Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  “She was onboard. I tried to convince her that your mission had absolutely nothing to do with crippling Al Qaeda operations in the U.S., but she still believes what they sold her in Langley, even after the hell they put her through. I told her that I had no intention of carrying out your plan, but she insisted that it needed to be done. That was my mistake…telling her about Parker’s visit. I should have skipped town with her that afternoon. Sadly, she’s desperately seeking some kind of redemption, and she still buys all of this nationalistic, Uncle Sam shit. A dangerous combination.”

  “We’re all believers here, Daniel. We did the government a favor yesterday. The HYDRA investigation had been ongoing for nearly three years, and they had barely cracked the nut on Al Qaeda. This would have dragged on for another year or two, until it was too late, or somebody tipped off the terrorists. It was a sideshow, but a worthwhile production. I had to remove that file from government custody. We’re rebuilding, and the file contained information that could immediately undermine the process. We’re going to take the fight to the enemy, in ways our government can’t.”

  “And get rich in the process,” replied Daniel.

  “I never heard you complain about your ‘finder’s fee,’ or whatever you called it to make yourself feel better. I didn’t take a cut and walk away like you did. I reinvested every dime of that money into the program, and kept it going for an entire year after government funding vanished. Anyway, we won’t need to skim off the top anymore. We have the guaranteed backing of some very powerful and wealthy individuals.”

  “What do you get when you combine my unhampered pragmatism with your undying patriotism?” asked Petrovich.

  “A damn effective team,” said Sanderson.

  “I was thinking along the lines of filthy rich,” said Daniel.

  “For you, maybe,” Sanderson grumbled.

  “Is that a helicopter I hear?” Daniel said, cupping his hand to one of his ears.

  “Very funny. I’ll be inside, working on our exfiltration from the States.”

  Daniel smiled, and General Sanderson opened the screen door, shaking his head. Out of nowhere, Petrovich fired a question into the air.

  “What kind of deal did you make with the CIA?”

  “The kind that will keep them off our backs, and give us an early warning system. Maybe some new recruits.”

  “What are you giving them in return?” said Petrovich.

  “Capabilities. Resources. All untraceable back to them.”

  “I’d love to know how you pulled that off in less than thirty seconds.”

  “Remember when I said there was no such thing as a coincidence?”

  Daniel shrugged his shoulders to indicate he really didn’t care what Sanderson planned to say next.

  “Every once in a great while…I’m proven wrong.”

  “Any chance of drink service for the legendary Daniel Petrovich? Maybe one of the newbies?”

  “I’ll have Colonel Farrington get right on it. Welcome back, Daniel.”

  “Apparently, I never left,” Daniel muttered as the screen door slammed shut.

  EPILOGUE

  One Month Later

  7:55 PM

  Havana, Cuba

  Dario and Natalia Russo relaxed in comfortable chairs on the rooftop bar of the Santa Isabel Hotel in Old Havana, which overlooked the tree lined Plaza de Armas. A small marble topped wrought iron table sat between them, holding two recently emptied martini glasses. The napkins placed under each sweating glass were soaked to the table with condensation. A warm sea breeze passed lazily through the uncovered bar, compliments of the nearby Gulf of Mexico, providing a small respite from the heat and oppressive humidity. Still not accustomed to the warmer climate, Dario glistened from persistent beads of sweat. Natalia looked unaffected by the heat, but welcomed the breeze.

  The couple had arrived at the hotel thirty minutes earlier, drawing envious stares all the way to the small table at the balcony’s edge. They were the kind of couple that you would expect to find adorning the sun deck of a private luxury yacht docked in Cannes, France. Dario’s tanned skin contrasted against a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, tucked loosely into dark tailored pants. On his left wrist, an expensive watch shined in the fading sun, when he ran his hand through his jet black hair. Natalia sparkled from two silver cuff bracelets and a thick silver jeweled aquamarine necklace. The straps of her black dress hung loosely over the exotic dark skin of her well-toned shoulders. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating her strong, angular face, and her eyes were dark brown to match her Argentinian passport.

  The Russos were native Argentinians, descended from Italian and Irish immigrants which, on the surface, didn’t attract any attention. Nearly seventy percent of Argentina’s population shared some degree of European descent, mostly Italian. The fact that neither of them spoke fluent Spanish or Italian was something they needed to correct, and they’d have plenty of time to work with Sanderson’s linguistic experts once they were in place at the new training compound.

  Dario, or Daniel, squinted as the sun slipped below the top of the two-story stone walls of the Palacio de los Capitanes Generales on the far side of the Plaza, casting a shadow across the rooftop terrace. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and a golden amber light poured through the Plaza over the mix of vendors and tourists straddling the sides of the cobblestone streets.

  A waiter dressed in an impeccable white suit placed a single martini with two olives on the table between the two of them, removing the empty glasses. Daniel detected a hint of olive juice shaken into the clear, chilled vodka, by the slightly darkened blur swirling through the drink. He glanced up at their waiter, expecting to see another dirty vodka martini descend from his tray.

  “Piropos de Companero en la mesa de la esquina,” the waiter said, gesturing with his hand in the direction of the terrace’s far side.

  Dario and Natalia both glanced at the lone gentleman sitting at the far corner table. He was dressed in khaki pants and a white oxford shirt, wearing a light brown baseball cap. His shirt reflected the burnt orange color of the sun, which poured around the Palacio and still bathed the corner of the rooftop. The man nodded to them, and removed his sunglasses. The man’s face didn’t register with Daniel, but when he glanced at Jessica, he saw an emotional response.

  “Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Sabes lo?” said Daniel, emphasizing their need to speak Spanish in order to avoid unnecessary suspicion.

  “Si. Un viejo amigo. Dame unos minutos,” she said, and whispered, “and watch the door.”

  “Bien. Un otro martini por favor,” Daniel said, flowing the Spanish together like a native.

  Jessica picked up a black purse and her drink from the table. She kissed Daniel on the forehead before she walked over to meet the mystery guest. The man looked like he was in his early fifties, trim, and handsome. Daniel wondered if this man had been one of her professors at Boston, or possibly Loyola. Her warning to watch the doors suggested he was a ghost from a more recent past, which left him uncomfortable.

  He didn’t expect any trouble in Cuba, but underestimating situations wasn’t a luxury he could afford, or a habit he wanted to start. He analyzed every object and angle within his view, running multiple scenarios through his head like a computer, still keeping an eye on Jessica. The man didn’t get up to greet her; instead, he motioned for her to join him at the table. She placed both the purse and the drink on the table in front of him, which told Daniel everything he needed to know about the situation.

  The purse contained the only knife they carried, and she would never have placed it within the man’s reach if she didn’t trust him. He felt a little better about the situation, but didn’t relax. After a long ten minutes for Daniel, Jessica and the man stood up from the table. Poised for action, and wishing they had ordered an appetizer that would have placed a knife on the table, Daniel watched as they hugged. The interaction looked cordial,
and the man patted her on the back right before they separated. He watched Jessica walk back to the table, along with every other man on the crowded terrace.

  Daniel still wasn’t accustomed to the strong machismo attitude found in South and Central America, which apparently allowed men to gawk at women, in front of other women. Jessica certainly didn’t help matters with her choice of expensive outfits, or the confident energy she exuded simply walking from one table to another. A subtle change had washed over her as they settled into their new lives. She was bolder. Happier. More in her element.

  He couldn’t help but think that maybe General Sanderson had been right about her. There was still so much that she wouldn’t discuss about her time in Serbia, before they had rediscovered each other during a chance encounter in a Belgrade nightclub. Daniel avoided the club scene with regularity, preferring to spend time in the field staring through his sniper scope. On that fateful night, he had relented under pressure from his boss, Radovan Grahovac, agreeing to join him in a few shots of rakija to “ease the memories.” As soon as he saw her in the cramped, smelly club, everything finally made sense to Daniel. CIA.

  She had disappeared from his life after a casual pizza dinner near Wrigley Field, three days after college graduation. Stoically fighting back tears, she announced that they would not be able to see each other anymore. Daniel had barely noticed the uncomfortable waitress push the check between two empty pilsner glasses, and scoot clear of the scene. He remained stunned and speechless as she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told him that she loved him…but they could never be together.

  He didn’t follow her, or try to figure it out that night. He had ordered another beer and sat at the bar, wondering exactly what had gone wrong that day. He was accustomed to her wild mood swings, usually connected to something related to her parents, but this felt different. When he called early the next morning, her roommate told him that she had abruptly walked out of the apartment with her bags to a waiting taxi. She had left no forwarding address, and never said goodbye. She just simply vanished.

  He couldn’t lose her again. They would give this new life a try, and look for a way out along the way. Folding into Sanderson’s new organization had been the path of least resistance for both of them. For now.

  Jessica placed her empty drink and purse on the table, and sat down, forcing a smile.

  “Everything alright?” he said, stroking her bare arm.

  “I think so.”

  “Who was that?”

  She glanced around for the waiter, who was attending to a nearby table, and leaned in to whisper, “That was my former agency mentor.” Then she leaned back to speak in a normal tone. “A very good, trusted friend.”

  Daniel turned his head to examine the man, but found the corner table empty, and no longer in the faded sunlight. He looked to the door that led into the hotel. Gone.

  “In Cuba? Must have been important to him. Should we be concerned?”

  “No. He was tipped off by our new employer. Sounds like they have an agreement,” she said, and reached into her purse.

  Daniel started to wonder about Jessica’s mentor, and if it was possible that… His thought was interrupted by something she placed on the table.

  “He told me you left it with him in Georgetown,” she said, and slid it across to him.

  He stared in disbelief at the same cell phone he had thrown into a burning doorway, a little over a month ago. He took a long sip of his martini, contemplating how close he had come to tossing a grenade into the doorway instead.

  “You’ve never met him before, have you?”

  “Not really, but we talked briefly.”

  She grasped his hand, and they quietly watched the last rays of light creep back along the walls of the buildings lining the Plaza. Daniel kept an eye on the street below, until he saw the brown ball cap and white shirt. He tracked the man walking up Calle Obispo, past a small street side cafe, and into the last beam of sunlight to infiltrate the Plaza. He saw Karl Berg stop and look over his shoulder at the rooftop terrace. Daniel raised his right hand a few inches from the table and acknowledged him. Berg nodded and walked out of sight, chasing the sunlight deeper into Old Havana.

  The End

  The author welcomes any comments, feedback or questions at stevekonkoly@gmail.com

  To sign up for Steven’s New Release Updates, send a quick email to stevekonkoly@gmail.com

  Please visit Steven’s blog for more on Black Flagged and future projects. www.stevenkonkoly.com

  Steven Konkoly is the author of The Jakarta Pandemic, published in late 2010.

  From Black Flagged: Beginnings

  The next book in the Black Flagged series

  Foothills of Divjaka, Republic of Kosovo

  August 1998

  Marko Resja stood a few meters away from the raised dirt road, swatting flies away from his grimy, sweat covered face. August drew stifling heat and oppressive humidity to the Balkan Peninsula, which couldn’t have been timed worse for the Yugoslav offensive. The heat seemed to incite the flies, which needed little encouragement in these hills. He wondered if these insects could sense their role in the impending tragedy. It would certainly explain their increased activity.

  He raised his twenty-year-old M-76 sniper rifle, and stared through the scope, scanning the road as far as was practical. He was assigned to watch the most likely western approach for Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) vehicles, and shared the duty with another relatively new member of Hadzic’s Panthers. Satisfied that nothing threatened to approach from the outskirts of Divjaka, he lowered the rifle and shrugged at his partner, who spoke into a cheap plastic handheld radio.

  Sava looked back at him and rolled his eyes, alternately wiping his forehead and slapping flies away from his ears. His dark green camouflage uniform looked filthy, crusted with light brown mud up to his thighs, and large sweat stains formed odd circular shapes under his armpits and across his chest. The only thing clean about Sava was his assault rifle, which was slung over his left shoulder, freeing him to perform the occasional radio checkin and chain smoke cigarettes. Sava’s face disappeared in a cloud of tobacco smoke, and reappeared sporting a grin. His teeth stood out through the thin layer of unevenly applied green and black camouflage.

  The camouflage greasepaint had nearly worn away over the past three days, as their unit moved through the hills, mopping up “suspected” bands of KLA resistance. Apparently, “suspected” had always been a loose term among the Panthers, but since yesterday’s gruesome discovery in Klecka, the designation was now applied to any of the ethnic Albanian Kosovars found in the hills.

  Regular Yugoslavian security forces captured the KLA stronghold in Klecka, and were led to a crematorium by a young man who claimed to have been forced to participate in atrocities against kidnapped Serbians. Evidence of scorched human remains was found in a makeshift crematorium, and several trenches filled with badly decomposing bodies were uncovered in a nearby orchard. Word of the discovery spread like wildfire through Serbian units in the foothills, and Marko’s platoon was roused from a deep sleep at three in the morning to prepare for an urgent operation.

  Several armored vehicles arrived in the camp shortly thereafter, and provided transportation to the outskirts of the Divjaka, where a mortar team set up in a clearing to the west. Half of the thirty-man platoon drove to the eastern road on the other side of the village, along with a few of the M-80 armored personnel carriers. The entire platoon’s focus was a cluster of homes and structures in northern Divjaka, isolated from the main town, and accessible by two roads, which were now blocked by a heavily armed Serbian paramilitary force.

  They loitered in the western tree line until a crimson sun started to creep over the eastern hills of the tight valley, and fingers of deep orange light caught the tops of the trees around them. He could only imagine the terror spreading through the homes in front of them, as residents helplessly listened to the distant rumble of idling engines beyond their sight, and waite
d.

  The mortars tubes announced the break of dawn across the valley, firing a volley of 82mm high explosive shells at the closest grouping of structures visible along the road. The shells sailed in a high arc, and took an eternity to find earth again. When gravity returned them, the ground behind one of the houses erupted skyward in a light brown cloud, followed by another geyser of dirt from the road. The sharp crunch of the impacts washed through the men, giving rise to a few cheers. Marko felt relieved that the rounds had missed the homes.

  The mortar attack lasted five minutes, as the mortar crew haphazardly sent several more salvos into the village, adjusting their aim to “walk” the shells through the entire length of the community. Luckily for the inhabitants, the mortar team never focused on the buildings. Only once did they see a shell make a direct hit, as large wooden chunks of a red roof flew skyward, joining the dust cloud. This led to a chorus of cheers from the men around him, which he pretended to eagerly join. He felt relieved that the mortar attack had done so little damage, but his solace would be short lived.

  Without ceremony, the mortar teams disassembled their equipment and loaded it into the troop compartment of one of the M-80’s. The entire detachment of regular army vehicles sped away, leaving his squad with their own odd assortment of AUZ jeeps. The ride over had been a “treat” for the Panthers, who would be left behind at Divjaka to do the day’s dirty work, and had distracted most of them from the fact that they weren’t in the company of regular Yugoslav infantry. Marko noted this as soon as the army convoy arrived at their encampment, and dreaded their destination. He knew this would be a difficult day. He truly had no idea how bad it would get, or how important the day would turn out to be for him.

  Nenad Sojic, the platoon’s de facto leader, spoke to his radio operator, a lean, darker-skinned Serb, named Goran, and waved the squad over. Through the radio handset, Goran relayed Sojic’s orders to the men positioned on the eastern approach to the village, and took a deep drag on his cigarette. Without ceremony, Sojic told them that they would search house to house for KLA insurgents and weapons caches. Once a house was searched, the inhabitants would be sent to a centralized location for further questioning. Even the most naive members of the platoon knew what that meant.