Black Flagged Vektor (4) Read online

  The rear aisle filled the entire back wall of the store, and at nearly ten o’clock at night, he was the store’s only customer, so he thought. The sudden appearance of his assistant, Yuri Prerovsky, caused his breath to stop. The young agent stepped out from behind one of the display stands near the end cap of a long row of red wines. Whatever Prerovsky wanted, it wouldn’t be good. Kaparov knew for a fact that the agent lived on the other side of the city, east of Moscow. He glanced back down the aisle he had just walked, half-expecting to see several additional agents headed in his direction. The paranoid look on Prerovsky’s face eased his fear that the young agent had betrayed him. He continued to the back wall, pretending to examine the different bottles while talking.

  “Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? There are easier ways to take my job. Just ask. You can have it,” he said.

  Prerovsky mimicked his actions, standing close enough for conversation.

  “Sorry about this, but we have a problem that can no longer be discussed or even hinted about at headquarters. I remember you mentioning your nighttime trips to pick up vodka at this place. You should avoid this wall. Spend another thirty rubles for some decent vodka. This stuff will kill you,” Prerovsky said.

  “I could never tell the difference between vodkas. As long as it keeps me warm on cold nights and numb on warm nights, I’m satisfied. What kind of a problem are we facing?”

  “Lucya. They have her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. She detected them on the way home from headquarters yesterday and is pretty sure they are watching her apartment. She’s been part of the routine investigation by internal affairs, but she thinks this is different. She’s panicky,” Prerovsky said.

  “She detected them so easily?”

  “It didn’t sound like they were trying to conceal their activity,” Prerovsky said.

  “Fuck. I was wondering how long we had until the Foreign Intelligence Service stepped up their investigation. I received a warning that our friends in the SVR have been busy in Sweden. They must have uncovered something.”

  “Damn it, why didn’t you tell me this? My ass is on the line here,” Prerovsky whispered forcefully.

  “And have you acting suspiciously, glancing over your shoulder and running off to warn Lucya? I need you to continue acting as natural as possible, and ten o’clock trips across the city is far from normal, Yuri. How is Lucya holding up?”

  “Not good. That’s the real problem. She’ll crumble under any pressure, and…I don’t know,” he said, hesitating.

  “What is it?” Kaparov demanded.

  “She suggested that we turn you in and say that you forced us to conspire in this,” he whispered.

  “Fuck me. A few days of surveillance, and she’s ready to roll over. Damn it,” he hissed.

  He picked out two bottles of vodka, not even bothering to read the green label. Based on the information just shared with him, he might finish an entire bottle tonight, contemplating his fate. He should have known better than to think that Directorate S would let this one slide. Ultimately, the Federal Security Service leadership wouldn’t stand in the way of the Foreign Intelligence Service witch-hunt, which would gain momentum as the initial round of pushback expired.

  Something had gone severely wrong in Stockholm, resulting in the unprecedented, simultaneous loss of several “illegal” Spetsnaz operatives. Once the investigation picked up speed and the remaining roadblocks were removed, surveillance would turn into arrests. Everyone involved with the Lubyanka building’s Center of Special Operations (CSN) group would be detained and interrogated. Lucya wouldn’t last five minutes in custody. She’d probably spill their names in the windowless van that snatched her off the street.

  Prerovsky remained silent while he thought about their options. A few seconds later, Kaparov had made a decision. It might be a long shot, but the Americans, specifically Karl Berg, owed him a favor. A big favor. He’d call Berg on the walk home, if he wasn’t already being followed by SVR agents.

  “All right. I have an idea,” Kaparov said.

  “Please tell me that this doesn’t involve getting rid of Lucya. I don’t think I could do that,” Prerovsky said.

  Kaparov regarded him for a moment, surprised by his suggestion that they might have to kill her. The thought had crossed Kaparov’s mind, and it still lingered.

  “Unfortunately, Lucya has to go…but not to the bottom of the Moscow. She knew the risks involved here. We all did. I need to make a phone call.”

  “Where will she go?” Prerovsky said.

  “Anywhere but here. Her life as a Russian citizen is done. She either accepts that, or…let’s just hope she accepts her new reality. Don’t say a word to her about anything. If she comes to you again, explain to her that turning us in will not save her life. You need to buy me some time to put my plan into motion.”

  “I can do that. Keep me posted. I don’t like being kept in the dark, Alexei,” Prerovsky said.

  “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Alexei,” Kaparov said.

  “Deputy Director didn’t sound like an appropriate title for a conversation between two traitors,” Prerovsky said.

  “Get that out of your head immediately. The real traitors tried to snuff out Reznikov in Stockholm, and they’re still hard at work trying to conceal the fact that Mother Russia is still producing bioweapons. Their handiwork killed thousands of Russian’s up north. I don’t feel a twinge of guilt about what we accomplished,” Kaparov said.

  “Neither do I, but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life in prison,” Prerovsky said.

  “Don’t worry. If they catch us, we’ll never see the inside of a prison. Hurry up and grab a bottle of your fancy wine. We should leave separately,” Kaparov said.

  Prerovsky shook his head and departed, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine on the way down the aisle. After Kaparov heard the familiar jingle of the bells mounted to the door to alert the cashier, he took his two bottles to the register and paid a mere one hundred and fifty rubles for a complete liter of forty-proof alcohol. Not a bad deal. He shook a dented cigarette out of a crumpled pack fished from his jacket and deftly maneuvered the brown bag to light the cigarette with his silver butane lighter. After inhaling deeply, he turned north and walked along the wide, treelined sidewalk.

  Pedestrian traffic was light at that time of the night. That part of Brateyevo mostly held large apartment buildings built during the Soviet era. Beyond a few grocery stores and liquor shops, the district remained devoid of commercial business, which Kaparov preferred. The wide streets and open spaces were difficult to find this close to Moscow, even if the district didn’t cater to the wealthy.

  Brateyevo had remained a middle class to lower middle class enclave close to the heart of Moscow, though more and more younger affluent Russian couples had started to migrate into the community, driving up the apartment prices for new contracts. Most of the districts denizens took advantage of rent control provisions, which hadn’t been eliminated like in other districts. One of these days, the government would level this place to make room for mansions and expensive condominium complexes. The face of corruption in Moscow was often disguised as “progress,” according to city politicians. Until then, Kaparov would continue to enjoy peaceful nighttime walks along the district’s well-lit streets.

  Halfway down Alma-Atinskaya Boulevard, mostly convinced that he was not being followed, he turned onto an unfamiliar walkway and pulled out one of his prepaid cell phones. Another two thousand rubles to be thrown in the Moscow River. In this case, the phone call would be worth far more than the price he had paid for the phone. He checked his watch and calculated the time difference. Karl Berg should be finished with lunch, or whatever he did with his noon hour. He heard that many of the CIA employees exercised or took yoga classes instead of eating lunch. Right inside the facility. He couldn’t imagine the day that they installed a full gym at Lubyanka Square, or had people standing on their heads contemplating their inner s
elf in the same rooms that still echoed with the screams of the purged.

  It took longer than usual for Berg to answer, which made Kaparov nervous. He kept walking toward the towering apartment building ahead of him, occasionally checking to see if anyone else had followed. He wasn’t surprised to see the walkway clear. Lucya was the only link to his deception, and she was still in the surveillance phase. Once they decided to pick her up, it was over for him.

  Damn it, where are you, Karl!

  “What in hell is holding this up?” he said, unaware that the line had been answered.

  “And good afternoon to you, comrade. Everything all right over there?” the voice asked in Russian.

  “Far from it. No names. We have a big problem here,” Kaparov said, stopping near a tree.

  “I was about to call you with some interesting news about our mutual friend. It seems that your people have been playing with the Iranians and—”

  “I don’t give a fuck who is playing with who right now. Forget all of that and listen closely. Whatever recently happened in Scandinavia has caused a reaction here in Moscow. A bad reaction. The source responsible for saving America’s ass is under surveillance. Overt surveillance, and they’re not from my organization. Do you understand what this means?”

  The line remained silent for a few seconds longer than Kaparov expected, leaving him with the distinct impression that it might go silent forever, leaving him to fend for himself.

  “This source is the nexus. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Kaparov said.

  “Electronically, everyone is clear. Correct?” Berg said.

  “So I am told.”

  “Then there is only one solution,” Berg said.

  “I was afraid you might say that,” Kaparov said.

  “You didn’t need me for that, comrade. I assume you have another reason for calling? My offer of a cushy retirement still stands.”

  “I’d like to avoid that if possible, which is why I need your help. I’d like to remove the source in question. Permanent relocation,” Kaparov said.

  “I assume that’s not a euphemism for termination,” Berg said.

  “Correct. She’d be a valuable source for your organization. One way or the other, she can’t stay. I’m asking for this as your return favor.”

  “It’s an awfully big favor,” Berg said.

  “Ha! Always the negotiator. I sense that you still want something from me. Take care of our problem, and I’ll be able to better concentrate on what you have to say,” Kaparov said, throwing his cigarette to the ground in a flurry of sparking ashes.

  “Let me make a quick call. I might be able to do this without using in-house assets. What is our timeline?” Berg said.

  “Forty-eight hours maximum. More like twenty-four. Once they consistently notice that the subject is visibly shaken, they’ll move in for the grab. This one isn’t faring well, so I predict it will happen sooner than later. How close are these assets?”

  “Close. I’ll contact you at the next phone number as soon as I know anything,” Berg said.

  “This is getting expensive for me,” Kaparov said.

  “I can have someone drop off some phones for you,” Berg said.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s the closest I could ever come to recruiting you.”

  Kaparov roared with laughter at the comment, knowing exactly where Berg was coming from. The two of them had traded jabs for three years in Moscow, each subtly suggesting the same thing on numerous occasions. They had an odd relationship as adversaries. They probably trusted each other’s motives better than their own masters’ chameleon-like agendas.

  “Well, if this plan of yours doesn’t work, you might ultimately win our decades-old showdown,” Kaparov said.

  “As much as I’d like that, I don’t think we could afford your vodka habit.”

  “Probably not,” Kaparov said.

  “Stay safe. You know how to reach me if things take a turn for the worse. I’ll be in touch,” Berg said.

  Kaparov started walking back toward the street with the intention of turning left and continuing past his featureless apartment building. He’d take a quick stroll down the treelined boulevard, crossing into the park that adjoined the Moscow River, where he’d sink the financial equivalent of thirty vodka bottles to its muddy bottom. There, he would remind himself how easily his own body could be tossed into the murky depths if he wasn’t careful.

  Chapter 19

  3:47 PM

  Neuquén Province

  Western Argentina

  General Sanderson picked one of the closest human silhouettes and swiftly raised the MK12 rifle, finding the target’s head through the EOTech holographic sight. He placed two quick holes in the paper less than an inch apart and shifted his aim to a target two hundred yards downrange, simultaneously flipping a Switch-To-Side 3X magnifier in place and taking a second to line up his shot. He fired two rounds at the distant target, using the magnifier.

  “Two hits. Center mass. Three MOA, possibly less,” stated Jared Hoffman, his observer.

  Hoffman was the Russian Group’s dedicated marksman, and in the absence of Daniel Petrovich had taken over as one of their primary weapons evaluators. Richard Farrington put their weapons to the test in a more practical environment, taking them off the static ranges and trying to destroy them on the live fire maneuver ranges. “Combat Town” was his favorite, where he would instruct teams to throw all of their weapons from the top floor onto the hard-packed ground. The teams would follow, rappelling from the windows to retrieve the weapons, which would be immediately used to engage pop-up targets down the street. A wide variety of optics and rifles failed this test, honing their selection of weapons and optics platforms. So far, the EOTech sights passed with flying colors. The flip-up magnifier didn’t hold as much promise.

  “I don’t know. A six-inch spread at two hundred yards under stable conditions…”

  “Six inches is being generous. Your last batch was more like four MOA. I can’t get it any better without cheating,” Hoffman said.

  General Sanderson grunted. “Three to four MOA on an eighteen-inch barrel isn’t good enough to justify this flip-up contraption. I can’t imagine it would survive Richard’s field assessment. Let me see the other configuration again.”

  Sanderson removed the magazine and ejected the chambered round, letting it tumble into the dirt. He leaned the cleared rifle against the firing range stand as Hoffman handed him another MK12, this one configured with a Trijicon 4X ACOG and an offset red dot sight. After inserting the magazine in the new rifle, he engaged the targets in reverse order. He quickly lined up two shots at a new distant target using the scope before twisting the rifle forty-five degrees to use the red dot sight. A rapid double tap punctured the twenty-five yard target, keeping the tight pattern formed by previous firing. He lowered the rifle and raised it again, repeating the drill starting with the twenty-five yard target.

  “Two MOA at 200 yards. All four rounds pretty tight. Results at twenty-five yards are the same,” Hoffman said.

  “Well, it was a nice concept. We just haven’t been able to replicate the accuracy of a dedicated battle scope. Canting the rifle to use the red dot doesn’t impede progress. I think this combination is the winner for our mid-range rifles. Start equipping different platforms with these optics. Farrington has done everything but take a blowtorch to the ACOG. See if he has any real heartache with the offset red dot sight.”

  “Easy enough, General. I wish we could take the MK12s out on a real op. Fucking amazing weapon,” Hoffman said.

  “That’s the irony of our situation. Aside from local work on behalf of Galenden, none of our weapons ever leave the compound, and in most situations, we have to use locally sourced equipment,” Sanderson said.

  “It’s a shame,” Hoffman said, taking the rifle back from Sanderson and clearing it.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with the trusty AK family of rifles
. They’ve served us well up to this point. Ask Farrington,” the general said.

  What he didn’t add to his statement was the fact that Farrington was the only member of the first Russian team alive, besides Petrovich, who was more of a last-minute addition to the group. The first team fielded by Sanderson’s new program had suffered heavy casualties. Two killed and one severely wounded. Of the five men sent to Kazakhstan, only Farrington and Petrovich had survived intact. Setting these grim statistics aside, the team had achieved the impossible, which always came with a high price tag. The program had been designed to produce teams that would deliver results against overwhelming odds, and it had repeatedly proven to be successful.

  “Speak of the devil,” Hoffman said, nodding toward the tree line behind them.

  Richard Farrington approached them dressed like a Russian street thug. Tight black jeans and a gray turtleneck sweater under a worn leather bomber jacket with thick lapels complemented the look, which he never abandoned in the compound. He required the same of every member under his charge in the Russian Group.

  “General, we have a special request from the CIA. You left your phone back in the lodge,” he said, tossing the satellite phone to Sanderson.

  “Sanderson,” he said into the phone’s receiver.

  “General, Karl Berg here. I have a situation in Moscow that may be directly related to the disappearance of your operative in Munich. My contact has reported an unexpected increase in SVR activity. The source of the Stockholm leak is under aggressive surveillance, and my guy doesn’t think she has more than twenty-four hours before they pick her up. He’s fairly certain she won’t last five minutes under interrogation. She’s already suggested preemptively turning my contact over to SVR in exchange for a deal.”