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 fuck 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."