Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (34 page)

Deep down inside, a part of him hoped Edwards was dead. Sharpe would have enough explaining to do tomorrow morning, without the added complication of why he unofficially sanctioned Edwards to press Jessica Petrovich, or whoever she was, with information that skirted the border of his CIS agreement. In the hands of a skillful prosecutor, he could wind up behind bars.

"This has turned into a complete disaster, and I'm starting to get the sinking feeling that we've been played. Played since last night. Nothing is what it seems to be, or should be," he said. His phone rang again.

"Mendoza. Any word from our agents? How are they doing?" Sharpe said.

"They're fine, sir. It was definitely the colonel. Calhoun and Harris said he walked in like everything was normal and just stabbed McKie in the neck. Then all hell broke loose. Forced Sergeant D'Onofrie at gunpoint to drag everyone into the back room, then hit him with the same neurotoxin. Farrington worked closely with D'Onofrie and Staff Sergeant Brodin for over two years. Turned on them like a viper."

"Was anything else taken?" Sharpe asked.

"The archives section wasn't breached, so it looks like all he took was the file. We found the last page of the fax in a pool of McKie's blood. Care to guess what it says?"

"That Munoz's specialty has something to do with infiltrating jails and police custody?"

"That pretty much sums it up," Mendoza said.

"Played."

"What was that, sir?"

"Played. We've been played all along, Mendoza. The murders, Munoz's capture, the Sanctum. Everything. And now Edwards is missing. I can't go into details on the phone, but he was with Jessica Petrovich."

"Jesus Christ," Mendoza whispered.

"Exactly. What's the CIA's angle on what happened?" Sharpe said.

"I wouldn't know. Keller bolted as soon as he regained consciousness."

"What! This is a federal investigation. How the fuck did he get out of the Pentagon?" he said, and several heads throughout the silent room looked in his direction.

"Someone high up at Langley convinced Pentagon security that Keller needed to make an immediate report, in person," Mendoza said.

"And you didn't stop him?"

"I have no authority to stop him. As a matter of fact, I have no authority in this building at all. This place is under lockdown, and I have been relieved of my weapon. Someone pulled serious strings to get Keller out of here," Mendoza said.

"And that reeks of bullshit. When did he leave?"

"Fifteen minutes ago," Mendoza said.

"All right. I need to take care of something. Keep me posted, Frank," Sharpe said.

"Will do, sir."

Sharpe set his phone down on a nearby desk and ran his hands through his matted brown hair, pausing to think for a moment. He briefly laughed at himself and turned to a young agent sitting at a desk in the communications section.

"Agent Fayad?" he said.

"Sir?" the dark-skinned agent said, swiveling his chair to face Sharpe.

"I need a cell phone GPS trace immediately," he said.

"Send me the number, and we'll activate the system. Should have it in a few minutes," he said.

"We already have the number on file. Randy Keller."

"Our CIA liaison?" Fayad said, with a skeptical look.

"That's it. We don't have time to notify Langley. Wake up Weber if you need help."

"I can take care of it, sir."

"Thanks, Fayad. Let me know as soon as you have a signal. O'Reilly, scramble a team of agents. Four from the task force, including yourself. Two cars. I have a surveillance job for you," he said.

O'Reilly's face perked up for the first time in several hours, despite the fact that she was rapidly approaching twenty-four hours on her feet.

Chapter Forty-Four

12:25 a.m.

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Keller got off the Metro at the Rosslyn Station and walked a few blocks over to North Lynn Avenue. He hailed a taxi, which drove him north over the Key Bridge and deposited him in front of a random bar along M Street in Georgetown. Still slightly disoriented, Keller paid his fare, leaving the cab driver surprised by the generous tip. To the driver and anyone on the street, Keller might have appeared slightly inebriated, which didn't draw any unwarranted attention on a Thursday night along M Street. Keller focused on his surroundings and took deep, slow breaths.

He was starting to feel better in the fresh air, despite the occasional wafts of tobacco and stale beer. He had fled the Pentagon in a hurry, not wanting to get caught in a bureaucratic prison for the next several hours. Berg's call had been convincing enough to get him out, and Keller was grateful for the favor. He had more data stored in his head and needed a brief respite to flush it out. He didn't have a headache or sore muscles, just a vague feeling that the gravity around his body had been slightly increased.

Keller spotted the street sign that would lead him deep into the quiet neighborhoods of Georgetown and to the safe house. He glanced at the traffic and found a break between cars large enough for him to cross safely.

**

Daniel Petrovich crouched, concealed in a long clump of bushes behind a white picket fence located diagonally across the street from the address provided by General Sanderson. He carried night vision equipment in his backpack, but the ambient lighting provided by the randomly placed streetlamps and the occasional porch light allowed him to see well enough with the naked eye through the well-trimmed bushes. Colonel Farrington sat in a similarly hidden position, behind a shoulder-height red brick wall topped with greenery, on the same side of the street, covering the approach from 33rd Street. Daniel kept his eye toward 34th.

The safe house was an unremarkable dark red brownstone, set between a white-painted brownstone to the right, and a brilliant yellow wooden building to the left. The two brownstones appeared to be attached, sharing a black wrought iron fence along the front and separated by a similar fence running inward through the short front yard. Petrovich could see a small sign next to the target entrance, but couldn't read it from this distance. Neither of the men passed close enough on their approach to get a good look at the sign.

They had arrived on O Street at 11:30, to begin what could potentially be a long evening for both of them. One at a time, they walked onto O Street from opposite ends and slipped into their concealed locations without a sound. Satisfied that neither of them had tripped an alarm or raised any attention, they settled in to observe the street, which had been nearly devoid of passenger traffic since their arrival. They watched a drunken couple stumble off 34th Street and stop to grope each other for several minutes within ten feet of Petrovich, until the college students decided to take their activities indoors just a few houses down from the target house. They would wait until Keller arrived, if he showed, which Farrington estimated could happen at any time after midnight, based on the neurotoxin profile.

Parker sat in General Sanderson's Toyota 4Runner a few blocks away, in one of the few legal parking spaces he could find at this time of night big enough to accommodate the SUV. He would spring into action once their quarry entered the safe house. A few blocks closer to M Street, his area contained more activity, and he had settled into one of the back seats behind tinted glass to avoid unwanted attention by police patrols or concerned citizens. He closely monitored General Sanderson's direct frequency on one of his radios. The general would provide them early warning of law enforcement activity when O Street exploded and coordinate the sensitive timing of their mission. Petrovich would have less than two minutes to eliminate Keller and his handler. Anything beyond that would draw unacceptable law enforcement complications.

Petrovich shifted to his left knee and checked his weapon. He had opted to keep the MP-9 submachine gun, due to its easy concealment and effective suppressor, which he screwed onto the weapon. He had five spare magazines for the MP-9, each holding thirty rounds, attached to a light utility vest hidden under his dark blue nylon windbreaker. A compact semi-automatic pistol rested in a concealed holster near the small of his back, with three spare magazines stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.

Earlier, he removed a pouch carrying several grenades of different varieties from his backpack and attached it to the front right side of his belt. Daniel felt confident that he carried enough firepower to overcome any resistance offered by two CIA desk types. He loosened his throat microphone slightly, bothered by the constrictive feeling of the communications rig, but impressed by its sleek design and technological advantage. He would not have to fumble with a microphone headset, which tended to be a problem in the heat of battle.

Chapter Forty-Five

12:30 a.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

"We're tracking him, sir. He's moving slowly…probably on foot, down 33rd St, NW, between N and O," Agent Fayad said.

"I knew it. I bet there's a CIA safe house down there. Keep tracking him," he said and whipped out his phone to make a call.

"O'Reilly, where are you?" he spoke into the cell.

"Sir, we're on our way down to the parking garage. We grabbed some surveillance gear. We should be on the road in five to ten minutes," she said.

"Head to Georgetown. 34th Street off of M. I'll give you instructions when you get there."

"Understood, sir."

12:33 a.m.

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Petrovich's earpiece came to life.

"Movement. One pedestrian from the south, exiting 33rd. Caucasian male. Stand by, I can't make an ID yet."

Petrovich acquired the man with his own eyes and squinted for details. The area was still too dark for a positive identification. It didn't really matter. If the man turned into the target building, they would pounce.

"Can you ID him?" Petrovich said into the microphone attached to his head set.

"Negative. Not enough light. Switching to night vision," Farrington said.

"Don't bother. We'll wait and see what he does," Petrovich said, readying himself to hop through the bushes and over the waist-high fence.

The figure moved briskly down the opposite side of the street and pulled out what looked like a cell phone to Petrovich. Then everything moved too quickly. The man sped toward the gate and was at the front door before Farrington hissed something over the radio circuit. Daniel heard the gate squeak on its hinges and made a split second calculation. They would never make it across in time to grab Keller. He had expected more of a delay entering the safe house. A new plan formed in the same span of time, and he told Farrington to hold his position. Farrington had to ease himself back down the brick wall he had just scaled like a cat, careful not to make a sound.

Petrovich's instincts were right, and Keller entered the brownstone's vestibule as soon as he arrived at the door. Someone had opened it for him, which meant that a camera monitored the front door. If they had made a run to grab Keller, they would have failed, giving the building's occupants enough warning to fortify against an assault. They would have to do this the hard way, which was Petrovich's specialty.

Daniel removed a black ski mask from his backpack and pulled it tight over his head, adjusting the eye holes. He issued orders for a forced entry and set his watch to chronograph. They would have a very limited amount of time once the explosive charges detonated, turning this quiet neighborhood into downtown Fallujah. Farrington would cover the street from the brownstone's entrance and serve as backup if Petrovich needed help inside. Parker would position his car one block over, ready to pick them up on whichever entrance to O Street wasn't blocked by police.

He waited roughly one minute, then gave the signal to move. He saw Farrington sprinting across the street ahead of him and briefly gave the man credit for his physical capabilities. Petrovich just hoped the colonel would hold up under the stress of the next few minutes. He reached the iron gate first and swung it open for Farrington, who entered and took a position on the steps, away from the door and out of Daniel's way.

**

Claire McHatten was a light sleeper, especially when agents occupied her "house" after hours. She never asked questions and never expressed her opinion about certain senior CIA officials' specific "use" of the house late in the evening, but she was glad that the wall separating her brownstone from the safe house was both sound and blast proof. She didn't care to hear the noises that might emanate from some of the female "guests" that frequented the location.

Tonight she didn't have to worry about women of questionable repute entering her house, but she still slept uneasily with Berg next door. Langley wasn't that far away, and she was convinced that he was up to something. Or maybe not. Spies were spies, and even when they no longer served in the field, they liked to play the game. She could certainly understand how they felt, though most of this emotion had been washed out of her system over the past twenty years, sitting behind her desk next door.

She had served with her husband, Frederick, in Eastern Europe for eight years at the height of the Cold War, stationed for most of it at the U.S. Embassy in Warsaw, Poland. They ran a highly successful husband and wife operation until Frederick was brutally murdered in 1985, on a train destined for Czechoslovakia. He had left Poland to meet with CIA operatives in Prague, who had just begun to foster and support a grassroots solidarity movement. Claire and her husband were at least a year ahead of their CIA counterparts in Czechoslovakia, and they had planned to discuss ways to accelerate the Czech movement. One of the countries' governments, if not both, didn't want the meeting to take place. Her husband was killed during a prolonged stop at the Czech/Polish border, and neither country accepted responsibility for investigating the murder.