Srecko twitched in the seat, wanting to rip the computer from the wall and smash it over the nearest prisoner’s head. He wanted to kill everything in his path, using everything at his disposal. He was wheezing at this point, breathing through his mouth. This travesty of a video was almost finished. The digital time counter in the lower left corner of the screen showed less than ten seconds remaining. He stared at the screen as Zorana suddenly appeared, covered in blood and smiling like nothing had happened.
“Hope you enjoyed the video, Srecko. Josif didn’t get to deliver his lines, but I do like the pattern his brains made on the wall. Very artistic. What do you see when you look at the splatter? Quick. First impression. A butterfly? A waterfall? Do you know what I see? I see a good start. You’re next.”
She kissed the camera lens, leaving a smudge that blurred the screen. A few seconds later, the video ended.
Srecko sat down in his chair and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. He ran his stumpy, mottled hands through his thick silver hair and closed his eyes. One thing was certain. He was going to kill that bitch and her traitorous husband in person. Josif had proposed a plan to get him out of here, which made more sense now than ever before. He’d spend every last penny… every last ounce of his energy, making sure they paid dearly for this.
He pulled a gnarled cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket and gripped it between his lips. He didn’t care if the cells were designated as nonsmoking. Not today. He searched around for matches, but found none. On shaky legs, he rose and searched his pockets, still finding no way to light the cigarette he desperately needed. He crushed the cigarette in his hand and threw it against the wall, fully intending to rip his room apart. Instead, he calmly walked toward the door, opting to ask nicely for a new matchbook from his captors. He would need to be on his best behavior to have any chance of getting out of here.
PART ONE:
GRAY AREA
Chapter 1
Matvey Penkin looked away from the flat-screen monitor on his desk, directing his attention toward the open office door. A bulky man wearing an oversized suit appeared in the doorway, holding a satellite phone. Penkin nodded, and the man approached, reaching across the wide desk to place the phone in his waiting hand. Once the phone was in his grasp, the security guard quietly withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.
Penkin examined the orange, backlit LED screen on the device, not recognizing the number. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had decided against using one of the preassigned satellite phones assigned to their post. A call placed using one of those phones would immediately identify the caller. He checked the back of the phone before answering.
A three-letter code stenciled in white indicated the phone had been set up to receive calls from his territory or operations bosses in Southeast Asia. Given that the Solntsevskaya Bratva hadn’t widely penetrated the area, he had a good idea where the call had originated. Penkin braced for bad news about his special project, strongly suspecting it would be more than another unanticipated delay.
“This better be important,” said Penkin, breathing heavily into the receiver.
A digitally garbled, Russian-speaking voice answered, “Mr. Penkin, time is short, so I’ll get right to the point.”
“Who is this?” said Penkin.
“Never mind that,” snapped the voice. “Your laboratory project in Goa will be destroyed within the hour.”
“By who? You?”
“It doesn’t matter who. All that matters is that it will happen, and no amount of warning or resistance at the site can prevent it. Your only hope of salvaging the project is to discreetly evacuate only key personnel — immediately. I recommend using the river. The roads leading out are most certainly under surveillance.”
Penkin rapidly assessed the information passed by the mystery caller, wondering how much he or she knew about the true nature of his organization’s business at the site. The caller’s purposeful use of the word laboratory combined with the fact that he had somehow coopted one of Penkin’s encrypted satellite phones was unnerving to say the least.
“I need more than a cryptic warning from a garbled voice before I disassemble one of my operations,” said Penkin.
“You don’t have time to disassemble the operation, only to evacuate Dr. Reznikov and key biological samples,” replied the voice.
Penkin sat speechless for a few moments, a surge of adrenaline energizing his nervous system.
“I see.”
“I sincerely hope you do,” said the voice. “It would be a shame to lose one of our national treasures.”
The call disconnected, leaving Penkin puzzled.
Our national treasures?
Who the hell could this possibly be, and why the mystery? He muttered a curse, contemplating his next move. The answer stared him in the face. It was likely no coincidence that the call had been placed on this phone. He pressed and held “1” on the phone’s touch pad, immediately dialing the first preset number. Better safe than sorry. A gravelly voice answered several rings later.
“Yes?”
“Stand by to authenticate identities,” said Penkin, opening the bottom drawer of his desk.
“It’s three in the goddamn morning, Matvey,” the voice griped.
He removed a notebook from the drawer and opened it with one hand while talking. “I’m well aware of the time. Are you ready to authenticate?”
“Hold on,” the voice grumbled, followed by a lengthy pause. “Go ahead.”
Penkin read a ten-digit series of letters and numbers that would be matched on the other end to confirm his identity. A different alphanumeric set was recited back, completing the process. The code changed every month or after each use.
“Code authenticated,” said Valery Zuyev, his most trusted Boyevik, or “warrior.”
“Listen closely, Valery. I just received information suggesting that your site has been compromised. I need you to get Reznikov and the critical specimens out of there immediately. Be very discreet about your departure. The fewer people involved, the better. I’m told the roads may not be safe.”
“Do we have a time frame?”
“Within the hour,” said Penkin.
Zuyev didn’t respond.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m here. Just thinking for a second,” said Valery. “I have a river escape contingency designed for a small group. Essential security personnel only. We can be on the water within five minutes.”
“Good. Put as much distance between the laboratory and Reznikov as possible in the next hour, and whatever you do, avoid all contact with our brotherhood contacts in Goa. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”
“That bad?”
“I don’t know yet. Just get Reznikov out of there. We can’t afford to lose him.”
“I’ll call you when we’re clear,” said Zuyev.
“Good luck,” said Penkin.
Penkin put the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands. He could barely believe this was happening. His fate would be decided within the hour. Or had it already been decided? The only person outside of his own small network of trusted associates who knew anything substantive about the laboratory project in India was Dima Maksimov, head of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. If Maksimov was involved in any way with tonight’s call, he was most assuredly a dead man.