Vektor (6 page)

“The director will see you now,” she said.

He looked up when the door closed and frowned, motioning for Arkady Baranov to take a seat. He waited until the Center of Special Operations (CSN) director was seated before placing the report on his desk. He regarded Baranov for a moment, knowing that his usual gruff scare tactics would have little effect on the man. Baranov still looked like an active Spetsnaz operative, athletic and grizzled, his muscular frame evident under his navy blue suit. The only telltale sign that Baranov had reached his fifties was graying hair, which he kept in a smart buzz cut. He’d known Baranov for nearly twenty years, having helped the ambitious Spetsnaz colonel transition from the KGB to the Federal Security Service.

Colonel Baranov’s distinguished career started in Afghanistan as a young “Alpha Group” lieutenant. He led a squad of KGB Spetsnaz during
Operation Storm-333
, an ambitious raid launched against Afghan President Hafizullah Amin, at Tajbeg Palace in 1979. The operation killed the anti-Soviet leader, along with his entire two-hundred-guard contingent, successfully opening the door for the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Baranov successfully negotiated a transfer to the newly formed “Vympel Group” in 1981 and returned to Afghanistan, where he led sabotage groups against the Mujahideen until the bitter end of the Soviet occupation in 1989.

After Afghanistan, the newly minted full colonel took command of the Vympel Group, which was gutted and tossed around from agency to agency upon the collapse of the Soviet Union two years later. Colonel Baranov’s group eventually landed in the hands of the Interior Ministry (MVD), with only sixty of its original three hundred operatives. In 1993, Maxim Greshnev plucked Baranov out of the MVD on his meteoric rise up the FSB hierarchy ladder, placing him as the assistant deputy director of Greshnev’s newly formed Center of Special Operations. By 1995, Baranov had consolidated control of CSN, showing little motivation or ambition to rise any further, which suited Greshnev fine. He had little doubt that Baranov could easily outmaneuver him on the way to the top. Fortunately for him, Baranov was Spetsnaz to the core and couldn’t step away from the action to be bothered with politics.

“We have a problem,” Greshnev grumbled.

Baranov cocked his head slightly and waited for Greshnev to continue.

“I just got off the phone with the director of the Foreign Intelligence Service, and he’s not happy—”

“He’s never happy,” Baranov interrupted, drawing a critical stare from Greshnev.

“Apparently, they have confirmed that Reznikov’s address in Stockholm was leaked to the CIA.”

Baranov shook his head. “Let me guess. They think it came from my division.”

“This was the first joint operation with SVR in years, and it ended in disaster. It’s only natural for them to react this way.”

“Joint operation? We had a grand total of four people in the Ops Room for that fiasco. Myself, two others that I trust explicitly, and one of the senior techs,” Baranov said.

“Then our investigation shouldn’t take too long,” Greshnev said.

“That won’t satisfy our friends in the SVR,” Baranov said.

“No. It probably won’t. We can expect them to start surveillance on your entire department,” Greshnev said.

“Maybe we should put Directorate S under surveillance. How many fucking people did they have involved in the operation?”

“Given the unit involved, not as many as you might think. Ardankin won’t ignore the possibility that the leak came from his side, and neither will his boss,” Greshnev said.

“It’s the Security Service’s job to investigate issues like this,” Baranov said.

“Not when Zaslon is involved. I can’t hand this over to the Counterintelligence Service and let them swarm CSN. I’ll handpick a team from Internal Affairs’ (IA) special investigative unit. We’ll keep this low profile for now, and I’ll actively liaison with Ardankin’s SVR goons. Give them what they want, and get them out of our business,” Greshnev said.

“I’ll tolerate surveillance by our SVR comrades, but that’s all. If they make a move against any of my people, they’ll have a war on their hands…and I’m good at fighting wars,” Baranov said.

“I know you are, and so do they. I’ll make sure they understand the ground rules. Do you have any ideas beyond the four agents present in the Operations Room during the raid?” Greshnev asked.

“Our weakest link is technology. In the old days, we had telephones and status boards marked by grease pencil. Throw in a few TVs hooked to video players. Now we have twenty widescreen monitors, hundreds of computers, videoconferencing equipment, visual data boards…all controlled by a network of servers and optics cables that I couldn’t dream of comprehending. The whole setup requires an army of technicians, many of whom I’ve never personally met. The whole fucking place is a liability, which is why I kept the number of people involved in that operation to an absolute minimum. Those fucking idiots at SVR could have updated me over the phone, instead of insisting on a live joint feed. All we needed to know is whether the mission succeeded or failed…and even that didn’t really matter. Unless Reznikov steps foot on Russian soil, we’re on the sideline.”

“The joint involvement was my idea,” Greshnev said.

Baranov cracked a smile before responding. “I know.”

“You haven’t changed since I met you. Always a ball breaker,” Greshnev said.

“That’s my job these days.”

Greshnev smiled in return. “That’s why I keep you around. Promoting you out of here would catapult this place into chaos. We’ll investigate the techs associated with the Operations Room in this building, leaving your headquarters out of it, for now. Internal Affairs has a group that specializes in technology investigation. I have to bring the heat down on everyone that was in the Operations Room at the time.”

“Including me?”

“Especially you. I can’t afford to have you sneak up and kill one of their surveillance agents. The sooner I convince them that you’re clean, the better.”

“Am I that transparent in my old age?” Baranov said.

“Quite the opposite. I have no fucking idea what you are thinking these days. Make sure none of your operatives kill any of their new shadows. All right?”

“Understood,” Baranov said, standing up to take his leave. “This Reznikov business…there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Greshnev stared at him blankly. He agreed with Baranov’s assessment, but would never acknowledge the fact in front of him, or anyone, for that matter. Pure instinct told him to steer clear of pursuing the matter. Even though he truly possessed no information suggesting that Reznikov was anything more than a rogue scientist offering the prospect of bioweapons to terrorists, he sensed there was more to this story. Way more.

His Directorate had chased down men like Reznikov before, but the effort and resources spent on finding Reznikov had been disproportionately higher than any of those previous efforts, and this calculation didn’t account for the diplomatic risks inherent to operating larger than usual teams on foreign soil.

Sending a regional military Spetznaz platoon into Kazakhstan turned into a disaster of epic proportions, somehow explained away as a training exercise gone seriously awry. Fortunately for the Center of Special Operations, someone at the highest levels didn’t think their Alpha Group team in Novosibirsk would be large enough to deal with the five Americans snooping around the former site of Reznikov’s suspected laboratory. Apparently, an entire platoon hadn’t been enough.

The most damning evidence came from the operation in Stockholm. Neither of them could fathom the circumstances leading to the loss of ten Zaslon Spetznaz operatives. Frankly, he had been shocked to learn that the SVR had assembled so many Zaslon operatives in one place. They had never been informed of the actual number, but he had little trouble putting the pieces together based on Swedish news reports and crime scene information leaked by their sources in the Swedish National Bureau of Investigation and Stockholm County Police Department. The importance of this mission to Putin must have been unprecedented. He could think of no other reason why Dmitry Ardankin would have authorized such a large-scale Zaslon operation.

Zaslon operatives typically worked alone under deep cover, conducting sensitive missions abroad related to “state security.” This euphemism covered a wide spectrum of nefarious activities, from kidnapping to assassination. Most of their operations were carried out against Russian citizens who had betrayed Russia in one way or another. Of course, this was all purely rumor. Government officials had never acknowledged the existence of the Zaslon program, which was why the Stockholm mess underscored the importance of Reznikov. The Americans had wanted the scientist just as badly, which added another layer of intrigue to the entire fiasco. He didn’t believe that Reznikov had been terminated, regardless of what he’d been directly told by Dmitry Ardankin. This business wasn’t finished.

“It’s a done deal. Reznikov is dead, and this isn’t our business anymore,” Greshnev said.

“I can live with that,” he said, reaching for the door handle. He turned around again. “If the leak turns out to be one of mine. I’ll take care of it personally.”

“I would expect nothing less from the legendary Arkady Baranov.”

When the door closed, Greshnev stood up and stared out of the window at Lubyanka Square. He could never understand why foreign tourists went out of their way to see the square, which had to be the most uninteresting piece of real estate in all of Moscow. Paved over years ago, and barely resembling anything more than a glorified parking lot, visitors were treated to a shitty patch of grass and flowers surrounded by traffic. He supposed they could visit the Solovetsky Stone in the equally uninspiring park next to the square. The stone was placed there as part of the Gulag memorial, adding to the collective misery of Lubyanka Square, which housed its own share of tragedy.

He watched a gaggle of Westerners mill across the concrete expanse, staring up at the iconic building, which represented past horrors of the Soviet regime. Unknown to most, the repressive terror hadn’t truly ended. The government had simply relocated that apparatus to a less public location, south of the city. He really shouldn’t cast stones at the Foreign Intelligence Service. His own service had its share of problems, and as a chief director for the Terrorism and Political Extremism Control Directorate, he often dipped his hands into affairs that had more to do with politics than protecting the Russian Federation.

Even worse, he was often told to stay out of business that clearly fell under his purview, like Monchegorsk. He didn’t want to think about that city. If digging around the Reznikov story carried health risks, asking questions about Monchegorsk was like swimming through radioactive sludge. Prior to Kaparov bringing certain reports to his attention about a month ago, his office hadn’t paid much attention to the Kola Peninsula. Its geographic isolation on the Barents Sea and shared border with Finland had kept the peninsula quiet. Upon forwarding a report suggesting the possible use of bioweapons against Monchegorsk, the entire peninsula was shut down.

A day later, he learned from one of Putin’s key Federation Council lackeys that the entire city had revolted against Moscow in a labor-related dispute. Of course, the military would handle the operation to regain control of the city. Little else was said, and nothing else needed to be said. The story was so preposterous that Greshnev immediately decided he would never mention it again. Kaparov’s stubborn insistence on pressing the issue had unnerved him to the point of needing anti-anxiety medication. At least Kaparov had the sense not to bring up Reznikov and Monchegorsk in the same breath. The old-timer might be thick-headed, but he hadn’t lost his ability to read between the lines. He needed more agents like Kaparov and Baranov. Effective, reliable and trustworthy.

He sat back down in his thick black leather executive chair and took a deep breath. He had to initiate the investigation into Baranov’s people immediately. Fortunately, the investigation would be confined to this building. The leak could only have come from the Operations Room on the third floor, which served as a temporary location to monitor the joint operation in Stockholm. The Center of Special Operations headquarters was located outside of the Moscow ring in Balashikha, and encompassed a vast complex with training facilities for FSB Spetsnaz. Keeping the investigation out of CSN headquarters would be one of his priorities. He reached for the phone and steeled himself for a series of painful conversations.

Chapter 10

2:45 PM

Leopold Strasse

Munich, Germany

Konrad Hubner sipped the remains of his lukewarm cappuccino and glanced around at the lively tables in Café Centrum’s outdoor terrace. This was one of his favorite cafés, mainly for the local female scenery, which proliferated as summer approached. Not that the café ever suffered from a lack of pleasant background. He loved May in Bavaria. The weather was mild and constantly improving, dragging Bavarians outside in droves to the biergartens, cafés and parks.

Located west of the English Garden on the southern border of the Schwabing district, the café on Leopold Strasse took in a constant flow of university students and wealthy patrons who could afford to live in the upscale neighborhood. As he set down his cup on the table, a mixed group of well-dressed students carrying book bags walked onto the patio from Leopold Strasse, searching for an empty table. He didn’t want to make them wait any longer than necessary and had no intention of pulling the creepy move of inviting them to sit at his table. He picked up his cup and saucer, nodding to a tall, male student, who led the group to the table, thanking him as they passed. He walked inside and settled the bill directly before walking onto Leopold Strasse and turning south.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do with the rest of the day. A few analytical projects awaited completion, but none of them involved pressing deadlines. His client base consisted of a few handpicked, undemanding European Union financial houses that passed on collaborative, long-term economic forecasting projects. He had attended Munich Business School in 2001 at the suggestion of General Sanderson, who had assured him that their unit would recommence operations by the time he had finished. The degree would open doors in Europe and serve to enhance his cover, allowing him to take on professional work and justify his far-from-modest lifestyle.