Kravchenko drew out cigarettes. “I know that some of the men have families in town. Tell them not to worry. That is all you may tell them— for now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Kravchenko exhaled the smoke with a soft hiss. He was a good commander who understood the need for honesty when leading men. Nothing else worked for very long. But in this case he did not feel it prudent to add that even as he spoke, an Ilyushin military transport plane belonging to the army’s biohazard containment unit was being readied in Moscow. The time to worry would come if or when that plane left the ground.
__________
The passenger train that pulled into Vladimir at exactly 3:00 A.M. had begun its journey twelve hundred miles to the west, in Kolima in the Ural Mountains. Vladimir was its last stop— a brief one— before the final three-hour run to Moscow.
The engineer had been looking out the window of his locomotive as he’d pulled into the station. He grunted at the sight of the solitary passenger standing on the platform. The only reason Vladimir was a scheduled stop was to pick up soldiers headed for Moscow on leave. Tonight he decided that he could shave a few minutes off his schedule.
The tall figure, wrapped in a greatcoat, did not move as the train rolled past him. Standing a few feet from the edge of the platform, he continued to scan the darkness beyond the weak station lights.
Ivan Beria, born in Macedonia thirty-eight years ago, was a patient man. Raised in the cauldron of ethnic hatred and bloodletting that was the Balkans, he had learned firsthand how patience worked: your grandfather recounts how ethnic Albanians killed off most of your family. The story is retold so many times that it seems the events took place only yesterday. So when the opportunity for revenge eventually presents itself, you seize it with both hands— preferably around your enemy’s neck.
Beria was twelve when he had killed his first man. He kept on killing until all the family blood debts were settled. By the age of twenty, his reputation as an assassin was made. Other families, whose sons or husbands were dead or maimed, turned to him, offering the gold on their hands or around their necks as payment for services to be rendered.
Beria graduated swiftly from settling family feuds to becoming a freelance operator whose services were available to the highest bidder, usually the KGB. As twilight descended over communism, the security apparatus turned more and more to freelancers in order to maintain deniability. At the same time, as Western investment began to permeate Russia, the same capitalists who arrived to do business were also interested in more exotic investments. They were seeking a special kind of man who, because of the worldwide computer links between police and intelligence agencies, was becoming more and more difficult to come by in the West. Through his KGB contacts, Beria discovered that the pockets of American and European entrepreneurs were very deep, especially when it was necessary to cripple or eliminate a competitor.
Over a five-year period, Beria kidnapped over a dozen executives. Seven of them were killed when the ransom demands were not met. One of his targets was a senior official with a Swiss firm called Bauer-Zermatt. Beria was astonished to discover that when the ransom was paid, there was twice the amount of money that he’d stipulated. Included was a request that Beria not only free the executive but that he severely inhibit Bauer-Zermatt’s competitor’s desire to move into the region. Beria was more than happy to oblige, and that marked the beginning of his long and very profitable relationship with Dr. Karl Bauer.
“You! Are you getting on? I have a schedule to keep.”
Beria looked at the fat, florid-faced conductor, his baggy uniform crumpled from having been slept in. Even in the fresh air, he smelled the sour stench of liquor coming off the man.
“You don’t leave for another three minutes.”
“This train leaves when I say it does, and to hell with you!”
The conductor was about to step off the platform when, without warning, he found himself slammed up against the train car’s steel flank. The voice in his ear was as soft as a serpent’s tongue.
“The schedule has changed!”
The conductor felt something being jammed into his hand. When he dared to glance down, he discovered a roll of American dollars in his fist.
“Go give the engineer whatever he needs,” Beria whispered. “I’ll tell you when we leave.”
He pushed the conductor away, watched him half run, half stumble toward the locomotive. He checked his watch. The man from Bioaparat was late; even the bribe would not delay the train for very long.
Beria had arrived in Vladimir earlier in the week. His principal had told him to expect a man coming out of Bioaparat. Beria was to guarantee safe passage of both the man and what he was carrying to Moscow.
Beria had waited patiently, staying mostly in a cold little room in the town’s better hotel. The call he’d been expecting had come only a few hours ago. His principal spoke of a change in plans, a need to improvise. Beria had listened and assured the principal that he could a accommodate these unforeseen developments.
He checked his watch. The train should have left five minutes ago. There was the fat conductor, waddling back from the locomotive. He, too, was looking at a watch.
Beria recalled the armored column he had heard and glimpsed earlier that evening. Thanks to his principal, he knew everything he needed to about the Special Forces, where they were headed, and why. If the man from Bioaparat hadn’t made it out of the compound—
He heard the pounding of heavy boots on the platform. His hand dipped into his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the butt of his Taurus 9mm. He relaxed his grip as the figure ran under a pool of light. He recognized the features that had been described to him.
“Yardeni?”
The lieutenant’s chest was heaving with exertion. “Yes! And you are—”
“The one you were told would meet you. Otherwise, how would I know your name? Now get in. We’re late.”
Beria pushed the young guard up the train car’s platform. When the conductor came up, wheezing, he held more money under his nose.
“This is only for you. I want privacy. And if there are any delays on the way to Moscow, you will tell me at once. Understand?”
The conductor snatched the money.
The train was moving even as Beria steered Yardeni down the narrow corridor of the car and into a first-class compartment. The seats had been converted to sleeperettes, complete with small soiled pillows and threadbare blankets.
“You have something for me,” Beria said, locking the door and pulling down the shade.
Yardeni took his first good look at his contact. Yes, the sepulchral voice on the phone could have belonged to someone like this. Suddenly he was very glad that he was younger, bigger, and stronger than the monklike figure wrapped in black.
“I was told that you would have something for me,” he replied.
Beria pulled out a sealed envelope, watching as Yardeni opened it and examined the contents: a Canadian passport, an Air Canada ticket, cash, several credit cards.
“Is everything in order?” he asked.
Yardeni nodded, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the aluminum canister.
“Be careful. It’s very cold.”
Beria did not touch the cylinder until he’d put on gloves. He held it for a moment, like a money trader hefting a pouch of gold dust, then set it aside. He brought out an identical container and handed it to Yardeni.
“What’s this?” the young guard demanded.
“Hold on to it. That’s all you need to know for now.” He paused. “Tell me what happened at Bioaparat.”
“Nothing happened. I went in, got the material, and came out.”
“You were on-camera the whole time?”
“There was nothing I could do about that. I told your people—”
“When are tapes reviewed?”
“At the beginning of the new shift, about four hours from now. What does it matter? It’s not like I’ll be going back.”
“There was no problem at the gate?”
Yardeni was a very smooth liar; he just didn’t know the kind of man he was up against.
“None.”
“I see. And you managed to get out before the Special Forces arrived.”
Yardeni couldn’t hide his surprise. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he barked. “Listen, I’m tired. You have anything to drink?”
Silently, Beria withdrew a pint of brandy and handed it to Yardeni, who examined the label.
“French,” he remarked as he tore off the foil seal.
Yardeni raised the bottle, took a generous swallow, then sighed. After unlacing his boots, he removed his parka and folded it into a pillow. As he stretched out, Beria stood up.