Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  “So, why are you so eager to call me? It must be late there?” Kaparov said.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. It sounds like the FSB or SVR is looking for someone important in the vicinity of Kazakhstan and possibly Monchegorsk,” Berg said.

  “It sounds like you are very well informed, as always. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to add,” Kaparov said.

  “Won’t add, or can’t add?” Berg said.

  “Neither. I assume we’ve come to the same conclusions about the ‘someone important’ you mentioned and his link to Monchegorsk?”

  “And the lab site outside of Kurchatov?” Berg said.

  “My God, you are well informed. What do you know about the site?”

  “Enough to know that Monchegorsk might burn to the ground…if it’s not bombed first.”

  Kaparov stared back at the Lubyanka Building and took a few seconds to process Berg’s words.

  “You still there, my friend?”

  “I am. I am. Something big happened this morning. The lot was full when I arrived.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “About six…”

  “This morning? You just arrived? Alexei, don’t fuck around with me. Do you know what happened in Kazakhstan today?”

  Kaparov didn’t want to admit that he was out of the loop on the Reznikov case, but he sensed something important in Berg’s tone. They had played a brilliant cat and mouse game for three years in Berlin, then two more in Moscow before Berg vanished overnight. After spending five years scrutinizing Berg as a Cold War adversary, he could read the slightest change in tone or facial expression. Right now, Berg sounded truly surprised that he might be in the dark on Kazakhstan.

  “Embarrassingly, I’ve been cut out of the loop, and this is what worries me the most. Tell me about Kazakhstan,” Kaparov said.

  “A small reconnaissance team of mine ran into a reinforced platoon of Russian Spetznaz in a small village called Kaynar…and a few helicopters. Kaynar is well over one hundred and fifty miles from the Kazakh-Russian border.”

  “What is the American reaction to the attack?” he said, sensing an impending international disaster.

  “None. I’m running this off the books for now, and most of my team survived. Your side is looking at thirty-plus KIA and two downed helicopters. One of them was a Havoc.”

  “This isn’t a joke or some kind of a trick? You’ve confirmed this?”

  “I watched it happen on a live feed. I’m concerned, Alexei. If they’re marginalizing you at this point, then we both know where this is headed.”

  “Straight under the rug,” Kaparov added.

  “The link back to Russia goes under the rug, and an unknown quantity of virus gets delivered to the United States and Europe, compliments of our radical friends in the Middle East.”

  “Karl, my hands are tied here right now, but I may be able to push my way back in. I can’t threaten exposure or I’ll end up in the Moscow River.”

  “You have to muscle your way back in somehow.”

  “It won’t matter either way. Even if they let me in, I won’t have any influence. This will be a joint investigation, involving assets that nobody cares to admit still exist.”

  “My team is still working this. If your people find Reznikov, it sounds like they’ll kill him on the spot. I want a fighting chance to grab him first,” Berg said.

  “I’m sure they will. Let me put some thought into this. I have a very dangerous idea forming,” Kaparov said.

  “I like the sound of that. In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on my team’s progress. If we work together, we can accomplish both countries’ goals and avoid a nightmare. Do you know what type of virus we’re up against?”

  “Well, you and I have previously discussed what he tried to steal from the lab several years ago,” Kaparov said.

  “Partially weaponized encephalitis samples?”

  “Hmm. Partially,” he mumbled, not willing to say everything he had heard recently.

  “What am I missing, Alexei?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Lithuanian film director Jurgis Meras?”

  “No. Dare I ask how this is related?”

  “On November 3rd, 1969, Jurgis Meras was found in a park on the outskirts of Vilnius, with his throat slit from ear to ear. He lived with his parents, who disappeared that same night, leaving a ransacked apartment behind. Meras was a popular underground director, who didn’t waste his talents producing seditious material like too many others. He stayed off mother Russia’s radar for the most part. In early October of ‘69, one of his films became wildly popular in Vilnius, attracting the wrong kind of attention. According to my sources, the film was named “Ghouls of Vilnius” and it depicted a zombie outbreak. Not surprisingly, Meras was a big fan of American movies and had a sizeable collection of American film magazines to prove it.”

  “Alexei, I’m sort of following you on this, but I need you to get to the point.”

  “A lot of people connected to Meras vanished without a trace over the next few days, from Lithuania to Moscow, and it was no secret that the KGB had a hand in it.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t killed because he violated international copyright laws…”

  “Of course not, but word of the movie had spread farther and wider than anyone had expected, and it obviously made somebody very nervous. These were some of the most paranoid times in our history, and our nation’s bioweapons program was in full swing.

  “Do you know what scientists at VECTOR informally called the weaponized encephalitis virus? Zoja. Zoja is the Russian phonetic military equivalent of your Zulu. I think we are looking at a virus that targets the temporal lobe and causes a rabies-like aggressive behavior. Meras’s zombie hit a little too close to home in the Kremlin and triggered a violent response from Lubyanka Square. I’m afraid the government is preparing to do the same with the entire city of Monchegorsk. The initial hospital reports out of Monchegorsk are consistent with this. Starts with a fever and flu-like symptoms, and as the disease destroys the temporal lobe, unpredictable violent behavior ensues. This was the hallmark of certain encephalitis cases.”

  “This is worse than I imagined. If Al Qaeda is sitting on a stockpile of this stuff, we are all in deep shit, my friend.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately, I have no eyes on the ground in Monchegorsk, and the analysis of the samples our people brought back from Reznikov’s lab is being withheld from me.”

  “I’m working on a plan to change all of that. I have a sample in the air as we speak, which will be in one of our labs by dawn. I also have a team approaching Monchegorsk. I should have a solid picture of what we’re up against by late tomorrow evening my time,” Berg said.

  “I’ll give my idea a shot over here and call you back later this afternoon with some new phone numbers to use. I don’t trust anyone at this point. I’ve come too far along to end up feeding the fish.”

  “They still have fish in that river?” Berg said.

  “The fish are making a comeback. Lots of bodies to keep them fat throughout the winter. I’ll be in touch.”

  Kaparov wondered exactly how robust the FSB Special Operations Division internal security might be and knew exactly who to ask for this information. Then it would be up to Prerovsky. He would have to convince his lady friend to spy on her own people. This might be the biggest long shot he ever played, but it was worth the risk. He had always put mother Russian ahead of his own interests and this instinct had served him well. He wasn’t about to make any changes to these guiding principles. He threw the exhausted cigarette stub to the pavement and walked back to the headquarters building, hopeful that Prerovsky wouldn’t turn him over to Internal Affairs on the spot.

  Chapter 29

  6:40 AM

  Edgewood Chemical Biological Center

  Edgewood, Maryland

  Kristin Flaherty checked her watch again and took another sip of her lukewarm coffee. She had been asked by the lab’s assistant
director to report with another researcher at two in the morning to prepare a biological test panel for an incoming biological specimen. The center’s Sample Receipt Facility (SRF) was still a few years away from completion, so they would run the panel in the Biosafety Level Three facility. She knew not to ask questions about the source of the specimen, and given the timing, she knew it must be important.

  Gary Pierce had arrived thirty minutes ahead of her, and by two-thirty, they were ready to run a full battery of tests on whatever arrived. Four o’clock passed unceremoniously, stretching to five o’clock, and after two pots of coffee, the clock hit six without any sign of a courier delivery. She started to become annoyed at six-thirty, when a walk to the front lobby to check with the security guard showed sunlight peeking over the trees beyond the empty parking lot. At six-forty, she snapped.

  “I think it’s time to call the contact associated with the specimen. They should have been here nearly three hours ago,” she said.

  Gary yawned and nodded.

  “Concur. Either way, they need to know it didn’t arrive.”

  She picked up the clipboard with the classified order sheet and searched for the contact number. She was to only identify herself as “Edgewood Laboratory,” using a predetermined and secure outside line. The contact would mention “Mount McKinley” in his first phrase, or she was to hang up and call her director. She walked over to the encrypted phone and dialed the number.

  “Mount McKinley Dry Cleaning. How may I help you?” the voice answered.

  “Good morning, this is Edgewood Laboratory. We have a slight problem,” she said.

  “Have you identified the sample?”

  “No, it hasn’t arrived. That’s the problem.”

  “Are you absolutely sure the sample hasn’t been delivered?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve been here since one-thirty. Nothing arrived before us.”

  “Understood. You’ll need to standby for instructions from your director.”

  “Do you know when that might be?” she pressed.

  “I’ll be in touch with him shortly.”

  The call was abruptly cut short, and Kristin glared at the phone. How about a little common courtesy?

  “We’re stuck here, and I get the feeling that we’re the least of this guy’s priorities right now.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll grab some breakfast at McDonald’s if you don’t mind holding down the fort.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, “and grab me a large Diet Coke.”

  **

  Karl Berg placed his cell phone on the desk.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  This didn’t bode well at all. The agent assigned to the flight had strict instructions to call him if anything changed regarding the flight’s itinerary. He had access to the aircraft’s satellite phone and had been issued a GSM enabled cell phone. The eight-hour, direct flight pushed up against the Gulfstream 550’s cruising range of 7,500 miles, but they had been assured that the aircraft could continue on to Chicago without refueling. Why the fuck had they waited so long to call him? At least he was in the right place to make some calls.

  He had just driven back to the office after a few hours of sleep in his apartment, to monitor the setup phase of the Monchegorsk operation and help Audra prepare a presentation for the National Clandestine Service director. Based on the intelligence passed to them by Sanderson’s team, Audra’s presentation could be one of the most important threat assessments delivered in CIA history.

  Sanderson’s team would cross the Finnish/Russian border at first light tomorrow and proceed on snowmobiles to the outskirts of Monchegorsk. The total distance spanned roughly one hundred and fifty miles of infrequently travelled snowmobile trails. They would avoid the common routes used by recreational snowmobilers out of Finland. Once there, they would watch from a distance and wait for dark to enter the city, which would be a long wait. One hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the sun wouldn’t drop below Monchegorsk’s horizon until ten in the evening.

  Now, everything hinged on the performance of a rogue mercenary team led by two men at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The sooner Audra brought everything to the National Clandestine Service’s director, the better. This had already spiraled well past his own pay grade, and he suspected Audra had started to overreach her own authority. He called up a screen on his computer and picked up his office phone to dial the number provided for AeroStar Global, the charter company that had provided the aircraft. The call was answered within three seconds.

  “Anton Moreau, senior vice president for Client Relations. How may I help you today?” a thickly French-accented voice answered.

  “Good afternoon, Anton. I’m calling to check on flight Alpha Sierra 310, which carried one of my clients. I’m concerned that the aircraft may have been diverted, since my client is nearly three hours late.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m afraid we are still trying to ascertain the status of this flight. It is of quite a concern to us, as I am most sure it is to you. The flight departed Astana, Kazakhstan, on schedule at six in the evening. We lost satellite tracking of the flight over Russia, near Volgograd, less than two hours after takeoff. We’re doing everything we can to determine the status of the flight.”

  “The flight vanished six hours ago?”

  “That’s when we lost our global satellite connection, which isn’t altogether unusual. The flight missed both of its checkins over Europe, which raised alarms, but the rest of the flight transited over the Atlantic, so we couldn’t draw any conclusions. For us, a flight more than one hour late is considered missing. Alpha Sierra 310 was declared missing two hours ago. I apologize that you were not immediately contacted, but the contract instructions denied active contact. We were to wait for you to call us,” the extremely polite executive said.

  “I understand. What is your company doing to locate the jet?”

  “Everything. The aircraft is equipped with the latest generation emergency beacon system, and we are working with national authorities along the route to search for the beacon. Unfortunately, if the aircraft was lost over the water, we are unlikely to ascertain its fate. I can’t stress enough how sorry I am. Let us pray for the best.”

  “Thank you, Anton,” he said and hung up the call.

  He had his theories, none of which he would be able to conclusively prove at this point. He assumed that the Russians had identified the flight out of Astana and had scrambled fighters to intercept the jet. They had gambled on the quick transit over Russia, from Kazakhstan to the Ukraine. A four hundred mile, thirty minute stretch. They couldn’t take the flight south of Russia, since they didn’t have clearance to transit Iran’s airspace. They could have routed it through Azerbaijan and Georgia to break open onto the Black Sea, but Berg had the feeling the result would have been the same. The Russians had no intention of letting that flight land anywhere. He’d like to think the act was simple revenge for the loss of two helicopters and a platoon of soldiers in Kazakhstan, but he knew it was something more sinister. For some reason, the Russians were hell bent on concealing Reznikov’s secret. He wondered if Kaparov knew more than he had been willing to reveal yesterday.

  His next call would be to Audra. She had planned to meet him in the Operations Center at nine to examine Edgewood’s report, so she would probably be awake at this point. Even if she wasn’t, this news couldn’t wait. The deliberate targeting of flight Alpha Sierra 310 could very well mean it was time for her to make some difficult phone calls.

  Chapter 30

  9:22 PM

  Filitov Prospect

  Monchegorsk, Russian Federation

  Valeria Cherkasov’s eyes fluttered open. She could hear some kind of knocking, but couldn’t make any sense of the sound. For a brief moment, she had no idea where she was. The sensory details started to return, beginning with her vision. She was in her apartment, or what remained of it. A fading light crept through the shattered window in her livin
g room, exposing the unbelievable amount of damage done to the apartment. A broken chair from her small kitchen table set lay on the floor under the window.

  She smelled the smoky remains of a fire and wasn’t surprised when further visual inspection of her surroundings revealed that the kitchen table had collapsed on itself, apparently due to a fire. The flames had cracked the bulb and melted part of the light fixture attached to the ceiling, leaving a massive charred area above the destroyed table. Just beyond the smell of fire was something else. It almost smelled like barbeque.

  She now noticed that the room was freezing and that she was shivering. The thin wool blanket covering her on the small couch did little to deter the arctic air that freely poured into the room. Why wasn’t she on her bed, under her thick down comforter? She heaved her legs over the side of the couch and stood up. All she could think about was getting under that comforter. She glanced at her hands and saw that they were bruised and scratched, dried blood coagulated in several places around the worst cuts. Walking toward the bedroom, she saw several blood smears on the cinderblock walls. Did I punch the walls? None of this made any sense to her.

  When she reached the bedroom doorway, she realized why she was on the couch. The deeply charred wooden bed frame formed a shell around a large burned mass of mattress springs, feathers, pillows and dark unrecognized material. She didn’t like the smell in this room. Some kind of combination of charcoal lighter fluid and meat. Disgusting. She stepped back into the first room and her senses homed in on the sound of knocking at her door. How long had that been going on? Shit. That was what woke me in the first place.

  She walked over to the door and stared through the peephole, immediately recognizing one of the clinic doctors. She couldn’t remember his name, but he was certainly familiar to her. They had dated off and on, until he settled down with a nurse from the hospital. She strained to remember if she knew what had happened to the nurse. She couldn’t recall anything. Something was wrong with her detailed memory. She opened the door and registered the look of shock on his face.