“That was great,” Daniel said, leaning back into the couch, “This turned out to be the perfect night. Surprise take out, good wine, great sex. What’s next? A massage for these sore legs?”
“Dream on, lover boy. This girl is done for the evening. I’ll let you clean up down here, while I get ready for bed. It’s been a long day,” she said, getting up.
Daniel didn’t budge.
“Long day is right,” he whispered.
“Hey, do you have anything in your gym bag that needs washing? I can grab it on the way up,” she said, heading toward the kitchen with her plate and wine glass.
Daniel popped up and rushed behind her into the kitchen. “No, I’ll take care of it. Some two-week old shorts in there. Not the kind of thing you want to deal with, trust me.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be upstairs,” Jess said.
Daniel walked over to the mudroom and listened for her footsteps on the creaky stairs. Once he heard her start up the stairs, he opened the gym bag and removed the briefcase. He heard the bathroom door shut, and several seconds later, the water started to run. He walked out of the mudroom with the briefcase, and opened the cellar door. He needed to find a secure location to hide the briefcase, until he had the time to properly dispose of its contents.
PAINTED BLACK
May 26, 2005
Chapter Three
4:52 AM
FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.
Special Agent-in-Charge Ryan Sharpe replaced the handset of his desk phone and lowered his head all the way to the surface of his cluttered desk. He exhaled deeply, running his hands through thick brown hair, and kept his head down for a few moments.
Sharpe turned his head slightly, and glanced out of his window onto 9th Street. The traffic had already thickened, and he saw a long ribbon of light blue over the vast sea of buildings. He wished the chaos in D.C. didn’t start so early. He could use just a little more time today to figure out exactly what had destroyed his three-year long investigation. He raised his head off the desk, ending what would likely be his only quiet moment for the next few days, looked at his notes on a yellow legal pad, and shook his head.
Task Force HYDRA was finished. The damage done to his investigation was permanent, and unrecoverable. All eight heads had been cut off at the same time, and he needed to figure out quickly what had happened. He had solid evidence linking all of them to Al Qaeda’s financing arm, and their sudden termination sounded an earth-shattering alarm. He didn’t have long to come up with answers. The city was springing to life, and it wouldn’t be long before someone connected the dots. He heard a knock and barked at the door.
“Yes?”
His immediate assistant, Supervisory Special Agent Frank Mendoza, stepped into the doorway of the office and nodded. “Everyone’s ready. Need any coffee?” he said, walking all the way into the office.
“I’ve already had three cups, and I just got off the phone with Delgado,” Sharpe said grimly.
“Shit. How high has the news gone?” Mendoza said wincing, waiting for the answer.
“All the way to the President. Homeland raised the threat level to Orange until we can provide solid evidence that we’re not on the brink of another 9/11. Obviously, the Director is hot on this, so I wouldn’t expect much breathing room today. We’ve been given top priority for resources.”
He decided against mentioning the Director’s immediate concern that Task Force HYDRA had been compromised by a traitor. Sandra Delgado, his immediate superior, had kindly informed him that the Internal Affairs Department would quietly pursue this possibility from the sidelines, for now.
“I think we already commandeered half of the building,” said Mendoza.
“Stand by to grab the other half. We’ll be in the frying pan until we figure out what happened last night. Let’s go.”
He stood up from the desk and walked out of the office, pulling the door closed. Mendoza fell in behind him as they approached the door to his task force’s operations center. He heard considerable chatter behind the door and paused for a second before opening it. The room fell silent when the door swung open, and Sharpe walked to a desk that had been reconfigured to serve as a makeshift podium. The air quality in the room had deteriorated significantly. Rank and humid, the room reeked of bad coffee and faint cologne. The building’s air circulation system was unable to compete with a room stuffed to nearly four times its intended capacity.
He glanced behind him and saw that one of three enormous, side-by-side mounted plasma screen monitors showed a map of the East Coast. He faced the center screen for a moment. The map stretched from South Carolina to Maine, and contained markers that indicated the location of each murder. Charleston, South Carolina; Virginia Beach, Virginia; Annapolis, Maryland; Long Island, New York; Manhattan, New York; Rye, New York; Newport, Rhode Island; Cape Elizabeth, Maine.
“Alright, so what do we have?” he said, and turned back to face nearly sixty agents, hastily assembled hours ago to start unscrambling the mess.
A few minutes after one in the morning, Sharpe had received a call from Operation Support’s duty section head with news that one of his red flagged profiles had been murdered. When his cell phone rang again before he had even reached the bathroom, he knew this might be the shittiest day of his career. The second phone call confirmed his suspicions. Two of eight key targets in his ongoing investigation had been murdered within the span of a few hours. He didn’t have high hopes for the remaining six, and by the time his car passed through the security station at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, he had received four more ominous calls.
A young special agent stepped forward with a few sheets of paper in his hands.
“Sir, as you can see, we’re dealing with what appears to be a coordinated strike on all eight of our key surveillance targets. Most of the murders appear-”
“Rob, are you going to tell me anything I don’t already know?” interrupted Sharpe.
The young agent looked to his supervisory agent for support.
“I’m not trying to be an ass here, agent,��� Sharpe explained, ���I just don’t have time for a recap of events. We need to move this investigation forward at a record pace, and I don’t need to remind everyone here of the implications surrounding these murders.”
“These guys,” he continued, pointing behind him at the screen, “were conduits of financing for some nasty, dangerous people. We need to figure out exactly why this coordinated attack occurred. The Director is under increasing pressure from the White House, so you can imagine what it’s going to be like for the task force as the day progresses. The primary concern is that we have another 9/11 imminent, and that Al Qaeda is cleaning house and cutting ties. This is our focus. Investigations, where do we stand at the different sites?”
A female agent sitting on the edge of one of the closest desks stood up. Her suit looked crisp and her face appeared unaffected by early wake up. She stood in stark contrast to the several of the agents clustered near her as she spoke
“Sir, Supervisory Special Agent Olson. Agents from the closest field offices were dispatched a few hours ago to each site to assist local law enforcement in their initial assessment of the scene. I’ve taken reports from each site’s lead agent. So far, we don’t have any witnesses, and evidence appears scant. I think we’ll start piecing this together once the sun is up, and we can take a hard look at each site, start knocking on doors. We’ll get this moving fast. I’ve also requested additional agents from other field offices within each region. I want to establish a second tier of FBI support at each site.”
“Let’s get a third tier in the works. I want to send a headquarters team to each site. Four agent minimum. Let’s make sure we have one member from Terror Financing in each group, then a good mix of agents from Investigative and Counterterror. We need our own agents on scene ASAP. We can’t afford to miss anything,” said Sharpe.
“I’ll work with Agent Mendoza to get the teams assigned and out th
e door with the necessary field support,” Olson responded immediately.
“Great. I want those teams on site by mid-morning,” he added, and both Mendoza and Olson nodded vigorously.
“Next. Comms. Anything?”
Special Agent Keith Weber walked forward a few steps from a position against the left wall of the room. He flipped open a battered pea-green government issued log book, which barely looked more weathered than he did. Sharpe saw that he had a sizable coffee stain on his light blue oxford shirt, which could not be hidden by fully buttoning his rumpled suit jacket. Weber pushed up a pair of wire rim glasses to squint at the log book through puffy, red eyes.
“I’ve been on with Fort Meade all night. Nothing unusual prior to the murders. We’ve been poring over this for hours, and we don’t see any chatter or patterns that I would classify as suspicious, or even remotely interesting.”
“It didn’t go dead before the killings?” Sharpe interrupted.
“Not that we could tell. We traced the patterns back a month, and we’re seeing the same level of activity,” he said.
“And this morning?”
“We’ve seen a growing increase in communications, both national and overseas. In my opinion, news of the murders is starting to spread through these networks. We’re doing everything we can to scan for more meaningful information or patterns, but so far, we haven’t detected any direct previous link between our targeted communications and the coordinated attack. There is clearly a growing response after the event,” Weber stated, and moved back to the wall.
“I can’t stress enough the importance of figuring this out. If Al Qaeda pulled the plug on these guys, we could be looking at an attack on our country, or U.S. interests abroad. Until we figure it out, we need to treat this like an imminent threat.”
He looked over at Supervisory Special Agent Olson and added, “Get those teams out the door before this investigation is hijacked by National Security. Our liaisons will have the best chance of uncovering something useful.”
Sharpe was interrupted by Agent Mendoza, “Sir, I just took a call from the lead agent in Newport. They’re pretty sure they just captured the shooter alive. He apparently slipped on some rocks and knocked himself unconscious trying to climb down the seawall behind Umar Salah’s mansion. They think he’s been lying among the rocks all night. They’re moving him to the Newport police station.”
“Get back on the phone and tell him that I want the suspect transported to the Boston field office. Just make sure they don’t piss off local law enforcement. We’ll still need their cooperation on scene at the house. And tell him I want that guy in an armored personnel carrier.”
“I’m not sure they’ll be able to-”
“I’m just trying to underscore the importance of his safe delivery. Did they say whether the suspect was Arab?” interrupted Sharpe.
“Dark-skinned. That’s all I got. I’ll get more details,” he said, and stepped out of the room to make the call.
“Agent Olson, I want you to oversee this personally. Call Gregory Carlisle in Counterterror, and tell him to bring his special interrogation team with you to Boston. He’ll know what I’m talking about. I want this guy talking.”
“Yes sir,” she said, and pulled out her cell phone, sitting back down on the desk.
“Alright, that’s it, let’s get the teams organized and out of here. Support, I want full links set up to each site. Mobile links for the teams. Data, voice, video…the works. I want to be able to process everything as quickly as possible,” yelled Sharpe, as the room erupted into a chaos of multi-tasking FBI agents.
“You got it boss,” yelled a dark haired, slender male agent from the back of the room.
“Agent Weber,” he yelled.
Weber barreled through the gaggle of agents breaking for the door. “Sir?”
“How long have you been up?” he asked.
“I never went home yesterday. I took the duty section first shift last night. I was on my way home when I got recalled at about one forty.”
“I wish I could tell you that sleep was in your near future, but it doesn’t look that way. First thing I need you to do is prepare a media-withhold request for immediate distribution to local law enforcement. I need this in ten minutes. I want to shut down all publicly available information until we have a handle on what we’re dealing with.”
“I’ll have it for you ASAP,” he said, and turned to leave.
“And Keith, the coffee works better when you drink it,” Sharpe said, touching the coffee stain on Agent Weber���s shirt.
Special Agent Weber smirked and bolted out of the room.
Sharpe turned and approached Heather Olson, who had started to dial her phone to contact Counterterror’s duty section-lead
“Heather, I want you to lean on this guy. Tell Gregory to give me a call immediately. I don’t want him to hold back on this one. The stakes are too high. We might have to push the envelope here. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“I’d hate to think I’ve developed a reputation for being squeamish,” she replied, with a grin.
“On the contrary. That’s why I woke you up at one-thirty in the morning, instead of your boss. Keep me updated. Frequently. Good luck.”
“Understood sir. Thank you,” she said, and turned back to her phone again.
She was interrupted by Special Agent Justin Edwards.
“Agent Olson, may I take the lead on the Newport case? I have considerable experience leading high profile case investigations.”
“Justin, I’m familiar with your background. The Boston team is already top-heavy with Greg Carlisle in the mix. I need you at one of the other sites,” she said, and returned her focus to her phone.
“Yeah, but I have a solid interrogations background. I’d be more help in Boston than at any of the other sites.”
“I don’t need another interrogator in Boston. I need investigators. Do you want to go to Newport? I can let you take Newport, but you stay in Newport.”
“Anything that mattered in Newport is already on its way up to Boston,” he said, and glanced to the side with a look of disgust.
“Pick your team for Maine. You’ll get travel arrangements, a tech support package, and background information on your murder victim within the hour. Turn something up in Maine, and you can join us in Boston. I need to make a call,” she said, and turned away to dial Counter Terrorism’s duty desk.
“I don’t want to go to Maine,” he protested.
“Then stay here and work a phone,” she said over her shoulder.
A few seconds passed while Justin stared contemptuously at her back.
“I hope they have sushi,” he said, and turned to walk away.
Agent Olson glanced over her shoulder with high hopes that the arrogant prick had finally moved on. He was a talented FBI agent, but she couldn’t stand him. Movie star handsome, impeccably groomed, Harvard law degree, wealthy and connected parents. She could list another ten reasons why Justin Edwards would rocket up the career ladder at the FBI, despite his barely suppressed sexism and perpetually arrogant demeanor. This almost bothered her as much as the amount of time he spent staring at her breasts. She saw him closing in on an attractive, blond female special agent in the center of the room. She thought about intervening, but the duty section head for Counterterrorism Operations answered the line.
“This is Supervisory Special Agent Heather Olson, I need to contact Agent Gregory Carlisle immediately.”
Chapter Four
6:50 AM
Portland, Maine
Daniel stepped out of the shower and dried himself in front of a full length mirror that hung on the back of the closed bathroom door. The steam-obscured image of his body gradually clarified as he wrapped a towel around his waist. He could barely stand looking, but never turned away. His body was well toned from a regular routine of calisthenics, running and soccer. He carried very little body fat, which gave him a slightly gaunt appearance, which Jess said
could be fixed by adding about five pounds to his frame. He’d have to stop exercising to gain any weight, and sometimes a ten mile run was the only thing that kept his head clear.
As his body materialized in mirror, Daniel turned his head slightly, still looking. His torso was covered by numerous scars, some short and deep, others long and shallow. Two particularly nasty scars criss-crossed his chest, evidence of a knife fight that had ended badly for Daniel, and worse for the young Kosovar militant that had stumbled upon his sniper position. Most of the scars were reminders of his fickle luck; shrapnel and bullet fragments that hadn���t found a lethal home in Daniel’s body. A few of the scars were self-inflicted, part of his indoctrination at the “Ranch.” The most notable mark on his body sat high on his right arm. A faded panther tattoo.
He opened the bathroom door and saw Jess standing at the foot of their bed. She looked stunning, as usual. Her dark brown hair, cut and styled straight, rested just below the shoulders of a navy blue blazer. Collar points of a crisp white blouse lay over the blazer’s lapels, brightly contrasting the dark jacket. She had chosen to wear matching suit pants instead of a skirt, which slightly disappointed Daniel. He thought she looked killer in a fitted skirt. Her eyes were fixed to a television hidden inside of the dark red armoire that sat against the wall, in front of their bed. She pulled a black belt through several loops of her pants while staring at the television.
“You missed a loop,” he said.
Jess took her eyes off the television to face him. “Quit staring,” she said jokingly.
“I really can’t help myself,” he said,
He examined her face, still amazed by how similar, yet different she looked since they had first met at school. Her seductive light brown eyes added a soft, exotic dimension to her dark complexion and perfect angular jawline. She was more stunning now than ever before, and his love burned stronger than ever. He was convinced it would never burn out. It was a love forged by a fire few could possibly imagine.
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