“I wish that were possible,” Kirov replied. “But unless I find Beria in the next two hours, we must work on the assumption that he made it onboard one of those aircraft.”
“What about his file?” the deputy director of MI5 asked. “I'm told that we, for one, have precious little on this creature.”
“Everything we have is being shipped via secure E-mail,” Kirov responded.
“Does Beria know you followed him to the airport?” the Swiss asked. “Is it possible that he already suspects that he might be apprehended? I ask because it is imperative we know what we're dealing with: does Beria have any reason to unleash this bioweapon in midair?”
“Beria is acting as a courier, not as a terrorist,” Kirov told him. “It is in his financial interest to deliver what was stolen from Bioaparat. He is not an ideologue or a martyr.”
The three Europeans on the line began to discuss how best to react to the crisis hurtling toward them. Their options were few, the choice predictable.
“Since the first flight lands on our soil, it begins with us,” the Swiss said. “We will treat this as a potential terrorist threat and take appropriate measures. If Beria is on that plane, he will be rendered harmless by all available means. We will have personnel and equipment ready to secure the smallpox.” He paused. “Or to deal with it as best we can should contamination occur. If, on the other hand, we find that Beria is not onboard, we will let everyone know immediately.”
“Even sooner than that, mon vieux,” the Frenchman said. “Air France arrives in Paris seventy-five minutes after the Zurich flight.”
“I recommend that an open line be established to monitor events as they develop,” the Englishman interjected. “That way, we can follow the process of elimination ? if there is one.”
“I'd like to remind you of one thing, London,” Kirov spoke up. “The flight is headed for your capital, but it's an American crew and plane. I have an obligation to inform the ambassador.”
“As long as that doesn't result in a jurisdictional squabble here,” London replied.
“I'm sure it won't,” Kirov said. “Now, if there are no further comments or suggestions, I recommend that we terminate this call to allow you to deploy your resources.”
There were none. One by one, the parties hung up until only Klein remained on the line.
“Are you coming home, Jon?” he asked.
“A suggestion, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“I think it'd be better for me to remain in the arena, sir. If General Kirov can provide me with transportation, I can be in European airspace before the Swissair flight touches down. I can monitor the situation in-flight, then direct the pilot to whichever city the target plane lands in. I'll be at ground zero, giving both of you real-time reports.”
“What do you think, General?” Klein asked.
“I like the idea of having our own bioweapons expert on-site,” the Russian replied. “I'll arrange for transportation immediately.”
“That would have been my recommendation, too. Good luck, Jon. Keep us posted.”
Twenty minutes later, Jon Smith was being escorted into Kirov's apartment. Under the watchful eyes of the security man, he went into the kitchen, where he found the laptop and the cell phone that had belonged to Lara Telegin.
The escort drove Smith to the embassy, watching as he cleared the marine guard post and disappeared behind the gates. Driving off, what he didn't see was Smith doubling back.
Smith walked fast to the arcade, only a mile away from the embassy. He was relieved to see Randi as soon as he stepped through the front door.
“Why is it I expected to see you today?” she asked quietly.
“We need to talk, Randi.”
Smith's arrival drew amused smiles from the staff, in particular a redheaded boy whose look made Randi blush.
“They think you're my lover,” she told Smith after they were in her office.
“Oh…”
She laughed at having caught him off-guard. “It's not the worst thing people could think of you, Jon.”
“Actually, I'm flattered.”
“Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what can I do for you?”
Smith brought out the videotape, laptop, and cell phone.
“As you probably heard, there's a situation at the airport.”
“A 'situation' as in the Russians are shutting it down.”
“Randi, all I can tell you is that they're looking for someone. Believe me, it's important to us that they find him.”
He explained the problem with the videotape. “It's a question of enhancement. The Russians just don't have the software and expertise to do it fast.”
Randi pointed to the laptop and phone. “What about those?”
“The massacre at the railroad station and the situation at Sheremetevo are direct results of communications between two conspirators,” Smith replied. “I don't expect the phone to give up much. But the laptop… Maybe E- mails were exchanged. I don't know.”
“If your conspirators were professionals ? and I assume they were ? they'd be using encryption and firewalls. It could take a while to crack them.”
“I'd appreciate your taking a shot.”
“Which brings us to the next problem. You don't think that I can just waltz this stuff into the embassy, do you? I'm here on nonofficial cover. My contact with the CIA station chief is nonexistent. I'd have to contact Langley and have them alert the SC. The minute I do that, headquarters will want to know why I'm hitting the panic button.”
She paused. “Going that route means you have to tell me a whole lot more than I think you want to ? or can.”
Smith shook his head in frustration. “Okay, I understand. I thought that maybe?”
“I didn't say there wasn't an alternative.” Quickly, Randi went on to tell him about Sasha Rublev.
“I don't know…” Smith said.
“Jon, I know what you're thinking. But consider this: the FBI hires teenage hackers to help track down cyber terrorists. And I'd be looking over Sasha's shoulder every minute.”
“You trust the kid that much?”
“Sasha is part of the new Russia, Jon, a Russia that looks out to the world, not one that keeps it at bay. As for politics, to Sasha it's the most boring thing in the world. Besides, I'm guessing that you didn't just trip over this laptop. The Russians must have sanctioned the hunt.”
Smith nodded. “They have. All right. I have to leave Moscow in about an hour. You have my number. Call me the minute your boy genius comes up with anything.”
He smiled at her. “And thanks, Randi. Very much.”
“I'm happy to help, Jon. But there is a quid pro quo. If there's anything I need to know?”
“You'll hear it from me, not CNN. Promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Swiss have one of the most highly organized terrorist-response teams in the world. Superbly trained, expertly equipped, the twenty-man unit known as the Special Operations Group was on its way to Zurich International Airport within minutes of receiving the go signal from the minister of defense.
By the time Swissair 101 was twenty minutes out, the commandos were in position. Half of them wore the uniform of the Swiss border patrol, whose ubiquitous presence at airports and railroad stations went unnoticed by
