Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  He glanced at the senior flight attendant, Elaine, a dark-haired, middle-aged woman who had seemed friendly enough throughout the flight. If the authorities knew he was on board, he had to assume at least one member of the flight crew had been notified, and his bet was on Elaine. So far, she'd only locked eyes with him twice, which was normal in Daniel's experience. She didn't look away quickly, or stare at him too long. Her behavior fell well within the normal parameters defined by an instinct he had sharpened to a razor's edge. He survived undercover for two years among the most dangerous, unpredictable men in the world, where the slightest change in expression was often the only warning that preceded a rusty buck knife across your throat.

  The aircraft rolled gently to a stop at the gate, and the fasten seatbelt sign was deactivated, releasing passengers to crowd the aisles. He was pretty sure that the pilot would have kept the passengers in their seats if a tense, heavily-armed SWAT team waited in the jetway. The woman in the middle seat next to Daniel stood, pushing into him, but Daniel gave her a cross look that made her pause. She lowered herself back down, mumbling to herself. Daniel was in a hurry, too, but not to be jostled by every manner-deprived, self-important passenger trying to get off the airplane.

  Ten minutes later, Daniel walked through a non-automated door next to a large swivel exit. He thought about how easy it would be to trap someone inside one of those large aquarium-like rotating doors, which is why he avoided it. His transformation back into Marko Resja had accelerated. He glanced up and down the street in the arrival pickup zone, spotting Parker's green Grand Cherokee five cars down to his right. He tossed the cell phone he had used to contact Parker—and its separated battery—into a tall, gray trash receptacle next to a concrete pillar behind the SUV.

  He looked into the vehicle at Parker, who nodded, and heard the doors unlock. Parker checked all of his mirrors, glancing around, while Daniel tossed the black nylon duffel bag into the back seat and took the front passenger seat. He buckled his seatbelt, still half expecting to be rushed by federal agents from all sides. Parker put the car into gear and cruised forward out of the spot, still not saying a word, which was fine with Daniel for now.

  Once out of the airport, Parker started to navigate them toward the Baltimore Washington Parkway, which would intersect with the 495 Beltway north of Washington, D.C., Daniel had no idea where Parker intended to take him once they were inside the Beltway, but he had his own plans for staying quiet until the general needed him.

  Parker finally broke the silence. "General Sanderson wants me to take you to a rental car agency. I'll rent another car, and you'll take mine."

  "So he can keep track of me? No, thanks."

  "He doesn't want any chance of a rental car transaction being traced to you."

  "Does he think I'm going to use my driver's license?" Daniel asked as Parker turned the Cherokee onto the Parkway.

  "If the feds think you're headed to D.C., they'll be able to figure it out, even if you use a fake ID."

  "Why would they assume I'm headed here? I'd think this is the last place they would expect me to materialize."

  "The general doesn't like surprises," Parker said.

  "Then losing a man to the feds must have ruined his entire year."

  Parker looked over at Daniel with a concerned expression. "The mission was a success, but the general's come too far to take any further chances with this operation."

  "I'll bet," Daniel said and found himself lost in thought, staring into the thick traffic headed out of D.C.

  "Once we get you a car, we'll head to a safe house in Silver Spring and wait for further developments."

  Daniel didn't like the sound of this at all. With one of Sanderson's men in custody, he wasn't sure how fast the entire situation would unravel, if it hadn't already spiraled out of the general's control. Clearly, the general shared the same concerns, or he wouldn't have taken steps to get Daniel out of Maine so quickly.

  Something kept bothering him, but he couldn't bring it to the surface. Parker suddenly showing up yesterday with Sanderson's barely-veiled ultimatum never sat right with Daniel. The Ghani killing was simple work, which didn't require his level of expertise, or exposure, and Sanderson had played a serious card to push him back into the fold. Mentioning Zorana Zekulic reeked of desperation and only served to underscore the insidious link bonding Petrovich to Sanderson.

  The SUV slowed as they joined traffic headed into the capital, and Petrovich decided that it was in his best interest to maintain a safe distance from the general until a better picture of the situation developed. Given the nature of the Black Flag program, Daniel guessed that he wasn't the only program graduate with secrets that the general would rather see buried in an unmarked grave. Secrets that would ruin the general's reputation permanently and possibly land him in front of a firing squad…right next to Daniel. He glanced around at the standstill traffic and the area surrounding the Parkway. He needed to get out of this car and disappear.

  Chapter Twenty

  4:28 p.m.

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

  Keller walked down a dense, tree-lined street of brownstones deep in the heart of Georgetown, until he arrived at the waist-level wrought iron gate that marked the entrance to the law offices of Hopkins, Frederick and McDonough. He turned the thick brass knob imbedded into the gate and found it unlocked. He pushed the heavy gate open, which uttered a squeak at the end of its swing radius. Keller mounted the weathered stairs and ascended the several steep, narrow steps to arrive at a small, covered porch. He pressed the worn black button located under the law firm's shiny brass embossed business placard and heard a bell ring beyond the door.

  Seconds later, he heard a buzz at the door, followed by a loud click. He pushed the thick wooden door inward and stepped into the building's cramped vestibule, turning his body sideways in order to close the outer door. He now faced a windowless door, which buzzed and opened slightly inward. He gripped the door's handle and leaned into the door, which opened slowly. Despite its similar appearance to the outer door, this door was constructed of reinforced steel with a thin wooden shell. Once he was through, the door closed on its own, which always left Keller with the impression that it could open all of the way on its own, too.

  He glanced across the small, sparsely appointed reception room at Claire and forced a smile, which quickly faded. He felt sure that the door would swing all of the way open if he held a higher position within the CIA, but he was wrong. For over twenty years, Claire had treated everybody that crossed this threshold the same, including the director.

  Keller's eyes scanned the room as he walked up to the dark mahogany desk separating Claire from the door. Ceiling to floor bookcases covered the entire wall to his right, filled with books that hadn't been touched for decades, or at least for the two years he'd been assigned to the FBI. If he turned around, he would see two uncomfortable, light brown upholstered armchairs under the larger front window, separated by an equally ugly brown pedestal table. Several coasters sat stacked in a holder on the table, implying that Claire might produce a beverage for someone sitting in these chairs. He glanced back at the bookcase, at a row of encyclopedias near the floor. A thin, genuine smile formed on his tight lips.

  He focused on the stoic woman, who stared at a flat-screen monitor like he didn't exist. She was partially obscured by a green-glass-shaded banker's lamp, which lit the top of her desk, but did little to illuminate the rest of the room.

  The whole setup reminded him of the movie Three Days of the Condor, except this brownstone didn't house a staff of CIA analysts. It was typically empty, except for Claire, and served as a convenient, clandestine meeting location for the CIA. Karl Berg, assistant director of the CIA's Counterterrorism Center, had arrived here earlier to receive Keller's report in person, in order to keep Keller compliant with his CIS Category One obligations. He kept smiling at Claire, who finally looked up at him.

  Claire was dressed in a light blue blazer, which covered an ivory
blouse. She wore a single strand of pearls, which hung barely visible between the blouse's collars, just above the top button. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, leaving a few wisps of hair to flow freely down her high cheeks. Claire looked like old money to Keller, and she acted like it too. Ice blue eyes pierced him as she spoke.

  "Mr. Berg will see you upstairs," she said, moving her right hand below the top of the desk to press a hidden button, smiling the entire time.

  Keller imagined she had a pistol strapped to the underside of the desk, or maybe a shotgun. Certainly she had a bank of buttons, each serving a function in the building. Maybe one of them activated a trapdoor leading to an incinerator.

  "Thank you, Claire." He turned toward the ornate staircase on the wall opposite to the bookshelves.

  He'd started up the stairs when he heard her say, "Good to see you again, Mr. Keller."

  "You too, Claire" he said somberly. He stopped before disappearing up the stairs. "Oh, the encyclopedias are out of order. Number fifteen is in front of fourteen," he said and waited for a response.

  "I never noticed. Thank you, Mr. Keller," she said, looking up from the computer screen with a forced smile.

  Keller continued up the stairs, wondering about Claire's exact role within the agency. She'd have to be highly trusted if she knew about his photographic memory. This was not common knowledge within the CIA, for several reasons. Most importantly, he would become a fought-over asset that not everyone could possess, and those who lost the fight to bring him into their fold would never trust him.

  There was too much infighting, petty jealousy, and paranoia inside the CIA. Widespread knowledge of his eidetic memory would be a career killer. Berg knew about his memory, but Berg had recruited him, keeping him close. Keller's skill could be a limitless treasure if used under the right circumstances, and he found himself assigned to one liaison position after another, mostly reporting to Berg. Not exactly the exotic CIA career he had imagined when first reporting to Langley, but unlike most CIA recruits, Keller was still a spy.

  He opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into a different world. Classical music drifted into the brightly lit hallway, which contained five doors and ended with a frosted privacy window. He knew that the open door to his immediate right was a modern conference room that extended to the front of the building, taking up at least one third of the second floor's square footage. He wouldn't find Berg here. He would be seated comfortably in the lounge at the end of the hallway, sipping a drink and enjoying the music. He couldn't wait to join him.

  To his left, a closed door secured by a fingerprint access terminal reminded him where he stood. In the CIA, there was always another layer of secrecy, and he didn't have access to this room. He walked down the hallway and glanced into the open doors. One room contained a full kitchen, which was connected to the other room, a dining room with one large rectangular table. A crystal chandelier hovered precariously low over the table. He counted place settings for eight.

  Keller arrived at the lounge and knocked on the doorframe before poking his head inside. Berg sat in a dark leather chair in the corner of the room.

  "Randy, please. You always knock on the door. I find it so peculiar," he said.

  "I always feel like I'm walking into someone's private den," he said.

  Keller loved this room. It had to be the most exclusive lounge in Washington, and no expense had been spared to make it feel that way, he thought, taking in the salient details. Two rich leather chairs flanked an ornately carved, darkly-stained pedestal table, which held a bronze lamp with a deep red lamp shade. The lamp's soft glow drifted down onto a small tumbler filled with a finger of amber liquid. He stepped inside and inhaled deeply the comforting smell of expensive leather furniture and antique books. Three of the room's four walls were covered in bookshelves that contained real books, unlike Claire's faux reading collection. Classics, rare books, modern thrillers, curios. The shelves here were a treasury of gifts from dignitaries, world leaders, agency patrons, well-connected politicians and thieves. He cherished receiving permission to spend the night here.

  Staring awestruck at the collection, he almost stumbled over the leather couch that dissected the room, separating Berg and the deep leather reading chairs from a fully stocked bar immediately to Keller's left. He saw two laptop computers on the oval coffee table in front of the couch. He'd use one of these to type his report, and Berg would use the other to simultaneously read and securely transmit his report to Audra Bauer, their director. His eyes caught a bottle of Chivas Regal standing guard over an empty tumbler on the shiny bar top.

  "Pour yourself a drink," Berg offered.

  "Thank you. Only a small one, though. I need to start typing this out while it's fresh," he said and moved toward the bottle of outrageously expensive scotch.

  "It's always fresh. I bet you could type out the first psychological exam we gave you with ninety-nine percent accuracy." Berg laughed.

  "One hundred percent. I dip into the ninety-nine range when I try to tap into the middle school years. I hope you're the one who moved the encyclopedias," he said, walking over to his favorite chair with a splash of Chivas.

  "Simply amazing. I moved them a few weeks ago. I don't even think Claire has noticed. Salud," Berg said, raising his glass.

  "Salud," Keller replied and clinked Berg's glass.

  Berg took a long sip, relishing the drink. He leaned toward Keller like he was sharing a secret.

  "I'm not going to bullshit you here, Randy. The CIA has very little on this Black Flag program. We know it was created and run by General Sanderson, with very little oversight. We are pretty sure it fell under Defense Intelligence Agency purview, and that it was abruptly shut down in 2001. It may have started in the late eighties, but details have been nearly non-existent. This was a word of mouth program, and we couldn't find any loose mouths willing to talk about it. General William Tierney, apparently one of Sanderson's many close rivals and enemies within the army, brought the program's activities to the attention of Congress in late 1999. Tierney quietly retired a few months later, and Sanderson followed suit shortly after that. The matter was quickly sealed and has remained that way until today. So, what is your impression of the file?"

  "They need to burn this file as soon as they're done with it, and pray to God that these are the last remaining documents pertaining to this program," Keller said and emptied his glass in one swallow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  4:51 p.m.

  Safe House, Alexandria, Virginia

  General Sanderson picked up the buzzing cell phone on the table and answered it. "Good timing. I hope you've put some distance between yourself and the airport. An APB just went out with a dozen names. The FBI isn't wasting any time with this. We cut it really close flying him in," Sanderson said.

  "Sir, I lost him. We were sitting in traffic, and he suddenly jumped out just past the Laurel exit. I'm still stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and can't get this fucking car off the Parkway. Are you sure bringing him here was a good idea?" Parker said.

  Sanderson took a moment to consider this development, and there was an uncomfortable pause on the phone while he processed what this might mean for his plan. Nothing. He could never fully control Petrovich, which is why Daniel was a unique addition to the Black Flag program. He had suspected this before Petrovich reported to The Ranch and quickly confirmed what the psychological exams had suggested. Petrovich had a pathologic aversion to authority, but a conflicting need to operate loosely within a structure. He caused considerable difficulty for the instructors at The Ranch, but excelled within the program. Sanderson had seen the unlimited potential in Petrovich and still did.

  "I'm not surprised. Trust me, there was nothing you could do to stop him. Remember what I told you. Don't ever stand in his way. He knows how to get in touch with us and will surface when he's ready. His world was turned upside down yesterday. Frankly, I'm just happy we managed to get him to D.C. We still need him. C
ontinue to your destination, and wait. He'll pop up once he's established a safe base of operations. He might be better off on his own."

  "I'll be ready to roll, sir. Sounds like our man in Boston talked?"

  "Things are moving quickly. The feds have connected some dots from the Pentagon file, so we need to proceed cautiously," he said.

  "Understood, sir."

  "Sit tight and wait. That's about all we can do at this point," he said and ended the call.

  He purposely neglected to inform Parker of a disturbing element uncovered by Colonel Farrington at the Pentagon. There existed a distinct possibility that the CIA liaison to the FBI was able to commit large portions of the Black Flag file to memory. He knew that the information approved for release from the file would be carefully screened by Derren McKie, one of the few people entrusted with its contents, but if McKie didn't suspect a photographic memory, the CIA liaison officer could easily take advantage of the situation. The fact that Randy Keller spent less than fifteen minutes in The Sanctum suggested that he had seen enough. Sanderson had grave concerns about the CIA discovering Petrovich's Serbian alias, Marko Resja. In the wrong hands, this information could ignite a powder keg.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  4:58 p.m.

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

  Berg sat buried in the leather chair with an open laptop perched on one of the chair's oversized arms. The light emanating downward from the decorative lamp competed with the illumination cast from the laptop screen, casting a pale, ugly glow on his impassive face. His eyes scanned the laptop screen, oblivious to Keller, who typed away furiously on the couch. Keller was recreating the documents he had memorized at an unbelievable pace. So far, he had typed twenty pages in under thirty minutes, and his pace was quickening. According to Keller, he had memorized over a hundred pages of material, but was still unable to adequately peruse over half of the file under McKie's watchful eye.