Ammon didn’t respond. It was such a startling thought. Leave Jesse! He had to be kidding! She’s my life. The only reason I breathe every day.
The two men rode in silence. Lightning continued to dance in the distance, flashing from cloud to cloud. A few miles passed before Morozov slowed down and took an isolated ranch exit. The exit ramp quickly narrowed into a roughly paved road. After a few hundred feet, the pavement came to an abrupt end and a dirt road took over, winding its way into the darkness. Not another car was in sight. Morozov drove down the dirt road for about a mile, to where it suddenly made a sharp cut to the right. There he let the car coast along until it rolled to a stop.
“What are we doing?” Ammon asked in an urgent voice.
“There’s something I want you to see.”
“In the middle of this field?”
Morozov grunted. “Follow me.” He jerked open his door and stepped out into the night.
Richard Ammon reluctantly followed him into the cool, misty air. He watched Morozov walk a short distance out into the open fields. Morozov’s body soon turned into a faded outline as he kicked and paced through the dirt. He seemed to be looking for something. Suddenly Morozov stopped and bent over. After a short pause, he yelled, “Come over here.”
Ammon began to walk slowly out to where Ivan Morozov was now standing, stepping carefully through the muddy soil. He stopped for a moment about ten feet from Morozov. From this distance he could recognize what lay at his feet.
“Come here,” Morozov commanded.
Ammon inched forward until he was standing next to Morozov. There on the ground, illuminated by the reflected light of the headlights, lay a woman’s body. It was curled up into a fetal position. A dark pool of blood had collected around the figure’s head and short brown hair. A thin arm lay sprawled across the face, hiding her identity. Ammon could see that the face had been horribly mangled. A skeletal grin stared up from the darkness. The eyes were round and gaping and dried over in a thick film. Ammon instinctively recoiled.
In a rage, he turned on Morozov. Grabbing him by the collar, he twisted his head and spun him around. “What have you done!” he screamed in his face. “Who is this? What have you done?”
With surprising strength, Morozov pushed him away. Ammon slipped in the mud, then caught himself before he fell. Ammon turned and brought up his fists, only to find himself facing a Colt 45, the muzzle just inches from the center of his eyes. The polished steel glistened in the semi-darkness. Ammon heard a click and froze.
“You want to know who this is?” Morozov asked, waving the center of the barrel in front of Ammon’s face, moving the tip from his nose to each of his eyes in a taunting, rotating circle. “I’ll tell you who this is. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll give you all of the details. Like how did it feel? What did we use? How long did it take her to die? You name it, and I’ll spill my guts. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Ammon shuddered, then looked away. Morozov kept the gun at his head. Ammon ignored it. Morozov pulled back on the hammer, locking it in the fire position.
“This is you, you stupid fool,” Morozov said coldly, his voice suddenly calm and even as glass. “So take a good look. This is your future! This is you if you don’t go along.
“You know who this is, Ammon? This is the airman who planted the bomb in your jet. We thought we could trust her. But look at her now. Look what my boy did to her face. And all because she got a little sloppy. Came home on leave. Had to impress her old friends. Started flashing her money. Started talking too much. Couldn’t control her loose lips.
“And if you think this looks ugly, keep this thought in mind, for I swear to you, for every throb of pain that I cause you, I will make things even worse for your girl!
“So walk softly, you snot-nose little fly-boy. Walk softly. And don’t piss me off.”
Ammon glared up at Morozov. Morozov smiled. Ammon choked on his rage and frustration, then passed his hands over his eyes. Turning away, he stumbled into the darkness and made his way back to the car.
Buddy Spencer held the color photos up to his nose to get a close look. His hands shook.
“When did these come in?” he demanded.
“Yesterday, sir,” the aide replied. “We got the tape from Dallas in this morning. It took us until noon to digitize it so that we could manipulate the pictures for better observation. One of our interns made a match late last night. I think we got lucky. It looks like a good pick to me.”
Spencer held the photos close once again, then set them down on the top of his desk and picked up another picture, this one a glossy black and white. It was a clear shot of Ivan Morozov. He held the pictures side by side. He was a little unsure. He wasn’t very good at such things. But it looked like a match. He punched the intercom switch to buzz his secretary.
“Get Oliver Tray,” he said abruptly.
Forty minutes later, Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Tray walked into the office, escorted by an Agency security guard. He wore a visitor’s pass around his neck and carried a brown leather briefcase. As he walked into the office, Spencer nodded to his desk and Oliver immediately picked up the pictures and started sorting through them. There were eleven photos in all. Each of them had been enlarged and cropped to zoom in on Morozoy’S face. They showed him from several different angles as he had made his way through customs in Dallas.
“That’s him!” Oliver announced with no hesitation. “No doubt about it. He’s a little older, and his hair is cut short, but that’s him.”
“Are you certain?” Spencer prodded. “I think you’re right, but we have to be sure.”
Tray didn’t hesitate. “It’s him. Look at the eyes. It’s him. I’m perfectly sure. I can’t believe he’s back in the country. This is wild, Buddy! Incredible, really! Now, where were these pictures taken and when?”
Buddy looked at his watch. “About forty-five hours ago. In Dallas. I’ve got people standing by.”
“What else do we know? Where did he go from the airport? Did he take a connecting flight, or rent a car? Did somebody meet him? Did he have any unusual or oversized luggage? Did he enter the country alone?” Tray was talking so fast, Spencer had to concentrate just to follow what he said.
“Nothing,” Spencer answered. “We don’t know nothing. Or at least very little. And to a large degree, it is leaving our hands. The FBI has already been notified. Once Morozov stepped foot on U.S. soil, he became their man. Of course, we’ll continue to work with them, and other agencies have been notified as well, including the state and local police. However, we don’t think that he flew on from Dallas. At least no ticket was made under the alias he used to enter the country. And he wasn’t alone. He was traveling with this man.” Buddy Spencer tossed another photo across the desk. “We don’t know who he is. Got nothing on him at all.”
Oliver reached down and picked up the photo. The color immediately drained from his face. His eyes opened wide. His body visibly tensed and a look of pure astonishment and shock spread across his face. Spencer watched his friend in surprise.
“Oh my…,” Oliver muttered. He swallowed hard, then reached for the phone, ignoring Spencer’s attempts for some explanation.
Tray dialed as quickly as he could. “I’ve got him, Colonel Fullbright!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’ve got him! He’s here in the States!” He paused, listening.
“BADGER, sir!” he replied. “He’s here! He’s with Morozov!”
Another pause.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there!”