The Cassandra Compact - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,82

had lived and worked, Smith hoped to provoke a response that would force the controllers to come after him.... Which meant bringing Beria out of his hole.

"We can't take the chance that Beria would spot the cover, sir," Smith replied.

"Mr. Klein," Kirov said, "I understand--- and share--- your concern. But I promise you I will not let anything happen to Jon. I have a distinct advantage over any cover you might provide. I know Beria. If he's wearing a disguise, I'll see through it. There are characteristics and mannerisms that he won't be able to hide." He turned to Smith.

"You have my word. If Beria is out there, if he comes for you, he is ours."

Ninety minutes later, Smith and Kirov arrived at Smith's ranchstyle home in Bethesda. As Smith walked him through the house, Kirov noted the paintings, wall hangings, and objets from cultures around the world. The American was indeed a well-traveled man.

While Smith showered and changed, Kirov made himself comfortable in the guest bedroom. They met in the kitchen where, over coffee, they pored over a large-scale map of Washington, focusing on the multiethnic neighborhood around Dupont Circle. Since Kirov was already familiar with the area, a plan came together quickly.

"I know we didn't talk about this with Klein," Smith said as they got ready to leave. "But..." He held out a SIG-Sauer pistol.

Kirov looked at it then shook his head. He went into the bedroom and came back with what looked like an ordinary black umbrella. He held it at a forty-five degree angle, moved his thumb along the handle, and suddenly, a one-inch blade popped out of the tip.

"Something I brought along from Moscow," Kirov said conversationally. "The blade has a fast-acting animal tranquilizer--- Acepromazine. It can bring down a hundred-kilo boar in seconds. Besides, if for some reason your police were to stop me, I could explain away an umbrella. A gun would be much harder."

Smith nodded. He might be the bait, but Kirov would be the one doing the close-in work. He was glad that the Russian wasn't going to face Beria unarmed.

Smith slipped the SIG-Sauer into his shoulder holster. "All right, then. I'll give you forty minutes lead time, then follow you in."

Moving along the streets like a wraith, Kirov studied the human traffic swirling around him. Like other areas close to Washington's core, Dupont Circle had undergone a revival. But tucked in between trendy cafes and designer boutiques were the Macedonian bakeries, Turkish carpet shops, Serbian emporiums filled with beaten brass and copper planters, Greek restaurants, and Yugoslav coffeehouses. Kirov knew how strong the pull of the familiar would be to a man operating in an unfamiliar environment, even if that man was a vicious killer. This ethnic mix was just the kind of environment that Ivan Beria would gravitate to. There he could find familiar food, listen to music he had grown up with, overhear accents he recognized. Kirov, who could eavesdrop in many Slavic languages, was also perfectly at home there.

Turning into an open-air quadrangle bordered by shops and stalls, Kirov took a seat in the shade of an umbrella-topped table. A Croat woman who spoke only halting English took his order for coffee. The Russian held back a smile as he overheard her running invective at the proprietor.

Sipping the thick, sweet coffee, Kirov surveyed the foot traffic, noting the women's colorful blouses and skirts and the men's baggy pants and leather jackets. If Beria came here, he would wear the rough, practical clothing of a Yugoslav working man--- maybe a cap, too, to cast a shadow over his features. But Kirov had no doubt that he would recognize him. In his experience, the one aspect of his appearance an assassin could never disguise was the eyes.

Kirov understood there was a good chance that given the opportunity Beria would recognize him as well. But Beria had no reason to think that Kirov was in the United States. His primary concern would be to avoid the police, as sparse as the patrols were in the area. He wouldn't expect a face from the past, so far from home. By the same token, Kirov did not expect to see Beria strolling up to the nearest pastry shop to buy a snack. He might know where the assassin was likely to venture out, but he had no idea where he was at that moment.

With hooded eyes, Kirov surveyed the changing scene around him. He also scanned the entrances and exits to the