“Has he swiped the card?” Farrington asked.
Grisha turned his head to reply. At first glance in the dim lighting, he didn’t look very different from the men guarding the warehouse complex, giving Farrington pause. He’d made it clear to Viktor that he didn’t want any of the bratva foot soldiers in their makeshift operations center, unless specifically requested. Grisha could pass for a Russian without a question, which made Farrington feel slightly inferior on a mission deep into enemy territory.
Farrington’s straight British lineage was only slightly tempered by traceable Scandinavian roots from his mother’s side of the family near western Lancashire. This combination of genes provided him with little natural Slavic camouflage beyond white skin and brown hair. He felt exposed on the streets posing as a Russian. A feeling not likely to be shared by the rest of the team, except for their sniper, Jared Hoffman, a descendant of German Jews. At least Hoffman looked European, which helped his case. Farrington basically resembled an American when he wasn’t wearing his cheek implants.
“He swiped it once at the main gate, but only half of the file uploaded,” Viktor grumbled.
“Everything’s fine,” Misha said. “The biometric scanner is faster than I expected. High end shit.”
Farrington didn’t like the sound of that. Information provided by Berg’s contact in the FSB confirmed the addition of low-tech security solutions in 2003, when responsibility for Vektor’s security was put in private hands. They had assumed that internal security upgrades would follow suit. Had they made some bad assumptions? Sensing his hesitation, Misha continued to explain.
“Mr. Roskov will pass through at least eight more security points on his way to Building Six. I can’t imagine any scenario in which the remaining kilobytes of virus won’t be transferred…except for one.”
“What?” Grisha said, clearly taken off guard.
“If he decides to turn his car around and head back into town to find the elusive Ms. Reynolds,” he said, pointing his thumb in the general direction of the cots where Erin Foley was sleeping, “we’re shit out of luck.”
Grisha’s earpiece crackled.
“Surveillance team is returning to base. I’ll notify the front gate,” Grisha said, “unless you need me here.”
“I’ll notify the gate,” Farrington said, switching to a whisper. “Let me know if anything goes wrong. I’d hate to think we grabbed the card for nothing.”
“I heard that. I’ll be inside their system before you walk out that door,” Misha said.
“I hope so, or I’m going to stuff you in a DHL package and overnight you as a low-tech version of your Trojan horse virus,” Farrington said.
“Why do I believe him?” Misha said.
“Because I think he’d actually try it as a last resort,” Grisha said.
“I’ll be right back,” Farrington said.
“Hold on. Hold on,” Misha said. “Virus uploaded. He just accessed the main entrance. Look at this. My little baby is already going to work. Three. Two. One.”
The screen to the far right changed to an internal Vektor Laboratories screen.
“Administrator access to Vektor Laboratories’ security system,” Misha said, raising his hand above his head.
Farrington stared at the hand for a few seconds before winking at Grisha and walking away.
“You’re really going to leave me hanging like that? Brutal,” he said, lowering the hand.
“Excellent work, Misha. Does that make you feel more appreciated?” Farrington said, already halfway across the warehouse floor.
“As a matter of fact, it does, though I could do without the sarcasm.”
“File a complaint!” Farrington called back.
“Sorry, Erin, Katie…whoever you are right now,” Farrington said, catching her peeking out of her sleeping bag.
“Please tell me that I touched used condoms last night for a reason,” she said.
“I really don’t know how to respond to that, but if you’re wondering about the security card, the virus uploaded smoothly. We’re in business.”
“I can’t get the image of those three steaming up the car windows out of my head. I’m going to need a psych eval when this is done.”
“Get in line,” he said and disappeared through the door.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned with the rest of the team, locking the door behind them. Grisha had spoken one of their predetermined code words over their communications network, which called for a “private” conversation. Viktor’s people had provided their handheld P25 radios, leaving them with no way to ensure that the encryption protocols hadn’t been compromised. As Farrington crossed the room, passing two tables stacked with weapons and gear, he raised his thumb. On cue, “Seva,” their heavy weapons assault specialist, turned on a portable boom box stereo, which emitted horrible heavy metal music from a local radio station. The entire team stood around Misha at the computer station.
“We have a problem,” Grisha said.
“The basement of Building Six is protected by a fingerprint scanner. I can’t bypass this security protocol. The system is self-contained and can only be accessed directly at the scanner station. Very secure,” Misha said.
“Basement? Reznikov said the bioweapons lab was located on the top floor. Motherfucker. Berg’s guy didn’t cough up anything about this either,” Farrington said.
“Berg’s information is pretty detailed, but the most recent update in that file is dated October 2006. They must have moved it into the basement within the past two years,” said Sasha, the youngest member of the assault team.
“Damn it. Can we change plans and just blow the building? Cause it to collapse on itself? Burn it up? I know we’ve been over this, but…” Farrington said.
Seva shook his head. “Reznikov was right. Based on my interpretation of the original schematics, we’d need a Timothy McVeigh-sized explosion to obliterate the building. Even then, I couldn’t guarantee they would be out of business. We need to get inside the lab. The best I can do with what we have on hand is hopefully breach the door. It would get us inside.”
“And alert every security guard on the property,” Farrington said. “We can’t fight off ex-special forces and destroy the lab at the same time.”
“We can, but—” Grisha started.
“But we’d kill any hope of getting out of Vektor with a head start,” Farrington cut in, “if we made it out at all. As it stands, we’re not looking at a big margin of time before police units arrive. Once news of the attack hits the police and government airwaves, anyone with a badge and a car will be headed in our direction. We need to come up with a less explosive backup plan.”
“Or a finger. Maybe a whole hand,” Foley interjected.
Farrington turned his head to stare at her.
“What? We’re planning to kill the three scientists running the program. Why not take one of their hands? Or both,” she said, chewing on an energy bar.
Misha shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The scanner model indicated by security schematics combines a few biometric features. First, it takes an ultrasound picture of the finger and matches it with an internal database. Then, it measures temperature—”
“We can keep the hand at body temperature somehow,” Grisha interrupted.
“Right. But this system measures and averages the temperature readings taken for a specific individual since its installation. Our hand donor might have peripheral vascular disease or diabetes, causing a reduction of blood flow to the extremities, or something simple, like the flu. The system accounts for the fact that not everyone’s hand is going to average out to 98.6 degrees. Ever shake hands with someone whose hands are always cold?”