"I'd like to hear everyone's thoughts," Sharpe said.
"Is it fair to assume that other payments went to Greely or Harding?"
"Yes, but not in the thirteen-million-dollar ballpark. I think it's fair to assume that Mills is a major player in True America's militant arm. Why would they send him so much money?" Stewart said.
"Maybe he's providing them with a safe haven somewhere in the Poconos. The compound in Hacker Valley smells fishy to me," O'Reilly said.
"That's a possibility. Mills owns an incredible amount of property in the Poconos," Stewart said.
"Could this be a massive stunt to drive up the price of bottled water? Is that an insane theory?" Mendoza said.
Sharpe leaned back in his seat and took in the silence that Mendoza's questions had created. Jesus. Could this whole thing be about money? It suddenly made sense to him. True America used Al Qaeda to get their hands on the Zulu virus. They'd probably funded the entire operation from start to finish, including the use of Reznikov to create the virus. Estrada watched Al Qaeda approach the Mount Arlington pump station and placed calls to the police and local media. He ensured that the attack couldn't escape widespread attention. True America had taken extreme measures to erase any ties to Al Qaeda or illicit funding. They sent a team to attack Fort Meade, which was conveniently thwarted in a tragic shootout that was no doubt reported to the media the second it happened. Finally, the compound was filled with high-profile anti-government radicals and staged to give the impression that twenty-five additional drill teams were on the loose. All of this was designed to force the government into taking drastic steps to secure the nation's municipal water supply. Steps that would skyrocket the demand for bottled water. Was it really that simple?
"It's not insane, if you think in terms of the conspiracy O'Reilly suggested," Sharpe said.
Stewart shook her head. "I still think they're going to use the virus somehow."
"I'd like to pursue every possibility, but I barely have enough people on the task force to process the leads and evidence produced by the compound. I doubt Director Shelby would be willing to drastically expand my resources based on a string of evidence illegally obtained by a tier of operatives kept secret from him," Sharpe said.
"Sanderson would like to send the Atlanta team north to the Honesdale area. While they're traveling, our cyber people could do some digging into the Scranton-based construction company. Ground assets can take the investigation to the next level upon arrival," Stewart said.
"What exactly does that mean?" O'Reilly asked.
Stewart looked to Sharpe for guidance.
"Exactly what it sounds like. The gloves are off. I'm giving both of you one last chance to back out of this," Sharpe replied.
"I'm in," Mendoza said without hesitation.
"I'm good," O'Reilly stated.
"All right. Let's send Sanderson's team up to Pennsylvania. How big of a team are we dealing with, Callie?"
"Four, plus a mobile electronic support team. I can have that electronic support team in place within a few hours. We're probably looking at getting the core team in place within six to eight," Stewart replied.
"Let's do it. Business as usual here, unless the team in Pennsylvania uncovers something that changes the game. If that happens, I'll figure out a way to shift assets in that direction. Until then, we process what we have. Good?"
Everyone nodded, and Stewart started for the door. Mendoza and O'Reilly moved sluggishly, leaving him with the impression that they wanted to talk in private without including Stewart.
"Ms. Stewart, keep me apprised. I'll be out on the floor in a few minutes."
She took the hint and swiftly departed, closing the door.
"Are you sure you can trust her?" O'Reilly asked.
"No. But Sanderson hasn't given me any reason to doubt his intentions. Have you seen the preliminary law enforcement bulletin regarding the Ritz Carlton attack? I suspected a connection there too. Six gunmen dead, two of them killed execution style in a suite on the top floor. The hallway outside of the suite looks like a war zone. Sanderson's people took one hell of a risk extracting Young from that hotel."
"I don't trust them," O'Reilly said, "and it's not because I'm still pissed about not being able to fully extend the middle finger on my right hand."
Sharpe was fully aware of the damage caused by the .223 bullet that shattered O'Reilly's forearm and tore sinew and ligament on its strange path up her arm toward her hand. She hadn't let it go, nor should she. Even Mendoza didn't dare make light of the fact that he missed seeing that middle finger colorfully deployed on a daily basis.
"Sanderson's plot two years ago was diabolical in every way," she said. "Meticulously planned and brutal. I don't know how he suddenly turned into a semi-legitimate arm of the U.S. government. I have the feeling that it was his plan all along. A manipulation of the highest order."
"You'd be correct in that assumption," Sharpe said, not intending to give further details about the failed attack on his compound in Argentina.
"All I'm saying is to be careful."
"Thank you, Dana. I'm doing what I can. I need you guys to keep an eye on the situation. If you see something spiraling out of control, or you suspect that we're being played, I need to know ASAP. And don't send me anything over the network. Do it in person," Sharpe said.
"Do you think Sanderson has hacked the system? I've checked for signs, but if their people are as good as it sounds, only a system reboot will kick them out."
"No need for that…yet. Plus, this would be a bad time to shut down the system. Just assume that anything you put into the system or say over the phone can be overheard."
"What about our cell phones? Computer microphones? All of that could be used to eavesdrop," Mendoza reminded them.
"We'll get creative if that becomes necessary. Time to break up this little mutiny. We might have other eyes watching us," Sharpe said.
"Fuck. This is ridiculous. We're not even secure at NCTC?" Mendoza griped.
Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. "Business as usual, people. Business as usual. Any last requests before we break this up?"
"Can you call Laurel's police chief and get Osborne's vacation records?" O'Reilly said.
"Maybe we should take a less conspicuous approach. I'll see if Stewart's techies can dig that up through their network. No point in drawing more attention," Sharpe said.
"Business as usual, my ass. Watch your back, sir," O'Reilly said.
"I'm trusting the two of you to take care of that."
Chapter 42
Sergeant Bryan Osborne sat in his Honda Accord and stared out at a row of white police cruisers. He still hadn't recovered from the adrenaline high that nearly caused him to break out into a full sweat in front of his chief. Chief Wilson caught him minutes before he planned to step into the parking lot and pulled Osborne into his office. He'd finally been cleared to take paid administrative leave, pending a review of the circumstances surrounding the shooting in the North Tract, and had been making the rounds through the station. He thought Wilson had a few more words of wisdom and encouragement. The ensuing conversation had caused his vision to shrink momentarily.
Chief Wilson told him about an FBI inquiry into his vacation schedule. The agent, a snippy female from somewhere in D.C., didn't explain her reasons for the request. Wilson figured that the FBI didn't appreciate the fact that basic police fieldwork had managed to upstage them, and they were looking for any reason to knock the department down a few notches. He had no idea how Osborne's vacation schedule played into their little game, and he had no intention of providing the FBI with any information about his police officers. They didn't deserve this kind of political maneuvering less than one day after an officer had been killed in the line of duty three feet away from Osborne. He said he might consider filing a complaint with the FBI if the agent called again.