For the past three years, Yardeni had been scheming to get to the West. A problem he had in common with thousands of other Russians was money: not only for the prohibitive exit taxes and air tickets, but enough to live on afterward. Yardeni had seen pictures of Bel Air; he had no intention of arriving in Los Angeles penniless, forced to live in the Russian-immigrant ghetto.
The lieutenant checked the clock above his desk and rose, his military-style tunic straining across his chest. It was after one o’clock, that time of night when the body is in its deepest slumber, when it is most vulnerable to death. Except for the human and animal patrols outside and the security inside, Bioaparat, too, slept.
Yardeni reviewed the procedures he already knew by heart, then steadied himself and opened the door. As he made his way through Zone One, he thought about the man who’d approached him almost a year ago. Contact had been made at the Little Boy Blue, and at first he had thought that the man, one of the very few in the audience, was a homosexual. That impression lasted only until the man revealed just how much he knew about Yardeni’s life. He described his parents and sister, detailed his high school and army careers, how Yardeni had been his division’s boxing champion only to be cashiered when in a fit of rage, he had almost killed a fellow soldier with his bare fists. The man had commented that for all intents and purposes, Yardeni’s career would flatline here in Bioaparat, where he would sit daydreaming about what might have been while baby-sitting those who actually got to go to the shining cities.
Of course, one could always change one’s destiny….
Trying not to think about the cameras, Yardeni proceeded to Zone Two through a corridor that was referred to as a “sanitary passageway.” It was really a progression of small, sterile rooms linked by connecting doors equipped with coded locks. The locks did not hinder Yardeni; he had a key card and the master codes.
Entering the first cubicle, a changing room, he stripped and hit the red button on the wall. A fine decontamination mist enveloped him.
The next three cubicles held separate items of the antiplague suit: blue socks and long underwear; a hood and cotton smock; the respirator, goggles, booties, and safety glasses. Before leaving the last changing room, Yardeni reached for something that he had put in a locker at the beginning of his shift: a brushed aluminum Thermos-type container, the size of a flask.
He lifted the container in his gloved hand. It was a marvel of engineering. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than an expensive Western toy, functional but overly extravagant. Even if one unscrewed the top and looked inside, nothing would seem amiss. Only when the base was twisted counterclockwise would the container reveal its secret.
Carefully, Yardeni inched the base around until he heard the click. Inside the double walls, tiny canisters released their contents of nitrogen. Immediately, the container became cold to the touch, like a glass filled with shaved ice.
Slipping it into the pocket of his antiplague suit, Yardeni opened the door to the Zone Two lab. Inside, he made his way past stainless-steel worktables to what the researchers jokingly referred to as the Coke machine. It was actually a walk-in refrigerator with a door of specially constructed, hermetically sealed Plexiglas. It always reminded Yardeni of the bulletproof barriers at the cashiers’ booths in the American Express office.
He slipped the coded key card into the slot, punched in the combination, and listened to the long, slow hiss as the door swung back. Three seconds later, it closed behind him.
Pulling open one of the drawers, Yardeni gazed down at row after row of vials made of tempered glass. Working quickly, he unscrewed the container at its midsection and placed the top half to one side. Set in the base were six slots, much like the chambers of a revolver. He placed one ampoule into each of the slots, then replaced the top section, making sure that it was tightly in place.
Using his key card, he exited the Coke machine and made his way out of the lab. The procedure in the changing rooms was reversed as he deposited parts of the suit into burn bags. After a second decontamination mist, he was ready to get dressed, except that this time he changed into casual clothes—jeans, sweatshirt, and a baggy parka.
A few minutes later, Yardeni was outside, breathing deeply in the night air. A cigarette steadied him. Option Two, the voice had said. That meant something had gone wrong. Instead of Yardeni choosing his moment to purloin the variola, he had had to take it now. And quickly, too, because for some reason Moscow had become suspicious.
Yardeni knew all about the Special Forces command outside Vladimir. He’d befriended some of the trainees in town bars; they were tough and capable, not the kind of men that even he would ever want to tangle with. But the rounds of vodka had bought him valuable information. He knew exactly what kind of exercises the Special Forces went through and how long it took to execute them.
Yardeni crushed his cigarette under his boot and began walking away from Building 103, headed for one of the guard posts on the perimeter. Tonight, as every night for the past month, comrades from his old army unit would staff it. Yardeni would tell them he was going off-shift; they would joke that he could still do the last show at the Little Boy Blue. And if someone bothered to check the computerized roster, let him.
For the past fifty minutes, Kravchenko had been working swiftly and silently. No lights had gone on in the training ground, no alarms had sounded. His soldiers were rousted and assembled under the cover of darkness. As soon as the troops had been mustered, the first armored personnel carriers rumbled through the gates. Kravchenko couldn’t do anything about the engine noise and didn’t pay it any mind. Both the citizens of Vladimir and the Bioaparat employees who worked the evening shifts were used to nighttime military exercises.
Riding in the command APC, Kravchenko guided his column down the two-lane highway that led out of his compound. His orders had been clear; if a traitor was on-site, he would be surrounded. The one thing Kravchenko, an eminently practical man, could guarantee was that no one could break the quarantine.
“Grigori?”
“It’s me, Oleg.” Yardeni strolled up to the brick post. Standing outside finishing a cigarette was a fellow BSD guard.
“Is your shift over?”
Yardeni feigned boredom. “Yeah. Arkadi clocked in early. He owes me time from last month. Now I can go home and get some sleep.”
Arkadi was Yardeni’s relief, who at this time was, Yardeni assumed, asleep next to his fat wife, not due to come in for another four hours. But Yardeni had coaxed the computer to tell a different story.
“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, Yardeni 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 Yardeni’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 Vladimi
r. 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 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 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.”
The Cassandra Compact Page 11