"The traffic won't matter getting to the target location. I'm more concerned with extraction. We have orders to try and remove the target, if feasible. Either way, we won't be returning to this apartment. Control has given us a location north of the city in a rural location," Eristov said.
"I know it well," Solomin said.
"Then you should try your best to forget about it," Captain Rusnak said.
"Understood," Solomin said.
Eristov regarded Solomin with caution. The fact that Directorate S trusted him to be in the same room with Zaslon operatives had spoken volumes about the operative, but his participation would go no further than helping them with the last second routing and staying behind to sanitize the apartment. He had already fielded a few questions about Solomin's fate from members of the team, none of whom would have been surprised if Eristov had told them he would be killed and stuffed into the bathtub. Zaslon operatives didn't exist according to Moscow.
Most of them had ceased to exist on the active SVR rosters within the past ten years, and despite the fact that they were assigned military ranks, the ranks were meaningless in the traditional military sense. For the Zaslon operatives, ranks were determined by time in service and operational experience, which translated into a meritocracy-based leadership structure.
They had all served with various military and SVR Spetznaz units prior to their assignment to Zaslon, but Major Eristov didn't hold a university degree or family connections over Sergeant Arkady Greshnev, who sat on the couch sharpening a small knife. Seven years of operational experience separated the two men, which signified a world of difference as an "illegal" operative living abroad.
"We'll sleep in shifts determined by vehicle assignment. The call could come at any time. From what I understand, they're close to making a connection," Eristov said.
"I'll keep the coffee going all night," Solomin said.
"No sleep for the wicked," Zhukov added.
Wicked indeed, Eristov thought. The men gathered in this apartment had been chosen carefully for Zaslon. Life abroad as an "illegal" required a unique psychological profile that would leave most behavioral health professionals stunned. Unlike the KGB "illegals" of the Cold War era, who melted into their surroundings and remained inactive for decades, Moscow had higher expectations for the newer breed. Candidates were carefully screened for the mental resilience required to live under a false identity and the moral flexibility necessary to carry out Moscow's orders.
Eristov had operated in Poland for fourteen years and had spent most of his time tracking and watching industrial sector contacts, both Russian and foreign. A considerable amount of time was spent on the surveillance of Russian business contacts. Several times a year, he participated in an operation similar to this one, but never with this many operatives.
He never received any specifics regarding the target’s background, and like every mission prior to this, he wasn't told why the target needed to disappear. He suspected that Reznikov was significantly more important to Moscow than the rest of the targets Eristov had been assigned in the past. Reznikov had been assigned "capture/kill" status, which was rare. Most of them were designated "kill," but for some reason, Moscow wanted them to try and bring this one back. This made Eristov feel better about their mission. Lately, he had grown weary of assassinating businessmen that had somehow aggravated the wrong billionaire crony in Moscow.
"Make sure the drivers are familiar with the major routes and have their GPS systems programmed with several waypoints. Solomin will help them determine points within several neighborhoods, along multiple routes. We'll fine tune the routes on the way to the target," he said and slapped Captain Rusnak on the back.
"Ruslan, Greshnev, let's take another look at this map, eh?" Captain Rusnak said.
Greshnev slid his knife back into a small sheath along his ankle, hidden under his brown corduroy pants, and stood up from the couch with Sergeant Ruslan Ekel. Ekel would drive the Mercedes Benz Sprinter van that would transport Reznikov north of the city. He would also provide over watch support during the assault team's breach of the residence. Greshnev would drive the Volkswagen Passat that carried the assault team.
The van would arrive first and deposit the support team at various locations along the street. Once the van was parked, the Passat would bring the assault team as close to the residence's primary entrance as possible. They would all attempt to park legally if possible, double parking only if necessary. They wanted to avoid drawing any law enforcement attention to the location, though the support team was equipped with non-lethal means to deal with limited police interference. Ultimately, it would be Rusnak's call regarding how the support team responded on the street, to either civilian or police interference. Moscow had made one thing clear. They should let nothing stand in the way of success on this mission.
Chapter 45
Jeffrey Munoz closed the door behind the doctor and walked back to Jessica, who had propped her arm up on the couch. Her eyes looked glassy from the sedatives and local anesthetic used to keep her from jumping off the portable medical table. Sanderson had arranged for a team of medical specialists to treat her superficial injuries, but most importantly, to repair Jessica's left hand. They had done most of the work yesterday, and from what the doctor could tell, she would regain full, unrestricted use of the hand.
The indirect shotgun blast had mangled three of her fingers, bending them at odd angles and stripping away a considerable amount of skin. Luckily, most of the raw material needed to reset the fingers and close up the wounds was still present. The finished work wouldn't be pretty, especially without sophisticated skin grafting and plastic surgery, but it would suffice for the moment. Once Sanderson stabilized the situation, Jessica could seek further medical treatment at a private reconstructive surgery center. Her hand was wrapped in several layers of bandages and gauze, which the doctor would change regularly over the course of the following week, while checking on the hand's progress.
Jessica had been unusually quiet since they arrived at the private house, far north of the downtown area. Munoz would have preferred getting further out of Buenos Aires, but Jessica's hand was in bad shape and the injury to her neck looked frightening up close. Driving their minivan into the gated courtyard of this house had been a blessing in disguise for all of them. They had desperately needed somewhere to stop and regroup their thoughts.
Now it appeared that they would spend the next week here with Jessica. At least she had apologized repeatedly before being hit with the sedatives. She hadn't been too coherent since the surgery, rambling on about nothing he cared to hear about and insisting on calling her husband. What choice did he have but to listen to her? They were trapped in this house, and he had no intention of letting her out of his sights. He especially had no intention of letting her use a phone to call Daniel.
Sanderson had been specific about that, so he had disconnected the landlines and enabled passwords on their cell phones. He didn't trust Jessica any further than he could throw her and wouldn't be surprised to find out that she was pretending to be wacked out on painkillers. He'd removed every possible weapon, with the exception of the table legs and remote controls. He considered zip tying her legs together; to discourage an escape attempt, but Sanderson had made it clear that she was not to be restrained. For now, he just needed to make sure she didn't vanish.