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.”