“Only if you’ve signed on the dotted line,” Sanderson said. “You’d like it down here.”
“Not sure how much use I could be,” said Berg.
“You’d be surprised. Times change. Administrations change. A person’s value can fluctuate, but their potential remains the same. Given the right circumstances, you’ll be worth your weight in gold again.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Just trying to say that you’re always welcome around here,” said Sanderson.
“Let’s hope I’m not forced to take you up on the offer. Let me know when everything is in place,” said Berg, disconnecting the call.
Sanderson lowered the phone and took a few puffs on his Montecristo No. 2. He wasn’t thrilled by the lack of details passed by Berg. The CIA officer had been generous with information in the past, which led him to believe that the mission was a long shot at best, even if they miraculously caught a sniff of Reznikov. Even more troubling was Berg’s subtle air of desperation.
He understood Berg’s position well. The Black Flag organization had lain dormant under the new administration, and Sanderson was eager to get back in the game. A fine line existed between eagerness and desperation. An often-imperceptible line, mostly marked by patience — a quality rigorously honed by Sanderson during his years in exile. He sensed that Berg might have drifted over the line to a dangerous place, where judgment lapsed and good men and women were senselessly killed. He’d have to carefully evaluate the intelligence provided to support whatever mission eventually materialized. They’d come too far to throw caution to the wind.
The Black Flag program had enjoyed a productive two years after their controversial but silently celebrated destruction of the Russian bioweapons program at Vektor Institute. A few months before the raid, they had also played a critical role in unraveling and stopping the bioweapons plot perpetrated by True America-aligned extremists. The mainstream True America political movement successfully disavowed any connection to the fanatics, but Sanderson had no doubt his organization’s involvement in the fiasco was the primary reason why his program had remained dormant for the past several months. It also validated his decision to relocate the headquarters and scatter his teams. Sanderson and his operatives represented an untidy loose end for the True American administration.
A small group of operatives approached the darkened porch from the direction of a waiting convoy of SUVs. He could identify them by their general bearing and movements. Richard Farrington carried himself fully upright and moved assertively. The soldier was afraid of nothing, but not out of a misplaced sense of bravado. He was confident in his own competency and the proficiency of his colleagues, which extended to the surveillance teams that had ensured the valley’s security and continued to watch as they packed up to depart.
Trailing several feet behind, Jared Hoffman’s shadowy form lurked over Farrington’s shoulder. To the casual observer, the two would appear to exude the same air of sureness, but Sanderson could recognize the stark difference between them, night or day. Trained primarily as a sniper, Hoffman couldn’t help distrusting the security of his surroundings. When you spent hours observing unaware targets through a scope at great distances, you never quite shook that subtle, paranoid feeling that you could be in the same crosshairs anywhere and at any time.
He walked upright like Farrington, but his movements were stiff, less fluid, almost like he was tensed for action. Out of habit, he frequently scanned his surroundings for telltale signs that he was being glassed. Usually mistakes: a flash of sunlight reflected off an unprotected scope lens, an out-of-place open window, movement in the distance. Anything that might give away a sniper or provide him with the fraction of a second he needed to throw himself to the ground. He’d already glanced around twice since meeting Farrington behind the rear vehicle, despite the sheer blackness of the night. Some habits died hard. Others made it harder to die. Hoffman’s habit definitely fell into the latter category.
“Gentlemen,” said Sanderson, “we ready to roll?”
“Affirmative,” said Farrington, stopping a few feet in front of the porch steps. “Need us to lock up behind you?”
“I took care of it,” said Sanderson. “How did Castillo fare in the hills?”
Hoffman stepped into the open next to Farrington. “She’s ready to take on the new role. A-team level. I can still shoot better, but she’s sneaky as shit.”
Sanderson joined them on the soft ground. “What do you think?”
“She’s more than paid her dues. If she can work a sniper rifle half as good as Jared claims—”
“It’s a verified claim. Petrovich built the foundation; Melendez put up the framework and put all the finishing touches in place. She can shoot,” said Hoffman.
“Then that settles it,” said Farrington. “She’s on the primary assault team unless the mission requires a homogenous Caucasian unit for infiltration purposes.”
“If that’s the case, I’d be happy to fill in,” said Hoffman. “I could use a few days in Finland or Norway. Frankly, I’d be happy to go anywhere outside of the usual shitholes we’ve seen.”
“I’d be glad to see one of those shitholes again,” said Farrington. “Anything good come from your call?”
“I’m not sure. Sounds like a long shot, whatever it turns out to be,” said Sanderson. “And I doubt we’ll be sent anywhere to your liking, Jared.”
“At this point, I think the team would take anything,” said Jared. “Myself included. I’d even consider stepping foot in Russia again.”
“You and I are permanently off the Russia list,” said Farrington.
“Moscow’s most wanted.” Hoffman chuckled.
Sanderson placed a hand on Farrington’s shoulder. “If this pans out and the target in question emerges in Russia, we might not have a choice.”
“Jesus,” Hoffman breathed. “Reznikov?”
“Yes. Our ever-elusive friend has once again flown his coop. We’re still not sure who sprang him this time, but the Russkies haven’t been crossed off the list of suspects.”
“If the Russians grabbed him, he’s probably a slurry of lye at this point,” said Farrington.
“I’d like to think so,” Sanderson said, “but he’d be an invaluable asset to a bioweapons program, and the Russians don’t have the best track record of complying with the international Biological Weapons Convention.
“Fucking Russians,” muttered Hoffman.
“The CIA has no idea who nabbed him. They just know that he vanished under suspicious circumstances, minutes before a joint U.S.-Russian Special Forces raid against a covert laboratory.”
“Yep. My money is on the Russians,” said Hoffman.
“I wish I could say I’d take that bet,” stated Sanderson. “Let’s move out. I want to hit the ground running when we get back to the compound. We have twelve hours to position a rapid-response team in Buenos Aires.”
“What’s the size of the strike package?” Farrington asked.
“As many as we can stuff into one of the larger Dassault Falcons or an extended-range Gulf Stream,” said Sanderson.
“Then we better move it out,” said Farrington after quickly glancing at his watch. “This is going to be tight.”
Chapter 15
Ryan Sharpe replaced the handset on his encrypted desk phone and shook his head, mumbling a distant obscenity. Something was brewing at the CIA, and it gave him an uneasy feeling. He’d just taken an unexpected call from the former director of the FBI, Frederick Shelby, who personally requested his help arranging the international version of an “all-points bulletin” for a Russian national. Shelby wanted Ryan to go beyond the usual broad coordination with Interpol and liaison directly with Europol and the major players on each continent, focusing on countries with the most extensive and expansive law enforcement networks.