"Are we in business?" General Sanderson's voice asked immediately.
"Yes, sir. The files looked to be in an original form."
"Do you have a timeline for extraction?" Sanderson's voice replied.
"I have seven in the Sanctum right now, but I expect the herd to thin as they start to wade through the file. Two of them will likely depart within the hour. I'm looking at an early evening, possibly a late afternoon timeline."
"Take your time, Rich. The file will be open for at least twenty four hours, if not longer."
"I understand, sir. But once these files are secured, we won't have another chance," uttered Sanderson, glancing around again.
"You'll have ample opportunity, I'm sure of it. Even if they suddenly shut down access to the file, you'll be the first to know. I trust your skills, Colonel. We've known each other for a long time."
Colonel Farrington's beeper vibrated, and he checked the number.
"I have to go, sir. Looks like a few of our guests might be leaving earlier than I expected."
"Understood. Keep me posted," said the General, and the line went dead.
Farrington ensured the cell phone was placed in meeting mode, to keep it silent, and grabbed his desk phone. He pressed one of the conference call buttons, and was immediately connected to staff sergeant Brodin within the Sanctum.
"Sir, Mr. Keller wishes to depart the Sanctum," she informed him.
"That was fast. I'll be right there," he replied, and glanced at the Sanctum's security door adjacent to his cubicle.
"And sir?" she whispered.
Colonel Farrington continued to listen without responding. Sergeant Brodin lowered her voice even further.
"I think Keller might be eidetic."
"Interesting. How long did he look through the files?"
"Six minutes. He didn't appear to do much more than glance at the sheets, like he wasn't really paying attention. McKie didn't appear to be bothered by it. I just thought you should know, sir."
"That's why I have you in there, Staff Sergeant. I'll be right over," he said, and hung up the phone.
A photographic memory. Very interesting.
Fifty feet away, Julio Mendez shook his head from the safety of his "office." Colonel Cellphone's at it again.
Chapter Seventeen
General Sanderson sat at a dark brown Shaker style table in an apartment on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. He had recently acquired the unit through a real estate holding company owned by a loyal, longtime friend, a powerful friend who had more to do with the day's events than simply providing an untraceable real estate purchase.
Sitting at the rectangular table, he faced a sliding glass door that led to a modest balcony two stories above a lush garden and small, undisturbed pool. Thick curtains gave him privacy from prying eyes on other balconies, and reduced the glare from a bright, declining sun. A stainless steel refrigerator hummed behind him, and marked the beginning of a granite and cherry cabinet appointed kitchen that filled the space to his immediate left. A sizable, sparsely furnished media room loomed to his right, containing a simple dark leather couch, coffee table and wall mounted flat screen television. Empty built-in bookshelves flanked the television.
The General alternated his attention among three laptop computers situated in a semi-circle on the table. A tangle of wires extended over the back of the table, split between a massive power strip and a broadband modem jammed at odd angles on one of the chairs. He confirmed Petrovich's flight schedule and picked up one of five cell phones sitting on the table next to the computers. Each one was plugged into a charger connected to the same power strip as the computers.
He dialed Parker.
"Sir?"
"Our guest should be arriving shortly. I want you to pick him up and find a rental car agency well away from the airport. Rent a car in your name, and give him your SUV. I don't expect our friends to piece things together this quickly, but we can't take any chances. Take him to my place north of the city, and wait for instructions. Make sure to outfit our friend well. I may need him at a moment's notice."
"Understood, sir. I'm a few minutes away from the airport. Any word from Farrington?"
"Everything is in place. We're just waiting for the right moment. Let me know when the two of you have arrived safely," the General said, and closed the phone.
Chapter Eighteen
The first encrypted fax from the Pentagon arrived thirty-two minutes after Special Agent Frank Mendoza and his team entered the Sanctum. Sharpe took custody of sealed folder from Special Agent Keith Weber.
Weber's face appeared even more exhausted than this morning, though he had managed to find a new dress shirt to replace the crumpled mess he had presented to the task force this morning. Sharpe had watched Weber liberally pour Visine into his bloodshot eyes all morning, and the pale, lanky agent had never been seen without a cup of coffee in his hands. As tired as Weber might be, Sharpe was relieved to see him still functioning at full capacity. As chief communications officer for the task force, Weber was unlikely to find a moment's rest in the next twenty-four hours, especially with CIS Category Two protocols blanketed over the entire task force. Any breach of information security would fall squarely on his shoulders…and Sharpe's.
All eyes in the task force's operations center drifted toward Sharpe as he broke the packet's security seal. Aware of his audience, Sharpe motioned for one of the agents to come closer. Special Agent Dana O'Reilly from the criminal investigation section headed over to the front of the room to join him. As she navigated the workstations, Sharpe removed the two page document and began reading, his face betraying no initial response to the information as he processed what Mendoza had been able to push past the Pentagon gatekeepers. It was more than he had expected. He handed the first sheet over to Agent O'Reilly.
O'Reilly was another rising star within the FBI. Graduating number one in her class at the Academy, she reported to the Los Angeles field office in 1999, and made a positive, lasting impression on Special Agent Olson, who personally requested her assignment to headquarters in 2004, several years ahead of schedule on a typical agent's career ladder climb. As usual, Olson's instincts had been dead-on, and Agent O'Reilly didn't disappoint. Her investigative skill and efficiency matched her sharp, angular face and short brown hair.
"Agent O'Reilly, I want full workups on each of these names. Start with their most current known locations, and move outward. I'm looking for a possible geographic pattern. Munoz lived within easy driving distance of Newport. Focus on the East Coast. If their last known address isn't on the East Coast, or close, move on to the next name. I want to start shaping this investigation in twenty minutes."
"We'll process all of the names at once, with an appropriate geographic priority filter. Give me ten minutes to get this up on the screens," she said, and rushed away before Sharpe could respond.
"And I want these names, with pictures, to go out highest priority, everywhere. Classify them as suspected terrorists, no fly lists. The works!"
He sat down at his temporary workstation near the front of the chaotic room, and watched as several agents and technical support staff moved about in a flurry of activity, reenergized with the new information. Agent O'Reilly rolled a chair up to one of the occupied workstations, and handed the list over to one of the task force's tech staff. She gestured toward several other workstations, then the large screens above Sharpe's head. Satisfied that O'Reilly had this under control, he turned his attention to the second sheet. He thought Mendoza must have fought the Pentagon to get this sheet released. Although he could drop this sheet on the subway, and nobody could make sense of it, he was seasoned enough to understand the sinister implications. Of course, the notes provided by Munoz gave him a unique frame of reference to analyze the sheet.