“I see your powers of deduction have not been dulled in organized crime,” said Kaparov. “Zuyev got the stab wound, and an ex-GRU mercenary named Gennady Ageykin took a bullet to the side of his head. They think Reznikov took advantage of the confusion and turned the tables on his captors.”
Prerovsky raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“My thoughts exactly. Possible, but unlikely, which is why I’ve come to you,” said Kaparov, tapping the thumb drive. “I have a list of names, with known or assumed profile data, of everyone identified by CSN during and after the raid. Twenty-three IDs for twenty-five bodies. That number includes Zuyev and Ageykin.”
“Why the discrepancy?” said Prerovsky.
“Apparently, they blew up the laboratory during the raid. The bodies were burned beyond recognition.”
Prerovsky involuntarily chuckled. Kaparov just stared at him, smiling wryly.
“They really blew up the most obvious place to find him?”
Kaparov nodded, shaking his head in mockery.
“Holy mother. Heads must have rolled for that. How do they know one of the bodies wasn’t Reznikov?”
“The assault team first engaged the two men outside of the laboratory, forcing them inside. Based on a number of factors, they concluded the men had specialized combat training.”
“He would have been fighting for his life,” said Prerovsky. “In the heat of the moment, at night, I don’t see how they could be so positive about that assessment.”
“The assault team collected DNA samples,” said Kaparov. “They eliminated Reznikov as a match for the toasted bodies.”
“I don’t want to know how they managed that,” said Prerovsky.
“You really don’t,” stated Kaparov. “I picture a bag of thumbs being shipped in dry ice back to Moscow.”
Prerovsky grimaced. “Thanks for the image. So we know Reznikov wasn’t among the dead on the riverbank trail or at the primary assault site.”
“Correct.”
“If Zuyev was there, Reznikov was there. Any reason to assume differently?”
Kaparov shook his head.
“And you don’t think Reznikov killed Zuyev and an ex-GRU type by himself?”
His former boss continued to shake his head. “Doubtful.”
Prerovsky understood what Kaparov wanted, but it would be a stretch to make a connection. The older agent seemed to read his troubled look.
“You’ll find a second file on this thumb drive. An overseas friend of mine provided some surprisingly clear, professionally catalogued video still footage of faces that I need you to run against your database. My gut tells me this was an inside job. Someone close to Zuyev had a hand in this. Someone that knows a lot about Reznikov.”
Prerovsky reached across the desk and took the thumb drive. “I can’t do this on my computer. The databases and facial recognition system is locked down in our SCIV (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Vault).”
“I presume associate deputy directors have access?” said Kaparov.
“Yeah, and I have to log in to the system to use it, leaving a trace.”
“I can’t imagine anyone getting upset over an ambitious young agent assembling a list of Zuyev’s known or presumed associates immediately after being notified that Zuyev was dead. There’s bound to be a shake-up in the Bratva’s hierarchy. You might even score some points for getting ahead of the inevitable power struggle,” said Kaparov, pausing for a moment. “You should also run a list of all former government or military Spetsnaz mercenaries known to work with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, particularly Zuyev or Matvey Penkin, his immediate boss.”
“You really don’t like me, do you?”
“You’ll be fine,” Kaparov said smoothly.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one sitting in the SCIV after hours, researching one of the top Bratva bosses in Moscow. That kind of shit gets noticed around here, and I don’t feel like attracting the wrong kind of attention.”
“You might make a few of the other assistant deputies jealous, but I’m sure you can handle it,” said Kaparov.
“I’m not talking about here. I mean out there,” said Prerovsky, gesturing toward the window behind him. “I don’t need to be on the mafiya’s radar.”
As soon as Prerovsky finished the statement, he realized his mistake. Kaparov had already formed that mildly smug look he’d come to simultaneously admire and loathe during his years working with the older agent. Prerovsky shook his head with a defeated smile.
“Any more than I already am by working in the organized crime division. I’ll see what I can do.”
Prerovsky squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he was going to regret this somehow, but if it helped rid the world of Reznikov, it was worth the risk. When he opened his eyes, Kaparov had already opened the bottle.
“To killing Reznikov,” he said, taking a long swig before handing it over.
“To killing him for good this time,” Prerovsky agreed, accepting the bottle.
Chapter 11
A phone rang from the direction of Berg’s cubicle, drawing his attention away from the start of his post-lunch pilgrimage to the campus coffee shop. It could wait. Probably wasn’t his phone anyway. He started walking toward the stairwell again, stopping a few steps later. He didn’t get a lot of calls these days, and the insistent ringtone beckoned him.
“Coffee can wait a few minutes,” he muttered, returning to his cubicle. He dropped into his worn chair and grabbed the handset, glancing at the caller ID. Shit. He needed to be somewhere else to take this call. Somewhere a lot more private. Preferably out of the building.
“Give me ten minutes and call me back on my cell phone, unless this can wait until tomorrow.”
Kaparov grunted. “I just left the office.”
It was eight o’clock at night in Moscow. Something was up.
“That important?”
“Could be. Ten minutes.” He hung up.
He thought about using one of the secure communications rooms, but dropped the idea. He’d have to swipe his access card to enter the bank of soundproof telephone booths, leaving a public record. It was better to retrieve his cell phone and take a walk outside, where he was free to place a call.
With a few seconds to spare, he had negotiated the byzantine process required to get out of the building. He walked briskly toward the tree-lined, grassy area blocking the nearest parking lot. Without a doubt, his sudden departure generated some kind of report to the regime stooges assigned to keep an eye on him. At least they couldn’t eavesdrop on his conversation, or maybe they could. The phone in his front trouser pocket buzzed against his thigh. A quick check of the caller ID once again gave him a chill. Taking this call would only lead to trouble. He couldn’t wait.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Berg said in his best Russian.
“Let’s stick with your native language. No offense, but I speak better English today than you ever spoke Russian.”
“Fair enough. How is life treating you, my friend?”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries this time. It’s cold out, and I’d like to get home in one piece.”
“Don’t you carry a pistol?”
“I lock it up in my office as a suicide prevention measure,” said Kaparov.
“Do I need to call the Federation Security Service’s suicide hotline on your behalf?”
“Please don’t. They might encourage me,” said Kaparov. “Anyway. Remember that mutual acquaintance of ours? The one that keeps getting away?”
“Yes. Did he surface?” asked Berg.
“You tell me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”