Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  He raised his watch to his face in an exaggerated manner, straining to read the dial. Placing his wrist against his nose, he was able to make sense of the watch’s hands. One-thirty? He must have gotten carried away with shots. He vaguely remembered doing vodka shots with this woman. Her name slipped away as they stumbled into his apartment. Was he even in his own apartment? He tried to focus on his surroundings, but the hazy blur worsened until it darkened completely.

  ***

  Erin Foley lowered Pyotr to the ground and closed the apartment door, ensuring that it remained unlocked. She leaned over the young scientist and shook him a few times to be sure that he was unconscious. He didn’t stir. Her timing had been nearly perfect. She had ordered a final round of vodka shots after he excused himself to use the bathroom, spiking his drink with gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid (GHB). The date-rape drug typically took hold within fifteen to twenty minutes after ingestion, leaving her with time to maneuver him down the street to his apartment without raising any suspicions.

  He left the club without protest, clearly energized by the prospect of what she had been advertising for the past hour. It hit him right after they turned onto his street. She noticed the glassy eyes before he started losing motor control, which gave her enough advanced warning to hasten their arrival. Ivan had made it clear that it was her job to get him into the apartment. After the stunt she pulled in the car, she didn’t expect any help from the bratva, and lugging Pyotr up two flights of stairs after five strong drinks would have been a chore in high heels.

  Before exploring any further, she removed her cell phone and placed a quick call.

  “He’s out,” she said, receiving a gruff acknowledgement.

  Erin started searching in the most obvious place, removing Pyotr’s wallet and thumbing through the various compartments. Nothing. She glanced around the living room, not finding what she was looking for in the open. Further observation suggested that she should start her search in the bedroom. Pyotr’s apartment was immaculate and orderly, with nothing out of place on the dining room table or kitchen counter. Even the magazines were neatly stacked on the small coffee table in front of his couch. She could envision him entering the apartment at the end of a long day at the lab, and despite his exhaustion, still straining to keep his surroundings in order.

  She strode across the well-appointed room toward the doorway leading into the bedroom, flipping on the light. She found his private chambers in the same condition. Pristine and organized, bed covers pulled tight and an extra blanket folded near the foot of the bed. She took a few steps into the room and spied a long mahogany dresser with a perfectly centered black valet box sitting on top. She made her way to the dresser, reaching for the top center drawer instead of the more obvious box. Inside the drawer, she found several pairs of neatly arranged socks, separated into two sides. Casual socks on the left, formal black pairs on the right. She saw something jammed between the stacks and reached down to retrieve the grand prize. She stared at the thick plastic card for a moment, grinning.

  “Roskov, Pyotr. Clearance Level 4. Vektor Laboratories,” she repeated.

  The white card was attached to a lanyard by a small clip that penetrated a small hole punched into the plastic at the top of the identification card. The front of the card displayed a picture of Pyotr, along with the basic information she had just uttered. The back contained the words, “THIS SIDE FOR ACCESS.” The back of the card was imbedded with a biometric microchip that verified Roskov’s identity and security clearance, granting him mostly unlimited access to Vektor Labs, including Farrington’s target building. The security clearance system at Vektor operated on a layered principle. Since Roskov worked in Building Six, the most secure location within the Vektor Laboratories compound, his security card granted him nearly unfettered access to the entire area.

  She heard the apartment door open and stepped back into the main room. Two men stood inside the apartment. Ivan and the guy she had disabled in the back seat of the car. Without moving her head, she instinctually took note of the rack of knives next to the stainless-steel sink. Logic and training told her that she was in no danger at the moment, but once Farrington’s team departed the warehouse, en route to Vektor, all bets were off. If either of these men harbored a grudge, they might make a move against her at that point. She hoped to be long clear of Novosibirsk by then.

  She held out Pyotr Roskov’s identification card to Ivan, who calmly took it and placed it in a pocket on his black leather jacket.

  “How long?” she said.

  “Three to four hours. You need to stay here with Mr. Roskov. The dose we provided was a small one for someone his size. He should be dead to the world for at least ten hours, but you never know. If he wakes up and finds his security card gone before we replace it, this whole plan is fucked,” Ivan said.

  As much as she didn’t want to sit around this apartment, she couldn’t argue with Ivan’s logic. In fact, she had been impressed with their plan from the beginning, even if she could barely stand to be around them. Surreptitiously acquiring a high-level security card from Vektor presented several opportunities to explore. The team’s electronics tech, “Misha,” working alongside the bratva’s best credit card forgery people, would reproduce Roskov’s identification card with one major modification.

  The new card’s biometric chip would transmit a simple Trojan horse virus deep into Vektor’s automated digital security system, providing Misha with a customized “backdoor” to access the system. Most biometric chips used in point-of-access security systems utilized passive authentication protocols, where the chip is simply read by the scanning device. Most of the security focus is placed on encrypting the chip, leaving the point of interface vulnerable to active data transmission from a modified microchip.

  When Roskov held his new card up to one of the secure access terminals, the microchip would actively transmit the virus during the negotiated scan of the chip’s stored biometric data. Misha hoped to transmit the entire virus in one transaction, but had designed the replacement chip with the capability to stop and start, monitoring its own progress to ensure all of the data found its way into the system.

  Ivan’s partner placed a small duffel bag on the ground and pushed it toward her with his foot.

  “Everything you need,” Ivan said, nodding at the bag.

  “All right,” she said, making no move to retrieve the bag in front of them.

  She had no reason to intentionally place herself within striking distance of either man. Ivan cracked a faint grin, which under any other circumstance could be interpreted as bizarrely creepy. He had a disturbingly calm, unaffected look plastered on his face most of the time. Smiling was not one of Ivan’s practiced facial expressions, and the result was unnerving.

  “When we’re done here, I want to learn how you did that trick with my hand,” he said.

  “Takes a lot of practice,” she said.

  “We’ll have time,” he said, flattening his grin.

  “In that case, it’s a date.”

  She caught both of them looking at the bag again, which was supposed to contain a portable mask system to deliver an aerosolized anesthetic in the unlikely event that Roskov roused from his deep, artificial slumber before they arrived with the replacement card. A few hits of sevoflurane, a general anesthetic, would render him unconscious again for a short period of time. She could continue to safely deliver sevoflurane in small doses until she could leave the apartment.

  “All right. I give up. What’s in the bag?”

  “The anesthesia and a special kit. We can’t have him suspicious,” Ivan said, now fully grinning.

  “Kit?”

  “It should be self-explanatory. We’ll leave you to take care of the scene,” he said, signaling for the other man to leave.

  She didn’t like the way this sounded. When Ivan closed the door, she threw the deadbolt and cautiously retrieved the bag, placing it on the kitchen counter. She fought away all of her irrational fears about what
might be waiting for her in the bag. It made little sense for them to hurt her at this point in the operation, especially at this exact moment in Roskov’s apartment. She was a phone call away from the very hasty arrival of her own teammates, who had followed her to the apartment from a distance. Grudgingly, she opened the bag and started to remove the contents.

  The mask and connected aerosolizing unit was intact and ready for use. A portable battery unit had been provided to ensure continuous uninterrupted power in the unlikely event that Roskov’s bed wasn’t near an electrical outlet. Nothing unexpected so far. She delicately lifted a large zip-lock bag out of the duffel and examined the contents, shaking her head in disgust. Now she knew why they were smiling. Ivan and his friends had been busy in the car while she worked Roskov in the club. Unfortunately, they appeared to have enjoyed themselves more than she cared to imagine. She had to hand it to Viktor’s people. They were excruciatingly thorough and took a perversely twisted pride in their work.

  Chapter 34

  10:45 AM

  Planovaya Street

  Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

  Pyotr Roskov slowly tried to open one of his eyes, which stayed mostly shut in protest of the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. A pounding headache and waves of nausea rippled through him simultaneously, driving his simple desire to get out of bed. He desperately needed water and aspirin, but his body wasn’t responding very well to commands. He lay there for several minutes in agony, wondering what had happened to him. He vaguely remembered meeting a woman at a nightclub. An Australian woman he seemed to recall, but details were hazy beyond that. He certainly didn’t remember the trip back to his apartment.

  The lack of memory disturbed him. He’d never blacked out from drinking before, despite some serious partying at university. His hangover felt different, worse than before, causing him to question the night’s events. Had he been drugged? Robbed? Shit. Now it made sense. He had finally been taken for a sucker by a con artist. The thought of being duped angered him enough to turn his head and stare at his alarm clock. He was normally in the lab by now, enjoying the weekend tranquility of an abandoned facility. He wondered what they took. He let this thought linger for a few moments before sitting up suddenly and sending a shockwave through his skull.

  He focused his blurry vision on the top dresser drawer, which was closed. He was well paid by Russian standards, but far from wealthy. He could think of several dozen better targets than himself in that nightclub. Regulars that would be easy to target. Maybe the thief was after something different. He struggled out of bed, feeling a little more connected to his body. He was naked, which was unusual. He typically slept in shorts and a T-shirt. He didn’t want to think of what they might have done with him while he was passed out. The pictures that might surface in an email…further blackmail opportunity.

  His feet found the floor, and he walked unsteadily to the dresser. Upon hesitantly sliding the top drawer open, he stared inside for a moment, not immediately finding his Vektor security card. Aside from money and some second-rate jewelry, his security card was the only other thing worth stealing. He dug between the two rows of socks and felt the plastic card. He removed it from the drawer and examined the card, half-expecting to find a low-quality fake with a picture of Lenin. Nothing was wrong with his card.

  Now he felt foolish. He was clearly not as important as he’d momentarily thought. They’d apparently just taken what little money he kept on hand, along with a few watches and an heirloom ring from his grandmother. He opened his valet box, shocked that it hadn’t been emptied of these petty valuables. Now he was intrigued. Had he just drank too much, while enjoying the company of a beautiful woman? It was almost more plausible to believe that he had been the victim of a plot to steal a deadly flu strain from his laboratory.

  He turned toward the bed with the full intention of going back to sleep, when he saw a littered mess on the rough hardwood floor in front of the nightstand. He walked a little closer, to allow his eyes to better focus on the incongruous untidiness. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Now he really felt like an idiot. An idiot for drinking enough to stay passed out long enough for that Australian beauty to leave on her own accord after such a passionately crazy night. He wondered if she was waiting downstairs in the small café. He must have mentioned that place at some point during their sexual tryst. She had probably just gone downstairs to recharge herself for more.

  What a shame he had blacked out. He counted three used condoms and their associated wrappers tossed on the floor with the casual abandon of lovers that couldn’t be bothered with proper waste disposal procedures. The thought energized him enough to consider an alternative to sleeping off his hangover. He was torn between cleaning up the mess and rushing downstairs to search for this incredible woman. The mess could wait, he supposed, though he had been extremely lucky to have avoided stepping on one of the condoms in his bare feet. He’d better tidy up this mess. Used condoms would be the last thing she would want to see when they returned.

  Five minutes later, bleary eyed and still a little wobbly, he sat alone in the café with a hot coffee and a tiny glass of water, waiting for an order of blini. He’d clearly taken too long to wake from his drunken stupor and she’d left. The middle-aged woman behind the counter held up under interrogation, swearing that no foreigners had been in the café this morning.

  He rubbed his stubble-covered chin and contemplated the day. He’d shower off and head to Vektor. He didn’t want to waste the day lamenting over his loss, eventually wandering the city like a lost puppy in search of its owner. No. He’d bury himself in work for several hours, emerging for dinner. After that, he’d count down the hours until Diesel opened and he could claim his usual perch near the dance floor. Based on the mess he had found on the bedroom floor, he felt that his chances of seeing her again were better than average.

  Chapter 35

  12:23 PM

  Dzerzhinsky City District

  Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

  Richard Farrington joined Grisha near a bank of flat-screen computer monitors mounted to a thick wooden table nestled into the far corner of the warehouse. Three forty-watt bulbs dangled precariously from wires nailed to the ceiling’s vaulted beams. The Solntsevskaya Bratva didn’t have to worry about building codes or surprise inspections, so everything added to the warehouse beyond the foundational structure looked half-finished and ready to collapse at any moment.

  Despite the complete lack of creature comforts, he could hardly complain. From an operational standpoint, Viktor had arranged everything they needed to this point. Detailed surveillance of Pyotr Roskov and Vektor, state-of-the-art electronics and computer gear, suitable modern weapons, and working vehicles. Everything at their immediate disposal with no questions asked. He had even provided the team with Russian internal passports, in the unlikely event that one of them was pulled over and questioned while moving around the city. The bratva may be a veritable rogue’s gallery of despicable human beings, but they were extraordinarily thorough and discreet, something he hadn’t expected from street criminals. Based on what he had seen so far, he could understand why the Solntsevskaya mafiya dominated the international organized crime scene. They were organized, disciplined and skilled, a combination he could appreciate.

  “Has he swiped the card?” Farrington asked.

  Grisha turned his head to reply. At first glance in the dim lighting, he didn’t look very different from the men guarding the warehouse complex, giving Farrington pause. He’d made it clear to Viktor that he didn’t want any of the bratva foot soldiers in their makeshift operations center, unless specifically requested. Grisha could pass for a Russian without a question, which made Farrington feel slightly inferior on a mission deep into enemy territory.

  Farrington’s straight British lineage was only slightly tempered by traceable Scandinavian roots from his mother’s side of the family near western Lancashire. This combination of genes provided him with little natural Slavic camoufl
age beyond white skin and brown hair. He felt exposed on the streets posing as a Russian. A feeling not likely to be shared by the rest of the team, except for their sniper, Jared Hoffman, a descendant of German Jews. At least Hoffman looked European, which helped his case. Farrington basically resembled an American when he wasn’t wearing his cheek implants.

  “He swiped it once at the main gate, but only half of the file uploaded,” Viktor grumbled.

  “Everything’s fine,” Misha said. “The biometric scanner is faster than I expected. High end shit.”

  Farrington didn’t like the sound of that. Information provided by Berg’s contact in the FSB confirmed the addition of low-tech security solutions in 2003, when responsibility for Vektor’s security was put in private hands. They had assumed that internal security upgrades would follow suit. Had they made some bad assumptions? Sensing his hesitation, Misha continued to explain.

  “Mr. Roskov will pass through at least eight more security points on his way to Building Six. I can’t imagine any scenario in which the remaining kilobytes of virus won’t be transferred…except for one.”

  “What?” Grisha said, clearly taken off guard.

  “If he decides to turn his car around and head back into town to find the elusive Ms. Reynolds,” he said, pointing his thumb in the general direction of the cots where Erin Foley was sleeping, “we’re shit out of luck.”

  Grisha’s earpiece crackled.

  “Surveillance team is returning to base. I’ll notify the front gate,” Grisha said, “unless you need me here.”

  “I’ll notify the gate,” Farrington said, switching to a whisper. “Let me know if anything goes wrong. I’d hate to think we grabbed the card for nothing.”

  “I heard that. I’ll be inside their system before you walk out that door,” Misha said.