"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
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.