"Let's get a third tier in the works. I want to send a headquarters team to each site. Four agent minimum. Let's make sure we have one member from Terror Financing in each group, then a good mix of agents from Investigative and Counterterror. We need our own agents on scene ASAP. We can't afford to miss anything," said Sharpe.
"I'll work with Agent Mendoza to get the teams assigned and out the door with the necessary field support," Olson responded immediately.
"Great. I want those teams on site by mid-morning," he added, and both Mendoza and Olson nodded vigorously.
"Next. Comms. Anything?"
Special Agent Keith Weber walked forward a few steps from a position against the left wall of the room. He flipped open a battered pea-green government issued log book, which barely looked more weathered than he did. Sharpe saw that he had a sizable coffee stain on his light blue oxford shirt, which could not be hidden by fully buttoning his rumpled suit jacket. Weber pushed up a pair of wire rim glasses to squint at the log book through puffy, red eyes.
"I've been on with Fort Meade all night. Nothing unusual prior to the murders. We've been poring over this for hours, and we don't see any chatter or patterns that I would classify as suspicious, or even remotely interesting."
"It didn't go dead before the killings?" Sharpe interrupted.
"Not that we could tell. We traced the patterns back a month, and we're seeing the same level of activity," he said.
"And this morning?"
"We've seen a growing increase in communications, both national and overseas. In my opinion, news of the murders is starting to spread through these networks. We're doing everything we can to scan for more meaningful information or patterns, but so far, we haven't detected any direct previous link between our targeted communications and the coordinated attack. There is clearly a growing response after the event," Weber stated, and moved back to the wall.
"I can't stress enough the importance of figuring this out. If Al Qaeda pulled the plug on these guys, we could be looking at an attack on our country, or U.S. interests abroad. Until we figure it out, we need to treat this like an imminent threat."
He looked over at Supervisory Special Agent Olson and added, "Get those teams out the door before this investigation is hijacked by National Security. Our liaisons will have the best chance of uncovering something useful."
Sharpe was interrupted by Agent Mendoza, "Sir, I just took a call from the lead agent in Newport. They're pretty sure they just captured the shooter alive. He apparently slipped on some rocks and knocked himself unconscious trying to climb down the seawall behind Umar Salah's mansion. They think he's been lying among the rocks all night. They're moving him to the Newport police station."
"Get back on the phone and tell him that I want the suspect transported to the Boston field office. Just make sure they don't piss off local law enforcement. We'll still need their cooperation on scene at the house. And tell him I want that guy in an armored personnel carrier."
"I'm not sure they'll be able to-"
"I'm just trying to underscore the importance of his safe delivery. Did they say whether the suspect was Arab?" interrupted Sharpe.
"Dark-skinned. That's all I got. I'll get more details," he said, and stepped out of the room to make the call.
"Agent Olson, I want you to oversee this personally. Call Gregory Carlisle in Counterterror, and tell him to bring his special interrogation team with you to Boston. He'll know what I'm talking about. I want this guy talking."
"Yes sir," she said, and pulled out her cell phone, sitting back down on the desk.
"Alright, that's it, let's get the teams organized and out of here. Support, I want full links set up to each site. Mobile links for the teams. Data, voice, video…the works. I want to be able to process everything as quickly as possible," yelled Sharpe, as the room erupted into a chaos of multi-tasking FBI agents.
"You got it boss," yelled a dark haired, slender male agent from the back of the room.
"Agent Weber," he yelled.
Weber barreled through the gaggle of agents breaking for the door. "Sir?"
"How long have you been up?" he asked.
"I never went home yesterday. I took the duty section first shift last night. I was on my way home when I got recalled at about one forty."
"I wish I could tell you that sleep was in your near future, but it doesn't look that way. First thing I need you to do is prepare a media-withhold request for immediate distribution to local law enforcement. I need this in ten minutes. I want to shut down all publicly available information until we have a handle on what we're dealing with."
"I'll have it for you ASAP," he said, and turned to leave.
"And Keith, the coffee works better when you drink it," Sharpe said, touching the coffee stain on Agent Weber’s shirt.
Special Agent Weber smirked and bolted out of the room.
Sharpe turned and approached Heather Olson, who had started to dial her phone to contact Counterterror's duty section-lead
"Heather, I want you to lean on this guy. Tell Gregory to give me a call immediately. I don't want him to hold back on this one. The stakes are too high. We might have to push the envelope here. I hope that doesn't bother you."
"I'd hate to think I've developed a reputation for being squeamish," she replied, with a grin.
"On the contrary. That's why I woke you up at one-thirty in the morning, instead of your boss. Keep me updated. Frequently. Good luck."
"Understood sir. Thank you," she said, and turned back to her phone again.
She was interrupted by Special Agent Justin Edwards.
"Agent Olson, may I take the lead on the Newport case? I have considerable experience leading high profile case investigations."
"Justin, I'm familiar with your background. The Boston team is already top-heavy with Greg Carlisle in the mix. I need you at one of the other sites," she said, and returned her focus to her phone.
"Yeah, but I have a solid interrogations background. I'd be more help in Boston than at any of the other sites."
"I don't need another interrogator in Boston. I need investigators. Do you want to go to Newport? I can let you take Newport, but you stay in Newport."
"Anything that mattered in Newport is already on its way up to Boston," he said, and glanced to the side with a look of disgust.
"Pick your team for Maine. You'll get travel arrangements, a tech support package, and background information on your murder victim within the hour. Turn something up in Maine, and you can join us in Boston. I need to make a call," she said, and turned away to dial Counter Terrorism's duty desk.
"I don't want to go to Maine," he protested.
"Then stay here and work a phone," she said over her shoulder.
A few seconds passed while Justin stared contemptuously at her back.
"I hope they have sushi," he said, and turned to walk away.
Agent Olson glanced over her shoulder with high hopes that the arrogant prick had finally moved on. He was a talented FBI agent, but she couldn't stand him. Movie star handsome, impeccably groomed, Harvard law degree, wealthy and connected parents. She could list another ten reasons why Justin Edwards would rocket up the career ladder at the FBI, despite his barely suppressed sexism and perpetually arrogant demeanor. This almost bothered her as much as the amount of time he spent staring at her breasts. She saw him closing in on an attractive, blond female special agent in the center of the room. She thought about intervening, but the duty section head for Counterterrorism Operations answered the line.
"This is Supervisory Special Agent Heather Olson, I need to contact Agent Gregory Carlisle immediately."