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 silencer. 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 clothing 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 window panes, 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
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 through it 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 bio-metric feedback. Gregory Carlisle sat across the desk from Munoz with his hands crossed. Three agents and a few technicians sat scattered around the room, 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, and 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 changes," said the agent, 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, then come back in and tell him 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. Tell Greg to be very nebulous about Munoz's final destination, but have him throw in a 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," said the agent, with a smirk of approval hidden by the dark.
Chapter Eleven
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," Parker said, 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?"