He focused on the stoic woman, who stared at a flat screen monitor like he didn’t exist. She was partially obscured by a green glass shaded banker’s lamp, which lit the top of her desk, but did little to illuminate the rest of the room.
The whole setup here reminded him of the movie Three Days of the Condor, starring Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway, except this brownstone didn’t house a staff of CIA analysts. It was typically empty, except for Claire, and served as a convenient, clandestine meeting location for the CIA. Karl Berg, Assistant Director of the CIA’s Counter Terrorism Center, had arrived here earlier to receive Keller’s report in person, in order to keep Keller compliant with his CIS Category One obligations. He kept smiling at Claire, who finally looked up at him.
Claire was dressed in a light blue blazer, which covered an ivory blouse. She wore a single strand of pearls, which hung barely visible between the blouse’s collars, just above the top button. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, leaving a few wisps of hair to flow freely down her high cheeks. Claire looked like old money to Keller, and she acted like it too. Ice blue eyes pierced him as she spoke.
“Mr. Berg will see you upstairs,” she said, moving her right hand below the top of the desk to press a hidden button, smiling the entire time.
Keller imagined she had a pistol strapped to the underside of the desk, or maybe a shotgun. Certainly she had a bank of buttons, each serving a function in the building. Maybe one of them activated a trap door leading to an incinerator.
“Thank you, Claire.” He turned toward the ornate staircase on the wall opposite to the bookshelves.
He���d started up the stairs when he heard her say, “Good to see you again, Mr. Keller.”
“You too, Claire” he said somberly. He stopped before disappearing up the stairs. “Oh, the encyclopedias are out of order. Number fifteen is in front of fourteen,” he said, and waited for a response.
“I never noticed. Thank you, Mr. Keller,” she said, looking up from the computer screen with a forced smile.
Keller continued up the stairs, wondering about Claire’s exact role within the agency. She’d have to be highly trusted if she knew about his photographic memory. This was not common knowledge within the CIA, for several reasons. Most importantly, he would become a fought over asset that not everyone could possess, and those who lost the fight to bring him into their fold, would never trust him.
There was too much infighting, petty jealousy, and paranoia inside the CIA. Widespread knowledge of his eidetic memory would be a career killer. Berg knew about his memory, but Berg had recruited him, keeping him close. Keller’s skill could be a limitless treasure if used under the right circumstances, and he found himself assigned to one liaison position after another, mostly reporting to Berg. Not exactly the exotic CIA career he had imagined when first reporting to Langley, but unlike most CIA recruits, Keller was still a spy.
He opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into a different world. Classical music drifted into the brightly lit hallway, which contained five doors, and ended with a frosted privacy window. He knew that the open door to his immediate right was a modern conference room that extended to the front of the building, taking up at least one third of the second floor’s square footage. He wouldn’t find Berg here. He would be seated comfortably in the lounge at the end of the hallway, sipping a drink and enjoying the music. He couldn’t wait to join him.
To his left, a closed door secured by a fingerprint access terminal reminded him where he stood. In the CIA, there was always another layer of secrecy, and he didn’t have access to this room. He walked down the hallway and glanced into the open doors. One room contained a full kitchen, which was connected to the other room, a dining room with one large rectangular table. A crystal chandelier hovered precariously low over the table. He counted place settings for eight.
Keller arrived at the lounge, and knocked on the doorframe before poking his head inside. Berg sat in a dark leather chair in the corner of the room.
“Randy, please. You always knock on the door. I find it so peculiar,” he said.
“I always feel like I’m walking into someone’s private den,” he said.
Keller loved this room. It had to be the most exclusive lounge in Washington, and no expense had been spared to make it feel that way, he thought, taking in the salient details. Two rich leather chairs flanked an ornately carved, darkly stained pedestal table, which held a bronze lamp with a deep red lamp shade. The lamp’s soft glow drifted down onto a small tumbler filled with a finger of amber liquid. He stepped inside and inhaled deeply the comforting smell of expensive leather furniture and antique books. Three of the room’s four walls were covered in bookshelves that contained real books, unlike Claire’s faux reading collection. Classics, rare books, modern thrillers, curios. The shelves here were a treasury of gifts from dignitaries, world leaders, agency patrons, well connected politicians and thieves. He cherished receiving permission to spend the night here.
Staring awestruck at the collection, he almost stumbled over the leather couch that dissected the room, separating Berg and the deep leather reading chairs from a fully stocked bar immediately to Keller’s left. He saw two laptop computers on the oval coffee table in front of the couch. He’d use one of these to type his report, and Berg would use the other to simultaneously read, and securely transmit his report to Audra Bauer, their director. His eyes caught a bottle of Chivas Regal standing guard over an empty tumbler on the shiny bar top.
“Pour yourself a drink,” offered Berg.
“Thank you. Only a small one, though. I need to start typing this out while it’s fresh,” he said, and moved toward the bottle of outrageously expensive scotch.
“It’s always fresh. I bet you could type out the first psychological exam we gave you with ninety-nine percent accuracy,” laughed Berg.
“One hundred percent. I dip into the ninety-nine range when I try to tap into the middle school years. I hope you’re the one who moved the encyclopedias,” he said, walking over to his favorite chair with a splash of Chivas.
“Simply amazing. I moved them a few weeks ago. I don’t even think Claire has noticed. Salud,” Berg said, raising his glass.
“Salud,” Keller replied, and clinked Berg’s glass.
Berg took a long sip, relishing the drink. He leaned toward Keller, like he was sharing a secret. “I’m not going to bullshit you here, Randy. The CIA has very little on this Black Flag program. We know it was created and run by General Sanderson, with very little oversight. We are pretty sure it fell under Defense Intelligence Agency purview, and that it was abruptly shut down in 2000. We think it may have started in the late eighties, but details have been nearly non-existent. This was a word of mouth program, and we couldn’t find any loose mouths willing to talk about it. General William Tierney, apparently one of Sanderson’s many close rivals and enemies within the Army, brought the program’s activities to the attention of Congress in late 1999. Tierney quietly retired a few months later, and Sanderson followed suit shortly after that. The matter was quickly sealed, and has remained that way until today. So, what is your impression of the file?”
“They need to burn this file as soon as they are done with it, and pray to God that these are the last remaining documents pertaining to this program,” Keller said, and emptied his glass in one swallow.
Chapter Twenty-One
4:51 PM
Safe House, Alexandria, Virginia
General Sanderson picked up the buzzing cell phone on the table and answered it.
“Good timing. I hope you’ve put some distance between yourself and the airport. An APB just went out with a dozen names. The FBI isn’t wasting any time with this. We cut it really close flying him in,” said Sanderson.
“Sir, I lost him. We were sitting in traffic, and he suddenly jumped out just past the Laurel exit. I’m still stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and can’t get this fucking car off the Parkway. Are you sure bringing him her
e was a good idea?” said Parker.
Sanderson took a moment to consider this development, and there was an uncomfortable pause on the phone while he processed what this might mean for his plan. Nothing. He could never fully control Petrovich, which is why Daniel was a unique addition to the Black Flag program. He had suspected this before Petrovich reported to The Ranch, and quickly confirmed what the psychological exams had suggested. Petrovich had a pathologic aversion to authority, but a conflicting need to operate loosely within a structure. He caused considerable difficulty for the instructors at The Ranch, but excelled within the program. Sanderson had seen the unlimited potential in Petrovich, and still did.
“I’m not surprised. Trust me, there was nothing you could do to stop him. Remember what I told you. Don’t ever stand in his way. He knows how to get in touch with us, and will surface when he’s ready. His world was turned upside down yesterday. Frankly, I’m just happy we managed to get him to D.C. We still need him. Continue to your destination, and wait. He’ll pop up once he’s established a safe base of operations. He might be better off on his own.”
“I’ll be ready to roll, sir. Sounds like our man in Boston talked?”
“Things are moving quickly. The feds have connected some dots from the Pentagon file, so we need to proceed cautiously,” he said.
“Understood, sir.”
“Sit tight and wait. That’s about all we can do at this point,” he said and ended the call.
He purposely neglected to inform Parker of a disturbing element uncovered by Colonel Farrington at the Pentagon. There existed a distinct possibility that the CIA liaison to the FBI was able to commit large portions of the Black Flag file to memory. He knew that the information approved for release from the file would be carefully screened by Harris McKie, one of few people entrusted with its contents, but if McKie didn’t suspect a photographic memory, the CIA liaison officer could easily take advantage of the situation. The fact that Randy Keller spent less than fifteen minutes in The Sanctum suggested that he had seen enough. Sanderson had grave concerns about the CIA discovering Petrovich’s Serbian alias, Marko Resja. In the wrong hands, this information could ignite a powder keg.
Chapter Twenty-Two
4:58 PM
Georgetown, Washington D.C.
Berg sat buried in the leather chair with an open laptop perched on one of the chair���s oversized arms. The downward cast light from the decorative lamp competed with the screen’s illumination, casting an ugly pale glow on his impassive face. His eyes scanned the laptop screen, oblivious to Keller, who typed away furiously on the couch. Keller was recreating the documents he had memorized at an unbelievable pace. So far, he had typed twenty pages in under thirty minutes, and his pace was quickening. According to Keller, he had memorized over a hundred pages of material, but was still unable to adequately peruse over half of the file under McKie’s watchful eye.
Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and froze on the screen, and he lifted his tumbler off the table, draining the remains of his Chivas refill in one long gulp. “Randy? Page twenty-one is another partial, right?”
“Yes. McKie had removed this page from the first stack that he cleared for our group to examine, but I got a close enough look to make a partial imprint. I’m typing these out in the order that I saw them. It’s easier for me that way.”
“I understand. Can you remember if you saw the name Marko Resja anywhere else in the file?”
Keller closed his eyes for a moment, scanning his memory. He opened them when the answer came to him. “No. McKie withheld a sizable portion of the file from us. I assumed these were Operational aspects of Black Flag, so I tried to imprint what I could see. I didn’t want to push it. The name appeared at the top of what looked like an after-action report. Serbian operation.”
“Yeah���the name jumped out at me, but I can’t place it,” said Berg absently, still staring at the name on the screen.
“Do you think it’s an undercover name used by one of the operatives?”
“Possibly. Might be an active contact. I’m going to run this on the computer in the communications room, try and link the name to an active file. Keep plugging away at those files. The FBI expects you to make a report, but they might become suspicious if you’re gone for too long. We probably have another hour. Focus on more names,” said Berg.
“Right,” Keller said, his fingers flying over the laptop’s keyboard.
Berg closed his laptop and started to walk out of the room. He gave the bottle of Chivas a wishful glance, but decided that the last thing he needed to do was stoke the raging fire that burned inside of him. He patted Keller on the shoulder from behind the couch, and left the room. He stopped just outside of the room, taking a few moments to gather his thoughts. He was aware that Claire was probably watching him from a hidden camera, so he didn’t want to linger too long. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, especially if his instincts about the Black Flag program were correct.
He continued moving down the hall to the communications room. He entered a six-digit code into the touch pad, which lowered the fingerprint reader. A deep blue light pulsed on the reader as Berg pressed his thumb down on the glass. A few seconds passed, and the light turned bright green, followed by a faint pneumatic hissing sound from the door. He grabbed the doorknob, but didn’t bother to turn it. Instead, he just pushed the door open and quickly walked in. The door closed and he once again heard the pneumatic hiss, which was always louder on this side.
He turned and faced the room, which left a lot to be desired compared to the lounge. The lighting was harsh, provided by overhead florescent ceiling lights that were activated upon entry. Specifications for all of the CIA’s secure communications rooms were strictly uniform, and Berg had learned years ago that there was little chance of receiving authorization to change anything. Adding to the misery of the lighting, the walls were unceremoniously painted white, which combined with the pneumatic hiss of the door, always made him feel like he had just stepped into a mental rehabilitation room. He figured that the effect was intentional, designed to create a feeling of immediate discomfort. He could understand why.
From this room, he could directly access the CIA’s secure data banks. Two computer stations sat against opposite walls of the narrow room, each containing a keyboard and two flat screen monitors. The CPU’s were locked below each station in a tamper-proof casement. A black business phone sat next to each computer. Each phone contained the newest STU-III encryption software, designed to garble any attempts to intercept a conversation. There were no printers, and no paper for taking notes. Several folding chairs sat stacked against the windowless outer wall of the room, further emphasizing the fact that the CIA didn’t want anyone spending too much time in this room.
Unknown to Berg, his entrance to the room had been noted, and ultimately approved by a duty technician at Langley. The access code and fingerprint device had confirmed his identity for the technician, who ultimately made the decision to grant him access. A small note electronically sent by Claire gave the technician an added level of confidence that Karl Berg, Assistant Director, Counter Terrorism, stood in front of the door. The technicians liked this additional confirmation, because once inside the communications room, Berg had open access to all CIA files appropriate to his security clearance. A detailed record of his activity would be electronically filed for future reference and random audits, but beyond that, there was no way to actively manage the content Berg could access. The stand-alone communications rooms always presented the greatest risks to classified information.
Berg unfolded one of the gray chairs, and placed it in front of the computer station on the right side of the room. He turned on both monitors, and nudged the mouse, which activated the sleeping CPU. Within seconds, he stared at a warning screen with the standard CIA disclosures about classified information. He clicked “acknowledge,” and was directed to a screen that required a six-digit numeric access code and ten character password,
which were both changed monthly. After typing both codes, the computer took a few moments to launch the CIA data interface. He immediately transferred the data interface to both screens, which would give him the ability to conduct two separate searches. He typed “Marko Resja Serbian Paramilitary” into one of the interfaces, and the system began processing the request.
While the CIA database worked searched away, Berg opened his own laptop, and placed it on the workstation, pushing the phone unit out of the way. Keller’s typed pages flashed up onto the laptop screen, and he could see that Keller was still furiously adding to the report. The wireless signal connecting the two laptops was still intact, even inside of the communications room, which surprised Berg.
He wasted no time searching through the list of Black Flag operatives for characteristics that would narrow his search. He narrowed the list of eighty names in half by eliminating the obvious. Keller had identified five areas of operation served by the Black Flag program: Serbia, Columbia, Russia, Mexico and Afghanistan, so Berg discarded any Latino or Arabic names. He sorted the remaining list for Serbian names, which would serve as a starting point for comparison to Marko Resja. Six names jumped out at him, but about a dozen more could fit. He eliminated the obvious Russian names.
He chose a different interface imbedded within the CIA database for this search and was directed to the FBI’s nationwide database, which contained publicly available information, giving him access to criminal records information. He started a multiple search string with three of six Serbian names, which was the system’s limit, and waited. An image flashed on the first screen, and Berg found himself staring at a face he had tried to push out of his memory for the past several years. Marko Resja.
Black Flagged Page 10