going into the details of his interrogation of Dionetti, Peter Howell told Smith about the Swiss connection— Herr Weizsel at the Offenbach Bank in Zurich.
“Would you like me to have a chat with the Swiss gnome, Jon?”
“Better hold off on that until I get back to you. What about Dionetti? We don’t want him sounding any alarms.”
“He won’t be doing that,” Howell assured him. “He has a severe case of food poisoning and is expected to be in the hospital for at least a week. Plus he knows that I have all his financial records and can ruin him with one phone call.”
Howell didn’t think it necessary to delve into details.
“I’ll stay put until I hear from you,” Howell said. “If necessary, I can be in Zurich in two hours.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
The driver dropped Smith off at Rosebud, where Klein was waiting for him.
“Good to have you back, Jon.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Any word on the smallpox?”
Klein shook his head. “But have a look at this.” He passed Smith a rolled-up sheet of paper.
The ink sketch contained some of Beria’s features but wasn’t precise enough to clearly define the assassin. Beria’s appearance was nondescript to begin with— a major advantage for a hired killer. The composite reflected a man who could have been just about anyone. It would be sheer, blind luck if law enforcement stumbled across him— which was precisely what Klein wanted Beria’s handlers to believe. With a few cosmetic changes to his appearance, Beria was perfectly safe: his controllers would continue to believe that his usefulness outweighed his potential liability.
Rolling up the sheet, Smith tapped it against his palm. He thought that Klein was taking an enormous risk: by denying law enforcement access to the true likeness of Beria, he was effectively limiting the hunt. But on the other end of the scale was a collateral benefit: when the composite hit the street and Beria’s controllers saw it, they would not be spooked. Investigation of Treloar’s death would be expected. That an eyewitness had provided police with a general description would not be seen as suspicious. Smith did not think that the controllers would become careless, but they would remain relaxed, presuming no immediate threat to their long-range plans.
“How’d it go in Houston?” Klein asked.
“Treloar was damn careful,” Smith said. “Whatever contacts he made, he was meticulous in covering up his tracks.”
“Nonetheless you accomplished your primary mission.”
“I’ve chummed the waters, sir. Whoever was running Treloar knows I’m snooping.” He paused. “Is the president going along with your recommendation about the vaccine, sir?”
“He’s been talking to the drug companies,” Mein replied. “They’re coming onboard.”
Given the circumstances, it was vital that the major pharmaceutical companies realign their production facilities in order to produce as much smallpox vaccine as possible in as short a time as possible. Even if the stolen smallpox was genetically altered, the current vaccine might prove at least partially effective. But to manufacture the necessary amount would mean stopping the flow of other products. The losses incurred would be staggering, as would those related to manufacturing the vaccine. That the president had already agreed to underwrite the companies’ losses was only half the battle. The companies would want to know why the vaccine was needed so urgently, and where such a large outbreak had occurred. Since it was impossible to hold back such information— it would inevitably find its way to the media— the location of the alleged epidemic had to be remote, yet fairly populated.
“We decided to use the Indonesian archipelago,” Klein said. “The internal chaos in that region has pretty much closed off all incoming and outgoing traffic. There are no tourists left, and Jakarta has banned foreign media from the country. Our play is that there have been sporadic outbreaks of smallpox, leading to the possibility that the virus can multiply and spread if left unconfined. Thus the need for such a large amount on such short notice.”
Smith considered. “I like it,” he said finally. “The current Indonesian regime is a pariah in the eyes of most governments. But there will be panic when word leaks.”
“Can’t be helped,” Mein replied. “Whoever has the smallpox will put it to use very soon— a matter of weeks, if not days. As soon as we identify and take down the conspirators— and recover the virus— we can spin the story to indicate that the initial diagnoses and reports were wrong. It wasn’t smallpox after all.”
“God willing that will be the case.”
Smith turned as Major-General Kirov, dressed in mufti, entered the room. He was startled by the Russian’s appearance.
The fit, middle-aged Kirov had morphed into a slightly seedy-looking individual in a well-worn, off-the-rack suit. His tie and shirt-front were dotted with food and coffee stains; his thin-soled shoes were as badly scuffed as his cheap briefcase. His hair— now a wig— was long and unruly; a touch of makeup— expertly and judiciously applied— added an alcoholic’s redness to his eyes and deepened the dark crescents under them. Kirov had re-created himself in the image of a man who was uncomfortable for the eye to dwell on. He reflected failure, dissolution, and hopelessness— the attributes of a failing salesman that the smart set, living and working in the chic area around Dupont Circle, wouldn’t care to acknowledge.
“My compliments on your makeover, General,” Smith said. “Even I had to look twice.”
“Let’s hope the same is true for Beria,” Kirov replied somberly.
Smith was glad to have the burly Russian by his side. After the debacle at Bioaparat and Moscow, Kirov had convinced the Russian president to send him to the United States to help with the hunt for Ivan Beria. Klein had thought that Kirov, who had spent a year in Washington and knew the ethnic districts well, would be invaluable. He had argued as much to the president, who had concurred with Potrenko and allowed Kirov to come over.
But in Kirov’s hard, bright eyes Smith saw the real reason why the general was here. Kirov had been betrayed by a woman he’d loved and trusted, who had been corrupted by unknown forces linked to a killer he’d let slip away. Kirov badly needed to make amends, to regain his honor as a soldier.
“How do you want to proceed, Jon?” Kirov asked.
“I need to stop at home,” Smith replied. “After you get settled in, we can go to Dupont Circle.”
Since no one at the Russian embassy was aware of Kirov’s presence in the city, Smith had suggested that the general stay with him and use the Bethesda house as the base for their hunt for Beria.
“Are you sure you don’t want long-range cover?” Klein asked.
As much as Klein trusted Kirov’s abilities and instincts, he was still reluctant to put both men out in the field without cover. True, Smith had gone to Houston to find a trail that Treloar might have left behind. But his real intention had been to touch the tendrils of the web that still linked Treloar to the conspirators, his controllers. By letting them know that he was ready to investigate the very heart of where Treloar had lived and worked, Smith hoped to provoke a response that would force the controllers to come after him…. Which meant bringing Beria out of his hole.
“We can’t take the chance that Beria would spot the cover, sir,” Smith replied.
“Mr. Klein,” Kirov said, “I understand— and share— your concern. But I promise you I will not let anything happen to Jon. I have a distinct advantage over any cover you might provide. I know Beria. If he’s wearing a disguise, I’ll see through it. There are characteristics and mannerisms that he won’t be able to hide.” He turned to Smith.