OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Read online

  “She understood,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. When she let him take it, he knew she was still in control. “If you want to visit her, you should do it,” he added.

  “I think I need to see her,” she said, taking a sip of champagne.

  “I’ll make the arrangements and do a little digging. Just to be safe.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Danny. When I get back, we’ll sail out of here and never look back.”

  “When we get back,” said Daniel, hoping she had misspoken.

  “I need to do this alone.”

  Daniel didn’t push the issue, but he had no intention of letting her travel to the United States, to open one of the darkest chapters of her life—alone.

  Chapter 9

  FSB Headquarters

  Lubyanka Square, Moscow

  Alexei Kaparov laid the classified intelligence report on his desk, digesting the information. He’d skimmed through the bulk of the report, not wishing to rehash what was already known. Alpha Group, outfitted in protective biohazard gear, had swept the facility and the immediate grounds, finding no trace of Reznikov. Parts of the laboratory had been “rendered inaccessible” during the raid, a polite way of saying irresponsibly destroyed and burned to the ground. This precluded a full search of the buildings most likely to house Reznikov, leaving the strike force unable to confirm Reznikov’s death or escape.

  Strong circumstantial evidence gathered before and after the ground assault suggested that Reznikov had escaped. A close review of the thermal imaging and night-vision video captured by one of the helicopter’s sensor pods suggested that the raid force had flown over a small boat on the final inbound leg of their attack. Faint thermal blooms, mostly obscured by jungle canopy, corresponded to the distinctively pointy shape of a boat’s bow. Even at this late hour, a fisherman or poacher on the river wouldn’t draw much suspicion, but the fact that the boat’s occupants had made a considerable effort to hide themselves from aerial detection suggested something different.

  While the theory was far from conclusive, it led the three-man Service of Special Operations (Spetsgruppa C) team to an interesting discovery. Roughly a mile downriver from where the boat had been first detected, commandos discovered a motorized aluminum skiff pulled onto the southern riverbank and tied to a tree. Not far from the river, in the thick brush next to a barely used walking path, they discovered two bodies covered by a heavy thermal-protective blanket. Neither turned out to be Reznikov, and the corpses’ identities generated more questions than answers.

  One of the men turned out to be an ex-GRU Spetsnaz sergeant named Gennady Ageykin. Outside of a spotty service record, not much was known about Ageykin beyond his suspected association with a mercenary outfit that routinely performed security duties for wealthy oligarch types based outside of Russia. The mercenary group also held a sinister reputation for accepting less than legitimate assignments. At face value, a dead ex-GRU mercenary found a few miles away from the laboratory wasn’t a significant discovery. However, discovering Valery Zuyev, one of the Solntsevskaya Bratva’s top crime lieutenants, with his throat slashed in the same location? What did the American commercial say? Priceless.

  According to recently shared U.S. intelligence reports, Valery Zuyev had been involved tangentially and directly to the Reznikov fiasco from the beginning. He was first identified by U.S. forces in the spring of 2007, as “Viktor,” senior ranking Bratva member in Novosibirsk at the time of the Vektor Institute raid. Kaparov found it amusing that the report cleverly slid past the likely fact that the source of this information originated from the team that used Zuyev’s resources to destroy the Vektor bioweapons facility. Not to mention the trail of carnage left behind by the team during their escape to the Kazakhstan border. Several armored vehicles destroyed, two helicopters shot out of the sky, and a few dozen Russian Federation soldiers killed. Minor details when both sides had reasons to sweep the fallout from that day under the rug.

  Following the Vektor attack, Zuyev travelled to Argentina and Bolivia several times from Moscow over the course of the next year, raising Russian and American suspicions that he was paying close attention to the Bratva’s most recently acquired prized possession, Anatoly Reznikov. Kaparov had to roll his eyes at yet another glaring omission conveniently left out of the joint intelligence report. Nobody appeared to question or explain how Reznikov fell into Bratva hands in the first place!

  Once again, not a surprise given the questionable circumstances surrounding the scientist’s disappearance and the numerous Russian and American lives lost in the bloody tug-of-war to capture him. Absurdly, Kaparov was probably the only person in the service of the Russian Federation who knew the full story. He couldn’t imagine any circumstance under which the Americans would disclose the details of Reznikov’s brief stint in captivity on U.S. soil, or the brutal attack by the Bratva-sponsored mercenaries that freed him. No. The story moved on, both sides burying their secrets while independently keeping a close eye on South America.

  In 2008, the strategy nearly paid off—for the Americans. Zuyev surfaced unexpectedly in Montevideo, disappearing north into Uruguay’s highlands and returning a few days later with a much larger than usual security entourage. The significant departure from his normal routine attracted the CIA’s attention, resulting in a botched attempt by Berg’s private army to grab the scientist. Neither Zuyev nor Reznikov had been seen since, until the Russian Foreign Intelligence Agency (SVR) received an anonymous tip two weeks ago, indicating that Zuyev and Reznikov were hiding in a remote jungle location in Goa, India. Satellite imagery confirmed the presence of several unusual structures at the reported site, triggering the raid.

  This was where the report once again went cloudy, unlike his memory. He distinctly remembered hearing one of the agents in the operations center tell Greshnev that the team needed to be “airborne” in two minutes. Kaparov wasn’t an expert on his country’s military capabilities, but he was pretty sure the Russian Federation didn’t have the ability to launch a helicopter raid in the vicinity of Goa, India. He didn’t even need to look at a map to know a land-based operation was physically impossible. A sea-based mission? He highly doubted it. The nearest accessible naval base was at Vladivostok, at least several thousand kilometers away, and the Russians had no way to refuel a ship that far from port.

  If the Russians didn’t launch the helicopters, then who did? The answer was obvious, but Kaparov had no intention of broadcasting his guess. He’d been shuffled into the tactical operations center after the Alpha team debarked the helicopters, and shuffled out before they headed to the extraction site. Given a glimpse of the big game as a professional courtesy, in the new spirit of “cooperation” stinking up headquarters. Whatever. He didn’t give a shit how they got there. They didn’t get Reznikov, and that was the only thing that mattered. As long as Reznikov continued to draw oxygen, the world was a vastly more dangerous place.

  So now what?

  Kaparov read through the preliminary conclusions attached to the report, nodding with indifferent agreement. Yes. Yes. A monkey could have connected these dots. Obviously, someone snatched Reznikov close to the boat, which meant someone had known precisely when and where to grab him. The Russian team on the ground observed that the aluminum skiff had seating for three passengers, leaving Reznikov as the sole survivor. A wooden shedlike structure large enough to house an SUV had been found several hundred meters away near a rough jeep trail. Despite the pounding rain that hit the area the day after the raid, the team was able to find recent tire tracks on a few of the rises in the trail, headed south. No boot prints were found near the shed due to the rain.

  The prevailing theory at this point was that Reznikov took advantage of the darkness and confusion to kill his Bratva escort and escape. He’d stabbed Zuyev in the throat with a hidden knife and then shot Ageykin in the head with Zuyev’s pistol. On the surface, the theory made sense. Goa wouldn’t be the first time that the scientist had pulled a fast one
on his captors. Three Al Qaeda operatives had been found shot to death near a suspected makeshift bioweapons laboratory site in Semipalatinsk, Kazakhstan, a few weeks before Reznikov infected Monchegorsk’s water supply with the Zulu virus.

  Kaparov squinted at the page, feeling the urge to break his recent pledge to quit smoking in his office. Something about the theory felt uninspired, like the investigative work routinely submitted by the younger generation of agents seated right outside his office door. So easily offended by cigarette smoke and foul language, quick to jump to conclusions based on “facts,” so they could turn in a shitty report and snag a seat on the Metro for their long rides to the suburbs. There was more to this story than an opportunistic escape. Reznikov wouldn’t have lasted more than a few hours on his own in that jungle. Even if he had found the stashed vehicle—in the dark, in a panic, on his own—where would he have gone? No. He had help. Three seats in a boat did not limit a boat to three people.

  Another person in play expanded the field of theories. The third guard could have seized the opportunity at the last moment to steal Reznikov for himself and sell him to the highest bidder. Presumably, they had stopped at a preplanned location, which included the stashed vehicle, which would have been known to the security detail. Or even better, the third guard could have dropped the anonymous tip, triggering the raid and the preplanned river escape. But how would he know when to expect the raid? And what if the raid had included a river element?

  His mind drifted back to the Reznikov theory. Maybe he’d struck a deal with a Bratva guard or one of the far less loyal Russian mercenaries. Either way, it meant Reznikov had help, and figuring out who helped him was their only hope of finding the rogue bioweapons scientist. Kaparov had an idea, but it was a long shot. Of course, his scheme would require some discreet assistance.

  Chapter 10

  FSB Headquarters

  Lubyanka Square, Moscow

  Yuri Prerovsky studied the floor-to-ceiling flowchart that covered most of the wall outside his office. Comprised of color headshot photos with brief captions, the chart visually outlined the known connections between the different leaders and groups within the Solntsevskaya Bratva criminal gang. Three rows of loosely arranged folding chairs sat empty behind him, waiting for tomorrow morning’s division update, when his boss would unveil one of the biggest changes to the Solntsevskaya’s leadership roster in the past several years.

  Valery Zuyev’s long absence from the Moscow scene had just become permanent, erasing any continued speculation. Of course, Prerovsky would have to play dumb, like he had several minutes ago when his immediate boss told him to remove Zuyev from the wall. Nobody within the Organized Crime (OC) Division knew the real story behind Zuyev’s sudden retirement. Center of Special Operations agents yanked information from his OC bosses without providing any context why they needed it. Standard operating procedure within the Federation Security Services. CSN operated in near complete secrecy, grabbing whatever it wanted without explanation, with the express approval of the director.

  Despite the widespread disdain generated by CSN’s “grab and go” authority, Prerovsky appreciated the high level of secrecy. Arkady Baranov’s Center of Special Operations maintained a reputation for being incorruptible; a claim no other division within the greater Federation Security Services framework could make. Stringent background checks and surprise polygraph examinations ensured the highest recruit quality possible, but the key to CSN’s continued success in fighting off corruption had more to do with geography than the quality of its people.

  In 2004, Baranov moved all of CSN, save a handpicked headquarters liaison group, from the Lubyanka complex in Moscow, relocating to a close campus southeast of Moscow. The overwhelming majority of new CSN personnel trained and lived in the vast facility, which resembled a university setting. Close to ninety percent of CSN agents continued to live in the enclave long after initial training. At any given time, many of them were deployed as teams to different regions of the Federation and beyond.

  The very nature of their work kept them from the static routines and lifestyles that made most FSB agents vulnerable to the street-level targeting of organized crime recruiters. When you had a family to support and protect, it was difficult to turn down the profitable offers made by the Bratva recruiters, especially when they started showing up at your children’s school to help them cross the street or carry their backpacks.

  It was estimated that close to five percent of FSB agents at headquarters and in field offices throughout the Federation had some type of regular contact with an organized crime handler. The high percentage made it nearly impossible for the greater Organized Crime Division to secretly plan and execute high-profile busts against the different crime groups, so mid to lower ranking division personnel collected data on the different groups through stakeouts, informants, daily surveillance, and electronic surveillance, and the assistant deputy directors assessed the data to recommend impactful operations to CSN leadership. It was the best the FSB could manage over the past several years.

  Prerovsky sensed someone in the room and turned around to find Alexei Kaparov staring wryly back at him, holding two large Starbucks cups.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your deep thinking,” said Kaparov. “I can come back once you’ve figured out who disappeared from the wall. Unless you want a hint.”

  “They let you out of your cage?”

  “From time to time I’m set free to roam the building,” said Kaparov, approaching him with one of the coffees extended.

  Prerovsky cracked a sly smile, ruining any pretext of not wanting to know why Kaparov was plying him with his favorite coffee. He checked his watch, thankful that Kaparov had waited until after six to pay him a visit. No doubt by design. Kaparov always came armed with Starbucks coffee when he wanted something. A quick glance around confirmed they were alone for the moment. Most of the division had left for the day, and he was the last assistant deputy director on the division floor. As the junior AD, he’d been tasked with making the changes to the flowchart for tomorrow morning’s briefing.

  After Prerovsky accepted the coffee, the two shook hands vigorously for a moment; then Kaparov pointed at the empty position in the chart.

  “It will be interesting to see who fills that void,” he remarked.

  “Possibly nobody. Bratva business has carried on as usual in Moscow during his extended absence. They’re shifting more and more to a decentralized organization. A year from now, I’m not even sure we’ll have a chart that resembles the typical top-down pyramid shape,” said Prerovsky, glancing around to confirm they were still alone. “I assume you didn’t come by to talk about the current state of Moscow organized crime?”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “The coffees give you away every time. I only wish I could be there to see you struggle with the rush-hour crowds to fork over your hard-earned money. No gift card this time?” said Prerovsky.

  “I’m saving for retirement,” said Kaparov. “Do you mind if we step inside your office?”

  Now he was intrigued. Kaparov knew more about Zuyev’s recent activities than anyone in his office, including Prerovsky. If anyone knew why Zuyev had been scratched from the lineup, it would be his former boss.

  “Of course. Step inside my humble abode,” he said, motioning to the door next to the chart.

  When Kaparov stepped inside, he shut the door.

  “What’s up?”

  “Did you get the background on Zuyev’s untimely departure from the land of the living?” asked Kaparov.

  “No. I was just told to remove him from the chart,” said Prerovsky, signaling for Kaparov to take a seat. “Please. Can I interest you in something stronger than an overpriced coffee?”

  “Now who’s prying whom for information?” said Kaparov, nodding his approval.

  Prerovsky reached down and opened the lowest drawer of his desk, digging far back to retrieve an unopened bottle of Russian Standard and two shot glasses.
r />   “The good stuff!” said Kaparov. “You spare no expense.”

  “I’ve saved this for a worthy occasion, but tonight will suffice,” said Prerovsky.

  “Very funny. I’m sure it won’t hold a candle to my usual poison.”

  “It’s all poison in the end,” stated Prerovsky, twisting open the cap. “I assume you know the real story behind Zuyev’s demise? And I presume it has something to do with a former Russian scientist?”

  “You presume well,” said Kaparov, accepting a full glass. “To what shall we toast?”

  “To keeping our jobs,” stated Prerovsky.

  “And staying out of prison,” Kaparov added, clinking Prerovsky’s glass. “I’m too old for that, and you’re too young.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the younger agent, downing his glass with a grimace.

  He didn’t care how smooth they claimed the good stuff was, it still burned going down when it wasn’t mixed with juice or soda. Kaparov swallowed the liquid without a reaction.

  “I could get into real trouble drinking this,” said Kaparov. “I barely noticed it.”

  “If you didn’t notice, I would suggest a temporary halt to drinking,” said Prerovsky.

  “Since we both know that’s off the table, I’ll stick with the stuff that burns,” said Kaparov, sliding his glass across the desk. “After another sample of the good life.”

  They raised their refilled glasses.

  “To killing Reznikov,” said Kaparov.

  Prerovsky’s eyes darted to the door. The scientist’s name was in the open, no longer one of the Federation’s dirtiest secrets, but that didn’t mean they were safe to throw it around casually, especially in the wrong context.