Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “We’re going to walk through the park looking for your neighbor. I better not find him before you do. Understood?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “This is a matter of state security. When you see him, I need you to be discreet. You’ll stand back at a distance, and once we have him in custody, you are free to go. You wait for me to signal that it’s all right for you to leave. If you leave earlier, I’ll assume you are involved. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Let’s go for a walk in the park,” he said, stepping out of the vehicle.

  Forty minutes into their search, Feliks had lost any remaining vestige of patience for the woman, who pinched her face together and squinted looking for their target like she needed glasses to see more than five feet in front of her. This had become intolerable, made worse by the citizens of Kiev, lounging around on scattered blankets, not making the slightest effort to get out of their way. He was about to kick a bottle of vodka out of a rather insolent-looking man’s mouth, hoping to remove most of his teeth with the gesture, when the woman grabbed his shirtsleeve.

  “I see him. We almost walked past. He’s directly to our right, maybe thirty meters. Dark red blanket with white tassel ends. He’s kicking a soccer ball with his son,” she whispered.

  “White collared shirt. Untucked. Brown pants?”

  “Yes. That’s him. Can I go now?” she pleaded.

  “Not until we verify,” Feliks said.

  “Why would I lie to you? You know where I live,” she said.

  “That’s right. I know exactly where you live. You wait, or we’ll pay you a visit. Maybe smash your husband’s skull with that bottle he lives in,” Feliks said.

  “Promise?”

  For the first time today, Feliks allowed his face to change expression, displaying the faintest hint of a smile. He would have preferred to bring her husband, but judging by his belligerent demeanor at the door and the bottle in his hand, the man would have been more trouble than help. Besides, he was probably seeing double at this point, judging from the bright red glow plastered on his face. He had little doubt that Elena would take a beating when she returned. The kids too, probably. He’d like to escort her back and threaten the husband with a life sentence in a wheelchair, but he didn’t have the time. She would have to fend for herself. He just hoped that this unusual disruption of their weekend routine didn’t lead to something outside of the normal abuse that she and her children surely suffered on a daily basis.

  “Wait here,” he said, pressing several banknotes into her coat pocket. “Those are for the ride back.”

  He had given her five times the amount it would cost to take a cab back to their apartment block, hoping she would use the money to seek a little happiness with her kids during the day. He could tell by the look on her husband’s face that they saw no peace at night. He signaled for the other agent to proceed, and they walked over to have what he hoped would be a friendly chat with Boris Ilkin. He didn’t want to get heavy-handed in front of the Ilkin family in such a serene setting, but he was running out of time. A rogue CIA agent responsible for the recent deaths of several FIS operatives had resurfaced, raising the frightening specter of an even deadlier operation on Russian soil.

  “Mr. Ilkin?”

  He spoke loudly enough to be heard by the family, hoping to avoid additional unwanted attention from the civilians nearby. He harbored no illusions about appearing to be just another carefree Ukrainian out for an early June stroll. He wore a dark brown suit over a light blue shirt. The absence of a tie was the only concession he allowed in his disguise as a Ukrainian Security Service agent. Since it was Saturday, the sight of two nearby men in suits, with or without ties, broadcast one word: Police. Mr. Ilkin nodded and whispered to his son, patting him on the back. While Ilkin was distracted with his son, Feliks nodded discreetly to the woman waiting behind a tree in the distance.

  “Is everything all right?” the man’s wife asked.

  “I’m sure it’s fine, honey,” he said, forcing a smile before turning to Feliks and nodding in respect.

  “Officers. How can I help you?”

  Feliks came closer and produced his fake credentials, holding them low in a useless gesture of discretion. Anyone watching this interaction knew exactly what was happening. Ilkin was being questioned by the police in the middle of Desnyans’kyi Park, right in front of his family. He could feel the stares and whispers. People shrinking away from them slowly. Memories died hard in these former Soviet puppet states, where police and militia were liberally used to repress the people.

  “Vadim Salenko. Security Service counterterrorism division. I need your help to identify a foreign operative that may have passed through your ticket station on Thursday,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” Ilkin said, barely glancing at his credentials, “but I don’t know how much help I can be. The station serves more than 170,000 passengers every day. It gets crazy in there.”

  “I’ll try to narrow the possibilities for you. We know that the agent initially posed as an Australian tourist and landed in Kiev. I’m fairly certain he is headed to Russia, so I suspect that he presented himself to the ticket gate with a Russian internal passport.”

  “Sure…” he said, hesitating.

  Feliks could tell that he struck a chord. He had run the scenario through his head a thousand times before coming up with the few encounters that might “stick” with a ticket agent that processed hundreds, if not thousands of transactions per day. He was testing one of these theories now.

  “I have several photographs I would like to show you.”

  His partner handed him the file containing several 8X10 photos of Richard Farrington. He started with the photograph taken at the customs station inside Kiev International Airport. He saw a flash of recognition on Ilkin’s face.

  “You remember him?” Feliks said.

  “Oddly enough, I do. He…uh. Let me think for a moment…yes. He presented an international passport, and I remember telling him he could use his internal Federation passport when he reached the customs stop near the border. He apologized, saying that he’d just returned from Europe, which I thought was odd, given his destination.”

  “Please explain,” Feliks said, exhilarated by what he had stumbled upon.

  “He was headed to Yekaterinburg. I know for a fact that it’s cheaper to fly into Moscow from anywhere west of here. From there you have a wide selection of flights to Yekaterinburg that probably cost less than what he paid to ride the train. I think flying to Yekaterinburg from Kiev is less expensive.”

  “What are you, some kind of travel agent in disguise?”

  “It’s part of my job in a way,” Ilkin replied.

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “I don’t think I can recall his name. I’m lucky to have remembered him at all. He doesn’t look very Russian, does he?” he said, further examining the photo.

  “How many trains leave for Yekaterinburg daily?” Feliks said, not in any mood to waste a second with small talk.

  “None. The only way to get out there is to connect with an eastbound train out of Moscow. We have nine trains running daily out of Kiev to Moscow. Most leave in the early evening. It’s an overnight trip. I don’t remember which one I booked him on. There’s an express train that leaves daily at 8:52 and arrives in Moscow at 6:30 in the morning. This is the earliest arrival, which would put him in a position to leave on one of the few mid-morning departures. Save him some time if he was in a hurry to get to Yekaterinburg.”

  “None of this is ringing a bell for you,” Feliks said.

  Ilkin shook his head.

  “How many passengers can the express train carry?”

  “Six hundred,” he said.

  “Trains for Moscow to Yekaterinburg?”

  “Fourteen. Roughly the same passenger count.”

  Feliks didn’t respond immediately. His mind was swimming through the options. He didn’t have the time to repeat thi
s process again at the Yaroslavlsky Station in Moscow, though he would certainly have the manpower at his disposal. Once inside Russia, the SVR could muster hundreds of agents to assist him…assuming they let him continue as lead investigator, which he doubted.

  With the information provided by Ilkin, he didn’t think it would be necessary to mobilize half of the headquarters building in Moscow. They didn’t have a name, but they knew his final destination. With the passenger manifests for all trains leaving Kiev for Moscow last Tuesday, they could compare passenger names with all trains leaving Moscow for Yekaterinburg on Wednesday. This would significantly narrow their search. Armed with the matching names, they would have a fighting chance of finding Richard Farrington. Of course, all of this was predicated on the assumption that Farrington hadn’t switched identities more than once. If he changed identities in Yekaterinburg, they would be left with nothing but the scattered memories of a dozen ticket agents. He doubted they would get this lucky again.

  “Do you know the name of the supervisor on duty at the station today?”

  “Sure. Mr. Gleba. Stas Gleba. He gives me weekend shifts when I ask, so we can save up for vacation.”

  “Let’s go,” he said to his partner, not the least bit interested in hearing about this man’s vacation plans.

  Walking briskly toward his car, Feliks stared up at the sun and allowed himself a moment to enjoy its warmth. Despite the embarrassment of having a known terrorist enter the motherland through his own backyard, he had to admit that the day had gone well. He had acquired a solid lead on Farrington sooner than expected, without having to break any bones or crack any skulls. Unfortunately, the day was still young, and he wasn’t optimistic about the station supervisor. Coughing up passenger manifests for State Security was serious business, and if Mr. Gleba required a warrant or insisted on verifying his request with the State Security watch officer, he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Ardankin. Too much was at stake to let a hyperextended finger or a broken nose stand in the way.

  PART THREE

  BLACK FIST

  Chapter 39

  11:30 AM

  Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) Headquarters

  Yasanevo Suburb, Moscow, Russian Federation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 40

  8:08 AM

  CIA Headquarters

  McLean, Virginia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What? When did that change?”

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

  “More like holding them hostage,” Berg said.

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

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

  “Among other things,” Berg mumbled.

  “Have you contacted Reznikov?”

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

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

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

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

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