expecting had come only a few hours ago. His principal spoke of a change in plans, a need to improvise. Beria had listened and assured the principal that he could a accommodate these unforeseen developments.
He checked his watch. The train should have left five minutes ago. There was the fat conductor, waddling back from the locomotive. He, too, was looking at a watch.
Beria recalled the armored column he had heard and glimpsed earlier that evening. Thanks to his principal, he knew everything he needed to about the Special Forces, where they were headed, and why. If the man from Bioaparat hadn't made it out of the compound ?
He heard the pounding of heavy boots on the platform. His hand dipped into his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the butt of his Taurus 9mm. He relaxed his grip as the figure ran under a pool of light. He recognized the features that had been described to him.
“Yardeni?”
The lieutenant's chest was heaving with exertion. “Yes! And you are?”
“The one you were told would meet you. Otherwise, how would I know your name? Now get in. We're late.”
Beria pushed the young guard up the train car's platform. When the conductor came up, wheezing, he held more money under his nose.
“This is only for you. I want privacy. And if there are any delays on the way to Moscow, you will tell me at once. Understand?”
The conductor snatched the money.
The train was moving even as Beria steered Yardeni down the narrow corridor of the car and into a first-class compartment. The seats had been converted to sleeperettes, complete with small soiled pillows and threadbare blankets.
“You have something for me,” Beria said, locking the door and pulling down the shade.
Yardeni took his first good look at his contact. Yes, the sepulchral voice on the phone could have belonged to someone like this. Suddenly he was very glad that he was younger, bigger, and stronger than the monklike figure wrapped in black.
“I was told that you would have something for me,” he replied.
Beria pulled out a sealed envelope, watching as Yardeni opened it and examined the contents: a Canadian passport, an Air Canada ticket, cash, several credit cards.
“Is everything in order?” he asked.
Yardeni nodded, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the aluminum canister.
“Be careful. It's very cold.”
Beria did not touch the cylinder until he'd put on gloves. He held it for a moment, like a money trader hefting a pouch of gold dust, then set it aside. He brought out an identical container and handed it to Yardeni.
“What's this?” the young guard demanded.
“Hold on to it. That's all you need to know for now.” He paused. “Tell me what happened at Bioaparat.”
“Nothing happened. I went in, got the material, and came out.”
“You were on-camera the whole time?”
“There was nothing I could do about that. I told your people?”
“When are tapes reviewed?”
“At the beginning of the new shift, about four hours from now. What does it matter? It's not like I'll be going back.”
“There was no problem at the gate?”
Yardeni was a very smooth liar; he just didn't know the kind of man he was up against.
“None.”
“I see. And you managed to get out before the Special Forces arrived.”
Yardeni couldn't hide his surprise. “I'm here, aren't I?” he barked. “Listen, I'm tired. You have anything to drink?”
Silently, Beria withdrew a pint of brandy and handed it to Yardeni, who examined the label.
“French,” he remarked as he tore off the foil seal.
Yardeni raised the bottle, took a generous swallow, then sighed. After unlacing his boots, he removed his parka and folded it into a pillow. As he stretched out, Beria stood up.
“Where are you going?” Yardeni asked.
“To the bathroom. Don't worry. I won't wake you when I return.” Beria stepped into the corridor, locked the door behind him, and walked to the end of the car. He lowered the top half of a window just enough so that the antenna on his cell phone would protrude through the crack. Seconds later, the connection to Moscow was established, the voice on the other end as clear as if the party was standing next to him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The pounding on the door wrenched Smith out of a light sleep. He fumbled for the bedside lamp as two militiamen burst in, followed by Lara Telegin.
“What the hell's going on?” he demanded.
“Please come with me, Doctor,” Telegin replied. Stepping closer, she lowered her voice. “There have been developments. The general needs to see you in his office immediately. We'll be waiting outside.”
Smith dressed quickly and followed Telegin to a waiting elevator. “What happened?”
“The general will brief you,” Telegin said.
They walked through an empty lobby to a sedan idling at the curb outside. The ride to Dzerzhinsky Square took less than ten minutes. Smith detected no unusual activity in the building until they reached the fifteenth floor. The halls were filled with uniformed personnel rushing from office to office, dispatches in hand. In the cubicles, young men and women were hunched over computer keyboards, talking quietly into headsets. A keen urgency crackled in the air.
“Dr. Smith. I would say good morning except it is anything but that. Lara, close the door, would you?”
Smith took stock of Kirov, thinking that he too must have been rousted from his bed not long ago.
“What do you have?”
Kirov passed him a glass of tea set in a filigree metal holder. 'Earlier this morning, President Potrenko ordered the Special Forces contingent outside Vladimir to surround the Bioaparat complex and establish a cordon sanitaire. This was done without incident.
“For the next several hours, everything was quiet. However, thirty minutes ago, a roving patrol reported that two guards had been found dead ? murdered ? at their post.”
Smith felt a cold sensation deep in his stomach. “Did the Special Forces intercept anyone coming out?”
Kirov shook his head. “No. Nor did anyone try to get in.”
“What about the security inside the complex ? specifically Building 103?”
Kirov turned to Telegin. “Play the tape.”
She aimed the remote at a wall-mounted monitor. “This is the video from the security cameras inside 103. Please note the time stamp in the lower-right corner.”
Smith watched the black-and-white images on the screen. A big, uniformed guard walked down a corridor and disappeared into Zone Two. Another set of cameras picked him up in the changing rooms in the decontamination areas.
“Freeze that!” Smith pointed to the canister that the guard, now in full biohazard gear, was holding in his left hand. “What's that?”
“You'll see for yourself in a minute. Lara?”
The tape rolled on. With growing incredulity, Smith watched the guard enter the refrigerated walk-in safe and begin removing ampoules.
“Tell me that's not smallpox.”
“I wish I could,” Kirov replied.
The suited-up thief completed his work and returned to the first of the decontamination chambers.
