“Check this out,” she said, and nodded at the television.
Daniel walked over to help her with the loop she missed, and stared at the screen. A local reporter stood in front of two Cape Elizabeth police cars, which blocked the entrance to a long driveway. The driveway extended through a stone archway with dark iron light fixtures on each side, and led to a partially obscured luxury home settled behind mature pine trees. The archway connected to a three foot tall sandstone wall that extended the entire length of property’s road frontage. A local police officer leaned against the left side of the arch with his arms folded, keeping a close eye on the media crowd. Daniel caught a sparkling glimpse of Casco Bay through the archway, just past the house.
The reporter identified the deceased as Mohammed Ghani, an importer with offices in Portland and Boston. Police were withholding details, but an anonymous source reported that Ghani had been stabbed to death outside of his home. Another source confirmed the presence of federal agents at the crime scene, but Portland’s FBI office had refused to comment. Daniel decided to change the subject.
“Hey, are you going out for drinks with the ladies tonight? I could meet you out for dinner after.”
“That would be nice. We can grab sushi at Sakura’s. It’s right across the street from The Lounge,” she said, turning to face him.
“Ah…The Lounge. Where all the young ladies gather to sip Cosmos…”
“And all the men stand around watching them,” she added.
“I can’t wait to pluck you out of there, right in front of all those desperate guys. Can we pretend we don’t know each other?”
“I can’t guarantee the behavior of the women in my office, so it’s probably not a good idea. Sounds fun though,” she said and kissed him.
“The betrothed members of the crew usually start heading home around eight, so meet me any time after that.”
“I can’t wait,” he whispered, and kissed her passionately.
Chapter Five
7:14 AM
CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia
Randy Keller strode casually down a crowded corridor in the National Clandestine Service’s wing of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters building. At seven in the morning, the Counter Terrorism Center’s section was quiet; most of the analysts and staff were sitting in sluggish traffic, still thirty to sixty minutes away from the CIA’s sprawling McLean, Virginia campus. In about thirty minutes the place was going to explode, and he would prefer to be back on the road when it did. He just needed to get the required “face-to-face” checkin out of the way, then he would be free to cruise back to his liaison office at FBI headquarters, where he imagined he would be sleeping for the next week, until they figured out exactly what had happened to Task Force HYDRA.
He reached the end of the corridor and paused at a door that read “Karl Berg, Assistant Director, Counter Terrorism.” He knocked and waited.
“Come in,” he heard someone yell.
He scanned the room as he stepped inside, and was surprised to find both Karl Berg and Audra Bauer, Director of the Counter Terrorism Center, sitting around a small spare computer workstation next to Berg’s desk. They both looked back at him as he hesitantly entered. He hadn’t expected to make a report directly to the CTC’s Director.
“Grab a seat, Randy. The director and I just finished with the latest feed from the FBI. This link is fantastic work.”
“Thank you. You’re seeing what they feed out to their on-scene agents and key section heads. They add agents to the feed as they are brought into the investigation. It keeps everyone in the loop and on the same page, but it’s not always the fullest picture,” he said.
“And that’s exactly why we have you over there. I’ve read your summaries of this morning’s events. I agree that the FBI had been compromised. Please have a seat,” stated Audra.
Keller turned a chair to face them and sat down. He glanced at the window and wondered if they were really designed to resist electronic listening devices. In over fifteen years at the CIA, this had never been a concern for Keller, since he had never sat behind a desk in a room with a window. His office at the FBI was the closest he’d ever achieved, located across the hall from the coveted window offices.
“Do you have any ideas where to start looking?” Audra Bauer asked.
“Ma’am, it’s difficult to say. They don’t compartmentalize their operations like we do here. This is one of their highest priority investigative task forces, but they still have no organic support assets. The core team is permanently assigned to HYDRA, and is comprised of mostly Terror Financing personnel, but they rely on key players in nearly every other section for critical, daily support. These key personnel probably spend most of their time working for the task force, but they also support other investigations within the entire Counterterrorism Division. I see new names and new faces on a weekly, if not daily basis. I’ve managed to compile a list of everyone that I’ve seen, but I guarantee this is not a complete list. Just too many people involved to count. You should’ve seen how many people they assembled this morning. Lots of fresh faces,” he said, and handed a flash drive over to Berg.
“Nice work. We’ll start looking at financial records, communications trails…get the ground work rolling on this. I’ll walk this over to CounterIntel,” he said.
“Take it to HUMINT, too. They need to know what to start looking for immediately. Have them look back at least one year. Eight simultaneous murders? I guarantee this has been in the works for months, if not years,” said the Director.
“No mention by Sharpe of a possible leak?” asked Berg.
“Not to the group…or to me.”
“That’s not much of a surprise. He doesn’t completely trust you, and he needs the task force to focus on evidentiary procedure. Any mention of a leak this early would undermine the investigation,” Audra said flatly, then added, “We need to let them focus on what they do well, while we start digging into all the possibilities.”
They all nodded, and the Director stood up. Berg and Keller joined her.
“Alright, I’m going to brief the Deputy. Keep me directly in the loop on everything. I’m not sure what we’ll get from our in-house FBI liaison. He’s back in D.C. doing the same thing you’re doing. Randy, I need you to figure out a way to get us inside their interrogation efforts. I’m tempted to send someone out to Boston,” she said from the door.
“I don’t think it will be necessary. Sharpe made it clear that he wanted a live interrogation feed, and I don’t plan to stray very far from Sharpe’s side, unless something interesting pops up,” said Keller.
“Stay close. I don’t think Sharpe has thought this through all the way. He’s sending a special team up to Boston with special orders that may not play out too well over a live feed. He’ll shut it down pretty quickly if Mr. Carlisle pushes the envelope,” she said and left the room.
“Back to DC with you. Good work on this. Let me know what you need, and it’s yours,” said Berg.
“I think I’m going to need a cot for my office.”
“For what? I can’t imagine any upcoming scenario in which you sleep.”
“Good point. I’ll see if we can get in on the feed from Boston. One way or another,” he said.
“Now that would be an epic score on your part,” said Berg.
“That’s why you have me over in FBI land.”
“Among other reasons. Make sure to grab whatever you need on the way out. I’ll call tech support as soon as you leave my office, which should be in a few seconds.”
“I’m gone,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
Keller weaved his way through the growing crowd of analysts, displaying a combination of strained smiles and harried expressions that effectively discouraged anyone from engaging his attention. He reached the elevator bank unmolested and jabbed the down button several times. He needed to get back to FBI headquarters before the Boston interrogation began.
Chapter S
ix
8:15 AM
Portland, Maine
Daniel stared intensely at the flat screen monitor in his office. His door was closed, and he hadn’t been interrupted since he arrived at 7:45, nearly thirty minutes ago. This came as no surprise, since everyone was busy poring over their reports and preparing their elevator speeches. The overseas marketing division had a meeting at 9:00, followed by a general marketing department meeting at 10:00. It was that time of the month for mother Zenith.
Sitting in his cubicle, Daniel was extremely worried. He didn’t like what he had uncovered on the internet. A simple Google search yielded seven additional murders similar to the one in Cape Elizabeth. Wealthy Muslims, all murdered last night. Details were sketchy in most cases, almost as if they had been withheld. In one case, the Google link was no longer active. This story had been filed in the Providence Journal, and its tag line had peaked Daniel’s interest the most:
“In Newport, a prominent businessman was found shot to death on his patio…local authorities report suspect in custody.”
He didn’t like the idea of a suspect in custody. He was pretty sure Sanderson wouldn’t like it either.
He sifted through the favorites file again, and examined the information.
“Muslim art trader slain outside of Mount Pleasant Home. Apparent close range shooting…”
“Couple killed in bizarre drive-by shooting, while walking at night in the Eastport subdivision of Annapolis. Killings shock neighbors, who describe Sa’id and Adia Faris as generous, peaceful members of their small community. No suspects in shooting…”
“Jibran Nazir’s body was found by his wife outside of the entrance gate to their Hampton estate. The passenger side of Nazir’s car was riddled with bullets, leaving him dead on the scene…”
Daniel clicked the mouse button on the next link. “The link you have requested is inactive or no longer exists.”
Someone is shutting this down quick.
He quickly shuffled through two more links. Two more shootings, one a breakin at a Rye waterfront townhouse, husband and wife murdered; another in the upper west side of Manhattan, doorman and Asim Shareef executed just inside the lobby of an exclusive apartment building. Three out of the eight articles mentioned federal law enforcement involvement, which included the stabbing of Mohammed Ghani, on the driveway of his Shore Road residence in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Only one stabbing? Interesting.
He entered several different search strings for the murder that concerned him the most. Nothing. The murder in Newport, Rhode Island had been erased from the public’s eye, which was an unsettling development. If the Feds actually caught the killer, Daniel’s life could unravel quickly. He softly pounded the keyboard tray with a closed fist.
He should have known better than to take the assignment, but he got lazy. He had enjoyed five great years with Jessica, finally settling into a “normal” life he could tolerate. He didn’t take much pleasure in his job, but who did? He needed the normalcy and dullness of a civilian routine to suppress the urges fostered by Sanderson’s programming.
He didn’t want to start over again, so he took the job thinking that Sanderson would go away. Maybe he should have refused and taken the hard route. Vanish and rebuild with Jessica somewhere else. Maybe it didn’t matter. It looked like either choice would have led to the same result. Sanderson was up to something big, and it was about to swallow them whole.
Daniel closed the internet browser, and turned his attention to the files stacked up on his desk. He needed to maintain appearances for at least a few more hours; despite how very little he now cared about Zenith’s overseas emerging markets.
Chapter Seven
9:26 AM
FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.
Special Agent-in-Charge Sharpe stared up at the three plasma screen monitors in the task force operations center. The screens had changed very little over the course of the morning, and he was starting to feel despondent about the day’s affairs. Eight separate crime scenes, and Sharpe had very little to show for their investigative progress. A few sets of partial footprints, scattered witness statements and a flurry of ballistics reports, which had so far told them nothing they couldn’t determine with their own eyes. The victims were either knifed, shot in the face with a pistol at close range, or shot in the head with a sniper rifle from a longer range. It was pretty easy to tell the difference between the pistol and sniper kills; the pistol rounds left the heads intact.
“We don’t have shit,” he stated to Special Agent Mendoza, who had just entered the room with a stack of papers.
“We have one of the shooters,” said Mendoza, joining Sharpe at the screens.
“And he hasn’t said shit. We don’t even know who he is, and we still haven’t found his car. All we know about this guy is that he’s pretty handy with a scoped Remington 700 rifle. I’m not even sure that advanced interrogation techniques would be effective with this guy,” said Sharpe.
“Have you forwarded the request?” Mendoza said in a weak tone that betrayed the fact that he knew the answer already.
“That, my friend, is a slippery slope for someone at my pay grade. Carlisle is our best interrogator. He’ll take the interrogation as far as he can without breaking the law. After that, someone else will have to decide how to proceed. I’m about to authorize Carlisle and Olson to suggest the possibility of a deal. Based on the lack of evidence we pulled from the other crime scenes, I have a feeling he didn’t expect this little side trip. The mention of an immunity deal might soften him up a bit.”
“It’s all we have left at this point,” confirmed Mendoza, placing the stack of papers on Sharpe’s temporary workstation.
Sharpe nodded at the pile of papers, “More personnel requisition forms?
“Yep. This should be the last of them. We now have most of the building working for us,” he said, in hopes of eliciting a laugh, or at least a smile.
“We’ll lose these agents just as quickly, if we don’t start to produce more than phantom footprints and muddled witness statements. I need to make some calls from my office,” he said, grabbing the stack of papers.
The calls would be placed to the lead investigative agents at each crime scene, and he would condense their verbal reports for his final call to his immediate superior within the Terror Financing Operations Section, Associate Director Sandra Delgado. He imagined Agent Delgado would turn right around and call the Executive Assistant Director Fred Carroll, who had overall responsibility for the FBI’s Counter Terrorism Division. On and on the calls would go, rising up the chain of command, until Sharpe started the cycle over again less than an hour later. It was part of his job as Special Agent-in-Charge of Task Force HYDRA.
Chapter Eight
9:38 AM
Cape Elizabeth, Maine
Special Agent Justin Edwards stood several feet away from Mohammed Ghani’s body, staring out at a multi-million dollar view of the Atlantic Ocean. From the end of the estate’s driveway, he had a view of the Atlantic unlike any he had witnessed before. An endless stretch of glimmering ocean, interrupted by an occasional lobster boat and a sparsely inhabited island across Portland’s shipping channel. He tried to imagine what the view would be like on the island, but his thoughts were interrupted by a cool, salty breeze that threatened his perfectly coiffed hair. He barely heard Special Agent Margaret D’Angelo as she recapped what local law enforcement agency crime scene teams had determined.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t get over this view,” he said, and she paused with an impatient look on her face.
Edwards finally brought his attention back to Portland’s resident FBI agent, the only agent permanently assigned to the local satellite office. He wondered who she had pissed off to get stuck here, though he did like the water views in Maine. He could get used to sipping cocktails with a view of the Atlantic, but he was years away from that dream. He came from a wealthy family, but had a major impediment to realizing this goal: health nut parents who like
d to dole out the cash for major milestones like college and law school, but not for general use by their children.
He tried to focus on D’Angelo, but found her uninteresting. She was attractive, in a middle-aged, married female kind of way, but certainly not Justin’s type. Like most female agents, she dressed conservatively and put little effort, or money, into her hair. D’Angelo apparently hadn���t even bothered to try this morning. Her hair was pulled back into some kind of “who gives a shit” bun, reserved for women who have simply given up.
“Please continue. Sorry,” he said.
“Mr. Ghani’s body was discovered last night at about ten thirty by a private security guard, who had been dispatched by a technician at the security company’s centralized headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska,” she said.
“Anything out of the ordinary with the security guard, or the company?”
“Everything checks out so far. The company is one of the largest in the country, and the guard has been an employee of the company for twelve years. We still have him down at the Cape Elizabeth police station. The company dispatched him at the request of Mr. Ghani’s wife, who hadn’t heard from her husband that night.”
“She’s obviously not here?”
“No. She’s been in Pakistan for the past few weeks, scheduled to return in early June. Apparently, he always takes her calls, and she got worried when he didn’t answer last night,” she said.
“No security camera?”
“Wishful thinking,” she added.
He squatted down near the body, which was covered with a gray tarp, stenciled in black with ���CE Police Dept.��� The covered body lay several feet from the driver’s side of a previously sparkling white Mercedes convertible sedan. The convertible’s tan ragtop was down, and the side of the white sedan was covered with thick, dark maroon stains, indicating a strong arterial spray pattern. Edwards could see similar dark splotches on the light tan driver’s headrest, and could imagine that the rest of the light colored interior had been ruined by Mr. Ghani’s blood.
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