Settling herself in the take-down chair, which would be folded and stored after liftoff, Megan found herself on her back, her knees pointed at the ceiling.
“Third mission and I still can’t get used to these seats,” Carter grumbled as he slipped into the chair beside hers.
“That’s because you keep putting on the pounds, my man,” Wallace needled him. “All that home cooking.”
“At least I have a home to come back to,” Carter shot back.
Tapping an imaginary cigar, Wallace did his imitation of Groucho Marx. “Must be love.”
The banter died as the prep crew came in and strapped the astronauts into the seats.
“Mikes?”
Megan tested hers and nodded as much as she could, given the tight leeway. As her mates were strapped in, she listened to the orbiter crew going through the liftoff checklist with mission control.
Their work finished, the prep crew stepped back. Although Megan couldn’t see them, she imagined how solemn their expressions were.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Godspeed. Come home safely.”
“Amen to that,” Carter muttered.
“I should have brought a good book to read,” Wallace mused. “Megan, how are you doing there?”
“Just peachy, thank you. Now if you boys don’t mind, I have my own checklist to review.”
Several hundred miles to the northeast, Jon Smith finished his second cup of coffee and checked his watch. By now, Kirov would have had enough time to settle into position in Dupont Circle. On his way out, Smith took one last look at the monitors connected to the exterior security cameras. Located on a corner lot, his house was bordered by tall trees that effectively hid it from its neighbors. The backyard was all lawn, with no bushes or shrubs where an intruder could hide. Motion sensors embedded in the stone walls of the house continually scanned the area.
If someone managed to get past the sensors, he would discover a sophisticated alarm system built into the dual-pane windows and the door locks. If these were somehow breached, pressure pads throughout the house would activate, triggering both an alarm and an incapacitating gas through the sprinkler system. Tested in federal prisons, the gas took down its targets in less than ten seconds, which was why Smith kept a gas mask in his night-table cabinet.
Although Smith believed that Beria would not attempt to kill him with a long-range shot, he thought it prudent to double-check the perimeter. Satisfied that it was secure, Smith went back through the kitchen that connected directly to the garage. He was reaching to shut off the small television perched on the counter when he saw an image that made him stop. He hesitated briefly, then smiled and reached for the phone.
At twenty-one minutes to liftoff, the voice of the flight director, Harry Landon, came over the crew’s headsets.
“Folks,” he said in his Oklahoma twang, “seems we got ourselves an unexpected development.”
Even though they were aware that three hundred people at mission control were listening to every sound they made, the crew could not contain a collective groan.
“Don’t tell me we’re going to have to do this all over again,” Carter groused.
“What’s the problem, mission control?” the pilot asked crisply.
“Did I say a problem? No. I said a development.” There was a brief pause. “Olson, are you all done with your flight check?”
“Yes, sir,” Megan replied, her heart racing.
Don’t tell me I screwed up. Anything but that.
“In that case, do you want to take this call?”
Involuntarily, Megan tried to sit up but got nowhere. Who could be calling her? Oh, Jesus!
“Harry,” she said in panicky voice. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Now don’t you fret. I’ll patch it through only to you.”
The last thing she heard before the static was Carter’s “Rats!”
“Megan?”
Her pulse quickened. “Jon? Is that you?”
“I couldn’t let you leave without saying good luck.”
“Jon, how did you….? I mean, how could you—”
“No time to explain. Are you okay? Are you ready?”
“Ready, yes. Okay? Well, I’m still getting used to sitting on a ton of liquid fuel.”
“I wanted to wish you well…. Make sure you come home safe and sound.”
Megan smiled. “I will.”
“Sorry, folks,” Landon broke in. “Time’s up.”
“Thanks, Harry,” Megan said.
“I’m going to put you back in the loop. Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
Megan steeled herself for some gentle ribbing, which never materialized. In the fifteen minutes to countdown, the rest of the crew were busy exchanging instructions and details. Closing her eyes, she whispered a few words from the Twenty-fourth Psalm. She had barely finished when the shuttle shifted a little. An instant later, the ignition procedure for the solid boosters kicked in and a loud, low rumble enveloped the craft.
Through the chatter of ground control double-checking liftoff, Megan heard: “Houston, we have Discovery liftoff!”
As the external tank fed the shuttle’s main engines, Megan felt as though she were strapped to a bone-jarring roller coaster—except that there was no stopping this ride. Two minutes and six seconds after liftoff, the solid boosters separated from the orbiter, falling away to the ocean, where they would be retrieved. Powered by the fuel from the external tank that fed her main engines, Discovery struggled to break free of gravity. The higher and faster she ascended, the closer the crew got to the maximum 3-G pressure. Megan had been warned that it would be like having a gorilla strapped to your chest.
Wrong. More like an elephant.
Six minutes later, at an altitude of 184 miles, the main engines stopped firing. Its job done, the external fuel tank separated and fell away. Megan was amazed by the sudden silence and by how smooth the ride had suddenly become. Turning her head, she understood why: beyond the sliver of a window in her line of sight were the stars. She and Discovery were in orbit.
Chapter 21
The preceding evening, Ivan Beria had rendezvoused with the driver of the Lincoln outside the Metro stop at Q Street and Connecticut Avenue. The driver had further information and instructions for Beria, who studied them as the car wended its way out of the city toward Bethesda.
The driver was necessary because Beria could not afford to be seen on the streets—and because he had only the most rudimentary driving skills. A killer who could carve a man up in seconds, he was lost in and confused by the traffic streaming in and out of the city. In an emergency, he could not be sure of executing an escape. There was one other advantage to the car besides transport: it was perfect for surveillance. Washington was filled with executive sedans. This one would not look out of place in a neighborhood such as Bethesda.
Approaching Smith’s house, the driver slowed as though searching for a particular number. Beria got a good look at the rambling ranch-style house, set well back from the street. He noted the trees that ran along the property line and that, he surmised, continued around the back. There were lights in the windows but no shadows indicating movement.
“Come around again,” Beria told the driver.
Next time, Beria looked closely at the other houses on the block. Most had toys and bicycles on the front lawn, a basketball hoop over the garage door, a small powerboat perched on a trailer chocked in the driveway. By contrast, Smith’s house looked vacant, brooding. It was, Beria thought, the house of a man who lives alone and prefers it that way, whose work demands solitude and secrecy. Such a house would have a far more sophisticated—and deadly—warning system than anything advertised by the security company patches on the doors of the other homes.
“I have seen enough,” he told the driver. “We will come back tomorrow morning.”
Now, a few minutes after nine o’clock the next morning, Beria was in the backseat of the Lincoln as it idled at the
far corner of Smith’s street. The driver was standing outside, smoking. To passing joggers and dog walkers, he appeared to be waiting for a client.
In the cool stillness of the interior, Beria reviewed all the information on Smith. His principal wanted the American doctor out of the way quickly. But there were obstacles. Smith did not go to an office. His home appeared to have good security. Therefore, the execution would have to be done out in the open, wherever an opportunity presented itself. Another problem was the unpredictability of Smith’s movements once he was outside his home. He had no set schedule, so the principal could not say where he would be at any given time. This meant that Beria had to follow Smith as closely as possible and look for an opening. Working in his favor was the fact that the American did not have an escort, did not—as far as the principal knew—carry a weapon. Most important, he had no inkling that he was in any kind of danger. Beria checked his watch; forty-five minutes had elapsed since he’d arrived.
The Lincoln listed as the driver got back behind the wheel. “Smith’s coming out.”
Beria looked through the windshield down the street where a navy blue sedan was backing out of a garage. According to the principal, this was Smith’s vehicle.
“And we begin,” Beria said softly.
As Smith drove into the city, he constantly checked his mirrors. After a few miles he tagged the black Lincoln that changed lanes whenever he did. He called Kirov on the cell.
“It’s the Lincoln from the airport. On my tail. I think Beria’s nibbling.”
“I’m ready,” Kirov assured him.
Breaking for a light, Smith checked his rearview. The Lincoln was still three cars back.
Once in the city, Smith drove as fast as traffic permitted, changing lanes, leaning on his horn. He hoped Beria would buy the image of a man late for an important appointment, a man preoccupied, his guard down, easy prey. He wanted the assassin to focus on him to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. That way, he would never see Kirov coming.
He’s in a hurry, Beria thought. Why?
“He’s headed for Dupont Circle,” the driver said, keeping his eyes on the traffic.
Beria frowned. His apartment was in that area. Could Smith have already discovered it? Was that his destination?
The sedan picked up speed on Connecticut Avenue, turned left on R Street, and then right on Twenty-first Street.
Where’s he going?
The sedan slowed as Smith approached the top of the triangle at S Street. Beria watched him park the car in a lot, then cross Twenty-first Street. This area, with its Eastern European restaurants and shops, was familiar to him. Since arriving in Washington, it was the only place he had ventured into where he felt comfortable.
He’s here to try to pick up the scent. Or maybe someone saw my picture.
Beria had seen the police composite on the news. He thought it a poor rendering, nothing like him at all. But maybe someone had seen him in the area, even though Beria rarely left his apartment until after dark.
No. If he suspects I’m here, he would not have come alone. He’s not sure. He’s guessing.
“Stay where I can find you,” Beria told the driver.
The driver pointed to a restaurant called Dunn’s River Falls. “I’ll be in the lot.”
Stepping out of the car, Beria trotted across the street in time to see Smith duck under an archway bordered by a bar and a poster shop. Now he knew exactly where his quarry was headed: the small quadrangle between Twenty-first Street and Florida Avenue. He thought it quite clever of Smith to hunt him in a place that Beria might naturally gravitate to. But it was also a location Beria knew he could control.
Beria disappeared under the arch, then stepped under the awning of a Macedonian coffee shop. At one of the tables, a group of old men were playing dominoes; the soft crooning of a native folk song crackled over indoor-outdoor speakers. There was Smith, walking toward the fountain in the center of the quadrangle. Not so quick now, looking around as though expecting someone. Beria thought he could smell Smith’s discomfort, the unease of someone who realizes that he’s out of place. His hand dipped into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the cork handle of his spring-loaded stiletto.
Thirty paces ahead, Smith felt his pager vibrate against his kidney. Kirov was signaling that Beria was in the zone, within fifty feet of Smith. Slowing his pace even more, Smith drifted across the front of a stall with rugs draped over clotheslines. Stopping, he checked his watch, then looked around as though searching for someone in particular. Given the hour, there were customers about—mostly people on their way to work or to open their shops, stopping to get a coffee and pastry. Smith thought Beria would accept that this was a logical time to meet an informer who might be passing through.
The pager vibrated again—twice. Beria was within twenty-five feet and closing. Smith felt a cold tingle dance along his spine as he moved past the carpet display. Still looking around, he saw neither Beria nor Kirov. Then he heard soft footfalls behind him.
From his vantage point in the doorway of a closed dry goods store, Kirov had picked up Beria the instant he’d stepped through the arch. Now he approached him on the diagonal, his specially designed sneakers making his footsteps soundless.
Don’t look around, Jon. Don’t bolt. Trust me.
Beria was now less than a dozen feet behind Smith, closing fast. As his hand came out of his pocket, Kirov caught a glimpse of the cork handle and a flash of stainless steel as Beria depressed the mechanism that causes the blade to spring into place.
Kirov carried his ordinary-looking black umbrella. It swung lightly in his grip as he closed the distance to Beria. At the precise moment when the assassin took another step, his back leg lifted slightly, calf raised, Kirov brought the umbrella down. The razor-sharp tip sheared the fabric of Beria’s pant leg, caught flesh, and cut down a quarter inch. Beria whirled around, stiletto glinting in the pale sunlight. But Kirov was already two steps away. Beria caught sight of him and his eyes widened in shock. The face from Moscow! The Russian general from the train station!
Beria took a step toward Kirov but never reached him. His right leg faltered and gave way. The stiletto fell from his grip as he pitched forward. The drug that had coated the umbrella tip was singing through his veins, blurring his vision, turning his muscles to putty.
Glassy-eyed, Beria was faintly aware of being propped up by a pair of strong arms. Kirov was holding him, smiling, talking in Serb, telling him what a bad boy he’d been and how he’d been looking for him everywhere. Beria opened his mouth but could only gurgle. Now Kirov was drawing him close, whispering something. He felt Kirov’s lips brush his cheek, then a shout, in Serb, from someone insulting his manhood.
“Come on, lover,” Kirov said softly. “Let’s get you out of here before this turns nasty.”
Beria twisted around and saw the old men making rude gestures at him. Now Smith was beside him, propping him up by his other shoulder. Beria tried to move his feet but found that he could only drag them. His head lolled and he saw the underbelly of the arch. Outside the quadrangle, the roar of traffic was like that of a giant waterfall. Kirov was sliding open the door to a blue van, bringing out a collapsible wheelchair. Hands on his shoulders forced him to sit. Leather straps snaked around his wrists and ankles. He heard the whine of an electric motor and realized that the wheelchair had been rolled onto a ramp that was being raised. Then Kirov was pushing the chair into the van, locking the wheels. Suddenly everything disappeared except for the Russian’s cold, blue eyes.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, you murdering bastard!”
After that, he heard nothing at all.
The back porch of Peter Howell’s hideaway on the Chesapeake shore looked out on a still pond fed by a meandering stream. It was early evening, almost eight hours since Beria had been taken. The low sun warming his face, Smith sat back and watched a pair of hawks circling for prey. Behind him, he heard Kirov’s heels fall on the tongue-and-groo
ve boards.
Smith had no idea who really owned this rustic retreat, but as Peter Howell had told him in Venice, it was both very private and well equipped. Clean and comfortable, the cabin had a larder stocked with dry goods. Under the floorboards in the main room, in a small oubliette, was a cache of arms, medicines, and other essentials, indicating that the owner was undoubtedly in Howell’s line of work. Out back, in what looked like a large toolshed, was something else.
“It’s time, General.”
“He should be left a little while longer, Jon. We don’t want to do this again.”
“I read the same medical literature you do. Most men break after six hours.”
“Beria isn’t most men.”
Smith walked across the porch and leaned on the railing. From the moment he and Kirov had conceived the operation, they had known that, when taken, Beria would not talk. Not without inducements. It wouldn’t be anything so primitive as electroshock or rubber truncheons. There were sophisticated chemicals that, in certain combinations, were very effective and reliable. But they had drawbacks. One could never be sure if the recipient might have an unexpected reaction, go into shock, or worse. Such a risk could not be taken with Beria. He had to be broken cleanly, completely, and above all, safely.
Smith did not deceive himself. Whether it was electricity, chemicals, or anything else, it all amounted to torture. The idea that he had to sanction its use sickened him, both as a human being and as a physician. He’d told himself over and over again that in this case, such tactics were justified. What Beria was a party to could expose millions to a horrible death. It was vital to get at the information in his head.
“Let’s go,” said Smith.
Ivan Beria was surrounded by white. Even if he kept his eyes closed, which was most of the time, he saw white.
When he had regained consciousness, he discovered that he was standing in a deep, cylindrical tube, a kind of silo. About fifteen feet high, its walls were perfectly smooth, coated with plaster that had been painted and then finished with something to make it shine. High beyond his reach were two big flood lamps that burned continuously. There was a total absence of darkness, not even a hint of shadows.
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