“Sounds good, General. I’ll get the word to Melendez. We’ll rent a car at the airport and find accommodations. I assume you know where they’ll be staying?”
“Of course,” General Sanderson said, and the room fell silent except for the sharp crackling of early season wood burning in the fireplace.
Chapter 12
10:07 PM
Monchegorsk City Central First Aid Hospital
Monchegorsk, Russia
Doctor Valeria Cherkasov approached the emergency room’s wide automatic doors and paused. In all of her four years at the hospital, the doors had never functioned properly. Several bloody noses had taught her to never assume the doors would open swiftly. This evening was no exception, and her patience was rewarded when the doors hesitated on their tracks and struggled to open. An ambulance pulled into one of three empty parking spaces, which were kept clear of cars by armed police officers. Its emergency strobe lights bathed the concrete walls of the ER parking alcove in icy blue flashes. More cases. Doctor Cherkasov walked through the door into the freezing night and followed a ramp down to the street level, wishing she had grabbed her winter coat. She ducked behind the corner of the hospital and nearly ran into a couple smoking cigarettes. Vasily, an x-ray technician, and Mila, one of the ER’s medical assistants, had formed the same idea as Cherkasov—a brief respite from the madness that had descended upon the hospital over the past forty-eight hours.
“I guess the secret is out,” Cherkasov said, taking a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of her white lab coat.
“That you smoke? Not really. Though you’ve done a decent job of concealing it. A smoker can always spot another smoker,” Vasily said, dragging deeply on his cigarette.
“Ironically, I didn’t start smoking until medical school. Some example of health, huh?” she said.
“We won’t hold it against you. I might shake you down for a few shots of vodka in town though,” Mila said.
“A few shots of vodka sound pretty good right about now,” Cherkasov said.
Vasily held an expensive-looking metal lighter out for the doctor, who accepted the offer and inhaled her first lungful of tobacco smoke in several hours. She closed her eyes for a moment as the nicotine did its job, briefly taking her away from the mayhem.
“Everyone will be smoking if this gets any worse. Any ideas, doctor?” he said.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought it was the flu at first, but some of the patients are starting to show signs of sudden, severe aggression. Others go catatonic, then burst out of it in fits of nonsense. I’ve seen occasional cases of rabies that caused this kind of behavior, but nothing on this scale,” she said.
The words “nothing on this scale” were an understatement given what they were seeing. The hospital had filled to capacity earlier in the day, finally overwhelmed by patients complaining of flu symptoms and severe headaches. City officials had graciously opened an abandoned school building next door to the hospital, to serve as a makeshift site for less severe patients. It took a while for the heating system to be restored, but it now housed at least a hundred patients in cots supplied by the nearby Air Force base. To Cherkasov, this looked like the beginnings of a pandemic and she had sent numerous samples to the main hospital in Murmansk, where they could be properly analyzed. The hospital laboratory here in Monchegorsk was still in the dark ages, and only the most obvious and basic lab confirmations could be made.
She had also insisted on sending several of the early patients, with the hopes of shedding light on the mystery disease’s pathology. The signs of aggression in patients disturbed her the most, since it suggested a disease that could affect the brain’s temporal lobe, like rabies or encephalitis. The hospital could conduct a spinal tap to collect cerebrospinal fluid, but they had no way to confirm the presence of either disease without a proper laboratory. The hospital in Murmansk was well equipped to do this and even had MRI capabilities, which could detect the temporal lobe damage that might explain the sudden aggressive behavioral swings. They hadn’t heard anything definitive from the hospital in Murmansk, other than to stop sending patients.
“I heard that one of the nurses on the third floor was raped right inside a patient room,” Mila said.
Dr. Cherkasov didn’t want to start down this road, but she saw no real choice.
“It’s true. The two men were removed very quickly by police, and the nurse is at a private facility. The hospital administration didn’t want a panic among staff. We’re taking precautions to prevent future attacks. More orderlies, two person rule…”
“Army soldiers and police,” Vasily continued.
“Unfortunately. I heard they activated the military police component of the city’s reserve army battalion. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” the doctor said.
“It’s better than getting raped in one of the hospital wards,” Mila said.
“I agree, but I don’t see the situation getting better any time soon,” Cherkasov said, nodding at something down the street.
They all turned to look in the direction she indicated and saw several people walking down the street toward the hospital. Nothing to be alarmed about on the surface, but it signified an accelerating trend. The number of people walking in off the streets had increased significantly as the day progressed, and it appeared there was no break in sight. Maybe an armed company of military police wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The situation at the hospital could degrade very quickly at this rate. With a population of fifty-two thousand, they had barely scratched the surface with the few hundred patients housed within the hospital and the converted school. They were well above maximum capacity as it stood, and supplies were thinning quicker than anyone had ever imagined. Within twenty-four hours, they would have to turn people away and tell them to drink plenty of fluids.
She stared out over Lake Lumbolka, taking in the fading light of the northwestern skyline. The dark orange sun hovered on the horizon, radiating rich hues that competed with the bleak snow-covered landscape, casting a starkly beautiful reflection over the blackish ice covering the lake. She loved the long days of spring and longed for the endless summer days. Her brief escape was shattered by the sound of gunfire in the distance, from the direction of the city, she thought. The people on the street looked behind them and started to shuffle quickly up the street. Dr. Cherkasov threw her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it.
“You’re one of the doctors, right?” said a middle aged man bundled in warm clothing, holding a child in his arms.
“Yes. What’s going on?” she said and heard some whimpering from the group behind the man and his child.
“My daughter has the flu and terrible headaches. We all have headaches, and one of the women was attacked. Stabbed in the arm. Things started to go crazy in our building. It’s not safe to leave your apartment. We banded together to get some of the sickest people here to the hospital,” he said.
“All right, let’s get you inside. Come on, help me out with these people,” she said to her companions.
Vasily and Mila extinguished their cigarettes and jumped into action, helping to herd the dozen civilians up the ramp toward the entrance. Halfway up the concrete ramp, Dr. Cherkasov was hit by a splitting pain in her head and for a moment thought she had been hit over the skull with a tire iron. She buckled slightly, but held it together, realizing she hadn’t been hit with anything.
“You all right?” Vasily whispered.
“Fucking headache hit me like a hammer. I’ve felt like shit all day, but this was different,” she said.
“Welcome to the club. We’ve all been getting them. Drink plenty of water…it seems to help,” he said.
As the doctor approached the door, trailing the group of patients, she heard two more gunshots from the direction of the city.
“Stay alert. Things are getting worse,” she said to the police officer directing the ambulance out of the parking lot.
He simply nodded.
Chapter 13
9:02 AM
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Karl Berg scanned through the email alerts that had been passed to him by the National Clandestine Branch’s Analysis Dissemination group and focused on a new report provided by the Community HUMINT (Human Intelligence) Coordination Center. The brief email didn’t surprise him, given the ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) intercept transcripts provided by the NSA two days earlier. It had only been a matter of time.
The veteran agent rubbed his face with both hands and glanced around, giving the entire matter some consideration. He hadn’t found the time to unpack several boxes of personal books and curios that he had collected over a thirty-one year career as a CIA agent, ten years of which had been spent behind the Iron Curtain. At 53, he looked a few years younger than his peers, which he attributed to thick brown hair that showed little indication of turning gray. His face showed a different story. The years of stress and long hours had taken a toll, and for the first year ever, he looked as tired as he felt. Beyond the wrinkles and lines, his dark blue eyes held the weariness of making hard decisions and living with the consequences.
He still couldn’t shake the regret he felt for leaving Keller in the burning safe house two years ago. He didn’t kill the young agent, but he certainly hadn’t done anything to save him. It had been a selfish act, fueled by several bad decisions over the course of the day. The attack on the safe house had been his fault for jumping to conclusions about Daniel Petrovich’s involvement in the murder of Nicole Erak. There had been no way to know that Nicole was still alive, living under an alias…actually married to the man he suspected of killing her. Her subterfuge had been brilliant and almost made him proud, but it had left him with an awful mess.
He had let his personal feelings explode that day, and two dedicated CIA agents had paid the price. Berg had buried the part where Keller’s death ensured that the unholy alliance between General Sanderson and Berg could move forward. Keller’s memory had been a potential liability to the proposed alliance, and Berg didn’t want to ponder exactly how much this selfish instinct influenced which agent he decided to pull out of the burning safe house first. He knew the answer and it didn’t sit well with him, which was why he swore to ensure that it hadn’t been a waste. Thinking deeply about the information presented on his screen, he decided to put Sanderson’s agreement to the test.
He picked up his desk phone and dialed Audra Bauer, who had been promoted to deputy director of the National Clandestine Service. Despite the fact that he had been Bauer’s assistant director in the Counter-Terrorism Center, he wasn’t in line to take that job upon her promotion, so he took a lateral transfer into a liaison position with the Intelligence Directorate’s Weapons, Intelligence, Non-Proliferation and Arms Control Center. He remained a member of the National Clandestine Service (NCS), where he had served his entire career, but now spent his time coordinating WMD (Weapons of Mass Destruction) intelligence analysis with the hands-on activities of the NCS branch.
It was a newly-created position, thanks to Audra Bauer, who wanted to keep him close, but couldn’t bring him along for the ride to the director’s office. It was a good move and put several NCS personnel under his charge. There was a persistent rumor that NCS was looking to expand Berg’s group into a full Branch within a few years. If he played his cards right, he might be in line for a deputy directorship. Then again, a lot could happen in a few years, and Berg wasn’t exactly known for playing it safe. The idea rattling around in his head was a testament to the risks he had no problem taking.
“Deputy Director Bauer.”
“Good morning, Audra. It’s your favorite Intelligence Directorate liaison,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“I wasn’t aware that we had more than one,” she teased.
“I guess the distinction is safe for now. Hey, I need to run something by you in person. Have you read the most recent HUMINT summary from our friends in Kazakhstan?”
“Why don’t you head over to my office? I have a meeting in about twenty minutes, but we should really talk about this. See you in a few?” she said.
“I’ll be right down,” he said and hung up the call.
A few minutes later, he navigated the corridors and stairwells needed to arrive at her office on the other side of the building. He greeted a few familiar faces, but pressed forward, not wanting to waste a minute of the rare time he had been given. There were plenty of unfamiliar faces that would have been pissed to learn that Berg had simply picked up the phone and secured time with one of the most sought after people in the National Clandestine Service. Even the office assistants didn’t query him as he strode into “off limits” territory near the director’s office and conference rooms. He nodded politely and continued, turning into the room labeled Assistant Director on a dark blue placard.
“Mr. Berg, Ms. Bauer is ready for you. No need to knock, sir,” her assistant said, attentively observing him from behind a neatly arranged desk.
“Thank you, Liz.”
Karl opened the door and was greeted by Audra, who didn’t get up from her desk. She was studying one of two flat-screen monitors on her desk, squinting.
“Might help if you turned on some lights in here,” he said, making his way over to her desk.
This was the second time he had been to her spacious office. Audra was not a packrat like he was, and there were very few personal effects present. A family photograph; three framed service decorations, which Berg knew were not the most prestigious she had earned, but instead the ones that meant the most to her; a few crisp, colorful authentic prints purchased from a semi-obscure artist in Maine; and neatly organized bookshelves, containing not a single personal book. Audra preferred a modernistic, Spartan environment, and the preference extended to her home, which very closely resembled the minimalist tone captured in her office. All except for her husband’s den, which was more Berg’s style and must have been a serious compromise in their relationship.
“I like the natural light. I can’t stand the institutional lighting of this place…and I’m not about to bring in one of those antique abominations you have around your office. So…as much I’d love to catch up, Karl, I think we’ll need every one of the few minutes we have to discuss what I’m reading here. It’s not yet actionable in my opinion, but we need to alert some of our good friends in Europe. FBI and Homeland, definitely. I hesitate to put up an Interpol alert, since this is obviously not in the open.”
“Then you might want to reconsider the FBI and Homeland. I agree that they need to be notified, but they’ll liaison with Interpol as one of their first steps,” he said.
“I know,” she muttered. “I guess we can work on this behind the scenes, but even bringing some of the friendly intelligence services into the fold poses risks. They’ll do what’s in their best interest, and if that means a coordinated Interpol effort—or even better, throwing us under the bus and confronting Russia—they won’t hesitate.”
“We know FSB and SVR agents have been in direct contact with both the VECTOR Institute and Microbiology Institute in Stepnagorsk. The NSA has picked up a ton of chatter centered around Semipalatinsk and Kurchatov, and we’re pretty sure they’ve sent ‘unofficial’ assets across the border, which would indicate to me that they’re searching for something important. It’s all rather unsettling. The most disturbing aspect is the Russians’ secrecy. They’ve suddenly rekindled the search for this Reznikov character, who is at the top of everyone’s WMD watch list, and they haven’t breathed a word of it to anyone outside of Russia. I think we need to activate ground assets and take our own look around Kazakhstan,” Berg said.
“Special Activities Division? I don’t know. The Russians might be chasing a dead end. I can reassign imagery assets without alerting anyone, but I don’t have the authority to activate a Special Operations Group. We can start the ball rolling, but I’m going to need more than a hunch that Reznikov is up to somethin
g. Russians snooping around Kazakhstan for a missing scientist isn’t going to be enough,” she said.
“He’s not just any scientist. He’s a bioweapons expert that has been actively courting Muslim extremist groups for at least two years. Maybe longer. We know he’s been to Al Qaeda facilities in Africa, and now electronic intercepts suggest he’s met with Al Qaeda leadership in Dagestan. The fallout from a partnership between Reznikov and Al Qaeda could be disastrous for the West. The guy was caught trying to steal partially weaponized encephalitis samples from the VECTOR lab, and the Russians tried to kill him for that.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” she said, shutting down her computer, assembling some files and stuffing them into a nylon executive bag.
“I wouldn’t tell if you did ask. I’d like to use ‘off the books’ assets to do some digging around Kazakhstan. Get me access to imagery associated with the area around Kurchatov and Semipalatinsk, and I’ll get you the information you need to get the ball rolling,” he added.
She stopped and stared at him, glancing at the door, which Berg had closed behind them.
“Sanderson’s group?”
“He has highly trained operatives that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in that region. The team could be on the ground within twenty-four hours. I’d expect actionable intelligence several hours after that.”
“Assuming they find anything. No links back to us on this,” she stated harshly.
“That’s why I want to use them. I’ll set up equipment through another source,” he said and stood silently, waiting for her final approval.
“All right, make it happen,” she said, starting for the door.
“I might need UAV support, in case they find something…or something finds them.”
“I’ll need to think hard on that request, Karl. I assume you’ll want the drone to be armed, too?”
Black Flagged Redux Page 11