“Close. I’ll contact you at the next phone number as soon as I know anything,” Berg said.
“This is getting expensive for me,” Kaparov said.
“I can have someone drop off some phones for you,” Berg said.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s the closest I could ever come to recruiting you.”
Kaparov roared with laughter at the comment, knowing exactly where Berg was coming from. The two of them had traded jabs for three years in Moscow, each subtly suggesting the same thing on numerous occasions. They had an odd relationship as adversaries. They probably trusted each other’s motives better than their own masters’ chameleon-like agendas.
“Well, if this plan of yours doesn’t work, you might ultimately win our decades-old showdown,” Kaparov said.
“As much as I’d like that, I don’t think we could afford your vodka habit.”
“Probably not,” Kaparov said.
“Stay safe. You know how to reach me if things take a turn for the worse. I’ll be in touch,” Berg said.
Kaparov started walking back toward the street with the intention of turning left and continuing past his featureless apartment building. He’d take a quick stroll down the treelined boulevard, crossing into the park that adjoined the Moscow River, where he’d sink the financial equivalent of thirty vodka bottles to its muddy bottom. There, he would remind himself how easily his own body could be tossed into the murky depths if he wasn’t careful.
Chapter 19
General Sanderson picked one of the closest human silhouettes and swiftly raised the MK12 rifle, finding the target’s head through the EOTech holographic sight. He placed two quick holes in the paper less than an inch apart and shifted his aim to a target two hundred yards downrange, simultaneously flipping a Switch-To-Side 3X magnifier in place and taking a second to line up his shot. He fired two rounds at the distant target, using the magnifier.
“Two hits. Center mass. Three MOA, possibly less,” stated Jared Hoffman, his observer.
Hoffman was the Russian Group’s dedicated marksman, and in the absence of Daniel Petrovich had taken over as one of their primary weapons evaluators. Richard Farrington put their weapons to the test in a more practical environment, taking them off the static ranges and trying to destroy them on the live fire maneuver ranges. “Combat Town” was his favorite, where he would instruct teams to throw all of their weapons from the top floor onto the hard-packed ground. The teams would follow, rappelling from the windows to retrieve the weapons, which would be immediately used to engage pop-up targets down the street. A wide variety of optics and rifles failed this test, honing their selection of weapons and optics platforms. So far, the EOTech sights passed with flying colors. The flip-up magnifier didn’t hold as much promise.
“I don’t know. A six-inch spread at two hundred yards under stable conditions…”
“Six inches is being generous. Your last batch was more like four MOA. I can’t get it any better without cheating,” Hoffman said.
General Sanderson grunted. “Three to four MOA on an eighteen-inch barrel isn’t good enough to justify this flip-up contraption. I can’t imagine it would survive Richard’s field assessment. Let me see the other configuration again.”
Sanderson removed the magazine and ejected the chambered round, letting it tumble into the dirt. He leaned the cleared rifle against the firing range stand as Hoffman handed him another MK12, this one configured with a Trijicon 4X ACOG and an offset red dot sight. After inserting the magazine in the new rifle, he engaged the targets in reverse order. He quickly lined up two shots at a new distant target using the scope before twisting the rifle forty-five degrees to use the red dot sight. A rapid double tap punctured the twenty-five yard target, keeping the tight pattern formed by previous firing. He lowered the rifle and raised it again, repeating the drill starting with the twenty-five yard target.
“Two MOA at 200 yards. All four rounds pretty tight. Results at twenty-five yards are the same,” Hoffman said.
“Well, it was a nice concept. We just haven’t been able to replicate the accuracy of a dedicated battle scope. Canting the rifle to use the red dot doesn’t impede progress. I think this combination is the winner for our mid-range rifles. Start equipping different platforms with these optics. Farrington has done everything but take a blowtorch to the ACOG. See if he has any real heartache with the offset red dot sight.”
“Easy enough, General. I wish we could take the MK12s out on a real op. Fucking amazing weapon,” Hoffman said.
“That’s the irony of our situation. Aside from local work on behalf of Galenden, none of our weapons ever leave the compound, and in most situations, we have to use locally sourced equipment,” Sanderson said.
“It’s a shame,” Hoffman said, taking the rifle back from Sanderson and clearing it.
“I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with the trusty AK family of rifles. They’ve served us well up to this point. Ask Farrington,” the general said.
What he didn’t add to his statement was the fact that Farrington was the only member of the first Russian team alive, besides Petrovich, who was more of a last-minute addition to the group. The first team fielded by Sanderson’s new program had suffered heavy casualties. Two killed and one severely wounded. Of the five men sent to Kazakhstan, only Farrington and Petrovich had survived intact. Setting these grim statistics aside, the team had achieved the impossible, which always came with a high price tag. The program had been designed to produce teams that would deliver results against overwhelming odds, and it had repeatedly proven to be successful.
“Speak of the devil,” Hoffman said, nodding toward the tree line behind them.
Richard Farrington approached them dressed like a Russian street thug. Tight black jeans and a gray turtleneck sweater under a worn leather bomber jacket with thick lapels complemented the look, which he never abandoned in the compound. He required the same of every member under his charge in the Russian Group.
“General, we have a special request from the CIA. You left your phone back in the lodge,” he said, tossing the satellite phone to Sanderson.
“Sanderson,” he said into the phone’s receiver.
“General, Karl Berg here. I have a situation in Moscow that may be directly related to the disappearance of your operative in Munich. My contact has reported an unexpected increase in SVR activity. The source of the Stockholm leak is under aggressive surveillance, and my guy doesn’t think she has more than twenty-four hours before they pick her up. He’s fairly certain she won’t last five minutes under interrogation. She’s already suggested preemptively turning my contact over to SVR in exchange for a deal.”
“They won’t make a deal with her. They’ll just torture the information out of her and discard her corpse in a dumpster,” Sanderson said.
“If she’s lucky. I think she’s watched one too many Western television shows. She’s responsible for the death of at least eight of their best, so I have a feeling she won’t get off that easy. I need your help pulling her out of Moscow. If she disappears, the whole problem goes away.”
“When you say gone, what exactly do you mean?” Sanderson said.
“Safe from Russian hands. By my count, you have at least one operative left in the nearby area of operations.”
“He’s likely compromised,” Sanderson replied.
“All the more reason to give him one more mission and get him the hell out of Europe. This is important, Terrence. My source is aware of our intentions to strike Vektor. He’s an old-school Cold War type who would rather die than tell them anything, but we can’t take the risk,” Berg said.