The Cassandra Compact - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,46

and Telegin sat in captain's chairs bolted to the floor. Telegin was in front of a monitor displaying the city's traffic patterns; every few seconds she spoke to the driver on her headset.

Kirov, too, wore a headset. Ever since leaving Dzerzhinsky Square, he had been in constant communication with an elite unit of the Federal Security Service.

He swiveled his chair around to face Smith. "The train is in--- right on schedule, wouldn't you know."

"How far away are we?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe less."

"Reinforcements?"

"On the way." Kirov paused. "Are you familiar with our flying squads?" When Smith shook his head, he continued. "Unlike your FBI SWAT, we prefer to send ours in undercover. They dress like tradesmen, greengrocers, street workers--- you wouldn't recognize them until it was too late."

"Let's hope it isn't."

Through the one-way window, Smith saw the station, a massive, nineteenth-century structure. He braced himself as the driver veered into a sharp turn and braked hard in front of the main building. He was on his feet even before the van stopped rocking.

Kirov grabbed his arm. "The flying squad has Yardeni's picture. They'll take him alive, if possible."

"Do they have mine--- so they don't shoot me by mistake?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But stay close to me anyway."

The three ducked under the ornate portico and ran into the station. The interior reminded Smith of a museum, all polished granite, bas relief, and three massive glass domes. There were few travelers, but the sound of their footsteps was like the rumble of a distant herd. In the center was a large area with rows of benches; along the sides were souvenir shops, refreshment stands, and news kiosks, most of them still shuttered. Smith glanced at the large black arrivals/ departures board suspended from the ceiling.

"How many others are due in?"

"We're in luck," Lara Telegin replied. "This is the first one. But in twenty minutes, the commuter trains arrive. The crowds will be unmanageable."

"Which track?"

She pointed to the right. "Over there. Number seventeen."

As they ran for the doors leading to the sidings, Smith turned to Kirov and said, "I don't see any of your people around."

Kirov tapped the plastic receiver in his ear. "Believe me, they're here."

The air on the platforms was heavy with diesel fumes. Smith and the others ran past orange and gray electric locomotives, resting in their sidings, until they came up against a stream of people going the other way. Moving to the side, they began scanning faces.

"I'm going to find a conductor," Telegin said. "Maybe if I show him Yardeni's picture, he'll remember the face."

Smith continued to study the passersby who trudged along, their faces puffy from sleep, their shoulders bowed under the weight of suitcases and packages bound with string and rope.

He turned to Kirov. "There aren't enough passengers. These must be coming from the last cars. Whoever was riding up front is already in the station!"

Ivan Beria was standing in front of a newsstand that had just opened for business. He threw down a few kopeks and picked up a newspaper. Leaning against a pillar, he positioned himself so as to have an unobstructed view of the entrance to the men's washroom.

Given Yardeni's size and the dose of slow-acting poison that had been in the brandy, Beria estimated that the big guard would not make it out of the washroom alive.

Any second, he expected someone to run out screaming that a man inside was having a seizure.

But no, there was Yardem, strolling out of the washroom, looking considerably happier, checking--- like a peasant--- to make sure that his zipper was done up.

Beria slipped his hand into his coat pocket, to his Taurus 9mm, when his eyes registered the anomaly: a man wearing overalls, like a sanitation worker, was in the process of emptying a bin into his push cart. The only problem was that as soon as he saw Yardeni, he forgot all about the garbage.

Where there's one, there are more.

Beria slipped around the pillar so that Yardeni wouldn't spot him and quickly surveyed the station. Within seconds he picked out two more men who were out of place: a deliveryman hauling bread, and one who tried to pass himself off as an electrician.

Beria knew a great deal about the Federal Security Service. He was aware that the interest was both reciprocal and intense. But he could not believe they were there for him. Clearly the object of their attention was Yardeni.

Recalling what Yardeni had told him about his clean getaway from Bioaparat, Beria cursed. The