The Cassandra Compact - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,70

anyone say? You went to visit your mother's grave. That's all documented. You saw a little bit of Moscow. No harm there. Then you came home. The airport? You were in a rush. You didn't have time to pick up your bag. And Smith? You never actually got a good look at him, did you?"

"But why was he after me in the first place?" Treloar demanded.

Here, Reed realized, only a piece of the truth would work.

"Because your contact at Sheremetevo was caught on tape--- and you along with him."

Treloar groaned.

"Listen to me, Adam! They have a tape of two men sitting side by side at an airport counter. That's all they have. No voice, nothing to connect the two of you. But because they know what the courier was carrying, they're looking at everyone."

"They know about the smallpox," Treloar said dully.

"They know it's missing. And that the courier had it. But he's the one they're after, not you. No one suspects you of anything. You just happened to be sitting next to this guy."

Treloar washed his face with his hands. "I don't know if I could stand it, Dylan.... To be questioned."

"You'll be fine because you haven't done anything," Reed repeated. "Even if you were polygraphed, what could you say? Did you know the identity of the man sitting next to you? No. Were you supposed to meet him? No. Because the contact could just as easily have been a woman."

Treloar swallowed more scotch. Looking at the situation that way, he felt a little better. There was so much he could say no to.

"I'm exhausted," he said. "I need to get some sleep, somewhere where no one will disturb me."

"Already arranged. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons. There's a suite waiting for you. Take as much time as you need. Call me later."

Throwing his arm over Treloar's shoulder, Reed walked him to the door. "The car's outside. Adam, thank you. All of us thank you. Your contribution has been invaluable."

Treloar had his hand on the doorknob. "The money?" he asked under his breath.

"There's an envelope at the hotel. Inside, you'll find two numbers: One is for the account, the other is the bank director's private number in Zurich."

Treloar stepped out into the gloaming. The wind had picked up and he shivered. He looked back once and saw only the black door, closed.

The car was not waiting in front of the townhouse. Treloar looked up and down the street, then spotted it halfway down the block. He thought he understood why: there were no parking spaces.

Walking down the street, the scotch warming his belly, he replayed Reed's reassuring words. He was right: everything that had happened in Russia was behind him. No one had any evidence against him. Besides, he knew so much about Reed, Bauer, and the others that they would always have to protect him.

The idea of holding such power lulled Treloar. Looking up, he expected to see the Lincoln on his left. Instead, it was farther down the block, a stone's throw from Wisconsin Avenue. He shook his head. He was more tired than he realized and must have miscalculated the distance. Then he heard the soft slap of leather on concrete, footsteps approaching.

Treloar saw the shoes first, then the pant legs with razor-sharp creases. When he looked up, the figure was less than two feet away.

"you!"

Treloar's eyes rolled wildly as he stared at Ivan Beria.

Beria took a quick step toward him. Treloar could smell his breath, heard the soft whistle that escaped Beria's nostrils.

"I missed you," Beria said softly.

Treloar cried out weakly as a sharp pain shot through his chest. For an instant he thought he was having a heart attack.

"When you were a little boy, did you prick balloons with a needle? That's all it is, really. Just a balloon."

Absurdly, Treloar clung to the image even as the tip of Beria's stiletto wriggled into his heart. He sighed once and felt all the air rush out of his lungs. Lying there on the sidewalk, he could see the people walking along Wisconsin and Beria stepping off the sidewalk. He must have tried to call out, because Beria turned and looked at him. Then, as his eyes closed, so did the door of the black Lincoln.

Dr. Dylan Reed had put Adam Treloar out of his mind as soon as the door had closed behind him. Having made the arrangements himself, he knew what was in store for the hapless scientist. By the time he