Black Flagged Redux

Chapter 1

Anatoly Reznikov stared at the fading ribbon of cerulean blue sky over the darkened steppe. He sat in the back of a cheap Russian four-door sedan, likely rented at the airport in Semipalatinsk (Semey), where he would soon board a privately chartered aircraft. From there he would fly unescorted to an airport in western Russia. Generous prepayments ensured that he could walk straight from the plane to a four-wheel drive vehicle, with no questions or hassle. Of course, this had all supposedly been arranged for him by his new partners, while he worked on their product at the laboratory. Reznikov didn't expect them to honor the final terms of the contract, so he had made his own arrangements.

The driver was still headed vaguely in the right direction, but Anatoly knew the man had taken a subtle turn down a dead end spur, which might have gone unnoticed in the dark, especially if he hadn't been paying close attention to every single action, facial expression…even word, uttered by his partners, as the project neared completion. It also helped that he could understand what they were saying, a fact he had kept secret from everyone, especially his new "partners."

Over the past few weeks, he had overheard some interesting conversations about "covering their tracks" and "getting rid of any links." The phrases had churned his stomach and made it nearly impossible for him to focus on the transfer of his product to the delivery devices. He had expected to be killed at any moment, either in the lab or his room, and the suspense had nearly crippled him as he played scenario after scenario in his head, trying to determine if they had realized that either of his assistants could complete the final steps of the project without his help.

He had become a nervous wreck during those weeks, plagued by stomach problems, unexplained sweating episodes, and numerous other symptoms of severe paranoia. All of that suddenly vanished when they announced that he would be transported to the airport as agreed. His "friend" Ahmad spoke right in front of him to a rough-looking man Reznikov had never seen at the lab complex: "Get rid of him."

As soon as the words were spoken, Anatoly felt calm, almost relieved. He found himself looking forward to the ride. Finally, he could get on with the plan he had set in motion nearly three years earlier, when he first tried to contact these traitorous jackals.

He wished there had been some way to keep the final product out of their hands, but this crew didn't mess around and there had been no opportunity to sabotage the project while keeping what he needed. He wouldn't get the second part of his payment, but it didn't matter. He had exactly what he had set out to obtain sitting in two innocuous, specially designed, thermos-sized coolers, snuggled into the backpack sitting next to him.

The car continued for another minute and then slowed to a stop.

"I think we took a wrong turn. I need to look at the map to try and make sense of these dirt roads. This is the middle of nowhere," the driver said in broken Russian.

The driver opened the door and walked forward, unfolding a map. The front passenger joined him, and they flattened the map on the hood, examining it with a flashlight for a few seconds. Suddenly, the interior roof lamp bathed the car in a dingy orange light and the man in the rear passenger seat next to Anatoly started to exit the vehicle. He exchanged a few words in Arabic with the men huddled around the map and stuck his head back in the car.

"It's an old Russian map. They need your help reading it," Ahmad said.

"No problem," he said.

Reznikov opened the door to join the three Al Qaeda operatives, who were staring quizzically at a map that had given them no problems on previous occasions. As he approached, the new passenger pointed to an odd cluster of hills to the southwest.

"We're trying to figure out where we are. Can you see if those hills break apart in the middle? If they do, I know exactly where we are. You might have to walk down the road a bit," he said and went back to the map.

"Sure," Anatoly said and continued walking.

As he reached a point alongside the three men, he drew a compact GSh-18 pistol from a large flapped pocket on his dark brown overcoat and fired two 9mm hollow point bullets into each of their heads. He started with Ahmad, who faced him on the other side of the hood, and rapidly dispatched the remaining two extremists, before they had even straightened their bodies in response to the deafening noise.

In the reflected light of the car's high beams, he watched the mystery passenger's body slide down the side of the car, taking the blood and brain matter-stained map with him. Ahmad and the driver lay on the road next to the car. In the dusty illumination of the dropped flashlight, he watched Ahmad's left foot twitch erratically, until it slowed and stopped.

Satisfied that the men were dead, he returned to the car and opened the trunk. Inside, he found exactly what he had expected. A cardboard box filled with spray bottles of cleaning solvent and assorted rags. Like Reznikov, his "partners" had no intention of returning a blood-stained car to the rental agency at the Semey Airport. He took the cleaning supplies and grabbed the flashlight from the side of the road. He'd start with the larger brain pieces.

Chapter 2

Captain Vasily Tischenko fought with the controls as he tracked the infrared navigation lights of the lead helicopter through the incredibly tight, tree-lined canyon. His grainy perception of the scene through night vision goggles (NVGs) told him that he had plenty of room, and his limited experience flying similar missions validated the deceptive green image that flickered and changed without warning. He had supervised the detailed route planning with the other pilots and knew logically that the Mi-8MS "Hip's" rotors had ample clearance from the rocky, pine-covered sides of the small river valley, but he had long ago learned never to trust anything but his instruments while flying at night.

Unfortunately, the only useful information he received from his cockpit controls told him that he had one hundred feet between the helicopter and the ground, and the altimeter hadn't been installed with night-vision flying in mind. Normally, he could check the altimeter and trim gauges with a flicker of his eyes, but the night vision goggles severely limited his field of vision, requiring him to move his head and take his eyes off the helicopter ahead of them.

He despised flying with NVGs and relied on his co-pilot to check several instruments for him, most importantly, their route. His co-pilot monitored a recently installed low light GPS screen and called out their position relative to the calculated track, which gave him some reassurance that they wouldn't slam into the side of the valley. Tischenko figured that if the lead helicopter didn't crash and burst into flames, they would probably be fine on the approach. He had enough distance between them to avoid a deadly pileup.

As with all Alpha Group Spetsnaz operations, the pilots had been given scant details regarding the nature of the target, only the ingress and egress routes, timeline, and expected support tactics. Tischenko had only flown two other missions for Alpha Group, and one had been aborted thirty minutes into the flight. The other had been a fairly straightforward insertion, in an uncontested landing zone near Grozny.

Overall, Tischenko's year in Chechnya had been quiet, as most of insurgency had been quelled by the time his helicopter squadron had started its year-long rotation. This had suited him well. A ready supply of SA-7 "Grail" surface — to-air missile launchers had been distributed to the rebels by mutinous Chechen regiments, and dozens of helicopters had been lost in similar operations during the early years of the insurgency. Helicopter losses were a rarity these days, which gave Tischenko all the more hope that he would make it back to attend his daughter Elena's third birthday party.

The captain's stomach pitched as the helicopter unexpectedly dropped fifteen feet, and he nudged the collective to raise the 22,000 pound chunk of metal back to a steady altitude. He was careful not to overreact, since the close walls of the canyon would not be very forgiving of an overcorrection. The helicopter bucked again, and he repeated the process, fighting a sudden torque problem, as wind shears from his own rotor wash came back from the valley walls directly across his tail. He delicately applied pressure to pedals that controlled the tail rotor blade pitch, and kept the fully-laden assault helicopter pointed at the center of the Alpha One. He had fought thousands of these small aerodynamic battles since entering the river valley fifteen minutes ago, and could barely wait to get out of these narrow confines. He sensed no change to the vibrations of his helicopter, which settled his stomach…slightly. He could detect the slightest changes to his helicopter and could often detect a problem before the helicopter's own fault sensors.

He wished there was an easier route to their target, but he understood the need for their clandestine approach. Three helicopters were about to drop sixty Alpha Group "special operators" onto a single site, which meant their target was important and probably heavily defended. He figured they had another minute before banking hard left and dropping directly into the middle of the insurgent base.

Once he made the turn, his helicopter would be less than one minute from dropping twenty of Russia's most highly trained Spetsnaz into the darkness. There would be no room overhead to hover and provide cover fire for the commandos. They had been instructed to climb out of the valley and use the nearby hills for cover until the operation had concluded. If requested, one helicopter would return for close air support. Luckily for Tischenko, that task fell to Alpha One.

"One minute to Final Waypoint," the copilot said over the internal communications circuit.

Following standard procedure, the copilot flashed the muted dark red lights in the troop compartment, which would let the commandos know that their insertion was imminent. They knew the drill better than Tischenko's crew and would be moving around the compartment making last second preparations. His two gunners would start to spin the barrels of their GshG-7.62mm miniguns, in preparation for the short period of time they would be allowed to engage targets of opportunity on the ground. It would be the only support Alpha Group would receive from the air, and his gunners wanted to make it count.

Roughly one minute later, Tischenko watched Alpha One's shadowy green profile start to change as the massive helicopter banked left and disappeared behind the adjacent valley's rocky spur. He would execute the same turn and line up on Alpha One as soon as he was clear of the same tree-covered outcropping. He expected all hell to break loose when they accelerated into the hidden valley.

A few more seconds passed, and he could tell that his own helicopter had crossed into the secondary valley opening. He caught sight of Alpha One's infrared taillights through his night vision and adjusted the cyclic to put the helicopter into a sharp left turn. He steadied on Alpha One with a clever manipulation of his pedals and watched as the lead helicopter picked up speed, seconds away from inserting its team.

His copilot flashed the troop compartment lights twice in rapid succession, and Tischenko felt the helicopter jolt as the doors on both sides of the modified special operations helicopter slammed open, ready to disgorge their human cargo. He felt the crisp mountain air rush into the cockpit and fill his helmet. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as Alpha One flared, and two thick ropes dropped from each side of the hovering black beast. Once the helicopter settled a few seconds later, figures started to rapidly slide down the ropes, and Tischenko tried not to count them. He needed to focus on the narrowing gap between his rotor blades and the trees, since reconnaissance photos and survey maps indicated a tight squeeze before the valley opened up into the perfect hiding place for a high value insurgent base.

He found his helicopter approaching Alpha One too quickly and reduced the forward cyclic, waiting for the lead helicopter to dip forward and speed away. Once Alpha One started moving forward, he would move Alpha Two into position for his turn. Given the tight fit within the valley and the limited flat ground near the insurgent base, mission planners had decided against trying to fit two helicopters into the LZ at one time, especially at night. One miscalculation could be catastrophic. Alpha One's miniguns started firing, sending continuous streams of green tracers into the darkness on both sides of the helicopter.

"There he goes," the copilot said eagerly, before Tischenko could process the fact that Alpha One was speeding away.

He generously pushed the cyclic, and the helicopter lurched forward. His copilot continuously called out the distance to the final Assault Point using the GPS system, which was accurate to one meter. Tischenko was a skilled pilot and brought the Mi-8MS "Hip" right into position, flaring at the last second to completely stop the helicopter's forward motion. As the helicopter settled, the first thing he noticed was the unmistakable sound of small arms bullets clanking into his helicopter. He couldn't hear the source of the gunfire, but one of the lower cockpit windows spider-cracked, followed by the window immediately to his left.

"Stable at Assault Point. Deploy Alpha Team!" he yelled into his helmet microphone.

"Alpha Team deploying," he heard.

His own helicopter's miniguns barked like buzz saws, spitting hundreds of 7.62mm bullets per second back into the insurgent positions. Through his peripheral vision on both sides, he saw thick streams of green tracers float away from his helicopter. They had a full-scale battle on their hands in this shitty little valley. Alpha One had warmed them up and escaped untouched. Lucky motherfuckers, he thought momentarily, before he immediately regretted the thought.

Alpha One had cleared the LZ and just started its ascent from the valley, when at least two flashes caught Tischenko's attention. The flashes came from the left side of the valley, and his mind didn't have enough time to process more of the scene before his night vision flared bright green, blinding him. He held the controls steady, as every natural instinct programmed into his body fought against him. The Spetsnaz team had already commenced fast-roping to the ground, and he could not break his hover. Any sudden changes to the aircraft's stability could hurtle one or more commandos fifty feet to their death. He had to settle himself and wait for the "all clear" from his crew chief, who was directing the fast rope operation. He pivoted the night vision goggles out of his face and took in the scene. What he saw gave him little hope of ever seeing his wife and daughter again.

Alpha One had activated its decoy flare system, which fired eight blinding magnesium flares into the air behind it, rendering his night vision equipment useless. The flares landed on the ground and completely illuminated the entire valley, including his own helicopter. He couldn't see Alpha One beyond the burning flares, but a crunching explosion and a billowing orange pillar of fire didn't leave much to Tischenko's imagination. He needed to get out of here before the insurgents could reload their rockets.

"Chief, how much longer?" he yelled into the helmet microphone.

"Half of the team is out. We're doubling up on the ropes. Five more seconds," came the abrupt reply.

One of the cockpit window panels above his copilot's head shattered, and a bullet ricocheted through the cockpit. Several more bullets struck the reinforced glass around them, which miraculously held. The miniguns belched sustained bursts of withering fire back at their targets as Tischenko counted the seconds aloud. Seven seconds later, his crew chief screamed through the headset that they were "all clear."

He decided to skip the low level egress route chosen by Alpha One and pushed the cyclic and collective together, favoring the collective. Alpha Two rushed forward, ascending rapidly. His IR missile sensors started to flash and a harsh tone blared in his headset, but he resisted the impulse to launch his own flares, knowing they would likely rain down on Alpha Three. The missile threat never materialized, and Tischenko's helicopter rose above the valley, racing for an adjacent range of hills. He could see enough without the night vision goggles to keep them safe for now, until they were inevitably called back into the valley to pick up the Spetsnaz.

"You need to redesignate helicopters, Captain," the copilot said.

"Standby," he said and opened a channel to the ground force commander and the other helicopter.

"Redesignate call signs. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Two is now Alpha One. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Three is now Alpha Two, over," he said.

"This is Alpha Command. Out."

"This is Alpha Two. Out."

Tischenko enjoyed a few more seconds of peace, hovering in what he hoped was safe airspace.

"Alpha One, this is Alpha Command…request close air support in vicinity of Assault Point. Alpha Strike units will designate targets for your gunners using IR pointers, over."

Shit, this was going to be the longest — or possibly the shortest — night of his life. At least he wouldn't need his night vision goggles. The flares and burning wreckage had transformed the valley into an inferno.

"This is Alpha One, thirty seconds from commencing gun run. Mark targets in two-zero seconds," he said.

"This raid better be worth it," he muttered, as the orange glowing valley reappeared ahead of them.

Chapter 3

Anatoly Reznikov squeezed the armrest tightly as the Hawker 800 business jet floated above the runway for two seconds, then abruptly dropped onto its landing gear. He felt the airbrakes decelerate the sixteen-thousand-pound aircraft from one hundred and sixty miles per hour to less than twenty in fewer than five seconds, pressing his abdomen uncomfortably against the lap belt. It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced, but he understood why the pilots had chosen to sacrifice comfort on this particular approach.

Cross winds from a massive storm system north of Nizhny Novgorod had plagued the small aircraft since the pilots started their decent, and had intensified as they lined up with the runway. Reznikov had considered requesting that the pilots divert the flight to a different airport, but his arrangements for a hassle-free transfer had been made for Strigino Airport and couldn't be guaranteed anywhere else. He was carrying a suppressed pistol and two stainless steel cooling cylinders, a combination of items unlikely to pass through even the most cursory security checks typically associated with private business travelers, especially if special monetary arrangements were not already in place.

The aircraft slowed further, and Anatoly loosened his safety belt. The first person he expected to see upon exiting was Gennady. The man had already been paid half of a very generous fee to personally ensure Anatoly's uncomplicated transfer to a rental car. He had met Gennady once before, immediately prior to arriving in Kazakhstan to begin work for his former "friends." Knowing that he would not be theoretically allowed to leave the laboratory site again until the work was completed, he had made all of these arrangements in advance. All Gennady needed was a phone call, and he could have a business jet flown from Novosibirsk to Semey within four hours, all at considerable cost, of course, which was why Anatoly expected to see Gennady himself personally standing at the bottom of the Hawker's cabin door stairs. Gennady's absence would signify a considerable problem, one that could only be solved with the pistol readily accessible in his black backpack.

He glanced through the rain-splashed cabin window at the scene unfolding on the edge of the runway. The private terminal area loomed ahead, and shadows of the runway crew hurried through sheets of rain to prepare for the jet's arrival. The shiny concrete was illuminated by massive terminal lights, which dimmed with each passing rain squall. The sun had risen a half hour earlier, but the heavy rain clouds shielded the airport from any signs of dawn. Now that the aircraft was still, he could hear the rain pummeling the aircraft's thin metal shell and feel the wind buffeting the aircraft's frame.

After a few minutes, the jet moved forward into its final position in front of the terminal and stopped. Waiting at a safe distance, several airport personnel converged on the aircraft, disappearing underneath the cabin. He heard the usual assortment of sounds associated with post-flight maintenance and spotted a fuel truck speeding toward the aircraft. The jet would undoubtedly be back in the sky within the hour, headed toward its next thirty-thousand-dollar passenger. It was money well spent on his account. The flight had put him within a reasonable three-day driving range of his target. Unfortunately, his budget didn't allow for another flight like this one, or he would have flown all the way to St. Petersburg. From St. Petersburg, he'd face an easy, one-day drive to the Kola Peninsula.

One of the pilots stepped back into the cabin. "Sorry about the landing. I wanted to get this thing down as quickly as possible in those winds. We'll have you on your way in a few minutes. Feel free to empty the minibar. The company stocks premium liquor, and it's a little known secret that everything is included in the price of the flight," he said, tipping his pilot cap.

"Thank you. I think I might take a few bottles for the road."

Reznikov unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way over to the minibar near the front of the cabin. Upon opening the small refrigerator, he smiled. Indeed, they’d spared no expense with the liquor selection. He placed several miniature bottles of vodka in the side pockets of his backpack and secured the straps. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.

"Don't forget to take this. Glen Ord, thirty year, single malt. $300 a bottle," the pilot said, pulling a bottle out of the cabinet above the minibar.

"Now I understand the cost of the flight," he said, accepting the bottle and then handing it back. "I never developed a taste for Scotch. Vodka is my poison."

"A true Russian. Not many of us left these days. In that case, try this instead. I like to make these bottles disappear from time to time."

He reached into the cabinet and removed a bottle of Rodnik Vodka, which Anatoly knew for a fact would cost nearly $500.

"If I flew this jet, they would all go missing. Many thanks, comrade. I have the perfect occasion in mind for this bottle.”

"Ground is ready for you to disembark, Mr. Pavlenko," the co-pilot said, sticking his head into the doorway.

The pilot turned to the door and pulled a small handle to the left, breaking the door's airtight seal. Reznikov watched him lower the door, which served as the staircase, slowly to the tarmac. A gust of wind whipped rain inside the cabin, and Reznikov hiked the backpack over his shoulders. He stepped forward and saw Gennady standing at the bottom of the stairs struggling to hold an umbrella, a useless gesture given the sideways rain. It was a good sign, nonetheless. The money paid to Gennady had left an impression. Wasting no time, he walked down the stairs.

"Put that ridiculous thing away, and help me with my bag."

"Your bag is already taken care of," he said.

"Then, let's get the fuck out of this rain," Reznikov said, still holding the vodka bottle as Gennady led him to a door reserved for "special" customers.

Once inside the door, Gennady turned to Reznikov with a worried look. They stood in an abandoned, poorly lit reception area outfitted with a couch and table set. The room opened into a hallway that led further into the terminal and likely emptied into a discreet area where certain customers could disappear without any official fanfare.

"We have a problem. Two gentlemen arrived about an hour ago asking questions about you. They had basic flight information and used the name Reznikov."

"Russian?"

"Barely. I'd guess Chechen by the looks of them. Filthy, dark-skinned Muslim mongrels. Out of Moscow probably. They had rough details and a picture of you. Unfortunately, they were spreading money around, and people here were talking."

"So much for a private terminal," Reznikov said.

"The money was just a formality. Everyone here knows what they are, and nobody wants to be dragged out behind the terminal for a private conversation," he said.

"Where are they now?"

"Waiting inside the terminal for you," Gennady said.

"Where is my car?"

"Already checked out and waiting for you in the private parking lot."

"I need you to do something for me. I want you to tell them where my car is and suggest that they wait for me in the parking lot."

"Are you crazy?"

"Just do what I say, then get back to Novosibirsk."

"I don't like the sound of this. I don't need the Chechens on my ass. And what about the rest of my payment?" he said.

"I can transfer the rest to you in Novosibirsk, or you can collect it here…but only after you convince the men to wait for me in the parking lot," Anatoly said.

"I don't like this."

"Then don't get paid. It's your choice."

"I need a kicker for doing this. Fucking with these people is serious business," Gennady said, "and you never mentioned they were involved."

"They weren't. This is a simple job for them, nothing more. You'll be fine."

"I'm not fucking with them unless you double the remaining fee," Gennady said.

"Double? I'll give you one and a half times the remaining fee," Reznikov said.

"You have it here?"

"Yes. You'll get it after I deal with these guys. I have your cell phone number. I'll call you when it's done and I’ll drive around to the terminal to meet you," Reznikov said.

"You better not fuck me over on this," he said.

"Gennady, this has all gone very smoothly so far. I've paid you as agreed, and you've delivered the goods. I just need you to help me get out of here. You'll get your money, and then you can disappear to Novosibirsk. It's a win-win situation. No blood on your hands."

"We'll see about that. I'll call you when they're on their way to the parking lot. Until then, stay right here," he said and walked briskly down the hallway.

When Gennady closed the door, Reznikov took the suppressed GSh-18 pistol out of his backpack and thumbed the safety off, sliding it back into the cushioned compartment normally reserved for a laptop. He would need to access the pistol quickly. He removed a second eighteen-round magazine from a smaller compartment on the backpack, and stuffed this into one of his coat pockets. He left the top of the backpack open and stood up, straightening his coat. He walked down the hallway to the same door used by Gennady a few minutes earlier and opened it.

He found himself in a sparsely furnished, windowless office with an access door to the outside. The room's only source of light came from a small, translucent window on the door, which barely cast enough light to see into the furthest reaches of the room. Fresh rain pooled on the floor just inside the door, and he could hear the rain drive against the outside walls. If Gennady betrayed him, they would come for him through this doorway. There would be too many witnesses on the tarmac for the men to enter through the runway door.

He closed the door leading back into the hallway and positioned himself behind the desk, which sat in the darkest corner of the room to the right of the hallway door. He kneeled down below the top of the desk and took out his cell phone, switching it to vibrate. After returning the phone to an inside pocket, he reached into the backpack and withdrew the semi-automatic pistol, holding it steady in his right hand.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed. After the third extended vibration from his coat pocket, he heard a crash beyond the hallway door and was glad he had trusted his instinct regarding Gennady. He knew the man wouldn't have the balls to go through with his plan. He wondered if Gennady had intentionally turned on him, or if the Chechens had simply given him no choice. Either way, it didn't matter. If the men sent to the airport were indeed Chechen mafia, then Gennady couldn't return to Novosibirsk.

The sudden appearance of the Chechens meant one thing to Reznikov: Al Qaeda had quickly discovered that he'd escaped from Kazakhstan, and they desperately wanted him dead. He could understand why. He had left their makeshift laboratory eight hours ago, with two self-cooled cylinders that they had fully intended to recover upon his execution. Now, he was on the run with enough virus capsules to poison two cities, and Al Qaeda had no idea what he planned to do next.

He'd overheard enough to know that Al Qaeda planned to strike several European cities with the virus, and he'd been fortunate to memorize several addresses where containers would be received and held for a coordinated attack. He wasn't sure how he could use this information, but was certain that it would hold some value if he was ever captured. He'd also heard plans for shipping the virus overseas to the United States, through a medical supply distribution company in Germany.

It all added up to a major attack on the West by Al Qaeda, which is why they wanted him dead. The last thing they needed was for Reznikov to release the virus first, putting the World Health Organization and every other major international health ministry on high alert for further attacks. The capsules were specifically designed to poison municipal water supplies, and an isolated attack would lock down every water facility throughout the world, leaving Al Qaeda with few viable deployment options for their virus.

He didn't care one way or the other whether Al Qaeda succeeded with their plans. He had a specific target for his own virus capsules and that was all that mattered. If he could escape from the airport, he'd be at his target city within three days. Less than a week after that, the Russian government would watch helplessly as the city of Monchegorsk was put out of its misery.

He heard voices muttering from the hallway, and bright beams of light penetrated the privacy glass on the hallway door. The lights suddenly disappeared and everything became still again. He watched the doorknob closely, barely poking his head over the desk. The doorknob reflected some of the light from the outside door, and after a few seconds he was certain that it had turned. He ducked his head quickly, a fraction of a second before the door crashed open, slamming against the wall and cracking the inset glass window.

Footsteps filled the room and bright lights swept the walls and corners. He prayed that his head was far enough below the lip of the desk to remain unseen by the light focused on his corner. He tensed and prepared to make the first move, expecting bullets to rip through the desk at any moment. He started to lift the pistol upward when the light above his desk vanished and a grim voice sounded out in the darkness.

"He's not here either. What the fuck are you trying to pull on us?"

Gennady answered them timidly. "I told him to wait back there. Don't worry. He can't go far. He doesn't have the keys to the rental or his luggage. We'll find him," he said, and Anatoly heard a key chain jingling.

"You're not finding anyone," one of the men said.

The comment was followed by a deafening gunshot, which spurred Reznikov into action. He rose swiftly, extending the suppressed pistol forward with two hands, and repeatedly squeezed the trigger. Each flash from the suppressor showed a progressively macabre scene, as he fired into the center of each briefly illuminated figure, alternating back and forth between the two men until the slide of his pistol locked back. By the time he realized that the pistol's magazine was empty, the two men started sliding down the opposite wall, leaving dark, glistening trails of gore. He didn't hear a grunt or groan from either of the two men, as their bodies slumped to the floor.

He changed pistol magazines and walked over to Gennady's body, using one of the dropped flashlights to illuminate the man's face. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, and a single red dot on his forehead trickled blood down the side of his temple. Reznikov turned the flashlight on his body and located the keys to his rental car. Now, he just needed to figure out where to find his baggage, and he could be on his way.

With Gennady dead, the rental car would be untraceable. Gennady had rented the car in Moscow, using false paperwork, and driven it to Nizhny Novgorod himself earlier today. He looked down at the man again and shook his head. He'd hoped to kill the traitor himself, but maybe this would work out for the better. By the time the police straightened out this mess, if they ever did, the world would be different place.

Chapter 4

Alexei Kaparov slammed his right fist down onto a stack of papers that littered his desk and extinguished his cigarette into a crowded ashtray with his other hand. He lifted the report, which had been unceremoniously tossed into his daily slush pile, and squinted at its contents. Not even a simple folder, or anything. The single most important piece of information he'd seen in months had been unceremoniously added to the never-ending shit pile of papers on his desk. It might as well have been thrown in the trash. What about a priority flagged email? How long have they had email? Important shit like this still ended up travelling ungodly distances, only to be buried under a rubble pile. It really wasn't his team's fault, but he was pissed at the entire system.

If any of Kaparov's subordinates could have heard his frustrated internal dialogue, they would have agreed with him on several of his points, especially the part about the rubble. The deputy counter-terrorism director's office was a disaster, with loose stacks of paperwork scattered everywhere, sitting on top of boxes of paperwork that needed to be filed. Despite the appearance of chaos, Kaparov could find anything he needed and reviewed every single document that found its way into the room…as long as the paperwork was placed on top of his desk. He made a point of clearing through the desk every day, and then refilling it with new documents, or old ones he had decided to resurrect.

Daily, he scoured field reports from hundreds of FSB and Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) agents, looking for any clues, signs or trigger words that might indicate a potential chemical or biological act of terrorism on Russian soil. When he came across the four-page Southern District FSB intelligence summary of a recent counter-insurgency raid in Dagestan, he settled in for some interesting reading. Raids into Dagestan were rare, and the report piqued his interest. He could have just as easily dismissed the report. Threats limited to the volatile Caucasus Region were analyzed by another deputy director, leaving Kaparov's crew of analysts with the rest of Russia.

On page three of the report, he nearly had a heart attack. He felt a tightening in his chest and glanced down at the top drawer of his desk, which ironically held both a package of Troika cigarettes and a small plastic bottle of nitroglycerine pills. Right there, buried nonchalantly in the report, was a dangerous name. The fact that the name had been discovered among documents recovered from an Al Qaeda stronghold in Dagestan was even more disturbing. He chuckled at the thought of dying from a heart attack in his office. Maybe someone had slipped the name in the report just to trigger his death. They would probably take a look around at the mess, eyeball the ashtray, and shrug their shoulders.

At 57, Alexei Kaparov wasn't exactly a picture of good health. Slightly rotund and stuffed into a dark brown suit, his skin was devoid of color and almost matched his similarly dull gray, yellow-tinged hair. Only a hawkish, blood-vessel-riddled nose gave his face any contrast and also served as a beacon for his unhealthy habits, cigarettes being only one of many bad choices Kaparov made on a daily basis. Seeing the contents of the report not only turned his nose a few shades darker, but also ignited a craving for one of his other bad choices. Fortunately, he no longer kept a bottle of cheap vodka in his lower desk drawer. Those days in the Lubyanka were long gone for all of them. He was lucky to still have his cigarettes.

He stormed to the door of his office and opened it abruptly, which turned several heads in his direction.

"Someone find Prerovsky immediately! Goddamn it, I want this shit filed electronically," he said, waving the report at nobody in particular. "We're living in the fucking dark ages here, and we're missing shit left and right!"

Now everyone was looking in his direction, at a very atypical burst of emotion from their director. Several analysts broke from their seats, to either look for Agent Prerovsky or just get out of the way.

"He's over in another section. Caucasus Division," a female agent replied, who didn't appear to be moving from her computer workstation.

"Well? What exactly are you waiting for? A personal invitation to get off your ass and find him? For a bunch of analysts, you seem to have trouble connecting the dots. I need Prerovsky here immediately! I don't pay him to work in the Caucasus Division! He works here, and if you value your job in my division you'll fucking find him immediately!" he said, and retreated into his office, leaving everyone to scramble.

The door slammed shut, and he listened to the beehive of activity on the other side of the flimsy gray door. That went well. A little fire under their asses worked miracles from time to time. Kaparov was careful not to verbally explode on them too regularly, like many of the other directors and mid-level managers within Headquarters. It served no purpose other than to alienate, though every once in a while, he felt the need to show them that they weren't working on easy street. Granted, his division wasn't the busiest, but it was no less important than any other division, and on a day like today, it might be more important than anyone would care to admit. Just as he sat down to look at the report again, he heard a knock at the door.

"Come in," he barked, and Yuri Prerovsky opened the door, stepping in tentatively.

"Shut the door. We have a problem," he said.

Agent Yuri Prerovsky, second in command of the Bioweapons/Chemical Threat Assessment Division, shut the door and walked over to a crude folding chair opened next to his boss's desk. "What's all the commotion?"

He threw the report down on the end of the desk closest to Yuri. "Have you seen this report?"

Yuri studied the first page and thumbed through it. "I haven't read it. I catalogued it and placed it on your desk two days ago. I think we received it by mistake. It should have been routed to the Caucasus Threat Division if anything…hold on," he said, studying the document, "actually, it was routed to them as well."

"Read page three and you'll see why it was routed to us," he said and waited for Yuri's response.

"Fuck…how did Central Processing miss this?"

"They didn't. They got it to the right desk, but didn't bother to highlight Reznikov's name or put an alert in the computer! Anything to bring this to our attention. He's at the top of our list for fuck's sake!" he yelled, instantly calming back down and holding his hand out for the report.

"Two days you say? Shit." Kaparov lit a cigarette from the pack of Troikas in his desk. "The raid occurred five days ago, and this is the speed at which we receive crucial information?" he said, deeply inhaling tobacco smoke.

"There isn't much here, and we’re not likely to dig the rest out of Alpha Branch. I'll try though," Yuri said.

Kaparov exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling and regarded Yuri. He was young and smart, part of the new generation of law enforcement agents that hadn't been trained under the KGB. He wasn't part of the paranoid, compartmentalized thinking that had served mother Russia so miserably for nearly fifty years. The fact that he had no hesitation to walk upstairs to the infamous branch that handled FSB Spetsnaz Operations was a testament to the new days.

Agents like Prerovksy gave him hope that the change was real. Two decades ago, walking up to the KGB Special Operations Branch without an invitation could easily end your career, and if you were on your way up there to ask the wrong kinds of questions, you could wake up the next morning in a Siberian detention camp. Times had fortunately changed, but old fears were hard to shake.

"It's worth a try, but the report entry doesn't indicate much more than a few scattered ledger entries regarding Reznikov's visit to the camp and a reference to recent activity in Kazakhstan. That's Reznikov's old stomping grounds. He was fired from the VECTOR bio-research facility in Novosibirsk, just a few hundred miles away from the Kazakhstan border. He supposedly disappeared en route to an interview at its sister institute, barely three hundred miles away in Stepnagorsk, Kazakhstan.

"Yuri, I have a bad feeling about this. Reznikov's been nosing around Al Qaeda for three years, with what I can only assume is one purpose: to strike some kind of funding deal to complete his research into weaponized encephalitis. Even during the heyday of the Soviet bioweapons program, that research was banned."

"But they still did it," Yuri said.

"Unfortunately, considerable research continued, and VECTOR was one of the primary sites that violated the Kremlin's decree. Of course, it stopped for good in 1978."

Yuri cocked his head and cast a curious look.

"Ah, the benefits of being a remnant of the old guard. Lots of loose lips back then, without any glue to keep them shut. Rumor has it that the entire scientific team associated with the project was executed by firing squad on the front lawn of the facility. Reznikov's father was supposedly among the group executed. Nobody really knows. There was no official record of the executions, as you can imagine. What we do know is that Reznikov's mother fatally shot herself on the same day, and Anatoly Reznikov went to live with the mother's sister somewhere south of Murmansk. The father just disappeared from record."

"No wonder Reznikov is a little off."

"A little? He was a vocal proponent of continuing his father's research. Can you imagine how well that was received at VECTOR? Within a month of being hired there in 2003, he suddenly started talking nonsense about how modifying encephalitis genomes could save the world. That fucker went under surveillance within the hour, and emails from certain research staff hit my desk quicker than you can imagine. Whether the rumors about 1978 were true or not, nobody wanted to be summoned to attend an impromptu picnic on the front lawn. Know what I mean?"

"So, where do we go with this?" Yuri said.

"I'll walk this up to the Investigative Division. They'll need to start sending agents out to Kazakhstan and all potential laboratory sites in the area. Only God knows what's in this for Reznikov, but if he's aligned with Muslim extremists, we have a big problem. Al Qaeda won't be funding his research to improve their image on the scientific scene. This can only lead to one thing. Bioterrorism attacks on European and U.S. soil. Hell, if Chechen separatists are involved, which is a fair assumption given the Dagestan connection, then we're looking at possible attacks right here in Russia. We need to assume the worst. Let's get our team looking in the right places for any more information. I'll stop by Alpha Group on my way back from Investigative, unless you have a contact there."

"Well, I do have special access to a lady friend up there," he said, grinning.

"I don't even want to think about your concept of ‘special access,’ Yuri. If I don't have any luck with them this morning, I'll pay for you to take her out on the town tonight. And they said we were out of the spy business," Kaparov said, shaking his head.

Chapter 5

Srecko Hadzic sat impassively at a thick stone table, contemplating the warm, salty air that wafted through the enclosed courtyard. The "Hague Hilton," as some critics liked to call it, was located in the Dutch seaside town of Scheveningen, less than a mile from the North Sea, but Hadzic had never seen any of it. His room didn't come with a view. None of the cells did. To Srecko, this was far from any Hilton Hotel he had visited and an ungodly affront to his nature.

His tenth cigarette of the morning smoldering between his stubby, yellow-stained fingers, he glanced up at the clear Dutch sky and swallowed his pride for the hundredth time since he was rudely awoken by the guards this morning. A surge of rage always followed, but by midday, he would start to feel slightly level as the strong emotions abated. This would last until something seemingly innocuous would vomit all of the rage and indignity right back up in his lap, and he'd have to start over trying to come to terms with his situation.

He'd been slowly rotting in the United Nations Detention Center for seven years, watching one former Serbian colleague after another leave for various reasons. Some were indicted and sentenced to lengthy prison sentences. He didn't envy their fate. They were rumored to have been transferred to Germany for imprisonment. Others had been released pending further trial proceedings, a feat not even Srecko's lawyers could accomplish, which only served to fuel his daily rage.

Above all, nothing stoked his anger like the luckiest of his former Serbian "friends," who were suddenly freed from custody when the chief prosecutor for the war crimes tribunal, Carla Del Ponte, simply excluded them from the draft indictments of "criminal enterprise" leveled against Milosevic's regime. Her indictment focused on Slobodan Milosevic, essentially ignoring several other key members of the regime, who Srecko knew had ordered many of the crimes that held him firmly entrenched in his own cell.

Not one of them looked back or offered their support to him as they scurried to freedom like cowardly pigs. Now, the number of true Serbs in the detention unit was dwindling, and his trial had been postponed for another year, forcing him to mingle with the disgustingly impure Croatian and Kosovar dogs roaming the floors here. There was no shortage of war criminals in the detention center, from all sides of the war, and he had to sit around on a daily basis and make small talk with the very people he had tried to ruthlessly stomp out, on behalf of the traitors who had turned their backs on him. He had little to look forward to, but the visit today from one of his most trusted and cherished allies might give him a renewed sense of purpose. The chance to taste the sweetest nectar of life. Revenge.

The nondescript, gray metal door leading out of the courtyard opened, and Josif Hadzic stepped through the solitary breach in the courtyard’s walls. Josif had changed significantly since Srecko's imprisonment, transformed from the young, scrawny, awkward nephew into a muscularly lean, handsome, young Serbian man. His thick black hair, prominent brow, and deep-set brown eyes proclaimed to the world that he was of pure Serbian stock. A true testament to the cause Srecko had spent his entire life fighting for…and for which he had been summarily discarded by the so called "patriots" that now lived in luxury.

Despite Josif's soft, almost serene composure upon entering the courtyard, Srecko harbored Josif's secret. He was a dedicated ultra-nationalist, like his uncle, after having seen the direct impact of the NATO-imposed restrictions on their just campaign to carve out a little space for the true Serbia. His family had lost everything due to their allegiance with Milosevic's army, but fortunately, none of them had been imprisoned. Josif's father, Andrija, Srecko's younger brother by three years, had wisely kept his nose out of the seductively lucrative spoils of Srecko's enterprises.

He had taken care of his brother, but always from a distance. He respected Andrija's choice, and his brother had served loyally in the regular Yugoslavian Army for several years, fighting for the cause during the Bosnian war. Now, Josif's family was in shambles. His father an absent, raging alcoholic and his mother a catatonic drone working several shift jobs in the outskirts of Belgrade. She refused to accept the modest amount of money Srecko had offered to keep them afloat. "Poisoned money," she would say.

Josif started visiting Srecko during the early days of his incarceration at The Hague. Srecko immediately recognized the hunger and intelligence in his eyes. He soon arranged for Josif to stay close by in Amsterdam. Srecko had unfinished business and plenty of hidden money to keep an underground organization alive. More than anything, he needed loyalty that would not abandon him in his time of need.

Josif walked briskly to the stone table. "Uncle," he said, and Srecko rose from the table to hug him with the cigarette still burning in his right hand.

"My Josif. Have you brought me some good news?" he said, glancing at the hardcover book in Josif's hands and signaling for the young man to have a seat at the table.

"Always good news, Uncle. And a gift. I know how fond you are of the Fruska Gora National Forest," Josif said and slid the book toward his uncle.

"One of the thickest, most mysterious forests in the world. We used to take a lot of trips there, your father and I. Lots of good memories…and a few bad," he said and raised a knowing eyebrow at Josif.

"I think you'll find page twenty-three to be your favorite," he said and looked away at the sky.

Srecko opened the book and casually thumbed through the pictures, stopping once or twice to admire the picturesque scene of a forest engulfed village, or a hidden waterfall. He stopped on page twenty-three and his eyes narrowed to a reptilian quality. Page twenty-three was not part of the original picture book’s publication, but rather a cleverly-designed and professionally-inserted counterfeit addition. Designed to look the same in structure and layout, the half-page-sized picture had nothing to do with the Fruska Gora National Forest from an outsider's perspective. To Srecko, the photograph had everything to do with the forest.

"This was taken recently?" he said, still staring intensely at the picture.

"A few days ago in Buenos Aires. Our guy emailed the pictures while they finished lunch."

"Do we still know where they are?" Srecko said and looked up from the photo.

Josif lowered his head slightly in a subconscious deference to his uncle.

"No. Once they started walking, our guy found it impossible to follow them without tipping them off. I'm sorry about that, but…"

"No need to apologize, Josif. Never apologize. Not even to me. This is great work. It shows great patience and intellect, my nephew. Very important traits to have," he said, glaring at the picture.

"They'll show up again. That bitch is predictable and has a taste for expensive things. She won't be hard to find. As for him, tell our people to be extremely cautious. This one is capable of just about anything."

"What would you like to do about them, Uncle?"

"I want them dead, but first, I want to know what they did with my money. I don't care what needs to be done to get this information out of them. They’re trying to indict me on charges that I ordered the systematic rape of over two hundred Kosovar whores…why not add another rape to the list? Or two."

"We'll try for both, but what if we can only grab one?"

"Grab the woman first. I can't stress to you how badly I want her to suffer…and I want to see it on video. I have a DVD player, and I'm getting tired of the usual movies."

Josif grinned and stood up. "Understood, Uncle. I'll keep you informed. See you next week," he said and his grin faded into a deadly serious gaze.

"You know, the security here is pretty terrible. I'm worried about your safety," Josif said.

Srecko stifled a laugh at the audacity of what Josif had just implied.

"Perhaps one day it will come to that, my nephew. For now, I'll let the lawyers work their magic. One of my dearest friends was granted a provisional release a few weeks ago. Haven't heard a word from him since, of course," Srecko said.

"Mr. Stanisic hasn't disappeared, as some expected, which is a good thing. Maybe the lawyers can get you the same deal," Josif said.

"Maybe," he said and hugged his nephew.

He watched Josif stride toward the door, which buzzed and opened from the inside. He waved one more time at his nephew before the door closed, sealing him off from his only contact with the outside world besides his lawyers. He sat down slowly and removed a crumpled pack of generic cigarettes from the front breast pocket of his wrinkled gray collared shirt. He tapped a cigarette and lit it with a disposable butane lighter retrieved from the back pocket of his threadbare pants. He took a long drag on the cheap tobacco, then exhaled the thick smoke through his nose several seconds later, tapping his free hand on the picture in front of him.

Staring at the picture of Marko Resja, or whoever he claimed to be now, sitting alongside that supposedly beheaded whore, stoked the deepest embers of his seething rage. He started to feel sick and immediately took another nicotine-filled drag on his cigarette, igniting the tobacco embers in a fierce orange glow that lasted for three seconds. The wave of nicotine filtered through his bloodstream and entered his brain, triggering pleasure receptors, which barely cut into the anger. It gave him a moment of clarity to process a few level thoughts.

Two years ago, by sheer luck he had stumbled across Resja again. He had been sitting around a large fold-out table on a different floor in the detention center, attending the "release" party of Idriz Dzaferi, one of the Albanian terrorist leaders his paramilitary unit had scoured Kosovo trying to kill. Apparently, the testimony against Dzaferi hadn't been compelling enough for the tribunal to move forward, and once again, Srecko found himself eating cake and "celebrating" someone else's release. As he pushed the tasteless cake around his mouth, his eyes were drawn to the common area's television screen. Two images, side by side, appeared on the CNN feed, and Srecko froze, unable to chew.

The screen showed a man named Daniel Petrovich, wanted in connection with a string of high profile killings throughout the Washington, D.C., area that included the brutal slaying of a police officer and several military contractors. He disappeared after a spectacular neighborhood shootout with FBI and local police that landed several more law enforcement agents in the hospital. Daniel Petrovich? Srecko knew this man by another name. Marko Resja.

Srecko still hadn't made the connection between the stolen money and Daniel Petrovich, until he studied the fleeting image of the woman on the screen. Jessica Petrovich. That's when he almost choked on the mouthful of cake still mulling between his clenched jaws. She looked different now, but he knew he was staring at that deceptive snake, Zorana Zekulic. The woman responsible for the theft of his money, or so he had been told…by the man apparently married to her in the United States! The man who had thrown her supposed head down on the ground before him.

It all made sense to Srecko in those few seconds. Marko Resja's sudden disappearance had been no coincidence. He had engineered the entire thing with the help of that cunt. The theft of over 130 million dollars, leaving him high and dry in Belgrade with a bloodbath on his hands. On May 27, 2005, over cake and fruit punch at the United Nations Detention Unit, he swore to God and the Serbian people that he would see these traitors' heads roll. It gave him a renewed sense of purpose and temporarily lifted him above the fact that he was sitting at a hastily assembled card table amidst two dozen other chubby fifty-year-olds; most of whom had run successful criminal enterprises on the Balkan Peninsula, but now were reduced to eating yellow cake and drinking Kool-Aid like toddlers.

The memory faded, and Srecko Hadzic snapped the picture book shut. He smothered the cigarette against the side of the stone table and got up to leave the courtyard. The fresh air was killing him.

Chapter 6

Special Agent Ryan Sharpe adjusted the files on his desk and checked his watch for the fifth time in the last minute. He was nervous about this meeting. His career hadn't exactly flourished since General Sanderson and his crew popped up and decapitated HYDRA. The Black Flag group vanished into thin air and proved near impossible to track. The quick revenge demanded by the FBI's director, Frederick Shelby, never materialized, and his significantly smaller task force began to shrink with every uneventful month, until he was finally absorbed by the Domestic Terrorism Branch.

The time they had spent scouring the earth for traces of Sanderson's organization hadn't been completely fruitless. His task force stumbled upon some unsavory funding links between foreign organized crime syndicates and a rising domestic ultra-nationalist terrorist organization, True America. Soon after establishing these links, he had been given command of a specialized task force dedicated to investigating foreign funding sources linked to homegrown domestic terrorist groups. Thanks to Director Shelby, Sanderson's crew had been designated a Tier One domestic terrorist organization, which re-landed Sanderson high on Sharpe's list of priority investigative targets.

He had the best of many worlds working for the DTB, a renewed sense of purpose, job security and the ear of Director Shelby, who had vowed to bring the wrath of God down upon Sanderson if Sharpe ever located his new stronghold. After reading the preliminary report forwarded by Special Agent Mendoza, he felt goosebumps. Something about the ATF summary gave him the first real glimmer of hope he had experienced in nearly two years.

Sharpe heard a familiar knock at the door and stood up to walk around the desk. "Get in here, Frank," he boomed.

Special Agent Frank Mendoza entered, followed by Special Agent Dana O'Reilly and a short, angular-faced female wearing a navy blue suit jacket over a sharp-collared white blouse and matching dark blue trousers. She looked extremely serious, and her dark blue eyes pierced the room with a hint of disapproval. She wore an ATF badge clipped to her suit lapel.

"There he is. Special Agent Mendoza. Recently promoted to Ops Section One. You better not give up my favorite chair," he said, vigorously shaking Frank's hand.

"Well, it needs to find a new home. My so-called 'promotion' landed me in a cubicle. It's a whole different world down there. Small fish in a big pond. Ryan, this is Special Agent Marianne Warner. She leads the task force that nabbed Javier Navarre."

"Special Agent Warner, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to meet with me. Please have a seat," he said and nodded at Dana O'Reilly, who closed the door behind them.

Once they were situated in his cramped office, he opened the file sitting at the top of the smallest pile on his desk.

"Special Agent Warner, tell me a little more about Javier Navarre?"

"My task force had been watching him for quite some time. He specialized in what we consider to be exotic, special order weaponry. Not the usual crates of former Eastern Bloc discounted Kalashnikov rifles or RPG-7's. High end stuff. Modern assault rifles, large caliber sniper rifles, armor piercing ammunition. Scary shi…stuff, from our perspective."

"Please speak freely here, Marianne. Special Agent O'Reilly curses like a trucker, and Mendoza here, well…he taught me a few words I didn't learn in college," Sharpe said.

"I might reinstate that HR complaint," O'Reilly said.

"Don't listen to her. She's still pissed I dragged her along into Domestic."

"Shit, we all wanted to get away from you," Mendoza said, and they all laughed.

"Anyway. Please continue, and remember, these people are about as real as it gets in these organizations," Sharpe said, and Warner's face relaxed slightly.

"So, as much as we'd like to keep crates of assault rifles off U.S. soil, the special orders concern us the most. The crates go to groups that are easy to track, and the big orders or shipments are relatively easy to discover. We're all over those, so to say. It's the smaller, specialized orders that slip through the cracks and end up in very dangerous hands. High level drug cartel groups…not the street enforcers, but cartel execution teams or high value target protective details that operate on U.S. soil. They don't attract much public attention, but they're very real and pose a significant danger to law enforcement personnel that stumble on the wrong house, at the wrong time."

"Like last year in Dallas?"

"Exactly. Latest generation G-36C assault rifles equipped with enhanced optics and armor-piercing bullets. The Dallas PD SWAT team lost eleven men on final approach to the target building. All but one from headshots, most of which punctured their Kevlar helmets. These are the kinds of weapons we try desperately to keep off U.S. soil. Mr. Navarre was a key player in this realm, which is a small, exclusive group. With most arms dealers we track, quantity is usually the key to profit. Not with this group. It's highly competitive, cutthroat to be precise, and the clientele is brutal. Russian mob, South American drug cartels, and most recently, U.S. ultra-nationalists. Navarre had been around for nearly two decades, which is an eternity to survive dealing with these groups."

"You’re speaking of him like he's dead," Sharpe said and leaned back in his chair.

Warner raised one eyebrow and looked across the office at Mendoza and O'Reilly.

"This hasn't been released for intra-agency consumption yet, for obvious reasons…but Mr. Navarre was shot in the face during a transfer from the Federal Courthouse to the Metropolitan Detention Center in Los Angeles. A Mexican gentleman with terminal pancreatic cancer and a very well forged California driver's license fired three "frangible" 10mm bullets from a pistol at a range of five feet and tried to turn the gun on a U.S. Marshal, who had already drawn his service pistol. We didn't get a chance to question the suspect."

"How many days had he been in custody?" Mendoza said.

"Five. We discreetly snatched him out of a Beverly Hills home after DEA received a tip from an actress turned recently busted coke distributor, who wanted desperately to stay out of jail. The homeowner, a surprisingly well known director and kingpin for the coke distribution, apparently loved guns so much that he'd been paying Navarre exorbitant amounts of money to personally deliver the latest weapons. Bad timing for Navarre. The DEA's snitch thought Navarre was the drug connection.

"We get called in when DEA finds the director's vault. This guy had a weapons stockpile that would put all of our agencies' combined SWAT arsenals to shame. Anyway, you can imagine Navarre wasn't very happy being snatched off the street like that. He didn't know who to blame, but kept a level head. I think he sensed that we had a spotty case at best against him because he lawyered up and shut up really quick. He did, however, have a few tender moments before his lawyer arrived."

"Which is why we're here," Mendoza added.

"Navarre knew better than to start talking about the cartels, not that it made any difference in the end. Still, drug cartel activity remains one of the highest priorities for the ATF and DEA, so we started there. Javier was a shrewd businessman…his long tenure a testament to that fact, so before his team of lawyers could shut him up, he got a little cocky. He told us that we were being played by our own agents, and that he could prove it.

"He wanted immunity for this information, which at that point wasn't even a suggestion we were willing to entertain. Not until he expanded his theory a bit. Of course, we kept the talk alive and spoke about the amazing immunity deals granted to big time catches. His eyes widened a little and he told us more. According to Navarre, he'd been supplying some top shelf equipment to Argentinian contacts in Bolivia. Enough to equip a SEAL team. His exact words. He had also arranged smaller weapons cache deliveries for what he believed to be the same group in several locations around the world: the Middle East, northern Europe and western Russia."

"Why did he think this was an inside play?" Sharpe said.

"He suggested these were rogue DEA assets. Undercover assets. Said they spoke flawless Spanish, every nuance and inflection, but he just knew they weren't Argentinian. He couldn't place it at first, but then he said it hit him. It was the way they carried themselves. He knew they were American. He got panicky and started to investigate the contacts. Navarre's assets traced one of the men back to Buenos Aires, where he vanished. He did the same with the rest and couldn't find a trace of them. He stopped dealing with them."

At the mention of Buenos Aires, Sharpe glanced at O'Reilly, and Agent Warner continued. "I figured he was grasping at thin air, trying to come up with some conspiracy theory nonsense to get us thinking about a deal. Either way, he was killed before any further discussions could progress. His lawyers kept him buttoned up good. Nothing really came of this information, until my team entered it into the intra-agency database, with the search tags 'rogue U.S. assets' and 'Argentina,' among many others. That's when I got a call from Special Agent O'Reilly."

O'Reilly broke into the conversation.

"Right. The tagged information came to me through a routine system alert, since we're subscribed to get any information tagged close to this title. I get over two hundred alerts per day, but 'Argentina' caught my eye. This information got tagged again with 'domestic terrorist group' less four hours later."

"My techs added this tag because one of the agents recalled being told by Mr. Navarre that these guys were collecting weapons right here in the U.S. When pressed further, Navarre verified that one of the meetings took place on U.S. soil," Agent Warner said.

"As soon as I saw this, I called Frank and Marianne to compile any information regarding Navarre's business contacts. I know Navarre supposedly dealt with Al Qaeda at some point, so I figured Terrorist Operations would have a file on him. Photos, aliases, travel records…anything. That's when I stumbled upon an incredible coincidence in the ATF files. I found a picture of Navarre with a suspected buyer in Amsterdam. ATF didn't have any follow up information on the buyer, but I recognized the photo immediately. Robert Klinkman…or in this case Reinhard Klinkman."

At this point in the conversation, Sharpe stood up and picked up a different file on his desk.

"Sorry to hit you with this, Agent Warner, but I wanted to do this in person and not over the phone. I need to permanently requisition all files associated with Javier Navarre, as directed by this executive Justice Department order."

"What? This is highly—"

"Unusual? Yes, it is, but I'm not prepared to completely yank this out from under your feet. I understand this may feel like a rude slap to the face after all of the work your team has put into tracking and assembling evidence in Navarre's case, but the link between Mr. Klinkman and Mr. Navarre now falls under Compartmentalized Information Security Category One classification."

"Jesus Christ," Warner muttered.

"Not even J.C. has access to this information," Mendoza quipped, failing to amuse Warner.

"I want you to work with Special Agent O'Reilly to sort through all of Navarre's files, and see if we can find any more links like these. I'm specifically interested in Navarre's travels to South America. This has all been cleared by the assistant director in charge of your investigative division, and I have CIS Category One paperwork here for you to sign…whether you accept the assignment or not."

"Do I really have a choice?" she said.

"Probably not, but we really need your help with this. You know Navarre's case inside and out, and with Navarre shot dead by the Sinaloa Cartel, your investigation is running on fumes. Trust me, I know the feeling. This is a great opportunity to work on a project that has the direct attention of my director and a few extremely high-placed officials in the Justice Department."

"How did you know the Sinaloa Cartel killed Navarre?"

"Sign those papers, and Dana will explain it to you. Navarre's murder was big news in certain circles. Is there anything else that will help make this temporary transition any less painful?"

"We should bring over my lead data analyst. He can work directly with Dana to speed up and optimize the process of merging and analyzing the files," she said.

"Dana, please make this happen and ensure that the CIS agreements are fully explained, signed and filed. Welcome aboard, Special Agent Warner," he said and extended his hand for a formal handshake.

Agent Warner accepted the file in one hand and shook Sharpe's hand briefly without saying a word. Once O'Reilly and Warner stepped out of the room and the door was shut, Mendoza sat back down.

"Good to see you again, Frank. Looks like we might be back in business."

"We? I'm working on Muslim extremists, not Black Flag. I have to admit, you might be on to something finally," Frank said.

"I have a gut feeling about Argentina. This is the second link in three months. We busted Victor Almadez flying back into the country using false papers."

"Part of the reconstituted list?"

Since the Black Flag file had been stolen in its entirety by Colonel Farrington, and the late Harris McKie had been parsimonious in the dissemination of its contents to the FBI during his short stint as gatekeeper in the Sanctum, Sharpe had less than half of the list of living Black Flag operatives. His reassigned and significantly reduced task force spent the first six months creating the missing list. They started with missing persons reports filed within a block of time extending two months before and after May 26, 2005. Specifically, they categorized male adults, aged thirty years or older, and started to compile a surprisingly large list of missing males. They eliminated any reports filed by direct family members, since the families of known east coast and Midwest operatives had either disappeared with the operative, or had gone to live with relatives in protest.

The only home they found occupied had contained Jessica Petrovich, and there had apparently been a good reason for that. The FBI's database had been hacked shortly after Edwards temporarily vanished from the grid. The cyber-attack appeared to be a simple probe, using Edward's computer and intranet password. Probably designed to confirm the information released by McKie to the FBI and view any key FBI assumptions that might hinder their vanishing act.

Once O'Reilly's team of data analysts compiled a list of missing males that fit the general demographic pattern, they further narrowed the field by discarding any profiles without prior military service. Known operatives to that point had been one hundred percent connected by military service, and this assumption whittled the list down to a manageable number. Examination of known operative military and personal backgrounds yielded no discernible pattern for further breakdown of their list. Black Flag operatives came from every branch of service, often from specialties not directly tied to combat, and examining personal history data offered a vastly diverse picture with no connections. At that point they started the real work, creating a database alert system linked to friends, relatives, work contacts…hundreds of variables that might trigger a possible contact event with one of the ninety-eight contacts on their list.

Their hard work produced tangible results on February 8th of this year, when the system alerted Special Agent O'Reilly to the fact that Victor Almadez's grandfather, living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, had passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. Based on the alert, Sharpe issued the highest level priority terrorist alert for Victor Almadez, providing enough imaging data for both TSA and Customs to effectively utilize their new facial recognition software systems.

Three days later, customs agents at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport seized Manuel Delreyo after debarking an American Airlines flight that originated in Buenos Aires and made a stop in Santiago, Chile. Almadez/Delreyo proved to be as difficult to read as the escape artist Jeffrey Munoz, and Sharpe couldn't shake the feeling that they were being played again.

He had been so badly burned by Sanderson's Munoz play that he felt tinges of paranoia as soon as he received the phone call from Customs. Two months later, they still had Almadez in custody, held under some very tenuous Homeland Security Act provisions that wouldn't hold up if put under any public scrutiny. Unfortunately for Almadez, he was a nameless prisoner stuffed away in an obscure detention facility designed and administered by the Hallister Corporation. Sharpe wasn't worried about Almadez.

"The capture kept me from being fired and resulted in my transfer to Domestic. The last nod from Director Shelby I can expect. Unfortunately, Almadez hasn't said anything substantive, other than a promise to 'take this personally' if he doesn't see a lawyer by the end of June."

"He's willing to wait four months?"

"He said, 'I'm a patient man, and I understand your predicament…I'm willing to wait four months,' and that was it," Sharpe said.

"You're going to let him go, right?"

"Not with the Navarre link. I'm going to start poking around down south. Argentina and Bolivia."

"You gonna bring the CIA in on this?"

"No. I don't trust the CIA after the Black Flag debacle. Too many aspects of that day didn't add up in the end. Jeremy Cummings is paid nearly two hundred thousand dollars to assemble an off the books team to kill Petrovich. All we get from the CIA is the suggestion that this might be a revenge play by Serbian nationalists. A little too convenient that they stumbled upon the same connection regarding Petrovich and Resja so quickly. The CIA liaison, Randy Keller, vanishes from the face of the planet after walking into a Georgetown residence that literally explodes minutes later. And the payment to Cummings came from an extremely sanitized money trail leading nowhere, deposited into his account after he was killed. The director himself told me to keep the CIA out of it. I'm going directly to our counterparts in Argentina and Bolivia. We have a good working relationship with Argentine Federal Police."

"Argentina's a big country…let me know how I can help. We're still shaking down the Navarre/Al Qaeda connection, but it doesn't appear to have any meat. Even a scumbag like Navarre kept his distance from that group."

"Thanks, Frank. Always a pleasure. We should grab a drink soon. My treat," Sharpe said.

"Damn straight. Good luck with this. It would be nice to nail Sanderson to the wall. He set the domestic Al Qaeda investigation back two years with his stunt," Mendoza said.

"I'm keeping my fingers crossed on this one. Catch you later, Frank."

"You too," he said and closed the door as he left.

Sharpe had enough confirmation to contact the FBI legal attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Buenos Aires, but he'd have to be careful. The embassy crawled with spooks, and the wrong conversation, at the wrong time, could bring the CIA into the fold. He desperately wanted to avoid this and needed to do a little more research into Dan Bailey and Susan Castaneda, resident legal attachés in Argentina.

Chapter 7

Anatoly Reznikov was both surprised and relieved to find the water treatment plant nearly deserted. Construction on the modern, mostly automated facility had been completed two years ago, ushering in a new era of clean drinking water for the residents of Monchegorsk. Three decades too late in his view. The previous plant, which had stood guard over the city water supply for as long as anyone could remember, relied upon a disinfection process to purify the water, but did little to prevent the flow of heavy metals into the citizens' blood streams, including his own.

The Norval Nickel plant had been the main source of industry in Monchegorsk since the early 1930s, resulting in an ever-growing population boom that served the needs of Norval Nickel, further expanding the company's lucrative nickel and copper mining enterprise. For all that the residents of Monchegorsk did for Norval Nickel, the multinational corporation gave little in return, aside from poor wages and a harsh work environment that would have made Joseph Stalin cringe. More than seventy percent of Monchegorsk's population worked in some capacity for Norval, with the vast majority performing hazardous mining jobs or unregulated, unskilled jobs in the processing plants. Reznikov's uncle worked the mines, and when Anatoly joined the family in late 1978, not much had changed in terms of work conditions from the early days of Norval Nickel.

The corporation had invested little money in the city's infrastructure, despite the efforts of environmental activists and the few citizens that dared to defy Norval's stranglehold on both the city and the local communist party. The effects of the smelting plant's pollution on the population's health was no secret, but asking the wrong questions in the wrong place came with serious risks.

The best case scenario involved employment termination and immediate eviction from company subsidized housing, which could put a family on the streets in the middle of the night in harsh winter conditions. The worst case scenario varied by level of activism. A one-way train ride to Siberia was reserved for persistent, unorganized agitators. Sometimes these were family trips, which added to the deterrence factor. Organizers or nosy environmentalists either disappeared suddenly or slowly bobbed to the surface in the polluted Moncha Lake, which fed into the ineffective water treatment plant. Despite the growing voice of concern about the effects of heavy metal poisoning, the Norval Corporation continued to deny the mounting body of evidence, and instead produced more dead bodies. Norval was finally called to task by the Russian government in 2001, on behalf of Norway, Sweden and Finland, who had been the unwilling recipients of several million tons of sulfur dioxide (acid rain) over the past several decades. Permission was "granted" for NEFCO (Nordic Environmental Finance Corporation) to provide regional loans that would be used to improve several offending industrial plants near the Kola Peninsula and provide funding for localized environmental improvement projects.

The Monchegorsk water treatment plant made the top of the list, which was probably influenced by the fact that senior Norval officials held influential positions on the Murmansk Oblast's Natural Resources Agency executive board. The Natural Resources Agency had replaced the State Committee for Environment Protection in 2000, when President Vladimir Putin abolished the organization, which resembled the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.

The Natural Resources Agency was the organization responsible for managing the commercialization of Russia's natural resources, and the move was seen as a direct measure to ensure that most environmental decisions favored the major corporations. Due to the overwhelming international pressure of the Kola Peninsula's pollution problem, Putin's government decided on a work-around. They leaned on Norval Nickel to accept NEFCO's low interest loans to clean up Monchegorsk.

By that time, the Monchegorsk plant had launched nearly one million tons of heavy metals into the air each year, including nickel, copper, cobalt, lead, selenium, platinum and palladium. The ground concentrations of platinum and palladium in the soil near the plant were so severe that mining of surface soil for these metals had become economically feasible in the past five years. Add decades of concentrated acid rain to the mix, and the health effects on the Monchegorsk population were devastating.

Anatoly grew up in a poverty level neighborhood wracked with stunted growth, pediatric and early adult cancers, severe mental disabilities among adults and children, neurological disorders resembling early onset of Alzheimer’s, and frequent unexplained seizures. The local hospital was owned and administered by Norval Nickel, which only served to compartmentalize and minimize the problem.

Reznikov had been lucky to join his aunt and uncle well past his early developmental years. He had been spared eight years of toxic exposure, and the results were dramatic. In the ten years he spent with his new family, he watched everyone in the filthy, cramped apartment suffer from Norval Nickel's irresponsibility. His aunt died of pancreatic cancer five years after he arrived, and he experienced the daily sadness and brutality of his uncle slowly losing all semblance of mental function. Less than one year after his aunt's death, his uncle had been banished to a local mental hospital.

His three cousins, two boys and one girl, all younger than him by a few years, never grew at the same rate as Anatoly and barely progressed in school past a fifth grade level. They had all been remanded to state care when his uncle had been institutionalized. When Anatoly graduated from secondary school and left for Moscow University, his cousins resembled drones: void of personality, intelligence and drive. Ten years earlier, they had been drastically different, similar to him in so many ways. He had painfully watched them suffer under Norval Nickel's reign of terror in Monchegorsk, transformed into empty shells, unfit for employment outside of Norval Nickel's mines.

That was the cruel irony of life in Monchegorsk. They had been placed into the custody of mother Russia to live in a state sponsored orphanage, but the orphanage was funded by Norval Nickel, and the children were funneled back into the very jobs that put them there in the first place. Anatoly's case had been different. He showed strong academic promise in science and math, so he was awarded a place at Moscow University to study biological engineering and chemistry, compliments of Norval Nickel, with the understanding that he would return to the corporation to work as an engineer. Reznikov never fulfilled his obligation, though he was seconds away from observing a promise he had silently made to his cousins and his own parents.

By honoring his father's legacy, Anatoly Reznikov had discovered the perfect way to exact revenge upon a corporation that had slowly destroyed his adopted family and a government that had brutally murdered his parents. He would also make a fortune. If everything went according to plan, his payment from Al Qaeda would look insignificant compared to the series of increasingly larger payments he could demand for his services or his product.

He walked briskly across the long, grated catwalk toward a sizable brick building on the other side of a vast sea of light green, flattened metal domes. The domes capped immense underground tanks, which housed the disinfectant side of the Monchegorsk plant's treatment process. The other side, located uphill, utilized a rapid sand filtration system, combined with a state of the art membrane filter. The combination of the two ensured the removal of any suspended particulate matter, including heavy metals, before the water was finally transferred to the field of tanks he now crossed, for the final step of the treatment process.

From these tanks, the clean water was pumped to the city's reservoirs through a massive pump station, which could be accessed from the building he rapidly approached. He glanced around furtively as the building loomed closer, painfully aware that there was no way to soften the loud clanging of his boots on the metal grating. Maybe the sound didn't matter. He had breached the treatment plant's fence line where it ambled too close to the edge of one of the city's forest preserves. Wearing a suit and a long winter jacket that showcased fake city credentials, he had approached the complex's buildings from an angle that would conceal his approach until he could find a way to access the pump station building.

He had watched the station for a full day, noting the number of personnel and their patterns. For the most part, there hadn't been any. The automated facility was monitored by a control station toward the front of the complex, which he would avoid altogether, though he didn't think he could completely dodge all of the cameras. He just needed to get into the pump station, where he could effectively and quietly deal with anyone that came to investigate his presence. He assumed that an alarm would sound when he broke into the pump station and had prepared accordingly.

He walked up to the door at the end of the catwalk and stared at the covered button pad to the right of the door. Not a problem. He had anticipated the possibility that every door at the new facility would utilize new technology and had researched methods to breach similar systems. Several black market electronic devices had been available, but each device was specific to certain systems, and he didn't have room in his backpack to bring along one of each device. Even if he had, there was no guarantee that any of them would work on this door. A better solution had been offered by his black market contact. A compact circular saw, specially designed to cut through door locks. The saw featured a five inch metal cutting saw blade, which would give the blade enough depth to cut through dead bolts or locking mechanisms when placed flush against the crack between the door and frame.

He slipped the nylon backpack off his shoulders and kneeled in front of the door to open it. A few seconds later, he wrestled the gray saw out of the backpack and attached the power cord to a customized battery that had been guaranteed to provide fifteen minutes of continuous operation. He examined the door again and decided to start with the most logical point near the door handle. He inserted the thin blade into the door crack a few inches above the handle, and felt no resistance as he placed the saw flush against the door and frame. He depressed the black trigger and the saw roared to life, emitting a high pitched squeal that made him nervous. No way to turn back now, he thought and moved the saw slowly down the crack.

The blade met with brief resistance at handle level, but continued to move effortlessly with Anatoly's hand. He felt no resistance a few inches past the handle and stopped the blade. Could it have been that easy? He pulled the saw blade out of the crack and placed it on the grate before standing up. He grasped the handle and pulled, surprised when the door gave no resistance and swung open. He examined the door for a few seconds and determined that the blade had done no obvious damage to the door, besides cutting the locking bolt. When closed, he doubted anyone would be able to tell it had been cut. Anyone approaching the door would punch in their code and open the door, unaware that it would have opened regardless of the numbers punched into the keypad. Not wanting to waste another moment, he dragged everything through the doorway and closed the door, noting the time on his watch.

The first thing he noticed was the industrial grade humming sound of the pump. He had expected the noise inside to be louder. The pump station descended one additional story below the entrance level and housed two massive centrifugal pumps, one of which pumped water to the city's storage sites at any given moment. The other served as a backup, in case of a maintenance issue. The active pump was rotated weekly, to increase the longevity of the incredibly expensive system. He would need to identify the active pump and then locate the water sample collection/testing node, located somewhere forward of the pump.

The only consistent activity he had noted at the plant yesterday had been an hourly visit to the pump station. A technician dressed in gray overalls, carrying a black plastic case by its handle, had ambled down from the control station and entered the station through the door on the other side, reemerging a few minutes later. He used the same door, which was closest to the control station, each time. He presumed the man had taken a required hourly sample of the water for analysis. The sample collection node would take water directly from the system and would represent his best opportunity to introduce his product into Monchegorsk's water supply.

He descended the metal grate staircase, able to see both pumps through the porous metal flooring. They were aligned in parallel, separated by a raised grated catwalk, but joined by various metal pipes and mechanical structures. The staircase emptied onto the end of the catwalk nearest to the intake from the disinfectant tank field. The station’s humming grew louder as he approached the catwalk, but remained within tolerable limits. He saw a pair of blue noise protection headphones on a hook at the bottom of the stairs and noted how times had certainly changed in Monchegorsk. It didn't take him long to figure out which pump was active. He only had to lay his hands on one side, and then the other, to determine that the right side pump was active.

The catwalk was installed halfway up the side of the pump, which put him in a position to examine the top of the pump and all of the attachments leading into it. The pump itself was taller than Reznikov and extended the length of two SUV's. The catwalk design made it easy for him to examine all of the components, and within seconds he had located the sample collection node. Located to the rear of the pump, near the stairs, he had momentarily overlooked it. Like everything in the plant, it was labeled, making this easy beyond his wildest dreams. The node had four latches, which ensured a tight seal. Reznikov had some trouble opening the latches and looked around for a tool that might be designed for the purpose. He didn't see anything useful and cursed as it took him nearly a minute to get two of the latches open.

The latches were designed to seal tightly, but this wasn't the problem and Reznikov knew it. As he struggled with the third latch, he started to tremble in anger. He hadn't escaped completely unscathed from Norval Nickel's legacy. He had suffered neuromuscular damage that mainly affected his hands and feet, resembling peripheral neuropathy at its worst and slight tingling at best. It had plagued him as a biochemist and rendered certain routine tasks unpredictable. He had developed an angry patience for his condition, but this was not the time for him to have a problem with his hands. The third latch opened, and he stopped. His hands felt like they had been squeezing a metal bar for hours, cramped and shaky. Ignoring the pain, he wrenched at the fourth latch, opening it in a fit of rage. Now sweating in the forty degree room, Reznikov better resembled a depraved madman with the intention of poisoning an entire city's water supply.

He placed the backpack next to him and removed a thermos-sized metallic container, setting it down on the grating. He paused and looked at the pump again, his composure returning. The pump was bigger than he’d expected, which meant that his original calculations for water supply contamination might be inaccurate. He examined the pump from front to back, taking it all in. This was definitely a higher capacity pump. He didn't want to use all of the product in his possession, but this was not the time to make a mistake. He decided to pour both containers into the water system.

He had hidden enough core samples of the virus to create other batches and knew exactly where he could find a few more containers. The Arab traitors had spoken of several specific locations and timelines, so he could always "meet" them for a surprise visit. He'd finish up here and hide out in St. Petersburg until he was sure that the virus had done its job. Once he was satisfied that Monchegorsk was ruined, he'd head to Sweden. His eavesdropping had provided him with an address in Stockholm. After that, a quick trip to Copenhagen could bring him to another address, if he felt ambitious.

Once he possessed more virus, he might provide an anonymous tip to Interpol regarding the other addresses and planned attack locations, or maybe not. He truly couldn't decide, and it never occurred to him that this ambiguity indicated a dangerous deterioration of his mental state. Though he wasn’t aware of it, Anatoly had suffered more than neuromuscular damage during the ten years spent in Monchegorsk. The long term mental impact of accumulating lead, cadmium, nickel and copper in his brain had been significant, gradually leaving him obsessed and unable to sustain empathy. He only vaguely processed the cruelty of his actions and how it would affect thousands of innocent people. These blurry thoughts were swept aside by his obsession with both delivering a damaging blow to Norval Nickel and teaching the Russian government a lesson. He had convinced himself that this was the right thing to do, so with no hesitation, he released the pressure fitting on the cylinder sitting on the catwalk.

There was a brief hiss, and he was able to twist the top free, exposing thousands of transparent tablets. He poured the contents of the cylinder into the six-inch diameter opening and repeated the process with the second cylinder. Thousands of tablets sat in the one foot deep miniature dry well, waiting to be introduced into the water system. Anatoly shut the sample node's lid and refastened the four latches, which turned out to be infinitely easier than opening them. Once closed, he activated the dry well and heard the mechanism working. A red light turned to green and the mechanism stopped. He activated the mechanism one more time just to be sure and waited twenty seconds for the cycle to complete. Once the light turned green again, he endured the pain of opening the latches to inspect the chamber. The chamber was dry, and the tablets were gone, on their way to infect the city's water supply. He quickly resealed it.

Each tablet contained concentrated, weaponized encephalitis virus, surrounded by a thin gel coating. The virus within the clear gel coat had been given a dark red color in the lab, so each tablet looked like a menacing eye, which underscored the virus's potential. The gel coating was designed to last roughly thirty minutes before releasing the virus into the water. He knew that water leaving the plant would end up in a massive storage tank that constantly filled and emptied into the city. The concentration of virus would be more than adequate to infect the entire supply and continue to infect it for several hours. The charcoal filters installed between the disinfectant tanks and the pump station would ensure that any remaining chlorination would not be enough to kill the hardened virus Reznikov had developed. Only a strong anti-viral water treatment course could accomplish this, and these were nearly nonexistent in public water treatment plants.

The virus tablets would reach the main storage tanks partially dissolved and remain at the top of the tank for a few minutes, until they released their payload, which would sink and spread throughout the tank. Later that day, pipes in every household and business within Monchegorsk would contain contaminated water. Within three to five days, the city's hospital and medical clinics would be overwhelmed by patients complaining of severe headaches and rapidly progressing flu-like symptoms. A few days after that, the city of Monchegorsk would descend into chaos, taking Norval Nickel along with it.

The Russian government would face one of its biggest challenges in recent history. How does mother Russia contain the news that a city of 54,327 people had imploded, with no plausible explanation? He couldn't wait to see how they'd try to contain the news. Based on Russia's notoriously poor human rights track record, he felt confident that it would be a disaster for the Putin government.

The virus combined several of the nastiest viral encephalitis traits he could genetically manipulate. He had started with a particularly virulent and highly infectious strain of Venezuelan Equine Encephalitis (VEE) and had gone to work modifying its structure. He enhanced the virus's focus on the limbic system, specifically targeting the temporal lobes, which caused victims to exhibit rabies-like behavior. The recurrent hallmark behaviors he had observed through human experimentation included: severe aggression, marked destructiveness, primitive impulses, and transient disorientation or catatonia, often followed by hyperactive episodes. Brain damage had been severe in most of the cases they examined, and nearly seventy percent died within a week of showing symptoms.

The remaining thirty percent deteriorated at different rates, with varying degrees of brain damage. Like every disease, some got lucky, though they were usually the first to fall victim to the madness that descended on the others. Once the virus had been tweaked to his own desired specifications, they had conducted a practical test. Twenty "volunteers" each drank a glass of water spiked with the same concentration of virus that he calculated would be present in every sip of water throughout the city. Roughly eighty percent contracted the virus, though he took steps to ensure all of his test subjects were infected. The eighty percent statistic had made him smile. He relished the complications this would present to the Russians.

Now that the virus was in the water, his next task was to get out of here undetected. He jammed the cylinders back into the backpack, along with the mechanical saw, and withdrew a silenced semi-automatic pistol from one of the other pouches. He debated whether to head up the stairs, or hide in the station and wait. He couldn't imagine that the station didn't have an alarm rigged to the doors. Yesterday, he had timed the technician's journey from the central station to the pump station and averaged it to six minutes, if he didn't stop for a cigarette. His watch showed six minutes and thirty seconds, which he blamed on his damn fumbling hands. Glancing around the station, he chose to stay and hide.

The pump itself was massive, providing numerous hiding places, and he saw another staircase at the end of the catwalk. He might be able to squeeze underneath the end of the pump or the wide outflow pipes on either side. If the technician decided to walk down to the catwalk and poke around, he would be forced to use the pistol. It would be his last resort and buy him enough time to get out of town, but depending on the city's response, it could jeopardize the entire plan. He would walk the technician out of the building at gunpoint and push him over the catwalk onto the domed tanks. He hoped it didn't come to that because his hands were trembling from the latches, and he could barely hold the gun straight. He might need every round in the pistol's magazine.

Just as he tucked himself under one of the huge outflow pipes on the right side of the station, he heard the door above him open. The technician entered through the front door and shut it behind him, pausing on the grating above. The man walked around for a minute, presumably checking some of the diagnostic gauges above, and started to descend the stairs. Anatoly's pistol hand was shaking, and he was afraid that he might fire the pistol accidentally. He depressed the safety lever to prevent an unintended discharge. He further squeezed himself under the pipe and along the outside of the pump. He would be undetectable if the man stayed on the catwalk.

He had a hard time hearing the man's footsteps over the vibration and hum of the pump, but knew he was drawing closer along the catwalk. The sound of the metal grating increased and suddenly stopped, indicating that the man was at the top of the second set of stairs. He could picture the man leaning over and determining if it was worth his effort to take a further look. He jammed himself further back, willing himself to be invisible to the man. A few moments later, he heard footsteps heading back down the catwalk, followed by the stairs. Less than a minute later, Anatoly was alone in the pump station.

He decided not to press his luck. He replaced the pistol, keeping the pouch unzipped, and left the station through the back door. He knew it would trigger another alarm, but figured the duty crew would consider it to be a glitch. They'd watch the sensor from their comfortable seats all day, and when it didn't happen again, it would be forgotten. He wondered if anyone would have the presence of mind one week later to make the connection. Based on the human testing results in Kazakhstan, he sort of doubted it.

Chapter 8

Special Agent Susan Castaneda took another look at the manila folder on her desk and picked up the phone to dial Ryan Sharpe. He had contacted her a few days earlier with an odd request, which had been easy enough for her to research without attracting any attention. Sharpe wanted to know if the Argentine Federal Police (AFP) had started any investigations within the past three years into any fledgling terrorist or paramilitary organizations, with a focus on regional arms smuggling or cross-border operations. He was also interested in any unusual paramilitary style operations or violence over the past few years. Sharpe had been detailed enough with the focus, but nebulous beyond that.

He stressed the importance of keeping this quiet, and she understood why. Word had a way of getting around in the embassy, which made it difficult to get any real work done, even in a stable country like Argentina. So she had scheduled a leisurely lunch with one of her AFP counterparts, in a location of the city not known for embassy traffic. She trusted this law enforcement agent as much as she could trust anyone in the Argentine government and had given him enough information to dig around for something that might fit the profile Sharpe had provided. He had more or less come up empty handed, though he did provide a few bits of information that might be helpful. She wasn't sure how, but it had been worth a lunch away from the office and her counterpart, Dan Bailey.

Bailey was starting to wear on her nerves and had only been "in-country" for three months. He had chosen an "unaccompanied" tour, leaving his wife and two children behind for the year-long assignment, which was not uncommon for "Legat" (legal attaché) duty. Unfortunately, the reasons for Agent Bailey's choice appeared to go beyond the disruption and inconvenience of moving a family long distance for a short period of time. It apparently had more to do with the likelihood that Dan Bailey's wife might not approve of his weekly visits to local brothels, or that she might take issue with her husband lunching and dining with a different woman nearly every day.

As the senior "Legat," Susan had been approached by one of the more discreet embassy staff personnel, who also happened to work for the CIA, and provided the unsavory details of Agent Bailey's first month in Buenos Aires. His behavior immediately classified him as a security risk, and she was informed that the surveillance would continue. She could barely contain her laughter as the details were exposed, almost wishing that she didn't know about any of it.

None of it was illegal behavior in Argentina, though it strayed pretty far from what was expected from a representative of the FBI. Still, she didn't have any official recourse, beyond some uncomfortable lifestyle counseling and possibly some negative input on his performance evaluation. She was scheduled to leave within the next three months and wouldn't be around for his transfer performance evaluation. For all she knew, her replacement could have chosen the assignment for the same reasons as Agent Bailey. She didn't really care, as long as she managed to get out of here with her career intact.

She eventually managed to make some use of the information provided by the CIA employee. Agent Bailey had logically started with her first when he arrived. She was single, attractive, in her early thirties, and they worked in the same section, though thankfully they had separate offices. The advances had intensified to the point of discomfort and harassment, until she played one of the many Langley trump cards so conveniently delivered to her. One day, she called him into her office and slid a photo across the desk. His face turned ashen when he took a close look at the photo.

"Tranny prostitute #4" had been written across the top of the photo, in black permanent marker, identifying the "woman" at Bailey's door as the fourth transsexual prostitute photographed entering his apartment. Susan was aware that the series ended at #9, but thought #4 was good middle ground. Stunned, he stammered for a few seconds before she laid it on him. She remembered her words clearly.

"I don't want you talking to me again, unless it's official business. The same rule applies to all of the women at the embassy, or any women entering the embassy. Trannies too," she had added, before dismissing him.

Dan Bailey hadn't been a problem for anyone since then, and she smiled at the bizarre train of thoughts that had led her to remember Bailey's predicament. She dialed the number for Sharpe's office, and he answered it after the second ring.

"Special Agent Sharpe," he answered, always sounding crisp to her.

"Agent Sharpe, it's Agent Castaneda from the legal attaché office in Argentina," she said.

"Of course. Please call me Ryan. Thank you so much for taking the time to look into this for me. I'm working on a long shot, but this one is worth the time. I really appreciate it," he said.

"No, it's my pleasure, and it's Susan. Unfortunately, I don't think I found what you're looking for. There's not much in the way of new terrorism or paramilitary organizations. They have some neo-Nazi types that are pretty organized, drug cartels, Russian mob, all the usual suspects, but nothing that really fits what you described. I had one of my counterparts at AFP do some digging, and he came up with a few unusual events, but nothing they are actively investigating."

"I'm looking for anything here, so you have my attention," he said.

"Well, he found a few incidents spread over the course of the past eight months involving Chechen mafia and neo-Nazi gangs in Buenos Aires. Three separate incidents. The biggest incident took place at one of the Chechens’ dockyard strongholds, leaving eighteen bodies behind. The police and AFP have no idea what time of day they were hit, but the one thing they all agreed upon was that it was pulled off by professionals using suppressed weapons. Most of the gunshot wounds were precision headshots, and AFP's SWAT officials said that there had been multiple, simultaneous breach points around the building. Ballistics confirmed that the four Chechens stationed outside had been taken down by snipers. AFP thought this was an American or European black op."

"This sounds like more than an incident. No investigation?"

"Not really. Two more hits, smaller in scope, occurred in the following months. A Chechen safe house was hit inside the city, at about two in the morning, and there were witnesses from adjacent buildings and houses. The assailants were in and out within the span of minutes. Witnesses swore it was a government operation. Roughly a dozen attackers in three separate cars hit the building at once.

"Someone managed to fire off an automatic weapon inside, but there were no signs that any of the assailants had been hit. Eight Chechens were found dead and one prostitute broke both of her legs trying to jump from one of the balconies. Witnesses said there were more women in the apartment, but they fled. Nobody has come forward to admit they were in the building, which is no surprise. FPA came to the same conclusion on this one and they're pretty sure one of the Chechens was hit from the outside by a sniper bullet."

"They don't know for sure?" he said.

"I'm not sure they really care. Twenty-six dead Chechen mobsters within the span of a month and only a pair of broken legs as collateral damage. One of the Chechens was identified as senior leadership. My contact didn't seem to indicate that this was a high priority," she said.

"What about the last one?" he said, pretty sure he had stumbled onto something pointing him in the right direction for further investigation.

"Last one happened a few months ago and involved the neo-Nazi group. They've been expanding their influence over the past five years, and it looks like they expanded it a little too far. This one was different. It took place around 1 AM at an underground neo-Nazi slam fest, or whatever the skinheads call them. Heavy metal, lots of 'Heil Hitlers,' hard drinking…usually spills out into the street later and ends up killing or maiming someone without a Swastika tattoo. On this particular night, the reverse occurred. Someone tore through the bouncers with a knife, then lobbed a combination of fragmentation and incendiary grenades into the basement party. Nobody made it out. Estimated thirty-five dead, including the leader of the cell represented at the party. He was shot in the face running down the stairs with his girlfriend from an apartment unit located on the second floor of the house."

"What about the girlfriend?" he said.

"She's the only one that survived the entire attack. Said there were four of them, heavily armed like Komandotruppe."

"I assume that means commandos?"

"Yes, my FPA counterpart has a sense of humor. The woman dragged one of the bouncers out of the blaze, and the forensics team determined that he had been stabbed through the neck, just above the collarbone. Knife plunged through the spinal cord on the same strike," she said.

"Can you get me that forensics report?" he said, feeling his pulse quicken.

"It shouldn't be a problem. Sounds like this might have been helpful?"

"Yes, I think it has. Were there any theories about who was doing this? Other than a foreign black ops team? I'm just having a hard time believing that this isn't being actively investigated," he said.

"Luckily, my counterpart has a little bit of a crush on me and likes to drink Sangria during our lunches. He was hesitant with this information, so I need your discretion," she said.

"Absolutely, Susan. I'll use this to corroborate, but nothing beyond that."

"All right. He said the only serious theory circulating through the ranks was that a man named Ernesto Galenden had hired an outside team to send these groups a message. This might also explain why the investigations have stalled," she said.

"I can't wait to hear this," he said.

"Ernesto Galenden is one of the wealthiest and most influential citizens of Argentina, owning a huge stake in one of the primary oil companies within the country, and of course, dozens of lucrative business ventures. He also owns more real estate than you can imagine. For the most part, Galenden has retained a good reputation in Argentina across the board and has never been implicated in any illegal schemes.

"He owns a vast portion of the shipping waterfront along Argentina's coast, which put him at odds with the Chechens. He hasn't made it easy for them to expand their efforts to ship Andean cocaine to Europe and ports north. Once the strife turned deadly on the docks, Galenden turned to his government cronies to put some pressure on law enforcement, but this tactic didn't prove very effective. FPA thinks Galenden took matters into his own hands."

"It's not a bad theory. You said Galenden owns land all over Argentina?"

"He owns localized assets and buildings in most cities, but the vast majority of his land lies in western Argentina, along the Chilean border. This is where his father discovered oil," she said.

"Interesting. Susan, I trust you to keep this quiet there. I'm working on something very sensitive, and if the wrong person at the embassy found out, I could have a complication that would jeopardize my investigation. I can't thank you enough for the help. I'll be in touch shortly with some more questions, as soon as I figure out which direction to pursue. In the meantime, can you get me the forensics report of the knife attack at the neo-Nazi club?"

"Sure. I'll give my guy at AFP a call. I'm sure he won't mind another lunch," she said.

"Not very sporting of you to lead him on like that, but I'm not going argue against your methods. This was great work, Susan. Talk to you shortly."

She hung up the phone and smiled. She wasn't sure how to classify what she was doing with Federico. Technically, she wasn't leading him on because he had no chance in the first place. Despite his handsome, Italian inspired face, muscular build and pleasant manners, she had never been interested in him romantically. In fact, she'd never been interested in men and was on an "unaccompanied" tour to Argentina. Her partner of eight years, Stephanie, eagerly awaited her return to the states.

Chapter 9

Special Agent Ryan Sharpe made room for Special Agent Eric Hesterman, which was no small sacrifice given the agent's size. Hesterman, a broad, muscular African-American in his early thirties, stood over six feet tall and took up twice the amount of shoulder room of most agents. He literally dwarfed Dana O'Reilly, who stood on the other side of him, invisible to Sharpe through his large, expensively-tailored suit. At 225 pounds, Hesterman had trimmed down considerably since his linebacker days at the University of Michigan; scaling back in size during law school, and finally settling in at his "target" weight upon graduating from Quantico as a Special Agent. Eric was one of six agents permanently assigned to Ryan's task force within the Domestic Terrorism Branch, and despite the fact that he had no background in finance, he had quickly impressed everyone from Sharpe's veteran finance tracking team. Sharpe could tell by the grins on both Hesterman's and O'Reilly's faces that he had found something.

Hesterman manipulated the screen with a mouse on the computer station in front of them and zoomed the satellite imagery into an area of western Argentina, less than twenty miles from the Chilean border. Suddenly, a yellow line appeared to outline areas throughout the province. Sharpe glanced around at the Joint Operations Center, looking for any faces that were overly interested in his semi-private meeting. Luckily, Hesterman blocked most of the screen from view.

"The yellow line roughly demonstrates Mr. Galenden's land holdings, the best I could calculate using public-sourced documents. Most of it is held within the Nuequen Province, where his father struck oil in the sixties. He holds some vast tracts of land in Mendoza, La Pampa and Rio Negro, but I focused on some of the parameters we discussed and narrowed the possibilities to a few locations. Most of the land is held in national reserve status, though not to be confused with the concept of a nature preserve. A national reserve opens land to the country, but the landowner retains mineral rights and can restrict access to fifteen percent of the reserve. Restricted areas need to be filed with national and provincial government at the beginning of the year, so I started there, looking four years back.

"If we figure that Sanderson started his plans at least a year prior to the events of May 2005, it made sense that he would have already broken ground on his new organization's headquarters, and that the location might not have been on restricted land. Most of the restricted areas retained by Mr. Galenden were located in flatter, arid zones, better suited for oil and mineral exploration. I found three separate filings that immediately attracted my attention and led to the image you're viewing on the screen.

"First, in January of 2003, Mr. Galenden filed for the immediate restriction of a relatively small area here, which encompassed a local airport. Not a big one. Two runways, one capable of landing small jets. The airport was manned by volunteers on weekends and sported a small café, limited fuel and basic air traffic control capabilities. It was used as a weekend leisure stop for pilots interested in some great trout or fly fishing in the nearby foothills. I spoke with one of the volunteers listed on an old website, and he confirmed that it wasn't a busy location. Maybe ten to fifteen planes on a busy weekend. Said the buildings were mostly run down and that pilots couldn't land or take off at night. No lights. He heard rumors that some major improvements would be made to the facility, but hasn't been able to visit. Based on satellite imagery graciously provided by the powers that be, we can now see that this airport has been completely refurbished. The most interesting aspect is this dome right here.

"I had to dig around on this one, but found similar images and determined that this is a remote air traffic control module…RATCOM. The airport now sports a small radar, VFR transmitters, new radio transmitting equipment, new hangars, and of course, lights. This facility can now be used day and night, in any visibility condition, and can remain completely unmanned due to this extremely expensive device. It allows for a real time connection between all of the airport’s equipment and a contracted air traffic control site. This site could be located anywhere in the world. There are several companies that specialize in this service, and none of them are located at an airport. It's really quite innovative, if you have the money and don't really want anyone seeing what comes in and out of your airport."

"Could it be a drug operation?" Sharpe asked.

"The thought crossed my mind, but the facility is in the open and the RATCOM system would leave tracks. I asked DEA, and they've seen these used by the big boys for their own personal airports, but never at a distribution point."

"Yeah, it wouldn't make much sense. Can we get the records of traffic into the airport since it became operational?" Sharpe said.

"Eric and I talked about that and decided that it might present a few problems. First, we have no idea which firm handles the site, but this is potentially the least of our issues. Without a subpoena, the firm would have to willingly talk to us, which, given the nature and expense of the service, seems unlikely. I'm afraid that even asking questions might tip off Sanderson," O'Reilly said.

"I think you're both right. What else did you find?"

"A second site was gobbled up by Mr. Galenden at the same time, a hundred square miles surrounding an abandoned town…here," he said, and the screen changed.

"Located about sixty miles south east of the airport, in a mostly flat area. There's not much information available on the site, but I found references to towns rising during the speculative years following the discovery of oil in Nuequen and falling shortly after that. Unless Mr. Galenden suddenly discovered something his father hadn't forty years ago, I'd say this was an odd choice for a land status conversion," Hesterman said.

"It would be a poor choice for a headquarters or training compound. Too exposed," Sharpe said.

"Exactly," O'Reilly added. "There is evidence of significant improvement to the town, but mostly superficial. Cleaned up, a few new structures, but beyond that, not much has been done. One of the ex-military guys said it looked like a combat town."

"Interesting. Close Quarters Battle training site?" Sharpe said.

"Could be anything, but it's fenced up on all sides. Someone wants to keep people from wandering too close. As for a headquarters? Take a look at this," Hesterman said.

The flat-screen monitor changed to a satellite image of trees and a river valley that ran northwest to southeast out of the Andes foothills. Structures were evident along the thick pine tree line, tucked together on the western side of the valley. Several larger buildings appeared in the open, clustered at the northern end of an improved dirt road that ran adjacent to the river. Based on its location in the foothills, and the immediate presence of a decent, shallow river, this would be a fly fisherman's paradise. The area was world renown for trout and fly fishing expeditions.

"Something tells me this isn't a fly fishing lodge," Sharpe said.

"Well, if it is, it's brand new and operates year round. January 2005, Mr. Galenden set aside a massive tract of land in these foothills. Over four hundred square miles of valleys and mountains," Hesterman said.

"How the hell did you find this camp?"

"A ton of patience. I requested comparative pictures, at the highest level of detail available, and spent some time alone with a computer."

"A lot of time. We were pretty sure he had given up and had started surfing internet porn," O'Reilly said.

"If anyone had cared to join me staring at thousands of satellite images, you could have put your dirty minds at rest," he retorted.

"Eric and one other agent volunteered for the job, but after about forty minutes of staring at satellite images, the other agent suddenly found more important work to do," O'Reilly said.

"He nearly slithered on the floor to get out of there. Anyway, after laboriously comparing imagery, I finally discovered a dirt road that did not exist in 2004, leading into this river valley. I subsequently found these structures, which also did not exist in 2004. I verified this by comparing two similar strings of imagery. One taken in October 2004 and the other taken in July 2005. I couldn't find any other changes to the infrastructure of this zone.

"Check this out. Ever hear of Google Earth? It's a civilian application created by Google that overlays publically available satellite imagery onto the entire planet. You can literally scroll around the earth and zoom down to street level. It was launched in 2006. I had heard of it, but I wasn't sure about its accuracy or level of detail. Let me tell you. I'm not sure we need to go crawling to the National Reconnaissance Organization (NRO) anymore. I used it to correlate most of the images, and the level of detail is frightening. I still like the NRO imagery for clarity, but look what we can do with it," he said and started manipulating the screen to follow his words.

"We can start out in Nuequen and travel west along Route 22, heading to Zapala, then turn south on Route 46. Moving along until right here," he said and stopped at what appeared to be a random point on Route 46.

"I don't see anything," Sharpe said.

"That's where Google Earth shudders to a halt for us. The imagery is older than 2005. Hold on…hold on…there!" he said, and the screen split, showing roughly the same image.

"The 2005 NRO image shows an unimproved dirt road. Unfortunately, we can't conveniently follow the NRO imagery like Google. But, if you follow Google Earth for about ten miles or so, you'll come to this point. The NRO imagery shows people around the buildings. Welcome to Sanderson's lair."

"Nice work on this, Hesterman. Almost like finding a needle in a haystack," Sharpe said, pausing for an uncomfortable period of time.

"Worried about taking this to Ward?" O'Reilly said.

As usual, Dana had read his mind. Keith Ward, Domestic Terrorism's director, had initially opposed Sharpe's request to continue pursuing General Sanderson's group, but a few well-placed calls from above had changed his tune on the surface. Ward had expressed enough of his feelings about Sharpe's "pet project" to leave him with no delusions that his direct supervisor felt that it was a waste of time. To be fair, Sharpe and his team had very little to show for their efforts over the past two years, until recently.

During DTB's last weekly department head meeting, he announced the information they had uncovered by ATF agents in Los Angeles, along with their renewed focus on Argentina. The looks from Ward and the other task force leaders painfully reminded him that nobody really cared about his "pet project" anymore. Fortunately, nobody dared to shut it down. A personal inquiry from Director Shelby had a long shelf-life, especially if you had your eyes on moving up in the organization. Since he had never been officially swatted down, Sharpe assumed that Keith Ward had bigger plans at the FBI.

"Actually, I'm worried about not taking it to Ward."

"Bypassing him?" O'Reilly said.

Hesterman backed up from the computer table, so they could all face each other to talk.

"How confident are you in this imagery?" Sharpe said.

"It's all pretty circumstantial, but it's certainly worth a closer look. I'd feel comfortable requesting that NRO give us some face shots," Hesterman said.

"Face shots?" O'Reilly said.

"Close ups from a satellite. It would require the temporary repositioning of a reconnaissance satellite into a stationary orbit above this area. It's not a simple request. So based on what we have here, you'd feel comfortable making the request?" Sharpe said.

"Yes, sir."

Sharpe took his cellphone out of his suit jacket and speed-dialed a number that he rarely used anymore. He stepped into the far corner of the Joint Operations Center and lowered his voice.

"Director Shelby's office. How may I direct your call?"

"Good morning, Margaret. This is Special Agent Ryan Sharpe from DTB. The director personally asked me to keep him apprised of an investigation."

"I remember, Agent Sharpe."

"I have new information pertaining to the case that he needs to see."

"I'll pass this along to him immediately and be back in touch with you to set up a meeting," she said.

"Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your assistance," he said.

"I'll be in touch," she said, which meant ‘don't call back to check on this.’

Sharpe snapped his phone shut and turned to Hesterman.

"Stay close and make sure all of these images are portable and organized. The director's office could call us back in minutes. We don't leave the building until the director does," he said, starting for the door.

"Whoa! What are…wait a minute. I'm not going to see the director," Hesterman said.

Sharpe gave him a strained look and walked back over to him. "Let's keep it down. The walls have ears around here. Of course you're going. I can't make all of this magic happen or explain it nearly as well, though you will have to economize your words and cut out any attempts at humor."

"What? No…sir? I think O'Reilly is the best agent for the job. She's earned it," Hesterman whispered.

"Earned what? I don't want to sing and dance in front of the director. This is all you. The guy sort of gives me the creeps, anyway. Likes to touch my shot-up arm and grimace like he feels my pain. It's a little creepy," she said.

"It's all you, Hesterman. Put on your game face," Sharpe said.

"You'll do great, Eric. Seriously, you know the ins and outs of this imagery, and I liked the way you presented it to me. I can't possibly drag O'Reilly in there again. Admittedly, it's a little creepy when he touches her arm," Sharpe said.

"He better not touch me," Hesterman said.

"No guarantees. Stay close. When the director calls, we jump," he said and left the Joint Operations Center.

Chapter 10

Frederick Shelby, director of the FBI, stared intensely at Special Agent Hesterman for several uncomfortable seconds. Sharpe had given Hesterman the full briefing on what to expect from the director and hoped the agent didn't fidget. The director hated fidgeting under pressure, and often did whatever he could to elicit what he considered to be an undesirable trait. Eric held it together, only breaking eye contact a few times, but remaining silent and composed until the director spoke.

"This looks promising, Agent Sharpe. Very promising. Agent Hesterman? Excellent job with this discovery. Solid presentation skills I might add. Sharpe. I would like a moment alone with you," he said and turned to face one of the vast windows in his office.

Sharpe patted Hesterman on the back and winked at him. "Can you find your way back?" he whispered.

"I'll figure it out," he said, suppressing a grin.

Hesterman collected the meticulously prepared folios of support documents and satellite imagery, and removed the portable hard drive connected from the computer connected to the director's wall mounted flat-screen monitor.

"See you in a few," Sharpe said.

Hesterman started to walk to the door.

"Agent Hesterman?" the director said.

"Yes, sir?" he said, turning to face the director, who continued to stare out at the inner courtyard of the J. Edgar Hoover building.

"You had one hell of a senior year playing for Michigan. Starting linebacker for an undefeated season. Rose Bowl win over Washington State," he said.

"Thank you, sir. It sure beat the year before," Hesterman said, not sure if he was pushing his luck.

"Damn straight it did. I lost a considerable amount of money on the '96 season. Made up for it your senior year, plus some, so I won't hold it against you."

"I appreciate that, sir. Wolverine?"

"Lacrosse for four years. Graduated in '62, which was one of the worst football seasons in history up until that point. Keep up the good work, Agent Hesterman," the director said, and Sharpe signaled for him to leave.

"Take a look at this," the director said, still facing the window.

Sharpe walked over to join him and stared out at a busy courtyard, filled with agents and support staff, mostly clustered in small groups.

"Can you imagine? Having the time at two in the afternoon to take a little sun break out in the courtyard?"

"Not really, sir. This is the first glimpse of the outside I've seen today," Sharpe said.

"Well, nobody comes to headquarters to enjoy the sun. Especially not while they're on the clock," he said.

Sharpe made a mental note to avoid the courtyard, even if it represented a shortcut to another section of the building.

"Keith Ward won't be happy to know you've gone over his head with this."

"I felt you needed to see this first, without it being watered down," Sharpe said.

"I can appreciate the fact that you had the guts to do it, despite the consequences."

"Surprisingly, it wasn't a difficult decision, sir."

"That's called personal integrity, and it's by far my favorite trait in a person, especially another agent. I'll need to make a few calls on this. I should be able to convince the right people at the Pentagon that we need a look at Argentina. I presume you'd like to keep the CIA out of this?" Shelby said.

"I assume that was a rhetorical question, sir?"

"Very well, we'll leave our scheming brethren out of this one."

"What will you do if the satellite photos ID our man?" Sharpe said.

"Do my very best to rain fire and brimstone down onto him."

Chapter 11

Jessica's attacker committed nearly everything to the overhand, downward knife strike, leaving her with few options. Her attacker possessed a startling combination of agility and raw strength, which had so far left her with little margin for error. For the past minute, which seemed like an eternity, Jessica poured every ounce of skill, power and most importantly, instinct…into staying alive long enough for him to make a fatal mistake. At one hundred and twenty-four pounds, her five-foot-seven-inch frame was lean and exceptionally muscle toned. She could physically match up against most men in a hand-to-hand combat situation, but her current situation was far from normal. This man was a highly trained killer, with more than an eighty pound advantage, and he'd wanted to taste her blood for as long as either of them could remember.

Instinctively, she blocked the devastating strike with her empty left hand, her brain deciding not to grab the wrist. She didn't know why this decision had been made, but as her own processing ability caught up with her instincts, she consciously flowed with it. She imparted a sharp upward motion against the strike and immediately hinged her elbow, allowing the strike to continue downward with more momentum than the attacker had probably expected. She had feinted a solid block, which if executed would have locked her into a useless strength match. Her attacker had been hungry for this and didn't realize his mistake as she stepped forward and pivoted on her left foot, swinging her blade behind her own back, in an admittedly desperate gamble.

She crouched as her entire body turned along the attacker's right side and her knife hand swung in a blinding arc, burying the blade to the hilt in his lower back. He made a useless attempt to swing his own blade backward to strike her, but missed, as she spun even further behind him. He recognized the severity of his wound and knew it was useless.

The knife hadn't really penetrated his back. The Simknife blade was designed to retract and measure the damage imparted by the knife strike. Based on a number of variables, it pressure released a bright red stain relative to the depth of the wound. Similarly, the flexible "blade" could measure lateral slash intensity. Not surprisingly, the stab wound to Leo's back resulted in the maximum spray radius, leaving a six-inch diameter mark on his blue flannel shirt.

"Shit," he muttered, and Jessica yelled, "Next!"

And so this game would continue until everyone had been given a chance to test their skills against her. For nearly two years, she had trained the new recruits, imparting her knowledge and absorbing skills from the program's "old hands," including General Sanderson. Leo had asked to go first today, since he wanted Jessica fresh. He was hell-bent on taking her down, and when he finally succeeded, he told her that he didn't want anyone claiming she was tired.

She nodded at Leo as the next victim walked toward her.

"First. Last. The result is always the same," she taunted, and he shook his head as a thin grin formed.

"You almost fucked up. It's only a matter of time," he said.

"I wouldn't rely on 'almost' as a key strategy. Now, if you don't mind, I have a few more of your buddies to open up here," she said, just as Sergei, another Russian Section trainee, leapt forward, trying to catch her off guard.

His throat was "slit" within five seconds, and they all braced for the word. "Next!"

She had started this end-of-the-week contest one year earlier and opened it to anyone at the compound. She relished the challenge and remained undefeated. The contest length varied every week, depending on how many willing participants were located at the main compound. Some participants perished quicker than Sergei, and few ever managed to stick around longer than Leo. The whole thing rarely lasted more than thirty minutes, and when it was finished, Jessica found herself physically exhausted, but mentally and sexually charged. She used the contest like a drug, to fuel her weekends with Daniel, not that their relationship needed it.

Although training never really stopped at the compound, Jessica and Daniel had carved out a nice existence, spending as much time together as possible. General Sanderson ran a demanding schedule, but he had been flexible with both of them, given the circumstances that had brought them into the Black Flag fold. Jessica mostly stayed at the compound. Her knife and urban field craft lessons were taught mainly during the week, with at least one weekend practical field exercise conducted per month on the outside, in a major city. For these "practicals," she served mainly as an observer, though she would occasionally test her own deception and disguise skills against the trainees. These were perishable skills that she had no intention of losing to the classroom.

Daniel drifted in and out of the compound, with no discernible schedule. He frequently took trainees to one of several field training areas, some located more than fifty miles away. Unlike Jessica's curriculum, Daniel's training regimen didn't have a set schedule, and the trainees' skill levels varied drastically. One day he would be at the nearby sniper range, the next he would suddenly decide to take them into the field for several days. He followed Sanderson's general sniper curriculum with most students, but for a small core group of promising candidates, he would take them to the far reaches of Ernesto Galenden's massive private reserve to put their skills to the test.

Señor Galenden was one of the Black Flag program's most prominent silent partners and Argentina's wealthiest oil baron, owning a sizable share in the Repsol YPF, a Spanish owned, multinational petroleum company. Most of Galenden's wealth stemmed from his father's aggressive campaign during the late 1950s to buy large tracts of land in the western Nuenquen province. In a gamble based on privately contracted geological surveys, Galenden's father added vast stretches of the barren province to his shaky portfolio. In 1965, when petroleum was "officially" discovered near Rincon de los Sauces, the sleepy cattle town was transformed into the "energy capital of Argentina," and the Galenden family quickly became the wealthiest family in Argentina's history. Nearly 50 % of Argentina's proven reserves of oil and natural gas lay under the soil on Galenden family property.

Black Flag's "leased" property extended for hundreds of miles along the western edge of the province, well away from most petroleum industry activity. The area had been designated a "private reserve," which kept most of the public from venturing too far into the territory. For Sanderson, it held everything the program needed. With arid land at the eastern limits of the reserve and the heavily forested Andes Mountains to the west, his operatives could train in nearly any environment. Several abandoned settlements, ranging in size from a small town to rough encampments, sprinkled the property, providing opportunity for urban combat training. The reserve combined unlimited training possibilities with privacy. Privacy provided by remote, geographic difficulty and guaranteed by señor Galenden's considerable influence.

Tucked into an obscure Andes river valley forty miles southwest of Zapala, Sanderson's compound took advantage of the natural cover offered by lush, dark green mountain conifers, and the naturally broken and rocky terrain of the Andes foothills. A wide, pristine stream teeming with trout rushed through the open valley a few hundred meters from the nestled encampment, giving the scene a rustic, picturesque feel that could evoke postcard quality images of a nature conservation lodge…if nature conservation activities involved automatic weapons.

Pushed back from the open valley into a gently cleared forest area, the main compound had been constructed with Sanderson's private funds and resembled a small campus of a few dozen log and timber buildings. The compound housed Black Flag's "schoolhouse" activities, along with a general cantina and basic housing accommodations. Operatives lived in private rooms within small dormitories. With the exception of common instruction and messing, operatives separated themselves by assignment to Areas of Operation (AO), for the purpose of language and cultural immersion. As much as practical, instruction, food preparation and recreational activities were designed to be AO-centric and focused on improving their ability to assimilate with indigenous AO populations.

Unlike the first Black Flag program, the new program was not designed to create long-term undercover operatives for strategic placement. The support requirements needed to adequately prepare operatives for deep cover placement proved to be prohibitive and unrealistic given Sanderson's budget and need for operational security. General Sanderson had no shortage of funding for the new program, but the human logistics required to recreate the first program caused Sanderson to rethink the program. The U.S. military had not only provided him with a generous budget, but had also given him a full battery of psychologists and counselors, critical to trainee selection and conditioning. Carefully screened political refugees had been funneled by the State Department to his program and paid generously to live among the trainees to ensure full immersion.

Beyond these limitations, Sanderson had a more practical reason for redesigning the program. Sanderson couldn't afford the time it would take to find candidates suitable for deep cover assignments. Without the screening tools used to find the earliest batches of Black Flag operatives, he now had to rely on a cautious process to recruit new operatives. The process was slow and inherently risky, exposing Sanderson's new program to the outside world more often than he would like. Still, it was the only way to gauge the limited pool of recruits he could access. Mostly hardened combat veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, the new batch of operatives were different, and he had so far only identified two that would have passed the first program's initial psychological assessment.

The new program created undercover operatives suitable for short term or quick response operations. The first batch of trainees were ready for deployment, though based on Jessica's next three quick kills, the casual observer might consider sending them back through the program for further knife training.

The last body hit the deck with a solid thud, followed by two quick knife stabs to the neck that hissed red paint. Dhiya Castillo lasted longer than any of her previous attempts, having rapidly absorbed Jessica's instruction. For her small size, she fought viciously and relied heavily on her martial arts training to disarm Jessica. Inevitably, all of their matches ended with Dhiya eating dirt, the victim of splitting her attention between edged combat and martial arts acrobatics. With a little patience, Jessica always found an opportunity to knock her off-balance, though she had to admit, as Dhiya shifted more of her attention to the blade, Jessica had experienced some close calls. A few more months of intense knife work would turn the tide for this one, she thought.

With no more takers, she took a deep breath and sheathed her knife. She glanced around for Daniel, who she thought had been present earlier. She shook several hands and accepted a dozen or more slaps on the back as she waded through the group looking for her husband. She saw Richard Farrington breaking free from the group and jogged over to talk to him.

"Rich! I missed you in the circle today," she said.

Farrington turned and regarded her with a grin. "I can only have my ass handed to me so many times in one month before I develop a complex. You start to join us on the range, and I'll jump back into the circle," he said.

"I hate guns, but I might take you up on that. I know Danny likes to see you get your ass kicked. Might bring him around to watch. Have you seen him today?"

"He was there for a few minutes. I saw him head off to the armory."

"Thanks. See you around," she said and took off jogging, energized by the prospect of seeing her husband after his two-week absence in the field.

She still felt a twinge of disappointment that he never stuck around for "the circle." Logically, she knew that their strong attraction and protective instinct for each other would make it almost impossible for him to stay and watch. From an observer's point of view, every attack looked like a close call, and some were closer than she would care to admit. He'd seen the results of the closer calls. A black eye, split lip or bloodied nose wasn't uncommon. Every Friday yielded multiple bruises, and she knew that Leo's desperate attempt to take her down would leave several bruises on her forearms from blocking his devastating strikes. She'd have to wear long sleeves on their trip to Buenos Aires. Luckily, she had been spared any damage to her face.

As she approached the armory door, she heard him talking inside the secure facility. Constructed of log and timber on the outside, the inside of the armory had been considerably upgraded to store the program's weapons and ammunition. Personal weapons were also kept in the armory, though they served no real purpose in the grand scheme of the program, other than an indulgence. Operatives mastered weapons common to their AO and were familiarized with weapons beyond that scope, in case they were needed in a more general role outside of their specialty area.

She entered the armory and heard the distinctive metallic snap of a rifle bolt sliding forward. Daniel looked up as she crossed the threshold, placed his sniper rifle against the bench, and sprang up to greet her. He had nearly two weeks of grit and camouflage grease on his face, compounded by thick, filthy stubble. She knew he would reek of dirt, sweat and possibly urine, but she didn't care. She embraced him, and they held each other for a few seconds, until one of the other operatives grunted.

"I'll be up in about an hour. We need to clean all of the rifles and stow our gear," he said and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I'd tell the two of you to get a room, but you already have one," said Enrique "Rico" Melendez, ex-marine sniper, and Daniel's most promising trainee.

"Rico, don't upset the lady. I'd hate to see her turn up the heat on you in the 'circle' next week," Daniel said.

"We're not headed back out?" Rico said.

The other trainee started to add to the complaint, but Daniel cut them off. "We're taking a little R&R trip to the city, but we'll be back for next Friday. Jess didn't want to miss out on the fun."

"I need to make sure he's not coddling you guys out there. Put a little balance back into your lives," she said, and her long, black Simknife flashed out of its sheath in a blur.

"Shit. More of that? I thought I wouldn't have to deal with that anymore."

"Nobody has to participate, especially a fragile guy like you, Rico," she taunted, and the other sniper trainee, a harsh-looking Caucasian with a flat nose, blurted out laughing.

"You’re fucking pure evil, you know that? You and your husband. And what are you laughing at, Jared? Who the fuck names their kid Jared, anyway?"

"It's a Jewish biblical name. At least my parents didn't idolize Julio Iglesias. Fucking Rico? Living la vida loca," he started to sing.

"That's Ricky Martin, you racist Hebrew," Enrique countered.

"I thought they were the same, man. They look the same," he whispered.

"Don't make me come over there and shove this sliding bolt where the sun doesn't shine," Enrique said, and Daniel pulled Jessica out of the armory.

"You might want to get out of here before this escalates. It was a long field exercise. I'm really looking forward to spending some time alone with you. Out of here," he said, and they touched hands briefly.

"They're in separate dorms, right?" she said.

"Thankfully. See you in few," he said.

She kissed him again softly. "The quicker you get me out of here, the better chance you have of getting lucky tonight," she said, turning to walk away.

"I thought my chances started at one hundred percent?"

Jessica stopped and turned around. "That's usually at the beginning of any given day, and goes downhill from there, but when you go into the field and leave me here by myself…you start at zero, and work your way back up. Time's a wasting," she said and twirled around again.

She heard him walk back into the armory, followed by some laughter. She accepted the fact that it might be longer than an hour before Daniel reached their "residence."

As part of their agreement with Sanderson, they occupied a stand-alone residence, unlike the rest of the staff and operatives, which didn't strike anyone as particularly unusual, since they were also the only couple at the compound. Sanderson housed the instructors and other support staff, like Munoz, Parker, Farrington and many others, in separate dormitories from the "trainees," due mostly in part because of the continued immersive environment maintained for each SAO's operative.

On the inside, each of these dormitories was a separate world, where the food, merchandise, furniture, appliances, everything, was imported directly from the assigned SAO. Internet service, satellite TV, magazines, books, even the linen, was all designed to give the trainees lasting, imprinted memories that could spell the difference between success and disaster in an overseas operation. They would be required to blend in with local populations on the surface, and the deeper they could take the deception, the better. Something as innocuous as referencing the wrong magazine or an unavailable satellite channel could draw the wrong kind of attention and bring an operation to a grinding halt.

The post and beam house gave them about 800 square feet of privacy, which included a bedroom loft. Designed in a basic A-frame style, the entire first floor was open, except for the home's only bathroom, which was stashed behind the stairs on the right side of the large room. A large two-story stone hearth, with imbedded wood-burning stove, adorned the left side of the structure and kept them toasty during the frigid, snowy winter months. As Jessica opened the unlocked door, she took in the comfortable, rustic design and felt a slight longing for the home in Maine that she couldn't fully erase from her mind. They had done pretty well given the circumstances, but they both wanted more than this life at Sanderson's commando training sanctuary.

Because it had been in everyone's best interest at the time, they had agreed to stay on for three years to help Sanderson get the program back on its feet. They were growing weary, but continuously assured each other and Sanderson that they would honor the agreement and give it one hundred percent. Jessica had found the work fascinating at first, taking the time to join the trainees in building skills she had never developed with the CIA and had never really needed in Belgrade.

This aspect of "compound" life, combined with frequent trips to Buenos Aires and Patagonia with Daniel kept her focused on what needed to be done, but her interest in compound life waned. Buenos Aires had become an addiction, and even Sanderson had voiced the concern that she might soon spend more time in Buenos Aires hotels than at the compound. Buenos Aires provided a sense of freedom and escape that had at first satisfied her cosmopolitan cravings and need to get away. However, the cravings came stronger and faster, and before she realized it, she could no longer wait for Daniel to return from one of his unpredictably long field exercises. She had previously grown accustomed to a life that couldn't be satisfied in the western hinter-regions of Argentina and needed to get away from here as often as possible.

Nearly fifteen years ago, she had boarded a United Airlines flight at Dulles International Airport as Nicole Erak, a woman who had never been given anything more expensive than a Sony sports Walkman in her life. Several hours later, she had stepped off the same plane at Paris-Charles De Gaulle Airport as Zorana Zekulic, one of several identities that would never be denied any indulgence, no matter how expensive or exotic…until now.

She had been doing better recently. Daniel had committed to giving her solid timelines for his training, so she could plan their trips together, spacing them out more evenly. Tonight, they would fly out of Nuenquen Regional Airport for the short one and a half hour flight to Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires, followed by a thirty-minute taxi ride to their rented flat in the trendy Palermo Soho barrio. They would arrive late, on the last flight out of Nuenquen, but the city would wait. It always waited, and they would spend five days in paradise, to return fully vested once again in each other's bodies and souls. She closed the door behind her and glanced at her watch impatiently. She'd give him forty-five minutes before dragging him out of the armory. She didn't want to miss the last flight.

General Sanderson stared at the Jeep Wrangler speeding south along the camp's only road, headed for Route 46, a two-lane provincial road that would carry Daniel and Jessica to Nuenquen Airport. The Jeep's headlights illuminated the deep blue remnants of a shadowy dusk that had crept down the eastern face of the Andes mountain range, bringing darkness to their valley well before flatter lands just ten miles east of the compound.

"We're losing her faster than I had anticipated," Sanderson said.

"She's been through more than either of us can imagine. Frankly, I'm surprised she's lasted this long. I expected her to disappear on one of her solo trips to Buenos Aires," Parker said.

Sanderson was about to respond when Richard Farrington opened the front door and walked inside, followed by Jeffrey Munoz.

"Rich. Jeff. Have a seat," he said, indicating the large wooden table near the open fireplace.

Sanderson tossed another thick, hand-split log into the fireplace, sending a cascade of burning embers up the chimney.

"I'm growing concerned with the Petroviches, Jessica in particular. I'm considering putting them under surveillance in Buenos Aires," Sanderson said, waiting for a response.

"She seems stable enough, for now," Farrington said.

General Sanderson glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, prompting Munoz.

"She's a city girl, General. We can't keep her cooped up here forever. Maybe we could institute a week on, week off training schedule for her. Keep her happy."

"I don't think we're seeing this in the same light," Sanderson said. "Trust me when I tell you that Jessica is highly unstable, emotionally. I spoke at length with our friend at Langley about her…Daniel won't say a word…and from what he shared, they pretty much lost her in Belgrade to severe mental illness, first identified by her handler. We're talking schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder…multiple personalities. Most likely stress induced, but Berg has gone back through her file and thinks she might have shown some signs of this during training. Either way, she clearly came apart under assignment in Serbia, but somehow kept producing results…right up until the moment she vanished."

"But you knew about her in Serbia, right? That was how you got Petrovich back," Munoz said.

"I didn't make the Jessica-Zorana connection until late in the game. I was aware of Daniel's relationship with Jessica…Zorana, in Serbia, but I never suspected she was CIA. Parker took some background pictures of them in Maine, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right about the two of them. Daniel disappeared for three months after sending Hadzic's money into an untraceable zigzag across four continents, and given the pressure on our program back in the states, I had never given his absence much thought. We had the money. He made it out alive. I had other things to worry about.

"I wasn't altogether surprised when he suddenly reemerged and announced that he was done with the program. He was pleasant, which was a change for Daniel, and said he had enrolled in graduate school. I put on the usual dog and pony show to keep him in the program, which was about to fold anyway, but I could tell he had moved on. I should have figured out that something didn't add up. I had always thought the plan to steal the money from Hadzic had been his idea, but now I'm not so sure."

"So, what are we worried about with Jessica? What's her biggest liability?" Farrington said, leaning back at the table.

"I'm worried about losing Daniel. The two of them share an unusually tight bond, and Daniel will do anything to protect her, physically or mentally. If she slips too far into Zorana's personality, we'll lose them both. He'll leave us before his work is done, and I need his skills here to train one more batch."

"Have you talked to Daniel about her?" Munoz said.

"Yes. He admitted similar concerns. He thought the combination of her training duties and frequent trips to the city were dangerous, in that she was being exposed to a set of conditions that evoked strong associations with her last assignment. Look, I can't stop her from going to Buenos Aires any more than I can really keep Daniel at the compound. I've always known that they'd never fully take to the new program. Staying here has been beneficial to both parties. They remain under radar, and we get their expertise. Unfortunately, I think they'll be leaving much too soon, and I'm not exactly sure how long they'll stay hidden in Buenos Aires. The place is crawling with Serbian emigrants. Given their histories, Buenos Aires is not the best city for them, which brings me to the purpose of this meeting."

"Surveillance?" Farrington said.

"Exactly. For two reasons. One, to get a better assessment of Jessica's habits and mental state. Two, because if the wrong people find them, the entire program could be jeopardized. Jeff, I want you to take Mr. Melendez to Buenos Aires for some filthy city air. He could use some time practicing his skills in a more hectic, confined environment. Keep an eye on them. Full surveillance. Pictures of people they interact with, names of places they frequent, schedule, personality observations. Long distance stuff, and for God's sake use disguises. The last thing I need is for either of them to figure this out. Keep an eye out for any competition. If they're being watched, you're authorized to use any and all means to neutralize and interrogate."

"Do you want us out tonight?" Munoz said.

"No. I've made arrangements to have the two of you privately flown out of our local airfield tomorrow morning. You can pick up their trail in Buenos Aires during the day. You'll have plenty of time to observe them. They'll be there for five days. I'll fly you back ahead of them on Wednesday. Bring some goodies to keep Mr. Melendez occupied…you won't have to worry about checking bags."

"Sounds good, General. I'll get the word to Melendez. We'll rent a car at the airport and find accommodations. I assume you know where they'll be staying?"

"Of course," General Sanderson said, and the room fell silent except for the sharp crackling of early season wood burning in the fireplace.

Chapter 12

Doctor Valeria Cherkasov approached the emergency room's wide automatic doors and paused. In all of her four years at the hospital, the doors had never functioned properly. Several bloody noses had taught her to never assume the doors would open swiftly. This evening was no exception, and her patience was rewarded when the doors hesitated on their tracks and struggled to open. An ambulance pulled into one of three empty parking spaces, which were kept clear of cars by armed police officers. Its emergency strobe lights bathed the concrete walls of the ER parking alcove in icy blue flashes. More cases. Doctor Cherkasov walked through the door into the freezing night and followed a ramp down to the street level, wishing she had grabbed her winter coat. She ducked behind the corner of the hospital and nearly ran into a couple smoking cigarettes. Vasily, an x-ray technician, and Mila, one of the ER's medical assistants, had formed the same idea as Cherkasov — a brief respite from the madness that had descended upon the hospital over the past forty-eight hours.

"I guess the secret is out," Cherkasov said, taking a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of her white lab coat.

"That you smoke? Not really. Though you've done a decent job of concealing it. A smoker can always spot another smoker," Vasily said, dragging deeply on his cigarette.

"Ironically, I didn't start smoking until medical school. Some example of health, huh?" she said.

"We won't hold it against you. I might shake you down for a few shots of vodka in town though," Mila said.

"A few shots of vodka sound pretty good right about now," Cherkasov said.

Vasily held an expensive-looking metal lighter out for the doctor, who accepted the offer and inhaled her first lungful of tobacco smoke in several hours. She closed her eyes for a moment as the nicotine did its job, briefly taking her away from the mayhem.

"Everyone will be smoking if this gets any worse. Any ideas, doctor?" he said.

"I've never seen anything like it. I thought it was the flu at first, but some of the patients are starting to show signs of sudden, severe aggression. Others go catatonic, then burst out of it in fits of nonsense. I've seen occasional cases of rabies that caused this kind of behavior, but nothing on this scale," she said.

The words "nothing on this scale" were an understatement given what they were seeing. The hospital had filled to capacity earlier in the day, finally overwhelmed by patients complaining of flu symptoms and severe headaches. City officials had graciously opened an abandoned school building next door to the hospital, to serve as a makeshift site for less severe patients. It took a while for the heating system to be restored, but it now housed at least a hundred patients in cots supplied by the nearby Air Force base. To Cherkasov, this looked like the beginnings of a pandemic and she had sent numerous samples to the main hospital in Murmansk, where they could be properly analyzed. The hospital laboratory here in Monchegorsk was still in the dark ages, and only the most obvious and basic lab confirmations could be made.

She had also insisted on sending several of the early patients, with the hopes of shedding light on the mystery disease's pathology. The signs of aggression in patients disturbed her the most, since it suggested a disease that could affect the brain's temporal lobe, like rabies or encephalitis. The hospital could conduct a spinal tap to collect cerebrospinal fluid, but they had no way to confirm the presence of either disease without a proper laboratory. The hospital in Murmansk was well equipped to do this and even had MRI capabilities, which could detect the temporal lobe damage that might explain the sudden aggressive behavioral swings. They hadn't heard anything definitive from the hospital in Murmansk, other than to stop sending patients.

"I heard that one of the nurses on the third floor was raped right inside a patient room," Mila said.

Dr. Cherkasov didn't want to start down this road, but she saw no real choice.

"It's true. The two men were removed very quickly by police, and the nurse is at a private facility. The hospital administration didn't want a panic among staff. We're taking precautions to prevent future attacks. More orderlies, two person rule…"

"Army soldiers and police," Vasily continued.

"Unfortunately. I heard they activated the military police component of the city's reserve army battalion. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing," the doctor said.

"It's better than getting raped in one of the hospital wards," Mila said.

"I agree, but I don't see the situation getting better any time soon," Cherkasov said, nodding at something down the street.

They all turned to look in the direction she indicated and saw several people walking down the street toward the hospital. Nothing to be alarmed about on the surface, but it signified an accelerating trend. The number of people walking in off the streets had increased significantly as the day progressed, and it appeared there was no break in sight. Maybe an armed company of military police wasn't such a bad idea after all. The situation at the hospital could degrade very quickly at this rate. With a population of fifty-two thousand, they had barely scratched the surface with the few hundred patients housed within the hospital and the converted school. They were well above maximum capacity as it stood, and supplies were thinning quicker than anyone had ever imagined. Within twenty-four hours, they would have to turn people away and tell them to drink plenty of fluids.

She stared out over Lake Lumbolka, taking in the fading light of the northwestern skyline. The dark orange sun hovered on the horizon, radiating rich hues that competed with the bleak snow-covered landscape, casting a starkly beautiful reflection over the blackish ice covering the lake. She loved the long days of spring and longed for the endless summer days. Her brief escape was shattered by the sound of gunfire in the distance, from the direction of the city, she thought. The people on the street looked behind them and started to shuffle quickly up the street. Dr. Cherkasov threw her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it.

"You're one of the doctors, right?" said a middle aged man bundled in warm clothing, holding a child in his arms.

"Yes. What's going on?" she said and heard some whimpering from the group behind the man and his child.

"My daughter has the flu and terrible headaches. We all have headaches, and one of the women was attacked. Stabbed in the arm. Things started to go crazy in our building. It's not safe to leave your apartment. We banded together to get some of the sickest people here to the hospital," he said.

"All right, let's get you inside. Come on, help me out with these people," she said to her companions.

Vasily and Mila extinguished their cigarettes and jumped into action, helping to herd the dozen civilians up the ramp toward the entrance. Halfway up the concrete ramp, Dr. Cherkasov was hit by a splitting pain in her head and for a moment thought she had been hit over the skull with a tire iron. She buckled slightly, but held it together, realizing she hadn't been hit with anything.

"You all right?" Vasily whispered.

"Fucking headache hit me like a hammer. I've felt like shit all day, but this was different," she said.

"Welcome to the club. We've all been getting them. Drink plenty of water…it seems to help," he said.

As the doctor approached the door, trailing the group of patients, she heard two more gunshots from the direction of the city.

"Stay alert. Things are getting worse," she said to the police officer directing the ambulance out of the parking lot.

He simply nodded.

Chapter 13

Karl Berg scanned through the email alerts that had been passed to him by the National Clandestine Branch's Analysis Dissemination group and focused on a new report provided by the Community HUMINT (Human Intelligence) Coordination Center. The brief email didn't surprise him, given the ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) intercept transcripts provided by the NSA two days earlier. It had only been a matter of time.

The veteran agent rubbed his face with both hands and glanced around, giving the entire matter some consideration. He hadn't found the time to unpack several boxes of personal books and curios that he had collected over a thirty-one year career as a CIA agent, ten years of which had been spent behind the Iron Curtain. At 53, he looked a few years younger than his peers, which he attributed to thick brown hair that showed little indication of turning gray. His face showed a different story. The years of stress and long hours had taken a toll, and for the first year ever, he looked as tired as he felt. Beyond the wrinkles and lines, his dark blue eyes held the weariness of making hard decisions and living with the consequences.

He still couldn't shake the regret he felt for leaving Keller in the burning safe house two years ago. He didn't kill the young agent, but he certainly hadn't done anything to save him. It had been a selfish act, fueled by several bad decisions over the course of the day. The attack on the safe house had been his fault for jumping to conclusions about Daniel Petrovich's involvement in the murder of Nicole Erak. There had been no way to know that Nicole was still alive, living under an alias…actually married to the man he suspected of killing her. Her subterfuge had been brilliant and almost made him proud, but it had left him with an awful mess.

He had let his personal feelings explode that day, and two dedicated CIA agents had paid the price. Berg had buried the part where Keller's death ensured that the unholy alliance between General Sanderson and Berg could move forward. Keller's memory had been a potential liability to the proposed alliance, and Berg didn't want to ponder exactly how much this selfish instinct influenced which agent he decided to pull out of the burning safe house first. He knew the answer and it didn't sit well with him, which was why he swore to ensure that it hadn't been a waste. Thinking deeply about the information presented on his screen, he decided to put Sanderson's agreement to the test.

He picked up his desk phone and dialed Audra Bauer, who had been promoted to deputy director of the National Clandestine Service. Despite the fact that he had been Bauer's assistant director in the Counter-Terrorism Center, he wasn't in line to take that job upon her promotion, so he took a lateral transfer into a liaison position with the Intelligence Directorate's Weapons, Intelligence, Non-Proliferation and Arms Control Center. He remained a member of the National Clandestine Service (NCS), where he had served his entire career, but now spent his time coordinating WMD (Weapons of Mass Destruction) intelligence analysis with the hands-on activities of the NCS branch.

It was a newly-created position, thanks to Audra Bauer, who wanted to keep him close, but couldn't bring him along for the ride to the director's office. It was a good move and put several NCS personnel under his charge. There was a persistent rumor that NCS was looking to expand Berg's group into a full Branch within a few years. If he played his cards right, he might be in line for a deputy directorship. Then again, a lot could happen in a few years, and Berg wasn't exactly known for playing it safe. The idea rattling around in his head was a testament to the risks he had no problem taking.

"Deputy Director Bauer."

"Good morning, Audra. It's your favorite Intelligence Directorate liaison," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"I wasn't aware that we had more than one," she teased.

"I guess the distinction is safe for now. Hey, I need to run something by you in person. Have you read the most recent HUMINT summary from our friends in Kazakhstan?"

"Why don't you head over to my office? I have a meeting in about twenty minutes, but we should really talk about this. See you in a few?" she said.

"I'll be right down," he said and hung up the call.

A few minutes later, he navigated the corridors and stairwells needed to arrive at her office on the other side of the building. He greeted a few familiar faces, but pressed forward, not wanting to waste a minute of the rare time he had been given. There were plenty of unfamiliar faces that would have been pissed to learn that Berg had simply picked up the phone and secured time with one of the most sought after people in the National Clandestine Service. Even the office assistants didn't query him as he strode into "off limits" territory near the director's office and conference rooms. He nodded politely and continued, turning into the room labeled Assistant Director on a dark blue placard.

"Mr. Berg, Ms. Bauer is ready for you. No need to knock, sir," her assistant said, attentively observing him from behind a neatly arranged desk.

"Thank you, Liz."

Karl opened the door and was greeted by Audra, who didn't get up from her desk. She was studying one of two flat-screen monitors on her desk, squinting.

"Might help if you turned on some lights in here," he said, making his way over to her desk.

This was the second time he had been to her spacious office. Audra was not a packrat like he was, and there were very few personal effects present. A family photograph; three framed service decorations, which Berg knew were not the most prestigious she had earned, but instead the ones that meant the most to her; a few crisp, colorful authentic prints purchased from a semi-obscure artist in Maine; and neatly organized bookshelves, containing not a single personal book. Audra preferred a modernistic, Spartan environment, and the preference extended to her home, which very closely resembled the minimalist tone captured in her office. All except for her husband's den, which was more Berg's style and must have been a serious compromise in their relationship.

"I like the natural light. I can't stand the institutional lighting of this place…and I'm not about to bring in one of those antique abominations you have around your office. So…as much I'd love to catch up, Karl, I think we'll need every one of the few minutes we have to discuss what I'm reading here. It's not yet actionable in my opinion, but we need to alert some of our good friends in Europe. FBI and Homeland, definitely. I hesitate to put up an Interpol alert, since this is obviously not in the open."

"Then you might want to reconsider the FBI and Homeland. I agree that they need to be notified, but they'll liaison with Interpol as one of their first steps," he said.

"I know," she muttered. "I guess we can work on this behind the scenes, but even bringing some of the friendly intelligence services into the fold poses risks. They'll do what's in their best interest, and if that means a coordinated Interpol effort — or even better, throwing us under the bus and confronting Russia — they won't hesitate."

"We know FSB and SVR agents have been in direct contact with both the VECTOR Institute and Microbiology Institute in Stepnagorsk. The NSA has picked up a ton of chatter centered around Semipalatinsk and Kurchatov, and we're pretty sure they've sent ‘unofficial’ assets across the border, which would indicate to me that they're searching for something important. It's all rather unsettling. The most disturbing aspect is the Russians’ secrecy. They've suddenly rekindled the search for this Reznikov character, who is at the top of everyone's WMD watch list, and they haven't breathed a word of it to anyone outside of Russia. I think we need to activate ground assets and take our own look around Kazakhstan," Berg said.

"Special Activities Division? I don't know. The Russians might be chasing a dead end. I can reassign imagery assets without alerting anyone, but I don't have the authority to activate a Special Operations Group. We can start the ball rolling, but I'm going to need more than a hunch that Reznikov is up to something. Russians snooping around Kazakhstan for a missing scientist isn't going to be enough," she said.

"He's not just any scientist. He's a bio-weapons expert that has been actively courting Muslim extremist groups for at least two years. Maybe longer. We know he's been to Al Qaeda facilities in Africa, and now electronic intercepts suggest he's met with Al Qaeda leadership in Dagestan. The fallout from a partnership between Reznikov and Al Qaeda could be disastrous for the West. The guy was caught trying to steal partially weaponized encephalitis samples from the VECTOR lab, and the Russians tried to kill him for that."

"I'm not going to ask how you know that," she said, shutting down her computer, assembling some files and stuffing them into a nylon executive bag.

"I wouldn't tell if you did ask. I'd like to use 'off the books' assets to do some digging around Kazakhstan. Get me access to imagery associated with the area around Kurchatov and Semipalatinsk, and I'll get you the information you need to get the ball rolling," he added.

She stopped and stared at him, glancing at the door, which Berg had closed behind them.

"Sanderson's group?"

"He has highly trained operatives that wouldn't raise an eyebrow in that region. The team could be on the ground within twenty-four hours. I'd expect actionable intelligence several hours after that."

"Assuming they find anything. No links back to us on this," she stated harshly.

"That's why I want to use them. I'll set up equipment through another source," he said and stood silently, waiting for her final approval.

"All right, make it happen," she said, starting for the door.

"I might need UAV support, in case they find something…or something finds them."

"I'll need to think hard on that request, Karl. I assume you'll want the drone to be armed, too?"

"Well…an unarmed drone is sort of pointless," he said, moving out of her way.

She shook her head and smiled. "Let me see what I can do about the drone. Get me something I can work with here, and let's hope this is all a false alarm on the Russians' end. So far, you've actually been really good for my career. I'd hate to see that change," she said, smiling warmly.

"The day is young. Stick around long enough and you'll find yourself assigned to a liaison position with the Intelligence Directorate," he retorted.

"A fate worse than death. Let's meet up later to finalize things," she said.

"You mean I have to ascend into these hallowed halls twice in one day?"

"You love coming up here and you know it," she said, walking through the door after him.

"I really don't. See you later."

Berg had a few calls to make and could barely keep himself from skipping down the halls. He lived for this kind of action and felt reinvigorated. Time to call in a few favors.

Chapter 14

"Please close the door," Special Agent Sharpe said.

Agent O'Reilly closed the door and joined Agent Hesterman next to Sharpe's desk.

Sharpe turned his flat-screen computer monitor to face them and started to type on his keyboard. "This will be a quick meeting. We have work to do," Sharpe said, edging his office chair toward the end of the desk so he could see if his keyboard commands worked.

A color photograph of two figures filled the screen. The image was crisp, taken from a high angle, and completely captured the faces of both men.

"This satellite image was passed to me by the director himself. Anyone care to guess who's in the picture?"

The man on the left wore dark brown cargo pants and an olive green sweater with a zippered collar. His tightly cut silver hair contrasted the earth tones of his outfit and tanned face. The man had broad shoulders and a clearly athletic, muscular frame. The figure standing to his right was dressed in light blue jeans and a gray collared shirt underneath a worn, dark brown leather bomber jacket. His brown hair was cut short, but didn't resemble a military style haircut. It looked poorly trimmed, with too much of a fade on the side exposed to the camera. To Sharpe, the man looked like he had stepped off the streets of Moscow.

"Are you serious, sir? We hit the mother lode," Hesterman said.

"Classified sources have provided this photo, based on your excellent work. I know this hasn't been the most popular sideshow here in Domestic Terror, but it paid off big time. You're looking at…"

Sharpe switched images to show the gray-haired man.

"Terrence Sanderson and Richard Farrington. Two very big fish in this investigation. We've been tasked to jump start a focused financial investigation of the activities related to the building and funding of the sites you identified," he said, and the screen changed to a wider angle showing the entire river valley.

"I assume you don't want anyone else working on this?" O'Reilly said.

"The director doesn't want anyone else working on this. He wants minimum exposure to this information within our branch. He's specifically worried that our friends in Langley might catch wind of this, and so am I. If a connection exists between the CIA and Sanderson, one wrong word could turn this site into a fly fishing lodge overnight. And you can be guaranteed that Sanderson won't be the activities director."

"What will Director Shelby do with the information?" O'Reilly said.

"That's the big question. Shelby isn't the forgiving type, and Sanderson's stunt was a major setback for the FBI. Not to mention a massive embarrassment. The director wouldn't tell me directly, but I'd be willing to bet that he takes this all the way to the top, where he'll have plenty of support for action against Sanderson."

"A Direct Action mission?" Hesterman said.

Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. In all reality, he had no idea, but it wouldn't surprise him if Shelby and a few of his cronies could convince the right people that Sanderson posed enough of a future threat to America's security to warrant foreign interdiction.

"Even if they did, we might never find out. I asked the director if he could keep us in the loop, and he told me to focus on the financials. He'd like to build a solid case against Ernesto Galenden, which I suspect will serve two purposes. The first being a legitimate way to spur the Argentine government into action against the compound. And the second? Well, if we could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Galenden funded and operated a terrorist compound right under the Argentine government's nose, then a direct action mission might be easier for everyone to stomach. Let's start piecing this together like an evidentiary investigation. Understood?"

"Where do we work on this?" Hesterman said.

"That's the good news. We've been upgraded to a recently vacated executive suite upstairs. It'll be tight for the three of us, but I hear it comes with a comfortable leather chair."

"Your old office?" O'Reilly said.

Sharpe nodded.

"I'll head up there and make sure they configure the workstations correctly. Do you need to move anything in here?" she said.

"No. The office upstairs is temporary. The director wanted to get us out of here while we worked on Sanderson. Keith Ward wasn't exactly pleased about this arrangement. He hates being cut out of the loop, and technically we still work for him, so watch what you say. Shelby can exert a lot of influence, but he won't stand a twenty-four hour vigil. Let's get this moving."

Chapter 15

Darryl Jackson sat hunched forward at his desk, furiously scribbling notes as Karl Berg spoke. He had weathered the investigative storm caused by Berg's last request well enough, though he didn't enjoy the multiple visits from Special Agent Sharpe's crew. All of which paled in comparison to sitting in front of Brown River's board of directors and answering some hard questions about the policies in place for their Brown River Special Operations Group. He had assured them that Jeremy Cummings had sourced the Petrovich operation on his own. As a senior member of the SOG, Cummings had access to the armory and the appropriate personnel. He had also convinced them that Cummings possessed the perceived authority at Brown River to assemble a team without supervision. He assured the board that safeguards had been put in place to ensure that nothing like this would ever happen again on Darryl's watch.

The mysterious six figure payment to Cummings had sealed the deal and kept Darryl from being fired. Everyone except the FBI had bought off on the theory that Cummings had been paid to hunt down and kill Petrovich for overseas clients. He felt guilty about framing Cummings, but the man was dead, and there was no need to complicate matters beyond that for either Brown River or himself. When he finished scribbling, he settled back into his chair.

"Are you sure that's all you need? Last time I did you a favor…well, I almost kissed my retirement goodbye, among other things," he said.

"I appreciate the assist on this one. The embassy there doesn't have the type of gear they've requested. Acquiring this stuff would be a pain in the ass and raise too many eyebrows. Kazakhstan is crawling with Ruskies."

"Five burly men arriving in that shit hole of an airport might attract all the attention they can handle," Jackson said.

"Their arrivals will be staggered, and nobody should be expecting them."

"Famous last words. The gear will be in the back of the rental vehicle. The vehicle will be rented using a bogus business account…just in case it doesn't get returned," Jackson said.

"Always a few steps ahead, eh?"

"When dealing with you, I like to be about a football field ahead at any given moment," Jackson said, and they both laughed.

"Sorry to be a stranger, Darryl."

"Hell, Karl. No need to apologize. I feel the same way. The heat came down pretty fierce on both of us. Scared the shit out of me, to be honest. We're good friends no matter what," Jackson said.

"It's always good to hear that. Thanks again for the help. Anything I can do, just let me know," Berg said.

"Well, since you mentioned it, I do have fond memories of the scotch we used to sip on my patio."

"Green Spot? Single Pot Still…one of the finest and rarest whiskey discoveries from my travels to Ireland?"

"My very favorite and impossible to find here in the states," Jackson said.

"Two bottles are already headed your way, my friend. Save enough for us to toast," Berg said.

"No promises. I'll give you a number for the team to contact when they arrive. Our guy will pick them up at the airport and take them to their rental vehicle. I'll do everything I can to get them a 4X4. They'll need it if they’re heading out to the testing sight. I'll be in touch shortly. Catch you later."

"Sounds good. Later, Darryl."

Jackson replaced the receiver and considered his options. Brown River ran a small scale security operation in Kazakhstan, with most of it based out of the capital, Astana. The compound boasted two dozen contractors at any given time. Kazakhstan wasn't considered a high risk location, especially compared to Afghanistan or Iraq. Taking five assault rifles fitted with advanced optics out of their armory would be a big deal. Giving them to another team would be an even bigger problem. Onsite personnel would sense a lost opportunity, and more importantly, lost money. The less he explained to the Brown River group in Astana the better. This would require a little finesse on Jackson's part, or if necessary, some serious ball busting. One way or the other, he fully intended to get the right equipment to Berg's team. He pulled up an intranet computer site on his desktop computer and started looking for the right numbers. He needed to get the ball rolling as soon as possible. He'd like to have this settled before the scotch arrived.

Chapter 16

Daniel brushed his bare feet against Jessica's leg and sipped his steaming cappuccino. She wore a bright floral long-sleeved dress, dominated by yellows and mellowed by dark orange and brown tones. Against her dark skin, the dress added to the exotic look she had carefully cultivated since they embarked on their journey south. Every time they "vacationed" to Buenos Aires, she scheduled a visit to her favorite beauty spa and had her hair dyed straight black. This was how he figured out that she had started to sneak away to Buenos Aires on her own, while he was out in the field for extended periods of time, honing the skills of Black Flag's most promising snipers. Of course, even if he hadn't noticed the jet black hair, he had a legion of stool pigeons waiting to inform him that Jessica had run off for the weekend. There was zero privacy out at Sanderson's compound, which was why they relished these trips together.

He stared over his book at her, moving his foot slowly up her calf. She still looked and felt tense, which was unusual for her once they got away from the compound for a few days. He could tell she had something big on her mind and was waiting for the right moment to spring it on him. Everything had been slightly off over the past three days. Their conversation, lovemaking, dancing…all of it felt a little forced, and he could barely stand the suspense. A million possibilities ran though his head, most of them bad, because this was how he naturally approached any problem — from the negative side. Anything positive was a surprise. This pessimism was a natural extension of his practical nature, so he braced for the worst case scenario, which wasn't really well defined in his head. When it came to Jessica, he often had no idea what was coming next, so he usually waited. This time, however, he couldn't stand it anymore. She was ruining a fantastic brunch with her stuffy silence.

"All right, you win, sweetie…I can't take it anymore. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" she said, placing her mimosa down on the wrought iron table.

"I can go back to reading my book…which I only brought because I can't seem to get a word out of you. It's been a long three days, but at least I've managed to make some progress with my Blake novel."

She quit staring off into nowhere and looked straight into his eyes with a determined look. Her deep brown eyes bored straight through him, and he knew this was the big moment. She was either leaving him or she was pregnant. The latter didn't make sense, considering the amount of alcohol she had consumed over the past few days…another sign that something was out of place.

"I want out. I want us out," she said, and he wasn't sure he was relieved.

This was the worst case scenario he had expected, and deep down inside, he really wished he had kept his mouth shut. He released a long, dramatic sigh, which annoyed her based on the frown she flashed.

"We can't leave yet. We've talked about this," he said, which he knew was a weak opening.

"I know we've already talked about it. I want to talk about it again. I can't take it there anymore," she said, giving him a look that silenced a few of the tables adjacent to them at the sidewalk café.

"One more year, and we can go wherever we want. Do whatever we want. I promised him three years…"

"He made you promise three years. It was his idea, not yours. I don't trust him to keep his word. I'm the only knife instructor. You're the only sniper instructor."

"He has others that can teach marksmanship."

"You know the difference."

Daniel shifted uncomfortably in his chair and grimaced. He knew she was right to a degree. Everyone at the compound could shoot extremely well at short and medium distances, under pretty much any conditions, but Sanderson had a noticeable absence of any experienced, skilled snipers. He knew why and didn't want to share the information with Jessica. He was the only trained sniper that had survived his initial assignment with the original Black Flag program. Sanderson didn't have anyone else close to Daniel's experience level and he had been unable to procure a fully trained, experienced sniper in his new batch of trainees. Melendez had recently finished the Marine Corps sniper program, but hadn't deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan to put his skills to the test. Daniel was Sanderson's only qualified instructor for long range, concealed shooting.

"I know. I just don't know what we can do right now. I can't leave him high and dry," he offered weakly.

"Really? He didn't seem to have any hesitation leaving us high and dry a few years ago. We took the easy way out — your words — and it was a big mistake. We should have packed up and vanished. You and I both know we were manipulated. We're still being manipulated."

"We've been over this a million times. There was no way we could have predicted what he was planning, and I didn't exactly hear you argue against killing Ghani," he replied, immediately regretting his comment.

"Ghani was funding Al Qaeda, supposedly."

"That was confirmed."

"Confirmed by whom? Sanderson? A very trustworthy source," she said sarcastically.

"Look, this isn't productive. We've been down this road. What are we supposed to do?"

"I say we walk away. We have more money than either of us could ever spend…"

"I don't know about that," he said.

"Thanks for the dig," she quipped.

"I'm sorry. Seriously. I just don't know," Daniel said.

"I think we need to trust our instincts. If we had walked away from Sanderson in the first place, we wouldn't be international fugitives. We'd have normal lives, somewhere else…but it would be so much better than what we have now."

"We have each other," he said and squeezed her hand.

"I know, but Sanderson used that leverage against you once. What's to say he won't do it again? There's no reasoning with him. I'm telling you that I'm done with his program. I'm pretty sure the only way to leave is to simply vanish. You can mail him a nice card with an explanation if you feel like you owe him anything. As it stands, I don't feel like I owe him a fucking thing. I spent over six years in Serbia, in the company of society's worst, and I never killed anyone. I had ample opportunity, and at times would have liked nothing better, but I didn't. I couldn't. I had a job to do and if I killed every man that took advantage of Zorana, or violated her, there would have been no need for NATO intervention in Belgrade. It was one of the few moral high grounds I could stand on, and Sanderson robbed me of that." Jessica’s eyes started to glisten. "I just don't know what I'm doing here…"

"That was my fault. I should never have let you do that," he said.

"You're right, you shouldn't have. But it was my idea. I could have pulled the plug on the whole thing, right up to the point where I jogged up his driveway. I knew better, but I had convinced myself that it was the best thing for both of us. Sanderson had us both under his spell, and here we are on furlough in Buenos Aires. I'm done with him, Danny. You're either with me on this, or we're done," she said and stared up at him fiercely. All the traces of a young woman about to break down crying had been quickly erased.

"I'm with you. Always. Give me a few weeks to make some arrangements."

Daniel’s beeper buzzed. He kept his cell phone turned off when he wasn't using it, and so did Jessica. Neither of them needed Sanderson eavesdropping on their conversations through some of the clever technology he kept hidden in his vault at the compound. By the look on Jessica's face, he could tell that she had formed the same thought about the coincidence of the beeper's timing. With Sanderson, they just never knew.

"Your beeper?" she said, shaking her head.

"Makes you wonder," he said and took his cell phone out of the cargo pocket of his khaki shorts.

He dialed the number on the beeper, which he recognized as one of Sanderson's satellite phone connections.

"Daniel. Appreciate the quick response. Sorry to do this to you, but a situation has developed, and a very good friend of ours needs some help. I'm putting you in charge of the team. I've made arrangements to have you flown directly to an airfield near the compound. I need you at the Aeroparque Jorge Newbery within the hour. It's located on the water, a few miles north of Palermo, so you should have plenty of time to pack up and get over there. Check in at the private terminal. You know the deal. Bring Jess with you, please."

"She's not going to be happy about this," he said.

"I know she won't, but she'll want to be here when you leave. It's an overseas assignment. Something right up your alley."

"Right up my alley, huh? Okay. We'll see you in a few hours." He disconnected the call. "We have to go."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Another critical job neutralizing more of señor Galenden's competition?"

"No. This sounds different. Overseas. Let me do this job for Sanderson and I'll work on a plan when I get back. I'm with you, Jessica. I just want to do this smartly."

"Do you ever want to call me Nicole?"

"Every time I look at you," he said with no hesitation.

"I want to be Nicole again." She stood up from the café table.

"I'd really like that. You might have to be Nicola, Nicolette…or maybe Nikita," he said, tucking the bill and some cash under a salt shaker on the table.

"La Femme Nikita? I don't think so. Danny, don't look now, but a guy in Mama Gracha's just took a picture of us…I think. He used a small camera or a phone."

"It's on our way back to the apartment, so why don't we casually stroll past and take a closer look," he said.

"Sounds good," she said and leaned over to kiss him and grab his hand.

Daniel and Jessica navigated through crowded tables of the large sidewalk café. It appeared that most of Buenos Aires awoke with the same idea. To take advantage of an unusually warm late April day before the temperatures dropped significantly in May. They hadn't passed a single empty table on their walk to the plaza and had endured a thirty-minute wait to enjoy their favorite brunch spot. Although it was possible to enjoy breakfast outside all year round in Buenos Aires if properly dressed, most locals crowded indoors during the winter months, emerging only on the occasional day when the temperatures rose temptingly into the seventies.

Leaving the restaurant's patio, Daniel felt a little exposed as they crossed the empty street and stepped onto the sidewalk adjacent to the small coffee shop. A few crowded tables lined the café's windows, but most of the business was conducted indoors.

Mama Gracha's was an iconic coffee shop, famous for high end coffee and amazing French pastries. Normally a favorite of Jessica's, they had opted for a heartier brunch across the street, where they could soak in the sun and ingest some solid food to counter the effects of a mild hangover. They had danced at a nearby disco until two in the morning, and neither one of them had tempered their drink consumption. Jessica had been on a tear with sangria all evening, and Daniel had surrendered to the multiple pitchers brought their way. They had slept until eleven and awoken with splitting headaches, which no doubt added to the tension this morning.

As they walked by the window, Daniel spotted the man that had piqued Jessica's interest. He was definitely European, but he dressed like someone who had been here a while: polo shirt and khaki pants. His outfit wouldn't have garnered a second glance on any of these streets. He was likely one of the multitude of permanent immigrants that had recently flocked to Buenos Aires. He looked Balkan…possibly Serbian, but that wasn't unusual in this city. Buenos Aires was home to one of the fastest growing Serbian immigrant populations in the world, which was another reason for them to leave. The Serbian community was tight, and fewer worlds were more closely connected. Add that to the surprisingly small percentage of former Serbian paramilitary members still in custody, and they were always watching their backs in Buenos Aires. Daniel risked another glance.

The man in the coffee shop fiddled with his phone as they passed the window. He never looked up from the device, even while he sipped coffee. For Daniel, the man didn't raise any alarms.

"Maybe just taking a picture of the square. I don't know. Let's take the long way back, just in case."

"A stroll with my husband…punctuated by a random sprint at some point. Fabulous. Glad I didn't wear sandals with heels," she said.

"You know you love me," he said.

"Am I that easy to read?" she replied, squeezing his arm tighter.

"Hardly."

They turned down a side road taking them away from their high-rise three blocks away. Neither of them saw the second man leave an outdoor table on the other side of the plaza and walk in their direction.

Enrique Melendez sighed in the back seat of their rental car. Parked on Nicaragua Street, the off-white, four-door sedan sported a few random dents and scratches, which placed the car right at home on the tight streets, where fitting into a parking space often relied on a driver's willingness to accept collateral damage. Munoz sat in the driver's seat, sipping tepid coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Melendez was sure of this because his own cup had long ago reached room temperature. He had jammed it into one of the cup holders to resist any further temptation to sip the disgusting liquid that their hotel claimed was coffee.

"So, what do you have?" Munoz said.

"They're drinking better coffee than we are…that's for sure," Melendez said, huddled low and staring through a portable hand spotting scope.

"Jesus Christ. We've been off the compound for three days, and you're a food connoisseur," Munoz said.

"I drank good coffee before Argentina. The hotel shit is worse than Sanderson's coffee. You'd think the coffee would be better…at least better than what we have back at camp," he said.

"All the coffee down here is shit," Munoz said.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's just our hotel," Melendez said, snapping a picture through the camera he had been staring through for nearly an hour and a half.

"Actually, it's shit almost everywhere. Right now, it's very likely that Jessica and Daniel are drinking shitty coffee. You see the café across the street? Mama Gracha's? That place has good coffee, because they import the expensive stuff from somewhere else. Argentinian coffee is notoriously bitter and watery because most of their beans are sugar roasted."

"Why would they sugar roast the beans?"

"Most of their beans come from Brazil, which produces nearly two thirds of the world's coffee, but sells the lower quality beans to Argentina and Chile. The rest is consumed by Brazilians or exported to the big operations like Starbucks, Lavazza and Illy. The beans are sugar roasted to conceal the bad quality, and in some cases, to cut the expensive stuff they're forced to buy. Sugar can account for about a quarter of the weight of a batch," Munoz said.

"They cut it like coke?"

"More or less. In this city, if a coffee shop isn't using Lavazza or Illy, it'll taste worse than Sanderson's shit. I make sure he imports the proper coffee for each group. Be glad you're assigned to the South American team…you can imagine the kind of mud the Russian team is pouring down their throats," Munoz said.

"Maybe I shouldn't complain. How do you know so much about coffee?"

"I owned a string of coffee shops in Hartford before all of this started," Munoz said, and Melendez sensed a hesitation.

"Do you miss it?"

"Miss what?" Munoz said, taking another sip of his cold coffee.

"The coffee shops. That kind of life," he said.

"I didn't really have much of a choice in the matter," he said.

Melendez could see that he didn't want to discuss it any further, so he focused on Jessica and Daniel, neither of whom frowned with every sip of the terrible coffee Munoz had convinced him they must be drinking. Three days of stale bagels, takeout sandwiches and bottled water was starting to wear thin on Melendez, though he knew he really had nothing to complain about. He'd allowed himself to get excited about the prospect of hanging out in Buenos Aires. Savory local foods, good coffee, exotic women, nightclubs, swank bistros…he’d let his imagination get the best of him and had instead spent the past few days watching the Petroviches enjoy the fruits of his limitless imagination.

Stakeout work had turned out to be grueling in terms of boredom and vigilance. The biggest rush so far had been carrying a compact concealed handgun at all times and Munoz's insistence that he bring his RPA "Rangemaster Standby" sniper rifle to the car when they were mobile.

The Rangemaster was a British-designed, compact urban system, measuring twenty-eight inches with the stock folded, and easily stowed in a gym bag. The barrel was significantly shorter than a standard sniper rifle, trading longer range accuracy for urban maneuverability, but remaining extremely lethal in the right hands. Melendez possessed a pair of those hands. If their rental car had been equipped with tinted rear windows, he could practice sighting and dry-firing from inside the vehicle. That might make things a little more interesting for him.

"I think we should use a van if we have to do this again. At least a mini-van with tinted windows. I feel pretty conspicuous staring through this camera in front of people walking by."

"Don't worry about it. It's more normal on these streets than you might think. Nobody knows if we’re cops, PI's or worse. Even better, nobody cares. Everyone just minds their own business, and as long as the scope isn't on them, they don't care. Even the cops don't give it a second glance," he said, and his cell phone started to vibrate.

"Sanderson," Munoz grunted and answered the call.

"Munoz."

He listened for a few seconds.

"I understand. We'll be at the airport in ten minutes."

"That's it?" Melendez said.

"Correctomundo, amigo. Otra vez…hablamos solamente español," Munoz said in a thick dialect.

"I don't think correctamundo is español," Melendez said.

"I was just testing your skills. Pack up the camera. We need to be at the airport ten minutes ago. Sanderson has a flight waiting for us that leaves ahead of theirs," Munoz said.

"They're heading back, too?"

"Si, señor. Something's up," he said.

The car pulled slowly out of the spot and accelerated down the street, covering the one city block distance in a few seconds. They passed the Petroviches just as they both stood up from the table. Neither of them looked up at the unremarkable car passing by, and even if they had, they would not have recognized Munoz with a mustache and thick, wavy black hair. He normally kept a close-cropped appearance at the compound, and experience had taught him that all he had to do among an ethnically similar group was alter his appearance enough to change the general impression of the observer. As a dark skinned Latino, he could melt into most crowds here in Argentina. Even among the Italians, he would barely raise an eyebrow.

Melendez decided to lay flat on the seat as they passed the plaza. A passenger sitting in the back seat of a crappy car would attract a second glance anywhere, especially since their car was not a taxi. He stayed low for another block, until Munoz told him they were clear. On the way down Nicaragua Street, they passed their hotel without stopping. They had each brought a small duffel bag of clothing and essentials, which they kept in the car. The only things they would leave behind were a few toothbrushes. Melendez relaxed in the back seat and felt some relief that they were leaving. It sounded like this would be a regular gig for the two of them, so he made a mental note to bring a large thermos, his French press, and a one pound bag of Italian roast for the next trip.

Chapter 17

Director Frederick Shelby nodded to the marine colonel who held the door open for him and stepped inside the conference room. The stoic marine had met him at the VIP entrance and escorted him through an abbreviated security check. They had spent the next ten minutes navigating the building in silence, which apparently suited both of them. The tight-faced Colonel turned to him once to announce that they were approaching the Plans Section and that everyone had been assembled. Shelby considered breaking his own silence to offer the marine a job with the FBI. He could think of several ineffective jabber-jaws that this man could replace.

The first thing he noticed in the room was a blonde woman in a dark gray suit. She was seated next to a rather fishy-looking man wearing a tan suit jacket over a light blue dress shirt, which was missing a tie. He immediately assessed this man as White House representation.

"Director Shelby, it's an honor and a privilege. I saved you a seat here," Major General Bob Kearney said, who stood up and shook his hand.

Once the director was seated, General Kearney addressed the group.

"We'll make a quick round of introductions. I think we have everyone we might need to proceed with the information presented by Director Shelby." He nodded to the admiral to his right.

The admiral introduced himself. "Rear Admiral Mark DeSantos. I head the DoD's Strategic Support Branch, which is the successor program to the joint DIA and DoD venture created by General Sanderson in the early nineties."

Shelby noted the golden "trident" and naval parachutist wings perched above an impressive row of ribbons on the stocky man's dark blue uniform. His light brown hair was notably longer than any of the other uniformed men in the room, and he appeared relaxed in his seat, wearing a skeptical look on his tanned face.

"Lieutenant General Frank Gordon. Commander, Joint Special Operations Command," said an imposing hulk of a man on the opposite side of the table.

To Shelby, the man looked like a bodybuilder who had accidentally borrowed the wrong outfit. His dark green uniform bristled with insignia that baffled Shelby and stood in contrast to the crisp Navy uniform design. Still, the sheer volume of brushed silver pins and colorful ribbons led Shelby to the same conclusion as the SEAL admiral. They'd seen some serious shit. The next man looked downright frightening.

"Brigadier General Lawrence Nichols, Marine Corps Special Forces Command."

The general's facial skin was so tight and weathered that he oddly resembled a skeleton. His dark blue eyes burned through Shelby who, for the first time in ages, felt uncomfortable. He didn't need to examine the marine's uniform to know that he had seen his share of worldly violence and had stood at the serving end of that table.

The director shifted his gaze to the two civilians at the table. The smarmy civilian dressed in business casual spoke ahead of turn, cutting off the severe-looking woman, who immediately raised an eyebrow and flashed a strained smile.

"Gerald Simmons. Call me Gerry. Assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict Capabilities. I'm SECDEF's principal advisor on these matters. If I say it's a go, it's a go," he said.

Shelby glanced back to Generals Gordon and Nichols, detecting no shift in their posture or facial muscles. It appeared that they had a lot of practice dealing with Gerry. He admired their stoicism and restraint because he was pretty certain that he had raised his own eyebrows at the ASEC's statement.

"Sarah Kestler. White House Counter-Terrorism director. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Director Shelby."

"Likewise, Ms. Kestler."

"And I'm Major General Bob Kearney, Defense Intelligence Agency. I lead the Defense Counterintelligence and Human Intelligence Center, which had a heavy hand in supporting Sanderson's program. The man murdered in the Pentagon two years ago worked in my office. Director Shelby contacted me to set up this meeting to gauge the level of interest in proceeding against Sanderson's new organization. As requested by the director, you have all read the classified summary of events leading to the acquisition of the recent satellite photos and have been given as much information about Sanderson's history as appropriate without considering a serious increase in security clearance protocols. Let me know if you need more information to proceed, and I'll consider issuing LIS Category One approval. I have the paperwork on hand if necessary."

"I do feel like I'm a little in the dark here. How many here have signed LIS Category One paperwork for the rest of Sanderson's file?" Gerald Simmons said.

"Director Shelby, Admiral DeSantos and myself. In all truth, if I approve you, you won't receive any material…it was stolen from the Pentagon's vault two years ago by Richard Farrington, the man standing next to General Sanderson in the satellite photo. He served faithfully in the army for nineteen years, until the day he walked into the vault and stabbed one of my people through the neck with a commando knife. He was part of Sanderson's new program, which poses a clear threat to United States security," General Kearney said.

"Can you break that down better for me? I read the file you provided, and there is no doubt that Sanderson significantly jeopardized U.S. security by destroying the FBI's HYDRA investigation. Our domestic Al Qaeda investigations still haven't recovered. Would that be an accurate statement, Director Shelby?" Sarah Kestler said.

"We're making good progress on new investigations, but yes, it was a significant and costly setback," Shelby said.

"So, now he's in Argentina, raising an army of operatives? People like Farrington? I need a better link to the future security of the United States, before I start suggesting that we either press Argentina to cough him up or take independent action. We all know the stakes involved in either course of action," she said.

"And that's a big part of why we're here. To discuss the viability of options," General Kearney said.

"Let's reach some sort of consensus about the threat before I try to lay anything out in front of the national security advisor," she said.

Although Shelby wanted to fast track an operation against Sanderson and wasn't in the mood to waste time, he appreciated her cautious approach. The director was close personal friends with James Quinn, the president's national security advisor, and his next stop today would be to pay his good friend a visit. With the "War on Terror" fever pitch at its apex in the country, he didn't foresee a problem getting a "green light" from the White House.

"Well, to start, Sanderson is number seven on the FBI's list of wanted terrorists, just under Ahmed Yasin, an emerging young Al Qaeda extremist that we've tried to kill three times already. That alone warrants action, but I understand that we are not talking about a simple Predator drone operation here," Shelby said.

"What are we talking about?" Gerald Simmons said.

"I want Sanderson and his key players in custody."

"Jesus, I was really hoping for something a little easier," Simmons said.

"Now I understand why SOCOM is here," Kestler added.

"The entire operation needs to be shut down before it causes more damage to investigative efforts domestically and internationally. Sanderson is a rogue, and only God knows what he plans next. We have a confirmed link between Sanderson and True America, and his operatives have been accepting arms shipments throughout South America and Europe. He's a deviously intelligent planner and he's had two years to come up with an encore to his last fiasco. Trust me when I say that we can't afford to wait around for his next Broadway production," Shelby said, shuffling through his file for a picture.

"Who knows where his next sleeper agent is hiding? The last one, pictured right here," he said and held up the picture of Farrington, "buried a seven-inch blade to the hilt through an innocent man's heart, severing his spinal cord. Just to steal classified information."

"I'm going to be honest with everyone here and hopefully save some time," Gerald Simmons said. "My boss supports action in this case, and I was mainly sent to assess the viability of suggested options. I notice that we don't have any CIA representation at the table. Does someone have a country assessment from Langley that might shed some light on the possibility of local federal police or military assistance? Obviously, the best case scenario would be to let the Argentine government take care of Sanderson."

"The CIA's absence is no oversight. There were too many irregularities surrounding Sanderson's debacle that couldn't be adequately explained…especially by the CIA," Shelby said.

"Do you suspect they were working together?" Kestler said.

"I couldn't say conclusively, but I've been doing this for a long time, almost 40 years, and let's just say that the numbers didn't add up on the CIA's side of the equation. I don't know if there was any collusion. My gut says no, but I suspect that the CIA tried to specifically eliminate one of Sanderson's operatives. Either way, we need to keep the CIA out of this. General Kearney brought the DIA's assessment of Argentina," Shelby said.

"Overall, the political climate is favorable for Argentinian cooperation; however, we feel that success is highly unlikely. Assuming a successful operation and capture, we have no guarantee of extradition. The extradition treaty is solid, but Sanderson is unlikely to be transferred. Munoz's testimony for an immunity deal was structured to move the day's investigation along so that the FBI could open more layers and figure out if a major terrorist attack was imminent. Munoz can't be touched. He could take a tour of the White House if he wanted. Munoz never directly implicated Sanderson in any of his testimony, and any lawyer worth their salt could argue that Munoz would say anything under duress to get immunity. See where this is going? This may sound outrageous, but the evidence against Sanderson is circumstantial at best. Against most of them, frankly. We have a few solid cases. Richard Farrington's fingerprints were on the knife that killed Harrison McKie. Daniel Petrovich was caught on camera slicing and dicing two Brown River contractors…followed by killing a police detective," General Kearney said.

"And three more Brown River contractors on a suburban street. We've got Petrovich and Farrington nailed. The rest? They're not likely to be held by Argentine authorities," Shelby said.

"Running a paramilitary training center within Argentina's borders? I don't think we have to worry about them being released any time soon," Kestler said.

"I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, Sanderson's crew is running their operation on Ernesto Galenden's land, and based on recent activity uncovered by my investigative team, we can assume that Ernesto Galenden is fully aware and supportive of Sanderson's activities. Mr. Galenden is one of the wealthiest and politically influential men in Argentina. Sanderson would be tipped off long before an operation could get off the ground in Argentina. Certainly before federal forces arrived at the compound.

'"Even if Argentine forces took Sanderson into custody, Galenden has the clout to set them free. It's too risky in my opinion. If we decide to take Sanderson down, we need to do it ourselves. He's had two years to train and prepare his next batch, plus he has a full complement of fully-trained operatives from the good old days. If he's tipped off and flees, it'll put a damper on his plans, but it won't cut him off at the knees. His threat will linger," Shelby said.

"We need to capture this man and his principal players. At that point, we can work to unravel whatever remains of his network and plans," General Kearney said.

"I assume Sanderson and his crew won't be deposited into the U.S. federal prison system?" Kestler said.

"No, ma'am," Kearney said, "he'll be flown straight to Guantanamo, where he'll remain until he cooperates and dismantles his worldwide operation."

"All right, I'm sold, as long as these gentlemen can convince me that we can pull this off without a major international incident," she said and stared at the two Special Operations Command generals.

General Gordon spread out a few satellite images in front of him and smiled for the first time since Shelby entered the room. It was a meaningless, practiced smile that impressed Shelby. Prior to seeing it, the director thought only he had patented this grin.

"After reviewing the satellite photos and the DIA's best assessment of the situation in that camp, I feel extremely confident that we can pull this off and keep it under the radar, both literally and figuratively. Our Navy's Third Fleet, based out of San Diego, is one month away from sending the Boxer Expeditionary Strike Group to the Persian Gulf. The USS Boxer and all of the ships in the Strike Group are at sea conducting a final shakedown prior to deployment, fully loaded with a combat-experienced Marine Expeditionary Unit. This MEU has been reinforced with a Marine Special Operations Company and the uniquely modified helicopters needed to put them into action. The MEU also hosts a SEAL platoon that specializes in direct action missions. I can have another SEAL platoon onboard the Boxer within four hours, along with eight of the navy's special operations Rescue Hawk helicopters. HSC-85's "Firehawks" are based right out of North Island in San Diego. This would give us one hundred special operators, and more than enough helicopters to ferry prisoners.

"Based on DIA and FBI estimates, plus reconnaissance, I estimate the possibility of removing up to forty prisoners."

"Forty? Is that feasible? How many helicopters are we talking about here?" Kestler said.

"Ten. Two marine CH-53ES Super Stallions and eight Rescue Hawks."

"Ten helicopters is an invasion force, General. What are the chances of keeping ten helicopters airborne during a nighttime operation? The targets are as well trained as any of the men that will step off those helicopters. Right?" Kestler said.

"Maybe the use of Tier One operators is something to consider," the assistant secretary of defense added.

"We won't need Delta or Devgru on this one. The operation is too big for either of those units anyway."

"Devgru is SEAL Team Six," Gerald said, directing his comment at Kestler.

"I know what the Naval Special Warfare's Development Group is, Gerald," she replied.

"General Nichols' Marines and the SEAL's can handle this job. General?" he said, nodding to Nichols.

"Given the number of structures and personnel on site, one SEAL platoon would secure the armory and vehicles and set up three or four support positions consisting of snipers and light machine guns. The remaining twenty SEALs and sixty marines would be assigned to secure the structures and prisoners. The helicopters would drop into the valley from an adjoining one, giving them little warning. Within the span of a minute, they'll be facing one hundred fully amped, night vision equipped, locked and loaded special operators…supported by several helicopters capable of spitting several thousand bullets into the compound within the span of seconds. Sanderson is a former special operator himself. He'll recognize the futility of his situation within seconds. So will the rest of his crew. If he decides to go out in a blaze of glory, we'll have a bloodbath on our hands, but it won't last long, and U.S. casualties will be minimal."

"I'm more concerned about the ten helicopters illegally crossing foreign airspace. I'll defer to your expertise regarding the capabilities of the operators," Kestler said.

"Thank you, ma'am," General Nichols said.

"Fortunately, we're looking at a relatively unpopulated stretch from the coast to the border of Argentina, far enough away from the capital or any major airports that radar detection is not a concern. No coastal radar emissions beyond sparse Coast Guard patrols have ever been noted in the most likely area for our helicopters to go 'feet dry.' Once over land, we're looking at a hundred and thirty mile trip to the compound. Forty miles of that is over Argentinian soil. Roughly a forty-five minute ride over land to the compound. The helicopters carry every possible electronic countermeasure available and have been constructed to produce a minimal radar or heat cross section. These birds incorporate stealth technology and are virtually undetectable by commercial radar. Even their rotor systems are dampened to reduce noise. The pilots are highly trained for this type of mission and have extensive real world experience flying missions a lot more complicated. Miss Kestler, if the White House approves the mission, it will succeed."

"I concur with this assessment," Gerald said, and for the first time since the meeting started, a few of the generals subtly shook their heads.

"The navy's Strike Group will be at sea for two more days, conducting operations off Camp Pendleton. If the decision is made before they pull into port, the Strike Group can be in position off the coast of Chile within ten days, assuming the navy doesn't mind burning a little extra fuel."

"I'm sure they'll mind, but given the tasking, they won't have a choice. Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I expect to meet with the national security advisor later this afternoon to get the ball rolling. I think it's clear this operation is worth the risks involved. Sanderson presents a clear and present danger to U.S. security. I'll be in touch," Kestler said, and everyone stood up.

"I think with the Secretary's backing, we'll be in business shortly. I expect to see everyone in the situation room within a few weeks. General, I'll catch up with you later," Gerald Simmons said.

When the assistant defense secretary exited the room, General Gordon shook his head and spoke quietly. "Just my luck to get stuck with that guy. I can barely stand to look at him and I have to deal with him on a daily, if not hourly basis. At least he isn't universally opposed to conducting military operations like the last guy."

"That appears to be his only redeeming trait," the marine general added.

"Frank, Larry…thanks for putting on the 'dog and pony' show. I think the general concept of operations laid out by the two of you will be more than adequate to handle Sanderson. Start working on the details. Director Shelby assures me that all of the right faces are aligned to recommend an operation against Sanderson to the president, and we all know it would be highly out of character for the president to swim against this tide," General Kearney said.

"Sounds good, Rob. We'll get things started behind the scenes. I'll put the helicopter squadron and another SEAL platoon on immediate alert, and we'll start a detailed mission planning session with SEAL Team Three and 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion."

"Thank you, gentlemen. Always a pleasure," Kearney said.

The two generals departed after a brief round of handshakes, leaving Admiral DeSantos, General Kearney and Frederick Shelby at the table.

"Why were you so quiet?" Kearney said.

Admiral DeSantos leaned forward with a slightly anguished look on his face. "I don't know. I didn't have much to add. I inherited the watered down version of Sanderson's program, and to be honest, the more I learn about Sanderson's new program, the more I wish we had something like this…off the books of course. I just wonder if there isn't a way to harness what Sanderson offers," the admiral said.

"In flagrant violation of the Constitution and every known law of the country? Sanderson had his chance and he blew it. Congress shut him down for a reason, and given his complete lack of regard for our nation's laws, or respect for our agencies, I wouldn't expect the relationship to be worth the risk. I like results and I'm willing to bend the rules a little to achieve them, but Sanderson's concept of bending the rules far exceeds anything any of us could live with. The sooner he's out of circulation, the better for all of us. Trust me on that," Director Shelby said.

"I'll be in touch. Thanks for corralling the right people at the right time, Bob. I owe you one," Shelby said.

The director stood up and bid the two DIA flag officers goodbye after extracting a promise that Kearney would keep him in the loop.

Chapter 18

Daniel stared at the map laid out on the massive oak table in the headquarters lodge and glanced up at the sixty-inch plasma screen TV mounted on the wall just above them. The table had been pushed up against the rustic wall so the team could lay out any paper maps or charts on it and easily cross-reference the material with any of the media that Sanderson had acquired. Currently, it displayed some "borrowed" satellite imagery from the CIA.

"This sounds like a routine site reconnaissance. Why can't the CIA handle this? Or Shitwater? It sounds like Berg is breaking our balls," Daniel said.

His comment was accompanied by a few muted laughs, which were immediately stopped by several serious, condemning stares. Farrington glared the hardest.

"Come on, Sergei. You know you want to laugh," Daniel said and focused on the map again.

"Three bodies on this dead-end road. Russians?" Daniel said.

"Daniel, you're killing me. Unknown on the bodies. Imagery indicates that we might be looking at several more bodies in a mass grave around this cluster of buildings," Sanderson said, flashing his laser pointer at the screen.

Parker sat at one end of the table with a laptop. He moved a mouse connected to the computer, and the image zoomed in on a cluster of buildings far removed from the main concentration of buildings associated with the Semipalatinsk Nuclear Test Site. “The buildings of interest lie about ten miles southwest of the old reactor complex and show signs of recent activity. According to local sources, mining operations in the area had been extensive, but recent imagery doesn’t show any mining equipment associated with the activity at this site, and a new, permanent structure appeared about five months ago. The miners typically bring trailers for any onsite needs. CIA thinks we should focus on this site."

"And check out the three bodies?" Farrington said.

"Exactly. The site is to be examined specifically for signs that it may have been used as a laboratory. To answer your question, Daniel, though I don't like to get in the habit of entertaining your endless supply of commentary…the CIA division running this op is chasing a theory, based on some circumstantial intelligence reports. Due diligence. Whatever the case, the Russians are up to something, and the CIA doesn't want to fall too far behind on this one," Sanderson said.

"What are we looking at?" Farrington said.

"The Russians are turning over every conceivable rock to find Dr. Anatoly Reznikov, a disgraced and disavowed bio-researcher. Apparently, a Russian Special Forces raid in Dagestan hit pay dirt. They found evidence that Reznikov travelled to Dagestan to meet with Al Qaeda leaders. Five years ago, Reznikov tried to steal partially weaponized encephalitis samples from Russia's equivalent of the CDC. As you can imagine, this is not a match made in heaven. Only bad voodoo can come of it."

"Why would they keep shit like that around?" Andrei interjected.

"Standard procedure. We do the same thing, even with programs that have been banned for decades. The CDC keeps a sample catalogue of every known disease, natural or manmade. Anyway, they fired him from the lab and blackballed him throughout Russia. He disappeared soon after that. The CIA always speculated that he had been assassinated by the Russians, but apparently that was not the case. Your job is to gather evidence to help the CIA determine if someone, likely Reznikov, had run a lab at this site. It's perfectly isolated, aside from the mining activity, and Reznikov would be familiar with the area."

"What about radioactivity levels? This was the Ruskies' primary nuke testing site for most of the Cold War. I'd like to have kids one day," Daniel said, and this time most of them laughed.

"Now that's a scary thought," Farrington said.

"You'll be equipped with Geiger counters and radiation strips. I can't imagine the need for radiation suits, given the fact that someone clearly used the buildings for an extended period of time. If it's hot, I don't want you sticking around. That'll be your call, Daniel. I wouldn't want to ruin your plans to have beautiful children," Sanderson said.

"I'll be sure to pass that on to Jessica. So, I only have one more question."

"Oh boy," Farrington muttered.

"Although this site certainly fits the bill for a mad scientist's laboratory, I can probably find you a thousand similar locations around the world. How did the CIA narrow this down so quickly?" Petrovich asked.

"I assume they started looking in the areas close to Reznikov's old stomping grounds. The VECTOR research lab is in Novosibirsk, a few hundred miles away, and another major lab is located in Stepnogorsk, roughly a hundred miles to the north in Kazakhstan," Sanderson said.

Daniel glanced at Farrington and raised an eyebrow. Despite their personality differences, he had come to trust Farrington's tactical assessment capabilities, finding them to be remarkably similar to his own. They had worked together to solve señor Galenden's problems, and Farrington had been Daniel's first choice for the Kazakhstan mission, although Sanderson had already assigned Farrington to the team. Sanderson had logically placed Farrington on the team because he spoke fluent Russian and was the de facto leader of the Russian AO Group.

The three other men in the room comprised the newest batch of Russian AO operatives. Sergei, Andrei and Leo, all born in the U.S. to Russian emigrants; all former U.S. military special operations soldiers, all currently fluent in several Russian dialects, and trained to blend seamlessly into Russian surroundings. Apparently, the Russian AO training regimen prohibited regular bathing, as all three of them reeked of body odor and sour breath. They looked rough, ungroomed, and slightly aloof. The effect was amazingly effective. They'd fit in on any Russian street, right down to the brands of clothing they wore on a daily basis. If anyone was going to compromise their group, it would be Daniel, who smelled like a blend of citrus and sandalwood soap.

"Looks like it's time to quit showering and shaving," Daniel said.

"You should go for a nice, long run in your clothes," Sergei said in Russian.

Daniel replied in passable Russian, which he had studied in college, and continued at the compound. Still, his Russian skills left a lot to be desired compared to the four men he would accompany to Kazakhstan under the guise of a Russian mineral survey team. He wouldn't be doing most of the talking, which probably gave Farrington a sense of satisfaction and relief.

"Do I have time for a body odor inducing run?"

"Nyet. You need to leave within the hour. You'll travel in small groups separately, and I need to route most of you in a fashion that brings you through Moscow. I want you on the ground in Kazakhstan within twenty-four hours. Everyone should head over to the Kremlin and grab all of your clothing and personal travel gear. I need to make a call to finalize your equipment arrangements," Sanderson said.

Daniel glanced at Farrington again.

"Weapons?" Farrington said.

"I'm thinking pistols and a few concealable submachine guns. Nothing that would raise too many eyebrows in Kazakhstan," Sanderson said.

Daniel knew he didn't have to prompt Farrington any further. Pistols and submachine guns were the standard load-out for a low to medium risk operation. Neither of them believed this operation qualified as such. The CIA didn't just stumble across this site without some help. If the CIA found it, they could assume the Russians had found it, too. If the CIA and Russian FSB weren't working together on this one, it would be fair to assume that the Russians had a reason to pursue Reznikov on their own.

"Upgrade the kit to local assault rifles with good optics. It's not uncommon for civilian engineers in these areas to bring heavier firepower. We'll keep most of it concealed in the vehicle," Farrington said.

"I assume you agree with this assessment?" he said, looking at Daniel.

"We're probably not the only ones interested in this site if I'm reading between the lines correctly."

"All right. I'll make this happen. Take a few more minutes to look at the satellite images and make sure everything is marked on your maps in a discreet fashion. I want you driving out of here in an hour. We'll meet one more time in fifty minutes. Daniel, can I talk to you for a minute?" he said and walked toward the empty fireplace.

"I need you back here in forty-five. Your cover will have to be different, and I need to go over it with you. It'll explain why your Russian is rusty, if anyone picks up on that…and the fact that you look like a spoiled, Latin American trust fund kid," he said.

"I wasn't expecting to make any clandestine trips to Kazakhstan. This isn't exactly in my job description," Daniel said.

"I need someone with your instincts and field experience on this one. Farrington is good, but he still needs some fine tuning. This is a great opportunity for you to hand off the baton to him. I know Jessica's heart isn't in the program anymore, though she puts on a good show, and I realize I can't keep the two of you here forever. I've been greedy with your time, and frankly, I didn't think the two of you would last nearly two years. I expected you to have disappeared by now and I'm really appreciative that the two of you have stuck around as long as you have. Give me one more good op with Farrington and then get back here to finish up what you started with your sniper protégés. A few more months tops, and I'll support you and Jessica in doing whatever you choose," he said and stuck his hand out.

Daniel took the general's hand firmly, while eyeing him suspiciously. "Didn't you make this promise to me once before?"

"We never shook on it, if you remember correctly, and a few unavoidable complications arose."

"Well, just to put you on notice, I won't let any complications get in the way this time, and neither will Jessica."

"Fair enough. You better get moving," Sanderson said and slapped him on the shoulder.

Daniel turned to the group still hovered around the table. "Rich, make sure the maps are properly marked and the GPS handhelds are programmed before we leave. I'll meet you at the Kremlin in thirty minutes. Size thirty-two waist. Medium for any shirts—"

"Daniel," Sanderson interrupted, "you'll be joining the team as a travelling executive from an Argentinian mineral exploration company. The company exists, but the reference phone numbers provided to customs in Kazakhstan will forward to a dummy phone center run by an influential Argentinian gentleman who has agreed to help us. You can dress in your usual clothes."

"Well, that sure beats having to stop wiping my ass and taking showers. I'll have to grab some winter gear somewhere along the way. See everyone in a few," he said and walked out of the lodge.

Five minutes later, he finished explaining the situation to Jessica, who had been waiting impatiently for him to return. She wasn't happy with the quick departure, but on the whole seemed all right with the entire package presented by Sanderson. He wasn't surprised by her quick acceptance of Sanderson's proposal. Neither one of them relished the idea of simply vanishing. One more operation and a few more months of training, in which both of them could wrap up their core instruction, was reasonable. Each of them could prepare an interim instructor. Melendez could easily outshoot Daniel, and Jessica wasn't the only qualified knife instructor at the compound. Farrington was more than handy with a combat knife and could take over the training until Abraham Sayar received the final nod from Sanderson.

Sayar had qualified as an edged weapons and hand-to-hand combat instructor with the Israeli Defense Force's Sayeret Matkal (Special Forces), but had been dismissed from service in 2006 for an alleged prisoner mishandling incident during the Second Lebanon War. Born in Israel and transplanted to America by his parents, Sayar returned to his homeland at age eighteen and enlisted in the IDF. Upon his dishonorable discharge, he returned to the States to try and join the U.S. Army Special Forces, but met with no "official" success. Identified by contacts still loyal to Sanderson, Abraham Sayar was recruited for an "off the books" program that suited both of their needs.

Jessica kissed him passionately as soon as he had finished telling her all of the details, and they pulled each other up the thick wooden stairs to the bedroom loft. They made the best out of the remaining thirty minutes, lustily testing the sturdiness of the queen-sized bed that had arrived at the compound nineteen months ago, to the complete chagrin of Sanderson and pretty much every other operative at the compound. They had spent a lot of productive time together in that bed, practicing for the day that they could put all of this behind them and truly start over on their own terms.

They both wanted to start a family at some point, but hadn't seriously considered the idea until recently. The scars of her ordeal in Serbia were still too close to the surface when they had settled in Maine, and he hadn't been in the best mental shape either, still plagued by a sense of transience and paranoia. Only the prospect of making a clean break from Argentina had started them talking about it, and even then they would still wait. He wasn't sure how long, but both of them needed to feel reasonably reassured that the ghosts from their past had finally given up.

Chapter 19

Dr. Valeria Cherkasov struggled up the poorly lit staircase to reach the third floor of the hospital. She had spent the last fourteen hours triaging patients in the overwhelmed ER and finally realized the futility of their efforts. Her trek up three flights of stairs, which was a physical feat in itself given her condition, was motivated by self-preservation more than any lofty Hippocratic ideals. The violence spilling off the streets had reached an unmanageable level, even for the heavily armed platoon assigned to the hospital from the reserve Military Police battalion. The ER served as a beacon for the entire city and had effectively become ground zero for the worst cases.

All of the other entrances to the hospital had been heavily barricaded, leaving the ER loading bay as the only point of entrance to the hospital. This had worked well for a while, since the steep ramp leading from the back street gave police officers and soldiers higher ground to control the massive crowd that extended nearly one hundred meters in each direction on the tight road. Once up the ramp, patients were corralled into the concrete walled ambulance parking area for initial inspection.

Triage efforts had devolved into more of an asylum process than a medical one, since the hospital had long ago ceased to exist as an effective medical facility. Patients were screened for severity of disease, with a focus on the far ends of the symptom display spectrum. Patients showing some promise of recovery were provided refuge on the third and fourth floor of the hospital, which were secured and patrolled by military reservists, augmented by the few remaining police officers. These patients were frequently reassessed for possible mental deterioration and removed if they started to exhibit violent or unpredictable behavior.

This represented the other end of the spectrum, and the second floor of the hospital had turned into a makeshift prison for the worst cases they could identify. Dr. Cherkasov and the remaining hospital staff had decided that this service would be just as important to the citizens of Monchegorsk. The second floor had previously contained an inpatient behavioral health ward and had been outfitted with security features not found on the other floors of the hospital. The presence of such a large ward within the small hospital had surprised Cherkasov when she first reported to the hospital, but she soon came to terms with the fact that Monchegorsk had a history of neurological and behavioral disorders, which were most likely related to decades of heavy metal pollution from the Norval Nickel plant.

She reached the second floor landing and nodded at the two soldiers standing guard at the reinforced metal door. Three more guards were posted inside and guarded the controls to the door locking system for the entire floor. Another set of soldiers sat on the other side of the building, in the eastern stairwell, guarding the other exit. Within the ward, all of the patients were restrained to beds, chairs or anything solid and stationary. Occasionally over the past few days, a patient would get loose and try to kill another patient or charge the door. Their rage was usually met by a hail of gunfire, and the body was dumped out of a window.

Cherkasov coughed violently into her thin surgical mask. Since experiencing the first skull splitting headache a few days earlier, her condition had progressively worsened. Flu-like symptoms, just like everyone else. She knew the two soldiers were watching her closely for any signs of sudden unpredictable behavior. Their platoon had suffered its share of casualties from violent behavior directed toward them. They had also seen the illness itself start to claim members of their tightly knit group. For whatever reason, most of the soldiers from the reserve Military Police battalion didn't get sick, and the ones that started showing signs of the mystery illness were significantly delayed from the general population of Monchegorsk.

Her symptoms had also been delayed compared to the majority of the hospital staff and citizens. She started to suspect that maybe the outbreak started while she was visiting friends in St. Petersburg. Two weekends ago she had taken the train to meet up with a group of her medical school friends to celebrate their five year graduation anniversary. They had all completed the final internship requirements for St. Petersburg State I.P. Pavlov Medical University in 2002. She had been fine until the weekend. Now, less than a week after her first headache, she was coming apart mentally and physically. She struggled to hold it together as she approached the soldiers sitting on chairs at the door. She didn't want to end up tied to a water pipe on the second floor.

"Good evening, Dr. Cherkasov," one of the soldiers said, adjusting the assault rifle within easy grasp along the wall.

"I wish it were good, but I don't see an end in sight. Anything new in there?" she said.

"It's getting bad. We had three get loose in the last hour alone. They're chewing through their restraints…and limbs. We can't take any more patients on this floor," the sergeant said.

"I understand. I'm heading up to talk to your platoon commander. I just gave the order to stop taking any additional patients at the hospital," she said, squinting through the pain of a migraine headache.

"You all right, Doctor?" he said, glancing at the younger soldier.

"I'm fine for now. Anyway, I'm going up to discuss an exit strategy with your lieutenant. Once word hits the street that we're not accepting patients, all hell will break loose. Worse than it already is. Hell, we've been pulling the wool over their eyes for a few days now. Bringing people inside for nothing. Maybe we can get some of the people on the upper floors relocated. I don't know," she said.

Cherkasov raised her foot to start the climb toward the third floor when the stairwell went dark. Three seconds later, the emergency lights activated, bathing them in an eerie orange glow. She didn't feel panicked by the darkness, instead all she wanted to do was hug the young private who had advised her to take the stairs. At first she had wanted to punch the soldier, but when he told her that they had no way to get her out in case of a power failure, she had relented and shuffled over to the staircase. At least something went right today. She started to laugh at the thought, but quickly changed the laugh into a cough. One inappropriate display of emotion could land her behind that metal door. Laughing in a dark stairwell during the middle of a pandemic easily qualified as improper. The sergeant's radio crackled and he brought it to his ear.

"Understood," he said and knocked on the metal door leading to the second floor.

He turned to Cherkasov.

"I'm pulling my men out of the ward. The locking mechanisms on these doors are dependent upon electricity, but they aren't connected to an emergency backup. Fucking idiots. We'll have to barricade from the outside to keep any of these crazies from escaping."

"Shit. All right. Good luck, sergeant."

Cherkasov continued her journey up the stairs, moving slowly through the severe muscle aches in her legs. She coughed most of the way up to the third floor landing. A bright light hit her face, followed by an authoritative announcement.

"Cherkasov is here," the guard said, lowering his assault rifle.

The light from the rifle's side-mounted flashlight left bright green splotches in her vision.

"Doctor, the lieutenant needs to talk to you immediately.

"Funny coincidence. I was just on my way up to see him."

Cherkasov passed the two grim-faced soldiers and entered the third floor. She was overcome by wailing and whimpering, as hospital staff tried to calm the patients crowded into every conceivable space offered by the modest hospital. Mattresses had been cannibalized from other floors to fill the gaps between beds. The staff and soldiers could barely move through the long hallway, which resembled a refugee camp dormitory. The two emergency lights on the floor, each located above the stairwell doors, barely cast enough light into the room.

To her immediate right, Lieutenant Altukhov and one other soldier sat huddled around a small coffee table that had been pushed into the corner. On the table sat an olive green communications backpack that held a military VHF radio. The lieutenant held the radio receiver to his ear, while furiously scribbling on a partially opened map with his other hand. The enlisted soldier held a flashlight over a map, illuminating the lieutenant's work.

"Hold on, Doc," the lieutenant said, still writing.

Gunfire erupted from below, catapulting the entire floor into hysterics. She could barely hear Lieutenant Altukhov yelling to her over the screams and cries for help.

"Doctor! The ER has been overrun. My men are retreating to the stairwells to cover our escape. It's time to abandon the hospital."

"Escape to where?" she said.

"Anywhere but here. My commander has lost all communications with the squad assigned to guard the power plant. There's no reason for the power to fail. He's pretty sure it was targeted."

"Targeted? By whom? How are we going to get all of these people out of here?"

"We're not. My orders are to leave immediately. Russian Federation forces have blocked all exits from the city and our observation posts report armored vehicles headed in this direction. The major is convinced that the government knocked out the power," the lieutenant said.

"Why would they do that?" she demanded.

The lieutenant folded the map and stood up from the table, issuing orders to the rest of the soldiers in the room. His radioman secured the radio and heaved the backpack onto his shoulders, handing him the receiver, which was attached to the radio by a thick elastic wire. The officer issued orders into the handset.

"What's going on?" she said, grabbing the young radioman.

"Ma'am. We're evacuating the hospital. The lieutenant is ordering the soldiers to hold the stairwells for two minutes. We'll all depart through the east stairwell," he said, pointing to the other side of the room.

"What about the patients?" she said, turning toward the room.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We need to get out of here before Federation forces arrive," he said.

"Why? Aren't you Russian Federation military?" she said.

The lieutenant gave the handset back to the soldier and started walking toward the far stairwell exit while providing her with the answer to her last question.

"Not any more. Our unit was given orders to strip the armory and vacate the city two days ago. As you can see, we didn't obey that order…we all have families here. They'll shoot us on sight. They've already started to shoot civilians trying to drive north…before they hit the roadblocks."

"No. This can't be happening. I can't just leave these people," she said.

"The choice to stay is yours, but my men are leaving. We'll escort anyone who can move during the next two minutes. After that…they're on their own," he said and continued walking.

Cherkasov looked around for members of the hospital staff. She could see roughly a dozen men and women in green hospital scrubs engaged in calming the patients. She spent the next minute repeating what the lieutenant had told her, careful not to let any of the patients eavesdrop. Some of the staff were as sick as the patients and opted to stay. About half of them started to edge their way toward the eastern stairwell, torn between duty and personal safety. Once the soldiers disappeared, chaos would descend upon the entire hospital, pitting each of them against their own personal hell. Rape, torture, murder, burning…all at the hands of the deranged populace that was sure to swarm the hospital within minutes.

Valeria Cherkasov stood next to the door with the two soldiers left to guard their retreat down the stairwell. One of the men held a two-way radio to his ear, obviously not willing to take the slightest chance that he might miss the final withdrawal order. The radio chirped and he acknowledged the transmission before locking eyes with her.

"It's time," he said.

She glanced into the room one more time and saw one of the older nurses trying to calm a young mother who kept screaming. Her listless child lay with her on the mattress. She froze until the nurse turned her head and nodded, mouthing "go." Cherkasov found herself shuffling through the doorway and down the stairs. As she passed the metal door to the second floor, she heard gunshots inside. She paused on the landing and the sound of dampened gunshots continued. One of the soldiers prodded her with an elbow.

"Keep moving," she heard.

"What's happening in there?" she whispered.

"The right thing to do," one of the soldiers said.