Black Flagged Vektor

Chapter 27

Darryl Jackson stared at his BlackBerry screen for several moments, listening to the artificial sound of crickets chirping. He seriously debated whether to take the call. Reluctantly, he pressed the green receive button.

“No,” he said into the phone.

“Is that any way to treat a good friend?” the familiar voice asked.

“The answer to whatever you are about to ask is no. Actually, it’s more like hell no,” Jackson said.

“What makes you think this isn’t a social call? I’m not allowed to call a longtime friend anymore?”

“Karl, including today, I can count the number of times you’ve called my office at eight in the morning on my middle finger, which is currently extended facing north toward your office. You can redirect one of your surveillance satellites to confirm this, unless you need my help with that too,” Jackson said.

“I’ve called you at the office before,” Berg said.

“That’s right. I remember a late afternoon just a few years ago when you called asking for a favor. That didn’t work out very well for me. Then it happened again a few months ago. Same result. Less than a month ago, another call comes through and suddenly I’m sitting on an airplane headed to bum fuck Pennsylvania with a cache of illegal weapons, which was returned to me dirty,” he whispered. “So the answer is fuck no, to whatever you are asking.”

“I need help with something overseas. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Berg said.

“Does your agency have any organic assets at its disposal? Why the fuck am I still paying taxes to the government?”

“Here’s the situation,” Berg started.

“I didn’t say I wanted to hear about it,” Jackson cut in.

“Of course you do. I’m running a critical national security operation out of Kazakhst—”

“Sorry. Can’t help you. I’m not exactly on good terms with our office in Astana after the unfortunate loss of several assault rifles. That was your fault by the way. Just wanted to remind you in case your memory doesn’t extend more than two months into the past. Look. I’m due in a meeting here shortly and—”

“I need six men at the minimum. They can split four hundred thousand dollars. I just need them to babysit some important equipment in southeastern Kazakhstan. This is a middle-of-fucking-nowhere camping trip,” Berg said.

“Six contractors won’t be easy to swing,” Jackson said, suddenly interested in the proposal. “The office isn’t that big.”

“Four hundred and fifty thousand. All you have to do is find six guys willing to give up a week of vacation to sit in the middle of nowhere and make half of their annual salary. Tax-free. I know these guys pull this kind of shit all the time. Seventy-five grand for sitting on their asses, cradling AK-74s. I’d be willing to bet that the entire office would close down for thirty thousand apiece.”

Jackson sighed. “No funny bullshit on this one?”

“Not for them. They’ll keep an eye on some refueling gear and about 2000 gallons of aviation fuel. No smoking.”

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“We’re closing the loop on this whole Zulu virus thing,” Berg said.

“I thought you took care of that in Kazakhstan.”

“We did, but it wasn’t the original source of the virus,” Berg said.

“Shit,” Jackson muttered.

“Shit might be an understatement when this is finished. I’ll pass you the coordinates when available. I expect them soon. We’ll do our best to make the site accessible by vehicle. No promises.”

“Timeline?” Jackson asked.

“Your people on site within forty-eight hours. We have a limited window for the use of some very specialized helicopters, which is why your people might have to spend some time out in the desert. I have to put this gear out there before that window closes. I don’t have a solid execution time for the rest of my operation, but I’m told no more than five to seven days from now. Combat controllers will relieve your men roughly twenty-four hours prior to the raid.”

“I thought you were close to retirement age, Karl.”

“Oh, I’ll probably be forced into retirement after this one,” Berg said.

“Or into hiding.”

“The thought has crossed my mind. Now that your kids are out of the house, how do you feel about house guests?”

“Let me run that by Cheryl.” Jackson chuckled. “I’ll get back to you next year.”

“I’m still waiting for that dinner invitation,” Berg said.

“Yeah, well, I’m still trying to explain why Cheryl could hear a jet taking off in the background of one of my phone calls…when I was supposed to be watching over my daughter in Princeton. There’s no fucking airport in Princeton, Karl.”

“You called her from the airport in Pennsylvania?”

“Unlike you, I can’t disappear for days on end without answering questions,” Jackson said.

“That whole diversion took less than eight hours.”

“What can I say? I’m on a tight leash.”

“That’s not a bad thing. I’ll be in touch shortly. Thank you again, my friend. You always come through for me. I owe you big time,” Berg said.

“No worries. Friends help out friends, even if they are a pain in the ass. I’ll get the ball rolling in Kazakhstan. I have to get going here,” Jackson said.

“I’ll get you the coordinates. Talk to you soon.”

Darryl Jackson placed his phone on the desk and drummed his fingers. On a micro scale, he owned Berg’s ass for all of these risky favors, but Darryl was never one to forget the bigger picture. Without Berg’s intervention years ago, he would have died a miserable death at the hands of the Taliban outside of Kabul. Karl Berg had stepped in and done the right thing on his behalf, before they were friends. He’d never forget that, which is why he’d always help out, even if it meant trouble for him at home or with Brown River. Berg would do the same for him if the tables were turned.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts list, quickly finding the number he needed. His relationship with the detachment chief in Astana was a little strained after Berg’s crew ditched several government-registered and easily traceable AK-74s, but nothing came of the screwup.

Fortunately for Brown River Security’s Kazakhstan detachment, the site was strewn with nearly three dozen additional AK-74s belonging to the Russian Spetznaz platoon that mysteriously ended up massacred on Kazakh soil. Apparently, the presence of a few extra weapons never climbed high enough on the government’s list of “shit that doesn’t make sense here” to warrant further investigation. They had bigger questions to contend with, and most of these questions were directed at the Russian government. Specifically, they focused on uncovering a reasonable explanation why a small Kazakh village located over 400 miles from the Russian border had been subjected to a small-scale invasion, which included 30mm cannon fire from a Russian attack helicopter.

With the heat off Brown River, Darryl funded new weapons, in addition to some expensive gear previously denied to the detachment. This cleared the air enough that he felt comfortable asking for the chief’s help with this. With $450,000 to spread around, he felt certain that the chief would have no trouble mustering volunteers, most likely to include himself. Berg had tossed around a half-million dollars like pocket change. With money like that flying around, Jackson shuddered to think about the implications. Something big was going down.

Chapter 28

“Katie Reynolds”, aka Erin Foley, felt the train slow to a crawl, eventually jolting to a stop several minutes later at her destination. She glanced at her watch, impressed that the train had arrived only five minutes late after a four-day journey across Siberia. Despite historical grumblings about Soviet inefficiencies, she got the distinct feeling during her trip that the Trans-Siberian Railway had always run on time. She looked around at her first-class compartment, making sure that she didn’t leave anything behind. Novosibirsk was one of the biggest stops “1 Rossiya” would make on its westbound journey to Moscow, so she would have plenty of time to debark, but a few close calls at smaller stations along the way had made her paranoid.

The train had almost left without her in Birobidzhan, where a supposed ten-minute stop turned into a three-minute pause at the platform. This had been her first attempt to buy food from a local vendor outside of the railway platform. Dashing out to buy food and snacks was a common activity for passengers on the train, especially foreigners who hadn’t adjusted to the limited cuisine available in the restaurant car. She’d never eaten mutton before and had no intention of trying it. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches had started to wear thin on her by that point, and she had only been on the train for a day. She never reached the front of the line to buy anything, having to scramble back to the train with several other travelers. She had been warned by Berg to stay on the train. The next westbound train didn’t run for two days.

Her next attempt brought her closer to salvation, but still left her empty handed. At the Slyudyanka station, on the shores of Lake Baikal, she ventured out to acquire the much-talked-about smoked fish. Once again, she had been assured that she could have the fish in her hands within minutes, leaving plenty of time to return. When the train whistle sounded, she was in the middle of a transaction, forcing her to throw money at the vendor and grab the tinfoil-wrapped fish. Upon returning to her compartment, she discovered that she had absconded with a chunk of meat vaguely resembling the mutton served onboard. That was her last venture off the train.

After four days of ham and cheese sandwiches, accompanied by potatoes, Erin was ready for a four-course meal at Novosibirsk’s finest restaurant. Of course, her cover as a struggling Australian travel blogger didn’t exactly permit such indulgences. If her hotel accommodations in Vladivostok were any indication of what she could expect in Novosibirsk, she’d have to set her sights lower.

The train car remained still long enough for her to be sure that the engineer had finished making any final adjustments at the platform. She grabbed her oversized rucksack and heaved it onto her shoulders, adjusting the straps for a snug fit. Her black nylon, theft-proof travel bag followed, slung over her right shoulder. Pickpocketing and petty theft didn’t top the list of tourist concerns in Novosibirsk, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Her Australian passport and Russian tourist visa were irreplaceable at this point, providing her the only legitimate way to depart Russian soil. If these were stolen, she’d have to take her chances with Farrington’s team or find a way to slip over the border into Kazakhstan. Either choice presented dangers.

Erin wasn’t fooled by the faux optimism back at Sanderson’s camp. The destruction of Vektor’s bioweapons facility would be difficult enough. Successful exfiltration of the team would require a miracle. As much as she yearned to be part of the direct raid on Vektor, she wasn’t suicidal. She’d gladly take a first-class seat on whatever flight would take her as far away from Novosibirsk as possible.

She opened the door and joined a few passengers in the hallway. Most of them had no plans to spend more than the train’s allotted thirty-minute stop in Novosibirsk. A few of them asked her if she had already purchased nonconsecutive trip tickets, worried that she might not be able to secure tickets to continue her trip on a different train. The Trans-Siberian didn’t function like many of Europe’s railways, where passengers could buy passes for unlimited travel. Stops on the Trans-Siberian had to be planned in advance, or a wayward traveler could find themself stranded, unable to negotiate the bureaucracy and language barrier needed to purchase another ticket.

She tipped the first-class car attendant, who acted surprised and distraught by her departure. He had enjoyed her company over the past four days, fawning over her ability to speak flawless Russian and complimenting her “limited” knowledge of Russian history. She neglected to mention her international relations degree, with a concentration in Russo-Soviet history, from Boston University, or her follow-on graduate degree in post-Cold War Russian politics. She played the role of decently informed travel writer, listening to his history lectures while they stood in the hallway sipping tea. All part of her cover, though she wondered what he really thought about her.

Mikhail had been an attendant on the Trans-Siberian for nearly thirty-three years, many of those during the Cold War, when the railway took on a near mystical and legendary reputation for intrigue and espionage. It was inconceivable to imagine that he hadn’t been embroiled in KBG schemes to observe passengers and report suspicious activity. For all she knew, he might have been a former KGB proxy-agent. Hotels, trains, stores, all were plagued with proxy-agents, who were given ranks, job security and additional privileges in return for their additional duties.

Erin shook the attendant’s hand and accepted a hug, presenting him with an overly generous tip for his four days of service. Glancing quickly at the money, he nodded and gave her a knowing look, which told her everything she needed to know. Any suspicions he might harbor had been instantly erased. She smiled and turned toward the station, shielding her eyes from the glare reflected off the massive two-story window arch that formed the center of the building’s facade.

The Vokzal-Gravny station loomed directly across the tracks, all of its windows showing traces of the deep orange sun low on the western horizon. The sun’s deep color darkened the building’s eggshell blue exterior, giving it more of a green appearance. She had been told that the station would be the most colorful building in Novosibirsk, which she could confirm by what she witnessed through her compartment window. The station stood out in a sea of drab gray buildings, featuring an incredibly incongruous blue paint job and white trim, which conjured a Scandinavian impression. Erin took in the view for a moment before turning toward the elevated walkway that would take her over a few tracks and deposit her in the building. As she cleared the train’s diesel engine, the sun struck her face, warming her slightly.

The temperature had been predicted to be in the low sixties throughout the week, leaving her grateful that the operation’s timing coincided with early summer. She couldn’t imagine a deep winter operation on the outskirts of Siberia. Sweden had been cold enough for her, but nothing compared to the average temperatures experienced here. The high temperatures in Novosibirsk for January peaked in the low single digits. Combined with the constant winds blowing in from either the Kazakhstan steppes to the west, or the Western Siberian Plain to the east, the wind chill factor rarely rose above negative ten degrees Fahrenheit during winter months.

Several minutes later, Erin found herself standing in the shadow of the building, waiting for a taxi to take her to her hotel. She’d clean up and seek massive quantities of decently prepared food, careful not to draw undue attention. She had to remember that she was an underpaid travel writer on a modest stipend to cover the Trans-Siberian Railway for an upstart travel blog. She even had business cards that linked to a real website, where several of Katie Reynolds’ previous articles were prominently featured, along with other writers, whom she suspected were real. Her picture appeared on the website, with a gracious biography chronicling her travels and accolades. Overall, the CIA had done a decent job with a fairly simple cover. The only real weakness to the cover was her spotty Australian accent, which Berg had assured her would not be an issue in Novosibirsk. Tourists were still a rarity in the city, and as long as she steered clear of the obvious “expat” haunts, her accent wouldn’t become an issue.

She reached the front of the queue and opened the door to the next taxi, placing her hiking backpack next to her in the back seat.

“Tsentralnaya Hotel, please,” she requested in passable Russian.

The driver nodded and drove her less than a kilometer to the hotel. She could have walked, but hadn’t felt like navigating the streets with the backpack. As the taxi approached the featureless gray building, she started to question her cover as a struggling writer who specialized in travelling on a budget. The hotel didn’t look promising. She should have vetoed the budget travel aspect of her cover and booked herself at one of several chain hotels in the city. It was too late to make the change at this point. Her tourist visa was connected to an “invitation” issued by the Tsentralnaya Hotel, which was a requirement to travel in the Russian Federation.

She paid the driver and hauled her backpack onto the curb. Nobody rushed out of the hotel entrance to help her with her bags. All she required was a clean room, bug-free bed and her own bathroom. That had been non-negotiable, regardless of her supposed “budget-minded nature.” As long as she didn’t have to share a bathroom, she’d be fine. She picked up her backpack and travel bag and proceeded to check into her base of operations for the next few days. She’d notify Farrington that she had arrived, and wait for him to arrange her first meeting with the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Until then, she’d do a little sightseeing and a lot of eating. She had four days’ worth of cheese sandwiches and vodka to clean out of her system.

Chapter 29

Mike McFarland scanned the southern horizon with a powerful night vision spotting scope, fighting against the stiff wind blowing in from west. The sky was clear, providing his scope with ample ambient starlight to illuminate the horizon, which yielded nothing but a bright green image of the Kazakhstan steppes. He had his doubts about the helicopters arriving tonight. Heavy gusts accompanied the warmer European air, playing havoc with their encampment. He couldn’t imagine how the wind would affect the aircraft. The landscape was flat, which was ideal for a makeshift helicopter landing zone, but the proposed refueling site was exposed to the elements on all four sides. The pilots could expect no mercy on their approach.

Despite the open terrain immediately surrounding the landing zone, the team could expect full privacy during their babysitting gig. The twisted, rugged drive to the site from Highway A345 had tested the limits of their 70 Series Land Cruisers, flattening two tires and most certainly damaging the alignment of both vehicles. Mission planners for the operation had done their research. Not only would the drive from the highway disable most vehicles, the landing zone sat in the middle of a small raised plateau, forcing the team to hide their vehicles and hike three miles to arrive at the given GPS coordinates.

The hike had been expected based on his terrain assessment, along with the flat tires. They had brought six full-size spare tires, since he had no intention of losing one of his trucks out here. They were a long way from Astana, and the only help they could count on was a salvage contract, which would require him to pay nearly seventy percent of the vehicle’s value to have it towed to the nearest repair garage. Of course, repairs would eat up the remaining value of the vehicle, so in many cases, you were better off leaving the vehicle where it died. Abandoning one of the trucks wasn’t an option on this mission. He’d greased enough palms to keep this little side venture off the books, but the unwritten rules were clear. If he lost company gear, it came out of his own pocket, which meant he’d have to take some unsavory side jobs to compensate for the lost income.

McFarland checked his watch again. 0132. The birds were late. He lowered the scope and peered through the impenetrable darkness at the rest of his team scattered around the LZ. He could barely distinguish their darkened forms against the unlit background, spread in an oval along the periphery of the proposed site. They had been instructed to sweep their sectors with night vision, searching for any possible witnesses to the landing. Prior to dispersing to take position around the LZ, they had formed a line to conduct a FOD (Foreign Object Detection) walk.

Unlike the FOD walks conducted on pristine aircraft carrier decks or concrete flight lines, his men wouldn’t clear rocks, chewing gum wrappers or discarded cigarette lighters from the ground. Instead, they would use heavy duty spray canisters to paint large rocks with an infrared paint visible to each helicopter’s Forward Looking Infrared Pods (FLIR). Anything larger than a watermelon was marked, so the pilots could pick the best locations for the initial landing.

“Sector reports,” he said, speaking into a small handheld radio clipped high on his field vest.

One by one, his team reported “all clear,” confirming what his senses detected. No lights were visible from any of the surrounding villages due to the distances involved. The largest town in the area, Ayogoz, was just below the visible horizon to the northeast, once again giving McFarland the distinct impression that the mission planners involved in this operation knew what they were doing. Settlements along the highway to the west were blocked by a range of low mountains running parallel to the highway, and the local road they used to travel through the mountains showed no signs of permanent inhabitants. Even at its closest point of approach, this washed-out road never came closer than twelve miles from the plateau, and traffic between Ayagoz and the southern town had been minimal. All in all, they were nicely tucked away in the middle of nowhere.

Satisfied that they were alone for the moment, he leaned his head back and took in the vast, brilliant array of stars. McFarland had served in the army at remote outposts around the world, finding little comfort in the harsh, inhospitable locations during the day. He took his solace at night, when night vision and sophisticated listening devices provided a distinct advantage over their enemies, tipping the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. The insurgents rarely bothered them at night, which afforded him the opportunity to enjoy the tranquility and raw beauty of an unspoiled sky, something he could never enjoy living amidst pervasive fields of artificial lighting back home or at a major Forward Operating Base. His reverie was cut short by a growing gust of wind, which he had learned to predict during their twenty-two-hour stay on the exposed plateau.

He started to reach for the goggles hanging loosely around his neck, but decided to shift his AK-74 from a stowed position across his back to a ready position along his chest. The transition took less than a second, which was one half of a second longer than it took for him to figure out why he had instinctively gone into self-preservation mode. The gust of wind came from the wrong direction, preceded by a deep thumping.

“They’re right on top of us. Fuck!” said one of his team members on the radio circuit.

McFarland turned his body, looking frantically in every direction as artificial gusts of wind buffeted his body, stinging his face with pebbles and dirt. He quickly brought the goggles to his face and continued his search for the helicopters. Through the dust storm, he spotted them hovering fifty feet in the air over the eastern half of the plateau. They had approached the LZ from the leeward side, which he had expected.

Helicopter pilots preferred to land and take off into the wind, though this was not a requirement, especially for skilled pilots. What he hadn’t expected was a mission altitude lower than the plateau, which was why he never spotted their approach. They arrived from a downwind position, below the nearby visible horizon, masking the sounds of the rotors and blocking his line of sight.

Not bad at all, he thought as he pulled three high-intensity chem sticks from his front right cargo pocket. He cracked all three sticks at once and proceeded to wave them overhead for several moments in a specific order. Red. Green. Blue. Once finished, he raised his night vision goggles and waited for the return signal. Three infrared lasers, one from each helicopter, reached out and intersected at his feet, confirming that his signal had been verified. If he had waved the chem lights in a different order or tried some other method of attracting their attention, the same infrared lasers would have guided hundreds of 7.62mm projectiles into his body.

Satisfied that he wouldn’t be cut to pieces by the miniguns, he started to jog to their encampment, which had likely been turned upside down by the rotor wash. He didn’t need to issue orders to his team. Everyone would return to the tents and let their guests run the show from this point forward. Darryl Jackson had made one aspect of this mission clear. They would have no contact with the helicopter assets upon arrival. Personnel onboard the helicopters would arrange the refueling gear within the LZ and promptly depart, leaving his team to guard the site until Combat Controllers relieved them at a still undecided point in the near future. Easy money he hoped.

Examining the helicopters through his night vision, he could tell that the operation supported by this refueling station would be anything but easy money. Two KCH-53K Dragon Cows followed a MH-53 Pave Low into position over the LZ, spreading out over the center to give plenty of distance between rotors. He’d never seen one of the Dragon Cows in person, but could easily recognize the rare refueling variant of the CH-53K by its refueling probe and extended fuselage. Instead of airlifting bladders of fuel in a sling underneath one of these behemoth helicopters, the Dragon Cows would fill empty bladders with their own internal fuel tanks. This had been another reason he had expected to easily spot the helicopters on their approach. He had anticipated that they would be forced to fly at a higher altitude due to externally slung bladders.

The Dragon Cow gave mission planners more flexibility, putting an incredible amount of mobile fuel in one place. Employing the Marine Corps’ Tactical Bulk Fuel Delivery System, this helicopter variant could add an additional 2400 gallons of fuel as internal cargo to its expansive 3000 gallon built-in capacity. Two Dragon Cows could refuel twenty helicopters on the way in to their objective, with plenty left over to top them off on the way home. Whatever was in the works out here had the potential to be huge.

McFarland sat down near a small outcropping of rocks that served to shield their tents from some of the wind and observed the operation. Less than an hour later, the helicopters departed, leaving one Advanced Aviation Forward Area Refueling Station (AAFARS) behind, configured to receive four helicopters simultaneously. The station was oriented east to west, to best take advantage of the most common prevailing winds, though helicopters could approach the individual stations from the south, avoiding the fuel bladders and pumping equipment. Four bladders stood behind the main pumping equipment, significantly higher than the rest of the equipment. His best guess regarding their capacity was 500 gallons, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the morning, when he could read the nomenclature stamped to the equipment.

Overall, it represented less fuel than he had estimated, given the presence of two Dragon Cows in the refuel task force. It did give him a good idea of what might be headed through the refueling station en route to some nasty business. If he had to guess, he’d say some variation of the Sikorsky H-60 frame. The army and navy versions of the venerable airframe sported a two hundred gallon fuel tank, giving them roughly a 350 mile round trip fully loaded. The smaller fuel bladders made sense when considering the smaller H-60 tanks. Average tank size for the H-53 frame measured over 1300 gallons. The refueling station in its current configuration could easily support a round trip for up to four UH-60 Blackhawks. That was his bet, but unfortunately, he would never know. His team would be long gone when the helicopter strike force came through.

Chapter 30

Katie Reynolds felt less secure the further they travelled from the center of Novosibirsk. She had no weapons and no backup, which was compounded by the fact that she had lost track of any recognizable landmarks. She knew they had started off in an easterly direction based on her knowledge of the city streets within central Novosibirsk, but as they drove deeper into the outskirts of the bleak city, she couldn’t be sure they were still headed east. An overcast sky kept her from making the most basic calculations.

As city streets transformed into a rundown business-residential district, most vestiges of her personal safety net, real or perceived, slipped away. Trust was all that remained. Trust in operatives she barely knew, and reliance on mafiya thugs who would cut a businessman’s throat on the off chance that the Rolex he sported was real. At least she wasn’t squeezed between two bratva soldiers. She had her own seat, which gave her some confidence in the situation cooked up by Berg and Sanderson’s crew.

She had been instructed by Farrington to meet their Solntsevskaya contact in a modest café near her hotel, where she would be given further instructions. Farrington told her that she would likely be put into action tonight. The bratva had identified a unique opportunity that fit the overall mission profile, but the window was transient, requiring her to meet her new friends sooner than expected.

Viktor arrived promptly at 9:30, joining her at the small table with an espresso and a grim face. Without saying a word, he downed the small cup and stood, waiting impatiently for her to finish. She took a deep swig of her strong coffee and joined him for a short walk around the block. Minutes later she sat firmly pressed into the worn leather seat of a black vintage E30 class BMW, heading east out of the city. Fifteen minutes into the drive and nobody had said a word to her. She sat silently next to a murderous-looking man, whose emotionless face displayed a crisscross of several short scars. Deep blue tattoo work crept up his neck, peeking over the collar of his black leather jacket. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Hard men that chain-smoked shitty cigarettes and bathed in strong cologne. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

A few minutes later, after she had completely abandoned the idea of jumping out of the car into this completely unfamiliar and markedly rougher neighborhood, Viktor snubbed his cigarette into the car’s overflowing ashtray and turned to her.

“I need you to put this over your head,” he said, extending a hand between the front seats.

He gripped a thick black piece of cloth, which she assumed was some kind of hood or bag.

“I’ll cover my eyes,” she replied in Russian, meeting his serious glare.

The man next to her took another drag on his cigarette, not appearing to tense for action. She kept staring at him until he spoke again.

“It’s a security precaution. Standard procedure. Two minutes,” he said.

“I’m not putting a bag over my head,” she said.

“Then we’re not going any further,” he said, and the vehicle pulled over to the side of the road.

The BMW nestled under a thick tree next to a tall, rusted fence. The unmarked street resembled more of an alley, bordered by persistent, untrimmed bushes and trees that scraped the right side of the car at times. Half of the asphalt had crumbled, leaving wide, washed-out portions containing potholes that required the driver to constantly maneuver the vehicle from side to side. A weathered brick building with a corrugated tin roof sat across the street from the car, separated from the road by a six-foot, gated cinderblock wall. The residence stood next to a collapsed wooden structure that had fallen victim to fire long ago.

She figured the fire had destroyed the brick building’s roof, explaining the new tin roof. Measuring the cinderblock wall mentally, she calculated an easy jump and lift to get over in one swift movement. She could probably be over the wall before they could level their weapons for a shot. Glancing up and down the street, this appeared to be her only option if she was forced to fight her way out of here. What she would do once she landed on the other side was another story.

“They told me you wouldn’t be a problem,” Viktor said.

“And nobody said anything about putting a bag over my head.”

“Would you prefer to ride in the trunk?” he countered.

She slowly shook her head, sensing a shift from the seat next to her. The man rolled down his window and tossed the cigarette. She moved her hand slowly for the door handle, just in case the situation spiraled out of control.

“Then we have a problem,” he said, eyes drifting to her hand.

“Feel free to step out, Ms. Reynolds. Nobody will stop you, but I’m not kidding when I say that this car will not drive any further toward our destination unless you wear this hood…or ride in the trunk. Nobody else is in the trunk, right?” Viktor asked, addressing the driver.

They all started laughing, which caught her off guard. They had been deadly serious up until this point. The sudden shift heightened her tension.

“See? We’re not so bad. We make jokes, just like the Sopranos. Right?” Viktor said.

She eased her shoulders and caught herself smiling vaguely, unsure what to make of the sudden change in behavior.

“Look, Ms. Reynolds. If you can’t trust me for two minutes, we’ll have to hire a prostitute like I suggested and hope for the best. I don’t think Yuri will be happy with that scenario. We’ve come up with a solution to one of your group’s hurdles. You’re infinitely more qualified to pull this off than one of our drugged-up hookers. We need to get you some new clothes for the job. We have a wide selection at one of our warehouses,” he said.

Now she was intrigued. Farrington, aka “Yuri,” hadn’t provided any of the details for tonight’s mission. She didn’t like the implications for her role in whatever they had planned, but she’d play by their rules for now. She couldn’t possibly let them trust any aspect of the overall mission to a prostitute.

“I saw some nice clothing boutiques near the hotel. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Don’t you think shopping in clothing boutiques might attract unwanted attention?”

Viktor had a point, though she wondered how careful they had been with her pickup. Shopping for designer clothes in a Novosibirsk boutique had to rank lower on the list of suspicious actions than getting in a car with three gangsters. It all came down to a little trust. She took the black hood from Viktor and placed it over her head, waiting for someone to start choking her. Nothing happened beyond the car lurching back onto the broken street, moving toward what she envisioned to be the bratva’s version of the Bat Cave.

Chapter 31

Dmitry Ardankin hung up the phone and immediately dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct line. The secure telephone system prompted him for a passcode, which he entered. The passcode enabled his call to bypass Pushnoy’s secretary and ring directly at his desk, or whatever phone the director had designated to receive calls. Only a few of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s deputy directors had been given this number, and none of them abused it. Ardankin reserved the use of Pushnoy’s direct line for emergencies. He wasn’t sure if this qualified as an emergency — yet, but it was without a doubt headed in that direction.

He waited tensely as the phone rang, hoping that it would go to the director’s voicemail. He hated answering Pushnoy’s one-word questions, often fired in rapid succession like a machine gun.

“Speak quickly, Dmitry. I’m in the middle of something,” the director said as a greeting.

“One of General Sanderson’s operatives walked off a flight in Kiev on Tuesday and disappeared,” Ardankin said.

Several seconds passed in utter silence, which was unusual for the director. Just as Ardankin considered the possibility that their connection had been severed, Pushnoy spoke.

“Three days ago?” Pushnoy asked, his tone clearly implying that the time delay was unforgiveable.

Ardankin chose his words carefully. The Federal Customs Service had reluctantly agreed to add “sanitized” profile photos to their computerized watch list, which was directly linked to Ukrainian Customs. These requests were normally relayed by the Federation Security Service’s counterintelligence branch, but Ardankin wanted to bypass the FSB in this case. He had spent the better part of an hour negotiating a truce with Arkady Baranov, director of the Center for Special Operations (CSN), which included assurances that the Foreign Intelligence Service had closed the case regarding the leak at CSN. He had been instructed not to share information regarding the discovery of a new American covert intelligence group, so it was in his best interest to contact Customs directly to add suspected members of this group to their database.

The downside to concealing the additions to the Customs database came in the form of resource priority. Since the profiles were sanitized, containing no information beyond known aliases and photographs, they would be entered as low priority in the system. The faces would not appear at Customs terminals or be shown to Customs agents at a shift briefing. Customs required information to elevate priority and allocate limited human resources. Ardankin’s hands were tied, since the information would raise eyebrows and result in an immediate phone call to the Customs Service’s FSB liaison, exposing his sidestep. The best they could expect was a possible match through automated facial recognition sweeps of passport and Customs checkpoint photos. Frankly, Ardankin was surprised they got a hit on one of the profiles at all.

“Bureaucracy at its worst, sir. Customs is 82 % sure that Richard Farrington presented an Australian passport at Kiev Zhuliany International,” Ardankin said finally.

“And he disappeared?”

“His Australian cover hasn’t been used since the airport, sir.”

“Disturbing,” Pushnoy stated.

“How do you want me to proceed?”

“This stays internal. Activate and deploy everyone at your disposal and start working Kiev. Train stations, rental car agencies, buses…I want to know where he is headed.”

“Understood. We’ll start in Kiev and expand. I’ll contact Customs and have them implement search protocols based on his Australian cover. I doubt he is alone. We may get lucky,” Ardankin said.

“Don’t count on it. I want this man in custody before he can do any damage. Contact me directly regarding your progress. I have to go.”

The line went dead, leaving Ardankin with his mouth open, ready to respond. He’d call Customs anyway. It was always better to cast a wider net, especially when they had no idea what they were looking for. He’d narrow the search parameters to males between the ages of 20–50 entering Russia with an Australian passport within the past five days. The list might be extensive, but the FIS had the manpower to sort through the names looking for anomalies. They’d find something.

He checked his email for the file promised by Customs, finding that it had arrived during his terse conversation with his director. He opened the email attachment, which generated a full-screen Customs layout comparing two pictures of Richard Farrington. The leftmost photograph had been provided to Customs by Ardankin, showing Farrington in a U.S. Army uniform. He’d found this picture in one of the SVR’s routine archival snapshots of Pentagon personnel. Unlike the old days, when pictures like these were taken by spies with 35mm cameras, Farrington’s picture came directly from the Pentagon’s database.

The rightmost picture contained the slightly altered Richard Farrington. Clearly, the Americans hadn’t gone to extensive lengths to alter his appearance, which surprised him, given the fact that one of their operatives had recently disappeared in Munich. This General Sanderson, or whoever was pulling the strings, should have known that Herr Hubner would eventually break, exposing details that could compromise their program. Then again, maybe information within the group was compartmentalized. They’d never know, since Herr Hubner managed to end his interrogation early.

Ardankin sat back and stared at the two photos. There was no doubt it was the same person. His eyebrows had been artificially thickened, which was one of the easiest, but most effective ways to alter an appearance. His cheeks looked fuller, indicating the use of an oral implant. Another subtle, yet effective way to throw off facial recognition software. His natural blue eyes were hidden behind brown contact lenses. Changing eye color was a tactic used to fool humans, but had little effect on computer recognition algorithms. Farrington wasn’t taking the chance that his photo might have been distributed to customs checkpoints. Finally, his hair appeared darker and longer. A modest hairpiece that didn’t attract attention, but significantly differed from the close-cropped military haircut in his Pentagon photo.

Surface cosmetics. Nothing that would fool sophisticated software, but not a bad effort for an operative that didn’t want to undergo minor plastic surgery…or didn’t have time to. This last thought lingered, hanging over Ardankin like a death threat. He shook his head slowly, agonizing over his reaction to the thought. There was something there, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. He closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his mind, breathing deeply. A momentary meditation to eliminate the clutter. Less than five seconds later his eyes flashed open.

Richard Farrington hadn’t been concerned with defeating facial recognition software. He knew it would take days for the system to detect his entry, at which point he had already long abandoned the identity used to arrive in Kiev. Even after discovering his entry, it could take days or weeks to generate another lead. Best-case scenario, they’d find his next travel connection within a day or two. Add more time to prosecute leads at the end of that connection, assuming he was smart and didn’t travel directly to his final destination. Unless the American made a rookie mistake, it could take them a week to finally catch up with Farrington. He had to have known this. The American’s mission would take place within the next few days. Ardankin had no time to waste.

First, he’d activate all of their Ukrainian-based agents, augmenting the effort with additional agents from Poland, Belarus and Romania. If necessary, he could deploy more agents from Moscow, though he preferred to use Directorate S assets stationed in the field. The last thing he needed was an out-of-practice headquarters-based agent blowing his or her cover in Kiev and casting a light on the entire operation.

He opened one of the classified directories on his computer and searched for the number he needed, quickly finding it. Feliks Yeshevsky ran their Ukrainian operations, directing the efforts of five native Ukrainian field agents based out of Kiev. He’d proven extremely resourceful in tracking down Reznikov’s Stockholm address and had never failed to produce results in the past. Still, Ardankin hesitated.

Yeshevsky had a reputation for brutality that could turn into a liability during a systematic canvassing effort. His methods were better suited for a more targeted approach to acquiring intelligence. Ardankin considered the alternatives and decided that Yeshevsky represented their best hope of quickly rediscovering Farrington’s trail. He’d have to trust Yeshevsky’s judgment, which was a better option than importing less capable agents into a foreign country and starting them from scratch. He dialed the Ukrainian number, apprehensive about where all of this was headed.

Chapter 32

Richard Farrington stepped off the train from Yekaterinburg and examined the station, noting the odd-colored building that dominated the skyline. He wasn’t interested in the color or unique architecture of Novosibirsk’s railway station. His entry into Russia had been risky, starting in Kiev, where he stepped off a connecting flight from Rome. Despite eighteen years of sovereign independence from the Russian Federation, the Ukraine maintained close ties to their former master. Too close, in Farrington’s opinion, but his other entry options put him at even greater risk.

Kiev gave him easy access to dozens of trains that conducted regular runs to cities throughout western Russia and drew little scrutiny from Border Control guards. At most, the train would stop at the border for a rapid examination of visas and passports. Often, the outbound Kiev trains had a section on the train reserved for Border Control officials, who would take care of this formality while en route to the first Russian station. The high volume of rail passengers between the two countries had led to streamlined procedures that worked to his advantage.

His only real concern was the possible interconnectivity between Ukrainian customs at the Kiev airport and Russian intelligence agencies. Karl Berg had warned Sanderson that the two nations’ intelligence services actively and regularly shared information. Given the low-intensity conflict smoldering over Reznikov’s abduction, Berg thought it was fair to assume that the Ukrainians had been asked to carefully screen for anomalies. Farrington’s cover wouldn’t draw any immediate attention.

He’d flown from Buenos Aires to Sidney, Australia, where he picked up a new passport and the visas needed to complete the rest of his journey as an Australian tourist. His Russian language skills were good, but might not hold up during a customs inquiry, and there was no sense taking the risk. Sanderson’s new program wasn’t designed to create deep-cover “illegal” operatives. He just needed to get into Russia, where he could employ his skills to temporarily melt away into the population.

Farrington adjusted his backpack and walked through the station, constantly scanning for anyone that might have taken an unhealthy interest in his arrival. Moving through the packed station, he headed directly for the transit exit located beneath a massively wide, three-story window facing the gray city. A call placed to Viktor fifteen minutes outside of Novosibirsk had confirmed his pickup. Someone would meet him at the top of the stairs outside of the station and escort him to a waiting car. The bratva would take him to a secluded location, where the team would stay for the duration of the trip. Everyone agreed that moving six operatives between hotels would be cumbersome and risky if any of them attracted attention while entering Russia.

The worst-case scenario involved Russian intelligence agencies detecting an anomaly in one of their profiles that warranted further investigation. Follow-on attempts to locate his operatives would quickly dead-end at various points of entry into western Russia, leaving authorities with nothing to pursue. Each operative’s trail ended at their first border entry point. Like Farrington, they immediately switched to their Russian identities for follow-on travel, strictly avoiding airports. Train or rental car transit would bring them together in Novosibirsk undetected.

Well aware that he might be on an internal Russian watch list, he took advantage of an unexpected chance to change identities in Yekaterinburg, when an apathetic ticketing agent neglected to request his identity papers. The agent asked him to spell his name, and Farrington obliged, becoming Boris Ushenko for the final leg of his journey.

The only exception to this tactic had been Erin Foley. She had arrived in Vladivostok through a series of flights originating in Australia. Since she would spend four days on a train, arriving in Novosibirsk ahead of the team, Berg didn’t think it would be wise to switch her identity. Too many prying eyes on the train, which he felt was their only discreet option to smuggle her into Novosibirsk. Berg and Sanderson accepted the possibility that one of the seven operatives would be flagged entering Russia, and they couldn’t take the chance that it would be Foley.

Unlike the rest of the team, Foley was far from nondescript and could be easily traced by investigative teams flashing her photograph on the streets. They had changed her appearance significantly, but they could do little to hide the fact that she was an attractive, confident woman that men and women alike tended to remember. Given the notoriety of her Stockholm debut, the last thing the Russian FIS would expect was for her to voluntarily set foot on Russian soil. Routing her through Vladivostok offered additional insurance, since prying eyes would be focused on Europe and western Russia.

Unfortunately, the rest of the team had to enter through the west. Novosibirsk stood as the commercial gateway to eastern Siberia, offering the only airport in Siberia with direct flights outside of Russia, and the Trans Siberian-Mongolian Railway was the only viable commercial rail option approaching from the east.

Crossing into Russia from Europe carried a higher risk of detection, but offered hundreds of options and put them in close proximity to Novosibirsk. Each operative arrived within a day or two of crossing the border. With the mission planned for Sunday evening, they had two full days to prepare, four days in Russia. Even if the Russians detected one of their entries, he couldn’t imagine any scenario that put them in a position to stop the operation.

Farrington walked through the doors and up the stairs leading to street level, immediately spotting his contact when he reached the top. A bulky man wearing a black leather jacket held a piece of tattered cardboard with a prearranged generic Russian name scribbled in black marker. The name was meaningless, one of the safeguards agreed upon earlier, and nothing that would attract attention or prove memorable to anyone at the station. He approached the gruff driver and nodded, hoping for some kind of sign that everything was all right. The thick man raised a small handheld radio to his mouth and spoke a few words, putting it to his ear for the response. Farrington noted the deep scars on his face and a trace of tattoo reaching his lower jaw, just above his gray turtleneck sweater. He dropped the radio into his pocket immediately, folding the sign in half.

“Viktor says we need to hurry if we’re going to make it to dinner on time. Let’s go,” he said, repeating another prearranged signal.

If the man had said anything different, Farrington would have kept walking, prepared to fight his way out of whatever situation presented itself. The fight would have very likely been short-lived, since he carried no weapons at this point, but he would have made every attempt possible to escape. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Everyone on his team had arrived without incident and had been ferried off to a discreet location on the outskirts of the city. Farrington started to relax a little. As far as he could tell, the first phase of the operation had been successful. His strike team had arrived intact.

He followed the bratva soldier across a large cement walkway to a black BMW sedan idling between two buses in the designated station pickup zone. He could see two men in the front seat. Neither of them looked in his direction as he neared the vehicle. Scarface opened the rear passenger door and nodded for him to get in. He was met by thick, noxious cigarette smoke upon entry, sliding across the back seat to the driver’s side of the car. Before Scarface could lower his hulking frame into the car, the man in the front passenger seat turned and extended his hand.

“Viktor,” he said simply.

Farrington accepted the gesture and they shook hands firmly. “Yuri Rastov. Thank you for the hospitality,” Farrington said.

“My pleasure, Mr. Rastov. As you are probably already aware, everybody is waiting for you at one of our secure locations.”

Once Scarface closed his door, the car sped away from the curb, drifting through the tangle of taxis and vans converging on passengers from nearly a dozen different trains. As the gateway to Siberia, Novosibirsk’s station was the largest and busiest rail depot east of Yekaterinburg.

“It sounds like Ms. Reynolds is prepared,” Farrington said.

“She is,” Viktor grumbled.

“She wasn’t happy being held at the warehouse,” Farrington said.

“I don’t suspect anyone is watching her, but it would look rather odd if she suddenly emerged from her hotel dressed like a high-priced escort and made a beeline straight for one of the city’s nightclubs. Agreed?”

Farrington nodded, his attention distracted when Scarface flipped open a silver butane lighter and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Farrington, who didn’t hesitate to accept it. His first drag was rough, but he managed to keep from breaking into the telltale cough of an amateur smoker. The nicotine hit his bloodstream immediately, easing his tension. He leaned back in the seat.

“You need to trust me with these things. You all may look the part, talk like locals and smoke our cigarettes without hacking up a lung, but this is a different part of the world. A different part of Russia. Even I stick out like a fucking sore thumb around here,” Viktor said and turned to face the windshield.

“I’ll have a talk with everyone on the team,” Farrington said.

“Especially the woman,” Viktor griped. “She’s been giving my men shit ever since we picked her up.”

“She’s hardcore. That’s why we brought her along.”

“She’s coming close to getting her ass beaten,” Viktor said, eliciting a grunt from Scarface.

“I didn’t realize the bratva beat up women,” Farrington said.

“We don’t hit little old ladies, but mouthy bitches like that?” Viktor shook his head.

“If you hit her, you better hit her good,” Farrington warned him.

Viktor turned in his seat with a perplexed look and shrugged his shoulders. “Why is that?”

“Because you won’t get another chance. I’ve seen her in action, and it’s not a pretty sight…for the other guy,” Farrington said. “I’ll talk to her.”

Viktor smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling the noxious smoke onto the dashboard. Without turning, he asked, “How do you like our cigarettes?”

“Fucking horrible,” Farrington grimaced. “I thought your people controlled the distribution of Western cigarettes in Russia?”

“We do, but none of our people smoke them. They taste like candy with all of the chemicals your companies add. These are real cigarettes.”

“Well, they taste like shit. I’m surprised anyone starts smoking here.”

“We make sure they start out with your cigarettes,” Viktor said, laughing.

“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

Viktor poked his own head with one of his index fingers. “We’re running a sophisticated, multi-platform business organization, complete with marketing and strategic planning. You’d be surprised by the level of thought that goes into these decisions.”

Farrington decided not to bite on this discussion. He had little interest in listening to this thug try to compare their criminal organization to a legitimate high-end corporation. Drugs, human trafficking, extortion, protection rackets, bribery, violence and murder topped the list of “deliverables” provided by the Solntsevskaya Bratva. Controlling stakes in legitimate products were “acquired” through business transactions heavily influenced by one of the “deliverables” mentioned above. Like every version of organized crime worldwide, the bratva provided nothing in return for everything. Their collaboration with the bratva was an unholy alliance sanctioned by Berg and approved by Sanderson, a one-time deal sealed by a little over five million dollars. He didn’t like it on any level. He especially didn’t like trusting the safety of his team to a payoff.

“Viktor?”

The Russian turned his head and regarded him without speaking.

“I need you to understand something. If you decide to sell us out or sabotage our mission, you’re a dead man, along with everyone involved…all the way to Mr. Penkin,” Farrington said.

Viktor’s eyes opened wide for a fraction of a second before his face tightened into a practiced neutral expression. His response to hearing his boss’s name had achieved the desired effect.

“We’re not playing games,” Farrington added.

“We didn’t think you were. This mission of yours carries significant risk to us, which is why I insist that you follow our rules right up until your men hit Vektor. After that, you’re completely on your own.”

“That’s how we normally operate. This is a one-time collaboration,” Farrington said.

“Which never happened,” Viktor said.

“Exactly. I get the sense that we’re both on the same wavelength.”

Viktor didn’t respond to this statement, which was meant to soften the blow of threatening his life. He could tell that Viktor was spinning Penkin’s name around in his head, trying to make sense of the implications. He imagined that Viktor would place a frantic call to Matvey Penkin as soon as he could break free from Farrington. Penkin would double up the communications security procedures surrounding any of his sensitive operations and start examining anyone close to him. He wouldn’t find anything of course, but the message would be received loud and clear.

The CIA knew the names of the players and wouldn’t hesitate to send another team to clean up the loose ends if the mission went sideways. All the more reason for Viktor and his crew to ensure everything went smoothly right up until the moment his men breached Vektor. It also gave Farrington some assurance that none of vehicles involved in their exfiltration plan would suffer from a suspicious engine seizure or brake malfunction. Penkin’s branch of the Solntsevskaya Bratva had good reason to check and double-check every piece of equipment and vehicle presented to Farrington’s team. Their own lives now depended on it.

He could sense that Viktor wanted to say something, but was hesitating. Scarface betrayed no reaction to his threat, demonstrating the considerable discipline demanded by the bratva. Finally, Viktor turned and spoke.

“We’re good, but a word of advice. Don’t mention that name again, under any circumstances. Very dangerous for everyone involved.”

“I understand. What time does Ms. Reynolds head out?”

“Late. Around eleven. This is like New York City, the city that never sleeps. Yes?”

“I find that hard to believe. This looks like an old-school Soviet city,” Farrington remarked.

“Well, it’s not exactly Moscow, but some of the clubs stay open all night,” Viktor said. “Not as expensive as Moscow either. This is a sleepy corner of Russia, slowly awakening to the realities of the Federation. There are many opportunities for us here.”

“Still sleeping off the hangover of communist prosperity?”

They all laughed at his joke, including the previously unreadable Scarface.

“Very good, Yuri. You have a sense of humor after all. I was beginning to worry about you. I don’t trust anyone that can’t laugh. This is going to work out for both of us. Trust me on that. We’ll drink to this later.”

“I hope your vodka is better than these cigarettes,” Farrington said, flipping his out of the window.

“Worse. Your days of Grey Goose and Ketel One are over. We drink the real stuff here.”

Farrington snorted. “No wonder the average Russian life expectancy is so low.”

On average, Russian males fell just short of sixty-five years, compared to seventy-five years in the United States. Life expectancy had been on the rise in Russia until the fall of communism, when the state-provided healthcare system collapsed in the turmoil immediately following the transition to a quasi-capitalist system. Russian life expectancy figures never rebounded.

“You and I have bigger impediments to our life expectancy than shitty cigarettes and vodka,” Viktor said.

“Very true. How much further to the warehouse?”

“Not long. I’ll need you to wear this hood when we get closer,” Viktor said, raising the black nylon bag from the center console.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. We’re past the point of fucking each other over…I hope,” Farrington said.

“But if you’re captured—”

“If I’m captured, we both have bigger problems than a warehouse full of stolen goods,” Farrington said.

Viktor lowered the hood and laughed with his mouth closed, expelling smoke through his nose. “Hard-fucking-core might be an understatement,” he said.

They rode in silence to a red brick warehouse situated behind a concrete perimeter wall topped with concertina wire. A camera stared at them outside of the gate for a few moments before the reinforced metal gates swung inward, exposing several heavily armed, rough-looking men smoking cigarettes, low-ranking bratva muscle known as “Shestyorka.” Young men jockeying for the coveted title of “Vor.” Most of them would end up dead. Rival gang shootouts or internal cleansing would eliminate all but the most trustworthy and capable, who would be inducted into the brotherhood, leaving a void that would be immediately filled by the next petty thug on the streets. There was never a shortage of Shestyorka.

“You know, Viktor? If you want to keep your warehouses a secret, you might consider something a little more low-key than a guarded fortress smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood,” Farrington suggested.

“Everybody knows about this warehouse. They look the other way because we tell them to…and pay them.”

“Then the hood is just a game? I don’t like games.”

“Not a game. A test. Your team passed the test,” Viktor said.

“I don’t understand.”

“If you had put that over your head without any resistance, I would have had serious reservations about your team’s intentions toward my organization. All of your people resisted, which is a good sign. Welcome to Novosibirsk’s worst-kept, but most secure secret.”

Farrington shook his head imperceptibly. His covert world was one subtle test after another, each organization or entity probing his or her enemies and friends alike. This was the hardest part of the job, where the lethality of a mistake might not materialize until much later, at the most unexpected moment. The actual assault against Vektor Labs would be a cakewalk compared to the snake-filled, cloak-and-dagger world Karl Berg continued to manipulate. The sooner they hit Vektor, the better.

Chapter 33

“Katie Reynolds” (aka Erin Foley) sat impatiently in the back seat of a Renault SUV on a lifeless side street near Diesel nightclub, counting the seconds until she could step out into the brisk, clean Siberian air. The three men accompanying her had chain-smoked furiously since they departed the warehouse compound. She had rolled her window down halfway, hoping to make a dent in the pervasive ashtray and body odor medley, but it didn’t seem to help. The men made no effort to exhale their smoke in the opposite direction, despite her mild protest, and she didn’t bother to address the fact that they all smelled like rotting garbage. The fall of communism apparently hadn’t ushered in an era of personal hygiene.

She did her best to keep her distance from these animals at the warehouse complex, but she still caught words like “whore” and “bitch” tossed around just loud enough for her to hear. Threatening insults combined with murderous stares had left her eager to meet up with the rest of her team. Until the strike team started to trickle in, she spent most of her time wondering if this unholy alliance hadn’t been a serious mistake. She still wasn’t convinced it was a solid idea.

Aside from Viktor, the men she’d seen so far looked and acted like unmannered trash. A few carried themselves with dignity, possibly ex-military, but the rest resembled the kind of people you hoped to never see up close and in person under any circumstances. Degenerates and psychopaths with zero moral compasses, whose appearance at your doorstep usually heralded an era of misery, pain and death. Sitting among them made her more nauseous than the toxic cigarette exhaust that endlessly poured out of them like pollution from a factory smokestack.

She turned her head and stared at the shadowy brick wall past the crooked sidewalk. Soon, she would navigate that uneven pavement in high heels and a miniskirt, on a mission suitable for a prostitute, or so the men sitting with her in the SUV told her. Viktor clearly didn’t agree, likely because he was the only bratva soldier that could process the full scope of their involvement.

Viktor knew that the Federation Security Services would descend upon Novosibirsk in full force after Vektor’s destruction, leaving no stones unturned. A drug-addled prostitute posed a security risk to the bratva down the line. They would have to kill her, raising questions about her disappearance, which would inevitably lead to the Vektor scientist in question. Since all of the prostitutes in Novosibirsk were owned by the Solntsevskaya Bratva, federal authorities couldn’t ignore a possible connection between the mafiya and Vektor. It didn’t take a lot of intelligence or imagination to envision a hardcore crackdown, something she assumed the bratva leadership wished to avoid at all costs in Russia’s third largest commercial center.

She heard one of their radios chirp, followed by a hushed conversation. The front passenger shifted in his seat, turning his head to address her for the first time tonight.

“It’s time. You get in line and pay the fee to get in. Go to the bar on the right side of the club and look for a man wearing sunglasses, drinking a Heineken. Stand directly in front of his bar stool. He’ll finish the beer and leave suddenly, giving you the seat. Your mark is seated directly to the right.”

“Facing the bar?” she asked.

“What the fuck do you mean facing the bar?” the man spat.

“Is he to the right of the seat, from a frame of reference defined by facing the bar?”

“Shut the fuck up and do your job,” he said, which spurred the man next to her into action.

He reached across her chest with his right hand to open the door, purposely rubbing the back of his hand against her breasts. In a blur, she jabbed a pressure point on the offending arm, just behind his elbow, disabling the arm and causing him to lurch forward in pain. She hooked her left arm around his neck pulling him back and toward her in the seat, easing a three-inch serrated blade against his neck.

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she whispered in his ear.

The man attempted to struggle, but she kept him locked in a tight grip, pushing the knife an infinitesimal distance into his neck, bringing him closer to a carotid artery rupture that would end his miserable days. She didn’t flinch when a black semiautomatic pistol appeared between the headrests, aimed at her head.

“And I’ll kill you,” the front passenger said.

With her free, right hand, she quickly gripped his wrist at the top of the radial bone, squeezing fiercely, while pushing his hand upward and to the left. The swift pressure-point manipulation instantly opened his hand. No amount of willpower or brute strength could overcome this painless application of ancient Chinese medicine. The pistol slid out of his hand and fell, quickly snatched out of the air by Reynolds. Before the situation could spiral out of control, she released the man next to her and stepped out of the vehicle. The front passenger, known only as Ivan, kicked open his door, jumping onto the concrete sidewalk.

Reynolds unloaded and disassembled the GSh-18 pistol in less than two seconds, tossing the four major pieces onto the sidewalk and throwing the loaded magazine as far as she could manage over a wrought-iron fence on the other side of the street.

“Tell your people to stay out of my fucking way,” she said, turning toward Dusya Kovalchuk Street, leaving Ivan speechless with a strange look on his face that oddly resembled respect.

Pyotr Roskov took another sip of his vodka martini and stared wistfully at the group of women gyrating on the club’s main dance floor. Tightly stretched body dresses dominated the crowd, leaving little to his active imagination. He was still several drinks away from joining that throng of beauties, which he knew from experience would be too late. By that point, dozens of sharply dressed, clearly wealthy men would be in the mix, leaving him no chance of scoring anything beyond a few annoyed looks. It was the same story for him every weekend, and strangely enough, he had no intention of altering his routine.

He considered this a form of penance for having left Saint Petersburg so readily after completing his graduate studies. Saint Petersburg had been a veritable international melting pot compared to Novosibirsk. The streets were packed with foreign travelers, and the city itself attracted a worldwide residential clientele. As Russia’s gateway to Europe, he found the city a marvelous break from the droll of Moscow and other stiflingly gray Russian cities. Most Russians considered Saint Petersburg to be the true heart of Russia, reminiscent of the Tsarist grandeur that defined centuries of imperial prosperity, but ultimately led to the Bolshevik Revolution, which began with the storming of the Winter Palace on the banks of the city’s Neva River.

The communists couldn’t dull Leningrad, despite decades of uninspired construction and political marginalization. Even the Germans couldn’t destroy it with an eight hundred and seventy-two day long siege. In fact, the Germans had unknowingly saved the city from becoming the shithole Moscow had become. In 1917, the German troops invaded Estonia, threatening the city with invasion and forcing the newly empowered Soviets to transfer the capitol of Russia to Moscow. The communist riff-raff spent the next seventy-four years building one “people’s” structure after another in Moscow, each one bigger and less architecturally inspired than the one before it. Saint Petersburg saw its share of this Constructivist architecture, but most of this occurred on the outskirts, expanding a sea of gray blockhouse apartment buildings around the picturesque, cosmopolitan city.

Without a doubt, he was being punished for accepting a high-paid position at Vektor Laboratories in place of less lucrative offers around Saint Petersburg. Novosibirsk was the antithesis of Saint Petersburg in nearly every way. Founded a mere quarter of a century before the Revolution, solely as a transportation hub to the eastern provinces, Novosibirsk grew up under the communists, who had no interest in the city beyond exploitation. On the banks of the Ob River, Novosibirsk was developed into a massive industrial center under Stalin’s industrialization dictates, eventually claiming the title of third most populous city in Russia. Boring, ugly and culturally flat, Novosibirsk still hadn’t emerged from its communist shell.

Pyotr hated it, which is why he repeatedly found himself standing in line at Diesel, waiting to pay an outrageous cover charge to drink overpriced alcohol, all while staring at women doing their best to escape Novosibirsk and hoping one of them might eventually see him as that ticket out. At least until they woke up the next morning and realized that they were not in the luxury digs of an upwardly mobile Russian businessman. It was a pathetic strategy to get laid, but it was the best he could come up with in this horrible city without paying a prostitute, and he wasn’t about to travel down that path. His life here was sad enough without that.

He downed half of the martini, resolved to hop off the stool and beat his competition to the punch, but that courage retreated just as quickly, replaced with the practical realization that his efforts would only result in the loss of his seat. Instead, he turned to the bartender and ordered another martini. Before his drink arrived, he spied a woman walking in his direction. This could be trouble if she belonged to the guy seated next to him at the bar.

He stole another glance at the man, careful not to stare too long. He looked like a mafiya type. Tattoos covered his thick, muscular forearm, menacingly visible under cuffed sleeves. The fact that he hadn’t taken off his sunglasses was disturbing. Maybe he was high. Maybe he was hiding a black eye. Maybe he was just a badass motherfucker that never removed his sunglasses. Pyotr couldn’t think of one scenario that didn’t scare him.

The man arrived soon after Pyotr had taken a seat, proceeding to smoke cigarettes and pound Heinekens at an alarming rate. The last thing he needed next to him was a drunk and disgruntled member of the Solntsevskaya gang. These scumbags did whatever they wanted to whomever they wanted with no repercussions. They were above the law and seemed to thrive on finding new ways to flaunt their untouchable status. A wrong look or accidentally bumped shoulder could land you in the hospital, or dead. As much as he didn’t want to give up his seat, he’d resolved to abandon his post if this guy hit five Heinekens. Now he’d leave immediately, giving up his seat to a man who could beat him within an inch of his life in front of the police.

Without staring at the woman approaching, he started to stand, ready to pay for his drink and find another perch to observe the evening’s festivities. To his surprise, Mr. Sunglasses slapped a one-thousand ruble note on the bar and walked away from his seat, headed toward the bathroom. The woman’s eyes widened at the prospect of finding a seat at the packed bar, paying no attention to the mobster as he brushed past her. Now he could check her out and celebrate his unbelievable good fortune. He could count the number of times a hot woman sat next to him anywhere in public on his thumb. Judging by what he saw before she took the seat, tonight was nothing short of a miracle.

Upon first inspection, he could tell that she was different than the rest of the women at the club. Her confidence was natural, not the practiced indifference on display in every corner of the club. Her black dress was chic and form fitting, but didn’t devolve into the gratuitous body-flaunting spectacle of skintight one-piece dresses dominating the dance floor. Her soft, porcelain face was framed by shiny, jet black hair that ended at the middle of her neck. He caught the attention of her light blue eyes momentarily and offered her a weak smile, which she returned without an air of superiority. That alone set her apart from every other woman in the club, and possibly all of Novosibirsk. When she spoke to the bartender in decent, yet clearly academic Russian, he almost fell off his stool.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she said, turning to Pyotr. “That’s a vodka drink, right?”

He hadn’t noticed that his replacement martini had already arrived. “O-of course. Y-yes. Dry martini,” he stammered.

“Perfect,” she said, turning her attention to the tangle of bodies on the dance floor.

Neither of them said anything for several moments. While Pyotr struggled to come up with some kind of clever line that would ensnare the young woman who had unknowingly stumbled into his presence, her drink arrived, causing her to turn back to the bar. Still unable to decide on a clever pickup line, he stalled a little longer, resigned to the likelihood that she’d pay for her drink and scurry away from him. That was the excuse he easily conjured for delaying one of his brilliant utterances. When she reached for her purse and started to pull out a jumble of ruble notes, he decided to take unprecedented action. He offered to pay for her drink.

“No, no. Please allow me. It’s the least I can do for a traveler stuck in this godforsaken city,” he said, not exactly happy with his delivery.

“The city’s not that bad, but I’ll accept your offer. Travel funds are a bit tight for this trip,” she said.

“Well, you certainly picked the wrong place to conserve rubles,” he added, feeling a little more at ease with himself and the situation.

“Thank you. I had to experience the famous Russian nightlife at some point during my trip. This is the first stop that offered more than a dank pub filled with shady characters,” she replied, closing her tiny purse.

“You’re more than welcome…though I’m afraid this club is filled with plenty of shady characters. You’re riding the Trans-Siberian?”

“I’m writing a travel story about the journey, but I’m doing it backwards. I started in Vladivostok,” she said.

“Ughh. Another charming Russian city.”

“The downtown area was interesting. A little gloomy overall, but it was an easy introduction to Russia. I’ve never travelled here before.”

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Sidney, Australia. It made sense for me to start on the eastern end of the railway,” she said.

“Well, you should have skipped Novosibirsk. I’ve been here for two years, and I ran out of things to see and do within the first few days of arrival. My name is Pyotr, by the way.”

“Katie,” she said, exposing her Australian accent.

He couldn’t believe his luck. A seat next to him opened up at the bar and an attractive foreigner slid right in. Australian on top of that! He wished there was some way he could ask her to continue the conversation in English without sounding creepy. He loved to listen to Australian women on the television. He decided there was no way to do this that didn’t end with a drink in his face. He had to play this cool.

“What do you do here that keeps you in the city against your will?” she asked, reaching for her drink on the bar.

“I’m a scientist. More of a biologist, actually.”

Her eyes lit up for a moment, which he took as a good sign. He had considered adding his title and function at Vektor, or completely lying to her about what he did in Novosibirsk. Instead, he went with the truth for once, and it seemed to pay off.

“I studied biology for a year before switching to journalism. I loved the basic biology courses, but chemistry turned out to be a problem for me. I should have seen that coming,” she said.

“You probably had a much better university experience with a journalism concentration. Biology kept me locked up inside the academic buildings. Not much of a social life, I’m afraid,” he said, trying not to throw back his entire martini in one gulp.

“And here you are in your favorite city?” she said, teasing him.

He was starting to feel a little connection with her. Maybe she could tell that he wasn’t like the rest of the crowd packed into the club. Not many molecular biologists dancing to painfully outdated ’80s music on the dance floor in front of them.

“Exactly. I suppose it’s not so bad, but it’s nothing like Saint Petersburg,” he said.

“Do you think I should make the trip out to see it? The Trans-Siberian ends in Moscow, but it seems such a waste to miss Saint Petersburg.”

“You absolutely must make the trip. This may seem forward, but I would consider joining you for the journey. I spent seven years in Saint Petersburg and could be your tour guide. It’s the most fascinating of all Russian cities. You can’t miss it under any circumstances.”

“How can I turn down an offer like that?” she said excitedly in Australian-accented English. “Sorry. I have a tendency to switch to English when I’m drinking. This is a strong drink,” she said, switching back to Russian.

“Pretty much straight vodka. A little more civilized than the traditional Russian method of drinking vodka,” he said, in his best English.

“You speak English? That will make things easier. I can feel this going right to my head. I don’t know how you all pound shot after shot of vodka. Cheers,” she said, raising her glass.

Pyotr downed his drink and watched her do the same. He could listen to her talk all night in that accent. This had worked out perfectly so far, but he still had his work cut out for him. He had so many angles to pursue. A trip on the Trans-Siberian with her to Moscow and eventually Saint Petersburg was the grand prize, guaranteed to result in multiple sexual encounters in grand fashion. He might have to play it really cool tonight and sacrifice the more immediate opportunity in order to achieve that long-term goal. A hasty sexual encounter tonight could lead to an awkward situation, dissolving his invitation to accompany her on the train. He was getting ahead of himself and overthinking the entire situation. He had a tendency to do this, and it often resulted in disaster. He wouldn’t make that mistake with this young lady. He’d go with the flow on this one. The flow of alcohol to be precise, which he would facilitate.

“Two shots of vodka. The good stuff,” he said to the bartender, who barely acknowledged him.

“I don’t know about shots. Straight drinks hit me hard,” she said, still smiling.

“One shot to toast your arrival in Novosibirsk. It’s a tradition. When you drink vodka quickly, it doesn’t hit you as hard. That’s how we can drink so much,” he said, not sure if that made any sense.

“I suppose one shot won’t kill me. This is really exciting,” she said.

Four vodka shots later, they departed the club for his apartment, swaying arm in arm down the chilly street. He had decided to hedge his bet on the train trip and take what he could get up front. She’d become extremely “friendly” after the second shot, resting her hand permanently on his leg and eventually holding his hand with the other. All of this could change tomorrow, when the effects of the vodka wore off and she was faced with the choice of spending the next four or five days on a train with a virtual stranger or slipping quietly out of town to continue her journey alone. Alcohol had a wonderful way of making even the most impractical suggestions or plans sound feasible for a limited period of time.

They walked for about fifteen minutes, stopping to kiss and grope each other in the shadows at random intervals along the way. When they turned onto Planovaya Street, he could see his apartment building in the distance, situated above a pleasant bakery and café. He would bring Katie some coffee and pastries in the morning. They crossed the well-lit intersection, dodging the odd car still negotiating Novosibirsk at one-thirty in the morning.

By the time they reached the door to his apartment building, he suddenly realized that Katie was supporting much of his weight. He felt dizzy, almost like he was floating. Finding the keys to the building seemed nearly impossible, though he managed to produce them. Katie helped him open the door, and they somehow made it up the stairs to the third floor. He tried to think back and count the number of shots they drank at the nightclub, but his memory was hazy. He couldn’t remember the name of the last club they left. He must have overdone it at some point, which was a real shame.

He raised his watch to his face in an exaggerated manner, straining to read the dial. Placing his wrist against his nose, he was able to make sense of the watch’s hands. One-thirty? He must have gotten carried away with shots. He vaguely remembered doing vodka shots with this woman. Her name slipped away as they stumbled into his apartment. Was he even in his own apartment? He tried to focus on his surroundings, but the hazy blur worsened until it darkened completely.

Erin Foley lowered Pyotr to the ground and closed the apartment door, ensuring that it remained unlocked. She leaned over the young scientist and shook him a few times to be sure that he was unconscious. He didn’t stir. Her timing had been nearly perfect. She had ordered a final round of vodka shots after he excused himself to use the bathroom, spiking his drink with gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid (GHB). The date-rape drug typically took hold within fifteen to twenty minutes after ingestion, leaving her with time to maneuver him down the street to his apartment without raising any suspicions.

He left the club without protest, clearly energized by the prospect of what she had been advertising for the past hour. It hit him right after they turned onto his street. She noticed the glassy eyes before he started losing motor control, which gave her enough advanced warning to hasten their arrival. Ivan had made it clear that it was her job to get him into the apartment. After the stunt she pulled in the car, she didn’t expect any help from the bratva, and lugging Pyotr up two flights of stairs after five strong drinks would have been a chore in high heels.

Before exploring any further, she removed her cell phone and placed a quick call.

“He’s out,” she said, receiving a gruff acknowledgement.

Erin started searching in the most obvious place, removing Pyotr’s wallet and thumbing through the various compartments. Nothing. She glanced around the living room, not finding what she was looking for in the open. Further observation suggested that she should start her search in the bedroom. Pyotr’s apartment was immaculate and orderly, with nothing out of place on the dining room table or kitchen counter. Even the magazines were neatly stacked on the small coffee table in front of his couch. She could envision him entering the apartment at the end of a long day at the lab, and despite his exhaustion, still straining to keep his surroundings in order.

She strode across the well-appointed room toward the doorway leading into the bedroom, flipping on the light. She found his private chambers in the same condition. Pristine and organized, bed covers pulled tight and an extra blanket folded near the foot of the bed. She took a few steps into the room and spied a long mahogany dresser with a perfectly centered black valet box sitting on top. She made her way to the dresser, reaching for the top center drawer instead of the more obvious box. Inside the drawer, she found several pairs of neatly arranged socks, separated into two sides. Casual socks on the left, formal black pairs on the right. She saw something jammed between the stacks and reached down to retrieve the grand prize. She stared at the thick plastic card for a moment, grinning.

“Roskov, Pyotr. Clearance Level 4. Vektor Laboratories,” she repeated.

The white card was attached to a lanyard by a small clip that penetrated a small hole punched into the plastic at the top of the identification card. The front of the card displayed a picture of Pyotr, along with the basic information she had just uttered. The back contained the words, “THIS SIDE FOR ACCESS.” The back of the card was imbedded with a biometric microchip that verified Roskov’s identity and security clearance, granting him mostly unlimited access to Vektor Labs, including Farrington’s target building. The security clearance system at Vektor operated on a layered principle. Since Roskov worked in Building Six, the most secure location within the Vektor Laboratories compound, his security card granted him nearly unfettered access to the entire area.

She heard the apartment door open and stepped back into the main room. Two men stood inside the apartment. Ivan and the guy she had disabled in the back seat of the car. Without moving her head, she instinctually took note of the rack of knives next to the stainless-steel sink. Logic and training told her that she was in no danger at the moment, but once Farrington’s team departed the warehouse, en route to Vektor, all bets were off. If either of these men harbored a grudge, they might make a move against her at that point. She hoped to be long clear of Novosibirsk by then.

She held out Pyotr Roskov’s identification card to Ivan, who calmly took it and placed it in a pocket on his black leather jacket.

“How long?” she said.

“Three to four hours. You need to stay here with Mr. Roskov. The dose we provided was a small one for someone his size. He should be dead to the world for at least ten hours, but you never know. If he wakes up and finds his security card gone before we replace it, this whole plan is fucked,” Ivan said.

As much as she didn’t want to sit around this apartment, she couldn’t argue with Ivan’s logic. In fact, she had been impressed with their plan from the beginning, even if she could barely stand to be around them. Surreptitiously acquiring a high-level security card from Vektor presented several opportunities to explore. The team’s electronics tech, “Misha,” working alongside the bratva’s best credit card forgery people, would reproduce Roskov’s identification card with one major modification.

The new card’s biometric chip would transmit a simple Trojan horse virus deep into Vektor’s automated digital security system, providing Misha with a customized “backdoor” to access the system. Most biometric chips used in point-of-access security systems utilized passive authentication protocols, where the chip is simply read by the scanning device. Most of the security focus is placed on encrypting the chip, leaving the point of interface vulnerable to active data transmission from a modified microchip.

When Roskov held his new card up to one of the secure access terminals, the microchip would actively transmit the virus during the negotiated scan of the chip’s stored biometric data. Misha hoped to transmit the entire virus in one transaction, but had designed the replacement chip with the capability to stop and start, monitoring its own progress to ensure all of the data found its way into the system.

Ivan’s partner placed a small duffel bag on the ground and pushed it toward her with his foot.

“Everything you need,” Ivan said, nodding at the bag.

“All right,” she said, making no move to retrieve the bag in front of them.

She had no reason to intentionally place herself within striking distance of either man. Ivan cracked a faint grin, which under any other circumstance could be interpreted as bizarrely creepy. He had a disturbingly calm, unaffected look plastered on his face most of the time. Smiling was not one of Ivan’s practiced facial expressions, and the result was unnerving.

“When we’re done here, I want to learn how you did that trick with my hand,” he said.

“Takes a lot of practice,” she said.

“We’ll have time,” he said, flattening his grin.

“In that case, it’s a date.”

She caught both of them looking at the bag again, which was supposed to contain a portable mask system to deliver an aerosolized anesthetic in the unlikely event that Roskov roused from his deep, artificial slumber before they arrived with the replacement card. A few hits of sevoflurane, a general anesthetic, would render him unconscious again for a short period of time. She could continue to safely deliver sevoflurane in small doses until she could leave the apartment.

“All right. I give up. What’s in the bag?”

“The anesthesia and a special kit. We can’t have him suspicious,” Ivan said, now fully grinning.

“Kit?”

“It should be self-explanatory. We’ll leave you to take care of the scene,” he said, signaling for the other man to leave.

She didn’t like the way this sounded. When Ivan closed the door, she threw the deadbolt and cautiously retrieved the bag, placing it on the kitchen counter. She fought away all of her irrational fears about what might be waiting for her in the bag. It made little sense for them to hurt her at this point in the operation, especially at this exact moment in Roskov’s apartment. She was a phone call away from the very hasty arrival of her own teammates, who had followed her to the apartment from a distance. Grudgingly, she opened the bag and started to remove the contents.

The mask and connected aerosolizing unit was intact and ready for use. A portable battery unit had been provided to ensure continuous uninterrupted power in the unlikely event that Roskov’s bed wasn’t near an electrical outlet. Nothing unexpected so far. She delicately lifted a large zip-lock bag out of the duffel and examined the contents, shaking her head in disgust. Now she knew why they were smiling. Ivan and his friends had been busy in the car while she worked Roskov in the club. Unfortunately, they appeared to have enjoyed themselves more than she cared to imagine. She had to hand it to Viktor’s people. They were excruciatingly thorough and took a perversely twisted pride in their work.

Chapter 34

Pyotr Roskov slowly tried to open one of his eyes, which stayed mostly shut in protest of the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. A pounding headache and waves of nausea rippled through him simultaneously, driving his simple desire to get out of bed. He desperately needed water and aspirin, but his body wasn’t responding very well to commands. He lay there for several minutes in agony, wondering what had happened to him. He vaguely remembered meeting a woman at a nightclub. An Australian woman he seemed to recall, but details were hazy beyond that. He certainly didn’t remember the trip back to his apartment.

The lack of memory disturbed him. He’d never blacked out from drinking before, despite some serious partying at university. His hangover felt different, worse than before, causing him to question the night’s events. Had he been drugged? Robbed? Shit. Now it made sense. He had finally been taken for a sucker by a con artist. The thought of being duped angered him enough to turn his head and stare at his alarm clock. He was normally in the lab by now, enjoying the weekend tranquility of an abandoned facility. He wondered what they took. He let this thought linger for a few moments before sitting up suddenly and sending a shockwave through his skull.

He focused his blurry vision on the top dresser drawer, which was closed. He was well paid by Russian standards, but far from wealthy. He could think of several dozen better targets than himself in that nightclub. Regulars that would be easy to target. Maybe the thief was after something different. He struggled out of bed, feeling a little more connected to his body. He was naked, which was unusual. He typically slept in shorts and a T-shirt. He didn’t want to think of what they might have done with him while he was passed out. The pictures that might surface in an email…further blackmail opportunity.

His feet found the floor, and he walked unsteadily to the dresser. Upon hesitantly sliding the top drawer open, he stared inside for a moment, not immediately finding his Vektor security card. Aside from money and some second-rate jewelry, his security card was the only other thing worth stealing. He dug between the two rows of socks and felt the plastic card. He removed it from the drawer and examined the card, half-expecting to find a low-quality fake with a picture of Lenin. Nothing was wrong with his card.

Now he felt foolish. He was clearly not as important as he’d momentarily thought. They’d apparently just taken what little money he kept on hand, along with a few watches and an heirloom ring from his grandmother. He opened his valet box, shocked that it hadn’t been emptied of these petty valuables. Now he was intrigued. Had he just drank too much, while enjoying the company of a beautiful woman? It was almost more plausible to believe that he had been the victim of a plot to steal a deadly flu strain from his laboratory.

He turned toward the bed with the full intention of going back to sleep, when he saw a littered mess on the rough hardwood floor in front of the nightstand. He walked a little closer, to allow his eyes to better focus on the incongruous untidiness. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Now he really felt like an idiot. An idiot for drinking enough to stay passed out long enough for that Australian beauty to leave on her own accord after such a passionately crazy night. He wondered if she was waiting downstairs in the small café. He must have mentioned that place at some point during their sexual tryst. She had probably just gone downstairs to recharge herself for more.

What a shame he had blacked out. He counted three used condoms and their associated wrappers tossed on the floor with the casual abandon of lovers that couldn’t be bothered with proper waste disposal procedures. The thought energized him enough to consider an alternative to sleeping off his hangover. He was torn between cleaning up the mess and rushing downstairs to search for this incredible woman. The mess could wait, he supposed, though he had been extremely lucky to have avoided stepping on one of the condoms in his bare feet. He’d better tidy up this mess. Used condoms would be the last thing she would want to see when they returned.

Five minutes later, bleary eyed and still a little wobbly, he sat alone in the café with a hot coffee and a tiny glass of water, waiting for an order of blini. He’d clearly taken too long to wake from his drunken stupor and she’d left. The middle-aged woman behind the counter held up under interrogation, swearing that no foreigners had been in the café this morning.

He rubbed his stubble-covered chin and contemplated the day. He’d shower off and head to Vektor. He didn’t want to waste the day lamenting over his loss, eventually wandering the city like a lost puppy in search of its owner. No. He’d bury himself in work for several hours, emerging for dinner. After that, he’d count down the hours until Diesel opened and he could claim his usual perch near the dance floor. Based on the mess he had found on the bedroom floor, he felt that his chances of seeing her again were better than average.

Chapter 35

Richard Farrington joined Grisha near a bank of flat-screen computer monitors mounted to a thick wooden table nestled into the far corner of the warehouse. Three forty-watt bulbs dangled precariously from wires nailed to the ceiling’s vaulted beams. The Solntsevskaya Bratva didn’t have to worry about building codes or surprise inspections, so everything added to the warehouse beyond the foundational structure looked half-finished and ready to collapse at any moment.

Despite the complete lack of creature comforts, he could hardly complain. From an operational standpoint, Viktor had arranged everything they needed to this point. Detailed surveillance of Pyotr Roskov and Vektor, state-of-the-art electronics and computer gear, suitable modern weapons, and working vehicles. Everything at their immediate disposal with no questions asked. He had even provided the team with Russian internal passports, in the unlikely event that one of them was pulled over and questioned while moving around the city. The bratva may be a veritable rogue’s gallery of despicable human beings, but they were extraordinarily thorough and discreet, something he hadn’t expected from street criminals. Based on what he had seen so far, he could understand why the Solntsevskaya mafiya dominated the international organized crime scene. They were organized, disciplined and skilled, a combination he could appreciate.

“Has he swiped the card?” Farrington asked.

Grisha turned his head to reply. At first glance in the dim lighting, he didn’t look very different from the men guarding the warehouse complex, giving Farrington pause. He’d made it clear to Viktor that he didn’t want any of the bratva foot soldiers in their makeshift operations center, unless specifically requested. Grisha could pass for a Russian without a question, which made Farrington feel slightly inferior on a mission deep into enemy territory.

Farrington’s straight British lineage was only slightly tempered by traceable Scandinavian roots from his mother’s side of the family near western Lancashire. This combination of genes provided him with little natural Slavic camouflage beyond white skin and brown hair. He felt exposed on the streets posing as a Russian. A feeling not likely to be shared by the rest of the team, except for their sniper, Jared Hoffman, a descendant of German Jews. At least Hoffman looked European, which helped his case. Farrington basically resembled an American when he wasn’t wearing his cheek implants.

“He swiped it once at the main gate, but only half of the file uploaded,” Viktor grumbled.

“Everything’s fine,” Misha said. “The biometric scanner is faster than I expected. High end shit.”

Farrington didn’t like the sound of that. Information provided by Berg’s contact in the FSB confirmed the addition of low-tech security solutions in 2003, when responsibility for Vektor’s security was put in private hands. They had assumed that internal security upgrades would follow suit. Had they made some bad assumptions? Sensing his hesitation, Misha continued to explain.

“Mr. Roskov will pass through at least eight more security points on his way to Building Six. I can’t imagine any scenario in which the remaining kilobytes of virus won’t be transferred…except for one.”

“What?” Grisha said, clearly taken off guard.

“If he decides to turn his car around and head back into town to find the elusive Ms. Reynolds,” he said, pointing his thumb in the general direction of the cots where Erin Foley was sleeping, “we’re shit out of luck.”

Grisha’s earpiece crackled.

“Surveillance team is returning to base. I’ll notify the front gate,” Grisha said, “unless you need me here.”

“I’ll notify the gate,” Farrington said, switching to a whisper. “Let me know if anything goes wrong. I’d hate to think we grabbed the card for nothing.”

“I heard that. I’ll be inside their system before you walk out that door,” Misha said.

“I hope so, or I’m going to stuff you in a DHL package and overnight you as a low-tech version of your Trojan horse virus,” Farrington said.

“Why do I believe him?” Misha said.

“Because I think he’d actually try it as a last resort,” Grisha said.

“I’ll be right back,” Farrington said.

“Hold on. Hold on,” Misha said. “Virus uploaded. He just accessed the main entrance. Look at this. My little baby is already going to work. Three. Two. One.”

The screen to the far right changed to an internal Vektor Laboratories screen.

“Administrator access to Vektor Laboratories’ security system,” Misha said, raising his hand above his head.

Farrington stared at the hand for a few seconds before winking at Grisha and walking away.

“You’re really going to leave me hanging like that? Brutal,” he said, lowering the hand.

“Excellent work, Misha. Does that make you feel more appreciated?” Farrington said, already halfway across the warehouse floor.

“As a matter of fact, it does, though I could do without the sarcasm.”

“File a complaint!” Farrington called back.

“Sorry, Erin, Katie…whoever you are right now,” Farrington said, catching her peeking out of her sleeping bag.

“Please tell me that I touched used condoms last night for a reason,” she said.

“I really don’t know how to respond to that, but if you’re wondering about the security card, the virus uploaded smoothly. We’re in business.”

“I can’t get the image of those three steaming up the car windows out of my head. I’m going to need a psych eval when this is done.”

“Get in line,” he said and disappeared through the door.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned with the rest of the team, locking the door behind them. Grisha had spoken one of their predetermined code words over their communications network, which called for a “private” conversation. Viktor’s people had provided their handheld P25 radios, leaving them with no way to ensure that the encryption protocols hadn’t been compromised. As Farrington crossed the room, passing two tables stacked with weapons and gear, he raised his thumb. On cue, “Seva,” their heavy weapons assault specialist, turned on a portable boom box stereo, which emitted horrible heavy metal music from a local radio station. The entire team stood around Misha at the computer station.

“We have a problem,” Grisha said.

“The basement of Building Six is protected by a fingerprint scanner. I can’t bypass this security protocol. The system is self-contained and can only be accessed directly at the scanner station. Very secure,” Misha said.

“Basement? Reznikov said the bioweapons lab was located on the top floor. Motherfucker. Berg’s guy didn’t cough up anything about this either,” Farrington said.

“Berg’s information is pretty detailed, but the most recent update in that file is dated October 2006. They must have moved it into the basement within the past two years,” said Sasha, the youngest member of the assault team.

“Damn it. Can we change plans and just blow the building? Cause it to collapse on itself? Burn it up? I know we’ve been over this, but…” Farrington said.

Seva shook his head. “Reznikov was right. Based on my interpretation of the original schematics, we’d need a Timothy McVeigh-sized explosion to obliterate the building. Even then, I couldn’t guarantee they would be out of business. We need to get inside the lab. The best I can do with what we have on hand is hopefully breach the door. It would get us inside.”

“And alert every security guard on the property,” Farrington said. “We can’t fight off ex-special forces and destroy the lab at the same time.”

“We can, but—” Grisha started.

“But we’d kill any hope of getting out of Vektor with a head start,” Farrington cut in, “if we made it out at all. As it stands, we’re not looking at a big margin of time before police units arrive. Once news of the attack hits the police and government airwaves, anyone with a badge and a car will be headed in our direction. We need to come up with a less explosive backup plan.”

“Or a finger. Maybe a whole hand,” Foley interjected.

Farrington turned his head to stare at her.

“What? We’re planning to kill the three scientists running the program. Why not take one of their hands? Or both,” she said, chewing on an energy bar.

Misha shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The scanner model indicated by security schematics combines a few biometric features. First, it takes an ultrasound picture of the finger and matches it with an internal database. Then, it measures temperature—”

“We can keep the hand at body temperature somehow,” Grisha interrupted.

“Right. But this system measures and averages the temperature readings taken for a specific individual since its installation. Our hand donor might have peripheral vascular disease or diabetes, causing a reduction of blood flow to the extremities, or something simple, like the flu. The system accounts for the fact that not everyone’s hand is going to average out to 98.6 degrees. Ever shake hands with someone whose hands are always cold?”

“Jared’s hands feel like icicles,” Foley said, raising a few eyebrows and eliciting a few grins. “Add sexual harassment to my list of complaints.”

“She’s right. My hands have to be at least five degrees below body core temperature, and I don’t have diabetes…as far as I know,” said Jared Hoffman — Gosha for this mission.

“We need to do some research into hand temperatures. If you can’t find a satisfactory amount of information in the next hour using the internet, I’ll call Berg and put him to work on this. I’m sure the CIA has a body of information on the subject of beating biometric scanners. If any doubt remains about the viability of using a detached hand, we’ll have to kidnap one of the scientists,” Farrington said.

“We don’t have the people for that,” Grisha said.

“I know. I’ll talk to Viktor about adding the service, if necessary. Anything else?” he asked, looking around at the team. When no one responded, he went on. “Very well. We still have a lot of work to do before we step off tomorrow, so don’t waste any time. Check and recheck the gear. If we need to replace something, I need to hear it sooner than later. Erin, can you stick around a second?” he said, nodding at Grisha, who left with the rest of the team.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Are you sure you’re all right with the mission timeline? You’ll be cutting it close with your flight,” Farrington said.

“I’ll be fine. If I miss the flight, I know where to find a ride home,” Foley said.

“Trust me. You want to be on that flight.”

She regarded him for a moment, and he suspected that she might try and argue her case for staying. He didn’t need her at Vektor Labs, but the team could always use another capable operative during the exfiltration. She wasn’t trained for the kind of combat he anticipated, but she had proven to be a decisive asset in Stockholm. He simply couldn’t discount her based on the conditions he expected during their escape. He had other reasons for ensuring her safe departure.

“You have skills our program desperately needs, and from what I understand, you’re slated to spend the rest of your career behind a desk in Langley. When you get back to the States, consider taking a long vacation to Argentina,” he suggested.

“What makes you think I don’t want a cushy desk job in the CIA’s Scandinavian section?”

“Just a hunch,” he said.

“I’ll make the flight.”

Chapter 36

Farrington watched Viktor closely for a reaction to his request. The stolid Russian took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke pour through his nose, never changing his expression.

“You do realize it will be Sunday evening? We’ll have to do this in their homes,” Viktor said.

“I don’t see any other way. It’s a timing issue for my team. They can’t be in two places at once,” Farrington said.

“Bullshit,” Viktor said, rising from behind his desk in a cloud of smoke. “You need me to do the dirtiest part of your job.” Farrington started to protest, but Viktor continued. “I wondered when you would come crawling to me for this. Your people may be super-soldiers, but they’re not cut out for street murder and dismemberment.”

“I call it targeted killing of enemy personnel. Assassination. You call it street murder. I guess it depends on where you’re sitting,” Farrington countered.

“It’s murder no matter how you look at it, and I don’t get the sense that your team is up for dragging people out of their homes in front of their loved ones to kill them. Two million dollars. Final price. You take it or leave it,” Viktor said.

Farrington was relieved to hear him make an offer within the range he was immediately authorized to pay. He didn’t feel like wasting time debating the distinction between the Solntesvskaya’s concept of murder and his own. He agreed with the basic reality of Viktor’s simplistic view that “murder is murder,” but differed vastly in his interpretation and justification of killing in the course of executing his duties.

Viktor’s people killed to secure the dominance of their organized crime network, employing individuals that embraced murder and violence. Farrington’s people killed to safeguard lives, utilizing men and women that had to be convinced and conditioned to kill without question. He was grateful to spare his team the exposure to what would be an extremely unpleasant and morally confusing job, but he wasn’t the least bit swayed by Viktor’s dime-store comparison.

“There won’t be any room for error on this,” Farrington said.

“Lucky for you, we’ve been watching them closely. Do we have a deal?”

“No casualties outside of the scientists,” Farrington said.

“I can’t promise that, but I can assure you that it is in my best interest to limit the killing to the scientists. See, I knew this wasn’t your cup of tea. If this were my operation, I would make it a point to kill everyone present to send a message. How many scientists would be eager to sign up for the same job after learning what happened?”

“I think limiting the damage to the scientists will send the right message. Shall I have the money transferred to the same bank?”

“No negotiation? I should have started at three million. We’ll use a different bank this time,” Viktor said.

Thirty minutes later, Farrington confirmed the transfer of two million dollars from one of Sanderson’s accounts in the Cayman Islands to a bank account number traceable to Switzerland. He suspected that Viktor had made this deal without permission from his superiors. The initial payment to guarantee Solntsevskaya cooperation had been made to a bank in Moscow, where the money had presumably been transferred to one of the world’s more discreet banking havens. If Viktor was siphoning money into his own account, it meant that he was violating orders by helping them kill the scientists. This eased Farrington’s concerns about trigger-happy Russian mobsters. Viktor couldn’t afford the extra scrutiny guaranteed to come with an execution-style family massacre linked to the evening’s festivities at Vektor.

Chapter 37

Pamela Travis balanced four plates of hot food using a combination of her hands and arms. She had been working at Benny’s for over a decade, never missing a Saturday morning. Saturday mornings, even in the dead of winter, kept the tables packed well past noon, which in turn put good tip money in her pocket. The summers were insane, when vacationers turned up to enjoy the Lake Memphremagog waterfront and boaters drifted down the lake a few miles from Canada to dock in Newport for the afternoon.

Arriving at any time past eight in the morning on a Saturday or Sunday morning guaranteed a minimum one-hour wait for a table. Any later than that and a party of four might be stuck outside for two hours, free to wander Main Street and window shop, but under constant threat of losing their table. Benny’s waiting policy was strict. Each party received one announcement followed by a half-minute wait before they moved onto the next name on the waiting list.

Frankly, she wasn’t sure why anyone would wait so long for Benny’s food or put up with his wait-list shenanigans. The food was standard American breakfast fare, with little variation or panache. She made better corned beef hash at home, in half the time, and her pancakes were gourmet compared to Benny’s. She supposed the long lines were more a function of the competitive market than tastiness.

They were the only game in town for breakfast, having dominated the market for as long as any of the locals could remember. Every now and then a Canadian family would stop in, and a misty-eyed mother or father would reminisce about their summer vacations as children, and how they never missed a Saturday breakfast at Benny’s, no matter how long they had to wait. It made her wonder if the food up in Canada was bad.

Defying gravity and several equally important laws of physics maneuvering through the crowded diner, she arrived at a cramped table of slightly unpleasant-smelling men. Russians, by the sound of them, probably up from New York City on a fishing trip. She’d heard about large pockets of Russian immigrants living in a place called Brighton Beach, near Brooklyn. A lot of New Yorkers vacationed in the area during the summer, but they typically arrived in July or August. Families from New York or Massachusetts owned a good number of the cottages ringing the lake. Judging by the look of this group, they must be up early to take advantage of cheaper rental prices. They were pleasant enough, but certainly not part of the well-heeled New York crowd.

She had to admit, they were by far her most entertaining group this season. The spokesman for the group, a stocky, muscular gentleman with a long scar running down the right side of his jaw, asked if they served alcohol. She checked her watch and laughed. 6:52 in the morning. She wished they served booze, but Benny was too cheap to seek a liquor license. Acquiring a limited license might have made sense given the number of requests for mimosas during the summer. The New York crowd seemed to be enamored with the idea of champagne and orange juice for breakfast, even during the middle of the week. Another opportunity lost. She’d quit making suggestions long ago.

Upon her arrival, one of the men furtively concealed something under the table. She gave him a slightly disapproving look, followed by a wink. He grinned and brought the flask back to his orange juice, dumping a good portion of the contents into the half-full glass. She had seen the rest of them violate Vermont’s liquor laws in a similar manner over the past thirty minutes, but said nothing. Who was she to spoil their vacation?

She offloaded their meals in less than five seconds, announcing that she’d be back with the rest of the order in a minute. The men thanked her in choppy English, nodding happily. As she turned from the table, she caught one of them swigging directly from his flask.

“Discretion, boys,” she said over her shoulder, headed back to the kitchen.

Looking back at the table while loading up the rest of their plates, she could see the guy with the scar explaining what she had said to a gathering of approving faces. She couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to arrive in a strange country and try to make a new life. With that thought, she delivered the rest of their food and made sure their coffees were full until they left. She hoped they enjoyed their stay in Vermont. They really looked like a group that could use a vacation.

Chapter 38

Feliks Yeshevskey’s car cleared the row of gray apartment buildings towering over Nikolajeva Street, revealing the near impossibility of the task at hand. His mood instantly changed from morose to furiously enraged, led by a string of obscenities that would have offended the Federation Navy’s crustiest chief ship petty officers. Desnyans’kyi Park was packed with families enjoying the unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon. Finding their man in this vast sea of trees and picnickers was going to take the rest of the afternoon.

He briefly considered abandoning the search and waiting back at the man’s apartment building, but the neighbor directly across the hallway told them that Boris Ilkin liked to take his family out to dinner on Saturdays. They would typically return before sunset, when the common areas between buildings of their apartment block filled with drunks looking for trouble. Feliks dismissed the plan. He didn’t have the patience to wait another five hours. It had already taken them most of the day to track down the names and addresses of service tellers that had worked shifts at Kiev Central Station on Tuesday, when Richard Farrington landed and presumably acquired transportation to Russia.

They were dealing with too many presumptions and assumptions in this case. Farrington had entered the Ukraine posing as an Australian, proceeding to vanish into thin air. No record of him beyond customs could be found, leading Feliks to assume that he had shifted identities. Ardankin was convinced that he would try to enter Russia, which made his job slightly less complicated. Transportation to Russia was plentiful on any given day, but the options were finite.

The easiest and most expedient way to enter Russia was by train, but he could also have chosen from several regular bus routes. Worse yet, he could have rented a car from any of the hundreds of rental agency locations around Kiev. They hadn’t begun to explore options beyond rail travel yet. He had limited resources and had been specifically warned not to involve Ukrainian authorities. With a handful of agents, they would concentrate on one mode of transportation at a time. His agents were spread throughout the city tracking down the few remaining ticket agents on the list.

He signaled for the driver to pull over into a residential parking space across the street. Turning in his seat, he addressed the timid-looking woman in the back seat.

“We’re going to walk through the park looking for your neighbor. I better not find him before you do. Understood?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“This is a matter of state security. When you see him, I need you to be discreet. You’ll stand back at a distance, and once we have him in custody, you are free to go. You wait for me to signal that it’s all right for you to leave. If you leave earlier, I’ll assume you are involved. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Let’s go for a walk in the park,” he said, stepping out of the vehicle.

Forty minutes into their search, Feliks had lost any remaining vestige of patience for the woman, who pinched her face together and squinted looking for their target like she needed glasses to see more than five feet in front of her. This had become intolerable, made worse by the citizens of Kiev, lounging around on scattered blankets, not making the slightest effort to get out of their way. He was about to kick a bottle of vodka out of a rather insolent-looking man’s mouth, hoping to remove most of his teeth with the gesture, when the woman grabbed his shirtsleeve.

“I see him. We almost walked past. He’s directly to our right, maybe thirty meters. Dark red blanket with white tassel ends. He’s kicking a soccer ball with his son,” she whispered.

“White collared shirt. Untucked. Brown pants?”

“Yes. That’s him. Can I go now?” she pleaded.

“Not until we verify,” Feliks said.

“Why would I lie to you? You know where I live,” she said.

“That’s right. I know exactly where you live. You wait, or we’ll pay you a visit. Maybe smash your husband’s skull with that bottle he lives in,” Feliks said.

“Promise?”

For the first time today, Feliks allowed his face to change expression, displaying the faintest hint of a smile. He would have preferred to bring her husband, but judging by his belligerent demeanor at the door and the bottle in his hand, the man would have been more trouble than help. Besides, he was probably seeing double at this point, judging from the bright red glow plastered on his face. He had little doubt that Elena would take a beating when she returned. The kids too, probably. He’d like to escort her back and threaten the husband with a life sentence in a wheelchair, but he didn’t have the time. She would have to fend for herself. He just hoped that this unusual disruption of their weekend routine didn’t lead to something outside of the normal abuse that she and her children surely suffered on a daily basis.

“Wait here,” he said, pressing several banknotes into her coat pocket. “Those are for the ride back.”

He had given her five times the amount it would cost to take a cab back to their apartment block, hoping she would use the money to seek a little happiness with her kids during the day. He could tell by the look on her husband’s face that they saw no peace at night. He signaled for the other agent to proceed, and they walked over to have what he hoped would be a friendly chat with Boris Ilkin. He didn’t want to get heavy-handed in front of the Ilkin family in such a serene setting, but he was running out of time. A rogue CIA agent responsible for the recent deaths of several FIS operatives had resurfaced, raising the frightening specter of an even deadlier operation on Russian soil.

“Mr. Ilkin?”

He spoke loudly enough to be heard by the family, hoping to avoid additional unwanted attention from the civilians nearby. He harbored no illusions about appearing to be just another carefree Ukrainian out for an early June stroll. He wore a dark brown suit over a light blue shirt. The absence of a tie was the only concession he allowed in his disguise as a Ukrainian Security Service agent. Since it was Saturday, the sight of two nearby men in suits, with or without ties, broadcast one word: Police. Mr. Ilkin nodded and whispered to his son, patting him on the back. While Ilkin was distracted with his son, Feliks nodded discreetly to the woman waiting behind a tree in the distance.

“Is everything all right?” the man’s wife asked.

“I’m sure it’s fine, honey,” he said, forcing a smile before turning to Feliks and nodding in respect.

“Officers. How can I help you?”

Feliks came closer and produced his fake credentials, holding them low in a useless gesture of discretion. Anyone watching this interaction knew exactly what was happening. Ilkin was being questioned by the police in the middle of Desnyans’kyi Park, right in front of his family. He could feel the stares and whispers. People shrinking away from them slowly. Memories died hard in these former Soviet puppet states, where police and militia were liberally used to repress the people.

“Vadim Salenko. Security Service counterterrorism division. I need your help to identify a foreign operative that may have passed through your ticket station on Thursday,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Ilkin said, barely glancing at his credentials, “but I don’t know how much help I can be. The station serves more than 170,000 passengers every day. It gets crazy in there.”

“I’ll try to narrow the possibilities for you. We know that the agent initially posed as an Australian tourist and landed in Kiev. I’m fairly certain he is headed to Russia, so I suspect that he presented himself to the ticket gate with a Russian internal passport.”

“Sure…” he said, hesitating.

Feliks could tell that he struck a chord. He had run the scenario through his head a thousand times before coming up with the few encounters that might “stick” with a ticket agent that processed hundreds, if not thousands of transactions per day. He was testing one of these theories now.

“I have several photographs I would like to show you.”

His partner handed him the file containing several 8X10 photos of Richard Farrington. He started with the photograph taken at the customs station inside Kiev International Airport. He saw a flash of recognition on Ilkin’s face.

“You remember him?” Feliks said.

“Oddly enough, I do. He…uh. Let me think for a moment…yes. He presented an international passport, and I remember telling him he could use his internal Federation passport when he reached the customs stop near the border. He apologized, saying that he’d just returned from Europe, which I thought was odd, given his destination.”

“Please explain,” Feliks said, exhilarated by what he had stumbled upon.

“He was headed to Yekaterinburg. I know for a fact that it’s cheaper to fly into Moscow from anywhere west of here. From there you have a wide selection of flights to Yekaterinburg that probably cost less than what he paid to ride the train. I think flying to Yekaterinburg from Kiev is less expensive.”

“What are you, some kind of travel agent in disguise?”

“It’s part of my job in a way,” Ilkin replied.

“Do you remember his name?”

“I don’t think I can recall his name. I’m lucky to have remembered him at all. He doesn’t look very Russian, does he?” he said, further examining the photo.

“How many trains leave for Yekaterinburg daily?” Feliks said, not in any mood to waste a second with small talk.

“None. The only way to get out there is to connect with an eastbound train out of Moscow. We have nine trains running daily out of Kiev to Moscow. Most leave in the early evening. It’s an overnight trip. I don’t remember which one I booked him on. There’s an express train that leaves daily at 8:52 and arrives in Moscow at 6:30 in the morning. This is the earliest arrival, which would put him in a position to leave on one of the few mid-morning departures. Save him some time if he was in a hurry to get to Yekaterinburg.”

“None of this is ringing a bell for you,” Feliks said.

Ilkin shook his head.

“How many passengers can the express train carry?”

“Six hundred,” he said.

“Trains for Moscow to Yekaterinburg?”

“Fourteen. Roughly the same passenger count.”

Feliks didn’t respond immediately. His mind was swimming through the options. He didn’t have the time to repeat this process again at the Yaroslavlsky Station in Moscow, though he would certainly have the manpower at his disposal. Once inside Russia, the SVR could muster hundreds of agents to assist him…assuming they let him continue as lead investigator, which he doubted.

With the information provided by Ilkin, he didn’t think it would be necessary to mobilize half of the headquarters building in Moscow. They didn’t have a name, but they knew his final destination. With the passenger manifests for all trains leaving Kiev for Moscow last Tuesday, they could compare passenger names with all trains leaving Moscow for Yekaterinburg on Wednesday. This would significantly narrow their search. Armed with the matching names, they would have a fighting chance of finding Richard Farrington. Of course, all of this was predicated on the assumption that Farrington hadn’t switched identities more than once. If he changed identities in Yekaterinburg, they would be left with nothing but the scattered memories of a dozen ticket agents. He doubted they would get this lucky again.

“Do you know the name of the supervisor on duty at the station today?”

“Sure. Mr. Gleba. Stas Gleba. He gives me weekend shifts when I ask, so we can save up for vacation.”

“Let’s go,” he said to his partner, not the least bit interested in hearing about this man’s vacation plans.

Walking briskly toward his car, Feliks stared up at the sun and allowed himself a moment to enjoy its warmth. Despite the embarrassment of having a known terrorist enter the motherland through his own backyard, he had to admit that the day had gone well. He had acquired a solid lead on Farrington sooner than expected, without having to break any bones or crack any skulls. Unfortunately, the day was still young, and he wasn’t optimistic about the station supervisor. Coughing up passenger manifests for State Security was serious business, and if Mr. Gleba required a warrant or insisted on verifying his request with the State Security watch officer, he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Ardankin. Too much was at stake to let a hyperextended finger or a broken nose stand in the way.