“Did you like that landing Rich?” Jimmy said. “What do you say we do it again? I think I screwed up when the tail swung around too far.”
“No, freaking way you clown,” Richard Knox shot back. “You’re a damn nutcase, you know that?” He jumped out of the helicopter, walking over to where Mark stood waiting in a field of tall weeds.
“Hi, I’m FBI Agent Richard Knox,” Richard shouted above the rotor noise, extending his hand, “You must be Officer Mark Lipatree.”
“Yes, sir,” Mark said, shaking Richard’s hand, following him into the still running helicopter.
“This here is the one and only Jimmy Sanders, our illustrious pilot for the ride,” Richard said, motioning to Jimmy, him waving in recognition before pushing the stick forward and rapidly rising off the ground.
Richard could see the expression of fear on Marks face, realizing it was his first ride on a helicopter as his hands searched for the seat belt.
He smiled in response to Marks actions, realizing he wasn’t the only one who disliked helicopters.
Richard pointed to the pilots left indicating his next stop. “Mark, we have one more passenger pickup and then we land on the Washington Mall over by the Washington Monument.”
Mark provided him a thumbs up before turning to vomit on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Forsythe said curtly to the young rookie cop after he allowed a man on a bike to head back into town. “Are you handicapped? Did you understand your orders? Nobody is to enter this area, only exit. Do you hear me?”
The young officer cadet had been pulled from the Washington DC Police Academy training class to supplement the officers already on duty, assisting in the massive effort to evacuate the three-square block area of downtown.
“Yes sir,” he replied sheepishly, looking away from Forsythe before turning back once more. “But sir, the man had to go get his dog. He didn’t want to chance being away for several days due to the gas leak.”
Shaking his head, Forsythe put his hand on the cadet’s shoulder, physically turning him to view the departing traffic. “Do you see which way the traffic is going, cadet?”
“Yes sir,” he replied, wondering if this was going to affect his class grade in anyway, possibly hindering his graduation the following month.
“It’s heading out of town, not towards town,” Forsythe said, restraining his temper. “From this point on, nobody goes into town without an FBI agent’s specific order. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly sir,” he replied, eyeing first the traffic then Forsythe.
Turning back down Pennsylvania Avenue, Forsythe knew his men were already in position around the Red Cross building. Additional FBI agents would surround and provide back up in the immediate area with DC Police on call at the outer ring.
The terrorist would have to be a magician to enter or escape unscathed.
They already knew the rose garden lay untouched.
Forsythe realized the suspect now had to approach him.
The trap lay set — time to await the mouse.
The embassy reception room where Igor sat waiting patiently for the FSB Station chief to show was an overwhelming site when first viewed. Dark Mahogany wall panels provided an elegant backdrop to the floor composed of imported Thai teak, resembling a wealthy persons reading room or library from the late 1800’s, only the stuffiness and odor of decaying paper were absent. With no windows to allow natural light into the room, brass floor lamps were positioned strategically about the room to enable one to fully enjoy the room’s interior.
“Old Bolshevik” memorabilia lay scattered about. Blood red flags adorned with gold embroidered hammer and cycles spaced every 5 meters or so, each intertwined with Russian flags, each 2 meter by 1 meter in size. The symbolism of both flags intertwined was not lost on Igor. He next observed several metal hammer and cycle sculptures on a shelf to his left and then just past them a total of ten, 3 meter by 3 meter red star banners previously used in the May Day celebrations the old USSR was famous for throwing. Igor felt stuck in a time capsule from the 70’s or 80’s, when the old USSR was at the pinnacle of its power curve.
As Sergy rose to view a glass case of Faberge eggs, Colonel Sergey Vasov, FSB Station chief, made his grand entrance into the room. Colonel Sergey Vasov would be hard to miss in a crowd, with him standing at 6 foot 6, 250 pounds, looking as though he could fill-in as a linebacker for the Redskins football team. Sergey and Igor were old acquaintances, both having graduated from the same class at the Frunze Military Academy. Igor was also Sergey’s best man at his wedding.
“Igor, how are you my friend,” Sergey said, embracing him in a bear-like hug.
Igor stood staring at his friend for several seconds admiring his friends rank badge, finally reaching over to comically brush it off.
“I see you’ve been promoted once again,” Igor said, impressed with his friend’s movement through the ranks, something he could never achieve due to his mischievous conduct, having already been reduced in rank several times. “Congratulations, I cannot think of a person who deserves it more,” smiling at his friend. “It has been too long since we fought the Afghan’s, I think it was 83.”
“It was May 1984,” Sergey replied with a serious tone about him. “I remember the month specifically, due to my war wound my having to seek treatment back in Moscow.”
Both laughed aloud at the mention of Sergey’s “war wound,” having been received in an impromptu soccer game when he tripped on one of the many rocks that littered their playing field.
Igor pointed to the wound badge on Sergey’s tunic. ”Is that what you received this for?” He shook his head in mock disgust.
After the laughter subsided, Sergey motioned for Igor to take a seat once more, looking to get down to the business at hand. Only two hours had passed since Sergey had been informed of Igor’s impending visit by General Poszk. He was also ordered to provide Igor with any assistance he required.
And I mean any assistance.
Sergey reached into his black leather briefcase, extracting a business sized, tan folder from its interior, placing its contents on Igor’s lap.
Igor glanced at Sergey and then back to the envelope. “I suppose you would like me to open this?” holding the folder up for him to see.
“It’s Christmas, Igor. Make a list, check it twice; that sort of thing,” Sergey replied with the standard joke at the embassy.
Inside the folder lay a single sheet of paper listing various munitions and weapons stored on-site at the Embassy, and available for his personnel use. Igor opened the folder to look at its neatly typed contents, seeing everything from an AK-47 to an anti-aircraft missile.
“As you can see, we keep available quite an arsenal for any potential problems we may encounter. It all comes into the country via the diplomatic pouch, or in this case the diplomatic crate,” smiling as he said it. We both play the game, the United States ships in the same products we do. You are familiar with the game better than anyone, Igor. The cold war never truly ended. It is similar to a miserable marriage or divorce, the mistrust still evident in their dealings with each other.
Igor nodded as he scanned the list. Settling on three fragmentation grenades, a foldable stock Uzi, and a Motorola handheld radio/scanner, before handing the list back to Sergey.
“I need that within the next 15 minutes, is that doable?” He knew his friend to be extremely resourceful when it came to the art of scrounging. Igor remembered one particular holiday they had spent in Afghanistan. Being in the field, the traditional food served by the military cooks was something of the canned surprise variety and usually cold by the time you ate it. After a month of this same, boring routine, Sergey traded a broken, unusable jeep to a local chief for 3 goats and 10 pounds of cheese. They lived like kings for the next few weeks, the envy of everyone else in the unit. Yes, if anyone could acquire what he needed, it would be Sergey.