“What’s the size of the strike package?” Farrington asked.
“As many as we can stuff into one of the larger Dassault Falcons or an extended-range Gulf Stream,” said Sanderson.
“Then we better move it out,” said Farrington after quickly glancing at his watch. “This is going to be tight.”
Chapter 15
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Ryan Sharpe replaced the handset on his encrypted desk phone and shook his head, mumbling a distant obscenity. Something was brewing at the CIA, and it gave him an uneasy feeling. He’d just taken an unexpected call from the former director of the FBI, Frederick Shelby, who personally requested his help arranging the international version of an “all-points bulletin” for a Russian national. Shelby wanted Ryan to go beyond the usual broad coordination with Interpol and liaison directly with Europol and the major players on each continent, focusing on countries with the most extensive and expansive law enforcement networks.
The request itself wasn’t unusual, though requests like these usually reached the FBI’s National Security Branch through a specific process designed to automatically screen for potential or known conflicts of interest with ongoing FBI investigations. What struck him as unusual was the fact that Sharpe had already vetted the individual in question late yesterday afternoon, based on an identical request by Karl Berg at the CIA. Sharpe couldn’t know for sure, since efforts at his own organization were often mistakenly duplicated, but he got the distinct impression that neither Shelby nor Berg was aware of each other’s activity. This feeling convinced him to take a second look at the individual under scrutiny to be certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything.
Since taking on the role of associate executive assistant director of the FBI’s National Security Branch, a substantial promotion fast-tracked by Shelby just over a year ago, Sharpe had refocused a significant portion of the branch’s resources to the detection, tracking, and prevention of emerging weapons of mass destruction (WMD) threats, foreign and domestic. After the attempted bioweapons attack two years ago by homegrown terrorists, he’d sworn never to let a similar catastrophe get that close to the United States again. He owed it to the men and women under his command who were murdered and injured in the cowardly bomb attack against the National Counterterrorism Center.
Neither Berg nor Shelby had expanded upon their reasons for the request, but with Berg involved, Sharpe’s spider sense tingled. Add Shelby’s personal request to the mix, and his hair was standing on end. Another look was warranted. If they weren’t going to connect the dots for him, he’d put his best people to work on it. They never failed to produce results.
Sharpe navigated through a series of menus on his computer screen to arrive at the electronic dossier for Grigor Sokolov. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an extensive file. Not only that, it told a familiar story. Nothing stood out. Like most of the for-hire Russian mercenaries and mafiya enforcers, Sokolov was a former noncommissioned officer in the GRU Spetsnaz during the late Soviet era. Drastic military spending cuts and the targeted political dismissal dumped thousands of Russian Special Forces soldiers on the job market, with few skills to offer beyond murder, sabotage, and mayhem—a perfect fit for a number of unsavory corporations and organizations rising to power in the post-communist industrial market.
The scant details of Sokolov’s post-GRU career didn’t raise an eyebrow. He’d dropped off the radar in 2008, his last documented link to a four-man crew that rather uniquely specialized in direct action rather than the usual high-risk security detail work taken by mercenaries. That was the only thing that remotely stood out. He led a team that gained a reputation for kidnapping, assassination, and sabotage. Exactly what he had been trained to do by the Soviet military.
Sharpe scanned the information one more time, focusing on the dates. 2008 was the only connection he could make, and that was shaky at best. Sokolov disappeared the same year True America extremists tried to poison Congress and thousands of innocent Americans. Not much to go on there. Intelligence sources couldn’t pinpoint a narrow time frame for his disappearance. He’d popped up a few times a year, with no detectable regularity, loosely tied to a murder or crime by a foreign federal law enforcement agency. His file went cold in 2008 and had stayed cold. Until now.
He drummed his fingers on the desk next to the keyboard, then marked the electronic file for distribution to Dana O’Reilly, his deputy assistant director. He typed a quick email to O’Reilly and waited. A few seconds passed then a quick rap on the closed door announced her presence.
“Come in!” he called.
She appeared in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“Shut the door and grab a seat,” he said, turning his screen to face the empty chair at the side of his desk.
He rolled his chair a few feet to the right so they could view the screen together. Sharpe no longer paused or winced internally when he looked at her, a monumental task given the long, twisting scar that ran from her chin to her left ear. It was unfair to pretend not to notice, on top of the fact that it was virtually impossible. Nobody in the office or headquarters was immune. She was a hero, if not somewhat of a legend in the FBI, but none of that erased the angry red scar and the awkward moments that followed her around day after day, hour after hour.
“This guy looks worse than I do,” O’Reilly commented.
Sharpe was once again caught off guard by her self-deprecating humor. Sokolov had a scar running from one ear to the other, the obvious victim of a botched throat slitting.
“You need to get used to it. Helps me get through the day,” she said, an underlying tone of sadness hanging on the statement.
The scar wasn’t her only reminder of that fateful day. Eric Hesterman’s massive frame had absorbed enough of the blast to keep her alive, but she’d been close enough to the explosion to suffer severe internal and external injuries. She’d spent the better part of a year recovering, the prospect of her return to the FBI never a sure thing.
A barely noticeable limp and a subtle but perpetually pained look stood as a testament to the fight she had won to get back to work. Sharpe didn’t hesitate to bring her on board as his deputy. He didn’t do it because he felt sorry for her. He did it because she had been one of the finest special agents he’d ever worked with—and she would have been Frank Mendoza’s first pick. The thought of Frank always stopped him in his tracks.
“I’m trying, Dana.”
“You’re doing better than most,” she replied. “Who is this guy?”
“Grigor Sokolov. Ex-GRU turned mercenary,” stated Sharpe, sitting back in his chair.
“Why are we looking at this guy?”
“Because within the span of twenty-four hours, I’ve received two requests to add this guy to our watch list, along with Interpol, Europol, and any other national law enforcement agency that will play ball with us.”
“Intriguing.”
“Wait until you hear who made the requests,” said Sharpe, pausing for a moment. “Karl Berg and Frederick Shelby.”
O’Reilly’s eyes widened a fraction. “I’d like to change my original assessment to disturbing.”
“Let the record reflect that this is highly disturbing,” said Sharpe. “And just when you thought it couldn’t get stranger, I’m pretty sure the requests were independent, as in not coordinated or purposefully duplicative.”
“Interesting.”
“Something’s up,” said Sharpe, “and I need you to get to the bottom of it. There’s not much to work with, but you’ve performed some miracles in the past.”
“I’ll start digging.”
“Discreetly, please,” said Sharpe. “The walls have ears nowadays, and I don’t need this to get back to Shelby.”
“I’m glad you said something,” she stated, looking serious. “I was going to put the entire branch to work on this.”
A sly smile slowly materialized on her face, reminding Sharpe that he was in the presence of a world-re
nowned smart-ass.
“That’s not funny,” said Sharpe, shaking his head with a grin.
“Yes, it is.”
“Maybe,” he admitted.
He rolled his chair back to the center of the desk while she studied the file on the screen.
“I’ve sent you what I have on this guy,” he said. “Gut instinct tells me he’s mixed up in something big.”
“How big?”
“I have no idea, but he hasn’t been linked to a crime since 2008. Prior to that, he was an Interpol regular. Never anything big, but busy enough. Suddenly he’s the focus of Berg and Shelby?”
“Berg’s involvement stands out,” said O’Reilly. “From the little I know of him.”
“Right. And if my read of the situation is correct, he’s not working with Shelby on this, which is what scares me the most.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling,” Sharpe said. “Berg was demoted when True America swept in, while Shelby was put on the fast track to becoming our country’s top intelligence community director. Two polar opposites in pursuit of the insignificant. That’s what scares me. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“Then let’s pull back the curtain a bit,” said O’Reilly.
“Discreetly,” Sharpe reiterated.
She grinned. “Of course.”
PART TWO:
BLACKLIST
Chapter 16
Chicago, Illinois
Daniel squeezed Jessica’s hand as the Learjet crossed the boundary between Lake Michigan and Chicago’s northern suburbs. The jet had approached the airport from the east, passing a few miles north of the iconic Chicago skyline. Through his window, the sprawling tangle of high-rise buildings slowly drifted aft. It wasn’t the prettiest city from the sky, or the ground for that matter. He recalled the familiar sight from his younger days, prior to meeting Sanderson, though he couldn’t recall the last time he had landed at O’Hare. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
A quick glance across the aisle through Jessica’s window had brought a few back into sharp focus. The familiar shape of Northwestern University’s Lakefill expansion was visible beyond the aircraft’s sleek wing, further north along Lakeshore. The two of them had spent hundreds of hours on the lakefront together, walking, jogging, and picnicking, among other less public activities. The three years he had spent with her there had been the best.
Jessica continued to gaze absently out the window, her mind preoccupied with her mother. When another gentle squeeze didn’t soften her thousand-yard stare, he let it go for now. She had more than enough on her mind. Enough to ensure that he’d be their only reliable set of eyes and ears once the flight landed. He leaned his head back against the plush leather headrest and closed his eyes for the few remaining minutes of the flight, reviewing the plan.
They’d chosen to land at O’Hare instead of a more private jetport in the Chicago area to give them the best chance of arriving discreetly and keeping their visit anonymous. If Jessica’s mother’s illness was a ruse, the most obvious and easy-to-watch point of arrival would be one of the numerous smaller airports that catered to private or chartered jets. O’Hare International Airport was a different story altogether.
With hundreds of private flights arriving daily from destinations spanning the globe, O’Hare provided them the best chance to disappear into the Chicagoland area. Even a sophisticated and extensive government surveillance operation would find it difficult to locate and track the Petroviches once they disembarked the aircraft.
They had cleared customs at New Orleans International Airport, paying cash on the spot for a luxury sedan to drive them to Lafayette Regional Airport, where a second Learjet awaited them. The lengthy ride gave them ample time to determine if they had been followed out of New Orleans. They were alone from what either of them could tell, though U.S. authorities were no doubt aware of their arrival.
They used their own passports to enter the country, a calculated risk under the circumstances, but one designed to keep their most recently acquired counterfeit identities intact. If things went sideways on them in Chicago, they would flee the country using a leftover set of U.S. passports and identification from a few years ago. Once out of the U.S., they would switch to freshly minted Spanish papers, granting them visa-free access to nearly every nation they could possibly reach by sailboat. The trick would be getting back to their boat in Anguilla. Of course, they could always buy another boat. There was no shortage of cruising sailboats on the market.
A bump of mild turbulence brought Jessica’s hand across the aisle to his. Daniel met her glance and was treated to an apprehensive smile. Better than no smile. She’d remained detached, almost trancelike since learning about her mother’s condition, and coming to grips with a reluctant but irresistible desire to seek closure. From start to finish, he knew this would be a rocky trip on every level for her. Another round of turbulence underscored the thought, and her hand tightened around his wrist.
Twenty minutes later, after a featherlight landing, their aircraft taxied into position in front of a modern glass and steel building. GLOBAL AVIATION’s terminal handled three-quarters of O’Hare’s private flight arrivals, making it an ideal choice for their disappearing act.
“Ready?” he asked, standing up in the tight cabin.
“Yeah,” Jessica replied.
He offered her a hand, helping her out of her seat.
“It’s not too late,” said Daniel. “We can be back in the air within the hour.”
“I wish I could,” she said, a strained look on her face. “But I can’t.”
He nodded, knowing not to push any further. She was resolved to put this part of her life to rest, even if her mannerisms suggested that Chicago was the last place on Earth she wanted to be. His only mission at this point was to get her back to the airport by tomorrow morning to board the jet that would return them to Anguilla and the new life she so desperately needed. Nothing about the next eighteen hours would be easy.
“I know,” he said, kissing her gently on the forehead.
Daniel turned toward the cockpit, holding her hand. The dark-haired copilot stood next to the forward exit door, peering through its small oval window. Through the forward-most passenger window he caught a glimpse of the black canvas-covered structure that would shield them from the public eye and any surveillance teams closely watching flight arrivals. A silver SUV arrived a few moments later, pulling next to the tarmac end of the ramp.
“We’re almost ready,” said the copilot. “They’re connecting the walkway to your vehicle for maximum privacy.”
“Thank you,” replied Daniel, edging forward down the tight aisle.
While the pilot released the door handle, Daniel removed a hard-case carry-on piece from the storage compartment next to the door.
“I can take your bags to the vehicle,” offered the pilot.
“We can manage,” said Daniel.
He placed Jessica’s suitcase next to his, then pulled two thick rubber-banded rolls of cash from an interior coat pocket. When the copilot turned his attention back to the Petroviches, Daniel handed him one of the rolls.
“A token of our appreciation for a smooth flight,” stated Daniel. “And your continued discretion with regard to the protection of our identities.”
The man smiled, accepting the money. “It’s not every day we get to transport such a striking blond-haired, blue-eyed couple. Nordic royalty from what I would guess.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Daniel.
He leaned through the cockpit door to deliver the second money roll, the pilot preempting him.
“Dolph Lundgren and Brigitte Nielsen lookalikes,” said the pilot.
“I don’t expect anyone to ask questions,” said Daniel, pressing the money into his hand. “But you never know.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve dealt with celebrity reporters,” said the pilot. “Or private investigators.”
“We appreciate th
e discretion,” said Daniel. “And I meant the part about the smooth flight. Barely felt the landing.”
“Between you and me, these birds pretty much fly themselves. I’m just here in case something goes wrong.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Daniel said, gripping his suitcase. “Ready, Jessica?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He stepped through the exit hatch, taking the short stairway to the tarmac. The canvas and translucent plastic tunnel extended about fifteen feet beyond the jet, connecting seamlessly to the SUV that would drive them out of the airport. Their driver, a squat, middle-aged Latino man in a black suit, ushered them into the vehicle and closed the rear passenger door, then disappeared through a flap in the canvas with their suitcases.
Less than thirty seconds after their feet had touched the runway, the powerful vehicle passed through a manned security station that separated the public world from the private aircraft tarmac. Their driver was efficient and practiced. It was a shame they had to ditch him so quickly.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“Main terminal parking. I’ll guide you when we get there,” said Daniel, tapping his shoulder with a money roll. “Sorry, but this pickup was more of a security precaution than anything.”
“No need to apologize, sir,” said the driver, briefly turning his head to see the money. “We’re good. You’re all paid up for the day.”
“My treat,” said Daniel. “I insist.”
The driver reached over his shoulder and took the roll of cash, placing it somewhere out of sight. “Thank you,” he said with a subtle hint of regret, possibly disappointment.
Daniel pegged him as ex-military. Someone that didn’t require a tip or bonus to put any extra effort into a job or assignment. A professional. The SUV eased right onto Bessie Coleman Drive and picked up speed, heading toward the main terminal in the distance. Jessica lifted a black briefcase from her foot well and placed it in her lap while Daniel scanned the road behind them. The private terminal access road beyond the security gate remained clear as they continued down the four-lane road. He didn’t expect to detect any possible surveillance this quickly, but it never hurt to look.
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 10