Covert-One 2 - The Cassandra Compact

by The Cassandra Compact [lit]

  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?"

  Smi
th 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."