Flags of The Forgoten Page 5

  Dallas, TX

  * * *

  STEVE GIBBONS LAID his phone on the steel desk and turned to the others in his group. “You’ll never guess who that was.”

  “Judging by your ‘Hell freezing over’ comment, it was either your ex-wife declaring her undying affection for you, or you won the lottery.” Gregg Soares finished pinning markers on the global map and stood back to admire his handiwork. “And since you didn’t tell the rest of us to go pound sand, I’m assuming you didn’t win the lotto.”

  “Funny, dumbass. No. Care to try again?” Steve leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. The sound echoed through the old airplane hangar and Deric Bundy threw a dart into the sole of his combat boot.

  “Feet off the furniture, Steve-O. Didn’t your momma teach you any better than that?”

  Steve groaned as he leaned forward to pull the dart from the rubber sole then threw it back at Deric, sticking the hardened steel point into the wall next to man’s head. “Don’t ruin my good boots D.” He leaned forward and eyed the others. “Come on you worthless cusses. Guess.”

  Jim MacDougall entered the open collection of desks and practically fell into the chair across from him. “Spill it, Steve. You’re too excited for it to be a bill collector.”

  Steve sat back and shook his head at the others. “You ladies are no fun. I swear.” He crossed his hands behind the back of his head and leaned back. “That was none other than Bobby Badass Bridger.”

  “Bullshit.” Jay Wolf suddenly perked up from under the hood of the armored Humvee he was working on. “You can’t convince me that anything short of a nuclear war would get Bridger to call on us again.”

  “Hand on a Bible.” Steve stood up and held a hand in the air. “Said he was in a pickle.”

  Jay looked to the others and hiked a brow. “He must be in some serious shit if he’s dialing your number.”

  Steve nodded. “Said he was calling in his marker.”

  Deric eyed Gregg, who whistled low. “Seriously?”

  Jay stiffened and wiped his hands on the shop rag. “Okay boys. I’ve no idea what Bobby stepped in but let’s see if we can get ahead of the game here.” He hopped down off the short platform he was standing on and entered the circle of desks. He flipped the switch that brought all of the lights on at BYI Incorporated and kicked open the ancient fridge that sat next to his work station. He pulled out a beer and twisted the top off. “Fire up the computers and let’s get a jump on this. Deric, call your contacts at State and see if Bobby has been working for anybody that we should know about. Mac, skype Sharon at Interpol and see if he’s caught up in anything overseas. Gregg, put those hacking skills to work and dig up everything you can. I mean every fucking thing you can on Bobby and all of the aliases that we know of.”

  Gregg shot him a dirty smile. “Want me to check the aliases we don’t know about, too?”

  “Everything. If it has anything to do with Bobby Bridger, I want it. Steve, pull Bridger’s files from when we worked together. Go through it with a fine tooth comb. Anything that anybody can use against him, I want to know about it.”

  Karachi, Pakistan

  * * *

  “MAMOON!” SAMEER CALLED from above. “Something is not right.”

  Balil stood outside Mamoon’s office and groaned. “Something is not right with your head,” he grumbled as he walked to the open stairwell. “Mamoon left. What is not right with you?”

  Sameer moaned and pointed behind him. “Something is strange. Either the fabric is different or the paint is wrong.”

  Balil gave him a confused look. “It is the same muslin as always, and you know that the paint is the same.”

  “Then why does it not wish to stick, Balil? Especially at the edges? Perhaps if you came up here and tried it yourself?”

  “What is it doing?” Balil leaned against the rail and looked upward.

  “It is not sticking. It acts like…like the material is waxed paper and the paint is water.”

  Balil scratched at his head and stared at the roll of material along the wall, walked over, and pulled the heavy shears from the hook on the end. He trimmed a small piece from the end and flexed it in his hands. It felt exactly the same as it always had. A thin, easily burned cotton. He shook his head and grudgingly walked up the stairs. Probably something that idiot is doing wrong, he thought.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he saw the flags pinned to the wall and the paint oozing down the sides of the material. Small puddles had formed on the floor where the paint had sluffed off and fallen.

  “This is not good.”

  “These are only the first. I have over a dozen more to paint.” Sameer pointed to the stack of fabric that had already been cut and was waiting on the table.

  Balil scratched at his chin and shook his head. “What if we paint them on the table so that the paint cannot run?”

  “But if it doesn’t stick, what good will that do?” Sameer waved toward the stack of paint cans. “All of this paint is no good, I tell you.”

  Balil stepped closer and looked at the flag pinned to the wall. “Let me see your paint cup.”

  Sameer handed it to him and Balil stirred the paint with a brush. “These are all water-based, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s thin this a bit and see if it helps.” Balil opened a water bottle and poured some into the cup, stirring as he did so. He thinned the paint considerably then applied thin coats to the material. He smiled as the paint soaked into the cloth. “And think how much we will save on paints.” He handed the cup back to Sameer. “We may have to make multiple coats, but it is sticking now.”

  Sameer scowled at the thinner paint and shook his head as he quickly went back to work. “I do not like this. It is much too thin.”

  “But it works, Sameer. We can figure out later if the paint is bad or just too thick.”

  Tariq ran up the stairs, his face smiling. “We need to fire up the silkscreen machine. Mamoon has a very large order to fill!”

  Sameer paused and stared at the boy. “How large?”

  “Over a thousand flags together. American, mostly.” Tariq smiled as he rushed back down the stairs and began to prepare the machine.

  Sameer groaned. “I hate that infernal machine.” He tossed his brush and cup into the deep sink and turned the water onto it, rinsing the tint down the drain.

  Balil clapped the man on the shoulder. “Relax my friend. Once the material is cut and the screens are set, we will be able to create the flags you were going to hand paint today anyway.”

  “I’d rather be painting than dragging that ink bar.” He spat indignantly. “It’s not the same.”

  Balil laughed. “How you can take such pride in something that will be ashes in a few days, I’ll never understand.”

  “It’s not what they do with them that I care about. It’s the fact that I paint them with these two hands.” He held his paint-stained hands up and shook them at the man. “Each one is a masterpiece unto itself. It’s not the same to use a machine for what a man can do better.”

  Balil nodded. “Come. Let us tell Mamoon of your paint troubles.”

  Sameer balked and shook his head. “No. Let’s not.”

  “Why not? He should know. If the paint is bad, he’ll want to replace it.”

  Sameer shook his head again. “We can thin the paint and make it work.” He looked down the stairs toward the silk screen machine. “Each time we have a big order, or when we have a problem, Mamoon speaks of creating large orders of flags to ‘keep on hand,’ creating inventory for small orders.”

  Balil shook his head. “So?”

  “So? So, if we tell him we are having issues with the paint when we are about to begin silk screening, what is to prevent him from telling us to stop painting altogether and simply screen print as many different flags as that bulk roll will allow? Keep them on hand to sell as they are needed? Order another roll of bulk material and continue to sc
reen print?”

  Balil shook his head, still confused.

  “Don’t you see?” Sameer argued, his hands shaking in front of the smaller man. “That monkey Tariq could run the screen print. He wouldn’t need painters any longer. He wouldn’t need anyone to fill small orders of hand-painted flags as they come in.”

  Suddenly Balil understood and the cigarette fell from his mouth as his jaw hung open.

  FBI Field Office, Dallas, TX

  * * *

  ROGER WALLACE WALKED quickly down the hallway and knocked on his Section Chief’s office.

  “Come in.”

  Wallace stepped inside and closed the door. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Have a seat, Agent Wallace.”

  Roger studied the man as he finished going over something, initialed the corner, signed the bottom then closed the file and slipped it into a stack of other files. Something about the man had never sat right with him. He was too methodical. Too emotionless. The closest the man came to relaxing was loosening his tie after lunch. To Roger, that was too stiff. The man was obviously a bureaucrat who had never spent time in the field. That made him dangerous.

  When he turned and gave Wallace his full attention, Roger noticed the other thing that seemed off about him. His eyes lacked that luster and gleam that most people’s had. They were “dead eyes,” like a shark.

  “Agent Wallace, word has come down that you’ve been digging into certain cases that you are not authorized to investigate.”

  Wallace shook his head, his confusion evident. “I’m not following you, sir.”

  “Without going into detail, you have jeopardized a joint CIA-NSA terrorist investigation and now you are being redirected to the field office in Omaha.”

  Roger sat stunned. “Wait, what?” He found himself coming out of his chair and leaning over the desk of Chief Clark. “Come again with this?”

  “Sit DOWN, Agent Wallace. I will not repeat myself. You have twenty-four hours to clear out your desk and report to the Omaha field office.” Chief Clark crossed his arms and gave him a stern stare. “Or would you rather end up in Des Moines?”

  Wallace nearly staggered. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me, agent.” Clark’s eyes told him far more than his mouth ever could. Wallace found his head spinning at the covert threat and had to backtrack to try to figure out what was going on.

  “Wait…okay, but why? What joint operation are you talking about? And why am I just now hearing about this?”

  “As I stated, it was a joint CIA-NSA operation and you…just clear out your office and report to Omaha.” Chief Clark leaned forward and gave him a smile that didn’t reach his dead eyes. “Or do you wish to have your employment with the Bureau terminated?”

  “What? Now you’re threatening to fire me because I’m asking you what in the hell happened?” Wallace stepped back and gave the man a questioning stare. “Do I need an employee rep in here with me now?”

  “Would you like an employee rep in here with you now?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Phil. Just clue me in to what this is all about, would ya?”

  Chief Clark sat up and squared his shoulders. “You will address me as Section Chief Clark.” He straightened the lapel on his jacket even though they were already razor sharp. “You have been apprised of your actions and the consequences of said actions. You have been informed of your next duty station and the time you are required to report to said duty station.” He pulled a file from the corner of his desk and opened it, sliding it across his desk to the man and pointing to an area where Wallace’s name was typed and awaiting a signature.

  “I need your signature here indicating that I have briefed you.”

  Wallace shook his head. “No.”

  “Then you do wish to terminate your employment with the Bureau.” Chief Clark reached across and closed the folder.

  “No. I refuse to sign the document until you explain to me what the hell is going on here.” Roger crossed his arms and glared at the man.

  Clark refused to budge. “You have been informed of all that you will be informed of. If you wish to remain an agent with the Bureau, you will sign this document and remove yourself from this office.”

  Wallace continued to stare at the man and soon realized that there was a reason they promoted this steel-gazed automaton. Eventually, he leaned across the desk and snatched up the folder. He skimmed through the legalese of the document then slammed it back on Clark’s desk. “I’ll sign it.” He pulled a pen from Clark’s pen holder, signed at the line, then jammed the point of the pen through the document, the file folder and into the wood of the desk ending his signature. “Consider it under duress.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Roger turned to leave then paused. He slowly shut the door and turned back to his Section Chief. He closed the short distance and leaned across his desk. “Rest assured, I will get to the bottom of this. And when I do, if I find out that you’re railroading me or hiding pertinent information from me, I will find you.”

  The man crossed his arms over his chest and gave Wallace a deadpan stare. Wallace smiled at him and lowered his voice.

  “You do realize the difference between me and you, right? I was once a field agent and you’ve always been a paper pusher. I have no trouble pulling a trigger when it suits my purpose, and all this,” he gestured around the dim office, “won’t protect you.”

  “Is that a threat, Agent Wallace?”

  “No, Phil. That’s a promise.”

  5

  Dallas, TX

  * * *

  DERIC HELD THE front door open while Bobby pulled the Bronco into the hangar and shut the engine off. He double checked that the area was clear then pulled the large door shut and locked it from the inside.

  Steve parked outside and stepped in through the double glass doors that lead into the foyer of their operation. He hung his jacket on the peg just inside the door and hopped the short counter. The group at BYI had been together since they had all quit the Agency together in the mid 90s. Bobby was the one who had brought them together and helped to forge their friendship into a multi-million dollar a year business providing private security, training, and intelligence gathering for those with connections and very deep pockets.

  Bobby slammed the door of the Bronco and avoided their probing gazes as he entered the circle of workstations. “I really didn’t want to make that call.”

  Jay crossed his arms and nodded. “I figured it had to be bad or you wouldn’t have.” He slid a dossier over to Bobby and waited for him to rifle through it.

  “What’s this?” Bobby flipped through pages of his own history.

  “It’s what we could dig up on you since you left.” Jay sat on the corner of a desk and gave him a wary eye. “You fell off the planet, brother.”

  Bobby dropped the file and finally met his gaze. “That was intentional.”

  “We sort of figured as much.” Gregg dropped into his chair and propped his feet up. “So what gives, man? We ain’t finding shit on you.”

  Jay walked by and knocked Gregg’s feet from the desk as he reached for his coffee cup. “The best we could find was an inter-agency flag from the Feebs and it was revoked.”

  “Revoked?” Bobby picked up the dossier again and began flipping through it.

  “Dude, I had to do some serious hacking to find it. It was like it was scrubbed from their system.”

  Bobby shook his head. “No. I saw the flag myself…”

  Deric shook his head. “You saw the locator flag they send to law enforcement. Not the same.” He motioned to Gregg. “Show him.”

  Gregg fired up his computer screen and scrolled through pages of data. “Here. Interagency. Says to lay off you, man.” He gave Bobby a questioning look. “Says you’re working for them?”

  “No…this isn’t right.” Bobby shuffled through the pages again.

  Jay sat back down on the corner of the desk and took a pull from his beer.
“Oh, it’s right. You tripped balls over nothing.”

  Bobby laid the folder down and gave Jay a knowing look. “No. I didn’t.” He pushed the dossier back toward him. “I got…that feeling.”

  Jay raised a brow and glanced to the others. “Did anybody pick up on anything that would raise an alarm?”

  They all responded in the negative and Bobby had to clench his jaw to keep from screaming. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Jay, how often has my gut been wrong?”

  Jay hesitated then shook his head. “You’ve been out of the game for a long time, Bobby.”

  Jim pushed away from his desk and stood up a little too quickly. “I got something.” He pulled the headphones off his ears and unplugged them from his computer. “You know a Feeb named Wallace?”

  Bobby’s eyes narrowed and he slowly approached Jim’s computer. “Yeah. What do you have?”

  “He’s been trying to contact you on your old line.” Jim punched up the screen and Bobby saw close to a dozen missed calls. “He finally left a message.”

  “Play it.” Bobby edged in and waited for the hacked message to replay over Jim’s speakers.

  “Bobby, this is Roger. I didn’t turn on you, man. You gotta believe me on that. But, uh…hey, listen. Something really strange is going on here. They’re sending me to Omaha of all places.” Bobby could hear the phone rustle and Roger’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper. Jim compensated by turning it up. “I think it has something to do with our op, man. They said that I screwed up a joint CIA-NSA project. And when I went to check on the ID flag I put on you…buddy, it was gone. Somebody else took it down. I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but you need to make yourself scarce until this blows over.”