Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “I hope so, or I’m going to stuff you in a DHL package and overnight you as a low-tech version of your Trojan horse virus,” Farrington said.

  “Why do I believe him?” Misha said.

  “Because I think he’d actually try it as a last resort,” Grisha said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Farrington said.

  “Hold on. Hold on,” Misha said. “Virus uploaded. He just accessed the main entrance. Look at this. My little baby is already going to work. Three. Two. One.”

  The screen to the far right changed to an internal Vektor Laboratories screen.

  “Administrator access to Vektor Laboratories’ security system,” Misha said, raising his hand above his head.

  Farrington stared at the hand for a few seconds before winking at Grisha and walking away.

  “You’re really going to leave me hanging like that? Brutal,” he said, lowering the hand.

  “Excellent work, Misha. Does that make you feel more appreciated?” Farrington said, already halfway across the warehouse floor.

  “As a matter of fact, it does, though I could do without the sarcasm.”

  “File a complaint!” Farrington called back.

  “Sorry, Erin, Katie…whoever you are right now,” Farrington said, catching her peeking out of her sleeping bag.

  “Please tell me that I touched used condoms last night for a reason,” she said.

  “I really don’t know how to respond to that, but if you’re wondering about the security card, the virus uploaded smoothly. We’re in business.”

  “I can’t get the image of those three steaming up the car windows out of my head. I’m going to need a psych eval when this is done.”

  “Get in line,” he said and disappeared through the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, he returned with the rest of the team, locking the door behind them. Grisha had spoken one of their predetermined code words over their communications network, which called for a “private” conversation. Viktor’s people had provided their handheld P25 radios, leaving them with no way to ensure that the encryption protocols hadn’t been compromised. As Farrington crossed the room, passing two tables stacked with weapons and gear, he raised his thumb. On cue, “Seva,” their heavy weapons assault specialist, turned on a portable boom box stereo, which emitted horrible heavy metal music from a local radio station. The entire team stood around Misha at the computer station.

  “We have a problem,” Grisha said.

  “The basement of Building Six is protected by a fingerprint scanner. I can’t bypass this security protocol. The system is self-contained and can only be accessed directly at the scanner station. Very secure,” Misha said.

  “Basement? Reznikov said the bioweapons lab was located on the top floor. Motherfucker. Berg’s guy didn’t cough up anything about this either,” Farrington said.

  “Berg’s information is pretty detailed, but the most recent update in that file is dated October 2006. They must have moved it into the basement within the past two years,” said Sasha, the youngest member of the assault team.

  “Damn it. Can we change plans and just blow the building? Cause it to collapse on itself? Burn it up? I know we’ve been over this, but…” Farrington said.

  Seva shook his head. “Reznikov was right. Based on my interpretation of the original schematics, we’d need a Timothy McVeigh-sized explosion to obliterate the building. Even then, I couldn’t guarantee they would be out of business. We need to get inside the lab. The best I can do with what we have on hand is hopefully breach the door. It would get us inside.”

  “And alert every security guard on the property,” Farrington said. “We can’t fight off ex-special forces and destroy the lab at the same time.”

  “We can, but—” Grisha started.

  “But we’d kill any hope of getting out of Vektor with a head start,” Farrington cut in, “if we made it out at all. As it stands, we’re not looking at a big margin of time before police units arrive. Once news of the attack hits the police and government airwaves, anyone with a badge and a car will be headed in our direction. We need to come up with a less explosive backup plan.”

  “Or a finger. Maybe a whole hand,” Foley interjected.

  Farrington turned his head to stare at her.

  “What? We’re planning to kill the three scientists running the program. Why not take one of their hands? Or both,” she said, chewing on an energy bar.

  Misha shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The scanner model indicated by security schematics combines a few biometric features. First, it takes an ultrasound picture of the finger and matches it with an internal database. Then, it measures temperature—”

  “We can keep the hand at body temperature somehow,” Grisha interrupted.

  “Right. But this system measures and averages the temperature readings taken for a specific individual since its installation. Our hand donor might have peripheral vascular disease or diabetes, causing a reduction of blood flow to the extremities, or something simple, like the flu. The system accounts for the fact that not everyone’s hand is going to average out to 98.6 degrees. Ever shake hands with someone whose hands are always cold?”

  “Jared’s hands feel like icicles,” Foley said, raising a few eyebrows and eliciting a few grins. “Add sexual harassment to my list of complaints.”

  “She’s right. My hands have to be at least five degrees below body core temperature, and I don’t have diabetes…as far as I know,” said Jared Hoffman—Gosha for this mission.

  “We need to do some research into hand temperatures. If you can’t find a satisfactory amount of information in the next hour using the internet, I’ll call Berg and put him to work on this. I’m sure the CIA has a body of information on the subject of beating biometric scanners. If any doubt remains about the viability of using a detached hand, we’ll have to kidnap one of the scientists,” Farrington said.

  “We don’t have the people for that,” Grisha said.

  “I know. I’ll talk to Viktor about adding the service, if necessary. Anything else?” he asked, looking around at the team. When no one responded, he went on. “Very well. We still have a lot of work to do before we step off tomorrow, so don’t waste any time. Check and recheck the gear. If we need to replace something, I need to hear it sooner than later. Erin, can you stick around a second?” he said, nodding at Grisha, who left with the rest of the team.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with the mission timeline? You’ll be cutting it close with your flight,” Farrington said.

  “I’ll be fine. If I miss the flight, I know where to find a ride home,” Foley said.

  “Trust me. You want to be on that flight.”

  She regarded him for a moment, and he suspected that she might try and argue her case for staying. He didn’t need her at Vektor Labs, but the team could always use another capable operative during the exfiltration. She wasn’t trained for the kind of combat he anticipated, but she had proven to be a decisive asset in Stockholm. He simply couldn’t discount her based on the conditions he expected during their escape. He had other reasons for ensuring her safe departure.

  “You have skills our program desperately needs, and from what I understand, you’re slated to spend the rest of your career behind a desk in Langley. When you get back to the States, consider taking a long vacation to Argentina,” he suggested.

  “What makes you think I don’t want a cushy desk job in the CIA’s Scandinavian section?”

  “Just a hunch,” he said.

  “I’ll make the flight.”

  Chapter 36

  1:25 PM

  Dzerzhinsky City District

  Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

  Farrington watched Viktor closely for a reaction to his request. The stolid Russian took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke pour through his nose, never changing his expression.

  “You do realize it will be Sunday evening? We’ll h
ave to do this in their homes,” Viktor said.

  “I don’t see any other way. It’s a timing issue for my team. They can’t be in two places at once,” Farrington said.

  “Bullshit,” Viktor said, rising from behind his desk in a cloud of smoke. “You need me to do the dirtiest part of your job.” Farrington started to protest, but Viktor continued. “I wondered when you would come crawling to me for this. Your people may be super-soldiers, but they’re not cut out for street murder and dismemberment.”

  “I call it targeted killing of enemy personnel. Assassination. You call it street murder. I guess it depends on where you’re sitting,” Farrington countered.

  “It’s murder no matter how you look at it, and I don’t get the sense that your team is up for dragging people out of their homes in front of their loved ones to kill them. Two million dollars. Final price. You take it or leave it,” Viktor said.

  Farrington was relieved to hear him make an offer within the range he was immediately authorized to pay. He didn’t feel like wasting time debating the distinction between the Solntesvskaya’s concept of murder and his own. He agreed with the basic reality of Viktor’s simplistic view that “murder is murder,” but differed vastly in his interpretation and justification of killing in the course of executing his duties.

  Viktor’s people killed to secure the dominance of their organized crime network, employing individuals that embraced murder and violence. Farrington’s people killed to safeguard lives, utilizing men and women that had to be convinced and conditioned to kill without question. He was grateful to spare his team the exposure to what would be an extremely unpleasant and morally confusing job, but he wasn’t the least bit swayed by Viktor’s dime-store comparison.

  “There won’t be any room for error on this,” Farrington said.

  “Lucky for you, we’ve been watching them closely. Do we have a deal?”

  “No casualties outside of the scientists,” Farrington said.

  “I can’t promise that, but I can assure you that it is in my best interest to limit the killing to the scientists. See, I knew this wasn’t your cup of tea. If this were my operation, I would make it a point to kill everyone present to send a message. How many scientists would be eager to sign up for the same job after learning what happened?”

  “I think limiting the damage to the scientists will send the right message. Shall I have the money transferred to the same bank?”

  “No negotiation? I should have started at three million. We’ll use a different bank this time,” Viktor said.

  Thirty minutes later, Farrington confirmed the transfer of two million dollars from one of Sanderson’s accounts in the Cayman Islands to a bank account number traceable to Switzerland. He suspected that Viktor had made this deal without permission from his superiors. The initial payment to guarantee Solntsevskaya cooperation had been made to a bank in Moscow, where the money had presumably been transferred to one of the world’s more discreet banking havens. If Viktor was siphoning money into his own account, it meant that he was violating orders by helping them kill the scientists. This eased Farrington’s concerns about trigger-happy Russian mobsters. Viktor couldn’t afford the extra scrutiny guaranteed to come with an execution-style family massacre linked to the evening’s festivities at Vektor.

  Chapter 37

  6:52 AM

  Benny’s Diner

  Newport, Vermont

  Pamela Travis balanced four plates of hot food using a combination of her hands and arms. She had been working at Benny’s for over a decade, never missing a Saturday morning. Saturday mornings, even in the dead of winter, kept the tables packed well past noon, which in turn put good tip money in her pocket. The summers were insane, when vacationers turned up to enjoy the Lake Memphremagog waterfront and boaters drifted down the lake a few miles from Canada to dock in Newport for the afternoon.

  Arriving at any time past eight in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday morning guaranteed a minimum one-hour wait for a table. Any later than that and a party of four might be stuck outside for two hours, free to wander Main Street and window shop, but under constant threat of losing their table. Benny’s waiting policy was strict. Each party received one announcement followed by a half-minute wait before they moved onto the next name on the waiting list.

  Frankly, she wasn’t sure why anyone would wait so long for Benny’s food or put up with his wait-list shenanigans. The food was standard American breakfast fare, with little variation or panache. She made better corned beef hash at home, in half the time, and her pancakes were gourmet compared to Benny’s. She supposed the long lines were more a function of the competitive market than tastiness.

  They were the only game in town for breakfast, having dominated the market for as long as any of the locals could remember. Every now and then a Canadian family would stop in, and a misty-eyed mother or father would reminisce about their summer vacations as children, and how they never missed a Saturday breakfast at Benny’s, no matter how long they had to wait. It made her wonder if the food up in Canada was bad.

  Defying gravity and several equally important laws of physics maneuvering through the crowded diner, she arrived at a cramped table of slightly unpleasant-smelling men. Russians, by the sound of them, probably up from New York City on a fishing trip. She’d heard about large pockets of Russian immigrants living in a place called Brighton Beach, near Brooklyn. A lot of New Yorkers vacationed in the area during the summer, but they typically arrived in July or August. Families from New York or Massachusetts owned a good number of the cottages ringing the lake. Judging by the look of this group, they must be up early to take advantage of cheaper rental prices. They were pleasant enough, but certainly not part of the well-heeled New York crowd.

  She had to admit, they were by far her most entertaining group this season. The spokesman for the group, a stocky, muscular gentleman with a long scar running down the right side of his jaw, asked if they served alcohol. She checked her watch and laughed. 6:52 in the morning. She wished they served booze, but Benny was too cheap to seek a liquor license. Acquiring a limited license might have made sense given the number of requests for mimosas during the summer. The New York crowd seemed to be enamored with the idea of champagne and orange juice for breakfast, even during the middle of the week. Another opportunity lost. She’d quit making suggestions long ago.

  Upon her arrival, one of the men furtively concealed something under the table. She gave him a slightly disapproving look, followed by a wink. He grinned and brought the flask back to his orange juice, dumping a good portion of the contents into the half-full glass. She had seen the rest of them violate Vermont’s liquor laws in a similar manner over the past thirty minutes, but said nothing. Who was she to spoil their vacation?

  She offloaded their meals in less than five seconds, announcing that she’d be back with the rest of the order in a minute. The men thanked her in choppy English, nodding happily. As she turned from the table, she caught one of them swigging directly from his flask.

  “Discretion, boys,” she said over her shoulder, headed back to the kitchen.

  Looking back at the table while loading up the rest of their plates, she could see the guy with the scar explaining what she had said to a gathering of approving faces. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to arrive in a strange country and try to make a new life. With that thought, she delivered the rest of their food and made sure their coffees were full until they left. She hoped they enjoyed their stay in Vermont. They really looked like a group that could use a vacation.

  Chapter 38

  3:45 PM

  Desnyans’kyi Park

  Kiev, Ukraine

  Feliks Yeshevskey’s car cleared the row of gray apartment buildings towering over Nikolajeva Street, revealing the near impossibility of the task at hand. His mood instantly changed from morose to furiously enraged, led by a string of obscenities that would have offended the Federation Navy’s crustiest chief ship petty officers. Desnyans�
�kyi Park was packed with families enjoying the unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon. Finding their man in this vast sea of trees and picnickers was going to take the rest of the afternoon.

  He briefly considered abandoning the search and waiting back at the man’s apartment building, but the neighbor directly across the hallway told them that Boris Ilkin liked to take his family out to dinner on Saturdays. They would typically return before sunset, when the common areas between buildings of their apartment block filled with drunks looking for trouble. Feliks dismissed the plan. He didn’t have the patience to wait another five hours. It had already taken them most of the day to track down the names and addresses of service tellers that had worked shifts at Kiev Central Station on Tuesday, when Richard Farrington landed and presumably acquired transportation to Russia.

  They were dealing with too many presumptions and assumptions in this case. Farrington had entered the Ukraine posing as an Australian, proceeding to vanish into thin air. No record of him beyond customs could be found, leading Feliks to assume that he had shifted identities. Ardankin was convinced that he would try to enter Russia, which made his job slightly less complicated. Transportation to Russia was plentiful on any given day, but the options were finite.

  The easiest and most expedient way to enter Russia was by train, but he could also have chosen from several regular bus routes. Worse yet, he could have rented a car from any of the hundreds of rental agency locations around Kiev. They hadn’t begun to explore options beyond rail travel yet. He had limited resources and had been specifically warned not to involve Ukrainian authorities. With a handful of agents, they would concentrate on one mode of transportation at a time. His agents were spread throughout the city tracking down the few remaining ticket agents on the list.

  He signaled for the driver to pull over into a residential parking space across the street. Turning in his seat, he addressed the timid-looking woman in the back seat.