Smith knew what Kirov was intimating. There were three airliners, with a combined load of over a thousand people, headed into Western Europe. Was Smith prepared to create a series of international incidents on the possibility that Beria was onboard one of those planes?
“And if the situation were reversed, General?” Smith asked. “If the destination wasn’t Zurich, Paris, or London, but Moscow? Wouldn’t you want to know? Or would you be okay with the ‘odds’?”
Kirov stared at him, nodded, then reached for the phone.
Kirov was closer to the truth than he realized: Beria had gotten out of the airport, and he was still in Moscow. But not for much longer.
Beria had left the airport the way he’d arrived—by shuttle bus. Except this one took him directly to Moscow’s central bus depot.
Entering the chilly, dilapidated building, Beria went directly to the counter and purchased a oneway ticket to St. Petersburg. With twenty minutes to spare, he went into a washroom that smelled of urine and industrial cleaner and splashed water on his face. When he came out, he bought several greasy pastries from a woman behind a stall and wolfed them down with a glass of tea. Fortified, he joined the line of passengers waiting at the departure bay.
Beria scanned the faces around him. They belonged mainly to older people, some of whom, he guessed, were traveling with all their worldly possessions packed into cardboard suitcases or taped-up packages. Beaten down by circumstances, invisible to the new moneyed class, they were less than anonymous. No militia would ever bother checking their papers; no cameras would record their departure. Best of all, everyone would keep to themselves, not wanting to borrow from their neighbor’s hardship.
Beria slipped to the back of the bus, to the long seat that ran the width of the vehicle. He huddled in the corner and listened to the grinding of the transmission as the driver backed out. Soon afterward, the roar of the engine diminished, the traffic beyond the window stilled, and at last, he slept.
It took Smith and Kirov thirty minutes to review the jetway tapes of the passengers who’d boarded the three flights to Europe.
“Four possibles,” Smith said. “That’s what I come up with.”
Kirov nodded. “No distinct resemblance to Beria, just faces we couldn’t quite define.”
Smith checked the clock in the security command post. “The first plane, Swissair 101, will reach Zurich in two hours.”
“Let’s make the calls,” Kirov said heavily.
Ever since the golden age of terrorism in the early 1980s, plans have been in place to deal not only with aerial hijackers carrying explosives but with those armed with chemical-biological weapons. Kirov got on the line to his counterparts in Swiss Internal Security, the French Deuxième, and England’s MI5. When representatives of the three agencies were ready, he motioned to Smith, who was talking to Nathaniel Klein on a separate line. He then patched Klein into the conference call without informing the others that the American was listening in.
“Gentlemen,” he opened. “We have a developing problem.”
Kirov did not dwell on the background of the crisis; he told his listeners what they needed to know at that moment. Every minute that passed meant that much less time to prepare.
“You say that it’s possible, but by no means certain, that this Beria character is onboard our flight,” the Frenchman said. “Is there any way you can confirm this?”
“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 exp
lained 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 13
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 travelers accustomed to visible security. The other half were dressed as mechanics, fuelers, baggage handlers, and caterers—the kind of people anyone would expect to see around parked aircraft.
The plainclothes contingent, heavily armed with MP-5 submachine guns and smoke and stun grenades, would be the first-wave assault troops if the situation degenerated into a hostage crisis. The uniformed patrols were the second perimeter, ready to move if Beria somehow managed to slip past the invisible cordon that would be established around the aircraft.
Finally, there was a third ring, made up of Swiss Army sharpshooters who had positioned themselves on the roofs of the international terminal and the maintenance hangars. They would have an unobstructed view of the plane as it taxied to the last gate. There, an attempt would be made to collar the jetway to the fuselage. The attempt would fail. The captain would announce a malfunction and advise his passengers that a ramp would be wheeled up to the forward hatch.
Once the passengers started moving down the ramp, the snipers would try to pick out Beria and lock on to him. If successful, there would be no fewer than three rifles covering the target at any given moment. According to plan, the plainclothes commandos would execute the takedown, wrestle Beria to the ground, and neutralize him. But if for any reason there was a problem, the snipers were cleared for center-mass/head-shot fire.
Wearing a caterer’s baggy white overalls, the SOG commander quietly radioed the control tower and received the latest word: flight 101 was on final approach. Word was passed along; the safeties of weapons were thumbed off.
The bus rattled into the St. Petersburg station just as Swissair 101 touched down in Zurich. Following the crowds, Ivan Beria drifted into the terminal, headed for the lockers. Removing a key, he opened a locker and pulled out a cheap suitcase.
The washroom was abominable, but a tip to the attendant got Beria a private stall that was reasonably clean. He took off his coat, jacket, and pants, and from the suitcase pulled out a new navy blue blazer, gray slacks, a sports shirt, and comfortable loafers. Also in the suitcase were a fleece-lined jacket, several plastic bags filled with souvenirs from the Hermitage Museum, and a billfold containing an airline ticket, passport, credit cards, and American currency. Beria flipped open the passport and scrutinized his picture, in which he wore the clothes he’d just put on. He thought he looked like a John Strelnikov, a naturalized American citizen who worked as a civil engineer for a Baltimore-based construction company.
Beria packed up his old clothes in the suitcase and left the bathroom. In the station, he stopped at a refreshment stand, put down the suitcase, bought himself a Coke, and moved on. Given the homeless population that meandered through the station, the suitcase would disappear before he reached the front doors.
Outside, he got into a cab and offered the driver ten American dollars over the negotiated rate if he got him to the airport in thirty minutes. The driver made it with two minutes to spare.
Beria knew that by now his photograph and particulars had been wired to every major transportation facility in the country. It didn’t matter. He had no intention of coming into contact with the authorities.
Walking through the newly refurbished terminal, he reached the area reserved for tour groups and slipped into a gaggle of sixty-odd travelers clustered in front of the Finnair counter.
“Where’s your badge? You need your badge.”
Beria smiled pleasantly at the harried young woman whose badge read OMNITOURS: TREASURES OF THE CZARS.
Handing over his passport and ticket, he mumbled, “Lost it.”
The woman sighed, grabbed his paperwork, and steered him to a counter where she brought out a paper badge.
“John Strel…”
“Strelnikov.”
“Right. We’ll just put down ‘John,’ okay?”
Using a felt pen, she wrote the name on the badge, peeled away the backing to expose the adhesive, and pressed it firmly onto Beria’s lapel.
“Don’t lose it!” she scolded. “Otherwise you’ll have problems at customs. Do you want to do any duty-free shopping?”
Beria said that might be nice.
“You’ll get your passport and tickets back after immigration,” the woman said, already moving to quell another crisis elsewhere in the group.
Beria was counting on that. Much better to have some exhausted American tour guide deal with the exit visas and airline tickets.
After purchasing some cologne that he placed in his Hermitage souvenir bag, Beria joined the line shuffling through immigration. He watched as in the booth, two bored officials stamped the passports that the tour guide had brought them. Hearing his name, he stepped forward, retrieved his passport, and proceeded through customs into the departure lounge.
Beria took a seat beside a middle-aged couple who turned out to be from San Francisco. Since he pretended that his English was only passable, his new friends did most of the talking. Beria learned that the Finnair flight to Washington’s Dulles Airport would take about ten hours and that the dinner service would likely be decent but certainly not memorable.
The Ilyushin C-22 executive jet had just crossed into German airspace when Smith received word that Beria was no
t onboard Swissair 101.
“That’s a positive confirmation?”
“Absolutely,” Klein replied over the satellite phone. “They eyeballed every single passenger. He wasn’t there.”
“The Paris flight comes down in nineteen minutes. Are they ready?”
“The people I talk to say yes. Privately, they’re telling me that the government is passing peach pits. If something happens and later word gets out that they allowed the plane to land…well, you can imagine the fallout.”
“Do you think the government will spring a leak?”
“It’s a real possibility. The French have an election coming up in two weeks. The opposition is looking for any kind of ammunition it can get its hands on.”
Smith returned to an idea that had occurred to him back in Moscow, but which he hadn’t voiced.
“Sir, what if we were to give the French a hand?”
“How?”
“Their Airbuses aren’t equipped with the SecFax system. American 1710 can receive secure satellite facsimile transmissions. You could talk directly to the captain, bring him up to speed, then ship him a photofax of Beria.”
Smith waited out the silence. What he proposed was, at the very least, dangerous. If his suggestion was carried out and something went terribly wrong on the American flight, the consequences would be nothing short of disastrous.
“Let me check something,” Klein said finally. “I’ll get back to you.”
A few minutes later, he was back. “I spoke with American’s director of security in Dallas-Fort Worth. He says 1710 is carrying a sky marshal.”
“Even better. Get him—”
“Her, Jon.”
“Forgive my presumption. The pilot must have a way to communicate with her. Once he does, she can cover the plane.”
“We have to allow for the possibility that Beria is traveling incognito.”
“Kirov never mentioned that Beria was a master of disguise. Possibly that’s because he’s never operated outside familiar borders before. A trained agent would be able to see through makeup and prosthetics.”