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

by Steven Konkoly

  “Trust me. If this is what Berg thinks it is, I’m putting her on the first flight to New Zealand.”

  “Why don’t you put me on the New Zealand flight, business class, and take your wife this weekend.”

  “Even funnier,” said Sharpe. “Keep digging through the data. His people seem to be ahead of you.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Just saying,” said Sharpe. “And Dana?”

  “Yes.”

  “This has the potential to go sideways really fast, so—”

  “I’d feel really insulted if you gave me an out or a pass on this one,” she said.

  He grinned. “Just letting you know it could get ugly.”

  Really fucking ugly.

  Chapter 60

  Number Seven Line

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Alexei Kaparov held onto the metal horizontal rail next to the subway car’s door, occasionally glaring at the youngster hooligans slouched in the plastic seats across from him. He was the oldest passenger on the train by twenty years, and these punks just sat there, earbuds inserted and stupid hats pulled over their unkempt hair. If they knew he was an FSB deputy director, it probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Today’s youth didn’t care or scare easily. He could turn a bit more and show them his service pistol, and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing was going to dislodge them from their seats. Especially not the sight of an older man hanging on for his life as the subway shook and rattled.

  His phone buzzed in his suit coat pocket, barely audible over the Metro car racket. Now he got to pull out his flip phone and add to the agony. The kids were busy swiping screens larger than his first apartment’s bathroom mirror. He flipped open his antique device and checked the caller ID. This couldn’t be good. Karl Berg had been brief during their last call. Curt was a better word. Something had been wrong, but it wasn’t information his friend intended to part with too easily.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked Kaparov.

  “Sorry about cutting you off the other day. I needed to pass on the information immediately,” said Berg. “It made a difference. Thank you.”

  “How are things? You sounded surprised by the information.”

  “Things are not good over here. At all,” said Berg. “Which is why I’m calling.”

  “I’ve never heard you like this.”

  “It’s that bad, and I can’t go into details on the phone. I know what my side can do to track phrases and words. Understand?”

  “Yes. These capabilities are ripening here,” said Kaparov.

  “I need you to carefully cover your tracks regarding our most recent conversation. I’m not sure how much longer the name in question will remain off the radar,” said Berg. “The next time we are in touch, it will be in person, over drinks and dinner—on me of course.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Berg laughed. “I’m not betting against that dinner, but there are factors working very strongly against it.”

  “Understood. Stay safe, my friend. Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone. All that crap.”

  “Sage advice,” said Berg. “If we don’t speak again, thank you for everything. It’s been an honor and a pleasure knowing you.”

  “I’d toast to that if I hadn’t left my damn flask in the office,” said Kaparov.

  “Toast to it when you get back to your apartment. I’m sure there’s no shortage of vodka there.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Take care, old friend.”

  “You take better care. I look forward to our reunion,” said Kaparov.

  He closed his phone, fairly sure that he would never hear from Karl Berg again. The CIA officer hadn’t sounded like himself. The confidence and energy was gone, replaced by uncertainty—and a stern warning about Sokolov.

  Prerovsky had identified Sokolov through what could only be interpreted as a routine and logical follow-up into Zuyev’s death. The “known-associates” list had contained hundreds of names. Their story started to fray when Prerovsky added a few dozen of the names to the FSB Intelligence Network watch list, conveniently including Sokolov.

  Prerovsky had been clever enough with the watch-list stunt, openly suggesting it to his fellow directors. Since the Organized Crime division hadn’t been given the details regarding Zuyev’s death, he easily sold it as a background intelligence-gathering effort. Innocent enough from an FSB standpoint, but unlikely to withstand the paranoid scrutiny of a Foreign Intelligence Service inquiry.

  He considered his options while the subway car continued its stop-and-go journey. A few stops later, he decided that the best course of action had to be an active one. He’d never reported his analysis of the raid directly to Greshnev, as the chief Counterterrorism director had asked. Tomorrow morning he would schedule an appointment to suggest the theory that Kaparov had been taken by an insider—the fourth man in the boat. He’d then offer to liaison with Organized Crime, where an incredible coincidence would materialize.

  Until then, he’d drink several toasts to his American friend tonight, until the memory of the conversation faded from his thoughts, along with his consciousness. Like so many others, the day had suddenly turned into one he wanted to forget.

  Chapter 61

  Tverskoy District

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Matvey Penkin stole an impatient glance at his Patek Phillipe Nautilus before taking a sip of his cognac. 1:35 AM. He despised being out this late, especially in a strobe-light-filled, hip-hop-gyrating nightclub, but this was one of the prices he paid for keeping a girlfriend half his age. Alina loved to party, one of the few “skills” she excelled at beyond snorting cocaine, looking good and spending his money. Penkin really hoped she wasn’t powdering her nose again. They’d be there for another hour, surrounded by her insufferable fan club.

  At least once a week, she insisted they “be seen” together—usually at one of the most exclusive clubs in Moscow. Of course, in order to “be seen,” her friends needed to be on the VIP list, which Penkin arranged. On top of that, he paid their exorbitant bar tab, which tended to skyrocket after he left. The only downside to leaving before the place shut down for the night. Alina was no doubt using him on every level, and he really didn’t care. She was easy-to-maintain eye candy, which was all he really wanted in a relationship at this point.

  Alina strutted through the crowd at the edge of the pulsating dance floor, two of his security staff clearing her way like Moses parting the Red Sea. She moved swiftly, Penkin sensing that the night had finally come to an end. Alina had a sensitive stomach, and the spicy tuna tartare she’d eaten a short while ago might have saved him from another two hours of headache-inducing sound and light. He stood up to offer her his arm when she reached the heavily guarded table.

  “You should have your men talk with the chef,” said Alina. “His tuna got me sick again. Let’s go.”

  More like thank the chef. He’d have to remember this for next time and suggest ordering food as soon as they arrived. Anything spicy.

  “I’ll make sure they get the message,” said Penkin. “Do you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

  “No. I need to get back to my apartment,” said Alina.

  “Very well,” said Penkin, holding her arm. “I’m sorry the night had to end like this for you.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said, pulling him away from the table. “And I’m not walking out the back door like a criminal.”

  He nodded at his security chief. “That’s fine.”

  Sometimes he wondered if she was too stupid or oblivious to understand whom she was mixed up with right now. Maybe all of the oligarch types she’d snagged over the past several years had looked and felt the same to her, and Penkin was just another billionaire meal ticket. Except he wasn’t a billionaire. Not even close.

  He lived like an oligarch, but that lifestyle owed its existence to his position within the Bratva. Penkin could demand certain things from the priv
ate sector by creating uncomfortable leverage. He was obviously doing something right. Professional gold diggers like Alina didn’t stick around too long when they smelled the low tide of bad fortune.

  They left the main nightclub area, his security detail clearing a wide path on the way out. The lavish, dimly lit reception lounge had been emptied by the club’s security ahead of their arrival.

  “Ten seconds out,” his security chief said before signaling a group of four men clustered in the entrance foyer.

  The small team deployed through the double doors, securing the sidewalk immediately in front of the club. Penkin nodded his approval to Gennady Kuznetsov, who lingered discreetly in the alcove leading to the coatroom. The sharply dressed former Moscow police detective turned top nightclub manager returned the gesture, pausing at the end of the nod to emphasize his respect and loyalty. The man had been very accommodating and protective over the years, which Penkin had always rewarded generously. It paid to have reliable friends in this city, a cost of business one could ill afford to ignore.

  “Ready, Mr. Penkin,” said his chief, gesturing to the door.

  They hit the wide sidewalk at a quick pace, sliding into the black Range Rover moments later. No sense in making it easy for rival gangs to take a quick shot at him or detonate a suicide vest while he was in the open. They’d been at the club long enough for word to spread around. Another reason he disliked these nights out.

  The door next to Penkin slammed securely shut, the lock mechanisms immediately engaging with a solid thunk. Movement behind the second row of seats reminded him that a third security officer always rode concealed in the cargo compartment, ready to jump into action. He had the shittiest of all the jobs, often remaining in place for long periods of time when the SUV was parked in plain sight.

  His security chief moved quickly along the curb to the front passenger seat, hopping inside and shutting the door. They were impervious to anything less potent than an antitank missile at this point, which unfortunately wasn’t off the table in Moscow.

  “Let’s move,” said his chief, and the three-vehicle convoy departed.

  The ride to Alina’s apartment proceeded smoothly despite the high volume of street traffic on the main roads. The convoy turned right onto Burdenko Street, moving out of the steady stream of cars on the Smolenskiy stretch of Moscow’s “B-Ring.” Alina’s building was a few blocks away.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, softly stroking her hand.

  “Are you coming up?” she said.

  “Not tonight. I need to get an early start tomorrow,” he lied.

  The prospect of hanging around her apartment while she complained about stomach pains, and eventually made good on their promise, held little appeal.

  “Brunch tomorrow?” she said.

  “If you’re feeling better,” said Penkin, feigning a concerned smile.

  The SUV lurched to a stop, slamming him against the seatbelt. Alina let out a feeble yelp. Penkin didn’t waste any time yelling at the driver or interrogating his security chief. He’d been around long enough to understand that they had come to an abrupt halt for a life-threatening reason. His driver would run over a dog or small child to keep them moving on an open road.

  “Back up,” said his security chief, turning in the front seat to look through the rear cargo window.

  “No good,” said the guard behind them. “We’re boxed in.”

  The sound of rifles charging filled the cabin as the two non-driving security guys readied short-barreled AK-74s. Ahead of Penkin’s lead Range Rover, three black luxury SUVs and a silver Tigr-2, the civilian version of the GAZ Tigr armored infantry vehicle, had boxed them into the center of the intersection. Shit. You didn’t see many Tigr-2s around Moscow. This wasn’t an attack.

  “Stand down, Yury,” he said, patting his security chief on the shoulder. “They’re Maksimov’s people.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Penkin?” said Yury.

  When Sergei Mirzoyev hopped down from the massive Tigr-2, there was no doubt in Penkin’s mind. Mirzoyev was Dima Maksimov’s right-hand man. One of “Two Spies” charged with maintaining order and loyalty within the organization. He ran an extensive intelligence network inside and outside of the brotherhood, paying off the right people to keep things running smoothly. Penkin had been ducking Mirzoyev for several days while trying to salvage something from the setback they’d experienced in India. It was time to face the music.

  “I’m sure,” said Penkin, opening his door. “Keep everyone inside their vehicles.”

  “Understood, Mr. Penkin,” said Yury, repeating the order over the communications network.

  “What are you doing?” said Alina, terrified. “Where are you going?”

  She looked far more worried than he would have thought. Maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she acted.

  “I need to have a little talk with a business associate,” said Penkin. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I just live a block away,” she said, pulling on her locked door handle. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Don’t let her out under any circumstances,” said Penkin, shutting the door on her screams.

  He walked past the lead Range Rover and met Mirzoyev alongside the imposing Tigr-2 SUV.

  “No need to be so dramatic, Sergei,” said Penkin, offering his hand.

  The squat, crew-cut Russian contemplated Penkin’s hand before shaking it. “Mr. Maksimov is not amused.”

  “I understand,” said Penkin. “I really thought I’d have some good news to offer him by now.”

  “The two of you can discuss this in private,” said Mirzoyev. “Somewhere else. He’s waiting.”

  “Now?” said Penkin, looking at his watch. “I don’t want to inconvenience him.”

  “He would have appreciated that courtesy earlier in the week,” said Mirzoyev, gesturing for him to get in the Tigr-2.

  Penkin didn’t have a choice in the matter. If he didn’t comply, they’d either grab him forcefully or shoot him dead on the street. Given the bad news he would deliver to Maksimov, he wondered if a quick death on the street might be the better option.

  “I’ve always wanted to take a ride in one of these,” said Penkin.

  “Very good,” said Mirzoyev. “Call Yury and tell him to dispose of the girl.”

  “What? Why?” said Penkin.

  “Do I need to ask again?”

  “No,” said Penkin, shaking his head. “Message received.”

  And just like that, Alina Dudnik’s life came to an abrupt end. Actually, it had been running on fumes since he’d decided to conceal the full scope of the India debacle from his Pakhan. He pressed send on his phone and gave the order, wondering what he could possibly say to Maksimov tonight to avoid the same fate.

  Chapter 62

  Allegheny Mountains

  West Virginia

  Karl Berg sat partially upright in the same patio lounge chair they had taken from the Virginia safe house. It was the best he could do under the circumstances and would have to suffice for this critical meeting. He no longer felt like his skin would come apart at the seams when he wasn’t lying flat on his back, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

  The doctor had been crystal clear about the complicated nature of healing seventy-six separate and varying wounds. His body’s repair system would be overtaxed for weeks, requiring constant care and significant rest. With limited medical support on-site, a runaway systemic infection would require hospitalization, where Berg’s wounds would undoubtedly draw the wrong kind of attention, putting his life at risk in more than one way.

  Playing the good patient once again made him feel ridiculous as the weekend’s guests filtered into the modern, remarkably well-equipped conference room. Remarkable because the entire property had looked condemned when they arrived, which turned out to be a carefully maintained façade.

  The oversized barn adjacent to the farmhouse looked ready to collapse. Faded red paint, splintered wood sides, and a buckled roo
f combined to portray decades of neglect. Inside the securely locked barn doors, a cage of steel beams and thick wooden planks enclosed the main floor, protecting the generous space from imminent collapse. Several four-wheel ATVs and three mint-condition SUVs sat under blue tarps on the immaculate concrete floor. The house hadn’t looked promising either. Chipped white paint, missing porch spindles, and broken window lattices matched the exterior conditions of the barn.

  Even the massively long, one-story cow shed behind the main house had looked sketchy, though it was clearly a more recent addition to the farm. Connected to the house by a breezeway, the worn sides and roof of the fully enclosed shed served as a shell to conceal the recently constructed barracks, armory, and briefing room, where they now gathered.

  Berg eyed the odd collection seated in front of him, or in the case of Special Agents Ryan Sharpe and Dana O’Reilly, standing cautiously next to the exit. He didn’t blame them. There was nothing normal about this meeting, particularly its attendees. In fact, he was surprised Sharpe had even agreed to attend, given the circumstances.

  Graves caught his attention and nodded, indicating that Sanderson had joined via teleconference. Since everyone in the room had been introduced, he started the meeting.

  “Looks like we have everyone,” said Berg. “General Sanderson?”

  “Still here, despite everyone’s best efforts,” said the general.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that the guests we discussed earlier have joined us,” said Berg. “Though they don’t look like they’ll be straying too far from the exit anytime soon.”

  “I would be highly suspicious of them if they did,” said Sanderson. “Welcome, and thank you for hearing us out. If you still think we’re nuts by the end of this meeting, all I ask is that you give us a heads-up before revealing this location.”

  “Your secret is safe as long as you deal straight on this,” said Sharpe. “The moment you stray from that path, I will shut you down.”