“Maybe later. I need to make a phone call. If my boss isn’t willing to walk this back up the chain of command, this might be your last drink,” Berg said.
“Don’t tell him that,” Petrovich said. “He’ll end up just like we found him in Stockholm.”
Petrovich’s statement caused Reznikov to tense for a moment before he took another shot of vodka. He placed the glass on the table, and his grimace melted into a smile. He refilled Daniel’s glass.
“My friend, you need to lighten up a little. What happened to your arm?” he asked, waving the bottle at his shoulder.
“Dislocated my shoulder beating another prisoner to death,” Petrovich said.
“Come on. This is going to work out for everybody. Door number three I give to you!”
“We’ll see,” Petrovich said, taking him up on the offer of another shot. “Here’s to the miracle of automated defibrillators. Without them, our friend would be dead.”
“I don’t have to take this abuse,” Reznikov said.
“Take it easy on him, Daniel. We have a long day ahead of us,” Berg said, walking toward the front door to make his call in private.
“To your health,” Petrovich said, raising his glass to meet Reznikov’s.
“That’s better.”
The vodka burned slightly less going down the second time, leaving him with a warm buzz. Reznikov immediately poured another shot for each of them.
“I think that’s enough,” Petrovich said.
“Fine. Two for me, then.”
Petrovich walked over to the kitchen and waited for Berg to finish the phone call. He heard the bottle clink against glass again, which worried him. If Reznikov passed out from drinking, he had no intention of sticking around the compound to continue their conversation when he woke up. By the time Berg returned, he’d heard at least two more shots poured. He intercepted him in the hallway leading to the kitchen.
“I think our friend will be hallucinating within the hour if he keeps drinking like this.”
“The last time I visited him, he put away a bottle and a half in three hours. It kept him talking.”
“It’s your call. What did the home office say?”
“They’re walking it up to the director this morning. We might have an answer before we leave. My goal now is to get enough information to adequately plan the attack, regardless of the ultimate decision.”
Petrovich shook his head and grinned. Berg truly impressed him. Time to have some fun. When the two of them turned the corner, Reznikov screwed the cap on the bottle of vodka, which stood on the table half-empty. The serious look on his face betrayed a slight change in his attitude. Daniel guessed they were in for a request. The frightened scientist had found confidence in the clear liquid sitting at the bottom of his stomach. Not the kind of liquid courage found at a late-night karaoke bar, but something different. Berg sensed it too as they entered the kitchen nook.
“This ought to be good,” Berg mumbled.
“Gentlemen, before we proceed, I need assurances,” Reznikov said.
Berg sat at the table and sighed. “This isn’t a negotiation. We’ve been through this already. When and if your information is confirmed, you’ll be offered permanent residence at this wonderful facility. Signed and sealed by the director of the CIA. If your information is deemed deceitful or purposely jeopardizes the safety of my people, the deal is off.”
“That’s what I’m worried about…”
“What? The possibility that the mission will succeed and I’ll still throw you in a hole?” Berg said.
“I’d be worried about that,” Petrovich added.
“We both know I don’t have any control over your personal integrity, but I can drastically improve your team’s chance of success with a single phone call. I think we both can agree that it’s in my best interest for the team to succeed.”
“I’m listening,” Berg said.
“You’re going to need connections on the inside…”
“Not inside Vektor. It’s far too risky. Try again,” Berg said.
“I’m not talking about Vektor. I’m talking about inside Russia,” Reznikov said.
“Our team is perfectly capable of handling that aspect of the mission,” Petrovich said.
“Really? How much time have they spent in Russia, particularly Novosibirsk?”
They kept silent until Reznikov continued.
“Novosibirsk is a provincial Siberian city, with few foreigners…”
“The team is trained for that,” Berg said.
“Trained? You’ll only get one shot at this, Mr. Berg. Novosibirsk is still a Soviet city in many respects, unlike Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Less cosmopolitan, more bureaucracy. In order to pull this off, you’re going to need specialized equipment, weapons, explosives and hard-to-acquire transportation. You’re going to need a way to grease palms without raising eyebrows. If you don’t believe what I’m saying, get in touch with your analysts. I’m sure they’ll confirm what I’ve told you.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I have contacts in the bratva that can pave the way for your team. Take care of the logistical details and conduct preliminary surveillance,” Reznikov said, unscrewing the bottle.
“The Russian mafiya? You have to be kidding me. Why would the brotherhood help us…or help you?”
“Money, of course, and a favor I did for one of the Solntsevskaya brigadiers a few years ago. I provided a small amount of natural neurotoxin that targets the body’s respiratory muscles. Something I smuggled out of Vektor on their behalf. They had no idea what I was really working on back then. Anyway, he used it to quietly kill several rival mafiya ‘boyeviks’ over the course of a six-month period, while the Solntsevskaya gang solidified control of organized crime activity in the Novosibirsk Oblast. That favor will get me an audience. A large sum of money will get you the support you need to take down Vektor.”
“The Solntsevkaya Bratva is a nasty group that I’m not keen to trust. I think I’ll pass on your offer,” Berg said.
“It’s non-negotiable. They’re your only hope of pulling this off and getting your people out alive. One hundred and fifty miles is a long trip. A very unpredictable trip without local support. I can’t afford to take the chance. Either you put me in touch with my bratva contact, or I’m not saying another word. And you still need my help. I haven’t told you half of what you’ll need to know about Vektor.”
“How much money do you think it will take?” Berg said.
“Several million U.S. dollars. Maybe more,” Reznikov said.
Petrovich whistled. He couldn’t wait to hear Berg’s response to this. Maybe Reznikov was smarter than he acted. He certainly hadn’t expected this wrinkle in their plan, but oddly enough, it made sense. Trust would be a major issue, but enough money could always solidify temporary loyalty in organizations like these. He’d seen more than his share of deals sealed over large payoffs that trumped longstanding personal disagreements. The Serbians under Milosevic had perfected the concept of purchasing loyalty. The trick to buying loyalty always remained the same. Make your first offer higher than expected, and be prepared to pay out more at the last minute. Never start out with a lowball offer, or you’re likely find yourself standing at the end of a steel barrel…sold out to a competitor willing to pay more. He’d make sure to speak with Sanderson at length about the payment amount, reinforcing its importance to the mission. Sanderson might have to shell out some of his own cash to keep the team out of trouble.
“That sounds like a lot of money. I’m not sure how I’m going to come up with several million dollars for an operation that never happened,” Berg said.
“Oh, give me a break. One of your new Tomahawk missiles would cost you close to one million dollars, and I think you’d need to use three or four to make absolutely certain that the building was obliterated. Even then, you’d never know. The beauty here is that the Russians will probably blame the Israelis, especially if you take out the Irani
ans. Several million dollars is a bargain! I can get this started immediately. All I need is access to a cell phone.”
“That’s not going to happen. No outside contact is allowed,” Berg said.
“I’m not asking to keep the phone here. I just need periodic access, to make sure the relationship is going smoothly. No cell phone, no deal. Good luck trying to destroy a P4 containment building with Semtex. I hope you can rent a dump truck in Novosibirsk, because that’s how much explosives you’ll need…unless I get what I want.”
“I’ll give you limited, strictly monitored satellite phone access. Five calls. One to establish contact. One to negotiate the deal. Three to confirm whatever it is that you feel the need to confirm. I will personally oversee the calls, along with several translators. If anything is screwy, I’ll bury you myself. No questions asked. Does this sound fair to you?”
Petrovich was glad to hear that Berg wouldn’t agree to the use of a cell phone. He figured they had some kind of scrambling device or way to reroute calls from the compound, but computer hackers could work miracles these days, as he had witnessed firsthand a few weeks ago. There was no reason to assume that Russian hackers couldn’t do the same thing. Satellite communication was the safest method available. The radio waves couldn’t be intercepted without sophisticated land or space-based SIGINT (Signals Intelligence) technology, which, in the case of Reznikov’s limited use, would be like finding a needle in a haystack without looking.
“Yes. Five calls will be sufficient. The final call will be made right before I give you the most important piece of information, so don’t think of playing any games,” Reznikov said.
“How important?” Berg said.
“They won’t need it until right before the attack on the facility. I will tell you how to destroy the bioweapons laboratory without using explosives. Very easy. Very complete.”
Berg stared at him for a few seconds before standing up. Reznikov offered his hand, which Berg regarded icily.
“Only children require a handshake to seal a bargain. You’ll get your phone calls. I’d like you to make the first one this morning.”
Reznikov retracted his hand with a scowl and poured three shots of vodka.
“A toast to the destruction of Vektor,” he said.
Petrovich picked up the shot glass, still slightly woozy from the first two drinks. A few seconds later, his throat ached as he slammed the shot glass down. No more shots for him. One more and he’d nap through the rest of the interrogation. He heard Berg ask the security station for a satellite phone to be delivered with breakfast. Berg took a seat at the table and watched Reznikov take another shot.
“Good news. Breakfast is on the way, along with a satellite phone. I hope your friends in Novosibirsk don’t hang up. You get five calls.”
Petrovich walked toward the kitchen, looking for the bathroom. He spied several more bottles of vodka tucked away under a row of kitchen cabinets, which prompted him to open the refrigerator. Nothing. A few seconds later, he heard the buzz of an ATV approaching. Special fucking delivery. He really hoped Berg didn’t intend to honor any deal to let Reznikov stay here. The thought of that psychopath enjoying personally delivered gourmet food for the rest of his life didn’t sit well with him.
Chapter 16
5:55 PM
VTB Bank, Leninsky Avenue
Moscow, Russian Federation
Sergei Dubinin parked his AvtoVAZ sedan and surveyed the sidewalks in front of the bank for any obvious signs of trouble. He had been abruptly interrupted from drinks at his new favorite lounge atop the Swiss Hotel Krasnye Holmy and ordered to run a quick errand nearby. Such requests were not unusual from his boss, but they usually came late at night, when he was busy working the streets. He wasn’t pleased to be yanked away from the company of his newly acquired admirers at the chic and ridiculously expensive rooftop hotel bar.
He’d been recently promoted from Shestyorka (associate) to Vor (thief) within the Solntsevskaya Bratva, which was the equivalent to becoming a “made” man within Sicilian mafia organizations. Accepting the Vor code meant greater responsibility, increased respect and more money.
He reported to a Boyevik (warrior) who led the business extortion efforts for their Brigadier, who in turn reported directly to Mr. Dima Maksimov, the organization’s Pakhan (boss). It was a long list of intermediaries, with numerous cut outs designed to prevent direct links back to the higher-ranking members. Security up the chain-of-command even featured “ghosts,” who watched over everybody and served as an informal version of mafiya internal affairs.
He’d thought his errand boy days were over, but it had only intensified with his new position. He no longer stood lookout outside of the stores or apartment buildings. Now he went inside and made the collections while someone else looked tough on the steps. The only benefit so far had been money to fuel his hunger for the finer things in life. His new errands almost always involved large quantities of cash, either payoffs from local businesses or debt collection.
He learned early in his career never to skim off the top, but instead to insist on an additional collection consisting of petty cash. A small tribute to keep him in a good mood and ensure that his next visit would be just as peaceful. He didn’t push the amounts, purposely setting his sights low to avoid attracting attention. He made several dozen collections a week, so the money added up quickly. No reason to shake down the wealthier “clients” for larger sums that might result in a phone call to his boss. Any money made at any level was subject to a “tax” up the chain of command. Eventually, his Boyevik would tactfully bring up the subject of his extra collections, and he would have to cough up money on a monthly basis. This was a natural part of the process and understood by everyone within the ranks.
He hoped this inevitable taxation didn’t impact his newly found place among society’s elite. There was an incredible amount of money to be made from these people, and he planned to tap into it. The combination of wealth and naivety sang to him as they regaled him with stories about yachts and third homes in the Swiss Alps. He felt like a shark in a fish tank as he laughed along with them, flashing the latest luxury watches and buying overpriced drinks with reckless abandon.
But first, another fucking errand…and this time to a bank. His unit didn’t do business with the banks. That was handled by a high-level Boyevik that specialized in bribes and government affairs. Maybe this was a good thing for him. A sign that they might be considering him for a special track within the bratva.
He opened the car door and stepped into the street, careful to examine the door mirror before making the near suicidal leap of faith into traffic. At six in the evening, Leninsky Avenue was packed with edgy drivers trying to race home. Fortunately, the bank was located on the eastern side of the ten-lane boulevard that carried traffic toward Moscow, and was slightly less packed than the other side. After quickly navigating to the sidewalk, he approached the bank, mindful of the time. The bank closed at six, and his boss would have a fit if he screwed this up. As a new member of the bratva, his actions were more closely scrutinized than ever before. Everything was a test of loyalty and commitment. He wondered if the downward pressure ever stopped.
He found the bank door unlocked, which was a relief. He had three minutes to spare until closing, which in Russia didn’t guarantee anything. He’d protested the time constraint, having received the phone call less than twenty minutes ago. If the bank manager wanted to go home at 5:30, the bank closed early. The last thing he wanted to do was visit the bank manager at home. Things were certain to get ugly if that happened, but orders were orders, and he was expected to return with the contents of the safety deposit box.
Sergei pulled on the heavy reinforced steel door and entered the bank, drawing a few stares from the staff. He saw one of them grimace, apparently unsatisfied that the bank might not close on time tonight. A guard armed with a shortened military carbine eyed him from the front corner of the lobby as he approached the more attractive of th
e two blond tellers. Bank robberies were relatively common in Moscow, though they were rare along this stretch of Leninsky Avenue. His bratva didn’t look kindly upon this kind of activity here, and transgressors were punished severely and publicly. Only the most desperate criminal upstarts dared to try and pull off a robbery in this district of Moscow.
The teller avoided eye contact with him, likely hoping that he’d turn to the other teller and let her continue to close out her station. No such luck, though he wouldn’t keep her for long, unless she wanted to join him for a drink later. Always a possibility. Handsomely dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, tailored to his fit ex-military frame, he looked sharp and could easily pass for one of the hundred thousand millionaires living in Moscow. When the blue-eyed blonde finally looked up at him, a look of relief flashed, which quickly transformed into a flirtatious smile. The evening just got more interesting.
“Can I be of assistance to you?” she said.
Maybe later, he thought. Out loud, he said, “I need to access one of your digital safety deposit boxes. The circumstances are unique, and I believe arrangements have been made for me.”
She seemed confused for a moment, asking him to hold on while she contacted the bank manager. A few seconds later, the manager emerged from one of the glass-encased offices on the far right side of the bank.
“Good evening. My name is Yakov Krutin. I received a call about twenty minutes ago with one of two remote access codes to a safety deposit box. Do you have the second code?”
“Yes. A twenty-four digit code,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.
The number had been sent to him via text by his immediate boss. The order to retrieve the box’s contents had been sent straight to him a few minutes ago by their Brigadier, Matvey Penkin, which made this a priority task.
“Please follow me,” the manager said and started walking toward a hallway leading deeper into the bank.
Black Flagged Vektor (4) Page 9
