Black Flagged Redux (51 page)

"We'll be fine," she said.

"Maybe I'll get another promotion."

"I wouldn't go that far."

A few minutes later, the director of the CIA walked through the Fish Bowl doorway. General Robert Copley looked pleasant enough given the circumstances. He wore a dark blue U.S. Air Force service dress uniform, adorned with four stars on each shoulder epaulet and a thick board of multi-colored ribbons on his chest. He was the sixth active duty officer in CIA history appointed to the position. The director pushed his wire rim glasses up by the bridge of his nose and stopped to regard the Operations Center. The room had fallen quiet upon his entry.

"Congratulations on a job well done. All of you. It's been a long night and I'm afraid the day has only begun. The president and I count on your continued diligence and success. Mr. Harcourt, you can direct your people to make noise again. I think they work more effectively that way."

"I agree, sir," the watch officer said and started whispering commands into his headset, which brought the din of the room back to a normal level.

"Thomas, may I speak with you and your deputy director in private?"

Berg started to slide back into the room.

"And as Ms. Bauer's assistant deputy director, you're no longer working in the shadows, Mr. Berg. Please join us."

Shit
. This couldn't be good, in his opinion. All four of them left the Fish Bowl for a small conference room on the other side of the Operations Center.

"Take a seat," Copley said. When everyone was seated, Copley began. "The president was not pleased to have his back put against the wall by Sanderson today. Sanderson's play was a complicated and brilliantly orchestrated event that the White House brought down upon itself. Still, the president did not deserve to be blindsided by the fact that Sanderson's agents had been critical to the recovery of Reznikov…and had been shooting their way across Europe. It put him in the untenable position of having to admit that the U.S. had operated terrorists on foreign soil. Not to mention the fact that his own Central Intelligence Agency had kept Sanderson's location a secret from the FBI and Interpol. Director Shelby was sitting right next to him when Sanderson exposed this dirty little secret, and he has a long memory. We'll all have to watch our backs for quite some time.

"This was an important operation, and I can't commend all of you enough for the results, but if you decide to use questionable assets in the future, I need to know about it, so I can whisper in the president's ear."

"The use of Sanderson's people was my doing. I was contacted by Sanderson immediately after the HYDRA investigation fiasco two years ago. He told me to keep his new organization in mind for any operations too sensitive for the direct use of American assets. This one fit the bill. I should have involved Thomas and Audra from the start. This is really my fault," Berg said.

"Don't be so quick to fall on your sword, Karl. I can't fault you for outsourcing the operation. I just need to be kept in the loop. Understood? Let me determine whether the CIA informs the president. That's what I get paid for."

"Sanderson's team is preparing to interrogate Reznikov. We expect this to happen within the next few hours. We'll keep you posted through Thomas," Audra said.

"That won't be necessary. I'll monitor the progress of the operation through a direct link with the Operations Center. Sanderson's operatives are now part of an officially sanctioned covert task force. The president was thoroughly impressed with the efficiency of this joint collaboration and wants Sanderson's assets to prosecute any leads generated by the interrogation, in direct cooperation with the CIA. You'll also reach out to Major General Bob Kearny at the DIA. He runs the Defense Counterintelligence and Human Intelligence Center and should prove to be an invaluable source of information. He might even be able to provide hard support in the form of operatives from their Strategic Support Branch."

"We'll make sure Mr. Harcourt immediately establishes a link for you to monitor," Manning said.

"Excellent. I won't hold you up any longer," Copley said.

"Has Sanderson been informed of his participation in the new task force?"

"No. That's your job. And you need to stress that this is a non-negotiable, temporary arrangement. I don't think he'll have a problem with this. The president sensed that this was more important to him than the immunity agreement."

The director shook their hands and turned to depart. He stopped and turned his head. "You still haven't heard from your Russian contact?"

"No, sir," Berg said.

"That was a brave thing for him to do."

"He's a brave man. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Let me know if you hear anything," Copley said and walked toward the exit station.

Berg turned to Manning and Bauer, hoping to cut off any further speeches.

"I suppose I should break the good news to Sanderson," Berg said.

"When you're done, I'd like to hear the whole story about how you and Sanderson first formed this alliance," Manning said.

"Unless the president's immunity agreement extends to me as well, that's a story better left untold," Berg said and opened the door to leave.

Chapter 58

3:30 PM

CIA Safe House

Viggbyholm, Sweden

Petrovich and Farrington sat on simple dark wooden chairs dragged into the bedroom from the dining room. They waited for the doctor to finish making adjustments to the IV bag's drip chamber. After checking the peripheral IV line inserted into Reznikov's right hand, he turned to the operatives.

"Fifteen minutes at the most. I'll be right outside the door if there is an emergency," he said, in Swedish accented English.

"You might feel more comfortable watching some television with your staff. We'll come running if there's a problem," Farrington said.

The doctor regarded him cautiously and glanced back at Reznikov, who now looked more aware of his surroundings. The gray-haired physician nodded in resignation, clearly not comfortable leaving them alone with the Russian.

"I understand," he said.

After the doctor shut the door, Farrington walked over and locked it. Both of them walked right up to Reznikov's bed to examine him.

"Why am I restrained? You are not Russians," Reznikov said, lightly pulling at the metal handcuffs attached to the hospital bed.

"I'm glad you're feeling well enough to ask questions," Farrington replied, in Russian.

"My heart is racing. What did he put into my IV?"

"Epinephrine. It's a slow drip designed to keep you focused and alert for questioning. The doctor warned us that we could spend no more than fifteen minutes with you, or the effects of the epinephrine could be fatal," Farrington said.

"Fifteen minutes is going to feel like an eternity. Trust me," Petrovich said, in much less polished Russian.

"The old good cop, bad cop routine, eh?"

Farrington's hand flashed across the hospital bed and cut a shallow two-inch line across Reznikov's forehead. The Russian screamed and tried to yank his hands up to reach the wound, but found them shackled to the metal frame of the bed. Farrington raised the small serrated blade above his shoulder and tensed his arm.

"No. No. Don't do this," Reznikov stuttered.

"Just so we're perfectly clear. There is no good cop in this room."

Blood streamed down the sides of his face onto the bright white pillowcase. Daniel grabbed a gauze pad from a neatly stacked pile of assorted medical supplies on the bedroom dresser. He padded at the thin cut on Reznikov's tight forehead.

"Why were you trying to drink yourself to death?" Daniel said.

"Two bottles of vodka can't kill a proper Russian. I had the pistol for that, but I passed out…after spending most of the night with it pressed against my head," Reznikov said weakly.

Farrington watched Reznikov's vitals on a monitor behind the IV pole. 132 beats per minute and settling, for now. The doctor had given him a minimal IV dose of epinephrine, but warned them that the administration of adrenaline could put him right back into ventricular tachycardia. The doctor further warned them not to excite Reznikov, which would cause further spikes in his heart rate. He had just watched the Russian's heart rate spike to 169 BPM in response to the knife slash. He couldn't imagine where it would go if they had to resort to real torture.

"Let me rephrase the question. Why were you trying to blow your brains out? And before you answer, let me make something clear. I won't rephrase any more of my questions. You need to focus on the goal of surviving the next fifteen minutes. Dead or alive, we turn you over to the good doctor," Petrovich said.

"I want a guarantee of safe passage to America, where I'll seek political asylum. I have interesting information for the American government," Reznikov said.

"Then you'd better start answering our questions. If you survive the next…thirteen minutes, you get a one-way ticket to the United States. Otherwise, we push you out of a van onto the side of a road somewhere north of here."

"I worked in the Russian bioweapons division," Reznikov stated.

"We already know that. Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

"You're not listening to me," Reznikov said.

Farrington placed the tip of his blade against the Russian's left eye socket and pressed until it broke the skin.

"And you're not listening to either of us," Farrington hissed.

"I heard what you said. We'll get to that.”

“Time for two knives." Petrovich withdrew a spring-loaded folding knife from his back pocket and popped it open above the bed.

"The addresses were vacant," Reznikov said.

"Why were the addresses important to you?" Petrovich said, moving his knife along Reznikov's thin hospital gown toward his groin.

"They were taking the virus containers to these locations. I wanted to get a hold of more," Reznikov said.

"Who was taking the virus to these locations?" Farrington said.

"You don't know? Al Qaeda, or a splinter branch…I'm not exactly sure. I overheard them talking about plans. I speak Arabic."

"So we've surmised. They spoke openly about their plans?"

"Yes and no. They were an arrogant bunch, but they weren't sloppy. Sometimes they talked while I was around, but I also had a few surveillance devices installed during the reconstruction of the lab."

"What happened to these devices?"

"They're still at the site. I committed the data to memory and wiped the recordings. Your government will want to know what I heard," Reznikov said.

Farrington wondered how much of his memory had been transferred to the notebook they recovered.

"Did you keep a record of this information? Nothing was recovered at your apartment. We left in a hurry after slaughtering the Spetznaz team sent to murder you."

"No need for records. It's all up here," he said and tried with futility to point to his head.

"I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you had kept a record. You haven't exactly been preserving your brain cells," Farrington said.

"There is no record. We can get my mind cleared up and I'll be able to tell your people everything."

Farrington glanced at Petrovich, who seemed focused on the man's vitals. 172 BPM. He didn't need to see this to know the man was lying. The notebook might be all of it, though he'd be surprised if Reznikov hadn't reserved some of the information in case the notebook was discovered. Either way, he'd have to reserve a few of his questions for the end. If Reznikov realized that they possessed the notebook, he would never talk to them about the German distribution company.

"You worked in the Russian bioweapons division. Recently?"

"I should be talking to your scientists about this," he said.

Petrovich slashed his knife across the top of Reznikov's upper thigh, squirting blood over both legs. The Russian's screams pierced their ears, as his body rattled the hospital bed. Farrington pushed down on his forehead with one hand and pushed the knife against Reznikov's left eyelid.

"You'll start by talking to us. We'll determine if you get to fly back to speak with our scientists. This is your last warning."

"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…I left Vector Labs a few years ago. I worked on several of their bioweapons projects. I was fired for trying to smuggle virus samples out of the lab. They tried to kill me for it, so I disappeared."

"The Russians have an active bioweapons program? Is this what you're telling me?" Farrington said.

"Yes. That's why they've been trying to find me."

"But you had already successfully smuggled samples of a genetically modified encephalitis virus out of the lab. Right? You were caught on a subsequent attempt to steal more," Petrovich said.

"How could you know that?" Reznikov said.

Farrington saw his heart rate shoot up to 182 BPM. They were entering dangerous territory.

"Our scientists examined samples of brain tissue that I personally recovered from Monchegorsk. They didn't think that you could have done the required genetic work in your makeshift lab outside of Kurchatov. You grew enough to weaponize it at the lab. Is this right?"

"Yes."

"How much did you weaponize? We assume you enclosed the virus in tablets that would protect the virus, but rapidly dissolve. How many tablets did you produce?"

"Enough."

"Enough to poison eleven cities in Europe? Twelve including Monchegorsk," Farrington said.

Reznikov's eyes widened, and Farrington realized that the easy part of the interrogation was drawing to an end.

"How could you…?"

"Two canisters for each city. Twenty-four total. How many more canisters were produced?

"You couldn't know this…unless…"

"Unless we have your notebook? What is the name of the German medical distribution company? Is this how they plan to ship the virus overseas to the United States?"

"Too many questions to answer at once. I need time to process this," he said, clearly trying to buy time that wasn't for sale anymore.