“They won’t make a deal with her. They’ll just torture the information out of her and discard her corpse in a dumpster,” Sanderson said.
“If she’s lucky. I think she’s watched one too many Western television shows. She’s responsible for the death of at least eight of their best, so I have a feeling she won’t get off that easy. I need your help pulling her out of Moscow. If she disappears, the whole problem goes away.”
“When you say gone, what exactly do you mean?” Sanderson said.
“Safe from Russian hands. By my count, you have at least one operative left in the nearby area of operations.”
“He’s likely compromised,” Sanderson replied.
“All the more reason to give him one more mission and get him the hell out of Europe. This is important, Terrence. My source is aware of our intentions to strike Vektor. He’s an old-school Cold War type who would rather die than tell them anything, but we can’t take the risk,” Berg said.
“I get the sense that you have a personal stake in this,” Sanderson said.
“The United States owes him everything. I can’t leave him hanging like this,” Berg said.
“Tell me why the CIA can’t yank her off the streets?”
“Tensions are high right now. The Russians grabbed a high-level CIA officer from our embassy in Stockholm. We can’t afford an escalation, and the director will not authorize the use of Special Activities Division assets on Russian soil,” Berg said.
“Have you asked the director?”
“I don’t need to ask him. They will not authorize the kidnapping of a Russian citizen.”
“What about the other option?”
Karl Berg’s silence answered the question.
“The CIA would be willing to kill her to protect this secret?” Sanderson said.
“I can’t really speak for what the CIA might do. I only learned about this problem a few minutes ago. I do know that a street killing would be a hell of a lot simpler than kidnapping someone under active surveillance. I called you first because your operatives have proven to be extremely effective with this type of operation…and because I’m fairly confident that the CIA will scrap the raid on Vektor if I present these new facts. We can’t let that happen. The Iranians have infiltrated the program, and it’s only a matter of time before something worse than the Zulu virus finds its way into their hands.”
“My operatives will not assassinate a noncombatant. If she can’t be taken alive, I suggest you start working on your travel plans to Moscow. What kind of surveillance are we talking about?” Sanderson asked.
“Most likely on the lower end of the spectrum. They’ve made themselves fairly obvious, which doesn’t require a great deal of skill. Plus, they’re probably doing the same thing to at least a dozen other suspects.”
“I’m going to burn two operatives with this,” Sanderson said.
“I’ve faced the same decision point before, so I know it sucks. All the time and investment wasted on something seemingly insignificant. I’m intimately familiar with the feeling,” Berg said.
“I trust your assessment of the situation. If anything, you’ve demonstrated an uncanny talent for predicting the future. I’ll make the arrangements. Barring unforeseen circumstances, I can have two operatives in place by noon tomorrow. I’ll need specific information about the target and limited logistical support from your agency. Be prepared for a handoff. Snatching her off the street is my problem. Getting her out of Russia is yours.”
“Perfect. I’ll start working on my end immediately. My contact will be able to provide most of the information you’ll need to locate and identify the target. I’ll pass this on immediately. Have you heard from Petrovich yet? We had an interesting meeting with Dr. Evil.”
“He’s scheduled for a videoconference tomorrow morning. I’ll have the entire team assembled, to include the young woman from Langley. I plan to recruit her, by the way. I’m not sure where you find these femme fatales, but I’d like a tour of the factory. With a little additional training, she could give Jessica Petrovich a run for her money. She’s already broken one nose. The second batch of ‘Russians’ is a little rowdier than the first. It was well deserved,” Sanderson said.
“Sounds like they would fit in perfectly on the Moscow subway,” Berg said, obviously ducking the rest of Sanderson’s comments.
Sanderson had lost both of the program’s women during the domestic operation to stop True America, and saw little chance that either would ever return. Dhiya Castillo survived her gunshot wounds, but permanently lost the full use of her primary shooting hand. Beyond that, the full impact of her injuries couldn’t be determined without extensive physical therapy. For all practical purposes, she was done with the program. This left Jessica, who may or may not continue to serve the program in a limited capacity. He suspected that Daniel and Jessica wouldn’t be able to stay away from the action for long, but he wasn’t about to push them for an answer. He was satisfied just knowing that they hadn’t officially told him to “fuck off.” Yet.
“Let’s hope they don’t have to ride the subway to escape. I assume these mafiya contacts will be able to provide something more substantial than Metro tickets?”
“Petrovich already shared that gem?” Berg asked.
“He felt we would need to have an in-depth discussion about this prior to his teleconference. I’m not sure how I feel about it,” Sanderson said.
“Neither am I, frankly,” Berg said. “Daniel’s biggest concern was the exfil. Your boy isn’t that talkative, but we came to the same conclusion during the drive back to Burlington. The safest way to the Kazakh border will likely involve the use of a boat and several pre-staged vehicles. Reznikov also made a good point about Novosibirsk. We’re dealing with a unique part of the country. Novosibirsk is the third largest city in Russia, but it doesn’t resemble Moscow or any of the western cities. The language, customs…everything is a little different. The less contact your crew has with local vendors the better. Putin’s reforms may be mostly lip service, but my Russian area analysts say that the areas beyond Moscow’s grasp don’t even bother to read his lips. We can’t afford to attract the wrong kind of attention. Nobody questions the mafiya, inside or outside of the major cities. I’ve received approval from my director to offer up to ten million dollars in exchange for their cooperation and support.”
“That’s a hefty price tag. I assume you’ll start negotiations lower?”
“Of course,” Berg said. “I fully expect to be blackmailed at the last moment.”
“What if they insist on ten?” Sanderson asked, now knowing exactly why Berg had broached the topic of money.
“Well,” Berg admitted, “I was hoping that you might be willing to cover any expenses exceeding my budget.”
Sanderson shook his head and laughed. “Let me get this straight. Not only am I providing you with the car for your road trip, but now I’m expected to pitch in for gas money?”
“What can I say? There’s only so much money in the covert foreign invasion budget.”
“And it’s only May.” Sanderson sighed.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and they only ask for five million.”
“Don’t count on it. Make sure to pass me any bank routing information they provide. I can cover the shortfall.”
“One of these days, you and I will sit down and share that drink. I owe you more than one at this point,” Berg said.
“I suspect you’ll owe me the entire distillery before this is over, Karl. Call me when an agreement is reached with the Russians. We’ll start the planning phase tomorrow based on Daniel’s input.”
“Sounds good. Reznikov will place a call to his bratva contact tomorrow. I will monitor this call and take over if they are interested. At that point, Reznikov’s involvement will be limited to two additional calls to verify that we’re cooperating with the mafiya.”
“That’s an odd arrangement. How are you routing the call?”
“Satellite.
I had the same thought at first, but Reznikov didn’t balk at the use of satcom for the checkins. He’s worried that I’ll revoke his deal if the team doesn’t make it back in one piece. He claims to be withholding a piece of mission-critical information that won’t be revealed until his last call is completed,” Berg said.
“Has it crossed his mind that you’ll just blow his brains out regardless of what happens?”
Berg hesitated with his answer, which confirmed his other suspicion. “He’s trying to exert some control over the end result. Ease of mind, I guess.”
“Nothing wrong with a little hope,” Sanderson said.
Sanderson disconnected the call and turned to Hoffman.
“This is going to be the stuff of legends, Jared. A once-in-a-lifetime mission.”
“That seems to be par for the course around here,” Hoffman said.
“That’s what happens when you’re the final option.”
Chapter 20
9:14 PM
Northwest District
Moscow, Russian Federation
Nikolai Mazurov edged around the corner of the building and spotted the black sedan. He kept his body hidden, only allowing a small fraction of his head to break the plane of the building. Having just scurried along the western side of the apartment building, scraping through the tight walkway that connected the rear alley with Raskovoy Boulevard, he didn’t detect any traffic coming from either direction on the road. The empty street matched his own intelligence assessment of this distant northwest suburb of Moscow. Mostly consisting of Soviet Bloc apartment buildings, it catered to lower middle class families or recent college graduates, most of whom could not afford the luxury of an automobile. He’d have to be infinitely more cautious of pedestrians, though it really wouldn’t matter one way or the other who saw them on the street. His time as a deep-cover operative in Russia ended tonight.
He had been assured by General Sanderson that Lucya Pavrikova’s abduction would become the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service’s number one priority in the upcoming days, leaving no stones unturned in Moscow or the surrounding areas. He would depart Europe with Reinhard Klinkman and eventually find his way to Sanderson’s new Argentinian hideaway.
The thought of warmer weather suited Nikolai fine. He had grown accustomed to his life in Moscow, but yearned for more. He was in his mid-thirties, having spent nearly all of his service time in Moscow, simply waiting in the shadows. He attended Moscow University, earning a teaching degree with a concentration in foreign language. Not surprisingly, he took to English like a native speaker and was able to secure a position in a suburban Moscow secondary school, teaching English to middle graders. Attending college and teaching English to fourteen-year-olds wasn’t exactly what he had in mind after spending nearly four years training in Sanderson’s hellish program. On the flip side, he was one of the few surviving graduates of the original Black Flag program. The survival rate had been abysmally low according to Sanderson, and most that survived had endured hell on earth to return. Because of this, he really couldn’t complain about walking away from his life in Moscow. It had never really been his from the beginning.
He raised a suppressed OTs-14 assault rifle to the chipped concrete edge of the building and tucked the “bullpup” configured weapon tightly into his shoulder. The OTs-14 “Groza” was used exclusively by Russian Spetsnaz or Interior Ministry units, chambered to fire 9X39mm subsonic ammunition. Fitted with a suppressor, the subsonic rounds made the “Groza” one of the quietest Russian assault weapons on the market.
Nikolai peered through the 3X scope attached to the rifle’s carrying handle and sighted in on one of two heads visible through the sedan’s rear window. Unlike the car parked in the alley, he could not approach the sedan on Raskovoy Boulevard unseen. The four-lane road was well lit by Russian standards, and curb space on both sides of the street was mostly empty. The black sedan was one of few cars parked in front of Pavrikova’s apartment building.
He’d been able to shoot the two agents in the back alley at point-blank range, from the driver’s side window. He wouldn’t have that kind of luxury with these two, and he needed to hit both of them in rapid succession. He chose the head on the left, since it was already partially obscured by the sedan’s frame. Take the hardest shot first. He braced the suppressor against the building and steadied the green-illuminated crosshairs. Nikolai applied pressure to the trigger as he had been taught many years ago, continuing to focus on the target in the crosshairs. The scope’s point-of-aim and point-of-impact would be the same at this range. Under fifty meters, the subsonic ammo kept a flat trajectory.
The Groza cracked, biting into the concrete as the first projectile raced toward its target. The rear window turned white, obscuring his view of the second target, as the round’s impact with the safety glass caused the entire rear window to shatter in place. He had anticipated this problem. The scope’s field of view allowed him to see most of the second man’s head as he took the first shot, giving him a frame of reference for the blind shooting about to take place. He shifted the scope’s crosshairs from the small hole in the opaque window to the previous location of the second head. He used the crosshair’s mil-dots to measure the shift and pulled the trigger twice. The rest of the window collapsed from the impact of the two rifle rounds. Through the scope, he could see that a third shot would not be necessary. Two large red stains covered the spider-cracked front windshield a few feet apart.
Nikolai glanced around the city street and listened for a few seconds. The rifle’s suppressor had distorted the sound of small arms fire to a low-grade firecracker, which still had the potential to attract significant attention. Nothing. He stared up at the various windows visible from his position. Curtains remained in place and unlit windows stayed dark. Even if anyone had decided to take a look, they would think twice about calling the police. A street shooting usually meant one thing: Russian mafiya. Contacting the police only served one purpose—to identify yourself as a possible witness, and witnesses to mafiya crimes in Russia had a very short life span. For the average citizen, it was better to let the police stumble upon the crime scene.
Satisfied that the shooting had escaped overt attention, he jogged up to the car to confirm his handiwork. A quick look inside verified that his shooting had been accurate. Both bodies were slumped against each other, tangled over the car’s center console. Dark fluid poured out of the gaping holes that once resembled human faces. He started jogging to the side street corner used by the third SVR surveillance vehicle.
“Surveillance team two neutralized,” he whispered.
His throat microphone translated the vibrations from his vocal cords into sound, which was passed on to Klinkman and the driver of his own support vehicle.
“Copy. Team two neutralized. I have the door unlocked. Standing by,” Klinkman replied.
“Breach and remove target. I’m moving to cover the third surveillance team,” Nikolai said.
“Better move fast. I’m going in.”
***
Lucya Pavrikova poured a glass of white wine from an inexpensive bottle she had picked up on her transit home that evening. She’d left at six-thirty, later than most, hoping to get a reprieve from her new shadows. No fewer than two agents followed her wherever she’d go, regardless of the time. At this point, she was afraid to leave her apartment outside of the busy hours in the morning or evening, when the rest of her building’s inhabitants travelled back and forth to work, hopefully deterring a street-side abduction. She knew this was mostly wishful thinking. If the SVR wanted her in custody, they wouldn’t hesitate to take her in the middle of Red Square on May Day. The only place they would avoid for now was the FSB building at Lubyanka Square. She knew they were fishing for leads, overtly sweating everyone possibly connected to the Center for Special Operations at Lubyanka. They hadn’t moved on anyone yet, but the death of several SVR agents guaranteed that the rulebook would be suspended until they discovered the leak. It was only a matter
of time before they started rounding them up, and once they disappeared, she didn’t feel hopeful that they’d ever see the light of day again.
She took a long sip of the harsh chardonnay and refilled the glass, deciding to check on her shadows. She walked past the television, briefly blocking her roommate’s view of some mindless reality show based on the lives of several Russian millionaires’ wives. Dacha Princesses or something equally inane. Her roommate spent most of the evening brainlessly pining away for the life represented on the show, which aired every weeknight. With over one hundred thousand millionaires in Moscow alone, Katya had yet to score her knight in shining Mercedes. Katya’s concerns paled in comparison to Lucya’s own at the moment, and she prayed that her roommate didn’t feel like small talk tonight. If she was lucky, the television station would rerun last night’s episode immediately following this one, and Katya would be locked into another hour of brain drain. By then, Lucya would be passed out in their shared bedroom.
Lucya pulled back the flimsy curtain covering their living room window and peered five stories down at the crowded street. Through the dark windshield of the familiar black sedan parked below, she caught the faint orange glow of a cigarette, which burned brightly for a second. The car was parked several vehicles away from the nearest streetlamp, swallowed by the darkness which had only minutes ago consumed the city. A faint bluish-red light on the horizon could still be seen between the twisted maze of apartment buildings visible from her window. She hated the night now. Only two days of this shit, and she was afraid to go to sleep. She’d have to drink herself into a semi-stupor to get any sleep at all. She knew there was nothing she could do to stop the agents if they decided to take her, but the thought of them kicking her door in during the middle of the night terrified her.
The reality of her situation still hadn’t fully registered, and she hadn’t really come up with any kind of game plan. Her time at work was too hectic to stop and focus on the situation. CSN had several ongoing operations that required her undivided attention, and her commute was mostly spent looking over her shoulder at the thugs assigned to follow her. Time spent in the apartment had been clouded by a perpetual blood alcohol content that probably disqualified her from microwaving her own dinner. If their tactic was to scare the shit out of her, she had to give them credit.
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