Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and froze on the screen, and he lifted his tumbler off the table, draining the remains of his Chivas refill in one long gulp. "Randy? Page twenty-one is another partial, right?"

  "Yes. McKie had removed this page from the first stack that he cleared for our group to examine, but I got a close enough look to make a partial imprint. I'm typing these out in the order that I saw them. It's easier for me that way."

  "I understand. Can you remember if you saw the name Marko Resja anywhere else in the file?"

  Keller closed his eyes for a moment, scanning his memory. He opened them when the answer came to him. "No. McKie withheld a sizable portion of the file from us. I assumed these were operational aspects of Black Flag, so I tried to imprint what I could see. I didn't want to push it. The name appeared at the top of what looked like an after-action report. Serbian operation."

  "Yeah…the name jumped out at me, but I can't place it," Berg said absently, still staring at the name on the screen.

  "Do you think it's an undercover name used by one of the operatives?"

  "Possibly. Might be an active contact. I'm going to run this on the computer in the communications room, try and link the name to an active file. Keep plugging away at those files. The FBI expects you to make a report, but they might become suspicious if you're gone for too long. We probably have another hour. Focus on more names," Berg said.

  "Right," Keller said, his fingers flying over the laptop's keyboard.

  Berg closed his laptop and started to walk out of the room. He gave the bottle of Chivas a wishful glance, but decided that the last thing he needed to do was stoke the raging fire that burned inside of him. He patted Keller on the shoulder from behind the couch and left the room. He stopped just outside of the room, taking a few moments to gather his thoughts. He was aware that Claire was probably watching him from a hidden camera, so he didn't want to linger too long. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself, especially if his instincts about the Black Flag program were correct.

  He continued moving down the hall to the communications room. He entered a six-digit code into the touch pad, which lowered the fingerprint reader. A deep blue light pulsed on the reader as Berg pressed his thumb down on the glass. A few seconds passed, and the light turned bright green, followed by a faint pneumatic hissing sound from the door. He grabbed the doorknob, but didn't bother to turn it. Instead, he just pushed the door open and quickly walked in. The door closed and he once again heard the pneumatic hiss, which was always louder on this side.

  He turned and faced the room, which left a lot to be desired compared to the lounge. The lighting was harsh, provided by overhead fluorescent ceiling lights that were activated upon entry. Specifications for all of the CIA's secure communications rooms were strictly uniform, and Berg had learned years ago that there was little chance of receiving authorization to change anything. Adding to the misery of the lighting, the walls were unceremoniously painted white, which, combined with the pneumatic hiss of the door, always made him feel like he had just stepped into a mental rehabilitation room. He figured that the effect was intentional, designed to create a feeling of immediate discomfort. He could understand why.

  From this room, he could directly access the CIA's secure data banks. Two computer stations sat against opposite walls of the narrow room, each containing a keyboard and two flat-screen monitors. The CPU's were locked below each station in a tamper-proof casement. A black business phone sat next to each computer. Each phone contained the newest STU-III encryption software, designed to garble any attempts to intercept a conversation. There were no printers and no paper for taking notes. Several folding chairs sat stacked against the windowless outer wall of the room, further emphasizing the fact that the CIA didn't want anyone spending too much time in this room.

  Unknown to Berg, his entrance to the room had been noted and ultimately approved by a duty technician at Langley. The access code and fingerprint device had confirmed his identity for the technician, who ultimately made the decision to grant him access. A small note electronically sent by Claire gave the technician an added level of confidence that it was indeed Karl Berg, Assistant Director for Counterterrorism, who stood in front of the door. The technicians liked this additional confirmation because once inside the communications room, Berg had open access to all CIA files appropriate to his security clearance. A detailed record of his activity would be electronically filed for future reference and random audits, but beyond that, there was no way to actively manage the content Berg could access. The stand-alone communications rooms always presented the greatest risks to classified information.

  Berg unfolded one of the gray chairs and placed it in front of the computer station on the right side of the room. He turned on both monitors and nudged the mouse, which activated the sleeping CPU. Within seconds, he stared at a warning screen with the standard CIA disclosures about classified information. He clicked "acknowledge," and was directed to a screen that required a six-digit numeric access code and ten character password, which were both changed monthly. After typing both codes, the computer took a few moments to launch the CIA data interface. He immediately transferred the data interface to both screens, which would give him the ability to conduct two separate searches. He typed "Marko Resja Serbian Paramilitary" into one of the interfaces, and the system began processing the request.

  While the CIA database searched away, Berg opened his own laptop and placed it on the workstation, pushing the phone unit out of the way. Keller's typed pages flashed up onto the laptop screen, and he could see that Keller was still furiously adding to the report. The wireless signal connecting the two laptops was still intact, even inside of the communications room, which surprised Berg.

  He wasted no time searching through the list of Black Flag operatives for characteristics that would narrow his search. He narrowed the list of eighty names in half by eliminating the obvious. Keller had identified five areas of operation served by the Black Flag program: Serbia, Colombia, Russia, Mexico and Afghanistan, so Berg discarded any Latino or Arabic names. He sorted the remaining list for Serbian names, which would serve as a starting point for comparison to Marko Resja. Six names jumped out at him, but about a dozen more could fit. He eliminated the obvious Russian names.

  He chose a different interface imbedded within the CIA database for this search and was directed to the FBI's nationwide database, which contained publicly available information, giving him access to criminal records information. He started a multiple search string with three of six Serbian names, which was the system's limit, and waited. An image flashed on the first screen, and Berg found himself staring at a face he had tried to push out of his memory for the past several years. Marko Resja.

  He didn't need to familiarize himself with Resja's file, he just needed the picture for comparison. Files for the first three names appeared on the second screen, each headed by a picture presumably taken for a driver's license. The FBI's sophisticated system would display any confirmed pictures associated with the name, and in most cases, this would be a state license photograph. Berg immediately compared the three images to the picture of Resja. He didn't see any resemblance, so he entered the next three names and waited.

  The results appeared within seconds, and Berg felt an adrenaline rush. One of the pictures was a possible match. Daniel Petrovich. He opened the file to look at the rest of the pictures, drawing in a deep breath as eight photos filled the screen. Three of the pictures showed Petrovich in various naval uniforms. The highest rank evident in the pictures was ensign, denoted by single gold bars on his uniform collar. The earliest photograph pictured Petrovich in the navy's summer white uniform and had likely been taken immediately after receiving his commission as an officer in the United States Navy. Petrovich looked young and optimistic, very different from the malevolent image staring back at him from the single photograph displayed on the other screen.

  Three additional photos had been provided from different state
driver's licenses in Illinois, Massachusetts and California, but evoked no response from Berg. The last picture showed Petrovich in a blue oxford dress shirt and looked like the most recently taken picture. There was very little trace of Marko Resja in the last image, though it was clear that they were pictures of the same man.

  Berg's attention was drawn to one of the photos showing Petrovich in a khaki uniform, standing with his arms crossed, on the steel deck of a warship. Industrial buildings loomed in the background, indicating that the picture had been taken while the ship was docked. Petrovich's dark wavy hair was long and unkempt, pushing the limits of the navy's loose grooming standards. His face looked weathered and exhausted, staring with hatred at an object out of the camera's view. The expression matched the face of Marko Resja on the other screen. Berg couldn't believe he had stumbled upon this coincidence.

  He had dreamed about this moment since March 24th, 2003, when Dejan Kavich testified in the trial of Srecko Hadzic, leader of the Serbian Radical Party and infamous commander of "The Panthers." The International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY) had already spent two weeks presenting evidence against Hadzic and would soon convict him of running an organized campaign of genocide in the Kosovar border territories.

  Berg had a very personal interest in Hadzic's trial. One of the CIA's long established undercover agents in Serbia had vanished without a trace toward the middle of April in 1999, leaving Berg and the CIA stunned. The disappearance was especially difficult for Berg. He had been assigned to groom the agent for the Serbian assignment in 1991, when she was first assigned to the National Clandestine Service.

  A recent graduate from Loyola University in Chicago, Nicole Erak had scored perfect on every aptitude test used to measure a candidate's suitability for clandestine field assignment, and she spoke flawless Serbian. As a first generation Serbian-American, raised in a predominately Serbian suburb of Chicago, near Palos Hill, Illinois, her recruitment was no coincidence. The CIA had a critical shortage of reliable human intelligence flowing from the Balkans, and she was fast-tracked for deployment to the rapidly deteriorating region.

  Two years after her recruitment by a low-profile history professor at Loyola University, Nicole was absorbed into Belgrade's gritty underworld as Zorana Zekulic, where she would emerge hanging on the arms of some of the most notorious men in Europe.

  Ten years after seeing Nicole for the last time, Berg was reading transcripts of the trial, still searching for any possible clues about her disappearance, when he came across the testimony of Dejan Kavich, a low-level enforcer within Hadzic's Panther organization. Kavich recounted dozens of instances where Hadzic had personally ordered the murder of civilians and suspected Kosovar militants, which was nothing new coming from the long string of witnesses that had turned on Hadzic in exchange for Tribunal leniency. However, the Tribunal prosecutors asked Kavich to repeat the details of an incident that they thought would demonstrate Hadzic's ruthless nature, and this is where Berg's interest piqued.

  Kavich described a bloody and hectic week in Belgrade at the beginning of April in 1999, which was nearly the same timeframe associated with Nicole's disappearance. Though NATO jets were still hampered by thick overcast skies, blood flowed on the streets of Belgrade. At the time, Kavich thought that the sudden civil war between two of Serbia's most powerful paramilitary groups was a simple blood feud sparked by the unprovoked murder and mutilation of Hadzic's handicapped brother. His security chief, Radovan Grahovac, had also been killed in the bizarre attack, along with his entire personal security entourage, which suggested that there was more to the event than a simple blood feud.

  After years of investigative research, the Tribunal now understood why Hadzic had initiated a self-destructive war against rival paramilitary leader Mirko Jovic's "White Eagles." He not only suffered the loss of his brother and trusted security chief in the brazenly twisted attack, but more importantly to Hadzic, he had been robbed of his entire criminal fortune. Confiscated bank records showed a sudden, systematic transfer of his wealth out of long-held European bank accounts to new accounts scattered throughout the Caribbean and South America. From there, the money vanished along an untraceable trail of wire transfers. Some of the money had been transferred by Hadzic himself at the outset of NATO hostilities, but one hundred and thirty million dollars suddenly left Europe on April 23, 1999, and it all had previously belonged to Hadzic. The result was predictable for a man already considered to be one of the most ruthless and fickle psychopaths in Europe.

  Hadzic dispatched his most trusted Panthers to take immediate revenge, and he particularly wanted to avenge his brother's death. Pavle Hadzic had been found hacked to death in his wheelchair, the obvious victim of an infamous White Eagle enforcer, Goran Lujic, who had used an ice-climbing axe as his personal calling card for over a decade on the Belgrade organized crime scene. Kavich had participated in two ambushes in Belgrade on the first day of hostilities and was almost killed the next day in a retaliatory raid by White Eagle commandos on a Panther safe house in Zemun, but the Tribunal wasn't interested in the back and forth fighting between paramilitary groups. The Hague wanted to pin as many civilian murders on Hadzic as the Tribunal jury could tolerate, and Kavich knew of a particularly gruesome murder.

  On one of the deadlier nights of fighting, Kavich witnessed a bizarre exchange between Hadzic and a trusted Panther sniper, Marko Resja, in the basement of a safe house hidden deep inside a run-down suburb of Belgrade. Resja had arrived by himself, wearing a bloodstained, mud-caked camouflage uniform devoid of any insignia. A black watch cap was pulled tight over his head to merge with a face smeared black and brown with grease. He walked into the basement carrying a Dragunov sniper rifle in one hand and a large blue nylon duffel bag in the other. Kavich was located at the bottom of the basement stairs when Resja was searched in the landing off the kitchen. He heard one of the guards utter, "Oh fuck," and became momentarily alarmed, but the guard called down, "All clear," and he heard Resja descend the stairs.

  Resja gave Kavich a barely discernible nod as he passed by, which wasn't unusual. Resja was all business and didn't fraternize with many of the Panthers. He spent most of his time in the field stalking Kosovar militia. On that particular night, Resja walked into the room and slung the rifle over his shoulder, freeing one of his hands. He was immediately greeted by Hadzic, who shook his hand enthusiastically and slapped him on the shoulder. Resja responded with a rare display of friendliness and banter, before he tossed the duffel bag onto the floor and declared that "he had gotten to the bottom of their problem."

  Hadzic told the nearest Panther to show him what was in the bag, and the burly guard standing next to Resja kneeled down on the floor and opened the zipper. The unmistakable stench of rotting flesh filled the room immediately, and the burly guard gagged, mumbling protests against touching the contents. Hadzic ordered him to remove the contents, and the guard took in a deep breath before turning back to the bag. Resja softly told him to, "Take out Lujic first," and this caused some confusion for the guard. Resja added, "He's the one with the short hair." At this point, everyone in the room was deathly quiet, waiting for the guard to reach into the bag, which he did reluctantly, using both hands to remove the severed head of Goran Lujic, Pavle Hadzic's presumed murderer.

  Goran's face had been brutally beaten, showing extensive bruising and pulverized eye sockets. One of his ears was missing, which Kavich learned was the result of Resja's extensively thorough torture routine. Resja announced that Lujic had confessed to torturing Pavle, for access information to Hadzic's accounts, and eventually killing him. The money was promptly transferred to accounts owned by Lujic's boss, Mirko Jovic, leader of "The White Eagles." Resja added that he had hacked off Lujic's head with the same axe used against Pavle. Hadzic nodded with stunned approval and looked down at the bag, which contained still another surprise.

  While squirming under the knife, Lujic had implicated someone close to the Panther organization. He told Resj
a that they had learned of Pavle's access to the money through a woman that frequented the company of Radovan Grahovac's men in Belgrade. Apparently Radovan, or one of his close associates, suffered from loose lips while under the spell of liquor and beautiful women. One of the nightclub regulars had learned that Pavle actively managed his brother's vast monetary fortune, and the rest was history. Marko had found her hiding in a small White Eagle safe house on the outskirts of Belgrade and used the same axe on her.

  Hadzic grew impatient while Resja explained and demanded to see the other head, but it was obvious that the guard still holding Lujic's head was in no condition to pull another one out of the bag. He was barely holding onto the first. On Resja's cue, he dropped the head back into the bag, which made an awful thunk against the concrete floor. Resja impassively pulled the other severed head out of the bag, his hand wrapped tightly around a long, thick spread of filthy, matted black hair.

  He announced, "Zorana Zekulic," and "held the head up high, like Perseus is often pictured holding the Gorgon Medusa's severed head." Zekulic had been beaten worse than Lujic, bruises and contusions covering nearly every square centimeter of her once beautiful, angular face. Both eyes had been gouged out, and she was only identifiable by her long hair and a single diamond stud nose ring, which was miraculously still visible on her battered nose.

  A few members of the Tribunal had chuckled at Kavich's obviously coached reference to Greek mythology, even admonishing the prosecution to cut the theatrics, but according to Kavich, nobody had laughed in that putrid, candlelit basement of the safe house. Everybody in that room knew Zorana, and everybody in that room had partied in the clubs with her at some point very recently. Hadzic had probably seen every one of them alone in her company within the past month, and the implications of her treachery were apparent to even the dimmest of henchmen huddled in that basement. They all wanted to run for the staircase because Hadzic looked like he had reached the point of critical mass.