“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 Mein 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 maitre 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 maitre d’ talking to a young man, pointing him out.
“Should I know you?”
Howell glanced over his shoulder at a tall, thin man with sweptback 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 Weizsil’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 maitre 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 so. 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
TWENTY THREE
___________________
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 i f 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.