"CIA agents are usually assigned to legitimate jobs, which are their cover. This sounds dramatically different," interrupted Sharpe.
"Right. Black Flag operatives are trained as small teams, according to their assigned area of operation. They are selected for the area of operation first, then brought into the program. Daniel Petrovich was assigned to Serbia, which makes some sense given his background. Father Serbian, mother Polish. Not sure if he spoke Serbian before the program, but it's fair to make that assumption. McKie said the selection process was the key to Black Flag's success."
"Success?" said Sharpe.
"I asked. McKie wasn't willing to share any operational details. Like my fax implied, this group is extremely dangerous. They have the skills to survive and escape nearly any situation, backed by extensive experience putting these skills through the wringer. I assume the takedown teams know what they're facing?"
"They've been thoroughly briefed. I could read between the lines of your fax. It must really burn Munoz to have been caught like this. He turned his back on Sanderson pretty quick," said Sharpe.
"Maybe they were all dragged back into this against their will. The Black Flag program was run exclusively by Sanderson. I didn't get the impression there was any oversight. These rogue programs always have problems. Who knows? But Munoz wasn't exactly living like some disgruntled, mentally scarred burnout. He left one of his coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, for an appointment that wasn't on the books, and wound up unconscious in Newport. Hell, maybe we'll find a few more of these guys sitting around, waiting to chat about General Sanderson," said Mendoza, and they both sat quiet for a few moments, contemplating Mendoza's comment.
"I wonder if Petrovich falls into this category," Sharpe muttered, just above his breath.
"Why the focus on Petrovich?"
"Something about him didn't fit from the start. He only lives a few miles from the murder scene, which seemed a little close to home…"
"Convenient. Knows the landscape, traffic patterns, can dress like a local. I think it's perfect. Shit, if Munoz hadn't slipped, we would never have found Petrovich," said Mendoza.
"I know," Sharpe whispered, "but none of the other suspects live closer than sixty miles. Most live even further away. And then there's the operative in Concord, NH. Steven Gedman. Our team just discovered some interesting news about him."
Mendoza shrugged.
"A National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database search,” Sharpe continued, “turned up a quick hit. Mr. Gedman was recently picked up by police for a domestic incident. We called the Concord police, and learned that he's an involuntary guest at Concord Hospital's inpatient psychiatric ward. His wife said he had a breakdown, and started running around the house packing suitcases, yelling…are you ready for this?"
Mendoza nodded.
"He kept screaming 'They're trying to drag me back in!' and all kinds of stuff that made no sense to her."
"No kidding. Are you thinking-"
"Yes. That Gedman was supposed to be the one to kill Mohammed Ghani, but he crumbled under the pressure. I can't imagine any of these guys can remain stable for the long run. Especially if their main mission was undercover work."
"Still, Sanderson had other choices. A guy in upstate New York could have made the trip," countered Mendoza.
"I don't know. Gedman was hospitalized one night before the murders. Petrovich was right there. I think he's their weak link. We find him, we find Sanderson. At the end of the day, I just want confirmation that this isn't the beginning of a bigger attack. I'll need Sanderson for that. The FBI and White House can figure out what to do with his pet project later."
Sharpe's desk phone punctuated the conversation with a shrill ring tone, causing the agent to quickly sweep it out of its cradle.
"Special Agent Sharpe," he said, and listened.
"Give all locations a ten minute warning. I want a coordinated strike at 2100 hours, eastern time. We'll be right there," Sharpe said, and hung up the phone. "All of the teams are ready."
"Let's go fishing, sir," Mendoza said, rising from his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Special Agent Justin Edwards felt like a second class citizen. He sat in the front passenger seat of a rented Chevy Impala, parked deep inside the Longfellow Elementary School parking lot and hidden from the light traffic on Stevens Avenue. Underneath his navy blue, nylon FBI parka, he wore a stripped down tactical vest, loaned to him by the Portland Police department, His service pistol, a boxy Glock 23, was jammed uncomfortably between his waist and seat, causing him to continuously squirm and fidget, like a child on a long car trip. This Impala, supposedly the best car available on the FBI's budget, smelled like stale cigarette smoke and cherry air freshener. The car's windows had been open since they drove it off the rental lot at the Portland Jetport, but the nasty odor continued to permeate the car, and his lungs itched.
Nearly a dozen police vehicles crowded the southern corner of the lot, casting long shadows across the parking lot from the orange security light glowing over the gymnasium entrance doors. Five black and white Suburbans formed a row, extending from an industrial dumpster near the kitchen delivery dock to the edge of the ancient, three-story school, positioned for a quick exit onto Stevens Avenue toward their target. Several fully equipped SWAT officers stood in a loose circle around the second SUV in line, and he could see at least a dozen more heavily armed officers scattered throughout the rest of the vehicles.
The other cars were unmarked sedans, like Edward's car, filled with at least twenty additional plain clothed and uniformed law enforcement officers. They had arrived at the parking lot two hours earlier through a back entrance to the lot, and waited while the sun disappeared below the trees. He was accustomed to long, boring stakeouts, but the situation was different in this parking lot, and he detested the dynamic that had developed.
Every time he approached the SWAT huddle up near the half dozen Portland Police Department SUV's, he got cold looks from the heavily armed, black clad men. So he sat back with the rest of the FBI team, crammed into a crappy, American made sedan that he wouldn't be caught dead in on the weekend. At least he wasn't in the minivan with the forensics equipment and the real geeks. One of the younger agents, whose name he didn’t care enough to remember, suggested that the mini-van should be his command post. He just shook his head at the kid.
Technically, Justin Edwards was in charge of this entire operation. The investigation fell under federal jurisdiction, and he was the senior agent on scene. Unfortunately, the FBI had no organic assets in Maine or New Hampshire, and nobody cared enough to send Boston SWAT assets up Interstate 95 to give him some semblance of authority here. Instead, he had been forced to grovel with the Portland Police department to assemble their SWAT team for the takedown at 18 Lawn Avenue. After placing an uncomfortable call to FBI headquarters, right in front of Edwards, the Portland Police liaison officer got the ball rolling for him.
Within an hour, he had Portland and Maine State Police SWAT teams at his disposal. He briefed the teams about the threat level and rules of engagement (ROE), and that was when he lost control of the operation. Once the SWAT teams had their target and ROE, it became frustratingly clear to Edwards that they didn't need or want his input. They started planning the operation and scouting the location without seeking his input, or keeping him informed. He knew they had a few cars on Lawn Avenue, keeping an eye on the house, but beyond that, he didn't know very much about their planned raid.