They had arrived at the safe house during the early evening hours and wasted no time commencing Konrad Hubner’s interrogation. The interrogation had yielded scant details. Hubner had expertly twisted and turned them in multiple false directions throughout the night, wasting precious time and exhausting them as the dawn approached. Just when they thought they had achieved a breakthrough, they found themselves thirty minutes into another dead end, with Hubner smirking. Even without lips, which agent Osin had removed at an early point in the night, the man still managed to smirk.
Around nine in the morning, they took a short break to eat some breakfast and formulate a new game plan. Unendurable pain and agony would continue to be the centerpiece of their strategy. There was only so much a human could withstand, and they still had some evil-looking tools in the kit they had unearthed from the barn, along with a vial of acid. They had re-entered the barn, expecting a long morning, but Hubner had other plans. Without warning, he managed to impale his neck on Osin’s knife, severing the carotid artery. In less than a minute, he bled out onto the concrete floor of the small cinderblock room, taking the rest of his knowledge down the metal drain under his chair.
The two agents carrying Hubner’s body had been given specific instructions regarding the preferred disposal method for this site. The standalone barn structure did not contain a proper “bath house,” so bodies had to be buried at least two hundred meters into the forest, in a westerly direction. A poorly maintained, lightly used trail had been discovered several hundred meters to the southeast, tracking north, so they avoided any unnatural activity east of the site.
The property itself enjoyed a high degree of privacy, buried deep within the national preserve. Only accessible by foot, they had parked their new van in a cleverly constructed hide site a few hundred meters south of the clearing, slugging their way along a relatively unfriendly, twisting path until they reached the barn. Motion detectors hidden along the barn’s roofline had confirmed the location’s privacy, recording mainly twilight activity commonly associated with deer. This was Dragunov’s second visit to Site 93, and Mihail Osin’s team’s first. He’d uploaded coordinates to an encrypted GPS device to locate both the vehicle hide-site and the barn. Site 93 hadn’t seen much activity since the end of the Cold War, which was why Dragunov had chosen it. He liked isolation for jobs like these.
Mihail Osin trailed the body by several feet and stopped in the doorway. Dragunov glanced in his direction, expecting the agent to make an unnecessary excuse for Hubner’s early demise. A few moments passed, but the agent remained quiet. He was impressed with Osin. Directorate S Spetsnaz were an impressive group, but this agent was different. He carried himself extremely well, exuded an unspoken leadership influence on his team, and had natural interrogation skills…aside from the rookie mistake that prematurely killed Hubner. He might recommend Osin for consideration within the Zaslon ranks.
“What happened to Hubner is extremely rare. I’ve seen suspects attempt to choke themselves on their own restraints or try to enrage their interrogators to the point of murder. I’ve never seen or heard of one cutting their throat like that. Lesson learned. No need to include this in the report. The suspect expired on his own…which is true,” Dragunov said.
“That was a first for me. Fuck. This guy was something different altogether,” Osin said, stepping into the rays of light peeking through the eastern tree line.
“Very different. At least we got a few new names out of him. Headquarters should be very interested in this Sanderson guy. We also confirmed that they were given Reznikov’s address at the last second.”
“Either the FSB has a mole, or we do. That alone made this trip well worth the effort.”
“He was holding out on us about Marko Resja. Something was off. I could smell it,” Osin said.
Dragunov considered his comment for a few moments, staring off into the forest. He agreed with Osin’s assessment about Hubner’s partner in Stockholm. Whoever they had captured on camera in the passenger seat was a mystery that Hubner didn’t care to expose.
“He wasn’t familiar with the name, which leads me to believe Marko Resja might have been an alias he’d never heard of. I’m starting to wonder if the entire team in Stockholm had been assembled from multiple sources. It doesn’t matter at this point. We pass the information on to Directorate S, and let them sort it out,” Dragunov said.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this one. This isn’t a typical setup for the Americans. This is something very different,” Osin said.
“We don’t even know if the Americans are behind this. That’s the real problem here. The U.S. embassy was involved, but even those details are sketchy. Hubner never confirmed that the address was passed by the CIA station chief,” Dragunov said.
“I led the assistant station chief’s interrogation. He confirmed that this was a CIA operation. They were never given the address. That came directly from another source,” Osin said.
“That’s what the station chief told him?” Dragunov said.
Osin nodded. “Correct.”
“The link to the Americans keeps thinning,” Dragunov said, shaking his head. “The station chief could have been working for anyone. Reznikov represents an unchecked financial opportunity for some extremely dangerous, well-funded groups. If this was a mercenary crew working for one of these groups, Russia could end up in the deepest shit pile imaginable. Our job is to shed some light on who was behind the abduction. At this point, I hope to hell it was the Americans, but I’m no longer optimistic.”
Both of them turned their heads toward the sound of crackling underbrush and swearing at the edge of the clearing. The burial team had begun their long trek through the forest.
Chapter 12
3:30 PM
The White House
Washington, D.C.
The president sat back with a bleak face. He glanced at his National Security Advisor and raised both eyebrows, but Karl Berg could tell that James Quinn didn’t plan to make the first comment on their proposal. Jacob Remy, the president’s chief of staff looked eager to take the first shot in what Berg expected to be a concentrated salvo of opposition against the plan. The president didn’t wait.
“I don’t like the timing. The nation still hasn’t recovered from True America’s attack. Public outcry about our apparent lack of infrastructure security has kicked up a storm of Congressional inquiries, none of which appears coordinated…yet. Congressmen and senators are tripping over each other to satisfy their constituents, threatening to open fact-finding investigations into every organization with an acronym. When they get their collective act together and start cooperating, the 9/11 Commission Report will look like a one page intel summary. The Department of Justice has fielded over twenty-two thousand Freedom of Information Act requests over the past two weeks alone. Last year they processed sixty-one thousand in total. It’s going to be a long year for all of us, gentlemen, especially the CIA. I have it on good authority that the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence plans to dig deep. I don’t think we can afford to have the operation you’ve suggested on the books.”
The CIA director nodded and tapped his pencil on the table. “I’ve been assured that this operation can be accomplished off the books,” he said. “The facility can be destroyed and the principals neutralized by a small team. No agency assets will be used. The facility appears to be a soft target.”
“How can you be sure it’s a ‘soft target’?” Jacob Remy asked, mimicking quotation marks with both hands to emphasize “soft target.” “A secret Russian bioweapons facility? I think you’re underestimating the security involved. We can’t afford an international incident. Not now.”
Karl Berg couldn’t resist interrupting the conversation. Selling them on the mechanics of a plan that hadn’t been developed was pointless if they didn’t agree that the facility represented a clear and present danger to the United States. He wasn’t sure they had reached this consensus yet.
“Mr.
President, may I?”
Jacob Remy looked annoyed by the interruption.
“Please,” the president assented.
“During the Cold War, Vektor Labs was part of the Biopreparat system, a vast network of secret laboratories, each focused on a different pathogenic weapon. Vektor produced smallpox. Biopreparat dissolved with the collapse of the Soviet Union, and most of the facilities were abandoned. Vektor survived and became the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology, hosting international scientists and serving as Russia’s equivalent to our CDC. The elite army regiment that guarded the facility during the Cold War no longer exists. Our information suggests that security is provided by a small contract force consisting of Russian ex-special forces and—”
“That doesn’t sound like a soft target,” Remy interrupted.
“It’s soft for the group we’ll use. Beyond contract security, response to a facility breach would be reactive in nature. A regional Spetsnaz group is tasked to provide a rapid response team in case of emergency, but it won’t arrive in time to make a difference. They’re hiding an illegal bioweapons lab in plain sight. It’s a soft target because they’re trying to draw attention away from the facility. The team can destroy the lab. I have no doubt about that. The real question is do we believe that this facility needs to be destroyed? Based on what I’ve seen in the past month, I firmly believe that this facility spells trouble. Weaponized encephalitis is just one of many WMDs in the works at Vektor. The Russians are developing offensive weapons, and as we can clearly see by their cover-up of Monchegorsk, they’re taking extreme measures to keep this a secret. I say we bury their secret before even scarier groups get their hands on their work.”
“Do you have evidence to suggest other groups are actively pursuing that angle?” the president asked, turning to the National Security Advisor.
“The Iranians have been aggressively pursuing multiple WMD routes.”
“I’m not asking about the perpetual quest by Islamic fundamentalists for weapons of mass destruction. I need a specific, actionable reason to authorize an attack on this facility. If you told me Iranian agents were headed there in two hours to take possession of biological weapons, I’d vaporize the site. I don’t disagree that this is a nasty place that would be better off as a smoldering ruin, but I need to put an end to our little low-intensity conflict with the Russians before it spirals out of control. I understand we’ve lost a CIA officer in Stockholm? What happens to our people when Vektor labs is attacked?”
Thomas Manning stepped in to answer the president’s question. “Mr. President, I don’t believe Mr. Reese’s disappearance is a retribution-style action. Too much time has elapsed since Stockholm. They’re still trying to piece together what happened to the Russian scientist that could blow the lid off their secret. The Russians can’t afford to draw any attention to this. They’re still sitting on a powder keg up in the Kola Peninsula. Our analysts believe that they won’t respond to a surgical strike limited to the bioweapons facility. This may even give the Russians a way out of the mess they’ve created in the Kola Peninsula. We could even congratulate certain counterparts in their Foreign Intelligence Service on a job well done.”
“A job well done?” Remy asked.
“They uncovered and destroyed a rogue bioweapons program responsible for creating the weapon used in Monchegorsk to turn the population homicidal. They had no choice but to suppress the population using military force. At the same time, Putin can publicly express his outrage against the development of biological weapons and announce that Russia will host a summit to develop plans to prevent this kind of a tragedy in the future. Something like that,” Manning said.
“Or he’ll do nothing and simply stare at me with emotionless eyes the next time we meet,” the president said.
“Either way, Mr. President, the United States and the world will be a safer place. Frankly, this mission is worth the risks involved, even if it gets messy afterward. What if we fail to stop the next attack against the U.S.?”
“That’s why we hire the best and brightest to work for our intelligence agencies. To stop these attacks.”
“It won’t always be enough,” Berg said, creating an awkward pause in the conference.
“Mr. President, I stand by my team’s assessment. The value of taking this fight to Vektor Labs far outweighs the risks, which can be mitigated the sooner we act,” Director Copley said.
The president rubbed his face and stared at Karl Berg for a few seconds. The answer had been evident on the president’s face as soon as he lowered his hands, but something caused him some hesitation. Berg wondered how much the president had been told about the missions and decisions leading to the discovery of True America’s plot. Did he know that Berg had initiated a series of questionable covert activities that put the FBI in a position to stop the insane vision of domestic terrorists? Was he trying to gauge whether his words would have any impact on Berg’s course of action?
“Director Copley,” the president began, “the nation owes this team a debt of gratitude that can never be fully explained, or adequately paid, but I won’t authorize this raid without credible evidence of a more immediate threat. I’d like to approach this from a different angle, using diplomacy instead of mercenaries. If that fails, I will reconsider taking direct action. Until then, all planning activities related to a raid on Vektor Labs must cease.”
Berg had expected the president to reject their plan, but he hadn’t expected the overt slapdown that came with his less than subtle use of the word mercenaries. He felt his blood begin to rise, and had to use every ounce of restraint he possessed not to respond. These “mercenaries” had saved countless lives and prevented the United States from spiraling into utter chaos. They had sacrificed without hesitation, against near suicidal odds. General Sanderson may be a devious son of a bitch on many levels, but his loyalty and commitment to the United States remained untarnished, which was more than Berg could say for the men sitting across from him.
“I understand, Mr. President. We’ll monitor the situation at Vektor closely. If a threat emerges, we’ll be in a position to offer a solution,” Director Copley said.
The president stood up from the small conference table, along with Jacob Remy, signifying the end of their meeting. Berg stood respectfully and kept silent. A secret service agent escorted them past the security station inside the West Wing lobby, where Director Copley separated from Manning and Berg. He had arranged a few additional meetings to coincide with his trip to Capitol Hill, most likely to spare himself the discomfort of riding back to McLean with the two of them. This suited Berg fine, since he had no intention of dropping the issue of Vektor labs. The director didn’t reinforce the president’s decree while they weaved their way through the hectic hallways of the West Wing. They engaged in small talk about the White House and some of the historically significant pieces located throughout the living museum. Maybe that was Director Copley’s intention. Manning waited until they were safely behind the thick bullet-resistant glass and armored chassis of an agency Suburban before speaking.
“That didn’t turn out like I expected,” Manning said.
“Yes, it did,” Berg said, staring out of the window at the White House.
“Maybe you’re right. The president left us some wiggle room, and Copley conveniently disappeared. I want you to contact Minkowitz and see what the Israelis can offer about the Iranians.”
“We’ll need more than that. The Israelis whispering sweet nothings about Iranian WMD projects won’t sway the president or his National Security Council. I’ll take another trip to Vermont. Reznikov isn’t the type to give us everything up front. He never mentioned Iranians at the facility. Maybe he can verify one of these sweet nothings.”
“If you can make that kind of connection, I’ll take this right back to Copley.”
“And if Copley can’t convince the president?” Berg asked.
“We need the president’s support to get Sanderson’s peo
ple out of there. With the president on board, I can put together a package that will give them a fighting chance to reach the Kazakhstan border. Two hundred plus miles is a long journey without help.”
“Sanderson’s people will take the mission…regardless,” Berg said.
“That’s his choice. Our job is to identify the threats and match them up with the appropriate solution,” Manning said.
Berg sighed. “We owe Sanderson more than that.”
“I agree,” Manning said, “which is why we need to find a way to gain the president’s approval.”
“And if that fails?”
“We go with Plan B.”
“I wasn’t aware of a Plan B,” Berg replied.
“Plan B is whatever we can cobble together using your vast network of friends and favors.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to Plan B. The past month has exhausted my supply of favors.”
Chapter 13
7:41 PM
Starbucks, South Lakes Village Shopping Center
Reston, Virginia
Karl Berg carried two double espressos to a table in the back corner of the café and gently placed the saucers on the table in front of Wiljam Minkowitz. The serious-looking Mossad liaison regarded the small porcelain cup for a moment and stared up at him with a neutral expression until he sat down. The table was isolated enough from the other seating choices to allow a private conversation. Less than twenty minutes from closing, only one other table was occupied. As Berg had observed previously, the window table at this location was always the last to clear before the baristas locked the door. Aside from a few to-go orders, they would have few interruptions.
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