"I'm really sorry about Keller," she said.
"I wish I could have dragged them both out of there, but Keller was dead, and I thought there might be a chance to save Claire," he lied, and buried a few more secrets.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Sharpe finished his presentation well aware that he had broken into a sweat. He hadn't slept in nearly thirty-six hours, and had poured nearly all of his remaining energy into sounding coherent. Truthfully, he didn't care how he looked at this point. Immediately prior to the start of his performance, he had stared into the bathroom mirror at his puffy, bloodshot eyes and sallow face. He looked like shit, so a little sweat was just the icing on the cake for his unusual audience.
He had expected to brief his direct boss, Sandra Delgado, Associate Director for the National Security Branch, but the sensitive nature of Black Flag excluded her from this briefing. The Director of the FBI, Benjamin Shelby, sat in front of him, along with the Deputy Director, and they didn't want a watered down briefing. Sandra's boss, Fred Carroll, Executive Director for National Security, sat toward the back of the room. Several individuals that remained unidentified filled in the gaps. He assumed they were from the White House, Justice Department and the Department of Defense. As the most junior person in the room, Special Agent Frank Mendoza stood near the door. Sharpe envied his position near the only escape route from this nightmare.
Benjamin Shelby leaned back in his seat and pressed his hands together like he was about to start praying. He moved the joined hands to his nose and took in a deep breath. He exhaled deeply.
"Agent Sharpe, do you see any way to salvage HYDRA's investigation at this point?"
"Negative, sir. Each head of the HYDRA led my task force to a primary contact, and in some cases, a secondary contact within the Muslim community. We've been monitoring these contacts for several months, trying to penetrate one of the terrorist cells. As of yesterday, everything went cold. There was a flurry of electronic chatter yesterday morning, and now all of our sources are silent. The suspected cell in Cleveland disappeared yesterday afternoon. We had a full surveillance package in place, watching a group of three suspected Al Qaeda operatives. They vanished."
The Director turned to Fred Carroll. "I want that group found and removed from U.S. soil immediately."
"Yes, sir," replied Carroll, who looked just as terrified as Sharpe felt.
"Well, this has been the worst couple of days for the FBI in my recent recollection, though it could have been worse, I suppose. I agree with Sharpe's assessment that we have been manipulated on an unprecedented scale. I can only imagine that General Sanderson hatched this plot years ago. Colonel Farrington's placement in the Pentagon twenty-six months ago was no coincidence," the Director said, pausing for a few moments before continuing.
"Effective immediately, Special Agent Frank Mendoza will lead a much smaller Task Force HYDRA, in an attempt to salvage something from the task force's three years of hard work."
The words hit Sharpe like a sledgehammer. That was it for him. Summarily replaced by the Director. Three years of back breaking work, late nights, and an estranged family. Now he had nothing to show for it but a sidelined position somewhere unimportant and forgotten.
"Don't look so depressed, Agent Sharpe. You came into this room looking like a warmed over pile of dog feces. Now you look worse," he said, and only the Deputy Director stifled a brief laugh, which drew a strained look from the normally deadpan serious Director.
Sharpe didn't know what to say, or do at this moment. His career hung by a thread, or maybe it was already done. He had no idea. Director Shelby was feared by everyone within the FBI, and was infamous for dismissing Agents on the spot for failure or incompetence.
"I've heard good things about you from Agents Delgado and Carroll. Pretty much from everyone. Task Force HYDRA had great potential, and frankly, yesterday's events went beyond our control. General Sanderson is a grave national security threat. A dangerous rogue, who feels he is above our laws, and shows no hesitation to strike at the heart of the Pentagon, FBI…even the CIA. I don't believe for one second that the strike on that Georgetown safe house was conducted by Serbian Ultra-nationalists. That's a pile of crap higher than the Capitol Building. Sanderson is up to something big, and I want him stopped."
He paused, and glared at Sharpe.
"Agent Sharpe, you are now in charge of new task force dedicated to putting an end to General Sanderson's activities domestic and abroad. I want this man behind bars. Nobody tramples on the FBI without severe consequences. Not while I'm in charge. Work with Mendoza to keep the right people on HYDRA, and start working with your directors to form the new task force. ASAP. One of your first tasks will be to figure out who paid the Brown River contractor. The Serbians? I don't think so. We need to start making a few connections," the Director said, and stood up.
"Thank you, sir. We'll put Sanderson out of business," said Sharpe.
"That's my expectation. Sooner rather than later. All of your people are OK?" the Director asked.
"Some of my best agents got banged up pretty bad, but they'll be fine, sir."
"Good. Nothing better than a bunch of talented, pissed off Agents on a task force. Make sure you keep those people close," the Director said, and walked toward the door, which Mendoza had opened.
"Mendoza."
"Yes, sir," replied Agent Mendoza.
"Don't you have something more important to do than hold the door?" asked Director Shelby.
"Yes, sir. Thank you for the assignment," said Mendoza.
"Don't thank me, thank Sharpe. He went to bat for everyone on the task force, except himself. For the life of me, I don't understand why my agents can't recognize success. Get out of here," he said, and Agent Mendoza met Sharpe's eyes briefly before he scrambled out of the conference room ahead of the Director.
Chapter Fifty
Daniel rested on a rocking chair and stared out at a vast sea of spruces and firs, which was occasionally interrupted by a cluster of red maples or beech. An unimproved dirt road exited the thick forest and ended in a large field next to an old, gray two-story barn. The field held a dozen cars, with license plates from several different states. He had only seen one car arrive since he had parked himself on the covered porch of the main house, a restored farm house. The man who got out of the car looked Hispanic, and Daniel figured he was a former operative assigned to Central or South America. The man had walked behind the main house to a new structure connected by a breezeway.
Daniel had been treated for his injuries by a doctor in the new building, and had been fed a hot meal. He still felt dizzy from whatever neurotoxin Farrington had used to disable him. Sanderson had been smart to keep them separated while at this compound. He had seen neither Parker nor Farrington since he had arrived. He had awoken in a stolen car halfway to West Virginia, and rode in dead silence with the two of them for the remainder of the trip. Only Parker broke the silence during the initial few minutes. He informed Daniel that Jessica was safely on her way to the compound.
Petrovich wondered how long this place had been in operation. From what he could tell, it hadn't served as a farm in at least two decades. The barn showed signs of permanent neglect, and the majority of the house's restoration efforts had been focused on the inside. Driving up the dirt road, his first impression was that Sanderson had somehow mismanaged Srecko Hadzic's involuntary donation of nearly one hundred million dollars. But upon further inspection, he could tell that the shabby initial appearance was intentional. Subtle camouflage for anyone that wandered down the wrong road, and then somehow managed to turn down three more unmarked roads to stumble upon the farm. The compound was secluded, and at the moment, well-guarded by patrols and a hidden security checkpoint along the dirt road, far from the house.