Black Flagged Redux

Chapter 28





6:40 AM

FSB (Federal Security Services of the Russian Federation) Headquarters

Lubyanka Square, Moscow





Alexei Kaparov smashed his fourth cigarette of the morning into the impossibly full ashtray on his desk and dumped the precariously balanced contents into the dented gray trash bin to the right of his desk. The bin was emptied every evening, by someone eager to prevent another trash bin fire caused by his hastily extinguished Troikas. On the day that one of the fires spread to the paperwork on his desk, nearly engulfing the entire desktop in flames, his staff decided to empty the over-stuffed incendiary pile themselves. Kaparov chuckled at the pile of ashes and cigarette butts in the empty can. For two years he couldn't get the cleaning staff to empty the can on a regular basis. He had to nearly burn the building down to get it done. He started to wonder what he might need to do to have hot coffee waiting for him in the morning.

He lit another cigarette and returned his attention to the emails he had been following. Something was going on, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He was slowly being removed from the loop regarding Reznikov, relegated to providing background information and further field data analysis. In reality, this was his section's job, but Kaparov didn't like being marginalized in cases that directly involved possible WMD threats, and this one had the potential to be the biggest in years. The search for Reznikov was in different hands, but as the deputy director for Biological and Chemical Weapons of Mass Destruction, he needed to be directly involved with the case.

Lab results from samples taken at the Kazakhstan site had not arrived at his desk, and all of his attempts to secure the results had met with stalling. Kaparov was an expert in the field of withholding information and knew better than anyone when he was on the receiving end of these tactics. The fact that the findings were being actively withheld from him was an ominous development.

At least he wasn't the only one falling out of the loop. Information regarding Monchegorsk had also slowed to a trickle at every level. Reports had hit his section's desk with a fury the other day, triggered by every search parameter his analysts had programmed into the system. An infectious outbreak resembling a pandemic flu had filled Monchegorsk's hospital within the span of a day. Follow-on reports suggested strange symptoms, involving uncontrollable patients and citywide violence.

Patients had been sent to Murmansk for further testing, and within forty-eight hours, the roads leading out of Monchegorsk were secured. Only military traffic travelled into or out of the city. He had hand delivered his assessment to the director of Counter-Terrorism, which included the high likelihood of a link to Reznikov's recent activities. Since this delivery, information regarding the situation in Monchegorsk had become scarce for everyone. Now there was a new development.

Kaparov arrived at work early by most FSB agents' standards, but this morning he found parking to be an unusual challenge. His reserved place in the garage had been occupied, forcing him to drive to a space far from the entrance door. A minor inconvenience, but the significance hadn't been lost on him. He recognized many of the cars crowded into the coveted parking spaces. FSB Special Operations Division (SOD). He had placed his bare hands on a few of the car hoods and found them to be cold. Something important had dragged over twenty SOD personnel into headquarters in the middle of the night.

He had walked directly to their operations center, but had been politely turned away upon exiting the elevator. This wasn't unusual, but confirmed that a live operation was underway. He could only assume that it was related to Reznikov, but wouldn't be able to confirm it until the operation ended, when a sea of loose lips spilled out into the rest of the building. He had several good friends in the Special Operations Division and would find out soon enough, unless it was a Vympel or Alpha Group operation. If that was the case, he might have to rely on Prerovsky's female liaison. She had already provided more information than either of them had expected, and Kaparov was more than happy to fund another night on the town for Prerovsky and his lady friend.

His desk phone erupted, breaking the silence, and he glanced at his watch. 6:45. A little early for phone calls. He considered letting it go to voicemail. It certainly wasn't a courtesy call from the Special Operations Division with an update on their operation. He stared at the phone for a few more seconds and picked up the receiver out of curiosity.

"Deputy Director Kaparov."

"Alexei Kaparov. I can't believe you've lasted this long. I expected one of those ambitious youngsters to have taken your job by now," said the familiar voice in passable, academic Russian.

"The younger generation doesn't have what it takes to topple someone like me or you. Field work today doesn't build the same steely resilience. Sounds like you and I must have done something wrong back in Berlin. We're both chasing the same thing these days," Kaparov said.

"It wasn't what I did wrong back then. I think we both played the game pretty well."

"Indeed we did. To what do I owe the honor of a call from an old friend? I must admit that I find your timing a bit…shall we say, coincidental?"

"I didn't think you were a big believer in coincidences, Alexei."

"I'm not, but the new generation is softer, and I've already been to sensitivity training twice this year."

"Do you have time to talk to an old friend?" Karl said.

"Leave me a number and I'll call you in about ten minutes. I could use some fresh air," he said.

"You're not still smoking those horrible cigarettes?"

"Hey, I've cut down to two packs a day and I'm now considered a style icon. Troika cigarettes are all the rage now. All part of our nation's identity crisis. The youth are reaching back to their communist roots and embracing the worst cigarettes ever produced by mother Russia."

"Let's hope they don't reach too far back," Berg said.

"I'm not too worried. They don't have the stomach for those times. I'll call you when I'm out of here," he said and shuffled to the door to grab his warm wool overcoat.

Ten minutes later he strode across Lubyanka square, fighting a stiff, frigid wind to light another Troika. The wind was no match for the veteran smoker, and he thrust his bare hands back into the warm fur lining of his coat. The temperature had barely crested above freezing this morning, which was unseasonably cold for late April. Kaparov smoked about half of the cigarette, walking the outer edge of the square, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he called his former Cold War adversary, who answered on the first ring.

"So, why are you so eager to call me? It must be late there?" Kaparov said.

"I was hoping you could tell me. It sounds like the FSB or SVR is looking for someone important in the vicinity of Kazakhstan and possibly Monchegorsk," Berg said.

"It sounds like you are very well informed, as always. Unfortunately, I don't have much to add," Kaparov said.

"Won't add, or can't add?" Berg said.

"Neither. I assume we've come to the same conclusions about the 'someone important' you mentioned and his link to Monchegorsk?"

"And the lab site outside of Kurchatov?" Berg said.

"My God, you are well informed. What do you know about the site?"

"Enough to know that Monchegorsk might burn to the ground…if it's not bombed first."

Kaparov stared back at the Lubyanka Building and took a few seconds to process Berg's words.

"You still there, my friend?"

"I am. I am. Something big happened this morning. The lot was full when I arrived."

"What time did you arrive?"

"About six…"

"This morning? You just arrived? Alexei, don't f*ck around with me. Do you know what happened in Kazakhstan today?"

Kaparov didn't want to admit that he was out of the loop on the Reznikov case, but he sensed something important in Berg's tone. They had played a brilliant cat and mouse game for three years in Berlin, then two more in Moscow before Berg vanished overnight. After spending five years scrutinizing Berg as a Cold War adversary, he could read the slightest change in tone or facial expression. Right now, Berg sounded truly surprised that he might be in the dark on Kazakhstan.

"Embarrassingly, I've been cut out of the loop, and this is what worries me the most. Tell me about Kazakhstan," Kaparov said.

"A small reconnaissance team of mine ran into a reinforced platoon of Russian Spetznaz in a small village called Kaynar…and a few helicopters. Kaynar is well over one hundred and fifty miles from the Kazakh-Russian border."

"What is the American reaction to the attack?" he said, sensing an impending international disaster.

"None. I'm running this off the books for now, and most of my team survived. Your side is looking at thirty-plus KIA and two downed helicopters. One of them was a Havoc."

"This isn't a joke or some kind of a trick? You've confirmed this?"

"I watched it happen on a live feed. I'm concerned, Alexei. If they're marginalizing you at this point, then we both know where this is headed."

"Straight under the rug," Kaparov added.

"The link back to Russia goes under the rug, and an unknown quantity of virus gets delivered to the United States and Europe, compliments of our radical friends in the Middle East."

"Karl, my hands are tied here right now, but I may be able to push my way back in. I can't threaten exposure or I'll end up in the Moscow River."

"You have to muscle your way back in somehow."

"It won't matter either way. Even if they let me in, I won't have any influence. This will be a joint investigation, involving assets that nobody cares to admit still exist."

"My team is still working this. If your people find Reznikov, it sounds like they'll kill him on the spot. I want a fighting chance to grab him first," Berg said.

"I'm sure they will. Let me put some thought into this. I have a very dangerous idea forming," Kaparov said.

"I like the sound of that. In the meantime, I'll keep you posted on my team's progress. If we work together, we can accomplish both countries' goals and avoid a nightmare. Do you know what type of virus we're up against?"

"Well, you and I have previously discussed what he tried to steal from the lab several years ago," Kaparov said.

"Partially weaponized encephalitis samples?"

"Hmm. Partially," he mumbled, not willing to say everything he had heard recently.

"What am I missing, Alexei?"

"Have you ever heard of the Lithuanian film director Jurgis Meras?"

"No. Dare I ask how this is related?"

"On November 3rd, 1969, Jurgis Meras was found in a park on the outskirts of Vilnius, with his throat slit from ear to ear. He lived with his parents, who disappeared that same night, leaving a ransacked apartment behind. Meras was a popular underground director, who didn't waste his talents producing seditious material like too many others. He stayed off mother Russia's radar for the most part. In early October of '69, one of his films became wildly popular in Vilnius, attracting the wrong kind of attention. According to my sources, the film was named "Ghouls of Vilnius" and it depicted a zombie outbreak. Not surprisingly, Meras was a big fan of American movies and had a sizeable collection of American film magazines to prove it."

"Alexei, I'm sort of following you on this, but I need you to get to the point."

"A lot of people connected to Meras vanished without a trace over the next few days, from Lithuania to Moscow, and it was no secret that the KGB had a hand in it."

"I'm sure he wasn't killed because he violated international copyright laws…"

"Of course not, but word of the movie had spread farther and wider than anyone had expected, and it obviously made somebody very nervous. These were some of the most paranoid times in our history, and our nation's bioweapons program was in full swing.

"Do you know what scientists at VECTOR informally called the weaponized encephalitis virus? Zoja. Zoja is the Russian phonetic military equivalent of your Zulu. I think we are looking at a virus that targets the temporal lobe and causes a rabies-like aggressive behavior. Meras's zombie hit a little too close to home in the Kremlin and triggered a violent response from Lubyanka Square. I'm afraid the government is preparing to do the same with the entire city of Monchegorsk. The initial hospital reports out of Monchegorsk are consistent with this. Starts with a fever and flu-like symptoms, and as the disease destroys the temporal lobe, unpredictable violent behavior ensues. This was the hallmark of certain encephalitis cases."

"This is worse than I imagined. If Al Qaeda is sitting on a stockpile of this stuff, we are all in deep shit, my friend."

"I agree. Unfortunately, I have no eyes on the ground in Monchegorsk, and the analysis of the samples our people brought back from Reznikov's lab is being withheld from me."

"I'm working on a plan to change all of that. I have a sample in the air as we speak, which will be in one of our labs by dawn. I also have a team approaching Monchegorsk. I should have a solid picture of what we're up against by late tomorrow evening my time," Berg said.

"I'll give my idea a shot over here and call you back later this afternoon with some new phone numbers to use. I don't trust anyone at this point. I've come too far along to end up feeding the fish."

"They still have fish in that river?" Berg said.

"The fish are making a comeback. Lots of bodies to keep them fat throughout the winter. I'll be in touch."

Kaparov wondered exactly how robust the FSB Special Operations Division internal security might be and knew exactly who to ask for this information. Then it would be up to Prerovsky. He would have to convince his lady friend to spy on her own people. This might be the biggest long shot he ever played, but it was worth the risk. He had always put mother Russian ahead of his own interests and this instinct had served him well. He wasn't about to make any changes to these guiding principles. He threw the exhausted cigarette stub to the pavement and walked back to the headquarters building, hopeful that Prerovsky wouldn't turn him over to Internal Affairs on the spot.