He’s here to try to pick up the scent. Or maybe someone saw my picture.
Beria had seen the police composite on the news. He thought it a poor rendering, nothing like him at all. But maybe someone had seen him in the area, even though Beria rarely left his apartment until after dark.
No. If he suspects I’m here, he would not have come alone. He’s not sure. He’s guessing.
“Stay where I can find you,” Beria told the driver.
The driver pointed to a restaurant called Dunn’s River Falls. “I’ll be in the lot.”
Stepping out of the car, Beria trotted across the street in time to see Smith duck under an archway bordered by a bar and a poster shop. Now he knew exactly where his quarry was headed: the small quadrangle between Twenty-first Street and Florida Avenue. He thought it quite clever of Smith to hunt him in a place that Beria might naturally gravitate to. But it was also a location Beria knew he could control.
Beria disappeared under the arch, then stepped under the awning of a Macedonian coffee shop. At one of the tables, a group of old men were playing dominoes; the soft crooning of a native folk song crackled over indoor-outdoor speakers. There was Smith, walking toward the fountain in the center of the quadrangle. Not so quick now, looking around as though expecting someone. Beria thought he could smell Smith’s discomfort, the unease of someone who realizes that he’s out of place. His hand dipped into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the cork handle of his spring-loaded stiletto.
Thirty paces ahead, Smith felt his pager vibrate against his kidney. Kirov was signaling that Beria was in the zone, within fifty feet of Smith. Slowing his pace even more, Smith drifted across the front of a stall with rugs draped over clotheslines. Stopping, he checked his watch, then looked around as though searching for someone in particular. Given the hour, there were customers about— mostly people on their way to work or to open their shops, stopping to get a coffee and pastry. Smith thought Beria would accept that this was a logical time to meet an informer who might be passing through.
The pager vibrated again— twice. Beria was within twenty-five feet and closing. Smith felt a cold tingle dance along his spine as he moved past the carpet display. Still looking around, he saw neither Beria nor Kirov. Then he heard soft footfalls behind him.
From his vantage point in the doorway of a closed dry goods store, Kirov had picked up Beria the instant he’d stepped through the arch. Now he approached him on the diagonal, his specially designed sneakers making his footsteps soundless.
Don’t look around, ]on. Don’t bolt. Trust me.
Beria was now less than a dozen feet behind Smith, closing fast. As his hand came out of his pocket, Kirov caught a glimpse of the cork handle and a flash of stainless steel as Beria depressed the mechanism that causes the blade to spring into place.
Kirov carried his ordinary-looking black umbrella. It swung lightly in his grip as he closed the distance to Beria. At the precise moment when the assassin took another step, his back leg lifted slightly, calve raised, Kirov brought the umbrella down. The razor-sharp tip sheared the fabric of Beria’s pant leg, caught flesh, and cut down a quarter inch. Beria whirled around, stiletto glinting in the pale sunlight. But Kirov was already two steps away. Beria caught sight of him and his eyes widened in shock. The face from Moscow! The Russian general from the train station!
Beria took a step toward Kirov but never reached him. His right leg faltered and gave way. The stiletto fell from his grip as he pitched forward. The drug that had coated the umbrella tip was singing through his veins, blurring his vision, turning his muscles to putty.
Glassy-eyed, Beria was faintly aware of being propped up by a pair of strong arms. Kirov was holding him, smiling, talking in Serb, telling him what a bad boy he’d been and how he’d been looking for him everywhere. Beria opened his mouth but could only gurgle. Now Kirov was drawing him close, whispering something. He felt Kirov’s lips brush his cheek, then a shout, in Serb, from someone insulting his manhood.
“Come on, lover,” Kirov said softly. “Let’s get you out of here before this turns nasty.”
Beria twisted around and saw the old men making rude gestures at him. Now Smith was beside him, propping him up by his other shoulder. Beria tried to move his feet but found that he could only drag them. His head lolled and he saw the underbelly of the arch. Outside the quadrangle, the roar of traffic was like that of a giant waterfall. Kirov was sliding open the door to a blue van, bringing out a collapsible wheelchair. Hands on his shoulders forced him to sit. Leather straps snaked around his wrists and ankles. He heard the whine of an electric motor and realized that the wheelchair had been rolled onto a ramp that was being raised. Then Kirov was pushing the chair into the van, locking the wheels. Suddenly everything disappeared except for the Russian’s cold, blue eyes.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, you murdering bastard!”
After that, he heard nothing at all.
__________
The back porch of Peter Howell’s hideaway on the Chesapeake shore looked out on a still pond fed by a meandering stream. It was early evening, almost eight hours since Beria had been taken. The low sun warming his face, Smith sat back and watched a pair of hawks circling for prey. Behind him, he heard Kirov’s heels fall on the tongue-and-groove boards.
Smith had no idea who really owned this rustic retreat, but as Peter Howell had told him in Venice, it was both very private and well equipped. Clean and comfortable, the cabin had a larder stocked with dry goods. Under the floorboards in the main room, in a small oubliette, was a cache of arms, medicines, and other essentials, indicating that the owner was undoubtedly in Howell’s line of work. Out back, in what looked like a large toolshed, was something else.
“It’s time, General.”
“He should be left a little while longer, Jon. We don’t want to do this again.”
“I read the same medical literature you do. Most men break after six hours.”
“Beria isn’t most men.”
Smith walked across the porch and leaned on the railing. From the moment he and Kirov had conceived the operation, they had known that, when taken, Beria would not talk. Not without inducements. It wouldn’t be anything so primitive as electroshock or rubber truncheons. There were sophisticated chemicals that, in certain combinations, were very effective and reliable. But they had drawbacks. One could never be sure if the recipient might have an unexpected reaction, go into shock, or worse. Such a risk could not be taken with Beria. He had to be broken cleanly, completely, and above all, safely.
Smith did not deceive himself. Whether it was electricity, chemicals, or anything else, it all amounted to torture. The idea that he had to sanction its use sickened him, both as a human being and as a physician. He’d told himself over and over again that in this case, such tactics were justified. What Beria was a party to could expose millions to a horrible death. It was vital to get at the information in his head.
“Let’s go,” said Smith.
__________
Ivan Beria was surrounded by white. Even if he kept his eyes closed, which was most of the time, he saw white.
When he had regained consciousness, he discovered that he was standing in a deep, cylindrical tube, a kind of silo. About fifteen feet high, its walls were perfectly smooth, coated with plaster that had been painted and then finished with something to make it shine. High beyond his reach were two big flood lamps that burned continuously. There was a total absence of darkness, not even a hint of shadows.
At first, Beria thought that it was some makeshift holding cell. The thought had reassured him. He’d had brief experiences with jail cells. But then he discovered that the diameter of the silo was barely large enough to accommodate his shoulders. He could lean a few inches in any direction, but he could not sit down.
After a while, he thought he heard a faint hum, like a distant radio signal. As the hours passed, the signal seemed to get stronger and the walls whiter. Then they started to close in on him. That was the first time Beria had closed his eyes, briefly. When he opened them, the whiteness was even starker, if such a thing were possible. Now he dared not open his eyes at all. The hum had crescendoed into a roar and beyond it, Beria heard something else, something that might have been a human voice. He had no idea that he was screaming.