Black Flagged Apex by Steven Konkoly Page A

less expensive and wouldn't leave me with a bad taste in my mouth," Berg said.
    "You can't torture that level of detail out of me, and you'll want the details. I can deliver the entire program. The major players, the facility, history, current programs…everything. All I ask in return is a comfortable place to live out my remaining years and access to vodka. Good vodka, not the cheap shit. I've always wanted to live in the mountains."
    Berg noticed that Reznikov's heart rate had almost returned to normal, which struck him as pure irony given the fact that he could feel his own heart through his throat. This confirmed what one of the Edgewood scientists had suspected, but only hinted about. There was no way that Reznikov had genetically modified basic encephalitis samples in a makeshift laboratory on Kazakhstan soil. The laboratory site discovered in the middle of the former Semipalatinsk nuclear testing grounds had been used to grow a virus Reznikov had stolen from VEKTOR. No wonder the Russians seemed willing to stop at nothing to kill Reznikov and keep samples of the virus out of western hands.
    Berg suddenly felt exposed in the private jet. The Russians hadn't hesitated to shoot down the last private CIA charter to depart for the United States. He fought the urge to look out of the small oval window over Reznikov's head. They were as safe as possible over the United Kingdom, escorted by two Royal Air Force Typhoon fighter jets. The high-performance fighter aircraft would accompany them as far as possible over the Atlantic, before returning to their base. They would fly unescorted for several hundred miles until met by a pair of F-15 Strike Eagles launched from Langley Air Force base.
    He looked down at Reznikov, who wore a smug look on his pale face, wondering if they could torture this out of him. He certainly deserved to endure some serious discomfort for engineering the tragedy in Monchegorsk and exposing the rest of the world to his madness. Unfortunately, Reznikov was right about the details. Just knowing the basics about the Russian bioweapons program wouldn't be enough. They needed actionable intelligence, the kind of information that would require a comfortable setting and legal assurances.
    "I have an idea that might agree with you," he muttered.
    "No prison cells," Reznikov stated.
    "No. This is a very different kind of place. More of a house arrest type of situation with a view. Small population. Clean air. If I swing this, you have to give me everything."
    "You might not want to hear everything. How about that drink? Vodka is more of my drink, but I'm not feeling picky right now," Reznikov said.
    "Sorry. I need to deliver you alive. Doctor's orders. Plus, I have no intention of sitting here and putting a cup to your lips like you're a nursing home patient. If the right people buy off on what I have in mind, you'll be swimming in vodka."
    "I expect the good stuff. Smirnoff doesn't count."
    Berg returned to his seat without acknowledging Reznikov's comment. He moved next to the window so he couldn't see the man's disgusting face while he tried to process the next move. Foley continued to stare out into the darkness, giving him a moment to himself. He'd have to contact Audra immediately to see if the Agency would trade a "retirement package" at Mountain Glen for Reznikov's information. He couldn't imagine the director turning down the deal. Until moments ago, even the CIA had no idea that the Russian bioweapons program still existed. He let his mind wander for a moment, performing an "all possibilities" assessment of the situation. A faint smile began to form as he delved deeper into one of the ideas. He grabbed his glass of whiskey and downed the contents. He felt the burn in his throat, followed by the warm rush that spread upward to his head. Maybe Ms. Foley had the right idea.
    "That's a dangerous-looking smile," Foley said.
    "You have no idea. You speak fluent Russian, right?" he said.
    She barely nodded.
    "I