Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (12 page)

The same map appeared on the screen to the right and zoomed into New England, continuing to a small coastal area in southern Maine.

"There!" Sharpe said, and the map stopped moving.

O'Reilly stood a few feet behind Sharpe, to his left.

"Jesus," she whispered, and Sharpe nodded in agreement.

The map showed two icons, each on the opposite side of the screen, but within the same metropolitan area. The icon on the far right, at the water's edge, was one of their murder scenes. The other, buried within Portland, Maine, contained a name. Daniel Petrovich.

"What's the distance between the two?" he said.

Before he finished the sentence, the techs answered on the screen with a line connecting the two icons. 5.9 miles. He turned to O'Reilly and spoke softly.

"I want to know everything there is to know about Daniel Petrovich. Notify our Maine team, and start the ball rolling for a coordinated local law enforcement search and apprehension. Our Boston-based SWAT team is occupied with Munoz and won't be available to assist. We'll have to rely on local and state SWAT. Based on Petrovich's profile, make sure they understand that this is a high-risk apprehension and that the teams need to focus on nonlethal methods. This is critical to national security. I'll work on the warrant."

"Understood, sir," she said and disappeared again.

Sharpe returned his focus to the center screen, counting at least eleven former Black Flag operatives, including Munoz, within reasonable driving distance of the crime scenes. He suddenly had doubts about Daniel Petrovich. Why would General Sanderson use someone so close to one of the targets? All of the other operatives lived at least an hour or more away, which would make them less obvious suspects. For the Maine assassination, Sanderson even had the option of an operative living in Concord, New Hampshire, about two hours away.

Then again, Sharpe wondered why the general would use anyone near the East Coast at all. If Munoz lived in Denver, Colorado, his task force would be forced to consider every Black Flag operative within the U.S. However, Munoz's proximity to the target suggested otherwise. Sanderson may have called others in from around the country, but it was clear that this was not the rule. Sharpe's best chance lay with the eleven operatives listed on the screen. Before he could finish his thought, six more Black Flag operatives appeared throughout the Midwest.

"That's it, sir. That's the list," Agent O'Reilly said.

"What do you mean that's it?" he said, walking toward her workstation.

"Half of the names on the list turned up with last known addresses dating back into the early nineties. I'll still work up full packages on them, but I thought it would confuse the overall picture on the screen right now," she said.

"Good call. None of these names extend past the Mississippi. What about the rest of the country?" Sharpe asked.

"If you want my guess, I'd say we didn't get the entire list."

"Damn it. Weber," he yelled across the room, "request more detailed information on each of these names. Priority goes to the ones on the East Coast. Also, request the full list of names. This can't be all of them."

Weber gave him a "thumbs up" from across the room and went to work at his computer station, as Sharpe glanced back at the screen and grimaced. He would have to coordinate a simultaneous strike on all ten remaining locations. He had no idea if any of them were in communication with each other, but he couldn't risk raising a general alarm among General Sanderson's co-conspirators. All he needed to do was catch one of them, and he should be able to move the investigation forward. He also needed to talk with Mendoza immediately. He needed more details about the operative in Portland, Maine. Daniel Petrovich. Sanderson was arrogant, and if he used Petrovich for the Cape Elizabeth hit like Sharpe hoped, it would prove to be a big mistake.

Chapter Nineteen

4:14 p.m.

Baltimore/Washington International Airport, Baltimore, Maryland

Daniel Petrovich waited patiently in his seat while the 747 taxied up to the gate at BWI airport. He had carefully, but surreptitiously watched the flight crew since about halfway through the two-hour flight. He'd taken a calculated risk boarding a flight this late in the afternoon, but he had been assured by General Sanderson that the net wouldn't fall on him until the early evening. Daniel's previous experience with the general had taught him that the man was rarely wrong about anything, which is why Petrovich sensed that something was off about the day's events.

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.