The doctor stood up from the chair next to the brown leather couch and shook Berg’s hand, sharing a few more words. Probably asking for the tenth time if Berg wanted him to call the police. The physician feigned a smile and made his way to the doors. Jackson got up from the chair he’d dragged into the hallway outside of the study.
“So what’s the verdict?” he asked.
The physician glanced nervously around the spacious home.
“The man you just treated saved my life a number of years ago. I owe him everything. On top of that, he’s my best friend. I know this doesn’t look good, but trust me when I say that my friend is now in good hands. A few hours ago, that obviously wasn’t the case.”
“I don’t want to know any of the details,” said the doctor.
“All the better,” said Jackson. “What are we looking at?”
“The patient needs rest, obviously. You need to keep him well hydrated and nutritionally satisfied.”
“Yeah, yeah. That sounds like advice for a nursing home resident. Move on to the important stuff.”
The doctor frowned. “Well, unfortunately, you’re going to need to treat him like a nursing home resident for a week or two, maybe longer. Most of the cuts will heal on their own, with constant supervision. You’ll need to clean them a few times per day, replace the gauze and tape. Watch for signs of infection. I left a bottle with some strong antibiotics that he should start taking immediately. Follow the instructions. I stitched a few of the deeper wounds. Same rules apply. The big thing here is that he needs to remain completely immobile until the shallow cuts scab over. I counted seventy-six separate wounds. I suspect a few of the deeper ones that I stitched could count twice, since there’s evidence of repetitive injury.”
“What does that mean?” said Jackson, pretty sure he had a good idea.
“I’d rather not speculate out loud,” said the doctor. “Bottom line, he needs to stay still unless you want me to stitch up the remaining seventy wounds.”
“I think we’d rather avoid that,” said Jackson. “He’s been through enough.”
“That’s an understatement. You have my secure email address. I’d prefer you use that if you have additional questions or concerns. Call this number,” he said, producing a card with nothing but a phone number, “if you need me to visit before our next scheduled appointment.”
“When do you need to come back?”
“I’d like to check on him in two days.”
“Same time?”
“I’ll be here. Email if there’s a change to that plan,” said the doctor.
“Thank you. I appreciate your timely response and discreet service.”
The doctor smiled politely and walked to the front door. Jackson followed him onto the wide, wraparound porch, catching a glimpse of Melendez near the property’s inner gate. The primary gate stood a quarter of a mile away, concealed by the thick woods surrounding the estate. Melendez opened the gate manually for the doctor’s convertible Mercedes, securing it after him. Jackson waved, drawing a nod from the operative, who disappeared into the foliage with his sniper rifle. Back inside the spacious home he found Munoz in the entrance hallway.
“Berg was concerned about someone named Audra Bauer. She works at Langley, so I told him she’s safe for now,” said Munoz, checking his watch. “It’s getting close to four o’clock. If she’s somehow linked to Berg in all of this, she’ll be next.”
Jackson saw Berg motioning for him. “Speak of the devil.”
“How are you feeling, my friend?” asked Jackson, approaching the couch.
“Like I have a thousand paper cuts,” said Berg, through swollen lips.
“Seventy-six to be precise,” said Jackson, eliciting a short laugh that looked like it hurt Berg more than helped. “Sorry, man. What can I get you? The place is stocked.”
“I’ll take that bottle of Barolo if it’s still around,” said Berg, causing himself to laugh and wince.
“Maybe we should knock off the jokes,” Jackson suggested.
“I concur,” said Berg, looking past Jackson to Munoz. “We need to warn Audra Bauer, a deputy director with the CIA. She was instrumental to stopping Reznikov in 2007, so she’s one of us. She has to be in danger, especially now. Where are we?”
“We’re safe,” said Munoz. “This is one of a dozen or more properties in the D.C. area owned by Ernesto Galenden through his various international corporations. Sanderson called in a favor.”
“Why do you think the Russians are after Bauer?” asked Jackson.
“Russians? Who said this was the Russians?” said Berg, trying to sit up.
“The doctor said you need to lie still, as in perfectly still, or you’ll start leaking like a sieve again,” said Jackson. “Did you hear what happened with the Petroviches?”
“Jesus,” said Berg. “I knew something was off with that. I’m the one that asked Sanderson to keep an eye on them.”
“That turned out to be a good call, possibly one that saved your life too. Srecko Hadzic came close to kidnapping Jessica in the hospital. Munoz and a small team managed to turn the tables on that. Hadzic is dead.”
“Hadzic?” said Berg, looking utterly perplexed. “That’s not poss — shit. How is that possible?”
“It’s not, really. Unless you have some serious backing,” said Munoz. “That’s why Sanderson thinks this is a Russian job.”
“The guys that took me weren’t Russian,” said Berg. “Military contractors, if I had to guess.”
“There’s some pretty sketchy groups out there. Could be a team hired out by the Russians through a proxy,” said Jackson.
“To kidnap and torture a CIA officer?” said Berg. “How far down have some of these paramilitary contractor companies fallen?”
He ignored the obvious implication about Brown River. They’d been the first serious security contractor company to win major Department of Defense and State Department contracts, growing at a nearly unstoppable pace after 9/11. By the time other former military and security entrepreneurs jumped on the bandwagon and started to form similar companies, most of the available talent was taken. The rest of the companies fell between decent and crappy on the quality spectrum. Even Brown River had its quality inconsistencies from time to time.
“I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Karl, but—”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
“It hasn’t,” said Jackson, deciding not to sugarcoat his question. “What the fuck did they want from you?”
“They wanted the name of my source in Moscow.”
“Sounds like the Russians,” said Munoz.
“They’ve had two years to pull this off,” said Berg. “Now, all of a sudden, barely a few days after I’m passed new information from my informant, Moscow decides this is important? And they wanted to know everything I knew about Reznikov? I smell a rat, and it’s not a Russian one.”
“How do the Petroviches figure into this?” asked Munoz. “It looks like Jessica’s mother was poisoned. Something that takes months to kill, like dimethylmercury.”
“I don’t know,” said Berg, closing his eyes. They shot open a second later. “When did she get put into hospice?”
“Four days ago,” Munoz replied.
“Right. And a local reporter decides out of the blue that it’s big news and creates a whole story around her dad’s sordid past. It felt contrived enough for me to warn Sanderson. Now it feels calculated, like everything else going on.”