Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (3 page)

He spotted Pavle immediately, which was not a difficult task. Pavle was paralyzed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, which faced the fireplace. Both of Pavle's outstretched arms embraced the deep hip-hop beat with a slow, synchronized wave. Each hand held a thick stack of American bills.

He assessed the bodyguards. A large, stocky man in a black turtleneck sweater and brown jacket stood in front of Pavle, bouncing up and down completely out of rhythm. The second bodyguard sat on a dark, rich leather couch to the left of the table, nodding his head to the steady rhythm and rolling what Marko assumed to be a marijuana joint. He didn't see any obvious weapons and chuckled at the pathetic crew in front of him.

Ready to make his move, he took the time to touch the razor-sharp edges on both the front and back of the climbing axe. The axe would provoke the final outrage. The inevitable civil war between two of Slobodan Milosevic's largest paramilitary groups would tear Belgrade apart from within and give Marko the cover he needed to tie up a few more loose ends before vanishing. For the first time in several years, he felt hopeful.

His time in this shithole of a region was rapidly coming to an end, and he intended to walk away with a little more than just the satisfaction of a job well done. Pavle held the key to his brother's vast criminal fortune, which would soon belong to the United States government—minus a small finder's fee. He caressed the axe's blade once more before he lowered his body to a full crouch and slipped into the kitchen. He still had a long day ahead of him.

BACK IN BLACK

May 25, 2005

Chapter One

2:35 p.m.

Portland, Maine

Daniel sat at a brushed metal, modernist workstation in his expanded cubicle, staring blankly at a sleek flat-screen monitor. An MBA from Boston University's School of Management had earned him a little extra space in one of the outer cubicles and a partial view of the tall pine trees behind the building's rear parking lot. His one-hundred-square-foot home at Zenith Semiconductor was as close to the "corner office" as modern workplace design theory would allow, and he had fellow MBAs like himself to thank for it. At least his position entitled him to a frosted glass "privacy door," which he could slide shut to emphasize his desire to remain undisturbed. Few of the staff and entry-level managers had this option and were therefore vulnerable to constant, unannounced intrusion.

His door had only been closed for fifteen minutes, and he'd already counted at least five lingering shadows behind the translucent glass. He continued to stare at the market analysis presentation on the screen, unmotivated to continue. His indoor soccer team pulled the late slot the night before, and he still hadn't recovered from a three-hour sleep deficit. He shook his head and decided to take a walk around the ten-thousand-square-foot cubicle "ghetto," known more formally as the third floor.

He stood up from his sleek designer chair and surveyed the immense room. At six feet tall, Daniel could effectively see over the cubicles. Just as he slid the door open, his phone rang.

"I almost escaped," he muttered and plopped himself back down into the soft chair. He put his headset on and pressed a button on the gray desk phone. "Daniel Petrovich."

"Daniel, it's Sandy. I have a call for you from Azore Market Solutions."

"Do you know who it is?" Daniel said, surprised to be hearing from Azore so soon.

"They didn't say," Sandy said, one of the junior assistants assigned to the marketing department. "Just that they needed to talk with you immediately."

He had contracted with Azore Market Solutions to provide raw data for an overseas regional marketing analysis, but didn't expect to hear from them for another month. He usually conducted business with them via e-mail, so he was slightly concerned about the call. If Azore couldn't deliver the data, he'd have to start the process from scratch, which would put Zenith's South American market expansion efforts behind schedule, and his job at risk.

"All right. Put whoever it is through. And Sandy…would you please ask who's on the line next time? I don't know if I'm talking to the CEO or a janitor," he lamented.

"I don't think it's the janitor, but I'm not sure. Do you want me to ask who it is before I put the call through?"

"No, don't worry about it this time," he said and hung up.

Dan shut the door to his cubicle and pressed the button to connect the call. "Daniel Petrovich."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was hoping to reach Marko Resja," the male voice said, betraying no emotion.

Daniel felt a surge of adrenaline fire through his central nervous system, and his brain switched over to a long dormant mode of operation, instantly ceasing to function as Zenith Semiconductor's Emerging Markets' Analytical Lead. He stood up slowly, glancing down the vast sea of cubicle tops.

"I'm not in the building, so you can sit back down," the voice said.

Daniel remained standing and opened the cubicle door.

"Are you sitting?"

"I am," Petrovich replied.

"That's better. Do I have your attention?" the voice said, which confirmed that he was not under direct surveillance.

Daniel activated the "wander" function of his headset. "You never lost it."

As long as he remained on the third floor of Building A, his headset would function without a hard-wire connection. He might be able to get a slight head start on whatever was coming his way. He opened the top drawer of his desk, pocketed his keys and cell phone, and started to walk toward the nearest staircase.

"The general has a proposal for you," the voice said.

"I'll be sure to look him up the next time I'm the D.C. area," Dan said, approaching the door to the stairwell.

"This proposal is extremely time sensitive."

He wrapped his hands around the staircase door handle. "I don't really care."

"He thought you might say that. He told me to tell you that 'he knows everything,'" the voice said with a slight hint of impatience.

"I'm still not impressed," Petrovich said.

"Zorana Zekulic," the voice uttered.

Daniel paused for a few seconds. Sanderson hadn't bothered him much since they parted ways. A Christmas card one year, a birthday card the next. Just a friendly reminder that the general was still out there. Using Zorana's name was more than a nudge. It was more like poking him with a knife.

"Where do we meet?"

"Starbucks. A few blocks from your building. Five minutes."

"No good. I'm a regular there. I'll meet you in Designer Grinds at Northgate Plaza," Daniel countered.

"Where is that?" the voice said.

"Figure it out," Daniel said and disconnected the call.

He stuffed the headset in a trash bin by the door and took three flights of stairs running. He felt slightly panicked by the brazen use of Zorana's name. He'd taken extreme measures to bury that name in the past, but apparently he should have dug the hole a little deeper. He opened the door to the lobby and walked briskly toward the rear security station, which would lead him directly to his car in the back parking lot. He'd call his assistant as soon he was on the turnpike and make up some excuse for vanishing.

Daniel approached the security exit with nothing for the guards to search. Normally, they would take a cursory look inside of his briefcase, but this time he wasn't carrying anything. He addressed the single guard, who swiveled in his chair as Daniel reached him.

"No need to get up, Harry. I'm just running a quick errand at Target before I forget. I have a pick-up soccer game after work, and if I don't do this now, it'll never get done."

The guard eased back into his chair, barely turning his head far enough to watch Daniel move swiftly through the sliding door.

**

Daniel strained to keep from breaking into a full sprint toward his BMW 545i sedan, which sat three rows deep in the lot. Though he was out of Harold's sight line, five levels of windows faced the back lot, and the sight of anyone sprinting in the parking lot was sure to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially in the middle of the afternoon.

He fished a ring of keys out of his front pocket as he approached the back of his car and remotely unlocked the doors. As his hand reached for the door handle, he pressed the ignition button on his key fob, and the sedan's powerful 325 HP engine roared to life and settled into a low hum. Seconds later, Daniel screeched out of the parking lot, headed for the Turnpike entrance.

**

James Parker tossed the burner cell phone onto the passenger seat and began to program the dashboard-mounted GPS system as if his life depended on it—which it did. After pushing several buttons, he located the Designer Grinds store in Northgate and activated the navigator, which was programmed to take the shortest route to the coffee shop. He pulled his Grand Cherokee out of the parking lot and wove through traffic on his way to Congress Street, where he'd be able to pick up more speed without running the risk of attracting local law enforcement attention.

Roughly one minute after speeding out of the parking lot, his SUV passed the entrance to the Zenith Semiconductor Industrial Complex, and Parker glared at the closer of two glass-encased office buildings. A few weeks earlier he might have spotted Daniel in the building's parking lot, but May had unleashed thick rows of brilliant yellow Forsythia bushes, which completely obscured his view of the complex's ground level. He leaned on the accelerator and shot toward Maine Mall Road.

**

Daniel's car arrived at the Maine Mall Road stoplight, one series of lights behind Parker's Grand Cherokee. As soon as the BMW came to a stop at the light, he reached under his seat and drew a compact Sig Sauer pistol from a hidden holster. He pushed the pistol under a newspaper on the front passenger seat and considered his next move. One thing was certain for Daniel. If this contact had any information regarding Zorana Zekulic, beyond her name, that information would die in the parking lot outside of the coffee shop.

The light turned green, and Daniel sped down toward Western Avenue, banking on the likelihood that the general's man wouldn't take the turnpike. Just as the BMW's tires squealed through the turn onto Western Avenue, Parker's Grand Cherokee passed the turnoff leading to Interstate 95 and pushed forward on the shortest, but not quickest route to its destination.

Daniel arrived at the Northgate center less than ten minutes later and parked his car at the back of a massive parking lot, to the far right of the grocery store that anchored the shopping complex. He could think of no conceivable way for his adversary to spot the car from any of the three approaches to Designer Grinds. Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed a dark blue, zippered, nylon jacket and a dirty Red Sox ball cap. Before jogging across the parking lot in his new disguise, he tucked the pistol into the rear belt line of his dark brown wool pants and pulled the jacket down to ensure that it was concealed.

He arrived at the grocery store's automated entrance and glanced around. Designer Grinds was to his left, and there were three open parking spaces in front the coffee shop, directly ahead of the covered pedestrian walkway linking the strip mall's business fronts. A dozen more spaces sat unoccupied among the three rows of parking available further back from the storefronts. He didn't have much time to position himself, so he trusted his instincts and walked briskly into the field of cars across from the coffee shop.

His mind raced with thousands of possibilities, variables, and scenarios, as he searched for an unlocked car in the third row away from Designer Grinds. His training had broken through, but it felt like a glitchy computer. He shook his head, as if he could rattle his brain's circuitry back into place. After checking several cars, he found an unlocked sedan and slipped into the back seat.

**

Parker veered his SUV left at the split of Auburn Street and Washington Avenue, and spotted the traffic signal that marked the front entrance to the Northgate shopping center. His stomach was knotted, and he tried for the hundredth time since arriving in Portland to stop grinding his teeth. He'd seen enough of the Petrovich file to warrant an ulcer.

He arrived at the red light and scanned the parking lot in front of the coffee shop for a BMW, though he was reasonably certain that he'd beaten Petrovich to the shopping center. His only goal had been to get into Designer Grinds alive, where, in front of witnesses, he'd at least have a brief opportunity to explain that he knew nothing about Zorana Zekulic, only the name. The general had made it clear that this would be the most pressing business on the table, and that Parker's survival would depend on it.

The light turned green, and Parker sat for a few seconds, momentarily paralyzed. A horn jarred him back to reality, and he pulled into the plaza, cruising slowly while he searched for the BMW.

**

Daniel spotted the Cherokee immediately thanks to an impatient Mainer. Three short horn blasts drew his attention to the front entrance of the parking lot, where even the most unobservant field agent could spot Parker cruising "casually" past the grocery store, craning his neck in every direction.

He peeked through the Accord's headrest and watched the Cherokee drive past the coffee shop and turn into the second row of cars. As the SUV headed in his direction, one row away, Daniel slid himself across the back seat and unlocked the passenger door. Hand on the door handle; he waited for the Cherokee to park.

The driver guided the SUV into a parking space two rows back from the entrance to Designer Grinds, and Daniel slid out of the back seat of the sedan. Staying low, he sprinted from one row of cars to the next, centering on the back of the Cherokee to avoid detection in either of the Cherokee's side mirrors. He heard the doors unlock, and the dark-haired driver leaned over into the front seat. As the man straightened back up in the driver's seat, Daniel opened the door and pressed the barrel of his pistol to the back of his head.