Vektor by Steven Konkoly Page A

dig through one of his cabinets for shot glasses. He set the glasses and the bottle on the kitchen table and took a seat. Karl Berg sat across from him, but Petrovich opted to stand with his back against the kitchen island countertop with his arms crossed. He stared at Reznikov, watching the Russian’s trembling hand reach out with the bottle. He heard the mouth of the bottle chatter against the first glass and wondered if Reznikov might collapse from the strain of seeing him again.
    “I wouldn’t waste any more of that until you hear what I have to say. This isn’t going to be a celebratory moment for you or me. The president doesn’t feel that Vektor Labs is a clear and present danger to the United States, and will not authorize action against the facility or its personnel. I hope you’ve been practicing the art of holding your breath. I hear the toilet bowls are deep where you’ll likely end up,” Berg said.
    “Wait a minute. Wait. He just dismissed the bioweapons program with the wave of a hand? After his country was attacked? It’s only a matter of time before another scientist makes a deal. Trust me, there are many interested parties,” Reznikov said, finally steadying his hand enough to pour three shots of vodka.
    “A toast…”
    “At eight in the morning?” Petrovich said.
    “I’m still on Moscow time, which means I can drink whenever I want,” Reznikov replied, reaching for one of the glasses.
    Berg preemptively stopped him by covering the three glasses with the palm of his hand and sliding them to his side of the oak table. This quick denial caused the Russian to rise out of his seat momentarily. Petrovich’s glare put him back in the chair without protest.
    “I’d like to hear about some of those interested parties, especially any that might be intimately involved with the program. A little birdie told me that Vektor Labs hosts a whole array of foreign scientists, some of whom with questionable motives.”
    “Well played, my friend,” Reznikov said.
    “I’m not your friend,” Berg countered.
    “Just an expression. You give, I give. That’s the way this works, no?”
    “Time to open up door number three, or I’m going to bury you alive in the deepest, darkest prison I can find.”
    Petrovich admired the way Berg controlled the situation. From Berg’s appearance and general demeanor, he’d expected the CIA officer to behave more like a reserved college professor. Instead, he was witnessing an interrogation disguised as bargaining.
    “What is door number three?” the Russian asked.
    “Just an expression. Time to show me all of your cards.”
    The Russian shook his head.
    “Lay it on the table.”
    Reznikov looked around, confused. Apparently these phrases didn’t translate well into Russian. Berg looked over to Petrovich and forced a smile, returning his gaze to Reznikov to hiss the next statement.
    “Time to tell us every fucking thing you know, or you’re gonna spend the rest of your short, miserable life in a hellhole.”
    Reznikov recoiled at the sudden change in Berg’s persona, glancing around nervously. “Iranians,” he blurted.
    “What about the Iranians?” Berg prodded.
    “I was approached by Iranian intelligence agents while employed at Vektor, but at that point I hadn’t fully come to terms with my own plans to steal virus samples. They scared the hell out of me. Showing up in the least expected places at the oddest times. Hints were dropped about potential financial arrangements. After a while, they left me alone. I heard they were scrambling to find me when I left Vektor. Of course, that stopped once they finally got someone inside the facility. Is this what you might find behind door number three?”
    “You’re getting closer. What do you mean by inside? Inside the P4 containment building? Inside the bioweapons program? What are we talking about here?”
    Petrovich thought Berg sounded overeager, sensing a shift in the bargaining power.
    “I’m told they