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 sing-song 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.
Chapter 12
Because of the time difference between Moscow and the eastern seaboard of the United States, it was still the middle of the night when Anthony Price pulled up to the northern guard house at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.
After the computer had scanned his credentials, he drove up the crushed-shell driveway to General Richardson’s quarters, a stately Victorian surrounded by a manicured lawn. Lights were burning on the third floor, as Price had expected.
The deputy director of the National Security Agency found Richardson in his study, the gleaming bookshelves filled with leather volumes, mementos, and framed military citations. The general rose behind his desk and gestured at the coffee tray.
“Sorry to have dragged you out of bed, Tony, but I wanted you to see this for yourself.”
Price, who seldom slept more than four hours a night, helped himself to coffee, then came around so that he could see the computer screen.
“The latest message from Telegin,” Richardson said, indicating the descrambled text.
Price read the first few sentences, then looked up. “So everything at Bioaparat went according to plan. What’s the problem?”
“Read the rest.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “Jon Smith? What the hell is he doing in Moscow?”
“According to Telegin, poking ar
ound in our business. Seems that he almost tipped Kirov off in time.”
“But both Beria and Treloar escaped…. Haven’t they?”
Richardson rubbed his tired eyes. “That’s the reason I called you: I don’t know. Telegin was supposed to report once both men were safely away. She hasn’t. Check this out.”
Richardson hit several keys and the latest CNN updates filled the screen.
“A problem at the Moscow train station,” he said. “Someone decided to have an O. K. Corral shoot-out. The Russians clamped down hard and fast, so the details are sketchy. But you have to wonder: what happened to Telegin?”
“If you haven’t heard from her, she’s dead,” Price said flatly.
“Or taken. If Kirov has her—”
“He doesn’t! Telegin was a pro. She never would have let herself be taken alive.” He pointed to the screen. “Says here there are at least five dead—all security personnel. I know Beria is good, but to take out that many he had to have had help. I think Telegin stepped in.”
After a moment’s silence, Richardson said, “Assuming that Beria got away clean, we still have a problem. Kirov and Smith will be all over Telegin—her movements, contacts, the works. She may have left footprints.”
Price paced along Richardson’s museum-quality Oriental rug. “I’ll head for Fort Meade. A shooting in a Moscow train station? Hell, that’s a terrorist act, NSA territory. Nobody will raise an eyebrow when I get people working on this.”
“What about Smith?” Richardson asked.
“He’s army, so you start checking. He’s got to be working for someone, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s making way too many connections. First Yuri Danko, now showing up in Russia…”
“Randi Russell is CIA undercover in Moscow.”
“I don’t think that Smith flew seven thousand miles for a piece of ass, Frank. We need to know who’s issuing him his marching orders—then we cut him off at the knees!”
The first thing Randi Russell noticed when she deactivated the alarm and opened the door to Bay Digital was that she was not alone. Although the security system indicated no intrusion, she caught the faint odor of clove tobacco smoke.
“Carrot Top, is that you?” she called out.
“I’m in here, Randi.”
Sighing, Randi locked the door behind her. She’d come in early, hoping to use the peace and quiet to catch up on some reports.
“Where in here?”
“The file room.”
“Damn!”
Gritting her teeth, Randi marched to the very back of the office. The file room was really a large, walk-in vault where the latest computer equipment was kept. Theoretically, she was the only one with the combination.
Randi stepped into the temperature-controlled chamber where she found the intruder busy downloading the latest video game from the confidential files of a Japanese electronics company.
“Carrot Top, I warned you about that,” she said, trying to sound severe.
Sasha Rublev—nicknamed Carrot Top for his mass of wiry, reddish-orange hair—beamed at her. Tall and lanky, with liquid green eyes that Randi knew drove girls crazy, he was all of seventeen years old—and undoubtedly Russia’s premier computer genius.
“Sasha, one of these days you’ll trip an alarm and you’ll be calling me from the local militia precinct.”
Sasha feigned hurt. “Randi, how could you possibly think that? Your security is very good, but…”
A cakewalk for someone like you.
Randi had discovered Sasha Rublev at a computer seminar Bay Digital hosted for Moscow University students. The gangly teenager had caught her attention not only because he was the youngest person in the room but because he was quietly working at a laptop, hacking his way into the Russian Central Bank’s mainframe to check on the level of gold reserves.
Randi knew at once that Rublev was an undiscovered prodigy. Over cheeseburgers and Cokes, she was amazed to learn that this son of a Moscow subway conductor possessed an IQ that was off the charts but, because of the bureaucracy, remained mired in the antiquated high school system. Eventually she got permission from Sasha’s family for him to work for Bay Digital a few hours a week and on weekends. As the bond between mentor and mentee grew, Randi gave him access to some of the most advanced equipment in the office, in return for Sasha’s solemn promise not to misuse it. But like a playful puppy, Sasha insisted on bringing her gifts—information whose sources she didn’t want to know about.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until I got in?”
“The shooting at the railroad station.”
“I was listening to the news on the way in. What about it?”
Sasha’s fine-boned fingers danced over the keyboard. “They’re saying it was the work of Chechen rebels.”
“And?”
“So why shut down the Moscow airport?”
Randi stared over his shoulder at the screen. Sasha had hacked his way into the Federal Security Service’s mainframe and was reading the latest traffic about the imminent shutdown of Sheremetevo Airport.
“The Chechens are targeting the airport?” he asked skeptically. “I think not. Something big is happening, Randi. And the FSS doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Randi thought for a moment. “Close the link,” she said quietly.
“Why? I’m using five cutouts. Even if they pick up on the intrusion, they’ll think that it’s coming from Bombay.”
“Sasha…”
Mindful of her tone, he quickly closed the laptop.
“Randi, you look worried. Don’t be. The cutouts are—”
“It’s not the cutouts, Sasha. It’s what you said: why close the airport?”
The logistics of shutting down a major airport are the stuff of nightmares. Smith and Kirov arrived to find hundreds of bewildered travelers milling around in the concourse, besieging the check-in counters, seeking explanations from harried airline employees who had none to offer. Armed militia were stationed at every entrance and exit, making the travelers virtual prisoners. Three-man patrols swarmed through the concourse shops, lavatories, and stockrooms, checking the baggage and cargo areas, the employees’ lounges and changing areas, even the chapel and the day-care center. Rumors flew and anger mounted. As the two combined, the level of fear among those trapped in the international terminal grew exponentially.
“Someone in the surveillance room thinks he spotted Beria on the tape,” Kirov told Smith as they threaded their way through the concourse.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Smith replied as the two men headed for the airport’s security command post.
Smith and Kirov burst into the security command room, which resembled a large television studio. In front of a twenty-foot console sat six technicians monitoring the ninety cameras strategically placed throughout the complex. The cameras were on timers and were operated by remote control. With a few taps of the keyboard, technicians could focus or shift them to cover a particular area.
Above the console were wall-mounted screens that offered the security director a real-time, bird’s-eye view of the terminal. Hidden away in a temperature-controlled area were the video machines, faithfully recording everything that the cameras picked up.
“What do you have?” Kirov demanded.
The security director pointed to one of the monitors. The black-and-white picture showed two men sitting at a refreshment counter.
“The image is poor,” he conceded. “But that appears to be your man.”
Kirov moved in for a closer look. “That’s him all right.” He turned to Smith. “What do you think? You saw him at close distance.”
Smith studied the image. “It’s him. Do you think he’s talking to the man beside him?”
Kirov turned to the director. “Can you enhance the image?”
The director shook his head. “I’ve done as much as possible with the equipment I have.”
“Do you have any other shots of them together?�
�� Smith asked.
“That’s the only one. The cameras are on timers. They captured only that one shot of Beria before moving to another sector.”
Smith took Kirov aside. “General, I realize that Beria is our principal target, but we need to know who that guy is. What if your service were to scan the tape?”
Kirov pointed to the blurred faces on the screen. “Look at how the light falls. And that column there—there’s nothing we can do to improve the photograph. We don’t have the software.”
Smith tried another tack: “You know Beria better than anyone else. Has he ever worked with a partner?”
“Never. Beria has always been a solo operator. That is one of the reasons he has eluded capture: he leaves no one we can connect him to. I think he’s using the other man for cover.”
Something about the picture refused to let Smith go.
“General, I may be able to get the tape enhanced.”
“At your embassy?” Kirov asked.
Smith shrugged. “What do you say?”
Kirov considered. “Very well.”
“Telegin—did she have a laptop or a cell phone?”
“Both.”
“I can check them too.”
Kirov nodded. “I’ll have a security officer escort you to my building. Both items are in the kitchen.”
“Which brings me to my last question,” Smith said. “What if Beria isn’t in the terminal?”
Kirov’s eyes widened as he grasped the implications of Smith’s words. “I need the designations and destinations of the last three flights that left before shutdown,” he told the director.
Smith looked at the time imprinted on the videotape, then at the screen where the security director was pulling up the departures schedule.
“Swissair 101, Air France 612, American 1710. Beria could have made it onboard any one of them.”
“Get me the tapes of the cameras that cover the jetways to those flights,” Kirov snapped. “And the passenger manifests.”
As the director hurried away, Kirov turned to Smith. “It’s possible Beria made those flights, Jon, but unlikely. The odds are that he got out of the airport but is still in the city.”
The Cassandra Compact Page 14
