Black Flagged
Page 22
“Thanks, sir. How about I grab one of the couches in the comms lounge? I’ll make sure everyone here has my cell. I appreciate it…I’m about to fall over,” said Weber.
“You look like it. Request the rest of the fax, and go get some rest. We’ll see you in the morning, and I know where to find you. Thanks for the hard work today, Weber. I appreciate it,” Sharpe said, and signaled for Agent O’Reilly to join him.
The two agents walked back to Sharpe’s office, where Mendoza was waiting. Instead of the institutional fluorescent overhead lighting common throughout the building, Sharpe’s office was softly lit by two standing floor lamps and a green bankers lamp on his desk. At this juncture in his career, Sharpe was accustomed to late nights, and took efforts to make the time as comfortable as possible. Mendoza sat in Sharpe’s usual late night working spot, a custom leather armchair illuminated by one of the standing lamps. Sharpe appreciated Mendoza’s ability to make himself feel comfortable in any surrounding. Mendoza always seemed laid back and at ease, even under duress.
It was one of the key traits that convinced Sharpe to ask Mendoza to postpone his next assignment, a promotional move to Investigations, until Task Force HYDRA finished the next phase in its anticipated life cycle. His prospective supervisor within Investigations signed off on the delay, and Mendoza appeared more than happy to stay on for another six months, especially since they were making such rapid gains unraveling Al Qaeda’s U.S. based financial support network. He expected Mendoza to appear deflated at some point during the day, as the bad news piled onto them, but the man either kept it to himself, or truly remained unshaken. Sharpe admired either possibility, considering what could be at stake for both of their careers.
Mendoza got up from the chair, with an open file in his hands.
“Don’t get up for me, Frank. Seriously, we all need some time in that chair today. Plus, I guarantee I’ll just have to get up and answer that phone as soon as my ass is firmly planted. Dana, grab any seat, just don’t steal Frank’s.”
Sharpe moved around to his government supplied desk chair as Mendoza sank back into the leather chair.
“Dana���s CIS papers are on your desk. She just needs to sign on the highlighted lines,” said Mendoza, and Agent O’Reilly stopped her descent into one of the office chairs to the left of Sharpe’s desk.
“Keep your seat. Take a few minutes to review the agreement, and sign your life away. I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, but I just want to make sure you understand the importance of this agreement. It’s simple. You can only discuss CIS Category One information with myself, Agent Mendoza and the CIA liaison, Randy Keller. At this point, these are the only people that aren’t locked in a room at the Pentagon with the Black Flag files,” said Sharpe.
“Black Flag?” asked O’Reilly.
“Yes. To bring you up to speed in under thirty seconds…the list of names you’ve worked all day belong to a group of operatives trained under a clandestine program called Black Flag. It no longer exists, having been shut down by Congress, and buried by the Pentagon for several years. However, as you saw today, someone reactivated former members of this group to assassinate every one of this Task Force’s Al Qaeda financing suspects. I don’t need to reinforce the fact that the Task Force’s investigation was effectively destroyed today.
���At this point, we are simply trying to figure out why they were assassinated. Is this a rogue anti-terrorist focused group taking their own fight to Al Qaeda? Is this sponsored by Al Qaeda? Did they discover that we were close to fully unraveling their financial network? Is this the prelude to another major attack, and they are just cleaning up any loose ends? I’m having a hard time believing that this group is working for Al Qaeda, but maybe the individual operatives don’t ask questions, and their leader, General Terrence Sanderson, took a huge payoff to mislead them.”
“Sanderson. That’s a familiar name,” said O’Reilly, signing the paperwork without reading it.
“Yeah, a few years ago, he was all over the news. He retired under suspicious circumstances that were never fully disclosed. Now we know why. I can’t stress the importance of information security in this case. This is a guaranteed prison sentence for screwing up. You’ll continue working in the operations center, but one of us will need to approve any work you are conducting, just to make sure it’s not a CIS One spin off. All discussions of the restricted material need to take place in person, and away from other personnel. Are you good with this?” said Sharpe.
“Absolutely. I assume the INTERPOL digging probably falls under CIS One?” said O’Reilly.
“Yes, and you conducted the search after signing these papers. Right?”
“Of course,” said O’Reilly.
“So, this information sheds some light on Petrovich, and all of the Black Flag operatives,” said Sharpe, handing the newest Sanctum information to agent Mendoza.
“I’m not at all surprised he was able to do so much damage up in Silver Spring. Petrovich’s assigned area of operation was Serbia, and he spent two years operating there, starting in early ���97 and ending at some point in ���99.”
“His military service record indicates an honorable discharge in September ���99,” added Mendoza.
“Alright. So this was his last tour of duty, so to speak. Prior to that, he received training in all of the areas listed on our first fax, with a specialty focus in skills. Sniper operations, urban combat survival, and oddly enough, computer networking/security,” said Sharpe.
“That’s odd, especially for Serbia,” O’Reilly commented.
“Why do you say that?’ asked Mendoza.
“Well, I can’t imagine a need for that skill, especially in that region in the late nineties. There was barely a need for it here. I mean, the systems were still pretty basic in the U.S. at that point. But in war torn Serbia? Does the sheet mention the specifics of his assignment there?”
“His job was to penetrate one of the ultra-nationalist paramilitary groups,” said Sharpe.
“And do what?” asked Mendoza.
“The Pentagon didn’t feel the need to convey that information,” said Sharpe.
“Great. Well, whatever he did, or still does, he’s highly dangerous. He murdered a cop without hesitation, and killed six ex-special forces guys with ease…” said Mendoza, whose comment was interrupted by Sharpe’s desk phone.
“Hold that thought,” Sharpe said, and picked up the handset, “Special Agent Ryan Sharpe.”
“Sir, it’s Weber. No luck getting through to the Sanctum. The line appears to be dead. I called Pentagon security, and asked them to notify whoever was in charge of the Sanctum that the line was busted.”
“Thanks, Weber. Now get some rest,” Sharpe said, then hung up the phone and turned back to the others. “Some snafu over at the Pentagon. What have we come up with for Petrovich?”
“Agent O’Reilly put together a chronology with details. Here’s the short version: born and raised in Crystal Lake, Illinois, by parents who are still living in that town. No brothers or sisters. Went to undergrad at Northwestern, not too far away in Evanston, Illinois, right on Lake Michigan. Graduated in ���91 with a degree in economics/finance and received a commission as a naval officer through the NROTC program at Northwestern. Minored in Russian language. He attended the Surface Warfare School in Coronado, California, during the summer of ���91, and reported to a frigate stationed in Japan later that year. Transferred to Naval Post Graduate School in Monterey in ���93…”
“Is that normal?” asked Sharpe, “I know a lot of former military officers, and that seems pretty quick to go from ship to shore.”
“It is unusual. As a marine officer, you do two tours, roughly two years each, then a B Billet, the Navy’s equivalent to a shore tour. It’s pretty standard across the board from service to service. Post-grad school would definitely be a post junior officer tour. Not something you’d do after your first sea tour…and a short sea tour at tha
t. He reported to the USS Rodney M. Davis in November of ���91 and left in the spring of ���93. That’s also unusual, and it gets better. After grad school, he reports to a joint command attached to NORAD. How much do you want to bet nobody ever ran into him at either one of these stations? Finally, in early ���97 he transfers overseas to SACEUR’s Maritime headquarters in London, where he stays through discharge in ���99.”
“And we all know he damn well didn’t spend a minute in London. Four years of training? ���93 to ���97?” asked Sharpe.
“It would appear that way. That’s a long training program,” said Mendoza.
“Makes sense for an undercover operation. This program must have been extremely successful,” said O’Reilly.
“But old habits die hard, and it doesn’t look like this group skipped a beat. Petrovich is the perfect example. I don’t believe for one second that Petrovich was the original choice for the Maine hit. They tried to recruit Steven Gedman for this operation, and he had a complete mental breakdown a few days ago. Petrovich literally walked right in off the street and accomplished the mission, in a particularly nasty fashion. No sniper rifles for this guy. He likes using a knife, and cutting off heads,” said Sharpe, looking at O’Reilly while Mendoza shook his head.
“We have to find this guy. We won’t be able to play musical chairs with Munoz for much longer. Keep digging through his file for anything valuable. I’ll have Special Agent Edwards turn up the heat on his wife…”
O’Reilly chuckled, then apologized. “Sorry, sir.”
“You might want to be careful how you word that to Edwards. He might take it literally,” said Mendoza, smiling at O’Reilly.
“And we’ll tap every phone he could think of calling, pull phone records, start staking out friends. Everything. He can’t leave the country at this point. Every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for him,” finished Sharpe.
Sharpe’s phone rang again, and he snapped it off the receiver. “Special Agent Sharpe.”
“It’s Weber again…”
“Weber. Why are you on the phone talking to me? You should be lying down on some very uncomfortable couch right now. Seriously, you need some rest,” said Sharpe, and he could hear O’Reilly and Mendoza laughing.
“Sir, I have Special Agent Dan Bernstein on the line. He’s the New Haven SAC. Olson’s convoy got hit,” said Weber, and Sharpe shot up from his chair.
“Put him through,” he said, covering the mouthpiece. “Olson’s convoy was hit,” he said to Mendoza and O’Reilly, who stood up from their seats and moved toward the desk. Sharpe heard a few clicks and then Weber’s voice.
“You’re connected, Agent Bernstein.”
“Ryan, it���s Dan Bernstein. I have a situation here. State troopers contacted my office and said they have three disabled vehicles filled with FBI agents off exit ten, just on the outskirts of Stamford.”
“What about the agents? Are they…”
“They’re fine. Vitals are strong. The agents in the rear SUV and the van were disabled by some kind of gas. One of the troopers passed out entering the van. The front SUV was hit by a massive pickup truck, and the four agents inside were banged up pretty bad, but they should be fine. The driver and Olson took it the worst. I guess the pickups collided engine block to engine block, crunching the two of them pretty badly. They’re en route to the hospital now, in stable condition.”
“I assume the prisoner is dead,” said Sharpe.
“There was no sign of a prisoner. They could tell he was cut free of his restraints, but other than that, nothing. State police say the whole thing was over in less than a minute,” said Bernstein.
“Does anyone have any idea why they were off the highway?” said Sharpe.
“All part of the takedown. State troopers had a dozen or so scraped up cars between the southbound ramps at exit 10. Minor accident about twenty minutes before the FBI arrived. They were diverting traffic through the off ramp…and right back onto the highway on the other side of the accident. Troopers said that as soon as the FBI convoy left the highway, some of the people started getting back into their vehicles. They had no idea what to make of it. A large pickup truck takes off and they all hear the collision. The rest of the vehicles speed over to the on ramp, and take off down the interstate ten seconds later. This was a highly organized strike, Ryan, and they simply disappeared.”
“Nobody’s in pursuit? How many state troopers did they have on scene?” said Sharpe, aggravated.
“A lot, but it happened so fast, it took them a few minutes to realize what happened. They radioed ahead, but unfortunately, every state trooper on duty along that stretch of the Interstate was sitting at that accident site,” said Bernstein.
“This is unbelievable. I can’t stress to you how important it is that we find this crew. Even just one of them. It’s critical,” said Sharpe.
“I fully understand the situation, and every law enforcement officer along the Interstate 95 corridor is looking for them. So far they have nothing. They also have a possible police impersonator, and this is throwing everyone for a loop. Local cops at the intersection below the highway were told by a state trooper to switch radio frequencies a few minutes before the FBI convoy arrived at the off ramp. They then got orders to let traffic from one of the local roads pass, effectively blocking Olson’s group at the intersection. The rear SUV was hit by the gas while they were stopped at the intersection. State police swear that nobody told them to switch frequencies, or walked down to the intersection after the locals established their roadblock.”
“What happened to the state trooper?” asked Sharpe.
“Local police say he walked up the off ramp, and they assumed he rejoined the troopers,” said Bernstein.
“Shit, this is a mess. Thanks, Dan. I need to make some calls really quick. Call me immediately if you hear anything else,” he said, and hung up the phone.
“Frank, I need you over at the Pentagon ASAP. Weber said the fax line was dead. I think we have more than one problem on our hands right now. Munoz was our last link,” said Sharpe, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back.
“Did Olson make it?” asked O’Reilly.
“Uh…shit. Sorry. Yes. Yes. Everyone is fine. Olson and the agents in the first car were hit by another vehicle and injured, but they’ll be fine. The others were knocked out by some kind of gas. Munoz is gone.”
“Dead?” asked Mendoza.
“No. Gone. Get over to the Pentagon, Frank. I want to know why the line to the Sanctum is down,” Sharpe said. ���O’Reilly, make sure the team up in Portland starts downloading every picture of Petrovich available. If we can create a composite impression for the new National Surveillance Network, we might be able to start scanning surveillance and traffic cams registered with this system for a match. It’s a long shot, but we might get lucky.”
“They should already be doing this, but I’ll make sure they understand the priority. I’ll start the process for creating the required NSN composite. I’ll need you to call the NSA get me one of the templates necessary to build it,” she said.
“That’ll be my first call,” he said, as agent Mendoza opened the door to leave.
Mendoza checked his watch, “NSA’s gonna love this. I’ll call your cell as soon as I figure out what’s going on over there.”
“Hopefully I’m being paranoid,” said Sharpe.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
10:20 PM
Safe House, Alexandria, Virginia
The first thing Daniel noticed when he walked through the safe house door was the familiar smell of Sanderson’s strongly brewed coffee. Bolivian coffee. The odor brought back unpleasant memories of Sanderson’s office complex at The Ranch. The second thing he noticed was that Colonel Farrington drifted behind him in the hallway, just before Parker stopped at the apartment door. He was sure that neither man fully trusted Daniel in the presence of the general, nor would Sanderson himself. What none of the
m knew, was that Daniel Petrovich had no idea how he would react when he walked through the safe house door.
He wanted to kill Sanderson for dragging him back into this hellish life, and potentially destroying what he had struggled to build with Jessica, but the practical side of him knew he might need to rely on Sanderson to fully elude the authorities and land on distant shores. They could always start another life. He shifted his backpack, and thought of the submachine gun inside. He was pretty sure Colonel Farrington wouldn’t let him get to that. The knife hidden in his front pants pocket might be another story, but for now, he didn’t want to open that book. He’d listen to the general, and decide the best course of action.
Sanderson’s voice filled the room as soon as the door shut behind Petrovich.
“Danny, it’s really good to see you again,” he said, and walked toward him for a hug that was surely meant as more of a pat down than a display of emotion.
He barely embraced the hug, and the general backed away. Sanderson was a physically impressive man, even in is late fifties, and hadn’t aged a year as far as Daniel could tell. Like most Black Flag operatives, his face was forgettable. Not overly handsome, or unattractive, but a face that could blend, if it wasn’t perched on a body more appropriate for someone half his age.
Sanderson was dressed in a light blue oxford shirt, stretched tightly over his muscled body, and similarly strained khaki pants. He had always been an exercise fanatic, and even when his recruits at The Ranch were finally in peak physical condition, he kept pace and often ran circles around everyone.
He was the product of nearly two decades of special-forces training and experience, combined with nearly a decade of his own fanatical “off the books” program. He was also one of the most cunningly intelligent human beings Petrovich had ever encountered.
“Is this place even safe?” said Daniel, and Sanderson smirked, clearly not expecting a warm welcome.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. The team that tracked you down today was a fluke. We’re investigating it,” said Sanderson.