Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

“The last time their investigation stalled, they kick-started it by kidnapping a CIA officer,” Remy said.

  “There’s no chance of the Russians repeating that,” Berg said.

  “And how, exactly, can you be so sure?” Remy said.

  The president knew the answer to his chief of staff’s question, calculating that Berg had floated the statement in an attempt to goad his often-overzealous chief into stepping on another landmine.

  “Because Ian Reese isn’t tied to a chair in a dark basement, praying for some kind of negotiation that will secure his release. He’s dead, and his body will never be recovered. Ian Reese was off limits, and the Russians knew it from the start. He was dead as soon as they kicked in his apartment door. Since he was marked for death, the Russians had no reason to hold back on his interrogation. I guarantee he told them everything the station knew about the operation, which wasn’t much. They likely confirmed the timing of our leaked information, which helped focus their internal investigation…but we just yanked the rug out from under that.”

  “Is it your assessment that the Vektor raid will be interpreted as a standalone event?” the president asked.

  “Like Mr. Remy stated, the Russians will connect it to the overall situation, Mr. President, but it won’t escalate the SVR’s blood vendetta. This will fall squarely in the Federal Security Service’s lap…and of course Putin’s, who is unlikely to overreact,” the director said.

  “Director Copley, you are authorized to proceed with this operation. What are we looking at in terms of timeline?”

  “The first elements will depart tonight. We could have this wrapped up within a week. Two weeks at the most.”

  The president regarded the three CIA officers seated in front of him: Director Copley, Thomas Manning and their new agent provocateur, Karl Berg. Until their first meeting a few days back, Berg’s name had never materialized in the White House. He couldn’t figure out what he didn’t like about the man, but something set off his internal alarm. Nothing substantial, just a gut feeling. James Quinn had never heard of him either, which surprised the president. Quinn knew everybody with political capital inside the Beltway…and outside. It was almost like they had dragged this guy out of the basement for the first time. Whoever he might be, the president could assume one thing—the man was deeply connected to the operation, which meant he was linked to Sanderson. Maybe that was his hesitation with Berg. How did a CIA deputy director get embroiled with someone like Sanderson? The answer to that question would likely explain why a small voice inside his head kept whispering that he’d just made a mistake.

  “Very well. I want daily updates while the team is moving into place, graduating to more frequent communication as we approach the raid. I’ll monitor the final raid from the Situation Room. This will be a very limited audience. Similar to Stockholm.”

  “Understood, Mr. President,” Director Copley said.

  The president stood, signaling an end to the meeting. He walked around the table and shook hands, careful not to betray his distrust of Berg. When he reached Copley, he held the grip a few seconds longer than the rest.

  “Robert, keep a close eye on this one,” he said, looking back at Manning and Berg. “You have good people working behind the scenes, but I need your personal supervision to ensure this goes by the book.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. Though I don’t think we have a book that covers this kind of operation. We’re writing it as we go,” Copley said.

  “Make sure it goes by my book.”

  Copley nodded, and the president released his hand. Once the CIA entourage had departed the president’s study, James Quinn, Jacob Remy and the president reconvened at the table.

  “So, what do you really think?” the president asked, interlocking his fingers and placing them on the bare table.

  “I think we need to make sure that General Gordon and anyone else with tactical authority over the extraction force understands that U.S. forces are not to cross the Kazakhstan-Russian border under any circumstances. Our CIA friends didn’t put up any resistance when you reiterated this position, which gives me an uneasy feeling. Sanderson still has connections high up in the Department of Defense. That much is clear. We might need some kind of additional failsafe to keep our forces out of Russia.”

  “I agree with your assessment, Jacob. I trust Copley will follow my rules. Manning will follow suit. I don’t know what to think about Karl Berg. Until recently, his name has never surfaced, which leads me to believe that he has been intimately involved in the planning of this mission—”

  “Which means he knows the players all too well,” Remy said.

  “Exactly,” the president agreed. “If he’s been working with Sanderson since Stockholm, we have to assume their history goes back even further.”

  “How far?” Remy said.

  “That’s the question. How far is Berg willing to go for Sanderson and his people?” the president asked.

  Chapter 25

  9:32 AM

  CIA Headquarters

  Mclean, Virginia

  Karl Berg hunched over his desk and stared at the mess of notes chronicling his efforts to keep “Operation Black Fist” on track. He’d just brokered one of Reznikov’s calls to his bratva contact in Moscow, who had assured the scientist that a sizable sum of money had been transferred to seal the deal between the Solntsevskaya Bratva and foreign mercenary operatives assigned to carry out the raid against Vektor Laboratories. Sizable was an understatement. Berg had just wired the largest sum he’d ever handled to a Panamanian bank account, which would no doubt bounce around between several discreet international accounts before finally landing in a Russian bank account.

  If the bratva contact brokering this deal wasn’t already one of the 150,000 or so millionaires living in Moscow, he could now add that distinction to his title. A grand total of five-point-two million dollars secured a personal assurance of cooperation from a mystery voice at the other end of a completely untraceable phone number. Audra Bauer had suggested they make their best attempt to confirm the general location of the bratva contact in order to provide Manning and the director with some kind of reasonable assurance that they weren’t feeding five million dollars to one of Reznikov’s close friends.

  As expected, the NSA’s best efforts to trace the call resulted in a scattershot of locations that changed several times every second as the data signal was redirected through dozens of networks internationally. The NSA’s best guess based on the signal’s travel patterns indicated continental Europe, which was good enough for Berg to pass on his own assurances through Bauer.

  Berg didn’t suspect this was a money scam on Reznikov’s part. He’d made it perfectly clear to the scientist that he would die swiftly if his bratva contacts betrayed them in any way. Reznikov remained adamant that they would uphold their end of the bargain if the CIA met their price. He’d negotiated them down from their initial request for six million dollars, which he knew was more than they expected to receive up front. He played the game, working them down to the exorbitant price of five-point-two million dollars. A king’s ransom under normal circumstances, but less than he anticipated paying in the end. He fully expected a last-minute “glitch” requiring another eight hundred thousand dollars. He was prepared to spread around some of Sanderson’s money when that phone call came.

  Involving the Russian mob had been a necessary compromise that had been vetted on several levels. The CIA’s own analysts had assured Berg that the Solntsevskaya Bratva had a notorious reputation for honoring contracts, or more specifically, punishing those that didn’t honor their commitments. Recent historical cases indicated that this informal code worked both ways and that the Solntsevskaya Bratva enforced breeches of agreement made by their own members. Reputation was everything to them, and this included business dealings outside of their inner circle. Still, analysts warned him that high-level bratva members displayed opportunistic tendencies when confronted with large sums of money.

 
He couldn’t give the analysts any specific details of the operation, but their final warning fueled Berg’s sole fear regarding the mafiya. He could envision an enterprising bratva soldier selling them out to the Russian government in exchange for more money and other lucrative favors. Sanderson’s team would remain on high alert throughout every stage of the operation, searching for signs of betrayal. Farrington had been ordered to abandon the mission at the first sign of trouble related to their mafiya contacts. They simply couldn’t take any chances once they were on Russian soil. Getting out of Novosibirsk would be difficult enough under the best of circumstances.

  He shuffled one of the papers to the top of the mess on his desk. Sanderson’s request for detailed information regarding Vektor Labs. Onsite security protocols. Recent facility upgrades. Military response procedures. Anything and everything that Alexei Kaparov, director of the Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division, should know about Russia’s premiere virology and biotechnology research center and former Biopreparat site. He couldn’t blame Sanderson for demanding more information, especially regarding the P4 containment building and any security response protocols. CIA intelligence confirmed a reduced security posture in terms of onsite personnel with the addition of automated cameras and an additional perimeter fence, but this just meant that the real threats could be better concealed. For all they knew, the number of security personnel remained the same, but the number of visible patrols had decreased due to expanded visual coverage provided by the cameras.

  Kaparov should be able to shed some final light on the security arrangements. He hated to put this kind of pressure on him, but “Operation Black Fist” was gaining critical momentum and he couldn’t afford to lose Sanderson’s enthusiasm. Farrington’s crew was less than twenty-four hours from crossing the line of departure. He picked up the phone and called a redirect number designated to ring the most recent cell phone number provided by Kaparov. He just hoped that his friend hadn’t decided to throw all of his remaining cell phones in the Moscow River. There was no way he could risk calling Kaparov’s desk. Pavrikova’s kidnapping wouldn’t fade from FSB or SVR attention for quite some time, and he couldn’t assume that her sudden departure would be interpreted to mean that she was the sole leak at Lubyanka Square.

  He let the phone ring nearly a dozen times before hanging up. This wasn’t a good sign. In the past, Kaparov’s cell phones always went to voice mail in half that time. He tried the number one more time, achieving the same dismal result. His next call went to Sanderson, who picked up immediately.

  “How are we looking?” Sanderson said.

  “Everything is on track. The bratva deal has been sealed. Five-point-two million dollars. Just for the record, nobody is happy about that number on my end.”

  “Of course not. The concept of ‘you get what you pay for’ is anathema to bureaucrats. Frankly, I’m surprised you got off that easy,” Sanderson said.

  “Oh, I fully expect to be shaken down for more as we get closer to the objective. You’ll have to cough up the rest. Given the look on Manning’s face when I gave him the figure, I can’t imagine wrangling another dollar out of them…let alone a million,” Berg said.

  “I’ll cover the rest. If my guess is right, they won’t call you directly. They’ll shake the team down at the worst possible moment. I’ve prepared Farrington for this possibility.”

  “Good. Farrington will contact ‘Viktor’ directly from this point forward.”

  “Viktor. Vektor. That’s the best he could do?”

  “Viktor doesn’t sound like much of a conversationalist. He’s been my direct contact from the start, but he isn’t the brigadier that Reznikov originally contacted. He’s probably someone highly trusted within this brigadier’s own personal network. One of his most loyal boyeviks,” Berg said. “Viktor will personally oversee bratva operations in Novosibirsk, so Farrington can expect to meet him face to face. He expects to hear from you once the team is assembled in Russia.”

  “That works fine. Any progress with your friend in Moscow?”

  Berg winced at the mere suggestion of Kaparov’s existence. He knew that his own line was secure and that Sanderson’s satellite phone couldn’t be intercepted by anyone outside of the NSA, but it still made him nervous. It was bad enough that Sanderson was leveraging his knowledge of Kaparov. He didn’t need anyone within his own organization leaning on him in the future. His agency had a bad habit of applying too much pressure to valuable sources. They squeezed and squeezed until the source popped, which was an easy thing to do sitting behind a desk, where no real dangers existed.

  “He’s not answering his phone at the moment. Give him some time. I know he’ll come through. He knows the stakes,” he answered.

  “All too well perhaps,” Sanderson said. “My people took one hell of a risk in Moscow on his behalf.”

  “On my behalf. He’s invaluable to us. I’ll bring him around, even if I have to fly to Moscow myself to convince him.”

  “Cold War old-timers’ reunion?” Sanderson asked.

  “I’ll make sure you get an invitation.”

  Berg’s desk phone rang. The digital readout screen of the STE (Secure Terminal Equipment) phone unit indicated that the call was encrypted. Further examination of the data presented confirmed that the call had been rerouted through the CIA’s call redirection center.

  “Terrence, let me call you back. I have an important call from Moscow,” Berg said.

  “My team needs that information before leaving Argentina,” Sanderson stated.

  “I understand. You sound like a fucking broken record sometimes.”

  He quickly transferred calls.

  “You’re still at work?” he said as a greeting. “I thought you might have been on the Metro.”

  “Of course I’m still at work. I don’t work lazy capitalist hours. What is it you have there? Working nine to five? Ridiculous,” Kaparov said.

  “I think that was a movie starring Dolly Parton,” Berg said.

  “Country music combined with massive tits. Now there is something America can be proud of,” Kaparov said.

  “Sounds like you’re in a good mood. Out for a walk?” Berg asked, noting the sound of car horns and buzzing motors in the background.

  “I’m just enjoying a peaceful cigarette amidst the carbon monoxide cloud of Moscow’s interminable rush-hour traffic.”

  “Very poetic,” Berg said.

  “Literature was never one of my strong suits in school. Why do I get the feeling that my time out of the frying pan was short lived?”

  “Am I that transparent?” Berg asked. “I might be calling to wish you well.”

  “I’m doing wonderful,” Kaparov replied. “Shall I hang up now?”

  “I’d appreciate if you didn’t. We’re very close to crossing the point of no return with the operation we discussed, but there are still quite a few unknowns.”

  “Even with our mutual friend’s information?”

  “He provided enough details to get the operation approved, but he hasn’t set foot on the grounds in over three years,” Berg said.

  “Damn it! Do you understand the level of scrutiny surrounding that program? Especially now?”

  “I can imagine,” Berg said.

  “No! You cannot! I have already been personally warned by my director not to pry into a certain northern city. Accessing information regarding the facility in question would certainly raise alarms.”

  “And exactly how are you supposed to do your job as director of the Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division?”

  “Very fucking carefully, that’s how. For now, I’d prefer to avoid initiating any inquiries having the faintest connection to our mutual friend,” Kaparov said.

  “Do you have any personal knowledge that could shed some light on security protocols or response procedures?”

  “Sure. I spend all of my time analyzing and assessing the vulnerabilities of locations that pose no threat to Russia. Maybe you’ve for
gotten, but the facility in question isn’t exactly advertised for its true purpose.”

  “But it’s one of two legitimate repositories for something that concerns your division,” Berg said.

  “If I suddenly show an interest in the facility, it will raise eyebrows. If the facility in question is breached soon after, I’ll face a firing squad…if I’m lucky.”

  “We can always get you out,” Berg stated.

  “Two in one month? Do you get a prize if you reach a certain number?”

  “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Is there any way to do this without attracting attention?”

  “I might have some paper files with the information you seek. I’ll have to do the digging myself. We conducted a routine security assessment of the facility sixteen months ago, about five months after they upgraded to a more automated security posture. Contract security force, cameras, motion detectors. Nothing too exotic.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this from the beginning? This is exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Because I wanted you to sweat a little. See how long it would take you to try and leverage the favor your friends did on my behalf,” Kaparov said.

  “I wouldn’t have leveraged that.”

  “I didn’t sweat you long enough,” Kaparov replied.

  “True. How long will it take you to retrieve the files?”

  “I should be able to pass along the information sometime tomorrow. If you can wait that long.”

  “We can wait. I’ll put my people in Moscow on notice. Your choice of drop method?”

  “One time dead drop. I’ll call you with the location. Expect a digital format.”

  “Digital. Not microfiche? I’m impressed,” Berg said.

  “You’d have to dig the reader out of your museum, and I don’t want to delay the process. My cigarette is finished. Back to work.”

  “You really should give up smoking. Takes years off your life,” Berg said.

  “So does talking to you, but I still return your calls. I’ll be in touch.”