“What are you doing?”
“He’s cutting the surveillance feeds so I can beat you senseless without interruption from the warden,” Petrovich said.
“Director,” Reznikov countered.
“Warden. You’re an inmate. This is a prison…albeit a nice one.”
“I like to think of it as my well-earned retirement.”
Berg slammed the door shut and walked past Petrovich, causing Reznikov to retreat into the kitchen area ahead of him.
“Well, I have bad news about your retirement plan. Have a seat,” Berg said.
Reznikov swiped a half-finished bottle of Ketel One vodka from the kitchen counter and started to dig through one of his cabinets for shot glasses. He set the glasses and the bottle on the kitchen table and took a seat. Karl Berg sat across from him, but Petrovich opted to stand with his back against the kitchen island countertop with his arms crossed. He stared at Reznikov, watching the Russian’s trembling hand reach out with the bottle. He heard the mouth of the bottle chatter against the first glass and wondered if Reznikov might collapse from the strain of seeing him again.
“I wouldn’t waste any more of that until you hear what I have to say. This isn’t going to be a celebratory moment for you or me. The president doesn’t feel that Vektor Labs is a clear and present danger to the United States, and will not authorize action against the facility or its personnel. I hope you’ve been practicing the art of holding your breath. I hear the toilet bowls are deep where you’ll likely end up,” Berg said.
“Wait a minute. Wait. He just dismissed the bioweapons program with the wave of a hand? After his country was attacked? It’s only a matter of time before another scientist makes a deal. Trust me, there are many interested parties,” Reznikov said, finally steadying his hand enough to pour three shots of vodka.
“A toast…”
“At eight in the morning?” Petrovich said.
“I’m still on Moscow time, which means I can drink whenever I want,” Reznikov replied, reaching for one of the glasses.
Berg preemptively stopped him by covering the three glasses with the palm of his hand and sliding them to his side of the oak table. This quick denial caused the Russian to rise out of his seat momentarily. Petrovich’s glare put him back in the chair without protest.
“I’d like to hear about some of those interested parties, especially any that might be intimately involved with the program. A little birdie told me that Vektor Labs hosts a whole array of foreign scientists, some of whom with questionable motives.”
“Well played, my friend,” Reznikov said.
“I’m not your friend,” Berg countered.
“Just an expression. You give, I give. That’s the way this works, no?”
“Time to open up door number three, or I’m going to bury you alive in the deepest, darkest prison I can find.”
Petrovich admired the way Berg controlled the situation. From Berg’s appearance and general demeanor, he’d expected the CIA officer to behave more like a reserved college professor. Instead, he was witnessing an interrogation disguised as bargaining.
“What is door number three?” the Russian asked.
“Just an expression. Time to show me all of your cards.”
The Russian shook his head.
“Lay it on the table.”
Reznikov looked around, confused. Apparently these phrases didn’t translate well into Russian. Berg looked over to Petrovich and forced a smile, returning his gaze to Reznikov to hiss the next statement.
“Time to tell us every fucking thing you know, or you’re gonna spend the rest of your short, miserable life in a hellhole.”
Reznikov recoiled at the sudden change in Berg’s persona, glancing around nervously. “Iranians,” he blurted.
“What about the Iranians?” Berg prodded.
“I was approached by Iranian intelligence agents while employed at Vektor, but at that point I hadn’t fully come to terms with my own plans to steal virus samples. They scared the hell out of me. Showing up in the least expected places at the oddest times. Hints were dropped about potential financial arrangements. After a while, they left me alone. I heard they were scrambling to find me when I left Vektor. Of course, that stopped once they finally got someone inside the facility. Is this what you might find behind door number three?”
“You’re getting closer. What do you mean by inside? Inside the P4 containment building? Inside the bioweapons program? What are we talking about here?”
Petrovich thought Berg sounded overeager, sensing a shift in the bargaining power.
“I’m told they have a scientist assigned to the infectious disease fellowship program. He’s been seen offsite with a likely Iranian intelligence agent. Not too many Persians in Novosibirsk. Not many outsiders at all. Now it’s time for a toast.”
Petrovich leaned in to take one of the shots off the table, wondering what Jessica would think of him drinking vodka at nine in the morning. He wasn’t driving, though, so what did it matter? After spending hours in Berg’s company, he could use a drink.
“To keeping your head out of a dirty toilet,” Petrovich said.
Reznikov didn’t look amused by his impromptu salutation. Neither did Berg. He shrugged his shoulders and drained the vodka down his throat, slamming the glass back down on the table like a fraternity pledge.
“Rude and uncivilized. Here’s to a long retirement in the mountains and a successful mission against Vektor,” Reznikov said.
Petrovich waited for both of them to finish their shots before interjecting. “I liked my toast better.”
Reznikov grabbed the bottle and poured another shot for himself, placing the bottle near Berg’s glass. The CIA officer declined.
“Maybe later. I need to make a phone call. If my boss isn’t willing to walk this back up the chain of command, this might be your last drink,” Berg said.
“Don’t tell him that,” Petrovich said. “He’ll end up just like we found him in Stockholm.”
Petrovich’s statement caused Reznikov to tense for a moment before he took another shot of vodka. He placed the glass on the table, and his grimace melted into a smile. He refilled Daniel’s glass.
“My friend, you need to lighten up a little. What happened to your arm?” he asked, waving the bottle at his shoulder.
“Dislocated my shoulder beating another prisoner to death,” Petrovich said.
“Come on. This is going to work out for everybody. Door number three I give to you!”
“We’ll see,” Petrovich said, taking him up on the offer of another shot. “Here’s to the miracle of automated defibrillators. Without them, our friend would be dead.”
“I don’t have to take this abuse,” Reznikov said.
“Take it easy on him, Daniel. We have a long day ahead of us,” Berg said, walking toward the front door to make his call in private.
“To your health,” Petrovich said, raising his glass to meet Reznikov’s.
“That’s better.”
The vodka burned slightly less going down the second time, leaving him with a warm buzz. Reznikov immediately poured another shot for each of them.
“I think that’s enough,” Petrovich said.
“Fine. Two for me, then.”
Petrovich walked over to the kitchen and waited for Berg to finish the phone call. He heard the bottle clink against glass again, which worried him. If Reznikov passed out from drinking, he had no intention of sticking around the compound to continue their conversation when he woke up. By the time Berg returned, he’d heard at least two more shots poured. He intercepted him in the hallway leading to the kitchen.