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.”