“I think I know what you’re talking about,” said Shelby. “I’m not a big fan of using mercenaries, particularly the kind with a history of attacking federal agents and blackmailing the United States.”
“I feel your pain, trust me, but they’ve proven themselves trustworthy time and time again since those days. If the CIA and DOD can’t help, they may be our only option.”
“Then we better hope the president can convince at least one of the vast public entities entrusted with protecting the United States to do their job,” said Shelby.
“We’ll work this from both ends. We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip by. And very nice job wrangling this intelligence. The fact that it came from a nontraditional intelligence source will help sell it.”
“I’ll pass that along to my guy at the bureau.”
After hanging up with Shelby, Quinn leaned back in his leather office chair and considered the options. The Homeland Security meeting would have to go on without him, not that it ever stopped. He’d take this to Beverly Stark immediately and get the ball rolling. Maybe NCS could put together a ground team here, augmented by a few area experts, and fly them into Libreville. If the decision was made within the next few hours, they could have a team on the ground and in place within twenty-four hours. How hard could it be to track two out-of-place Russians in the Gabon jungle?
Chapter 48
Yuri Prerovsky walked up the stairs to his floor, egg salad sandwich and warm Styrofoam container of potato soup in hand. He was bummed about the sandwich. The seemingly endless string of meetings had pushed well past one o’clock, leaving him with the wretched choice between egg salad and the barely seasoned ground mystery meat. The decision came down to numbers. Two egg salad sandwiches remained in the stainless steel bin, dwarfed by a neighboring mountain of plastic-wrapped mystery-meat bombs. It wasn’t a tough call.
Half of his section was empty, most of the agents and staff eating in the underground cafeteria. He usually took his lunch at his desk, catching up on emails or prioritizing reports. Mindless work while he took a few minutes to fill up on enough calories to keep him from buying crap at a vendor stall on the way back to his apartment, where he could cook a real meal from scratch, one of the few things he looked forward to on weekdays.
He reached his tiny office and squeezed between the wall and desk to his chair facing the door. Placing the desk in the middle of the office like this was one of the least optimal configurations to take advantage of the confined space, but Kaparov had taught him well.
“Why make it so easy for me to see that you’ve been staring at the same screen for the past hour?” he’d say. “I can always find something for you to do, or stare at.” Truer words had never been spoken at headquarters.
Prerovsky settled into his chair and faced his most important decision of the day. Did he start with the soup or sandwich? He started to unwrap the sandwich. Better to get it out of the way. The potato soup wasn’t half bad. With one hand holding the sandwich, he typed his password with the other, activating his home screen.
A quick scan of his email inbox revealed dozens of messages sent by other assistant deputy directors or their minions during the morning stretch of meetings. Several came from Gennadiy Yurievich, who’d sat right next to him all morning and never said a word to him! He was the second most junior assistant director in the organized crime division, a precarious position in the hierarchy to hold in a division that clearly had a few too many assistant directors. Prerovsky’s presence could only be perceived as a constant threat to the man’s job. If only Yurievich knew that he’d gladly trade this office for a field job at this point.
The sandwich had drifted close enough to his nose to remind him why he didn’t like egg salad. Egg salad was something you made with eggs nobody would eat, and enough mayo to cover up the reason why. He’d almost taken a bite anyway when an “email alert” caught his eye. He didn’t get many of those. Prerovsky lowered the sandwich after reading the subject line and clicked on the message. He skimmed it once and picked up his office phone, dialing a familiar extension.
“Deputy Director Kaparov,” his friend answered.
“Why the formality?”
“Ah, Yuri. It’s because they swept in a few weeks ago and installed that abysmal key-encrypted phone system. It doesn’t give you any indication of who’s calling. Could be the fucking director himself! You can’t let it go to voicemail. Or shouldn’t. I don’t really give a shit.”
“A few weeks?” said Prerovsky. “I’m surprised they haven’t made the transition here already.”
“I’d be surprised if they ever did. How else would the Bratva stay one step ahead of the FSB?” said Kaparov. “You didn’t hear me say that.”
“But everyone else did,” said Prerovsky. “Have you taken lunch yet? There’s a hotdog cart not too far away. I’m staring at an egg salad sandwich, or rather smelling it, and sincerely wishing it away. My treat.”
“You know the way to my stomach, Yuri. I can eat Stardogs for lunch and dinner.”
“Meet you downstairs in a few minutes,” said Prerovsky.
He memorized the details of the message, shaking his head. If Sokolov and Reznikov were still connected at the hip like his friend suspected, this information could only mean one thing, and it changed everything.
Chapter 49
Sanderson sat on the balcony of an apartment a few blocks west of Plaza 9 de Julio in Barrio Los Molles. The building had been renovated into luxury apartments close to a year ago, with one of Sanderson’s shell companies as its earliest significant real estate investor. He’d purchased three adjoining units to use as a backup to their new headquarters in the hills north of the city. The shell company used for the transaction had no link to Ernesto Galenden, nor had it been used to purchase anything remotely traceable to the Black Flag program. It sat mostly dormant all of these years, maintained in electronic perpetuity by a Cayman Islands-based financial house.
He’d stay here with the organization’s remaining skeleton crew until they found a new location safe from Russia’s renewed interest in his operations. He’d strongly considered leaving Argentina altogether. With their connection to Galenden no longer a secret to the Russians, Argentina might prove to be a difficult place to stay hidden, no matter where they relocated.
When Farrington’s team returned from Africa, he’d rent warehouse space and housing outside of Buenos Aires to accommodate the group until they came up with a permanent plan. It wasn’t like they were busy. The operation in Gabon was the first full-scale deployment of Black Flag assets in several months, and it felt like more of a wild-goose chase than anything else.
Not that he was complaining. Even if they’d just thrown him a bone to keep him occupied, a professionally and discreetly executed mission would make an impression on somebody. Then they’d get another operation and another. Baby steps. If the Africa operation yielded Reznikov, he could get the Russians off his back in a hurry. Even if it didn’t produce the scientist, he’d offer to deliver an unambiguous warning to the Russians about the price of kidnapping CIA officers. Everything hinged on Farrington’s success, which was why he’d stacked the deck, sending most of his operatives.
The satellite phone attached to his belt chimed. He wasn’t expecting to hear from Farrington for at least another hour, when they landed at the Royal Air Force airfield on Ascension Island to refuel for the continued trip to Libreville. He hoped the mission hadn’t been scrapped. They really needed this one. The numbers indicated on the phone’s digital screen eased his worry. He could think of no reason why they’d have Karl pass him the bad news.