The request itself wasn’t unusual, though requests like these usually reached the FBI’s National Security Branch through a specific process designed to automatically screen for potential or known conflicts of interest with ongoing FBI investigations. What struck him as unusual was the fact that Sharpe had already vetted the individual in question late yesterday afternoon, based on an identical request by Karl Berg at the CIA. Sharpe couldn’t know for sure, since efforts at his own organization were often mistakenly duplicated, but he got the distinct impression that neither Shelby nor Berg was aware of each other’s activity. This feeling convinced him to take a second look at the individual under scrutiny to be certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything.
Since taking on the role of associate executive assistant director of the FBI’s National Security Branch, a substantial promotion fast-tracked by Shelby just over a year ago, Sharpe had refocused a significant portion of the branch’s resources to the detection, tracking, and prevention of emerging weapons of mass destruction (WMD) threats, foreign and domestic. After the attempted bioweapons attack two years ago by homegrown terrorists, he’d sworn never to let a similar catastrophe get that close to the United States again. He owed it to the men and women under his command who were murdered and injured in the cowardly bomb attack against the National Counterterrorism Center.
Neither Berg nor Shelby had expanded upon their reasons for the request, but with Berg involved, Sharpe’s spider sense tingled. Add Shelby’s personal request to the mix, and his hair was standing on end. Another look was warranted. If they weren’t going to connect the dots for him, he’d put his best people to work on it. They never failed to produce results.
Sharpe navigated through a series of menus on his computer screen to arrive at the electronic dossier for Grigor Sokolov. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an extensive file. Not only that, it told a familiar story. Nothing stood out. Like most of the for-hire Russian mercenaries and mafiya enforcers, Sokolov was a former noncommissioned officer in the GRU Spetsnaz during the late Soviet era. Drastic military spending cuts and the targeted political dismissal dumped thousands of Russian Special Forces soldiers on the job market, with few skills to offer beyond murder, sabotage, and mayhem — a perfect fit for a number of unsavory corporations and organizations rising to power in the post-communist industrial market.
The scant details of Sokolov’s post-GRU career didn’t raise an eyebrow. He’d dropped off the radar in 2008, his last documented link to a four-man crew that rather uniquely specialized in direct action rather than the usual high-risk security detail work taken by mercenaries. That was the only thing that remotely stood out. He led a team that gained a reputation for kidnapping, assassination, and sabotage. Exactly what he had been trained to do by the Soviet military.
Sharpe scanned the information one more time, focusing on the dates. 2008 was the only connection he could make, and that was shaky at best. Sokolov disappeared the same year True America extremists tried to poison Congress and thousands of innocent Americans. Not much to go on there. Intelligence sources couldn’t pinpoint a narrow time frame for his disappearance. He’d popped up a few times a year, with no detectable regularity, loosely tied to a murder or crime by a foreign federal law enforcement agency. His file went cold in 2008 and had stayed cold. Until now.
He drummed his fingers on the desk next to the keyboard, then marked the electronic file for distribution to Dana O’Reilly, his deputy assistant director. He typed a quick email to O’Reilly and waited. A few seconds passed then a quick rap on the closed door announced her presence.
“Come in!” he called.
She appeared in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“Shut the door and grab a seat,” he said, turning his screen to face the empty chair at the side of his desk.
He rolled his chair a few feet to the right so they could view the screen together. Sharpe no longer paused or winced internally when he looked at her, a monumental task given the long, twisting scar that ran from her chin to her left ear. It was unfair to pretend not to notice, on top of the fact that it was virtually impossible. Nobody in the office or headquarters was immune. She was a hero, if not somewhat of a legend in the FBI, but none of that erased the angry red scar and the awkward moments that followed her around day after day, hour after hour.
“This guy looks worse than I do,” O’Reilly commented.
Sharpe was once again caught off guard by her self-deprecating humor. Sokolov had a scar running from one ear to the other, the obvious victim of a botched throat slitting.
“You need to get used to it. Helps me get through the day,” she said, an underlying tone of sadness hanging on the statement.
The scar wasn’t her only reminder of that fateful day. Eric Hesterman’s massive frame had absorbed enough of the blast to keep her alive, but she’d been close enough to the explosion to suffer severe internal and external injuries. She’d spent the better part of a year recovering, the prospect of her return to the FBI never a sure thing.
A barely noticeable limp and a subtle but perpetually pained look stood as a testament to the fight she had won to get back to work. Sharpe didn’t hesitate to bring her on board as his deputy. He didn’t do it because he felt sorry for her. He did it because she had been one of the finest special agents he’d ever worked with — and she would have been Frank Mendoza’s first pick. The thought of Frank always stopped him in his tracks.
“I’m trying, Dana.”
“You’re doing better than most,” she replied. “Who is this guy?”
“Grigor Sokolov. Ex-GRU turned mercenary,” stated Sharpe, sitting back in his chair.
“Why are we looking at this guy?”
“Because within the span of twenty-four hours, I’ve received two requests to add this guy to our watch list, along with Interpol, Europol, and any other national law enforcement agency that will play ball with us.”
“Intriguing.”
“Wait until you hear who made the requests,” said Sharpe, pausing for a moment. “Karl Berg and Frederick Shelby.”
O’Reilly’s eyes widened a fraction. “I’d like to change my original assessment to disturbing.”
“Let the record reflect that this is highly disturbing,” said Sharpe. “And just when you thought it couldn’t get stranger, I’m pretty sure the requests were independent, as in not coordinated or purposefully duplicative.”
“Interesting.”
“Something’s up,” said Sharpe, “and I need you to get to the bottom of it. There’s not much to work with, but you’ve performed some miracles in the past.”
“I’ll start digging.”
“Discreetly, please,” said Sharpe. “The walls have ears nowadays, and I don’t need this to get back to Shelby.”
“I’m glad you said something,” she stated, looking serious. “I was going to put the entire branch to work on this.”
A sly smile slowly materialized on her face, reminding Sharpe that he was in the presence of a world-renowned smart-ass.
“That’s not funny,” said Sharpe, shaking his head with a grin.
“Yes, it is.”
“Maybe,” he admitted.
He rolled his chair back to the center of the desk while she studied the file on the screen.
“I’ve sent you what I have on this guy,” he said. “Gut instinct tells me he’s mixed up in something big.”