Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Not when Zaslon is involved. I can’t hand this over to the Counterintelligence Service and let them swarm CSN. I’ll handpick a team from Internal Affairs’ (IA) special investigative unit. We’ll keep this low profile for now, and I’ll actively liaison with Ardankin’s SVR goons. Give them what they want, and get them out of our business,” Greshnev said.

  “I’ll tolerate surveillance by our SVR comrades, but that’s all. If they make a move against any of my people, they’ll have a war on their hands…and I’m good at fighting wars,” Baranov said.

  “I know you are, and so do they. I’ll make sure they understand the ground rules. Do you have any ideas beyond the four agents present in the Operations Room during the raid?” Greshnev asked.

  “Our weakest link is technology. In the old days, we had telephones and status boards marked by grease pencil. Throw in a few TVs hooked to video players. Now we have twenty widescreen monitors, hundreds of computers, videoconferencing equipment, visual data boards…all controlled by a network of servers and optics cables that I couldn’t dream of comprehending. The whole setup requires an army of technicians, many of whom I’ve never personally met. The whole fucking place is a liability, which is why I kept the number of people involved in that operation to an absolute minimum. Those fucking idiots at SVR could have updated me over the phone, instead of insisting on a live joint feed. All we needed to know is whether the mission succeeded or failed…and even that didn’t really matter. Unless Reznikov steps foot on Russian soil, we’re on the sideline.”

  “The joint involvement was my idea,” Greshnev said.

  Baranov cracked a smile before responding. “I know.”

  “You haven’t changed since I met you. Always a ball breaker,” Greshnev said.

  “That’s my job these days.”

  Greshnev smiled in return. “That’s why I keep you around. Promoting you out of here would catapult this place into chaos. We’ll investigate the techs associated with the Operations Room in this building, leaving your headquarters out of it, for now. Internal Affairs has a group that specializes in technology investigation. I have to bring the heat down on everyone that was in the Operations Room at the time.”

  “Including me?”

  “Especially you. I can’t afford to have you sneak up and kill one of their surveillance agents. The sooner I convince them that you’re clean, the better.”

  “Am I that transparent in my old age?” Baranov said.

  “Quite the opposite. I have no fucking idea what you are thinking these days. Make sure none of your operatives kill any of their new shadows. All right?”

  “Understood,” Baranov said, standing up to take his leave. “This Reznikov business…there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  Greshnev stared at him blankly. He agreed with Baranov’s assessment, but would never acknowledge the fact in front of him, or anyone, for that matter. Pure instinct told him to steer clear of pursuing the matter. Even though he truly possessed no information suggesting that Reznikov was anything more than a rogue scientist offering the prospect of bioweapons to terrorists, he sensed there was more to this story. Way more.

  His Directorate had chased down men like Reznikov before, but the effort and resources spent on finding Reznikov had been disproportionately higher than any of those previous efforts, and this calculation didn’t account for the diplomatic risks inherent to operating larger than usual teams on foreign soil.

  Sending a regional military Spetznaz platoon into Kazakhstan turned into a disaster of epic proportions, somehow explained away as a training exercise gone seriously awry. Fortunately for the Center of Special Operations, someone at the highest levels didn’t think their Alpha Group team in Novosibirsk would be large enough to deal with the five Americans snooping around the former site of Reznikov’s suspected laboratory. Apparently, an entire platoon hadn’t been enough.

  The most damning evidence came from the operation in Stockholm. Neither of them could fathom the circumstances leading to the loss of ten Zaslon Spetznaz operatives. Frankly, he had been shocked to learn that the SVR had assembled so many Zaslon operatives in one place. They had never been informed of the actual number, but he had little trouble putting the pieces together based on Swedish news reports and crime scene information leaked by their sources in the Swedish National Bureau of Investigation and Stockholm County Police Department. The importance of this mission to Putin must have been unprecedented. He could think of no other reason why Dmitry Ardankin would have authorized such a large-scale Zaslon operation.

  Zaslon operatives typically worked alone under deep cover, conducting sensitive missions abroad related to “state security.” This euphemism covered a wide spectrum of nefarious activities, from kidnapping to assassination. Most of their operations were carried out against Russian citizens who had betrayed Russia in one way or another. Of course, this was all purely rumor. Government officials had never acknowledged the existence of the Zaslon program, which was why the Stockholm mess underscored the importance of Reznikov. The Americans had wanted the scientist just as badly, which added another layer of intrigue to the entire fiasco. He didn’t believe that Reznikov had been terminated, regardless of what he’d been directly told by Dmitry Ardankin. This business wasn’t finished.

  “It’s a done deal. Reznikov is dead, and this isn’t our business anymore,” Greshnev said.

  “I can live with that,” he said, reaching for the door handle. He turned around again. “If the leak turns out to be one of mine. I’ll take care of it personally.”

  “I would expect nothing less from the legendary Arkady Baranov.”

  When the door closed, Greshnev stood up and stared out of the window at Lubyanka Square. He could never understand why foreign tourists went out of their way to see the square, which had to be the most uninteresting piece of real estate in all of Moscow. Paved over years ago, and barely resembling anything more than a glorified parking lot, visitors were treated to a shitty patch of grass and flowers surrounded by traffic. He supposed they could visit the Solovetsky Stone in the equally uninspiring park next to the square. The stone was placed there as part of the Gulag memorial, adding to the collective misery of Lubyanka Square, which housed its own share of tragedy.

  He watched a gaggle of Westerners mill across the concrete expanse, staring up at the iconic building, which represented past horrors of the Soviet regime. Unknown to most, the repressive terror hadn’t truly ended. The government had simply relocated that apparatus to a less public location, south of the city. He really shouldn’t cast stones at the Foreign Intelligence Service. His own service had its share of problems, and as a chief director for the Terrorism and Political Extremism Control Directorate, he often dipped his hands into affairs that had more to do with politics than protecting the Russian Federation.

  Even worse, he was often told to stay out of business that clearly fell under his purview, like Monchegorsk. He didn’t want to think about that city. If digging around the Reznikov story carried health risks, asking questions about Monchegorsk was like swimming through radioactive sludge. Prior to Kaparov bringing certain reports to his attention about a month ago, his office hadn’t paid much attention to the Kola Peninsula. Its geographic isolation on the Barents Sea and shared border with Finland had kept the peninsula quiet. Upon forwarding a report suggesting the possible use of bioweapons against Monchegorsk, the entire peninsula was shut down.

  A day later, he learned from one of Putin’s key Federation Council lackeys that the entire city had revolted against Moscow in a labor-related dispute. Of course, the military would handle the operation to regain control of the city. Little else was said, and nothing else needed to be said. The story was so preposterous that Greshnev immediately decided he would never mention it again. Kaparov’s stubborn insistence on pressing the issue had unnerved him to the point of needing anti-anxiety medication. At least Kaparov had the sense not to bring up Reznikov and Monchegorsk in the same breath. The old
-timer might be thick-headed, but he hadn’t lost his ability to read between the lines. He needed more agents like Kaparov and Baranov. Effective, reliable and trustworthy.

  He sat back down in his thick black leather executive chair and took a deep breath. He had to initiate the investigation into Baranov’s people immediately. Fortunately, the investigation would be confined to this building. The leak could only have come from the Operations Room on the third floor, which served as a temporary location to monitor the joint operation in Stockholm. The Center of Special Operations headquarters was located outside of the Moscow ring in Balashikha, and encompassed a vast complex with training facilities for FSB Spetsnaz. Keeping the investigation out of CSN headquarters would be one of his priorities. He reached for the phone and steeled himself for a series of painful conversations.

  Chapter 10

  2:45 PM

  Leopold Strasse

  Munich, Germany

  Konrad Hubner sipped the remains of his lukewarm cappuccino and glanced around at the lively tables in Café Centrum’s outdoor terrace. This was one of his favorite cafés, mainly for the local female scenery, which proliferated as summer approached. Not that the café ever suffered from a lack of pleasant background. He loved May in Bavaria. The weather was mild and constantly improving, dragging Bavarians outside in droves to the biergartens, cafés and parks.

  Located west of the English Garden on the southern border of the Schwabing district, the café on Leopold Strasse took in a constant flow of university students and wealthy patrons who could afford to live in the upscale neighborhood. As he set down his cup on the table, a mixed group of well-dressed students carrying book bags walked onto the patio from Leopold Strasse, searching for an empty table. He didn’t want to make them wait any longer than necessary and had no intention of pulling the creepy move of inviting them to sit at his table. He picked up his cup and saucer, nodding to a tall, male student, who led the group to the table, thanking him as they passed. He walked inside and settled the bill directly before walking onto Leopold Strasse and turning south.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do with the rest of the day. A few analytical projects awaited completion, but none of them involved pressing deadlines. His client base consisted of a few handpicked, undemanding European Union financial houses that passed on collaborative, long-term economic forecasting projects. He had attended Munich Business School in 2001 at the suggestion of General Sanderson, who had assured him that their unit would recommence operations by the time he had finished. The degree would open doors in Europe and serve to enhance his cover, allowing him to take on professional work and justify his far-from-modest lifestyle.

  Hubner strolled along the wide, treelined sidewalk, scanning his surroundings. Despite the appearance of a relaxed lifestyle in Munich, he remained ever vigilant for threats. Turning onto Georgen Strasse, headed for his apartment two buildings away, his eyes were drawn to the red umbrellas of a comfortable biergarten nestled away behind the trees near the street corner. The gated patio served light food and excellent beer in generous one-liter, frosted glass mugs. He felt the pull of a crisp Augustiner Edelstoff and started to angle toward the gate. A sharp pain in his left thigh snapped him out of his reverie.

  He turned his head left and noticed a student continuing up the street toward Leopold Strasse. The man’s face was hidden, but the backpack, dark corduroy pants and untucked shirttails gave him the distinct impression that he was a student. White headphone wires trailed down his neck, appearing from the bottom of his bushy, brown hair. The pain in his thigh had disappeared by the time he reached down to caress and examine the spot. He didn’t see a rip in his dark blue, designer jeans, and started to wonder if he had experienced a cramp or some kind of transient nerve impingement. The kid turned right and crossed Georgen Strasse, headed south on Leopold Strasse, toward the university. He disappeared behind a thick stand of trees next to the tall apartment building on the corner. Hubner shrugged and continued on his walk, distracted from his thoughts of cold beer.

  He made it halfway to his apartment building before the first wave of sluggishness struck, signaling that he was in serious trouble. He felt like he was pushing his legs and arms through a viscous pool of petroleum. He started to turn his head to stare back at the corner of the Leopold Strasse, in what he knew was a futile attempt to spot the cleverly disguised fucker that injected him with some kind of toxin.

  There wasn’t much he could do at this point. He would either be dead or incapacitated within a short period of time, and death might be his better option. Defying his body’s newly defined gravitational attraction to the earth’s core, he struggled to reach his jacket’s inside pocket, straining as his vision started to narrow. He found the phone just as his body toppled to the stonework walkway, trapping his arm under his torso. There was no way he could pull his phone out at this point. He could barely move his fingers. The last thing he registered as his vision closed was the sound of footsteps approaching.

  ***

  Vadim Dragunov continued walking along Leopold Strasse, slowing his pace. He glanced behind him, just in case something had gone awry, leaving Hubner capable of pursuit. He saw nothing. He turned to face south on Leopold, catching sight of the Siegestor, or Victory Gate, a few hundred meters down the wide boulevard. The three-arched structure, similar in style to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and Arch of Constantine in Rome, was crowned with a statue of Bavaria riding a lion-quadriga. Dragunov appreciated the simple, yet masculine architecture of the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old landmark looming ahead. The Siegestor was dwarfed in size and significance compared to the Brandenburg gate. Berlin reminded him of Moscow, where each successive ruler felt compelled to make a bigger mark on the architectural landscape.

  He heard a motor vehicle slow on the street next to him, which drew his attention away from the gate. The SVR team’s silver minivan pulled into the bicycle lane several feet in front of him and stopped. The right sliding door opened, and he casually walked into the van, glancing around one last time for the police before closing the door. Blocking a bicycle lane in Munich, even for a few seconds, could attract more attention from the police than running a red light. These fucking Germans were obsessed with their bicycles, and it was a matter of pride to get from one place to another without using a car. In Moscow, only the poorest migrant workers rode bicycles, and even that was a rarity.

  “Are you trying to get us arrested?” he asked in Russian. “You have to pay close attention to the roads here. There’s a parking strip, clearly marked by a solid white line. You can pull over and park on the other side of the line, as long as you don’t block the bike path.”

  The driver protested as he drove the van forward, continuing down the bike path. “How the hell was I supposed to know it was a bike path?”

  The van crossed over a small lip in the road as he merged back into traffic.

  “By observing the damn curb,” Dragunov said.

  “I barely felt that,” the driver continued.

  Dragunov shook his head and stared at the lead agent, who he only knew as Mihail.

  “Take it easy, Stepka. This man’s observations will keep us out of trouble,” the leader said.

  Dragunov leaned his head over the headrest, glancing into the third row. Konrad Hubner lay crumpled on the seat cushion next to a detached-looking agent. He hoped this team wasn’t filled with sociopaths. They were all sociopaths on some level, but so far this crew’s attitude hadn’t impressed him. Maybe he was misjudging them, since he had become more accustomed to working alone. He would have preferred to keep walking down Leopold Strasse, but his order had been crystal clear. He would lead Hubner’s interrogation.

  The German businessman had been photographed in Stockholm, driving the van involved in the Zaslon massacre. SVR got lucky with a traffic camera, which took a clear picture of the driver and front passenger. Konrad Hubner had been the driver, and a Serbian war criminal named Marko Resja had been his passenger. None of it mad
e sense, which was why headquarters wanted Dragunov personally involved in the interrogation. Not only was he a Zaslon operative, but he was considered to be one of the organization’s top interrogators, specializing in long, drawn-out torture. Everybody confessed to Dragunov, eventually.

  “No problems on the street?” Dragunov asked.

  “Everything was perfectly timed. Nobody on the street saw us load him into the van,” Mihail said.

  “Good. The next step is to get us to a secure location east of the city. If your driver can follow simple directions, I can have us there in less than an hour. Another hour beyond that will put us at the Czech border.”

  The driver didn’t take the bait and allowed his team leader to respond, which was the proper response under these circumstances.

  “He’s extremely capable, as long as we don’t run into anymore bike paths,” Mihail said, trying to alleviate the tension.

  “I never saw a bike path before coming to Germany,” Dragunov admitted. “Who the fuck has time to ride a bike?”

  Chapter 11

  10:14 AM

  Chejlava National Nature Reserve

  Two Miles east of Zhur, Czech Republic

  Vadim Dragunov squeezed out of the two-story barn and took in a deep breath, savoring the rich mixture of forest scents. The sharp fragrance of the occasional spruce or fir tree faintly stabbed through the overwhelming smell of new foliage from the ever-present towering beech trees beyond the clearing. The fresh smell of spring competed with the musty aroma of moist, decaying leaves from last fall’s seasonal shedding. He missed spending time in the countryside. He glanced toward the dirt path leading from the forest into the tight clearing and nodded at an SVR agent leaning against a thick tree alongside the road.

  Movement inside the barn drew his attention, and he turned to see two agents carrying a bloodied body into the light cast through the half-opened barn door. He pushed the heavy, reinforced steel door along its well-lubricated track, giving the team a larger opening. Dragunov stood aside and paid his respects as the men struggled with the corpse. Whoever this man had been, he was by far the most skilled and resilient operative Dragunov had come across in a long time. A worthy adversary on every level.