“I’d expect nothing less,” said Sanderson. “I have the highest respect for you and your colleague.”
O’Reilly’s face tightened, her mouth opening to respond, but Sharpe stopped her with a quick whisper. She glanced at Abraham Sayar, her angry look easing slightly. Sayar had played a key role on Sharpe’s task force in 2007, nearly giving his life to stop the bioweapons plot against the United States.
“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way,” said Sharpe. “Every known or suspected member of your current or previous organization is once again wanted for terrorism against the United States. What are we looking at here?”
“We’re looking at a coordinated effort to destroy my organization and anyone currently looking into the whereabouts of Anatoly Reznikov,” said Sanderson. “I lost seventeen operatives in a double-cross ambush on Ascension Island. They were on their way to Gabon to pick up the scientist’s trail, accompanied by a team of SEALs. Everything about this mission turned out to be fake, right down to the SEALs and U.S. Air Force flight crew. The entire operation was sanctioned by the National Security Council and confirmed by independent sources high up in the Department of Defense and White House chain of command.”
“I assume you’ve contacted your sources since the ambush?” said Sharpe.
Sanderson shook his head. “General Frank Gordon at SOCOM won’t take my call.”
“That’s not a good sign.” Sharpe frowned.
“No, it’s not. My other source, who will remain unnamed for now, shed some light on why Gordon wouldn’t take my call.”
“Let me guess,” said Sharpe. “The official government story differs significantly.”
“A one-hundred-and-eighty-degree flip. In their version, my team murdered the SEALs and aircrew during the refueling stop, stealing the aircraft. A C-17 Globemaster.”
“Where are your survivors now?”
“They parachuted into eastern Brazil after starting the C-17 on a slow descent and pointing it toward the Atlantic,” Sanderson explained.
“I’m sorry for the loss, General,” said Sharpe. “This Reznikov business has killed a lot of good people. I had no idea the Sokolov intelligence was connected to any of this.”
“That’s what’s so interesting about all of this,” said Berg. “Grigor Sokolov wasn’t on the CIA’s radar.”
“I ran his name through all of our databases before issuing a watch-list addendum with his information,” Audra Bauer interjected. “He wasn’t cited in any ongoing or previous intelligence-gathering effort. We had a short file, which had likely been compiled from Interpol data.”
“The request from DNI mimicked yours,” said Sharpe. “I got their call the morning you called.”
“They called?” Bauer asked. “That’s a little unusual.”
“Not if you’re working off the books,” said Berg. “Like I was.”
“Requests like this are usually electronically submitted, but the call came from my old boss. I didn’t think anything of it. He checks in on me now and then.”
“Frederick Shelby?” said Berg. “That’s pretty high up the food chain for something like this, regardless of your relationship.”
“Given the ultimate reason for the request, maybe it’s not that unusual,” said Sharpe. “Calling me directly was a not so subtle way of making sure it got prioritized.”
“The timing is suspect,” said Berg. “I talk to Audra, Audra submits the watch list addendum for Sokolov, and suddenly the deputy director of National Intelligence calls you, requesting an international law enforcement bulletin for Sokolov. Shelby was one of the most obvious beneficiaries of True America’s sudden rise to power.”
“You’re sure Sokolov wasn’t on the CIA’s radar?” said Sharpe. “It seems to me that you guys do a pretty good job of keeping secrets from each other over there.”
“It’s remotely possible,” said Bauer.
“I don’t think so,” said Berg. “The Sokolov connection originated from a unique source, based on information unlikely to be available to the CIA.”
Sharpe shrugged. “We can theorize all day. The bottom line is that Sanderson’s people were attacked on the way to Africa to investigate intelligence requested by and passed to DNI. Berg and Bauer were attacked after Bauer drew attention to Sokolov. The crew sent after Berg and Bauer is connected to Brown River, presumably paid through Brown River. And they appear to be part of a geographically distributed, structured organization, based on what my colleague determined and you already knew. Where do we go from here?”
“We were hoping you could help us with that,” said Sanderson.
“We’re two agents swimming against an incredibly strong tide,” Sharpe replied.
Berg nodded ruefully. “More like a tidal wave.”
“I appreciate your candor,” said Sharpe. “What do you suggest?”
“Nearly a billion dollars is passing right through Brown River. Determining the source of that money would be a good start,” said Bauer.
“I’m going to need my boss’s approval to start opening some of those doors,” Sharpe said.
Graves held up a USB thumb drive. “We can open those doors without his approval if you take this back to your office and plug it into your computer.”
“Funny. Why don’t you just upload the virus to one of our phones and have us carry it in?” asked Sharpe. “Like you did at the National Counterterrorism Center.”
“I suspect you left your phones behind,” said Graves. “You guys discovered that?”
“You know we left our phones behind, and yes, we did,” said Sharpe, directing his attention back to Bauer. “We’re talking about more than just digging through financial records, in the long run.”
“Probably much sooner than later,” said Berg.
“This is going to take a concentrated effort, requiring a task force of sorts, likely pulling agents from different branches. I’ll need Fred Carroll’s tacit approval to pull that off, which means Carroll will need to know the purpose of the task force, and I can’t bullshit him. He can smell it coming through the door.”
A short silence ensued, broken by Sanderson.
“Ryan, the men and women in your presence represent nearly all of the people left in the United States that I know I can trust. We’re looking at a massive conspiracy. One in which Audra Bauer’s office is bugged. One that can conjure an authentic-looking Department of Defense Special Operations mission on short notice. One that feels comfortable snatching senior CIA officers off public streets. One that commands an army four thousand strong.”
“I get it,” said Sharpe. “We need to thoroughly vet Carroll.”
“That’s the easy part,” said Berg. “Then we need to convince him that a clear and present danger to the entire fabric of our nation’s security exists, and convince him to take action.”
“Sounds like an easy sell for someone like you, Karl,” said Sanderson, getting a few laughs.
“Here’s the thing,” said Sharpe. “We’re going to need more evidence than some cooked books and a paper mercenary army. The former is a Treasury issue. The latter is padded-cell territory.”
“A lot more than that has transpired over the past several days,” Berg said. “I’m living proof of that.”
“Take a few steps back and look at this objectively,” Sharpe suggested. “The kidnapping and torture of Karl Berg never happened.”
Berg frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Where’s the crime scene? Perpetrators? Probably cleaned up by now. The word of a disgruntled CIA officer, on the eve of retirement, might not go as far as you think. Have any big gambling debts? Strange financial activity?”
“No,” Berg said defensively.
“Think again. If this conspiracy is as big as you think, you’re either the proud owner of a shady offshore bank account or the subject of a lien against your home filed by an online casino. People who play with large sums of shady money tend to get hurt.”
“That’s crazy,
” said Berg.
“Not as crazy as the running gun battle in Falls Church a few nights ago. Gunmen snatched a woman matching Audra Bauer’s description from her car, brazenly murdering her undercover protective detail in the process. A massive FBI and local police manhunt is underway as we speak,” said Sharpe, feigning a concerned look. “I can’t imagine anyone will rest until she is found and taken to a CIA safe house for her own protection.”
“Shit,” said Bauer.
“And we all know what General Terrence Sanderson did. Betrayed his country for the price of a C-17 Globemaster. Shameful. Did I miss anyone?”
“You made your point,” said Bauer. “We need irrefutable evidence of a conspiracy.”
“We have a long list of names,” said Berg. “Broken down by pay grade and location.”
“Wellins didn’t tell us anything useful about the people pulling his strings, and he was in the top tier,” Sayar added.
“Wellins?” said Sharpe, looking around the room.
Nobody seemed eager to offer an explanation, especially Berg. He could hear Sharpe’s caustically objective version of the abduction and torture of a member of Bauer’s “protective detail.”
Sharpe grimaced. “That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say he turned out to be a dead end,” said Berg.
“Wonderful. High tier? As in area coordinator?”
“Yes.”
“Then we need to identify a conspirator outside of this phantom army structure,” Sharpe concluded. “They’re probably using cutouts for any interaction requiring face time, and one-way or dead-end electronic communications.”
“Several numbers on his call list were dead-ended. Same with the other phones collected,” Graves told him. “We scoured the data and found nothing.”
“I bet any possible connection to his crew has been zapped. Same with the crew that took Berg,” said Sharpe.
“So how the hell do we do this?” Berg asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Sharpe.
“I have an idea,” Sanderson answered. “There’s no diplomatic way to say this, but we could dangle some cheese in front of a mousetrap.”
Audra Bauer’s husband, David, launched up from his seat. “The general can shove that idea where the sun doesn’t shine. That’s up your ass, in case you’re confused.”
“I’m not, and for the record, I wasn’t suggesting Audra,” said Sanderson. “I’ll be making my way north shortly. I’m sure I’d make an irresistible piece of cheese.”
“How long?” asked Sharpe.
“A few weeks. Now that I’m back on the most wanted list, it won’t be an easy trip.”
“This will go cold by then,” said Sharpe. “Completely evaporated.”
“Then dangle me,” Berg offered.
Bauer threw up her hands. “We’re not dangling anyone as bait.”
“Then this is over,” said Sharpe. “Unless someone can cough up someone inside the core conspiracy.”
The room went quiet, shoulders shrugging and heads mostly shaking. Berg noticed Timothy Graves and Anish Gupta whispering furiously back and forth in an apparent argument. Graves muttered an obscenity before standing up.
“There might be a development on that front,” said Graves.
“What kind of development?” said Sharpe.
Graves hesitated.
“Tell them,” said Gupta, nudging Graves.
“Tell us what?” said Berg.
“Dammit. I really wasn’t supposed to say anything. It’s not one hundred percent,” said Graves.
“Spill it, Graves!” said Sanderson.
“Wellins might have mentioned a name at the end of his—ordeal,” said Graves.
“And nobody thought to mention this?” said Berg.
“I didn’t find out until several hours ago,” said Graves. “We put together an intelligence package.”
“Then let’s get this ball rolling!” said Sanderson.
“It’s already rolling,” said Graves. “The Petroviches wanted to deliver a farewell gift.”
“What kind of gift?” said Berg.
“The kind that dresses in an expensive suit and works at the White House.”
Karl Berg felt a glimmer of hope.
Chapter 63
Sixteenth Street Northwest
Washington, D.C.
Daniel surveyed the crowded hotel bar from their cozy table in the corner. Happy hour had kicked into full swing about an hour ago, the room packed so tightly that their target drifted in and out of sight in the throng of well-dressed D.C. professionals. The man Wellins had traded for the guaranteed safety of his own family had entered the basement lounge twenty minutes ago, quietly occupying a saved seat at the bar. He’d shared words with several people since he arrived, but nobody had stopped for a long conversation.
“His second martini just arrived,” said Jessica. “Time for work.”
“You sure we want to go down this path?”
“We can’t keep running. Not from this,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Our work isn’t done. That’s been made painfully clear over the past few days.”
Daniel took a small sip of the rye whiskey Manhattan he’d nursed to the bottom of his tumbler for the past hour. “I don’t see how Berg and Sanderson can take this on.”
“Somebody has to try,” said Jessica.
He cracked a subdued smile. Jessica had changed since Chicago—for the better. He’d prepared for the worst after that traumatic experience, but she’d somehow emerged on the other side.
“What?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re right, and I love you more than you know,” he said before squeezing her hand. “You better get going.”
Jessica got up from the table and stood next to him. She looked stunning in the low-cut black cocktail dress and matching high heels they’d purchased at an outlet mall in Leesburg, Virginia. He hadn’t seen her dressed “to kill” like this in over a year. Sandals, sundresses and shorts had been her outfit du jour since they moved to Anguilla.
“Quit staring,” she said.
“Kind of hard not to,” said Daniel.
“That’s the point,” she said. “You better get out of here.”
“Meet you on the corner of K Street and Sixteenth,” he said.
“If he makes it that far.”
Daniel swirled the remains of his drink and tossed it back before sliding through a polished-looking group of beltway acolytes to make his way out of the bar. A few steps up the wood-panel-finished stairway, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of Jessica from his elevated vantage point. She’d managed to wedge her way between their target, a brown-haired man with wire-rim glasses, and the woman next to him. The man slid his untouched martini in front of her and raised a finger to get the bartender’s attention. Jessica touched his arm, leaning in to him to whisper. The guy cocked his head and turned in the chair toward her, a hungry look on his face. It was almost too easy for her.
Chapter 64
Office of the Director of National Intelligence
Tysons Corner, Virginia
Frederick Shelby’s office phone buzzed, drawing his focus away from the computer screen and the endless stream of intelligence updates and analyst summaries that vied for his attention on the National Intelligence Fusion Network. He glanced at his office phone, an intra-office call from his secretary vying for his attention. It was a little early for the day’s usual assortment of bureaucratic check-ins. Shelby lifted the handset and pressed the illuminated button connecting him to his secretary.
“Michael, can you hold any calls until after the eight-thirty morning briefing?” he asked.
“This isn’t a call, sir,” said the secretary. “You have a visitor. A rather important one. Raymond Burke.”
Senior counselor to President Crane? At seven thirty in the morning? This couldn’t be good.
“By all means, show him in.”
Shelby stood up and moved around his desk, ra
pidly recounting the events of the past several days for any possible missteps that could lead back to him. Nothing came to mind. Shelby had just finished straightening his suit coat when the door opened. Raymond Burke, an average man in every aspect of his appearance, walked into his office and politely thanked his secretary, shutting the door.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” said Shelby, offering his hand.
Burke shook his hand with a mostly official smile. “In my experience, and I assume yours as well, the words ‘pleasant’ and ‘surprise’ rarely yield anything positive.”
“I usually reserve judgment,” said Shelby. “But in this case, I felt comfortable going out on a limb.”
Burke laughed, his smile coming closer to passing as genuine.
“Please. Have a seat. May I offer you some coffee?” asked Shelby, motioning toward a mahogany table used for private meetings.
“I can’t stay long,” said Burke, remaining solidly in place near the door. “I have good news and bad news.”
Shelby’s stomach tightened, waiting for Burke to continue.
“The bad news is that Gary Vincent died in his sleep last night. Suspected heart attack. News of his death has not been reported publicly,” said Burke. “I presume you can guess the good news.”
Shelby stood before him as the acting director of National Intelligence. Astonishing. “I wouldn’t exactly call it good news under the circumstances,” he said, forcing a solemn tone.
Burke eyed him cynically. “No need to pretend with me. You were promised the position. Now it’s yours.”
Shelby’s vision narrowed for a brief moment, the full scope of the words sinking in. Burke was part of it. Quite possibly in charge of it.
“Frederick,” said Burke, putting a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, “you’ve served True America well over the past few years, but it’s time to take this service and loyalty to the next level. We’re going to rebuild this nation from the ground up, and we need your help.”
All Shelby could manage was a nod.
“President Crane will immediately nominate you for the position of director, and the Senate will confirm the nomination after a brief hearing.”
OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 31
