Black Flagged Redux

Chapter 3





6:45 AM

Strigino Airport

Nizhny Novgorod, Russian Federation





Anatoly Reznikov squeezed the armrest tightly as the Hawker 800 business jet floated above the runway for two seconds, then abruptly dropped onto its landing gear. He felt the airbrakes decelerate the sixteen-thousand-pound aircraft from one hundred and sixty miles per hour to less than twenty in fewer than five seconds, pressing his abdomen uncomfortably against the lap belt. It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced, but he understood why the pilots had chosen to sacrifice comfort on this particular approach.

Cross winds from a massive storm system north of Nizhny Novgorod had plagued the small aircraft since the pilots started their decent, and had intensified as they lined up with the runway. Reznikov had considered requesting that the pilots divert the flight to a different airport, but his arrangements for a hassle-free transfer had been made for Strigino Airport and couldn't be guaranteed anywhere else. He was carrying a suppressed pistol and two stainless steel cooling cylinders, a combination of items unlikely to pass through even the most cursory security checks typically associated with private business travelers, especially if special monetary arrangements were not already in place.

The aircraft slowed further, and Anatoly loosened his safety belt. The first person he expected to see upon exiting was Gennady. The man had already been paid half of a very generous fee to personally ensure Anatoly's uncomplicated transfer to a rental car. He had met Gennady once before, immediately prior to arriving in Kazakhstan to begin work for his former "friends." Knowing that he would not be theoretically allowed to leave the laboratory site again until the work was completed, he had made all of these arrangements in advance. All Gennady needed was a phone call, and he could have a business jet flown from Novosibirsk to Semey within four hours, all at considerable cost, of course, which was why Anatoly expected to see Gennady himself personally standing at the bottom of the Hawker's cabin door stairs. Gennady's absence would signify a considerable problem, one that could only be solved with the pistol readily accessible in his black backpack.

He glanced through the rain-splashed cabin window at the scene unfolding on the edge of the runway. The private terminal area loomed ahead, and shadows of the runway crew hurried through sheets of rain to prepare for the jet's arrival. The shiny concrete was illuminated by massive terminal lights, which dimmed with each passing rain squall. The sun had risen a half hour earlier, but the heavy rain clouds shielded the airport from any signs of dawn. Now that the aircraft was still, he could hear the rain pummeling the aircraft's thin metal shell and feel the wind buffeting the aircraft's frame.

After a few minutes, the jet moved forward into its final position in front of the terminal and stopped. Waiting at a safe distance, several airport personnel converged on the aircraft, disappearing underneath the cabin. He heard the usual assortment of sounds associated with post-flight maintenance and spotted a fuel truck speeding toward the aircraft. The jet would undoubtedly be back in the sky within the hour, headed toward its next thirty-thousand-dollar passenger. It was money well spent on his account. The flight had put him within a reasonable three-day driving range of his target. Unfortunately, his budget didn't allow for another flight like this one, or he would have flown all the way to St. Petersburg. From St. Petersburg, he'd face an easy, one-day drive to the Kola Peninsula.

One of the pilots stepped back into the cabin. "Sorry about the landing. I wanted to get this thing down as quickly as possible in those winds. We'll have you on your way in a few minutes. Feel free to empty the minibar. The company stocks premium liquor, and it's a little known secret that everything is included in the price of the flight," he said, tipping his pilot cap.

"Thank you. I think I might take a few bottles for the road."

Reznikov unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way over to the minibar near the front of the cabin. Upon opening the small refrigerator, he smiled. Indeed, they’d spared no expense with the liquor selection. He placed several miniature bottles of vodka in the side pockets of his backpack and secured the straps. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.

"Don't forget to take this. Glen Ord, thirty year, single malt. $300 a bottle," the pilot said, pulling a bottle out of the cabinet above the minibar.

"Now I understand the cost of the flight," he said, accepting the bottle and then handing it back. "I never developed a taste for Scotch. Vodka is my poison."

"A true Russian. Not many of us left these days. In that case, try this instead. I like to make these bottles disappear from time to time."

He reached into the cabinet and removed a bottle of Rodnik Vodka, which Anatoly knew for a fact would cost nearly $500.

"If I flew this jet, they would all go missing. Many thanks, comrade. I have the perfect occasion in mind for this bottle.”

"Ground is ready for you to disembark, Mr. Pavlenko," the co-pilot said, sticking his head into the doorway.

The pilot turned to the door and pulled a small handle to the left, breaking the door's airtight seal. Reznikov watched him lower the door, which served as the staircase, slowly to the tarmac. A gust of wind whipped rain inside the cabin, and Reznikov hiked the backpack over his shoulders. He stepped forward and saw Gennady standing at the bottom of the stairs struggling to hold an umbrella, a useless gesture given the sideways rain. It was a good sign, nonetheless. The money paid to Gennady had left an impression. Wasting no time, he walked down the stairs.

"Put that ridiculous thing away, and help me with my bag."

"Your bag is already taken care of," he said.

"Then, let's get the f*ck out of this rain," Reznikov said, still holding the vodka bottle as Gennady led him to a door reserved for "special" customers.

Once inside the door, Gennady turned to Reznikov with a worried look. They stood in an abandoned, poorly lit reception area outfitted with a couch and table set. The room opened into a hallway that led further into the terminal and likely emptied into a discreet area where certain customers could disappear without any official fanfare.

"We have a problem. Two gentlemen arrived about an hour ago asking questions about you. They had basic flight information and used the name Reznikov."

"Russian?"

"Barely. I'd guess Chechen by the looks of them. Filthy, dark-skinned Muslim mongrels. Out of Moscow probably. They had rough details and a picture of you. Unfortunately, they were spreading money around, and people here were talking."

"So much for a private terminal," Reznikov said.

"The money was just a formality. Everyone here knows what they are, and nobody wants to be dragged out behind the terminal for a private conversation," he said.

"Where are they now?"

"Waiting inside the terminal for you," Gennady said.

"Where is my car?"

"Already checked out and waiting for you in the private parking lot."

"I need you to do something for me. I want you to tell them where my car is and suggest that they wait for me in the parking lot."

"Are you crazy?"

"Just do what I say, then get back to Novosibirsk."

"I don't like the sound of this. I don't need the Chechens on my ass. And what about the rest of my payment?" he said.

"I can transfer the rest to you in Novosibirsk, or you can collect it here…but only after you convince the men to wait for me in the parking lot," Anatoly said.

"I don't like this."

"Then don't get paid. It's your choice."

"I need a kicker for doing this. F*cking with these people is serious business," Gennady said, "and you never mentioned they were involved."

"They weren't. This is a simple job for them, nothing more. You'll be fine."

"I'm not f*cking with them unless you double the remaining fee," Gennady said.

"Double? I'll give you one and a half times the remaining fee," Reznikov said.

"You have it here?"

"Yes. You'll get it after I deal with these guys. I have your cell phone number. I'll call you when it's done and I’ll drive around to the terminal to meet you," Reznikov said.

"You better not f*ck me over on this," he said.

"Gennady, this has all gone very smoothly so far. I've paid you as agreed, and you've delivered the goods. I just need you to help me get out of here. You'll get your money, and then you can disappear to Novosibirsk. It's a win-win situation. No blood on your hands."

"We'll see about that. I'll call you when they're on their way to the parking lot. Until then, stay right here," he said and walked briskly down the hallway.

When Gennady closed the door, Reznikov took the suppressed GSh-18 pistol out of his backpack and thumbed the safety off, sliding it back into the cushioned compartment normally reserved for a laptop. He would need to access the pistol quickly. He removed a second eighteen-round magazine from a smaller compartment on the backpack, and stuffed this into one of his coat pockets. He left the top of the backpack open and stood up, straightening his coat. He walked down the hallway to the same door used by Gennady a few minutes earlier and opened it.

He found himself in a sparsely furnished, windowless office with an access door to the outside. The room's only source of light came from a small, translucent window on the door, which barely cast enough light to see into the furthest reaches of the room. Fresh rain pooled on the floor just inside the door, and he could hear the rain drive against the outside walls. If Gennady betrayed him, they would come for him through this doorway. There would be too many witnesses on the tarmac for the men to enter through the runway door.

He closed the door leading back into the hallway and positioned himself behind the desk, which sat in the darkest corner of the room to the right of the hallway door. He kneeled down below the top of the desk and took out his cell phone, switching it to vibrate. After returning the phone to an inside pocket, he reached into the backpack and withdrew the semi-automatic pistol, holding it steady in his right hand.

Five minutes later, his phone buzzed. After the third extended vibration from his coat pocket, he heard a crash beyond the hallway door and was glad he had trusted his instinct regarding Gennady. He knew the man wouldn't have the balls to go through with his plan. He wondered if Gennady had intentionally turned on him, or if the Chechens had simply given him no choice. Either way, it didn't matter. If the men sent to the airport were indeed Chechen mafia, then Gennady couldn't return to Novosibirsk.

The sudden appearance of the Chechens meant one thing to Reznikov: Al Qaeda had quickly discovered that he'd escaped from Kazakhstan, and they desperately wanted him dead. He could understand why. He had left their makeshift laboratory eight hours ago, with two self-cooled cylinders that they had fully intended to recover upon his execution. Now, he was on the run with enough virus capsules to poison two cities, and Al Qaeda had no idea what he planned to do next.

He'd overheard enough to know that Al Qaeda planned to strike several European cities with the virus, and he'd been fortunate to memorize several addresses where containers would be received and held for a coordinated attack. He wasn't sure how he could use this information, but was certain that it would hold some value if he was ever captured. He'd also heard plans for shipping the virus overseas to the United States, through a medical supply distribution company in Germany.

It all added up to a major attack on the West by Al Qaeda, which is why they wanted him dead. The last thing they needed was for Reznikov to release the virus first, putting the World Health Organization and every other major international health ministry on high alert for further attacks. The capsules were specifically designed to poison municipal water supplies, and an isolated attack would lock down every water facility throughout the world, leaving Al Qaeda with few viable deployment options for their virus.

He didn't care one way or the other whether Al Qaeda succeeded with their plans. He had a specific target for his own virus capsules and that was all that mattered. If he could escape from the airport, he'd be at his target city within three days. Less than a week after that, the Russian government would watch helplessly as the city of Monchegorsk was put out of its misery.

He heard voices muttering from the hallway, and bright beams of light penetrated the privacy glass on the hallway door. The lights suddenly disappeared and everything became still again. He watched the doorknob closely, barely poking his head over the desk. The doorknob reflected some of the light from the outside door, and after a few seconds he was certain that it had turned. He ducked his head quickly, a fraction of a second before the door crashed open, slamming against the wall and cracking the inset glass window.

Footsteps filled the room and bright lights swept the walls and corners. He prayed that his head was far enough below the lip of the desk to remain unseen by the light focused on his corner. He tensed and prepared to make the first move, expecting bullets to rip through the desk at any moment. He started to lift the pistol upward when the light above his desk vanished and a grim voice sounded out in the darkness.

"He's not here either. What the f*ck are you trying to pull on us?"

Gennady answered them timidly. "I told him to wait back there. Don't worry. He can't go far. He doesn't have the keys to the rental or his luggage. We'll find him," he said, and Anatoly heard a key chain jingling.

"You're not finding anyone," one of the men said.

The comment was followed by a deafening gunshot, which spurred Reznikov into action. He rose swiftly, extending the suppressed pistol forward with two hands, and repeatedly squeezed the trigger. Each flash from the suppressor showed a progressively macabre scene, as he fired into the center of each briefly illuminated figure, alternating back and forth between the two men until the slide of his pistol locked back. By the time he realized that the pistol's magazine was empty, the two men started sliding down the opposite wall, leaving dark, glistening trails of gore. He didn't hear a grunt or groan from either of the two men, as their bodies slumped to the floor.

He changed pistol magazines and walked over to Gennady's body, using one of the dropped flashlights to illuminate the man's face. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, and a single red dot on his forehead trickled blood down the side of his temple. Reznikov turned the flashlight on his body and located the keys to his rental car. Now, he just needed to figure out where to find his baggage, and he could be on his way.

With Gennady dead, the rental car would be untraceable. Gennady had rented the car in Moscow, using false paperwork, and driven it to Nizhny Novgorod himself earlier today. He looked down at the man again and shook his head. He'd hoped to kill the traitor himself, but maybe this would work out for the better. By the time the police straightened out this mess, if they ever did, the world would be different place.