If someone managed to get past the sensors, he would discover a sophisticated alarm system built into the dual-pane windows and the door locks. If these were somehow breached, pressure pads throughout the house would activate, triggering both an alarm and an incapacitating gas through the sprinkler system. Tested in federal prisons, the gas took down its targets in less than ten seconds, which was why Smith kept a gas mask in his night-table cabinet.
Although Smith believed that Beria would not attempt to kill him with a long-range shot, he thought it prudent to double-check the perimeter. Satisfied that it was secure, Smith went back through the kitchen that connected directly to the garage. He was reaching to shut off the small television perched on the counter when he saw an image that made him stop. He hesitated briefly, then smiled and reached for the phone.
__________
At twenty-one minutes to liftoff, the voice of the flight director, Harry Landon, came over the crew’s headsets.
“Folks,” he said in his Oklahoma twang, “seems we got ourselves an unexpected development.”
Even though they were aware that three hundred people at mission control were listening to every sound they made, the crew could not contain a collective groan.
“Don’t tell me we’re going to have to do this all over again,” Carter groused.
“What’s the problem, mission control?” the pilot asked crisply.
“Did I say a problem? No. I said a development.” There was a brief pause. “Olson, are you all done with your flight check?”
“Yes, sir,” Megan replied, her heart racing.
Don’t tell me I screwed up. Anything but that.
“In that case, do you want to take this call?”
Involuntarily, Megan tried to sit up but got nowhere. Who could be calling her? Oh, Jesus!
“Harry,” she said in panicky voice. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Now don’t you fret. I’ll patch it through only to you.”
The last thing she heard before the static was Carter’s “Rats!”
“Megan?”
Her pulse quickened. “Jon? Is that you?”
“I couldn’t let you leave without saying good luck.”
“Jon, how did you…. ? I mean, how could you—”
“No time to explain. Are you okay? Are you ready?”
“Ready, yes. Okay? Well, I’m still getting used to sitting on a ton of liquid fuel.”
“I wanted to wish you well…. Make sure you come home safe and sound.”
Megan smiled. “I will.”
“Sorry, folks,” Landon broke in. “Time’s up.”
“Thanks, Harry,” Megan said.
“I’m going to put you back in the loop. Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
Megan steeled herself for some gentle ribbing, which never materialized. In the fifteen minutes to countdown, the rest of the crew were busy exchanging instructions and details. Closing her eyes, she whispered a few words from the Twenty-fourth Psalm. She had barely finished when the shuttle shifted a little. An instant later, the ignition procedure for the solid boosters kicked in and a loud, low rumble enveloped the craft.
Through the chatter of ground control double-checking liftoff, Megan heard: “Houston, we have Discovery liftoff!”
As the external tank fed the shuttle’s main engines, Megan felt as though she were strapped to a bone-jarring roller coaster— except that there was no stopping this ride. Two minutes and six seconds after liftoff, the solid boosters separated from the orbiter, falling away to the ocean, where they would be retrieved. Powered by the fuel from the external tank that fed her main engines, Discovery struggled to break free of gravity. The higher and faster she ascended, the closer the crew got to the maximum 3-G pressure. Megan had been warned that it would be like having a gorilla strapped to your chest.
Wrong. More like an elephant.
Six minutes later, at an altitude of 184 miles, the main engines stopped firing. Its job done, the external fuel tank separated and fell away. Megan was amazed by the sudden silence and by how smooth the ride had suddenly become. Turning her head, she understood why: beyond the sliver of a window in her line of sight were the stars. She and Discovery were in orbit.
___________________
CHAPTER
TWENTY ONE
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The preceding evening, Ivan Beria had rendezvoused with the driver of the Lincoln outside the Metro stop at Q Street and Connecticut Avenue. The driver had further information and instructions for Beria, who studied them as the car wended its way out of the city toward Bethesda.
The driver was necessary because Beria could not afford to be seen on the streets— and because he had only the most rudimentary driving skills. A killer who could carve a man up in seconds, he was lost in and confused by the traffic streaming in and out of the city. In an emergency, he could not be sure of executing an escape. There was one other advantage to the car besides transport: it was perfect for surveillance. Washington was filled with executive sedans. This one would not look out of place in a neighborhood such as Bethesda.
Approaching Smith’s house, the driver slowed as though searching for a particular number. Beria got a good look at the rambling ranchstyle house, set well back from the street. He noted the trees that ran along the property line and that, he surmised, continued around the back. There were lights in the windows but no shadows indicating movement.
“Come around again,” Beria told the driver.
Next time, Beria looked closely at the other houses on the block. Most had toys and bicycles on the front lawn, a basketball hoop over the garage door, a small powerboat perched on a trailer chocked in the driveway. By contrast, Smith’s house looked vacant, brooding. It was, Beria thought, the house of a man who lives alone and prefers it that way, whose work demands solitude and secrecy. Such a house would have a far more sophisticated— and deadly— warning system than anything advertised by the security company patches on the doors of the other homes.
“I have seen enough,” he told the driver. “We will come back tomorrow morning.”‘
Now, a few minutes after nine o’clock in the next morning, Beria was in the backseat of the Lincoln as it idled at the far corner of Smith’s street. The driver was standing outside, smoking. To passing joggers and dog walkers, he appeared to be waiting for a client.
In the cool stillness of the interior, Beria reviewed all the information on Smith. His principal wanted the American doctor out of the way quickly. But there were obstacles. Smith did not go to an office. His home appeared to have good security. Therefore, the execution would have to be done out in the open, wherever an opportunity presented itself. Another problem was the unpredictability of Smith’s movements once he was outside his home. He had no set schedule, so the principal could not say where he would be at any given time. This meant that Beria had to follow Smith as closely as possible and look for an opening. Working in his favor was the fact that the American did not have an escort, did not— as far as the principal knew— carry a weapon. Most important, he had no inkling that he was in any kind of danger. Beria checked his watch; forty-five minutes had elapsed since he’d arrived.
The Lincoln listed as the driver got back behind the wheel. “Smith’s coming out.”
Beria looked through the windshield down the street where a navy blue sedan was backing out of a garage. According to the principal, this was Smith’s vehicle.
“And we begin,” Beria said softly.
__________
As Smith drove into the city, he constantly checked his mirrors. After a few miles he tagged the black Lincoln that changed lanes whenever he did. He called Kirov on the cell.
“It’s the Lincoln from the airport. On my tail. I think Beria’s nibbling.”
“I’m ready,” Kirov assured him.
Breaking for a light, Smith checked his rearview. The Lincoln was still three cars back.
Once in the city, Smith drove as fast as traffic permitted, changing lanes, leaning on his horn. He hoped Beria would buy the image of a man late for an important appointment, a man preoccupied, his guard down, easy prey. He wanted the assassin to focus on him to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. That way, he would never see Kirov coming.
He’s in a hurry, Beria thought. Why?
“He’s headed for Dupont Circle,” the driver said, keeping his eyes on the traffic.
Beria frowned. His apartment was in that area. Could Smith have already discovered it? Was that his destination?
The sedan picked up speed on Connecticut Avenue, turned left on R Street, and then right on Twenty-first Street.
Where’s he going?
The sedan slowed as Smith approached the top of the triangle at S Street. Beria watched him park the car in a lot, then cross Twenty-first Street. This area, with its Eastern European restaurants and shops, was familiar to him. Since arriving in Washington, it was the only place he had ventured into where he felt comfortable.