rludlum-shelby.thecassandracompact-第38部分

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　a　very　good　laboratory。　We're　not　looking　in　tenements　or　abandoned　warehouses；　Mr。　President。　Somewhere　in　the　surrounding　counties　is　a　state…of…the…art　lab　that　was　created　just　for　this　purpose。〃
　〃All　right；〃　he　said　finally。　〃The　hunt　for　Beria　is　under　way。　We'll　also　start　searching　for　this　lab。　Right　now；　we　keep　a　lid　on　what's　happening。　Total　media　blackout。　Is　that　about　right？〃
　〃Yes；　sir。　About　the　media：　Kirov　has　done　a　yeoman's　job　of　keeping　the　situation　in　Russia　under　wraps。　But　if　there's　a　leak；　that's　where　it　will　spring。　I　suggest　that　when　you　call　President　Potrenko；　you　ask　him　what　steps　he's　taking　to　hold　the　blackout　in　place　on　his　end。〃
　〃Noted。　Now　what　about　this　second　man　you　mentioned；　the　one　Beria　may　or　may　not　have　met　in　Moscow？〃
　〃He's　the　wild　card；　sir；〃　Klein　said　softly。　〃If　we　can　finger　him；　we　can　use　him　to　get　to　Beria。〃
　
　As　soon　as　he　heard　the　double　ping　indicating　that　the　aircraft　was　at　the　gate；　Adam　Treloar　was　out　of　his　seat　and　moving　to　the　forward　hatch。　The　rest　of　the　first…class　passengers　fell　in　behind　him；　creating　a　buffer　between　him　and　the　man　who　could　not　be　allowed　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　him。
　Treloar　drummed　his　fingers　on　his　carry…on；　impatient　for　the　hatch　to　roll　up。　His　instructions　had　been　precise。　He　repeated　them　over　and　over　again　until　he　knew　the　litany　by　heart。　The　only　question　was；　would　he　be　able　to　carry　them　out　without　interference？。
　The　hatch　disappeared　into　the　bulkhead；　the　flight　attendant　stepped　back；　and　Treloar　charged　past　her。　He　set　a　fast　pace；　moving　through　the　jetway　and　into　a　harshly　lit　corridor　that　dead…ended　at　an　escalator。　He　walked　down　it　and　found　himself　at　the　immigration　booths。　Beyond　them　were　the　baggage　carousels　and　the　customs　checkpoints。
　Treloar　had　expected　and　would　have　preferred　crowds。　But　Dulles　was　not　as　busy　as　Kennedy　or　Los　Angeles；　and　no　international　flights　had　e　at　the　same　time　or　just　a　little　ahead　of　American　1710。　He　went　up　to　an　empty　counter　and　offered　his　paperwork　to　an　officer　who　scanned　the　passport　and　asked　inane　questions　about　where　he'd　been。　Treloar　gave　him　the　truth　about　his　mother；　how　he　had　gone　to　Russia　to　visit　her　grave　and　tend　to　it。　The　officer　nodded　solemnly；　scribbled　something　on　the　customs　form；　and　waved　him　along。
　Treloar　had　baggage；　but　he　wasn't　about　to　waste　time　waiting　for　it　to　e　down　the　chute。　The　instructions　had　been　very　specific　on　that　point：　he　was　to　get　out　of　the　terminal　as　quickly　as　possible。　Walking　past　the　carousels；　Treloar　dared　to　glance　over　his　shoulder。　At　the　other　end；　Jon　Smith　was　at　an　immigration　counter　reserved　for　diplomats　and　aircrews。　Why　would　he。。。？　Of　course！　Smith　was　Pentagon。　He　would　be　traveling　on　a　military　ID；　not　on　a　civilian　passport。
　Holding　his　card；　Treloar　approached　the　customs　agent。
　〃Traveling　light；　sir；〃　the　agent　mented。
　Remembering　his　instructions；　Treloar　explained　that　he　had　had　his　bags　sent　on　ahead；　using　a　bonded　courier　service　that　catered　to　well…heeled　travelers　who　were　not　inclined　to　wrestle　with　their　own　suitcases。　Familiar　with　the　arrangements；　the　agent　waved　him　through。
　Out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye；　Treloar　caught　Smith　walking　up　to　the　same　agent。　He　veered　right；　so　as　not　to　walk　across　Smith's　line　of　sight。
　〃No；　sir；〃　the　agent　called　out。　〃You　go　left。〃
　Treloar　turned　abruptly　and　almost　ran　into　the　tunnel　that　connected　to　the　terminal。
　
　〃Dr。　Smith？〃
　He　turned　to　the　customs　agent　walking　up　to　him。　〃Yes？〃
　〃There's　a　call　for　you；　sir。　You　can　take　it　in　there。〃
　The　agent　opened　the　door　to　an　interview　room　where　detained　travelers　were　questioned。　Pointing　to　a　phone　on　the　desk；　he　said；　〃Line　one。〃
　〃This　is　Smith。〃
　〃Jon；　it's　Randi。〃
　〃Randi！〃
　〃Listen。　There　isn't　much　time。　I　just　got　a　positive　ID　on　that　guy　in　the　picture。　He's　Adam　Treloar。〃
　Smith　clenched　the　receiver。　〃You're　sure？〃
　〃Positive。　We　cleaned　up　the　video　enough　to　get　a　good　print；　which　I　shipped　over　to　the　embassy。　Don't　worry。　Whatever　the　cat　is；　it's　still　in　the　bag。　I　made　Treloar　a　prospective　investor　and　asked　for　a　standard　background　check。〃
　〃What　did　you　find　out？〃
　〃His　mother　was　Russian；　Jon。　She　died　a　while　ago。　Treloar　es　over　frequently；　to　pay　his　respects；　I　guess。　Oh；　and　he　was　on　the　same　flight　as　you…　American　1710。〃
　Smith　was　stunned。　〃Randi；　I　can't　thank　you　enough。　But　I　have　to　run。〃'
　〃What　do　you　want　me　to　do　with　the　laptop　and　the　cell　phone　you　brought　in？〃
　〃Can　you　get　your　boy　genius　to　work　on　it？〃
　〃I　figured　as　much。　I'll　call　you　as　soon　as　I　have　something。〃
　Smith　left　the　office；　quickly　walked　back　to　the　customs　counter　and　found　the　agent　who　had　alerted　him　to　the　call。
　〃I　need　your　help；〃　he　said　urgently；　displaying　his　military　ID。　〃There　was　a　passenger　onboard　1710。　Can　you　find　out　if　he's　cleared　customs　yet？　The　name　is　Adam　Treloar。〃
　The　agent　turned　to　his　terminal。　〃Got　him　right　here。　Treloar。　Went　through　about　two　minutes　ago。　Do　you　want…？〃
　Smith　was　already　on　the　move；　heading　out　of　the　restricted　area　toward　the　concourse；　dialing　Klein's　number　as　he　ran。
　〃Klein　here。〃
　〃Sir；　it's　Smith。　The　guy　with　Beria　is　American。　Dr。　Adam　Treloar。　He's　a　NASA　scientist　and　he　was　on　the　London…to…Washington　flight。〃
　〃Can　you　find　him？〃　Klein　demanded　urgently。
　〃He　has　a　two…minute　start　on　me；　sir。　I　might　be　able　to　run　him　down　before　he　leaves　the　terminal。〃
　〃Jon；　I'm　at　Camp　David　with　the　president。　Hold　on；　please。〃
　Smith　kept　threading　his　way　through　the　traffic　in　the　concourse　as　he　waited　for　Klein　to　e　back　on　the　line。
　〃Jon；　listen　to　me。　A　FIREWALL　alert　was　issued　earlier；　for　Beria。　But　he　slipped　through　it。　Now　that　we　know　who　he　was　seen　with　it's　imperative　that　you　find　Treloar。　We　have　FBI　agents　in　the　area…〃
　〃No　good；　sir。　It'll　take　too　long　to　bring　them　up　to　speed。　I　think　I　have　the　best　shot。〃
　〃Then　take　it。〃
　Smith　raced　down　the　tunnel。　He　knew　the　layout　of　Dulles　intimately。　After　clearing　customs　and　immigration；　passengers　walked　through　the　arrivals　area　to　other　gates；　or；　if　D。C。　was　their　final　destination；　to　the　area　where　the　specially　built　transit　buses　waited。　These　vehicles　could　raise　their　platforms　to　reach　the　boarding　area。　Once　the　passengers　were　on；　the　chassis　was　lowered　and　the　buses　would　go　across　the　airport　to　the　main　terminal。　There；　the　docking　process　would　be　repeated；　and　the　passengers　would　disembark　and　head　for　the　exits。
　Smith　ran　past　the　shops　and　newsstands；　darting　among　travelers；　straining　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　Treloar。　Reaching　the　end　of　the　concourse；　he　found　himself　in　a　large　holding　area。　Along　one　wall　were　elevator…style　glass　doors　that　passengers　went　through　to　get　on　the　buses。　Only　one　bus　was　parked　at　the　dock。　Smith　shouldered　his　way　through　the　crowd　of　twenty…odd　travelers　who　were　in　the　process　of　boarding。
　Ignoring　the　shouts；of　protest；　Smith　elbowed　his　way　onto　the　bus；　his　eyes　flitting　from　face　to　face。　He　checked　every　passenger。　Treloar　wasn't　there。
　Smith　rapped　hard　on　the　partition　separating　the　cabin　from　the　driver's　partment。　A　startled；　black　face　looked　back　at　him　and　the　ID　he　jammed　against　the　glass。
　〃Did　another　bus　just　leave　here？〃　he　shouted。
　The　driver　nodded　and　gestured　at　a　bus　that　was　better　than　halfway　between　the　arrivals　area　and　the　main　terminal。
　Smith　turned　and　cut　his　way　through　the　growing　crowd　in　the　bus。　He　spotted　an　emergency　exit　and　dashed　toward　it。　Alarms　sounded　as　he　threw　open　the　door　with　the　large　red　warning　sign　stenciled　across　its　face。
　Flying　down　the　ramp　that　led　to　gate　aprons；　Smith　spotted　an　airport　supervisor's　sedan　idling　next　to　a　string　of　baggage　carts。　He　flung　open　the　door　and　jumped　behind　the　wheel。　He　jammed　his　foot　on　the　accelerator　and　the　sedan　shot　onto　the　taxiways；　narrowly　missing　an　oning　fueler。
　The　drive　across　the　parking　aprons　took　less　than　thirty　seconds。　Abandoning　the　vehicle；　Smith　raced　up　to　the　bus。　Because　the　chassis　was　eight　feet　off　the　ground；　he　c