“Hey wait a minute, you don’t look like a cop,” slowly backing up as she said it. “Is this some type of joke?”
Peter pointed his 9mm at Wendy. “I don’t think so.”
Wendy started crying hysterically, holding onto the car for support.
“Stop where you are little lady,” Peter ordered, exiting the police cruiser.
Peter took stock of the situation and looked in both directions, satisfied that no one could see them. “I’m not going to hurt you; you have my word. I only need you to provide me a ride downtown before I let you go. If you do as I say, this experience will be over in a matter of one or two hours.”
Looking back at her car and then to Peter, Wendy’s mind started racing. She had seen the nightly news and read the newspapers; young women such as herself were being raped and killed by people every day. She wasn’t about to become another statistic. Fingering her car keys as Peter walked closer to her, mentally counting the closing distance—6 feet, 5 feet, 4 feet……
Peter kept his weapon at his side as to not frighten her.
She waited until Peter stood beside her before raising her can of pepper spray, directing the spray towards his face.
Peter instinctively blocked Wendy hand as she reached out, blocking most of the spray, causing most of it to deflect back onto Wendy’s own face and into her eyes. She screamed in agony as the pepper worked its way into her tear ducts. She knew she had to get control of herself and the situation; she struck once again by using anything at hand, striking Peter across his face with her ignition key. The cut started just above his right eyebrow and proceeded to his left cheek, the cut now bleeding profusely.
Peter grabbed Wendy, brutally slapping her across the face. Wendy slipped and fell into the rear quarter panel of her own car, opening a large gash on her forehead.
She screamed once more.
Peter had to control the situation and quickly.
Waiting several minutes for the effect of the pepper spray to wear off on Wendy, Peter smiled at her as she looked up at him, admiring her lioness courage. This one is a fighter, he thought to himself. She will do well in her future endeavors. He could never hurt a woman brave enough to fight him in hand-to-hand combat, besting him more than any Russian commando had ever accomplished. She even drew blood, only having to look to his hand for evidence.
Peter smiled as he removed the car keys from her hand.
This time, Wendy put up no resistance.
His original thought was to kill her and dump her body. Her courage changed his plans. Gently lifting her up from the ground, cautious and ready for any action she may still take, Peter led her back over to the police cruiser. Once there, he pointed for her to sit in the driver’s seat.
She hesitated at first before finally obliging, feeling a tight knot in her stomach as she did.
Peter produced a pair of handcuffs he removed from the cruiser, applying one open cuff to her left hand before threading it through the steering wheel and then cuffing the right.
“Sorry for the accommodations, but it is the best I can do,” Peter said sympathetically, moving to the other side of the cruiser, smashing the police radio before removing the officer’s shotgun and his own bag.
Looking back at Wendy as she struggled to try and remove the handcuffs, Peter admired her fight. He waved before driving out of the parking lot in her Honda.
Peter knew he would succeed — for Allah had intervened once more.
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.