Black Flagged Redux (52 page)

"By my watch, you have eight minutes. Let's start with the German company," Farrington said.

He nodded toward Petrovich, who picked up the fully recharged Automated External Defibrillator they had stolen from the Metro station. Farrington sliced open Reznikov's thin white gown and tore it open, exposing him from the chest down to his genitals. Petrovich started to attach the AED's pads to his chest.

"What are you doing?" Reznikov said.

"I plan to make this the longest eight minutes of your life. I just want to make sure you're here for every second of it," Daniel said.

He moved one of the electrical pads to Reznikov's genitals, which caused the Russian to shriek.

"Sorry. We'll save that for later."

"Now that you've had some time to organize your thoughts, let's start out with the name of the German company," Farrington said, increasing the pressure on the knife poking the man's eyelid.

Fifteen seconds later, the screaming began. It continued for another six minutes, which was longer than Farrington had expected the scientist to last.

Chapter 59

12:32 PM

Acassuso Barrio

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Jessica savored the sun on her face. She took a sip of raspberry infused iced tea and set the glistening glass down onto a wicker end table. She leaned back into the thickly cushioned, dark rattan chaise lounge and stared out at the small, private backyard. The terra cotta patio extended another fifteen feet beyond her chair, which was pushed up against the house. A lush green lawn bordered the patio on all sides, meeting with a thick layer of ferns and low palms that concealed most of the six-foot-tall stucco wall surrounding the backyard. The back of the house faced north, which provided constant sun exposure to the generous windows facing the enclosed yard and the French door leading to the patio.

"Jessica, you have a phone call," she heard from inside the house.

"Can you bring it out here for me?" she said, not budging from the chair.

"You got shot in hand, not the legs," Munoz replied.

She heard him muttering inside, which caused her to laugh. She had wondered how long it would take them to revolt against her constant demands for iced tea, warm towels and snacks. I guess this was it for Jeff. Maybe Rico would continue to wait on her. She'd have to play this one right.

"Enrique, can you help me out and bring the phone?" she yelled.

"Don't you dare move, Rico," Munoz said. To Jessica he called, "You want to talk to your husband, or shall I tell him to call back later?"

Jessica used her good hand to lift herself up and out of the chaise lounge and walked through the open patio door to the darkened interior. Jeffrey Munoz was talking on the phone.

"She's doing really well, man. Seriously…I'm glad we were there. Driving us fucking crazy, but what else is new, right? Here she is," he said and held the phone out to her.

"Amazing how fast you can move when you want to," he added.

"Hey, this is like a four star vacation for you guys," she said, taking the phone.

"This is the only vacation I've ever been on where you're locked in a house, waiting hand and foot on the Queen of Sheba," he said.

She walked back out onto the patio and breathed in the perfect seventy-five degree fall air.

"Danny, it's so good to hear your voice."

"I've been waiting all day to call. Had a few loose ends to tie up here that required my full attention. Sorry I didn't call earlier."

"I heard about your morning. The story made the headlines throughout Europe and the U.S. Sorry to hear about Sergei and Andrei. Schafer, too."

"Frankly, I'm not sure how we pulled it off, but somehow we did."

"I think that's becoming your specialty," she said.

"Impossible missions? I hope not. I need a break from Russian attack helicopters and Spetznaz. What's the weather like out there?"

"It's a beautiful day, honey. Just like the last weekend we were here together. I miss you," she said.

"I miss you even more. I would give anything to be there with you right now. Sanderson was smart not to tell me what happened to you. I would have been on the first flight out of Helsinki. How is your hand?"

"Luckily, it's my left. It'll be fine. I'll probably need some cosmetic surgery later. You know, to make it look a little less claw-like," she said.

"I'll love you just the same. Claw or no claw."

"You're always so romantic," she said.

"That's what gloves are for anyway," he said.

"Now that's not exactly nice. I suppose you'd buy me a mask if I had been shot in the face?" she teased.

"No. Then you wouldn't be allowed to leave the house and even then you'd have to wear a bag over your head inside the house…unless you're showering, I suppose."

"I'll make you pay for that one," she said.

"Promise?"

"I'm not sure I can do all of those things one handed," she whispered.

"I suppose we'll have to wait anyway. I'm headed to Germany to investigate Metzger Labs. Reznikov identified the company as a possible shipping point for the virus. The company specializes in live research samples for institutional and corporate use," he said.

"Wouldn't that be a task better suited for the German police?"

"Not if you want to have a candid conversation with one of the employees, or an after-hours tour of the facility. Hopefully, I'll have this wrapped up in a few days and will be on a plane back to Argentina. Does the house have a pool?"

"Hot tub. I've been told to stay out of it due to the painkillers. Whatever. I really wish you didn't have to go to Germany," she said.

"This should be a quick operation. They're already working on accessing the employee files. If we can get our hands on the right shipping manifest, we'll be able to determine where the virus is headed. We don't have the time to mess around with interagency politics on this. I'm technically working for the president of the United States now. Can you believe what Sanderson managed to pull off?"

"Not really. I'm not jumping to make travel plans any time soon. I'll let Sanderson test the waters first."

"I hear you there. Hey, I'm getting that impatient stare from Farrington. We need to be at the airport soon to catch a flight to Frankfurt. I'll call you when we get there. I love you so much, Jess."

"I love you more than that. Hurry back. I don't think Bert and Ernie here will last much longer," she said, raising her voice.

"You got that straight!" Munoz yelled from inside.

"Take it easy on those guys. I owe them everything," he said.

"So do I, which is something I think we need to talk about when you get back. I don't want to leave Sanderson's program anymore. I think this is our home now," she said.

"You might be right. We'll have to talk about this later. Love you."

"Love you more," she said and hung up.

"You can have the phone back!" she yelled.

"Don't push your luck, princess," Munoz replied.

Chapter 60

11:25 AM

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

Special Agent Ryan Sharpe sat facing Special Agent Frank Mendoza in the small reception office outside of the director's conference room.

"So, did you get me in trouble or something?" Mendoza said. "Because I just started my new job and I haven't been there long enough to piss off the director yet."

"This might have something to do with Sanderson. That's all I can say. Honestly though, I'm purely speculating. Sounds like you've hit the ground running in your new position. I'm hearing good things."

"It's different than following the money trail, that's for sure. The investigative focus is a lot broader, and field activities are a shit ton more intensive," he said, and they both glanced up at Shelby's secretary.

"Sorry, Margaret," Frank said.

"You two aren't the first potty mouthed FBI agents to sit in those chairs," she said, without taking her eyes off the computer screen.

"The financial background is indispensable, even if it's only one aspect of our terrorism investigations. I used to think terror financing was the center of the universe," Mendoza said.

"Cut off the funding and there is no terrorism. At least not from extremist groups like Al Qaeda. The people don't hold jobs here in the U.S., unless you count mosque employees or the rapidly expanding sea of Imams. Your average terrorist cell here couldn't scrape up enough money on its own to buy the nails needed to fill a suicide vest."

"The director will see the two of you now," Margaret interrupted.

"Thank you," Sharpe said.

Mendoza and Sharpe stood up and walked toward the conference room door and opened it. Once inside, they each had silent doubts about their own immediate job security. Half of the conference table was occupied, which had taken Sharpe by surprise. He had been expecting another private visit with the director, possibly to thank Mendoza and himself for laying the groundwork that had led to Sanderson's capture. Now that he saw the players seated around the conference room, he was no longer so optimistic.

Keith Ward, director of the Domestic Terrorism Branch within the Terrorism Financing Operations Section was present, along with his former boss, Gregory Hill, who still commanded the Radical Fundamentalist Financial Investigative Unit. A past and present boss in the same room was never good news. Frank Mendoza's direct supervisor within the International Terrorism Operations Section One sat at the table, next to the Counter-Terrorism Division's director and assistant director. This put four assistant directors in the room, along with the executive assistant director for the National Security Branch and her associate executive assistant director. They all sat around Director Shelby at the far end of the conference table.

"Agents Sharpe and Mendoza. Please take a seat," Shelby said in a grim tone.

Two seats, side by side, were offered to them on the right side of the table. The appropriate nods were exchanged between all of them, which made Sharpe feel a little better about the situation. He was pretty sure they'd be kept standing if they were to be fired, and he highly doubted anyone would smile or nod at them. As soon as they were seated, the video monitor on the wall opposite to them came to life. The assistant directors on the other side of the table swiveled their chairs to view the screen.

A map of Argentina appeared next to a satellite photo dated April 25th, 2007. It was a close up of Sanderson's river valley compound and was centered on the road that ran parallel to the river. A lone helicopter sat on the road. Sharpe wasn't sure what to make of the photograph. The picture had been taken today, during the daytime. Now Sanderson had a combat helicopter at his disposal?

"At approximately 1:27 AM, Eastern Standard Time, a force of ten special operations helicopters landed nearly one hundred marines and SEALs at this compound in western Argentina, with the intent of putting an end to General Terrence Sanderson's rapidly growing terrorist organization. Unfortunately, Sanderson had been tipped off, and the entire operation was a complete failure. The compound was empty. This is one of the helicopters that had to be left behind due to a mechanical failure. Likely related to a high velocity projectile. The whole thing was a set up from the start."

Sharpe shook his head with a look of disgust.

"Special Agent Sharpe's investigative efforts got us to the compound, only to be thwarted at the last minute."

"We'll get another crack at Sanderson," Sharpe said.

"Unfortunately, this is only half of the story. At 12:49 Eastern Standard Time, completely unknown to me, a rogue Russian bioweapons expert was snatched from a Stockholm street by one of Sanderson's foreign operations teams. The team, working on behalf of the CIA, left ten dead Russian Spetznaz operatives in its wake, along with two of their own. Apparently, everyone wanted to get their hands on this Russian scientist."

"What is the connection between the two locations?" Sharpe asked.

"Sanderson is the connection…and he now works for the United States government."

"What?" Sharpe said. "He's still at the top of our terrorist list."

"Not any more. His organization has been granted unlimited immunity from prosecution. Including, but not limited to all activities past and present. This extends to all personnel that have been involved in these activities."

"Petrovich and Farrington?" Sharpe said, incredulously.

"We can't touch any of them, and it's quite possible that we will be working with some of them very shortly. Information acquired from the Russian scientist indicates the high possibility of an imminent WMD attack here in the United States. We'll work with Homeland to coordinate a response. As it stands, the threat appears to be a genetically modified, weaponized form of encephalitis, primarily designed to be delivered into a municipal water supply. The effects of this virus have been confirmed by Sanderson's team. Apparently, this scientist poisoned Monchegorsk, a city of 50,000 in northern Russia, before he was captured. Petrovich himself covertly entered the city and documented the effects. It's a worst case scenario. Those that don't die within the first week of exposure end up going aggressively insane from focalized temporal lobe damage."

"This is headed our way? Why am I the only one asking questions?" Sharpe said.

"Everyone here has already received this briefing except for the two of you. This is definitely coming our way. We just don't know how. The scientist, Anatoly Reznikov, was funded by Al Qaeda, or an organization very similar. He produced over sixty canisters of viral tablets, two of which were used by him in Monchegorsk. That leaves fifty-eight missing. Twenty-two of the canisters were originally slated for attacks on European cities, but all of the sites listed by Reznikov have been raided, yielding empty apartments previously occupied by Arabs…or people that looked like Arabs.