"Is he speaking Russian? Why would the police use Russian?" said the man holding the beer to the left of Mazari in Indian-accented English.
He had purposely used Russian to add another layer of confusion to the situation. Now these terrorists would be even more stressed about their fate. Russians operating in Germany spelled bad news for a Muslim extremist, though Petrovich had to admit that the beer and pizza scene seemed completely out of place. The three roommates looked distinctly Indian, and all of them looked "soft," especially Mazari. He was at least forty pounds overweight and had an extremely slack look on his face. He looked nothing like any of the criminal element Petrovich had seen in his notorious career. Somehow this guy spent several months training in the hills of Afghanistan?
Klinkman restated his request in English, and Mazari dropped the Xbox controller and moved his hands high.
"I think this is a mistake of some kind…officers?" Mazari said.
"No mistake. Stand up from the couch and walk forward, keeping your hands above your head," Farrington stated.
"Can we just talk about this first? We're all here on work visas," Mazari persisted.
"Can I move?" the man holding the beer bottle said.
His arm was already shaking from keeping the position for several seconds. Petrovich started to get the distinct feeling that Mazari was not their man.
"Nobody moves but Mazari. Stand up and walk toward me slowly, or we'll kill your three friends and grab you ourselves," Farrington said.
"The neighbors won't hear a thing," Petrovich said, aiming the suppressed pistol at the young man to the right of Mazari.
"Dude. Get up from the couch. He's fucking aiming that thing right at my head," the man to Mazari's right said, barely moving his lips.
"You need to go with them," the man frozen over the pizza box piped in.
All of their English was Hindi accented, including Mazari's.
Mazari complied with their request and found himself zip tied with a bag over his head within seconds. He was out the door and on his way down the stairs a few seconds after that, escorted by Klinkman and Hubner.
"What about the rest of them?" Petrovich said, lingering in the doorway to speak with Farrington in private.
"I don't think they pose a threat. Something's off here. Make sure they don't fuck with us. Grab Mazari's laptop," Farrington whispered.
Petrovich was relieved that Farrington had sensed the same incongruity. If Mazari was involved in the plot to ship the virus to the United States, he may have been an unknowing accomplice. Petrovich took a few steps back into the room. They were still frozen in place, which would make his job easier.
"Let me keep this as simple as possible. If you call the police, we will kill your friend and then kill you. We're monitoring all police channels and have another team watching the building. Don't leave your apartment either. You didn't see a badge tonight because there are no badges. Your friend may be involved in something really nasty. Something you want to stay as far away from as possible. Mazari will likely end up floating in the Main River tomorrow…without a head. You do anything to alert the authorities and it'll be a busy day for the Frankfurt central morgue. Understood?"
They all nodded, and he had little doubt that the message was received.
"Does Mazari have a laptop?"
They all nodded, and their eyes shifted toward the counter separating the kitchen from the family room. Four laptops were stuffed onto the crowded Formica counter.
"Get his laptop. Does he have a security token? Something that generates a password?"
"It's on his key chain. In his pocket. Can I put the beer down?"
He grabbed the laptop out of the man's hands, aiming carefully at his head.
"I'd finish the beer first. Remember what I said about ending up in the river."
Petrovich stepped out and closed the door, listening intensely for movement inside. Nothing. Perfect. He sprinted down the stairs to rejoin the team.
Chapter 5
Audra Bauer paced through the "Fishbowl" in the CIA operations center, anxious to hear from Sanderson's team in Germany. Mazari's abduction had gone smoothly. The team hadn't attracted any law enforcement attention grabbing him from the apartment, and they were now on the way to a small, privately accessed home north of Frankfurt. She was always amazed at how easy it was to make someone disappear, especially an enemy of the United States. She couldn't say for sure what would happen to Mazari, but one thing was certain, if he was connected to the virus canisters, he would never taste freedom again.
The operations center's watch officer turned her head and nodded to Bauer.
"The director is inbound. Just passed through ops center security."
"Thank you, Karen. Is Manning with him?"
"No. Just the director."
The last thing she needed was the director watching over her shoulder. Whatever Farrington and Petrovich had in store for Mazari was very likely not on the CIA's menu of acceptable prisoner handling techniques. Then again, the president himself had sanctioned the continued use of these assets to prosecute the leads uncovered in Stockholm, so perhaps a little high-level visibility would help ease some of the tensions in the operations center. She had a full complement of analysts and technicians rotating through the center in twelve-hour shifts. Too many eyes and ears in her opinion. The director's presence during this critical phase might reinforce the fact that this operation came from the very top.
She saw Director Copley's face on one of the screens near the watch officer's station. The watch officer typed a code into a small keyboard, which was immediately followed by a pneumatic hiss from the door cut into the center of the obscured glass wall separating the "fishbowl" from the rest of the operations floor.
"Director Copley, glad you could join us," she said, walking over to meet him.
"No, you're not, but I figured with Berg on a field trip, you could use some extra company. For a few minutes at least," he said.
Berg's mission to retrieve Anatoly Reznikov was a secret shared by very few at this point. The scientist's miraculous survival at the hands of Petrovich and Farrington had been kept offline. As far as she knew, everyone within the operations center thought Reznikov had died in the Stockholm safe house. Petrovich and the attending physician had confirmed his demise to the entire operations center via satellite phone, leaving little doubt that Sanderson's team had killed Reznikov while torturing him for information. Despite the value and importance of the information gained, they were all well aware that the House and Senate Intelligence Oversight Committees were unlikely to sweep aside the methods used to gain the information. She had seen a few tense looks when Farrington announced that they would start Mazari's interrogation in the van, on the way to the safe house. Twelve long minutes had passed since that report.
"What's the status of our team?" Copley asked.
"Sanitary pickup of Mazari. The team is transporting him to the safe house. Interrogation in progress."
Copley nodded. "Good. The team understands the stakes?"
"Without a doubt. This crew works fast. Very efficient," she said, resisting the temptation to look at one of the more nervous analysts.
"So I've heard," Copley said.
"Call coming through from the team in Frankfurt. Speaker or private?" the watch officer announced.
"Speaker," Bauer said.
"You're connected," the watch officer said into her ear microphone.
"I think we have the wrong guy," Farrington's voice said over the line. "Mazari's been crying like a bitch ever since we stuffed him in the van. He says that the frequent travel to Pakistan was to visit his sick grandfather. Congestive heart failure. He traveled back with his cousin on two occasions to visit. He's scheduled to travel again in two weeks, without the cousin. He said that they don't get along very well, mainly because the cousin is…I quote…'pushy with the mosques.' If Mazari's an extremist, he's at the very low end of the totem pole."