"Don't worry. This information is worth a thousand deals. And just for the record, I wouldn't worry too much about my survivability on the streets. If the Pentagon coughs up my real file…you'll spend the next few days wondering why you're still alive," he said, and pulled away from Agent Olson.
"Maximum security. No contact…just the videoconference with his attorney, and I'll supervise," she said.
Chapter Fifteen
The noise inside of Task Force HYDRA's operations room could be heard fifty feet down the hallway in any direction. The raucous din attracted the attention of agents unconnected to the day's events, and once one of these interlopers learned the true scope of events, they would all scurry back to the safety of their undisturbed operations or task forces. Like a dying star, the Terrorist Financing Operations Section had imploded that morning, sending a dense, pulsing gravity throughout the building; a black hole that sucked agents in, and wouldn't let them go. Agents wishing to go home that night steered clear of the Counterterrorism Division that day.
Special Agent-in-Charge Sharpe listened intently to the silence on the phone. He stood in front of the large display screen, staring at information assembled regarding Jeffrey Munoz. There was nothing in his military service record or civilian records to suggest his possible involvement in today's fiasco. Munoz owned a successful chain of five coffee shops in Hartford, Connecticut, leaving the day-to-day operations of the entire business to one of the shop managers he had promoted two years ago. Harry Stebbens.
Agents interviewed Stebbens and several other employees. Their stories were the same. Munoz loved his work, spending most of his day and evenings in his coffee shops, chatting with patrons and trading stock futures on his laptop. Munoz was obsessed with beating the downtrodden stock market, and since he had delegated most of the grunt work to Stebbens, he was free to chase his interests. Financials for The Toasted Bean were solid, and Stebbens confirmed that he and Munoz had just run the numbers for opening a new shop. No red flags. Nothing to suggest Munoz would drive over a hundred miles to put an armor piercing bullet through Umar Salah's head.
Sharpe waited patiently for the Associate Executive Assistant Director for National Security to take the line. The FBI's request to the Pentagon for access to the Black Flag files had been formally submitted over an hour ago, followed by a few high level personal calls. It was rumored that the Director of the FBI would contact the Secretary of Defense personally to express the urgency of the situation. The line suddenly went live.
"Mr. Sharpe, I have the Executive Director for you now," a male voice said, followed by a click.
Sharpe stiffened. He had expected to speak with the Associate Director, Sandra Delgado, who he knew on a personal level. Delgado and Sharpe had attended The Academy at the same time, one class apart, and had stayed cordially in touch over the years. Sandra and her husband had dined with Ryan and his wife several times over the past year. Sharpe didn't know what to expect from the Director, and he didn't like surprises.
"Ryan, its Fred Carroll. Sorry to ambush you like this, but the situation has changed slightly, and Sandra will no longer be included in the communication chain between the Pentagon and the Bureau."
"I hope nothing is wrong, sir," risked Sharpe.
"Nothing wrong with Agent Delgado. Apparently, there is something very wrong with the Black Flag files. We need to maintain a minimal chain of information custody with regard to Black Flag," said Carroll.
"So Munoz wasn't lying?"
"Apparently not, and whatever is in those files is protected by the Department of Defense's strictest compartmentalized protocols. The Pentagon has agreed to grant us limited access. We will be allowed to use the information to unravel today's events, and determine if an immediate threat to the U.S. exists. My assistant will pass the protocols to you immediately. Don't mess around with this information. The Director himself convinced the White House that access to Black Flag was critical, but I have a feeling that the doors to this vault could slam shut at any time. Black Flag is a ticking time bomb that nobody wants aired in public. Contact me directly with updates. Instructions for direct contact will be contained in an email you should have just received. Let's get to the bottom of this ASAP, without pissing off the Pentagon."
"Understood, sir. I have the best agents working every angle of this case," said Sharpe.
"If you need more than that, don't hesitate to ask," said Executive Director Carroll, and the line went dead.
Sharpe waved to Mendoza, who pushed his way through several agents huddled over a bank of computer screens in the middle of the operations center. By the time he arrived a few seconds later, Sharpe had read the Director's email.
"Frank, take two agents from Counterintelligence, and report to the Information/Data bureau of the Pentagon. Your point of contact there will be Colonel Richard Farrington. I'll need you there long enough to thoroughly assess pertinent information in the Black Flag files. From what I gather, the files are a time bomb waiting to explode. Focus on information regarding Black Flag personnel.
“Munoz lived close enough to his assigned target to imply a geographic based assignment, so let's get names and start mapping out last known locations of all Black Flag operatives. We might find a trend. If we can nab another one of these murderers, we'll have our best chance at nailing this to the wall by the end of the day. I don't know what kind of information they will be willing to release, but I'd like to know about capabilities. If we need to take one of these guys down, I want to know exactly what kind of training they received. We need to know what were up against."
"Alright, I'm on it. Does Counter Intel know I'm coming to grab more of their talent?" asked Mendoza.
"They will in a few moments. And Frank, you and the two agents will have to sign Category One, Compartmentalized Information Security (CIS) agreements prior to viewing any of the Black Flag documents. Any agents who have even heard the words Black Flag will be required to sign a Category Two," said Sharpe.
"Christ. We better get word to Boston. The fewer agents exposed to this the better," said Mendoza.
"Once you arrive at the Pentagon, you will see a list of approved, Category One personnel. You are entitled to share any information you see with these individuals personally on a face-to-face contact basis. That should be a very short list. Myself, the two counterintelligence agents and Executive Assistant Director Carroll. That's it. I expect that you'll be running back and forth all day to report to me. The two agents will be required to stay inside the Sanctum during the active investigation, or until the Pentagon shuts us down. Let's nail this down quickly, Frank."
"We'll be thorough, and get everything we need as quickly as possible," Frank assured, exhaling deeply.
"The Pentagon will approve and classify all information to be shared, so be aggressive and fight for anything that might help us figure out what happened today. They have a protocol for this. Start with the names. I think this is our best starting point. Remember, you can share anything with me personally, but if it's not approved by the Pentagon, it's not going onto these screens. If they won't approve something you feel is critical to the investigation, you need to get your ass back here as fast as possible, so we can press the Director for more cooperation," Sharpe said, and picked up one of the nearby phones.
"I need to get you two agents, and you need to be at the Pentagon ten minutes ago."
"I'll be in touch," Mendoza said, and made to bolt out of the room.