Batista leaned his face into the computer screen.
"Check this out. Translation of what El-Masri just screamed: 'Hassan will shit the addresses down your throat.' Do you think Hassan ate the address list?"
Luke spun in his chair and read the screen. The translation software was a top-shelf program, leaving little to question about the substance of El-Masri's comment. He typed a few search strings into his own computer, looking for context. A few seconds later, he contacted Hubner.
"Fritz, El-Masri just screamed…and I quote, 'Hassan will shit the addresses down your throat.' I think he may have eaten the list. I can't find any Arab insults specific to defecation. This may have been a literal comment," Luke said.
"Only one way to find out," Hubner said.
The channel went silent, but they could all hear the verbal exchanges through Akhnaten's hijacked cell phone.
"Did Hassan eat the list?" they heard Hubner ask.
The van remained silent for a few seconds. None of them could see the response from Hassan or El-Masri, but judging by Petrovich's sinister laugh, Luke was very glad that they had stopped the webcam feed. He just hoped they would show some mercy and kill Hassan before they started cutting him open.
Chapter 7
Karl Berg drummed his fingers on the top of his armrest, staring at Anatoly Reznikov. The scientist sat upright in a hospital bed, his wrists and ankles restrained by thick plastic straps bolted to the metal bed. Two IV drips hung over his right shoulder, clipped into the bed so they wouldn't roll with the movement of the Gulfstream V. A portable diagnostic machine and defibrillator had been attached to the cabin near the foot of his bed, monitoring his vitals. A Langley physician sat in the row nearest to Reznikov, keeping an eye on the man's pulse and occasionally checking his blood pressure. Reznikov was in poor shape to travel, but Berg wanted get him out of Sweden as soon as possible. Russian intelligence services were extremely well connected in the northern countries of Europe, and he couldn't take any risks that could connect the U.S. to his abduction.
Part of him wished the Swedish doctor hadn't managed to revive the scientist. Reznikov had enabled terrorists to pursue one of the most twisted conspiracies in recent human history, all for his own gain. According to his most recent conversation with Audra, U.S. authorities had made little progress in their efforts to recover the virus canisters. If released by Al Qaeda, or whoever planned to use them, dozens of U.S. cities would suffer the same fate as the Russian city, Monchegorsk. Another reason to jettison Reznikov over the Atlantic and be done with him. The thought of U.S. taxpayers footing the bill to keep this psychopath alive didn't sit well with him, but for some odd reason, he couldn't order the man's execution. Berg couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Reznikov's story, and he intended to hear the rest of it before putting this mad Russian down.
"No drink service on an agency plane?" said the woman sitting diagonally across from him.
"Agency policy," he said and paused before continuing. "But I've been known to violate procedure from time to time."
He pulled his dark brown leather satchel down from the overhead compartment and unlatched the thick straps holding the cover flap securely in place. He reached in and raised a bottle of light brown liquid from the depths of the leather sanctuary.
"I hope you don't mind expensive whiskey."
"I'd drink moonshine at this point. It's been a long twenty-four hours floating around Stockholm like a refugee."
He studied Erin Foley's features for a moment. Her straight shoulder-length hair showed signs of waviness. He imagined she spent a significant part of her morning flattening and styling her uncooperative blond locks. She was attractive, in her early thirties, with soft facial features that wouldn't draw second look on the streets of Stockholm, or any Scandinavian city. Exactly what the CIA looked for in an active operative. No second glances. She'd been silent until now, which had suited Berg fine. The last thing he needed on this flight was a chatterbox. This one displayed a reserve he admired, especially given the bragging rights she had earned.
"Sorry about that, but we couldn't leave you in circulation. Not after you killed a Zaslon. The Russians will put this one together pretty quickly. He was the only one knifed on the street. It screams CIA," Berg said, removing two short crystal tumblers from a compartment along the aircraft's inner hull.
"I can't imagine the Russians could hold any leverage over us. It would put them in an awkward position," she replied, eyeing the glasses.
"Very awkward, but the Zaslon group is different. They won't let this one go so easily. Your image was recorded on at least two security cameras leaving Bondegatan Street. If you had stayed in Stockholm, they would have found you," he said.
Berg poured two fingers of the whiskey into each tumbler and set the bottle on the seat next to him. He handed her one of the glasses and raised his own for a toast.
"To a job exceptionally well done."
She raised her eyebrow at the toast, and the two glasses clinked together. She downed half of her tumbler in one swallow, showing no sign of the whiskey burning her throat on the way down. She stared at the drink, clearly contemplating doing the same with the rest of it.
"You do realize that you just fired down one of the finest whiskeys ever made. This particular single pot still was distilled at the B-Daly Distillery in Tullamore, which closed a long time ago. Not many bottles of this lying around anymore," he said, taking a measured sip.
She raised the glass again and threw back the rest of her $200 drink before staring out of the window into the darkness. "Sorry. I never really acquired the taste."
Berg could see that she had finally realized what this plane ride back to the states meant for her career.
"You're not the first field agent to suddenly change career tracks. It's not an easy pill to swallow, but most covert agents find themselves sent home for mundane reasons. Blown cover, a misspoken word to the wrong foreign national…not many are sent home for taking out a Zaslon operative. You could have walked away from that street. Your job was done."
"I didn't see it that way," she said, placing her glass back down on Berg's faux wooden seat tray.
He poured her another drink and leaned back in his seat.
"I guess we got lucky. The one black-ops trained agent assigned to the Stockholm embassy finds herself in the middle of the blackest op in recent history. Drinks are on me," he said and raised his glass again.
"I'll take one of those," boomed a Russian speaking voice.
"Looks like our friend is awake. Please excuse me for a moment," Berg said.
The doctor barely glanced at Reznikov's vitals as Berg made his way down the cramped aisle. The scientist pulled at his restraints a few times and smiled.
"Where could I possibly go? This is uncivil," he said.
"I wanted to make it easier to wheel you out of the door over the Atlantic," Berg replied, dusting off his fluent Russian.
"Such harsh treatment at the hands of my new friends. I assume we are friends?"
Berg shook his head, wondering if the doctor would protest if he slammed his fist down on Reznikov's stomach.
"How's my new friend looking?" he said to the doctor instead.
The gray-haired, tired-looking physician opened a small black notebook and looked up at him. "He appears stable. His heart's electrophysiology is back to normal, though I wouldn't recommend giving him a drink. I predict a successful delivery."