Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (28 page)

The men ditched all of their gear in place, except for the weapons, and took off toward the highway. Munoz sprinted with the men past the wrecked trucks, as three slightly-damaged SUVs rolled across the flat grass and met them halfway to the top of the on-ramp. The vehicles were full when they sped away down Interstate 95 toward Stamford. Five minutes later, they had just exited the Interstate at East Putnam Road, close to seven miles down the highway, when the police scanner exploded with activity. Fifteen minutes after that, they were speeding through Cos Cob Harbor on two powerful cruising boats, just a few buoy markers away from emptying into the Long Island Sound.

Chapter Thirty-Six

10:10 p.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Special Agent Sharpe examined the contents of the sealed folder at a workstation borrowed from Special Agent Weber's communications team. The fax contained two sheets of paper, which gave them sparse, additional information regarding Petrovich and Munoz. The second page ended abruptly, stopping in the middle of a sentence:

Munoz not assigned to permanent undercover operation in Central/South America. His specialty skill utilized for focused penetration of drug cartel detainees

Sharpe stared at the last sentence, but without the rest of the words, the implication of Munoz's talent didn't sink in. The third page of the fax lay on the floor of the Sanctum, in the middle of a massive, thickening pool of blood. It was barely readable at this point, but the information contained in the single remaining paragraph contained on the page would have raised an immediate alarm for Sharpe. Munoz had been trained to extract information from prisoners by posing as one, in most cases without indigenous law enforcement collusion or knowledge.

"Weber, this fax is incomplete. Would you request the third page for me?"

"Not a problem, sir. We have a full team on duty in the communications hub," Weber replied, reaching for a phone.

"And Weber?"

The agent stopped and looked up at Sharpe.

"You've been here for over thirty-six hours at this point and look like death warmed over. I think you've earned a little break. Things will settle down tonight, but we'll need to be focused again tomorrow. Why don't you head out and report back at zero four thirty," Sharpe said.

"Thanks, sir. How about I grab one of the couches in the comms lounge? I'll make sure everyone here has my cell. I appreciate it…I'm about to fall over," Weber said.

"You look like it. Request the rest of the fax, and go get some rest. We'll see you in the morning, and I know where to find you. Thanks for the hard work today, Weber. I appreciate it," Sharpe said and signaled for Agent O'Reilly to join him.

The two agents walked back to Sharpe's office, where Mendoza was waiting. Instead of the institutional fluorescent overhead lighting common throughout the building, Sharpe's office was softly lit by two standing floor lamps and a green banker's lamp on his desk. At this juncture in his career, Sharpe was accustomed to late nights and took efforts to make the time as comfortable as possible. Mendoza sat in Sharpe's usual late night working spot, a custom leather armchair illuminated by one of the standing lamps. Sharpe appreciated Mendoza's ability to make himself feel comfortable in any surrounding. Mendoza always seemed laid back and at ease, even under duress.

It was one of the key traits that convinced Sharpe to ask Mendoza to postpone his next assignment, a promotional move to Investigations, until Task Force HYDRA finished the next phase in its anticipated life cycle. His prospective supervisor within Investigations signed off on the delay, and Mendoza appeared more than happy to stay on for another six months, especially since they were making such rapid gains unraveling Al Qaeda's U.S.-based financial support network. He expected Mendoza to appear deflated at some point during the day, as the bad news piled onto them, but the man either kept it to himself, or truly remained unshaken. Sharpe admired either possibility, considering what could be at stake for both of their careers.

Mendoza got up from the chair, with an open file in his hands.

"Don't get up for me, Frank. Seriously, we all need some time in that chair today. Plus, I guarantee I'll just have to get up and answer that phone as soon as my ass is firmly planted. Dana, grab any seat, just don't steal Frank's."

Sharpe moved around to his government-supplied desk chair as Mendoza sank back into the leather chair.

"Dana's CIS papers are on your desk. She just needs to sign on the highlighted lines," Mendoza said, and Agent O'Reilly stopped her descent into one of the office chairs to the left of Sharpe's desk.

"Take a few minutes to review the agreement, and sign your life away. I don't mean to insult your intelligence, but I just want to make sure you understand the importance of this agreement. It's simple. You can only discuss CIS Category One information with myself, Agent Mendoza and the CIA liaison, Randy Keller. At this point, these are the only people that aren't locked in a room at the Pentagon with the Black Flag files," Sharpe said.

"Black Flag?" O'Reilly asked.

"Yes. To bring you up to speed in under thirty seconds…the list of names you've worked on all day belong to a group of operatives trained under a clandestine program called Black Flag. It no longer exists, having been shut down by Congress and buried by the Pentagon for several years. However, as you saw today, someone reactivated former members of this group to assassinate every one of this task force's Al Qaeda financing suspects. I don't need to reinforce the fact that the task force's investigation was effectively destroyed today.

"At this point, we are simply trying to figure out why they were assassinated. Is this a rogue anti-terrorist-focused group taking their own fight to Al Qaeda? Is this sponsored by Al Qaeda? Did they discover that we were close to fully unraveling their financial network? Is this the prelude to another major attack, and they're just cleaning up any loose ends? I'm having a hard time believing that this group is working for Al Qaeda, but maybe the individual operatives don't ask questions, and their leader, General Terrence Sanderson, took a huge payoff to mislead them."

"Sanderson. That's a familiar name," O'Reilly said, signing the paperwork without reading it.

"Yeah, a few years ago, he was all over the news. He retired under suspicious circumstances that were never fully disclosed. Now we know why. I can't stress the importance of information security in this case. This is a guaranteed prison sentence for screwing up. You'll continue working in the operations center, but one of us will need to approve any work you are conducting, just to make sure it's not a CIS One spin off. All discussions of the restricted material need to take place in person and away from other personnel. Are you good with this?" Sharpe said.

"Absolutely. I assume the INTERPOL digging probably falls under CIS One?" O'Reilly said.

"Yes, and you conducted the search after signing these papers. Right?"

"Of course," O'Reilly said.

"So, this information sheds some light on Petrovich, and all of the Black Flag operatives," Sharpe said, handing the newest Sanctum information to Agent Mendoza.

"I'm not at all surprised he was able to do so much damage up in Silver Spring. Petrovich's assigned area of operation was Serbia, and he spent two years operating there, starting in early '97 and ending at some point in '99."

"His military service record indicates an honorable discharge in September '99," Mendoza added.

"All right. So this was his last tour of duty, so to speak. Prior to that, he received training in all of the areas listed on our first fax, with a specialty focus in skills. Sniper operations, urban combat survival, and oddly enough, computer networking/security," Sharpe said.

"That's odd, especially for Serbia," O'Reilly commented.

"Why do you say that?' Mendoza asked.

"Well, I can't imagine a need for that skill, especially in that region in the late nineties. There was barely a need for it here. I mean, the systems were still pretty basic in the U.S. at that point. But in war-torn Serbia? Does the sheet mention the specifics of his assignment there?"

"His job was to penetrate one of the ultra-nationalist paramilitary groups," Sharpe said.

"And do what?" Mendoza asked.

"The Pentagon didn't feel the need to convey that information," Sharpe said.

"Great. Well, whatever he did, or still does, he's highly dangerous. He murdered a cop without hesitation and killed six ex-special forces guys with ease…" Mendoza said, whose comment was interrupted by Sharpe's desk phone.

"Hold that thought," Sharpe said and picked up the handset, "Special Agent Ryan Sharpe."

"Sir, it's Weber. No luck getting through to the Sanctum. The line appears to be dead. I called Pentagon security and asked them to notify whoever was in charge of the Sanctum that the line was busted."

"Thanks, Weber. Now get some rest," Sharpe said, then hung up the phone and turned back to the others. "Some snafu over at the Pentagon. What have we come up with for Petrovich?"

"Agent O'Reilly put together a chronology with details. Here's the short version: born and raised in Crystal Lake, Illinois, by parents who are still living in that town. No brothers or sisters. Went to undergrad at Northwestern, not too far away in Evanston, Illinois, right on Lake Michigan. Graduated in '91 with a degree in economics/finance and received a commission as a naval officer through the NROTC program at Northwestern. Minored in Russian language. He attended the Surface Warfare School in Coronado, California, during the summer of '91 and reported to a frigate stationed in Japan later that year. Transferred to Naval Post Graduate School in Monterey in '93…"

"Is that normal?" Sharpe asked. "I know a lot of former military officers, and that seems pretty quick to go from ship to shore."

"It is unusual. As a marine officer, you do two tours, roughly two years each, then a B Billet, the navy's equivalent to a shore tour. It's pretty standard across the board from service to service. Post-grad school would definitely be a post junior officer tour. Not something you'd do after your first sea tour…and a short sea tour at that. He reported to the
USS Rodney M. Davis
in November of '91 and left in the spring of '93. That's also unusual, and it gets better. After grad school, he reports to a joint command attached to NORAD. How much do you want to bet nobody ever ran into him at either one of these stations? Finally, in early '97 he transfers overseas to SACEUR's Maritime headquarters in London, where he stays through discharge in '99."

"And we all know he damn well didn't spend a minute in London. Four years of training? '93 to '97?" Sharpe asked.

"It would appear that way. That's a long training program," Mendoza said.

"Makes sense for an undercover operation. This program must have been extremely successful," O'Reilly said.

"But old habits die hard, and it doesn't look like this group skipped a beat. Petrovich is the perfect example. I don't believe for one second that Petrovich was the original choice for the Maine hit. They tried to recruit Steven Gedman for this operation, and he had a complete mental breakdown a few days ago. Petrovich literally walked right in off the street and accomplished the mission, in a particularly nasty fashion. No sniper rifles for this guy. He likes using a knife and cutting off heads," Sharpe said, looking at O'Reilly while Mendoza shook his head.

"We have to find this guy. We won't be able to play musical chairs with Munoz for much longer. Keep digging through his file for anything valuable. I'll have Special Agent Edwards turn up the heat on his wife…"

O'Reilly chuckled, then apologized. "Sorry, sir."

"You might want to be careful how you word that to Edwards. He might take it literally," Mendoza said, smiling at O'Reilly.

"And we'll tap every phone he could think of calling, pull phone records, start staking out friends. Everything. He can't leave the country at this point. Every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for him," Sharpe finished.

Sharpe's phone rang again, and he snapped it off the receiver. "Special Agent Sharpe."

"It's Weber again…"

"Weber. Why are you on the phone talking to me? You should be lying down on some very uncomfortable couch right now. Seriously, you need some rest," Sharpe said, and he could hear O'Reilly and Mendoza laughing.

"Sir, I have Special Agent Dan Bernstein on the line. He's the New Haven SAC. Olson's convoy got hit," Weber said, and Sharpe shot up from his chair.

"Put him through," he said, covering the mouthpiece. "Olson's convoy was hit," he said to Mendoza and O'Reilly, who stood up from their seats and moved toward the desk. Sharpe heard a few clicks and then Weber's voice.

"You're connected, Agent Bernstein."

"Ryan, it's Dan Bernstein. I have a situation here. State troopers contacted my office and said they have three disabled vehicles filled with FBI agents off exit ten, just on the outskirts of Stamford."

"What about the agents? Are they…"

"They're fine. Vitals are strong. The agents in the rear SUV and the van were disabled by some kind of gas. One of the troopers passed out entering the van. The front SUV was hit by a massive pickup truck, and the four agents inside were banged up pretty bad, but they should be fine. The driver and Olson took it the worst. I guess the pickups collided engine block to engine block, crunching the two of them pretty badly. They're en route to the hospital now, in stable condition."

"I assume the prisoner is dead," Sharpe said.

"There was no sign of a prisoner. They could tell he was cut free of his restraints, but other than that, nothing. State police say the whole thing was over in less than a minute," Bernstein said.

"Does anyone have any idea why they were off the highway?" Sharpe said.

"All part of the takedown. State troopers had a dozen or so scraped up cars between the southbound ramps at exit 10. Minor accident about twenty minutes before the FBI arrived. They were diverting traffic through the off ramp…and right back onto the highway on the other side of the accident. Troopers said that as soon as the FBI convoy left the highway, some of the people started getting back into their vehicles. They had no idea what to make of it. A large pickup truck takes off, and they all hear the collision. The rest of the vehicles speed over to the on ramp and take off down the interstate ten seconds later. This was a highly-organized strike, Ryan, and they simply disappeared."