OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 5

  Manning and Bauer were dropped into the Counterproliferation Division, as director and deputy director, still in solid leadership positions commensurate with their experience level, but the message was clear: their careers would go no further. Both of them had embraced their new assignment with enthusiasm, not that they really had a choice. As rising stars within the CIA, they were younger than most of their peers and still had several years to go until they reached the minimum retirement age of fifty-five. Neither was in a position to leave, unlike Berg, who could have elected to take his retirement package and walked out of headquarters on the same day. He had more than enough vacation days saved to bridge the gap between notification and out-processing.

  Instead of skipping out overnight, Berg decided that the wiser—and safer—course of action was to stick around long enough to convince his new overlords that he didn’t pose a threat, but more importantly, to ascertain the danger to his own safety. Such a cleverly engineered political coup left Berg skeptical of the FBI’s supposed efforts to pry deeper into the connection between Greely and Harding’s fanatics and the scheming cabal of political operatives calling the shots behind True America’s red, white, and blue façade.

  He wasn’t the only person stranded outside of True America’s juggernaut with information that could call into question their truly miraculous ascension to power. If the wrong people started dying of heart attacks during their daily jogs, he would vanish into thin air. Maybe he’d take Sanderson up on the offer to put his services to use in a sunnier climate. The idea didn’t sound half bad, even without the specter of a threat against him.

  Reassigned within NCIS to a generic staff operations officer position with nobody reporting to him, he hadn’t handled anything overly significant or controversial since sitting behind his new desk in a godforsaken cubicle. He hadn’t been part of the cubicle culture at headquarters in sixteen years. Berg had been effectively retired by the new power brokers at the CIA, both marginalized and demeaned, in the obvious hope that he’d take his retirement and leave.

  Berg had no intention of caving to these pressures or going anywhere until it suited him. It could be tomorrow if Sanderson was willing to import a whirlpool hot tub and a few other luxuries to the forest compound in Argentina, or it could be two years from now. That call was his alone to make.

  He reached for the computer mouse on his desk with the intention of shutting down his workstation, but decided to give his email inbox another scan. Not because he thought an exciting case had been delivered late in the day, but more out of habit. The second email from the top, sent fifteen minutes ago, instantly piqued his attention. The message was a notification that he had a TOP SECRET/SENSITIVE COMPARTMENTED INFORMATION (TS/SCI) classified message waiting on a separate, secured message system.

  Interesting.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had received one of those. Whatever waited for him was guaranteed to be anything but low profile.

  His finger hesitated over the mouse, ready to click the link provided in the email. It really had been a while. If his memory served correctly, he had been required to access the classified server through a completely separate program on his desktop. The link didn’t feel right, but he hadn’t received a message like this in a long time, and so much of the CIA’s technology had changed over the past few years. He thought about asking someone, but he hated to draw any attention to himself. The email inbox was intranet based. The email in question couldn’t have originated outside of the secure CIA server.

  Berg had convinced himself of this by the time the link launched the secure message interface he recognized from the past. After typing a string of personalized alphanumeric codes and the twenty-six-key passcode provided in the notification email, the system granted him access to the message.

  The subject line read SERAPH/AUTOMATED.

  Now that was more than just interesting. SERAPH had been Nicole Erak’s codename.

  Nicole Erak, a name that always resurfaced bittersweet memories. She was also known as Zorana Zekulic while operating undercover throughout Europe. She was presently known as Jessica Petrovich, the woman who had pulled off the disappearing act of a lifetime, fooling everyone.

  In 2005, after learning that SERAPH was still alive, he’d set several automated search patterns to scan online and paper news outlets for keywords related to all of her known aliases and relatives, along with the names of various people she’d likely pissed off in Serbia prior to vanishing, and that list was long. He’d done this as an off-the-books favor at her request, in case any of the ugly men or women on that list decided to travel to the United States for revenge. If one of her nieces or her mother suddenly disappeared, Nicole…Jessica would get some advance notice. What she might do with that notice was never explored.

  Berg was glad he’d checked his email, until he read past the subject line. Now he needed a stiff drink. Jessica’s mother had been admitted to hospice care at Palos Hills Community Hospital. The message contained no additional links or references that might explain how Vesna Erak ended up there. He clicked the only link provided, finding a screenshot of the story published in the digital version of a local newspaper. He found few details about her illness in the piece. The author was far more interested in describing “the decade-long cloud of tragedy that hung over the Erak family.” Berg knew the story all too well. He’d monitored the parents’ situation closely after handlers in Serbia reported her missing in late April 1999.

  Vesna filed for a divorce a few months after their daughter’s unexplained disappearance in Europe. As far as either of her parents knew, Nicole Erak had vanished outside of Prague during a planned two-week backpacking trip across Czechoslovakia. Amidst resurfaced whispers of past sexual abuse against his daughter and wife, Dejan Erak, family patriarch and prominent member of the Serbian community, blew his brains out before the divorce proceedings and rumors gained critical momentum. Vesna had a nervous breakdown shortly after the suicide, spending the next year in and out of psychiatric hospitals.

  The article described the awful matter in excruciating detail, which didn’t sit well with Berg. Yet it wasn’t the content that raised his hackles. It was the fact that the article had been written in the first place. The article felt personal, like someone with a real grudge against the Eraks had either written or encouraged the story. Or—Palos Hills was a boring-as-shit suburb, and the Eraks’ continued string of misfortunes was big news. The story of a lifetime for a jaded, part-time journalist at the local paper.

  Berg took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The safest course of action was to delete the message and pretend he’d never seen it, on the off chance that the article had been designed to lure her out of hiding and she actually decided to visit her estranged mother. The individual odds against either of these scenarios were long. The probability of both scenarios combining to enable an attack on Jessica had to be nearly nonexistent, especially given Srecko Hadzic’s untimely death earlier in the year. He’d been the most likely and capable prime mover of revenge against the Petroviches prior to his spectacular demise.

  Whether Hadzic was assassinated by fellow detainees who were worried that he was on the verge of cutting an immunity deal or accidentally killed in a botched rescue attempt remained the only point of speculation in the investigation surrounding his death. Berg wanted to believe his own people assassinated him, the irony inescapable; however, evidence suggested otherwise.

  Most investigators opined that the explosive charge detonated underneath the armored United Nations Detention Unit transport van had been too small to guarantee the immediate death of the vehicle’s occupants and had more likely been used to disable the vehicle, and a team had been assigned to break into the van and grab Hadzic. By sheer chance, the explosion simultaneously breached the van’s bottom armor and blasted the contents of the gas tank into the passenger cabin, instantly engulfing Srecko Hadzic and three United Nations security officers in superheated flames. Little remained inside t
he scorched and twisted van chassis beyond a few blackened skeletons held loosely upright by the metal frame of their seats.

  When news of Hadzic’s death arrived, Berg had felt smugly satisfied.

  Good riddance.

  One of humankind’s worst had burned to death, maybe a little too quickly from what he could tell by the video streaming out of The Hague. The ghastly, smoldering skeletons looked far too at peace in the context of the inferno that had taken them. A few weeks later, after DNA extracted from the bone marrow of one of the skeletons confirmed Hadzic’s death, he raced to inform Jessica that Hadzic no longer posed a threat. He’d felt relieved for her and, interestingly enough, himself.

  Verification of Hadzic’s death meant one less danger in the world for the woman he’d thrown to the wolves. When it came to Nicole Erak, aka Jessica Petrovich, Berg was ruled by guilt. Against his better judgment or, better stated, in collusion with blinding arrogance, he’d pushed an exceptionally talented CIA recruit with identified emotional baggage into a high-risk, pressure-cooker assignment. Regardless of her ultimate betrayal of the agency, he felt personally responsible for the downward mental spiral that led her there. Infiltrating Hadzic’s Panthers had shattered the young woman he’d trained, replacing her with a hardened, remorseless wretch.

  He’d never forgive himself for what happened to her, which was why he struggled with the information in front of him. He really should delete the message, but the thought of unilaterally making the decision to deprive her of the last chance to see her mother didn’t sit well with him.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered. “She can figure this out.”

  He’d send her a text, passing along what he knew when and if she returned the call. There was no guarantee she would respond. General Sanderson seemed to think the Petroviches were on the verge of disappearing for good. Berg hoped so. As useful and effective as they had been in the past and could continue to be in the future, their luck would run out sooner than later. Thinking of Sanderson gave him an idea. If he could arrange a little insurance policy, he’d feel far better about the situation.

  Chapter 8

  Long Bay, Anguilla

  Daniel eyed the sunset beyond the natural rock jetty that formed the western end of the long white sand strip of beach in front of their table. Jessica caught his glance and stole a quick look over her shoulder before lifting her mojito from the table for a long sip.

  “Should I be worried?” she asked.

  “Uh…no,” Daniel said, stalling for words and coming up with something completely unconvincing. “I just feel bad that you’re not enjoying the sunset.”

  “Okay…” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “It’s not like we don’t see the sunset every night.”

  His eyes darted to the western horizon again. Where the hell was the boat? He’d drawn out the evening as long as possible, paying the wait staff for a leisurely service pace that redefined the concept of “island time.” He’d even arranged for the kitchen to inform Daniel of a faux mistake with Jessica’s order, resulting in a twenty-minute delay while both of their meals were prepared freshly, to their satisfaction. He needed every spare minute he could muster.

  The crew he’d hired needed a minimum of two hours to outfit the boat and deliver it to the shallow waters in front of the restaurant. When he’d last checked with them, roughly forty minutes ago, they’d assured him that everything was still on schedule. The boat should have arrived fifteen minutes ago. Daniel considered excusing himself for another bathroom break to check in with the crew when the top of a sailboat mast appeared over the rocky outcropping.

  He smiled at Jessica and turned his head toward the kitchen entrance, where a member of the wait staff stood unobtrusively to the side, pretending to busy himself at one of the server stations. Daniel nodded at the man, who moved swiftly toward the bar.

  “Now you have me worried,” said Jessica, looking in the direction of the bar.

  La Ombra’s bow emerged from behind the rocks, the dark blue-hulled sailboat motoring swiftly through the calm reddish-orange reflected water. Daniel stared a little too long at the boat, drawing Jessica’s attention.

  “Is that our boat?” she asked, squinting at the shape moving across the setting sun.

  Their waiter materialized with a stainless steel ice bucket tilted in its bamboo stand to reveal an open bottle of champagne. While the waiter arranged the bucket next to the table, another server slid two champagne flutes onto the white-linen-topped table. Jessica looked convincingly flummoxed, which convinced Daniel that his scheme had gone undetected until moments ago. She downed most of her remaining mojito and placed the sweating glass on the table away from the champagne flutes.

  “What are you up to?” said Jessica, half smiling.

  “I’m proposing,” he said, mouthing, “Thank you,” to the waiter, who quickly disappeared.

  “We’re already married, if I remember correctly.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not doing one of those re-proposal things.”

  “I’m not opposed to the concept,” said Jessica, her attention focused on the sailboat anchoring offshore.

  “I’m proposing something better,” he said, sliding the chilled bottle out of the ice bucket.

  After filling each glass halfway and replacing the bottle, he raised one of the champagne flutes, holding it halfway across the table. Before Jessica could grab the other glass, her smartphone buzzed on the seat next to her, the screen illuminating the chair back in the declining light. They rarely received calls, which was why he wasn’t surprised or bothered when she interrupted his ceremony to check the phone. Given their past and present line of work, both of their phones remained close at hand at all times. A call from Sanderson or one of their intelligence contacts could mean the difference between life and death if a last minute threat was detected.

  Jessica looked bothered. “Berg wants me to call him immediately. Says it’s urgent.”

  “As in life-threatening urgent?”

  She shrugged and then read the message. “Urgent that you call me immediately.”

  The message didn’t sound immediately life threatening, but its nebulous quality made Daniel nervous. Better safe than sorry.

  “The champagne is chilled, the boat is anchored, and I’m not going anywhere. Let’s see what the mysterious Mr. Berg wants.”

  “You’re the mystery man tonight, with champagne and boats suddenly appearing out of nowhere,” she said, placing the phone on the table.

  “I think you’ll like what I have to propose,” he said.

  “Hold that thought.”

  Jessica pressed her phone’s screen and raised the device to her ear. Daniel listened to the one-sided conversation, trying to piece it together from her responses. He didn’t have much success. Jessica’s side of the conversation remained mostly confined to one- or two-word questions. When? Where? How long? Threat assessment? A staccato series of questions rattled off without the slightest betrayal of emotion. When she placed the phone on the table, he truly had no idea what had transpired between Berg and his wife. He knew it hadn’t been good; the solemn look on her face reinforced that assessment.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, placing his champagne glass on the table.

  Jessica took her time answering, downing the glass of champagne in front of her first. Definitely not a good call.

  “My mother is in a hospice,” she said, eyeing his glass of champagne.

  Tonight is going to be rough, he thought, pushing his glass toward her.

  She accepted the gesture, draining the bubbly spirit.

  Very rough.

  Vesna Erak was a delicate subject on a good day, a nervous-breakdown-provoking topic the remaining three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. Something told him today would not be the good day.

  “Why?” he asked, mimicking the brief interrogation style she used on Berg.

  It sounded like an impersonal question, but he knew from experience that this was the safest
way to communicate with her when she was like this.

  “I don’t know. Berg received a secure automated message alert linking to a local newspaper article.”

  “Is it real?”

  “The article?”

  “All of it,” he stated. They could never be too careful.

  “I’ll confirm it with the hospital,” she said, staring at the empty glass in her hand.

  Her attention suddenly shifted to the water. A fiberglass-hulled, rigid inflatable boat plied through the smooth cove toward the beach in front of the restaurant. The two-person crew that had delivered La Ombra would pull the dinghy onto the sand, leaving it for Jessica and Daniel.

  “You had something big planned for tonight,” she said sullenly.

  “The boat is stocked for a long-distance voyage. I planned on sailing you out of here tonight to the destination of your choice.”

  Jessica’s eyes glistened, her face remaining neutral. She looked at the boat for a few seconds, turning back with an uncertain look. He could tell that she wanted to say something but couldn’t form the words.

  “Tonight’s proposal has no expiration date,” he said. “If you want to visit your mother—”

  “I don’t want to visit her,” she blurted, grabbing the chilled champagne bottle.

  He was convinced she intended to drink right from the bottle.

  “But I owe it to her,” she whispered, setting the wet bottle on the table next to the glasses. “I can give her closure. At least let her die at peace with herself. I should have done this years ago.”

  “You’ve done a lot for her over the years.”

  “I made sure she lived a comfortable life,” said Jessica. “Anonymously.”

  “She knows it’s you,” he said. “She has to know you’ve forgiven her.”

  “I should have told her myself years ago. She deserved better from me.”

  Daniel had to tread lightly here. Despite the fact that she had anonymously set up a trust to take care of her mother, Jessica harbored a deep, long-standing resentment against Vesna Erak for failing to protect her from the serial abuse suffered at the hands of her father. Unleashing that bitterness put her in a bad place.