Vektor (30 page)

He turned toward the bed with the full intention of going back to sleep, when he saw a littered mess on the rough hardwood floor in front of the nightstand. He walked a little closer, to allow his eyes to better focus on the incongruous untidiness. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Now he really felt like an idiot. An idiot for drinking enough to stay passed out long enough for that Australian beauty to leave on her own accord after such a passionately crazy night. He wondered if she was waiting downstairs in the small café. He must have mentioned that place at some point during their sexual tryst. She had probably just gone downstairs to recharge herself for more.

What a shame he had blacked out. He counted three used condoms and their associated wrappers tossed on the floor with the casual abandon of lovers that couldn’t be bothered with proper waste disposal procedures. The thought energized him enough to consider an alternative to sleeping off his hangover. He was torn between cleaning up the mess and rushing downstairs to search for this incredible woman. The mess could wait, he supposed, though he had been extremely lucky to have avoided stepping on one of the condoms in his bare feet. He’d better tidy up this mess. Used condoms would be the last thing she would want to see when they returned.

Five minutes later, bleary eyed and still a little wobbly, he sat alone in the café with a hot coffee and a tiny glass of water, waiting for an order of blini. He’d clearly taken too long to wake from his drunken stupor and she’d left. The middle-aged woman behind the counter held up under interrogation, swearing that no foreigners had been in the café this morning.

He rubbed his stubble-covered chin and contemplated the day. He’d shower off and head to Vektor. He didn’t want to waste the day lamenting over his loss, eventually wandering the city like a lost puppy in search of its owner. No. He’d bury himself in work for several hours, emerging for dinner. After that, he’d count down the hours until Diesel opened and he could claim his usual perch near the dance floor. Based on the mess he had found on the bedroom floor, he felt that his chances of seeing her again were better than average.

Chapter 35

12:23 PM

Dzerzhinsky City District

Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

Richard Farrington joined Grisha near a bank of flat-screen computer monitors mounted to a thick wooden table nestled into the far corner of the warehouse. Three forty-watt bulbs dangled precariously from wires nailed to the ceiling’s vaulted beams. The Solntsevskaya Bratva didn’t have to worry about building codes or surprise inspections, so everything added to the warehouse beyond the foundational structure looked half-finished and ready to collapse at any moment.

Despite the complete lack of creature comforts, he could hardly complain. From an operational standpoint, Viktor had arranged everything they needed to this point. Detailed surveillance of Pyotr Roskov and Vektor, state-of-the-art electronics and computer gear, suitable modern weapons, and working vehicles. Everything at their immediate disposal with no questions asked. He had even provided the team with Russian internal passports, in the unlikely event that one of them was pulled over and questioned while moving around the city. The
bratva
may be a veritable rogue’s gallery of despicable human beings, but they were extraordinarily thorough and discreet, something he hadn’t expected from street criminals. Based on what he had seen so far, he could understand why the Solntsevskaya mafiya dominated the international organized crime scene. They were organized, disciplined and skilled, a combination he could appreciate.

“Has he swiped the card?” Farrington asked.

Grisha turned his head to reply. At first glance in the dim lighting, he didn’t look very different from the men guarding the warehouse complex, giving Farrington pause. He’d made it clear to Viktor that he didn’t want any of the
bratva
foot soldiers in their makeshift operations center, unless specifically requested. Grisha could pass for a Russian without a question, which made Farrington feel slightly inferior on a mission deep into enemy territory.

Farrington’s straight British lineage was only slightly tempered by traceable Scandinavian roots from his mother’s side of the family near western Lancashire. This combination of genes provided him with little natural Slavic camouflage beyond white skin and brown hair. He felt exposed on the streets posing as a Russian. A feeling not likely to be shared by the rest of the team, except for their sniper, Jared Hoffman, a descendant of German Jews. At least Hoffman looked European, which helped his case. Farrington basically resembled an American when he wasn’t wearing his cheek implants.

“He swiped it once at the main gate, but only half of the file uploaded,” Viktor grumbled.

“Everything’s fine,” Misha said. “The biometric scanner is faster than I expected. High end shit.”

Farrington didn’t like the sound of that. Information provided by Berg’s contact in the FSB confirmed the addition of low-tech security solutions in 2003, when responsibility for Vektor’s security was put in private hands. They had assumed that internal security upgrades would follow suit. Had they made some bad assumptions? Sensing his hesitation, Misha continued to explain.

“Mr. Roskov will pass through at least eight more security points on his way to Building Six. I can’t imagine any scenario in which the remaining kilobytes of virus won’t be transferred…except for one.”

“What?” Grisha said, clearly taken off guard.

“If he decides to turn his car around and head back into town to find the elusive Ms. Reynolds,” he said, pointing his thumb in the general direction of the cots where Erin Foley was sleeping, “we’re shit out of luck.”

Grisha’s earpiece crackled.

“Surveillance team is returning to base. I’ll notify the front gate,” Grisha said, “unless you need me here.”

“I’ll notify the gate,” Farrington said, switching to a whisper. “Let me know if anything goes wrong. I’d hate to think we grabbed the card for nothing.”

“I heard that. I’ll be inside their system before you walk out that door,” Misha said.

“I hope so, or I’m going to stuff you in a DHL package and overnight you as a low-tech version of your Trojan horse virus,” Farrington said.

“Why do I believe him?” Misha said.

“Because I think he’d actually try it as a last resort,” Grisha said.

“I’ll be right back,” Farrington said.

“Hold on. Hold on,” Misha said. “Virus uploaded. He just accessed the main entrance. Look at this. My little baby is already going to work. Three. Two. One.”

The screen to the far right changed to an internal Vektor Laboratories screen.

“Administrator access to Vektor Laboratories’ security system,” Misha said, raising his hand above his head.

Farrington stared at the hand for a few seconds before winking at Grisha and walking away.

“You’re really going to leave me hanging like that? Brutal,” he said, lowering the hand.

“Excellent work, Misha. Does that make you feel more appreciated?” Farrington said, already halfway across the warehouse floor.

“As a matter of fact, it does, though I could do without the sarcasm.”

“File a complaint!” Farrington called back.

“Sorry, Erin, Katie…whoever you are right now,” Farrington said, catching her peeking out of her sleeping bag.

“Please tell me that I touched used condoms last night for a reason,” she said.

“I really don’t know how to respond to that, but if you’re wondering about the security card, the virus uploaded smoothly. We’re in business.”

“I can’t get the image of those three steaming up the car windows out of my head. I’m going to need a psych eval when this is done.”

“Get in line,” he said and disappeared through the door.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned with the rest of the team, locking the door behind them. Grisha had spoken one of their predetermined code words over their communications network, which called for a “private” conversation. Viktor’s people had provided their handheld P25 radios, leaving them with no way to ensure that the encryption protocols hadn’t been compromised. As Farrington crossed the room, passing two tables stacked with weapons and gear, he raised his thumb. On cue, “Seva,” their heavy weapons assault specialist, turned on a portable boom box stereo, which emitted horrible heavy metal music from a local radio station. The entire team stood around Misha at the computer station.

“We have a problem,” Grisha said.

“The basement of Building Six is protected by a fingerprint scanner. I can’t bypass this security protocol. The system is self-contained and can only be accessed directly at the scanner station. Very secure,” Misha said.

“Basement? Reznikov said the bioweapons lab was located on the top floor. Motherfucker. Berg’s guy didn’t cough up anything about this either,” Farrington said.

“Berg’s information is pretty detailed, but the most recent update in that file is dated October 2006. They must have moved it into the basement within the past two years,” said Sasha, the youngest member of the assault team.

“Damn it. Can we change plans and just blow the building? Cause it to collapse on itself? Burn it up? I know we’ve been over this, but…” Farrington said.

Seva shook his head. “Reznikov was right. Based on my interpretation of the original schematics, we’d need a Timothy McVeigh-sized explosion to obliterate the building. Even then, I couldn’t guarantee they would be out of business. We need to get inside the lab. The best I can do with what we have on hand is hopefully breach the door. It would get us inside.”

“And alert every security guard on the property,” Farrington said. “We can’t fight off ex-special forces and destroy the lab at the same time.”

“We can, but—” Grisha started.

“But we’d kill any hope of getting out of Vektor with a head start,” Farrington cut in, “if we made it out at all. As it stands, we’re not looking at a big margin of time before police units arrive. Once news of the attack hits the police and government airwaves, anyone with a badge and a car will be headed in our direction. We need to come up with a less explosive backup plan.”

“Or a finger. Maybe a whole hand,” Foley interjected.

Farrington turned his head to stare at her.

“What? We’re planning to kill the three scientists running the program. Why not take one of their hands? Or both,” she said, chewing on an energy bar.

Misha shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The scanner model indicated by security schematics combines a few biometric features. First, it takes an ultrasound picture of the finger and matches it with an internal database. Then, it measures temperature—”

“We can keep the hand at body temperature somehow,” Grisha interrupted.

“Right. But this system measures and averages the temperature readings taken for a specific individual since its installation. Our hand donor might have peripheral vascular disease or diabetes, causing a reduction of blood flow to the extremities, or something simple, like the flu. The system accounts for the fact that not everyone’s hand is going to average out to 98.6 degrees. Ever shake hands with someone whose hands are always cold?”

“Jared’s hands feel like icicles,” Foley said, raising a few eyebrows and eliciting a few grins. “Add sexual harassment to my list of complaints.”

“She’s right. My hands have to be at least five degrees below body core temperature, and I don’t have diabetes…as far as I know,” said Jared Hoffman—Gosha for this mission.

“We need to do some research into hand temperatures. If you can’t find a satisfactory amount of information in the next hour using the internet, I’ll call Berg and put him to work on this. I’m sure the CIA has a body of information on the subject of beating biometric scanners. If any doubt remains about the viability of using a detached hand, we’ll have to kidnap one of the scientists,” Farrington said.

“We don’t have the people for that,” Grisha said.

“I know. I’ll talk to Viktor about adding the service, if necessary. Anything else?” he asked, looking around at the team. When no one responded, he went on. “Very well. We still have a lot of work to do before we step off tomorrow, so don’t waste any time. Check and recheck the gear. If we need to replace something, I need to hear it sooner than later. Erin, can you stick around a second?” he said, nodding at Grisha, who left with the rest of the team.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Are you sure you’re all right with the mission timeline? You’ll be cutting it close with your flight,” Farrington said.

“I’ll be fine. If I miss the flight, I know where to find a ride home,” Foley said.

“Trust me. You want to be on that flight.”

She regarded him for a moment, and he suspected that she might try and argue her case for staying. He didn’t need her at Vektor Labs, but the team could always use another capable operative during the exfiltration. She wasn’t trained for the kind of combat he anticipated, but she had proven to be a decisive asset in Stockholm. He simply couldn’t discount her based on the conditions he expected during their escape. He had other reasons for ensuring her safe departure.

“You have skills our program desperately needs, and from what I understand, you’re slated to spend the rest of your career behind a desk in Langley. When you get back to the States, consider taking a long vacation to Argentina,” he suggested.

“What makes you think I don’t want a cushy desk job in the CIA’s Scandinavian section?”

“Just a hunch,” he said.

“I’ll make the flight.”

Chapter 36

1:25 PM

Dzerzhinsky City District

Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

Farrington watched Viktor closely for a reaction to his request. The stolid Russian took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke pour through his nose, never changing his expression.

“You do realize it will be Sunday evening? We’ll have to do this in their homes,” Viktor said.