He paused and looked directly at Mendoza and Keller. "As for the two of you, anyone moving in or out of the section must do so with an escort, and you'll be subjected to our strictest security protocols on the way in and out of the building. No rubber gloves, gentlemen, but you will be scanned and frisked. Cell phones must be surrendered to security personnel; they are strictly prohibited in this section. Wear your security badges at all times. If there are no further questions, please read through the documents and sign them. Once you're done, we'll get you situated in the Sanctum. Entry and exit from the Sanctum is strictly controlled by me, and I will be available at all times to facilitate your comings and goings. I'm here as long as you're here."
"Will you be stationed inside of the Sanctum with us?" Agent Harris asked, shuffling through his paperwork.
"No. I unlock and release the file to Mr. McKie. Once he has confirmed that the contents of the file match the contents requested, you won't see me again inside the Sanctum until it is time to lock the file back up for good. I simply serve as the gatekeeper and document custodian. I have no idea what you've requested, only that the strictest of security protocols has been assigned to the handling of the information contained in the file. Take a few minutes to finish the paperwork, and I'll get you situated."
Ten minutes later, Colonel Farrington walked out of the Sanctum, satisfied that everything was in good order. McKie had enthusiastically confirmed that the contents of the vacuum-sealed, pressure-activated storage locker matched what the FBI had requested. Project Black Flag. As usual, General Sanderson's intelligence was right on the money. The files were stored in a single oversized, modern briefcase, which surprised Farrington. Most of the files in the Sanctum had been converted to thumb drives, hard drives, or even full laptop computers. The briefcase contained all of the known surviving documents pertaining to Sanderson's notoriously successful covert operations program, and judging by a glimpse of the contents from across the table, the documents were originals.
He sat down in his cubicle and glanced around the section. He could hear activity, but didn't see anyone headed in his direction, so he reached into his briefcase and removed his cellphone. He dialed one of fifteen phone numbers that he had committed to memory over the past year, in preparation for this day.
"Are we in business?" General Sanderson's voice asked immediately.
"Yes, sir. The files looked to be in an original form."
"Do you have a timeline for extraction?" Sanderson's voice replied.
"I have seven in the Sanctum right now, but I expect the herd to thin as they start to wade through the file. Two of them will likely depart within the hour. I'm looking at an early evening, possibly a late afternoon timeline."
"Take your time, Rich. The file will be open for at least twenty-four hours, if not longer."
"I understand, sir. But once these files are secured, we won't have another chance," Sanderson uttered.
"You'll have ample opportunity, I'm sure of it. Even if they suddenly shut down access to the file, you'll be the first to know. I trust your skills, Colonel. We've known each other for a long time."
Colonel Farrington's beeper vibrated, and he checked the number. "I have to go, sir. Looks like a few of our guests might be leaving earlier than I expected."
"Understood. Keep me posted," the general said, and the line went dead.
Farrington ensured the cell phone was placed in meeting mode, to keep it silent, and grabbed his desk phone. He pressed one of the conference call buttons and was immediately connected to Staff Sergeant Brodin within the Sanctum.
"Sir, Mr. Keller wishes to depart the Sanctum," she informed him.
"That was fast. I'll be right there," he replied and glanced at the Sanctum's security door adjacent to his cubicle.
"And sir?" she whispered.
Colonel Farrington continued to listen without responding. Sergeant Brodin lowered her voice even further.
"I think Keller might be eidetic."
"Interesting. How long did he look through the files?"
"Six minutes. He didn't appear to do much more than glance at the sheets, like he wasn't really paying attention. McKie didn't appear to be bothered by it. I just thought you should know, sir."
"That's why I have you in there, Staff Sergeant. I'll be right over," he said and hung up the phone.
A photographic memory. Very interesting.
Fifty feet away, Julio Mendez shook his head from the safety of his "office."
Chapter Seventeen
4:05 p.m.
Safe House, Alexandria, Virginia
General Sanderson sat at a dark brown Shaker-style table in an apartment on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. He had recently acquired the unit through a real estate holding company owned by a loyal, longtime friend, a powerful friend who had more to do with the day's events than simply providing an untraceable real estate purchase.
Sitting at the rectangular table, he faced a sliding glass door that led to a modest balcony two stories above a lush garden and small, undisturbed pool. Thick curtains gave him privacy from prying eyes on other balconies and reduced the glare from a bright, declining sun. A stainless steel refrigerator hummed behind him and marked the beginning of a granite and cherry cabinet appointed kitchen that filled the space to his immediate left. A sizable, sparsely furnished media room loomed to his right, containing a simple dark leather couch, coffee table and wall-mounted flat-screen television. Empty built-in bookshelves flanked the television.
The general alternated his attention among three laptop computers situated in a semi-circle on the table. A tangle of wires extended over the back of the table, split between a massive power strip and a broadband modem jammed at odd angles on one of the chairs. He confirmed Petrovich's flight schedule and picked up one of five cell phones sitting on the table next to the computers. Each one was plugged into a charger connected to the same power strip as the computers.
He dialed Parker.
"Sir?"
"Our guest should be arriving shortly. I want you to pick him up and find a rental car agency well away from the airport. Rent a car in your name and give him your SUV. I don't expect our friends to piece things together this quickly, but we can't take any chances. Take him to my place north of the city, and wait for instructions. Make sure to outfit our friend well. I may need him at a moment's notice."
"Understood, sir. I'm a few minutes away from the airport. Any word from Farrington?"
"Everything is in place. We're just waiting for the right moment. Let me know when the two of you have arrived safely," the general said and closed the phone.
Chapter Eighteen
4:13 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
The first encrypted fax from the Pentagon arrived thirty-two minutes after Special Agent Frank Mendoza and his team entered the Sanctum. Sharpe took custody of the sealed folder from Special Agent Keith Weber.
Weber's face appeared even more exhausted than this morning, though he had managed to find a new dress shirt to replace the crumpled mess he had presented to the task force this morning. Since then, the pale, lanky agent had never been seen without a cup of coffee in his hands. As tired as Weber might be, Sharpe was relieved to see him still functioning at full capacity. As chief communications officer for the task force, Weber was unlikely to find a moment's rest in the next twenty-four hours, especially with CIS Category Two protocols blanketed over the entire task force. Any breach of information security would fall squarely on his shoulders…and Sharpe's.
All eyes in the task force's operations center drifted toward Sharpe as he broke the packet's security seal. Aware of his audience, Sharpe motioned for Special Agent Dana O'Reilly, from the criminal investigation section, to join him at the front of the room. As she navigated the workstations, Sharpe removed the two-page document and began to read, his face betraying no initial response to the information as he processed what Mendoza had been able to push past the Pentagon gatekeeper
s. It was more than he had expected. He handed the first sheet over to Agent O'Reilly.
O'Reilly was another rising star within the FBI. Graduating number one in her class at the Academy, she had reported to the Los Angeles field office in 1999 and made a positive, lasting impression on Special Agent Olson, who personally requested her assignment to headquarters in 2004, several years ahead of schedule on a typical agent's career-ladder climb. As usual, Olson's instincts had been dead-on, and Agent O'Reilly didn't disappoint. Her investigative skill and efficiency matched her sharp, angular face and short brown hair.
"Agent O'Reilly, I want full workups on each of these names. Start with their most current known locations and move outward. I'm looking for a possible geographic pattern. Munoz lived within easy driving distance of Newport. Focus on the East Coast. If their last known address isn't on the East Coast, or close, move on to the next name. I want to start shaping this investigation in twenty minutes."
"We'll process all of the names at once, with an appropriate geographic priority filter. Give me ten minutes to get this up on the screens," she said and rushed away before Sharpe could respond.
"And I want these names, with pictures, to go out highest priority, everywhere. Classify them as suspected terrorists, no fly lists. The works!"
He sat down at his temporary workstation near the front of the chaotic room and watched as several agents and technical support staff moved about in a flurry of activity, reenergized with the new information. Agent O'Reilly rolled a chair up to one of the occupied workstations and handed the list over to one of the task force's tech staff. She gestured toward several other workstations, then the large screens above Sharpe's head. Satisfied that O'Reilly had this under control, he turned his attention to the second sheet. He thought Mendoza must have fought the Pentagon to get this sheet released. Although he could drop this sheet on the subway, and nobody could make sense of it, he was seasoned enough to understand the sinister implications. The notes provided by Munoz gave him a unique frame of reference to analyze the sheet.
Confirmed that General Terrence Sanderson founded program. Seeking additional details.
Areas of focus for investigative cross-reference: Serbia (1990s), Colombia (1990s), Russia (1990s), Mexico (1990s), Afghanistan (1990s).
All subjects trained extensively in following skill areas: hand to hand combat, edged weapons, urban combat, undercover operations, sabotage, field espionage, improvised combat, deception and disguise, marksmanship, explosives, forgery, extreme conditions survival. Each subject given custom specialized training in skill areas deemed most appropriate to assigned areas of operation. Most common specialized skills include: sniper operations, electronic surveillance, computer networking, advanced urban combat, improvised explosives, security systems manipulation, narcotics manufacturing.
Consider subjects highly dangerous and unusually capable of escape or evasion. Recommend use of highly-trained, tactical law enforcement teams for apprehension or pursuit. Do not underestimate subjects' capabilities.
Subjects sent to operate undercover without support for extensive periods of time (2-3 years). Fatality rate for program graduates in operational assignments: 30% first year, 40% second year. No graduates are known to have survived third year.
Sharpe leaned back in his chair and processed the information. Everything squared with Munoz's description of Sanderson's covert operations program, but the implication burrowed much deeper, and Sharpe wasn't sure he wanted to turn this rock over for a look underneath. The information contained on these two sheets might be enough to shed the appropriate amount of light on today's events and allow him to figure out if a further danger existed.
His own task force's investigation was permanently destroyed, but he might still have a chance to turn this into an opportunity. If a deeper conspiracy lurked beneath the surface, his team might possibly be able to stand at the vanguard of a new, permanent investigation. But first, he needed to convince the director that the week wouldn't end in a spectacular, mass-casualty attack on the United States. To do this, he needed to capture another Black Flag operative. Munoz had a deal, although Sharpe had no intention of releasing him yet.
Special Agent O'Reilly yelled across the room. "Sir, we have a preliminary picture coming up in a few seconds," she said and leaned into a screen between two busy data techs.
Sharpe stood up and took a few steps back from the bank of plasma screen monitors.
"We're linking it to the map, sir. A few more seconds," O'Reilly said.
The center screen still displayed the same map of the East Coast, with each murder site identified by an icon and a few lines of information. The screens flanking the map contained investigative information linked to each scene. So far, very little physical evidence had been recovered at any of the sites, emphasizing the sheer luck surrounding the capture of Munoz in Newport. The assassins had vanished like ghosts, leaving nothing behind. If Munoz had stepped on a different rock in the darkness, Sharpe would have very likely spent the next several days staring up at an unchanging screen, watching his career crumble.
The display blinked, and Sharpe watched new icons begin to populate the screen from north to south. He counted eleven new icons and immediately saw a pattern. One icon riveted his attention.
"Can you zoom in on the area surrounding Cape Elizabeth, Maine? Send it to one of the other screens. O'Reilly?" he said, waving for her to join him.
The same map appeared on the screen to the right and zoomed into New England, continuing to a small coastal area in southern Maine.
"There!" Sharpe said, and the map stopped moving.
O'Reilly stood a few feet behind Sharpe, to his left.
"Jesus," she whispered, and Sharpe nodded in agreement.
The map showed two icons, each on the opposite side of the screen, but within the same metropolitan area. The icon on the far right, at the water's edge, was one of their murder scenes. The other, buried within Portland, Maine, contained a name. Daniel Petrovich.
"What's the distance between the two?" he said.
Before he finished the sentence, the techs answered on the screen with a line connecting the two icons. 5.9 miles. He turned to O'Reilly and spoke softly.
"I want to know everything there is to know about Daniel Petrovich. Notify our Maine team, and start the ball rolling for a coordinated local law enforcement search and apprehension. Our Boston-based SWAT team is occupied with Munoz and won't be available to assist. We'll have to rely on local and state SWAT. Based on Petrovich's profile, make sure they understand that this is a high-risk apprehension and that the teams need to focus on nonlethal methods. This is critical to national security. I'll work on the warrant."
"Understood, sir," she said and disappeared again.
Sharpe returned his focus to the center screen, counting at least eleven former Black Flag operatives, including Munoz, within reasonable driving distance of the crime scenes. He suddenly had doubts about Daniel Petrovich. Why would General Sanderson use someone so close to one of the targets? All of the other operatives lived at least an hour or more away, which would make them less obvious suspects. For the Maine assassination, Sanderson even had the option of an operative living in Concord, New Hampshire, about two hours away.
Then again, Sharpe wondered why the general would use anyone near the East Coast at all. If Munoz lived in Denver, Colorado, his task force would be forced to consider every Black Flag operative within the U.S. However, Munoz's proximity to the target suggested otherwise. Sanderson may have called others in from around the country, but it was clear that this was not the rule. Sharpe's best chance lay with the eleven operatives listed on the screen. Before he could finish his thought, six more Black Flag operatives appeared throughout the Midwest.
"That's it, sir. That's the list," Agent O'Reilly said.
"What do you mean that's it?" he said, walking toward her workstation.
"Half of the names on the list turned up with last known addresses dating bac
k into the early nineties. I'll still work up full packages on them, but I thought it would confuse the overall picture on the screen right now," she said.
"Good call. None of these names extend past the Mississippi. What about the rest of the country?" Sharpe asked.
"If you want my guess, I'd say we didn't get the entire list."
"Damn it. Weber," he yelled across the room, "request more detailed information on each of these names. Priority goes to the ones on the East Coast. Also, request the full list of names. This can't be all of them."
Weber gave him a "thumbs up" from across the room and went to work at his computer station, as Sharpe glanced back at the screen and grimaced. He would have to coordinate a simultaneous strike on all ten remaining locations. He had no idea if any of them were in communication with each other, but he couldn't risk raising a general alarm among General Sanderson's co-conspirators. All he needed to do was catch one of them, and he should be able to move the investigation forward. He also needed to talk with Mendoza immediately. He needed more details about the operative in Portland, Maine. Daniel Petrovich. Sanderson was arrogant, and if he used Petrovich for the Cape Elizabeth hit like Sharpe hoped, it would prove to be a big mistake.
Chapter Nineteen
4:14 p.m.
Baltimore/Washington International Airport, Baltimore, Maryland
Daniel Petrovich waited patiently in his seat while the 747 taxied up to the gate at BWI airport. He had carefully, but surreptitiously watched the flight crew since about halfway through the two-hour flight. He'd taken a calculated risk boarding a flight this late in the afternoon, but he had been assured by General Sanderson that the net wouldn't fall on him until the early evening. Daniel's previous experience with the general had taught him that the man was rarely wrong about anything, which is why Petrovich sensed that something was off about the day's events.
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