Black Flagged Apex Page 4

  “What happened?” the president said.

  “Six of the seven suspected Al Qaeda cells under surveillance in the greater New York/New Jersey metro area were taken out last night. Massacred in their sleep. I think it’s fair to assume that some of the virus is here already,” Shelby said, clearly shaken by the news.

  “What about the other cell?” Marianne Templeton asked.

  “Missing. They shook ground surveillance and never returned to their apartment last night,” Shelby said.

  “Shit. How the hell could this have happened right under your peoples’ noses? They were under surveillance, right?” Jacob Remy snapped.

  “Easy, Jacob,” the president said.

  “Simultaneous strikes around 2:30 in the morning. This is surveillance, not protective duty. These groups never move at night. They follow unvarying routines throughout the day and wake up in the middle of the night to pray. We listen to every conversation they have and analyze every aspect of their lives.”

  “But someone can walk inside and kill them without anyone knowing?” the White House chief pressed.

  “We can figure this out later. Do you have any leads? Anything that can move us in the right direction?” the president said.

  “We got lucky at one of the sites,” Shelby said.

  Jacob Remy huffed at this comment.

  “One of the killers removed his mask prematurely, within view of our cameras. We’re working on identifying him. Surveillance records indicate that all of the sites received multiple FedEx packages yesterday,” Shelby said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Jacobs yelled. “How long would it have taken for that information to raise an alarm? This is unreal!”

  “Maybe if you’d quit withholding funds from my agency, I could hire more agents to watch these pricks…and upgrade the systems used by our analysts to filter through the thousands of reports that are filed on an hourly basis from law enforcement agencies nationwide.”

  “Now this is my fault?” Jacobs said.

  “It’s Al Qaeda’s fault, gentlemen. That’s it. Let’s get the investigation moving with the new information,” the president said.

  He turned to Director Copley. “I still want your people moving on the medical supply company in Germany. Seven cells with suspicious activity isn’t the full extent of this. There would have to be more. We need to figure out who hit them.”

  “Probably the domestic group referenced by our intelligence source,” the CIA director interrupted.

  “Let’s figure that out. I can’t imagine this domestic group got every canister. We need to approach this from both angles,” the president said.

  “General Gordon, I am invoking my authority under the Insurrection Act to deploy active military units in support of domestic law enforcement agencies. My own counsel and the attorney general agree that this level of coordinated terrorist activity on U.S. soil warrants my authority in this case.”

  “What did you have in mind, Mr. President?”

  “Special Forces. Tier One units and all other direct action capable Special Forces teams. Full helicopter support. I want our best teams available to support Task Force Scorpion.”

  “Sir, we have the same capabilities within the FBI. Coupled with local SWAT assets, this should be more than enough to cover any possible contingencies,” Director Shelby said.

  “I’m not casting any doubt on your agency’s capabilities. I want to plan for the worst-case scenario. We get all of our best operators into the game. I will only authorize the use of U.S. Special Forces as a last option.”

  “I’ll get the units ready and coordinate with Task Force Scorpion regarding geographic deployment. If you don’t mind, Director Shelby, I’d like to assign a liaison to your task force,” Lieutenant General Gordon said.

  “The more the merrier,” Shelby said, not really meaning what he said.

  “We have a long day ahead of us. I don’t want to hold any of you up any longer. Make sure you coordinate your agency’s press releases with my office. We need to be on the same page when communicating to the press and the public. Any last concerns?

  “Good. Get to it,” the president said.

  He immediately left the room with his entourage, which included the chief of staff, his secret service detail, a few aides and the director of the CIA. Major General Bob Kearney and Rear Admiral DeSantos vanished just as quickly out of a door on the other side of the conference room. The noise level instantly rose to a level making it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation.

  Shelby yelled across to Marianne Templeton. “Are you scheduled to meet with the president after this?”

  “No. I need to get out of here and get this nightmare rolling. I still think we should wait for further confirmation. You won’t be able to buy groceries tonight on your way home after this news hits,” Templeton said.

  “Or bottled water. I wouldn’t worry about heading home tonight. Nobody’s leaving his or her office in the foreseeable future. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said, moving swiftly toward the door.

  He reached the conference room exit and stepped outside, searching for any signs of the president’s entourage. He spotted General Kearney and Admiral DeSantos headed in the direction of the president’s private office on the other side of the watch floor. Tracking their progress, he pushed through an endless gaggle of seemingly inconsequential aides and government staffers waiting to rendezvous with someone important in the conference room he just departed. He watched as Secret Service agents stationed outside of the office admitted the two flag-ranked officers and pulled the office door shut.

  Through the two windows, he could see the president seated behind a desk and Director Copley sitting directly across from him. The president motioned with his hand, and the two officers sat down on chairs squeezed into the office next to the CIA director. The president reached behind him, and the windows suddenly fogged, obscuring Shelby’s view inside the office.

  He knew this had something to do with Sanderson. The president was taking an extreme risk sanctioning the use of these assets. Less than twenty-eight hours ago, Sanderson’s organizations had been classified as a terrorist organization. He couldn’t afford a screw-up that would draw the public’s attention to that fact. The president was probably spelling out exactly what he expected in terms of Sanderson’s continued involvement on foreign soil. Shelby didn’t like guessing. Sanderson’s operatives had been assigned to Task Force Scorpion, and he still didn’t have a good handle on their rules of engagement or the scope of their authority. He was told to wait on this, until a DIA liaison was assigned to the NCTC.

  As director of the FBI, in charge of the nation’s premiere law enforcement and domestic surveillance apparatus, the term “need to know basis” didn’t apply to him. He needed to know everything. His only consolation in this case was the fact that he had a man on the inside, talking with the president while he was jostled around by this endless tide of servants waiting eagerly to serve their masters.

  Chapter 3

  9:25 AM

  Acassuso Barrio

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Jessica leaned into the vanity mirror and gently applied the concealer stick to the remaining dark purple areas under her left eye. She held the stick between her index finger and thumb, patting the application lightly with her pinky finger to blend it into the foundation. She had spent the better half of an hour applying makeup to her bruised and battered face. The process was taking her twice as long without the use of her left hand, which sat uselessly in a tight gauze wrap on the brown-speckled granite countertop.

  Concealing signs of physical abuse surfaced deep, distant emotions that Jessica had spent the last ten years pushing further and further into her subconscious. She was no stranger to “making herself look pretty again” after silently enduring repeated beatings at the hand of Srecko Hadzic’s associates in Serbia.

  The physical abuse hadn’t been the worst part. In fact, it had barely bothered h
er at all. She had a built-in tolerance for physical pain. One of the many “gifts” she had acquired living under the constant threat of her father’s wildly unpredictable, alcohol-fueled rampages. Taking a closed fist high on the cheekbone or a backhand to the mouth was something she had learned to live with.

  She had thought all of that would change when she reported to Langley. Ironically, she couldn’t have been further mistaken. Instead, they would turn her into one of the most lethal operatives in recent CIA history and put her into a situation where she was forbidden to use those skills to defend herself. She had developed dozens of coping mechanisms as a helpless child, none of which could help her deal with the fact that she had become a predator, but she would still be abused nonetheless. This burden had slowly unraveled her in Belgrade, nearly killing her.

  Finding Daniel in that hellhole had certainly saved her from herself. Daniel insisted that they had saved each other, but she knew better. That was something he said to ease her emotional pain. She had no doubt that Daniel would have survived his “tour of duty” in Serbia. He was one of life’s guaranteed survivors, and staying close to him would always be her best chance to survive too.

  She touched up the last remaining evidence of the desperate struggle that had almost ended her life and leaned back to take in her handiwork. She had to give them credit; even Daniel might not recognize her at first glance. Thanks to a discreet team of beauty consultants, who specialized in hiding wealthy victims of abuse within plain sight, she could effortlessly walk into Ministro Pistarini International Airport and board a plane headed anywhere in the world.

  Her long, lustrous jet-black hair had been replaced by a dark brown, short pixie-cropped style that accentuated the strong, angular contours of her face and freshly lifted eyebrows. She had changed her eye color from dark brown to deep blue, with the help of custom vanity contact lenses that also hid the temporary damage to the blood vessels in her left eye. Balanced collagen injections helped her lips appear normal against the persistent swelling on the left side of her face. She had changed her appearance as much as possible without plastic surgery or Hollywood-level special effects makeup. Only a close examination by a seasoned social services caseworker could detect her secret. Even her bandaged hand would be disguised in a sleek, medical grade plastic hand splint that would require little more than a quick explanation about a recent “tennis” accident.

  In a few minutes she would complete the transformation with a dark gray, Ralph Lauren sleeveless turtleneck dress that would cover the extensive abrasions and cuts from the piano wire that had nearly severed her carotid artery five days earlier. She had to hand it to the small group of stylists that took over her bedroom for several hours yesterday. They may have cost a fortune, but they didn’t mess around. She felt “pretty” again.

  Her cellphone rang from somewhere deeper in the house, most likely from the kitchen where she had prepared an espresso earlier. She had carried the phone around with her, hoping to hear from Daniel before he became too involved in his next job for Sanderson. She didn’t have many details regarding his next operation in Germany, but he had made it sound like routine work. She was certain that there would be nothing routine about his day, but at least it wouldn’t involve penetrating a “rabid zombie” infested city to retrieve a human head, or driving full speed into a Spetznaz crossfire. Whatever the mission, she knew it wasn’t a good idea to distract him, but she needed more than a call every two or three days while he was away. Especially after what almost happened in their Buenos Aires high-rise. She needed to talk to him every hour if possible, but would settle for once a day.

  She started to form the words to call her two unwilling manservants, Munoz and Melendez, but quickly remembered they had departed soon after she treated them to the most expensive dinner she could import into the safe house. It was the smallest token of gratitude she could offer the two men that had saved her from Srecko’s beasts. The duo had even started to lighten up a little, which probably had less to do with her charming personality and everything to do with the availability of an exquisitely smooth Malbec vintage, and the dawning realization that they would be taking the next available private flight back to Sanderson’s mountain hideaway. Either way, she enjoyed seeing them let their guard down just a little and finally relax. She owed them everything.

  She had oddly come to terms with her own death at the apartment. On some level, she had felt relieved that her struggle was finally finished. At least she had convinced herself that she had accepted her death. All she had to do was relax her muscles and take a little weight off her tensed midsection. The thin piano wire would have cut a few more millimeters into her neck, effectively opening her carotid artery. It might have been a bad decision given the Celox Munoz had found in Josef Hadzic’s torture kit, but she somehow doubted they could have kept her alive for more than a minute or two jamming hemostatic powder into her neck. What they had planned to do to her corpse afterward, on camera for their boss, hadn’t mattered to her either, so she thought.

  Ultimately, all of those thoughts proved false. When Melendez’s bullet removed her captor’s head, she sprang into action with no hesitation, leaving little doubt about her decision to live or die.

  She put down the concealer stick and walked across the cool, gray marble tile to the kitchen. She hadn’t expected to hear from Daniel until later in the afternoon. His group had an operation planned for the evening, which always shut him down externally. She read the caller ID, not recognizing the number, which could only mean one thing. The last person she really wanted to talk to right now. Three people had the number for this throwaway phone. Daniel, Munoz, and her least favorite person in the world. She accepted the call.

  “Do I need to get a restraining order?” she said by way of greeting.

  “I highly doubt that would be possible, since you officially no longer exist as an Argentinian citizen,” General Sanderson said.

  “That was fast. Can I pick up the new paperwork this morning? There’s room on a flight leaving at 12:15,” Jessica said.

  “So now you’re happy to hear from me? Your passport will be delivered within the hour by a trusted member of the U.S. Embassy. One of Karl Berg’s friends. That might give you enough time to book that flight.”

  “I’m impressed,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I must admit that having a little leverage over the White House helps work wonders with the State Department. The passport has been issued in the name Jessica Petrovich and will contain an entry stamp for your vacation to Argentina. Once you get out of Argentina, you’re home free. Your names have been removed from every U.S.-generated international and domestic watch list. The Petroviches are free and clear as far as the U.S. government is concerned.”

  “Do you trust them?”

  “For now, but I’d recommend having a backup plan ready at all times. I’ll help you get a second set of papers, just in case. Have Daniel pass on the details when the two of you have talked about it.”

  “We’ll be sure to get in touch,” Jessica said.

  “Why do I get the feeling the two of you already have a plan to disappear?”

  “Because you know us too well? Who knows, we might sign on with you as a Mr. and Mrs. Smith freelance team. No promises, but all options are still on the table.”

  “Now that is a pleasant surprise coming from you. Even hearing you mention the possibility gives me hope. I was utterly convinced that I’d never see the two of you again.”

  “You might not…” she said and paused, “but sometimes life makes the choices for you.”

  “In my experience, it’s most of the time. The two of you will always be welcome here. Don’t ever forget that,” Sanderson said.

  “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll let us forget.”

  “We all know each other too well. Enjoy your time together. The two of you have earned it. I expect to hear from Daniel early this evening. Sounds like they are close to wrapping up thei
r work in Germany. Of course, it all depends on his ability to get some very stubborn people to talk.”

  “I’m sure Daniel will be on one of the first flights out of Germany tomorrow.”

  “A lot of highly placed, extremely anxious government officials in D.C. are counting on that very same assessment.”

  “Daniel never disappoints.”

  “No. He doesn’t. Good luck, Jessica,” Sanderson said, and the call disconnected.

  She placed the phone on the cold granite countertop and glanced at a two-thirds empty bottle of last night’s Malbec standing next to the sink. Was nine-thirty in the morning too early for a glass of wine? Probably. Plus, she needed something stronger to deal with the anxiety stirred up from talking to Sanderson. He’d ruined their lives for his own selfish gain, though the entire situation was certainly more complex. Without the general’s new initiative, who knows what the world might have faced in the upcoming weeks. The limited reports streaming out of Russia painted an extremely bleak picture. Without Daniel, the world may never have discovered the truth about what happened in Monchegorsk. She felt her mind spinning again and glanced at the bottle of wine. Still not a good idea. Maybe a little closer to eleven o’clock.

  Chapter 4

  7:38 PM

  Gallusviertel District “Gallus”

  Frankfurt, Germany

  “We stick out like a sore thumb around here,” Daniel muttered from the rear bench row of their Ford Transit van.

  “At least nobody will call the cops,” Konrad Hubner said.

  “That’s because we look like the cops,” Daniel said.

  “We’re fine. This isn’t a high crime area. The immigrants take care of this place,” Reinhard Klinkman said.