rludlum-shelby.thecassandracompact-第45节

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h。　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；　＇on。　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；　calve　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。
　〃e　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…groove　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　fortable；　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　binations；　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；　pletely；　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。
　At　first；　Beria　thought　that　it　was　some　makeshift　holding　cell。　The　thought　had　reassured　him。　He'd　had　brief　experiences　with　jail　cells。　But　then　he　discovered　that　the　diameter　of　the　silo　was　barely　large　enough　to　acmodate　his　shoulders。　He　could　lean　a　few　inches　in　any　direction；　but　he　could　not　sit　down。
　After　a　while；　he　thought　he　heard　a　faint　hum；　like　a　distant　radio　signal。　As　the　hours　passed；　the　signal　seemed　to　get　stronger　and　the　walls　whiter。　Then　they　started　to　close　in　on　him。　That　was　the　first　time　Beria　had　closed　his　eyes；　briefly。　When　he　opened　them；　the　whiteness　was　even　starker；　if　such　a　thing　were　possible。　Now　he　dared　not　open　his　eyes　at　all。　The　hum　had　crescendoed　into　a　roar　and　beyond　it；　Beria　heard　something　else；　something　that　might　have　been　a　human　voice。　He　had　no　idea　that　he　was　screaming。
　Without　warning；　he　staggered　back；　falling　through　a　concealed　door　that　Kirov　had　opened。　Grabbing　Beria's　arm；　he　yanked　the　assassin　out　of　the　silo　and　immediately　slipped　a　black　hood　over　his　head。
　〃Everything's　going　to　be　all　right；〃　Kirov　whispered　in　Serb。　〃I'm　going　to　take　away　the　pain；　all　of　it。　You'll　have　some　water；　then　you　can　talk　to　me。〃
　Suddenly；　violently；　Beria　threw　his　arms　around　Kirov；　holding　him　as　a　drowning　man　would　a　piece　of　driftwood。　All　the　while　Kirov　continued　to　talk　to　him　and　still　him；　until　Beria　took　his　first　halting　steps。
　
　Smith　was　shocked　by　Beria's　appearance…　not　because　he　was　scared　or　hurt；　just　the　opposite：　he　looked　exactly　as　he　had　the　last　time　Smith　had　seen　him。
　But　there　were　differences。　Beria's　eyes　were　glassy　and　washed　out；　like　those　of　day…old　fish　on　ice。　His　voice　was　a　monotone；　with　no　timbre　or　texture　to　it。　When　he　spoke；　it　was　as　though　he'd　been　hypnotized。
　The　three　of　them　sat　on　the　porch　around　a　little　table　with　a　small　running　tape　recorder。　Beria　sipped　water　from　a　plastic　cup。　Next　to　him；　Kirov　watched　his　every　move。　In　his　lap；　covered　by　a　cloth；　was　a　gun；　the　barrel　pointed　at　Beria's　shoulder。
　〃Who　hired　you　to　kill　the　Russian　guard？〃　Smith　asked　softly。
　〃A　man　from　Zurich。〃
　〃You　went　to　Zurich？〃
　〃No。　We　spoke　on　the　telephone。　Only　the　telephone。〃
　〃Did　he　tell　you　his　name？〃
　〃He　called　himself　Gerd。〃
　〃How　did　Gerd　pay　you？〃
　〃Money　was　deposited　into　an　account　at　the　Offenbach　Bank。　It　was　handled　by　Herr　Weizsel。〃
　Weizsel！　The　name　Peter　Howell　had　gotten　out　of　the　corrupt　Italian　policeman；　Dionetti。。。
　〃Herr　Weizsel。。。　Did　you　meet　him？〃　Smith　asked　softly。
　〃Yes。　Several　times。〃
　〃And　Gerd？〃
　〃Never。〃
　Smith　glanced　at　Kirov；　who　nodded；　indicating　that　he　believed　Beria　was　telling　the　truth。　Smith　agreed。　He　had　expected　that　Beria　would　have　worked　through　cutouts。　Swiss　bankers　were　some　of　the　best　frontmen　in　the　business。
　〃Do　you　know　what　it　was　you　took　from　the　Russian　guard？〃　Smith　continued。
　〃Germs。〃
　Smith　closed　his　eyes。　Germs。。。
　〃Do　you　know　the　name　of　the　man　you　passed　the　germs　to　at　the　Moscow　airport？〃
　〃I　think　it　was　David。　It　wasn't　his　real　name。〃
　〃Did　you　know　that　you　wo