Vektor (33 page)

“Pampering a disturbed asshole like that for the rest of his life doesn’t sit well with me either, but this was the easiest way to elicit the details needed for Black Fist.”

He neglected to mention that he didn’t intend to honor the agreement.

“Mr. Berg,” the watch floor coordinator said, “Blackbird is in position. It sounds like they’re kicking this off a few minutes early.”

He nodded at the young woman and grabbed his headphones. Like most covert operations, they would have limited communications with the team. In this case, the communication would be filtered even further, since the team would communicate directly with General Sanderson under most circumstances. Sanderson had an open voice channel to the CIA Operations Center, which would be monitored by the watch floor supervisor, along with Bauer and himself. Sanderson would pass all relevant or requested information to him over the voice line or transmit lengthier data packets, like pictures or files, via secure internet connection.

The CIA’s job was to monitor progress and coordinate assets beyond Sanderson’s control. Specifically, they would interpret SIGINT information related to the Russian response to the attack, and most importantly in his view, they would direct the exfiltration package to Sanderson’s team.

The White House Situation Room would receive their updates through direct communication by Berg or Bauer to Thomas Manning. Any direct requests from the White House would have to be filtered through Berg to Sanderson, which accomplished two important goals. First, it prevented the White House from attempting to hijack the mission. The last thing any of them needed was for the president to start armchair quarterbacking tactical decisions. Sanderson’s team required complete on-the-ground autonomy.

Secondly, it gave the president some distance from the operation. If the mission failed spectacularly, the White House would have a disaster on their hands. Fallout from the mess would be compounded if anyone discovered that the president was calling the shots directly. He wouldn’t have much plausible deniability either way, but keeping him off the line was the best damage control move the White House could manage.

He pressed the headset transmit button. “Berg on line. I copy Blackbird is at assigned target,” he said, indicating that he was aware of Foley’s status.

“Roger. Stand by,” the digitally garbled voice announced through his headset. Several seconds later, the voice returned. “Blackjack, this is base. Commence Black Fist.”

“This is Blackjack. Commencing Black Fist.”

He recognized the voice of the second transmission. Richard Farrington.

Chapter 41

8:09 AM

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

The president glanced at the clock on the wall in his private office, noting the time in Novosibirsk. 7:09 PM. The first phase of the operation would commence in six minutes. He had been told it would be finished quickly, but he wanted to be there to hear it for himself. He would have no dilutions of the truth today. The stakes were far too high. If everything went as planned, the secretary of state would still face an uncomfortable Monday. If the plan went sideways, they could wake up with a low-intensity war on their hands, jeopardizing their hopes of reelection in the fall.

His chief of staff had game-planned this from every angle and remained optimistic that even a total catastrophe today could be spun in their favor. Russia was ultimately responsible for the bioweapons attack a few weeks ago. A covert operation to destroy Russia’s current bioweapons program could be sold to the public as a drastic but necessary course of action in light of the devastating potential of True America’s attack. He preferred the first option.

His phone buzzed, indicating a call from the Situation Room watch floor. He picked up the phone and listened.

“Mr. President, I have Director Copley on the line.”

“Connect us, please,” he said and waited a second before continuing. “Director, this is the president.”

“Sir, they started Black Fist a few minutes early. Blackbird is moving to eliminate the first targets,” the CIA director said.

“We’ll be right there,” he said, hanging up the phone and moving toward his office door.

“They started early,” he said, before Remy could ask.

Jacob Remy shot up from the couch along the far wall, swiping his insulated coffee mug from the end table.

“Nice of them to wait for us,” his chief of staff said.

The president simply shook his head, signaling his agreement with Remy’s comment.

“After these targets are taken out, I want a private meeting with General Gordon. I need to personally communicate the role of his units in this operation. SOCOM will play absolutely no role on Russian soil, directly or indirectly, no matter how bad it gets for Sanderson’s team.”

“I’ll pull him aside,” Remy said.

“Thank you. Shall we see what our friends are up to in Russia?”

Chapter 42

7:12 PM

Kirovskiy City District

Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

Erin Foley crouched in the dark hallway, oblivious to the smell of garbage and lingering body odor that had nearly overtaken her moments earlier in the stairwell. The apartment building showed signs of neglect and wear from the outside—five stories of chipped paint, bent gutter downspouts and rusted balcony railings—but nothing had prepared her for the stench inside. Exacerbating her already unsettled stomach, she fought the urge to vomit until she arrived at the target apartment and narrowed her focus to the door.

The door handle’s locking mechanism turned out to be a basic cylinder design, which was highly vulnerable to picking. Unfortunately, the apartment had one more safeguard. A handheld metal scanner told her she would have to deal with an internal deadbolt two thirds of the way up the door. Finesse would cease to be an option once she finished with the door handle…if she ever got the damn thing open.

She had started the lock-picking process by raking the pins, hoping to catch most of them in the upper housing. No such luck. At least two of the pins dropped back into place. She manipulated one of the pins into place within a few seconds, but the last pin was proving to be a real bitch. Like everything in this building, the lock was showing signs of wear and probably gave the occupants a hassle every time they put their key in the door.

She placed her left ear close to the knob and listened, slowly easing up on the tension wrench inserted in the keyhole. With a little more wiggle room for the lock’s cylinder pin, she used the pick to push the final pin into the upper housing. As she moved the pick, she heard a faint click. That was it. She kept the tension on the wrench and slowly turned the doorknob all the way to the right, simultaneously listening for any sudden movements inside the apartment.

Satisfied that her efforts hadn’t been detected, she pocketed the tools and removed a small explosives package from one of her cargo pockets. Roughly the size of her thumb, the shaped Semtex charge would impart enough energy inward to pop the door’s second lock without destroying the door. The “popper” charge would also temporarily stun anyone in the immediate area behind the door, giving her a slight advantage. The only downside was the noise, which was sure to draw neighbors into the hallway. She placed the charge into the door jamb at the point indicated by the metal scanner and inserted a quick delay fuse. Almost ready.

Foley glanced around to confirm that no witnesses had surreptitiously appeared in the hallway and removed a dark gray ski mask from her other cargo pocket, pulling it over her head. Next, she hastily removed her reversible tan jacket and turned it inside out, sliding it back on to reveal large yellow Cyrillic letters superimposed on the front and back of the black nylon jacket. “FSB” to anyone interested.

She removed a Russian GSH-18 semi-automatic pistol from a concealed holster near the small of her back and attached a black suppressor taken from one of her windbreaker pockets. Gripping the pistol firmly with her right hand, she pulled the fuse with the other and scrambled clear of the door. Three seconds later, the charge detonated, and Foley burst through the door, searching through the smoky haze for targets.

A man stood up from a small table in the kitchen area. She aligned the pistol’s tritium sights with his head and fired the weapon, instantly confirming a hit by the dark splatter staining the white cupboards behind him. She shifted her aim to his chest and fired twice, pushing him backward into the crowded kitchen counter. His lifeless body slid to the green linoleum floor, bringing an electric frying pan down onto him and knocking a glass into the sink, shattering it. The spilled grease sizzled as she scanned for the remaining Iranian.

Unable to immediately find her second target, she processed what she knew from her three seconds in the apartment. Two plates filled with food sat on the table, untouched from what she could tell. Glasses of water looked full. Something had been cooking in the frying pan. All of this led her to believe they were a few minutes away from starting dinner. She recognized the man she’d shot from intelligence photos provided by Karl Berg and Viktor’s
bratva
surveillance teams. Vahid Mahdavi, the Iranian intelligence operative assigned to watch over Ehsan Naghadi was no longer a threat. So where was the Iranian scientist?

Viktor’s teams confirmed that he was in the apartment, which left few options. The apartments were all configured the same—small common area shared with the kitchen and one bedroom with attached bathroom. Her mind had settled on the only possibility before Mahdavi’s body hit the floor. Her pistol was already aimed at the open bedroom door situated in the middle of the wall. She walked silently to the left, squeezing through two tattered armchairs and a flimsy wooden coffee table. A full ashtray and several cans of energy drink littered the water-stained tabletop. Her back brushed against the television set, rocking it gently on the stool used as a makeshift entertainment stand. She kept the tritium sights trained two thirds of the way up the door, gradually moving herself to a point along the wall.

She heard some commotion in the hallway outside of the apartment and realized she was running out of time. She had really hoped to catch them together, watching television or playing cards. Whatever two Iranians would do on a Sunday evening in a foreign country. Now she had one of them in the other room, well aware that something was wrong in the apartment. At least she was dealing with the scientist and not a fully trained Iranian intelligence operative. The voices in the hallway grew louder. Time to try a different approach.

“Federal Security Service! Put your hands above your head and walk forward through the bedroom door or we’ll use tear gas and high explosives!”

Erin lowered her body into a crouch after issuing her counterfeit warning. She had carefully crafted her words to accomplish two goals. To confuse the Iranian scientist and to buy her more time with the neighbors. The words “Federal Security Service” should be enough to send onlookers scurrying back into their apartments.

Feet scampered in the hallway, as onlookers scrambled to remove themselves from the possible line of fire outside of the apartment. She listened for any signs of movement in the bedroom. Nothing. This was not looking good for her. If Ehsan Nagdhi was armed, she stood a high chance of taking a bullet charging through the doorway. She took a shallow, quivering breath, fighting every natural instinct to walk away from the apartment. Gripping the pistol tightly, Erin pushed aside her hesitation and decided to go in low on the count of three. The wall above her exploded in a maelstrom of drywall dust and shredded wallpaper before she mentally reached two.

The burst caught her by surprise, freezing her in place. There was no mistaking what had just torn through the thin wall separating her from the bedroom. Fearing that the next burst would be placed lower, she lurched forward into the doorway, searching for a target. She found a man kneeling on the floor with his hands in front of his face, pleading in broken, yet animated Russian, which was muted by the ringing in her ears. She fired three rounds in rapid succession through his extended palms. Ehsan Naghadi’s brains covered the wall behind him, no longer a threat to the United States.

She stepped forward to confirm the kill, catching sight of a compact submachine gun lying halfway under the bed amidst several spent shell casings. She kicked the weapon into full view and glanced at the bullet hole pattern on the wall by the door. A smirk started to form under her ski mask. He’d fired a twenty-round magazine from a Skorpion submachine gun and missed her, which was a fucking miracle at this range. The pattern showed how lucky she had been. The first round struck midway up the wall, where she would have been if she hadn’t decided to crouch, but that wasn’t the extent of the miracle.

Rays of light from the other room poked through the scattered pattern of holes, roughly trailing up and to the right. The highest round had hit the wall near the ceiling. He had no idea how to shoot the weapon. If he’d braced the weapon and concentrated the burst where his first round had struck, two or three of the rounds would have gone lower, striking her in the head.

She was definitely meant to be on that airplane tonight. Any ridiculous notions she had about staying behind to help Farrington had been erased. She had depleted all of her luck on a single, deadly burst of fire from a submachine gun and would probably get hit by a car on Zorge Street leaving this shitty apartment building. No. She was done with Russia. Less than fifteen miles away, a confirmed first-class seat departing for Bangkok, Thailand, awaited her. She’d be in the air before Russian authorities put any of the pieces together here, and out of Russian airspace when Farrington’s team hit Vektor.

On the way out of the bedroom, something on the dresser next to the door caught her eye. Something familiar. She slowed down long enough to swipe Naghadi’s Vektor security card from the top of the lone dresser in the room and pocketed it. No need to point the police in the right direction too quickly. She took a few steps toward the other room before another thought fired through her head, stopping her. She went back to the dresser and opened the three top drawers.