Fury From Within

Chapter Nine

The single-story building contained a narrow bank teller type cage that allowed the resident police sergeant to preside over all incoming traffic. A gray metal table and 4 accompanying chairs directly across from the cage marked the extent of the spartan first floor. Used for the occasional suspect interrogation but more frequently for the lucrative parking ticket franchise that most seasonal shore towns seemed to thrive off of.

Forsythe nodded to the desk sergeant as he strolled with Boris in tow to the rear of the station, looking for the door to the basement.

The Sergeant looked up. “You can open the door; it leads down to the cell area. The cell area has two, 6 foot by 4 foot cells that open into an interior 8 foot by 10 foot exercise area. Same as I told you earlier.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant,” Forsythe replied. “It should meet our immediate needs,” grinning at Boris.

Forsythe decided it would be best if he questioned Boris in the basement area and away from the peering eyes of the local police establishment. Opening the door, he shoved Boris down the steps, watching as Boris hit every other step with either the back of his head or his face. Boris’s battered body lay sprawled at the bottom of the steps in the fetal position, moaning. Careful to avoid slipping on any of Boris’ blood with his FBI issued black oxfords.

Forsythe motioned for his fellow FBI agents to secure him to the single metal chair that occupied the first cell, using a combination of handcuffs and plastic wire-ties to accomplish the job.

“Sorry for the slippery steps, Boris,” said Forsythe as he confidently strode around the chair where Boris sat.

“But Michael, the cuffs are too tight,” he protested. “They are breaking my wrists.”

Forsythe merely laughed at him, waiting several minutes until his fellow FBI team members left the cell.

Forsythe now leaned down to eye level with his prisoner, tapping Boris on his head with his forefinger for emphasis. “Look at me Boris, focus on my face,” he said.

Boris knew what was coming, mentally preparing himself.

Forsythe wasted no time, slapping him across the face, adding a bright red impression on his cheek to the diagonal gash over his left eyebrow from his fall down the steps. Boris protested once more: “I am still a Russian citizen Michael. I would like to speak to someone at my embassy or consulate.”

The blood now flowed freely from the cut above his eye, running down his cheek, dripping onto a white shirt the FBI had kindly provided him. “I believe there is a consulate in Philadelphia that could provide answers concerning my diplomatic status.”

Forsythe laughed aloud at his response, knowing full well that Boris was a wanted man on both sides of the ocean. The FBI wanted him almost as bad as his former employer, only the FSB put a $100,000 price on his head with the caveat being dead or alive. If he wanted to spar, Forsythe would go a single round. He needed the information Boris possessed. Lives were at stake; American lives.

Forsythe placed his cell phone in front of Boris. “You are right Boris, we should allow your country men to come pick you up and take you back to Mother Russia. I have the number if you would like to speak to your representative.”

Boris shook his head.

Forsythe took the phone back in response. “Honestly, do you think they would let a traitor like yourself live? I don’t think so. They caught on to your little money scam several years back. Think about it you old spook, you’re wanted dead or alive. ”

Forsythe called his team back into the cell.

“I don’t know what you are talking about Michael.” Beads of perspiration blended with the blood trickling down from his forehead forming a crimson river that emptied onto his shirt. “You obviously have the wrong person.”

Forsythe smiled at his captive before motioning for Alice to proceed with the information she had gathered on Boris.

Alice hesitated due to the papers small print before she reached for her reading glasses. “Sorry boss, I’m getting up there in years like the rest of you old farts. Okay, this is what we have. Boris Stevensky; born in the Crimea, Soviet Union in 1945. Father was an Infantry Captain during WWII, killed in the battle for Berlin, April 1945. In 1963 mother died of natural causes. In 1962 the KGB selected you from the Murmansk Sport Gymnasium for special training. You became a KGB operative starting in 1965. In 1970 you were sent to Paris for your first outside posting. In 1975 you arrived in Washington DC. While in Washington, you were a real bad boy, removing in excess of $500,000 dollars from an operations fund.”

Forsythe cleared his throat.

Alice took the clue and stopped reading in deference to her boss.

“Boris, Boris, Boris,” Forsythe laughed aloud. “What are we going to do with you? Let’s regress a few years shall we? Remember that cute little blonde secretary you were very intimate with at your embassy in 1977? The one your own people brought over from Moscow due to the paranoid security concerns within your Embassy? Well, grab onto your boots for this one Boris. She worked for us. We turned her many years before with the lure of American hard currency. So in a way, she was similar to you with her infatuation with the almighty dollar. One difference, she played you like a Steinway piano my boy. She knew every move you made and relayed the information back to us.”

They had him.

Forsythe turned his back on Boris, walking over to where Alice now sat. “Sorry for the interruption Miss Weatherspoon, please do continue.”

“Yes, where was I?” Searching for where she had left off, she removed her glasses then put them back on again. “Okay, here we go. Our little communist friend here has turned capitalist. He invested said monies into a diversified stock portfolio split between both the US and German Stock Markets, creating a net profit of over $2 million by 2008.”

Boris scoffed at them laughing out loud, shaking his head, realizing he had the opportunity to get one jab in before they ruined him. “No, it was 2006 to be exact, Miss Weatherspoon. If you are going to get it right, please adjust your records to indicate 2006,” he replied sarcastically. Boris looked around the room at each of the assembled agents, nodding politely to each. “All right, you have me. I cancel my request to speak to the Russian Consulate. Needless to say, I do not wish to see my Russian friends. No need to make them aware of my presence. They thought my disappearance several years back meant poor Boris was dead. No need for them to think any differently.”

“Your right about that Boris, I never dialed the number anyway, that would be too tacky on my part.” He knew Boris was about to provide them something valuable, so he kept prodding. “Your government would confiscate your cash and kill you and every member of your family that still walks this earth. You know that, and I know that. Your people are a ruthless bunch of assholes.” He walked back to where Boris sat allowing one of his fingers to interrupt the trickle of blood that flowed down his face, holding it in front of Boris before choosing to wipe it on his already bloodied, white shirt.

Agent Knox took the signal from his boss, lighting a cigarette, placing it in Boris’s mouth, allowing him to take a drag.

Boris thanked him with a nod. “Nothing like a good cancer stick to calm the nerves.” A smile revealed a solid silver front tooth. “To answer one of your questions Michael, we have been invaded many times, so please do not cast judgment on something you have never experienced. Our country lay decimated the last time foreign troops invaded and tread upon our soil. The German Army destroyed everything for over a thousand miles in each direction. From this we became a, as you said so eloquently, ‘a ruthless bunch of assholes.’ Throw in Attila and Stalin, and yes, we have the scent of blood on our hands. Only we seek revenge for unjust actions. What’s your excuse?”

Forsythe had no desire to spar with the Russian; he was too cagey for that. He allowed Boris to become relaxed before striking out once more. Basic psychology; a trick his old instructors taught him well. Beat them down for a certain amount of time before allowing a small window of opportunity to open, hence the cigarette and the polite history lesson.

Casting off his friendly demeanor, Forsythe slapped him harshly across the face before delivering a blow to his stomach. Boris doubled over in agony as he struggled, gasping for air.

“Okay Boris, we’ve had our fun now let’s cut to the chase. What did you pass to our friend? What was in the envelope? Speak up Boris; I don’t want to have to start on your ribs.”

Forsythe realized he was getting to old for this sort of work as he rubbed his hand wondering if he had broken something of his own.

Boris straightened up in his chair, still gasping for air, but not wanting to provide his captors the satisfaction of knowing the extreme pain he felt. “If I were to speak,” he said, pausing to catch his breath.”I want a deal. Promise me that much. Will you allow me to keep what I have earned for any information you may receive?” He hoped for some type of bargain to be struck. He realized the particularly dire situation he was in.

Forsythe smiled. “Are you kidding me? What the hell do you think this is? We could kill you, dump your body in the ocean and nobody would know or even give a damn.”

Agent Knox walked up the steps to make sure the door was closed and locked, not wanting the Ocean City Police to have a sideshow.

Boris looked straight ahead, mentally reviewing his options, finding none to his liking. His only chance would be to feed the FBI small bits of information and feign the rest. Maybe, just maybe, they would let him go with some type of deal.

Boris wanted to be out of the country before Peter made it to Washington. If not, he was a dead man.