Vektor (34 page)

“Jackpot,” she whispered.

The leftmost drawer held the rest of their identification papers. Iranian passports, work visas, folded copies of their lease. She jammed the rest into her cargo pockets and sprinted to the front door, glancing in both directions down the hallway. Nobody wanted to catch a stray bullet. Less than a minute later, Foley stepped out of the dark apartment building into a courtyard leading to the street. A few people had wandered off the street and into the courtyard, attracted by the sound of gunfire, but they paid no attention to her as she walked casually by them. She had reversed her jacket inside and removed the ski mask, once again appearing no different than anyone else.

When she reached the street, she turned right and picked up the pace. Her pickup car was nowhere in sight. She continued down Zorge Street, rapidly approaching an intersection with a convenience store and gas station. They had told her to turn right and look for the car, now she was headed toward a high-traffic area. Just as she was about to turn onto a side street and look for a vehicle to hotwire, a car sped up behind her, screeching to a stop. She wheeled around to see Ivan hanging halfway out of the front passenger window yelling, “Where the fuck are you going? Can’t you hear the damn sirens?”

Her ears were still ringing from the close-quarters machine-gun fire inside the apartment. She jogged to the car and got in the back seat. The driver drove toward the intersection at a normal speed, cautiously pulling up to the stop sign. A blue-striped, white police car screamed through the intersection, nearly clipping the front of their car. The driver took his time scanning the street for additional police cars before turning left and accelerating out of the neighborhood. As soon as they were clear of the intersection, Ivan turned all the way around in his seat.

“What the fuck happened in there? We heard a machine gun.”

“Thanks for coming to help,” she said, digging into her backpack on the seat next to her.

“Viktor’s orders were clear…and you can apparently take care of yourself,” he said, turning back in the seat.

“One of them was in the bedroom when I crashed the door. The scientist. He fired a full mag from a Skorpion at me.”

“He must not have known what he was doing,” Ivan said.

“That’s the only reason you get to enjoy the next twenty minutes with me on the way to the airport,” she said, opening a compact mirror to apply makeup.

“Can I report a successful mission? They’re eagerly waiting for confirmation,” he said.

“Affirmative. Blackbird’s targets have been terminated.”

Ivan pulled out his radio and made the report. Less than a minute later, the cell phone in her backpack buzzed. She scrambled to open the zippered compartment containing her phone, digging through her passport and money to retrieve it.

“Blackbird,” she answered.

“You all right? Sounds like we almost had a problem,” Farrington said.

“I’m fine. Ever have a Skorpion fired at you from less than ten feet away?”

“Old or new model?”

“I wasn’t aware of a newer model,” Foley said.

“You wouldn’t be alive if it had been the new one.”

“I shouldn’t be alive either way.”

“Am I sensing a little reluctance?”

“Nothing a few days on the beach in Phuket can’t cure. Is my flight still on time?” Foley asked.

“S7 Airlines, Flight 859 is sitting at the terminal. They start boarding in fifty minutes. Better hurry, or they might push you back into coach. I hear you have to pay for your own drinks back there,” he said.

“Ha! I haven’t paid for a drink since college.”

“I bet. All right, Blackbird, we’ll catch up with you in Argentina, if you decide to join us,” Farrington said.

“You guys are relentless. Good luck tonight. Bring everyone back,” she said and disconnected the call.

“To the airport?” Ivan asked. His normally deadpan face turned to a forced grin before breaking into laughter. “Just kidding. See? I have the American sense of humor too.”

“Ivan, you’re a piece of work. How does someone with your charm and grace get mixed up with these guys?”

They both started laughing.

“See? We both know you’re making a joke. Okay. I have more. A whore walks into a bar with a monkey on her shoulder…”

Foley forced a laugh and settled in for the longest twenty-minute car ride of her life, glad she could barely hear the jokes over the ringing in her ears.

Chapter 43

8:21 AM

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

Thomas Manning turned to Director Copley and the president after a brief discussion with Karl Berg.

“They’re good. The Iranians no longer pose a threat to homeland security. No collateral damage and a clean getaway.”

“But something didn’t go as planned. Am I right?” the president asked.

“One of the targets unexpectedly moved to an adjacent room prior to entry and opened fire on our operative. Nothing our operative couldn’t handle,” Manning said.

“But now we have an escalated situation with the local police,” the president stated.

“The police would have been involved no matter what,” Manning said. “We had to blow the door to get inside.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a covert operation,” Remy added.

Manning hated that pretentious little fuck. He took every opportunity available to dig away at the CIA, Department of Defense…pretty much any organization that represented a potential threat to the administration’s public image, regardless of the fact that these same groups sacrificed deeply to keep the real United States safe and Remy’s precious job secure for another term. Ironically, placating Remy was one of the distasteful tasks necessary to keep the nation secure. The son-of-a-bitch had the ear of the president and could shut down their operation if Manning wasn’t careful. So instead of telling him to shut the fuck up and let the experts run the show, he went in a different direction.

“We had to kill those guys. They represented a future threat to the United States and our allies. The only other option that satisfied our timing issue was to plant a bomb in the apartment and take down half of the building. Everything is fine. Our operative sanitized the apartment of identity documents. It’ll take them a while to figure this one out. By then, Vektor’s bioweapons lab will be history.”

“I hope it takes them more than two hours,” the president said, checking his watch, “or your people might have a surprise waiting for them at Vektor.”

“We’re watching and listening for a response,” Manning said.

“Well, watch and listen closely, because if they boost security at Vektor, operation Black Fist is off. I can’t risk the consequences of a failed raid at the compound. The fallout from a successful raid will be bad enough, but I’m willing to deal with that shit-storm, because I agree that the Russian bioweapons program has no place in our world. A failed attempt today will shut us out for good. Months or years from now, after Monchegorsk and the threat of a biological attack has faded from public consciousness in Europe and the United States, I won’t be in a position to green light plan B. You get one shot at this, and I prefer that it’s taken while the international community is primed to turn a blind eye to this transgression of Russian sovereignty. But no shot right now is better than a bad shot. I’m counting on your agency to make the right call.”

“Understood, Mr. President. We have no plans to make a mess of things,” the director said.

“I don’t mind messy, as long as we’re the ones controlling the mess,” the president shot back. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in my office. Please notify me at least five minutes before the next phase….and good work. I don’t take their sacrifice lightly.”

Manning watched him walk out of the room, immediately flanked by Secret Service agents in the hallway. Remy stayed behind long enough to call General Gordon out of the room. He didn’t like the way the president used the word
sacrifice
, like the team had already been written off. He’d have to keep a close eye on the political side of this operation. The Russians had violated the Kazakh border a few months ago in pursuit of Sanderson’s operatives, so it was fair to assume that they might not turn back tonight. With Remy whispering doomsday predictions in his ear all night, the president might lose his nerve at the last minute and abandon Farrington. Manning couldn’t stand by quietly and let this scenario unfold. He’d have to come up with something to turn the tide, even if it meant losing his job as the National Clandestine Service’s director. He couldn’t think of a better way to retire.

Chapter 44

8:25 AM

Mountain Glen “Retirement” Compound

Green Mountains, Vermont

Anatoly Reznikov leaned back in his Adirondack chair and admired the bright orange sun on the eastern horizon. His chair sat perched on a small rise in the northwest corner of the compound’s clearing, well removed from the rest of the buildings, but still visible to the ever-prying eyes of his captors.
Not for long
, he mused. This called for a drink, as did every small task at Mountain Glen. He reached inside his down-lined jacket and removed a flask from the front pocket of his flannel shirt, catching the last vestiges of the day’s sun on its polished silver surface. He took a long pull, feeling the warm rush spread outward to augment the sun’s early morning efforts. He might actually miss the artificial solitude of his mountain confinement.

The distant sound of an ATV motor spoiled that thought and he turned his head to see what his attendants were up to back at the security station. He saw one of the four-wheel noisemakers headed in his direction, which was unusual. He hadn’t ordered breakfast yet.

He drained half of the flask, relishing the clean vodka taste, and prepared for the guard’s arrival. The hill was steep at one point, and the best he could hope for was an accident that toppled the ATV. He’d seen a few compound guards roll their toys on less challenging terrain in the past few weeks, as the rains abated and the trails dried. They were just as bored as he had become.

He couldn’t imagine a life confined to these grounds. Judging by the advanced age of the other inmates, he guessed that this place didn’t appeal to the younger crowd. For someone in their forties, like Reznikov, the thought of spending the next thirty to forty years here would drive you to commit suicide. Maybe that’s why the guest population appeared to be well into their fifties or sixties. The younger guests either opted out of the deal or eventually killed themselves. Not everyone had a contingency plan like Reznikov.

The buzzing sound of the ATV grew closer, giving him a brief feeling of disappointment that the driver had chosen the shallow approach from the north. No horrible accident today. The olive-drab machine stopped several feet from his chair, sputtering its noise and air pollution in his direction. If he planned to stay here for any length of time, he might recommend that they switch to electric vehicles. Who knew? They might oblige him if he gathered a consensus from the other guests. They’d dragged this chair up the hill specifically upon his request. If only the American taxpayers knew about this place. He turned his head lazily, feeling the effects of the eighty-proof vodka. The guard dismounted the ATV with a satellite phone.

“Phone call, Mr. Reznikov.”

“Here?” Reznikov said.

All of his calls had taken place in the security station, where they could monitor and record his every word. This must be the call he had been waiting for.

“You can either drop it off on your way back, or we can pick it up with breakfast. Will you be dining up here?”

“Sure. My usual, thank you,” he said, accepting the phone, along with a small note pad and pen.

He hadn’t thought of taking breakfast on his private hill. What a marvelous idea. He had to savor the irony of it all. Unemployment was on the rise, families were losing their homes at a record pace, and he got to enjoy a catered breakfast compliments of the same people. He waited for the ATV to disappear before answering.

“So it has begun?”

“The Iranians are dead. We’re setting up for phase two,” Berg said.

“Most excellent. What a way for Vektor Labs to start the week,” Reznikov said.

“I need this call to be as brief as possible. As you can imagine, we’re a little busy over here,” Berg said.

“Yes. Of course. I believe you have a series of letters and numbers to pass?”

“Are you ready to write this down?” Berg said.

“Go ahead,” Reznikov said, staring at the half-submerged blood-red orb to the west.

Berg read the twenty-digit alphanumeric code, and Reznikov repeated it, not bothering to write it down. His mental capacity was twice that of these mental midgets, with their notepads and electronic devices. He’d long ago committed to memory the cipher needed to interpret this alphanumeric code. He processed the cipher and smiled.

“Are we good?” Berg asked.

“Yes. We are very, very good. Here’s what you need to know to ensure the complete destruction of Vektor’s bioweapons program. The program was relocated to the basement in 2006 in order to accommodate a special directive issued by Putin. At least it was rumored to have been Putin. They needed a way to quickly sanitize the program, leaving no traces. As you’ve probably guessed, very few people in the government or Vektor know about the program, which is why they keep the number of scientists and staff working on the program to a minimum. They also don’t like to leave loose ends, as your people have already experienced. Someone got very nervous in 2006—”

“Because of your disappearance?” Berg interrupted.

“Maybe. Either way, they built the new lab and installed a failsafe, which even fewer people know about.”

“But you know about it,” Berg said.

“Of course. I make it my business to know these things, which doesn’t come cheap.”

“Al Qaeda money?”

“I made significant investments with their payments, and they’ve paid off nicely, wouldn’t you say?”