Fury From Within

Chapter Twenty

Walking comfortably among the crowd of business and vacationers, Captain Igor Isinov blended in as trained. Wearing Dockers and a plain white, short sleeve shirt, nothing bold or colorful that would cause him to stand out or call attention to himself. He looked the part of either a businessman or tourist. Having arrived from London on the afternoon flight via Aeroflot, the Russian National Airlines, he approached the United States Customs point. He knew from past experience that surveillance cameras were positioned at every conceivable angle to monitor the incoming passengers for possible terrorists or persons of interest. He placed a well-worn Baltimore Orioles Baseball cap atop his head and wore a pair of Ray-Ban nonprescription glasses to make it a little tougher.

The United States utilized the same identification software as their British counterparts, so Igor hoped for the best as he retrieved his forged United States passport from his garment bag. Admiring the navy blue document for a few seconds, one that identified him as one Jonathon Tresky of the United States, hoping the forgers of the Russian Special Service had once again performed up to their vaulted expertise.

As he approached Customs lines reserved for Citizens of United States, Igor tightly gripped his bag whose false bottom still contained his weapon and C-4 explosives. He chose to stand in line behind a boisterous tour group who seemed to have enjoyed the plane’s beverage service just a little too much.

Peter could only appear dull after the Customs Agent processed this bunch.

The time spent in line was relatively short, with each person who stepped up to the customs booth given a cursory passport inspection; the agent passing the passports bar code through a scanner before each proceeded to the exit. The bar code would display to the Customs Agent a complete travel history of the person standing in front of them. Hopefully the real Jonathon Tresky was not wanted for any crimes in the United States, knowing that Russian operatives scoured American graveyards to establish a database of names and birth dates for use in their document forgers department. They sometimes overlooked the possibility that the person might have a criminal record. Igor heard of two FSB personnel serving time in the United States for crimes committed by the forged name for which they were using. Moscow reacted by setting up a storefront American credit agency, thereby enabling them to check certain backgrounds without suspicion.

When it came to Igor’s turn, he walked up from his position behind the sign stating in big, bold letters, “Do not pass until called,” smiling at the attractive 40ish black woman behind the plexi-glass partition.

“Passport, please,” she said, having probably mumbled the same phrase for the hundredth time today. She looked at the passport picture then to Igor before running it through the bar code scanner.

“Mr. Tresky, did your enjoy your trip to,” looking back at the passport, leafing through the well worn and stamped pages before locating the last stamp. “Russia?” She gauged him for any signs of nervousness.

“Yes, the weather is beautiful this time of year. No humidity like we have here in Washington,” he replied truthfully — knowing Washington to usually feel like a swamp at this time of year.

“What was the purpose of your trip to Russia? Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, it was definitely pleasure. I have family in the area.”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Tresky, what hotel did you stay in on your last night in Moscow?

“The Hotel Metropolis,” he shot back, knowing she would pursue further questioning about the hotel if he fumbled in any way. Igor was knowledgeable about the hotel, having stayed there on several occasions for mission related activities.

Satisfied with his response, the Customs Agent was about to hand over his passport when she looked back to her computer screen.

Igor started to worry. His bag began to feel as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

Focusing intently on her screen, she read something very carefully before picking up her phone to evidently quiz her supervisor, him in a booth 20 meters away. The supervisor looked in Igor’s direction before speaking into his phone.

Igor’s weapon lay at the bottom of the case, any sudden movement would be detected and he wouldn’t stand a chance. He couldn’t overhear what was being said until the Customs Agent thanked her supervisor and hung up the phone.

“Mr. Tresky, did you leave the terminal in London for any reason?”

What did the British do? Sir Robert said he would take care of his end.

“Yes, I went outside to have a smoke and grab a paper. You know the restrictions on smoking,” he lied, hoping to strike a nerve.

“Don’t I though. I could go for a smoke right now myself,” she replied, waving him through the turnstile.

Nodding his thanks, he picked up his bag and proceeded down a 100 meter narrow tunnel which led to the outside of the airport and the airports cab stand. Igor said a quick prayer to St. John, betraying his Russian Orthodox upbringing, walking with confidence knowing the security cameras were still viewing him.

Halfway down the narrow hallway he heard a man’s voice commanding him to stop — calling him by his alias — Jonathon Tresky.

Igor panicked for a split second. He could choose to ignore the command and make a run for it, seeing a row of yellow cabs parked no more than 20 meters in front of him. Before he could prepare himself, another Customs Agent suddenly appeared at the end of the tunnel blocking his escape to a cab talking into his radio as he viewed Igor walking towards him.

What went wrong? The passport was a beautiful forgery, a masterpiece; even Sir Robert admired the work as they sat sharing a beer in the London Airport.

The agent at the end of the tunnel was motioning for Igor to turn around and return to the customs control point.

Igor felt as if every camera in the tunnel were focusing in on him. General Poszk would not take his capture too kindly, possibly even disavowing any knowledge of Igor and his mission.

Igor prepared himself for the worst.

“Mr. Jonathon Tresky?” The first agent inquired, his hand positioned on his holstered weapon out of reflex.

Igor turned to face the agent, seeing yet another agent five meters behind him also standing with his hand on his holstered weapon.

“Yes, I am Jonathon Tresky. Why the sudden curiosity?” Igor replied, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

The young agent suddenly smiled, revealing a set of silver colored metal braces on his teeth. “You forgot your passport sir,” handing over the navy blue document to Igor’s astonishment. “Sorry if we alarmed you Mr. Tresky. You look as if you saw a ghost. Are you okay sir?”

Quickly regaining his composure, Igor retrieved the passport from the agent’s outstretched hand. “Thank-you,” he said, holding the passport up and smiling. “I had something to eat on the plane that didn’t agree with me.” He patted his stomach for confirmation.

“Same thing happens to me when I eat burritos,” the second agent replied. “I usually take a few anti-acids and the problem goes away.”

“Thank-you again gentlemen; I will take your advice,” Igor said, quickly turning and walking down the tunnel to an awaiting cab. Looking up, he silently mouthed a “Thank-you,” to the skies above as he burst out of the tunnel and into an awaiting cab.

“Russian Embassy,” Igor said to the cab driver. “And take your time.”

The Bell Jet Ranger Helicopter carrying FBI Agent Michael Forsythe landed at a make shift helipad set up at the National Mall, a mere 500 feet from the towering Washington Monument. Tourists lining up for the Washington Monument tour were caught gawking as the helicopter suddenly materialized in a hastily arranged landing zone, yellow police caution tape marking the extent of the blocked off area. The tourists wondered who the fortunate celebrity was to receive such a reception of two, Chevy Suburban’s with a squad of black uniformed clad men in accompaniment, FBI emblazoned across their backs in gold lettering.

Forsythe used the helicopters 45-minute flight time to notify his home office of their desperate situation. He also set up a 3-block perimeter around the alleged bombsight, hopefully enabling them to seize the weapon before the rebel could remove it. Boris did inform them of the exact location where the weapon was located, but the suspect had a 13-hour head start on them. The possibility even existed that he might have come and gone with the weapon. Hopefully not, thought Forsythe as he viewed the beauty of the White House only a mile away.

As quickly as the helicopter had disembarked its passengers, it was off and flying to the FBI Training facility at Quantico to retrieve additional bomb experts that might be required in the ensuing hours ahead.

One of the agents clad in black approached Forsythe and Thomson as they waved their thanks to the pilot.

Rocco Nelli’s graying crew cut and barrel-chested physique greeted Forsythe along with a handshake and a pat on the back that would cause most people to lose their dentures.

“Michael, I have news for you,” Rocco Nelli said before leading them to the Suburban where six men stood milling about. “I want to inform you that the President and Vice President have been evacuated to the Hills of Maryland. The Congress and Senate were due back from summer recess today but we alerted them all to stay put until Tuesday.” Rocco paused when he saw Forsythe wondering how he could keep the powers that be from their home turf.

“Anthrax alert,” Rocco said in response, providing a toothy grin extending from ear-to-ear.

“Excellent job, Rocco,” Forsythe replied.

Rocco Nelli was a gruff ex-marine drill instructor that joined the FBI during the military’s early out program in the mid 90’s, this due to cold war troop reductions. With only 13 years of active duty service with the Marines, he was eligible for a reduced pension if he left within 2 months. With his military pension safely in hand, he joined the staff of the FBI within 48 hours of his discharge, putting his experience learned in the Marine’s Urban Tactics Team to good use, becoming head of the FBI’s newly formed Urban Assault Team. Since that time, Rocco and Forsythe had teamed up on numerous FBI training scenarios and exercises, finding they meshed extremely well under pressure.

“I’m just glad you were available, Rocco,” Forsythe said, looking at the team he had assembled on 30 minutes notice. Each looked as though they had just jumped off a Marine recruiting poster; crew cuts all, each in excess of 6 feet tall and 220 pounds. “I’d hate to meet your boys in a street fight, Rocco.” He then motioned his friend over to the nearest Suburban, spreading a map across the side of the vehicle.

“My boys are harmless Michael. That is unless I don’t feed them, then they become a little unruly. For our special mission today, in your honor — they haven’t eaten yet.”

A chorus of dog growls came from his men in response.

“Easy boys, it’s almost time. I guarantee everyone a piece of raw meat when this is done,” Rocco said, putting a half-smoked cigar in his mouth for full effect — looking as though he and his group were ready to storm an enemy held beach.

Pointing to the map, Forsythe stated the objective. “We have the gas company informing everyone for 3 blocks around the Red Cross headquarters building that there is a gas leak. Of course, we all know there is no gas leak—well at least now you do. We need the innocent people evacuated while we hunt our target and search for a hidden weapon. Our suspect won’t allow a gas leak to stop him. He has a strict timetable he must adhere to. So he will do anything to reach the rose garden beside the Red Cross building.”

Anticipating a question from Rocco, Forsythe cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I know what you are about to ask, so here goes my best attempt, short and sweet. About 35 years ago, the former Soviet Union buried nukes the size of suitcases on our soil to discourage any US first strike. The locations of the weapons were a secret until yesterday, when an old KGB agent disclosed the location of just such a weapon buried in the rose garden of the Red Cross building.”

Looking from man to man, Forsythe could sense the professionalism amongst them. Not a man flinched — they just returned his steady gaze awaiting their orders.

Forsythe proceeded. “We presently have 55 agents positioned in a four-block area around the Red Cross building and 250 uniforms for crowd control. That should keep the curiosity seekers out of the area. Now, our team will focus on the Red Cross rose garden. It’s an area of only 50 feet by 100 feet, so nothing moves around it, or in it, that we won’t be aware of. What I require from you gentlemen is a double shooting position on the roof across the street with another at street level in the mall area. Finally, I want three of you in the Red Cross rose memorial hidden amongst the various shrubs. Rocco and myself will check the garden for any recent digging and then assume a position in the building itself.”

He looked from man-to-man. “I want to re-enforce the important issue we are dealing with here gentlemen. I have information he is heading this way, towards us. Only this morning in a remote Delaware State Park location our suspect killed an Atlantic City police officer in cold blood. To murder the officer he placed one bullet in his chest at close range while the officer was on the ground, probably pleading for his life. And less than two hours ago, our suspect shot a Maryland State Trooper on Highway 50, ten miles from our very location. Luckily our boy only received minor wounds and a damaged ego. But he is alive, and that’s the important issue, he is alive. Our suspect is a shooter, gentlemen, he won’t wait for you to set up and take your shot. Shoot first then ask questions people,” holding up his hands to once again stem the expected questions.

“I know this differs from our standard policy, but this is a different situation. The rules have changed in our favor for a change.”

The men let out a series of ooh-rahs in response, agreeing wholeheartedly with the change.

Forsythe continued. “Our latest intelligence has him driving a stolen police cruiser and heading to this very location. I think our boy is smart enough to have ditched the cruiser by now and commandeered another mode of transportation. What that is, we have no idea yet.”

Rocco started to hand out flyers with the suspect’s description.

Forsythe looked once again at his assembled agents, noting their youth and a vigor that he once possessed. He suddenly felt old.

To their left, the tourists were being ushered away from the Washington Monument by the DC police.

Satisfied that his warning was being heeded, Forsythe spread his arms wide like a preacher, signaling for the agents to gather around him.

“Now, no one knows about the weapons existence with the exception of you gentlemen and of course some of our superiors. Your fellow police and FBI brethren believe there is a dangerous gas leak, so let’s keep the chatter to a minimum on the radio.”

“If there are no questions, let’s lock and load gentlemen, and may God be on our side.”

A chorus of ooh-rah’s could be heard by the still curious tourists as the men piled into their assigned vehicles, speeding off in a cloud of dust. The dust cloud drifted over to where the tourists were being escorted back to their vehicles, causing some to cover their mouths in response.

Little did the tourists realize — but the dust was the least of their worries.

Peter adjusted the cars’ rear view mirror in order to look at the cut he had received courtesy of the lioness. He could see the blood had since clotted into a purple and red line. Good, he thought, deciding to keep the bandage off. It will be easier to blend in where I’m going.

Careful to maintain the speed limit, he had no desire to be pulled over for speeding at this juncture. After all, he was only 8 kilometers from his intended target.

At this particular moment, he was probably more intimately familiar with the Washington road system then most DC taxi drivers. When his classes in Syria ended for the day, Peter would study the areas of intended attack with the diligence of an engineer reviewing schematics. This enabled him to plan a variety of entrances and escapes, both to and from his target area, with him memorizing the various streets and highways around his target.

As he mentally checked off the exits leading to Pennsylvania Avenue, three Maryland State police cars sped past him in the far left hand lane, approaching what Peter could only guess to be in excess of 140 kilometers per hour. With their entering the Washington DC city limits, they were obviously in pursuit of him and the stolen police cruiser.

There was no way anyone could catch him now.

Wendy Wexler sat handcuffed to the steering wheel, wondering how the hell she had gotten herself into this unfortunate situation. Peter deliberately rolled up the windows, taking no chances of her screams being overheard. Not that it would be of any use with the area populated mostly by abandon buildings.

With the rising August temperature, Wendy desperately pulled at her metal restraints. If she could only break off a piece of the steering wheel, she could escape both the cruiser and the sweltering heat. After only 5 minutes, Wendy’s wrists were raw and bleeding from her struggle.

Looking for any sign of life in the neighborhood, not able to notice so much as a cat on the prowl due to Peter’s positioning of the car, Wendy shook her head in disbelief, cursing aloud. What if nobody finds me? Wendy had seen recent televised warning’s not to leave children or pets in cars during the areas heat wave. With an outside temperature expected to reach the mid 90’s, the local newscasters said that the temperature in some vehicles could reach 175 degrees in less than 30 minutes. At that temperature, a healthy individual would eventually succumb to a heat stroke in less than 2 hours.

Her mind raced with the thought of her poor father having to identify her body in the morgue. Wendy garnered all her strength in one tremendous effort, even propping her feet up against the dashboard for better leverage, before once again succumbing due to the pain in her bloodied wrists. Resting, she leaned against the wheel, causing the horn to sound loudly.

A smile creased her face at the sheer stupidity. How did I overlook the horn? Wendy slid the handcuffs up to the top of the steering wheel, enabling her elbows to depress the horn. She stopped every 15 seconds or so before starting again, establishing a pattern to seriously annoy someone in the area.

Two blocks from Wendy’s location, Army 1st Lieutenant Sumeka Kellor jogged with Tongo, her 2-year-old German Sheppard in tow. Having already completed the park side of her daily 2 ½ mile run, she now weaving her way back through her neighborhood in order to complete her self-plotted circuit. Since returning from an Army posting in Germany, she couldn’t help but notice how the criminal element had invaded what had once been a pleasant neighborhood, turning it into an area of rampant drug use and flagrant prostitution. With a well-endowed curvy figure and light cocoa skin, she was approached three times during her morning run by men mistaking her for a prostitute.

When she first purchased her three-story twin home, the area was close-knit, family oriented, with children able to safely play in the street and neighbors sitting on their steps in heated discussion about politics or the latest baseball scores.

Sumeka was lucky enough to have rented her home to a young, childless couple for the three years she served overseas. But they couldn’t wait to leave, even informing Sumeka that they came close to breaking the lease due to the crime rate.

Times had certainly changed.

Now, Tongo was her protector while she waited until she could sell and move out to Virginia to be near the Pentagon — her new place of employment.

Sumeka was in no mood to deal with the criminal element that roamed her streets, still pissed over her car being broken into for the fourth time in the past month; the last time they even stole the new car alarm that she had paid $493 to install.

As she crossed Delany Street, Sumeka heard what sounded to be a car alarm or a horn beeping. Only this was different. Not sounding as if someone was stuck in traffic, this was more deliberate, almost a pattern. Standing on the street corner and looking at how far her neighborhood had fallen, she decided to make a stand, at least this once. Determined to catch the thief in the act, possibly the same one who had vandalized her own car, she ran with Tongo in tow towards where the sound emanated. It’s not going to happen again, not in my neighborhood, she said aloud, a mad scowl upon her face.

Three teenage boys, each no more than 15 or 16, stood in her way on the concrete sidewalk, plying their drug trade. They had no problem noticing the attractive Sumeka, the oldest boy flashed a smile as she made her way into the street in order to avoid them.

“Yo baby, slow down, come on over here and pay us a visit,” said the oldest boy, blowing her a kiss, followed by an obscene gyrating gesture with his hips.”

Sumeka ignored him as she walked past.

“One day your gonna be without that damn dog, then what you gonna do?” said another before turning back to ply his lucrative crack trade, hi-fiving his fellow teenage dealers.

The sound was getting closer, even with the traffic noise of Highway 50 hanging in the air. Sumeka walked to where the street met with the Highway 50 on/off ramp. Puzzled, she stood looking both ways before she determined that the noise was coming from behind the only business left in the area. Her Army training took hold; Sumeka knelt down beside her dog Tongo, petting her softly.

“Girl, I want you to go check this out before me?” She searched her dark brown eyes for some type of understanding, unhooking the dog’s chain. “Go girl, go,” pointing the way for Tongo, watching as Tongo first jogged then broke into a sprint, Sumeka close behind. As they turned the corner of the building, it became apparent that it was a police car, but not a DC police car— its dark blue strips identifying it as a State Trooper. Why would they be here? We have city police protection. Calling her dog to heel beside her, Sumeka could see a young woman in the driver’s seat. Sumeka knocked on the driver’s side window to get the girls attention.

Wendy turned to face Sumeka, a sense of relief flowing over her thinking she was about to be rescued.

“Are you okay?” Sumeka said, motioning with her hands for Wendy to roll down the window.

Wendy responded by holding up her handcuffed hands. She nodded that she was okay before slumping on the steering wheel in apparent relief.

Sumeka stepped back, wondering what the State Police had one to her. The girls face beaten and bloodied, her clothing disheveled. She could see the girl’s hair matted on her head, wet from perspiration. This was no way to treat a prisoner.

“What did you do to get arrested? Sumeka said, already feeling sorry for the woman.

“No, no,” Wendy said, shaking her head, panicking that Sumeka might leave, thinking she was under arrest. “Some madman kidnapped me by posing as a police officer. Please, get me out of her,” she said in between sobs. “I don’t want to die in here.”

Tying Tongos’ leash to the car doors handle, she looked about the immediate area for something, anything to break the window, settling on a 3-foot piece of cast iron pipe that lay against the doctor’s office wall. With the Doctors office being at the edge of a highway and in a seedy neighborhood, it was only natural for it to become an illegal dumping ground for trash.

Sumeka held up her hands to try and calm her. ”Honey, everything is going to be okay. I want you to turn away from me and face the passenger’s side window,” pointing over to the other side of the car. “I’m going to use this pipe to break the window,” holding it up so she could see it. “Some of the glass might hit you but don’t worry, it’s a special glass and should only spider,” using her hands to draw a web on the window. “Its safety glass.”

Wendy nodded before turning away.

Sumeka stepped back to get some leverage before executing a swing Mark Maguire would be proud of, smashing the DuPont safety glass on the driver’s side into a spider web pattern.

She then used the end of the pipe to push the lightweight window harmlessly into the police car, in the process just missing Wendy as it slid in between the driver’s seat and the door.

“You all right, girl?” Sumeka said, reaching in to touch the bruises on her face. “You said something about being kidnapped?”

Wendy let out a sigh of relief at being rescued. “Yes, a man pulled me over using this police car. He identified himself as a cop and then beat me up and stole my car.”

“First things first baby, we can call 911 and get some real cops down here,” Sumeka said, patting Wendy on the shoulder for reassurance.

“They will nail that bastard for sure.”