“Not exactly,” she said.
“Not exactly?” said Berg.
“It’s complicated,” said Jessica.
“I keep hearing that,” said Berg. “I’ll make a few calls and get Daniel released. I suggest you send the Mossad agent on her way—unharmed. We don’t need any bad blood with the Israelis.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Jessica.
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record,” said Berg.
“I need a big favor. No questions asked,” said Jessica.
Berg hesitated. The answer should have come instantly, but part of him still couldn’t forgive her for putting him through hell for all of those years. Countless days and nights spent second-guessing his decision to fast-track her deployment as a deep-cover agent in the Balkans. Years of blaming himself for the brutal murder of Nicole Erak, an idealistic young woman unable to escape the demons of her troubled upbringing—no matter how hard she tried. Years believing a lie.
“I should hang up and cut my losses with a completely botched mission,” said Berg.
“But you won’t,” she said.
Berg detected a hint of doubt in her voice.
“No. I won’t,” he said. “What do you need?”
“My new Mossad friend strongly suspects that the Russians will hide Reznikov in Buenos Aires or Montevideo until they can guarantee his safe passage out of the area. The Israelis can put together a strike team, if we can find Reznikov,” said Jessica.
“I don’t have a worldwide directory to Solntsevskaya safe houses, Jessica,” said Berg.
“What about the FBI?” she said.
“They weren’t much help investigating Reznikov’s escape—especially in South America,” said Berg.
“I need you to dig deep on this one, Karl,” said Jessica. “As deep as Stockholm.”
“What do you mean?” said Berg, understanding perfectly.
“That intel didn’t come from the CIA,” she said.
That was all he needed to hear. All he wanted to hear. Kaparov was one of his most closely guarded secrets. Somehow she knew.
“That’s a serious long shot,” said Berg.
“I need you to take it,” said Jessica. “Please.”
“Don’t ever hint about Stockholm again,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said, disconnecting the call.
He glanced at the time on his phone. 1:48 PM. 8:48 in Moscow. Not too late to place a call to an old enemy—turned friend.
Chapter 16
Thick tendrils of bluish-gray smoke curled upward from the ashtray on his nightstand, dispersing above the yellow, nicotine-stained lampshade. Kaparov took a long belt of vodka straight from a bottle and rested the half-empty glass flagon next to him on the mattress—his fingers clutched its neck.
He sweated profusely. Not because of a record Moscow heat wave or the barely functional window air conditioner precariously installed in his bedroom window. He perspired lying in bed because he was “in bad health,” as his doctors liked to put it. Diabetes, thyroid issues and obesity all contributed to his perpetual state of sweating—along with a host of other problems he could care less about.
He reached over to retrieve the cigarette, pausing to stare at the television screen. Some inane Russian reality show had come on nearly an hour ago, but he didn’t feel like getting up to change the channel. The remote was even further away, deposited on his dresser during his last trip to the bathroom. He was starting to see double, so it really didn’t matter what was on the television. His hand found the cigarette and started to drift to his mouth; in a ritual he repeated several hundred times a day. An annoying ringtone jarred him out of his trance.
Kaparov took an angry pull on the cigarette, blowing the smoke through his nostrils as he stormed out of the bedroom. They had low-level agents on duty for this kind of shit. He should be the last person called, not the first—regardless of the crisis. Every night was the same now. The calls started after eight, invariably pulling him out of bed to learn that unreliable contact in east-fuckistan thinks he overheard a hashish-wasted, wannabe militia shitstain talking about a Russian.
He was going out of his mind with this nonsense! Despite SVR claims that Reznikov was dead, a fact he knew to be untrue, his life consisted of one Reznikov false alarm after another—compliments of the SVR! He grabbed the phone from his kitchen counter, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“Kaparov. Print a copy of the report and place it on my desk. This is why I drink!” he yelled into the phone, disconnecting the call and turning away from the counter.
The phone rang again before he reached the bedroom door.
“I’m going to kill someone,” he said, flipping open the phone and seeing the caller ID.
He recognized the Moscow prefix, but the number was not one of the FSB duty desk extensions.
“Kaparov,” he said, as calmly as he could muster.
“Alexei, I hope I didn’t wake you,” said a voice he had hoped to never hear again.
Actually, that wasn’t true. Deep down inside, he would like nothing more than to meet Karl Berg again—in person, preferably at a posh bar where the American’s credit card provided endless liquor to fuel their Cold War stories. Unfortunately, Berg’s phone calls had come to represent one thing. Bad news. Each call usually worse than the last.
“No. You caught me at the perfect time. I was about to blow my brains out with my service pistol. I’m sure whatever you are about to propose equates to the same thing,” he said.
“I see your sense of humor remains intact,” said Berg.
“Miraculously, my head remains intact, no thanks to you,” said Kaparov. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your voice? I assume this isn’t a social call. I’m still waiting on that drink you promised.”
“One of these days, my friend, and I mean that,” said Berg.
“Sounds like you’re buttering me up,” said Kaparov, extinguishing the cigarette in his bedside ashtray and retrieving the bottle he had propped against the pillow. “Time for another drink.”
“I can barely understand you as it is,” said Berg.
“I’m only on my second bottle,” said Kaparov.
“At that rate, you won’t remember this conversation in the morning,” said Berg.
“Precisely,” said Kaparov, taking a long pull on the bottle. “What can I do for you?”
“Is this line secure?” said Berg.
“As secure as one can expect in Moscow,” said Kaparov, laughing at his own joke. “It’s secure. I would know.”
“We almost caught him,” said Berg.
Kaparov dropped the bottle on the bed, quickly grabbing it to prevent any of the precious liquid from spilling.
“Almost?” he said.
“We caught his Bratva benefactors off guard, but something very unexpected ruined the operation,” said Berg.
“This couldn’t wait until morning? I won’t be able to sleep now. What the hell happened?” said Kaparov, placing the bottle next to the smoldering ashtray.
“It was a mess, that’s all I know,” said Berg. “But we still have a chance to find him.”
“Go on,” said Kaparov.
“It’s going to take some digging—on your part,” said Berg. “We suspect he’s holed up with the Solntsevskaya Bratva somewhere near Buenos Aires. Possibly Montevideo.”
“Fortunately for you, I know exactly where to dig,” said Kaparov, pausing. “First thing in the morning.”
Chapter 17
Alexei Kaparov paid for a venti cappuccino and a tall dark roast coffee, smiling politely as he handed over a princely sum to the sickly looking youngster working the register at the American-based coffee house chain—one of three located within a five-minute walk of Lubyanka Square. And Putin tells us we won the Cold War. He eyeballed the clear plastic tip container with contempt, grumbling as he shuffled to the end of the count
er to wait with the rest of the government crowd. Five minutes later, he was on the street, headed south on Bulshaya Lubyanka Boulevard.
Shades of gray and brown dominated the suits filing by, perfectly matching the thoroughly uninspired, squat buildings surrounding him. Oddly enough, the historic Lubyanka was the most colorful building on the square, with its yellow brick façade. He never understood how it survived Stalin’s era without a thorough facelift. Neo-Baroque architecture, though modestly displayed in the construction of the Lubyanka building, represented grandeur and opulence, along with implicit religious undertones. Everything the Bolsheviks claimed to despise, supposedly. Maybe the party was too stupid to realize the significance of the architecture by that point. The purges had likely eliminated anyone that could identify it. The purges gave Russians half a century of ten-story, rectangular gray concrete abominations. No wonder we drink so much.
Holding the two coffees, he turned right on Pushechnaya Boulevard and strolled through an unattended black, wrought-iron gate. A small, featureless courtyard led to one of FSB Headquarters’ unmarked entrances, reserved for deputy director level and above. In true Russian bureaucratic style, the heavily guarded access points saw little traffic. Most of the FSB senior leadership drove their own cars or were assigned drivers, entering the massive building through the parking garage.
He negotiated the different security stations with ease, being one of the entrance’s repeat customers throughout the day. He strolled Lubyanka Square several times a day when he didn’t feel like smoking in the confines of his office. Upon entering the main building, he joined the procession of grim-faced agents and staff cramming themselves onto elevators to hasten the start of their ten-hour day. He purposely waited for an elevator car that didn’t hold anyone from his department, refusing politely and blaming the coffees when a space was offered. His first stop of the day would not be his own office within the Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division.
Arriving on the fourth floor, he wove through a maze of hallways and cubicle farms, enduring the unsure glances and uncomfortable stares of agents unfamiliar with his face, but very familiar with the deputy director markings on his security badge. He nodded and returned greetings from the few agents that had enough guts to address him. Everything and nothing had changed from the old days. During the iron reign of the KGB, subordinates stumbled over each other to be the first to address a senior-ranking agent—out of fear. Now they shrank into corners or pretended you were invisible, for the same reason. He wasn’t sure which system was worse.
He found the office he sought on the outer edge of a small cluster of open workstations, half occupied with agents and support staff. The rest would arrive in the next fifteen minutes, ready to brief the division’s deputy director. He glanced at the black placard next to the door: Assistant Deputy Director Yuri Prerovsky, Organized Crime Division. He knocked on the door, which was cracked open a few inches.
“Come in,” said his former assistant.
Kaparov nudged the door with one of the coffees, steeling himself for a less than enthusiastic reunion. The two of them hadn’t exchanged more than a few required pleasantries during chance elevator encounters since Yuri’s reassignment—on the heels of his girlfriend’s “disappearance.” Lucya Pavrikova’s involuntary defection to the United States had been a messy affair that nearly consumed both Prerovsky and Kaparov.
They’d done the right thing for Lucya, the Russian Federation and themselves, but the events surrounding her abduction created a strain in their working relationship. Kaparov pulled a few strings to get Prerovsky a promotion outside of the department. A move he felt necessary for Prerovsky’s continued growth within the FSB. And frankly, he couldn’t bear to look at the man’s long, guilty face in the office any longer. They both needed to move on from the whole Reznikov incident, which is why he expected this to be a tough conversation.
“Alexei!” said Prerovsky, quickly moving around an uncluttered, perfectly organized desk to greet him. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
The brown-haired, meticulously dressed agent took the coffees from his hand and placed them on the desk before embracing him in a warm, Russian hug.
“Seriously, it’s good to see you,” said Prerovsky, stepping back and pulling a chair closer. “Please, take a seat. Do I smell a cappuccino?”
Kaparov dropped into the institutionally uncomfortable plastic chair and pushed the beverage across the desk. He closed the door with one hand, taking the small coffee with the other.
“I’ve never been a fan of this new open-door policy,” said Kaparov.
“I should have known,” said Prerovsky, eyeing the cappuccino suspiciously. “You’re too cheap to buy coffee at Starbucks.”
Kaparov took a sip, marveling at the taste. “No wonder you spend money on this.”
“Well, I don’t have a two-bottle-a-night vodka problem to feed,” said the agent.
“Touché,” said Kaparov, raising the cup.
They both stifled laughs, settling into their chairs. Prerovsky finally picked up the coffee, opening the top and taking a long drink.
“I have to brief the deputy director in ten. What’s going on?” said the agent.
“Reznikov surfaced,” said Kaparov.
“That sounds like a problem for the Bioweapons and Chemical Threat Assessment Division. Not organized crime,” said Prerovsky.
“Actually, it falls under both,” said Kaparov. “He showed up at a resort in Uruguay with Valery Zuyev.”
“With Zuyev?” said Prerovsky. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” said Kaparov.
“Shit. I’ll need to brief the boss on this,” said Prerovsky.
“You can’t,” said Kaparov. “Reznikov is dead. Remember? The SVR confirmed his death several months ago.”
“This changes things,” said the agent. “I’m sure the SVR could use this intelligence. Surely, Deputy Director Namakov has contacts in the foreign intelligence service that could put this to good use. Under the radar, so to speak.”
“Yuri, when the SVR declares a scientist formerly employed by a supposedly nonexistent and highly illegal state-run bioweapons program to be dead—it’s not a healthy idea to present evidence to the contrary,” said Kaparov.
Prerovsky grimaced, shaking his head slowly. “We have to do something.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Kaparov.
“I’m not sure how I can help,” said Prerovsky. “I’m one of six assistant deputy directors, and the most junior one at that. I basically run errands for the other five.”
“That’s what I hoped. No offense,” said Kaparov. “They won’t notice if you gather some information.”
“Depends on the information,” said Prerovsky. “The Solntsevskaya crew is well connected, if you know what I mean. Information is guarded.”
“This shouldn’t be a problem. We’re talking about South America, not Russia or Europe,” said Kaparov.
Prerovsky rubbed his chin, pondering the idea for several seconds before nodding.
“Zuyev in South America? I can work with that. The Chechens run most of the mafiya show down there, but the Bratva has been making some inroads. Bloody inroads. They’re pushing into the Chechen-dominated European cocaine trade, which starts in the Andes Mountain region. It’s not one of their well-established income bases, so I could dig around without drawing too much attention. What am I looking for?”
“He survived a messy assassination attempt in Uruguay. Near Montevideo,” started Kaparov.
“Assassination?” said Prerovsky, taking a sip and staring at Kaparov over the cup.
“Americans,” said Kaparov. “The same group that grabbed him before. They figure the Bratva will hide him nearby. They’re looking for possible safe house locations.”
“In that case, I’ll take care of this myself,” said Prerovsky. “I presume the Solntsevskaya Bratva will experience a significant setback in South America—and that will attract att
ention.”
“Cover your tracks well, Yuri,” said Kaparov. “The loss of Reznikov represents more than a setback for the Bratva.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t kicked you out of my office,” said Prerovsky. “The thought of Reznikov working with the mafiya is terrifying.”
“It wasn’t the coffee?” said Kaparov.
Prerovsky stood up, extending a hand. “I have to get moving. I’ll start digging into South America in an hour or so, after my morning briefings. I should have something by midmorning.”
“Perfect,” said Kaparov, shaking his hand. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He reached inside his suit coat and withdrew a plastic card from the inner pocket.
“In case you get cold feet,” said Kaparov, handing him the card.
“A Starbucks gift card,” said Prerovsky. “Just the thing to keep my mind off a cold, dark cell in Siberia.”
“Vodka works better,” said Kaparov, opening the door to leave. “Just in case you wanted a tip from an old-timer.”
Chapter 18
Yuri Prerovsky tilted the flat-screen monitor away from the door and typed his password into the department’s data archive system. His presence in the system wouldn’t attract any undue attention, since he’d subtly trolled for an assignment related to the Solntsevskaya Bratva during the morning meeting with the rest of the assistant deputy directors. He’d even managed to convince one of them to send him an email reminder to contact the FSB liaison officer assigned to the Russian Federation’s Argentinian embassy.
Zuyev’s arrival in Buenos Aires several days ago had been duly recorded and reported by Russian informants in the city. Travel to South America was not unusual for Zuyev, in light of his position within the Bratva—and the organization’s not so secret plans to take business from the Chechens.
The Bratva kingpin typically vanished a day into his visit, feigning a trip deep into northern Argentina. Once he had completely eluded Chechen and federal law enforcement surveillance efforts, he no doubt returned to Buenos Aires to conduct business. It made sense for Prerovsky to poke around the Solntsevskaya files before contacting the liaison officer.
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