say, and had been openly skeptical about his theory that the killer had run to St. Petersburg in order to get out of Russia. Kirov believed that the fiasco at the train station had completely shattered Beria's intricate plan. Obviously a contact, perhaps ready to take the smallpox, had been waiting close by. Equally true was that the shooting would have frightened him off. Certainly there would have been a fallback rendezvous point. But between the police, the militia, and the security forces, Kirov had more than eight thousand men scouring the city, all searching for a single face. The monster from the Balkans could move around only at great peril to himself ? and to his contact. Knowing Beria as well as he did, Kirov believed that he had gone to ground somewhere in the city. That being the case, it was just a matter of time before he was flushed and the stolen smallpox retrieved.
But for all his certainty, Kirov knew better than to place all his bets on a single roll of the dice. Honoring his promise to Klein, he had called the head of the Federal Security Service in St. Petersburg. The FSS and the police already had Beria's description and particulars; the call from Moscow put some starch into their search. Kirov had instructed the FSS commander to concentrate his resources on the train and bus stations ? places where Beria would most likely have entered the city ? and on the airport. At the same time, passenger manifests and airport security videos were to be thoroughly checked. If there was the slightest possibility that Beria had been or still was in St. Petersburg, Kirov was to be notified immediately.
Two hours after American 1710 had departed London, Adam Treloar finished his dinner wine and stowed his meal tray into the armrest of his seat. Ambling to the lavatory, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth using the supplies provided in the amenities kit. On the way back to his seat, he decided to stretch his legs.
Pulling back the curtain, he stepped into business class and walked down the left-hand aisle of the darkened compartment. Some of the passengers were watching a movie on their personal video screens; others were either working, reading, or sleeping.
Treloar continued all the way to the back of the economy section, made the turn at the lavatories, and returned up the right-hand aisle. Back in the business section, he stopped abruptly as a calculator fell at his feet. He leaned down to pick it up and was handing it to the passenger in the aisle seat when he chanced to look across at the man by the window, asleep.
“Are you all right?” the passenger whispered.
Treloar nodded and took two quick steps forward, slipping behind the curtain into first class.
Impossible! It can't be him.
His breath came in deep gasps as he tried desperately to calm himself. The sleeping man in the window seat had had his face to him: Jon Smith.
“Can I get you something, sir?”
Treloar stared at the flight attendant who'd come up to him. “No… thank you.”
He hurried back to his seat, settled in, and pulled a blanket over himself.
Treloar remembered meeting Smith in Houston. He had made the mistake of revealing that he had overheard Reed talking about Venice and Smith. Reed had warned him that Smith was not his business. He had assured Treloar that there was no reason why the doctor should ever again cross Treloar's path.
Then what's he doing here? Is he following me?
The questions pounded at Treloar as he glanced down at his carry-on, tucked beside the bulkhead. In his mind's eye, he saw the shiny canister, and inside, the ampoules with their deadly golden-yellow liquid. Too paralyzed to move, he tried to rein in his panic.
Think logically! I f Smith knew about the smallpox, would he have allowed you to get onboard in London? Of course not! You'd be in chains right now. So he doesn't know. His being here is a coincidence. It must be!
His reasoning calmed him a little, but as soon as one set of questions was answered, another popped up: Maybe Smith was aware that he was carrying the virus, but there hadn't been time to safely arrest him in London. Maybe the British had refused to go along. Maybe Smith was allowing him to get back home because he needed the time to establish a controlled situation at Dulles. They would fall on him as soon as he disembarked…
Treloar pulled the blanket up closer under his chin. Back in the sunshine and safety of Houston, Reed's plan had sounded so easy, so perfect. Yes, there was an element of danger, but it was infinitesimally small compared to the rewards he stood to reap. And before the danger, there had been the delights of Moscow.
Treloar shook his head. He had memorized what it was he was supposed to do upon arrival at Dulles. Now, Smith's unexplained presence had turned a careful plan to ashes. Guidance, explanations, reassuring words were needed.
Reaching out from under the blanket, Treloar pulled out the inflight phone. At this point in the operation, communications were strictly forbidden. But with Smith only a few feet away that rule no longer applied. Treloar fumbled with his credit card and scanned it in the slot cut into the hand unit. Seconds later, the transaction was approved and he was on-line.
The room next to Randi's office had been set up as a small conference center, complete with the latest audio-visual equipment, flatscreen monitors, and a professional video/DVD-editing unit that rivaled anything found in Disney's animation department. On most Friday afternoons, the staff would get together, eat junk food, and watch the latest movies on DVD courtesy of Amazon.com.
Sitting next to Sasha Rublev, Randi watched as the gangly teenager used the editing and enhancement software to massage the blurred image of the face on the tape. Sasha hadn't moved from the computer for hours. Every now and again he stopped just long enough to chug down a Coke; then, fortified, he'd return to his task.
All the while Randi had been nothing more than a silent observer. She was fascinated how Sasha coaxed pixel after pixel out of what appeared to be nothing more than a smudge. Little by little the image of a man's face came into focus.
Sasha made one final pass at the keyboard, then rolled his head to work out the kinks in his neck.
“That's it, Randi,” he said. “I can't get it any better.”
Randi squeezed his shoulder. “You did great.”
She stared at the picture of a fleshy face punctuated by puffy cheeks and thick lips. The eyes were the most startling features: large and egg-shaped, they seemed to bulge from their sockets.
“He's an ugly man.”
Randi started at the sound of Sasha's voice. “What do you mean?”
“He looks like a troll. There's something evil about him.” He paused. “The train station…?”
“I don't know,” Randi replied truthfully. She gave Sasha a quick hug. “Thank you. You've been a great help. I need a couple minutes to finish up in here and then we'll go get us some Egg McMuffins. Okay?”
Sasha pointed to the laptop and the cell phone on the conference table. “What about those?”
Randi smiled. “Maybe later.”
As soon as she was alone, Randi established a secure E-link with the embassy's senior foreign service officer who was, in fact, the CIA station chief. As soon as he acknowledged her, she fired off an urgent request for any and all information about the man whose photo would follow.
Randi fed a printout of the image into the fax machine and, checking her watch, thought that she should get a reply in about thirty minutes. As she reached for her purse, she thought of Jon Smith and wondered why this “ugly” man was so important to him.
“Stay calm, Adam. Just stay calm.”'
Adam Treloar sat jammed into the corner of his spacious window seat. He was grateful for the privacy afforded in the first-class cabin and the drone of the engines. Nonetheless he spoke in whispers.
“What am I supposed to do, Price?” he demanded. “Smith is onboard this plane. I saw him!”
Anthony Price swiveled his chair to face the windows fitted with bulletproof, one-way glass. He chose a random point in the sky and fixed his gaze on it. Then he emptied his mind of everything except the issue at hand.
“But he hasn't seen you, has he?” he said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “And he won't. Not as long as you're careful.”
“But what's he doing here in the first place?”
Price would have dearly loved to know that.
“I'm not sure,” he said carefully. “As soon as we're through I'll start checking. But remember: Smith is not
