Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Thank you for making a trip out into the suburbs at short notice,” Berg said.

  Minkowitz responded in a New England accent that sounded as natural as Berg’s. “My pleasure. Receiving an invitation to coffee by a rising star piqued my curiosity,” he said, radiating a false smile.

  “Still,” Berg said, “considering the fact that Thomas Manning has been avoiding you, I appreciate this.”

  “I know exactly why Thomas is dodging me…and so do you. That’s why I’m here,” Minkowitz said, relaxing with a sip of espresso.

  “We need help with something related to your Persian friends.”

  The Israeli lifted his right eyebrow and pushed his wire-rim glasses back with his index finger. “We’re doing all we can in that arena…by ourselves, I might add.”

  “We’d like to make a contribution to that cause. How familiar are you with Vektor Labs?”

  “How serious are you about making a contribution?” Minkowitz asked.

  “Deadly serious. I’d like to put Building Six out of business…permanently,” Berg said.

  “So what’s stopping you? I’m still afraid to drink your tap water.”

  “Vektor doesn’t fit the criteria of a clear and present danger to the United States,” Berg said.

  “I don’t understand your politicians. They declare war on threats that don’t exist, against enemies that they can control…but they don’t have the stomach to take action against the threats right in front of their faces.”

  “That’s where I come in,” Berg said.

  “And how exactly can I help?”

  “If I can definitively link the Iranians to Vektor, the president will green light my operation. We’re talking about more than a simple strike against Building Six. I want to permanently shut down the program.”

  “And any Iranian connection?” Minkowitz asked.

  “Yes. If there are Iranians involved, they will cease to be a threat to Israel and the United States. This happens even if a strike against Vektor is prohibited. I promise you that much.”

  Wiljam Minkowitz finished his espresso and studied Berg. He started nodding slowly, then a genuine smile formed on his thin lips. He extended his hand. “We have a deal. I will provide you with two dossiers. One for a scientist, and one for the Iranian intelligence agent assigned to watch over him. We can’t confirm exactly what the scientist is doing inside the lab, but I can assure you he’s not studying chicken pox vaccines.”

  “I might have a source that can help fill in those gaps,” Berg said.

  “I hear that source came at considerable price,” Minkowitz said.

  “And we just received another bill.”

  “The Russians continue to play a dangerous game with our enemies. The Cold War never really ended for them. They just outsourced it. The end of the Cold War was a false notion the politicians managed to sell wholesale,” Minkowitz said.

  “Most people believe it.”

  “They chose to look the other way. Most people don’t want to see the threats that pose them the most danger. I’ll deliver the electronic dossiers tomorrow morning.”

  They both stood up, and the Israeli leaned over the table to Berg.

  “A word of advice? Don’t hold onto Reznikov for very long. Vermont isn’t as remote as your agency likes to think.”

  He patted Berg on the shoulder and walked out of the café, leaving the CIA officer speechless. The quicker they destroyed Vektor Labs, the sooner he could permanently close the entire loop. Killing Reznikov was the only way he would be able to sleep soundly again.

  Chapter 14

  1:14 PM

  Fripp Island, South Carolina

  Daniel Petrovich took a long swig of beer from an amber bottle and leaned his head back into the white Adirondack chair. He kept the bottle in a loose grip on the wide chair arm and stared out at the calm ocean. Despite the slowly healing bullet wound to his left shoulder, the past few weeks had been the most relaxing time he had spent with Jessica since they abruptly departed Maine two years earlier. His vacation was interrupted every other day by physical therapy visits and a weekly trip to a Charleston orthopedic center to make sure his shoulder was healing correctly. At least he could wade out into the pleasantly warm waters of the Atlantic.

  His peripheral vision caught some movement on the wide porch of the thatched cottage next door. He turned his head and watched a solitary figure walk down the steps leading from the deck to the beach. He had wondered how long they would wait. The man reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right, heading south along the beach. He wore a dark blue polo shirt tucked into khaki pants and a white golfing hat. Even from a distance of thirty yards, the outfit looked brand new. Daniel drained the rest of his beer and set the bottle down onto the faded decking next to his chair. He eased the hand back toward a blue soft-cooler housing several more beers and removed a SIG Sauer P250 from one of the outer pouches, placing the pistol on the chair along his right leg.

  Chambered in 9mm, the ambidextrous P250 represented the latest in modular pistol technology, allowing the owner to change the pistol from subcompact to full size to suit different situational needs. The P250 eliminated the need to buy two or three different pistols, or compromise on one. By purchasing different-sized polymer grips and slide assemblies, the user could quickly switch between pistol categories. The pistol resting in the crease of Daniel’s olive green cargo shorts had been configured for concealed, subcompact use.

  Daniel watched the figure move purposefully toward the stairs leading up to his beach rental, not bothering to feign any interest in the tidal boundary that attracted even the most seasoned tourists. Two weeks. That’s all his past would allow. He considered opening another beer, but the man had already reached the stairs and started climbing. Unbelievable. He gripped the pistol and extended it along his right leg, pointing the barrel at the top of the stairs. The gradual rise of the weathered stairway over the rocky seawall eventually brought his uninvited guest’s head into view. A few more steps and the head would be exposed to the pistol’s barrel. When he recognized the face, he was glad Jessica had decided to go shopping in Savannah for a few hours. He lifted the pistol and rested it on the chair’s armrest.

  “You could have called,” Petrovich said.

  “Sanderson said neither of you were taking calls,” Karl Berg said, arriving on the deck.

  “You missed Jessica. She left for town about ten minutes ago,” Petrovich said.

  “Twelve to be precise.”

  “This ought to be good if you didn’t want her around. Beer?” Petrovich said, reaching into the cooler.

  “Why not. May I?” Berg said, motioning to the chair next to Petrovich.

  “Suit yourself,” Petrovich said.

  He handed a bottle to Berg and took another out for himself.

  “How’s your shoulder?” Berg said.

  “Not bad enough to keep me from drinking beer on the beach,” Daniel said, transferring the bottle to his immobilized left hand.

  He held the bottle tight, experiencing a sharp pain up and down his arm when he used his good hand to twist the cap free.

  “Here’s to a polite rejection of whatever you have in mind. You were smart to wait for Jess to leave,” Daniel said.

  Berg laughed and reached over to meet Daniel’s bottle.

  “More of a coincidence than anything. How is she doing?” Berg said.

  “Better,” he said. “Oddly enough, the work we did a few weeks ago had a therapeutic effect on her.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. She deserves a fair shot at putting as much of this behind her as possible,” Berg said.

  “I hope the irony of that statement, compounded by your sitting here, isn’t lost on you,” Petrovich said.

  “I’m not here to ask either of you back into the game. I need your consulting services for less than twenty-four hours. A short trip to Vermont for a reunion of sorts,” Berg said.

  “I’m pretty sure all of the ski resorts ar
e closed at this point.”

  “This trip won’t require a doctor’s note. Sanderson agrees that your presence will make a big difference…”

  “The last time I came out of retirement for Sanderson, we ended up on the run in South America.”

  “And that series of events put you in a position to stop one of the worst terrorist attacks in history,” Berg finished.

  “And nearly killed Jessica,” Petrovich said.

  Berg took an extra-long swig of beer, which signified that Daniel had struck a nerve with the comment about Jessica. He knew that Berg served as her training mentor at the CIA, eventually recommending her for assignment to the Special Activities Division (SAD). Berg would have been in a position to monitor her progress against a carefully constructed psychological profile. Letting her board an airplane for Paris had been a tragic miscalculation. Traces of Jessica still existed when he found her in Belgrade, but most of them were buried deep inside the hard, superficial shell known as Zorana Zekulic. The young college student he had fallen deeply in love with several years earlier had gone into hibernation. Saving Jessica became his primary mission in Serbia, and in rescuing her, he ensured his own survival. Berg’s show of concern for her came fifteen years too late.

  “Yeah. She’s spent most of her life one degree of separation away from something horrible,” Berg said.

  Petrovich didn’t respond, letting the silence settle between them. Berg finished his beer before speaking.

  “Anatoly Reznikov is cooperating with us to provide detailed information about Vektor Labs. I’m putting together an operation to destroy the bioweapons program at the facility, which will be led by your protégé, Richard Farrington. Sanderson would like you to represent Farrington at my next meeting with Reznikov. I’ll give you everything we have on Vektor so far, so you can put yourself in Farrington’s shoes and fill in the blanks. I’m also hoping that your presence has a unique psychological impact. I don’t want him holding anything back.”

  “Surely he’s been exposed to nastier company than me by now,” Petrovich said.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why do I get the distinct feeling I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

  “Given his deteriorated physical and mental condition, I couldn’t risk putting him in the hell hole he truly deserves to—”

  “He deserves to be dead,” Petrovich stated.

  “He’s been inside the bioweapons facility at Vektor, which makes him temporarily invaluable. I’ll take him for a long walk after we destroy Vektor.”

  Petrovich turned his head slightly to look at Berg. The CIA officer stared out at the water, focused, but clearly troubled by something. Possibly disturbed by a fleeting image of what he’d just suggested. He had little doubt that Berg would tie up that loose end when the time was appropriate. He’d come to respect Jessica’s former mentor as a man of action and decisiveness. He just didn’t care to be sitting next to one of the agency instruments responsible for luring her away from him. Sadly for both of them, the promise of a prestigious and exotic career had been too much for her to resist…and he really couldn’t blame her. College had been the only bright spot in an ugly, depressing life as the only child of physically and mentally abusive parents. Out of one frying pan, right into another.

  “I’ll make the trip. When is your next meeting with Reznikov?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I have a charter plane waiting in Savannah. You can read over the files en route. I’ve booked hotel rooms in Burlington for tonight. It takes about two hours to get out to the site, so we need to start early. I can answer any questions on the way,” Berg said.

  “I don’t suppose you can just give me the directions and I’ll meet you there?”

  Berg laughed and shook his head. “The CIA has secrets, and then they have secrets. This facility doesn’t exist.”

  “I’ve been to a few places like that in my career,” Petrovich said.

  “I guarantee you’ve never been to a place like this,” Berg said, standing up and facing him.

  “Now you have me curious. Jessica never spends more than an hour or two in town. I’ll be ready to leave when she returns. Should I walk next door?”

  “Just step outside and wave. I’ll pick you up,” Berg said.

  “Say hi to my guardian angel,” Petrovich said.

  Berg stared at his broadening smile.

  “She’s not the only one with a pair of binoculars and a healthy dose of paranoia. You shortened her hair and colored it black, but I recognized her immediately by the way she carries herself. Stockholm. Did I miss the fine print in my rental contract, or are these houses owned by the CIA?”

  “Everything is owned by the CIA,” Berg said, turning toward the staircase.

  “Certainly feels that way sometimes,” Petrovich grumbled.

  “Where is she headed after her vacation?”

  “To Argentina…then Russia. She’s part of the operation,” Berg answered.

  “She’ll certainly fit in,” Petrovich said.

  “That’s what I thought. See you in an hour or so.”

  He watched Karl Berg amble down the stairs and onto the beach. The CIA officer immediately turned left and proceeded directly to the house next door, not even momentarily stopping to let a warm breeze pass over his face. He disappeared into the cottage, leaving Petrovich to wonder if Berg ever took a break from this work. He’d clearly purchased his tragic golf outfit at one of the airport tourist traps, which led him to believe that Berg was a stranger to leisure activity. The next twenty-four hours promised to be miserably interesting, not to mention the brief, tumultuous outburst he could expect from Jessica.

  Chapter 15

  8:05 AM

  Mountain Glen “Retirement” Compound

  Green Mountains, Vermont

  Daniel Petrovich fidgeted in the front passenger seat of Karl Berg’s BMW 3 Series sedan and stared past the windshield at the sea of pine trees enveloping the road. He’d stayed up past midnight examining the Vektor files provided by Berg, continuing to arrive at the same conclusion. The U.S. would be better off bombing the site from a standoff distance. He knew this wasn’t an option, but Farrington’s team faced a serious challenge after destroying Vektor, traversing over 150 miles of unfamiliar territory with most of the Novosibirsk Oblast’s military hot on their trail. He didn’t see an easy way to handle the team’s withdrawal, unless the CIA could convince the president to invade Russian airspace and pick them up deep within Russian territory. Berg’s less-than-optimistic response to this suggestion indicated that the president was barely on board with the plan as it stood. He’d discuss this in detail with Sanderson after meeting with Reznikov. Farrington’s team would need a highly creative escape and evasion plan to get out of Russia alive.

  The car slowed, and Berg scrutinized a handheld GPS unit, alternating his gaze between the GPS and the road ahead. He placed the small gadget in the center console and stared into the rearview mirror. Daniel watched him out of the corner of his left eye, curious about their next move. They had spent nearly two hours travelling northeast out of Burlington, trading one scenic, two-lane road for another, gradually downgrading the road quality as they delved deep into heavily forested territory. Now they were about to turn onto an unmarked road in Berg’s pristine silver BMW. Interesting.

  Apparently satisfied that nobody was in sight behind them, Berg glanced at the road ahead for a few seconds before turning onto a tightly packed dirt road barely wide enough to accommodate their vehicle. They passed two unmistakably visible signs marking the road as private, each immediately followed by a generous turnaround point burrowed into the forest. Berg had placed a call with his smartphone roughly an hour out of Burlington, as the last vestiges of civilization streamed past their car. He wondered if the entrance to this road had been camouflaged prior to that phone call.

  Their car continued down the dark, claustrophobic forest growth until the silver glint of a vehicle caught his eye. He instin
ctively placed a hand on Berg’s right arm, reaching for the passenger door handle with his other hand.

  “No worries. This is our ride to the compound,” Berg said, navigating his car into a tree-covered clearing.

  The clearing held a single Yukon SUV, with tinted rear compartment windows. The tinting didn’t allow any light to penetrate the back seats, giving Petrovich an uneasy feeling. He could see two men in the front seats. Berg parked the BMW next to the SUV, and they took a few minutes to organize the material that Petrovich had continued to study in an attempt to avoid conversation with Berg.

  “Shall we?” Berg said, opening his car door.

  The two men in the SUV joined them in front of Berg’s BMW, exchanging a few words. Berg seemed to know the procedure, handing his keys, phone and GPS unit over to one of the men, who pulled a chip out of the GPS unit and placed it in his front coat pocket. The other items were stuffed in a small black bag, which was placed on the hood of the SUV.

  Petrovich studied each man, quickly concluding that they were paramilitary. They moved with a purpose, studying Berg and Petrovich in the careful, detached trademark manner of an ex-special forces operator. Each carried a concealed pistol on their right belt line, tucked just behind the hip and loosely covered by their waist-level windbreakers. By the way their clothing fit, he could tell they were in optimal shape. The only variable Daniel couldn’t determine was their experience level, and in his line of work, this was often the most important variable. He wondered if they were running through the same mental drill, sizing him up and calculating their odds of surviving an encounter.

  Daniel’s mind constantly assessed these odds, regardless of the environment. He never stopped identifying potential threats around him. Escape routes appeared to him automatically, and possible courses of action were analyzed like a computer. Even life’s simplest tasks were processed this way. This mindset had been drilled into him by Sanderson’s training program and honed to perfection as an operative in Serbia, where his daily survival often depended on the speed and efficacy of basic decision-making. Experience sharpened this skill to a razor. Without this experience, you were just another fitness buff with weapons and martial arts training. He couldn’t tell if the men in front of him had spent most of their professional careers at Planet Fitness or in Afghanistan. They looked authentic, but looks could be deceiving.