Vektor by Steven Konkoly Page B

have a scientist assigned to the infectious disease fellowship program. He’s been seen offsite with a likely Iranian intelligence agent. Not too many Persians in Novosibirsk. Not many outsiders at all. Now it’s time for a toast.”
    Petrovich leaned in to take one of the shots off the table, wondering what Jessica would think of him drinking vodka at nine in the morning. He wasn’t driving, though, so what did it matter? After spending hours in Berg’s company, he could use a drink.
    “To keeping your head out of a dirty toilet,” Petrovich said.
    Reznikov didn’t look amused by his impromptu salutation. Neither did Berg. He shrugged his shoulders and drained the vodka down his throat, slamming the glass back down on the table like a fraternity pledge.
    “Rude and uncivilized. Here’s to a long retirement in the mountains and a successful mission against Vektor,” Reznikov said.
    Petrovich waited for both of them to finish their shots before interjecting. “I liked my toast better.”
    Reznikov grabbed the bottle and poured another shot for himself, placing the bottle near Berg’s glass. The CIA officer declined.
    “Maybe later. I need to make a phone call. If my boss isn’t willing to walk this back up the chain of command, this might be your last drink,” Berg said.
    “Don’t tell him that,” Petrovich said. “He’ll end up just like we found him in Stockholm.”
    Petrovich’s statement caused Reznikov to tense for a moment before he took another shot of vodka. He placed the glass on the table, and his grimace melted into a smile. He refilled Daniel’s glass.
    “My friend, you need to lighten up a little. What happened to your arm?” he asked, waving the bottle at his shoulder.
    “Dislocated my shoulder beating another prisoner to death,” Petrovich said.
    “Come on. This is going to work out for everybody. Door number three I give to you!”
    “We’ll see,” Petrovich said, taking him up on the offer of another shot. “Here’s to the miracle of automated defibrillators. Without them, our friend would be dead.”
    “I don’t have to take this abuse,” Reznikov said.
    “Take it easy on him, Daniel. We have a long day ahead of us,” Berg said, walking toward the front door to make his call in private.
    “To your health,” Petrovich said, raising his glass to meet Reznikov’s.
    “That’s better.”
    The vodka burned slightly less going down the second time, leaving him with a warm buzz. Reznikov immediately poured another shot for each of them.
    “I think that’s enough,” Petrovich said.
    “Fine. Two for me, then.”
    Petrovich walked over to the kitchen and waited for Berg to finish the phone call. He heard the bottle clink against glass again, which worried him. If Reznikov passed out from drinking, he had no intention of sticking around the compound to continue their conversation when he woke up. By the time Berg returned, he’d heard at least two more shots poured. He intercepted him in the hallway leading to the kitchen.
    “I think our friend will be hallucinating within the hour if he keeps drinking like this.”
    “The last time I visited him, he put away a bottle and a half in three hours. It kept him talking.”
    “It’s your call. What did the home office say?”
    “They’re walking it up to the director this morning. We might have an answer before we leave. My goal now is to get enough information to adequately plan the attack, regardless of the ultimate decision.”
    Petrovich shook his head and grinned. Berg truly impressed him. Time to have some fun. When the two of them turned the corner, Reznikov screwed the cap on the bottle of vodka, which stood on the table half-empty. The serious look on his face betrayed a slight change in his attitude. Daniel guessed they were in for a request. The frightened scientist had found confidence in the clear liquid sitting at the bottom of his stomach. Not the kind of liquid courage found at a late-night karaoke bar, but