“That’s obvious.”
“And you trust his information?”
“Trust but verify. He has the most to lose from a failed operation. Is this what’s bothering you?” Berg asked.
“No. The mission looks straightforward enough going in. Getting out is going to take a miracle, unless the agency has an ace up its sleeve. The Russian mafiya support will dissolve as soon as the alarm is raised at various 41st Army barracks around Novosibirsk.”
“We’re working on that,” Berg said.
“There’s no way the president will authorize a stealth incursion with the entire Siberian Military District mobilized,” Petrovich said.
“Our analysts don’t think the Russians will want to publicize the event. Response will be limited to Special Forces, light motorized units and possibly fighter aircraft. The nearest sizable helicopter brigade is too far away to make a difference,” Berg said.
“I seem to recall the rather sudden arrival of three Russian helicopters in Kazakhstan, not far from the proposed crossing point. One of them was a Havoc,” Petrovich replied.
“True, but we believe that the helicopters were part of a special task force stationed in Novosibirsk from another district. One of the hull numbers matched a unit that had been recently pulled from Georgia and was normally stationed outside of Moscow. I’m not discounting the possibility of helicopters responding to the attack, but it won’t be the type of coordinated effort that I’d consider a showstopper,” Berg said.
“What would you consider to be a showstopper?” Petrovich said, glaring at him.
Berg suppressed a grin. Petrovich was extremely perceptive and had probably long ago answered that question for himself. He’d just been waiting for the right time to ask it. Berg had sent his team on one suicide mission after another across Europe and Russia in pursuit of Anatoly Reznikov, but the threat unleashed by Reznikov still lingered at Vektor Labs. The show must go on.
“That’s why the good general insisted that I bring you along. To provide an unbiased assessment of the situation,” Berg said.
“And to keep you from bullshitting him,” Petrovich said.
“Same thing, pretty much. So really, what do you think?”
“I think you better start talking to your Department of Defense buddies. Without some kind of helicopter or drone support near the Kazakh border, the team will never make it across. I’m not sure how you pulled off your drone miracle before, but that’s the kind of magic this team will need to get out of Russia. Aside from that? I can’t see any reason to sideline this op, assuming that Sanderson doesn’t mind relying on the Russian mafiya.”
“Once I set the terms of cooperation—”
“The price of cooperation,” Petrovich corrected.
“Correct. The price. Once this is agreed upon, I’m going to step away and let Sanderson handle all levels of coordination with the Russians.”
“Smart move. How much is the CIA willing to pony up for this operation?”
“Let me worry about that.”
Berg observed Petrovich raise his eyebrows and go back to fumbling with the radio. The conversation was almost over, leaving a long, two-hour drive ahead of them.
“Anything else you can think of?” Berg prodded, hoping to keep him talking.
“Yes. You need satellite radio. This is borderline torture,” he said, turning the radio off.
Chapter 18
Alexei Kaparov walked directly to his favorite shelf at the back of the liquor store, where they sold the absurdly inexpensive brands of vodka at prices decreed by the Federal Service for Alcohol Market Regulation. The minimum price of vodka sold in Moscow was seventy-five rubles, less than three dollars, and the further you drove out of Moscow, the less expensive it became. It was not uncommon for the less affluent Muscovites to take public transportation outside of the city to take advantage of the pricing, and any family trips to other regions always ended with a trip to one of the state-sponsored liquor stores where a half-liter bottle could be acquired for thirty-five rubles, nearly half of the Moscow price. Kaparov didn’t get out of the city much these days, so he gladly paid a little more for the iconic beverage that he drank straight from a shot glass.
The rear aisle filled the entire back wall of the store, and at nearly ten o’clock at night, he was the store’s only customer, so he thought. The sudden appearance of his assistant, Yuri Prerovsky, caused his breath to stop. The young agent stepped out from behind one of the display stands near the end cap of a long row of red wines. Whatever Prerovsky wanted, it wouldn’t be good. Kaparov knew for a fact that the agent lived on the other side of the city, east of Moscow. He glanced back down the aisle he had just walked, half-expecting to see several additional agents headed in his direction. The paranoid look on Prerovsky’s face eased his fear that the young agent had betrayed him. He continued to the back wall, pretending to examine the different bottles while talking.
“Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? There are easier ways to take my job. Just ask. You can have it,” he said.
Prerovsky mimicked his actions, standing close enough for conversation.
“Sorry about this, but we have a problem that can no longer be discussed or even hinted about at headquarters. I remember you mentioning your nighttime trips to pick up vodka at this place. You should avoid this wall. Spend another thirty rubles for some decent vodka. This stuff will kill you,” Prerovsky said.
“I could never tell the difference between vodkas. As long as it keeps me warm on cold nights and numb on warm nights, I’m satisfied. What kind of a problem are we facing?”
“Lucya. They have her under twenty-four-hour surveillance. She detected them on the way home from headquarters yesterday and is pretty sure they are watching her apartment. She’s been part of the routine investigation by internal affairs, but she thinks this is different. She’s panicky,” Prerovsky said.
“She detected them so easily?”
“It didn’t sound like they were trying to conceal their activity,” Prerovsky said.
“Fuck. I was wondering how long we had until the Foreign Intelligence Service stepped up their investigation. I received a warning that our friends in the SVR have been busy in Sweden. They must have uncovered something.”
“Damn it, why didn’t you tell me this? My ass is on the line here,” Prerovsky whispered forcefully.
“And have you acting suspiciously, glancing over your shoulder and running off to warn Lucya? I need you to continue acting as natural as possible, and ten o’clock trips across the city is far from normal, Yuri. How is Lucya holding up?”
“Not good. That’s the real problem. She’ll crumble under any pressure, and…I don’t know,” he said, hesitating.
“What is it?” Kaparov demanded.
“She suggested that we turn you in and say that you forced us to conspire in this,” he whispered.
“Fuck me. A few days of surveillance, and she’s ready to roll over. Damn it,” he hissed.
He picked out two bottles of vodka, not even bothering to read the green label. Based on the information just shared with him, he might finish an entire bottle tonight, contemplating his fate. He should have known better than to think that Directorate S would let this one slide. Ultimately, the Federal Security Service leadership wouldn’t stand in the way of the Foreign Intelligence Service witch-hunt, which would gain momentum as the initial round of pushback expired.
Something had gone severely wrong in Stockholm, resulting in the unprecedented, simultaneous loss of several “illegal” Spetsnaz operatives. Once the investigation picked up speed and the remaining roadblocks were removed, surveillance would turn into arrests. Everyone involved with the Lubyanka building’s Center of Special Operations (CSN) group would be detained and interrogated. Lucya wouldn’t last five minutes in custody. She’d probably spill their names in the windowless van that snatched her off the street.