Stanislav Beria appeared at Selwyn Owaki’s apartment building at noon, the appointed hour. He identified himself to a receptionist with his diplomatic passport, then submitted to a stroll through a metal detector and a body search so thorough that he was uncomfortable with it. His laptop computer was thoroughly checked, then he was allowed to board an elevator that swept him at high speed to the top floor, where he submitted to another search, and was admitted to the enormous living room of Selwyn Owaki’s multistory penthouse.
A man in a white jacket settled him on a sofa and brought him a small bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water and a saucer containing half a dozen canapés. He had finished them all before Owaki finally made his appearance, walking down a curved staircase while his eyes swept the cavernous room. He was a tall, thickly built man of indeterminate national origin, wearing what Beria was certain was a $25,000 suit.
Beria stood to greet him. “Selwyn, how are you?”
Owaki motioned for him to sit down, and he did. “I thought I would ask you that,” he said in mid-Atlantic English. “Do we have the material?”
Beria tapped the computer. “Right here.”
Owaki picked up a telephone and murmured something. Shortly, a young man appeared. “Give him your laptop,” Owaki said. “And the file name.”
Beria did so, and the young man took the computer to a table, opened it, and switched it on.
“I understand you found it necessary to rid yourself of the source and his wife.”
“Regrettably so. He was the only person who could connect us to the theft of the software.”
The young man at the computer suddenly screamed, “Oh, shit!”
“What is it?” Owaki asked.
“The fucker planted a bomb in the software.”
“Then why do you still have hands?”
“Not an explosive—a program that destroyed the files.”
Owaki turned to Beria. “You have copies, of course.”
“I do not,” Beria replied, as firmly as he could manage. “I am not brilliant with computers, and I didn’t try to view or copy the files.”
Owaki turned back to his techie. “Is there any way to recover the files?”
“No way at all,” the young man replied. “If there were, I would know it. Whoever set this up was a genius at software.”
“Did the bomb destroy anything else on the computer?” Beria asked.
“No,” the young man replied.
“Your money is on the table,” Owaki said to him. “Now, go, and speak to no one about this.”
The young man nodded, retrieved an envelope from the table, and departed.
“Now,” Owaki said. “Two things. One, you owe me twenty million dollars that I paid Bellini.”
Beria stammered, “I will repay you. I’ll need some time, though.”
“Two,” Owaki said, “you get to decide who dies for this insult.”
“I decide?”
“Only if you can’t come up with the twenty million and you can’t tell me who is responsible for this.”
“Bellini is responsible, and he is already dead. And his wife.”
“Is it possible that Bellini made a copy without a bomb?”
“Entirely possible—probable, even. It could fit on a large thumb drive.”
“Who else would have known about this?”
“I believe there was another man in Bellini’s apartment when Boris and I arrived,” Beria said.
“And who would that be?”
“A lawyer named Barrington. When Boris and I got on the service elevator to leave, this man was already on it. He said he had come from upstairs, but I have come to think that was a lie, that he was in the apartment when Boris shot the Bellinis.”
“I presume that you know where to find him?”
“I know where he lives in New York, but it is my understanding that he has half a dozen other residences in the U.S. and in Europe.” Beria took a sip of the water because his mouth had become dry. “He also appears to be very well connected. His closest friend is the police commissioner for New York City, and he is also personally close to the President of the United States and her husband and to the secretary of state.”
“Let me explain the situation to you,” Owaki said. “In anticipation of receiving this software—entirely on your assurance—I have hired a genius automotive designer and engineer and purchased a bankrupt motorcar factory in England. I have ordered and paid for extensive equipment, as well. My investment amounts to well over a hundred and fifty million dollars. So far. Are you beginning to get the picture?”
“I understand,” Beria replied, and clasped his hands together to keep them from trembling.
“There is more than your life at stake here, Stanislav,” Owaki said smoothly. “There is also the character and quality of your life during the lengthy period before you would be put to death. Do you understand me?”
Beria was unable to speak, so he nodded rapidly.
“Good,” Owaki said, rising. “I will give you seven days to place the software in my hands, and when you do, it had better not explode, so to speak.”
“I will need Boris Ivanov,” Beria said.
“He will be at your side during your every waking moment,” Owaki replied. “He is waiting for you downstairs. Be here exactly one week from today, with the intact software. If you can do it sooner, you will be rewarded.” Owaki turned toward the stairway and started up.
Beria managed to leave quickly without actually running. He retrieved his laptop and took the elevator down. When the doors opened, Ivanov was standing there, waiting.
“Your car is outside,” he said.
“Thank you, Boris, but before we get into the car, let’s take a little walk. I don’t want my driver to overhear our conversation.”
“As you wish,” Ivanov replied, ushering Beria to the door.
When they had left the building, Beria motioned for his driver to follow them, and he began walking slowly up East Fifty-seventh Street. “I have some things to tell you,” he said to Ivanov in Russian, “and it is most important that you understand me, because both my life and yours depend upon it. Do you understand?”
“Not yet,” Ivanov said. “Perhaps you had better explain.”
Beria began explaining. “The most important thing for you to know,” he said, “is that whatever happens to me, happens to you.” He could see that he had the man’s full attention.
45
Stone was in his office when Joan buzzed him. “There is a Mr. Beria to see you, along with another gentleman,” she said. “They do not have an appointment,” she added pointedly.
“Are you on the handset?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Stall them while I call Mike Freeman.”
* * *
—
JOAN HUNG UP the phone and addressed the two men before her. “Mr. Barrington will see you, but he must first conclude a telephone conference call,” she said to them. “Please have a seat.”
Beria pointed to the phone on her desk. “There are no lines lit up,” he said.
“He is on a private line.”
The two men sat down.
* * *
—
STONE USED his cell phone to call Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.
“Yes, Stone?”
“I need the protection we talked about yesterday. Specifically, I need four armed men here now. There are two men in my outer office that I do not wish to be alone with.”
“I’ll find people in your neighborhood,” Mike said, then hung up.
Stone went to his safe and took out a Terry Tussey custom .45 pistol, which weighed only 19 ounces, and a light shoulder holster, put them on and donned his jacket. He had just resumed his seat when his office door opened and Beria and his gorilla entered the room.
“I see you have concluded your conference call,” Beria said.
“Yes, I have.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Please have a seat.” They did so, and he sat in a chair opposite. “I believe we may have met before,” he said, “but I can’t remember where.”
“It was in an elevator,” Beria replied. “Do you recall?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Let me come directly to the point,” Beria said.
“Please do.”