The CIA officer wasn’t in the operational loop on this one. Or in any official loop, it appeared. At this point, Berg was running solo, with Bauer pursuing a soon-to-be irrelevant angle, all from an isolated location three hours away from D.C. Out of respect for everything Berg had done for Sanderson in the past, he would keep him in the loop regarding the Africa mission. He owed him that much.
“Miss me already?” he answered. “The light switch for the back porch is in the pantry off the kitchen. Whoever wired—”
“We have a problem,” Berg cut in.
Here we go.
Berg’s mind was relentlessly spinning in circles around the evidence he’d gathered, unable to settle on the obvious conclusion.
“Now what?” he asked, unable to restrain his irritation.
“I just received word from my source in Moscow. Sokolov was spotted in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, yesterday, accompanied by an unidentified Russian.”
“He can’t be in both places at the same time,” said Sanderson. “What’s the source?”
“Hard to say. An FSB surveillance operation in Mexico City logged the call, placing Sokolov and his Russian friend at a bar in a brothel within the city’s red-light district. FSB surveillance confirmed that the Bratva has sent a team north to investigate.”
“The source used the name Sokolov, but not Reznikov?”
“Yes. The Bratva placed a considerable bounty on Sokolov’s head. I just learned that. They must have drawn the same conclusion I did about Reznikov’s all too convenient escape.”
“How significant of a bounty?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Money makes people see things.”
“In this case, conveniently at the source’s favorite whorehouse.”
“I have two problems with summarily dismissing this as a fake sighting. First, the source identified two Russians. The bounty was specific to Sokolov, making no mention of anyone else. Why would the source make up the sighting and add another Russian to the mix?”
“To make it more realistic?” Sanderson suggested.
“Maybe, but what’s the point? When the Bratva arrives, you’re stuck holding an empty bag, no matter how detailed you described its contents. Which underscores an even bigger problem. What does the source think is going to happen to him when the Bratva finds the bag empty and quickly determines it never held anything? You’d have to be suicidal to report a false sighting like this to the Russian mob.”
“This information is a day old?” said Sanderson.
“At least.”
“Then Sokolov and Reznikov are either dead or back in the Bratva’s possession by now. Unless you can convince the powers that be to deploy a second task force to Ciudad Juarez, there’s nothing we can do about it right now.”
“Munoz and Melendez said they’d head south. This is exactly the kind of mission they’ve trained for,” said Berg.
“Two men, without support?”
“If the report is true, we’re looking at a game changer. There’s only one reason I can think of to explain why they’d be on the U.S.-Mexico border.”
“I can’t think of any, which is why I’m ninety-nine point nine percent convinced it’s a bogus report.”
Sanderson’s own statement triggered another thought. The surveillance report itself was fake. It made sense given the fact pattern. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this as soon as Karl described the report.
“Terrence, they’re bringing him here,” Berg stated flatly.
Of course they are. Just what they want you to think. They don’t even have Reznikov, but they can wield him like a weapon. Brilliant.
“Who? The Russians?”
“What? No. Why would the Russians bring him here?”
“They wouldn’t. The Russians don’t have Reznikov. The whole thing is a ruse,” said Sanderson.
“Dammit, Terrence!” said Berg. “Quit being obtuse. I’m talking about our government.”
“I think you’re obsessed with True America. Why would they bring Reznikov to the United States?’
“I don’t know,” said Berg. “To finish the job they started in 2007?”
“Karl, the Russians manufactured this intelligence. Think about it. They know you’re looking for Sokolov. They know you have a source in Moscow. I’m not saying your source is compromised, but they conjure up some phony intelligence about Sokolov on the U.S.-Mexico border and dump it in the system. Instant panic.”
“I don’t—” started Berg, pausing for a long moment. “What’s to say it’s not the other way around?”
In his excitement, Sanderson had skipped right past that possibility. Both reports could be false. Could the Russians deploy a large enough force in the Gabonese jungle to ambush Farrington’s team? Would they risk the political fallout from killing the Special Operations Command operators assigned to accompany the team?
“General?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about what you said. The Russians dragging us into Gabon—”
“Stop,” said Berg. “Terrence, I’m not talking about the Russians. I’m talking about whoever is behind Ajax and the attacks here.”
“True America,” said Sanderson.
“I don’t know yet, but tell Farrington to watch his back. I suspect we’ve just scratched the surface of this conspiracy, and you have most of your eggs in that C-17 basket.”
“I confirmed the authenticity of this operation with General Frank Gordon, the head of SOCOM, and Bob Kearney, the president’s Homeland Security advisor. I trust Bob with my life, and Frank Gordon is the most principled soldier I’ve ever met, even if he’s the biggest pain in my ass. The op is real. Farrington didn’t sense anything off when the aircraft picked them up. SOCOM assigned four operators from DEVGRU to keep an eye on us. Not exactly the kind of posse you send to round up twenty of my people.”
“I’m just repeating some sound advice given to me a few days back, right before I was kidnapped. Watch your back.”
Sanderson remembered the conversation and the scent of the Montecristo No. 2 in the air at the time.
“Words to live by,” he said. “I’ll warn Farrington. The team is about an hour out of Ascension by my calculation.”
“That’s an isolated place,” said Berg. “What about Munoz and Melendez?”
“Let’s see how things play out in Africa. I’ll call you when they reach Libreville.”
“Thanks for keeping me in the loop. I feel pretty damn useless right now. We all do.”
“We’ll get things back on track for all of us. This is the first step on that path. I never forget my friends,” said Sanderson.
He ended the call and immediately dialed Farrington’s satellite phone, not expecting to get through. Unless he wandered onto the flight deck and the phone caught a satellite signal through one of the windows, he would be unable to communicate with Farrington until they landed on Ascension Island. He waited to leave a message.
“Rich, we’ve had a few developments. Nothing critical, but keep a close eye on your escorts and check for stowaways. Call me as soon as you land on Ascension. Just being cautious.”
He thumbed a text message, relaying an abbreviated version of the voicemail. Sanderson lowered the phone to his side, knowing he’d place a call every few minutes until he got through to Farrington on the runway. Berg’s paranoia was like a contagious rash. Once you got it, scratching only made it worse, and he’d just scratched the hell out of this rash.