Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  “As do we. Thank you for your continued, dedicated service, Director,” the voice said, emphasizing the word continued.

  “My pleasure. I’ll keep you posted.”

  After disconnecting the call, Shelby leaned back in his chair and stifled a laugh. The politics disgusted him, but he was willing to ride this train a little longer. He had played a long shot, but if True America’s candidate won the 2008 election, he’d be in a position to make history for the FBI and the United States. The payoff on this bet was too tempting to ignore, even in the twilight of his career. For the first time in years, he felt there was hope for this nation. He picked up the phone and summoned his secretary. He had a vacancy to fill within the FBI. Associate Executive Assistant Director Ryan Sharpe would lead the National Security Branch’s investigation into the events leading to the recent attack against the United States.

  Chapter 62

  7:42 AM

  Central Intelligence Agency

  McLean, Virginia

  Karl Berg walked into his office and picked up the phone on his desk. He dialed the secretary assigned to him and informed her that he had just arrived. He took a moment to look around his office. Thanks to the events of the past month, he still hadn’t found time to unpack even one of the boxes he had dragged here upon his promotion to the National Clandestine Service’s (NCS) liaison to the Intelligence Directorate’s Weapons, Intelligence, Non-Proliferation and Arms Control Center in late March. He’d spent less than a month in that position before Thomas Manning summarily promoted him to a position that hadn’t previously existed within NCS, working as Audra Bauer’s deputy assistant. He would retain his duties as the Intelligence Directorate liaison, which appeared to be the only official tasking that came with the promotion at this moment.

  This would give him time to put up some shelving and start unearthing his treasures. With the Zulu virus threat finally under wraps, he could start unpacking his boxes. Apparently, he wouldn’t have to move again. His promotion didn’t come with a new office in the “executive” zone, which suited him fine, though he had been pleasantly surprised with Thomas Manning and their director. He had expected handcuffs instead of a promotion.

  He got up and started to survey the stacks of boxes covering his vinyl couch and black lacquer coffee table. The line from his secretary buzzed, and he answered it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Berg. I have Darryl Jackson on the line?”

  “Thank you. Put him through.”

  The line beeped.

  “Darryl. How’s my favorite go-to guy?”

  “If you know someone else with access to weapons, please feel free to start using him. I’m fucking exhausted from cleaning weapons all night.”

  “They had a rough time up there,” Berg said.

  “I could tell. One of the rifles was covered in blood. How bad was it?”

  “One KIA. I can’t thank you enough for the help. You’re one of the unsung heroes in this drama.”

  “That seems to be the story of my life. Hey, are you going to answer my wife’s email or what? She still hasn’t figured out that I’ve been flying all over the country delivering illegal arms shipments. Her invitation could be revoked at any moment,” Jackson said.

  “I’m kind of hurt that she didn’t call. An email invitation to dinner seems impersonal,” he joked.

  “A phone call? I don’t think she planned to talk to you at dinner! I just assumed she’d seat you on the deck. Baby steps, my friend. She doesn’t forgive easily.”

  “As long as she’s serving me the same food you’re eating, I’ll eat in the garage. I’ll send her my acceptance as soon as we get off the phone and pick out a rare Bordeaux.”

  “Cheryl collects vintage Bordeaux.”

  “I guarantee she won’t have this bottle. It was never for sale,” Berg said.

  “Sounds like you’re good at taking baby steps. I have to go. I’m still dealing with the fallout from the Kazakhstan fiasco, which could be smoothed over if the CIA ponied up the money to replace the weapons that were lost…in the direct interest of national security?”

  “I’m sure something could be arranged,” Berg said.

  “Then let’s arrange it. I have two daughters in college and can’t afford to buy Brown River several new rifles.”

  “A shipment of rifles shouldn’t be difficult.”

  “Maybe I should take cash. I don’t need one of your buried Cold War stashes.”

  “That hurt my feelings, Darryl.”

  “I’ll fax you the bill. Catch you later, Karl.”

  Karl Berg hung up the phone and sat on the edge of his desk, staring at the boxes again. His office could always wait.

  The End

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  stevekonkoly@gmail.com

  Please visit Steven’s blog for more on Black Flagged and future projects.

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  A bonus excerpt from the next book in the Black Flagged series and an excerpt from The Jakarta Pandemic immediately follow:

  Black Flagged VEKTOR excerpt

  The Jakarta Pandemic excerpt

  Excerpt from Black Flagged Vektor

  (To be released in the Spring of 2013)

  Chapter 1

  10:25 AM

  Mountain Glen “Retirement” Compound

  Green Mountains, Vermont

  Karl Berg walked briskly down a wide, raked gravel path bordered by cedar planks. The main walkway cut directly through a rough landscape of knee-high grasses and watermelon-sized rocks. Several subsidiary paths branched off into the thick pine trees and led to modest residences hidden just out of sight. He easily found path number five, which was marked by a solid-looking post displaying the number. He stopped for a moment and took in his surroundings.

  He stood in a round clearing the size of three football fields. A natural stream ran through its northern edge, visible from Berg’s position near the center. At the opposite end of the field behind him stood a massive post-and-beam lodge, which contained the facility’s gourmet kitchen, common dining area, recreation room, indoor pool and exercise facilities. Fifty meters to the left of the lodge sat a white, one-story building that housed the compound’s backup generator, water distribution system and main electricity breaker. An attached two-bay garage held several ATVs for patrolling the grounds, plowing snow and transporting “guests.” He had just walked out of the only other non-residential structure in the compound. The security station.

  Resembling a two-story colonial-style home, the station housed fifteen security specialists and contained the state-of-the-art equipment used to keep track of the compound’s “guests.” Bristling with antennae and fitted with an odd dome at the apex of the roof, the house served as the compound’s nerve center, monitoring every aspect of the “guests” lives. From heartbeats to toilet flushes, dozens of active and passive measures were taken to ensure each guest’s compliance with the rules.

  The guests stayed in “residences” situated beyond the thick tree line that surrounded the clearing. Hidden from overhead view by towering evergreens, each residence was bugged and monitored by several cameras mounted in nearby trees. Motion detectors tracked movement inside and outside of each structure, guiding the sophisticated array of night vision and thermal imaging equipped cameras assigned to each guest. Patterns were recorded, analyzed and anticipated. Anything out of the ordinary was immediately investigated by a mobile security team.

  Guests were allowed free run of the compound, as long as they didn’t bother another guest or interfere with the staff. Violations resulted in lockdown. Each guest villa could be locked and unlocked remotely from the security station. The final immediate security precaution consisted of a reinforced, twelve-foot-tall, razor-wire fence that encircled the entire compound. Located three hundred meters beyond the edge of the clearing, the entire fence line was monitored by cameras and motion detectors. If one of the compound’s guests or an outside party dec
ided to scale the fence, security personnel could deliver a substantial electrical charge to the section of fence under attack. Beyond the fence, the last deterrent to an escape was isolation. Located deep within the Green Mountains, accessible by a single road that wound through thick pine stands and rough terrain, anyone finding themselves on the other side of the fence would face a fifty-mile trek through unforgiving wilderness to reach the first signs of civilization.

  For such a small “guest” population, the Mountain Glen facility cost taxpayers an unimaginable sum of money. The compound had been designed as the final “deal” for enemy foreign nationals willing to provide information critical to U.S. national security. Enemies too dangerous for release were offered a lifetime “retirement” in exchange for their knowledge, which would be vetted and confirmed. Each case was carefully reviewed by the director of the CIA, prior to their permanent placement. If the information turned out to be bogus, or failed to live up to advertised expectations, the “guest” would be evicted.

  Permanent placement was contingent upon full disclosure of the information promised, which involved a significant element of trust. Few prospective guests turned their back on the deal after spending a few days at Mountain Glen. Fresh air, mountain views, babbling brooks, gourmet food, first-class accommodations. Most of them had already tasted the alternative while in U.S. custody. Only the most stubborn or distrustful chose to spend the rest of their lives trapped in a dank, poorly lit prison cell, pissing and shitting into a rusty coffee can that was emptied once a day.

  He turned down the path and let the pristine air fill his lungs. Cold pine air. Quite a difference from the crowded confines of the Beltway. He couldn’t imagine anyone turning down the offer to stay here. The temperature dropped a few degrees as he passed through the green curtain of pines. He could see a small post-and-beam structure with a green metal roof situated in a clearing fifty meters ahead. He searched the trees while he walked, trying to spot any of the cameras or sensors. He felt exposed walking to Reznikov’s villa alone.

  He approached the front door cautiously, scanning the windows for signs of life within the house. Security had assured him that Reznikov was awake. Breakfast had been delivered thirty minutes ago. He thought about that. They delivered breakfast at Mountain Glen. Reznikov certainly didn’t deserve a place like this, but what other options did they have? The door opened before he could knock.

  “Come in, my friend. Breakfast is waiting,” an invigorated-looking Anatoly Reznikov said.

  “I already ate,” Berg said, stepping across the threshold prepared to defend himself from a hand-to-hand attack.

  “Nonsense. Please. This is my treat. Welcome to my mountain dacha.”

  “It’s not yours yet. We’re still a long way from securing your stay, which is why I’m here,” Berg said, following Reznikov through a short hallway to the kitchen table.

  From the table, they had a view of the pine wall at the edge of the backyard and the snow-covered peak of a mountain rising above the pines. The view wasn’t what caught Berg’s attention. A one-third empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka sat on the kitchen counter, next to a small shot glass.

  “Looks like you’ve made a remarkable recovery,” Berg said.

  “It must be the mountain air, and a little gift from the staff. Join me in a toast.”

  “A little early, don’t you think?” Berg replied.

  “Never too early to celebrate. Plus, it’s almost noon—”

  “It’s 10:30,” Berg interrupted.

  “And I need to warm up for our chat. You won’t be disappointed,” Reznikov said.

  While the mad scientist pulled another shot glass out of a cabinet, Berg placed his leather satchel on the pine floor and sat down at the kitchen table. He surveyed the feast prepared for him by the lodge’s kitchen staff. He hoped they were just rolling out the red carpet to loosen Reznikov’s lips. Fresh fruit, lobster benedict, smoked salmon and toasted bagels with cream cheese, orange juice.

  “Please help yourself. They just showed up with all of this. Can you believe it? Only in America. I should have come to your country earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have turned out so bad,” he said and poured two full shots of vodka.

  He set one of the glasses in front of Berg and took a seat across the table.

  “A toast. To taking down VEKTOR Labs.”

  Berg hesitantly raised his glass. He eyed Reznikov warily, as the Russian downed his glass of clear liquid. Berg followed suit, grimacing at the sharp burn. A few seconds later, he felt a little less worn out from the previous day’s travels.

  “Where did you stash your beautiful assistant? I had hoped she would be part of the package. I didn’t notice any women here.”

  “I’m sure they keep a few blow-up dolls on hand for the guests,” he said, placing the shot glass down on the table.

  “Such hostility. Not exactly the kind of environment that makes me want to share the intimate details of my former employer.” The Russian reached behind him to retrieve the vodka bottle from the countertop.

  “Perhaps you’d rather have your head stuffed into a diarrhea-filled toilet bowl three stories below the surface of the earth?”

  Berg raised his hands to simulate a balanced scale. “Fresh mountain air, nice view, gourmet food, spa-like amenities,” he said, raising one hand and lowering the other.

  “Or…daily beatings, concrete pavement sleeping arrangements, one meal a day and toilet bowl scuba lessons. Don’t fuck with me here.”

  “Easy, my friend. I get it,” Reznikov said, pouring another shot.

  He started to move the bottle over to Berg’s side of the table, but Berg grabbed it from his trembling hand. On closer inspection, Reznikov didn’t look as robust as he was acting. Mention of a permanent prison cell underground had quickly flushed the color from his face.

  “I’m not your friend, and you’ll get this bottle back after we’ve made considerable progress.”

  He placed the bottle on the floor and retrieved a legal pad from his satchel, along with a digital recording device.

  “Don’t put the bottle on the floor. Radiant heat. Feels wonderful, but you almost have to wear socks,” Reznikov said.

  Berg removed the chilled bottle from the floor, placing it on the table, shaking his head. Radiant fucking heat? What was next? Daily massage therapy?

  “So. Where do you want to start?” Reznikov said.

  “From the beginning. How did you become involved with VEKTOR?”

  “The roots of that decision reach back to my childhood. Are you in the mood for a story?” he paused.

  “As long as it has something to do with VEKTOR,” Berg said.

  “It has everything to do with VEKTOR and how Russia’s bioweapons program long ago eclipsed their nuclear weapons program,” he whispered.

  Three hours later, Berg emerged from the villa with a distant look on his face. He followed the gravel path through the forest to the main clearing, hardly paying any attention to his footing or his surroundings. The warm, late afternoon sun barely registered on his face. If Reznikov had told the truth, the United States and its allies faced the greatest threat to world stability since the Cold War. A secret race to develop bioweapons of mass destruction, and the Russians had a thirty-year head start. The reckless plan that he’d suggested to Sanderson didn’t feel so outlandish anymore. The bioweapons program at VEKTOR Labs had to be destroyed.

  **

  Anatoly Reznikov peered through the shades of his front window at the vanishing shape of Karl Berg, the enigmatic CIA agent that had miraculously rescued him from a quick death at the hands of his former masters. The past week had been confusing, hazy and punctuated by severe fluctuations in his mental state that kept him unable to focus. He’d spent most of the time feeling utterly helpless, certain that he would be brutally interrogated and discarded. The pessimistic side of him had taken full control of his emotions, which came at little surprise to him. He’d tried to drink himself to death in Stockholm
and, failing that, had put a gun to his head to finish the job. And that was just the beginning of a two-day roller coaster ride marked by repeated cardiac arrest, torture and beatings while strapped to a bed.

  Only a sheer miracle could explain his sudden moment of clarity on the jet ride back to the United States. It had probably just been a natural fluke. A random release of chemicals, possibly dopamine, to relax his anxiety long enough for him to wrestle control of his mind. Maybe it had been triggered by the sight of Karl Berg sipping scotch or the sharp smell of aged liquor filling the cabin. It didn’t matter. Within the short span of time it took for Karl Berg to walk down the business jet’s aisle, he had formulated a plan that was guaranteed to set him free. Free from all of this.

  Earning a transfer to this facility was just the first step in his plan. As soon as his mind had devised the plan, he wondered if it had been his fate all along to fall right into Berg’s lap. He couldn’t think of a better scenario now that his mind had cleared enough for him to see the bigger picture. He’d been despondent about Al Qaeda’s betrayal and his subsequent failure to recover more of the virus canisters, but this new turn of events would take his original plan to the next level. He just needed to place a single phone call to activate part two of his plan.

  He hadn’t lied to Berg. On the contrary. He had told the agent everything, except the part about how he had successfully stolen samples of every weaponized virus and bacteria created at VEKTOR. He hadn’t been dismissed from VEKTOR for attempting to steal viral encephalitis samples. By that point, he had already stolen samples of everything he had seen in the bioweapons division. He had been caught trying to access a section of the laboratory off limits to everyone except for three scientists. Rumors started circulating that the small group had created something nobody had seen before. He took the bait and attempted to sneak into the lab. At that point, security features at VEKTOR relied more on humans than technology, and large sums of money helped him circumvent most of the security surrounding the isolated laboratory cell. Or so he had thought.