Black Flagged Vektor (4)

by Konkoly, Steven

  “Seva, I need you back here when you’re done. We might need the Semtex.”

  “Got it. I’m halfway to the main security station,” Seva replied.

  “How bad is it?” Misha asked.

  “Doctor Belyakov lost half of his blood from what I can tell,” he replied.

  “Should I call this in to base?”

  “Negative. We’ll get the door open. We just might have to wake the entire neighborhood doing it,” Farrington said.

  Chapter 49

  7:54 PM

  Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) Headquarters

  Yasanevo Suburb, Moscow, Russian Federation

  Dmitry Ardankin sped through the maze of computer stations in the joint operations to reach his desk. He needed to contact the Foreign Intelligence Service director immediately. One of the analysts had discovered something nearly unfathomable to Ardankin while sifting through a batch of digital pictures sent to the SVR by the Federal Customs Service. The batch formed part of their expanded search protocol, which started with all documented Australian visitors and expanded to citizens of the UK and Scandinavian countries. He dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct home line and waited.

  “You better have something, Dmitry,” the director answered.

  “I do. You won’t fucking believe this. An Australian woman named Katie Reynolds flew into Vladivostok on Sunday and bought a ticket to Moscow on the Trans-Siberian Railway. She’s supposedly a travel journalist. We’ve been running all Australians through the facial recognition software against known military personnel or agents associated with Richard Farrington. We included the young woman, Erin Foley, who disappeared from the American Embassy in Stockholm. One of our operatives in Stockholm was killed with a knife from behind. Everyone here agreed that this wasn’t done by the team that hit Reznikov’s apartment and—”

  “I assume this is going somewhere?”

  “Of course, sir. Katie Reynolds’ face is an 88% match with Erin Foley’s. Two high-profile operatives from the Stockholm disaster are back in Russia, and they might be headed to Moscow,” Ardankin said.

  “You have no idea where this woman is?” Pushnoy asked.

  “I just received facial recognition confirmation. We’re trying to piece this together right now,” Ardankin said.

  “I doubt very much that they are headed to Moscow. The Trans-Siberian stops in Yekaterinburg, the last known destination for the other agent,” Pushnoy said.

  “But there’s nothing critical there. We’ve analyzed it and have so far come up empty. No high-ranking visits are scheduled, no sensitive installations worth targeting…hold on a second,” he said, covering the receiver.

  “I’m on with the director!” he yelled, frantically waving away the analyst knocking at his office door.

  The lanky man ignored his protest and opened the door, causing Ardankin to stand up from his chair. He’d kill this man with his bare hands for interrupting a call with the director.

  “Katie Reynolds boarded a plane headed for Bangkok, Thailand. The flight left Tolmachevo Airport, Novosibirsk at 9:20 local time. One-way ticket. She’s gone, sir. The flight will be over Mongolia at this point,” the man said, frowning.

  “Thank you. Close the door,” he ordered. “The news just got worse. I’ve just been told that Reynolds, aka Erin Foley, left Novosibirsk ninety minutes ago on a one-way flight to Thailand. Whatever they had planned must be finished,” Ardankin said.

  “Any sign of Farrington?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Keep looking. Something tells me he’s still around. Start making an assessment of possible targets in Novosibirsk and report to me when you’ve compiled a list. I may have to bring this higher up the chain of command,” Pushnoy said.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll keep you posted,” Ardankin said to an empty line.

  He didn’t like the sound of this. The only person higher in Pushnoy’s chain of command was Putin himself.

  ***

  Pushnoy had figured out the target before he hung up the phone. It all made perfect sense in the context of Farrington’s original mission to abduct Reznikov and the recent biological attack in the United States. Ardankin would likely include the site in his list of targets, but he was unlikely to connect the dots. He didn’t possess the same information about the site’s capabilities. The situation would definitely require a call up his chain of command, which he didn’t relish, but first a more practical step.

  He opened a secure internet connection to SVR headquarters and searched for a phone number only his private database could provide so quickly. Several options appeared on his screen, and he selected the number with the highest probability for Sunday evening. He put on the headset hanging next to the computer monitor and dialed the number through an encrypted VoIP system that would sanitize all identifiable aspects of the call.

  “Hello?” a female voice answered.

  “Good evening, Marina. This is an extremely important call for Alexei Ivkin. I need to speak with him immediately,” Pushnoy said.

  “Hold on,” she said, and he heard harsh whispering over the line.

  “Who is this?” an angry male voice said. “How did you get this number?”

  “Listen to me very closely, Mr. Ivkin, and do not hang up…” Pushnoy said.

  “This is an invasion of privacy. Why is your voice garbled?”

  “My voice is garbled for the same reason you claim to be on duty at Vektor every other Sunday. To hide something. Now shut the fuck up and listen. I have solid intelligence leading me to believe that Building Six may be the target of a terrorist attack.”

  “Building Six? Impossible. Nobody can get inside.”

  “I suggest you make a call or head over there yourself,” Pushnoy said.

  “If there’s a problem, they’ll call me. I think you had better identify yourself,” Ivkin said.

  “I work for an organization powerful enough to know that you’re fucking the twenty-five-year-old housekeeper right under your wife’s nose. Make the call or I can guarantee a visit from your wife within the next twenty minutes.” Pushnoy hung up.

  Chapter 50

  10:56 PM

  State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology (VEKTOR)

  Koltsovo, Russian Federation

  Misha opened the door to the security lobby just as the phone rang.

  “Set him down on one of the couches,” he said, returning to the desk.

  While Seva set the unconscious operative down on one of the lobby couches, Misha reviewed some basic information about the duty roster and the evening’s assigned duress codes. Satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, he picked up the phone.

  “Building Six,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you two doing over there? How long does it take to answer a phone? Never mind. Have you seen Mr. Popov tonight?”

  “Mr. Popov” was the trigger word for a series of verbal exchanges confirming that the main security station hadn’t been eliminated or taken hostage.

  “Mr. Popov is on vacation in Sevastopol. Mr. Mirokin has taken his place.”

  The combination of “Sevastopol” and “Mr. Mirokin” told the Quick Reaction Station that the speaker on the phone was one of the guards assigned to the post, but there was still the possibility that the speaker was answering questions under duress.

  “How long will Mr. Popov be gone?”

  “Six days,” Misha said.

  Six days meant everything was fine. Any other number would lock down Vektor.

  “Very well. I’m sending over four men to reinforce security. Two men will stay in the main station. The others will join you.”

  “What’s going on?” Misha said into the phone, mouthing “go” to Seva, who disappeared into the building.

  “The security director received unconfirmed intelligence regarding a possible threat to the facility. I’m increasing the number of roving patrols and stationing guards at both the main and pedestrian gates along the access road.”


  “All right. Maybe we should conduct a sweep of the building,” Misha said.

  “I’m sending a group to examine the outside. Mr. Ivkin doesn’t want anyone to access the building.”

  “He doesn’t trust us?” Misha said, fishing for more information.

  “He has no idea what we might be up against. He said this could all be a bunch of bullshit, but he’s not taking any chances. The reinforcement team should arrive in about five minutes.”

  “Got it. I’ll notify the idiots at the front station,” Misha said.

  “Perfect. That will save me a headache.”

  The call ended, immediately followed by Yuri’s voice through his earpiece.

  “What are we looking at?”

  “Four men arriving in under five minutes. Someone passed unconfirmed intelligence to the security director about a possible threat. Nothing specific, or they would be going ape-shit right now,” Misha said.

  “We don’t have much time. I’m sending Sasha back to help you take care of the Quick Reaction team. Keep it as quiet as possible. Seva, what is your ETA?” Farrington said.

  “I’m halfway through Building One.”

  “We’re entering the room with the biometric scanner. If this doesn’t work, we’ll blow our way inside. One way or the other, the Russian bioweapons program ends tonight. Misha, call this into base. Berg needs to know that the cat might be out of the bag. They need to watch the local military response closely.”

  “Got it.”

  Before calling base on his satellite phone, he decided to move Gosha. The lobby was visible from the internal door, and the sight of a guard lying in a heap on one of the couches was sure to cause a problem. While lifting Gosha off the couch, a thought flashed through his mind. Their SUV had been the only vehicle in the parking lot. On any other night, the vehicle might not get a second glance, but given a possible terrorist threat, it was sure to attract attention. The vehicle had deeply tinted windows protecting the rear compartment from prying eyes, but he couldn’t remember if they had left anything suspicious in the passenger compartment. Fuck. He’d have to check it out or move it out of sight if he had time.

  He deposited Gosha’s limp body on the floor in front of the couch and walked to the front entrance, swiping the dead security guard’s access card. The card reader flashed green, and he heard the door mechanisms turn.

  “Yuri,” Misha said, “I’m headed out to check on our vehicle. I can’t remember if we left anything in the passenger compartment that might be a problem. QR is guaranteed to check it out. Sasha. Where are you?”

  “I just passed Seva in Building Three at a dead sprint,” Sasha replied.

  “Shit,” Misha muttered, “all of the windows are down.”

  ***

  Farrington copied Misha’s last transmission, but didn’t respond. Misha could handle whatever showed up at his doorstep. Right now, he was focused on scrubbing Belyakov’s right index finger clean of the blood that had poured down his arms while slung over Sasha’s back. He held the finger under Grisha’s flashlight, barely satisfied with the job done by a combination of spit and his jacket sleeve.

  “Move him over to the scanner,” he barked.

  Grisha lifted the blood-slicked corpse by the armpits and dragged it to the biometric reader. Farrington followed, keeping the hand raised above the body to prevent blood from pouring over it. Farrington leaned over the body, still holding the hand high, and swiped Belyakov’s card, activating the access panel. The screen greeted the deceased scientist and asked that he press his right index finger in the scanner below. Farrington obliged the machine and waited. His hope for a successful mission faltered when the screen flashed, “Access Denied.”

  “Shit. Access Denied. Misha, do you have any ideas?”

  “I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. We have guests,” Misha replied.

  Grisha kicked the wall next to the machine. “I’d microwave his fucking hand if I thought it would help.”

  “His peripheral temperature probably dropped like a rock as soon as he was hit. His body did everything it could to preserve the critical organs, which included redirecting blood from the extremities. Fuck!” Farrington said.

  “Stick the finger in one of the bullet wounds,” Grisha said.

  Farrington could hear Seva’s footsteps in the hallway outside of the room.

  “That might work, but we’ll have to clean it again,” Farrington said.

  “You could stick it in your mouth,” Grisha replied.

  “To clean it?”

  “No. To warm it up.”

  Farrington stared at Grisha for a moment, unable to come up with any reason why he shouldn’t stick Belyakov’s index finger in his mouth. He really wanted to come up with one. Without hesitating another moment, he grimaced and inserted the finger in his mouth, fighting back an incredible urge to vomit.

  “I hope this works. I don’t want this to be one of my last images of you,” Grisha said.

  Farrington managed to mumble a few obscenities, just before Seva entered the door a few seconds later, out of breath.

  “Good thing he didn’t suggest sticking it somewhere else,” Seva said.

  “That might work too,” Grisha added.

  Farrington removed the finger, spitting in disgust, and placed it against the scanner glass. Nothing happened for a few moments, and Farrington started to shake his head. Suddenly, the screen turned green and flashed, “Access Granted. Welcome back, Dr. Belyakov.” He turned to the two operatives.

  “Fuck both of you,” Farrington said.

  “Seva, remove Belyakov’s right hand with the hatchet in your pack and deliver it to Misha. We shouldn’t be more than a minute or two behind you.”

  ***

  Misha heard Yuri over the net, but was far from celebrating their success with anything beyond a subtle smirk. The Quick Reaction force had pulled into the parking lot earlier than expected, and caught him getting out of the driver’s seat of the SUV. They pulled up ten meters away, perpendicular to the SUV, and switched to high beams. He could barely see them as they climbed out of the car. His only confirmation that all four had exited came from the sound of four separate doors slamming shut. He glanced up at the main entrance to Vektor, but saw nothing that gave him any hope that he would survive this encounter. He carried a suppressed pistol behind his back, tucked into his pants, but had no chance of successfully taking down four trained men that he couldn’t see. If they asked him to turn around, he was screwed.

  “What the fuck are you doing out here? We have a situation. Didn’t they call you?” one of the guards demanded.

  He had already planned his response. “They did, but I wanted to get something out of my car before this place turned into a madhouse.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Wait a minute. How did you get a car onto the campus? None of us are allowed to drive inside,” the guard said, stepping forward far enough for Misha to see him.

  The sight of full body armor, ballistic helmet included, was not an encouraging sight. Neither was the shortened AKS-74U, fitted with a reflex sight, slung across his chest in a ready position. Misha’s pistol might buy him enough time to get behind the SUV, but that would be the full extent of its usefulness. He hoped someone was listening to his one-way conversation and had figured out a plan to neutralize the situation quietly. He decided to continue with his ruse, stalling for a miracle.

  “All right. It’s not my car. My girlfriend works in building one as a lab assistant. That’s how I got this job. She wanted to come by. This is her car,” Misha said.

  “And she’s inside? What did you forget, condoms?”

  “Nothing ever happens on this shift,” Misha said.

  “Well, you picked the wrong night for this shit. I’m going to make sure both of you lose your jobs. Get back inside the building.”

  The lead guard turned and yelled to one of his men, “Call this in, and check out the SUV.”

  Misha stepped sideways out of
the glaring light, careful not to expose his pistol. Now he could see the entire group. One of the guards on the far side of the white four-wheel drive security jeep walked toward the SUV, while the others started walking to the Virology compound entrance. The lead guard stopped and stared at him incredulously.

  “Are you going to stand there all night? Let’s go. Open the door.”

  He had stalled the inevitable as long as possible. Where the hell was Sasha? As if on cue, a voice spoke up in his earpiece. “Take the guard talking to you first, then the one by the SUV…on three, two…”

  “I’m talking to you!” the guard yelled.

  “One,” Misha said, reaching behind his back with blinding speed.

  The guard failed to react as Misha fired three hollow-point 9mm projectiles at his indignant face. Two of the rounds struck less than a centimeter above the lip of his ballistic helmet, deflecting into the night sky. The third struck the bridge of his nose, dropping him like a rag doll onto the dark pavement. He swung the semiautomatic pistol in the direction of the guard walking toward the SUV and concentrated his fire on a point high on the distant man’s torso. As the rounds started to strike his intended target, he was vaguely aware that the other two guards had fallen like the first.

  The jacketed hollow-point ammunition in his Russian-made GSh-18 pistol had no chance of penetrating the guard’s body armor, so he went with a different strategy. Saturation and shock. The GSh-18’s magazines held eighteen rounds, which he used to pummel the man while advancing close enough to deliver a coup de grâce. The guard stumbled backward, trying desperately to remain standing, but unable to withstand the pain and kinetic energy imparted by a maelstrom of copper-lined, lead-core projectiles striking his chest and arms at 1,750 feet per second. Misha reserved the two remaining rounds and calmly approached the downed guard.