He decided it would be more advantageous to ditch his car and scout the area around his target— maybe the gas leak could work to his advantage. Remembering what the Russian said in his emails, he described the area he would be digging in as surrounded by 6-foot tall arborvitaes. This would make his job unnoticeable except from the windows of the buildings top floor offices. Since it was Sunday, no one would be in the offices to see him. Perfectly planned.
Finding a parking spot for his borrowed auto was easy enough, pulling into a liquor store parking lot, abandoning the vehicle.
His objective lay only 5 blocks away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
With the pilot’s experienced touch, the helicopter dropped expertly from its 2,500-foot altitude to land mere feet from the rear gates of the White House, directly across the lush lawn from the Red Cross Headquarters building. At any other point in time, the Mall would be a virtual beehive of activity with football and soccer games and everyday people picnicking on its grassy expanse. With the gas leak’s evacuation, it emptiness resembled a 1950’s “B” movie scene after the effects of a nuclear attack, the exception being the numerous police officers strolling its concrete sidewalks.
Wendy Wexler sat beside Officer Mark Lipatree in the back seat of the helicopter, having enjoying her first ride, laughing at the sudden drop in altitude.
Mark sat beside her— sick and pale from his own helicopter experience.
Jimmy Sanders turned to Mark and Wendy, applying his best southern accent and said. “Ya’ll come back now.”
With their arrival, the noose had slowly tightened around Peter’s neck.
The office looked typical for an American business executive, with an oak desk topped by a laptop computer, plants hanging around the perimeter and a backdrop of family pictures neatly arranged behind the desk. The photos were the usual; kids posing in their baseball or soccer uniforms, the family at Disney World, his deceased Mother and Father. The only problem was it belonged to Colonel Sergey Vasov, of the Russian Embassy.
“Sergey, I worry about you,” Igor said as he looked about the room. “I think you are becoming too immersed in the American culture,” pointing to the family picture at Disney World.
“Kids, Igor, kids. They love it over here,” Sergey said as he removed a key from a chain around his neck, inserting it into a file cabinet lock, allowing the top drawer to open. He searched his color coded files before carefully extracting two from the drawer, one green and the other purple, laying them on his desk for Igor to see.
“Langley, Virginia and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” he said matter of factly. “They are the closest locations to our DC weapon.”
“It has to be Philadelphia,” Igor said confidently. “Langley is too close for comfort, the whole DC area is crawling with FBI and police with this gas leak story. It would also put our man on a direct path to New York and an international flight home. That has got to be it.”
“I’m heading to Philadelphia. I will require some background information on this,” pausing as he looked down at the folder for the exact location, “Fort Mifflin,” a puzzled expression breaking out on his face. “Is this really an American Fort?”
Sergey allowed a laugh to escape. “At one time yes it was, but that was about 235 years ago during the American Revolution,” Sergey replied. “Now, it is a tourist destination. Being the American history buff that I am, I have visited the Fort several times.”
Satisfied with Sergey’s response, Igor felt the target would be lightly guarded, if at all. “Very well, have my items available and downstairs in 5 minutes,” Igor said, before realizing he was outranked. “I’m sorry Sergey; please have them downstairs in 5 minutes.”
“Remember your pay grade,” Sergey said jokingly, brushing aside his friend’s comments. ”And I will throw in a set of night vision goggles due to darkness settling in by the time you reach your destination, that and a detailed ordinance map of the area should do nicely.”
“You’re like a mother hen,” Igor said, putting the file in his garment bag.
“Just catch this thief,” his mouth spitting out the words as if he had tasted something that did not agree with him, “and when you do, kill him.” Sergey could only think of his own family, safe in Woodbridge, Virginia.
Igor smiled at Sergey, seeing his friend had not lost his passion for a fight after his many years in the United States.
“That’s my intention. Either him or me.”
Michael Forsythe had conducted his final security check of the surrounding area. He now walked with a bruised and battered Boris in tow, having gone back on his word on letting him go free. After Forsythe had flown out of Ocean City with Jim Thomson, a second helicopter returned for Boris and the remainder of Forsythe’s team. Forsythe knew Boris required some form of hope to hang onto, thinking his freedom could be bought. Boris was still valuable — he had intimate knowledge of what the suspect looked like. Forsythe could keep him out of view until needed. Boris was also within the weapons range if detonated. Forsythe thought this might encourage Boris to possibly be more forthcoming with any additional information he may have held back.
The slightest possibility existed so Forsythe was taking no chances.
As the FBI helicopter approached Forsythe realized his reinforcements were in-hand. Two additional bodies that could help identify the suspect, and not a moment too soon.
“Boris, wait here,” Forsythe said, calling over a DC policewoman.
“Miss, I want you to watch this man and make sure he doesn’t move,” Forsythe said, pointing towards the battered Boris.
“Be a good boy Boris and maybe I will let you go home after all,” turning to walk the 100 yards to where the helicopter was in its final approach.
Boris smiled at the policewoman, nodding his head in a polite greeting before tuning to watch Forsythe walk towards the helicopter.
He fixed an all-knowing gaze on Forsythe before laughing aloud. You have no idea where he is going after this, do you my friend? I will be long gone before you realize you have lost a major city.
The policewoman thought the old man had lost a screw.
Boris turns back to her, still smiling. “I must apologize for my outburst, I just thought of a joke that a friend of mine told me yesterday. I would tell you but you would probably find no humor in it.” He turns back to watch Michael greet his guests. “It’s concerns an old Russian joke from long ago that is now coming home to roost, right here in the United States,” still maintaining a smile. “I’m sure you will be hearing about it soon.”
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen,” Forsythe said to Wendy and Mark above the din provided by the rotors, nodding to Jimmy and Richard in the same instance.
“Jimmy, keep the motor going, I want to take a quick look over the scene,” shouted Forsythe, pointing to the air above them.
Jimmy responded with nod.
Helping Wendy step out first before noticing the mess on the floor at Marks feet, Forsythe could see the Officer was white as a ghost. “You all right Officer?”
“I am now,” he replied stepping out and onto the level grass lawn, his knees buckling slightly.
Forsythe held his tongue, remembering his own first experience in a helicopter 15 years before. The pilot was a cocky Vietnam vet who decided to pull a few fast maneuvers to spook Forsythe. It turned out to be the wrong thing to do because Forsythe relieved himself of that morning’s meal, leaving a nice mess for the pilot to clean up. Unfortunately for the pilot, somebody learned a fine lesson that day, and it wasn’t Forsythe.