The Cassandra Compact - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,59

traveling on a budget. She began walking to the back of the plane.

A few minutes later, Diforio was at the lavatories at the end of the bulkhead. She'd gotten a good look at all the passengers in the perimeter, plus two who had exited the washrooms. The rest of the seats were filled; none of the occupants resembled the target.

Now the tricky part.

Diforio went back the way she'd come, stepped into the business section, came around the partition, then went back into economy. Arching her back, she made it look like she was trying to work out cramped muscles. Curious male faces turned sympathetic--- and appreciative--- when her breasts pushed against the shell beneath her jacket. She encouraged the ogling with a slight smile as she moved down the right-hand aisle, her gaze flitting over but never alighting on individual faces. Again, her luck held. All the seats were occupied; the male passengers either asleep, reading, or working on business papers. She was grateful that the movie had ended and most of the window shades were up, allowing the sunlight to pour in.

Once again, Diforio found herself at the back of the plane. She walked past the lavatories, then up the left-hand aisle, double-checking to make sure that she hadn't overlooked any seats. A moment later, she was in the flight deck.

"Negative on the target," she reported to the pilot.

"You're sure?"

"First and business are clean. No one even remotely resembles this guy. You have a full house in economy--- two hundred thirty-eight people. One hundred seventeen are women--- and believe me, they are women. Twenty-two are children under the age of fifteen; forty-three are kids in their twenties. Out of sixty-three possible males, twenty-eight are over sixty-five and look it. Another sixteen are over fifty. That leaves nineteen possibles--- and no match."

The pilot nodded with his chin at the copilot. "Danny'll set up a link with Dallas. Tell 'em what you found--- or didn't." He paused. "Does this mean I can start breathing again?"

The communications gear on the C-22 allowed Smith to eaves drop on the French security operations channel. He listened as agents of the Deuxi猫me Bureau reported on the disembarkation of Air France flight 612. Three-quarters of the passengers were off and still there was no sign of Beria. Smith was turning his attention to the American flight, less than twenty minutes from touchdown, when the satellite phone chirped.

"It's Klein. Jon, I just got a report from Dallas. The marshal on 1710 reports that there's no one onboard who resembles Beria."

"That's impossible! The French have just about off-loaded. Nothing there. He has to be on American."

"Not according to the air marshal. She's almost positive that Beria isn't there."

"Almost isn't good enough."

"I realize that. I've relayed her findings to the Brits. They're grateful, but they're not going to ease up. The SAS is in position and will stay there."

"Sir, I think we have to consider the possibility that Beria took some other flight or that he's using another way to get into the States."

Klein's breath whistled over the line. "Do you think he'd be so brazen as to try that? He must know that we've pulled out all the stops to bring him down."

"Beria started a job, sir. He's killed in the course of carrying it out. Yes, I think he's determined enough to try to reach us." He paused. "Moscow is the main point for flights to the West, but it's not the only way out."

"St. Petersburg?"

"It handles a lot of flights to and from Scandinavia and northern Europe. Aeroflot, Scandinavian Airlines, Finnair, Royal Dutch--- they all have steady traffic in and out of there."

"Kirov will have an embolism when I suggest that Beria might have gotten as far as St. Petersburg."

"He's gotten awfully far as it is, sir. This guy isn't running; he's following a well-thought-out plan. That's what's keeping him one step ahead of us."

Smith heard something on the French channel. He excused himself, listened briefly, then got back to Klein. "Paris confirms that their flight's clean."

"What's your next step, Jon?"

Smith thought for a moment. "London, sir. That's where I get off."
Chapter Fourteen
With puffs of blue tire smoke and the stink of superheated brakes, American 1710 touched down at London's Heathrow Airport. Per instructions from the Special Air Service commander, the pilot informed his passengers that a mechanical problem had developed with the jetway assigned to their gate. The control tower was rerouting them to another part of the field where ramps could be rolled up