Black Flagged Redux (15 page)

"I'm not going to ask how you know that," she said, shutting down her computer, assembling some files and stuffing them into a nylon executive bag.

"I wouldn't tell if you did ask. I'd like to use 'off the books' assets to do some digging around Kazakhstan. Get me access to imagery associated with the area around Kurchatov and Semipalatinsk, and I'll get you the information you need to get the ball rolling," he added.

She stopped and stared at him, glancing at the door, which Berg had closed behind them.

"Sanderson's group?"

"He has highly trained operatives that wouldn't raise an eyebrow in that region. The team could be on the ground within twenty-four hours. I'd expect actionable intelligence several hours after that."

"Assuming they find anything. No links back to us on this," she stated harshly.

"That's why I want to use them. I'll set up equipment through another source," he said and stood silently, waiting for her final approval.

"All right, make it happen," she said, starting for the door.

"I might need UAV support, in case they find something…or something finds them."

"I'll need to think hard on that request, Karl. I assume you'll want the drone to be armed, too?"

"Well…an unarmed drone is sort of pointless," he said, moving out of her way.

She shook her head and smiled. "Let me see what I can do about the drone. Get me something I can work with here, and let's hope this is all a false alarm on the Russians' end. So far, you've actually been really good for my career. I'd hate to see that change," she said, smiling warmly.

"The day is young. Stick around long enough and you'll find yourself assigned to a liaison position with the Intelligence Directorate," he retorted.

"A fate worse than death. Let's meet up later to finalize things," she said.

"You mean I have to ascend into these hallowed halls twice in one day?"

"You love coming up here and you know it," she said, walking through the door after him.

"I really don't. See you later."

Berg had a few calls to make and could barely keep himself from skipping down the halls. He lived for this kind of action and felt reinvigorated. Time to call in a few favors.

Chapter 14

10:55 AM

FBI Headquarters Building

Washington, D.C.

"Please close the door," Special Agent Sharpe said.

Agent O'Reilly closed the door and joined Agent Hesterman next to Sharpe's desk.

Sharpe turned his flat-screen computer monitor to face them and started to type on his keyboard. "This will be a quick meeting. We have work to do," Sharpe said, edging his office chair toward the end of the desk so he could see if his keyboard commands worked.

A color photograph of two figures filled the screen. The image was crisp, taken from a high angle, and completely captured the faces of both men.

"This satellite image was passed to me by the director himself. Anyone care to guess who's in the picture?"

The man on the left wore dark brown cargo pants and an olive green sweater with a zippered collar. His tightly cut silver hair contrasted the earth tones of his outfit and tanned face. The man had broad shoulders and a clearly athletic, muscular frame. The figure standing to his right was dressed in light blue jeans and a gray collared shirt underneath a worn, dark brown leather bomber jacket. His brown hair was cut short, but didn't resemble a military style haircut. It looked poorly trimmed, with too much of a fade on the side exposed to the camera. To Sharpe, the man looked like he had stepped off the streets of Moscow.

"Are you serious, sir? We hit the mother lode," Hesterman said.

"Classified sources have provided this photo, based on your excellent work. I know this hasn't been the most popular sideshow here in Domestic Terror, but it paid off big time. You're looking at…"

Sharpe switched images to show the gray-haired man.

"Terrence Sanderson and Richard Farrington. Two very big fish in this investigation. We've been tasked to jump start a focused financial investigation of the activities related to the building and funding of the sites you identified," he said, and the screen changed to a wider angle showing the entire river valley.

"I assume you don't want anyone else working on this?" O'Reilly said.

"The director doesn't want anyone else working on this. He wants minimum exposure to this information within our branch. He's specifically worried that our friends in Langley might catch wind of this, and so am I. If a connection exists between the CIA and Sanderson, one wrong word could turn this site into a fly fishing lodge overnight. And you can be guaranteed that Sanderson won't be the activities director."

"What will Director Shelby do with the information?" O'Reilly said.

"That's the big question. Shelby isn't the forgiving type, and Sanderson's stunt was a major setback for the FBI. Not to mention a massive embarrassment. The director wouldn't tell me directly, but I'd be willing to bet that he takes this all the way to the top, where he'll have plenty of support for action against Sanderson."

"A Direct Action mission?" Hesterman said.

Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. In all reality, he had no idea, but it wouldn't surprise him if Shelby and a few of his cronies could convince the right people that Sanderson posed enough of a future threat to America's security to warrant foreign interdiction.

"Even if they did, we might never find out. I asked the director if he could keep us in the loop, and he told me to focus on the financials. He'd like to build a solid case against Ernesto Galenden, which I suspect will serve two purposes. The first being a legitimate way to spur the Argentine government into action against the compound. And the second? Well, if we could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Galenden funded and operated a terrorist compound right under the Argentine government's nose, then a direct action mission might be easier for everyone to stomach. Let's start piecing this together like an evidentiary investigation. Understood?"

"Where do we work on this?" Hesterman said.

"That's the good news. We've been upgraded to a recently vacated executive suite upstairs. It'll be tight for the three of us, but I hear it comes with a comfortable leather chair."

"Your old office?" O'Reilly said.

Sharpe nodded.

"I'll head up there and make sure they configure the workstations correctly. Do you need to move anything in here?" she said.

"No. The office upstairs is temporary. The director wanted to get us out of here while we worked on Sanderson. Keith Ward wasn't exactly pleased about this arrangement. He hates being cut out of the loop, and technically we still work for him, so watch what you say. Shelby can exert a lot of influence, but he won't stand a twenty-four hour vigil. Let's get this moving."

Chapter 15

4:30 PM

Brown River Security Corporation

Fredericksburg, Virginia

Darryl Jackson sat hunched forward at his desk, furiously scribbling notes as Karl Berg spoke. He had weathered the investigative storm caused by Berg's last request well enough, though he didn't enjoy the multiple visits from Special Agent Sharpe's crew. All of which paled in comparison to sitting in front of Brown River's board of directors and answering some hard questions about the policies in place for their Brown River Special Operations Group. He had assured them that Jeremy Cummings had sourced the Petrovich operation on his own. As a senior member of the SOG, Cummings had access to the armory and the appropriate personnel. He had also convinced them that Cummings possessed the perceived authority at Brown River to assemble a team without supervision. He assured the board that safeguards had been put in place to ensure that nothing like this would ever happen again on Darryl's watch.

The mysterious six figure payment to Cummings had sealed the deal and kept Darryl from being fired. Everyone except the FBI had bought off on the theory that Cummings had been paid to hunt down and kill Petrovich for overseas clients. He felt guilty about framing Cummings, but the man was dead, and there was no need to complicate matters beyond that for either Brown River or himself. When he finished scribbling, he settled back into his chair.

"Are you sure that's all you need? Last time I did you a favor…well, I almost kissed my retirement goodbye, among other things," he said.

"I appreciate the assist on this one. The embassy there doesn't have the type of gear they've requested. Acquiring this stuff would be a pain in the ass and raise too many eyebrows. Kazakhstan is crawling with Ruskies."

"Five burly men arriving in that shit hole of an airport might attract all the attention they can handle," Jackson said.

"Their arrivals will be staggered, and nobody should be expecting them."

"Famous last words. The gear will be in the back of the rental vehicle. The vehicle will be rented using a bogus business account…just in case it doesn't get returned," Jackson said.

"Always a few steps ahead, eh?"

"When dealing with you, I like to be about a football field ahead at any given moment," Jackson said, and they both laughed.

"Sorry to be a stranger, Darryl."

"Hell, Karl. No need to apologize. I feel the same way. The heat came down pretty fierce on both of us. Scared the shit out of me, to be honest. We're good friends no matter what," Jackson said.

"It's always good to hear that. Thanks again for the help. Anything I can do, just let me know," Berg said.

"Well, since you mentioned it, I do have fond memories of the scotch we used to sip on my patio."

"Green Spot? Single Pot Still…one of the finest and rarest whiskey discoveries from my travels to Ireland?"

"My very favorite and impossible to find here in the states," Jackson said.

"Two bottles are already headed your way, my friend. Save enough for us to toast," Berg said.

"No promises. I'll give you a number for the team to contact when they arrive. Our guy will pick them up at the airport and take them to their rental vehicle. I'll do everything I can to get them a 4X4. They'll need it if they’re heading out to the testing sight. I'll be in touch shortly. Catch you later."

"Sounds good. Later, Darryl."

Jackson replaced the receiver and considered his options. Brown River ran a small scale security operation in Kazakhstan, with most of it based out of the capital, Astana. The compound boasted two dozen contractors at any given time. Kazakhstan wasn't considered a high risk location, especially compared to Afghanistan or Iraq. Taking five assault rifles fitted with advanced optics out of their armory would be a big deal. Giving them to another team would be an even bigger problem. Onsite personnel would sense a lost opportunity, and more importantly, lost money. The less he explained to the Brown River group in Astana the better. This would require a little finesse on Jackson's part, or if necessary, some serious ball busting. One way or the other, he fully intended to get the right equipment to Berg's team. He pulled up an intranet computer site on his desktop computer and started looking for the right numbers. He needed to get the ball rolling as soon as possible. He'd like to have this settled before the scotch arrived.

Chapter 16

12:30 PM

Palermo Soho Barrio

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Daniel brushed his bare feet against Jessica's leg and sipped his steaming cappuccino. She wore a bright floral long-sleeved dress, dominated by yellows and mellowed by dark orange and brown tones. Against her dark skin, the dress added to the exotic look she had carefully cultivated since they embarked on their journey south. Every time they "vacationed" to Buenos Aires, she scheduled a visit to her favorite beauty spa and had her hair dyed straight black. This was how he figured out that she had started to sneak away to Buenos Aires on her own, while he was out in the field for extended periods of time, honing the skills of Black Flag's most promising snipers. Of course, even if he hadn't noticed the jet black hair, he had a legion of stool pigeons waiting to inform him that Jessica had run off for the weekend. There was zero privacy out at Sanderson's compound, which was why they relished these trips together.

He stared over his book at her, moving his foot slowly up her calf. She still looked and felt tense, which was unusual for her once they got away from the compound for a few days. He could tell she had something big on her mind and was waiting for the right moment to spring it on him. Everything had been slightly off over the past three days. Their conversation, lovemaking, dancing…all of it felt a little forced, and he could barely stand the suspense. A million possibilities ran though his head, most of them bad, because this was how he naturally approached any problem—from the negative side. Anything positive was a surprise. This pessimism was a natural extension of his practical nature, so he braced for the worst case scenario, which wasn't really well defined in his head. When it came to Jessica, he often had no idea what was coming next, so he usually waited. This time, however, he couldn't stand it anymore. She was ruining a fantastic brunch with her stuffy silence.

"All right, you win, sweetie…I can't take it anymore. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" she said, placing her mimosa down on the wrought iron table.

"I can go back to reading my book…which I only brought because I can't seem to get a word out of you. It's been a long three days, but at least I've managed to make some progress with my Blake novel."

She quit staring off into nowhere and looked straight into his eyes with a determined look. Her deep brown eyes bored straight through him, and he knew this was the big moment. She was either leaving him or she was pregnant. The latter didn't make sense, considering the amount of alcohol she had consumed over the past few days…another sign that something was out of place.