“I’ve been told to stand by for further direction,” Kaparov said, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course,” Prerovsky said.
“Look on the bright side, Yuri. When they find Reznikov, service commendations and medals will shower the division. We should celebrate. Drinks are on me tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan, as long as your idea of drinks on the town doesn’t involve a park bench,” Prerovsky said.
“Of course not. I only drink on park benches during weekend afternoons.” Kaparov laughed. “If you’d give me some privacy, I need to make a quick phone call. Business-related. Overseas.”
“Yes. I’ll be right outside. Can I start sending agents home, or are we in here for the night?”
“Start cutting people loose at seven. I want the entire department back on deck by five in the morning.”
“Understood,” he said and departed, leaving Kaparov alone in the office.
Kaparov pulled a cell phone from his briefcase and dialed the number Karl Berg had given him, which bounced his call from a legitimate Moscow number to the CIA officer’s cell phone. All he had to do was speak a four-word phrase to activate the transfer. Otherwise, the phone would continue to ring at the ghost location somewhere in Moscow. The call rang long enough for Kaparov to wonder if Berg had finally abandoned him. When the CIA officer answered, Kaparov could tell by his voice that something wasn’t right.
“I’m glad you called. We lost him,” Berg said, sounding tired.
“Lost who?” Kaparov said, hoping he didn’t mean Reznikov.
“I can’t spell it out on the phone. Science type.”
Kaparov tried to process what Berg had just said, but was having a hard time closing the loop in his mind. He couldn’t imagine any scenario in which the CIA simply lost one of the most dangerous people on the planet.
“What do you mean by lost? I thought he was in one of your most secure locations, which I assumed to be a dark cell, deep under the fucking ground? Better yet, why isn’t he dead?”
“It’s complicated. He was in a very secure location,” Berg said.
“Obviously not secure enough. Dare I ask what happened?” He quickly lit another cigarette, noting that there were not enough Troikas remaining in the pack to calm him down from what he had just been told.
“The compound was hit by a small army right after I arrived. I escaped with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. The rest weren’t so lucky. We lost fourteen men trying to stop them,” Berg said.
“How the fuck did this happen? I told you to be careful with him. He’s not to be underestimated.”
“We couldn’t have pulled off the raid without his help. We had to make some concessions to keep the information flowing, but we were extremely careful. I can’t for the life of me imagine how he pulled this off.”
“This information couldn’t come at a worse time. I’ve just been asked to reopen his fucking file! They’re going to blame him for the recent events, including the one you just pulled off,” Kaparov hissed.
“They can’t. How could they possibly pull that off at this point?”
“Shall I march into the Kremlin and demand an explanation?”
“I don’t know what to say. This is an utter disaster on both ends,” Berg said.
“Disaster is an understatement. It appears that we will have to hunt him down for real. I just need to find some credible leads before they cough up a body to satisfy the world,” Kaparov said.
“I’ll do everything I can to help you with that. This is my responsibility.”
“You can start by pointing me in the right direction. Do you have any idea who was responsible?”
Another long pause ignited Kaparov’s suspicion that he wouldn’t get the full story.
“We took down three of the shooters. Tattooing suggests army Spetznaz and a possible bratva connection,” Berg said finally.
“Let’s just hope there is no connection to the latter group.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a distinct possibility. We contracted with some of their assets to make certain logistical arrangements,” Berg said in a defeated voice.
“You have no idea what you’ve unleashed. This is the worst-case scenario. I’ll need to see every detail you can provide. You can no longer keep anything from me. Is that understood? At the very least, I have to prove he is still alive before my government produces a corpse and shuts down my investigation,” Kaparov said.
“I didn’t tell you about the bratva because I wanted to keep the information compartmentalized, given what was happening in and around your office.”
“If I had known they were involved, I would have told you to cut your ties immediately, even if it meant shutting down the mission. You have unwittingly made the world a much more dangerous place. I’ll call you tomorrow to set up an arrangement to receive any information you have on our friend. This changes everything. I have to go…oh, I hope your shoulder is all right. Goodbye,” he said and hung up.
“Prerovsky!”
Kaparov’s assistant deputy burst into the room with an alarmed look, which immediately turned to confusion. “I thought you might have finally caught fire in the mess,” he joked.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Shut the door and take a seat.”
“This doesn’t sound good. Is the celebration cancelled?” he said, following Kaparov’s instructions.
“The celebration is cancelled, but I still plan on drinking myself into a coma, and after you hear what I’ve just learned, you’ll want to do the same,” Kaparov said.
Epilogue
The smell of diesel fuel and industrial disinfectant permeated the air, sticking to his clothes and saturating his hair. Even his skin reeked of it. Six days hidden away in a cramped cabin aboard a Liberian flagged container ship hadn’t exactly been what he had envisioned for his first week of freedom. His dreams of booze and prostitutes, compliments of his new Solntsevskaya friends, had been replaced by strict house arrest under the watchful eyes of three stern-faced commandos, who continued to remind him that they lost three of their comrades because of him.
Fucking babies, he thought. They should be celebrating. Now they had more money to split among themselves. He guessed they were too stupid to do basic math. To add insult to injury, the quack doctor hired to examine him in Halifax had insisted that he avoid excessive alcohol consumption throughout the healing process, which his “captors” had interpreted to mean no alcohol at all. How was he supposed to heal without drinking? None of it made any sense.
He stood up and glanced at his watch. The ship had slowed several minutes ago, on their approach to the port. He had been assured by the ship’s captain, who was well aligned with the Solntsevskaya Bratva, that he would be free to move about on his own once they cleared customs and spirited him off the ship to a waiting van. He apologized for the second-class treatment, saying that the instructions for his transit had been clear. He was to avoid contact with members of the crew, who could only be trusted as far as their paychecks lasted.
The Port of Cartagena had a bad reputation for draining a sailor’s wallet, and despite the bratva’s influence throughout the dock area frequented by ship crews, the Americans had no problem throwing money around through their proxies. They needed to get Reznikov as far from the port area as possible. He was still highly recognizable at this point, thanks to Karl Berg.
He turned to face a small square mirror fixed to the bulkhead by two metal clamps. The dirty surface revealed a gaunt, slightly jaundiced face covered in stubble. His left cheek was buried under a large, dingy medical dressing that ran from the edge of his mouth to his ear. He gently pulled the gauze tape from his chin and lifted the bandage to expose Berg’s handiwork. A long, jagged red scar extended across most of his cheek, the skin still held together by black stitches.