Matvey Penkin thumbed through the journal sitting at a sleek metal-framed glass table in his penthouse suite overlooking Tverskaya Street. He’d read the first several pages with rapt attention. What Anatoly Reznikov had proposed could make the Solntsevskaya Bratva a veritable fortune on several fronts, opening the doors to a new stratosphere of power and respect on the international scene. The contents of this box represented one of the largest business opportunities in decades, and his greatest chance to secure his place as Dima Maksimov’s right-hand man in the organization.
Of course, seizing an opportunity like this carried serious risks and required careful maneuvering. Penkin had to decide whether to seek his Pakhan’s blessing for the operation or simply deliver the goods. Conspiring with an American mercenary group to destroy a sensitive government facility was unheard of, but so was the payoff. Exclusive access to bioweapons production capabilities, which Reznikov insisted he could deliver.
With Vektor Labs destroyed, they would have no competition in the bioweapons market and could demand exorbitant prices from countries like Iran, North Korea or China for the production and delivery of the weapons. Once word hit the back channels that these nations possessed bioweapons, other nations would be willing to acquire the same capabilities to participate in a secret bioweapons détente. The entire scheme seemed farfetched, but with minimal effort, they could actively explore the option. He decided to move forward without alerting anyone else in the leadership structure. The fewer that knew about this, the better.
If the operation failed or backfired on him, Maksimov and the rest would be insulated from the damage. If it succeeded, he alone would be in a position to present the grand prize to his Pakhan.
“How long did your man have this package in his possession?” he asked the stocky, brown-haired man seated next to him at the table.
“Thirty minutes or so. He was adamant that he didn’t waste any time getting here. Traffic and all,” said Valery Zuyev, Sergei’s boss.
“Who else knows about the pickup?”
“Nobody. I sent the closest guy. Sergei’s new, but he’s shown initiative and an enterprising spirit.”
“Unfortunately, I would have been happier if you had told me the opposite. The last-minute nature of the pickup and the contents would attract anyone’s attention, especially someone with, as you say, an enterprising spirit. I trust you implicitly, Valery, but this guy?” Matvey Penkin shook his head slowly.
“I understand,” Valery said.
“Good. I’ll need you here tomorrow at four in the afternoon. You and I are about to embark on a journey that will require most of your attention, I’m afraid.”
“I like the sound of this. Is there anything I can do to prepare before we meet tomorrow?” Valery asked.
“Yes. I need you to think hard about whom you can trust in Novosibirsk. We’re going to need a small core group to take care of some very secretive logistics.”
“We have good people out there. I’ll come up with a list,” he said.
“Tomorrow, then,” Penkin said, politely dismissing Valery.
When his Boyevik left the room, escorted by two of Penkin’s omnipresent bodyguards, he opened the notebook again. The thumb drive found in the safety deposit box held a software program that would decode random words from future conversations with Reznikov. The scientist had instructed them to record each call and transcribe it exactly into the program.
Reznikov would call them tomorrow at 5 o’clock p.m. According to the journal, a particular word would be used to indicate the use of a satellite phone. Additional words would narrow the location down as far as possible, providing geographic features, temperature, sunrise/sunset, moon phase, and weather. He hoped Reznikov would be given access to a cell phone. This would provide the easiest method of determining the location. Penkin had access to some of the most sophisticated hackers in the world and could very likely pinpoint the location within two phone calls.
A satellite phone presented a few unique challenges that weren’t insurmountable, but would likely eat up most of the money recovered from the safety deposit box. The worst-case scenario involved bringing another Brigadier onboard with the scheme. He loathed the idea of sharing this with another high-ranking member of the bratva, but unfortunately, his business dealings didn’t bring him into contact with anyone within the GRU’s Sixth Directorate, responsible for Signals Intelligence intercept.
He regarded the thumb drive and placed it on the table. Fate had paid him a curious visit today, promising one of two extremes. There was no middle ground once he committed to this opportunity. He would either die a horrible death or be responsible for ushering in a new era of prosperity for the Solntsevskaya Bratva.
Sergei Dubinin stepped out of his car in the parking garage of the Swiss Hotel Krasnye Holmy. The last-minute errand had only kept him away from his swank audience for about an hour. The trip back to the hotel had been mercifully quicker than the interminable drive through the heart of Moscow to deliver the package. All the better, actually. His lady friends would be two or three drinks closer to getting fucked in one of the bathrooms, like usual, and if he played his cards right, he might even bang the fashion model that had recently started showing up regularly. All before his night really started. He’d join another colleague to make the rounds through restaurants and clubs, collecting money on the spot. They found the establishment owners much more willing to pay extra in order to avoid a scene.
He shut the car door and walked toward the parking garage elevator bank, pressing the only button available between the two shiny metal doors. A few minutes later, the right door opened and he stepped inside, shifting left to press the button for the top floor of the hotel. Movement outside of the elevator caught his eye, causing him to pause before pressing the button. No more movement. The doors started to close, and he walked to the center of the car, confident that he would be the only passenger. When the doors stopped halfway and started to reopen, he snapped open the knife that had already found its way into his right hand from his belt.
His serrated folding knife proved to be no match against the sawed-off, double barrel shotgun that poked between the doors and unceremoniously discharged at head level. When the elevator door opened on the thirty-fourth floor of the hotel, happy-hour patrons crowded around the entrance to City Space had a hard time processing the expansive, stark red pattern on the back wall of the elevator, until their eyes followed the stain to the body slumped on the floor and the screaming began.
Chapter 17
Karl Berg alternated staring between the road and Daniel Petrovich, trying desperately to read his face. Petrovich played with the radio controls, settling in on a faint signal from Burlington playing Tom Petty. He’d done the same thing driving out, preferring to listen to static instead of country music or, worse yet, Berg’s voice. He almost looked disaffected, like a sociopath, but Berg knew better. Petrovich’s gears were spinning at full speed trying to process the information gathered from Reznikov’s interrogation. Sanderson would want a full assessment, and he wasn’t the type to take this lightly. Lives would be at stake during the operation, the lives of people he had worked with and trained.
“What do you think?” Berg asked.
Petrovich surprised him by answering immediately. “I think you have a problem.”
“How so?”
“There’s something wrong with Reznikov,” Petrovich said.