Before driving out of the storage facility, he made a point of talking to the desk clerk long enough to create a lasting memory. If investigators got this far, he actually wanted them to know that he was now driving a nondescript Toyota Camry, one of the most common automobile models on the road throughout the U.S., and one of thousands registered in Massachusetts. To make matters worse for the FBI, he left the 95 Interstate at Newburyport and found a secluded spot to change the license plates. The storage facility had cameras, which might have captured a picture of the car's tags, and he needed this car to stay hidden at Logan Airport.
Eight minutes later, he rushed up to the airline counter and handed his driver's license to a slim, brown-haired woman in a blue uniform. She compared the picture on the license to Daniel, squinting briefly, and wrote something illegible on his boarding pass with a red marker.
"Any bags to check?"
"Not this time. I think these should fit onboard," he said, lifting his two bags a few inches off the ground where she could see.
"That should be fine. You're all set, Mr. Harrell. The gate number is printed on your ticket," she said and smiled.
Daniel nodded and briskly moved toward the security checkpoint.
Chapter Fourteen
2:01 p.m.
FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts
Agent Olson stepped into the interrogation room with a brown file folder. She slapped it down on the white Formica tabletop and stared at Munoz. The right side of his face was scraped and bruised from his fall onto the rocks. A small amount of dried, caked blood covered most of his right ear. He sported a nondescript, medium-length haircut, faded lightly on the sides. A horizontal scar grazed the hair above his left ear, and another visible scar showed through the stubble on the right side of his chin. Dark-skinned, with deep brown eyes and an angular face, he was a handsome man despite his rough condition.
Munoz looked up at Olson. His face remained expressionless. "Do we have a deal?" he uttered.
"We do, but it's contingent…"
"Good luck with your investigation. I'm ready for a vacation. Somewhere warm, I hope," Munoz said, leaning back in his chair.
"Contingent on proving this conspiracy. Black Flag better be real. Do you have any idea what happened today?" she asked, taking a seat across the table.
"Don't worry, it's real. Has my attorney seen the deal?"
"We have her standing by for a videoconference. She'll verify the details of your deal, but I'll tell you something…" Agent Olson leaned forward, her face several inches from Munoz. "You're not going anywhere until we figure out what happened today."
"I can go wherever I want. Whenever I want," he stated with a suppressed grin, as he placed his hands on the table in front of him.
Agent Olson reeled backward, as if Munoz had thrown a poisonous snake on the table. He had somehow managed to free his hands from the handcuffs that had been secured behind his back to the chair. Agent Carlisle reacted swiftly, charging around the side of the table, but stopped as Munoz placed both hands on the top of his head. Both agents moved backward from the table, weapons drawn and pointed at the suspect.
"None of you have any idea what you're dealing with here."
"Keep your hands on your head! Back away from the table and get on your knees. You will not be warned again," Olson yelled.
The interrogation room door opened, and three more agents entered. One of them held a Taser, the other two carried MP-5 submachine guns. Five agents stood well outside of Munoz's lunge radius, aiming weapons in his direction. One false move would erase Munoz from existence and eliminate any chance the FBI had to make sense of the day.
Munoz had told them that a link existed between General Terrence Sanderson and today's events, and that he would trade information about Sanderson for full immunity. Without more information, they couldn't move on Sanderson. And since the FBI still had no idea who had masterminded the string of murders, they needed every bit of help available. Unfortunately, Munoz represented the only break in their investigation. The Department of Justice, with the full backing of the White House, agreed with this assessment.
"Patch me through to my lawyer. We're wasting time. As soon as you get what you need, I walk out of the door. If you fuck with me on this deal, they'll carry you out the back door with a tag on your big toe," he said and lowered his body to his knees.
Munoz closed his eyes as at least three agents descended on him with zip ties and handcuffs. Agent Olson kept her weapon unholstered while Munoz was lifted to his feet. As he passed Olson, she grabbed the collar of his dark blue hooded sweatshirt and pulled him close.
"Your information better be worth this deal. I have a feeling you wouldn't last very long on the streets if we publicized the time and location of your release," she whispered.
"Don't worry. This information is worth a thousand deals. And just for the record, I wouldn't worry too much about my survivability on the streets. If the Pentagon coughs up my real file…you'll spend the next few days wondering why you're still alive," he said and pulled away from Agent Olson.
"Maximum security. No contact…just the videoconference with his attorney, and I'll supervise," she said.
Chapter Fifteen
2:55 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
The noise inside of Task Force HYDRA's operations room could be heard fifty feet down the hallway in any direction. The raucous din attracted the attention of agents unconnected to the day's events, and once one of these interlopers learned the true scope of events, they would all scurry back to the safety of their undisturbed operations or task forces. Like a dying star, the Terrorist Financing Operations Section had imploded that morning, sending a dense, pulsing gravity throughout the building; a black hole that sucked agents in and wouldn't let them go. Agents wishing to go home that night steered clear of the Counterterrorism Division that day.
Special Agent-in-Charge Sharpe listened intently to the silence on the phone. He stood in front of the large display screen, staring at information assembled regarding Jeffrey Munoz. There was nothing in his military service record or civilian records to suggest his possible involvement in today's fiasco. Munoz owned a successful chain of five coffee shops in Hartford, Connecticut, leaving the day-to-day operations of the entire business to one of the shop managers he had promoted two years ago. David Stebbens.
Agents interviewed Stebbens and several other employees. Their stories were the same. Munoz loved his work, spending most of his day and evenings in his coffee shops, chatting with patrons and trading stock futures on his laptop. Munoz was obsessed with beating the downtrodden stock market, and since he had delegated most of the grunt work to Stebbens, he was free to chase his interests. Financials for The Toasted Bean were solid, and Stebbens confirmed that he and Munoz had just run the numbers for opening a new shop. No red flags. Nothing to suggest Munoz would drive over a hundred miles to put an armor-piercing bullet through Umar Salah's head.
Sharpe waited patiently for the associate executive assistant director for National Security to take the line. The FBI's request to the Pentagon for access to the Black Flag files had been formally submitted over an hour ago, followed by a few high-level personal calls. It was rumored that the director of the FBI would contact the secretary of defense personally to express the urgency of the situation. The line suddenly went live.
"Mr. Sharpe, I have the executive director for you now," a male voice said, followed by a click.
Sharpe stiffened. He had expected to speak with the associate director, Sandra Delgado, who he knew on a personal level. Delgado and Sharpe had attended The Academy at the same time, one class apart, and had stayed cordially in touch over the years. Sandra and her husband had dined with Ryan and his wife several times over the past year. Sharpe didn't know what to expect from the director, and he didn't like surprises.
"Ryan, its Fred Carroll. Sorry to ambush you like this, but the situation has changed slightly, and Sandra will no
longer be included in the communication chain between the Pentagon and the bureau."
"I hope nothing is wrong, sir," Sharpe risked.
"Nothing wrong with Agent Delgado. Apparently, there is something very wrong with the Black Flag files. We need to maintain a minimal chain of information custody with regard to Black Flag," Carroll said.
"So Munoz wasn't lying?"
"Apparently not, and whatever is in those files is protected by the Department of Defense's strictest compartmentalized protocols. The Pentagon has agreed to grant us limited access. We will be allowed to use the information to unravel today's events and determine if an immediate threat to the U.S. exists. My assistant will pass the protocols to you immediately. Don't mess around with this information. The director himself convinced the White House that access to Black Flag was critical, but I have a feeling that the doors to this vault could slam shut at any time. Black Flag is a ticking time bomb that nobody wants aired in public. Contact me directly with updates. Instructions for direct contact will be contained in an email you should have just received. Let's get to the bottom of this ASAP, without pissing off the Pentagon."
"Understood, sir. I have the best agents working every angle of this case," Sharpe said.
"If you need more than that, don't hesitate to ask," Executive Director Carroll said, and the line went dead.
Sharpe waved to Mendoza, who pushed his way through several agents huddled over a bank of computer screens in the middle of the operations center. By the time he arrived a few seconds later, Sharpe had read the director's email.
"Frank, take two agents from Counterintelligence and report to the Information/Data bureau of the Pentagon. Your point of contact there will be Colonel Richard Farrington. I'll need you there long enough to thoroughly assess pertinent information in the Black Flag files. From what I've been told, the files are explosive and could be yanked out from under us without warning. Focus on information regarding Black Flag personnel.
"Munoz lived close enough to his assigned target to imply a geographic-based assignment, so let's get names and start mapping out last known locations of all Black Flag operatives. We might find a trend. If we can nab another one of these murderers, we'll have our best chance at nailing this to the wall by the end of the day. I don't know what kind of information they will be willing to release, but I'd like to know about capabilities. If we need to take one of these guys down, I want to know exactly what kind of training they received. We need to know what we're up against."
"All right, I'm on it. Does Counterintel know I'm coming to grab more of their talent?" Mendoza asked.
"They will in a few moments. And, Frank, you and the two agents will have to sign Category One, Compartmentalized Information Security agreements prior to viewing any of the Black Flag documents. Any agents who have even heard the words Black Flag will be required to sign a Category Two," Sharpe said.
"Christ. We better get word to Boston. The fewer agents exposed to this the better," Mendoza said.
"Once you arrive at the Pentagon, you will see a list of approved Category One personnel. You are entitled to share any information you see with these individuals personally on a face-to-face contact basis. That should be a very short list. Myself, the two counterintelligence agents and Executive Assistant Director Carroll. That's it. I expect that you'll be running back and forth all day to report to me. The two agents will be required to stay inside the Sanctum during the active investigation or until the Pentagon shuts us down. Let's nail this down quickly, Frank."
"We'll be thorough and get everything we need as quickly as possible," Frank assured him, exhaling deeply.
"The Pentagon will approve and classify all information to be shared, so be aggressive and fight for anything that might help us figure out what happened today. They have a protocol for this. Start with the names. I think this is our best starting point. Remember, you can share anything with me personally, but if it's not approved by the Pentagon, it's not going onto these screens. If they won't approve something you feel is critical to the investigation, you need to get your ass back here as fast as possible, so we can press the director for more cooperation," Sharpe said and picked up one of the nearby phones.
"I need to get you two agents, and you need to be at the Pentagon ten minutes ago."
"I'll be in touch," Mendoza said and made to bolt out of the room.
"Frank!"
Agent Mendoza looked over his shoulder.
"You better take Keller with you. I'll see if I can get him full access," Sharpe said.
Chapter Sixteen
3:35 p.m.
The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
Colonel Farrington saw the group approaching from the direction of the Information Section's only access point: four men, escorted by a navy lieutenant commander wearing the summer white uniform. The navy had recently shifted uniforms, trading service dress blues, which resembled a dark blue suit, for a white, short-sleeved uniform that reminded Farrington of the old fashioned Good Humor Ice Cream man.
"Thank you, Commander, I have them from here. Gentlemen, welcome to the Compartmentalized Information Section. Let's take a seat in the briefing room and get the formalities out of the way so you can go to work," he said and led them to a room adjacent to his cubicle.
He fished a pair of keys out of the front right pocket of his crisply pressed dark green uniform trousers and opened both of the locks to the room. The briefing room was sparse, decorated with a heavily varnished, rectangular conference table that could seat twelve. However, there were no chairs in the room. No pictures adorned the ugly off-white walls, and the room was illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights recessed behind large opaque plastic ceiling tiles. Separate stacks of paperwork sat neatly arranged on each long side of the table. Each stack was topped with a face sheet that displayed one of the agents' names.
Colonel Farrington walked to the far end of the table, as everyone else filled in by their respective stack. Before anyone uttered a word, three more people filed into the room and stood against the wall facing the colonel, on the other side of the room. The last one in, a female marine staff sergeant, closed the door behind her. Farrington registered a look of discomfort on one of the FBI agent's faces when the door closed, which gave the colonel some satisfaction.
When he had arrived to take this post, he had replaced a navy captain, who had turned this conference room into his own personal oasis. Comfortable chairs, pleasant lighting from several dimmable standing lamps, wall hangings and a fully stocked coffee station. Other staff members assigned to the section used it as a lounge when it was not in use. One of his first acts was to strip the room bare. He didn't want any sense of comfort to exist here. In fact, he preferred that the room made everyone feel on edge. Only clear plastic sheets covering the walls and floor would make him happier about the room. His job was to enforce the Department of Defense's strictest information-sharing protocols. Penalties for leaking information in the Sanctum ranged from a simple career-damaging letter of censure to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole on charges of treason. He liked to set the right tone here in this room. Nobody in his section even glanced twice at the door anymore, and he alone held the keys to open it.
"All right, let's get started. There are four documents that each of you must sign to enter the Sanctum. First, an explanation of the CIS categories and specific instructions regarding the management of sensitive information under each category. CIS stands for Compartmentalized Information Security. You will all need to read and sign the acknowledgement under CIS Category One, which I'm sure you are all aware, is the highest level of information security, carrying the highest levels of penalty for any accidental or purposeful unauthorized breach. Category One is the easiest to remember. You can only share information directly, and in person, with the individuals listed on your agreement. In person means actually in person, face-to-face in a secure environment, taking all reasonable precautions from eavesdropping, purposeful or accid
ental."
Agent Mendoza opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the colonel.
"Before any of you lays the proverbial egg, there is a procedure for disseminating information pertinent to your investigation. My staff, and Mr. McKie from the Defense Intelligence Agency, will assist you in this process. Our charge is to protect sensitive, classified information, while at the same time helping your investigation. I'm sure we will all butt heads today, but I assure you we are in no way trying to hinder your progress. Anything cleared by Mr. McKie will be retyped by one of my staff, either Staff Sergeant Brodin or Technical Sergeant D'Onofrie, and faxed directly to your operations center with a CIS Category Two classification. Mr. McKie will make the ultimate call on what is Category One or Two, and what can be transmitted or communicated.
"If you see something in the files that Mr. McKie won't release via fax, then you'll need to personally carry the information in your head to your immediate director, Agent Sharpe, who will not be able to share it with anyone outside of the list. Are your heads ringing yet? It's a lot to process, but we'll try to make this as easy as possible for your organizations.
"Agent Mendoza and Mr. Keller are free to leave and reenter as they wish; however, we do require that Agents Harris and Calhoun stay within the Sanctum until the file is resealed. My staff will be required to make the same sacrifice. The Sanctum has full bathroom and shower facilities, cots, coffee, and you can order whatever you'd like from the canteen to be delivered at any time. We'll send the bill to your agencies. Spare toiletry kits can be found in the bathrooms."
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 79