Black Flagged Vektor

Chapter 39

Dmitry Ardankin could tell by the sheer volume of swear words uttered during the first ten seconds of his one-way conversation with Feliks Yeshevsky that the search for Richard Farrington was not making progress. Impressed with Yeshevsky’s results in Kiev, he had flown the cantankerous agent, with a small entourage, to Yekaterinburg to pick up Farrington’s trail once they cross-matched passengers from Kiev with the list of Russians continuing to Yekaterinburg. 5,700 passengers had been narrowed to 1,700 male Russian citizens, one of whom was Farrington. Of those 1,700, only twenty-two had purchased transfers to Yekaterinburg. Everything was shaping up nicely, until Yeshevsky started poring through the train manifests.

Fifteen of the passengers came up in the system with Yekaterinburg addresses. Yeshevsky’s men, along with a dozen additional agents sent from Moscow, started knocking on doors at 2:00 in the morning. None of the fifteen turned out to be Farrington. While his men turned Yekaterinburg inside out, he painstakingly examined the passenger manifests of every train that Farrington could have taken, and matched all of the remaining passengers, except for one. Mikhail Ivanov.

Since Ivanov’s passport had not been swiped by customs at an airport, they would have no convenient photograph to match against Jeffrey Mayer, the Australian tourist recently arrived from Brisbane, Australia. It didn’t matter. Ivanov ceased to exist at Yekaterinburg Central Station. His name didn’t appear on any of the corresponding outbound train manifests.

Yeshevsky would have to contact all of the ticketing agents and hope for a repeat of yesterday’s miracle, then he’d hit the rental car agencies. For all they knew, Farrington’s mission objective might be in Yekaterinburg. The Volga-Ural Military District headquarters was located outside of the city at the military base housing the 34^th Motor Rifle Division. Somehow he doubted it.

“Feliks, Feliks… please take a deep breath and calm yourself. We need to come up with a new strategy,” Ardankin said.

“The new strategy is me interviewing every ticket agent in the hopes that one of them has enough brain cells to understand what I’m saying. We’re talking a needle in a fucking haystack here. This guy could be back in Moscow for all we know, having led us on a wild goose chase to fucking nowhere and back. Has Customs come up with any other possible operatives?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve expanded the data parameters, so we’ll have a fresh batch of profiles to run within the hour. The director has given me the authority to increase the number of people working on this. I’ve called in over a hundred agents and technicians across several directorates. We’ll get you something,” Ardankin said.

“By the time they stumble across something useful, the Kremlin could be a smoking ruin,” Yeshevsky said.

“I’m sure this isn’t a plot to blow up Moscow,” Ardankin said. “He may be working alone, in which case we might never discover what Farrington was doing here. He’s a highly specialized operative. People like this are used for covert assassinations or kidnappings, not the destruction of national landmarks.”

Like most of the FIS, Yeshevsky didn’t officially know that the Zaslon branch of Directorate S existed. Yeshevsky was similarly unaware of Farrington’s involvement in the Zaslon massacre, which is why he chose to downplay the American’s possible reasons for being here. The connection would send Yeshevsky into overdrive and more than likely result in the beating deaths of several Russian citizens.

“Whatever he is here for, I’ve made it my mission to find him,” Yeshevsky said.

“That’s exactly why I flew you over from Kiev, instead of letting some headquarters agent run the show. If Farrington can be located, you’ll be the one to find him. Start tracking down the station employees. I’ll notify you if we find anything on our end.”

“Understood,” Yeshevsky said, followed by a barrage of obscenities directed at someone standing near him at the station.

Ardankin hung up the phone and pondered the day ahead of him. His own Directorate’s technicians and analysts were in the process of readying one of the largest operations response centers for the influx of personnel. He’d need everyone under one roof to coordinate the massive data analysis, relying heavily on the other Directorate’s talent. Data crunching wasn’t one of his strong suits, and everybody knew it. Dmitry Ardankin was head of the “Illegal Intelligence” Directorate because he had spent most of his career overseas or in Europe, running covert operations. Unfortunately, with Farrington’s trail cold, it appeared that hardcore data analysis might be their only chance to find another lead.

Chapter 40

Karl Berg sat back in his chair at one of the terminals in the CIA Operations Center and took a deep breath. His stomach had churned mercilessly for the past hour, while they confirmed that everything was in place. Confronted with nothing to do but wait, he found himself fidgeting constantly. Tapping his fingers, moving his legs, even humming old show tunes. Good lives were at stake, and they depended on a gamble he had yet to take. A secretive play he had orchestrated under everyone’s noses.

“You all right, Karl?” Audra Bauer said, hovering over him.

Even Audra had no idea what was coming, which pained him. His contingency plan for extracting Sanderson’s team could irreparably damage all of their careers. Berg could care less about his own recent meteoric rise through the ranks. He’d gladly trade his new office to safeguard the lives of their operatives, and he knew Audra and Manning felt the same way. He just felt guilty about making such an impactful decision without their knowledge. He might not have to put the plan into action, but he wasn’t hopeful. He seriously doubted that Sanderson’s crew could get across the border without a little friendly intervention, not with half of the region’s military assets chasing them down.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just hate this waiting game. Foley is a few minutes out. Her assigned time on target is 7:15 PM local time. Seven minutes.”

“She’ll be fine. She’ll be in Mongolian airspace by the time Vektor goes up in flames,” Audra said.

“I’m not worried about Foley,” Berg said. “Where is Manning? He should be here by now.”

“He’s with the director at the White House,” Bauer said.

“What? When did that change?”

“Less than an hour ago. The president wanted both of them in the Situation Room to keep him apprised.”

“More like holding them hostage,” Berg said.

He didn’t like the sound of this. He could understand the CIA director, but keeping the National Clandestine Service director close at hand and out of the operations center indicated that the president might flip-flop on this mission. With the two highest-ranking members of the CIA in his immediate presence, there would be little room for interpretation of the president’s orders. He didn’t envy Manning’s position in that room.

“That’s what they get paid to do,” Bauer reminded him, “run interference for us.”

“Among other things,” Berg mumbled.

“Have you contacted Reznikov?”

“Not until Foley’s job is done. He won’t tell me his big secret without hearing a prearranged code. We get the code from Viktor after the first phase of Black Fist is complete.”

“Reznikov seems really paranoid about this,” Bauer said.

“He’s been eating lobster Benedict and crème brule for the past few weeks. I’ve made it clear what he can expect to be served at the alternative location. He has every reason to see Black Fist succeed.”

“I know, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is Blackjack. Commencing Black Fist.”

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

Chapter 41

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll pull him aside,” Remy said.

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

Chapter 42

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jackpot,” she whispered.

The leftmost drawer held the rest of their identification papers. Iranian passports, work visas, folded copies of their lease. She jammed the rest into her cargo pockets and sprinted to the front door, glancing in both directions down the hallway. Nobody wanted to catch a stray bullet. Less than a minute later, Foley stepped out of the dark apartment building into a courtyard leading to the street. A few people had wandered off the street and into the courtyard, attracted by the sound of gunfire, but they paid no attention to her as she walked casually by them. She had reversed her jacket inside and removed the ski mask, once again appearing no different than anyone else.

When she reached the street, she turned right and picked up the pace. Her pickup car was nowhere in sight. She continued down Zorge Street, rapidly approaching an intersection with a convenience store and gas station. They had told her to turn right and look for the car, now she was headed toward a high-traffic area. Just as she was about to turn onto a side street and look for a vehicle to hotwire, a car sped up behind her, screeching to a stop. She wheeled around to see Ivan hanging halfway out of the front passenger window yelling, “Where the fuck are you going? Can’t you hear the damn sirens?”

Her ears were still ringing from the close-quarters machine-gun fire inside the apartment. She jogged to the car and got in the back seat. The driver drove toward the intersection at a normal speed, cautiously pulling up to the stop sign. A blue-striped, white police car screamed through the intersection, nearly clipping the front of their car. The driver took his time scanning the street for additional police cars before turning left and accelerating out of the neighborhood. As soon as they were clear of the intersection, Ivan turned all the way around in his seat.

“What the fuck happened in there? We heard a machine gun.”

“Thanks for coming to help,” she said, digging into her backpack on the seat next to her.

“Viktor’s orders were clear…and you can apparently take care of yourself,” he said, turning back in the seat.

“One of them was in the bedroom when I crashed the door. The scientist. He fired a full mag from a Skorpion at me.”

“He must not have known what he was doing,” Ivan said.

“That’s the only reason you get to enjoy the next twenty minutes with me on the way to the airport,” she said, opening a compact mirror to apply makeup.

“Can I report a successful mission? They’re eagerly waiting for confirmation,” he said.

“Affirmative. Blackbird’s targets have been terminated.”

Ivan pulled out his radio and made the report. Less than a minute later, the cell phone in her backpack buzzed. She scrambled to open the zippered compartment containing her phone, digging through her passport and money to retrieve it.

“Blackbird,” she answered.

“You all right? Sounds like we almost had a problem,” Farrington said.

“I’m fine. Ever have a Skorpion fired at you from less than ten feet away?”

“Old or new model?”

“I wasn’t aware of a newer model,” Foley said.

“You wouldn’t be alive if it had been the new one.”

“I shouldn’t be alive either way.”

“Am I sensing a little reluctance?”

“Nothing a few days on the beach in Phuket can’t cure. Is my flight still on time?” Foley asked.

“S7 Airlines, Flight 859 is sitting at the terminal. They start boarding in fifty minutes. Better hurry, or they might push you back into coach. I hear you have to pay for your own drinks back there,” he said.

“Ha! I haven’t paid for a drink since college.”

“I bet. All right, Blackbird, we’ll catch up with you in Argentina, if you decide to join us,” Farrington said.

“You guys are relentless. Good luck tonight. Bring everyone back,” she said and disconnected the call.

“To the airport?” Ivan asked. His normally deadpan face turned to a forced grin before breaking into laughter. “Just kidding. See? I have the American sense of humor too.”

“Ivan, you’re a piece of work. How does someone with your charm and grace get mixed up with these guys?”

They both started laughing.

“See? We both know you’re making a joke. Okay. I have more. A whore walks into a bar with a monkey on her shoulder…”

Foley forced a laugh and settled in for the longest twenty-minute car ride of her life, glad she could barely hear the jokes over the ringing in her ears.

Chapter 43

Thomas Manning turned to Director Copley and the president after a brief discussion with Karl Berg.

“They’re good. The Iranians no longer pose a threat to homeland security. No collateral damage and a clean getaway.”

“But something didn’t go as planned. Am I right?” the president asked.

“One of the targets unexpectedly moved to an adjacent room prior to entry and opened fire on our operative. Nothing our operative couldn’t handle,” Manning said.

“But now we have an escalated situation with the local police,” the president stated.

“The police would have been involved no matter what,” Manning said. “We had to blow the door to get inside.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a covert operation,” Remy added.

Manning hated that pretentious little fuck. He took every opportunity available to dig away at the CIA, Department of Defense…pretty much any organization that represented a potential threat to the administration’s public image, regardless of the fact that these same groups sacrificed deeply to keep the real United States safe and Remy’s precious job secure for another term. Ironically, placating Remy was one of the distasteful tasks necessary to keep the nation secure. The son-of-a-bitch had the ear of the president and could shut down their operation if Manning wasn’t careful. So instead of telling him to shut the fuck up and let the experts run the show, he went in a different direction.

“We had to kill those guys. They represented a future threat to the United States and our allies. The only other option that satisfied our timing issue was to plant a bomb in the apartment and take down half of the building. Everything is fine. Our operative sanitized the apartment of identity documents. It’ll take them a while to figure this one out. By then, Vektor’s bioweapons lab will be history.”

“I hope it takes them more than two hours,” the president said, checking his watch, “or your people might have a surprise waiting for them at Vektor.”

“We’re watching and listening for a response,” Manning said.

“Well, watch and listen closely, because if they boost security at Vektor, operation Black Fist is off. I can’t risk the consequences of a failed raid at the compound. The fallout from a successful raid will be bad enough, but I’m willing to deal with that shit-storm, because I agree that the Russian bioweapons program has no place in our world. A failed attempt today will shut us out for good. Months or years from now, after Monchegorsk and the threat of a biological attack has faded from public consciousness in Europe and the United States, I won’t be in a position to green light plan B. You get one shot at this, and I prefer that it’s taken while the international community is primed to turn a blind eye to this transgression of Russian sovereignty. But no shot right now is better than a bad shot. I’m counting on your agency to make the right call.”

“Understood, Mr. President. We have no plans to make a mess of things,” the director said.

“I don’t mind messy, as long as we’re the ones controlling the mess,” the president shot back. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in my office. Please notify me at least five minutes before the next phase….and good work. I don’t take their sacrifice lightly.”

Manning watched him walk out of the room, immediately flanked by Secret Service agents in the hallway. Remy stayed behind long enough to call General Gordon out of the room. He didn’t like the way the president used the word sacrifice, like the team had already been written off. He’d have to keep a close eye on the political side of this operation. The Russians had violated the Kazakh border a few months ago in pursuit of Sanderson’s operatives, so it was fair to assume that they might not turn back tonight. With Remy whispering doomsday predictions in his ear all night, the president might lose his nerve at the last minute and abandon Farrington. Manning couldn’t stand by quietly and let this scenario unfold. He’d have to come up with something to turn the tide, even if it meant losing his job as the National Clandestine Service’s director. He couldn’t think of a better way to retire.

Chapter 44

Anatoly Reznikov leaned back in his Adirondack chair and admired the bright orange sun on the eastern horizon. His chair sat perched on a small rise in the northwest corner of the compound’s clearing, well removed from the rest of the buildings, but still visible to the ever-prying eyes of his captors. Not for long, he mused. This called for a drink, as did every small task at Mountain Glen. He reached inside his down-lined jacket and removed a flask from the front pocket of his flannel shirt, catching the last vestiges of the day’s sun on its polished silver surface. He took a long pull, feeling the warm rush spread outward to augment the sun’s early morning efforts. He might actually miss the artificial solitude of his mountain confinement.

The distant sound of an ATV motor spoiled that thought and he turned his head to see what his attendants were up to back at the security station. He saw one of the four-wheel noisemakers headed in his direction, which was unusual. He hadn’t ordered breakfast yet.

He drained half of the flask, relishing the clean vodka taste, and prepared for the guard’s arrival. The hill was steep at one point, and the best he could hope for was an accident that toppled the ATV. He’d seen a few compound guards roll their toys on less challenging terrain in the past few weeks, as the rains abated and the trails dried. They were just as bored as he had become.

He couldn’t imagine a life confined to these grounds. Judging by the advanced age of the other inmates, he guessed that this place didn’t appeal to the younger crowd. For someone in their forties, like Reznikov, the thought of spending the next thirty to forty years here would drive you to commit suicide. Maybe that’s why the guest population appeared to be well into their fifties or sixties. The younger guests either opted out of the deal or eventually killed themselves. Not everyone had a contingency plan like Reznikov.

The buzzing sound of the ATV grew closer, giving him a brief feeling of disappointment that the driver had chosen the shallow approach from the north. No horrible accident today. The olive-drab machine stopped several feet from his chair, sputtering its noise and air pollution in his direction. If he planned to stay here for any length of time, he might recommend that they switch to electric vehicles. Who knew? They might oblige him if he gathered a consensus from the other guests. They’d dragged this chair up the hill specifically upon his request. If only the American taxpayers knew about this place. He turned his head lazily, feeling the effects of the eighty-proof vodka. The guard dismounted the ATV with a satellite phone.

“Phone call, Mr. Reznikov.”

“Here?” Reznikov said.

All of his calls had taken place in the security station, where they could monitor and record his every word. This must be the call he had been waiting for.

“You can either drop it off on your way back, or we can pick it up with breakfast. Will you be dining up here?”

“Sure. My usual, thank you,” he said, accepting the phone, along with a small note pad and pen.

He hadn’t thought of taking breakfast on his private hill. What a marvelous idea. He had to savor the irony of it all. Unemployment was on the rise, families were losing their homes at a record pace, and he got to enjoy a catered breakfast compliments of the same people. He waited for the ATV to disappear before answering.

“So it has begun?”

“The Iranians are dead. We’re setting up for phase two,” Berg said.

“Most excellent. What a way for Vektor Labs to start the week,” Reznikov said.

“I need this call to be as brief as possible. As you can imagine, we’re a little busy over here,” Berg said.

“Yes. Of course. I believe you have a series of letters and numbers to pass?”

“Are you ready to write this down?” Berg said.

“Go ahead,” Reznikov said, staring at the half-submerged blood-red orb to the west.

Berg read the twenty-digit alphanumeric code, and Reznikov repeated it, not bothering to write it down. His mental capacity was twice that of these mental midgets, with their notepads and electronic devices. He’d long ago committed to memory the cipher needed to interpret this alphanumeric code. He processed the cipher and smiled.

“Are we good?” Berg asked.

“Yes. We are very, very good. Here’s what you need to know to ensure the complete destruction of Vektor’s bioweapons program. The program was relocated to the basement in 2006 in order to accommodate a special directive issued by Putin. At least it was rumored to have been Putin. They needed a way to quickly sanitize the program, leaving no traces. As you’ve probably guessed, very few people in the government or Vektor know about the program, which is why they keep the number of scientists and staff working on the program to a minimum. They also don’t like to leave loose ends, as your people have already experienced. Someone got very nervous in 2006—”

“Because of your disappearance?” Berg interrupted.

“Maybe. Either way, they built the new lab and installed a failsafe, which even fewer people know about.”

“But you know about it,” Berg said.

“Of course. I make it my business to know these things, which doesn’t come cheap.”

“Al Qaeda money?”

“I made significant investments with their payments, and they’ve paid off nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

“So, what do we need to do?”

“It works like this. The lab is a negatively pressurized steel container designed to keep airborne viruses and bacteria from escaping. The lab is separated from the first floor of the building by enough concrete and metal to isolate the effects of a truck bomb detonated inside,” Reznikov said.

“How is that possible?”

“The lab is vented by twelve immense heat-and pressure-activated shafts that can channel enough of the explosion’s expanding force out of the building to prevent a critical failure of the reinforced concrete and steel sheeting structure. The concept has been tested, and it works. The building would still suffer from the seismic effects, but aside from a severe rumble, all would be well throughout the building.”

“That’s the failsafe? They have a massive bomb built into one of the lab tables or something?”

“No. That would make a mess of things in the lab, but it might not destroy all of the evidence. Only a massive fire could ensure that. The lab is equipped with eight pressurized propane burners, each fed by a 500-pound tank buried outside of the building. When the system is activated, the burners will shoot fire throughout the sealed lab, raising the temperature to fifteen hundred degrees centigrade within five to seven seconds, instantly incinerating everything in the lab. The vents are designed to open at five hundred degrees centigrade, alleviating the pressure caused by the sudden rise in temperature. The system burns for a total of ten seconds. Activating this system will permanently erase the program from the face of the planet.”

“How do we activate the system?”

“It’s a little tricky, since they obviously don’t want a rogue agent or disgruntled scientist destroying the program,” Reznikov said, pausing for a laugh that never came. “No sense of humor, huh?”

“I’m a little pressed for time here,” Berg said.

“Very well. You’ll need two codes, which I will provide. One is entered into a terminal within the lab, the other at a secure terminal within the main security station. I assume your plan involves taking down that station?”

“It does.”

“Excellent. You’ll find the secure terminal inside a vault within the station. I recommend taking care of the laboratory first, so your team can put as much distance between that building and themselves as possible. I have no idea where the laboratory vents exit the ground, but I know for a fact that you don’t want to be anywhere near one of them when the propane system activates.”

“Covering your bases?”

“I’m not familiar with that saying,” Reznikov said.

“Covering your ass?”

“Ah, yes. I don’t want you to deny my retirement to this beautiful resort because of something I omitted.”

“Please continue.”

“All right. Your team will find the lab terminal in the southeast corner. It’s a standalone computer system built into the wall. The screen will remain blank until the code is typed correctly and you press enter. The screen will then activate and prompt you for the code again. Once the code has been entered for the second time, your team can leave the laboratory. This side of the activation process was designed so anyone working in the lab could be used to trigger the system.

“The second terminal is a bit trickier. It is fingerprint coded and can only be accessed by one of the scientists assigned to the bioweapons program or the P4 Containment Lab’s director. There is a key slot, so I assume members of certain special response teams could override the system, but for your purposes, you’ll need to grab one these people.”

“Luckily for you, we haven’t killed them yet,” Berg said.

“It wouldn’t matter. The biometric sensor on this terminal does not read temperatures. You could chop off one of their hands and use it,” Reznikov said.

“As it happens, we’ll have one of the scientists with us. You neglected to mention that a fingerprint scanner protected the lab. Heat sensitive,” Berg said.

“Biometric security is standard procedure for sensitive areas of an infectious disease laboratory. I just assumed that would be understood,” Reznikov said.

“Be careful what you assume,” Berg said. “It could mean the difference between lobster Benedict for breakfast and moldy bread.”

“Do I need to remind you that there might be armed security patrolling the grounds?” Reznikov spat.

“Which finger do we need for the secure terminal?”

“Right index finger. You’ll have to enter the code twice and confirm that you want to activate the system. Once confirmed, it cannot be stopped. Thirty seconds later, mission accomplished. Here are the codes,” he said.

Once the codes were transferred and confirmed, Berg abruptly hung up, which suited Reznikov just fine. He despised the man, despite the fact that the unsuspecting CIA agent had helped realize one of his longstanding dreams. He might pay Karl Berg a visit in the future, accompanied by some of his new friends.

Reznikov reviewed the deciphered code in his mind and smiled, staring off into the clear blue skies. He’d have to enjoy his last sunset on the hill with drink service from the lodge. A nice dry martini would cap off the evening perfectly, especially when it was paid for by the U.S. government.

Chapter 45

Tatyana Belyakov gently kissed her two children goodnight and tiptoed out of their shared room, closing the door behind her. The kids were tired from a long Sunday running through Sovetsky Park, near the State University, where her husband taught molecular biology. Days spent at the park reminded her of meeting Arkady in Moscow during her undergraduate university studies. Fifteen years later, memories of those carefree years with her future husband were buried, brought briefly to the surface by the sight of students lounging around her husband’s campus.

He didn’t take them to the university very often, and he’d never brought them to his office, which he claimed was crammed into an unsafe industrial basement area of the Biology and Chemistry building. They lived outside of university-supplied housing and rarely socialized with other members of the faculty; a necessity he stated was necessary to maintain some semblance of work-life balance.

She couldn’t complain too much about their situation. His salary and housing allowance gave them the luxury of a small home, which was twice the size of the university-supplied apartments and included a tidy yard and garden. The neighborhood left a little to be desired, but the area was generally safe, something that couldn’t be said about many of Novosibirsk’s suburbs. They had been here for eight years, never once experiencing a breakin, which was why Tatyana couldn’t immediately process the scene that unfolded in front of her as she entered their family room.

Four men with black ski masks and guns blocked all of the exits to the room. One of them held his index finger to his lips and shook his head slowly, aiming a suppressed pistol at her head.

“Sssshhhhh. We wouldn’t want to wake up the children,” he whispered.

Her legs nearly buckled at the mention of her kids. She held it together and looked at her husband, who looked confused and frightened.

“Andrei and Milena will be fine as long as you don’t wake them. They must be tired from a long day playing in the park,” he said, a little louder this time.

She felt her world spinning. They knew the children’s names and had been following them all day. This wasn’t happening to them. Why was her husband just standing there, doing nothing? Saying nothing?

“You can have anything you want here. Please, leave our children alone. We won’t say a word of this to anyone,” she said.

“The only thing I came to take is your husband. We need to borrow him for a few hours. I’m going to leave a few of my friends to watch over you. Their orders are to kill your children if you try anything stupid, like try to call the police. In about an hour and twenty minutes, my friends will leave and you are free to do whatever you please. Can you manage to behave for eighty minutes?”

“Yes. I promise. Please don’t hurt them. Please don’t hurt my husband.”

“The safety of your children lies solely with you,” he said, pointing at her. Don’t fuck with me on this. I specifically didn’t give them instructions for what to do with you. I’ll leave that to their imagination. Dr. Belyakov, it’s time to go. You’ll need your security card.”

Her husband froze in place. “Where are we going?”

“Where’s the card?” the man barked, shifting his pistol back to Tatyana.

“Just give him your badge,” she said, putting her hands up in a useless gesture.

The man glanced at her husband and started walking toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

“Maybe it’s in the children’s room,” the man said.

She reacted instinctively and moved to block him, but one of the other men stepped in and pinned her against the wall, placing the cold barrel of a sawed-off shotgun under her chin.

“No. It’s in my car. Don’t hurt her,” Arkady whispered.

“Arkady, don’t mess around with them! Your university badge is in the kitchen,” she said.

“You have no idea, do you?” the man said to her, turning to Arkady.

“Start walking, or I’ll just fucking kill them and save my men the hassle. I’m sure they have better things to do right now than guard your wife.”

“All right, all right. I’m going. I love you, honey. This will all be fine. Y-you’ll see,” Arkady stuttered, moving toward the man.

“What did we do to deserve this?” she whimpered, as they put a dark canvas bag over her husband’s head.

“Trust me. I’m doing you a favor,” he said, walking over and putting his face right in front of hers. “Your husband is a very dangerous man. Very bad for the mother Russia,” he hissed and walked away.

His breath had reeked of tobacco and rotten meat, almost making her gag. She barely registered what he said about her husband. Whatever he had done, she just wanted all of this to go away. When the men finished handcuffing her husband, they pushed him through the kitchen and out the side door. Several seconds later, she heard car doors shut, and her husband was driven away to whatever fate awaited him. She wondered if this had something to do with his job at the university or the faint suspicion she always harbored that he didn’t really work there.

“Take a seat,” one of the remaining men said, gesturing toward the couch with a sawed-off shotgun.

She carefully walked to the couch and sat down, trying desperately to make as little sound as possible.

“How about some television?” the other man asked. “You have satellite?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Can we just sit here quietly, please?” she offered meekly.

“Turn the television on. Don’t you watch shows after the kids go to bed?” he said, pointing a mean-looking pistol at her.

“We usually read books. We have a whole bookcase of them.”

“Fuck that. Turn the television on.”

She gripped the remote and pointed it at the flat-screen television with shaky hands. Her kids listened to shows at high volume, and the television defaulted to one of the all-day children’s channels. Turning the television on could jar them out of their sleep, killing them all. She hesitated.

“Press the button,” he insisted.

She hit the red button, and the television came to life. Her fingers furiously pressed the volume button in an attempt to cut off the sound. The volume started high, but died immediately, emitting a single burst of children’s mayhem.

“Not this shit. How about some pay-per-view? Do you have the porno channels?”

“No. Just the basic lineup,” she said, grateful that they hadn’t upgraded their satellite subscription.

She couldn’t imagine pornography leading to a good outcome. These guys looked and sounded like ruffians. Probably mafiya. She’d try to find something on network television or some of the Western channels. Anything to keep their minds off killing her children for the next eighty minutes.

Chapter 46

Major Daniel “Boogie” Borelli steadied the helicopter thirty feet above his assigned refueling position, aligning Black Magic “Zero One” with ground-based infrared markers visible to night vision equipment. His flight helmet had been fitted with a Heads Up Display (HUD) integrated L-3 GPNVG-18 (Ground Panoramic Night Vision Goggle) system, giving him a ninety-seven degree field of vision, compared to the traditional forty-degree field offered by dual-tube sets. The HUD integrated L-3 represented a breakthrough in helicopter night-flying technology, merging four separate image intensifier tubes into a wider image and superimposing vital flight information directly into the pilot’s field of vision. The system vastly increased his situational awareness outside of the cockpit, which was critical to the dicey approach he currently faced.

FARP “Blacktop” had been situated on a small plateau, concealing the equipment from prying eyes, but exposing them to the violent sweeping winds common across the Kazakhstan steppes. The FARP had been arranged according to the prevailing winds and weather predictions to accommodate landing into the wind. Unfortunately, the winds had not cooperated since they arrived, gusting from the northwest, buffeting them with a nasty crosswind. The three helicopters had plenty of lateral space between them to avoid a collision during one of the wind gusts, but setting this clunky bird down in any crosswind posed a considerable risk.

The designers had traded some of the original airframe’s aerodynamic stability for stealth, which gave these helicopters a certain level of unpredictability during the relatively unorthodox flight maneuvers common to Special Operations missions. They had hovered over the site for five minutes, timing the gusts and gauging their comfort level. There was no room for error here. A disaster at this FARP would leave operators stranded. Even the loss of a single helicopter would seriously jeopardize the team’s chances of exfiltration. He had no idea what the team’s mission might be, but judging from the fact that Washington was willing to send these helicopters anywhere near Russia emphasized the importance of retrieving Blackjack.

A heavy gust swayed the helicopter, breaking his alignment with the IR markers. He fought his urge to overcompensate, instead making dozens of minor adjustments to the cyclic and anti-torque pedals to keep him from drifting horizontally. Once the gust abated and the heavy dust cleared, he repositioned the helicopter over his landing zone and gave his task force the order to land. They should have at least another forty seconds before the next gust.

He eased up on the collective, and the helicopter slowly descended. A member of the Combat Control Team aided the descent by signaling his proximity to the ground. The night vision goggles gave him decent depth perception, and the aircraft’s radar altimeter was spot-on accurate, but adding a third, subjective component reduced the chance of mishap to nearly zero. Boogie felt the landing gear settle and locked his controls into place. He stared through the starboard side window past the copilot to confirm that the other helicopters had landed without obvious incident. Everything looked good, and the Combat Control Team hadn’t reported a problem.

“Welcome to the middle of fucking nowhere. Let’s shut her down,” he said into the helicopter’s intercom.

As the copilot started to shut down the aircraft, he opened the encrypted frequency used to communicate with SOCCOM.

“Control, this is Black Magic. The package arrived intact at Blacktop, over.”

A few seconds passed before the satellite communications system brought the reply.

“This is Control. Copy, Black Magic intact at Blacktop. Radar and electronic surveillance aircraft reports a clean ride. Refuel and stand by to commence run to Holding Area Alpha. Break. Clarified rules of engagement follow. Do not depart Alpha without clearance from Control. Once cleared to depart Alpha, under no circumstances will Black Magic cross the border or engage hostile forces located across the border. If hostile forces cross the border in pursuit of Blackjack or employ weapons to engage Blackjack from across the border, Black Magic will maintain a two-kilometer standoff distance from hostile forces. How copy, over.”

“This is Black Magic actual, copy and understand rules of engagement, over,” Major Borelli said.

“Control, out.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” asked Captain Graves, his copilot, over the internal circuit.

Before he could answer, his crew chief, Sergeant First Class Papovich, chimed in over the system. “Cover-your-ass bullshit. That’s what.”

“D.C. does not want to lose one of these helicopters on Russian soil,” the major said.

“I get that,” Sergeant First Class Papovich said, “but the two-kilometer standoff crap is pure political horseshit. If the Ruskies are in hot pursuit, they’ll never open the distance to two kilometers. I wonder if Blackjack is aware of this.”

“I’m sure they are. These birds aren’t configured for a fight. Blackjack will slip quietly across the border, and we’ll extract them without incident. In and out, undetected. That’s what we do. That’s why they picked us,” the major said.

“You don’t really believe this is going to be quiet, do you, sir?” Papovich asked.

“Not really. We’ll work within my interpretation of the rules, as usual.”

“Then I recommend some mental stretching while we wait, sir, because I get the distinct feeling that this mission is going to test the limits of your ability to interpret the ROE.”

“You and me both,” the major replied.

He raised his night vision goggles and stared out into the sheer darkness. A thin, dark blue line on the western horizon broke the black veil beyond the cockpit, but that was the extent of what his eyes could perceive. He wouldn’t be able to see the flurry of human activity around his helicopter for several minutes, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. He sat there and contemplated Papovich’s words, wondering just how far he would have to push the limits of his rules of engagement tonight.

Chapter 47

Jared Hoffman (“Gosha”) pointed a suppressed semiautomatic pistol at Arkady Belyakov, contemplating the man’s fate. The scientist had given them absolutely no trouble since his handoff from the Solntsevskaya mafiya. In fact, he’d nearly tripped over himself to be helpful up to this point, offering practical advice about approaching the parking lot this late at night. He clearly had no idea that this was a one-way trip for him. Belyakov was on the short list of personnel Reznikov had identified as critical to the bioweapons program. The rest on the list had already been killed by the Solntsevskaya crew. Belyakov was still alive because of the biometric fingerprint scanner in Building Six.

“You’re not Russian,” Belyakov said in decent English.

“What makes you say that?” Gosha replied, in a seasoned Moscow accent.

“Something,” Belyakov answered.

Misha held up a fist from the driver’s seat, which was barely visible by the light cast from a distant street lamp.

“Quiet time,” Gosha said.

Misha listened for a few moments, then spoke into his headset in clear English. “Copy. We’re moving. Black Magic is at the FARP. We’re up,” he said to Gosha.

“I knew this wasn’t an internal operation,” the scientist said. “Even the Russians wouldn’t use mafiya scum.”

Gosha didn’t respond. The SUV lurched out of its hiding place in a shadowy corner of the parking lot adjacent to a darkened three-story apartment complex. The town of Koltsovo, on the outskirts of the Vektor complex, had shown few signs of life when they arrived forty-five minutes earlier, shortly after dusk. Koltsovo served mainly as a feeder community for the sprawling scientific facility and a few nearby industrial businesses, but contained few amenities like grocery stores or restaurants. Beyond nine o’clock in the evening, there was very little reason for anyone to be out on the streets, which suited their plan well.

The facility’s lights appeared ahead of them, less than a kilometer down the access road leading from the edge of town. Misha used Belyakov’s security card to pass through the unmanned vehicle gate and proceeded to the empty parking lot in front of the Virology compound, choosing a space offset to the right of the main entrance. Once they were in place, Misha turned in his seat.

“Dr. Belyakov. You and I are going inside—”

“At 10:40 in the night? They will be highly suspicious. They’re probably watching us right now, calling for reinforcements,” Belyakov said.

“No. They can’t see us here. This is a blind spot for their cameras. We’ll approach together. You in front, me in—”

“This won’t work. Each person has to swipe a card to gain access to the building. If you try to step inside with me, they’ll trigger the alarm and my family will die,” Belyakov pleaded.

“I have another card that will work. I just need to get inside without them setting off any alarms. Keep thinking about your family, Dr. Belyakov. If anything goes wrong, they die along with you.”

“I understand,” Belyakov said.

“All right,” Misha said. “Showtime.”

“Lower all of the windows,” Gosha said.

He wanted unrestricted fields of fire for the short period of time he would be stuck in the car. Once Misha and the scientist were on their way to the entrance, Gosha wrestled his primary weapon from a large duffle bag in the rear compartment and settled into the back seat of the SUV. He rested the suppressed AK-107U in his lap and actively scanned the lighted parking lot for any signs of activity. His orders were to engage and neutralize any security patrols that approached before Misha neutralized the main security station.

Vasily Rusnak watched the two men dressed in civilian clothes approach the main entrance and huffed. He didn’t recognize either of the men, but that didn’t surprise him. He’d worked the overnight shift from the very beginning of his employment at Vektor nearly seven months ago. Nighttime entry to the Virology complex was rare, unless there was a national epidemic or pandemic emergency. They had been extremely busy in April, when rumors of some kind of epidemic in Monchegorsk had kept scientists and government officials running in and out of the building at all hours of the day. All of that had died down by now, leaving him to read books and sleep most of the night. He really hoped this wasn’t an emergency.

His hope dwindled when the first card was swiped in the external lobby. He examined the picture that appeared on his security monitor above the man’s basic information. Arkady Belyakov. Senior Research Scientist. P4/A. The “A” stood for “all access,” which meant that he was important. Vasily quickly matched the face on the camera to the monitor.

“Straighten up,” he said to the guard next to him, “This guy’s a senior scientist in Building Six. Might be the beginning of a long night.”

“Shit. Not again,” the other guard said, finishing up a text and pressing send.

The second card swiped eliminated any doubt that they would be in for a series of long nights. Pyotr Roskov. Research Scientist. P4.

Rusnak sighed. “Another P4. We’re screwed.”

“Should we give the team outside Building Six a heads-up?” the other guard asked, standing up to straighten out his uniform.

“Not yet. Maybe one of them had some kind of brilliant flash of genius that they needed to work on right away. Who the fuck knows with these guys?” he said, taking a second look at Roskov’s digital photo.

“This guy needs to update his security picture…” he started to say, before stopping in midsentence.

It wasn’t the same man at all. He looked up from the monitor, catching three 9mm armor-piercing projectiles in the face. His body hadn’t begun to sway in its chair before his partner’s head absorbed a similar burst.

Misha turned to Belyakov, keeping his suppressed PP2000 submachine gun trained on the door leading into the main facility from the security station. The senior scientist stared off into the middle distance, his face frozen in place by the unexpected act of violence. He snapped his fingers in front of Belyakov, breaking the trance.

“Have a seat in the waiting area. One wrong move, and you end up like them. Go,” he said.

While the scientist scurried to a small seating area to the right, he passed word to the rest of the team through the specialized communication system under his clothing. They had opted to use a modified throat microphone system, which sat lower on the neck than traditional systems and could be worn with a collared shirt or mock turtleneck. The earpiece was affixed to the inside of the ear with a natural resin that could be detached using the right chemicals, but would stay in place and function under water. Best of all, the entire system operated wirelessly, communicating with a transmitter/receiver that could be placed anywhere.

This convenience eliminated the need to run wires through their clothing, which became problematic if they had to shed outfits. The CIA had express-mailed the gear to Viktor when it became apparent that the Solntsevskaya Bratva wasn’t familiar with the technology. Based on what Misha had seen, they didn’t seem to be big on technology at all. It was clear that they had outsourced the assembly of the computer network he had used in their warehouse. Nobody could answer a single question about it.

Gosha arrived at the door, which he had jammed open with a small backpack. He carried a similar submachine gun under his brown leather jacket, the suppressor visible along his right thigh.

“Can you bring that bag?” Misha said.

Gosha removed the bag, and the door pneumatically hissed behind them. He tossed the backpack over the security counter to Misha, who had just kicked the dead guard out of the chair. He barely caught it, giving him a momentary scare.

“Take it easy with this shit,” Misha said.

“Nothing that can break,” Gosha replied.

“I’m not worried about it breaking.”

While Gosha guarded Belyakov, Misha set about the task of disabling the security systems relevant to their mission. He had already embedded a Trojan horse virus that would allow him to access the full security suite from any computer hooked into Vektor’s intranet. He traded the bloodied chair for the one used by the other guard and started typing. Within thirty seconds, he had accessed one of the subdirectories and activated the backdoor entry.

He now had complete, unfettered access to every system except for the self-destruct protocol. He started by deactivating the motion-and pressure-activated lights along the triple-layered perimeter fence near the assault team.

“Yuri, this is Misha. You are clear to breach the perimeter fences.”

“Roger. Assault team moving.”

Next, he proceed in a logical order to disable every security system that could lead to the assault team’s detection as they broke into Building Number Five, which was connected to Building Number Six by a windowless, above-ground, reinforced hallway. He was mainly concerned with the motion-activated lights. Lights tripped by the assault team might attract security to the area, where they were sure to discover a broken window. All of the other systems triggered an alert in the main security station, where nobody would see them.

Chapter 48

Richard Farrington (“Yuri”) held the breach in the chain-link fence open for Sevastyan Bazin (“Seva”), the team’s demolitions expert. Once Seva had squeezed through, he released the fence and attached gray zip-ties at several points along the cut, pulling them tight and trimming the loose ends. From a distance, the section would look perfectly intact to one of the highly infrequent roving patrols. Up close was a different story, but they didn’t plan to be around long enough for that to be a problem. Finished with his handiwork, he turned and located the team through his Russian made PN-9K night vision goggles. They were huddled at the corner of Building Five, scanning the darkness between the inner fence and buildings. He arrived at the corner after a dead sprint and positioned himself behind Grisha, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“Anything?” he whispered.

Grisha shook his head. Farrington leaned over him and examined Building Six. Windowless for the first two of four stories, the target building showed no signs of life through his night vision goggles. The front of the building was attached to the concrete enclosed tunnel that connected it to Building Five. There were no more buildings beyond Building Six. The Virology complex was configured as a series of six connected buildings. Each consecutive building represented a higher level of security, providing a simple, progressive security arrangement. An employee cleared to work in Building Five could access areas appropriate to their duties anywhere between the main security station and the entrance to the access tunnel leading to Building Six.

Likewise, in order to ultimately reach Building Five, that employee would have to pass through each consecutive building in numeric order, forward or backward. Each building was separated by one of these enclosed tunnels, protected by security card readers. The system kept track of their security card use and verified that no security point was skipped. Employees authorized to work in Building Six had to endure additional security measures.

A manned security station in the lobby of Building Six monitored the entrance to the tunnel, actively granting or denying access. The door leading into the tunnel from Building Five was constructed of bullet-resistant, shatterproof glass surrounded by a thin, reinforced metal frame, allowing the security station to visually verify that only one person stood in the card reader vestibule, without relying on security cameras. The cameras were mainly utilized to match the identity of the security card user with their Vektor profile.

The final measure only compounded their problem. Building Six’s security system included a few cutouts from the main security program. Most important, the alarm system was independent, sounding directly at the Vektor Quick Reaction Station (QRS) and alerting mobile patrols via electronic tablet. This added security feature posed a challenge for his team. Misha could disable the cameras and the door, but there was nothing he could do within the security system to hamper the guards’ own vision. The sight of armed men huddled outside of the tunnel would guarantee the quick arrival of at least a dozen ex-special forces security contractors, which is why he had been more than happy to include the breathing version of Arkady Belyakov in the most updated plan.

“Misha, confirm that the alarms for Building Five are disabled,” he whispered.

“All security features through Building Five have been deactivated, with the exception of the cameras outside of the access hallway.”

“Good work. We’re accessing Building Five. Send Gosha and Belyakov.”

“Understood. Gosha is en route.”

Yuri patted Grisha on the back and went to work on the nearest ground-floor window with Seva.

Dressed in one of the custom-fitted Vektor security uniforms provided by the mafiya, Gosha peered through the security station’s front window into the parking lot, checking for any signs of a roving security patrol. Bratva surveillance confirmed that the roving patrols occasionally checked on the main station, peering through the door. If they arrived and found one guard on duty instead of two, they might access the station and investigate, which would put Misha in a tough situation. They had hastily cleaned the walls of obvious bloodstains visible from the door and changed into the Vektor security uniform provided by the mafiya, but the room wouldn’t stand up to the most cursory inspection by anyone approaching the security counter.

They had dragged the bodies into the security vault located behind the counter, but there was no way they could adequately clean the sheer volume of blood that had pumped onto the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor behind them without dragging in janitorial gear. They wouldn’t be in place at Vektor long enough to justify a tidy wipe down. Any curious security officers that decided to step inside the lobby would join the pile of bodies in the vault.

“Gosha, you’re up. I’ve deactivated all security through Building Five. Press the green button on the access panels to open doors. Do not enter Building Five until Yuri is in position. The security guards in Building Six will be able to see you as soon as you enter.”

“Got it,” Gosha said, motioning to the scientist with his hand. “Time to earn your family’s release, Dr. Belyakov.”

“What are you looking for in Building Six?” Belyakov asked.

“Don’t worry about that yet. Just keep your mind focused on what will happen to your family if you fuck this up. Get moving.”

Gosha followed the scientist across the lobby, pausing to hand his PP2000 to Misha. The security uniform provided no possible way to conceal the compact submachine gun, and main station guards were not issued weapons. Only the Building Six station guards, roving patrols and Quick Reaction force carried weapons.

A few minutes later, Gosha paused in Building Three. “Hold up,” he said.

The scientist stopped and slowly turned around, exposing beads of sweat that had formed on his ghostly pale face. The guy looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“All right. Here’s how this will work. Another team is waiting for us in a room next to the access panel leading into the Building Six tunnel. The door to that room will be open. As we approach the transparent security door, you focus on the access panel and only the access panel. Do not look at the men in the open door. Understood?”

“Yes,” Belyakov replied.

“One of the men will slide a weapon in front of me on the floor. I will kick this into the vestibule with us. If I kick this into the back of your feet, you do not look down.”

“Won’t the guards see it?” Belyakov asked.

“No. The cameras cannot pan down to the floor, and the door’s frame is thick enough along the floor to block their view. Are we good?”

“Yes. You’re going to kill them like the others,” he stated.

“That’s right,” Gosha said.

“You’re going to kill me too,” Belyakov said.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t follow my directions. When we approach the access panel, you will use your card,” he said, handing Belyakov the security card, which was attached to a lanyard.

“They only allow one person through at a time. No exceptions. This won’t work,” Belyakov protested. “They won’t open the door with you in the vestibule.”

“Then you and I will have to convince them to make an exception. Stick to the script.”

Gennady Lyzlov sat up at his station and examined the rightmost computer monitor closely. One of the camera feeds showed two people walking briskly through Building Five’s main hallway. He used a computer mouse to take control of the camera and magnified the image, recognizing the scientist immediately. Dr. Arkady Belyakov. The scientist was no stranger to late-night laboratory work, but he usually arrived with one of his colleagues or lab assistants in tow, not a security guard.

“What do you think of this?” he said to his partner, who had already taken notice.

The second guard, sitting in a chair to the right of Lyzlov, leaned forward to check the computer screen.

“Zoom in on the guard,” he said.

The image shifted slightly, panning across the guard’s face.

“He’s definitely not one of the two guards at the main station,” the guard said.

“Let’s see what they want. Keep your hand near the alarm,” Lyzlov said, pointing to a gray button the size of a teacup saucer located to the far right side of the desk.

Gosha kept three feet between himself and Belyakov as they approached the vestibule. He wanted to give Yuri adequate room to slide the unsuppressed PP2000 along the floor between them. The trick would be to kick the weapon hard enough to get it over the vestibule lip. Too hard and he might flip it, which could momentarily expose the black metal submachine gun to the guard station thirty meters beyond the final door. Too soft and it might not make it over, requiring him to shuffle his feet to push it the rest of the way. Either of these scenarios might draw unwanted attention. Eliminating the guards without raising the alarm would require a near perfect confluence of events, which couldn’t be forced.

He watched the scientist pass the open doorway on this right, thankful that he didn’t panic. As Belyakov opened the vestibule door, Gosha approached the same point in the hallway, sensing movement in his peripheral vision and resisting the same temptation to look. He heard the metallic clatter of the PP2000 slide across the floor directly in his path. Without looking down, he brought his right foot forward in what appeared to be a normal step and connected with the weapon, sending it forward. The PP2000 slid toward the angled lip, slowing down as it rose slightly. It stopped at the top of the lip, perfectly exposed to the guard station, before it dropped into the vestibule. Gosha’s earpiece crackled.

“Take the guard on the left first. His hand is closest to the panic button. Guard on the right is armed with the same weapon at your feet, carried in a sling set across his right back. If you can’t convince them to open the door, I’ll open it for you, but you’ll lose any element of surprise.”

He nodded slightly. Element of surprise was a stretch of the word in this case, but he understood what Misha meant. Just the simple act of opening the door would occupy one of the seated guard’s hands for a fraction of a second. He would need that time to pull this off. If their assessment of Vektor’s security was completely accurate, the guards assigned to this station were rotated from the Quick Reaction team.

Before Belyakov could raise his security card to the reader, a voice echoed through the vestibule.

“Good evening, Dr. Belyakov. Sorry to bother you, but I need the security guard to step out of the vestibule.”

“Much to my dismay, this gentleman is required to stay in my presence until further notice. We have a situation worse than Monchegorsk, and the director insists that I be guarded at all times. He escorted me from my home,” Belyakov started.

Very nice. Right on script. The guard on the right stood up to face them.

“I’m just following orders. Mr. Ivkin was explicit in his directions,” Gosha said, invoking the name of Vektor’s security director.

“I spoke with Dr. Rodin and Zaslovsky on the way over, and they have escorts as well. They’re a few minutes behind us,” Belyakov said. “I’m surprised you haven’t been notified. This is a bit annoying.”

“I’ll have to verify this with QRS,” said the guard on the right.

“Hold on, officer,” Belyakov said, turning to Gosha. “Can’t you leave me here? This is a reinforced concrete tunnel, and unlike you, these guards are armed. I think a handoff at this point wouldn’t violate Mr. Ivkin’s instructions.”

“I don’t know,” Gosha said, “he was really clear about this. I don’t want to lose my job.”

“What could possibly happen? You can’t follow me around the building. You’re not cleared beyond this point. They’ll buzz the door, and you can watch me safely enter the tunnel. I’ll personally call Mr. Ivkin and notify him that you did your job well and that I arrived safely at the lab.”

“I suppose that would be all right,” Gosha said, putting on a conflicted face.

Belyakov swiped his card across the reader, turning the door handle LED indicator green. He turned to the guards next and pleaded with them. “Officers, please open the door, and I’ll call Mr. Ivkin. He shouldn’t put you in a position like this. We have a major disaster on our hands, and we don’t have time for this kind of miscommunication. Your station should have been notified immediately. It’s not this guy’s fault.”

“All right, but he stays in the vestibule,” said the guard on the right.

“That’s fine, as long as you call Mr. Ivkin to explain,” Gosha said, tensing for the moment the door buzzed.

His earpiece activated.

“Go,” was all Misha said to set everything in motion.

Gosha immediately kneeled to retrieve the submachine gun, beating the buzzer by half of a second. While he raised the submachine gun to his shoulder, Belyakov threw the door open and pinned it to the left side of the concrete hallway with his body, clearing Gosha’s field of fire. The operative quickly centered the leftmost guard’s head in the PP2000’s holographic sight and fired a short burst, not waiting to see the result. He had a margin of milliseconds to engage the second guard, which didn’t allow him the luxury of confirming the kill. He shifted to the second guard and fired a longer burst center mass, unaware that the guard had managed to retrieve the weapon slung around his back and put it into action.

The first armor-piercing rounds from the guard’s hastily fired burst struck the bullet-resistant glass at a shallow angle and deflected into the doorway, striking Gosha in the chest. The brute penetration force of the remaining rounds shattered the glass, chipping the smooth concrete tunnel surface behind it.

Knocked backward into the vestibule by a sledgehammer-like strike to his chest, Gosha lost his balance and hit the door frame with his head, sending a flash of light across his vision. He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened to him, but he slid to the floor confident that the two guards were dead, as evidenced through his blurred vision, by the two massive scarlet stains on the wall behind the security station. He lost consciousness as the rest of his team poured through the vestibule, crunching the glass around him.

Farrington followed his team through the vestibule, assessing the situation. The two guards were obviously hit, but their status was unknown. Gosha lay slumped against the vestibule wall, unresponsive to Seva’s attempts to revive him. He hadn’t seen any blood or gore in the vestibule, which gave him hope that Gosha had only been knocked unconscious somehow. Grisha reached the security counter and reported.

“The guards are dead. I think they were knocked clean of the desk. I don’t see any sign of an activated alarm on any of their screens.”

“Misha, can you confirm that they didn’t hit the alarm?” Farrington said.

“Hold on. I’m reviewing the feed. A couple more seconds…and, we’re clear. Neither guard hit the panic button, unless the back wall is one big panic button. Gosha nailed them both.”

“Excellent. We’re moving to Building Six.”

Farrington turned to Seva, who was still working on the downed operative. “How is he?”

“Vitals are fine. He took one hit to the vest,” Seva said, knocking on the boron carbide protective plate insert under Gosha’s uniform.

“All right. Pick him up and start moving him back to the main security station,” Farrington said.

“Got it,” Seva said.

“We have a problem,” Sasha said.

Farrington turned to face Alexander Filatov (“Sasha”), who nodded at Dr. Belyakov. The scientist stood frozen against the concrete tunnel wall, holding the shattered door open like a statue. His glassy eyes seemed to be focused on the concrete wall beyond Sasha.

“You can let go of the door now. We need to move,” Farrington said, stepping forward to grab the scientist.

“Look at his chest,” Sasha said.

Farrington examined him closer, now seeing the tight pattern of red dots stitched across his upper torso. He grabbed Belyakov by the right sleeve and pulled him forward to reveal a gore-splattered wall. Five distinct dents in the bloodied concrete indicated where the armor-piercing rounds had stopped after passing cleanly through his body. The scientist collapsed in a rapidly spreading pool of blood that he hadn’t noticed when they first burst into the tunnel.

“Motherfucker. Let’s get him to the terminal before his body temperature drops! Misha, open the door to Building Six.”

He ripped Belyakov’s security card from the lanyard hung around his neck and helped Sasha lift the dead weight onto his back. He hustled ahead to join Grisha at the first hermetic door, which slid open at an excruciatingly slow pace. Blood poured out of Belyakov onto the green floor as they waited for it to close, trapping them between two hermetic barriers. Once the outside door sealed, the inner door would slide open, admitting them to the building. Based on the schematics downloaded from the system, they would have to travel the entire length of the building to the furthest door on the right, which led directly to the bioweapons lab entrance. Farrington wasn’t overly optimistic about their chances of getting through the biometric station.

“Seva, I need you back here when you’re done. We might need the Semtex.”

“Got it. I’m halfway to the main security station,” Seva replied.

“How bad is it?” Misha asked.

“Doctor Belyakov lost half of his blood from what I can tell,” he replied.

“Should I call this in to base?”

“Negative. We’ll get the door open. We just might have to wake the entire neighborhood doing it,” Farrington said.

Chapter 49

Dmitry Ardankin sped through the maze of computer stations in the joint operations to reach his desk. He needed to contact the Foreign Intelligence Service director immediately. One of the analysts had discovered something nearly unfathomable to Ardankin while sifting through a batch of digital pictures sent to the SVR by the Federal Customs Service. The batch formed part of their expanded search protocol, which started with all documented Australian visitors and expanded to citizens of the UK and Scandinavian countries. He dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct home line and waited.

“You better have something, Dmitry,” the director answered.

“I do. You won’t fucking believe this. An Australian woman named Katie Reynolds flew into Vladivostok on Sunday and bought a ticket to Moscow on the Trans-Siberian Railway. She’s supposedly a travel journalist. We’ve been running all Australians through the facial recognition software against known military personnel or agents associated with Richard Farrington. We included the young woman, Erin Foley, who disappeared from the American Embassy in Stockholm. One of our operatives in Stockholm was killed with a knife from behind. Everyone here agreed that this wasn’t done by the team that hit Reznikov’s apartment and—”

“I assume this is going somewhere?”

“Of course, sir. Katie Reynolds’ face is an 88 % match with Erin Foley’s. Two high-profile operatives from the Stockholm disaster are back in Russia, and they might be headed to Moscow,” Ardankin said.

“You have no idea where this woman is?” Pushnoy asked.

“I just received facial recognition confirmation. We’re trying to piece this together right now,” Ardankin said.

“I doubt very much that they are headed to Moscow. The Trans-Siberian stops in Yekaterinburg, the last known destination for the other agent,” Pushnoy said.

“But there’s nothing critical there. We’ve analyzed it and have so far come up empty. No high-ranking visits are scheduled, no sensitive installations worth targeting…hold on a second,” he said, covering the receiver.

“I’m on with the director!” he yelled, frantically waving away the analyst knocking at his office door.

The lanky man ignored his protest and opened the door, causing Ardankin to stand up from his chair. He’d kill this man with his bare hands for interrupting a call with the director.

“Katie Reynolds boarded a plane headed for Bangkok, Thailand. The flight left Tolmachevo Airport, Novosibirsk at 9:20 local time. One-way ticket. She’s gone, sir. The flight will be over Mongolia at this point,” the man said, frowning.

“Thank you. Close the door,” he ordered. “The news just got worse. I’ve just been told that Reynolds, aka Erin Foley, left Novosibirsk ninety minutes ago on a one-way flight to Thailand. Whatever they had planned must be finished,” Ardankin said.

“Any sign of Farrington?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Keep looking. Something tells me he’s still around. Start making an assessment of possible targets in Novosibirsk and report to me when you’ve compiled a list. I may have to bring this higher up the chain of command,” Pushnoy said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep you posted,” Ardankin said to an empty line.

He didn’t like the sound of this. The only person higher in Pushnoy’s chain of command was Putin himself.

Pushnoy had figured out the target before he hung up the phone. It all made perfect sense in the context of Farrington’s original mission to abduct Reznikov and the recent biological attack in the United States. Ardankin would likely include the site in his list of targets, but he was unlikely to connect the dots. He didn’t possess the same information about the site’s capabilities. The situation would definitely require a call up his chain of command, which he didn’t relish, but first a more practical step.

He opened a secure internet connection to SVR headquarters and searched for a phone number only his private database could provide so quickly. Several options appeared on his screen, and he selected the number with the highest probability for Sunday evening. He put on the headset hanging next to the computer monitor and dialed the number through an encrypted VoIP system that would sanitize all identifiable aspects of the call.

“Hello?” a female voice answered.

“Good evening, Marina. This is an extremely important call for Alexei Ivkin. I need to speak with him immediately,” Pushnoy said.

“Hold on,” she said, and he heard harsh whispering over the line.

“Who is this?” an angry male voice said. “How did you get this number?”

“Listen to me very closely, Mr. Ivkin, and do not hang up…” Pushnoy said.

“This is an invasion of privacy. Why is your voice garbled?”

“My voice is garbled for the same reason you claim to be on duty at Vektor every other Sunday. To hide something. Now shut the fuck up and listen. I have solid intelligence leading me to believe that Building Six may be the target of a terrorist attack.”

“Building Six? Impossible. Nobody can get inside.”

“I suggest you make a call or head over there yourself,” Pushnoy said.

“If there’s a problem, they’ll call me. I think you had better identify yourself,” Ivkin said.

“I work for an organization powerful enough to know that you’re fucking the twenty-five-year-old housekeeper right under your wife’s nose. Make the call or I can guarantee a visit from your wife within the next twenty minutes.” Pushnoy hung up.

Chapter 50

Misha opened the door to the security lobby just as the phone rang.

“Set him down on one of the couches,” he said, returning to the desk.

While Seva set the unconscious operative down on one of the lobby couches, Misha reviewed some basic information about the duty roster and the evening’s assigned duress codes. Satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, he picked up the phone.

“Building Six,” he said.

“What the fuck are you two doing over there? How long does it take to answer a phone? Never mind. Have you seen Mr. Popov tonight?”

“Mr. Popov” was the trigger word for a series of verbal exchanges confirming that the main security station hadn’t been eliminated or taken hostage.

“Mr. Popov is on vacation in Sevastopol. Mr. Mirokin has taken his place.”

The combination of “Sevastopol” and “Mr. Mirokin” told the Quick Reaction Station that the speaker on the phone was one of the guards assigned to the post, but there was still the possibility that the speaker was answering questions under duress.

“How long will Mr. Popov be gone?”

“Six days,” Misha said.

Six days meant everything was fine. Any other number would lock down Vektor.

“Very well. I’m sending over four men to reinforce security. Two men will stay in the main station. The others will join you.”

“What’s going on?” Misha said into the phone, mouthing “go” to Seva, who disappeared into the building.

“The security director received unconfirmed intelligence regarding a possible threat to the facility. I’m increasing the number of roving patrols and stationing guards at both the main and pedestrian gates along the access road.”

“All right. Maybe we should conduct a sweep of the building,” Misha said.

“I’m sending a group to examine the outside. Mr. Ivkin doesn’t want anyone to access the building.”

“He doesn’t trust us?” Misha said, fishing for more information.

“He has no idea what we might be up against. He said this could all be a bunch of bullshit, but he’s not taking any chances. The reinforcement team should arrive in about five minutes.”

“Got it. I’ll notify the idiots at the front station,” Misha said.

“Perfect. That will save me a headache.”

The call ended, immediately followed by Yuri’s voice through his earpiece.

“What are we looking at?”

“Four men arriving in under five minutes. Someone passed unconfirmed intelligence to the security director about a possible threat. Nothing specific, or they would be going ape-shit right now,” Misha said.

“We don’t have much time. I’m sending Sasha back to help you take care of the Quick Reaction team. Keep it as quiet as possible. Seva, what is your ETA?” Farrington said.

“I’m halfway through Building One.”

“We’re entering the room with the biometric scanner. If this doesn’t work, we’ll blow our way inside. One way or the other, the Russian bioweapons program ends tonight. Misha, call this into base. Berg needs to know that the cat might be out of the bag. They need to watch the local military response closely.”

“Got it.”

Before calling base on his satellite phone, he decided to move Gosha. The lobby was visible from the internal door, and the sight of a guard lying in a heap on one of the couches was sure to cause a problem. While lifting Gosha off the couch, a thought flashed through his mind. Their SUV had been the only vehicle in the parking lot. On any other night, the vehicle might not get a second glance, but given a possible terrorist threat, it was sure to attract attention. The vehicle had deeply tinted windows protecting the rear compartment from prying eyes, but he couldn’t remember if they had left anything suspicious in the passenger compartment. Fuck. He’d have to check it out or move it out of sight if he had time.

He deposited Gosha’s limp body on the floor in front of the couch and walked to the front entrance, swiping the dead security guard’s access card. The card reader flashed green, and he heard the door mechanisms turn.

“Yuri,” Misha said, “I’m headed out to check on our vehicle. I can’t remember if we left anything in the passenger compartment that might be a problem. QR is guaranteed to check it out. Sasha. Where are you?”

“I just passed Seva in Building Three at a dead sprint,” Sasha replied.

“Shit,” Misha muttered, “all of the windows are down.”

Farrington copied Misha’s last transmission, but didn’t respond. Misha could handle whatever showed up at his doorstep. Right now, he was focused on scrubbing Belyakov’s right index finger clean of the blood that had poured down his arms while slung over Sasha’s back. He held the finger under Grisha’s flashlight, barely satisfied with the job done by a combination of spit and his jacket sleeve.

“Move him over to the scanner,” he barked.

Grisha lifted the blood-slicked corpse by the armpits and dragged it to the biometric reader. Farrington followed, keeping the hand raised above the body to prevent blood from pouring over it. Farrington leaned over the body, still holding the hand high, and swiped Belyakov’s card, activating the access panel. The screen greeted the deceased scientist and asked that he press his right index finger in the scanner below. Farrington obliged the machine and waited. His hope for a successful mission faltered when the screen flashed, “Access Denied.”

“Shit. Access Denied. Misha, do you have any ideas?”

“I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. We have guests,” Misha replied.

Grisha kicked the wall next to the machine. “I’d microwave his fucking hand if I thought it would help.”

“His peripheral temperature probably dropped like a rock as soon as he was hit. His body did everything it could to preserve the critical organs, which included redirecting blood from the extremities. Fuck!” Farrington said.

“Stick the finger in one of the bullet wounds,” Grisha said.

Farrington could hear Seva’s footsteps in the hallway outside of the room.

“That might work, but we’ll have to clean it again,” Farrington said.

“You could stick it in your mouth,” Grisha replied.

“To clean it?”

“No. To warm it up.”

Farrington stared at Grisha for a moment, unable to come up with any reason why he shouldn’t stick Belyakov’s index finger in his mouth. He really wanted to come up with one. Without hesitating another moment, he grimaced and inserted the finger in his mouth, fighting back an incredible urge to vomit.

“I hope this works. I don’t want this to be one of my last images of you,” Grisha said.

Farrington managed to mumble a few obscenities, just before Seva entered the door a few seconds later, out of breath.

“Good thing he didn’t suggest sticking it somewhere else,” Seva said.

“That might work too,” Grisha added.

Farrington removed the finger, spitting in disgust, and placed it against the scanner glass. Nothing happened for a few moments, and Farrington started to shake his head. Suddenly, the screen turned green and flashed, “Access Granted. Welcome back, Dr. Belyakov.” He turned to the two operatives.

“Fuck both of you,” Farrington said.

“Seva, remove Belyakov’s right hand with the hatchet in your pack and deliver it to Misha. We shouldn’t be more than a minute or two behind you.”

Misha heard Yuri over the net, but was far from celebrating their success with anything beyond a subtle smirk. The Quick Reaction force had pulled into the parking lot earlier than expected, and caught him getting out of the driver’s seat of the SUV. They pulled up ten meters away, perpendicular to the SUV, and switched to high beams. He could barely see them as they climbed out of the car. His only confirmation that all four had exited came from the sound of four separate doors slamming shut. He glanced up at the main entrance to Vektor, but saw nothing that gave him any hope that he would survive this encounter. He carried a suppressed pistol behind his back, tucked into his pants, but had no chance of successfully taking down four trained men that he couldn’t see. If they asked him to turn around, he was screwed.

“What the fuck are you doing out here? We have a situation. Didn’t they call you?” one of the guards demanded.

He had already planned his response. “They did, but I wanted to get something out of my car before this place turned into a madhouse.”

“Are you out of your mind? Wait a minute. How did you get a car onto the campus? None of us are allowed to drive inside,” the guard said, stepping forward far enough for Misha to see him.

The sight of full body armor, ballistic helmet included, was not an encouraging sight. Neither was the shortened AKS-74U, fitted with a reflex sight, slung across his chest in a ready position. Misha’s pistol might buy him enough time to get behind the SUV, but that would be the full extent of its usefulness. He hoped someone was listening to his one-way conversation and had figured out a plan to neutralize the situation quietly. He decided to continue with his ruse, stalling for a miracle.

“All right. It’s not my car. My girlfriend works in building one as a lab assistant. That’s how I got this job. She wanted to come by. This is her car,” Misha said.

“And she’s inside? What did you forget, condoms?”

“Nothing ever happens on this shift,” Misha said.

“Well, you picked the wrong night for this shit. I’m going to make sure both of you lose your jobs. Get back inside the building.”

The lead guard turned and yelled to one of his men, “Call this in, and check out the SUV.”

Misha stepped sideways out of the glaring light, careful not to expose his pistol. Now he could see the entire group. One of the guards on the far side of the white four-wheel drive security jeep walked toward the SUV, while the others started walking to the Virology compound entrance. The lead guard stopped and stared at him incredulously.

“Are you going to stand there all night? Let’s go. Open the door.”

He had stalled the inevitable as long as possible. Where the hell was Sasha? As if on cue, a voice spoke up in his earpiece. “Take the guard talking to you first, then the one by the SUV…on three, two…”

“I’m talking to you!” the guard yelled.

“One,” Misha said, reaching behind his back with blinding speed.

The guard failed to react as Misha fired three hollow-point 9mm projectiles at his indignant face. Two of the rounds struck less than a centimeter above the lip of his ballistic helmet, deflecting into the night sky. The third struck the bridge of his nose, dropping him like a rag doll onto the dark pavement. He swung the semiautomatic pistol in the direction of the guard walking toward the SUV and concentrated his fire on a point high on the distant man’s torso. As the rounds started to strike his intended target, he was vaguely aware that the other two guards had fallen like the first.

The jacketed hollow-point ammunition in his Russian-made GSh-18 pistol had no chance of penetrating the guard’s body armor, so he went with a different strategy. Saturation and shock. The GSh-18’s magazines held eighteen rounds, which he used to pummel the man while advancing close enough to deliver a coup de grâce. The guard stumbled backward, trying desperately to remain standing, but unable to withstand the pain and kinetic energy imparted by a maelstrom of copper-lined, lead-core projectiles striking his chest and arms at 1,750 feet per second. Misha reserved the two remaining rounds and calmly approached the downed guard.

“Please. Don’t kill me. This is just a job. I have a family. Three kids. Don’t do this,” the guard sputtered, unable to raise his shattered arms.

Misha considered his words for a brief moment and fired the last two rounds at point blank range into the pavement next to his head. He had no doubt whatsoever that this man would have gutted him if the tables were turned, but there was no reason to execute him. He was unaware of the bioweapons program hidden in the basement of Building Six, and judging by his wounds, he posed no threat to the team. The man stared up at him, unable to respond. Misha kneeled next to the man and rolled him onto his side. He ripped his P25 radio out of its holder on the backside of his ballistic vest and yanked out the coil cord connected to the man’s shoulder microphone. He rolled the guard onto his stomach and turned to face the main entrance. Gosha stood in the open doorway, covering the parking lot with Misha’s suppressed PP2000. Sasha was running across the pavement, headed in his direction.

“I need the keys. We’re almost out of here,” Sasha said.

“Where were you?” Misha said.

“Gosha had it under control by the time I arrived. You were in good hands the whole time,” Sasha said, catching the keys thrown at him.

Misha jogged to the doorway, anxious to finish the job at Vektor. The suppressed weapons had created an unmistakable racket across the quiet campus, certain to attract any nearby roving patrol.

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Misha said, punching Gosha in the shoulder.

“Just in time to save your ass. What were you doing out there?” Gosha said.

“Rolling up the windows you left down.”

“I didn’t have the keys,” Gosha replied.

They were interrupted by Seva, who stood at the security counter holding a severed hand at arm’s length away from his body.

“Ladies, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have a special delivery,” he said, slapping the hand on the counter.

Misha rushed to the counter and grabbed the hand, which felt like a slab of meat in his grip. He handed the P25 radio to Seva, who accepted it reluctantly.

“Press the transmit button to hot mic the system. It’ll give us a few minutes of confusion on their end. Just don’t give away any operational details while you’re transmitting.”

“No shit,” Seva said.

“Yuri, where are you?” Misha said, heading to the secure vault behind the counter.

“Thirty seconds from your location. Go ahead and activate the system. Get everyone else into the car. Welcome back, Gosha,” Yuri said.

“Glad to be back.”

Less than five hundred yards away, behind Building Six, a pair of security guards doused their flashlights and crouched.

“You hear that?” one of them said.

“Barely. Sounded like suppressed semiautomatic fire. Definitely something,” the guard to his right replied.

He agreed. The gunfight lasted fewer than three seconds, ending with two distinct snaps. He couldn’t get a directional bearing, since the sounds were so faint, but there was no doubt in his mind.

“I’m calling it in. Watch our six,” he said.

While his partner backed up against the building and turned to face the way they had just come, Mikhail Blok whispered into his shoulder mic.

“Raven’s Nest, this is Raven Three-One. I report shots fired in the vicinity of the Virology compound. I say again. Shots fired in the vicinity of the Virology compound.”

He waited for several seconds, scanning the darkness over his rifle.

“No reply,” he whispered.

“Check the radio,” his partner replied.

Blok knew the radio worked. He had tested it with base and the other teams standing in the QRS ready bay. He checked anyway and quickly discovered the problem.

“Motherfucker. Hot mic,” he said.

“This is screwed, man. We’re too exposed out here,” his partner said.

“Hold on a second. You know what I just realized?” he whispered.

“What?”

“The motion lights should have lit us up when we came around the back of the building,” he said.

“Fuck. We need to get out of here. Right now.”

Blok reactivated his LED flashlight and swept the beam along the perimeter fence thirty meters away.

“What the fuck are you doing? Turn the fucking light off,” the other guard hissed.

“I’m looking for a breach. That’s why the lights are out.”

Bathed in 900 lumens of light, the contrast in color between the chain link material and the plastic zip ties was noticeable to the trained eye. He quickly found the L-shaped pattern in the fence.

“Right there. See the outline of the cut?”

“Yeah. Now turn off the fucking light.”

“I need you to verify the breach while I activate the emergency broadcast on this radio,” Blok said.

“To hell with the radio. You cover me until I’m back,” he said.

“All right,” he said and slapped his partner on the back.

The slap catalyzed the guard, who sprinted across the open area and paused at the fence area in question. Blok felt a slight rumble vibrate from the building, which he first mistook for an explosion somewhere on the Vektor campus. The other guard stopped examining the fence and started to sprint back.

What Blok saw next would stay with him for the rest of his life. Yevgeny Gribov disappeared in a thick plume of blue flame that reached forty feet into the sky, instantly super heating the air around him. He could see three more plumes spread out along the back of Building Six in his peripheral vision, but his vision was fixed to the blue shaft of flame that had entombed Gribov less than twenty meters in front of him. Frozen in terror, Blok watched the outline of his body change shape, shrinking and twisting.

Ten seconds later, the blue plume was replaced by a puffy white explosion that launched the incinerated guard’s body twenty feet in an arc through the air. As the ash particles floated down around Blok like delicate snowflakes, Gribov’s scorched, sizzling remains crashed to the ground less than three meters away, causing him to recoil in terror. His eyes met the hollow, black sockets of Gribov’s skull for a brief second, causing him to flee. He hugged the building wall the entire way, not wanting to suffer the same fate as his friend.

Farrington caught sight of the blue plumes from the parking lot, unwilling to leave until he confirmed that the system described by Reznikov had worked. The propane-fueled shafts of fire illuminated the parking lot, bathing them in an eerie cerulean blue glow.

“Holy mother,” he muttered, hopping into the front passenger seat.

Sasha had started backing the vehicle as soon as Farrington’s feet cleared the pavement, throwing him forward into the glove box.

“Sorry. We need to get out of here. Hang on,” Sasha said, turning the SUV sharply in reverse.

The maneuver would have tossed him out of the open door if he hadn’t heeded the warning. Instead, he found himself braced against the doorframe, anticipating Sasha’s next move. At this point, they needed to move forward as fast as the vehicle would take them. Farrington centered his body on the car seat just in time to avoid whiplash as the SUV lurched forward toward the main gate.

“Guards at the gate!” Sasha yelled.

Everyone reacted at once, extending the barrels of their weapons through the open windows. Farrington reached between his legs and retrieved his PP2000 submachine gun, getting it out of the window in time to join the rest of his team in the slaughter. At a range of fifty meters, Gosha started firing short bursts from the rear passenger side window with his AK-107U assault rifle, scoring immediate hits on the guards. Farrington fired a sustained volley of armor-piercing 9mm projectiles, adding to the carnage as they closed the distance. By the time they pulled to a stop at the motion-activated gate, the three heavily armed security contractors had stopped moving, their bodies contorted in positions of agony along the checkpoint.

“I don’t see anyone in pursuit!” Seva yelled from the rear cargo compartment.

“Roger. Head to the first switch-out point.”

Sasha lowered the night vision goggles strapped to his head and drove for several seconds before making a sharp left turn onto an unmarked jeep trail fifty meters along the access road. The trail’s entrance had been marked earlier that evening with two infrared glow sticks visible only to night vision. They would travel along the dirt path for two kilometers, emptying onto an improvised road south of Vektor, where they would find their first cache of vehicles and equipment. The detour took them away from Koltsovo in an unexpected direction that would hopefully provide enough of a head start to arrive at their second cache undetected.

There were no high fives or “hooyahs” in the black SUV, just the sound of weapons magazines being changed and the quiet resignation that the hardest part of the mission still lay ahead of them.