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

  “Don’t worry. I shut it tight,” said Kaparov. “Unless the walls have ears around here.”

  “If they did, I’d already be in prison, or dead.”

  “You and me both,” Kaparov said.

  “To killing Reznikov,” said Prerovsky.

  He screwed the top on the bottle and started to collect the glasses. “How can I help make our wish come true?”

  “Nothing as dramatic as before,” said Kaparov. He opened his worn black suit jacket and removed a thumb drive from the left breast pocket, placing it on the desk.

  “A CSN raid barely missed him, or so it is assumed. Based on the evidence gathered, it appears that he initially escaped in a boat, accompanied by two men. They found the boat tied to a tree a few miles downriver from the site…and two bodies off a nearby trail. One with a gunshot wound to the head, the other with a stab wound to the throat. Care to guess their names?”

  The warm flush in his face had been replaced by a cold tightening, the mellow vodka buzz gone.

  “I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that one of them was Zuyev,” said Prerovsky, reconsidering the bottle.

  “I see your powers of deduction have not been dulled in organized crime,” said Kaparov. “Zuyev got the stab wound, and an ex-GRU mercenary named Gennady Ageykin took a bullet to the side of his head. They think Reznikov took advantage of the confusion and turned the tables on his captors.”

  Prerovsky raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “My thoughts exactly. Possible, but unlikely, which is why I’ve come to you,” said Kaparov, tapping the thumb drive. “I have a list of names, with known or assumed profile data, of everyone identified by CSN during and after the raid. Twenty-three IDs for twenty-five bodies. That number includes Zuyev and Ageykin.”

  “Why the discrepancy?” said Prerovsky.

  “Apparently, they blew up the laboratory during the raid. The bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

  Prerovsky involuntarily chuckled. Kaparov just stared at him, smiling wryly.

  “They really blew up the most obvious place to find him?”

  Kaparov nodded, shaking his head in mockery.

  “Holy mother. Heads must have rolled for that. How do they know one of the bodies wasn’t Reznikov?”

  “The assault team first engaged the two men outside of the laboratory, forcing them inside. Based on a number of factors, they concluded the men had specialized combat training.”

  “He would have been fighting for his life,” said Prerovsky. “In the heat of the moment, at night, I don’t see how they could be so positive about that assessment.”

  “The assault team collected DNA samples,” said Kaparov. “They eliminated Reznikov as a match for the toasted bodies.”

  “I don’t want to know how they managed that,” said Prerovsky.

  “You really don’t,” stated Kaparov. “I picture a bag of thumbs being shipped in dry ice back to Moscow.”

  Prerovsky grimaced. “Thanks for the image. So we know Reznikov wasn’t among the dead on the riverbank trail or at the primary assault site.”

  “Correct.”

  “If Zuyev was there, Reznikov was there. Any reason to assume differently?”

  Kaparov shook his head.

  “And you don’t think Reznikov killed Zuyev and an ex-GRU type by himself?”

  His former boss continued to shake his head. “Doubtful.”

  Prerovsky understood what Kaparov wanted, but it would be a stretch to make a connection. The older agent seemed to read his troubled look.

  “You’ll find a second file on this thumb drive. An overseas friend of mine provided some surprisingly clear, professionally catalogued video still footage of faces that I need you to run against your database. My gut tells me this was an inside job. Someone close to Zuyev had a hand in this. Someone that knows a lot about Reznikov.”

  Prerovsky reached across the desk and took the thumb drive. “I can’t do this on my computer. The databases and facial recognition system is locked down in our SCIV (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Vault).”

  “I presume associate deputy directors have access?” said Kaparov.

  “Yeah, and I have to log in to the system to use it, leaving a trace.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone getting upset over an ambitious young agent assembling a list of Zuyev’s known or presumed associates immediately after being notified that Zuyev was dead. There’s bound to be a shake-up in the Bratva’s hierarchy. You might even score some points for getting ahead of the inevitable power struggle,” said Kaparov, pausing for a moment. “You should also run a list of all former government or military Spetsnaz mercenaries known to work with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, particularly Zuyev or Matvey Penkin, his immediate boss.”

  “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Kaparov said smoothly.

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one sitting in the SCIV after hours, researching one of the top Bratva bosses in Moscow. That kind of shit gets noticed around here, and I don’t feel like attracting the wrong kind of attention.”

  “You might make a few of the other assistant deputies jealous, but I’m sure you can handle it,” said Kaparov.

  “I’m not talking about here. I mean out there,” said Prerovsky, gesturing toward the window behind him. “I don’t need to be on the mafiya’s radar.”

  As soon as Prerovsky finished the statement, he realized his mistake. Kaparov had already formed that mildly smug look he’d come to simultaneously admire and loathe during his years working with the older agent. Prerovsky shook his head with a defeated smile.

  “Any more than I already am by working in the organized crime division. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Prerovsky squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he was going to regret this somehow, but if it helped rid the world of Reznikov, it was worth the risk. When he opened his eyes, Kaparov had already opened the bottle.

  “To killing Reznikov,” he said, taking a long swig before handing it over.

  “To killing him for good this time,” Prerovsky agreed, accepting the bottle.

  Chapter 11

  CIA Headquarters

  McLean, Virginia

  A phone rang from the direction of Berg’s cubicle, drawing his attention away from the start of his post-lunch pilgrimage to the campus coffee shop. It could wait. Probably wasn’t his phone anyway. He started walking toward the stairwell again, stopping a few steps later. He didn’t get a lot of calls these days, and the insistent ringtone beckoned him.

  “Coffee can wait a few minutes,” he muttered, returning to his cubicle. He dropped into his worn chair and grabbed the handset, glancing at the caller ID. Shit. He needed to be somewhere else to take this call. Somewhere a lot more private. Preferably out of the building.

  “Give me ten minutes and call me back on my cell phone, unless this can wait until tomorrow.”

  Kaparov grunted. “I just left the office.”

  It was eight o’clock at night in Moscow. Something was up.

  “That important?”

  “Could be. Ten minutes.” He hung up.

  He thought about using one of the secure communications rooms, but dropped the idea. He’d have to swipe his access card to enter the bank of soundproof telephone booths, leaving a public record. It was better to retrieve his cell phone and take a walk outside, where he was free to place a call.

  With a few seconds to spare, he had negotiated the byzantine process required to get out of the building. He walked briskly toward the tree-lined, grassy area blocking the nearest parking lot. Without a doubt, his sudden departure generated some kind of report to the regime stooges assigned to keep an eye on him. At least they couldn’t eavesdrop on his conversation, or maybe they could. The phone in his front trouser pocket buzzed against his thigh. A quick check of the caller ID once again gave him a chill. Taking this call would only lead to trouble. He couldn’t wait.

/>   “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Berg said in his best Russian.

  “Let’s stick with your native language. No offense, but I speak better English today than you ever spoke Russian.”

  “Fair enough. How is life treating you, my friend?”

  “Let’s skip the pleasantries this time. It’s cold out, and I’d like to get home in one piece.”

  “Don’t you carry a pistol?”

  “I lock it up in my office as a suicide prevention measure,” said Kaparov.

  “Do I need to call the Federation Security Service’s suicide hotline on your behalf?”

  “Please don’t. They might encourage me,” said Kaparov. “Anyway. Remember that mutual acquaintance of ours? The one that keeps getting away?”

  “Yes. Did he surface?” asked Berg.

  “You tell me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounded like it was supposed to mean,” Kaparov retorted.

  Now Berg was more concerned than intrigued. At first he thought the Russian was fishing for information, but now it sounded like he had good reason to suspect that the Americans, or possibly Sanderson’s people, might have new information regarding Reznikov.

  It wasn’t Sanderson. He was fairly sure of that. Not one hundred percent, but close enough. Sanderson’s assets hadn’t been used for a number of months now, a trend that was unlikely to change in light of the Beltway’s regime change.

  Berg also had good reason to doubt the CIA had run an operation. He still had a few deeply placed friends in the Special Activities Division. If the CIA had been tasked with a mission to kill or capture Reznikov, SAD would have been involved, and word would have reached him by now. If the operation was military, he couldn’t say one way or the other unless the Pentagon tapped the CIA for help.

  He hated being this far out of the game.

  “I have nothing new on my end regarding our acquaintance,” said Berg, composing himself. “What leads you to conclude we were involved?”

  “A lifetime spent reading between the lines and the fact that we don’t have the land-based or naval capability to launch a helicopter raid into India. Here’s the quick version of what I know.”

  Berg listened as the Russian hastily described the operation, which had miraculously failed to capture Reznikov. They couldn’t even be sure he hadn’t escaped with any of his gruesome work because they torched the laboratory. And now the scientist was either on his own or sold to the highest bidder. Neither scenario boded well.

  At best, it reset the clock on the next bioterror attack. At worst…he didn’t want to think about the worst-case scenario.

  “So what does this leave us with?” asked Berg, sensing there was more.

  “Very little,” stated Kaparov.

  “But something?”

  “Grigor Sokolov.”

  Berg recognized the name immediately. Sokolov had been part of the mercenary team that snatched Reznikov out of “retirement” in Vermont. Several high-resolution digital cameras had caught his ugly face during the raid. A year or so later, video surveillance footage acquired by Sanderson’s people put him next to Reznikov during the failed attempt to neutralize the scientist in Uruguay. Sokolov had been part of the scientist’s personal security detail from the start. He’d expect to find Sokolov’s body at the site, but it did little more than reinforce the likelihood that Reznikov had been there moments before the Russians raided the laboratory.

  “He’s not much good to us dead.”

  “Did I say he was dead?” asked Kaparov, pausing before continuing. “He’s missing.”

  “He could have been burned up in the lab,” Berg suggested.

  “I don’t think so. Sokolov and Ageykin have been close to Reznikov from the beginning. They’re plank owners, part of the original crew that stole him right out from under your nose. The rest died in Uruguay.”

  “No need to get personal,” said Berg.

  “Sorry. I get a little animated when I think about how all of this could have been avoided.”

  Berg let it go. No point in reminding his friend that Reznikov was a Russian Federation-sponsored product of an illegal bioweapons program. He knew it better than anyone.

  “So you think Sokolov betrayed the Bratva?” Berg asked.

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Sounds like your only theory,” replied Berg.

  “It’s the only theory that makes sense to me. Reznikov didn’t get the drop on two seasoned mercenaries and Zuyev. No fucking way.”

  “I guess the big question is who owns Reznikov, or does he own himself?” asked Berg. “Could he have bribed Sokolov somehow? Maybe convince him there’s a bigger payoff if he sets him free?”

  “Big question, indeed. Gut instinct tells me Sokolov either reached out on his own or was approached. These mercenaries deal in real money, not promises of wild payoffs by crazy scientists. Hard money turned Sokolov, and lots of it. The Bratva isn’t overly forgiving of traitors. We’re talking the kind of money that can fund a very expensive, permanent disappearing act.”

  Berg couldn’t argue too deeply with Kaparov’s prevailing theory. Even if Reznikov somehow turned the tables on his captors and escaped on his own, who had provided the intelligence for the raid? Certainly not Reznikov. He had no way to control the most important variable in that plan—how to avoid the military unit sent to capture or kill him. Reznikov was without a doubt mentally deranged, but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it. A few well-placed smart bombs could have landed at any time, turning him into human confetti.

  It wasn’t Reznikov, which only left them with the Sokolov angle. A narrow angle no matter how you looked at it. And that was just the beginning of the bad news.

  “Who knows about Sokolov on your end?” he asked.

  “Me and one other person I trust with my life. I suggest you keep it that way on your end. The timing of Reznikov’s escape suggests a leak somewhere. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Then we discreetly look for Sokolov while everyone else shakes the trees for Reznikov.”

  “Agreed. And when we find him, we let your special friends handle it.”

  “I’ll put them on alert. If Sokolov is out there, he’s guaranteed to screw up. The guy spent the last two years in hiding. Put some money in his hands, and he’ll draw attention. If he’s still travelling with Reznikov, the chance is tripled.”

  “My thoughts precisely. Keep me updated,” said Kaparov.

  “I will. Good to hear from you again.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Kaparov. “One last thing.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Why are you talking outside?”

  “Do you have me under surveillance or something?”

  He didn’t reply, forcing Berg to answer the question.

  “They’ve redecorated the place, and I don’t exactly fit with the new décor.”

  “Maybe I should have asked that question at the start of our conversation.”

  “I’m just being ultracautious,” Berg said.

  “I appreciate the courtesy,” said Kaparov then hung up abruptly.

  Shit. Berg couldn’t tell by the Russian’s tone if that was the last he’d hear from him. Like himself, Kaparov had too much to lose, and it wouldn’t take much to unravel his ties to everything that had transpired two years ago. If the roles were reversed, he’d strongly weigh the risks of making contact again. In a way, Berg’s situation wasn’t all that different. If the wrong person linked his sudden interest in Sokolov to the rogue bioweapons scientist, he’d quickly find out what this new administration was capable of. Regardless of the risk, he had to do something. Getting rid of Reznikov was his cross to bear.

  Chapter 12

  CIA Headquarters

  McLean, Virginia

  Karl Berg paused in front of a partially opened door, reading the nameplate on the wall next to him. Audra Bauer—Deputy Director, Counterproliferation Division. He’d walked directly from his call wi
th Kaparov to her office, afraid that he might lose the nerve to approach her if he waited too long. They were still good friends despite the unspoken strain of their recent demotions, but Berg felt tentative about bringing her this new information.

  It fit right in her wheelhouse at Counterproliferation, but Sandra Tillman, the new NCS director, or someone even higher up the chain of command, had no doubt given Bauer the same message as Berg: Forget Reznikov ever happened. Forget anything connected with Reznikov ever happened. The new administration didn’t like connections to their sordid past, which was exactly how he intended to pitch his plan to Bauer.

  He knocked on the door frame and peeked inside, catching her glance.

  “Get in here,” she said, standing up at her desk with a warm smile.

  So far, so good, he thought, stepping inside her office for the first time.

  “May I close the door?” he asked.

  Her smile faintly waned; then she nodded. “I thought this might be a friendly visit. Long time no see, Karl.”

  He pushed the door shut before answering. “It’s a long overdue visit. Sorry, Audra.”

  She motioned for him to take a seat in one of two comfortable-looking, modernist accent chairs bordering a white marble coffee table. The office was half the size of her previous space, but she’d done her usual job turning it into an art-museum-quality space.

  “I see you haven’t lost your decorating touch,” he commented, sitting in the pristine black leather chair contraption.

  Bauer joined him at the table. “I suppose your office is still filled with unopened boxes from the move?”

  “Cubicle. Not much room for collectibles.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know,” she said. “I should have, but I haven’t exactly been anyone’s best friend lately. I wish you had told me this. I could have done something.”

  “Things are uneasy enough around here. The last thing either of us needs is to draw any undue attention. I can ride this out in a cubicle.”

  “Ride out the current administration? That’s one hell of a protracted ride,” she said.

  “No. I won’t be around that long. I’m waiting for the right moment. Letting myself fly under the radar for a few months, maybe a year, long enough to show them I can play by the rules.”