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.”
Smith knew what Kirov was intimating. There were three airliners, with a combined load of over a thousand people, headed into Western Europe. Was Smith prepared to create a series of international incidents on the possibility that Beria was onboard one of those planes?
“And if the situation were reversed, General?” Smith asked. “If the destination wasn’t Zurich, Paris, or London, but Moscow? Wouldn’t you want to know? Or would you be okay with the ‘odds’? ”
Kirov stared at him, nodded, then reached for the phone.
__________
Kirov was closer to the truth than he realized: Beria had gotten out of the airport, and he was still in Moscow. But not for much longer.
Beria had left the airport the way he’d arrived— by shuttle bus. Except this one took him directly to Moscow’s central bus depot.
Entering the chilly, dilapidated building, Beria went directly to the counter and purchased a one-way ticket to St. Petersburg. With twenty minutes to spare, he went into a washroom that smelled of urine and industrial cleaner and splashed water on his face. When he came out, he bought several greasy pastries from a woman behind a stall and wolfed them down with a glass of tea. Fortified, he joined the line of passengers waiting at the departure bay.
Beria scanned the faces around him. They belonged mainly to older people, some of whom, he guessed, were traveling with all their worldly possessions packed into cardboard suitcases or taped-up packages. Beaten down by circumstances, invisible to the new moneyed class, they were less than anonymous. No militia would ever bother checking their papers; no cameras would record their departure. Best of all, everyone would keep to themselves, not wanting to borrow from their neighbor’s hardship.
Beria slipped to the back of the bus, to the long seat that ran the width of the vehicle. He huddled in the corner and listened to the grinding of the transmission as the driver backed out. Soon afterward, the roar of the engine diminished, the traffic beyond the window stilled, and at last, he slept.