Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (24 page)

"I think so. I just want to talk to my husband. Something is wrong here, and I don't know how to help him," she said.

"The best thing you can do to help him is to convince him to come out of hiding. To turn himself in to us. He's in serious danger from the types of guys you saw back at the house. They don't care if there was a mix up. His name and face went out on a national alert. They'll kill him if they find him before we do."

"Why would he be hiding?" she said.

He really hoped it was the shock of the situation that was causing her to fail to grasp the implications of her husband's predicament. If she was just plain stupid, it would detract from the overall experience. Then again, what did he care? He'd fucked plenty of stupid women before, but he'd never taken any of those relationships beyond the bedroom. He had thought this one might be different.

"I think we both know he's hiding, Jessica. Let's get somewhere quiet, and figure this out."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To our satellite office on Middle Street. We have a conference room and a few spare offices. Nice and quiet," he said and savored the idea of being alone with her in that office, though he suspected the resident agent would insist on being present.

He'd let the comment made by Lieutenant Moody about the resident agent slide for now. He needed as much cooperation as possible from the locals, and Special Agent Margaret D'Angelo seemed to be on good footing with the Portland Police Department. He'd pay her back later for the comment Moody mentioned. He had a few like-minded connections in the right places, and he'd do whatever he could to make sure she continued to draw shitty assignments like Portland, Maine. The fewer uppity women in the major field offices, the better.

"Can we grab something to eat on the way? I haven't eaten since lunch," she said, confirming his earlier observation in the kitchen.

Now he would be able to work his magic. He had always been better at the interrogation side of the business and had no intention of caving in to her needs so quickly. Like a hostage negotiation, Edwards needed to get something from Jessica before he indulged her in any comforts. This was shaping up to be a perfect evening.

"Let's get settled in at the office, and come up with a plan to help your husband, then we can take a walk to one of the restaurants in the Old Port. My treat. I just want to get the ball rolling here. He may not have a lot of time."

She nodded absently at his comment, and he could feel that this would turn out to be a very productive night for him. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Special Agent D'Angelo.

Chapter Thirty-One

9:15 p.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Special Agent Sharpe stood in the middle of his operations center, listening intently to the multiple streams of chatter emanating from his agents. He kept a constant eye on the screens mounted to the wall at the front of the room and occasionally glanced at his assistant, Special Agent Mendoza, who just shook his head every time their eyes met. None of the raids had yielded a suspect, and most of the teams had reported. If they came up empty tonight, he had no idea where they could turn.

He still had Munoz, but that would quickly become a sticky situation once the lawyers figured out that he had been transferred to FBI headquarters. According to the immunity agreement signed by the Justice Department, Munoz should be back in Hartford, closing up his coffee shops. Instead, Munoz was hopefully sitting handcuffed in the back of a van, surrounded by Boston's FBI SWAT contingent, heading across Connecticut along Interstate 95. Sharpe wasn't about to lose his only lead so quickly, especially if they come up with nothing from the raids.

As he scanned the room again, he caught Special Agent O'Reilly's eye, and she nodded discreetly, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds. Intrigued, Sharpe made his way over to her workstation. Mendoza saw the furtive transaction and started to drift in the same direction, but Sharpe cautiously shook his head. Mendoza gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement and returned to his previous position at the communications desk. Sharpe didn't want to draw any unwarranted attention to Special Agent O'Reilly's research, and having both of them at one workstation, huddled over a screen, wouldn't help matters. The fewer people involved, the better, and if it became necessary, he could make an argument to have O'Reilly's CIS agreement augmented to Level One.

"Did you find anything?" Sharpe said.

"Something rather interesting, but I'm not sure it's going to help. I got a hit on the INTERPOL database for Daniel Petrovich. Take a look," she said, typing furiously at her keyboard, as one of her screens split into two similar images.

One contained Daniel Petrovich's driver's license image, with statistics and basic information listed below; the other screen showed a grainier image, most likely taken from a camera using a zoom lens, but there was little doubt that the two images showed the same man. INTERPOL's own system gave the match a 96% accuracy rating, and he was sure that the FBI's own facial matching software would agree.

He studied the sparse details on the INTERPOL wanted poster.

A Warrant for the Arrest of Marko Resja, suspected of war-crimes-related murder, is issued on behalf of The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.

He glanced at Agent O'Reilly, who turned her head slightly and raised an eyebrow. At this point, the sooner she signed a new CIS agreement, the better. This information could ignite a firestorm if it fell into the wrong hands. Daniel Petrovich was listed on active duty in the navy during the period of time covered by the warrant. He couldn't imagine the fallout this could create. An active duty United States service member somehow connected with Serbian war crimes? What in God's name had General Sanderson done with this group?

"Anything on the other operatives?" Sharpe said, eyes still fixed on Petrovich's image, or whoever he claimed to be.

"Nothing yet. The INTERPOL system has finished with two-thirds of the list. They have a pretty efficient setup. I wouldn't be surprised if we receive a phone call from INTERPOL at some point tonight," O'Reilly said.

"Can you pull the details of this warrant from the INTERPOL system? I need to know everything possible about this guy. Actually, pull everything we can get on Petrovich, and make it available under my access code," Sharpe said, who drifted toward Mendoza.

"If you give me a second, I can pull the detailed warrant right now," she said, and Sharpe pulled back toward the screen.

The warrant came up on the second screen, and Sharpe read the details.

He had expected a laundry list of crimes, but found himself staring at one charge, and it was enough to turn his stomach. Marko Resja was wanted for the brutal torture, mutilation and murder of Zorana Zekulic, a Serbian national. He continued to absorb the details, shocked by the excerpts of testimony included with the warrant. Multiple beheadings? He couldn't believe this guy was loose on American soil, and that he was a product of a rogue U.S. military program. No wonder the Pentagon had put an end to Sanderson's career and sealed the evidence.

Now he understood why the Pentagon had assigned a special handler to the file. The mysterious Mr. McKie carefully parceled out information, keeping the potentially explosive information sealed away forever. He would need to double the task force's efforts to crack open the day's conspiracy, and it would start with Munoz.

Based on his knowledge of the forces at work today, he highly doubted anyone would have a problem with keeping Munoz in FBI custody for the moment. The Pentagon obviously felt that the need to unravel today's conspiracy was worth the risk of unearthing the Black Flag file and potentially exposing its toxic contents. He'd start with Munoz, but he had another idea brewing, and he'd have to be extremely careful if he turned in this direction.

"Jesus, this just gets worse. Dana, I'm going to need to upgrade your CIS agreement," he said.

"I kinda figured that when Petrovich popped up under an alias on an INTERPOL wanted poster," she said.

"Consider yourself under this agreement now. You know the deal. Only Mendoza and myself are cleared for CIS Category One information, and our CIA liaison, Keller. I'm going to need to relocate you to one of the private workstations near the front of the room," he said.

"I'll get the tech's working on that immediately," she said.

"Perfect," he said, but his mind was already miles away.

He wondered what Petrovich's current wife would think about the details of Marko Resja's activities in Serbia? As he moved away from Agent O'Reilly's station, Agent Mendoza rushed over and intercepted him.

"You need to hear this. Something big is going on up in Montgomery County, in Silver Spring. Comms says every law enforcement channel up there is going crazy. It's like world war three broke out. Every available unit within the area is responding," he said.

"Did the raid in Portland turn up anything on Petrovich?" Sharpe interrupted.

"Nothing so far, but I have a strange feeling he might be here. Wait until you hear this," Mendoza said, and Sharpe stopped in his tracks.

Something on a gut level scared Sharpe. Just the thought of this guy roaming the D.C. area made his skin crawl. Glancing at the communications section, Sharpe saw Special Agent Keith Weber talking on a phone, nodding excitedly and taking notes. As they approached this chaotic part of the operations center, he could hear Weber's conversation.

"…two trucks, and…hold on, did you just say a taxi? The guy is in custody. All right. Detective, I assure you this is not an FBI operation…Yes. Thank you. Keep an open line for us, this might be related to an ongoing investigation. Thanks again," Weber said and hung up the phone. He turned to the two senior agents and said, "Wow. They have a serious situation up in Silver Spring."

"Give me the short version," Sharpe said.

"Right. Silver Spring police have two dead bodies inside of a Natural Foods store. One with his throat cut, the other shot in the face. Nobody inside heard any shooting. They're reviewing the surveillance videos as we speak. Out in the parking lot, they found an off-duty detective between two parked cars, dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Pronounced dead on the scene. They also found a shot up Suburban with one guy in the driver's seat. Dead. The guy I just talked to said the Suburban looked like a portable armory. Tactical vests, night vision, radio equipment, two assault rifles and a shotgun. All high end, U.S. issue stuff…"

"Do they have anyone in custody?" Sharpe said.

"Not from Natural Foods. They nabbed two guys down the street, but they don't think either is the shooter," Weber stated. "A few minutes after the first units arrived on scene, officers in the parking lot heard automatic weapons fire and received reports from a nearby neighborhood that a gun battle had erupted on their street. Responding units found another SUV, loaded to the gills with weapons and dead guys dressed like commandos. They pulled one survivor from the truck and rushed him to Holy Cross Hospital. He was unconscious with massive external bleeding."

"You said they grabbed two guys?"

"It gets better. They caught another guy who showed up in a taxi just as the police converged on the scene. Apparently, the cab driver jumped out of the cab and ran screaming to the police. He told them that the guy in the cab had put a gun to his head and told him to run the police roadblock. They have this guy in custody, and he swears that his team is part of an official counterterrorism operation. He's a Brown River employee."

"Oh shit," Mendoza muttered.

"Get this. One of the neighbors ran into the suspect on her driveway before the police arrived, and she said he threatened to cut her head off," Weber said, muffling a laugh.

"Got a good look at the suspect before he took off. Car and everything. Said he was dressed like some kind of hippie. They're mobilizing everything to find this guy," Weber added, but Sharpe's mind was somewhere else.

"Frank, we need to sit down in my office. Agent O'Reilly is now cleared for CIS Category One, and she's putting together a complete workup for Petrovich. Help her out with this. I want to sit down and analyze his file. We have nothing from any of the other raids?" he asked.

A young female agent at another station answered the question. "Last units just reported. Nothing, sir. It looks like all of the suspects have gone underground."

Sharpe looked at Mendoza. "Apparently all but one," he said, "and we're not the only ones interested in finding him. I want agents talking to this Brown River guy immediately, and I want to see the surveillance tapes from that Natural Foods. Tell the team up in Portland to tear Petrovich's house apart. Start by scanning every picture of Petrovich in that house for our new facial recognition software database. We can create a composite picture that won't be fooled by anything short of plastic surgery. Let's get this rolling immediately. Meet me in ten minutes. I need to make some phone calls."

"Yes, sir," Mendoza said, who immediately walked over to Agent O'Reilly.

Sharpe didn't like the sound of this at all. He briefly considered calling home and checking on his family, but he knew it didn't make any sense. Something about Petrovich sent a visceral signal through Sharpe, activating a strong instinct to protect his wife and two teenage daughters. He knew what bothered him. Sanderson had apparently created a highly trained serial killer. He wondered how many people Petrovich had beheaded under the guise of military service and if he had stopped after Serbia.

Chapter Thirty-Two

9:17 p.m.

Washington, D.C.

Daniel Petrovich emerged from the New York Avenue Metro station and studied the area around the exit structure. The street looked well-lit and relatively uncrowded, which suited him well. He merged with a small group of young adults headed toward N Street and followed them at a close, but unintimidating distance. He had chosen to get off the Metro before hitting one of the transfer hubs deeper in the city, figuring that the police presence at one of D.C.'s major Metro stops would be elevated. The Metro Police kiosk at the New York Avenue station contained two extremely vigilant-looking officers, who tried to scan the emerging passengers without being blatantly obvious. They did a decent job, but he could tell they weren't trained for this type of work.