Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (9 page)

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Less than ten miles away, Colonel Richard Farrington, United States Army, leaned back in his shitty, worn government chair and placed the cell phone in a black nylon briefcase tucked away under his desk. Cell phones were technically off limits in his section, and if anyone saw him using it, he'd just say that he'd forgotten to leave it in the car and received a call. No big deal, especially since he was careful to select a phone without a camera. He wasn't really worried either way, his bag received a cursory inspection upon entry and exit, and not very many people at the Pentagon were cleared for his section.

He'd been at this posting for nearly two years, biding his time, even extending his tour for another six months to give Sanderson some leeway in planning. He wouldn't need it. Either today or tomorrow, Farrington would walk out of here for the last time and join his old battalion commander in exile.

Thirty feet away, Julio Mendez peeked through a one-inch crack between his office door and the door frame. Calling the room his office was a stretch, since it was really a janitorial supply closet, but Julio didn't care. Even the highest-ranking officers and civilians sat in cubicles within the Information and Data Section. Everything was transparent, and the only true privacy came in the form of a bathroom stall, where someone could still see your shoes and hear your daily contribution to the D.C. sewer system. He may just be the janitor, but he had what nobody around here had, a private room. Two of them, actually. Another small supply room lay outside of the restricted zone, where he would typically spend most of the afternoon.

He'd been spying on Colonel Farrington for two days, after seeing him hide something when he passed by the colonel's cubicle. He had pretended not to notice, singing a few lines of a song as soon as the colonel looked up at him. He had just nodded politely and pushed onward toward the next set of cubicles. Julio had caught him using the phone on four separate occasions over the past few days, which seemed out of place for the colonel. He'd peeked out of his door before to spy on several nearby staff members, including the colonel, and had never seen anyone using a cell phone. He thought the Colonel might be going through a divorce, but remembered that he'd never seen any pictures indicating a relationship on his desk or cubicle walls. No pictures of kids or a wife, just a few photos of the colonel and other soldiers taken in various Godforsaken parts of the world. A few military plaques commemorated distinguished service with different units, but nothing beyond that.

Julio always trusted his instincts, and they were whispering bad things about Colonel Farrington. He'd keep his eyes on this man, check his trash at night, do a full sweep of the area. If something was wrong, Julio could be the nation's first line of defense. He wasn't a military hero, but he knew a thing or two about bravery. He had burn scarring over half of his torso, compliments of Al Qaeda. He'd worked in the West Block when American Airlines Flight 77 hit the Pentagon and spewed burning jet fuel through a corridor he was cleaning.

The initial blast knocked him through an open office door, nearly into the lap of a startled navy captain. The blast was followed by an aerosolized explosion, similar to one of the air force's fuel/air explosive (FAE) bombs. Luckily, they were both knocked to the far wall of the office by the initial blast because if either of them had been standing any closer to the door, they would have been vaporized like everyone else in the corridor. After extinguishing their own personal clothing fires, Julio and Captain Reynolds rushed into the hellish inferno to look for survivors. He was a true hero, well respected at the Pentagon, but his service to country didn't end on September 11, 2001. He kept a close eye on the place because he knew the next attack would come from the inside.

"I got my eyes on you, Colonel Sanders," he said and a stifled a laugh, now wishing he had packed some fried chicken for lunch, instead of a ham sandwich.

Chapter Twelve

1:02 p.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Sharpe held a yellow legal pad in his left hand and squinted at his writing. The phone receiver was pressed into his right ear by his other hand. He glanced up at Agent Mendoza, seated in the chair nearest to the office door, and nodded quickly.

"How confident are you about Munoz's statement? If we start pushing Pentagon buttons, we need to be rock solid on our assessment. This could get ugly…real quick," said Sharpe.

"Carlisle's assessment is definitive. He walked me through the biofeedback. Either this guy is the perfect liar, or he's telling the truth. He's a tough book to read on the outside. Impassive. No apparent signs of being rattled. But bio showed a different story when we hinted that we might render him out of the country. His vitals spiked, but he kept himself under control. This guy is a cool customer. Highly trained, somewhere, and not the kind of training his army service record would indicate. Four years as a field artillery officer? We might have stumbled onto something huge here," said Agent Olson.

"I think I agree. Have Carlisle put together a package with his assessment…and yours. I want to walk through the director's door with everything I need to make a case for a deal. Once the deal is signed, we need to move fast. What do you know about General Terrence Sanderson?"

"I've never heard of him before today. I did a quick internet search. Special Ops for most of his career. Details are sketchy, but it appears that his boots touched Iranian soil during Operation Eagle Claw. Plank owner in the Delta Force community. Meteoric rise through the ranks, then a flat line. Didn't make a lot of friends on the Hill from what I could tell. He retired, or was put out to pasture in 2001. Pretty much fell off the radar. Munoz is ready to connect the dots once the deal is in place," Olson said.

"Looks like Sanderson just popped back up on the radar scope, in a big way. Keep pressing Munoz for more details. I don't know if I have enough for a blanket immunity deal. He'll probably have to sign a contingency deal, which means he'll have to show us his cards before we go to the Pentagon. If the Pentagon refuses to share, no deal," Sharpe said.

"I think he'll take the risk. The threat of being moved to a facility out of the country scared him. He really wants a deal," Olson said.

"So do I. This could be a huge break. Eight coordinated murders on the same night. I'm willing to let this guy walk if he leads us to the jackpot. Tell him we need more information to make the deal stick. I'm gonna get things rolling on my end. Good work, Heather."

"Thank you, sir," she said, and Sharpe replaced the receiver on the desk phone.

"Sounds like Olson was the right agent to send to Boston," Mendoza piped in from his chair.

"She's one of the best investigators in the FBI. She was my first phone call after waking you up this morning. So, do we know anything else about Mr. Munoz?"

"Average Joe, more or less. Lives outside of Hartford, in Windsor."

"How far is that from Newport?" Sharpe asked.

"Just under a hundred miles," Mendoza said.

"Did they find his car yet?"

"Nothing on the streets near the mansion. They're searching a nearby college. The campus has waterfront acreage that connects to the cliff walk, which is a well-trafficked path this time of the year. The shooter was found sprawled on the rocks a few hundred yards north of the mansion, just off this path. He might have been trying to duck a few nighttime strollers and slipped in the dark."

"We need to figure out how he got there, and how long he's been casing the residence. Start piecing this all together. He'd have to pay a toll somehow to get into Newport, unless he hitchhiked. We might find a file in the car, especially if these attacks were coordinated by an ex-special forces type. The car is important," Sharpe said.

"We pressed him on the car, and he wouldn't budge. I'm sure he'll tell us about the car once he has a deal."

"I'm not counting on a deal, Frank. He's not giving us enough up front."

"He's walking a fine line," Mendoza said.

"Well, it's not good enough. I need some corroborating evidence to push this through. I think Munoz is worried about the car. We just might not need him once we find it."

"I'll make sure finding the car is Newport's top priority," Mendoza said and stood up to leave the office.

Chapter Thirteen

1:45 p.m.

Logan International Airport, Boston, Massachusetts

Daniel parked a dark blue, late model Toyota Camry between two other non-descript sedans in Logan Airport's central parking lot. His car's Massachusetts plates matched nearly every other car in the row. He put the parking lot ticket on the passenger seat and wasted no time yanking one of the two black nylon duffel bags out of the trunk, along with a small black carry-on bag. After slamming the trunk shut, he took note of the car's location and searched for signs that would lead him into Terminal C. He had about twenty-five minutes to catch a Jet Blue flight to Baltimore/Washington International airport, or he would have to execute his backup plan.

He had no idea what General Sanderson had in store for him once he landed in the D.C. area, but at this point, he had little choice other than to the clear out of New England without Jessica. Unfortunately, he needed her in place back in Portland, and General Sanderson agreed. He started jogging and glanced back one more time to frame the car's location in his mind. He had exchanged the BMW for the Camry in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the largest self-storage facility in seacoast New Hampshire. He had registered the car in Massachusetts under a false name, using an impeccably forged Massachusetts license issued to longtime Boston resident, Christopher Stevens.

Before driving out of the storage facility, he made a point of talking to the desk clerk long enough to create a lasting memory. If investigators got this far, he actually wanted them to know that he was now driving a nondescript Toyota Camry, one of the most common automobile models on the road throughout the U.S., and one of thousands registered in Massachusetts. To make matters worse for the FBI, he left the 95 Interstate at Newburyport and found a secluded spot to change the license plates. The storage facility had cameras, which might have captured a picture of the car's tags, and he needed this car to stay hidden at Logan Airport.

Eight minutes later, he rushed up to the airline counter and handed his driver's license to a slim, brown-haired woman in a blue uniform. She compared the picture on the license to Daniel, squinting briefly, and wrote something illegible on his boarding pass with a red marker.

"Any bags to check?"

"Not this time. I think these should fit onboard," he said, lifting his two bags a few inches off the ground where she could see.

"That should be fine. You're all set, Mr. Harrell. The gate number is printed on your ticket," she said and smiled.

Daniel nodded and briskly moved toward the security checkpoint.

Chapter Fourteen

2:01 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts

Agent Olson stepped into the interrogation room with a brown file folder. She slapped it down on the white Formica tabletop and stared at Munoz. The right side of his face was scraped and bruised from his fall onto the rocks. A small amount of dried, caked blood covered most of his right ear. He sported a nondescript, medium-length haircut, faded lightly on the sides. A horizontal scar grazed the hair above his left ear, and another visible scar showed through the stubble on the right side of his chin. Dark-skinned, with deep brown eyes and an angular face, he was a handsome man despite his rough condition.

Munoz looked up at Olson. His face remained expressionless. "Do we have a deal?" he uttered.

"We do, but it's contingent…"

"Good luck with your investigation. I'm ready for a vacation. Somewhere warm, I hope," Munoz said, leaning back in his chair.

"Contingent on proving this conspiracy. Black Flag better be real. Do you have any idea what happened today?" she asked, taking a seat across the table.

"Don't worry, it's real. Has my attorney seen the deal?"

"We have her standing by for a videoconference. She'll verify the details of your deal, but I'll tell you something…" Agent Olson leaned forward, her face several inches from Munoz. "You're not going anywhere until we figure out what happened today."

"I can go wherever I want. Whenever I want," he stated with a suppressed grin, as he placed his hands on the table in front of him.

Agent Olson reeled backward, as if Munoz had thrown a poisonous snake on the table. He had somehow managed to free his hands from the handcuffs that had been secured behind his back to the chair. Agent Carlisle reacted swiftly, charging around the side of the table, but stopped as Munoz placed both hands on the top of his head. Both agents moved backward from the table, weapons drawn and pointed at the suspect.

"None of you have any idea what you're dealing with here."

"Keep your hands on your head! Back away from the table and get on your knees. You will not be warned again," Olson yelled.

The interrogation room door opened, and three more agents entered. One of them held a Taser, the other two carried MP-5 submachine guns. Five agents stood well outside of Munoz's lunge radius, aiming weapons in his direction. One false move would erase Munoz from existence and eliminate any chance the FBI had to make sense of the day.

Munoz had told them that a link existed between General Terrence Sanderson and today's events, and that he would trade information about Sanderson for full immunity. Without more information, they couldn't move on Sanderson. And since the FBI still had no idea who had masterminded the string of murders, they needed every bit of help available. Unfortunately, Munoz represented the only break in their investigation. The Department of Justice, with the full backing of the White House, agreed with this assessment.