While sipping coffee and making small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.
He passed through the kitchen and scrambled into the basement, fumbling to turn on the lights. The cool, moist air entered his lungs as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the center of the dimly lit subterranean storage area. A few cardboard boxes sat against the closest wall, next to a dozen evenly stacked dusty plastic bins. The labels on the bins indicated that they were filled with seasonal clothing, professional books, and camping supplies.
He continued to the furthest reaches of the basement until he reached the boiler and oil tank. Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor in front of the boiler. Daniel opened a box near the oil tank and removed the briefcase given to him yesterday. He opened the case to examine its contents again. One file, which he needed to permanently destroy, but not at the house. One Heckler and Koch USP 9mm with suppressor. He might need this weapon in the very near future.
Daniel replaced the contents and headed toward the large plastic bins. He removed the two top-most bins from a stack in the middle, sliding them to the floor haphazardly. The remaining bin, labeled "Old Clothes," sat exposed between two stacks of green plastic.
He reached down and ripped the duct tape from the sides of the plastic storage container, which hadn't been opened in over a year. The bin, which emitted the musty smell of old clothes, was stuffed with dated sweaters and oversized sweatshirts. Petrovich buried his arms into the stacks of clothing and pulled out two black nylon gym bags, spilling the contents of the bin onto the concrete floor.
He tossed the bags behind him, along with the briefcase, and recreated the orderly scene he encountered upon first descending the basement stairs. With the bins back in place, he ascended the stairs to pack a small carry-on bag, which would be all he needed beyond the three items retrieved from the basement.
Five minutes later, Daniel backed the BMW out of the garage and onto the street. He pulled forward several feet and stopped to stare at his house through the passenger window. He leaned over the center console to get a better view and exhaled softly.
A low, white picket fence outlined the front yard, extending along the driveway to the attached garage, which extended from the small yellow Cape Cod style home. Dark green shutters accented the white windowpanes, competing with the neatly-trimmed evergreen bushes reaching upward toward the bottom of the window trim. Just beyond the picket fence, two large maple trees flanked a red brick walkway that ended at an oversized granite stoop under the matching green front door.
"We almost did it," he muttered and took his foot off the brake.
He doubted he would ever see the house again, or any of the memories contained within it. He knew it didn't really matter, but it was hard to conceptualize abandoning the physical remnants of their life together. Nothing could go with them. There simply hadn't been enough time. This house, their friends, his office…all of it. He had simply walked out of Zenith Semiconductor without a word and would never return. He didn't really have a choice. Neither of them did. It was a simple matter of survival.
Chapter Ten
12:45 p.m.
FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts
Agent Olson stepped out of the interrogation room into the darkened observation deck, closed the door tightly and walked in front of the one-way mirror. She stared at Jeffrey Munoz, who was attached to several electronic monitoring leads. Laptop computers set up on a table along the far wall of the observation room analyzed the biometric feedback. Gregory Carlisle sat across the desk from Munoz with his hands crossed. Three agents and a few technicians sat in front of the interrogation equipment. One of the agents, a young, sharp-faced woman with short hair, closely analyzed a large flat-screen display of various vital signs.
"What do you think?" Olson uttered, without taking her gaze off Munoz.
"Bio says he's nervous as hell, but I'm not getting any of the traditional markers associated with deception. If this was a standard observation, I'd say the suspect was telling the truth…but given the circumstances, I think it would be prudent to change the interrogation parameters. See how he responds. His base stress level hasn't changed much since we started taking readings. It's high, but I haven't seen any significant spikes," the agent said, turning her head toward Olson.
"It doesn't surprise me, given what he's said so far. Tell Greg to walk out of the room, and let Munoz sit there for a few minutes. When he returns, have Greg tell Munoz that there is no way he'll be given any deal. I want Greg to mention that he'll be transferred within the hour to Logan Airport for further transport. He should hint that Munoz might be a little warm in the clothes he's wearing. I want this guy to think he's being rendered to a location outside of the country. We'll see if his story holds together."
"You got it," the agent said, with a smirk of approval hidden by the dark.
Chapter Eleven
12:56 p.m.
Washington, D.C., Beltway
Retired Brigadier General Terrence Sanderson leaned back into the leather comfort of the Suburban's rear seat. He dialed one of several disposable cell phones available to him in his briefcase. He had dozens more stashed in several locations around the D.C. Metro Area, and hundreds placed in other likely areas of operation along the Mid-Atlantic seacoast. He had gone "dark" several days ago, moving back and forth from several secret locations.
A few of the locations were known only to him and were untraceable by any means. He had plotted and planned this day's events for over a year. Some of the key links in the chain had been coordinated years ago. He was a careful, patient soldier and had left little to chance, except for Petrovich. He hadn't counted on using Petrovich for one of the assassinations, but circumstances had conspired, and Sanderson had little choice. The gamble had worked flawlessly and might pay further dividends if he handled the situation properly.
"You did an excellent job with Petrovich. From what I can tell, he did the job…maybe a little too well. Knife work was never one of his loves," said Sanderson.
"Maybe sending us a message? He didn't look pleased to have been dragged back into this," said Parker, glancing back over the top of the driver's seat.
"Truthfully, I wouldn't have been surprised if Mr. Ghani had woken up to a glorious sunrise over the Atlantic. I gave the entire situation a fifty percent chance. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Seven, six…even five murders would have been enough to cause a panic in the Hoover building. All eight? Icing on the cake. Is he headed our way?"
"Yeah, he should arrive on the ground by four at the latest. Should we be worried?" said Parker.
"With Petrovich, you should always be worried. I'm pretty sure he'll need us as much as we might still need him. He's one of the best we ever graduated…and by far the most productive in the field. Who knows, we might get him back, or…" he trailed off.
"Or what?"
"Or we could have a war on our hands. Unlikely though. He's one of the most practical individuals I have ever dealt with. Hold that thought, I need to check in with someone," he said and dialed the phone he had been holding near his ear.
The call was answered on the second ring.
"Colonel Farrington, Special Information Division. How can I help you?"
"Hello, Colonel. Major General Smith here. Just checking to see how my information requests are proceeding?"
Without hesitation, Colonel Farrington replied, "Sorry, General, no progress has been made so far, though I'm keeping a close eye on the requests myself. You'll be the first to know when the ball starts rolling."
"Sounds good, Colonel. Keep me in the loop," said General Sanderson.
"Roger that, sir. I would expect an update
within the hour."
Sanderson hung up.
"Still nothing. Shit, the FBI is moving slow. I expected them to be down there already. This is the kind of shit I've always been railing about. Bureaucracy, government red tape, rules of engagement…they all have their right place and purpose, but not if you need results, and fast. I wish we had someone inside the FBI headquarters," he said to Parker.
"It's just a matter of time, sir," said Parker, as he pulled the Suburban off the Beltway at exit 177B, headed toward one of the general's "safe houses" in Alexandria, Virginia.
**
Less than ten miles away, Colonel Richard Farrington, United States Army, leaned back in his shitty, worn government chair and placed the cell phone in a black nylon briefcase tucked away under his desk. Cell phones were technically off limits in his section, and if anyone saw him using it, he'd just say that he'd forgotten to leave it in the car and received a call. No big deal, especially since he was careful to select a phone without a camera. He wasn't really worried either way, his bag received a cursory inspection upon entry and exit, and not very many people at the Pentagon were cleared for his section.
He'd been at this posting for nearly two years, biding his time, even extending his tour for another six months to give Sanderson some leeway in planning. He wouldn't need it. Either today or tomorrow, Farrington would walk out of here for the last time and join his old battalion commander in exile.
Thirty feet away, Julio Mendez peeked through a one-inch crack between his office door and the door frame. Calling the room his office was a stretch, since it was really a janitorial supply closet, but Julio didn't care. Even the highest-ranking officers and civilians sat in cubicles within the Information and Data Section. Everything was transparent, and the only true privacy came in the form of a bathroom stall, where someone could still see your shoes and hear your daily contribution to the D.C. sewer system. He may just be the janitor, but he had what nobody around here had, a private room. Two of them, actually. Another small supply room lay outside of the restricted zone, where he would typically spend most of the afternoon.
He'd been spying on Colonel Farrington for two days, after seeing him hide something when he passed by the colonel's cubicle. He had pretended not to notice, singing a few lines of a song as soon as the colonel looked up at him. He had just nodded politely and pushed onward toward the next set of cubicles. Julio had caught him using the phone on four separate occasions over the past few days, which seemed out of place for the colonel. He'd peeked out of his door before to spy on several nearby staff members, including the colonel, and had never seen anyone using a cell phone. He thought the Colonel might be going through a divorce, but remembered that he'd never seen any pictures indicating a relationship on his desk or cubicle walls. No pictures of kids or a wife, just a few photos of the colonel and other soldiers taken in various Godforsaken parts of the world. A few military plaques commemorated distinguished service with different units, but nothing beyond that.
Julio always trusted his instincts, and they were whispering bad things about Colonel Farrington. He'd keep his eyes on this man, check his trash at night, do a full sweep of the area. If something was wrong, Julio could be the nation's first line of defense. He wasn't a military hero, but he knew a thing or two about bravery. He had burn scarring over half of his torso, compliments of Al Qaeda. He'd worked in the West Block when American Airlines Flight 77 hit the Pentagon and spewed burning jet fuel through a corridor he was cleaning.
The initial blast knocked him through an open office door, nearly into the lap of a startled navy captain. The blast was followed by an aerosolized explosion, similar to one of the air force's fuel/air explosive (FAE) bombs. Luckily, they were both knocked to the far wall of the office by the initial blast because if either of them had been standing any closer to the door, they would have been vaporized like everyone else in the corridor. After extinguishing their own personal clothing fires, Julio and Captain Reynolds rushed into the hellish inferno to look for survivors. He was a true hero, well respected at the Pentagon, but his service to country didn't end on September 11, 2001. He kept a close eye on the place because he knew the next attack would come from the inside.
"I got my eyes on you, Colonel Sanders," he said and a stifled a laugh, now wishing he had packed some fried chicken for lunch, instead of a ham sandwich.
Chapter Twelve
1:02 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Sharpe held a yellow legal pad in his left hand and squinted at his writing. The phone receiver was pressed into his right ear by his other hand. He glanced up at Agent Mendoza, seated in the chair nearest to the office door, and nodded quickly.
"How confident are you about Munoz's statement? If we start pushing Pentagon buttons, we need to be rock solid on our assessment. This could get ugly…real quick," said Sharpe.
"Carlisle's assessment is definitive. He walked me through the biofeedback. Either this guy is the perfect liar, or he's telling the truth. He's a tough book to read on the outside. Impassive. No apparent signs of being rattled. But bio showed a different story when we hinted that we might render him out of the country. His vitals spiked, but he kept himself under control. This guy is a cool customer. Highly trained, somewhere, and not the kind of training his army service record would indicate. Four years as a field artillery officer? We might have stumbled onto something huge here," said Agent Olson.
"I think I agree. Have Carlisle put together a package with his assessment…and yours. I want to walk through the director's door with everything I need to make a case for a deal. Once the deal is signed, we need to move fast. What do you know about General Terrence Sanderson?"
"I've never heard of him before today. I did a quick internet search. Special Ops for most of his career. Details are sketchy, but it appears that his boots touched Iranian soil during Operation Eagle Claw. Plank owner in the Delta Force community. Meteoric rise through the ranks, then a flat line. Didn't make a lot of friends on the Hill from what I could tell. He retired, or was put out to pasture in 2001. Pretty much fell off the radar. Munoz is ready to connect the dots once the deal is in place," Olson said.
"Looks like Sanderson just popped back up on the radar scope, in a big way. Keep pressing Munoz for more details. I don't know if I have enough for a blanket immunity deal. He'll probably have to sign a contingency deal, which means he'll have to show us his cards before we go to the Pentagon. If the Pentagon refuses to share, no deal," Sharpe said.
"I think he'll take the risk. The threat of being moved to a facility out of the country scared him. He really wants a deal," Olson said.
"So do I. This could be a huge break. Eight coordinated murders on the same night. I'm willing to let this guy walk if he leads us to the jackpot. Tell him we need more information to make the deal stick. I'm gonna get things rolling on my end. Good work, Heather."
"Thank you, sir," she said, and Sharpe replaced the receiver on the desk phone.
"Sounds like Olson was the right agent to send to Boston," Mendoza piped in from his chair.
"She's one of the best investigators in the FBI. She was my first phone call after waking you up this morning. So, do we know anything else about Mr. Munoz?"
"Average Joe, more or less. Lives outside of Hartford, in Windsor."
"How far is that from Newport?" Sharpe asked.
"Just under a hundred miles," Mendoza said.
"Did they find his car yet?"
"Nothing on the streets near the mansion. They're searching a nearby college. The campus has waterfront acreage that connects to the cliff walk, which is a well-trafficked path this time of the year. The shooter was found sprawled on the rocks a few hundred yards north of the mansion, just off this path. He might have been trying to duck a few nighttime strollers and slipped in the dark."
"We need to figure out how he got there, and how long he's been casing the residence. Start piecing this all together. He'd have to pay a toll somehow t
o get into Newport, unless he hitchhiked. We might find a file in the car, especially if these attacks were coordinated by an ex-special forces type. The car is important," Sharpe said.
"We pressed him on the car, and he wouldn't budge. I'm sure he'll tell us about the car once he has a deal."
"I'm not counting on a deal, Frank. He's not giving us enough up front."
"He's walking a fine line," Mendoza said.
"Well, it's not good enough. I need some corroborating evidence to push this through. I think Munoz is worried about the car. We just might not need him once we find it."
"I'll make sure finding the car is Newport's top priority," Mendoza said and stood up to leave the office.
Chapter Thirteen
1:45 p.m.
Logan International Airport, Boston, Massachusetts
Daniel parked a dark blue, late model Toyota Camry between two other non-descript sedans in Logan Airport's central parking lot. His car's Massachusetts plates matched nearly every other car in the row. He put the parking lot ticket on the passenger seat and wasted no time yanking one of the two black nylon duffel bags out of the trunk, along with a small black carry-on bag. After slamming the trunk shut, he took note of the car's location and searched for signs that would lead him into Terminal C. He had about twenty-five minutes to catch a Jet Blue flight to Baltimore/Washington International airport, or he would have to execute his backup plan.
He had no idea what General Sanderson had in store for him once he landed in the D.C. area, but at this point, he had little choice other than to the clear out of New England without Jessica. Unfortunately, he needed her in place back in Portland, and General Sanderson agreed. He started jogging and glanced back one more time to frame the car's location in his mind. He had exchanged the BMW for the Camry in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the largest self-storage facility in seacoast New Hampshire. He had registered the car in Massachusetts under a false name, using an impeccably forged Massachusetts license issued to longtime Boston resident, Christopher Stevens.
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