He had just driven back to the office after a few hours of sleep in his apartment, to monitor the setup phase of the Monchegorsk operation and help Audra prepare a presentation for the National Clandestine Service director. Based on the intelligence passed to them by Sanderson's team, Audra's presentation could be one of the most important threat assessments delivered in CIA history.
Sanderson's team would cross the Finnish/Russian border at first light tomorrow and proceed on snowmobiles to the outskirts of Monchegorsk. The total distance spanned roughly one hundred and fifty miles of infrequently travelled snowmobile trails. They would avoid the common routes used by recreational snowmobilers out of Finland. Once there, they would watch from a distance and wait for dark to enter the city, which would be a long wait. One hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the sun wouldn't drop below Monchegorsk's horizon until ten in the evening.
Now, everything hinged on the performance of a rogue mercenary team led by two men at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list. The irony wasn't lost on him. The sooner Audra brought everything to the National Clandestine Service's director, the better. This had already spiraled well past his own pay grade, and he suspected Audra had started to overreach her own authority. He called up a screen on his computer and picked up his office phone to dial the number provided for AeroStar Global, the charter company that had provided the aircraft. The call was answered within three seconds.
"Anton Moreau, senior vice president for Client Relations. How may I help you today?" a thickly French-accented voice answered.
"Good afternoon, Anton. I'm calling to check on flight Alpha Sierra 310, which carried one of my clients. I'm concerned that the aircraft may have been diverted, since my client is nearly three hours late."
"Ah, yes. I'm afraid we are still trying to ascertain the status of this flight. It is of quite a concern to us, as I am most sure it is to you. The flight departed Astana, Kazakhstan, on schedule at six in the evening. We lost satellite tracking of the flight over Russia, near Volgograd, less than two hours after takeoff. We're doing everything we can to determine the status of the flight."
"The flight vanished six hours ago?"
"That's when we lost our global satellite connection, which isn't altogether unusual. The flight missed both of its check-ins over Europe, which raised alarms, but the rest of the flight transited over the Atlantic, so we couldn't draw any conclusions. For us, a flight more than one hour late is considered missing. Alpha Sierra 310 was declared missing two hours ago. I apologize that you were not immediately contacted, but the contract instructions denied active contact. We were to wait for you to call us," the extremely polite executive said.
"I understand. What is your company doing to locate the jet?"
"Everything. The aircraft is equipped with the latest generation emergency beacon system, and we are working with national authorities along the route to search for the beacon. Unfortunately, if the aircraft was lost over the water, we are unlikely to ascertain its fate. I can't stress enough how sorry I am. Let us pray for the best."
"Thank you, Anton," he said and hung up the call.
He had his theories, none of which he would be able to conclusively prove at this point. He assumed that the Russians had identified the flight out of Astana and had scrambled fighters to intercept the jet. They had gambled on the quick transit over Russia, from Kazakhstan to the Ukraine. A four hundred mile, thirty minute stretch. They couldn't take the flight south of Russia, since they didn't have clearance to transit Iran's airspace. They could have routed it through Azerbaijan and Georgia to break open onto the Black Sea, but Berg had the feeling the result would have been the same. The Russians had no intention of letting that flight land anywhere. He'd like to think the act was simple revenge for the loss of two helicopters and a platoon of soldiers in Kazakhstan, but he knew it was something more sinister. For some reason, the Russians were hell bent on concealing Reznikov's secret. He wondered if Kaparov knew more than he had been willing to reveal yesterday.
His next call would be to Audra. She had planned to meet him in the Operations Center at nine to examine Edgewood's report, so she would probably be awake at this point. Even if she wasn't, this news couldn't wait. The deliberate targeting of flight Alpha Sierra 310 could very well mean it was time for her to make some difficult phone calls.
Chapter 30
Valeria Cherkasov's eyes fluttered open. She could hear some kind of knocking, but couldn't make any sense of the sound. For a brief moment, she had no idea where she was. The sensory details started to return, beginning with her vision. She was in her apartment, or what remained of it. A fading light crept through the shattered window in her living room, exposing the unbelievable amount of damage done to the apartment. A broken chair from her small kitchen table set lay on the floor under the window.
She smelled the smoky remains of a fire and wasn't surprised when further visual inspection of her surroundings revealed that the kitchen table had collapsed on itself, apparently due to a fire. The flames had cracked the bulb and melted part of the light fixture attached to the ceiling, leaving a massive charred area above the destroyed table. Just beyond the smell of fire was something else. It almost smelled like barbeque.
She now noticed that the room was freezing and that she was shivering. The thin wool blanket covering her on the small couch did little to deter the arctic air that freely poured into the room. Why wasn't she on her bed, under her thick down comforter? She heaved her legs over the side of the couch and stood up. All she could think about was getting under that comforter. She glanced at her hands and saw that they were bruised and scratched, dried blood coagulated in several places around the worst cuts. Walking toward the bedroom, she saw several blood smears on the cinderblock walls. Did I punch the walls? None of this made any sense to her.
When she reached the bedroom doorway, she realized why she was on the couch. The deeply charred wooden bed frame formed a shell around a large burned mass of mattress springs, feathers, pillows and dark unrecognized material. She didn't like the smell in this room. Some kind of combination of charcoal lighter fluid and meat. Disgusting. She stepped back into the first room and her senses homed in on the sound of knocking at her door. How long had that been going on? Shit. That was what woke me in the first place.
She walked over to the door and stared through the peephole, immediately recognizing one of the clinic doctors. She couldn't remember his name, but he was certainly familiar to her. They had dated off and on, until he settled down with a nurse from the hospital. She strained to remember if she knew what had happened to the nurse. She couldn't recall anything. Something was wrong with her detailed memory. She opened the door and registered the look of shock on his face.
"Are you all right, Valeria? I heard that you got out of the hospital. You're lucky you left. Army units showed up and nobody has heard any news from that part of town. What happened to you? You look like you've been attacked."
"I think I need to sit down," she said, straining to remember his name. Nothing.
"That's a good idea," he said, escorting her to the couch.
She wondered what he was doing here. It seemed odd to her that he would show up out of nowhere to check on her. Didn't he have a wife? Or did they ever get married?