“You’re not going to have much of a face left in a few minutes. I want the addresses!” Hubner bellowed.
El-Masri growled words back at him. Whatever he said caused Hassan to break eye contact with Petrovich and turn his head.
**
Batista leaned his face into the computer screen.
“Check this out. Translation of what El-Masri just screamed: ‘Hassan will shit the addresses down your throat.’ Do you think Hassan ate the address list?”
Luke spun in his chair and read the screen. The translation software was a top-shelf program, leaving little to question about the substance of El-Masri’s comment. He typed a few search strings into his own computer, looking for context. A few seconds later, he contacted Hubner.
“Fritz, El-Masri just screamed…and I quote, ‘Hassan will shit the addresses down your throat.’ I think he may have eaten the list. I can’t find any Arab insults specific to defecation. This may have been a literal comment,” Luke said.
“Only one way to find out,” Hubner said.
The channel went silent, but they could all hear the verbal exchanges through Akhnaten’s hijacked cell phone.
“Did Hassan eat the list?” they heard Hubner ask.
The van remained silent for a few seconds. None of them could see the response from Hassan or El-Masri, but judging by Petrovich’s sinister laugh, Luke was very glad that they had stopped the webcam feed. He just hoped they would show some mercy and kill Hassan before they started cutting him open.
Chapter 7
9:20 PM
Gulfstream V Aircraft
Somewhere over the UK
Karl Berg drummed his fingers on the top of his armrest, staring at Anatoly Reznikov. The scientist sat upright in a hospital bed, his wrists and ankles restrained by thick plastic straps bolted to the metal bed. Two IV drips hung over his right shoulder, clipped into the bed so they wouldn’t roll with the movement of the Gulfstream V. A portable diagnostic machine and defibrillator had been attached to the cabin near the foot of his bed, monitoring his vitals. A Langley physician sat in the row nearest to Reznikov, keeping an eye on the man’s pulse and occasionally checking his blood pressure. Reznikov was in poor shape to travel, but Berg wanted get him out of Sweden as soon as possible. Russian intelligence services were extremely well connected in the northern countries of Europe, and he couldn’t take any risks that could connect the U.S. to his abduction.
Part of him wished the Swedish doctor hadn’t managed to revive the scientist. Reznikov had enabled terrorists to pursue one of the most twisted conspiracies in recent human history, all for his own gain. According to his most recent conversation with Audra, U.S. authorities had made little progress in their efforts to recover the virus canisters. If released by Al Qaeda, or whoever planned to use them, dozens of U.S. cities would suffer the same fate as the Russian city, Monchegorsk. Another reason to jettison Reznikov over the Atlantic and be done with him. The thought of U.S. taxpayers footing the bill to keep this psychopath alive didn’t sit well with him, but for some odd reason, he couldn’t order the man’s execution. Berg couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Reznikov’s story, and he intended to hear the rest of it before putting this mad Russian down.
“No drink service on an agency plane?” said the woman sitting diagonally across from him.
“Agency policy,” he said and paused before continuing. “But I’ve been known to violate procedure from time to time.”
He pulled his dark brown leather satchel down from the overhead compartment and unlatched the thick straps holding the cover flap securely in place. He reached in and raised a bottle of light brown liquid from the depths of the leather sanctuary.
“I hope you don’t mind expensive whiskey.”
“I’d drink moonshine at this point. It’s been a long twenty-four hours floating around Stockholm like a refugee.”
He studied Erin Foley’s features for a moment. Her straight shoulder-length hair showed signs of waviness. He imagined she spent a significant part of her morning flattening and styling her uncooperative blond locks. She was attractive, in her early thirties, with soft facial features that wouldn’t draw second look on the streets of Stockholm, or any Scandinavian city. Exactly what the CIA looked for in an active operative. No second glances. She’d been silent until now, which had suited Berg fine. The last thing he needed on this flight was a chatterbox. This one displayed a reserve he admired, especially given the bragging rights she had earned.
“Sorry about that, but we couldn’t leave you in circulation. Not after you killed a Zaslon. The Russians will put this one together pretty quickly. He was the only one knifed on the street. It screams CIA,” Berg said, removing two short crystal tumblers from a compartment along the aircraft’s inner hull.
“I can’t imagine the Russians could hold any leverage over us. It would put them in an awkward position,” she replied, eyeing the glasses.
“Very awkward, but the Zaslon group is different. They won’t let this one go so easily. Your image was recorded on at least two security cameras leaving Bondegatan Street. If you had stayed in Stockholm, they would have found you,” he said.
Berg poured two fingers of the whiskey into each tumbler and set the bottle on the seat next to him. He handed her one of the glasses and raised his own for a toast.
“To a job exceptionally well done.”
She raised her eyebrow at the toast, and the two glasses clinked together. She downed half of her tumbler in one swallow, showing no sign of the whiskey burning her throat on the way down. She stared at the drink, clearly contemplating doing the same with the rest of it.
“You do realize that you just fired down one of the finest whiskeys ever made. This particular single pot still was distilled at the B-Daly Distillery in Tullamore, which closed a long time ago. Not many bottles of this lying around anymore,” he said, taking a measured sip.
She raised the glass again and threw back the rest of her $200 drink before staring out of the window into the darkness. “Sorry. I never really acquired the taste.”
Berg could see that she had finally realized what this plane ride back to the states meant for her career.
“You’re not the first field agent to suddenly change career tracks. It’s not an easy pill to swallow, but most covert agents find themselves sent home for mundane reasons. Blown cover, a misspoken word to the wrong foreign national…not many are sent home for taking out a Zaslon operative. You could have walked away from that street. Your job was done.”
“I didn’t see it that way,” she said, placing her glass back down on Berg’s faux wooden seat tray.
He poured her another drink and leaned back in his seat.
“I guess we got lucky. The one black-ops trained agent assigned to the Stockholm embassy finds herself in the middle of the blackest op in recent history. Drinks are on me,” he said and raised his glass again.
“I’ll take one of those,” boomed a Russian speaking voice.
“Looks like our friend is awake. Please excuse me for a moment,” Berg said.
The doctor barely glanced at Reznikov’s vitals as Berg made his way down the cramped aisle. The scientist pulled at his restraints a few times and smiled.
“Where could I possibly go? This is uncivil,” he said.
“I wanted to make it easier to wheel you out of the door over the Atlantic,” Berg replied, dusting off his fluent Russian.
“Such harsh treatment at the hands of my new friends. I assume we are friends?”
Berg shook his head, wondering if the doctor would protest if he slammed his fist down on Reznikov’s stomach.
“How’s my new friend looking?” he said to the doctor instead.
The gray-haired, tired-looking physician opened a small black notebook and looked up at him. “He appears stable. His heart’s electrophysiology is back to normal, though I wouldn’t recommend giving him a drink. I predict a successful delivery.”
“Delivery?
What am I, a slab of meat?” Reznikov said and pulled at his restraints again.
“That can be arranged if necessary. Enjoy the sunrise, if you get to see one during the trip. It’ll be your last. I’ve arranged a dark cell for you. Well off the grid. You’re about to disappear forever, after a lengthy visit from your new friends,” Berg said.
“I told them everything,” Reznikov said.
“They were working under a timeline back in Stockholm. They won’t be in any rush this time.”
“You already know everything. I sold the virus to Al Qaeda. The distribution center in Germany, the lists of addresses….everything. You stopped the plot, I assume. What the fuck else do you want from me?”
Reznikov’s heart rate had nearly doubled in the past fifteen seconds, indicating that Berg had hit a nerve.
“We stopped the plot in Europe, but most of the virus canisters made it to the U.S. Your twisted ego and blatant insanity has put millions of American lives at risk. This doesn’t put you in a good position. My superiors want to make sure you aren’t hiding anything.”
“I’m not insane,” Reznikov said.
Berg could see that this was another raw nerve to be played. Reznikov didn’t see himself as deranged. If he had any intention of discussing what Reznikov did to Monchegorsk, he was certain that the scientist would provide a “rational” explanation. The fact that he treated the sale of the virus to Al Qaeda so flippantly was a sure sign of his detachment from reality. He’d be sure to pass these observations to the interrogation team assigned to tear Reznikov apart mentally and physically.
“Tell it to your interrogators,” Berg said.
He started to walk back to his seat to enjoy the rest of his drink, but Reznikov’s next comment stopped him in his tracks.
“The program isn’t dead.”
He turned around slowly, pretending not to care. “What program?”
“The Russian bioweapons program. Weaponized encephalitis is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Are you saying that VEKTOR labs has a full-scale, active bioweapons program?”
“Why do you think they wanted me dead so badly? Why they’re doing everything in their power to cover up Monchegorsk and blame the city’s demise on an insurgent uprising. That’s pure nonsense.”
“What else are they working on?” Berg said, realizing that he sounded way too eager.
“I think we need to discuss my future living arrangements before I go into any more detail.”
“A deal? You want some kind of a deal? We can torture the information out of you. It would be a lot less expensive and wouldn’t leave me with a bad taste in my mouth,” Berg said.
“You can’t torture that level of detail out of me, and you’ll want the details. I can deliver the entire program. The major players, the facility, history, current programs…everything. All I ask in return is a comfortable place to live out my remaining years and access to vodka. Good vodka, not the cheap shit. I’ve always wanted to live in the mountains.”
Berg noticed that Reznikov’s heart rate had almost returned to normal, which struck him as pure irony given the fact that he could feel his own heart through his throat. This confirmed what one of the Edgewood scientists had suspected, but only hinted about. There was no way that Reznikov had genetically modified basic encephalitis samples in a makeshift laboratory on Kazakhstan soil. The laboratory site discovered in the middle of the former Semipalatinsk nuclear testing grounds had been used to grow a virus Reznikov had stolen from VEKTOR. No wonder the Russians seemed willing to stop at nothing to kill Reznikov and keep samples of the virus out of western hands.
Berg suddenly felt exposed in the private jet. The Russians hadn’t hesitated to shoot down the last private CIA charter to depart for the United States. He fought the urge to look out of the small oval window over Reznikov’s head. They were as safe as possible over the United Kingdom, escorted by two Royal Air Force Typhoon fighter jets. The high-performance fighter aircraft would accompany them as far as possible over the Atlantic, before returning to their base. They would fly unescorted for several hundred miles until met by a pair of F-15 Strike Eagles launched from Langley Air Force base.
He looked down at Reznikov, who wore a smug look on his pale face, wondering if they could torture this out of him. He certainly deserved to endure some serious discomfort for engineering the tragedy in Monchegorsk and exposing the rest of the world to his madness. Unfortunately, Reznikov was right about the details. Just knowing the basics about the Russian bioweapons program wouldn’t be enough. They needed actionable intelligence, the kind of information that would require a comfortable setting and legal assurances.
“I have an idea that might agree with you,” he muttered.
“No prison cells,” Reznikov stated.
“No. This is a very different kind of place. More of a house arrest type of situation with a view. Small population. Clean air. If I swing this, you have to give me everything.”
“You might not want to hear everything. How about that drink? Vodka is more of my drink, but I’m not feeling picky right now,” Reznikov said.
“Sorry. I need to deliver you alive. Doctor’s orders. Plus, I have no intention of sitting here and putting a cup to your lips like you’re a nursing home patient. If the right people buy off on what I have in mind, you’ll be swimming in vodka.”
“I expect the good stuff. Smirnoff doesn’t count.”
Berg returned to his seat without acknowledging Reznikov’s comment. He moved next to the window so he couldn’t see the man’s disgusting face while he tried to process the next move. Foley continued to stare out into the darkness, giving him a moment to himself. He’d have to contact Audra immediately to see if the Agency would trade a “retirement package” at Mountain Glen for Reznikov’s information. He couldn’t imagine the director turning down the deal. Until moments ago, even the CIA had no idea that the Russian bioweapons program still existed. He let his mind wander for a moment, performing an “all possibilities” assessment of the situation. A faint smile began to form as he delved deeper into one of the ideas. He grabbed his glass of whiskey and downed the contents. He felt the burn in his throat, followed by the warm rush that spread upward to his head. Maybe Ms. Foley had the right idea.
“That’s a dangerous-looking smile,” Foley said.
“You have no idea. You speak fluent Russian, right?” he said.
She barely nodded.
“I need to make a private phone call,” he said, suddenly getting up from his seat.
He walked toward the front of the jet and took a seat in a small alcove designed for privacy. He wished it was enclosed, and briefly considered taking a seat in the lavatory. The thought of sitting inside the cramped space for this phone call didn’t last very long. He had enough privacy here, as long as he kept his voice low. He used the cordless phone to dial a number he had memorized and waited for the Gulfstream’s MCS-7000 Satellite Communications System to connect the call. He purposely did not utilize the CIA’s secure channel to route the call. He liked to maintain plausible deniability until the very last moment, and what he was about to suggest would require an incredible amount of deniability. Until the time was right, he didn’t want any record of this call to exist. The line connected.
“Karl. I hadn’t expected to hear from you this soon. Everything proceeded according to plan in Frankfurt. I just spoke with Farrington, and they were able to extract a working list of shipping addresses for the virus canisters,” General Sanderson said.
“That quickly? Maybe I should recommend that we send a few of our interrogators down to Argentina for some training. I expected this to take a few days,” he said in a hushed tone.
“They got lucky. Let’s leave it at that. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? I have a feeling this isn’t a social call.”
“I wish this could be a friendly chat between two veterans of the war on terror, but I’ve just been told some very disturbing news. Reznikov claims that
the Russians never really stopped their bioweapons program at VEKTOR. He alluded to the fact that he had been a part of the program before he went rogue. We had it all wrong. We thought Reznikov had been banned from VEKTOR for trying to informally revive the bioweapons program. I think he stole fully weaponized viral encephalitis samples that he helped them create. He said this was just the tip of the iceberg at VEKTOR labs.”
“Jesus. Is there any way he might be bluffing? I assume he’s looking for a deal in exchange for information,” Sanderson said.
“Of course. We can’t let him walk, but I have something in mind that should be acceptable to him. He won’t give me any more details until the deal is finalized. If what he says is true, I might need you to loan us a few more ‘Russians.’”
“How many are you thinking?” Sanderson said.
“Enough to penetrate VEKTOR, permanently destroy their bioweapons program and kill everyone directly involved in the program.”
“This is going to take time. I’ll start assembling a team on my end. I have two deep-cover operatives within Russia that can start surveillance in Novosibirsk. They’ve been with me since the beginning. I can send five more trained ‘Russians,’ in addition to Farrington. I gather that Farrington’s current team will do us little good on this job?”
“Unless they speak perfect Russian and can blend into the population. I don’t think Novosibirsk is a melting pot of Europeans.”
“Then I can send some of my greener operatives to augment the team,” Sanderson said.
“It might not be necessary. Let’s get a report from your operatives in place. Eight operatives might be enough. Plus I have an agent that I can loan you. She’s proven herself to be quite resourceful and deadly. She might be an asset for taking down laboratory personnel outside of the facility,” Berg said.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll get everyone moving in the right direction. The Russians have really served us a shit sandwich here. The investigation stateside is about to intensify. The addresses acquired by the Frankfurt team will likely correspond with the assassinated Al Qaeda cells, and maybe give us a few that nobody has uncovered. We’re working behind the scenes to augment the FBI’s intelligence gathering efforts.”
Black Flagged Apex Page 8