OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5)

by Steven Konkoly

  “No. I have a direct line to a senior federal investigator there,” said Sharpe. “I need you to look into something else.” He explained Berg’s call.

  “Wow. That’s one hell of a conspiracy theory,” she said.

  “It’s probably nothing, but be discreet.”

  “This won’t take long. You can’t hide a company,” said O’Reilly. “Especially one with four thousand new employees.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Sharpe. “They don’t sound like the kind of employees you want to vanish.”

  Chapter 46

  Vienna, Virginia

  Berg didn’t have to wait long for Sanderson to answer his call. He imagined the general sitting around in the same kind of sleep-deprived stupor, racking his brain with conspiracy theories while the information trickled in at a painfully slow pace. The news he had to share would definitely wake him up.

  “Karl, what are we looking at?” Sanderson asked.

  “Good news and bad news. I just got off the phone with Ryan Sharpe. They have a lead on Sokolov. Sounds like Reznikov’s with him.”

  “That’s good news. How solid is the intelligence?”

  “Not very,” said Berg, explaining what Sharpe had passed along.

  “Thin, but promising. Any chance of getting CIA support on this? Some money-pliable law enforcement contacts? Information on the organized crime scene players? We’re going to attract a lot of attention there poking around the markets for Russians buying illegal weapons.”

  “This is where the bad news starts. Audra Bauer was my only conduit to get that kind of information, and she doesn’t know who to trust.”

  “Right,” said Sanderson.

  Berg still sensed a lingering doubt about the CIA mole theory, despite having presented nearly incontrovertible evidence to support it.

  “Terrence, someone listened to my conversation with Bauer from her end. That suggests a real problem at the CIA. Add the phantom army Brown River created for someone with deep pockets, and a disturbing picture emerges. A picture with True America written all over it.”

  “I’m analyzing every angle. Hear me out on this. Assuming the phantom Ajax group was behind your abduction—”

  “There’s no assuming. The team was on Brown River’s payroll, and Wellins went to work for Ajax, whether it exists in writing or not.”

  “Fair enough. An off-the-books team paid by Brown River grabs you, looking for information about your contact in Moscow. A well-placed contact, from what I gather.”

  “One I’m willing to go to my grave protecting,” said Berg.

  “Apparently,” said Sanderson.

  “I don’t think they had any practical experience with torture methods,” said Berg.

  “Sounds like they did a fair enough job,” said Sanderson. “So. They grab you—interested in all things Russian.”

  “And Reznikov,” said Berg. “True America has a vested interest in putting that story to bed.”

  “So do the Russians,” said Sanderson.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Then they lose you rather spectacularly. Right?”

  “Right,” admitted Berg.

  “Less than six hours later, they try to grab Bauer out of desperation, who they could have easily followed out of Langley. The Russians know the two of you are connected. They do their homework.”

  “But they set up at the coffee shop before Bauer drove out of headquarters.”

  “One of her favorite stops on the way home. A shitty private investigator hired to find Bauer would stake that place out,” said Sanderson. “And Wellins? He’s part of this Ajax group. A very real, well-paid, under-the-radar part of Brown River that maybe doesn’t discriminate against well-paying clients.”

  “The Russians,” Berg stated.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a Russian-backed investor or two behind the sudden influx of capital at Brown River. I’m not saying this isn’t a major fucking problem or that we ignore it. I just can’t shake the strong feeling that the Russians are behind this. And now they have a small army inside the U.S. Wellins probably thinks he was running some kind of patriotic errand. Taking on a rogue cabal of conspirators within the CIA. Wouldn’t be the first time contractors at Brown River have been misused this way. I seem to remember an enterprising CIA officer sending some contractors to kill an imminent threat to the United States back in 2005.”

  He was right. Berg had convinced Jackson to send a team up to D.C. to kill Petrovich under the guise of national security. Sanderson’s case for Russian puppet masters was solid, possibly made stronger by the rest of the news he needed to share.

  “There’s something else you need to know, which I think tips the scale in favor of your theory. Ernesto Galenden was murdered sometime yesterday. I just received word from Sharpe, on the heels of the Reznikov tip. One of Sharpe’s contacts in the Argentine Federal Police said Galenden was tortured extensively.”

  “When was the estimated time of death?”

  “They think before midnight,” said Berg. “His last appointment of the day was with two Russian executives from Gazprom.”

  “They weren’t executives with Gazprom. More likely Zaslon. None of this is coincidence, Karl,” said Sanderson. “Is there any doubt in your mind what’s going on right now?”

  “There’s always doubt. But it sounds like we need to relocate.”

  “That’s a good start. There’s no telling how deep the Russians will dig into Galenden’s holdings, and with an army ready at their disposal, there’s no telling how quickly you might have uninvited guests. I’ll do the same here, effective immediately.”

  “Our primary focus right now is to build an airtight case against Ajax, or whatever Brown River is hiding.”

  “Add staying alive to that to-do list,” said Sanderson.

  “We’ll fit that in somewhere,” said Berg. “Right now, we need to find new accommodations. I may need to break this group into smaller pieces to stay hidden.”

  “I don’t advise that,” said Sanderson. “Munoz and Melendez will stay with you, guaranteed. You’re their mission right now. Same with Graves and Gupta. I can’t say the same for Mazurov or Sayar, and I know the Petroviches will fade away if pulled too far away from the group’s center of gravity. If the Petroviches split, you can definitely kiss the other two goodbye. That doesn’t leave you with much if an opportunity arises.”

  “Any chance of reinforcements?”

  “Everyone I have here is either tied up waiting for the Reznikov mission or tied up with our imminent evacuation. I have some assets in Europe, but given Russia’s sudden interest in my organization, they’ll need to lie low,” said Sanderson.

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “I know a secluded place about three hours out of D.C. It’s a little rustic and hasn’t been used in about three years, but I can guarantee its secrecy.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because you don’t know about it, and neither does the FBI,” said Sanderson. “I monitor it remotely. Nobody outside of the Black Flag family has entered the structure. You’ll be safe there as long as you don’t drag anything back with you.”

  “Does it have running water?”

  “If you can start the site’s generator. If not, a large off-the-shelf replacement will run everything you’ll need for now.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Berg. “Send directions to Graves.”

  “No need. Munoz and the Petroviches know where to find it.”

  “That’s where you rebooted the program,” said Berg, with an air of reverence.

  “I spent two good years there. Productive years. I’d love to see it again.”

  “One of these days.”

  “I’m not counting on it,” said Sanderson.

  The thought of turning into a permanent refugee like Sanderson depressed him. They needed to get to the bottom of this conspiracy fast so they could figure out who to trust or, more importantly, who not to trust. H
e’d already taken one giant leap of faith in that direction.

  “I asked Sharpe to look into Ajax,” said Berg. “Hopefully he’ll have something by the time we get resettled in our new location.”

  “I was going to suggest trusting Sharpe,” said Sanderson. “You might want to consider a few press sources. Blowing this wide open could put Brown River out of business at least. Also might come in handy as an insurance policy.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Berg. “I’ll make sure Graves puts together a tidy, failsafe package.”

  “We’ll get this sorted, Karl. Might be a little messy, but that’s the nature of this business. It certainly wouldn’t hurt if we got our hands on Reznikov. He’s our ultimate bargaining chip with the Russians. I can’t move my team to Libreville without better intelligence or local cooperation.”

  “I’m not sure how we can pull that off right now.”

  “What about Manning? Is there any way Audra can convince her boss to help with Libreville? Activate some ground assets to start asking questions? Liaison with my people on the ground? There’s no way he’s in on this conspiracy.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Berg. “She doesn’t want to get him killed.”

  “Give her some time to simmer down from last night,” said Sanderson. “I need to get moving. I want to be long gone when they arrive.”

  After the call ended, Berg lay alone in the great room, replaying the conversation. Something nagged him, a stray thought washed away by relentless waves of exhaustion. It was probably nothing. He had bigger things to worry about right now, like their immediate departure. They’d have to figure out what to do with Wellins. Probably dump him in a shallow grave in the woods.

  Same with Foley. He hated to do it to her, but they couldn’t risk properly dealing with her body. It wasn’t like they could leave her at the front door of a funeral parlor with a note. They’d deal with her later. Bauer walked in from the kitchen, interrupting his thoughts.

  “We’re almost packed up,” she said.

  “Good. Sanderson has a safe place we can use. It’s about three hours from here.”

  “The further the better for now.”

  He suddenly remembered what was bothering him. “Audra…Thomas Manning,” he started.

  “I’m not getting him involved,” she said forcefully.

  “Have you spoken with Thomas this morning?”

  “I called to let him know I wouldn’t be in today. He’s at the office. I bypassed him with the Sokolov request and went straight to Zane Abid, my replacement at NCS. There’s no reason for Ajax to go after him.”

  “But he knows about Reznikov. Everything about Reznikov,” said Berg. “Yet he wasn’t targeted.”

  “He wasn’t in the loop.”

  “The latest loop. Something about Reznikov’s recent escape made someone nervous,” said Berg. “Sanderson just had me ninety-nine percent convinced it’s the Russians cleaning house, but Manning should be missing if that was the case.”

  “Three missing CIA officers at one time would raise some serious eyebrows,” said Bauer. “Maybe they were showing a little restraint.”

  “Maybe,” said Berg, not really convinced.

  He needed a lot of rest and some time to think this through. The three-hour car ride ahead of them would be a start.

  Chapter 47

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  James Quinn stormed across the White House lobby, annoyed that he’d been pulled from the weekly Homeland Security meeting. It was hard enough to get everyone in one place with his or her undivided attention. By the time he got back, Jacob Remy would have command of the room, cheered on by that monkey on his shoulder, Gerald Simmons. How Crane had retained the two of them seriously perplexed Quinn.

  Now he had Shelby on the line, insisting the call was critical. Normally he would have called Shelby back later, but the former director of the FBI had somehow curried serious favor with Beverly Stark, Crane’s chief of staff. Shelby wouldn’t hesitate to jump the chain of command and call her. Quinn had a good idea why Shelby had called, and didn’t want to hear about it from Stark. He could envision her interrupting the meeting he’d just left with the news, which would make him look like an idiot.

  The internal politics in this place made his head spin. Part of him wished the new administration had given him the boot, along with everyone else that seemed to have a clue. He entered his office in the northwest corner of the West Wing and thanked the unfortunate staffer tasked to drag him out of the meeting. After shutting the door firmly, Quinn took a seat at his desk and picked up the encrypted phone, pressing a button to connect the call.

  “Sorry about the delay, Frederick,” he said. “The staffer spent longer than usual fretting outside the Roosevelt Room.”

  “Nobody wants to drag the national security advisor out of an important meeting, especially the Homeland Security meeting. I apologize for insisting, but I have some time-sensitive information that I think you’ll agree beats entertaining the likes of Jacob Remy and Gerald Simmons.”

  “You really don’t like them, do you?” asked Quinn.

  “No. And neither do you,” said Shelby, bluntly getting to the point. “I just received some promising intelligence from the FBI regarding the possible location of Reznikov. Admittedly, the intelligence is a little light on substance, but it’s worth investigating.”

  Quinn listened to the details, feeling less than enthused by what Shelby recounted.

  “I’m not saying this doesn’t have potential, but I don’t think I can take this to the president, Frederick,” said Quinn. “Seriously. Two Russians arrive in Libreville in the middle of the night to buy guns and an SUV on the black market? I’m not even sure who we’d send. I can’t imagine General Gordon biting off on this unless he was forced.”

  “My next call was going to be Zane Abid. NCS should be able to lend a hand,” said Shelby.

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high,” said Quinn. “The U.S. hasn’t focused much attention on Gabon recently, or ever. Their embassy presence will be minimal.”

  “Somebody has to follow up on this intelligence,” said Shelby. “I’d get on a plane myself and do it if I didn’t look more fit to be on a luxury safari than a covert field operation. The CIA will have to figure something out. I’ll call Abid and apply some pressure. You do the same on your end. Please. Sorry if it sounded like I tacked the please on as a formality. I didn’t ask for things in my former job.”

  Shelby’s last statement was the closest the man had come to not sounding like an asshole since he’d met him. Quinn had wondered if Shelby realized that going from the job of director of the FBI to principal deputy director of National Intelligence was a significant step down in authority. Even the director of National Intelligence was more of an administrative and advisory role than anything, exercising no authority to command any of the sixteen agencies comprising the United States intelligence community. It wasn’t a bad place at all to land if one had higher ambitions in government, and Quinn was fairly certain Shelby had his eye on a bigger prize.

  “Let me see what I can do,” said Quinn, recalling a recent conversation with Raymond Burke, senior counsel to the president.

  Burke had asked Quinn where things stood with Sanderson’s people, specifically if they could be trusted to work on behalf of the new administration. President Crane had so far been reluctant to use any unconventional programs, waiting for the political dust to settle. Burke indicated that the president might soon be open to exploring these options, especially if they could solve problems without the public deployment of troops.

  “There is another option. Something off the books we’ve used before. In fact, you have some experience with this option. Both good and bad.”

  “I think I know what you’re talking about,” said Shelby. “I’m not a big fan of using mercenaries, particularly the kind with a history of attacking federal agents and blackmailing the United St
ates.”

  “I feel your pain, trust me, but they’ve proven themselves trustworthy time and time again since those days. If the CIA and DOD can’t help, they may be our only option.”

  “Then we better hope the president can convince at least one of the vast public entities entrusted with protecting the United States to do their job,” said Shelby.

  “We’ll work this from both ends. We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip by. And very nice job wrangling this intelligence. The fact that it came from a nontraditional intelligence source will help sell it.”

  “I’ll pass that along to my guy at the bureau.”

  After hanging up with Shelby, Quinn leaned back in his leather office chair and considered the options. The Homeland Security meeting would have to go on without him, not that it ever stopped. He’d take this to Beverly Stark immediately and get the ball rolling. Maybe NCS could put together a ground team here, augmented by a few area experts, and fly them into Libreville. If the decision was made within the next few hours, they could have a team on the ground and in place within twenty-four hours. How hard could it be to track two out-of-place Russians in the Gabon jungle?

  Chapter 48

  FSB Headquarters

  Lubyanka Square, Moscow

  Yuri Prerovsky walked up the stairs to his floor, egg salad sandwich and warm Styrofoam container of potato soup in hand. He was bummed about the sandwich. The seemingly endless string of meetings had pushed well past one o’clock, leaving him with the wretched choice between egg salad and the barely seasoned ground mystery meat. The decision came down to numbers. Two egg salad sandwiches remained in the stainless steel bin, dwarfed by a neighboring mountain of plastic-wrapped mystery-meat bombs. It wasn’t a tough call.

  Half of his section was empty, most of the agents and staff eating in the underground cafeteria. He usually took his lunch at his desk, catching up on emails or prioritizing reports. Mindless work while he took a few minutes to fill up on enough calories to keep him from buying crap at a vendor stall on the way back to his apartment, where he could cook a real meal from scratch, one of the few things he looked forward to on weekdays.