“One moment, please.”
Yardeni turned in the direction of the voice coming through the open window of the post. Inside was a guard he had never seen before. He glanced at his friend.
“You didn't tell me that Alex was out tonight.”
“The flu. This is Marko. He usually works days.”
“Fine. But would you tell him to let me out of this dump? I'm getting cold.”
When Oleg opened the door of the post, Yardem realized it was already too late: the other guard was already checking the computer.
“I have your relief clocked in, Lieutenant, but there's no shift change on the roster,” he said. “Technically, you're leaving your post unattended.”
The guard's accusatory tone decided Yardem's next action. His friend Oleg had his back to him. He never saw Yardeni's arm come around his neck, and felt only a sharp tug before his neck snapped.
The second guard was fumbling for his holstered gun when Yardeni drove the knuckles of his right hand into his windpipe. After the guard sank to his knees, struggling to breathe, it was easy enough to kill him by breaking his neck, too.
Yardeni staggered out of the booth and slammed the door. Instinct and training took over. He began walking, the old infantry refrain repeating itself over and over in his mind: One foot in front of the other, and in front of the other, and in front…
Outside the perimeter wall, Yardeni saw the lights of Vladimir. He heard the lonely whistle of a still-distant train. The whistle snapped him back to reality, reminded him what he had left to do. Leaving the road, he headed into the woods that surrounded Bioaparat. He had spent many hours there, and finding the right paths on a moonlit night was easy enough. He set a brisk pace and moved off.
Yardeni called up specific images as he ran. A contact would be waiting. He would have the passport that identified Yardeni as a visiting Canadian businessman. There would be a plane ticket for an Air Canada flight and a thick wad of American currency to tide him over until he reached Toronto and the bank where his money and new ID papers had been deposited.
Forget Oleg! Forget that other one! You're almost free!
Yardeni was deep into the woods when he slowed and finally stopped. His hand dropped to his zippered parka pocket, his fingers curling around the cold aluminum container. The marker to his new life was secure.
Then he heard it ? the faint roar of heavy vehicles approaching. They were moving west, toward the compound. Yardeni had no problem identifying them by sound alone: APCs, filled with Special Forces. But he did not panic. He was familiar with the procedures they would follow. As long as he was outside the perimeter they would establish, he was safe. He started to run again.
A half mile out of town, Kravchenko saw the security lamps that bathed the perimeter of Bioaparat in white, hot light. Ordering his column off the highway, he guided the vehicles along secondary roads and cart paths until the APCs created an unbreakable steel ring around the facility. Roadblocks were set up at all the arteries leading into and out of the complex. Observation units were posted thirty meters from the brick wall, at fifty-meter intervals. Snipers using thermal scopes were hidden in those spaces. At 2:45 A.M., using a satellite relay, Kravchenko informed his president that the noose was in place.
“Sir?”
Kravchenko turned to his second-in-command. “Yes, number two?”
“Sir, some of the men have been… wondering. Is something wrong inside? Has there been an accident?”
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
