Black Flagged Redux (27 page)

Bauer muffled a laugh, which made Berg feel more comfortable. He had never seen this side of Audra, though he had heard rumors. There was a reason that she sat in the deputy director's seat.

"Here's what we need to do. Start looking for Reznikov. While the team works Monchegorsk, we need to find this guy. He may be our only link to the Al Qaeda network that hired him, or he might have stiffed them and taken all of the virus. The three dead bodies back at the lab give me some hope," she said.

"And if not?"

"Then we can't keep this quiet much longer. If the terrorist network figures out that Reznikov released the virus, they might get panicky and pull the trigger a lot earlier than anyone anticipates."

"That's what I was thinking. I'll get this rolling. I may ask Sanderson to activate some of his European assets to augment the current team if we get a lead on Reznikov," he said.

"Doesn't cost us anything at the moment, so go ahead. Look, I have to get back into this meeting. I'll keep this phone immediately accessible all night. Don't hesitate," she said.

"You know I won't," he said and hung up the phone.

It was still too early in Moscow to make the call he desperately needed to place.

Chapter 27

7:40 PM

The Jacksons’ Residence

Fredericksburg, Virginia

Darryl Jackson had just brought the perfectly tenderized and sautéed steak tip to his eagerly awaiting mouth when one of the cell phones on the kitchen island started to play Darth Vader's “Imperial March” theme. He looked over at his wife, who raised an eyebrow and almost imperceptibly shook her head. He placed the fork back down on his plate, into the reduction sauce, and excused himself from the table.

"Shall I pack you a small bag? Toiletries, underwear…maybe some cigarettes you can trade with the other prisoners?"

"Very funny, Cheryl. Probably nothing. This shit's off my reservation, so I'm not worried."

"You look worried," she said and took a bite of her own steak.

Jackson mumbled the entire way to the kitchen, still looking back at his wife. He didn't need to glance at the caller ID. Darth Vader's theme had been chosen specifically for his friend, Karl Berg.

"Good evening, Karl. I was just enjoying a wonderful dinner of steak tips with a red wine reduction sauce, rosemary garlic mashed potatoes and my wife's legendary spicy green beans. Brevity would be appreciated," he said.

"Oooh…the green beans? I haven't had those in ages. Tell her I'll bring a rare Bordeaux if she invites me over. Cheryl's cooking is to die for. Sounds like a celebration. Did I miss an occasion?"

"Not really. We're just celebrating my two year anniversary of not going to jail on your account, so you can stop with the lube job. I wasn't expecting to hear from you for another three to four hours, so this sounds like it could be my last supper," Jackson said, walking into his den.

"It's not that bad," Berg said.

"I'll be the judge of that. What the fuck happened this time?"

"Let's just say that your group in Astana won't be getting their weapons or night vision gear back. My team was ambushed, and their truck was destroyed. They ditched everything at the ambush site," Berg said.

"What? Goddamn it, Karl. Those weapons are traceable back to Brown River. The magical arms dealer fairy didn't fucking wave her magic wand and make that shit appear at their compound. It's all categorized and licensed with the Kazakh government. The CIA better be hiring middle-aged African Americans with no foreign language skills," he said.

"The weapons won't be traced back to Brown River. My team was hit by a platoon of Russians using similar weapons. They threw them into the burning wreckage of one of the helicopters that was shot down. There are thirty or forty AK's scattered among the dead Russians. Nobody will be comparing rifle serial numbers."

"Jesus H…helicopters? I don't want to know. Sounds like you're in over your head over there."

"Still treading water. I'm sorry about the weapons and the hassle you'll go through explaining their loss, but they couldn't risk travelling with them anymore."

"No big deal. Pain in the ass, but I had expected worse," Jackson said.

"From me? That hurts my feelings."

"You don't have any feelings," he said, and they both laughed.

"But I have a soft spot for you…actually it's your wife's cooking. I guess this will put off my invitation for another year or so?"

"Another year? Shit, you're still serving time for the last disaster. Thanks for the heads up, Karl. I have to get back to the table, or you won't be the only person she won't invite to the dinner table."

"Sorry to interrupt. Talk to you later."

"Look forward to it…I suppose."

Daryl closed the phone, walked back into the dining room, and sat down to a sardonic look on his wife's face.

"I don't know why you still take risks for that guy. He almost sent you to jail two years ago," Cheryl said.

"He saved my life, honey. I'll never be able to repay him for that. Karl's a good man, better than most I've ever met. He didn't have to help me in Afghanistan, but he was the only man in a room full of spooks that couldn't watch us die. Can you imagine that? One man…I'm just glad he was in charge of the Predator flight, or we would have all died that day. He's worth a little heat. To see you and the kids again? Well worth it."

"I understand, hon. Let's just try and keep you out of federal prison so you can spend the time productively."

He nodded and smiled, staring into her deep brown eyes. He wasn't worried about going to jail as much as he was worried about losing his high-paying job and the ability to continue funding his two daughters' private college educations. Unfortunately, much of the kids' reserve college fund had been trickled to an overseas contact in order to pay back the sudden loan needed to clean up Berg's debacle two years ago. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small sacrifice to be sitting at this table, with the woman he had loved for nearly thirty years.

Chapter 28

6:40 AM

FSB (Federal Security Services of the Russian Federation) Headquarters

Lubyanka Square, Moscow

Alexei Kaparov smashed his fourth cigarette of the morning into the impossibly full ashtray on his desk and dumped the precariously balanced contents into the dented gray trash bin to the right of his desk. The bin was emptied every evening, by someone eager to prevent another trash bin fire caused by his hastily extinguished Troikas. On the day that one of the fires spread to the paperwork on his desk, nearly engulfing the entire desktop in flames, his staff decided to empty the over-stuffed incendiary pile themselves. Kaparov chuckled at the pile of ashes and cigarette butts in the empty can. For two years he couldn't get the cleaning staff to empty the can on a regular basis. He had to nearly burn the building down to get it done. He started to wonder what he might need to do to have hot coffee waiting for him in the morning.

He lit another cigarette and returned his attention to the emails he had been following. Something was going on, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He was slowly being removed from the loop regarding Reznikov, relegated to providing background information and further field data analysis. In reality, this was his section's job, but Kaparov didn't like being marginalized in cases that directly involved possible WMD threats, and this one had the potential to be the biggest in years. The search for Reznikov was in different hands, but as the deputy director for Biological and Chemical Weapons of Mass Destruction, he needed to be directly involved with the case.

Lab results from samples taken at the Kazakhstan site had not arrived at his desk, and all of his attempts to secure the results had met with stalling. Kaparov was an expert in the field of withholding information and knew better than anyone when he was on the receiving end of these tactics. The fact that the findings were being actively withheld from him was an ominous development.

At least he wasn't the only one falling out of the loop. Information regarding Monchegorsk had also slowed to a trickle at every level. Reports had hit his section's desk with a fury the other day, triggered by every search parameter his analysts had programmed into the system. An infectious outbreak resembling a pandemic flu had filled Monchegorsk's hospital within the span of a day. Follow-on reports suggested strange symptoms, involving uncontrollable patients and citywide violence.

Patients had been sent to Murmansk for further testing, and within forty-eight hours, the roads leading out of Monchegorsk were secured. Only military traffic travelled into or out of the city. He had hand delivered his assessment to the director of Counter-Terrorism, which included the high likelihood of a link to Reznikov's recent activities. Since this delivery, information regarding the situation in Monchegorsk had become scarce for everyone. Now there was a new development.

Kaparov arrived at work early by most FSB agents' standards, but this morning he found parking to be an unusual challenge. His reserved place in the garage had been occupied, forcing him to drive to a space far from the entrance door. A minor inconvenience, but the significance hadn't been lost on him. He recognized many of the cars crowded into the coveted parking spaces. FSB Special Operations Division (SOD). He had placed his bare hands on a few of the car hoods and found them to be cold. Something important had dragged over twenty SOD personnel into headquarters in the middle of the night.

He had walked directly to their operations center, but had been politely turned away upon exiting the elevator. This wasn't unusual, but confirmed that a live operation was underway. He could only assume that it was related to Reznikov, but wouldn't be able to confirm it until the operation ended, when a sea of loose lips spilled out into the rest of the building. He had several good friends in the Special Operations Division and would find out soon enough, unless it was a Vympel or Alpha Group operation. If that was the case, he might have to rely on Prerovsky's female liaison. She had already provided more information than either of them had expected, and Kaparov was more than happy to fund another night on the town for Prerovsky and his lady friend.

His desk phone erupted, breaking the silence, and he glanced at his watch. 6:45. A little early for phone calls. He considered letting it go to voicemail. It certainly wasn't a courtesy call from the Special Operations Division with an update on their operation. He stared at the phone for a few more seconds and picked up the receiver out of curiosity.

"Deputy Director Kaparov."

"Alexei Kaparov. I can't believe you've lasted this long. I expected one of those ambitious youngsters to have taken your job by now," said the familiar voice in passable, academic Russian.

"The younger generation doesn't have what it takes to topple someone like me or you. Field work today doesn't build the same steely resilience. Sounds like you and I must have done something wrong back in Berlin. We're both chasing the same thing these days," Kaparov said.

"It wasn't what I did wrong back then. I think we both played the game pretty well."

"Indeed we did. To what do I owe the honor of a call from an old friend? I must admit that I find your timing a bit…shall we say, coincidental?"

"I didn't think you were a big believer in coincidences, Alexei."

"I'm not, but the new generation is softer, and I've already been to sensitivity training twice this year."

"Do you have time to talk to an old friend?" Karl said.

"Leave me a number and I'll call you in about ten minutes. I could use some fresh air," he said.

"You're not still smoking those horrible cigarettes?"

"Hey, I've cut down to two packs a day and I'm now considered a style icon. Troika cigarettes are all the rage now. All part of our nation's identity crisis. The youth are reaching back to their communist roots and embracing the worst cigarettes ever produced by mother Russia."

"Let's hope they don't reach too far back," Berg said.

"I'm not too worried. They don't have the stomach for those times. I'll call you when I'm out of here," he said and shuffled to the door to grab his warm wool overcoat.

Ten minutes later he strode across Lubyanka square, fighting a stiff, frigid wind to light another Troika. The wind was no match for the veteran smoker, and he thrust his bare hands back into the warm fur lining of his coat. The temperature had barely crested above freezing this morning, which was unseasonably cold for late April. Kaparov smoked about half of the cigarette, walking the outer edge of the square, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he called his former Cold War adversary, who answered on the first ring.

"So, why are you so eager to call me? It must be late there?" Kaparov said.

"I was hoping you could tell me. It sounds like the FSB or SVR is looking for someone important in the vicinity of Kazakhstan and possibly Monchegorsk," Berg said.

"It sounds like you are very well informed, as always. Unfortunately, I don't have much to add," Kaparov said.

"Won't add, or can't add?" Berg said.

"Neither. I assume we've come to the same conclusions about the 'someone important' you mentioned and his link to Monchegorsk?"

"And the lab site outside of Kurchatov?" Berg said.

"My God, you are well informed. What do you know about the site?"

"Enough to know that Monchegorsk might burn to the ground…if it's not bombed first."

Kaparov stared back at the Lubyanka Building and took a few seconds to process Berg's words.

"You still there, my friend?"

"I am. I am. Something big happened this morning. The lot was full when I arrived."

"What time did you arrive?"

"About six…"

"This morning? You just arrived? Alexei, don't fuck around with me. Do you know what happened in Kazakhstan today?"