I want to know them. Danko is in a unique position. He would never have compromised it..."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Unless?"
"Unless he was on the verge of being compromised." Klein put down his coffee. "I can't say for sure, Jon, but I think Danko is carrying information. If so, it means he thinks I need to have it."
Klein glanced over Smith's shoulder at an air police sergeant who entered the hangar.
"The aircraft's ready for takeoff, sir," the sergeant announced smartly.
Klein touched Smith's elbow and they walked to the doors.
"Go to Venice," he said softly. "Pick up Danko and find out what he has. Find out fast."
"I will. Sir, there's something I'll need in Venice."
Smith needn't have lowered his voice as they stepped outside. The drumbeat of the rain drowned out his words. Only Klein's nod indicated that Smith was talking at all.
Chapter Three
In Catholic Europe, Easter week is a time of pilgrimages and reunions. Businesses and schools close their doors, trains and hotels are overbooked, and the denizens of the Old World's landmark cities brace themselves for an onslaught of strangers.
In Italy, Venice is one of the most popular destinations for those seeking to combine the sacred and the profane. The Serenissima is a rich tapestry of churches and cathedrals, enough to satisfy the spiritual needs of even the most devoted pilgrim. Yet it is also a thousand-year-old playground whose narrow streets and cobblestone alleys shelter enterprises catering to a whole spectrum of earthly appetites.
At precisely one forty-five in the afternoon, just as he'd done the past two days, Smith threaded through the rows of tables set out in front of the Florian Cafe on the Piazza San Marco. He always chose the same table, close to a small, raised platform upon which stood a grand piano. The pianist would arrive in a few minutes, and punctually on the hour, notes written by Mozart or Bach would dance above the chatter and footsteps of the hundreds of tourists who crowded the square.
The server who had waited on Smith the last two days hurried over to his customer. The American--- he could only be that, given his accented Italian--- was a good customer; that is to say, one who didn't recognize bad service and so tipped generously anyway. Judging by the smart charcoal-gray suit and hand-tooled shoes, the waiter took Smith for a prosperous business executive who, having concluded his transactions, was enjoying a few days' sightseeing at his company's expense.
Smith smiled at the waiter, ordered his usual Gaffe latte and prosciutto affumicatio sandwich, and flipped open the day's edition of The International Herald Tribune to the business section.
His late-afternoon snack arrived just as the pianist struck the opening chords of a Bach variation. Smith dropped two sugar cubes into his coffee and took his time stirring. As he opened his newspaper, he scanned the open area between his table and the Doge's Palace.
Most anytime, St. Mark's, with its inevitable crowds, was the perfect place to pick up a running man. But the runner was a day late. He wondered if Yuri Danko had even made it out of Russia at all.
Smith had been with USAMRIID when he had first met Danko, his counterpart in the Russian army's Medical Intelligence Division. The venue was the palatial Victoria-Jungfrau Grand Hotel near Berne. There, representatives of the two countries came together in an informal setting to brief one another on the progress of the gradual shutdown of their respective bioweapons programs. The meetings were an adjunct to the formal verifications made by international inspectors.
Smith had never been in the business of recruiting agents. But, like every other member of the U.S. team, he had been thoroughly briefed by CIA counterintelligence officers as to how the other side might make its approaches and overtures. During the first few days of the conference, Smith found himself partnered with Danko. Always careful, he nonetheless took a liking to the tall, burly Russian. Danko did not hide the fact that he was a patriot. But, as he told Smith, his work was important to him because he did not want his children to live with the possibility of some madman unleashing a bioweapon for terror or revenge.
Smith was very much aware that such a scenario was not only possible but a grave likelihood. Russia was in the throes of change, crisis, and uncertainty. Meanwhile, it still had an enormous stockpile of bioweapons stored in rusting containers under the halfhearted supervision of researchers, scientists, and military personnel who,