Black Flagged Redux (29 page)

Chapter 30

9:22 PM

Filitov Prospect

Monchegorsk, Russian Federation

Valeria Cherkasov's eyes fluttered open. She could hear some kind of knocking, but couldn't make any sense of the sound. For a brief moment, she had no idea where she was. The sensory details started to return, beginning with her vision. She was in her apartment, or what remained of it. A fading light crept through the shattered window in her living room, exposing the unbelievable amount of damage done to the apartment. A broken chair from her small kitchen table set lay on the floor under the window.

She smelled the smoky remains of a fire and wasn't surprised when further visual inspection of her surroundings revealed that the kitchen table had collapsed on itself, apparently due to a fire. The flames had cracked the bulb and melted part of the light fixture attached to the ceiling, leaving a massive charred area above the destroyed table. Just beyond the smell of fire was something else. It almost smelled like barbeque.

She now noticed that the room was freezing and that she was shivering. The thin wool blanket covering her on the small couch did little to deter the arctic air that freely poured into the room. Why wasn't she on her bed, under her thick down comforter? She heaved her legs over the side of the couch and stood up. All she could think about was getting under that comforter. She glanced at her hands and saw that they were bruised and scratched, dried blood coagulated in several places around the worst cuts. Walking toward the bedroom, she saw several blood smears on the cinderblock walls.
Did I punch the walls?
None of this made any sense to her.

When she reached the bedroom doorway, she realized why she was on the couch. The deeply charred wooden bed frame formed a shell around a large burned mass of mattress springs, feathers, pillows and dark unrecognized material. She didn't like the smell in this room. Some kind of combination of charcoal lighter fluid and meat. Disgusting. She stepped back into the first room and her senses homed in on the sound of knocking at her door.
How long had that been going on? Shit. That was what woke me in the first place.

She walked over to the door and stared through the peephole, immediately recognizing one of the clinic doctors. She couldn't remember his name, but he was certainly familiar to her. They had dated off and on, until he settled down with a nurse from the hospital. She strained to remember if she knew what had happened to the nurse. She couldn't recall anything. Something was wrong with her detailed memory. She opened the door and registered the look of shock on his face.

"Are you all right, Valeria? I heard that you got out of the hospital. You're lucky you left. Army units showed up and nobody has heard any news from that part of town. What happened to you? You look like you've been attacked."

"I think I need to sit down," she said, straining to remember his name. Nothing.

"That's a good idea," he said, escorting her to the couch.

She wondered what he was doing here. It seemed odd to her that he would show up out of nowhere to check on her. Didn't he have a wife? Or did they ever get married?

She sat down on the far right side and felt a sharp pain in her right thigh. She didn't react to the pain, beyond slowly rising up to see what had happened. The man had turned his back on her, muttering something she couldn't hear. He glanced at the table and walls, furtively looking back at her. She caught this, but pretended to stare out of the window at the fading light. She turned her attention to the couch and her thigh, seeing fresh blood pour out of a shallow cut in her leg. The gleaming blade of a large butcher knife protruded between the cushion and the armrest of the couch.
Now, where did that come from? Oh, yeah. Now I remember.

She glanced up at her friend, who was slowly approaching the bedroom door. Without thinking, she pulled the knife out of the couch by the flat side of the blade and stared at it. A crusted layer of dark red blood covered at least half of the blade. She hid it along the side of her bleeding leg and stood up slowly.

"Valeria, what in hell happened here?" he said, transfixed by the scene in the bedroom.

"Same thing that's gonna happen to you," she hissed into his ear.

Ten minutes later, after using the rest of the charcoal lighter fluid and most of the wood in the apartment to burn the man's body beyond recognition, she opened a small painted trunk next to the door and took out a warm fur hat and thick, fur-lined leather gloves. She took a moment to adjust everything before taking her favorite gray wool overcoat off one of the coat hooks next to the front door.

She pulled the coat over her bloodied hospital scrubs, wondering why she hadn't changed these yet. It didn't matter. She just needed to get out of her apartment and find a more secure place to stay. She knew the streets weren't safe, but neither was staying in her apartment. Since arriving from the hospital, her windows had been smashed in, and someone had thrown a small firebomb into her bedroom. It was only a matter of time before something more dangerous occurred. She was on the second floor and someone could easily climb in one of the broken windows. Maybe she could find a vacant apartment on an upper floor in her building. Even better, she might find someone that would take her in. She hated being alone.

A gunshot echoed through the open window, startling her. She turned toward the kitchen and walked over to the knife holder, searching for her favorite cutting knife. If she was going out into the darkness, she'd better arm herself. Failing to find the large butcher knife, she settled for the smaller one, which would be easier to hide in the spacious pockets on her jacket. She didn't want to walk around holding a knife. Someone might mistake her for one of the lunatics walking the streets.

Chapter 31

3:03 PM

MS Tallink Superstar

Tallin, Estonia

Anatoly Reznikov walked into the bar and took a seat at a small booth nestled against the window of the ferry's highest lounge. He glanced out of the window at the city of Tallin, which had taken on a gray pallor from the oppressive rain clouds hovering above the city. Tallin was an ugly city from this vantage point, nothing but a sea of colorless office buildings, punctuated by several shiny mirrored high-rises that represented Tallin's downtown area. He glanced at the other side of the lounge and could see vestiges of Tallin's Old Town. Towering church spires, byzantine-style domes and the red shingled roofs of ancient medieval buildings. He craned his neck slightly and saw a few of the Old Town's intact watchtowers. No wonder this side of the ship hadn't been crowded.

He settled into his seat on the two-thousand-passenger ferry, which looked more like a cruise ship, and signaled for the waitress that stood inside the bar, scanning the lounge's patrons for anyone suspicious. He ordered a double vodka, straight, from the attractive, bored-looking blonde waitress and turned his attention back to the industrial wasteland out his window. He'd love to poison this city, too. He didn't know why, but staring out into the city, he felt powerful, like he held the fate of the entire city in his hands. He had experienced the same feeling last night, right before he had left the hotel in St. Petersburg.

Staring out at St. Isaac Square from an expensive suite at the Ambassador Hotel, he drank the bottle of Rodnik vodka acquired in Nizhny Novgorod and monitored the situation in Monchegorsk via news media and internet sources. He knew sticking around Russia was a major risk for him, but he had taken precautions. He had undergone a series of minor cosmetic surgeries over the past five years, designed to alter his appearance enough that even his closest college friends wouldn't recognize him on first inspection. He had finished with these surgeries two years ago and purchased an expensive set of Russian identity papers. For the right price, everything was for sale in Russia.

Once media sources confirmed that Highway M18 had been closed by the army, he knew the virus had been successful. His elation lasted a few seconds, before an angry desire to acquire more of the virus hijacked him. He had the power to destroy entire cities, but had sold himself short with the terrorists. He should have insisted on taking more for himself, but his position with them had been precarious. He felt lucky to have escaped. They could have shot him at the site, but since he insisted on leaving immediately with the first encapsulated batches, they were forced to pretend that he was free to go. They couldn't afford any problems with the remaining laboratory staff at the time, since they were critical to the preparation of the remaining capsules.

A small shudder brought his thoughts back to the ferry, followed by three short blasts on the ship's horn, which were muffled by the lounge's thick glass windows. He watched as the city started to move out of his view and barely noticed the drink placed on his table. The ferry would take him to Helsinki, where he would take the next available flight to Stockholm. If the Stockholm address didn't provide results, he would move on to Copenhagen, then Germany. Eventually, he would find more of his virus. He had a notebook filled with addresses, all provided by careless, arrogant conversations in his laboratory.

Chapter 32

5:25 PM

United Nations Detention Unit

The Hague, Netherlands

Srecko Hadzic stared at his image in the small mirror on the wall of his private cell. He looked like shit. Thick, bruised bags hung under his narrow brown eyes. His eyes were bloodshot and his face looked drained of blood. His stomach growled, adding to the misery and reminding him that his ulcer was acting up again. He hadn't slept or eaten well for nearly three weeks. Ever since his nephew visited with news that the traitor Marko Resja, or whoever he claimed to be, had been discovered in Argentina.

Finding him had been a stroke of pure fucking luck, but he'd take it. A higher power wanted this to happen, and the fact that that whore Zorana had been discovered at Marko's side proved it. Srecko clearly remembered the day that Marko raised her decapitated head out of the gym bag. He even recalled seeing the nose ring through the thick, blackish blood on the head's battered face. Nobody forgot it, especially the cowards that had recounted the story to the war crimes tribunal in exchange for a reduced sentence or their freedom. He'd deal with all of them eventually. His nephew, Josif, kept track of everyone.

He rubbed his eyes vigorously and ran both of his plump hands through thick silver and black hair. He really needed to try and eat something at dinner, but he'd need to visit the infirmary first to see if they could give him some form of stomach medication. Maybe the purple pill he had seen on television. He caught motion in his peripheral vision and turned to the door. One of the guards had just passed the small window located three quarters of the way up the dark green door. He turned to his desk unit and stared at the computer screen. He had forced himself to postpone checking his email account.

As a designated e-Court, the International Criminal Court (ICC) had mandated that each detainee have a computer in their cell, which was linked to a single computer at The Hague Court. Only Srecko's defense attorney had access to that computer, and the communications were designated as privileged. Still, they were cautious when using the electronic link, as neither of them fully trusted the detention center personnel. Pressure to convict high level members of Milosevic's regime had intensified.

He sat at the desk and activated the monitor. He waited a few moments, and typed in the passwords required to access his mailbox. A new message awaited him, titled "Recent Developments." This might be it. He clicked on the message, which was brief.

"Z in BA again. No M. Proceeding at first opportunity. Will supervise video production on site. J."

Srecko realized his fists were clenched. Zorana was alone in Buenos Aires. He'd prefer to grab them both at the same time, but this would work just fine. He could use Zorana to draw out Resja and dispose of them both…after long, unending torture sessions. He felt better knowing that Josif had flown out to personally handle the entire affair. He still had a few trusted Panthers in Argentina, but nothing compared to the comfort he took in knowing that a loyal blood relative had his best interests at heart, and Josif was as capable as he was loyal. He responded to the email.

"We'll need Z to find M. Proceed with filming, but don't terminate production. Expect to watch first cut shortly."

He deserved to watch her suffer for the hell they had put him through. The gang war between Mirko's "Avengers" and his own Panthers had turned Belgrade into a bloodbath. He'd lived like an outcast, running from one safe house to the next, trying to stay one step ahead of Mirko's assassination teams. He should have spent the time figuring out how to escape Yugoslavia and enjoy what remained of his criminal fortune. Instead, the NATO bombing campaign kicked into full gear, and the threat of NATO ground intervention drove Milosevic to accept the terms of a NATO peace plan.

The plan involved the withdrawal of Yugoslavian forces from Kosovo and the presence of peacekeeping forces along the Kosovo border. Since most of his Belgrade staff had disappeared, either killed or gone into hiding, he was forced to travel to the Kosovo front in an attempt to personally order the withdrawal of his paramilitary forces. He had managed to locate the senior field commander and give the order, but Srecko was intercepted by American commandos on the way back to Belgrade. He never saw Serbia again, and Zorana would pay the worst for his forced exile.