Black Flagged Vektor (4) Read online

They pushed through a set of rich wooden doors into a harsh fluorescent environment that stood in stark contrast to the welcome, subtle lighting of the lobby. A second guard stood up from a chair at a small computer station and picked up an assault rifle similar to the one held by the guard in the lobby. Sergei guessed it was an AKS-74U, a short barreled, folding stock version of the Russian service rifle he’d carried as a conscript. The guard cradled it in a non-threatening manner and nodded as they passed through another set of doors into the safety deposit area.

  The room extended at least twenty feet into the building, measuring at least fifteen feet wide. Boxes of varying size lined the walls, flush with each other. The larger boxes were located at the bottom, extending upward to several rows of standard sized boxes. The boxes on the flanking walls contained the same dual key mechanism typically used by banks to open safety deposit boxes. Once the key holder’s identity was confirmed as the owner of the box, the bank manager and key holder would simultaneously insert their keys, opening the drawer. Another metal container typically sat inside the drawer, providing immediate privacy from the bank staff. The contents of the box were examined by the key holder in a nearby, private room.

  In this case, the door to this private area stood in the center of the room’s far wall. The rest of the wall contained digital safety deposit boxes, one of which contained the items he had been sent to retrieve. He had never heard of a digital safety deposit box until tonight. A curious development in the world of banking, they offered more flexibility in terms of content retrieval, since a digital code replaced the need to present a physical key. The box’s owner could still request the additional security layer of identity confirmation, but this had become less common and didn’t serve the most common purpose of these boxes. Money drops.

  The proliferation of digital boxes across Europe, and particularly Moscow, served organized crime well, allowing them to not only hide money effectively, but to disburse it anonymously to anyone given the second code. Born in Russia, the idea was quickly spreading west, creating serious difficulty for federal law enforcement agencies investigating the major drug cartels and organized crime gangs. The days of staking out the big money drops were evaporating, as money changed hands behind vault doors, free from the prying eyes and ears of the police.

  The bank manager approached a row of boxes at chest height to the right of the door and slid open a small keypad on the front of the box.

  “I’ll enter the first code, and then you’ll have three tries to enter your code. The box will automatically lock after a third unsuccessful attempt, so please take you time. There is no rush. Make sure to press enter after all of the digits appear. If you don’t mind,” he said, waiting patiently for Sergei to face a different direction.

  He heard the man pushing the buttons on the keypad and wondered what would happen if the first code was entered incorrectly. A few moments later, the manager asked him to enter the code. He removed his cell phone and approached the box, glancing over his shoulder at the manager, who had started to pace toward the center of the room with his hands behind his back. He eyed the phone’s screen and carefully entered the code, confirming that the red numbers on the small, thin digital screen matched the numbers on his cell phone. He pressed enter, and a green light blinked, followed by several beeps and the hushed rumbling of mechanisms in the wall. The bank official appeared out of nowhere next to him.

  “Most excellent. You may open the drawer and retrieve the contents. The room through this door will assure you complete privacy. When you are finished, there is a telephone mounted on the wall. Simply pick up the phone and let whomever answers know that you are done. I will arrive shortly after that to escort you to the lobby. Do you anticipate needing a bag to carry the contents?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will find a low cabinet on the far side of this room filled with a variety of sturdy bags. Take whichever best suits your needs. If you have any questions after I leave, you can reach me on the phone,” he said and nodded, stepping back.

  “Thank you,” Sergei said.

  When the outer doors to the room clicked shut, Sergei opened the one-foot-by-one-foot drawer and reached inside, removing a metal case. He glanced at the door again, wondering what the low-wage security guard thought of the wealth concentrated in this room. The thought made him uneasy. The money and secrets stashed in this room remained frustratingly out of the guard’s grasp most of the day, until someone like Sergei arrived. It had to drive the guard insane with curiosity. Was Sergei here to collect ten million rubles or some old rich geezer’s last will and testament? Diamonds? Gold? He could never work a job like this. Every person that walked through those doors represented a life-changing gamble.

  He entered the private room, which contained a simple metal table surrounded by four equally utilitarian metal chairs. The cabinet sat against the far wall as promised, just a few feet from the table, and a single black phone hung on the wall to the left of the door. Out of habit, he scanned the room for cameras or any other surveillance devices and found none. Time to verify the contents and get the fuck out of here. He was expected to meet his boss at an apartment complex in the Tverskoy District by six-thirty, which would take a near superhuman effort at this time of the day.

  The metal slid open to reveal three individually secured stacks of one hundred dollar bills, a worn three-by-five inch notebook, and a small thumb drive. Exactly what he had been told to expect. He picked up one of the stacks, which measured roughly three inches thick, and thumbed through one of the corners slowly. As far as he could tell, the entire stack contained crisp one hundred dollar bills. He repeated the process for the two remaining stacks. Two hundred thousand U.S. dollars was one of the largest amounts he had been tasked to handle, and he had no intention of fucking this up. Anything could go wrong with a drop like this, robbery being the least of his problems.

  If one of the stacks had been padded with one dollar bills, and he didn’t document the fact immediately upon discovery, he’d likely end up in the Moscow river with his throat slashed, or even worse, dissolved alive in some warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Satisfied that all of the bills were hundreds, he selected a small faux leather tote bag from the cabinet and placed the contents of the box inside. A quick call to Mr. Krutin put him back into his car on Leninsky Avenue without incident. The time on his watch read six-twelve. No way in hell he would make it to Tverskoy during rush hour.

  ***

  Matvey Penkin thumbed through the journal sitting at a sleek metal-framed glass table in his penthouse suite overlooking Tverskaya Street. He’d read the first several pages with rapt attention. What Anatoly Reznikov had proposed could make the Solntsevskaya Bratva a veritable fortune on several fronts, opening the doors to a new stratosphere of power and respect on the international scene. The contents of this box represented one of the largest business opportunities in decades, and his greatest chance to secure his place as Dima Maksimov’s right-hand man in the organization.

  Of course, seizing an opportunity like this carried serious risks and required careful maneuvering. Penkin had to decide whether to seek his Pakhan’s blessing for the operation or simply deliver the goods. Conspiring with an American mercenary group to destroy a sensitive government facility was unheard of, but so was the payoff. Exclusive access to bioweapons production capabilities, which Reznikov insisted he could deliver.

  With Vektor Labs destroyed, they would have no competition in the bioweapons market and could demand exorbitant prices from countries like Iran, North Korea or China for the production and delivery of the weapons. Once word hit the back channels that these nations possessed bioweapons, other nations would be willing to acquire the same capabilities to participate in a secret bioweapons détente. The entire scheme seemed farfetched, but with minimal effort, they could actively explore the option. He decided to move forward without alerting anyone else in the leadership structure. The fewer that knew about this, the better.

  If the
operation failed or backfired on him, Maksimov and the rest would be insulated from the damage. If it succeeded, he alone would be in a position to present the grand prize to his Pakhan.

  “How long did your man have this package in his possession?” he asked the stocky, brown-haired man seated next to him at the table.

  “Thirty minutes or so. He was adamant that he didn’t waste any time getting here. Traffic and all,” said Valery Zuyev, Sergei’s boss.

  “Who else knows about the pickup?”

  “Nobody. I sent the closest guy. Sergei’s new, but he’s shown initiative and an enterprising spirit.”

  “Unfortunately, I would have been happier if you had told me the opposite. The last-minute nature of the pickup and the contents would attract anyone’s attention, especially someone with, as you say, an enterprising spirit. I trust you implicitly, Valery, but this guy?” Matvey Penkin shook his head slowly.

  “I understand,” Valery said.

  “Good. I’ll need you here tomorrow at four in the afternoon. You and I are about to embark on a journey that will require most of your attention, I’m afraid.”

  “I like the sound of this. Is there anything I can do to prepare before we meet tomorrow?” Valery asked.

  “Yes. I need you to think hard about whom you can trust in Novosibirsk. We’re going to need a small core group to take care of some very secretive logistics.”

  “We have good people out there. I’ll come up with a list,” he said.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Penkin said, politely dismissing Valery.

  When his Boyevik left the room, escorted by two of Penkin’s omnipresent bodyguards, he opened the notebook again. The thumb drive found in the safety deposit box held a software program that would decode random words from future conversations with Reznikov. The scientist had instructed them to record each call and transcribe it exactly into the program.

  Reznikov would call them tomorrow at 5 o’clock p.m. According to the journal, a particular word would be used to indicate the use of a satellite phone. Additional words would narrow the location down as far as possible, providing geographic features, temperature, sunrise/sunset, moon phase, and weather. He hoped Reznikov would be given access to a cell phone. This would provide the easiest method of determining the location. Penkin had access to some of the most sophisticated hackers in the world and could very likely pinpoint the location within two phone calls.

  A satellite phone presented a few unique challenges that weren’t insurmountable, but would likely eat up most of the money recovered from the safety deposit box. The worst-case scenario involved bringing another Brigadier onboard with the scheme. He loathed the idea of sharing this with another high-ranking member of the bratva, but unfortunately, his business dealings didn’t bring him into contact with anyone within the GRU’s Sixth Directorate, responsible for Signals Intelligence intercept.

  He regarded the thumb drive and placed it on the table. Fate had paid him a curious visit today, promising one of two extremes. There was no middle ground once he committed to this opportunity. He would either die a horrible death or be responsible for ushering in a new era of prosperity for the Solntsevskaya Bratva.

  ***

  Sergei Dubinin stepped out of his car in the parking garage of the Swiss Hotel Krasnye Holmy. The last-minute errand had only kept him away from his swank audience for about an hour. The trip back to the hotel had been mercifully quicker than the interminable drive through the heart of Moscow to deliver the package. All the better, actually. His lady friends would be two or three drinks closer to getting fucked in one of the bathrooms, like usual, and if he played his cards right, he might even bang the fashion model that had recently started showing up regularly. All before his night really started. He’d join another colleague to make the rounds through restaurants and clubs, collecting money on the spot. They found the establishment owners much more willing to pay extra in order to avoid a scene.

  He shut the car door and walked toward the parking garage elevator bank, pressing the only button available between the two shiny metal doors. A few minutes later, the right door opened and he stepped inside, shifting left to press the button for the top floor of the hotel. Movement outside of the elevator caught his eye, causing him to pause before pressing the button. No more movement. The doors started to close, and he walked to the center of the car, confident that he would be the only passenger. When the doors stopped halfway and started to reopen, he snapped open the knife that had already found its way into his right hand from his belt.

  His serrated folding knife proved to be no match against the sawed-off, double barrel shotgun that poked between the doors and unceremoniously discharged at head level. When the elevator door opened on the thirty-fourth floor of the hotel, happy-hour patrons crowded around the entrance to City Space had a hard time processing the expansive, stark red pattern on the back wall of the elevator, until their eyes followed the stain to the body slumped on the floor and the screaming began.

  Chapter 17

  1:41 PM

  Route 100

  Green Mountains, Vermont

  Karl Berg alternated staring between the road and Daniel Petrovich, trying desperately to read his face. Petrovich played with the radio controls, settling in on a faint signal from Burlington playing Tom Petty. He’d done the same thing driving out, preferring to listen to static instead of country music or, worse yet, Berg’s voice. He almost looked disaffected, like a sociopath, but Berg knew better. Petrovich’s gears were spinning at full speed trying to process the information gathered from Reznikov’s interrogation. Sanderson would want a full assessment, and he wasn’t the type to take this lightly. Lives would be at stake during the operation, the lives of people he had worked with and trained.

  “What do you think?” Berg asked.

  Petrovich surprised him by answering immediately. “I think you have a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s something wrong with Reznikov,” Petrovich said.

  “That’s obvious.”

  “And you trust his information?”

  “Trust but verify. He has the most to lose from a failed operation. Is this what’s bothering you?” Berg asked.

  “No. The mission looks straightforward enough going in. Getting out is going to take a miracle, unless the agency has an ace up its sleeve. The Russian mafiya support will dissolve as soon as the alarm is raised at various 41st Army barracks around Novosibirsk.”

  “We’re working on that,” Berg said.

  “There’s no way the president will authorize a stealth incursion with the entire Siberian Military District mobilized,” Petrovich said.

  “Our analysts don’t think the Russians will want to publicize the event. Response will be limited to Special Forces, light motorized units and possibly fighter aircraft. The nearest sizable helicopter brigade is too far away to make a difference,” Berg said.

  “I seem to recall the rather sudden arrival of three Russian helicopters in Kazakhstan, not far from the proposed crossing point. One of them was a Havoc,” Petrovich replied.

  “True, but we believe that the helicopters were part of a special task force stationed in Novosibirsk from another district. One of the hull numbers matched a unit that had been recently pulled from Georgia and was normally stationed outside of Moscow. I’m not discounting the possibility of helicopters responding to the attack, but it won’t be the type of coordinated effort that I’d consider a showstopper,” Berg said.

  “What would you consider to be a showstopper?” Petrovich said, glaring at him.

  Berg suppressed a grin. Petrovich was extremely perceptive and had probably long ago answered that question for himself. He’d just been waiting for the right time to ask it. Berg had sent his team on one suicide mission after another across Europe and Russia in pursuit of Anatoly Reznikov, but the threat unleashed by Reznikov still lingered at Vektor Labs. The show must go on.

  “That’s why the good general insisted that I br
ing you along. To provide an unbiased assessment of the situation,” Berg said.

  “And to keep you from bullshitting him,” Petrovich said.

  “Same thing, pretty much. So really, what do you think?”

  “I think you better start talking to your Department of Defense buddies. Without some kind of helicopter or drone support near the Kazakh border, the team will never make it across. I’m not sure how you pulled off your drone miracle before, but that’s the kind of magic this team will need to get out of Russia. Aside from that? I can’t see any reason to sideline this op, assuming that Sanderson doesn’t mind relying on the Russian mafiya.”

  “Once I set the terms of cooperation—”

  “The price of cooperation,” Petrovich corrected.

  “Correct. The price. Once this is agreed upon, I’m going to step away and let Sanderson handle all levels of coordination with the Russians.”

  “Smart move. How much is the CIA willing to pony up for this operation?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Berg observed Petrovich raise his eyebrows and go back to fumbling with the radio. The conversation was almost over, leaving a long, two-hour drive ahead of them.

  “Anything else you can think of?” Berg prodded, hoping to keep him talking.

  “Yes. You need satellite radio. This is borderline torture,” he said, turning the radio off.

  Chapter 18

  10:15 PM

  Brateyevo District

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Alexei Kaparov walked directly to his favorite shelf at the back of the liquor store, where they sold the absurdly inexpensive brands of vodka at prices decreed by the Federal Service for Alcohol Market Regulation. The minimum price of vodka sold in Moscow was seventy-five rubles, less than three dollars, and the further you drove out of Moscow, the less expensive it became. It was not uncommon for the less affluent Muscovites to take public transportation outside of the city to take advantage of the pricing, and any family trips to other regions always ended with a trip to one of the state-sponsored liquor stores where a half-liter bottle could be acquired for thirty-five rubles, nearly half of the Moscow price. Kaparov didn’t get out of the city much these days, so he gladly paid a little more for the iconic beverage that he drank straight from a shot glass.