OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5)

by Steven Konkoly

  “And that’s why you popped into my office out of the blue and shut the door before saying hello? Flying under the radar?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Berg leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “This is big. At least it could be big. Especially for your division.”

  “If it has to do with Reznikov, I’m not interested.”

  “Hear me out,” Berg pressed.

  “I’m not interested, Karl. I’d like to have something to show for my years of service here other than a punitive letter of reprimand that will magically follow me while I hunt for another job,” she said.

  “Let me explain, and if your answer is still no, I won’t bring it up again,” said Berg.

  “Why don’t you take this up the chain if it’s that important?”

  “Because I’m radioactive, Audra. They put me in a fucking cubicle, where I sit around all day reviewing bullshit reports about nothing,” he said. “I can’t bring this to anyone but you.”

  “Fuck,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head. “Karl, this better be good. If I walk this up to Manning—”

  “You won’t have to get him involved,” said Berg.

  “Excuse me? Manning is my boss. That’s kind of how it works,” she snapped.

  “I know. Sorry. I’m not explaining myself,” said Berg. “The information I received is a long shot at best, and it’s only tangentially connected to Reznikov. His name doesn’t even need to come up. Seriously.”

  “I’m listening,” she said, eyeing him skeptically.

  Berg spent the next few minutes bringing her up to speed, substituting “very high value target” for Reznikov. She nodded imperceptibly throughout his briefing, never interrupting. When he finished, she sat like a stone, her eyes fixed on the table in front of them for an uncomfortable period of time. Berg barely breathed, afraid to move or make a noise. She hadn’t outright refused yet, giving him a tiny glimmer of hope.

  “Sokolov is the key,” she said.

  “Reznikov is on everyone’s watch list, but nobody is looking for Sokolov. We generated a profile for him connected to the Vermont disaster, but that wasn’t widely distributed,” said Berg.

  “It wasn’t distributed at all, beyond you. I made sure of it,” she said. “My hope was that we might wrap this up quietly at some point.”

  “Then Sokolov doesn’t exist outside of a tight, private circle. We stand a good chance of accomplishing your goal. Can you discreetly add him to the counterproliferation watch list?”

  She nodded. “I can add him without drawing any attention. Another Russian mercenary mixed up in the chemical weapons trade.”

  Berg rubbed the stubble on his face. He’d stopped shaving every morning a few months ago. A kind of subtle protest, more like a resignation to his current fate. Either way, he felt overly conscious of it in front of her. Embarrassed might be a better word.

  “I’ll reach out to Ryan Sharpe at the FBI. He’s pretty high up in their National Security Branch. I might be able to convince him to add Sokolov to the Interpol watch list in addition to whatever broader identification resources they can influence. Worth a shot, and I don’t see any way that would come back to haunt us. That about covers it.”

  “Nice try. There’s still the matter of what happens if Sokolov pops up,” said Audra.

  “I’ll take care of that. One phone call. No exposure,” said Berg. “If we all get lucky and our high-value target is with Sokolov, they’ll send us pictures, fingerprints, DNA samples, whatever is necessary to put this ugly chapter to rest.”

  “No severed heads, please,” said Audra, referring to Daniel Petrovich’s unconventional method of providing the first Zulu virus samples examined by U.S. bioweapons scientists.

  “If they want to deliver his severed head, who am I to say no?” said Berg, eliciting a faint smile from Bauer.

  She stood up without warning and took a deep breath. “I’m not expecting much. Someone with deep pockets bankrolled his escape. I’d be shocked if Sokolov, or Reznikov for that matter, fucked up that badly. That said…”

  Berg nodded. “Reznikov is a loose cannon, and they’ve both been stuck in one shithole after another guarding him,” he said. “I expect them to turn up sooner than later.”

  “Precisely,” she said, grinning like he always remembered. “Good to see they haven’t crushed your spirit, Karl.”

  “They tried, but it’s going to take more than a cubicle to keep me down,” he said, winking.

  “The entire intelligence community was gutted a few months ago. I don’t know if things will ever be the same around here.”

  “I wish I could tell you that this is business as usual, but True America’s Beltway sweep is unprecedented. This is my seventh administration in thirty plus years, and…” he said, considering his next words carefully, “a storm is brewing unlike anything we’ve seen before.”

  She studied him for a few moments before responding. “There’s nothing we can do about it. The game has changed.”

  “Hopefully I’ll be gone when it fully reveals itself,” said Berg. “Somewhere warm.”

  “Argentina?”

  “Not likely,” he replied. “Unless I spot a black van parked in front of my town house.”

  “If you do, let me know. I’ll probably have one parked on my street too,” she said. “I’ll add Sokolov to the watch lists. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “I appreciate you doing this for me. I’d like to retire knowing that psychopath is permanently off the market.”

  “Don’t torture yourself over this. You didn’t create that monster,” she said.

  “But he escaped on my watch,” said Berg.

  “Thirty trained CIA guards were also on watch that day, and it didn’t make a difference,” she said. “What are you doing to keep yourself busy these days? Getting out of the house enough?”

  “Sounds like our visit just turned into a psych eval.” Berg chuckled.

  “You’re the one that keeps dredging up the past, constantly beating yourself up,” said Bauer.

  “Funny,” said Berg, standing up.

  “Karl, we all took a big hit earlier in the year. It hasn’t been easy.”

  “I’m fine. Really. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting Darryl Jackson for dinner and cocktails tomorrow night,” he said.

  “All right. Please say hi for me, and thank him again for his help in the past,” said Bauer.

  “I’ll be sure to pass none of that along. His left eye twitches whenever he hears the letters C-I-A.”

  Bauer laughed, moving around the table to shake his hand. “I’ll keep you posted. Good seeing you.”

  “Good seeing you too. I grab coffee down at the Starbucks most days around 1:30 PM. I probably shouldn’t make a habit of visiting your office.”

  “Radioactive?”

  “Positively glowing,” he said, showing himself out.

  Berg avoided eye contact with the busy collection of analysts and CIA officers swarming in and out of the cubicle farms occupying the Counterproliferation Division’s middle ground. Reaching the stairwell unmolested, but presumably not unnoticed, he stopped to collect his thoughts. There really was nothing else to do at this point. He’d return to his desk and continue to mindlessly tackle an email inbox full of mundane tasks, all the while keeping his fingers crossed. But before he returned to his cubicle, a leisurely stop at the on-site Starbucks was in order.

  Chapter 13

  SVR Headquarters, Yasanevo Suburb

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Dmitry Ardankin unconsciously fidgeted in his chair. He only noticed when the stoic secretary behind the oversized antique desk raised her eyes, keeping them fixed on him until he remained perfectly still for a few seconds. He hated that woman, though not for any rational or personally justifiable reason. Just the fact that she made him feel so uncomfortable every time he sat here was reason enough. And now she had stilled him with nothing more than a mildly annoyed stare. />
  Fuck you and the Metro card you rode in on, he thought, recrossing his legs in defiance of her disapproving look. He had good reason to squirm.

  Director Pushnoy had never made him wait this long before. Not because Ardankin commanded Directorate S, one of the most secretive directorates within the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), but because he religiously kept to his schedule, especially the regularly scheduled meetings with the service’s deputy directors. No doubt thanks to the emotionless machine standing guard over the entrance to his office, and his attention.

  He resisted glancing at his watch again. The time didn’t matter. The last time he checked, the appointment was twenty-three minutes past due. That was all he needed to know. Uncharacteristically late. He wondered if the director’s secretary had notified the other deputy directors of the delay, or was he the last deputy scheduled for each day? He had no idea. He’d never once seen another person waiting for the director when his previous appointments had ended.

  Ardankin sensed a shift in the secretary’s posture. “The director will see you now.”

  After closing the door behind him, he walked through a darkened privacy vestibule into the director’s spacious office, freezing in place. For the first time in five years, he wasn’t alone for his regularly scheduled morning meeting. Worse than that, he didn’t recognize the man seated in one of the chairs at the oval mahogany table with Pushnoy. At least the mystery guest didn’t look comfortable. If he’d looked at home sitting with the director, Ardankin would be worried. Not that he wasn’t a little unnerved to be sharing his allotted time with a total stranger. This couldn’t be good.

  “Dmitry, please,” said the director, motioning for him to join them at the table.

  Stefan Pushnoy remained seated as he approached, but the angular-faced stranger started to stand, which was immediately stopped by a casual glance from the director. Already halfway out of the chair by the time he caught Pushnoy’s silent order, Ardankin got a quick look at the man as he sank slowly back into his seat.

  One thing was clear: the guy was not comfortable in a suit. Nor was the suit comfortable on him. Stretched tight across his chest and broad shoulders, the jacket strained when he sat down again, its cuffs pulled back to expose a few inches of the white dress shirt covering his arms. This was the first time the man had worn a suit in years—if ever. If forced to guess, Ardankin would say the guy was former or current Spetsnaz.

  “Dmitry, this is Colonel Levkin with the Main Intelligence Agency’s Special Operations Command. He knows full well who you are,” said the director.

  “Colonel,” said Ardankin, nodding at the GRU officer.

  “I’m honored to be here,” said Levkin, extending a hand across the table.

  Ardankin reached across the table to shake Levkin’s hand, anticipating a bone-crushing grip that never materialized. When his hand was safely out of the colonel’s grasp, he stated the obvious.

  “I wasn’t aware that the GRU had a Special Operations Command.”

  “They don’t,” said Pushnoy. “Not yet, at least. We’ll get to that in a minute.”

  Once Ardankin was seated, Pushnoy opened the same briefing folder he always used for their morning appointment, squinting at its contents. Two additional folders, with different markings, sat beneath it—taunting him. The bulky man seated across from him had a similar folder.

  “What is your assessment of the operation in Goa?” asked Pushnoy.

  Ardankin fought the urge to glance at the newcomer, but his eyes betrayed him.

  “Colonel Levkin is aware of that situation,” said the director.

  “Compromised,” Ardankin replied.

  “Indeed,” said Pushnoy.

  “My directorate’s regional asset was unaware of the laboratory. The Bratva managed to keep it exceptionally quiet,” said Ardankin.

  “Until they didn’t,” said Pushnoy, closing the file. “Someone inside the Bratva turned.”

  “Turned to who?”

  “Nothing your people need to worry about right now. We didn’t even know the Bratva owned Reznikov until a few days ago.”

  “Or how he came into their possession. We all know who had him last,” said Ardankin.

  “All part of the absurd charade both of our countries have been playing for the past two years,” Pushnoy said, pushing one of the new folders in his direction. “This came across my desk yesterday. Take a few minutes to look it over.”

  Ardankin drank in the details. The information was compelling and well worth immediate investigation, but it raised red flags. Lots of warnings. When he finished reading the documents, he looked up, his face once again betraying him.

  “I can’t help acknowledge the coincidence,” Pushnoy remarked.

  “Two intelligence coups within a week?” said Ardankin. “And loosely related? Do we know the source?”

  “The data arrived electronically.”

  “And anonymously, I presume. Just like the Reznikov tip-off?” said Ardankin, wondering if his skeptical tone had crossed the line.

  Pushnoy displayed a rare smirk. “Everything will be vetted before a move is considered.”

  Interesting. He neither confirmed nor denied whether the information had arrived anonymously.

  “It appears to me that a move has already been considered,” said Ardankin, nodding at Colonel Levkin. “Have we submitted satellite reconnaissance requests to the Space Directorate? This intelligence is outdated.”

  “Cosmic Intelligence Directorate,” said Pushnoy. “I’ve authorized the colonel to request satellite imagery.”

  “I still can’t bring myself to say cosmic. Why in hell they would choose that name is beyond me,” said Ardankin.

  Colonel Levkin chuckled. “I’ll submit the request immediately. We should have enough imagery to make an initial assessment within forty-eight hours.”

  Ardankin considered another wry comment, but decided he’d already used up his monthly quota. Frankly, he was surprised Pushnoy hadn’t shut him down in front of the colonel. The director had never been one to hold back. Instead, he took the safest route.

  “How can Directorate S be of service?”

  “Colonel Levkin has been temporarily assigned to Directorate S, along with his new command, Spetsgruppa Omega.”

  “Omega?” said Ardankin. “I assume the final letter of the Greek alphabet was chosen for its significance, not because the Russian Federation has plans for ten additional Spetsnaz groups?”

  “The last. The end. The ultimate,” said Levkin.

  “Levkin has handpicked the best special operators from the GRU’s Spetsnaz ranks to form an experimental unit,” started Pushnoy. “Colonel, why don’t you elaborate, as briefly as you can.”

  “I’ve been tasked to create a company-sized, rapid-response force capable of carrying out emergency missions around the globe, Deputy Director,” said Levkin.

  “No offense, Colonel, but isn’t that role currently fulfilled by our Federation Security Service’s Spetsgruppas?” Ardankin asked.

  “You’re not mistaken, sir,” said Levkin, pausing as if to choose his words carefully. “The joint chiefs and the Main Intelligence Agency recently convinced the defense minister that we needed the same capability in each military district, without the usual bureaucratic delay.”

  “Or the bureaucratic oversight, I imagine,” said Ardankin.

  Levkin hesitated to agree.

  “No need to play coy here, Colonel,” said Pushnoy.

  “Very well, Director,” said Levkin. “Yes, the generals are tired of requesting assets for special operations missions outside of the traditional combat zones. Frankly, the current use of Federation Security Service personnel outside of the Russian Federation territory is bizarre.”

  “And embarrassing?” said Ardankin.

  Levkin grinned. “There’s plenty of that sentiment at the top as well.”

  “I don’t have all day,” sighed the director. “Here’s how this is going to work. We’
ll approach the task from two directions. Dmitry, I want a team watching Ernesto Galenden day and night. If the satellite imagery requested by Colonel Levkin shows the location indicated in the file to be abandoned, we will need to have a private talk with Galenden.”

  “Easy enough,” said Ardankin.

  He purposefully didn’t expand upon his directorate’s capabilities. He imagined the colonel had a fairly accurate concept of Directorate S’s mission and generic capabilities, but rumors had a way of inflating or deflating the truth, each scenario benefiting his Directorate, depending on the circumstance. In Colonel Levkin’s case, he preferred that the GRU officer overestimated. Legend among your countrymen never hurt.

  “Colonel, my only hesitation, actually more a concern, lies purely in the numbers,” said Pushnoy.

  “I’m not going to overestimate my unit’s capabilities,” said Levkin. “If this group is as skilled as you indicate and they presently occupy the position designated in this report, the numbers are not in our favor. Not without military-grade air and ground support.”

  “How many men do you have in Omega?” asked Ardankin.

  “I have two direct action platoons comprised of twenty men each,” Levkin said after a moment of hesitation. “Plus a special-purpose weapons team of twelve, which can be integrated with the direct action platoons as required.”

  Members of this American mercenary unit had driven straight into what should have been a turkey shoot for his directorate’s Zaslon operatives. Not only did the smaller force of Americans drive away with Anatoly Reznikov, the Zaslon team’s target, but they also massacred every last Russian operative. Eight of the deadliest Spetsnaz officers in the Russian Federation’s arsenal lay dead on a Stockholm street. Killed within seconds of the Americans’ arrival.

  Ardankin shook his head. “It won’t be enough. Not on their turf. Not without absolute surprise, which is unlikely to be achievable against these people.”

  “Then what do you propose?” asked Pushnoy.