Allen is going to be the size of a car pretty soon, remembering the last time he saw Allen, he was pushing 250 pounds. Not too bad if you were 6 feet 5, but Allen was only 5 feet 10. Leave it to him to find a good buffet.
The Cape May dispatcher suddenly interrupted Sergeant Allen’s conversation with another officer. “Attention all units in the vicinity of Route 9 south, between Ocean City and Cape May, we are on the lookout for a black, 2005 Impala. It’s a rental car driven by a dark, Middle Eastern male, approximately 6 foot 1, average weight. He’s wanted as an accessory for an assault on an FBI agent in Ocean City. He should be considered armed and dangerous. Call for back-up if sighted.”
Caught off-guard by one of his law enforcement brothers being assaulted right in his “backyard,” Jim decided it might be best to check the ferry for the car. Hell, he still had almost an hour to kill before they arrived in Lewes, Delaware. If anything, it would allow the time to go by quicker.
Reaching under his seat, Jim retrieved his 38 caliber snub nose, Smith and Wesson. Satisfied, he opened the glove box searching for his ammunition, something he always kept separate from his weapon. Once loaded, he stuck it in his pants waistline, pulling his denim shirt over his belt line to conceal the weapon. It’s probably a wild goose chase but what the hell I need to take my mind off certain things anyway.
Peter moved to the bow of the ferry two floors above the main car deck and thankfully away from the crowds. He had already called his commander in Chechnya, informing him that full mission success would be achieved within hours. It was during his discussion he found out that his close friend Sirna had disappeared several days before presumed to be dead or captured. If captured and in the hands of the Russian Security Service, it was only a matter of time before he would break and reveal the intimate details of Peters plan.
Every minute now counted for success.
Peter prayed silently that his friend had died quickly; Allah, taking his faithful soul. If captured, Sirna had the resolve to hold off for as long as humanly possible. Peter expected that of his friend.
Only a few more hours, and then all of America would feel his rage.
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.”