The Cassandra Compact - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,39

a homosexual. That impression lasted only until the man revealed just how much he knew about Yardeni's life. He described his parents and sister, detailed his high school and army careers, how Yardeni had been his division's boxing champion only to be cashiered when in a fit of rage, he had almost killed a fellow soldier with his bare fists. The man had commented that for all intents and purposes, Yardeni's career would flatline here in Bioaparat, where he would sit daydreaming about what might have been while baby-sitting those who actually got to go to the shining cities.

Of course, one could always change one's destiny....

Trying not to think about the cameras, Yardem proceeded to Zone Two through a corridor that was referred to as a "sanitary passageway." It was really a progression of small, sterile rooms linked by connecting doors equipped with coded locks. The locks did not hinder Yardeni; he had a key card and the master codes.

Entering the first cubicle, a changing room, he stripped and hit the red button on the wall. A fine decontamination mist enveloped him.

The next three cubicles held separate items of the antiplague suit: blue socks and long underwear; a hood and cotton smock; the respirator, goggles, booties, and safety glasses. Before leaving the last changing room, Yardeni reached for something that he had put in a locker at the beginning of his shift: a brushed aluminum Thermos-type container, the size of a flask.

He lifted the container in his gloved hand. It was a marvel of engineering. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than an expensive Western toy, functional but overly extravagant. Even if one unscrewed the top and looked inside, nothing would seem amiss. Only when the base was twisted counterclockwise would the container reveal its secret.

Carefully, Yardeni inched the base around until he heard the click. Inside the double walls, tiny canisters released their contents of nitrogen. Immediately, the container became cold to the touch, like a glass filled with shaved ice.

Slipping it into the pocket of his antiplague suit, Yardeni opened the door to the Zone Two lab. Inside, he made his way past stainless-steel worktables to what the researchers jokingly referred to as the Coke machine. It was actually a walk-in refrigerator with a door of specially constructed, hermetically sealed Plexiglas. It always reminded Yardeni of the bulletproof barriers at the cashiers' booths in the American Express office.

He slipped the coded key card into the slot, punched in the combination, and listened to the long, slow hiss as the door swung back. Three seconds later, it closed behind him.

Pulling open one of the drawers, Yardeni gazed down at row after row of vials made of tempered glass. Working quickly, he unscrewed the container at its midsection and placed the top half to one side. Set in the base were six slots, much like the chambers of a revolver. He placed one ampoule into each of the slots, then replaced the top section, making sure that it was tightly in place.

Using his key card, he exited the Coke machine and made his way out of the lab. The procedure in the changing rooms was reversed as he deposited parts of the suit into burn bags. After a second decontamination mist, he was ready to get dressed, except that this time he changed into casual clothes--- jeans, sweatshirt, and a baggy parka.

A few minutes later, Yardeni was outside, breathing deeply in the night air. A cigarette steadied him. Option Two, the voice had said. That meant something had gone wrong. Instead of Yardeni choosing his moment to purloin the variola, he had had to take it now. And quickly, too, because for some reason Moscow had become suspicious.

Yardeni knew all about the Special Forces command outside Vladimir. He'd befriended some of the trainees in town bars; they were tough and capable, not the kind of men that even he would ever want to tangle with. But the rounds of vodka had bought him valuable information. He knew exactly what kind of exercises the Special Forces went through and how long it took to execute them.

Yardeni crushed his cigarette under his boot and began walking away from Building 103, headed for one of the guard posts on the perimeter. Tonight, as every night for the past month, comrades from his old army unit would staff it. Yardeni would tell them he was going off-shift; they would joke that he could still do the last show at the Little