Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  He dialed the number on the beeper, which he recognized as one of Sanderson’s satellite phone connections.

  “Daniel. Appreciate the quick response. Sorry to do this to you, but a situation has developed, and a very good friend of ours needs some help. I’m putting you in charge of the team. I’ve made arrangements to have you flown directly to an airfield near the compound. I need you at the Aeroparque Jorge Newbery within the hour. It’s located on the water, a few miles north of Palermo, so you should have plenty of time to pack up and get over there. Check in at the private terminal. You know the deal. Bring Jess with you, please.”

  “She’s not going to be happy about this,” he said.

  “I know she won’t, but she’ll want to be here when you leave. It’s an overseas assignment. Something right up your alley.”

  “Right up my alley, huh? Okay. We’ll see you in a few hours.” He disconnected the call. “We have to go.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Another critical job neutralizing more of señor Galenden’s competition?”

  “No. This sounds different. Overseas. Let me do this job for Sanderson and I’ll work on a plan when I get back. I’m with you, Jessica. I just want to do this smartly.”

  “Do you ever want to call me Nicole?”

  “Every time I look at you,” he said with no hesitation.

  “I want to be Nicole again.” She stood up from the café table.

  “I’d really like that. You might have to be Nicola, Nicolette…or maybe Nikita,” he said, tucking the bill and some cash under a salt shaker on the table.

  “La Femme Nikita? I don’t think so. Danny, don’t look now, but a guy in Mama Gracha’s just took a picture of us…I think. He used a small camera or a phone.”

  “It’s on our way back to the apartment, so why don’t we casually stroll past and take a closer look,” he said.

  “Sounds good,” she said and leaned over to kiss him and grab his hand.

  Daniel and Jessica navigated through crowded tables of the large sidewalk café. It appeared that most of Buenos Aires awoke with the same idea. To take advantage of an unusually warm late April day before the temperatures dropped significantly in May. They hadn’t passed a single empty table on their walk to the plaza and had endured a thirty-minute wait to enjoy their favorite brunch spot. Although it was possible to enjoy breakfast outside all year round in Buenos Aires if properly dressed, most locals crowded indoors during the winter months, emerging only on the occasional day when the temperatures rose temptingly into the seventies.

  Leaving the restaurant’s patio, Daniel felt a little exposed as they crossed the empty street and stepped onto the sidewalk adjacent to the small coffee shop. A few crowded tables lined the café‘s windows, but most of the business was conducted indoors.

  Mama Gracha’s was an iconic coffee shop, famous for high end coffee and amazing French pastries. Normally a favorite of Jessica’s, they had opted for a heartier brunch across the street, where they could soak in the sun and ingest some solid food to counter the effects of a mild hangover. They had danced at a nearby disco until two in the morning, and neither one of them had tempered their drink consumption. Jessica had been on a tear with sangria all evening, and Daniel had surrendered to the multiple pitchers brought their way. They had slept until eleven and awoken with splitting headaches, which no doubt added to the tension this morning.

  As they walked by the window, Daniel spotted the man that had piqued Jessica’s interest. He was definitely European, but he dressed like someone who had been here a while: polo shirt and khaki pants. His outfit wouldn’t have garnered a second glance on any of these streets. He was likely one of the multitude of permanent immigrants that had recently flocked to Buenos Aires. He looked Balkan…possibly Serbian, but that wasn’t unusual in this city. Buenos Aires was home to one of the fastest growing Serbian immigrant populations in the world, which was another reason for them to leave. The Serbian community was tight, and fewer worlds were more closely connected. Add that to the surprisingly small percentage of former Serbian paramilitary members still in custody, and they were always watching their backs in Buenos Aires. Daniel risked another glance.

  The man in the coffee shop fiddled with his phone as they passed the window. He never looked up from the device, even while he sipped coffee. For Daniel, the man didn’t raise any alarms.

  “Maybe just taking a picture of the square. I don’t know. Let’s take the long way back, just in case.”

  “A stroll with my husband…punctuated by a random sprint at some point. Fabulous. Glad I didn’t wear sandals with heels,” she said.

  “You know you love me,” he said.

  “Am I that easy to read?” she replied, squeezing his arm tighter.

  “Hardly.”

  They turned down a side road taking them away from their high-rise three blocks away. Neither of them saw the second man leave an outdoor table on the other side of the plaza and walk in their direction.

  **

  Enrique Melendez sighed in the back seat of their rental car. Parked on Nicaragua Street, the off-white, four-door sedan sported a few random dents and scratches, which placed the car right at home on the tight streets, where fitting into a parking space often relied on a driver’s willingness to accept collateral damage. Munoz sat in the driver’s seat, sipping tepid coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Melendez was sure of this because his own cup had long ago reached room temperature. He had jammed it into one of the cup holders to resist any further temptation to sip the disgusting liquid that their hotel claimed was coffee.

  “So, what do you have?” Munoz said.

  “They’re drinking better coffee than we are…that’s for sure,” Melendez said, huddled low and staring through a portable hand spotting scope.

  “Jesus Christ. We’ve been off the compound for three days, and you’re a food connoisseur,” Munoz said.

  “I drank good coffee before Argentina. The hotel shit is worse than Sanderson’s coffee. You’d think the coffee would be better…at least better than what we have back at camp,” he said.

  “All the coffee down here is shit,” Munoz said.

  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s just our hotel,” Melendez said, snapping a picture through the camera he had been staring through for nearly an hour and a half.

  “Actually, it’s shit almost everywhere. Right now, it’s very likely that Jessica and Daniel are drinking shitty coffee. You see the café across the street? Mama Gracha’s? That place has good coffee, because they import the expensive stuff from somewhere else. Argentinian coffee is notoriously bitter and watery because most of their beans are sugar roasted.”

  “Why would they sugar roast the beans?”

  “Most of their beans come from Brazil, which produces nearly two thirds of the world’s coffee, but sells the lower quality beans to Argentina and Chile. The rest is consumed by Brazilians or exported to the big operations like Starbucks, Lavazza and Illy. The beans are sugar roasted to conceal the bad quality, and in some cases, to cut the expensive stuff they’re forced to buy. Sugar can account for about a quarter of the weight of a batch,” Munoz said.

  “They cut it like coke?”

  “More or less. In this city, if a coffee shop isn’t using Lavazza or Illy, it’ll taste worse than Sanderson’s shit. I make sure he imports the proper coffee for each group. Be glad you’re assigned to the South American team…you can imagine the kind of mud the Russian team is pouring down their throats,” Munoz said.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t complain. How do you know so much about coffee?”

  “I owned a string of coffee shops in Hartford before all of this started,” Munoz said, and Melendez sensed a hesitation.

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Miss what?” Munoz said, taking another sip of his cold coffee.

  “The coffee shops. That kind of life,” he said.

  “I didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter,” he said.

  Melendez could
see that he didn’t want to discuss it any further, so he focused on Jessica and Daniel, neither of whom frowned with every sip of the terrible coffee Munoz had convinced him they must be drinking. Three days of stale bagels, takeout sandwiches and bottled water was starting to wear thin on Melendez, though he knew he really had nothing to complain about. He’d allowed himself to get excited about the prospect of hanging out in Buenos Aires. Savory local foods, good coffee, exotic women, nightclubs, swank bistros…he’d let his imagination get the best of him and had instead spent the past few days watching the Petroviches enjoy the fruits of his limitless imagination.

  Stakeout work had turned out to be grueling in terms of boredom and vigilance. The biggest rush so far had been carrying a compact concealed handgun at all times and Munoz’s insistence that he bring his RPA “Rangemaster Standby” sniper rifle to the car when they were mobile.

  The Rangemaster was a British-designed, compact urban system, measuring twenty-eight inches with the stock folded, and easily stowed in a gym bag. The barrel was significantly shorter than a standard sniper rifle, trading longer range accuracy for urban maneuverability, but remaining extremely lethal in the right hands. Melendez possessed a pair of those hands. If their rental car had been equipped with tinted rear windows, he could practice sighting and dry-firing from inside the vehicle. That might make things a little more interesting for him.

  “I think we should use a van if we have to do this again. At least a minivan with tinted windows. I feel pretty conspicuous staring through this camera in front of people walking by.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s more normal on these streets than you might think. Nobody knows if we’re cops, PI’s or worse. Even better, nobody cares. Everyone just minds their own business, and as long as the scope isn’t on them, they don’t care. Even the cops don’t give it a second glance,” he said, and his cell phone started to vibrate.

  “Sanderson,” Munoz grunted and answered the call.

  “Munoz.”

  He listened for a few seconds.

  “I understand. We’ll be at the airport in ten minutes.”

  “That’s it?” Melendez said.

  “Correctomundo, amigo. Otra vez…hablamos solamente español,” Munoz said in a thick dialect.

  “I don’t think correctamundo is español,” Melendez said.

  “I was just testing your skills. Pack up the camera. We need to be at the airport ten minutes ago. Sanderson has a flight waiting for us that leaves ahead of theirs,” Munoz said.

  “They’re heading back, too?”

  “Si, señor. Something’s up,” he said.

  The car pulled slowly out of the spot and accelerated down the street, covering the one city block distance in a few seconds. They passed the Petroviches just as they both stood up from the table. Neither of them looked up at the unremarkable car passing by, and even if they had, they would not have recognized Munoz with a mustache and thick, wavy black hair. He normally kept a close-cropped appearance at the compound, and experience had taught him that all he had to do among an ethnically similar group was alter his appearance enough to change the general impression of the observer. As a dark skinned Latino, he could melt into most crowds here in Argentina. Even among the Italians, he would barely raise an eyebrow.

  Melendez decided to lay flat on the seat as they passed the plaza. A passenger sitting in the back seat of a crappy car would attract a second glance anywhere, especially since their car was not a taxi. He stayed low for another block, until Munoz told him they were clear. On the way down Nicaragua Street, they passed their hotel without stopping. They had each brought a small duffel bag of clothing and essentials, which they kept in the car. The only things they would leave behind were a few toothbrushes. Melendez relaxed in the back seat and felt some relief that they were leaving. It sounded like this would be a regular gig for the two of them, so he made a mental note to bring a large thermos, his French press, and a one pound bag of Italian roast for the next trip.

  Chapter 17

  3:00 PM

  The Pentagon

  Washington, D.C.

  Director Frederick Shelby nodded to the marine colonel who held the door open for him and stepped inside the conference room. The stoic marine had met him at the VIP entrance and escorted him through an abbreviated security check. They had spent the next ten minutes navigating the building in silence, which apparently suited both of them. The tight-faced Colonel turned to him once to announce that they were approaching the Plans Section and that everyone had been assembled. Shelby considered breaking his own silence to offer the marine a job with the FBI. He could think of several ineffective jabber-jaws that this man could replace.

  The first thing he noticed in the room was a blonde woman in a dark gray suit. She was seated next to a rather fishy-looking man wearing a tan suit jacket over a light blue dress shirt, which was missing a tie. He immediately assessed this man as White House representation.

  “Director Shelby, it’s an honor and a privilege. I saved you a seat here,” Major General Bob Kearney said, who stood up and shook his hand.

  Once the director was seated, General Kearney addressed the group.

  “We’ll make a quick round of introductions. I think we have everyone we might need to proceed with the information presented by Director Shelby.” He nodded to the admiral to his right.

  The admiral introduced himself. “Rear Admiral Mark DeSantos. I head the DoD’s Strategic Support Branch, which is the successor program to the joint DIA and DoD venture created by General Sanderson in the early nineties.”

  Shelby noted the golden “trident” and naval parachutist wings perched above an impressive row of ribbons on the stocky man’s dark blue uniform. His light brown hair was notably longer than any of the other uniformed men in the room, and he appeared relaxed in his seat, wearing a skeptical look on his tanned face.

  “Lieutenant General Frank Gordon. Commander, Joint Special Operations Command,” said an imposing hulk of a man on the opposite side of the table.

  To Shelby, the man looked like a bodybuilder who had accidentally borrowed the wrong outfit. His dark green uniform bristled with insignia that baffled Shelby and stood in contrast to the crisp Navy uniform design. Still, the sheer volume of brushed silver pins and colorful ribbons led Shelby to the same conclusion as the SEAL admiral. They’d seen some serious shit. The next man looked downright frightening.

  “Brigadier General Lawrence Nichols, Marine Corps Special Forces Command.”

  The general’s facial skin was so tight and weathered that he oddly resembled a skeleton. His dark blue eyes burned through Shelby who, for the first time in ages, felt uncomfortable. He didn’t need to examine the marine’s uniform to know that he had seen his share of worldly violence and had stood at the serving end of that table.

  The director shifted his gaze to the two civilians at the table. The smarmy civilian dressed in business casual spoke ahead of turn, cutting off the severe-looking woman, who immediately raised an eyebrow and flashed a strained smile.

  “Gerald Simmons. Call me Gerry. Assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict Capabilities. I’m SECDEF’s principal advisor on these matters. If I say it’s a go, it’s a go,” he said.

  Shelby glanced back to Generals Gordon and Nichols, detecting no shift in their posture or facial muscles. It appeared that they had a lot of practice dealing with Gerry. He admired their stoicism and restraint because he was pretty certain that he had raised his own eyebrows at the ASEC’s statement.

  “Sarah Kestler. White House Counter-Terrorism director. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Director Shelby.”

  “Likewise, Ms. Kestler.”

  “And I’m Major General Bob Kearney, Defense Intelligence Agency. I lead the Defense Counterintelligence and Human Intelligence Center, which had a heavy hand in supporting Sanderson’s program. The man murdered in the Pentagon two years ago worked in my office. Director Shelby contacted me to set up
this meeting to gauge the level of interest in proceeding against Sanderson’s new organization. As requested by the director, you have all read the classified summary of events leading to the acquisition of the recent satellite photos and have been given as much information about Sanderson’s history as appropriate without considering a serious increase in security clearance protocols. Let me know if you need more information to proceed, and I’ll consider issuing LIS Category One approval. I have the paperwork on hand if necessary.”

  “I do feel like I’m a little in the dark here. How many here have signed LIS Category One paperwork for the rest of Sanderson’s file?” Gerald Simmons said.

  “Director Shelby, Admiral DeSantos and myself. In all truth, if I approve you, you won’t receive any material…it was stolen from the Pentagon’s vault two years ago by Richard Farrington, the man standing next to General Sanderson in the satellite photo. He served faithfully in the army for nineteen years, until the day he walked into the vault and stabbed one of my people through the neck with a commando knife. He was part of Sanderson’s new program, which poses a clear threat to United States security,” General Kearney said.

  “Can you break that down better for me? I read the file you provided, and there is no doubt that Sanderson significantly jeopardized U.S. security by destroying the FBI’s HYDRA investigation. Our domestic Al Qaeda investigations still haven’t recovered. Would that be an accurate statement, Director Shelby?” Sarah Kestler said.

  “We’re making good progress on new investigations, but yes, it was a significant and costly setback,” Shelby said.

  “So, now he’s in Argentina, raising an army of operatives? People like Farrington? I need a better link to the future security of the United States, before I start suggesting that we either press Argentina to cough him up or take independent action. We all know the stakes involved in either course of action,” she said.

  “And that’s a big part of why we’re here. To discuss the viability of options,” General Kearney said.

  “Let’s reach some sort of consensus about the threat before I try to lay anything out in front of the national security advisor,” she said.