ROGUESTATE, page 38
* * * *
Quantico, Virginia
The Bureau’s Baltimore field office is located in Woodland, just outside of the Baltimore Beltway. In order to get to Bolton Hill, where the Langsdale Library was located, the ready team had to traverse east over Dickeyville, Windsor Hills, Walbrook, and Sandtown. It gave Layne an extra five or six minutes. No one expected him to actually use the time to commence his flight.
Quantico’s computers bounced a signal off a secured satellite and loaded theBlack Hawk ’s internal navigation computer. A second signal alerted the Baltimore/Washington Federal Aviation Administration that an emergency, priority aircraft was moving across the western half of the city. The Bureau employed a seldom-used, and mostly unknown protocol that permitted the National Command Authority to supercede all other concerns. It caused more than a little grumbling as harried air traffic controllers worked to clear any traffic in the area.
* * * *
Langsdale Library, Baltimore, Maryland
A soft voice called after him as Layne walked away from the PCs. “Sir, you forgot your notebook.”
Layne turned to face a freckled-faced graduate student holding the fresh, red-covered notebook in her hands. He sighed. In one fluid motion he reached for the Sigma pistol in his canvas bag. He paused and stared at the notebook in her outstretched hands.
He had almost shot her through the throat.
He released his grip on the Sigma and smiled. “Thank you,” he managed to say and turned quickly away.
It was definitely time to leave.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
Dwayne took the stairs leading up to the SIOC on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building two at a time. He flashed his identification as he rushed into the Bureau’s super-secret lair only to find Lou Feldman and Rita Mason already observing the unfolding drama. On one of the large projection screens, the ready team’s progress was plotted by a red dot. A white dot identified the target location.
“Three minutes to target,” intoned one of the technicians.
Rita Mason acknowledged Dwayne’s entry with a sneer. It would be difficult to pack him off to West Yellowstone after he had successfully identified the bomber and initiated a daring apprehension. Dwayne had thwarted her personal ambitions, and she found it hard to believe he had accomplished it without help.
“We’ll soon find out whether this Damon Layne fellow is your culprit,” murmured Feldman, never taking his eyes off the displays.
Dwayne nodded uncomfortably
“A remarkable bit of police work,” Rita added sardonically.
Dwayne tried to ignore her, but he might as well as tried to dismiss a cobra dancing in his vision.
He wondered whether the Bureau would release information detailing the facts that Layne had worked in varying capacities with several law enforcement agencies—including the Bureau. Damon Layne appeared to be one of them, and as such, he understood the moves the Bureau would pursue. It made him doubly dangerous.
“Where did you come up with Layne’s photograph?” mused Feldman.
Rita turned her black, thunderous gaze towards Dwayne.
“Two minutes to target,” announced the technician.
* * * *
Baltimore, Maryland
Layne rushed through the glass doors on the first level and into the street. He started walking quickly north of Maryland Avenue
away from the busier Mt. Royal Avenue
traffic that ran east and west. Police sirens wailed from different directions as Layne ripped the false goatee and wire-rim glasses from his face. He tossed them away.
There was no need to panic; planning and recon kicked in. A police car rushed down Maryland Avenue
towards Langsdale Library with its lights flashing and siren blaring. Damon paused a moment at the corner of Maryland and West Oliver Street
. The Sigma was stuffed in the side pocket of his jacket, and his hand wrapped around the remote detonator transmitter.
He had left three cars parked along Mt. Royal Avenue
. They were wired in series and each had a full tank of gas connected to the last of his homemade plastic explosives. He watched the police cruiser skid to a halt in the middle of the street before the library’s entrance. He dialed in the proper frequency on the detonator as a second police car turned onto Maryland from Mt. Royal.
Moral scruples and remorse were alien emotions as he resolutely pressed the detonation switch and hell boiled open along the busy street. He turned and dashed across the intersection to West Oliver Street
, angling towards the busy din coming from the Jones Falls Expressway. The ground shook as the three automobiles rocketed across Mt. Royal in a rolling fireball slamming into traffic and pedestrians. Windows imploded, showering occupants with needle-sharp shards, and flames leaped into the gray sky. The cops turned as one to the cataclysm—battle had returned to America’s streets.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
Dwayne glowered at Feldman. He understood enough of the Bureau’s political machinations to know Harvey Randall waspersona non grata . “I developed other sources for the investigation,” he answered quietly.
“Nothing is written down in the investigation log,” noted Rita, a little too quickly.
He was trapped between an empire-builder and a stair-climber. They did not care about Jayne Skinner, Alicia Montgomery, Haley Dickinson, or Jacob Malden—they were nothing more than inconvenient nuisances in a broader game of beltway brinkmanship. The fact they had lives and families, dreams and aspirations, meant nothing to Feldman or Rita. It suddenly sickened Dwayne to his very core.
“I haven’t gotten around to it yet,” lied Dwayne.
“You’re violating standard operating procedure,” chided Rita.
“I’ve been a bit busy chasing down the bad guys,” responded Dwayne, unapologetically. He decided it would be a cold day in hell before he revealed to her or Feldman the source of Damon Layne’s identity.
“Oh my,” whispered one of the technicians.
The three of them turned back to the screen as the radio chatter for the Baltimore police band filled the room.
“We’ve got seven or eight people down, and there’s fires everywhere!”
“Close down Mt. Royal! I’ve got a three-car pileup; bodies everywhere—oh no!”
“I need an ambulance—a lot of ambulances and air rescue now!”
Feldman pitched forward to the screen, demanding, “What’s going on?”
Dwayne stared in horror at the map grid. There were reasons—valid reasons as to why the Director did not wish to pursue the physical detonator evidence. They were afraid of where it would lead and whom it would harm.
The details began to filter in, and they were horrific.
* * * *
Baltimore, Maryland
Layne cut between the buildings to pick up the portion of West Oliver that snaked beneath the expressway overpass. He paused long enough to see the Bureau’sBlack Hawk and the ready team in their glistening body armor and bristling weapons. A black plume of smoke drifted skyward near Langsdale Library.
“How bloody do you want this to be?” he asked.
A sloppy grin walked across Irv’s tobacco-stained teeth. “I want fear! I want them to fear us!”
“These people are not used to fear,” continued Ron. “The beauty of the plan is that they can’t cover everyone at the same time. If they try…”
“They’ll protect nothing,” continued Damon, finishing the thought.
“Exactly!” smiled Irv—it was a smelly, brownish leer.
“These people play for keeps,” warned Damon.
“So do we,” boasted Ron.
They had their fear and their blood. Damon Layne hoped they were satisfied for it would be the last overt act he intended. The Bureau had been waiting, and that meant they knew much more than he could anticipate.
He picked his way across St. Paul Street
and North Calvert where he followed the train tracks for two hundred yards until Belvedere Street
emerged and took him back to Greenmount Cemetery and a waiting car. No one bothered parked cars in cemeteries—honoring the dead was a time-worn custom. It was the perfect place to leave an escape vehicle.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
The nose camera mounted on the Bureau’sBlack Hawk transmitted images back to the SIOC. One of three cars Layne had rigged lay sideways across Mt. Royal Avenue
, and two other vehicles had smashed into it. It was grisly scene quickly filling with fire engines and paramedic ambulances.
The ready team hovered impotently above the carnage. People scurried like ants over the dead and broken. At least three fires had ignited in nearby buildings and the termcollateral damage drifted through the conversation.
The cops had finally entered Langsdale Library, but they arrived very late and did not find anyone matching Damon Layne’s description.
“What are you playing at,” demanded Feldman as he rounded on Dwayne.
Dwayne gave Feldman a tired look as he slumped down in the chair. He needed Damon Layne to convict Ron Babcock and Irv Fredricks. His entire case was disintegrating to ashes on the Baltimore street
grid.
“Give me the detonator,” hissed Dwayne. The physical evidence was all he had.
Feldman blinked blankly and said, “There is no detonator Dwayne—never was.”
“We need to know where you came up with the Damon Layne lead,” demanded Rita.
Dwayne shrugged, got to his feet, and said quietly, “There is no lead, Rita—never was.”
* * * *
Wattsville, Virginia
On the neck of land that acts as a breakwater between the quarrelsome Atlantic Ocean and Chesapeake Bay, Virginia and Maryland share a border. NASA’s Wallops Flight Center rests on Virginia’s eastern shore, where the government performs sub-orbital and low earth orbital missions.
Harper had reread Layne’s Q file and considered his own training. While the CIA was officially precluded from performing covert operations inside the United States, theBlackest of the Black was an action group unto its own. Louis Edwards and General George Carnady prepared for the unlikely eventualities—including operations inside the United States against foreign nationals.
Louis envisioned a time when it might be necessary to leave the country in a hurry. The search began for a secure facility where such an evacuation could be accomplished without alerting anyone. As they perused the list of government facilities, they came across Wallops Island Launch Facility. Edwards established protocols for eluding authorities and escaping the country should the need ever arise. It was one of the darkest secrets Louis ever devised.
Harper considered the possibility that Damon Layne had been trained in the same manner for the same missions he had performed. Could the reasons behind Louis Edwards’ decision to assassinate Layne in 1989 have to do with protecting theBlackest of the Black ? Might Layne be one of the fifty teams staged in the early eighties to finally topple the Soviet Union? Was Damon Layne one of them?
There is a tempo and rhythm to every operation, and Damon Layne acted more like an agent behind enemy lines than a wacko trying to kill people. Once the Company established a secret protocol, it took more than an ambivalent administration to cancel it. Harper found the signs and counter-signs continued to work. He drove down Fulton Street
towards Wallops Flight Facility’s main gate.
Harper examined his credentials, and wondered if everything would continue to work. He was running on a hunch, his gut, and what he would do if he were in Layne’s place. The Atlantic Ocean beckoned beyond the scattered islands that acted like a reef for the main base. Wallops Island, where the actual launch gantries awaited their payloads, was to the south. Layne was not heading for the gantries—Building 44 was on the main base.
Perhaps he was already too late; Harper had no idea as he accelerated towards the main gate and the uniformed guard. Ominous signs listed federal regulations and dire warnings about bringing alcohol, drugs, explosives, or firearms into the facility. Harper ignored the threats of prosecution and prison terms. He carried Conner Fadden’s Remington rifle in a case and his collection of knives and guns. The rules did not apply to him, and if they did, he chose to violate them anyway. He would wait for Layne.
* * * *
Washington D.C.
Eduard Gurov walked down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on his way towards the Washington Monument. The Makarov tapped at his side and the sun had decided to peek through the gray November sky. He looked about the end of the reflecting pool past the vendors hawking Vietnam-era insignia patches, American flags, and maps of the mall.
He stepped away from the long, black Vietnam wall and turned toward the Korean War Memorial where soldiers forever seemed caught in their steps along the Korean peninsula. Gurov personally believed America to be a country populated by soft playboys incapable of rising up in anger against a real foe. They worshiped their 401K retirement plans, stock portfolios, and bond accounts. They gave alms to Dow Jones and NASDAQ, but cared little for the true measure of a country—raw, unambiguous might.
America was a young country untested by time. Ancient Rome had built the forum and her empire continued for almost four hundred years before the fat sapped her strength and will to survive. Russians understood hardship, and the motherland had always provided for the people. Watching their shiny cars and their flagrant women, Gurov grew to despise the bountiful land between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. But before he could contemplate victory over the land of the free and the home of the brave, he had a Chechen to kill.
Gennadiy Panferkov found him between the reflecting pool and the Vietnam Memorial, and Jonas Benjamin’s cameras focused on both of them. It was part of the deal Harvey had struck with Cecil Bixby. Eventually, he reasoned, the Russians would need to meet again, and they were very distrustful of any electronic communications. The two Russians were trapped in a three-way net between Jonas, Brian Stillwell, and Mark Schaeffer.
“This is very risky,” began Gennadiy.
Gurov shrugged. “I have no choice—I know where the Chechen is.”
The SVR chief of station appraised the FSB man and said quietly, “The one the Americans were searching for?”
Gurov nodded.
“And how much of a threat should I consider this scum to be?” mused the rotund Washington spy.
Eduard scowled at the indifference and game playing. “The Chechen knows his business. He is going to attack you from the sewers.”
Gennadiy forced himself to remain calm.
“The Americans do not think like Chechens. They are searching for something obvious and above ground, but I am certain he has gone below ground and I think he has accomplished whatever he intends,” hissed Gurov.
“You believe he is still down there?” asked Gennadiy incredulously. “The Bureau has gone home.”
“In Grozny they lived in the sewers for weeks. We had to get them out, but one man should be easier,” explained Gurov. At the back of his mind, a trickle of doubt lingered on his words.
“You want to go get him?” whispered Gennadiy.
Gurov nodded.
“Why not convince the Americans to do the job for us?” he asked reasonably.
“Can you be certain they will finish the job?” demanded Gurov. “This Chechen threat needs to end now. Moscow wants them exterminated!”
Gennadiy weighed his options and decided that one way or another he would be rid of the troublesome FSB man. He decided to give Gurov what he wanted.
The two Russians never noticed Jonas recording their words.
CHAPTER FORTY
Chechnya,London Telegraph,Nigel Turner, November 20, 2000 –The Russian media is reporting that rebel leader Shamil Basayev has died from wounds suffered during the fall of Grozny last February. According to Russian military sources, there have been no radio communication intercepts by military intelligence between Basayev and lesser rebel field commanders.
Sergei Yastrzhemsky, Russian press attaché for Red Army forces in Chechnya, rejected the idea that Basayev is dead. He claimed there was sufficient evidence that Basayev was still alive.
This writer can personally claim to have visited with Basayev as recently as October. While the rebel leader did lose a leg in the Grozny fighting, he seemed ready and willing to continue to take the fight to the Russian invaders (his words) from outside his Dagestan command post.
Washington D.C.
Tuesday, November 21, 2000
3:00 P.M. EST
Harvey followed in Cecil’s wake as they arrived at the District of Columbia Sewer and Water Authority (WASA) along the Anacostia Freeway on the southern tip of the district. Cecil flashed his FBI credentials and bullied his sparse frame through the outer office staff and a much larger Harvey ambled after him, sporting an insincere apologetic smile.
Cecil went straight to the General Manager’s office—a black fellow by the name of Clinton Kennedy. Harvey checked his politically incorrect tendency to comment on a name that held the names of the two greatest philanderers to occupy the Oval Office in the last half of the twentieth century.
Clinton glared at Cecil’s intrusion into his office and seemed unimpressed by Cecil’s FBI shield.
“If you would like an appointment…” began Clinton.
Cecil scowled. They were closing on his Russian, and he needed to get to the sewers before Gurov did. Cecil spied the street map adorning Clinton’s wall and stabbed at the area between the Russian Embassy and the Naval Observatory. “I need the person who knows the sewer system for right here. The best you have.”
“Just who do you think you are?” snapped Clinton.
“The FBI,” snarled Harvey.
“Well ain’t that just wonderful,” said Clinton snippily.
Cecil tapped the map impatiently. “I need someone now.”
