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, walking swiftly to the front of the train and toward the doors leading to the station proper. The big van boomed along Moscows still-empty boulevards. Inside, Smith, Kirov, and Telegin sat in captains chairs bolted to the floor. Telegin was in front of a monitor displaying the citys 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, wouldnt 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 wouldnt recognize them until it was too late. Lets hope it isnt. 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 Yardenis picture. Theyll take him alive, if possible. Do they have mine--- so they dont 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? Were 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 dont see any of your people around. Kirov tapped the plastic receiver in his ear. Believe me, theyre 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. Im going to find a conductor, Telegin said. Maybe if I show him Yardenis picture, hell 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 arent enough passengers. These must.