Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (8 page)

"Unfortunately, that's exactly what we need to do," he said.

"I'm going to familiarize myself with the grounds. If you could have the forensics teams start to look at potential seaside approaches, I can send a comprehensive initial report as soon as my team takes a quick look around," he said.

"Do you want me to introduce you to some of the key players on the local force?" she asked.

"That's all right. I'd rather you handled them. If I need anything, I'll go through you," he said, hoping she didn't press the issue.

He hated dealing with the local cops. Absently shaking hands with everyone who had a horse in the race, even if their horse had no chance of winning. He'd have to make pleasantries with Cape Elizabeth's police chief, and hear about how officer "whoever" responded to the call and made sure to preserve the scene. He'd then commit his entire police force of ten officers to help Edwards in any way possible. Please. Same thing for several other towns and two counties, finally graduating to the Portland Police Department, the only people he slightly cared to interact with. He preferred to remain aloof, which would generate more respect in the long run. Plus, he could make D'Angelo feel important, and foster her relationship with the people she'd need to work with long after he departed.

"Okay…let me know if you need anything. I'll be talking with Boudreau," she said and stepped away.

He watched her walk away, and his eyes were drawn to the front gate of the estate. He watched two women jog by the entrance along Shore Road, slowing as they passed to get a look at the commotion. They were both dressed in skintight athletic gear, sporting long, thin athletic bodies. He started to fantasize about having a threesome with these women on the patio of a house like Mr. Ghani's, but a sudden idea interrupted his daydream, which was a rarity for Edwards. Once he focused in on a woman, or two women, it usually took more than a random thought to pull him back to reality. The thought was work related, oddly connected to the women he just witnessed running by the house. Maybe the killer simply jogged onto the grounds as Ghani's car passed through the gate.

"D'Angelo!" he yelled.

She turned around, already halfway to the forensics van and several officers drinking Dunkin' Donuts coffee. He could use some coffee, he thought, but not that stuff. The officer that D'Angelo had sent to pick him up at Portland's Jetport didn't seem to know where to find coffee other than at Dunkin' Donuts and was of no help to Edwards in his search for a proper cappuccino. He should have grabbed one in Portland's sad excuse for an airport, but the line at the small Starbucks kiosk was eight deep, and the workers behind the counter didn't look like the Starbucks A-team, so he'd passed.

"What?"

"What was Boudreau's estimation for Ghani's time of death?" he yelled.

"6 p.m., roughly," she yelled back.

"Thanks," he said.

A broad daylight killing took some nerve. He glanced at the gate again and wondered if the killer hadn't just jogged in behind the Mercedes and stabbed him. He'd counted six joggers already, and that was in the morning, during the workday. There would be twice as many in the evening, after work. Not a bad cover to slip onto the estate. He turned back to the body, wondering if Ghani had an espresso machine.

Chapter Nine

11:22 a.m.

Portland, Maine

Petrovich steered his BMW over Woodford Street's faded median line and onto Lawn Avenue, barely squeezing his car in front of a battered green Chevy Caprice Classic. He could still hear the Caprice's horn two driveways down Lawn Avenue. His speed drew disapproving stares from a pair of perfectly-manicured stroller pushers, causing him to ease off the gas and nod an apology in their direction. Still pushing the speed limit of his neighborhood, he rolled cautiously through two stop signs before arriving at his house. The top of his sedan barely cleared the garage door as it lurched into the darkness.

He wasted little time inside the house. Upon returning to his office, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time spent watching Power Point presentations, Daniel found a message, handwritten by one of his assistants on a Zenith memo pad.

"From Jeff Hill, VP, Sanderson Resources: Have further business proposition. Would like to meet and discuss recent acquisition of Newport based assets. Acquisition of Portland assets likely in very near future. My schedule is clear to meet tonight or early tomorrow."

The message was clear. Somehow the feds had nabbed Sanderson's Newport shooter, and the general wanted him out of town immediately. He had stared at the handwritten note, trying to rationalize any way he could stay, but it served no purpose. He had known since yesterday that their time in Portland might be drawing to a close. The reality started to sink in as he had watched the local news with Jessica earlier that morning.

While sipping coffee and making small talk with his wife during breakfast, he had begun to formulate a rough plan for their disappearance. Unfortunately, Jess would have to stay in Portland for a few days. If the FBI actually found a link to Daniel, then he would need her here to distract law enforcement to buy him as much time as possible. Vanishing would require more than a few plane tickets and their passports.

He passed through the kitchen and scrambled into the basement, fumbling to turn on the lights. The cool, moist air entered his lungs as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the center of the dimly lit subterranean storage area. A few cardboard boxes sat against the closest wall, next to a dozen evenly stacked dusty plastic bins. The labels on the bins indicated that they were filled with seasonal clothing, professional books, and camping supplies.

He continued to the furthest reaches of the basement until he reached the boiler and oil tank. Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor in front of the boiler. Daniel opened a box near the oil tank and removed the briefcase given to him yesterday. He opened the case to examine its contents again. One file, which he needed to permanently destroy, but not at the house. One Heckler and Koch USP 9mm with suppressor. He might need this weapon in the very near future.

Daniel replaced the contents and headed toward the large plastic bins. He removed the two top-most bins from a stack in the middle, sliding them to the floor haphazardly. The remaining bin, labeled "Old Clothes," sat exposed between two stacks of green plastic.

He reached down and ripped the duct tape from the sides of the plastic storage container, which hadn't been opened in over a year. The bin, which emitted the musty smell of old clothes, was stuffed with dated sweaters and oversized sweatshirts. Petrovich buried his arms into the stacks of clothing and pulled out two black nylon gym bags, spilling the contents of the bin onto the concrete floor.

He tossed the bags behind him, along with the briefcase, and recreated the orderly scene he encountered upon first descending the basement stairs. With the bins back in place, he ascended the stairs to pack a small carry-on bag, which would be all he needed beyond the three items retrieved from the basement.

Five minutes later, Daniel backed the BMW out of the garage and onto the street. He pulled forward several feet and stopped to stare at his house through the passenger window. He leaned over the center console to get a better view and exhaled softly.

A low, white picket fence outlined the front yard, extending along the driveway to the attached garage, which extended from the small yellow Cape Cod style home. Dark green shutters accented the white windowpanes, competing with the neatly-trimmed evergreen bushes reaching upward toward the bottom of the window trim. Just beyond the picket fence, two large maple trees flanked a red brick walkway that ended at an oversized granite stoop under the matching green front door.

"We almost did it," he muttered and took his foot off the brake.

He doubted he would ever see the house again, or any of the memories contained within it. He knew it didn't really matter, but it was hard to conceptualize abandoning the physical remnants of their life together. Nothing could go with them. There simply hadn't been enough time. This house, their friends, his office…all of it. He had simply walked out of Zenith Semiconductor without a word and would never return. He didn't really have a choice. Neither of them did. It was a simple matter of survival.

Chapter Ten

12:45 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts

Agent Olson stepped out of the interrogation room into the darkened observation deck, closed the door tightly and walked in front of the one-way mirror. She stared at Jeffrey Munoz, who was attached to several electronic monitoring leads. Laptop computers set up on a table along the far wall of the observation room analyzed the biometric feedback. Gregory Carlisle sat across the desk from Munoz with his hands crossed. Three agents and a few technicians sat in front of the interrogation equipment. One of the agents, a young, sharp-faced woman with short hair, closely analyzed a large flat-screen display of various vital signs.

"What do you think?" Olson uttered, without taking her gaze off Munoz.

"Bio says he's nervous as hell, but I'm not getting any of the traditional markers associated with deception. If this was a standard observation, I'd say the suspect was telling the truth…but given the circumstances, I think it would be prudent to change the interrogation parameters. See how he responds. His base stress level hasn't changed much since we started taking readings. It's high, but I haven't seen any significant spikes," the agent said, turning her head toward Olson.

"It doesn't surprise me, given what he's said so far. Tell Greg to walk out of the room, and let Munoz sit there for a few minutes. When he returns, have Greg tell Munoz that there is no way he'll be given any deal. I want Greg to mention that he'll be transferred within the hour to Logan Airport for further transport. He should hint that Munoz might be a little warm in the clothes he's wearing. I want this guy to think he's being rendered to a location outside of the country. We'll see if his story holds together."

"You got it," the agent said, with a smirk of approval hidden by the dark.

Chapter Eleven

12:56 p.m.

Washington, D.C., Beltway

Retired Brigadier General Terrence Sanderson leaned back into the leather comfort of the Suburban's rear seat. He dialed one of several disposable cell phones available to him in his briefcase. He had dozens more stashed in several locations around the D.C. Metro Area, and hundreds placed in other likely areas of operation along the Mid-Atlantic seacoast. He had gone "dark" several days ago, moving back and forth from several secret locations.

A few of the locations were known only to him and were untraceable by any means. He had plotted and planned this day's events for over a year. Some of the key links in the chain had been coordinated years ago. He was a careful, patient soldier and had left little to chance, except for Petrovich. He hadn't counted on using Petrovich for one of the assassinations, but circumstances had conspired, and Sanderson had little choice. The gamble had worked flawlessly and might pay further dividends if he handled the situation properly.

"You did an excellent job with Petrovich. From what I can tell, he did the job…maybe a little too well. Knife work was never one of his loves," said Sanderson.

"Maybe sending us a message? He didn't look pleased to have been dragged back into this," said Parker, glancing back over the top of the driver's seat.

"Truthfully, I wouldn't have been surprised if Mr. Ghani had woken up to a glorious sunrise over the Atlantic. I gave the entire situation a fifty percent chance. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Seven, six…even five murders would have been enough to cause a panic in the Hoover building. All eight? Icing on the cake. Is he headed our way?"

"Yeah, he should arrive on the ground by four at the latest. Should we be worried?" said Parker.

"With Petrovich, you should always be worried. I'm pretty sure he'll need us as much as we might still need him. He's one of the best we ever graduated…and by far the most productive in the field. Who knows, we might get him back, or…" he trailed off.

"Or what?"

"Or we could have a war on our hands. Unlikely though. He's one of the most practical individuals I have ever dealt with. Hold that thought, I need to check in with someone," he said and dialed the phone he had been holding near his ear.

The call was answered on the second ring.

"Colonel Farrington, Special Information Division. How can I help you?"

"Hello, Colonel. Major General Smith here. Just checking to see how my information requests are proceeding?"

Without hesitation, Colonel Farrington replied, "Sorry, General, no progress has been made so far, though I'm keeping a close eye on the requests myself. You'll be the first to know when the ball starts rolling."

"Sounds good, Colonel. Keep me in the loop," said General Sanderson.

"Roger that, sir. I would expect an update within the hour."

Sanderson hung up.

"Still nothing. Shit, the FBI is moving slow. I expected them to be down there already. This is the kind of shit I've always been railing about. Bureaucracy, government red tape, rules of engagement…they all have their right place and purpose, but not if you need results, and fast. I wish we had someone inside the FBI headquarters," he said to Parker.

"It's just a matter of time, sir," said Parker, as he pulled the Suburban off the Beltway at exit 177B, headed toward one of the general's "safe houses" in Alexandria, Virginia.