OMEGA

Chapter 1

Matvey Penkin looked away from the flat-screen monitor on his desk, directing his attention toward the open office door. A bulky man wearing an oversized suit appeared in the doorway, holding a satellite phone. Penkin nodded, and the man approached, reaching across the wide desk to place the phone in his waiting hand. Once the phone was in his grasp, the security guard quietly withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.

Penkin examined the orange, backlit LED screen on the device, not recognizing the number. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had decided against using one of the preassigned satellite phones assigned to their post. A call placed using one of those phones would immediately identify the caller. He checked the back of the phone before answering.

A three-letter code stenciled in white indicated the phone had been set up to receive calls from his territory or operations bosses in Southeast Asia. Given that the Solntsevskaya Bratva hadn’t widely penetrated the area, he had a good idea where the call had originated. Penkin braced for bad news about his special project, strongly suspecting it would be more than another unanticipated delay.

“This better be important,” said Penkin, breathing heavily into the receiver.

A digitally garbled, Russian-speaking voice answered, “Mr. Penkin, time is short, so I’ll get right to the point.”

“Who is this?” said Penkin.

“Never mind that,” snapped the voice. “Your laboratory project in Goa will be destroyed within the hour.”

“By who? You?”

“It doesn’t matter who. All that matters is that it will happen, and no amount of warning or resistance at the site can prevent it. Your only hope of salvaging the project is to discreetly evacuate only key personnel — immediately. I recommend using the river. The roads leading out are most certainly under surveillance.”

Penkin rapidly assessed the information passed by the mystery caller, wondering how much he or she knew about the true nature of his organization’s business at the site. The caller’s purposeful use of the word laboratory combined with the fact that he had somehow coopted one of Penkin’s encrypted satellite phones was unnerving to say the least.

“I need more than a cryptic warning from a garbled voice before I disassemble one of my operations,” said Penkin.

“You don’t have time to disassemble the operation, only to evacuate Dr. Reznikov and key biological samples,” replied the voice.

Penkin sat speechless for a few moments, a surge of adrenaline energizing his nervous system.

“I see.”

“I sincerely hope you do,” said the voice. “It would be a shame to lose one of our national treasures.”

The call disconnected, leaving Penkin puzzled.

Our national treasures?

Who the hell could this possibly be, and why the mystery? He muttered a curse, contemplating his next move. The answer stared him in the face. It was likely no coincidence that the call had been placed on this phone. He pressed and held “1” on the phone’s touch pad, immediately dialing the first preset number. Better safe than sorry. A gravelly voice answered several rings later.

“Yes?”

“Stand by to authenticate identities,” said Penkin, opening the bottom drawer of his desk.

“It’s three in the goddamn morning, Matvey,” the voice griped.

He removed a notebook from the drawer and opened it with one hand while talking. “I’m well aware of the time. Are you ready to authenticate?”

“Hold on,” the voice grumbled, followed by a lengthy pause. “Go ahead.”

Penkin read a ten-digit series of letters and numbers that would be matched on the other end to confirm his identity. A different alphanumeric set was recited back, completing the process. The code changed every month or after each use.

“Code authenticated,” said Valery Zuyev, his most trusted Boyevik, or “warrior.”

“Listen closely, Valery. I just received information suggesting that your site has been compromised. I need you to get Reznikov and the critical specimens out of there immediately. Be very discreet about your departure. The fewer people involved, the better. I’m told the roads may not be safe.”

“Do we have a time frame?”

“Within the hour,” said Penkin.

Zuyev didn’t respond.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Just thinking for a second,” said Valery. “I have a river escape contingency designed for a small group. Essential security personnel only. We can be on the water within five minutes.”

“Good. Put as much distance between the laboratory and Reznikov as possible in the next hour, and whatever you do, avoid all contact with our brotherhood contacts in Goa. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t know yet. Just get Reznikov out of there. We can’t afford to lose him.”

“I’ll call you when we’re clear,” said Zuyev.

“Good luck,” said Penkin.

Penkin put the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands. He could barely believe this was happening. His fate would be decided within the hour. Or had it already been decided? The only person outside of his own small network of trusted associates who knew anything substantive about the laboratory project in India was Dima Maksimov, head of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. If Maksimov was involved in any way with tonight’s call, he was most assuredly a dead man.

Chapter 2

The skiff plied sluggishly through the water, its electric motor humming steadily. Reznikov lifted his right elbow onto the top edge of the aluminum hull and let his hand slide into the lukewarm water. The seemingly insignificant movement caused the overloaded boat to wobble, prompting him to pull his hand out of the river.

“Keep your damn hands in the boat,” Zuyev hissed.

Reznikov turned his head to respond, shifting his body at the same time, once again unbalancing the skiff. He froze in place, firmly gripping both sides. He’d never learned how to swim, and they’d left the project site too quickly to locate the lifejackets. Somehow, it had never occurred to any of his hosts to keep the jackets onboard the boat, the most logical location. That would have made too much sense for these idiots.

“Quit moving, or you’ll dump us all over the side,” Zuyev whispered forcefully.

Reznikov considered a retort, but let it go, instead bringing his hands into the boat to retrieve one of the flasks of vodka tucked into his safari vest. He took a secretive pull from the metal container, feeling his nerves steady as the blessed liquid warmed his stomach and worked its magic.

“Take one more drink and put that away,” said Zuyev. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of an escape.”

He’d noticed, all right. It was a little hard to ignore being pummeled out of a hangover-induced coma and dragged through the pitch-black jungle by two overmuscled goons. He still wasn’t sure what was going on. They’d dumped him into a boat and taken off into the darkness without an explanation. Twenty minutes later, nobody had spoken a word until now. Reznikov drained half of the flask with the next swig, holding it above his shoulder for Zuyev. Surprisingly, the mafiya boss took him up on the offer. Not a good sign at all.

“Things must be pretty bad,” whispered Reznikov.

“Things could be better,” Zuyev replied, handing the flask back empty.

Reznikov briefly considered the second flask, letting the thought go. There was no telling how long he might have to stretch his limited vodka supply out here. Plus, Zuyev would likely knock it out of his hand into the river. The skiff continued its slow, steady voyage along the riverbank, staying under the thick tree canopy that hung over the water. Bits and pieces of the clear night sky peeked through the foliage, occasionally exposing the brief flicker of a star or two.

A few minutes later, he felt the skiff ease into a turn. The pleasant breeze created by the boat’s forward motion died quickly. His face started to bead with perspiration within seconds. He hoped a vehicle with functional air-conditioning awaited them. The prospect of sitting crammed between these sweaty beasts in the backseat of a sweltering car terrified him. Of course, he was assuming they were headed to a vehicle. For all he knew, they planned on hiking to safety. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. It was bad enough sitting still in the sweltering heat. Trudging through a rainforest was another matter altogether. Zuyev whispered something Reznikov couldn’t decipher into his headset.

“Are we there?” said Reznikov.

“Shhhh.” A hand gently gripped his shoulder. “Listen.”

Reznikov kept still. A deep rumble rose above the chirps and squeaks, drowning out the jungle’s ambient noise. He didn’t recognize the sound at first until the steady rumble morphed into the distinct, rhythmic thump of helicopter blades. The skiff’s aluminum hull scraped against the soft bottom of the river, gently stopping the boat.

Helicopters thundered overhead, their powerful rotor wash shaking the tree canopy with a gale-force wind that dislodged the skiff from the riverbed. The violent disturbance ended as quickly as it started, leaving them adrift and showered with falling leaves. The high-pitched whine of the helicopters’ engines rapidly faded, replaced by the outbound thump of the rotor blades. He never saw the machines, but knew intuitively that they were headed upriver toward the laboratory. And when they didn’t find what they were looking for, they’d be back.

“Why aren’t we moving?” said Reznikov.

“Keep quiet,” whispered Zuyev. “We’re making sure they don’t have anyone on the river.”

“Who exactly are we talking about?”

“Someone with military-grade helicopters at their disposal,” said Zuyev.

“And you somehow knew about this?” Reznikov asked.

“Someone knew about it. My orders were to get you out of there.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“We have two vehicles hidden further downriver. GPS indicates we’re about ten minutes away.”

A distant buzz penetrated the forest, echoing from the opposite side of the river. The buzz repeated, followed by the staccato sound of small-arms fire.

“Let’s go,” said Zuyev.

The skiff lurched forward, turning in a lazy circle to point in a direction Reznikov assumed was downriver. He honestly couldn’t tell for sure. It was a moonless night, and the dense jungle swallowed everything around them. Without night vision, which they had conveniently neglected to provide him, he was effectively blind and completely dependent on his hosts, no doubt by design.

A fierce battle raged a few miles behind them as they continued downriver. The trees on the opposite side of the river lit up once from a sizable explosion. The gunfire had started to slacken by the time he felt the boat slow again. He hoped they had finally arrived at the vehicles. The soldiers in the helicopters had to be moments away from discovering that he had recently escaped. Reznikov had zero doubt that he was the primary objective of the raid, and once they discovered he was missing, they would start scouring the area.

“We need to get off the river,” he said. “They probably spotted us with their thermal gear on the way in. They probably thought we were fishermen. I guarantee they won’t make that mistake again.”

“Take another drink and calm down,” replied Zuyev. “We’re almost there.”

He didn’t need another drink. He needed to get the fuck off this river before the helicopters returned. Ignoring Zuyev’s comment, he lowered his head, resting it against his knees for the rest of the short transit.

“We’re here,” stated Zuyev.

Reznikov raised his head as they glided silently under a low-hanging branch that scraped the top of his head. When the skiff stopped, the man seated on the raised bench in front of him swung his legs over the side and splashed down in the water, holding the skiff steady.

“Over the side, Anatoly,” said Zuyev, yanking him up by the back collar of his vest. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

Reznikov inched his way onto the empty bench behind him, careful not to fall overboard. Logically, he knew the water wasn’t deep, but his lack of swimming ability kept him from making any sudden moves. Without warning, Zuyev pulled him over the side, dropping him in the shallow water. A moment of panic struck when he hit the water, quickly dissolving when his rear side came to rest on the bottom of the river.

“Quit splashing around like a fucking baby. You’re in a foot of water,” Zuyev snapped, eliciting muffled laughter from the other two men.

Reznikov struggled to his feet, now soaked from top to bottom thanks to that ass, Zuyev. When all of this business was finished, he would kill Zuyev. The man had treated him like shit since the Bratva rescued him from the hands of his American captors. Two long years moving from one third world shithole to another, “staying off the radar,” as Zuyev was fond of saying.

After a few close calls with a relentless assassination team in South America, Zuyev brought him by ship to the west coast of India, where he’d spent the past year working in an isolated P4 biosafety laboratory built specifically for him. The Bratva had undoubtedly spent a fortune on the lab, both in terms of money and time, and all they had to show for it right now was a cooler full of virus samples and the genius who created them.

He could expect Zuyev to be in a particularly vicious mood after this, the brunt of which would be taken out on him. Yes. He’d make sure Zuyev died a miserable death, preferably at the hands of one of the viruses he paid Reznikov to create. He appreciated a sense of irony.

Reznikov slogged forward through the water, following the dark forms in front of him toward what he assumed was the riverbank. Zuyev and one of the other men manhandled him up the steep, five-foot bank, pushing him into the thick, untamed forest. He started to think they’d made a mistake when the foliage cleared, dumping them on a hard-packed dirt trail.

“Not much furth—” started Zuyev, his words replaced by a sickening gurgle.

To his left, a dark shape swiftly but silently materialized from the forest, instantly closing the distance to the mafiya guard directly in front of him. A crack broke the silence, a brief flash illuminating the suppressed pistol pressed against the guard’s head. The man dropped to the trail at Reznikov’s feet, landing with a heavy thump. He had no idea where the third security guy had gone.

Now he was truly fucked. Zuyev and two former Russian Spetsnaz taken down in the blink of an eye? A helicopter raid at three thirty in the morning? He was dealing with professionals, which meant one thing — a secure prison cell for the rest of his life.

“All clear,” said a Russian voice behind him. “Start the truck.”

The man put a gloved hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch.

“Dr. Reznikov, we need to move immediately. It’s not safe here,” the dark figure said in Russian.

No kidding.

Grigor was missing, and he didn’t need the half-witted mafiya guard deciding to kill him rather than let him fall into enemy hands.

“There’s a third man in my group. He was first on the trail,” whispered Reznikov. “I don’t see him.”

A car engine roared in the near distance.

“That’s him starting the SUV. Grigor has been on our payroll for a while now.”

Grigor was one of the ex-GRU Spetsnaz that had freed him from the CIA prison in Vermont. The Bratva had extended his contract, assigning him a job as one of Reznikov’s primary bodyguards. The gruff asshole had followed him around like a shadow for close to three years, apparently waiting to sell him to the highest bidder. Was there no end to the double-crossing with these people?

“Where are we going?” asked Reznikov, resigned to his current fate with his new captors.

“Anywhere but here,” said the man, pushing a piece of gear with straps into his hand. “Hold these up to your face for now; we’ll get them strapped on later.”

Reznikov raised the device in front of his head, placing the two green-glowing eyepieces to his face. The darkness transformed into a monochromatic green picture, revealing the true nature of his rescue. The man that had given him the goggles was dressed in military camouflage and armed with a suppressed shortbarreled AK-74. He wore a heavily laden tactical vest rigged with communications gear and bulging magazine pouches; night-vision goggles were strapped to his bearded face.

The absence of a helmet led Reznikov to believe the man was not part of the raid against the laboratory. Those soldiers would be covered head to toe in body armor. This guy looked like he had geared up for an extended jungle operation. He wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad sign. The fact that they hadn’t put a bullet in his head was a decent enough start.

He turned to face the second, similarly outfitted commando, who scanned the trail behind them with his rifle. Valery Zuyev lay at Reznikov’s feet, blood pumping from the back of his neck onto the hardened mud. Zuyev’s lifeless eyes stared past him, fixed skyward. Reznikov spit on his face.

“We need to go,” said the commando, picking up the temperature-controlled specimen cooler dropped by Zuyev.

“Who are you? What is this?”

“You’ve been liberated, Dr. Reznikov. But if we’re not on the road moving south within the next thirty seconds, that may well change. I don’t hear any more shooting from the lab. It’s only a matter of time before they realize you’re gone.”

“Liberated by whom?”

“People with deep pockets,” the commando replied, nudging him forward. “That’s all I know — or care to know.

“Be careful with that cooler,” said Reznikov, remaining fixed in place.

“The cooler was our primary objective,” said the commando. “I suggest you start moving. If you slow us down too much, I’ll have to leave you behind like Zuyev. Risk versus reward. The faster you move, the less risk.”

Reznikov shook his head. Sold like cattle to the highest bidder. He could figure it all out later, after finishing off his second flask.

Chapter 3

Alexei Kaparov strained to view the live camera feed displayed on the operation center’s main projection screen. An impenetrable crowd of senior agents and high-ranking bureaucrats gathered in a tight semicircle around the display wall, essentially blocking most of his view. Only a cattle prod at its highest setting could open a space between these piranhas.

Mercifully, he’d been ushered into the darkened, overcrowded room several minutes after the Alpha Group Spetsnaz team had gone to work on the suspected bioweapons laboratory site. The FSB higher-ups obviously didn’t want him and the rest of the B team to see the special operations team’s insertion. Thank the world for small miracles. He really didn’t care at all to watch the operation unfold. Unwatchable shaky green images, heavy breathing, and gunfire didn’t interest him in the least. The end result was all that really mattered, especially in this case.

Killing Reznikov would close a dark chapter in Russia’s history, a chapter the government had rewritten several times over the past decade, the most creative revision foisted on the Russian people and the international community several months ago. He had to give them credit. They must have dusted off the best Communist-era propagandists to pull it off.

Instead of continuing to blame the astonishingly tragic situation in Monchegorsk on some kind of separatist uprising, which nobody believed from the outset, the government took the unprecedented step of admitting that the city’s population had been deliberately infected with a bioweapon created at the Vektor Institute State Research Center for Virology and Biotechnology. With a caveat, of course.

That faux caveat being that Russian authorities were completely unaware that a rogue group of scientists had secretly restarted Biopreparat’s banned bioweapons research and development program until it was too late to stop the tragedy. Of course, as soon as Russian Federation authorities discovered the illegal and clearly unauthorized program, they did what any responsible government would do under the circumstances. They destroyed it. History was rewritten, and with the United States government’s complicit silence, the story was bought hook, line and sinker, for the good of everyone, especially Kaparov.

Prior to the historical rewrite, he’d found it increasingly difficult as the head of the Bioweapons and Chemical Threat Assessment Directorate to pretend that the number one threat to Russian Federation security didn’t exist. He couldn’t wait to hear the Alpha team’s final confirmation that Reznikov was dead. A late night drink — or five — could be in order.

“I’m beginning to suspect the raid is a bust,” said a vaguely familiar voice to his right.

Kaparov turned to face Maxim Greshnev, Chief Counter-Terrorism Director for the FSB, one of the last people he would have expected to find watching the operation with the rest of the riffraff.

“Good morning, Director,” said Kaparov, instantly disappointed with himself for the robotic underling response.

“Nothing good about it,” said Greshnev. “They’ve been through every building except for the one they managed to blow up and they still haven’t located Reznikov. Take a guess what building went sky high?”

“The laboratory?”

“Of course,” said Greshnev. “Because why the fuck would we be interested in a full inventory of Reznikov’s work?”

“Look on the bright side, maybe they blew him up with the lab,” said Kaparov.

Greshnev chuckled, a rare show of visible emotion from the man. “We could only be so lucky,” he said, shaking his head.

Kaparov decided to ask a question he suspected would not be met with a straight answer. It wasn’t every day that you had the ear of one of the most powerful men in the FSB.

“How reliable was the source?”

“We received a onetime anonymous tip,” Greshnev replied.

“You get what you pay for,” Kaparov commented.

Greshnev stifled a laugh. “Apparently the laboratory is located in western Goa.”

“India?”

“The warm beaches of Goa attract Russian tourists year-round,” said Greshnev. “Hundreds of thousands of tourists and a few thousand permanent residents. They call the area between Arambol and Morjim beaches ‘Little Russia.’”

“No doubt the Solntsevskaya Bratva is well represented,” said Kaparov, understanding the connection.

“It’s a small outpost for the Bratva, completely off our radar until now.”

“And we’re sure he was there?”

“It was impossible to get anyone too close to the compound without tipping our hand, but relatively easy to ascertain that a sophisticated, medical-grade laboratory had been built in the middle of the jungle. It fit the profile, so here we are.”

He considered Greshnev’s revelation. Unless the director had lied about the anonymous nature of the tip, the information couldn’t possibly have originated from a source inside the jungle compound. A guard assigned to the laboratory would have attached a significant price tag to their sudden shift in loyalties. Nobody took a risk like this without a sizable financial incentive, and the Russian government wasn’t exactly known for handing out generous bounties to informants. Something didn’t make sense.

“How detailed was the information provided?” asked Kaparov.

“Detailed enough,” answered Greshnev, signaling that Kaparov’s line of questioning about the source had come to an end.

“Americans?”

“Definitely not,” answered Greshnev.

“You don’t expect they’ll find him, do you?”

“I had my doubts from the beginning,” said Greshnev. “I’ll make sure you receive a copy of the after-action report for this operation. I need a pair of cynical eyes sifting through the results.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Your cynicism is what I like about you, not to mention your experience. Take a hard look at the report and get back to me with your observations. I’ll make sure Inga knows.”

Inga Soyev, Greshnev’s personal secretary, had earned the reputation as one of the most pitiless gatekeepers in Lubyanka’s history. Nobody saw Greshnev without her approval.

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” said Kaparov, still not sure what to make of this bizarre meeting.

“Looks like they finally discovered my absence,” said Greshnev. “Surprised it took the jackals so long.”

A pack of agents craned their necks from side to side to find him, some abandoning their prime locations in front of the screen to reposition themselves closer to the director.

Jackals indeed.

Instead of stepping forward into the inner circle, Kaparov took a few steps backward and made room for the swarm. A few eyed him skeptically, or jealously — he couldn’t tell in the soft blue glow of the tactical operations center. He truly didn’t care one way or the other. Getting out of there was his number one priority. If he managed to sneak away within the next few minutes, he could be home in bed within the hour. Any longer and he might as well lie down on the floor in his office.

One of the support agents seated among several smaller monitors arranged at a spacious workstation next to the main screen made an announcement over the loudspeaker.

“Alpha team leader reports negative contact with primary objective. The team managed a quick pass through the undamaged part of the laboratory structure, finding no human remains. Secondary objective destroyed in the fire.”

He assumed the secondary objective meant live virus samples. Greshnev shook his head, mumbling something to one of the men standing next to him as the report continued.

“The team needs to be airborne in two minutes. ELINT support has detected increased sensor activity and radio transmissions from the Indian Naval Air Station at Hansa. The team has shifted its focus to intelligence collection for the little time they have left.”

“Has there been any indication of a local law enforcement response?” Greshnev responded immediately.

A few seconds passed before he received an answer.

“No response detected,” said the agent.

“Pass along an urgent request to Director Baranov at CSN (Center of Special Operations). I strongly suggest they leave a discreet team behind, as discussed during the planning phase. There’s one shitty little road leading to and from the facility, and we’ve had it under continuous surveillance. If the primary objective was indeed on-site at any time in the past forty-eight hours and somehow narrowly escaped this attack, he can’t be far away.”

“Understood, Director Greshnev,” replied the agent.

The director glanced back at Kaparov, his look betraying the same skepticism that Kaparov himself felt. Something didn’t add up here.

Chapter 4

Frederick Shelby studied the faces of the men and women seated around the conference room table. He was far more interested in their reactions to the unsuccessful raid than the news itself. Shelby was still an outsider within this tight circle of power, a fact he couldn’t afford to forget or ignore. He’d secured a seat at the highest stakes table in town because of a single instrumental act of loyalty to the True America party, but knew all too well that the chair could be yanked out from under him at any moment, regardless of the cards he held. Reading poker faces could be as critical to success inside the Beltway as competence, especially tonight.

The failure to capture or kill Anatoly Reznikov in tonight’s raid would fall squarely in the CIA’s lap, and as the director of National Intelligence’s representative tonight, it would hit Shelby’s lap first. He noted a baleful flash from General Frank Gordon, commander of United States Special Operations Command, but he’d expected as much. SOCCOM had lives directly on the line tonight, and the intelligence shared with them by Shelby turned out to be a bust. He expected them to be hot. No. His focus centered on the immediate members of the president’s inner circle, the people that really mattered. The wrong word whispered in the right ear could be disastrous for Shelby.

He briefly turned his attention to the massive projection screen mounted to the front wall of the room. Live video feed from Operation RAINFOREST occupied the left half; a digital map displaying military symbols filled the right side. Four blue symbols clustered a hundred miles off the central western coast of India, each corresponding to one of the friendly units still in play. Within minutes, barring any unforeseen circumstances, only two blue circles would remain, their speed and direction data indicating a high-speed run due southwest, away from the coast.

The adjacent green-scale image showed the slowly approaching flight deck of a low-profile combat ship from one of the pilot’s helmet-mounted cameras. One of the two hangar bays situated forward of the flight deck was open, swallowing the tail rotor of a recently landed helicopter. The image switched to the crew chief’s helmet, revealing a secret that would never extend beyond the handful of men and women in this room or on board the helicopters.

RAINFOREST redefined the concept of “need to know.” Not even the ships’ commanding officers had been told what the stealth helicopters had ferried across the Indian coast or where they had stopped. Each Arleigh Burke destroyer had capably served as a two-billion-dollar taxi for one of the most classified military operations in recent U.S. history.

Shelby sensed a shift in the White House chief of staff’s posture and took his eyes off the body-armor-clad soldiers seated inside the helicopter to meet her glare. Beverly Stark’s words were quick to follow.

“Well, that was a bust.”

He held back, knowing that nothing good would come out of his mouth for the next several seconds. Better to let someone else speak first.

“The operational pieces are undamaged and appear to have remained undetected,” said General Gordon. “That’s all that matters at this point.”

President Alan Crane continued watching the helicopter on its final approach to the ship’s flight deck. Without turning away from the screen, he directed a question at Shelby.

“Any new information from our friends in Moscow?”

Shelby scanned his laptop screen for any last second messages transmitted from the Defense Clandestine Service (NCS) Operations Center. A single-sentence post appeared moments before he responded.

“Interesting. The Russians left a skeleton team behind to try to pick up Reznikov’s trail,” said Shelby, typing a question for the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) team talking to Moscow.

“They did what?” said Gordon, furiously typing on his own laptop.

“Is that confirmed?” asked Beverly Stark.

Gordon looked up, nodding. “Confirmed. A three-man team from Gladiator-One stayed behind.”

“How did we miss that?” asked President Crane. “More importantly, how the hell did it go unreported?”

“I’m trying to get to the bottom of that,” Gordon replied.

“Please do,” said Beverly Stark, turning to Shelby. “And you need to make it crystal clear to our Russian friends that this is unacceptable. There was no mention of purposefully leaving a team behind during any of the mission briefings. This leaves us exposed.”

Shelby couldn’t see how it left them exposed, but instead of addressing the obvious kneejerk question, he summarized the answer relayed by the DIA. “Intelligence strongly suggested that Reznikov was on site when—”

“I don’t see how he could have escaped if that was the case,” interrupted Gerald Simmons. “It’s not like he had many options.”

Shelby feigned a smile. He hated Simmons. For the life of him, he didn’t understand how this smarmy little shit had landed the position of White House Counterterrorism director. Prior to the 2008 election, Simmons had played a relatively obscure role in the Pentagon as the assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict. Shelby had only run into this turd a few times prior to the 2008 election and remembered wanting to smash a computer over his head the last time they were together.

In fact, the meeting had taken place in this very room, during the failed raid on Sanderson’s Argentina compound. Operation BOLD SCIMITAR. What a cluster fuck that had turned out to be. He wouldn’t be surprised if Simmons brought it up, especially since Shelby had provided the initial intelligence for that operation. Guys like Simmons thrived on other people’s failures.

With a strained game face, Shelby replied, “That’s precisely why they insisted on leaving a team behind. With few exfiltration options available, the Alpha Group commander felt they stood a solid chance of either catching up with Reznikov or uncovering a solid lead regarding his next move.”

“With the state’s Indian armed forces on full alert,” added Stark. “Not to mention every law enforcement asset in the area.”

“The Russians left behind are no longer our concern,” said Shelby.

“Except for the fact that we deposited them on Indian soil,” stated the president.

“Nobody will ever know that, Mr. President. We’ve run through the scenarios—”

“Not this one,” Stark cut in. “At no point did we discuss leaving a team behind to investigate.”

“I’m sure they don’t plan on lingering at the site,” Shelby explained, starting to get annoyed.

What was done was done. Everyone in the room knew the risks going in. Ferrying Russian commandos into India to conduct a raid against a suspected bioweapons target was unheard of in the first place. Now they were squabbling about three Spetsnaz operators that could probably live off the land, remaining undetected for weeks? He hated this kind of shortsighted pettiness.

“The Russians know what they’re doing,” said General Gordon. “And I suspect the detachment they left behind is part of Spetsgruppa Charlie, or Smerch.”

“Smerch? Sounds like something out of a James Bond movie,” said Stark, eliciting a few stifled laughs.

“Service of Special Operations,” said Shelby, who had made it a point to learn everything there was to know about Russian Special Operations (Spetsnaz) groups. “It’s a relatively new group that specializes in the capture and transfer of high-profile mafiya or bandit leaders throughout Russia. If Reznikov or his handlers left a trail, they’ll find it, and will stay out of sight.”

General Gordon interrupted the conversation. “Gladiator-Two is secure on board USS Mustin. The taskforce is headed southwest at top speed. There’s no indication that either the ships or helicopters have been detected by Indian sensors. I’d say we’re free and clear.”

The video feed next to the map changed to a black screen blinking the words LINK LOST.

“The helicopters flew over thousands of people and shot up several buildings just a few miles away from some reasonably populated towns,” stated Nora Crawford, secretary of state. “I expect State to hear from the Indian embassy tomorrow, especially when they determine that the buildings are part of a laboratory facility.”

“Surely not blaming us,” said Erik Glass, secretary of Defense.

“Not directly, but I’ll get the call nonetheless,” said Crawford. “There’s only one military capable of flying helicopters in and out of another country undetected.”

“Rumored to be capable,” said the secretary of Defense.

Crawford took a deep breath, exhaling before she replied, “I’d get these two warships back into their regular deployment schedules immediately. I guarantee that India’s Research and Analysis Wing will be monitoring our ships’ movements closely.”

“They can watch our ships all they like,” said Glass. “The USS Mustin is on its way to the Arabian Gulf from Japan. Part of a scheduled deployment. And the USS Howard is on its way home to San Diego after an extended deployment. They’ll adjust their speeds, supported by fuel tankers, to maintain their schedules after diverting close enough to Diego Garcia to launch the helicopters. The Navy has worked out the timing for a late night landing at the air base on the island.”

“I want those birds out of sight and out of mind as quickly as possible,” said General Gordon. “We have another mission brewing in the region that might necessitate their use.”

“Strategic Airlift Command has two C-17 Globemasters waiting at Diego Garcia to fly your birds stateside. You’ll have your helicopters within the next forty-eight hours,” said Glass.

Beverly Stark shook her head. “I still can’t believe we let the Russians see those helicopters.”

Neither could Shelby, but he wasn’t about to share that sentiment. The entire mission had been a compromise-turned-joint-effort between the United States and the Russian Federation. The Russians had precious, timely intelligence on a top-tier threat to both countries and the United States had the delivery platforms to pull off the raid. U.S. Special Operations Command offered to execute the mission on behalf of the Russians, but Moscow wanted confirmation that Reznikov had been terminated, not assurances, and that meant Russian boots on the ground during the mission.

“Trust but verify,” they’d said. He didn’t blame them for throwing Reagan’s words back in their faces.

“Their interaction with the helicopters was minimal, as agreed,” said Gordon. “On load. Off load. There’s not much for them to see inside the helicopter, or outside for that matter.”

“But now the Russians know we have them,” said Stark. “Which means everyone will know soon enough. Seems like the Russians came out ahead on this one.”

Gordon shrugged, blatantly offering the same sentiment Shelby fought to conceal. They’d been through this over and over again. The Russians hadn’t faked the intelligence and gone through the motions of putting their own commandos in harm’s way just to gain access to their latest generation stealth helicopters. Beverly Stark couldn’t seem to get this particular conspiracy theory out of her head.

“So… where does this leave us with Reznikov?” asked the president.

“Back to square one if the trail goes cold,” said Shelby. “The Solntsevskaya Bratva has proven to be adept at hiding Reznikov.”

“Then I guess we better offer Moscow our support in the matter,” said President Crane. “Frederick, make the necessary arrangements with the National Reconnaissance Office to coordinate a real-time package.”

“Understood, Mr. President. I’ll coordinate with them immediately.”

“Is there anything else?” asked President Crane, scanning the faces in the room.

Shelby gave him a quick shake of his head when their gazes met, taking his cue from the rest of the room.

“Then that’s it for now.”

The room cleared, leaving Shelby alone with General Gordon, who appeared to linger. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gordon right now.

“Look at the bright side. At least the Russians didn’t hijack one of the helicopters or purposely disable one,” said Gordon.

The last part of his statement was a clear reminder of the failed operation to grab Sanderson two years ago. The only shot fired during the clandestine raid, a strategically placed .50-caliber sniper rifle bullet, shredded the tail rotor assembly of a Black Hawk helicopter that had landed inside Sanderson’s compound, forcing the assault team to leave it behind on Argentinian soil. A fact used by Sanderson to buy a blanket immunity deal for the Black Flag organization. All sins of his past and present wiped away with a single bullet. The whole thing was a setup, and Shelby had provided the intelligence that led Gordon’s people and the White House right down the primrose path. At least the general had waited until the president and his cronies had departed.

“You win some and you lose some in this game,” said Shelby. “You’ve been around long enough to know that.”

“So far you’re batting zero when it comes to invading other countries,” replied Gordon.

“I just provide the intelligence. You can always say no.”

Gordon considered him for a moment, his caustic glare easing imperceptibly. “Not with people like Reznikov on the loose,” said the general, leaving the room.

Shelby cracked a faint smile. “Especially not with people like Reznikov on the loose.”

Chapter 5

Jessica Petrovich stirred under the soft silk sheets, a warm breeze caressing her face. Her eyes opened to a red-orange sky beyond a wide, floor-to-ceiling glass sliding door. A scattered band of puffy, dark purple clouds floated above the red ocean, outlined by the fiery sunlight moments from breaching the horizon. She’d never get used to this view, or the life that came with it.

She yawned, stretching her hands above her head until they touched the headboard. Holding that stretch for a few seconds, she glanced at Daniel lying next to her. He appeared undisturbed by her movement or the light pouring into the room, but she knew better. Her husband woke to the slightest change in his sleeping environment; a survival instinct drilled so deeply into his psyche that she doubted it would ever slip away.

He’d probably been awake for several minutes now, waiting for her to rise naturally. Possibly all night with the balcony door open. If the intermittent breezes didn’t keep him awake, the fact that an exterior door just a few dozen feet from their bed was wide open to intruders most certainly doomed his night of sleep. The pristine ocean air carried into the room by the calm late evening winds had lured her into bed with the best intentions of getting up and closing it a few minutes later. She vaguely remembered Daniel joining her in bed a little while later, nestling his warm body against hers. Nothing after that.

“You awake?” she whispered.

“Yep,” he said immediately, keeping his eyes closed.

“Sorry. I should have shut the slider.”

He met her glance with weary, half-open eyes and a warm smile. “I could have shut it before I lay down.”

She playfully raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I love you,” he replied, broadening his smile. “And I’m not afraid of the boogeyman.”

Jessica kissed his lips and pressed her forehead against his. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart about our security.”

“I know how much you enjoy the fresh air.”

“And I love you even more for that,” she said. “But it’s not like I can enjoy it after I fall asleep.”

“You were up at least three times last night, breathing in the ocean air,” he said, kissing her.

“It is kind of nice,” she admitted.

“By this point, I should be able to leave a door open and not worry about someone sneaking in and slitting my throat,” said Daniel.

Jessica wasn’t sure how to respond. The fact that he’d so bluntly brought it up was a significant step down a path she wanted him to follow. On the surface, Daniel always looked unaffected, rock solid to a fault, but nothing could be further from the truth. He had an exceptionally difficult time letting go of old habits. He was just far better at concealing and suppressing his emotions; a talent she’d never really mastered.

Unfortunately, Daniel’s façade took a severe toll on both of them, hindering the kind of joint emotional progress needed to put enough distance between the past and present to escape or, at the very least, keep them from regressing.

They’d been close to escaping before, living a slightly forced version of the American dream in Maine, until General Sanderson crashed the party. Within the short span of twenty-four hours, the general had erased every gain they’d made after disappearing from Belgrade. Five years of healing, rebuilding, reprograming, forgetting, all flushed down the Black Flag toilet. They needed to make a clean break from the past this time, or they’d never break free. For the first time in a long while, she sensed that Daniel wanted it just as badly. The sooner they made their move, the better.

“I’m running the George Hill loop, then a quick swim in the bay,” she said. “You up for the swim?”

“I might join you for the swim,” he said. “Wake me up when you get back from the run.”

All of that meant no, and it had nothing to do with getting a bad night of sleep. Daniel had stopped exercising regularly a few months ago, a really bad development. He needed rigorous physical exercise and constant distraction to keep his mind focused on the present. Without it, his mind turned inward. To dark places she had never managed to access. Places she had no interest in visiting.

Daniel had stood at the edge of the abyss at some point in Yugoslavia, staring into a vast darkness meant to swallow him. He’d made that much clear, without going into specifics. Bumping into her outside of a Belgrade nightclub had saved him from jumping into the blackness that had already consumed most of the Black Flag operatives assigned to the Balkans. She’d seen him like this a few times before, but never for this long. It was time to revisit an idea they had batted around a few months ago.

“Maybe you should get some more rest. I’ll make us a nice breakfast when I’m done,” she said, kissing his forehead.

She’d broach the topic over gourmet coffee and omelets.

“That sounds good,” he said, burrowing his head into the pillow.

Jessica walked to the balcony and shut the slider, locking the door. A faint beep sounded from a compact digital tablet on Daniel’s nightstand. The home’s security system had registered the change in door status. A few minutes later, dressed in black triathlon shorts and a pink tri-top, she descended a wide, open-riser metal staircase to the gray marble foyer.

In the kitchen, she flipped the switch on the stainless steel espresso maker and downed a tall glass of cold water poured from a bottle-fed water dispenser. A double shot of espresso and a few glasses of spring water would fuel her five-mile run. She refilled the glass and left the kitchen, headed for the two-story bank of windows covering the eastern side of the villa’s great room.

Bright orange rays of light reflected off the far wall, illuminating a collage of colorful Caribbean-inspired artwork. A deep blue Dubai leather sectional faced the window, flanked by two polished chrome arc lamps, encompassing the entirety of the great room’s furniture. She walked deeper into the room, pausing to shield her eyes from the blazing horizon with her unoccupied hand. A few seconds later, the room dimmed as the bottom of the sun disappeared behind one of the low-lying cloud masses.

Jessica walked to the window and scanned Lockrum Bay. The tall bobbing mast of a blue-hulled sloop immediately caught her eye. A Hinckley Sou’wester 52 sat at a storm-reinforced mooring a few hundred yards offshore. Just the sight of it gave her hope. She’d come up with the idea a year ago, soon after insisting that they take sailing lessons and follow up with a two-week bareboat charter out of the British Virgin Islands. Daniel took to sailing like a natural, embracing its dynamic nature and the constant need for vigilance.

The two-week taste of sailboat life far exceeded Jessica’s expectations. Not only did she feel far more relaxed and liberated than she could ever remember, but Daniel had caught the sailing fever. It had started with mojito-fueled conversations about what it would be like to freely sail around the Caribbean for a few months a year, and ended with the purchase of a rarely used sailboat built by one of the most reputable names in the business.

They’d cruised the islands for three months after the purchase, pausing to conduct some business for Sanderson in South America. Ugly business that nearly got all of them killed. Daniel hadn’t been the same since. Something had shifted in the dark recesses of his mind, brought too close to the surface for his comfort. She needed to get him back on that boat — permanently.

Jessica took a sip of cold water and grinned. La Ombra, Italian for ghost or shadow, swayed gently in the bay. Ghost. Exactly what they would become once they sailed for the horizon and never looked back.

Chapter 6

Daniel contemplated the warm remains of his espresso before downing it moments later. When his glance returned to the water’s edge, Jessica had disappeared below the jagged rocks bordering the narrow strip of beach. She’d reemerge shortly, swimming through the light morning chop toward the sailboat moored in the cove. He couldn’t wait to spring his surprise on Jessica.

From the moment she suggested sailing lessons out of Saint Martin, Daniel understood what she was after. Disappearing, or at least making it as difficult as possible for anyone, friend or foe, to find them. Relocating to another anonymous fortresslike house halfway around the world only solved part of their problem. They needed a new lifestyle. One that kept them challenged, with infinite possibilities, none of which required their current skillsets. Cruising the world fit that bill perfectly.

Never in the same place for longer than the weather dictated. Full freedom to choose the next destination. Rigorous at times. Inherently unavoidable but manageable elements of danger, both predictable and capricious. He had read hundreds of firsthand accounts about couples and families sailing the world, all reinforcing the unspoken decision Jessica and Daniel had reached by passionately embracing a series of extensive sailing lessons.

The next step had been obvious. They needed a boat capable of comfortable transoceanic passage, and if they were really going to do this, they would do it right. Extensive research pointed to several well-established boat builders, one that caught his eye immediately: a Maine-based boatyard renowned for building top-of-the-line, luxurious sailboats coveted around the world. While he was likely initially drawn to the Hinckley line of yachts by the link to Maine, where he and Jessica had first tried to build a normal life, the matter was settled by the discovery of a gently used Hinckley Sou’wester 52 for sale in the British Virgin Islands.

As a newly minted sailing couple, they were in well over their heads with the fifty-two-foot vessel. They’d fared better than either of them had expected during their three-month shakedown cruise, but island hopping across the Caribbean was hardly the final test for what they had in mind.

Daniel chuckled at the thought. Just a few months ago, he’d spent the better part of two days tied to a chair in a Montevideo slum, praying that Jessica was still alive after their mission tanked. Now he was worried about sailing a luxury yacht to points unknown. He’d gladly trade the former burden for the latter. If reefing the sails in the face of stormy weather or navigating a treacherous pass was life’s new stress, he could live with that. He was pretty sure Jessica wouldn’t have a problem making that transition either. It had been her idea, after all. She just didn’t know how quickly he intended to make it a reality.

Their days on Anguilla were numbered, quite possibly in the single digits if she literally and figuratively was on board with his plan to sweep her away from a life that had grown comfortably toxic to their relationship, and their survival.

Jessica reappeared in the water, her arms cutting through the surf toward La Ombra. Her recently acquired habit of swimming to the boat every morning after a long run had forced him to modify the original plan. He’d quit running with her in the morning to see if he could break the new routine, but he only seemed to reinforce it. She’d swim out every day, sometimes twice, trying to lure him out of his “funk,” as she described it. He couldn’t possibly load the boat with the supplies without her knowing, and he wanted everything to be a complete surprise. Not an easy feat when you were married to a covert operative easily your better.

For all he knew, Jessica had already unraveled his plot, though he sincerely doubted it. From what he could tell, she was completely unaware of his scheme, more focused on his “deteriorating state of mind.” He’d led her down that rabbit hole after the disastrous Montevideo operation, hoping the intense ordeal would be a believable trigger point for him to start seriously weighing the risks of their line of work against the rewards.

They’d talked about this at length in the past, but the life was hardwired into them. It was not as easy to leave behind as they had originally thought, especially when they were rarely more than a phone call away from the next job. Even more so when the man sending you the work was a relentless, undeniably talented spin doctor. All the more reason to dump every means of communication and put a few thousand miles of blue water behind them. Sanderson’s reach was extensive, but it didn’t include an anchorage in French Polynesia or Fiji. He hoped. The sooner they left, the better.

Watching Jessica swim effortlessly toward the yacht bobbing in the cove, he decided to make the call that would activate his plan. They’d enjoy a sunset dinner at their favorite seaside restaurant, and Daniel would propose all over again. Instead of a ring, he’d present her with a fully provisioned boat, ready to sweep them away from the life and usher in a new era.

Chapter 7

Karl Berg leaned back in his seat and checked his watch, once again finding himself unable to answer the same question that had troubled him for the vast majority of the year. Why the hell was he still here? He’d routinely worked excessively long office hours during his two-decade stretch at headquarters, never complaining. The work had always absorbed him, and in his own way he’d thrived on it, turning even the most mundane assignments into gold.

He’d pieced together the significance of Reznikov’s sudden reappearance on the world scene while holding down a chair in what most of his colleagues considered to be an end-of-the-line lateral transfer out of the National Clandestine Service (NCS). A few months later, after the controversial but successful clandestine raid against Vektor Institute, he was back in the game, promoted to deputy director of the Special Operations Group (SOG) within the Special Activities Division (SAD).

The dirty word retirement faded into the distance during the incredible year and a half that followed. As promised by Thomas Manning, then director of NCS, Berg was promoted at the start of 2008 to director of the Special Operations Group, taking over for Jeffrey McConnell, who took over the entire Special Activities Division. There was serious talk about Manning taking over as associate deputy director of the CIA, and of Audra Bauer, Berg’s longtime friend and guardian angel, sliding into Manning’s position as director of NCS.

Life was good until late 2008, when Alan Crane became the first third-party candidate in history to win a U.S. presidential election. True America had pulled off an epic, seemingly impossible win, and nobody saw it coming, because the most critical pieces of the plan to achieve victory had taken place deep inside the beltway’s Stygian nether-regions. Without a shadow of a doubt, deals had been struck between the most corruptible and sycophantic power brokers, a secret cabal that simultaneously orchestrated the implosion of a major political party and the swift ascendancy of a grassroots movement that few of the political elite took seriously.

Speculation and conspiracy theory ruled the day when the incumbent president, who was favored to comfortably win the election, was toppled nearly overnight by coordinated revelations that his administration had delayed warning the public about the true extent of the Zulu virus threat against the United States in the spring of 2007.

Several citizens of Morris County, New Jersey, died from drinking virus-infected water. Other leaks followed, clearly designed to question the administration’s knowledge and handling of the events leading to the entire situation surrounding the Zulu virus’s arrival on U.S. soil. Immigration policies were attacked, foreign policy decisions questioned. Hints were dropped suggesting U.S. involvement in an incident outside of Novosibirsk, Russia. The timing couldn’t have been worse for an administration that had grown complacent with a comfortable double-digit lead in the polls entering October. A dangerous complacency unquestionably fostered by key White House advisors and D.C. insiders complicit in the conspiracy.

The conspirators were relatively easy to identify in most cases. Anyone that landed in a key role within the administration that hadn’t previously been part of the True America entourage was immediately a suspect in Berg’s mind. This particularly applied to anyone that had served in the previous administration. Similarly, any of the presidentially appointed cabinet members deserved a close examination. Most of them did not pass the initial sniff test.

Jacob Remy’s nomination as secretary of Homeland Security was the most notoriously questionable appointment in Berg’s opinion, and the public’s. Having served under the previous president as chief of staff, logic dictated he had been made privy to the disgraced administration’s most closely held secrets. Apparently the deal he made with Crane’s White House outweighed reason or any sense of justice. James Quinn remained in the position of National Security advisor, requiring no political maneuvering, a quiet but telling gesture by Crane’s True America administration. The list grew daily as new announcements made the headlines.

Some of the conspirators managed to remain in the shadows, but Berg had spent a career connecting hard-to-see dots. He’d predicted the uncharacteristically ruthless, career-breaking shake-up at the CIA long before anyone else. It started with an appointment that didn’t raise any eyebrows at first. As customary between outgoing and incoming administrations, the CIA remained untouched for a few months after Crane took office, keeping the U.S. intelligence-gathering apparatus working full steam during a period of significant change. In fact, consensus among top CIA officials suggested a longer delay for replacement appointments, because the upset election had left the United States, the House, and Senate locked in a power struggle. True America candidates had taken enough seats to make things difficult for the two parties that had dominated politics for two centuries.

With those battle lines still being drawn, the administration pushed through the less controversial nominations first. One attracted Berg’s attention immediately. Frederick Shelby, director of the FBI, was nominated and unanimously appointed to the position of principal deputy director of National Intelligence. This move signaled the beginning of the end for the CIA’s current leadership. The True America fix was in, and it went far deeper than Berg ever imagined.

The final investigative report detailing the events surrounding the June 2007 coordinated bioterrorism plot against the United States had meticulously and conclusively separated the link between the rogue True America spin-off group, led by disgruntled founders Jackson Greely and Lee Harding, and the mainstream True America movement sweeping its way to the White House. Once Shelby was nominated for the post at DNI, Berg held little doubt that the director of the FBI had purposely steered the investigation clear of any potentially messy connection in exchange for an even bigger seat at the table. If Shelby could be co-opted by True America, there was little hope that the rest of the intelligence community’s senior leadership positions hadn’t been predetermined by backroom deals and dirty handshakes.

As the Senate and House finally settled into a functionally cooperative state by late spring of 2009, the intelligence community’s leadership was gutted, replaced by the men and women who had sold their souls at some point over the past few years to True America. Within days of Richard Sanford’s appointment as director of the CIA, anyone with past connections to Zulu virus operations or General Sanderson’s Black Flag team was demoted. Realigned was the corporate euphemism used to describe the changes.

Manning and Bauer were dropped into the Counterproliferation Division, as director and deputy director, still in solid leadership positions commensurate with their experience level, but the message was clear: their careers would go no further. Both of them had embraced their new assignment with enthusiasm, not that they really had a choice. As rising stars within the CIA, they were younger than most of their peers and still had several years to go until they reached the minimum retirement age of fifty-five. Neither was in a position to leave, unlike Berg, who could have elected to take his retirement package and walked out of headquarters on the same day. He had more than enough vacation days saved to bridge the gap between notification and out-processing.

Instead of skipping out overnight, Berg decided that the wiser — and safer — course of action was to stick around long enough to convince his new overlords that he didn’t pose a threat, but more importantly, to ascertain the danger to his own safety. Such a cleverly engineered political coup left Berg skeptical of the FBI’s supposed efforts to pry deeper into the connection between Greely and Harding’s fanatics and the scheming cabal of political operatives calling the shots behind True America’s red, white, and blue façade.

He wasn’t the only person stranded outside of True America’s juggernaut with information that could call into question their truly miraculous ascension to power. If the wrong people started dying of heart attacks during their daily jogs, he would vanish into thin air. Maybe he’d take Sanderson up on the offer to put his services to use in a sunnier climate. The idea didn’t sound half bad, even without the specter of a threat against him.

Reassigned within NCIS to a generic staff operations officer position with nobody reporting to him, he hadn’t handled anything overly significant or controversial since sitting behind his new desk in a godforsaken cubicle. He hadn’t been part of the cubicle culture at headquarters in sixteen years. Berg had been effectively retired by the new power brokers at the CIA, both marginalized and demeaned, in the obvious hope that he’d take his retirement and leave.

Berg had no intention of caving to these pressures or going anywhere until it suited him. It could be tomorrow if Sanderson was willing to import a whirlpool hot tub and a few other luxuries to the forest compound in Argentina, or it could be two years from now. That call was his alone to make.

He reached for the computer mouse on his desk with the intention of shutting down his workstation, but decided to give his email inbox another scan. Not because he thought an exciting case had been delivered late in the day, but more out of habit. The second email from the top, sent fifteen minutes ago, instantly piqued his attention. The message was a notification that he had a TOP SECRET/SENSITIVE COMPARTMENTED INFORMATION (TS/SCI) classified message waiting on a separate, secured message system.

Interesting.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had received one of those. Whatever waited for him was guaranteed to be anything but low profile.

His finger hesitated over the mouse, ready to click the link provided in the email. It really had been a while. If his memory served correctly, he had been required to access the classified server through a completely separate program on his desktop. The link didn’t feel right, but he hadn’t received a message like this in a long time, and so much of the CIA’s technology had changed over the past few years. He thought about asking someone, but he hated to draw any attention to himself. The email inbox was intranet based. The email in question couldn’t have originated outside of the secure CIA server.

Berg had convinced himself of this by the time the link launched the secure message interface he recognized from the past. After typing a string of personalized alphanumeric codes and the twenty-six-key passcode provided in the notification email, the system granted him access to the message.

The subject line read SERAPH/AUTOMATED.

Now that was more than just interesting. SERAPH had been Nicole Erak’s codename.

Nicole Erak, a name that always resurfaced bittersweet memories. She was also known as Zorana Zekulic while operating undercover throughout Europe. She was presently known as Jessica Petrovich, the woman who had pulled off the disappearing act of a lifetime, fooling everyone.

In 2005, after learning that SERAPH was still alive, he’d set several automated search patterns to scan online and paper news outlets for keywords related to all of her known aliases and relatives, along with the names of various people she’d likely pissed off in Serbia prior to vanishing, and that list was long. He’d done this as an off-the-books favor at her request, in case any of the ugly men or women on that list decided to travel to the United States for revenge. If one of her nieces or her mother suddenly disappeared, Nicole… Jessica would get some advance notice. What she might do with that notice was never explored.

Berg was glad he’d checked his email, until he read past the subject line. Now he needed a stiff drink. Jessica’s mother had been admitted to hospice care at Palos Hills Community Hospital. The message contained no additional links or references that might explain how Vesna Erak ended up there. He clicked the only link provided, finding a screenshot of the story published in the digital version of a local newspaper. He found few details about her illness in the piece. The author was far more interested in describing “the decade-long cloud of tragedy that hung over the Erak family.” Berg knew the story all too well. He’d monitored the parents’ situation closely after handlers in Serbia reported her missing in late April 1999.

Vesna filed for a divorce a few months after their daughter’s unexplained disappearance in Europe. As far as either of her parents knew, Nicole Erak had vanished outside of Prague during a planned two-week backpacking trip across Czechoslovakia. Amidst resurfaced whispers of past sexual abuse against his daughter and wife, Dejan Erak, family patriarch and prominent member of the Serbian community, blew his brains out before the divorce proceedings and rumors gained critical momentum. Vesna had a nervous breakdown shortly after the suicide, spending the next year in and out of psychiatric hospitals.

The article described the awful matter in excruciating detail, which didn’t sit well with Berg. Yet it wasn’t the content that raised his hackles. It was the fact that the article had been written in the first place. The article felt personal, like someone with a real grudge against the Eraks had either written or encouraged the story. Or — Palos Hills was a boring-as-shit suburb, and the Eraks’ continued string of misfortunes was big news. The story of a lifetime for a jaded, part-time journalist at the local paper.

Berg took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The safest course of action was to delete the message and pretend he’d never seen it, on the off chance that the article had been designed to lure her out of hiding and she actually decided to visit her estranged mother. The individual odds against either of these scenarios were long. The probability of both scenarios combining to enable an attack on Jessica had to be nearly nonexistent, especially given Srecko Hadzic’s untimely death earlier in the year. He’d been the most likely and capable prime mover of revenge against the Petroviches prior to his spectacular demise.

Whether Hadzic was assassinated by fellow detainees who were worried that he was on the verge of cutting an immunity deal or accidentally killed in a botched rescue attempt remained the only point of speculation in the investigation surrounding his death. Berg wanted to believe his own people assassinated him, the irony inescapable; however, evidence suggested otherwise.

Most investigators opined that the explosive charge detonated underneath the armored United Nations Detention Unit transport van had been too small to guarantee the immediate death of the vehicle’s occupants and had more likely been used to disable the vehicle, and a team had been assigned to break into the van and grab Hadzic. By sheer chance, the explosion simultaneously breached the van’s bottom armor and blasted the contents of the gas tank into the passenger cabin, instantly engulfing Srecko Hadzic and three United Nations security officers in superheated flames. Little remained inside the scorched and twisted van chassis beyond a few blackened skeletons held loosely upright by the metal frame of their seats.

When news of Hadzic’s death arrived, Berg had felt smugly satisfied.

Good riddance.

One of humankind’s worst had burned to death, maybe a little too quickly from what he could tell by the video streaming out of The Hague. The ghastly, smoldering skeletons looked far too at peace in the context of the inferno that had taken them. A few weeks later, after DNA extracted from the bone marrow of one of the skeletons confirmed Hadzic’s death, he raced to inform Jessica that Hadzic no longer posed a threat. He’d felt relieved for her and, interestingly enough, himself.

Verification of Hadzic’s death meant one less danger in the world for the woman he’d thrown to the wolves. When it came to Nicole Erak, aka Jessica Petrovich, Berg was ruled by guilt. Against his better judgment or, better stated, in collusion with blinding arrogance, he’d pushed an exceptionally talented CIA recruit with identified emotional baggage into a high-risk, pressure-cooker assignment. Regardless of her ultimate betrayal of the agency, he felt personally responsible for the downward mental spiral that led her there. Infiltrating Hadzic’s Panthers had shattered the young woman he’d trained, replacing her with a hardened, remorseless wretch.

He’d never forgive himself for what happened to her, which was why he struggled with the information in front of him. He really should delete the message, but the thought of unilaterally making the decision to deprive her of the last chance to see her mother didn’t sit well with him.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. “She can figure this out.”

He’d send her a text, passing along what he knew when and if she returned the call. There was no guarantee she would respond. General Sanderson seemed to think the Petroviches were on the verge of disappearing for good. Berg hoped so. As useful and effective as they had been in the past and could continue to be in the future, their luck would run out sooner than later. Thinking of Sanderson gave him an idea. If he could arrange a little insurance policy, he’d feel far better about the situation.

Chapter 8

Daniel eyed the sunset beyond the natural rock jetty that formed the western end of the long white sand strip of beach in front of their table. Jessica caught his glance and stole a quick look over her shoulder before lifting her mojito from the table for a long sip.

“Should I be worried?” she asked.

“Uh… no,” Daniel said, stalling for words and coming up with something completely unconvincing. “I just feel bad that you’re not enjoying the sunset.”

“Okay…” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “It’s not like we don’t see the sunset every night.”

His eyes darted to the western horizon again. Where the hell was the boat? He’d drawn out the evening as long as possible, paying the wait staff for a leisurely service pace that redefined the concept of “island time.” He’d even arranged for the kitchen to inform Daniel of a faux mistake with Jessica’s order, resulting in a twenty-minute delay while both of their meals were prepared freshly, to their satisfaction. He needed every spare minute he could muster.

The crew he’d hired needed a minimum of two hours to outfit the boat and deliver it to the shallow waters in front of the restaurant. When he’d last checked with them, roughly forty minutes ago, they’d assured him that everything was still on schedule. The boat should have arrived fifteen minutes ago. Daniel considered excusing himself for another bathroom break to check in with the crew when the top of a sailboat mast appeared over the rocky outcropping.

He smiled at Jessica and turned his head toward the kitchen entrance, where a member of the wait staff stood unobtrusively to the side, pretending to busy himself at one of the server stations. Daniel nodded at the man, who moved swiftly toward the bar.

“Now you have me worried,” said Jessica, looking in the direction of the bar.

La Ombra’s bow emerged from behind the rocks, the dark blue-hulled sailboat motoring swiftly through the calm reddish-orange reflected water. Daniel stared a little too long at the boat, drawing Jessica’s attention.

“Is that our boat?” she asked, squinting at the shape moving across the setting sun.

Their waiter materialized with a stainless steel ice bucket tilted in its bamboo stand to reveal an open bottle of champagne. While the waiter arranged the bucket next to the table, another server slid two champagne flutes onto the white-linen-topped table. Jessica looked convincingly flummoxed, which convinced Daniel that his scheme had gone undetected until moments ago. She downed most of her remaining mojito and placed the sweating glass on the table away from the champagne flutes.

“What are you up to?” said Jessica, half smiling.

“I’m proposing,” he said, mouthing, “Thank you,” to the waiter, who quickly disappeared.

“We’re already married, if I remember correctly.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not doing one of those re-proposal things.”

“I’m not opposed to the concept,” said Jessica, her attention focused on the sailboat anchoring offshore.

“I’m proposing something better,” he said, sliding the chilled bottle out of the ice bucket.

After filling each glass halfway and replacing the bottle, he raised one of the champagne flutes, holding it halfway across the table. Before Jessica could grab the other glass, her smartphone buzzed on the seat next to her, the screen illuminating the chair back in the declining light. They rarely received calls, which was why he wasn’t surprised or bothered when she interrupted his ceremony to check the phone. Given their past and present line of work, both of their phones remained close at hand at all times. A call from Sanderson or one of their intelligence contacts could mean the difference between life and death if a last minute threat was detected.

Jessica looked bothered. “Berg wants me to call him immediately. Says it’s urgent.”

“As in life-threatening urgent?”

She shrugged and then read the message. “Urgent that you call me immediately.”

The message didn’t sound immediately life threatening, but its nebulous quality made Daniel nervous. Better safe than sorry.

“The champagne is chilled, the boat is anchored, and I’m not going anywhere. Let’s see what the mysterious Mr. Berg wants.”

“You’re the mystery man tonight, with champagne and boats suddenly appearing out of nowhere,” she said, placing the phone on the table.

“I think you’ll like what I have to propose,” he said.

“Hold that thought.”

Jessica pressed her phone’s screen and raised the device to her ear. Daniel listened to the one-sided conversation, trying to piece it together from her responses. He didn’t have much success. Jessica’s side of the conversation remained mostly confined to one- or two-word questions. When? Where? How long? Threat assessment? A staccato series of questions rattled off without the slightest betrayal of emotion. When she placed the phone on the table, he truly had no idea what had transpired between Berg and his wife. He knew it hadn’t been good; the solemn look on her face reinforced that assessment.

“What’s going on?” he asked, placing his champagne glass on the table.

Jessica took her time answering, downing the glass of champagne in front of her first. Definitely not a good call.

“My mother is in a hospice,” she said, eyeing his glass of champagne.

Tonight is going to be rough, he thought, pushing his glass toward her.

She accepted the gesture, draining the bubbly spirit.

Very rough.

Vesna Erak was a delicate subject on a good day, a nervous-breakdown-provoking topic the remaining three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. Something told him today would not be the good day.

“Why?” he asked, mimicking the brief interrogation style she used on Berg.

It sounded like an impersonal question, but he knew from experience that this was the safest way to communicate with her when she was like this.

“I don’t know. Berg received a secure automated message alert linking to a local newspaper article.”

“Is it real?”

“The article?”

“All of it,” he stated. They could never be too careful.

“I’ll confirm it with the hospital,” she said, staring at the empty glass in her hand.

Her attention suddenly shifted to the water. A fiberglass-hulled, rigid inflatable boat plied through the smooth cove toward the beach in front of the restaurant. The two-person crew that had delivered La Ombra would pull the dinghy onto the sand, leaving it for Jessica and Daniel.

“You had something big planned for tonight,” she said sullenly.

“The boat is stocked for a long-distance voyage. I planned on sailing you out of here tonight to the destination of your choice.”

Jessica’s eyes glistened, her face remaining neutral. She looked at the boat for a few seconds, turning back with an uncertain look. He could tell that she wanted to say something but couldn’t form the words.

“Tonight’s proposal has no expiration date,” he said. “If you want to visit your mother—”

“I don’t want to visit her,” she blurted, grabbing the chilled champagne bottle.

He was convinced she intended to drink right from the bottle.

“But I owe it to her,” she whispered, setting the wet bottle on the table next to the glasses. “I can give her closure. At least let her die at peace with herself. I should have done this years ago.”

“You’ve done a lot for her over the years.”

“I made sure she lived a comfortable life,” said Jessica. “Anonymously.”

“She knows it’s you,” he said. “She has to know you’ve forgiven her.”

“I should have told her myself years ago. She deserved better from me.”

Daniel had to tread lightly here. Despite the fact that she had anonymously set up a trust to take care of her mother, Jessica harbored a deep, long-standing resentment against Vesna Erak for failing to protect her from the serial abuse suffered at the hands of her father. Unleashing that bitterness put her in a bad place.

“She understood,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. When she let him take it, he knew she was still in control. “If you want to visit her, you should do it,” he added.

“I think I need to see her,” she said, taking a sip of champagne.

“I’ll make the arrangements and do a little digging. Just to be safe.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Danny. When I get back, we’ll sail out of here and never look back.”

“When we get back,” said Daniel, hoping she had misspoken.

“I need to do this alone.”

Daniel didn’t push the issue, but he had no intention of letting her travel to the United States, to open one of the darkest chapters of her life — alone.

Chapter 9

Alexei Kaparov laid the classified intelligence report on his desk, digesting the information. He’d skimmed through the bulk of the report, not wishing to rehash what was already known. Alpha Group, outfitted in protective biohazard gear, had swept the facility and the immediate grounds, finding no trace of Reznikov. Parts of the laboratory had been “rendered inaccessible” during the raid, a polite way of saying irresponsibly destroyed and burned to the ground. This precluded a full search of the buildings most likely to house Reznikov, leaving the strike force unable to confirm Reznikov’s death or escape.

Strong circumstantial evidence gathered before and after the ground assault suggested that Reznikov had escaped. A close review of the thermal imaging and night-vision video captured by one of the helicopter’s sensor pods suggested that the raid force had flown over a small boat on the final inbound leg of their attack. Faint thermal blooms, mostly obscured by jungle canopy, corresponded to the distinctively pointy shape of a boat’s bow. Even at this late hour, a fisherman or poacher on the river wouldn’t draw much suspicion, but the fact that the boat’s occupants had made a considerable effort to hide themselves from aerial detection suggested something different.

While the theory was far from conclusive, it led the three-man Service of Special Operations (Spetsgruppa C) team to an interesting discovery. Roughly a mile downriver from where the boat had been first detected, commandos discovered a motorized aluminum skiff pulled onto the southern riverbank and tied to a tree. Not far from the river, in the thick brush next to a barely used walking path, they discovered two bodies covered by a heavy thermal-protective blanket. Neither turned out to be Reznikov, and the corpses’ identities generated more questions than answers.

One of the men turned out to be an ex-GRU Spetsnaz sergeant named Gennady Ageykin. Outside of a spotty service record, not much was known about Ageykin beyond his suspected association with a mercenary outfit that routinely performed security duties for wealthy oligarch types based outside of Russia. The mercenary group also held a sinister reputation for accepting less than legitimate assignments. At face value, a dead ex-GRU mercenary found a few miles away from the laboratory wasn’t a significant discovery. However, discovering Valery Zuyev, one of the Solntsevskaya Bratva’s top crime lieutenants, with his throat slashed in the same location? What did the American commercial say? Priceless.

According to recently shared U.S. intelligence reports, Valery Zuyev had been involved tangentially and directly to the Reznikov fiasco from the beginning. He was first identified by U.S. forces in the spring of 2007, as “Viktor,” senior ranking Bratva member in Novosibirsk at the time of the Vektor Institute raid. Kaparov found it amusing that the report cleverly slid past the likely fact that the source of this information originated from the team that used Zuyev’s resources to destroy the Vektor bioweapons facility. Not to mention the trail of carnage left behind by the team during their escape to the Kazakhstan border. Several armored vehicles destroyed, two helicopters shot out of the sky, and a few dozen Russian Federation soldiers killed. Minor details when both sides had reasons to sweep the fallout from that day under the rug.

Following the Vektor attack, Zuyev travelled to Argentina and Bolivia several times from Moscow over the course of the next year, raising Russian and American suspicions that he was paying close attention to the Bratva’s most recently acquired prized possession, Anatoly Reznikov. Kaparov had to roll his eyes at yet another glaring omission conveniently left out of the joint intelligence report. Nobody appeared to question or explain how Reznikov fell into Bratva hands in the first place!

Once again, not a surprise given the questionable circumstances surrounding the scientist’s disappearance and the numerous Russian and American lives lost in the bloody tug-of-war to capture him. Absurdly, Kaparov was probably the only person in the service of the Russian Federation who knew the full story. He couldn’t imagine any circumstance under which the Americans would disclose the details of Reznikov’s brief stint in captivity on U.S. soil, or the brutal attack by the Bratva-sponsored mercenaries that freed him. No. The story moved on, both sides burying their secrets while independently keeping a close eye on South America.

In 2008, the strategy nearly paid off — for the Americans. Zuyev surfaced unexpectedly in Montevideo, disappearing north into Uruguay’s highlands and returning a few days later with a much larger than usual security entourage. The significant departure from his normal routine attracted the CIA’s attention, resulting in a botched attempt by Berg’s private army to grab the scientist. Neither Zuyev nor Reznikov had been seen since, until the Russian Foreign Intelligence Agency (SVR) received an anonymous tip two weeks ago, indicating that Zuyev and Reznikov were hiding in a remote jungle location in Goa, India. Satellite imagery confirmed the presence of several unusual structures at the reported site, triggering the raid.

This was where the report once again went cloudy, unlike his memory. He distinctly remembered hearing one of the agents in the operations center tell Greshnev that the team needed to be “airborne” in two minutes. Kaparov wasn’t an expert on his country’s military capabilities, but he was pretty sure the Russian Federation didn’t have the ability to launch a helicopter raid in the vicinity of Goa, India. He didn’t even need to look at a map to know a land-based operation was physically impossible. A sea-based mission? He highly doubted it. The nearest accessible naval base was at Vladivostok, at least several thousand kilometers away, and the Russians had no way to refuel a ship that far from port.

If the Russians didn’t launch the helicopters, then who did? The answer was obvious, but Kaparov had no intention of broadcasting his guess. He’d been shuffled into the tactical operations center after the Alpha team debarked the helicopters, and shuffled out before they headed to the extraction site. Given a glimpse of the big game as a professional courtesy, in the new spirit of “cooperation” stinking up headquarters. Whatever. He didn’t give a shit how they got there. They didn’t get Reznikov, and that was the only thing that mattered. As long as Reznikov continued to draw oxygen, the world was a vastly more dangerous place.

So now what?

Kaparov read through the preliminary conclusions attached to the report, nodding with indifferent agreement. Yes. Yes. A monkey could have connected these dots. Obviously, someone snatched Reznikov close to the boat, which meant someone had known precisely when and where to grab him. The Russian team on the ground observed that the aluminum skiff had seating for three passengers, leaving Reznikov as the sole survivor. A wooden shedlike structure large enough to house an SUV had been found several hundred meters away near a rough jeep trail. Despite the pounding rain that hit the area the day after the raid, the team was able to find recent tire tracks on a few of the rises in the trail, headed south. No boot prints were found near the shed due to the rain.

The prevailing theory at this point was that Reznikov took advantage of the darkness and confusion to kill his Bratva escort and escape. He’d stabbed Zuyev in the throat with a hidden knife and then shot Ageykin in the head with Zuyev’s pistol. On the surface, the theory made sense. Goa wouldn’t be the first time that the scientist had pulled a fast one on his captors. Three Al Qaeda operatives had been found shot to death near a suspected makeshift bioweapons laboratory site in Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan, a few weeks before Reznikov infected Monchegorsk’s water supply with the Zulu virus.

Kaparov squinted at the page, feeling the urge to break his recent pledge to quit smoking in his office. Something about the theory felt uninspired, like the investigative work routinely submitted by the younger generation of agents seated right outside his office door. So easily offended by cigarette smoke and foul language, quick to jump to conclusions based on “facts,” so they could turn in a shitty report and snag a seat on the Metro for their long rides to the suburbs. There was more to this story than an opportunistic escape. Reznikov wouldn’t have lasted more than a few hours on his own in that jungle. Even if he had found the stashed vehicle — in the dark, in a panic, on his own — where would he have gone? No. He had help. Three seats in a boat did not limit a boat to three people.

Another person in play expanded the field of theories. The third guard could have seized the opportunity at the last moment to steal Reznikov for himself and sell him to the highest bidder. Presumably, they had stopped at a preplanned location, which included the stashed vehicle, which would have been known to the security detail. Or even better, the third guard could have dropped the anonymous tip, triggering the raid and the preplanned river escape. But how would he know when to expect the raid? And what if the raid had included a river element?

His mind drifted back to the Reznikov theory. Maybe he’d struck a deal with a Bratva guard or one of the far less loyal Russian mercenaries. Either way, it meant Reznikov had help, and figuring out who helped him was their only hope of finding the rogue bioweapons scientist. Kaparov had an idea, but it was a long shot. Of course, his scheme would require some discreet assistance.

Chapter 10

Yuri Prerovsky studied the floor-to-ceiling flowchart that covered most of the wall outside his office. Comprised of color headshot photos with brief captions, the chart visually outlined the known connections between the different leaders and groups within the Solntsevskaya Bratva criminal gang. Three rows of loosely arranged folding chairs sat empty behind him, waiting for tomorrow morning’s division update, when his boss would unveil one of the biggest changes to the Solntsevskaya’s leadership roster in the past several years.

Valery Zuyev’s long absence from the Moscow scene had just become permanent, erasing any continued speculation. Of course, Prerovsky would have to play dumb, like he had several minutes ago when his immediate boss told him to remove Zuyev from the wall. Nobody within the Organized Crime (OC) Division knew the real story behind Zuyev’s sudden retirement. Center of Special Operations agents yanked information from his OC bosses without providing any context why they needed it. Standard operating procedure within the Federation Security Services. CSN operated in near complete secrecy, grabbing whatever it wanted without explanation, with the express approval of the director.

Despite the widespread disdain generated by CSN’s “grab and go” authority, Prerovsky appreciated the high level of secrecy. Arkady Baranov’s Center of Special Operations maintained a reputation for being incorruptible; a claim no other division within the greater Federation Security Services framework could make. Stringent background checks and surprise polygraph examinations ensured the highest recruit quality possible, but the key to CSN’s continued success in fighting off corruption had more to do with geography than the quality of its people.

In 2004, Baranov moved all of CSN, save a handpicked headquarters liaison group, from the Lubyanka complex in Moscow, relocating to a close campus southeast of Moscow. The overwhelming majority of new CSN personnel trained and lived in the vast facility, which resembled a university setting. Close to ninety percent of CSN agents continued to live in the enclave long after initial training. At any given time, many of them were deployed as teams to different regions of the Federation and beyond.

The very nature of their work kept them from the static routines and lifestyles that made most FSB agents vulnerable to the street-level targeting of organized crime recruiters. When you had a family to support and protect, it was difficult to turn down the profitable offers made by the Bratva recruiters, especially when they started showing up at your children’s school to help them cross the street or carry their backpacks.

It was estimated that close to five percent of FSB agents at headquarters and in field offices throughout the Federation had some type of regular contact with an organized crime handler. The high percentage made it nearly impossible for the greater Organized Crime Division to secretly plan and execute high-profile busts against the different crime groups, so mid to lower ranking division personnel collected data on the different groups through stakeouts, informants, daily surveillance, and electronic surveillance, and the assistant deputy directors assessed the data to recommend impactful operations to CSN leadership. It was the best the FSB could manage over the past several years.

Prerovsky sensed someone in the room and turned around to find Alexei Kaparov staring wryly back at him, holding two large Starbucks cups.

“Don’t let me interrupt your deep thinking,” said Kaparov. “I can come back once you’ve figured out who disappeared from the wall. Unless you want a hint.”

“They let you out of your cage?”

“From time to time I’m set free to roam the building,” said Kaparov, approaching him with one of the coffees extended.

Prerovsky cracked a sly smile, ruining any pretext of not wanting to know why Kaparov was plying him with his favorite coffee. He checked his watch, thankful that Kaparov had waited until after six to pay him a visit. No doubt by design. Kaparov always came armed with Starbucks coffee when he wanted something. A quick glance around confirmed they were alone for the moment. Most of the division had left for the day, and he was the last assistant deputy director on the division floor. As the junior AD, he’d been tasked with making the changes to the flowchart for tomorrow morning’s briefing.

After Prerovsky accepted the coffee, the two shook hands vigorously for a moment; then Kaparov pointed at the empty position in the chart.

“It will be interesting to see who fills that void,” he remarked.

“Possibly nobody. Bratva business has carried on as usual in Moscow during his extended absence. They’re shifting more and more to a decentralized organization. A year from now, I’m not even sure we’ll have a chart that resembles the typical top-down pyramid shape,” said Prerovsky, glancing around to confirm they were still alone. “I assume you didn’t come by to talk about the current state of Moscow organized crime?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“The coffees give you away every time. I only wish I could be there to see you struggle with the rush-hour crowds to fork over your hard-earned money. No gift card this time?” said Prerovsky.

“I’m saving for retirement,” said Kaparov. “Do you mind if we step inside your office?”

Now he was intrigued. Kaparov knew more about Zuyev’s recent activities than anyone in his office, including Prerovsky. If anyone knew why Zuyev had been scratched from the lineup, it would be his former boss.

“Of course. Step inside my humble abode,” he said, motioning to the door next to the chart.

When Kaparov stepped inside, he shut the door.

“What’s up?”

“Did you get the background on Zuyev’s untimely departure from the land of the living?” asked Kaparov.

“No. I was just told to remove him from the chart,” said Prerovsky, signaling for Kaparov to take a seat. “Please. Can I interest you in something stronger than an overpriced coffee?”

“Now who’s prying whom for information?” said Kaparov, nodding his approval.

Prerovsky reached down and opened the lowest drawer of his desk, digging far back to retrieve an unopened bottle of Russian Standard and two shot glasses.

“The good stuff!” said Kaparov. “You spare no expense.”

“I’ve saved this for a worthy occasion, but tonight will suffice,” said Prerovsky.

“Very funny. I’m sure it won’t hold a candle to my usual poison.”

“It’s all poison in the end,” stated Prerovsky, twisting open the cap. “I assume you know the real story behind Zuyev’s demise? And I presume it has something to do with a former Russian scientist?”

“You presume well,” said Kaparov, accepting a full glass. “To what shall we toast?”

“To keeping our jobs,” stated Prerovsky.

“And staying out of prison,” Kaparov added, clinking Prerovsky’s glass. “I’m too old for that, and you’re too young.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said the younger agent, downing his glass with a grimace.

He didn’t care how smooth they claimed the good stuff was, it still burned going down when it wasn’t mixed with juice or soda. Kaparov swallowed the liquid without a reaction.

“I could get into real trouble drinking this,” said Kaparov. “I barely noticed it.”

“If you didn’t notice, I would suggest a temporary halt to drinking,” said Prerovsky.

“Since we both know that’s off the table, I’ll stick with the stuff that burns,” said Kaparov, sliding his glass across the desk. “After another sample of the good life.”

They raised their refilled glasses.

“To killing Reznikov,” said Kaparov.

Prerovsky’s eyes darted to the door. The scientist’s name was in the open, no longer one of the Federation’s dirtiest secrets, but that didn’t mean they were safe to throw it around casually, especially in the wrong context.

“Don’t worry. I shut it tight,” said Kaparov. “Unless the walls have ears around here.”

“If they did, I’d already be in prison, or dead.”

“You and me both,” Kaparov said.

“To killing Reznikov,” said Prerovsky.

He screwed the top on the bottle and started to collect the glasses. “How can I help make our wish come true?”

“Nothing as dramatic as before,” said Kaparov. He opened his worn black suit jacket and removed a thumb drive from the left breast pocket, placing it on the desk.

“A CSN raid barely missed him, or so it is assumed. Based on the evidence gathered, it appears that he initially escaped in a boat, accompanied by two men. They found the boat tied to a tree a few miles downriver from the site… and two bodies off a nearby trail. One with a gunshot wound to the head, the other with a stab wound to the throat. Care to guess their names?”

The warm flush in his face had been replaced by a cold tightening, the mellow vodka buzz gone.

“I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that one of them was Zuyev,” said Prerovsky, reconsidering the bottle.

“I see your powers of deduction have not been dulled in organized crime,” said Kaparov. “Zuyev got the stab wound, and an ex-GRU mercenary named Gennady Ageykin took a bullet to the side of his head. They think Reznikov took advantage of the confusion and turned the tables on his captors.”

Prerovsky raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“My thoughts exactly. Possible, but unlikely, which is why I’ve come to you,” said Kaparov, tapping the thumb drive. “I have a list of names, with known or assumed profile data, of everyone identified by CSN during and after the raid. Twenty-three IDs for twenty-five bodies. That number includes Zuyev and Ageykin.”

“Why the discrepancy?” said Prerovsky.

“Apparently, they blew up the laboratory during the raid. The bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

Prerovsky involuntarily chuckled. Kaparov just stared at him, smiling wryly.

“They really blew up the most obvious place to find him?”

Kaparov nodded, shaking his head in mockery.

“Holy mother. Heads must have rolled for that. How do they know one of the bodies wasn’t Reznikov?”

“The assault team first engaged the two men outside of the laboratory, forcing them inside. Based on a number of factors, they concluded the men had specialized combat training.”

“He would have been fighting for his life,” said Prerovsky. “In the heat of the moment, at night, I don’t see how they could be so positive about that assessment.”

“The assault team collected DNA samples,” said Kaparov. “They eliminated Reznikov as a match for the toasted bodies.”

“I don’t want to know how they managed that,” said Prerovsky.

“You really don’t,” stated Kaparov. “I picture a bag of thumbs being shipped in dry ice back to Moscow.”

Prerovsky grimaced. “Thanks for the image. So we know Reznikov wasn’t among the dead on the riverbank trail or at the primary assault site.”

“Correct.”

“If Zuyev was there, Reznikov was there. Any reason to assume differently?”

Kaparov shook his head.

“And you don’t think Reznikov killed Zuyev and an ex-GRU type by himself?”

His former boss continued to shake his head. “Doubtful.”

Prerovsky understood what Kaparov wanted, but it would be a stretch to make a connection. The older agent seemed to read his troubled look.

“You’ll find a second file on this thumb drive. An overseas friend of mine provided some surprisingly clear, professionally catalogued video still footage of faces that I need you to run against your database. My gut tells me this was an inside job. Someone close to Zuyev had a hand in this. Someone that knows a lot about Reznikov.”

Prerovsky reached across the desk and took the thumb drive. “I can’t do this on my computer. The databases and facial recognition system is locked down in our SCIV (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Vault).”

“I presume associate deputy directors have access?” said Kaparov.

“Yeah, and I have to log in to the system to use it, leaving a trace.”

“I can’t imagine anyone getting upset over an ambitious young agent assembling a list of Zuyev’s known or presumed associates immediately after being notified that Zuyev was dead. There’s bound to be a shake-up in the Bratva’s hierarchy. You might even score some points for getting ahead of the inevitable power struggle,” said Kaparov, pausing for a moment. “You should also run a list of all former government or military Spetsnaz mercenaries known to work with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, particularly Zuyev or Matvey Penkin, his immediate boss.”

“You really don’t like me, do you?”

“You’ll be fine,” Kaparov said smoothly.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one sitting in the SCIV after hours, researching one of the top Bratva bosses in Moscow. That kind of shit gets noticed around here, and I don’t feel like attracting the wrong kind of attention.”

“You might make a few of the other assistant deputies jealous, but I’m sure you can handle it,” said Kaparov.

“I’m not talking about here. I mean out there,” said Prerovsky, gesturing toward the window behind him. “I don’t need to be on the mafiya’s radar.”

As soon as Prerovsky finished the statement, he realized his mistake. Kaparov had already formed that mildly smug look he’d come to simultaneously admire and loathe during his years working with the older agent. Prerovsky shook his head with a defeated smile.

“Any more than I already am by working in the organized crime division. I’ll see what I can do.”

Prerovsky squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he was going to regret this somehow, but if it helped rid the world of Reznikov, it was worth the risk. When he opened his eyes, Kaparov had already opened the bottle.

“To killing Reznikov,” he said, taking a long swig before handing it over.

“To killing him for good this time,” Prerovsky agreed, accepting the bottle.

Chapter 11

A phone rang from the direction of Berg’s cubicle, drawing his attention away from the start of his post-lunch pilgrimage to the campus coffee shop. It could wait. Probably wasn’t his phone anyway. He started walking toward the stairwell again, stopping a few steps later. He didn’t get a lot of calls these days, and the insistent ringtone beckoned him.

“Coffee can wait a few minutes,” he muttered, returning to his cubicle. He dropped into his worn chair and grabbed the handset, glancing at the caller ID. Shit. He needed to be somewhere else to take this call. Somewhere a lot more private. Preferably out of the building.

“Give me ten minutes and call me back on my cell phone, unless this can wait until tomorrow.”

Kaparov grunted. “I just left the office.”

It was eight o’clock at night in Moscow. Something was up.

“That important?”

“Could be. Ten minutes.” He hung up.

He thought about using one of the secure communications rooms, but dropped the idea. He’d have to swipe his access card to enter the bank of soundproof telephone booths, leaving a public record. It was better to retrieve his cell phone and take a walk outside, where he was free to place a call.

With a few seconds to spare, he had negotiated the byzantine process required to get out of the building. He walked briskly toward the tree-lined, grassy area blocking the nearest parking lot. Without a doubt, his sudden departure generated some kind of report to the regime stooges assigned to keep an eye on him. At least they couldn’t eavesdrop on his conversation, or maybe they could. The phone in his front trouser pocket buzzed against his thigh. A quick check of the caller ID once again gave him a chill. Taking this call would only lead to trouble. He couldn’t wait.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Berg said in his best Russian.

“Let’s stick with your native language. No offense, but I speak better English today than you ever spoke Russian.”

“Fair enough. How is life treating you, my friend?”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries this time. It’s cold out, and I’d like to get home in one piece.”

“Don’t you carry a pistol?”

“I lock it up in my office as a suicide prevention measure,” said Kaparov.

“Do I need to call the Federation Security Service’s suicide hotline on your behalf?”

“Please don’t. They might encourage me,” said Kaparov. “Anyway. Remember that mutual acquaintance of ours? The one that keeps getting away?”

“Yes. Did he surface?” asked Berg.

“You tell me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounded like it was supposed to mean,” Kaparov retorted.

Now Berg was more concerned than intrigued. At first he thought the Russian was fishing for information, but now it sounded like he had good reason to suspect that the Americans, or possibly Sanderson’s people, might have new information regarding Reznikov.

It wasn’t Sanderson. He was fairly sure of that. Not one hundred percent, but close enough. Sanderson’s assets hadn’t been used for a number of months now, a trend that was unlikely to change in light of the Beltway’s regime change.

Berg also had good reason to doubt the CIA had run an operation. He still had a few deeply placed friends in the Special Activities Division. If the CIA had been tasked with a mission to kill or capture Reznikov, SAD would have been involved, and word would have reached him by now. If the operation was military, he couldn’t say one way or the other unless the Pentagon tapped the CIA for help.

He hated being this far out of the game.

“I have nothing new on my end regarding our acquaintance,” said Berg, composing himself. “What leads you to conclude we were involved?”

“A lifetime spent reading between the lines and the fact that we don’t have the land-based or naval capability to launch a helicopter raid into India. Here’s the quick version of what I know.”

Berg listened as the Russian hastily described the operation, which had miraculously failed to capture Reznikov. They couldn’t even be sure he hadn’t escaped with any of his gruesome work because they torched the laboratory. And now the scientist was either on his own or sold to the highest bidder. Neither scenario boded well.

At best, it reset the clock on the next bioterror attack. At worst… he didn’t want to think about the worst-case scenario.

“So what does this leave us with?” asked Berg, sensing there was more.

“Very little,” stated Kaparov.

“But something?”

“Grigor Sokolov.”

Berg recognized the name immediately. Sokolov had been part of the mercenary team that snatched Reznikov out of “retirement” in Vermont. Several high-resolution digital cameras had caught his ugly face during the raid. A year or so later, video surveillance footage acquired by Sanderson’s people put him next to Reznikov during the failed attempt to neutralize the scientist in Uruguay. Sokolov had been part of the scientist’s personal security detail from the start. He’d expect to find Sokolov’s body at the site, but it did little more than reinforce the likelihood that Reznikov had been there moments before the Russians raided the laboratory.

“He’s not much good to us dead.”

“Did I say he was dead?” asked Kaparov, pausing before continuing. “He’s missing.”

“He could have been burned up in the lab,” Berg suggested.

“I don’t think so. Sokolov and Ageykin have been close to Reznikov from the beginning. They’re plank owners, part of the original crew that stole him right out from under your nose. The rest died in Uruguay.”

“No need to get personal,” said Berg.

“Sorry. I get a little animated when I think about how all of this could have been avoided.”

Berg let it go. No point in reminding his friend that Reznikov was a Russian Federation-sponsored product of an illegal bioweapons program. He knew it better than anyone.

“So you think Sokolov betrayed the Bratva?” Berg asked.

“It’s a theory.”

“Sounds like your only theory,” replied Berg.

“It’s the only theory that makes sense to me. Reznikov didn’t get the drop on two seasoned mercenaries and Zuyev. No fucking way.”

“I guess the big question is who owns Reznikov, or does he own himself?” asked Berg. “Could he have bribed Sokolov somehow? Maybe convince him there’s a bigger payoff if he sets him free?”

“Big question, indeed. Gut instinct tells me Sokolov either reached out on his own or was approached. These mercenaries deal in real money, not promises of wild payoffs by crazy scientists. Hard money turned Sokolov, and lots of it. The Bratva isn’t overly forgiving of traitors. We’re talking the kind of money that can fund a very expensive, permanent disappearing act.”

Berg couldn’t argue too deeply with Kaparov’s prevailing theory. Even if Reznikov somehow turned the tables on his captors and escaped on his own, who had provided the intelligence for the raid? Certainly not Reznikov. He had no way to control the most important variable in that plan — how to avoid the military unit sent to capture or kill him. Reznikov was without a doubt mentally deranged, but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it. A few well-placed smart bombs could have landed at any time, turning him into human confetti.

It wasn’t Reznikov, which only left them with the Sokolov angle. A narrow angle no matter how you looked at it. And that was just the beginning of the bad news.

“Who knows about Sokolov on your end?” he asked.

“Me and one other person I trust with my life. I suggest you keep it that way on your end. The timing of Reznikov’s escape suggests a leak somewhere. Can’t be too careful.”

“Then we discreetly look for Sokolov while everyone else shakes the trees for Reznikov.”

“Agreed. And when we find him, we let your special friends handle it.”

“I’ll put them on alert. If Sokolov is out there, he’s guaranteed to screw up. The guy spent the last two years in hiding. Put some money in his hands, and he’ll draw attention. If he’s still travelling with Reznikov, the chance is tripled.”

“My thoughts precisely. Keep me updated,” said Kaparov.

“I will. Good to hear from you again.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kaparov. “One last thing.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Why are you talking outside?”

“Do you have me under surveillance or something?”

He didn’t reply, forcing Berg to answer the question.

“They’ve redecorated the place, and I don’t exactly fit with the new décor.”

“Maybe I should have asked that question at the start of our conversation.”

“I’m just being ultracautious,” Berg said.

“I appreciate the courtesy,” said Kaparov then hung up abruptly.

Shit. Berg couldn’t tell by the Russian’s tone if that was the last he’d hear from him. Like himself, Kaparov had too much to lose, and it wouldn’t take much to unravel his ties to everything that had transpired two years ago. If the roles were reversed, he’d strongly weigh the risks of making contact again. In a way, Berg’s situation wasn’t all that different. If the wrong person linked his sudden interest in Sokolov to the rogue bioweapons scientist, he’d quickly find out what this new administration was capable of. Regardless of the risk, he had to do something. Getting rid of Reznikov was his cross to bear.

Chapter 12

Karl Berg paused in front of a partially opened door, reading the nameplate on the wall next to him. Audra Bauer — Deputy Director, Counterproliferation Division. He’d walked directly from his call with Kaparov to her office, afraid that he might lose the nerve to approach her if he waited too long. They were still good friends despite the unspoken strain of their recent demotions, but Berg felt tentative about bringing her this new information.

It fit right in her wheelhouse at Counterproliferation, but Sandra Tillman, the new NCS director, or someone even higher up the chain of command, had no doubt given Bauer the same message as Berg: Forget Reznikov ever happened. Forget anything connected with Reznikov ever happened. The new administration didn’t like connections to their sordid past, which was exactly how he intended to pitch his plan to Bauer.

He knocked on the door frame and peeked inside, catching her glance.

“Get in here,” she said, standing up at her desk with a warm smile.

So far, so good, he thought, stepping inside her office for the first time.

“May I close the door?” he asked.

Her smile faintly waned; then she nodded. “I thought this might be a friendly visit. Long time no see, Karl.”

He pushed the door shut before answering. “It’s a long overdue visit. Sorry, Audra.”

She motioned for him to take a seat in one of two comfortable-looking, modernist accent chairs bordering a white marble coffee table. The office was half the size of her previous space, but she’d done her usual job turning it into an art-museum-quality space.

“I see you haven’t lost your decorating touch,” he commented, sitting in the pristine black leather chair contraption.

Bauer joined him at the table. “I suppose your office is still filled with unopened boxes from the move?”

“Cubicle. Not much room for collectibles.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know,” she said. “I should have, but I haven’t exactly been anyone’s best friend lately. I wish you had told me this. I could have done something.”

“Things are uneasy enough around here. The last thing either of us needs is to draw any undue attention. I can ride this out in a cubicle.”

“Ride out the current administration? That’s one hell of a protracted ride,” she said.

“No. I won’t be around that long. I’m waiting for the right moment. Letting myself fly under the radar for a few months, maybe a year, long enough to show them I can play by the rules.”

“And that’s why you popped into my office out of the blue and shut the door before saying hello? Flying under the radar?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Berg leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “This is big. At least it could be big. Especially for your division.”

“If it has to do with Reznikov, I’m not interested.”

“Hear me out,” Berg pressed.

“I’m not interested, Karl. I’d like to have something to show for my years of service here other than a punitive letter of reprimand that will magically follow me while I hunt for another job,” she said.

“Let me explain, and if your answer is still no, I won’t bring it up again,” said Berg.

“Why don’t you take this up the chain if it’s that important?”

“Because I’m radioactive, Audra. They put me in a fucking cubicle, where I sit around all day reviewing bullshit reports about nothing,” he said. “I can’t bring this to anyone but you.”

“Fuck,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head. “Karl, this better be good. If I walk this up to Manning—”

“You won’t have to get him involved,” said Berg.

“Excuse me? Manning is my boss. That’s kind of how it works,” she snapped.

“I know. Sorry. I’m not explaining myself,” said Berg. “The information I received is a long shot at best, and it’s only tangentially connected to Reznikov. His name doesn’t even need to come up. Seriously.”

“I’m listening,” she said, eyeing him skeptically.

Berg spent the next few minutes bringing her up to speed, substituting “very high value target” for Reznikov. She nodded imperceptibly throughout his briefing, never interrupting. When he finished, she sat like a stone, her eyes fixed on the table in front of them for an uncomfortable period of time. Berg barely breathed, afraid to move or make a noise. She hadn’t outright refused yet, giving him a tiny glimmer of hope.

“Sokolov is the key,” she said.

“Reznikov is on everyone’s watch list, but nobody is looking for Sokolov. We generated a profile for him connected to the Vermont disaster, but that wasn’t widely distributed,” said Berg.

“It wasn’t distributed at all, beyond you. I made sure of it,” she said. “My hope was that we might wrap this up quietly at some point.”

“Then Sokolov doesn’t exist outside of a tight, private circle. We stand a good chance of accomplishing your goal. Can you discreetly add him to the counterproliferation watch list?”

She nodded. “I can add him without drawing any attention. Another Russian mercenary mixed up in the chemical weapons trade.”

Berg rubbed the stubble on his face. He’d stopped shaving every morning a few months ago. A kind of subtle protest, more like a resignation to his current fate. Either way, he felt overly conscious of it in front of her. Embarrassed might be a better word.

“I’ll reach out to Ryan Sharpe at the FBI. He’s pretty high up in their National Security Branch. I might be able to convince him to add Sokolov to the Interpol watch list in addition to whatever broader identification resources they can influence. Worth a shot, and I don’t see any way that would come back to haunt us. That about covers it.”

“Nice try. There’s still the matter of what happens if Sokolov pops up,” said Audra.

“I’ll take care of that. One phone call. No exposure,” said Berg. “If we all get lucky and our high-value target is with Sokolov, they’ll send us pictures, fingerprints, DNA samples, whatever is necessary to put this ugly chapter to rest.”

“No severed heads, please,” said Audra, referring to Daniel Petrovich’s unconventional method of providing the first Zulu virus samples examined by U.S. bioweapons scientists.

“If they want to deliver his severed head, who am I to say no?” said Berg, eliciting a faint smile from Bauer.

She stood up without warning and took a deep breath. “I’m not expecting much. Someone with deep pockets bankrolled his escape. I’d be shocked if Sokolov, or Reznikov for that matter, fucked up that badly. That said…”

Berg nodded. “Reznikov is a loose cannon, and they’ve both been stuck in one shithole after another guarding him,” he said. “I expect them to turn up sooner than later.”

“Precisely,” she said, grinning like he always remembered. “Good to see they haven’t crushed your spirit, Karl.”

“They tried, but it’s going to take more than a cubicle to keep me down,” he said, winking.

“The entire intelligence community was gutted a few months ago. I don’t know if things will ever be the same around here.”

“I wish I could tell you that this is business as usual, but True America’s Beltway sweep is unprecedented. This is my seventh administration in thirty plus years, and…” he said, considering his next words carefully, “a storm is brewing unlike anything we’ve seen before.”

She studied him for a few moments before responding. “There’s nothing we can do about it. The game has changed.”

“Hopefully I’ll be gone when it fully reveals itself,” said Berg. “Somewhere warm.”

“Argentina?”

“Not likely,” he replied. “Unless I spot a black van parked in front of my town house.”

“If you do, let me know. I’ll probably have one parked on my street too,” she said. “I’ll add Sokolov to the watch lists. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I appreciate you doing this for me. I’d like to retire knowing that psychopath is permanently off the market.”

“Don’t torture yourself over this. You didn’t create that monster,” she said.

“But he escaped on my watch,” said Berg.

“Thirty trained CIA guards were also on watch that day, and it didn’t make a difference,” she said. “What are you doing to keep yourself busy these days? Getting out of the house enough?”

“Sounds like our visit just turned into a psych eval.” Berg chuckled.

“You’re the one that keeps dredging up the past, constantly beating yourself up,” said Bauer.

“Funny,” said Berg, standing up.

“Karl, we all took a big hit earlier in the year. It hasn’t been easy.”

“I’m fine. Really. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting Darryl Jackson for dinner and cocktails tomorrow night,” he said.

“All right. Please say hi for me, and thank him again for his help in the past,” said Bauer.

“I’ll be sure to pass none of that along. His left eye twitches whenever he hears the letters C–I-A.”

Bauer laughed, moving around the table to shake his hand. “I’ll keep you posted. Good seeing you.”

“Good seeing you too. I grab coffee down at the Starbucks most days around 1:30 PM. I probably shouldn’t make a habit of visiting your office.”

“Radioactive?”

“Positively glowing,” he said, showing himself out.

Berg avoided eye contact with the busy collection of analysts and CIA officers swarming in and out of the cubicle farms occupying the Counterproliferation Division’s middle ground. Reaching the stairwell unmolested, but presumably not unnoticed, he stopped to collect his thoughts. There really was nothing else to do at this point. He’d return to his desk and continue to mindlessly tackle an email inbox full of mundane tasks, all the while keeping his fingers crossed. But before he returned to his cubicle, a leisurely stop at the on-site Starbucks was in order.

Chapter 13

Dmitry Ardankin unconsciously fidgeted in his chair. He only noticed when the stoic secretary behind the oversized antique desk raised her eyes, keeping them fixed on him until he remained perfectly still for a few seconds. He hated that woman, though not for any rational or personally justifiable reason. Just the fact that she made him feel so uncomfortable every time he sat here was reason enough. And now she had stilled him with nothing more than a mildly annoyed stare.

Fuck you and the Metro card you rode in on, he thought, recrossing his legs in defiance of her disapproving look. He had good reason to squirm.

Director Pushnoy had never made him wait this long before. Not because Ardankin commanded Directorate S, one of the most secretive directorates within the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), but because he religiously kept to his schedule, especially the regularly scheduled meetings with the service’s deputy directors. No doubt thanks to the emotionless machine standing guard over the entrance to his office, and his attention.

He resisted glancing at his watch again. The time didn’t matter. The last time he checked, the appointment was twenty-three minutes past due. That was all he needed to know. Uncharacteristically late. He wondered if the director’s secretary had notified the other deputy directors of the delay, or was he the last deputy scheduled for each day? He had no idea. He’d never once seen another person waiting for the director when his previous appointments had ended.

Ardankin sensed a shift in the secretary’s posture. “The director will see you now.”

After closing the door behind him, he walked through a darkened privacy vestibule into the director’s spacious office, freezing in place. For the first time in five years, he wasn’t alone for his regularly scheduled morning meeting. Worse than that, he didn’t recognize the man seated in one of the chairs at the oval mahogany table with Pushnoy. At least the mystery guest didn’t look comfortable. If he’d looked at home sitting with the director, Ardankin would be worried. Not that he wasn’t a little unnerved to be sharing his allotted time with a total stranger. This couldn’t be good.

“Dmitry, please,” said the director, motioning for him to join them at the table.

Stefan Pushnoy remained seated as he approached, but the angular-faced stranger started to stand, which was immediately stopped by a casual glance from the director. Already halfway out of the chair by the time he caught Pushnoy’s silent order, Ardankin got a quick look at the man as he sank slowly back into his seat.

One thing was clear: the guy was not comfortable in a suit. Nor was the suit comfortable on him. Stretched tight across his chest and broad shoulders, the jacket strained when he sat down again, its cuffs pulled back to expose a few inches of the white dress shirt covering his arms. This was the first time the man had worn a suit in years — if ever. If forced to guess, Ardankin would say the guy was former or current Spetsnaz.

“Dmitry, this is Colonel Levkin with the Main Intelligence Agency’s Special Operations Command. He knows full well who you are,” said the director.

“Colonel,” said Ardankin, nodding at the GRU officer.

“I’m honored to be here,” said Levkin, extending a hand across the table.

Ardankin reached across the table to shake Levkin’s hand, anticipating a bone-crushing grip that never materialized. When his hand was safely out of the colonel’s grasp, he stated the obvious.

“I wasn’t aware that the GRU had a Special Operations Command.”

“They don’t,” said Pushnoy. “Not yet, at least. We’ll get to that in a minute.”

Once Ardankin was seated, Pushnoy opened the same briefing folder he always used for their morning appointment, squinting at its contents. Two additional folders, with different markings, sat beneath it — taunting him. The bulky man seated across from him had a similar folder.

“What is your assessment of the operation in Goa?” asked Pushnoy.

Ardankin fought the urge to glance at the newcomer, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Colonel Levkin is aware of that situation,” said the director.

“Compromised,” Ardankin replied.

“Indeed,” said Pushnoy.

“My directorate’s regional asset was unaware of the laboratory. The Bratva managed to keep it exceptionally quiet,” said Ardankin.

“Until they didn’t,” said Pushnoy, closing the file. “Someone inside the Bratva turned.”

“Turned to who?”

“Nothing your people need to worry about right now. We didn’t even know the Bratva owned Reznikov until a few days ago.”

“Or how he came into their possession. We all know who had him last,” said Ardankin.

“All part of the absurd charade both of our countries have been playing for the past two years,” Pushnoy said, pushing one of the new folders in his direction. “This came across my desk yesterday. Take a few minutes to look it over.”

Ardankin drank in the details. The information was compelling and well worth immediate investigation, but it raised red flags. Lots of warnings. When he finished reading the documents, he looked up, his face once again betraying him.

“I can’t help acknowledge the coincidence,” Pushnoy remarked.

“Two intelligence coups within a week?” said Ardankin. “And loosely related? Do we know the source?”

“The data arrived electronically.”

“And anonymously, I presume. Just like the Reznikov tip-off?” said Ardankin, wondering if his skeptical tone had crossed the line.

Pushnoy displayed a rare smirk. “Everything will be vetted before a move is considered.”

Interesting. He neither confirmed nor denied whether the information had arrived anonymously.

“It appears to me that a move has already been considered,” said Ardankin, nodding at Colonel Levkin. “Have we submitted satellite reconnaissance requests to the Space Directorate? This intelligence is outdated.”

“Cosmic Intelligence Directorate,” said Pushnoy. “I’ve authorized the colonel to request satellite imagery.”

“I still can’t bring myself to say cosmic. Why in hell they would choose that name is beyond me,” said Ardankin.

Colonel Levkin chuckled. “I’ll submit the request immediately. We should have enough imagery to make an initial assessment within forty-eight hours.”

Ardankin considered another wry comment, but decided he’d already used up his monthly quota. Frankly, he was surprised Pushnoy hadn’t shut him down in front of the colonel. The director had never been one to hold back. Instead, he took the safest route.

“How can Directorate S be of service?”

“Colonel Levkin has been temporarily assigned to Directorate S, along with his new command, Spetsgruppa Omega.”

“Omega?” said Ardankin. “I assume the final letter of the Greek alphabet was chosen for its significance, not because the Russian Federation has plans for ten additional Spetsnaz groups?”

“The last. The end. The ultimate,” said Levkin.

“Levkin has handpicked the best special operators from the GRU’s Spetsnaz ranks to form an experimental unit,” started Pushnoy. “Colonel, why don’t you elaborate, as briefly as you can.”

“I’ve been tasked to create a company-sized, rapid-response force capable of carrying out emergency missions around the globe, Deputy Director,” said Levkin.

“No offense, Colonel, but isn’t that role currently fulfilled by our Federation Security Service’s Spetsgruppas?” Ardankin asked.

“You’re not mistaken, sir,” said Levkin, pausing as if to choose his words carefully. “The joint chiefs and the Main Intelligence Agency recently convinced the defense minister that we needed the same capability in each military district, without the usual bureaucratic delay.”

“Or the bureaucratic oversight, I imagine,” said Ardankin.

Levkin hesitated to agree.

“No need to play coy here, Colonel,” said Pushnoy.

“Very well, Director,” said Levkin. “Yes, the generals are tired of requesting assets for special operations missions outside of the traditional combat zones. Frankly, the current use of Federation Security Service personnel outside of the Russian Federation territory is bizarre.”

“And embarrassing?” said Ardankin.

Levkin grinned. “There’s plenty of that sentiment at the top as well.”

“I don’t have all day,” sighed the director. “Here’s how this is going to work. We’ll approach the task from two directions. Dmitry, I want a team watching Ernesto Galenden day and night. If the satellite imagery requested by Colonel Levkin shows the location indicated in the file to be abandoned, we will need to have a private talk with Galenden.”

“Easy enough,” said Ardankin.

He purposefully didn’t expand upon his directorate’s capabilities. He imagined the colonel had a fairly accurate concept of Directorate S’s mission and generic capabilities, but rumors had a way of inflating or deflating the truth, each scenario benefiting his Directorate, depending on the circumstance. In Colonel Levkin’s case, he preferred that the GRU officer overestimated. Legend among your countrymen never hurt.

“Colonel, my only hesitation, actually more a concern, lies purely in the numbers,” said Pushnoy.

“I’m not going to overestimate my unit’s capabilities,” said Levkin. “If this group is as skilled as you indicate and they presently occupy the position designated in this report, the numbers are not in our favor. Not without military-grade air and ground support.”

“How many men do you have in Omega?” asked Ardankin.

“I have two direct action platoons comprised of twenty men each,” Levkin said after a moment of hesitation. “Plus a special-purpose weapons team of twelve, which can be integrated with the direct action platoons as required.”

Members of this American mercenary unit had driven straight into what should have been a turkey shoot for his directorate’s Zaslon operatives. Not only did the smaller force of Americans drive away with Anatoly Reznikov, the Zaslon team’s target, but they also massacred every last Russian operative. Eight of the deadliest Spetsnaz officers in the Russian Federation’s arsenal lay dead on a Stockholm street. Killed within seconds of the Americans’ arrival.

Ardankin shook his head. “It won’t be enough. Not on their turf. Not without absolute surprise, which is unlikely to be achievable against these people.”

“Then what do you propose?” asked Pushnoy.

The question caught Ardankin off guard. He wanted to say let sleeping dogs lie. The American mystery unit had been quiet since the raid on Vektor Institute. Clearly Pushnoy didn’t feel the same way, or was he under pressure from above to make this work? The train of thought led to an idea. Probably a long shot, but it was the only hope of pulling this off.

“Colonel, if I’m off base tactically, please don’t hesitate to say so,” he said, continuing after Levkin nodded. “We stack the numbers in our favor by drawing them out of their lair?”

“It still leaves us with the same problem, just spreads it out,” said Levkin.

Pushnoy leaned back in his chair with an approving look. “You mean to suggest we go after Sanderson himself when he’s least protected.”

“Cut off the head of the snake,” whispered Levkin.

“And burn the framework of his operation to the ground, ensuring it can’t be used against the Russian Federation any time in the near future,” said Ardankin.

“How will we lure his people away?” asked Levkin. “I assume a string of firecrackers down the road won’t do the trick.”

“It might have to,” said Ardankin, turning to the director. “Unless the email containing all of this wonderfully convenient information included a return address.”

Pushnoy neither blinked nor changed his facial expression, which meant he had the man’s undivided attention and that his earlier assumption about the anonymity of the information was correct.

“With all due respect, Director, if they want us to do their dirty work, the least they can do is set the stage. Sanderson will need a convincing reason to deploy the bulk of his people. I hear that a certain high-profile bioweapons scientist is on the loose again.”

The director stared at him with piercing ice-blue eyes, the faintest hint of a grin on his face as he stood up. “This goes without saying, but the two of you will not be seen with each other outside of this office. Figure out a way to coordinate efforts.”

“Understood, Director,” said Ardankin. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Colonel Levkin stood at attention, echoing his statement.

“Colonel, you are dismissed. Report directly to Ardankin from this point forward. My secretary will provide you with a secure briefcase for that folder. I can’t stress enough the confidentiality of its contents.”

“With my life, Director,” said Levkin. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Pushnoy, motioning for him to leave.

When his secretary closed the door, the director addressed Ardankin less formally, a surprise to him.

“We move cautiously on this. One misstep and we have a disaster on our hands.”

“I agree, sir,” said Ardankin. “I have just the man for the job.”

“Osin?”

“He has the most experience with Sanderson’s people.”

“Not many live to share that experience,” said Pushnoy.

“That’s why he’s so valuable. I have no doubt he will be eager to nail Sanderson’s coffin shut.”

Chapter 14

General Terrence Sanderson stood on the deck of the timber lodge he had once called headquarters, and drew deeply on a Cuban cigar. He’d missed this place. The Black Flag program rose to full strength from the ashes here, forging men and women of the highest caliber for the dirtiest unacknowledged missions the United States had to offer. Now the valley compound served as temporary lodging for long-range reconnaissance and scout-sniper training. They didn’t spend much time in the valley that sheltered the complex before heading out into the massive expanse of land leading right into foothills of the Andes Mountains. The less time spent here, the better.

He’d rubbed too many people the wrong way during the painful process of rebooting the program to trust the sanctity of deals signed and sealed under the old guard. Immunity didn’t protect you from a payload of ground-vaporizing two-thousand-pound smart bombs released from a B-2 stealth bomber. The coordinates to this location were likely in the wrong hands already, which was why part of any training exercise based out of the former headquarters started with a three-day infiltration and surveillance operation to ensure the location was safe.

Electronic sweeps confirmed that no electronic signals emanated from the buildings or surrounding valley, which would have indicated the surreptitious installation of remote surveillance equipment. Most of the Black Flag operatives were familiar with the use of portable radio frequency detectors and handheld spectrum analyzers. Since background electromagnetic noise was nearly nonexistent in the isolated valley, detecting a hidden signal, no matter how cleverly disguised or transmitted, should be a fairly simple prospect. To be on the safe side, he always brought a member of the program’s dedicated electronic warfare along to oversee the analysis.

An array of portable sensors stood guard over the compound during their brief stay, watching the sky and the forest for emissions indicating a potential threat. Of course, a smart bomb didn’t advertise its arrival. You were there one minute, gone the next, which was why he was meticulous about countersurveillance during their short stays.

After checking his watch, he pulled a sturdy-looking satellite phone from one of his jacket pockets. He was about to break one of his own rules and accept an incoming satellite call, only because the originator had been insistent and they were less than thirty minutes from leaving the site. He counted the seconds, reaching “two” before it buzzed.

“It’s been a while, stranger,” Sanderson answered.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had anything for you,” said Karl Berg.

“Been a while since anyone has given us anything,” said Sanderson. “Frankly, it makes me nervous.”

“You and me both,” said Berg. “I was counting the hours to retirement, until I got a call from a friend in Moscow. I might have a mission for you.”

The line went quiet for a few moments.

“I’m not in the mood for theatrics, Karl. What do you have?”

“I forgot what a pleasure it is to talk to you,” said Berg. “We got a possible hit on Reznikov. A Special Forces raid against a hidden laboratory on the west coast of India missed him by minutes, and my friend strongly suspects that one of the ex-GRU mercenaries assigned to guard Reznikov arranged for the convenient last minute absence from the site.”

“Russian Special Forces?”

“Possibly a joint U.S.-Russian operation,” Berg replied. “But that’s purely speculative based on my friend’s assessment.”

“Any way you can confirm it?” asked Sanderson.

“The CIA wasn’t directly involved. I’d know if that was the case. Audra Bauer would definitely know.”

“Maybe she’s trying to protect you — from yourself,” said Sanderson. “Sniffing around for Reznikov is likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“I’m willing to make some noise to catch Reznikov.”

Sanderson understood where he was coming from, which was why he admired Berg. Tolerated might be a better term. The general’s disdain for intelligence professionals was nearly pathological. Berg had been the first intelligence officer to gain his trust in decades. Sanderson sensed a firm commitment to their shared nation, linked by a willingness to take extraordinary and, if necessary, unsavory steps to safeguarding it. Berg understood what it took to protect America under the new rules shaped by global terror organizations and the states that sponsored them. And apparently he hadn’t lost his enthusiasm for upending those rules.

“What are we looking at?” Sanderson asked.

“It’s kind of a long shot, but if this mercenary turns up, he could lead us directly to Reznikov. That’s where you come in. This will be a short-fused mission.”

“I can pre-stage a team for immediate takeoff from Buenos Aires or possibly one of the regional airports. That would be our best bet. We have a few discreet jet services on retainer that can transport a lightly armed team. My guess is we could be in the air within an hour of notification. Give me twelve hours to get everything in place.”

“Perfect. With that kind of response time, it might even be possible to nail them in the same place. My best guess is that they have been attached at the hip since Vermont. Video surveillance of that mess identified the mercenary. Same with Uruguay. If that’s the case—”

“They’ll be looking to blow off some steam,” Sanderson cut in.

“That’s what I’m thinking. They’ll want to discreetly spend some money. A double-cross deal like this cost someone a pretty penny.”

“That was my next question,” said Sanderson. “Any idea who funded and presumably orchestrated Reznikov’s escape? Sounds like they had help on the ground. I’m trying to picture a single mercenary dragging that sorry sack of shit around the jungle, and it’s not happening.”

“That’s the big mystery,” said Berg. “My guess is someone connected to the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. From what my source in Moscow can tell, the raid against the laboratory was real. Someone on the inside tipped them off at the last minute.”

“It almost sounds like the raid provided a necessary distraction,” Sanderson suggested.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“One hell of a risky gamble. Nearly impossible to control all of the variables.”

“Right. But given the isolation of the facility, this may have been the only viable option to snatch Reznikov without making it blatantly obvious,” said Berg.

“The Bratva will figure this out eventually. They have people on the inside too.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If they have someone deep enough in the Federal Security Service to relay access to all of the evidence gathered and reported by the strike team, I think they’ll assume the Russian government sent a covert team to grab Reznikov, to permanently disappear the guy.”

“Or put him back to work,” Sanderson said.

“Don’t say that,” said Berg. “Please.”

“You have to consider the possibility that this was an inside job disguised to look like an outside job. If that’s the case, he’s probably deep underground inside Siberia.”

“All we can hope to do right now is work with the scant intelligence we’ve been given,” said Berg.

“I’ll stack the deck with the largest team I can fit on a jet in case we’re looking at a complicated mission.”

“I guarantee it will be complicated.”

“You know what I mean,” said Sanderson. “It’s easier to scale back than scale up.”

“I got you,” said Berg. “I’ll keep you updated from my end. Let me know when everything is in place.”

“Copy that,” said the general. “Good to hear from you, Karl. I was worried you might have retired without inviting me to your farewell party.”

“Funny. I won’t get so much as a pat on the back when I leave.”

“Word of advice?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Whenever you decide to leave, do it quietly. And watch your back.”

“I plan to have you watching my back.”

“Only if you’ve signed on the dotted line,” Sanderson said. “You’d like it down here.”

“Not sure how much use I could be,” said Berg.

“You’d be surprised. Times change. Administrations change. A person’s value can fluctuate, but their potential remains the same. Given the right circumstances, you’ll be worth your weight in gold again.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Just trying to say that you’re always welcome around here,” said Sanderson.

“Let’s hope I’m not forced to take you up on the offer. Let me know when everything is in place,” said Berg, disconnecting the call.

Sanderson lowered the phone and took a few puffs on his Montecristo No. 2. He wasn’t thrilled by the lack of details passed by Berg. The CIA officer had been generous with information in the past, which led him to believe that the mission was a long shot at best, even if they miraculously caught a sniff of Reznikov. Even more troubling was Berg’s subtle air of desperation.

He understood Berg’s position well. The Black Flag organization had lain dormant under the new administration, and Sanderson was eager to get back in the game. A fine line existed between eagerness and desperation. An often-imperceptible line, mostly marked by patience — a quality rigorously honed by Sanderson during his years in exile. He sensed that Berg might have drifted over the line to a dangerous place, where judgment lapsed and good men and women were senselessly killed. He’d have to carefully evaluate the intelligence provided to support whatever mission eventually materialized. They’d come too far to throw caution to the wind.

The Black Flag program had enjoyed a productive two years after their controversial but silently celebrated destruction of the Russian bioweapons program at Vektor Institute. A few months before the raid, they had also played a critical role in unraveling and stopping the bioweapons plot perpetrated by True America-aligned extremists. The mainstream True America political movement successfully disavowed any connection to the fanatics, but Sanderson had no doubt his organization’s involvement in the fiasco was the primary reason why his program had remained dormant for the past several months. It also validated his decision to relocate the headquarters and scatter his teams. Sanderson and his operatives represented an untidy loose end for the True American administration.

A small group of operatives approached the darkened porch from the direction of a waiting convoy of SUVs. He could identify them by their general bearing and movements. Richard Farrington carried himself fully upright and moved assertively. The soldier was afraid of nothing, but not out of a misplaced sense of bravado. He was confident in his own competency and the proficiency of his colleagues, which extended to the surveillance teams that had ensured the valley’s security and continued to watch as they packed up to depart.

Trailing several feet behind, Jared Hoffman’s shadowy form lurked over Farrington’s shoulder. To the casual observer, the two would appear to exude the same air of sureness, but Sanderson could recognize the stark difference between them, night or day. Trained primarily as a sniper, Hoffman couldn’t help distrusting the security of his surroundings. When you spent hours observing unaware targets through a scope at great distances, you never quite shook that subtle, paranoid feeling that you could be in the same crosshairs anywhere and at any time.

He walked upright like Farrington, but his movements were stiff, less fluid, almost like he was tensed for action. Out of habit, he frequently scanned his surroundings for telltale signs that he was being glassed. Usually mistakes: a flash of sunlight reflected off an unprotected scope lens, an out-of-place open window, movement in the distance. Anything that might give away a sniper or provide him with the fraction of a second he needed to throw himself to the ground. He’d already glanced around twice since meeting Farrington behind the rear vehicle, despite the sheer blackness of the night. Some habits died hard. Others made it harder to die. Hoffman’s habit definitely fell into the latter category.

“Gentlemen,” said Sanderson, “we ready to roll?”

“Affirmative,” said Farrington, stopping a few feet in front of the porch steps. “Need us to lock up behind you?”

“I took care of it,” said Sanderson. “How did Castillo fare in the hills?”

Hoffman stepped into the open next to Farrington. “She’s ready to take on the new role. A-team level. I can still shoot better, but she’s sneaky as shit.”

Sanderson joined them on the soft ground. “What do you think?”

“She’s more than paid her dues. If she can work a sniper rifle half as good as Jared claims—”

“It’s a verified claim. Petrovich built the foundation; Melendez put up the framework and put all the finishing touches in place. She can shoot,” said Hoffman.

“Then that settles it,” said Farrington. “She’s on the primary assault team unless the mission requires a homogenous Caucasian unit for infiltration purposes.”

“If that’s the case, I’d be happy to fill in,” said Hoffman. “I could use a few days in Finland or Norway. Frankly, I’d be happy to go anywhere outside of the usual shitholes we’ve seen.”

“I’d be glad to see one of those shitholes again,” said Farrington. “Anything good come from your call?”

“I’m not sure. Sounds like a long shot, whatever it turns out to be,” said Sanderson. “And I doubt we’ll be sent anywhere to your liking, Jared.”

“At this point, I think the team would take anything,” said Jared. “Myself included. I’d even consider stepping foot in Russia again.”

“You and I are permanently off the Russia list,” said Farrington.

“Moscow’s most wanted.” Hoffman chuckled.

Sanderson placed a hand on Farrington’s shoulder. “If this pans out and the target in question emerges in Russia, we might not have a choice.”

“Jesus,” Hoffman breathed. “Reznikov?”

“Yes. Our ever-elusive friend has once again flown his coop. We’re still not sure who sprang him this time, but the Russkies haven’t been crossed off the list of suspects.”

“If the Russians grabbed him, he’s probably a slurry of lye at this point,” said Farrington.

“I’d like to think so,” Sanderson said, “but he’d be an invaluable asset to a bioweapons program, and the Russians don’t have the best track record of complying with the international Biological Weapons Convention.

“Fucking Russians,” muttered Hoffman.

“The CIA has no idea who nabbed him. They just know that he vanished under suspicious circumstances, minutes before a joint U.S.-Russian Special Forces raid against a covert laboratory.”

“Yep. My money is on the Russians,” said Hoffman.

“I wish I could say I’d take that bet,” stated Sanderson. “Let’s move out. I want to hit the ground running when we get back to the compound. We have twelve hours to position a rapid-response team in Buenos Aires.”

“What’s the size of the strike package?” Farrington asked.

“As many as we can stuff into one of the larger Dassault Falcons or an extended-range Gulf Stream,” said Sanderson.

“Then we better move it out,” said Farrington after quickly glancing at his watch. “This is going to be tight.”

Chapter 15

Ryan Sharpe replaced the handset on his encrypted desk phone and shook his head, mumbling a distant obscenity. Something was brewing at the CIA, and it gave him an uneasy feeling. He’d just taken an unexpected call from the former director of the FBI, Frederick Shelby, who personally requested his help arranging the international version of an “all-points bulletin” for a Russian national. Shelby wanted Ryan to go beyond the usual broad coordination with Interpol and liaison directly with Europol and the major players on each continent, focusing on countries with the most extensive and expansive law enforcement networks.

The request itself wasn’t unusual, though requests like these usually reached the FBI’s National Security Branch through a specific process designed to automatically screen for potential or known conflicts of interest with ongoing FBI investigations. What struck him as unusual was the fact that Sharpe had already vetted the individual in question late yesterday afternoon, based on an identical request by Karl Berg at the CIA. Sharpe couldn’t know for sure, since efforts at his own organization were often mistakenly duplicated, but he got the distinct impression that neither Shelby nor Berg was aware of each other’s activity. This feeling convinced him to take a second look at the individual under scrutiny to be certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything.

Since taking on the role of associate executive assistant director of the FBI’s National Security Branch, a substantial promotion fast-tracked by Shelby just over a year ago, Sharpe had refocused a significant portion of the branch’s resources to the detection, tracking, and prevention of emerging weapons of mass destruction (WMD) threats, foreign and domestic. After the attempted bioweapons attack two years ago by homegrown terrorists, he’d sworn never to let a similar catastrophe get that close to the United States again. He owed it to the men and women under his command who were murdered and injured in the cowardly bomb attack against the National Counterterrorism Center.

Neither Berg nor Shelby had expanded upon their reasons for the request, but with Berg involved, Sharpe’s spider sense tingled. Add Shelby’s personal request to the mix, and his hair was standing on end. Another look was warranted. If they weren’t going to connect the dots for him, he’d put his best people to work on it. They never failed to produce results.

Sharpe navigated through a series of menus on his computer screen to arrive at the electronic dossier for Grigor Sokolov. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an extensive file. Not only that, it told a familiar story. Nothing stood out. Like most of the for-hire Russian mercenaries and mafiya enforcers, Sokolov was a former noncommissioned officer in the GRU Spetsnaz during the late Soviet era. Drastic military spending cuts and the targeted political dismissal dumped thousands of Russian Special Forces soldiers on the job market, with few skills to offer beyond murder, sabotage, and mayhem — a perfect fit for a number of unsavory corporations and organizations rising to power in the post-communist industrial market.

The scant details of Sokolov’s post-GRU career didn’t raise an eyebrow. He’d dropped off the radar in 2008, his last documented link to a four-man crew that rather uniquely specialized in direct action rather than the usual high-risk security detail work taken by mercenaries. That was the only thing that remotely stood out. He led a team that gained a reputation for kidnapping, assassination, and sabotage. Exactly what he had been trained to do by the Soviet military.

Sharpe scanned the information one more time, focusing on the dates. 2008 was the only connection he could make, and that was shaky at best. Sokolov disappeared the same year True America extremists tried to poison Congress and thousands of innocent Americans. Not much to go on there. Intelligence sources couldn’t pinpoint a narrow time frame for his disappearance. He’d popped up a few times a year, with no detectable regularity, loosely tied to a murder or crime by a foreign federal law enforcement agency. His file went cold in 2008 and had stayed cold. Until now.

He drummed his fingers on the desk next to the keyboard, then marked the electronic file for distribution to Dana O’Reilly, his deputy assistant director. He typed a quick email to O’Reilly and waited. A few seconds passed then a quick rap on the closed door announced her presence.

“Come in!” he called.

She appeared in the doorway. “What’s up?”

“Shut the door and grab a seat,” he said, turning his screen to face the empty chair at the side of his desk.

He rolled his chair a few feet to the right so they could view the screen together. Sharpe no longer paused or winced internally when he looked at her, a monumental task given the long, twisting scar that ran from her chin to her left ear. It was unfair to pretend not to notice, on top of the fact that it was virtually impossible. Nobody in the office or headquarters was immune. She was a hero, if not somewhat of a legend in the FBI, but none of that erased the angry red scar and the awkward moments that followed her around day after day, hour after hour.

“This guy looks worse than I do,” O’Reilly commented.

Sharpe was once again caught off guard by her self-deprecating humor. Sokolov had a scar running from one ear to the other, the obvious victim of a botched throat slitting.

“You need to get used to it. Helps me get through the day,” she said, an underlying tone of sadness hanging on the statement.

The scar wasn’t her only reminder of that fateful day. Eric Hesterman’s massive frame had absorbed enough of the blast to keep her alive, but she’d been close enough to the explosion to suffer severe internal and external injuries. She’d spent the better part of a year recovering, the prospect of her return to the FBI never a sure thing.

A barely noticeable limp and a subtle but perpetually pained look stood as a testament to the fight she had won to get back to work. Sharpe didn’t hesitate to bring her on board as his deputy. He didn’t do it because he felt sorry for her. He did it because she had been one of the finest special agents he’d ever worked with — and she would have been Frank Mendoza’s first pick. The thought of Frank always stopped him in his tracks.

“I’m trying, Dana.”

“You’re doing better than most,” she replied. “Who is this guy?”

“Grigor Sokolov. Ex-GRU turned mercenary,” stated Sharpe, sitting back in his chair.

“Why are we looking at this guy?”

“Because within the span of twenty-four hours, I’ve received two requests to add this guy to our watch list, along with Interpol, Europol, and any other national law enforcement agency that will play ball with us.”

“Intriguing.”

“Wait until you hear who made the requests,” said Sharpe, pausing for a moment. “Karl Berg and Frederick Shelby.”

O’Reilly’s eyes widened a fraction. “I’d like to change my original assessment to disturbing.”

“Let the record reflect that this is highly disturbing,” said Sharpe. “And just when you thought it couldn’t get stranger, I’m pretty sure the requests were independent, as in not coordinated or purposefully duplicative.”

“Interesting.”

“Something’s up,” said Sharpe, “and I need you to get to the bottom of it. There’s not much to work with, but you’ve performed some miracles in the past.”

“I’ll start digging.”

“Discreetly, please,” said Sharpe. “The walls have ears nowadays, and I don’t need this to get back to Shelby.”

“I’m glad you said something,” she stated, looking serious. “I was going to put the entire branch to work on this.”

A sly smile slowly materialized on her face, reminding Sharpe that he was in the presence of a world-renowned smart-ass.

“That’s not funny,” said Sharpe, shaking his head with a grin.

“Yes, it is.”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

He rolled his chair back to the center of the desk while she studied the file on the screen.

“I’ve sent you what I have on this guy,” he said. “Gut instinct tells me he’s mixed up in something big.”

“How big?”

“I have no idea, but he hasn’t been linked to a crime since 2008. Prior to that, he was an Interpol regular. Never anything big, but busy enough. Suddenly he’s the focus of Berg and Shelby?”

“Berg’s involvement stands out,” said O’Reilly. “From the little I know of him.”

“Right. And if my read of the situation is correct, he’s not working with Shelby on this, which is what scares me the most.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling,” Sharpe said. “Berg was demoted when True America swept in, while Shelby was put on the fast track to becoming our country’s top intelligence community director. Two polar opposites in pursuit of the insignificant. That’s what scares me. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“Then let’s pull back the curtain a bit,” said O’Reilly.

“Discreetly,” Sharpe reiterated.

She grinned. “Of course.”