Black Flagged Apex (70 page)

The president could do whatever he wanted with the results of the investigation, if he was still the president when the final report was issued. Detailed investigations took a long time. Long enough for the American public to forget. Within three months, the outrage would have faded, and the events of the past few days would no longer hold the political capital required to launch an attack on the mainstream True America movement.

His direct line rang, and he examined the caller ID. He smiled and picked up the phone. He didn't bother to identify himself.

"Frankly, I expected a little more fight from the president," Director Shelby said.

"Then I guess you made a lasting impression yesterday," a deep male voice said.

"They'll recover sooner than you might expect. Give them a few days to reorganize…or a few hours," Shelby said.

"I have no doubt they'll be back at our throats shortly, but this gives us more time than we had originally anticipated. I assume the investigation will be a lengthy process?"

"It took the 9/11 Commission nearly nineteen months to release their report. I don't anticipate taking that long, but we can't afford to rush this kind of an investigation. From what I can tell, Greely's plot had roots extending all the way back to Al Qaeda cells in Europe. As you might imagine, I would demand nothing short of the most exhaustive and detailed investigation into a terror attack of this magnitude," Shelby replied.

"And we would expect nothing less from our nation's top law enforcement agent. I foresee an incredible future for your agency, Director. Especially if we continue to build our momentum leading into the 2008 election. With our focus on reshaping the domestic landscape, we see an expanded role for the FBI…especially in the wake of repeated attacks against our nation's great people."

"With more resources and less legal red tape, we could have stopped this conspiracy in its infancy," Shelby said.

"I couldn't agree more. Stopping this heinous attack despite the obstacles placed in your way is a tribute to your leadership. Leadership this nation can't afford to lose."

"I appreciate hearing that and look forward to the days ahead."

"As do we. Thank you for your continued, dedicated service, Director," the voice said, emphasizing the word continued.

"My pleasure. I'll keep you posted."

After disconnecting the call, Shelby leaned back in his chair and stifled a laugh. The politics disgusted him, but he was willing to ride this train a little longer. He had played a long shot, but if True America's candidate won the 2008 election, he'd be in a position to make history for the FBI and the United States. The payoff on this bet was too tempting to ignore, even in the twilight of his career. For the first time in years, he felt there was hope for this nation. He picked up the phone and summoned his secretary. He had a vacancy to fill within the FBI. Associate Executive Assistant Director Ryan Sharpe would lead the National Security Branch's investigation into the events leading to the recent attack against the United States.

Chapter 62

7:42 AM

Central Intelligence Agency

McLean, Virginia

Karl Berg walked into his office and picked up the phone on his desk. He dialed the secretary assigned to him and informed her that he had just arrived. He took a moment to look around his office. Thanks to the events of the past month, he still hadn't found time to unpack even one of the boxes he had dragged here upon his promotion to the National Clandestine Service's (NCS) liaison to the Intelligence Directorate's Weapons, Intelligence, Non-Proliferation and Arms Control Center in late March. He'd spent less than a month in that position before Thomas Manning summarily promoted him to a position that hadn't previously existed within NCS, working as Audra Bauer's deputy assistant. He would retain his duties as the Intelligence Directorate liaison, which appeared to be the only official tasking that came with the promotion at this moment.

This would give him time to put up some shelving and start unearthing his treasures. With the Zulu virus threat finally under wraps, he could start unpacking his boxes. Apparently, he wouldn't have to move again. His promotion didn't come with a new office in the "executive" zone, which suited him fine, though he had been pleasantly surprised with Thomas Manning and their director. He had expected handcuffs instead of a promotion.

He got up and started to survey the stacks of boxes covering his vinyl couch and black lacquer coffee table. The line from his secretary buzzed, and he answered it.

"Good morning, Mr. Berg. I have Darryl Jackson on the line?"

"Thank you. Put him through."

The line beeped.

"Darryl. How's my favorite go-to guy?"

"If you know someone else with access to weapons, please feel free to start using him. I'm fucking exhausted from cleaning weapons all night."

"They had a rough time up there," Berg said.

"I could tell. One of the rifles was covered in blood. How bad was it?"

"One KIA. I can't thank you enough for the help. You're one of the unsung heroes in this drama."

"That seems to be the story of my life. Hey, are you going to answer my wife's email or what? She still hasn't figured out that I've been flying all over the country delivering illegal arms shipments. Her invitation could be revoked at any moment," Jackson said.

"I'm kind of hurt that she didn't call. An email invitation to dinner seems impersonal," he joked.

"A phone call? I don't think she planned to talk to you at dinner! I just assumed she'd seat you on the deck. Baby steps, my friend. She doesn't forgive easily."

"As long as she's serving me the same food you're eating, I'll eat in the garage. I'll send her my acceptance as soon as we get off the phone and pick out a rare Bordeaux."

"Cheryl collects vintage Bordeaux."

"I guarantee she won't have this bottle. It was never for sale," Berg said.

"Sounds like you're good at taking baby steps. I have to go. I'm still dealing with the fallout from the Kazakhstan fiasco, which could be smoothed over if the CIA ponied up the money to replace the weapons that were lost…in the direct interest of national security?"

"I'm sure something could be arranged," Berg said.

"Then let's arrange it. I have two daughters in college and can't afford to buy Brown River several new rifles."

"A shipment of rifles shouldn't be difficult."

"Maybe I should take cash. I don't need one of your buried Cold War stashes."

"That hurt my feelings, Darryl."

"I'll fax you the bill. Catch you later, Karl."

Karl Berg hung up the phone and sat on the edge of his desk, staring at the boxes again. His office could always wait.

The End

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A bonus excerpt from the next book in the
Black Flagged
series and an excerpt from
The Jakarta Pandemic
immediately follow:

Black Flagged VEKTOR
excerpt

The Jakarta Pandemic
excerpt

Excerpt from
Black Flagged Vektor

(To be released in the Spring of 2013)

Chapter 1

10:25 AM

Mountain Glen "Retirement" Compound

Green Mountains, Vermont

Karl Berg walked briskly down a wide, raked gravel path bordered by cedar planks. The main walkway cut directly through a rough landscape of knee-high grasses and watermelon-sized rocks. Several subsidiary paths branched off into the thick pine trees and led to modest residences hidden just out of sight. He easily found path number five, which was marked by a solid-looking post displaying the number. He stopped for a moment and took in his surroundings.

He stood in a round clearing the size of three football fields. A natural stream ran through its northern edge, visible from Berg's position near the center. At the opposite end of the field behind him stood a massive post-and-beam lodge, which contained the facility's gourmet kitchen, common dining area, recreation room, indoor pool and exercise facilities. Fifty meters to the left of the lodge sat a white, one-story building that housed the compound's backup generator, water distribution system and main electricity breaker. An attached two-bay garage held several ATVs for patrolling the grounds, plowing snow and transporting "guests." He had just walked out of the only other non-residential structure in the compound. The security station.

Resembling a two-story colonial-style home, the station housed fifteen security specialists and contained the state-of-the-art equipment used to keep track of the compound's "guests." Bristling with antennae and fitted with an odd dome at the apex of the roof, the house served as the compound's nerve center, monitoring every aspect of the "guests" lives. From heartbeats to toilet flushes, dozens of active and passive measures were taken to ensure each guest's compliance with the rules.

The guests stayed in "residences" situated beyond the thick tree line that surrounded the clearing. Hidden from overhead view by towering evergreens, each residence was bugged and monitored by several cameras mounted in nearby trees. Motion detectors tracked movement inside and outside of each structure, guiding the sophisticated array of night vision and thermal imaging equipped cameras assigned to each guest. Patterns were recorded, analyzed and anticipated. Anything out of the ordinary was immediately investigated by a mobile security team.

Guests were allowed free run of the compound, as long as they didn't bother another guest or interfere with the staff. Violations resulted in lockdown. Each guest villa could be locked and unlocked remotely from the security station. The final immediate security precaution consisted of a reinforced, twelve-foot-tall, razor-wire fence that encircled the entire compound. Located three hundred meters beyond the edge of the clearing, the entire fence line was monitored by cameras and motion detectors. If one of the compound's guests or an outside party decided to scale the fence, security personnel could deliver a substantial electrical charge to the section of fence under attack. Beyond the fence, the last deterrent to an escape was isolation. Located deep within the Green Mountains, accessible by a single road that wound through thick pine stands and rough terrain, anyone finding themselves on the other side of the fence would face a fifty-mile trek through unforgiving wilderness to reach the first signs of civilization.

For such a small "guest" population, the Mountain Glen facility cost taxpayers an unimaginable sum of money. The compound had been designed as the final "deal" for enemy foreign nationals willing to provide information critical to U.S. national security. Enemies too dangerous for release were offered a lifetime "retirement" in exchange for their knowledge, which would be vetted and confirmed. Each case was carefully reviewed by the director of the CIA, prior to their permanent placement. If the information turned out to be bogus, or failed to live up to advertised expectations, the "guest" would be evicted.

Permanent placement was contingent upon full disclosure of the information promised, which involved a significant element of trust. Few prospective guests turned their back on the deal after spending a few days at Mountain Glen. Fresh air, mountain views, babbling brooks, gourmet food, first-class accommodations. Most of them had already tasted the alternative while in U.S. custody. Only the most stubborn or distrustful chose to spend the rest of their lives trapped in a dank, poorly lit prison cell, pissing and shitting into a rusty coffee can that was emptied once a day.

He turned down the path and let the pristine air fill his lungs. Cold pine air. Quite a difference from the crowded confines of the Beltway. He couldn't imagine anyone turning down the offer to stay here. The temperature dropped a few degrees as he passed through the green curtain of pines. He could see a small post-and-beam structure with a green metal roof situated in a clearing fifty meters ahead. He searched the trees while he walked, trying to spot any of the cameras or sensors. He felt exposed walking to Reznikov's villa alone.

He approached the front door cautiously, scanning the windows for signs of life within the house. Security had assured him that Reznikov was awake. Breakfast had been delivered thirty minutes ago. He thought about that. They delivered breakfast at Mountain Glen. Reznikov certainly didn't deserve a place like this, but what other options did they have? The door opened before he could knock.

"Come in, my friend. Breakfast is waiting," an invigorated-looking Anatoly Reznikov said.

"I already ate," Berg said, stepping across the threshold prepared to defend himself from a hand-to-hand attack.

"Nonsense. Please. This is my treat. Welcome to my mountain dacha."

"It's not yours yet. We're still a long way from securing your stay, which is why I'm here," Berg said, following Reznikov through a short hallway to the kitchen table.

From the table, they had a view of the pine wall at the edge of the backyard and the snow-covered peak of a mountain rising above the pines. The view wasn't what caught Berg's attention. A one-third empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka sat on the kitchen counter, next to a small shot glass.

"Looks like you've made a remarkable recovery," Berg said.

"It must be the mountain air, and a little gift from the staff. Join me in a toast."

"A little early, don't you think?" Berg replied.

"Never too early to celebrate. Plus, it's almost noon—"

"It's 10:30," Berg interrupted.