All eyes in the task force’s operations center drifted toward Sharpe as he broke the packet’s security seal. Aware of his audience, Sharpe motioned for one of the agents to come closer. Special Agent Dana O’Reilly from the criminal investigation section headed over to the front of the room to join him. As she navigated the workstations, Sharpe removed the two page document and began reading, his face betraying no initial response to the information as he processed what Mendoza had been able to push past the Pentagon gatekeepers. It was more than he had expected. He handed the first sheet over to Agent O’Reilly.
O’Reilly was another rising star within the FBI. Graduating number one in her class at the Academy, she reported to the Los Angeles field office in 1999, and made a positive, lasting impression on Special Agent Olson, who personally requested her assignment to headquarters in 2004, several years ahead of schedule on a typical agent’s career ladder climb. As usual, Olson’s instincts had been dead-on, and Agent O’Reilly didn’t disappoint. Her investigative skill and efficiency matched her sharp, angular face and short brown hair.
“Agent O’Reilly, I want full workups on each of these names. Start with their most current known locations, and move outward. I’m looking for a possible geographic pattern. Munoz lived within easy driving distance of Newport. Focus on the East Coast. If their last known address isn’t on the East Coast, or close, move on to the next name. I want to start shaping this investigation in twenty minutes.”
“We’ll process all of the names at once, with an appropriate geographic priority filter. Give me ten minutes to get this up on the screens,” she said, and rushed away before Sharpe could respond.
“And I want these names, with pictures, to go out highest priority, everywhere. Classify them as suspected terrorists, no fly lists. The works!”
He sat down at his temporary workstation near the front of the chaotic room, and watched as several agents and technical support staff moved about in a flurry of activity, reenergized with the new information. Agent O’Reilly rolled a chair up to one of the occupied workstations, and handed the list over to one of the task force’s tech staff. She gestured toward several other workstations, then the large screens above Sharpe’s head. Satisfied that O’Reilly had this under control, he turned his attention to the second sheet. He thought Mendoza must have fought the Pentagon to get this sheet released. Although he could drop this sheet on the subway, and nobody could make sense of it, he was seasoned enough to understand the sinister implications. Of course, the notes provided by Munoz gave him a unique frame of reference to analyze the sheet.
Confirmed that General Terrence Sanderson founded program. Seeking additional details.
Areas of focus for investigative cross reference: Serbia (1990’s), Columbia (1990’s), Russia (1990’s), Mexico (1990’s), Afghanistan (1990’s).
All subjects trained extensively in following skill areas: hand to hand combat, edged weapons, urban combat, undercover operations, sabotage, field espionage, improvised combat, deception and disguise, marksmanship, explosives, forgery, extreme conditions survival. Each subject given custom specialized training in skill areas deemed most appropriate to assigned areas of operation. Most common specialized skills include: sniper operations, electronic surveillance, computer networking, advanced urban combat, improvised explosives, security systems manipulation, narcotics manufacturing.
Consider subjects highly dangerous and unusually capable of escape or evasion. Recommend use of highly trained, tactical law enforcement teams for apprehension or pursuit. Do not underestimate subjects’ capabilities.
Subjects sent to operate undercover, without support for extensive periods of time (2-3 years). Fatality rate for program graduates in operational assignments: 30% first year, 40% second year. No graduates are known to have survived third year.
Sharpe leaned back in his chair and processed the information. Everything squared with Munoz’s description of Sanderson’s covert operations program, but the implication burrowed much deeper, and Sharpe wasn’t sure he wanted to turn this rock over for a look underneath. The information contained on these two sheets might be enough to shed the appropriate amount of light on today’s events, and allow him to figure out if a further danger existed.
His own task force’s investigation was permanently destroyed, but he might still have a chance to turn this into an opportunity. If a deeper conspiracy lurked beneath the surface, his team might possibly be able to stand at the vanguard of a new, permanent investigation. But first, he needed to convince the director that the week wouldn’t end in a spectacular, mass casualty attack on the United States. To do this, he needed to capture another Black Flag operative. Munoz had a deal, although Sharpe had no intention of releasing him yet.
Special Agent O’Reilly yelled across the room. “Sir, we have a preliminary picture coming up in a few seconds,” she said, and leaned into a screen between two busy data techs.
Sharpe stood up and took a few steps back from the bank of plasma screen monitors.
“We’re linking it to the map, sir. A few more seconds,” said O’Reilly.
The center screen still displayed the same map of the East Coast, with each murder site identified by an icon and a few lines of information. The screens flanking the map contained investigative information linked to each scene. So far, very little physical evidence had been recovered at any of the sites, emphasizing the sheer luck surrounding the capture of Munoz in Newport. The assassins had vanished like ghosts, leaving nothing behind. If Munoz had stepped on a different rock in the darkness, Sharpe would have very likely spent the next several days staring up at an unchanging screen, watching his career crumble.
The display blinked, and Sharpe watched new icons begin to populate the screen from north to south. He counted eleven new icons, and immediately saw a pattern. One icon riveted his attention.
“Can you zoom in on the area surrounding Cape Elizabeth, Maine? Send it to one of the other screens. O’Reilly?” he said, waving for her to join him.
The same map appeared on the screen to the right, and zoomed into New England, continuing to a small coastal area in southern Maine.
“There!” said Sharpe, and the map stopped moving.
O’Reilly stood a few feet behind Sharpe, to his left.
“Jesus,” she whispered, and Sharpe nodded in agreement.
The map showed two icons, each on the opposite side of the screen, but within the same metropolitan area. The icon on the far right, at the water’s edge, was one of their murder scenes. The other, buried within Portland, Maine, contained a name. Daniel Petrovich.
“What’s the distance between the two?” he said.
Before he finished the sentence, the techs answered on the screen with a line connecting the two icons. 5.9 miles. He turned to O’Reilly and spoke softly.
“I want to know everything there is to know about Daniel Petrovich. Notify our Maine team, and start the ball rolling for a coordinated local law enforcement search and apprehension. Our Boston based SWAT team is occupied with Munoz, and won’t be available to assist. We’ll have to rely on local and state SWAT. Based on Petrovich’s profile, make sure they understand that this is a high risk apprehension, and that the teams need to focus on nonlethal methods. This is critical to national security. I’ll work on the warrant.”
“Understood, sir,” she said, and disappeared again.
Sharpe returned his focus to the center screen, counting at least eleven former Black Flag operatives, including Munoz, within reasonable driving distance of the crime scenes. He suddenly had doubts about Daniel Petrovich. Why would General Sanderson use someone so close to one of the targets? All of the other operatives lived at least an hour or more away, which would make them less obvious suspects. For the Maine assassination, Sanderson even had the option of an operative living in Concord, New Hampshire, about two hours away.
Then again, Sharpe wondered why the general would use anyone near the East Coast all. If Munoz lived in Denver,
Colorado, his task force would be forced to consider every Black Flag operative within the U.S. However, Munoz’s proximity to the target suggested otherwise. Sanderson may have called others in from around the country, but it was clear that this was not the rule. Sharpe’s best chance lay with the eleven operatives listed on the screen. Before he could finish his thought, six more Black Flag operatives appeared throughout the Midwest.
“That’s it, sir. That’s the list,” said Agent O’Reilly.
“What do you mean that’s it?” he said, walking toward her workstation.
“Half of the names on the list turned up with known last addresses dating back into the early nineties. I’ll still work up full packages on them, but I thought it would confuse the overall picture on the screen right now,” she said.
“Good call. None of these names extend past the Mississippi. What about the rest of the country?” asked Sharpe.
“If you want my guess, I’d say we didn’t get the entire list.”
“Damn it. Weber,” he yelled across the room, “request more detailed information on each of these names. Priority goes to the ones on the East Coast. Also, request the full list of names. This can’t be all of them.”
Weber gave him a “thumbs up” from across the room, and went to work at his computer station, as Sharpe glanced back at the screen and grimaced. He would have to coordinate a simultaneous strike on all ten remaining locations. He had no idea if any of them were in communication with each other, but he couldn’t risk raising a general alarm among General Sanderson’s co-conspirators. All he needed to do was catch one of them, and he should be able to move the investigation forward. He also needed to talk with Mendoza immediately. He needed more details about the operative in Portland, Maine. Daniel Petrovich. Sanderson was arrogant, and if he used Petrovich for the Cape Elizabeth hit like Sharpe hoped, it would prove to be a big mistake.
Chapter Nineteen
4:14 PM
Baltimore/Washington International airport, Baltimore, Maryland
Daniel Petrovich waited patiently in his seat while the 747 taxied up to the gate at BWI airport. He had carefully, but surreptitiously watched the flight crew since about halfway through the two hour flight. He���d taken calculated risk boarding a flight this late in the afternoon, but he had been assured by General Sanderson that the net wouldn’t fall on him until the early evening. Daniel’s previous experience with The General had taught him that the man was rarely wrong about anything, which is why Petrovich sensed that something was off about the day’s events.
He glanced at the senior flight attendant, Elaine, a dark haired, middle aged woman who had seemed friendly enough throughout the flight. If the authorities knew he was on board, he had to assume at least one member of the flight crew had been notified, and his bet was on Elaine. So far, she’d only locked eyes with him twice, which was normal in Daniel’s experience. She didn’t look away quickly, or stare at him too long. Her behavior fell well within the normal parameters defined by an instinct he had sharpened to a razor’s edge. He survived undercover for two years among the most dangerous, unpredictable men in the world, where the slightest change in expression was often the only warning that preceded a rusty buck knife aimed at your throat.
The aircraft rolled gently to a stop at the gate, and the fasten seatbelt sign was deactivated, releasing passengers to crowd the aisles. He was pretty sure that the pilot would have kept the passengers in their seats if a tense, heavily armed SWAT team waited in the jet way. The woman in the middle seat next to Daniel stood, pushing into him, but Daniel gave her a cross look that made her pause. She lowered herself back down, mumbling to herself. Daniel was in a hurry too, but not to be jostled by every other manner-deprived, self-important passenger trying to get off the airplane.
Ten minutes later, Daniel walked through a non-automated door next to a large swivel exit. He thought about how easy it would be to trap someone inside one of those large aquarium-like rotating doors, which is why he avoided it. His transformation back into Marko Resja was accelerating. He glanced up and down the street in the arrival pickup zone, spotting Parker’s green Grand Cherokee five cars down to his right. He tossed the cell phone he had used to contact Parker - and its separated battery - into a tall gray trash receptacle next to a concrete pillar behind the SUV.
He looked into the vehicle at Parker, who nodded, and heard the doors unlock. Parker checked all of his mirrors, glancing around, while Daniel tossed the black nylon duffel bag into the back seat and took the front passenger seat. He buckled his seatbelt, still half expecting to be rushed by federal agents from all sides. Parker put the car into gear and cruised forward out of the spot, still not saying a word, which was fine with Daniel for now.
Once out of airport, Parker started to navigate them toward the Baltimore Washington Parkway, which would intersect with the 495 Beltway north of Washington D.C. Daniel had no idea where Parker intended to take him once they were inside the Beltway, but he had his own plans for staying quiet until the General needed him. Parker finally broke the silence.
“General Sanderson wants me to take you to a rental car agency. I’ll rent another car, and you’ll take mine. “
“So he can keep track of me? No thanks.”
“He doesn’t want any chance of a rental car transaction being traced to you.”
“Does he think I’m going to use my driver’s license?” Daniel asked as Parker turned the Cherokee onto the Parkway.
“If the feds think you’re headed to D.C., they’ll be able to figure it out, even if you use a fake ID.”
“Why would they assume I’m headed here? I’d think this is the last place they would expect me to materialize.”
“The General doesn’t like surprises,” said Parker.
“Then losing a man to the feds must have ruined his entire year.”
Parker looked over at Daniel with a concerned expression.
“The mission was a success, but the General’s come too far to take any further chances with this operation.”
“I bet,” Daniel said, and found himself lost in thought, staring into the thick traffic headed out of D.C.
“Once we get you a car, we’ll head to a safe house in Silver Spring and wait for further developments.”
Daniel didn’t like the sound of this at all. With one of Sanderson’s men in custody, he wasn’t sure how fast the entire situation would unravel, if it hadn’t already spiraled out of the General’s control. Clearly, the General shared the same concerns, or he wouldn’t have taken steps to get Daniel out of Maine so quickly.
Something kept bothering him, but he couldn’t bring it to the surface. Parker suddenly showing up yesterday with Sanderson’s barely veiled ultimatum never sat right with Daniel. The Ghani killing was simple work, which didn’t require his level of expertise, or exposure, and Sanderson had played a serious card to push him back into the fold. Mentioning Zorana Sekulic reeked of desperation, and only served to underscore the insidious link bonding Petrovich to Sanderson.
The SUV slowed as they joined traffic headed into the capital, and Petrovich decided that it was in his best interest to maintain a safe distance from the General until a better picture of the situation developed. Given the nature of the Black Flag program, Daniel guessed that he wasn’t the only program graduate with secrets that the General would rather see buried in an unmarked grave. Secrets that would ruin the General’s reputation permanently, and possibly land him in front of a firing squad…right next to Daniel. He glanced around at the standstill traffic and the area surrounding the Parkway. He needed to get out of this car, and disappear.
Chapter Twenty
4:28 PM
Georgetown, Washington D.C.
Keller walked down a thickly tree lined street of brownstones deep in the heart of Georgetown. He walked until he arrived at the waist level wrought iron gate that marked the entrance to the law offices of Hopkins, Frederick and McDonough. He turned the thick brass knob imbedded into
the gate, and found it unlocked. He pushed the heavy gate open, which uttered a squeak at the end of its swing radius. Keller mounted the weathered stairs and ascended the several steep, narrow steps to arrive at a small covered porch. He pressed the worn black button located under the law firm’s shiny brass embossed business placard, and heard a bell ring beyond the door.
Seconds later, he heard a buzz at the door, followed by a loud click. He pushed the thick wooden door inward, and stepped into the building’s cramped vestibule, turning his body sideways in order to close the outer door. He now faced a windowless door, which buzzed and opened slightly inward. He gripped the door’s handle, and leaned into the door, which opened slowly. Despite its similar appearance to the outer door, this door was constructed of reinforced steel with a thin wooden shell. Once he was through, the door closed on its own, which always left Keller with the impression that it could open all of the way on its own too.
He glanced across the small, sparsely appointed reception room at Claire, and forced a smile, which quickly faded. He felt sure that the door would swing all of the way open if he held a higher position within CIA, but he was wrong. For over twenty years, Claire had treated everybody that crossed this threshold the same, including the Director.
Keller’s eyes scanned the room as he walked up to the dark mahogany desk separating Claire from the door. Ceiling to floor bookcases covered the entire wall to his right, filled with books that hadn’t been touched for decades, or at least for the two years he’d been assigned to the FBI. If he turned around, he would see two uncomfortable, light brown upholstered armchairs under the larger front window, separated by an equally ugly brown pedestal table. Several coasters sat stacked in a holder on the table, implying that Claire might produce a beverage for someone sitting in these chairs. He glanced back at the bookcase, at a row of encyclopedias near the floor. A thin, genuine smile formed on his tight lips.
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