Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  “Petrovich’s wife?”

  “It’s all we have. Good luck over there,” Sharpe said, and closed the phone.

  He looked up again, and saw that O’Reilly was standing near him, waiting for him to finish. Everyone had been waiting. One of the FBI’s top agents was injured in the convoy hit, and the status of two agents that had worked in this task force for over a year was unknown. He needed to address Task Force HYDRA, and redistribute priorities.

  “Hold on, Dana. I’ll be with you in a second,” he said.

  “I found something interesting,” she said, and he nodded.

  “Everyone! I need everyone’s attention for a minute!” he said, and walked toward the front of the operations center.

  Normally, it could take several minutes to quiet an active operations center, but nearly every agent had been waiting for word about Harris and Calhoun. The rumors started spreading quickly once Mendoza scrambled for the Pentagon, and when Weber uttered Mendoza’s name, the place went still.

  “Thank you. A couple things. First, Harris and Calhoun are fine. Nobody’s sure exactly what happened to them. They were rendered unconscious, but their vitals are strong. Very similar to the convoy hit,” he said, and the room broke into scattered conversation expressing relief.

  “Second, the source of information used to obtain the list of suspects is gone. For now, this is it. We have to spin something out of what we already have. Suspect bank account information, phone records, scraps of paper in the bathroom trash bin. We need to be creative at every site connected with today’s murders, because it is unlikely we’ll be given anything beyond what we have. Because of this, I’m going to assign some of you to help process data associated with each of the raid sites. Others will be diverted to scour financial records, phone records, everything. This is what we do best. This is how we unraveled Al Qaeda’s domestic financial network. We can do it again. Unfortunately, we don’t have months to put this together. We need to turn something up by tomorrow.”

  More mumbling among the ranks, which sounded more positive than negative to Sharpe. This was a dedicated crew, that essentially had the rug pulled out from under them this morning. They had built a legacy over the past three years, and he was confident they were in this for the long haul.

  “Lastly, I want to thank all of you for your hard work in the face of this morning’s disaster. It’s been a long, frustrating day, and I wish I could tell you it’s going to end sometime soon, but I can’t. If you need a break, coordinate with your team, and grab some rest. Just stay out of my office,” he said, and several agents broke into tired laughter.

  “I’ll pass word to your section chiefs, and we’ll redirect those that need redirecting,” he said, and turned to O’Reilly.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing substantial, but it might be something that can help Edwards put some pressure on Petrovich’s wife,” she said, and he immediately moved her away from a group of agents standing nearby.

  “Let’s keep talk like that between the two of us. What did you find?” he whispered.

  “Sorry, sir. I’ve been running the pictures from Petrovich’s house through our facial recognition software, trying to get a three-dimensional composite prepared for widespread distribution. INTERPOL provided us more images of Marko Resja.”

  “You didn’t request that, did you?”

  “Not really. Sort of. I made up some bullshit about some international war criminal database maintenance on our end, and they sent me electronic files for over a hundred suspected war criminals. I can’t imagine this will raise any alarms anywhere,” she said.

  “Alright…nice work. Is that it?”

  “I found a few pictures of Petrovich, as Marko…with Zekulic,” she whispered.

  “Really? I see where you’re going with this, and I’d love to send those off to Edwards, but-”

  “It gets better. I ran some images of Jessica Petrovich through the system, to compare with Zekulic, and I’m getting a 62% match average over several photographs,” she said, and he continued to stare at her with a quizzical look.

  “That sick son-of-a-bitch cut his girlfriend’s head off in Serbia, then replaces her when he gets back to the states. I bet if you showed her one of these photos, and told her the story…she’d cough him up pretty quick. Throw in the need for our Witness Protection Program, and it’ll be a slam dunk,” she said softly enough to avoid being overheard.

  “Can you send these pictures to my computer? I don’t think we should talk about this again. It’s a nice idea, but it would completely violate our CIS agreements. This is the fruit of a very poisonous tree. Good work,” he said, and turned toward the door leading out of the center.

  Sharpe felt a pit rising in his stomach as he walked down the hallway to his office. He had very few options at this point, and wasn’t hopeful that his task force would turn anything up at this point. His pep talk was a mandatory push, and he knew they’d have to dig through this haystack for at least forty-eight hours before dialing down the intensity. Tomorrow he’d have every high profile FBI and Justice Department VIP rolling through his operations center, and they’d be watching his task force closely. Unless he could break this open tonight.

  He reached his desk, and gave the situation one more spin through his head. He felt his heart race, the result of adrenaline coursing through his veins each time he flipped open his cellphone and searched through the list of names. He heard an email message hit his computer inbox, which provided a brief distraction. He saw that the message came from O’Reilly, and his heart rate spiked. He opened one of the attachments, and saw a black and white picture of Marko Resja and Zorana Zekulic walking arm in arm down a crowded street somewhere in Serbia. The next one was a color photo of the couple in a barren park. Zorana was laughing in the photo, and that sealed it for Sharpe. What kind of psycho butchered his girlfriend like that? He pressed send on his cellphone.

  Chapter Forty

  10:57 PM

  FBI Satellite Office, Portland, Maine

  Special Agent Edwards glanced around the office, about to shut the door and lock it behind him, when his cell phone rang. He kept the door open, and fished the phone out of his front pocket. The caller ID read “Sharpe,” and he immediately answered the call.

  “Special Agent Edwards.”

  “Edwards, this is Sharpe. Where are you right now?”

  “I’m at the satellite office with Jessica Petrovich. We just finished an initial battery of questions, and we’re taking a break to get her some food,” he said, and whispered to her, “Just a minute.”

  “Who’s in charge at her house?” said Sharpe.

  “My team’s processing the house, and D’Angelo is coordinating with the Portland Police. I needed to get her out of there,” he replied.

  “Can you go somewhere private? I have some information to relay that is sensitive,” said Sharpe.

  “Sure, hold on one second, sir,” he said.

  “I need you to wait in the reception area here while I take this call,” he said to Jessica, and she frowned.

  “I’m starting to lose my patience with this. I’m starving,” she said, not budging from the hallway.

  “Please. He might have information about your husband. It won’t be long,” he said, and motioned for her to come back inside, which she reluctantly did.

  Edwards walked over to the nearest office, and closed the door.

  “Alright, I’m alone.”

  “Justin, we’ve had a few major setbacks within the past hour…”

  “I heard about the shootout outside of D.C., and so did every cop in Mrs. Petrovich’s house. That’s why I had to get her out of there. Mendoza stressed the importance of getting some useful information out of her, and nothing was coming out while they tore her house apart in front of her.”

  “We’ve had bigger problems than that. Munoz escaped. Olson’s prisoner transport convoy was hit outside of Stamford, and the Pentagon was hit from the inside. We’ve
been mining information from a classified source, and that source was stolen less than an hour ago.”

  “Jesus, sir. Is everyone OK?” he said, not really caring if Special Agent Olson survived the attack.

  “Everyone’s fine, but we lost everything moving our investigation forward. Jessica Petrovich is all we have right now,” said Sharpe.

  “I’m getting close with her,” said Edwards.

  “Do you think she knows how to find him?” asked Sharpe.

  “She has to know something. Two calls originating from D.C. cell towers were placed to her house this evening. Each from a different cell phone. She’s changed her story once. Now she remembers that her husband checked in with her about an hour before we hit the house, but he didn’t give her any details about where he was staying or when he’d be back. She told me in the house that he hadn’t called. She knows more than she’s telling us,” he said.

  “Alright. I need to trust you with something delicate…”

  “You can count on my discretion, sir,” said Edwards.

  “Can you log into a computer in that office?” asked Sharpe.

  “Uhhh…yeah. I have an access code. I just need to grab one of the empty offices.”

  “Here’s what I need you to do. I’m going to send a few images to your bureau account. I want you to show these images to her. Let me give you a little background on this. Nothing I say to you is to ever be repeated. Are we clear on that? I can’t stress how important this is,” said Sharpe.

  “I understand. You can trust me implicitly,” said Edwards.

  “Daniel Petrovich lived a very different life less than a decade ago. A life that gave him the skills to pull off what you saw today at Mr. Ghani’s house, and vanish without a trace. A background that allowed him to cut through two teams of ex-special forces security contractors without skipping a beat. I’m sending you a picture of Petrovich from his former life, and the picture shows him with a woman he is accused of brutally murdering. Hacked her head off to be precise. This is one hundred percent confirmed. No mistake.

  ���Our facial recognition software match Jessica’s and the former girlfriend’s face at sixty-two percent. There should be enough similarity between the two of them to seriously scare the shit out of her. I need you to convince her that she is in danger, that her husband is a murderer and that we can protect her, if she helps us bring him in. Can you do that?”

  “I’m already more than halfway there. I’m going to feed her a few drinks, and a nice dinner. She’s physically tough, but mentally, she’s on the verge of a collapse. I’ll have this wrapped up quickly. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a lead on Petrovich.”

  “The pictures were taken in Serbia, sometime in the very late nineties. And keep this between the two of us. You pull this off, and I’ll take care of you,” said Sharpe, though Edwards wasn’t exactly sure how much clout Sharpe would have within the FBI when the fallout settled.

  “Send me the file, and I’ll get started,” he said.

  “It’s waiting in your inbox. Keep me posted,” said Sharpe.

  Edwards left the office, and found Jessica reading a copy of Smithsonian magazine in the tiny reception area. She had a white paper cup of water on the small, rectangular black table in front of her.

  “Finally,” she said.

  “I have to show you something important. I think you might be in serious danger,” he said, and proceeded to give her the watered down version of what happened outside of Stamford and inside the Pentagon.

  He didn’t want to hit her with the big punch before she had a chance to see the pictures of her husband embracing another woman. He wanted to deliver the big news after she started to generate some female anger and jealousy. He felt certain this would break her. A few minutes later, he had logged onto the guest computer station and accessed his email. The first image of her husband flashed onto the screen, and Edwards watched her face closely. She didn’t react at first, and he was worried that she might pass out, but her face slowly contorted into a controlled look of anger. Her lips pressed together and tightened. He imagined how much fun she would be in bed later, trying to fuck the memory of this woman out of her head.

  “What is this? Why are you showing me this?” she said, turning to look at him.

  He could feel the tension emanating from her, and for a brief second worried about his own safety. Still, he had to deliver the knock down punch.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you. Who the fuck is this?” she demanded, and he finally broke his intentional silence.

  “Your husband hacked this woman’s head off about five years ago in Serbia,” he said, and she inhaled sharply.

  “I always knew something wasn’t right,” she whispered, and added, “I really need a drink.”

  “I’m really sorry to have shown you this, but something went really wrong today with your husband’s associates…and they’re cleaning house. I don’t think you’re safe on the streets. We���ll have a quick dinner as promised, but then we’re putting you into protective custody,” he said.

  “Danny would never hurt me,” she protested weakly.

  “I wonder how many other women thought the same thing. The best way for you to keep yourself safe, is to help us find him. He can’t hurt you if we have him in custody. Until then, we need to keep you hidden. Come on, let’s get you that drink. God knows you’ve earned it,” he said, and escorted her out of the office.

  Chapter Forty-One

  11:51 PM

  FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.

  “Agent Sharpe!”

  The words startled him. The day had been full of surprises and chaos, filling the room with an insurmountable level of noise at times, but Agent O’Reilly’s voice sounded distressed. He turned in her direction.

  “Sir, you have to see this. Now,” she urged, and he hurried over to her station.

  “I was reviewing the photos of Petrovich when I came back across this one. It was an anomaly from the original batch. A picture of Daniel and Jessica together. 100% match between Jessica Petrovich and Zorana Zekulic,” she said hurriedly.

  “This system always gives us outliers. That’s why we enter as many pictures as possible,” he said.

  “I understand that, sir, but I thought these two first met at grad school in Boston? This is a picture of the two of them together at Navy Pier, in Chicago. She’s wearing a Loyola sweatshirt. That’s a school in Chicago. Daniel Petrovich attended Northwestern. They look really young in this picture. I think they’ve known each other for more than just five years,” she stated.

  “I don’t know. We have to trust the system. How many photos of Jessica did you enter?”

  “Almost thirty…”

  “Shit, that’s a lot of pictures.”

  “Hold on, sir. I’m running a search on another computer. There!” she yelled, and Sharpe stared at the screen with a sinking feeling.

  The screen displayed a 1990 Loyola College student ID picture of Nicole Erak, a young woman vaguely resembling Jessica Petrovich, but not close enough to justify a match, even after factoring in a fifteen year age difference. Unless she had undergone plastic surgery. Now he was getting ridiculous. He considered calling Edwards, but shelved the idea for the moment. He wondered if Nicole Erak had been found decapitated in Chicago.

  A hundred ideas ran wild through his head as O’Reilly finished typing another analysis request through the computer system. The system immediately gave them the results, and Special Agent Sharpe fired his hand into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. The student ID picture of Nicole Erak matched Zorana Zekulic. 100%.

  “Call the Portland police immediately! Get them everything we have on this woman! They’re somewhere eating dinner in the Old Port!” he yelled, auto-dialing Edwards.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  11:52 PM

  Portland, Maine

  The elevator hummed as Special Agent Justin Edwards stood next to Jessica, who was rambling about nearly anything at this po
int. He could tell she was tired, drunk and emotionally spent. She wasn’t stumbling, but her speech was slurring, and he couldn’t shut her up. Three straight martinis in one hour would do that to anyone, especially a slim woman who had gone without food for nearly twelve hours. The first drink was finished before the bread arrived, and the second drink vanished as their entrees appeared. He had enjoyed an expensive glass of Cabernet, which he sipped over the course of the dinner, though he desperately wanted to match her drink for drink.

  He got a little buzzed from the wine, but it wasn’t enough. Their chemistry was a little off throughout the meal, as she steamed ahead with the martinis, and he didn’t get the information he desperately sought during dinner. Still, he managed to convince her that she needed FBI protection until they figured out what was going on with her husband. She stopped denying that her husband might be involved, but stubbornly kept insisting that her husband would never hurt her, which was fine for now. He had made enough progress to get her into the hotel room, which he told her was the FBI’s idea of a security precaution.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor.

  “What, we’re not hiding out in one of the suites? The FBI must be going through some budget cuts,” she said, in a silly manner that grated on Edward’s nerves.

  “We like to keep this as low profile as possible. If it were me travelling with someone like you, I’d go for the suite,” he said, eager to gauge her response.

  “Are you supposed to flirt with protected witnesses?” she said, and for a second Edwards saw a look that suggested he would be in business once they got comfortable in the hotel room.

  “Not usually, but in your case, it’s hard to resist. Ladies first,” he said, motioning to the open door.

  “Why, thank you,” she said, and he was pretty sure she glanced down at his bulge forming in his pants.

  He led her down the hallway to room 438, hoping for a discreet moment to adjust the awkwardly protruding erection stuck in his underwear. Maybe she’d just rip his pants down as soon as they were in the room, and it wouldn���t matter. He felt like exploding as he put the key card into the door slot. The door opened, and his phone rang, which was a real buzz kill. He let it ring, showing her into the room, which already contained his personal belongings. A spare suit hung in the closet, above an extra pair of dress shoes and a pair of running shoes, and he could see his toiletry kit neatly arranged in the bathroom as he passed. He wondered what she thought of his stuff being here, but didn’t think she’d notice anything beside the chilled bottle of white wine in a silver bucket on the desk. She’d begged him for another drink at the restaurant, but he didn’t want her to become incoherent and legless yet. Instead, he’d stepped outside of the restaurant, pretending to take a call, and ordered the wine. He watched as she took the bait.