The Cassandra Compact

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The pounding on the door wrenched Smith out of a light sleep. He fumbled for the bedside lamp as two militiamen burst in, followed by Lara Telegin.

“What the hell's going on?” he demanded.

“Please come with me, Doctor,” Telegin replied. Stepping closer, she lowered her voice. “There have been developments. The general needs to see you in his office immediately. We'll be waiting outside.”

Smith dressed quickly and followed Telegin to a waiting elevator. “What happened?”

“The general will brief you,” Telegin said.

They walked through an empty lobby to a sedan idling at the curb outside. The ride to Dzerzhinsky Square took less than ten minutes. Smith detected no unusual activity in the building until they reached the fifteenth floor. The halls were filled with uniformed personnel rushing from office to office, dispatches in hand. In the cubicles, young men and women were hunched over computer keyboards, talking quietly into headsets. A keen urgency crackled in the air.

“Dr. Smith. I would say good morning except it is anything but that. Lara, close the door, would you?”

Smith took stock of Kirov, thinking that he too must have been rousted from his bed not long ago.

“What do you have?”

Kirov passed him a glass of tea set in a filigree metal holder. "Earlier this morning, President Potrenko ordered the Special Forces contingent outside Vladimir to surround the Bioaparat complex and establish a cordon sanitaire. This was done without incident.

“For the next several hours, everything was quiet. However, thirty minutes ago, a roving patrol reported that two guards had been found dead ― murdered ― at their post.”

Smith felt a cold sensation deep in his stomach. “Did the Special Forces intercept anyone coming out?”

Kirov shook his head. “No. Nor did anyone try to get in.”

“What about the security inside the complex ― specifically Building 103?”

Kirov turned to Telegin. “Play the tape.”

She aimed the remote at a wall-mounted monitor. “This is the video from the security cameras inside 103. Please note the time stamp in the lower-right corner.”

Smith watched the black-and-white images on the screen. A big, uniformed guard walked down a corridor and disappeared into Zone Two. Another set of cameras picked him up in the changing rooms in the decontamination areas.

“Freeze that!” Smith pointed to the canister that the guard, now in full biohazard gear, was holding in his left hand. “What's that?”

“You'll see for yourself in a minute. Lara?”

The tape rolled on. With growing incredulity, Smith watched the guard enter the refrigerated walk-in safe and begin removing ampoules.

“Tell me that's not smallpox.”

“I wish I could,” Kirov replied.

The suited-up thief completed his work and returned to the first of the decontamination chambers.

“Where are the backup security measures?” Smith demanded. “How the hell could he just walk in like that?”

“The same way your security personnel at USAMRIID can walk into your vaults,” Lara Telegin snapped. “Our system is almost a duplicate of yours, Doctor. We rely just as heavily on coded locks and electronic countermeasures as you do in order to reduce the risk of the human factor. But in the end, it always comes down to one man.” She paused. “Bioaparat guards are subjected to an intensive screening procedure. Still, you cannot see into a man's soul, can you?”

Smith's eyes were riveted on the screen, which showed a close-up of Grigori Yardem's face.

“He doesn't care if the camera captures him. It's as though he knows there's nothing he can do about it.”

“Precisely,” Kirov said, and quickly explained why the guards on duty could not tamper with the tapes made during their watch.

“If we hadn't installed this feature, it would have taken far longer to identify the thief. As it is―”

“As it is, he knew he was never coming back. How the hell could he have gotten through the quarantine?”

“Please note the time,” Kirov said, pointing to the corner of the screen. “The theft occurs before the Special Forces are in position. This one had the devil's own luck: he managed to get out only minutes before Colonel Kravchenko began deploying his troops.”

“Is that why he killed the guards at the post ― because he was in a hurry?”

“I'm not sure.” Kirov looked at him carefully. “What are you getting at, Doctor?”

“This guy had to have had a solid plan,” Smith said. “Okay, he knew he was going to get caught on camera. He didn't care; he must have made some provisions for that. But I don't believe he intended to kill the guards. It makes no sense. Why take the chance that the bodies might be discovered before he completes his escape? I think he had to act sooner than he'd anticipated, that he knew the Special Forces were on their way ― and why.”

“Are you suggesting he had an informer, an accomplice, on the outside?” Telegin demanded.

“How does it look to you, Lieutenant?” Smith retorted.

“We will consider that possibility later,” Kirov said. “Right now, we must track down this Grigori Yardeni. The amount of smallpox he took…”

Smith closed his eyes. A hundredth of that amount could, if properly dispersed, infect a population of a million or more.

“What countermeasures have you initiated?”

Kirov pressed a button on his desk and a wall panel slid back to reveal a giant screen. The action it depicted was in real time.

He indicated a moving red dot. “An Ilyushin transport from the Medical Intelligence Division ― our virus hunters ― is en route to Vladimir. They will be the ones to enter Bioaparat ― no one else.”

He pointed to a blue circle. “This is the quarantine established by the Special Forces team. Here” ―he gestured to three yellow dots ― “we have the reinforcements from Sibiyarsk, already in the air. They consist of a battle-ready battalion that will cordon off Vladimir.”

He shook his head. “Those poor people will wake up to discover they're prisoners.”

Smith turned to the monitor, which still showed the hulking figure in the antiplague suit. “What about him?”

Telegin's fingers danced across the keyboard and a military record appeared on the screen. As she ran the translation software, Smith got an even clearer look at Yardeni. Then the Cyrillic alphabet morphed into English.

“Not exactly the kind of guy you'd expect to pull something like this,” he murmured. “Except this.” He pointed to the paragraph dealing with Yardeni's history of violence.

“True,” Kirov agreed. “But aside from his bad temper, there was nothing to indicate that Yardeni would contemplate this sort of treason. Consider: he has no relatives or friends living abroad. He accepted the Bioaparat assignment as a way to do penance and reinstate himself in the armed forces.”

He looked at Smith. “You are familiar with Bioaparat, especially its security. Unlike our other facilities, it is on par with anything in the West, including the CDC. International inspectors ― Americans among them ― were more than satisfied with our systems.”

Smith understood what Kirov was trying to do: make him an advocate. The Russians had not been negligent. Their security was good. This was internal sabotage, impossible to predict or to prevent.

“We all suffer the same nightmares, General,” Smith said. “You just happened to wake up to one.”

He forced himself to sip some tea. “How long has Yardeni been on the loose?”

Telegin punched up the medical report. “According to the Special Forces battle surgeon, the guards were murdered around 2:30 A.M.”

“Just over three hours ago… He could have gone a long way in that time.”

She threw up another image on the big screen, displaying concentric circles ― green, orange, and black.

“Bioaparat is in the center. The smallest circle ― black ― represents the distance that a reasonably fit man could cover, like a soldier on a training run. The orange circle extends the range if Yardeni has a car or a motorcycle.”

“What are those triangles?” Smith asked.

“Checkpoints established by the local militia. We've faxed them his photo and particulars.”

“What are their orders?”

“Shoot on sight, but not to kill.” She noted Smith's startled expression. “Our directive describes him as a multiple killer. Also, that he is HIV-positive. Believe me, Doctor, no militiaman will touch Yardeni after he's down.”

“I was thinking more about what he's carrying. If a bullet shatters the container―”

“I understand your concern about the container, but if Yardeni is spotted, we cannot let him walk away.”

“What's the last circle?”

“The worst possibility of all: Yardeni had a conspirator with a plane waiting at the Vladimir airfield.”

“Have there been any takeoffs?”

“None recorded, but that doesn't mean anything. The new Russia has a surplus of experienced pilots, most of them former air force. They can land on a highway or in a field, pick up their load, and be gone in minutes.”

“President Potrenko has ordered interceptors into the area,” Kirov added. “Any light aircraft will be challenged. If it does not comply with instructions, it will be brought down immediately.”

The wall monitor fascinated Smith. It seemed a living organism, constantly mutating as the symbols winked and moved. But he felt that in spite of the impressive array marshaled against the renegade officer, something was missing.

Moving over to the screen, he traced his finger along a white line that began east from Vladimir and ran west to Moscow.

“What's this?”

“The rail line between Kolima in the Urals and Moscow,” Kirov replied. He looked at Telegin. “Was there a train scheduled through Vladimir last night?”

Telegin went to work on the keyboard.

“There was,” she announced. “It pulled into Vladimir at three o'clock.”

“Too soon for Yardeni to have caught it.”

Telegin frowned. “Not necessarily. According to the schedule, it should only have been there a few minutes. But it didn't depart on time. It stayed an extra twelve minutes.”

“Why?” Kirov demanded.

“No reason given. In fact, it stops only when there are soldiers headed to Moscow on leave―”

“But there were no soldiers, were there?” Smith said.

“Good guess, Doctor,” Telegin said. “No one was scheduled to go on leave.”

“So why did the engineer hang around?”

Kirov stepped over to the computer console. The time of the murder of the two guards was juxtaposed against the time when the train left Vladimir. Then that window was measured against the amount of time it would take a man to get from Bioaparat to the train station.

“He could have done it!” Kirov whispered. “He could have made the train because it didn't leave on time.”

“It was late because somebody held it up!” Smith said savagely. “Yardeni took the most obvious route. That son of a bitch knew the roads would be blocked sooner than later. He didn't have a plane. He had an accomplice, someone who, if necessary, could hold up the train long enough for him to get to it.”

He turned to Telegin. “Then all he had to do was ride it into Moscow.”

She was punching the keyboard furiously, then looked up. “Sixteen minutes,” she said hoarsely. “It gets into Moscow's central station in sixteen minutes!”

Ivan Beria shifted with the sway of the train; beyond that, he did not move.

Nor had he taken his eyes off Grigori Yardeni. The stress of the theft and the subsequent flight, coupled with the effects of the brandy, had done its work. The Bioaparat guard had fallen asleep within minutes of the train's leaving Vladimir.

Beria leaned toward Yardeni. He lay so still as to appear dead. Beria cocked his ear and caught the rattle of shallow breathing. Yardeni was in a very deep sleep. It wouldn't take much to make it deeper still.

He slapped him on the cheeks, twice. “We're almost there. Time to get up.”

Beria looked out the window as the train threaded its way through the giant railyard. In the reflection, he watched Yardeni yawn and stretch, roll his head to work out the kinks in his neck. His voice was thick with sleep.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Our separate ways,” Beria replied. “I will get you through the station and into a taxi. After that, you're on your own.”

Yardeni grunted and made a move toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Beria demanded.

“To the toilet ― with your permission.”

“Sit down. Everybody in the car has the same idea. You'll end up in line. No point in giving anyone that good a look at you, is there?”

Yardeni considered, then sat down again. He ran his hand over one of the parka pockets to reassure himself that the documentation and money were where they should be. Satisfied, he thought he could hold his water until they reached the station.

When the train entered the tunnel between the yard and the station, the overhead lights flickered, went out briefly, then flickered back on.

“Let's go,” Beria said.

The corridor was filling up with people. Because of his height, Yardeni had no problem keeping Beria in sight, even in the sputtering light. Oblivious to the muttered curses, he elbowed his way to the exit.

The train eased into its siding and shuddered to a stop. The conductor lifted the platform that covered the steps. Beria and Yardeni were the first ones off, walking swiftly to the front of the train and toward the doors leading to the station proper.

The big van boomed along Moscow's still-empty boulevards. Inside, Smith, Kirov, and Telegin sat in captain's chairs bolted to the floor. Telegin was in front of a monitor displaying the city's traffic patterns; every few seconds she spoke to the driver on her headset.

Kirov, too, wore a headset. Ever since leaving Dzerzhinsky Square, he had been in constant communication with an elite unit of the Federal Security Service.

He swiveled his chair around to face Smith. “The train is in ― right on schedule, wouldn't you know.”

“How far away are we?”

“Thirty seconds, maybe less.”

“Reinforcements?”

“On the way.” Kirov paused. “Are you familiar with our flying squads?” When Smith shook his head, he continued. “Unlike your FBI SWAT, we prefer to send ours in undercover. They dress like tradesmen, greengrocers, street workers ― you wouldn't recognize them until it was too late.”

“Let's hope it isn't.”

Through the one-way window, Smith saw the station, a massive, nineteenth-century structure. He braced himself as the driver veered into a sharp turn and braked hard in front of the main building. He was on his feet even before the van stopped rocking.

Kirov grabbed his arm. “The flying squad has Yardeni's picture. They'll take him alive, if possible.”

“Do they have mine ― so they don't shoot me by mistake?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But stay close to me anyway.”

The three ducked under the ornate portico and ran into the station. The interior reminded Smith of a museum, all polished granite, bas relief, and three massive glass domes. There were few travelers, but the sound of their footsteps was like the rumble of a distant herd. In the center was a large area with rows of benches; along the sides were souvenir shops, refreshment stands, and news kiosks, most of them still shuttered. Smith glanced at the large black arrivals/ departures board suspended from the ceiling.

“How many others are due in?”

“We're in luck,” Lara Telegin replied. “This is the first one. But in twenty minutes, the commuter trains arrive. The crowds will be unmanageable.”

“Which track?”

She pointed to the right. “Over there. Number seventeen.”

As they ran for the doors leading to the sidings, Smith turned to Kirov and said, “I don't see any of your people around.”

Kirov tapped the plastic receiver in his ear. “Believe me, they're here.”

The air on the platforms was heavy with diesel fumes. Smith and the others ran past orange and gray electric locomotives, resting in their sidings, until they came up against a stream of people going the other way. Moving to the side, they began scanning faces.

“I'm going to find a conductor,” Telegin said. “Maybe if I show him Yardeni's picture, he'll remember the face.”

Smith continued to study the passersby who trudged along, their faces puffy from sleep, their shoulders bowed under the weight of suitcases and packages bound with string and rope.

He turned to Kirov. “There aren't enough passengers. These must be coming from the last cars. Whoever was riding up front is already in the station!”

Ivan Beria was standing in front of a newsstand that had just opened for business. He threw down a few kopeks and picked up a newspaper. Leaning against a pillar, he positioned himself so as to have an unobstructed view of the entrance to the men's washroom.

Given Yardeni's size and the dose of slow-acting poison that had been in the brandy, Beria estimated that the big guard would not make it out of the washroom alive.

Any second, he expected someone to run out screaming that a man inside was having a seizure.

But no, there was Yardem, strolling out of the washroom, looking considerably happier, checking ― like a peasant ― to make sure that his zipper was done up.

Beria slipped his hand into his coat pocket, to his Taurus 9mm, when his eyes registered the anomaly: a man wearing overalls, like a sanitation worker, was in the process of emptying a bin into his push cart. The only problem was that as soon as he saw Yardeni, he forgot all about the garbage.

Where there's one, there are more.

Beria slipped around the pillar so that Yardeni wouldn't spot him and quickly surveyed the station. Within seconds he picked out two more men who were out of place: a deliveryman hauling bread, and one who tried to pass himself off as an electrician.

Beria knew a great deal about the Federal Security Service. He was aware that the interest was both reciprocal and intense. But he could not believe they were there for him. Clearly the object of their attention was Yardeni.

Recalling what Yardeni had told him about his clean getaway from Bioaparat, Beria cursed. The guard would pay dearly for his lies.

Beria watched him stroll among the benches toward the kiosks. The three plainclothes agents trailed, forming a rough triangle behind him. One was speaking into a wrist mike.

Then Beria noticed a tall, rangy man come through the doors to the platforms. This was no Russian, though the one following him certainly was. The face of Major-General Kirov was indelibly printed in Beria's memory.

Beria noted that the foot traffic in the station had picked up. Good. He would need as much cover as possible. Beria stepped out from behind the pillar just long enough for Yardeni to catch a glimpse of him. He didn't think that Yardeni's shadows could have discerned exactly what Yardeni had seen to make him move in that direction, but they would surely follow.

Beria counted off the seconds, then slipped out from behind the pillar again. Yardeni was less than fifteen feet away. Beria had his hand on his gun, ready to draw it, when, without warning, Yardeni stumbled, teetered, then crashed to the floor. Immediately, the shadows closed in.

“Help me…”

Yardeni had no idea what was happening to him. First his chest had felt like it was on fire; now it seemed to be caught in the jaws of a giant vise that was mercilessly squeezing the life out of him.

As he thrashed on the cold marble floor, his vision began to blur. But he could still make out the features of the man who had brought him this far. Instinctively, he reached out to him.

“Help me…”

Beria didn't hesitate. Putting on a concerned expression, he moved directly to the stricken man and the undercover agents.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded. “Do you know this man?”

“We met on the train,” Beria replied. “Maybe he remembers me. God, look at him. He's delirious!”

The poison was causing Yardeni to foam at the mouth, cutting off his speech. Beria was very close now, kneeling.

“You'll have to come with―” one of the agents began.

He got no further. Beria's first shot tore away his throat. His second caught another agent in the temple. The third found the remaining man's heart.

“Shoot him!”

The booming words startled Beria. He rose to discover travelers lying on the floor, hiding as best they could under the benches. But at the doors was Kirov, pointing at him, shouting to a young woman who had come up on Beria's blind side.

“Lara, shoot him!”

Beria whipped around to face Lara Telegin, who had her gun leveled at him. His peripheral vision caught three more figures racing a toward them.

“Go!” she called out softly.

Beria didn't hesitate. He ducked behind the woman and raced for the exits.

After making sure that Beria was safely away, Telegin braced herself in the shooter's classic stance. As calmly as if she were on the practice range, she shot the remaining members of the undercover team. Then, without pause, she wheeled around to face a disbelieving Kirov.

It took Smith only a split second to realize that Telegin's treachery had frozen the general in her crosshairs. Without thinking, he launched himself at the Russian an instant before he heard the shot. Kirov cried out once as he and Smith went down.

Smith scrambled to his feet and squeezed off two quick shots. Telegin screamed as the bullets tore into her, slamming her body against a pillar. For an instant, she hung like that, her head lolling to one side. Then her gun clattered to the floor, her knees gave way, and she slid down, lifeless as a broken marionette.

Smith turned to Kirov, who had propped himself up against a door. He ripped open his jacket, pulled down the sleeve, and saw the bloodied flesh where Telegin's bullet had struck his upper arm.

Kirov clenched his teeth. “It's a through-and-through. I'll live. Get over to Yardeni.”

“Telegin―”

“To hell with her! I just hope that you aren't a good shot. I have a lot of questions for her.”

Smith zigzagged through the cowering crowd, making his way around the bodies of Kirov's fallen men. When he reached Telegin, one look told him that she would never be answering any more questions. Quickly, he turned to Yardeni and realized that the same was true for him.

Militiamen and police were flooding the station. Kirov was on his feet, unsteady and in pain, but strong enough to bark out orders. Within minutes, travelers were being herded out of the area.

Brushing aside a medic, Kirov went over to Smith and knelt down by the two bodies.

“The foam around his mouth…?”

“Poison.”

Kirov stared at Lara Telegin's glassy eyes, then reached out and closed the lids. “Why? Why was she working with him?”

Smith shook his head. “With Yardeni?”

“Him, too, probably. But I meant Ivan Beria.”

Then Smith remembered the man in the black overcoat, nowhere to be seen now. “Who is he?”

Kirov winced as the medic firmly sat him down and went to work on his wound.

“Ivan Beria. A Serb freelance operator. He has a long and bloody history in the Balkans.” He hesitated. “He was also a KGB favorite. Most recently he's been contracting out his skills to the mafiya and certain Western interests.”

Smith caught something in Kirov's tone. “It's personal, isn't it?”

“Two of my best undercover agents in the mafiya were murdered in a particularly brutal fashion,” Kirov replied flatly. “Beria's fingerprints were all over that job. I'm going to put an alert―”

“No, don't touch him!” Smith yelled as the medic was reaching for Yardeni's body. Stepping over to the corpse, he felt gently along the inside folds of the parka.

“Travel documents,” he said, producing Yardeni's passport and air tickets.

His fingers continued to work inside the parka. Suddenly, something very cold brushed his fingertips.

“Get me some gloves!” he called to the medic.

Seconds later, Smith eased out the shiny metal container and carefully laid it on the floor.

“I need ice!”

Kirov moved in for a better look. “It's intact, thank God!”

“Do you recognize the container design?”'

“It's standard issue for the transport of ampoules from the Bioaparat safe to the laboratories.” He spoke briefly into his mike, then looked at Smith. “The biohazard unit will be here in a few minutes.”

While Kirov issued orders for the station to be cleared, Smith placed the container into a bucket of ice that the medic had managed to find. The nitrogen in the thermal layer kept the container at just above freezing, rendering the virus inactive. But Smith had no idea how long the charge would last. Keeping the canister on ice would provide some measure of safety until the biohazard team arrived.

Suddenly Smith realized how quiet the station had become. Looking around, he discovered that all the militia had pulled back, taking the last of the travelers and station workers with them. Only he and Kirov were left, surrounded by bodies.

“Have you been in combat, Dr. Smith?” Kirov asked.

“Call me Jon. And yes, I have.”

“Then you're familiar with this silence… after the gunfire and screaming are over. It's only the survivors who get to see what they've wrought.” He paused. “It's the survivor who can thank the man who saved his life.”

Smith nodded. “I know you would have done the same. Tell me more about Beria. How does he fit in?”

“Beria is not only an executioner, he is a facilitator. If you want something delivered or spirited out of the country, he's the man who'll guarantee it gets done.”

“You don't think that he and Yardeni ― with Telegin's help ― planned and executed the theft themselves, do you?”

“Executed, yes. Planned, no. Beria's forte is not in strategy. He is ― how would you put it? ― a hands-on operator. His job would have been to shepherd Yardeni after he got out of Bioaparat.”

“Shepherd him where?”

Kirov held up the Canadian passport. “The American-Canadian border is porous. Yardeni wouldn't have had any problem smuggling the smallpox into your country.”

The idea made Smith's flesh crawl. “You're saying that Yardeni was a thief and a courier?”

“A man like Yardeni does not have the wherewithal to provide himself with a new passport, much less pay for the services of Beria. But someone did. Someone wanted to get his hands on a smallpox sample and was willing to pay mightily for the privilege.”

“I'm sorry I have to ask: where does Telegin fit in?”

Kirov looked away, feeling torn by her betrayal.

“You don't strike me as a man who believes in coincidence, Jon. Consider this: Yardeni has been in place for some time. But his masters choose this particular moment to activate him. Why should it have coincided with your arrival in Moscow? Did they know you were coming? If so, they would have deduced that they had one last chance to steal from Bioaparat. And why was Yardeni told to proceed with the theft? Because someone tipped him off that the Special Forces were on their way.”

“Telegin warned Yardeni?”

“Who else could it have been?”

“But she wasn't acting on her own…”

“I think Lara was the eyes and ears of whoever planned this. As soon as she knew you were in Moscow she contacted her principals, who told her to go ahead and have Yardeni execute the theft. They could not afford to risk the access that Yardeni provided them.”

He paused and glanced at the body of his lover. “Think about it, Jon. Why would Lara have risked everything ― her career, future… love ― if the rewards were not overwhelming? She would never have found such bounty in Russia.”

Kirov looked up as the station doors opened and the biohazard team, dressed in full antiplague suits, came through. Within minutes, the container that Telegin and Yardeni had died for was being sealed in a stainless-steel box and wheeled to a vaultlike truck, ready to be removed to Moscow's premier research facility, the Serbsky Institute.

“I'm going to initiate the search for Beria,” Kirov said as he and Smith walked out of the station.

Smith watched the virus hunters' truck pull away from the station, escorted by motorcycle outriders.

“Something you said, General. About Beria being a facilitator. What if Yardeni wasn't his primary responsibility?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yardeni was important ― pivotal ― in that he was the inside man. He was the one who actually had to go in and get the sample. But how valuable was he to anyone after that? A liability is more like it. Yardeni didn't die from a gunshot wound. Beria poisoned him.”

“What are you getting at?”

“That Beria's directive was to protect the smallpox, not Yardeni.”

“But Yardeni was carrying the samples. You saw the container.”

“Did I, General? All I saw was a container. Don't you want to know what's inside?”

The shuttle bus from the train station rolled through the thickening Moscow traffic. Because of the hour, Ivan Beria was one of only six passengers on board. Sitting by the rear exit doors, he watched a stream of militia cars wail down the boulevard to the station and listened as the other passengers speculated about what was happening.

If they only knew…

Beria was not concerned that the bus might be stopped. Not even Major-General Kirov, the man who had placed a hundred-thousand-ruble reward on his head, could organize so thorough a search in so short a time. Kirov's first act would be to check with the taxi dispatchers. Police at the train station would be shown a photograph and asked if anyone answering that description had gotten into a private car. Kirov might eventually think about the bus, but not soon enough to do him any good.

The bus clattered across streetcar tracks, then struggled up a ramp onto the circular highway that rings the city. He checked to make sure that the container he'd taken from Yardem was secure in his pocket. Confusion and misdirection were his allies: they would buy him the time he needed. As soon as Kirov checked Yardeni's corpse, he would discover the container Beria had given the Bioaparat guard. Kirov would believe that it held the smallpox samples stolen from Building 103. His first thought would be to get them to a secure location, but he would have no reason to check them. By the time that was done, the smallpox would be safely in the West.

Beria smiled and turned to the windows as the sprawling complex of Sheremetevo Airport came into view.

The outriders peeled away as the truck carrying Yardeni's container turned into the underground garage of the Serbsky Institute. The sedan with Kirov and Smith pulled up close enough to the truck for the two men to observe the unloading of the stainless-steel biohazard safe.

“It'll be taken to the Level Four labs two stories below,” Kirov told Smith.

“How long before we know what we have?”

“Thirty minutes.” Kirov paused. “I wish it could be faster, but procedures must be followed.”

Smith had no quarrel with that.

Accompanied by a squad of newly arrived Federal Security Service agents, they took an elevator to the second floor. The institute's director, a thin, birdlike man, blinked rapidly when Kirov informed him that his office was now a central command post.

“Let me know the instant the test results are available,” Kirov told him.

The director snatched his lab smock off the coat rack and beat a hasty retreat.

Kirov turned to Smith. “Jon. Under the circumstances it's time you told me exactly why you came here and who you're working for.”

Smith considered the general's words. Given the possibility that the Russians had not been able to contain the smallpox theft within their borders, he had no choice but to contact Klein immediately.

“Can you set me up with communications?”

Kirov gestured at the telephone console on the desk. “All the lines are secured satellite links. I'll wait out―”

“No,” Smith interrupted. “You need to hear this.”

He dialed the number that magically always connected him to Klein. The voice on the other end was crisp and clear.

“Klein here.”

“Sir, it's me. I'm in the director's office at the Serbsky Institute. Major-General Kirov is with me. I need to bring you up to speed, sir.”

“Go ahead, Jon.”

It took Smith ten minutes to give a complete account of events. “Sir, we expect to have test results in” ―he checked his watch ― “fifteen minutes.”

“Put me on the speaker, please, Jon.”

A moment later, Klein's voice flooded the room. “General Kirov?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Nathaniel Klein. I do the same work that Valeri Antonov does for your government. In fact, I know Valeri quite well.”

Smith watched the color drain from Kirov's face.

“General?”

“Yes, I'm here. I… I understand what you're telling me, Mr. Klein.”

Kirov understood all too well. Valeri Antonov was more a shadow than a man. Rumored to be Potrenko's most trusted adviser, he was never seen at council meetings. In fact, few people had ever seen him. Yet his influence was undeniable. That Klein knew of Antonov's existence ― that he knew him quite well ― spoke volumes.

“General,” Klein said. “I recommend that until we have more information, you do not alert any of your state security organizations. Mention plague and you'll have a panic on your hands that Beria will use to his advantage.”

“I agree, Mr. Klein.”

“Then please take what I'm about to say in the spirit it's offered: is there anything that I or any U.S. agency can do to help you?”

“I appreciate the offer ― sincerely,” Kirov replied. “But right now, this is an internal Russian matter.”

“Are there any standby measures you'd suggest we take?”

Kirov looked at Smith, who shook his head. “No, sir. Not at this time.”

A second line on the console buzzed. “Mr. Klein, please excuse me for a moment.”

Kirov picked up the other call and listened intently. After speaking a few words in Russian, he turned to Smith.

“The test results on the contents of the first ampoule are complete,” he said tonelessly. “It is tea, not smallpox.”

Klein's breath whistled across the ether. “How many ampoules are there?”

“Five. There is no reason to think that the other results will be any different.”

“Beria made a switch!” Smith said. “He took Yardeni's container and gave him a dummy to carry.” He paused. “That's why Yardeni was poisoned. Beria wanted us to find what he was carrying, to think that we'd caught the thief in time.”

“That makes sense,” Kirov said. “If Beria's original plan had stood, we would have discovered the theft later. By then, Yardeni would have died, but identifying the body would have taken time. The pieces of the puzzle would have been scattered all over Moscow. Beria would have had ample time to finish his mission.”

“What exactly is his mission?” Klein spoke up.

“To spirit the smallpox out of the country,” Smith said slowly.

Kirov looked at Smith. “The airport! Beria's carrying the smallpox, headed straight for Sheremetevo!”

The implications of Kirov's conclusion stilled the conversation. Smallpox on a commercial airliner bound for God knows where… It was insane!

“Why Sheremetevo, General?” Smith asked.

“It's the only logical place to go. How else could he hope to get the virus out of the country?”

“I'm afraid he's right, Jon. General, is there any way you can get to Beria before he gets to Sheremetevo?”

“Given his head start, no chance. The best I can do is call President Potrenko and have him shut it down.”

“I suggest you do that immediately. If a plane with Beria onboard gets off the ground, we have the makings of a holocaust!”

Ivan Beria got off the bus after it had pulled into the departures area of the international terminal. Because of the time difference between Moscow and Western capitals, most flights left early in the morning. Those having business in Zurich, Paris, London, or even New York would arrive just as the wheels of commerce in those cities started to churn.

Beria scrutinized the uniformed patrols loitering by the check-in counters. Detecting no unusual activity or heightened security, he walked down the concourse toward the duty-free and gift shops. On the way, he slowed his stride a fraction to glance at the monitor that listed the morning's departures. The flight he'd been told to look for had just commenced boarding.

Beria walked up to the plate-glass window of the duty-free shop and pretended to study the perfume and cigar displays. As he moved closer to the entrance, he watched for the man whom he was supposed to meet.

A minute crawled by as passengers entered and left the shop. Beria began to wonder if his contact was inside. There was no way to check, since he couldn't enter the duty-free area without a boarding pass.

Then he saw what he was looking for: a shiny, bald pate sticking out of the crowd. As he moved closer, he noted the second distinguishing feature: the distinct egg-shaped eyes that gave Adam Treloar his perplexed, slightly startled expression.

“David,” he called out softly.

Treloar, who had been milling around the entrance to the shop, almost fainted when he heard the code name. He looked around, trying to find the speaker, then felt a touch at his elbow.

“David, I thought I had missed you.”

Treloar stared at the cold, dark eyes of the man standing in front of him. The thin smile, meant to reassure, reminded him of a razor slash.

“You're late!” Treloar whispered. “I've been waiting―”

He heard Beria's chuckle, then gasped as an incredibly tight grip seized his arm. He offered no resistance as Beria steered him to a refreshment stand and sat him down at the end of the counter.

“Oranges and lemons…” Beria said in a singsong tone.

For an instant, Treloar's mind went blank. Desperately, he tried to remember the words that would complete the phrase.

“Say… Say the bells of Saint Clemens!”

Beria smiled. “Give me your carry-on.”

Treloar reached for the small leather bag at his feet and placed it on the counter.

“The liquor.”

Treloar dug out a small bottle of plum brandy that he'd bought at the hotel gift shop.

Unscrewing the cap, Beria raised the bottle to his lips and pretended to drink. He passed it to Treloar, who mimicked him. At the same time, Beria slipped the container from his pocket onto the counter.

“Smile,” he said conversationally. “We are two friends sharing a drink before one of us has to leave.” Treloar's eyes bulged as Beria unscrewed the container. “And because we can't finish the bottle, I give you the rest to enjoy during your flight.”

Carefully, he poured a few ounces of brandy into the container. “Now, if the inspectors wish to check, you open it and let them smell what's inside.”

Pushing back his stool, Beria gripped Treloar's shoulder. “Have a safe flight.” He winked. “And forget that you ever saw me.”

The all-points bulletin on Ivan Beria reached Sheremetevo security just as Adam Treloar was going through the metal detector. The guard manning the scanner noted a cylindrical object in the carry-on and asked the American to step aside. Another guard opened the bag, removed the container, and unscrewed it. Smelling a distinctive plum odor, he smiled and closed the top.

Handing it back to Treloar, he offered some advice: “Your brandy is too cold. It tastes much better when it's warm.”

By the time a squad of militia flooded the international terminal, Treloar was safely ensconced in his first-class seat. The American Airlines 767 was pulled back from the gate just as airport security began reviewing their surveillance tapes, searching for anyone who resembled Ivan Beria.

American flight 1710, nonstop to London with continuing service to Washington's Dulles Airport, was number two for takeoff behind a Paris-bound Air France Airbus. The call from the minister of defense reached the flight director in the control tower as 1710 was given the go signal by traffic control.

“Shut it down!” the director screamed over the loudspeaker.

Twenty-two faces turned and stared at him as if he were quite insane.

“Shut what down?” one of the controllers asked.

“The airport, you imbecile!”

“All of it?”

“Yes! Nothing leaves the ground.”

All activity in the tower was focused on relaying a FULL-STOP message to aircraft taxiing into position on the active runways and waiting on the aprons. No one had time to think about the planes that had taken off. By the time they did, American 1710 had banked over Moscow and was climbing smoothly to its designated cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet.