In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  To her surprise, it had not.

  She had just downed the Laphroaig when the phone rang.

  Chief Fogerty's voice was immediately recognizable. "Krystal, thank heaven your plane was not delayed. I'm sorry to bother you now, but something's come up, and all leave is cancelled. "

  "I'll be glad to help, Chief. What's up?"

  "I guess you've not heard the news yet. Turn on your TV, and you'll catch on soon enough. I'll send a black and white for you."

  The Chief cut the connection before she could ask why he thought she needed someone to pick her up.

  She grabbed the TV remote from the kitchen counter and turned to a local channel. The screen was immediately filled with images of first responder vehicles of every description, blue lights and red lights flashing, and people in uniform moving about with grim expressions. A female reporter in a heavy parka looked seriously into the camera as she spoke of an as yet unexplained explosion at the Clarendon Metro Station. Greasy black smoke drifted in the air behind the reporter.

  Bad. Really bad.

  She switched off the TV and went to the bedroom where she pulled a heavy turtleneck sweater out of a drawer and grabbed a pair of high-topped boots from the floor of the closet. She had a police issue parka in the hall closet and figured she would need that too. It could be a long night.

  Ten minutes later she was downstairs when the black and white arrived. The snow had not stopped and was becoming thick on the streets. The distance from her apartment to the scene was only a few blocks, but walking it under these conditions would have been tedious. She hated Washington winters, and she hated Washington summers, too. The Capital was a city of extremes of both weather and politics. How had she ended up here? Because the best job offer came from Arlington, that's why. At least spring and autumn were nice. Miami didn't really have that.

  Chief Fogerty was in earnest conversation with a small knot of men when she arrived. She sloshed through the slush toward them, her boots making splashing noises in the salt-laden snow. When Fogerty saw her, he waved impatiently for her to join them.

  Fogerty introduced the solemn-faced man beside him as FBI Special Agent Nick Ferguson from the Counter Terrorism Task Force, the CTTF. Ferguson may have been in his mid-forties, but it was hard to tell with the watch cap pulled low over his ears and the heavy parka with FBI emblazoned on the back in big, yellow letters. He could have been almost anything under all that, but his face was Bureau-issue square jawed and his brows were black Irish dark. He wasn't happy. But, of course, who would be under the circumstances? The other two guys were from Homeland Security.

  "This is detective Krystal Murphy," Fogerty said to the men. "She's the best I have, and she'll be your primary liaison contact on this." He waved vaguely behind him toward the Metro station entrance.

  The scene was like something right out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting with fire hoses tangled like spilled intestines everywhere over a now ice-coated surface. First responders moved about carefully as salt was spread wherever possible. EMT's emerged in soot stained gear from the darkened Metro entrance carrying heavy plastic bags that they lay in an irregular line in a roped off area. There were a lot of these bundles, too many.

  Ambulances were backed into the area from all directions still being loaded with survivors, and others were queued up to take more. Glancing back over the seen she decided most of them would be heading for the morgue.

  Fogerty's words finally penetrated the shock of horror the scene generated. He'd said "primary liaison contact," which meant he was dumping all of this on her. She could not imagine how she and the entire cadre of the Arlington County Police could even begin to cope with the scope of this tragedy, but then the gears in her head creaked into motion and she realized it would be Homeland Security and the FBI that would be in charge with all of their abundant resources. But the event had occurred in Arlington, and that meant the ACP also had an oar to dip into the bloody water.

  Another reason for the assignment, she realized, was that Fogerty must be aware of her standing relationship with FBI Executive Assistant Director Enoch Whitehall, the Bureau's eminence gris. This could be good or bad.

  She caught Ferguson eyeing her warily from under his watch cap and wondered if he, too, was aware of her relationship with one of the highest ranking officers in the Bureau. That could be a problem if he was one of those feebies who was jealous of position and resented anyone who could leapfrog his chain of command. Of course, he was one of those. Weren't they all?

  Ferguson finally spoke. His voice was scratchy, probably from the smoke. "I think they're about finished recovering victims. You want to go down and take a look-see with me?"

  Murphy certainly did NOT want to go down and "take a look-see," but she would do it anyway because that was what cops were obliged to do – witness the worst humanity had to offer.

  "Yeah," she said.

  She turned to Chief Fogerty. "Are you coming?"

  Fogerty's face went pale with a greenish tinge, and his eyes widened slightly as he imagined what awaited them below ground in the station. "Uh, no. We've still got a few things to discuss here," he said nodding at the Homeland Security guys.

  She turned to Ferguson with a resigned shrug. "Lead the way."

  They skated across the icy sidewalk and over the firehoses to the entrance where they were assaulted by emanations that might well have arisen from hell. The dark odor of greasy smoke, burnt plastic and electrical fires laced with the petroleum imbued perfume of spent explosives. But worst was the sickly smell of the carnage that waited below.

  An EMT handed them surgical masks at the top of the steps. "Most of the smoke has been cleared out and the flames extinguished," he said. "And we've set up emergency lighting. There's nothing down there I ever want to see again, though." There were tears rolling down the EMT's cheeks, whether from the sharpness of the overloaded air or from weeping, she could not tell. She wouldn't blame him for the latter.

  The steps had been liberally salted and were wet but free from ice. She and Ferguson descended, salt crystals crunching under their feet, and arrived at the blackened train platform. There were still some bodies covered with bright blue blankets and circles drawn in neon yellow chalk on the floor around body parts. Ferguson stopped and she heard him catch his breath.

  "Is this your first bombing?" she asked, her voice muffled by the surgical mask.

  "So you've concluded already that it’s a bombing?"

  The presence of the CTTF suggested that terrorism was the likely cause of the explosion. She sniffed the air. "Yeah. No doubt about it. Is this your first?"

  "Yes. How about you?" His voice was strangled.

  "I spent a good while in Iraq with the military and saw my share over there. Those were all in open areas, though. This is worse. You never forget the smell."

  The vaulted ceiling and walls of the station had served to focus the blast back onto the train and platform thus multiplying the destruction and carnage. The train must have just pulled in when the bomb was detonated. The side of one car had been ripped completely away, creating even more shrapnel than had been in the bomb itself to tear at flesh. The blackened tile walls were pockmarked where the shrapnel had impacted. The effect on human bodies would have been horrific.

  A man in a white hazmat suit, or a suit covered in suet that must have at one time been white, caught site of Ferguson and waved them over. He was standing near the center of the blast area holding a bag with something inside.

  "Larry," he shouted at Ferguson, "over here. We found something."

  They walked over to him, carefully avoiding the chalk circles. He pointed at the bag. "We think this is our bomber, or what's left of her."

  When suicide vests are detonated the force of the blast disintegrates the body, but can detach the bomber's head and leave it relatively intact. Murphy guessed that was the case here.

  Ferguson was no slouch and had come to the same conclusion. "Man or woman?" he asked.

 
Murphy guessed that the guy in the suit was a member of the FBI's forensics team. Ferguson introduced him as Sam Helger.

  "Woman," answered Helger. "Wanna see?"

  Ferguson sighed with resignation and disgust, "Shit, yes. Why not? How much worse could it get?"

  He turned to Murphy. "You OK with this?"

  It was not, unfortunately, the first time Murphy had seen a head in a bag. "I'm OK."

  Helger placed the bag on the floor and carefully unzipped it. When he pulled it back the bomber's face was upturned. It was almost completely undamaged. The brown eyes were open wide and the lips were parted in terminal surprise. Long, dark hair spilled from behind.

  "Jeez," said Ferguson. "She was young, probably no more than twenty or twenty-five. What the hell drives these people?"

  "Death," intoned Helger. "The bastards are in love with death."

  "You think this was an Islamist terrorist attack?" she asked. This was not the first time Murphy had heard fanatical Islam described as a death cult.

  "Most likely. The M.O. fits, but we'll know more once we get all the pieces to Quantico."

  The Bureau techs would examine every scrap of evidence, including bodies in a process similar to what the Flight Transportation Safety Board did in the wake of an airline disaster. Nothing would be too trivial for examination.

  "How long will it be before we have something concrete to go on?" asked Murphy.

  Helger reclosed the bag. "This will take several weeks. You can't hurry these things up."

  "The public will be clamoring for a statement," said Ferguson, "Already is. There are mobile crews from every news network out there."

  "That's not my problem," said Helger.

  "It will be as soon as the White House comes down on you," said Ferguson.

  "Oh, well," said Helger, "in that case we'll just label it workplace violence."

  Ferguson snorted behind his mask. "If anyone labels this as Middle East terrorism before the results are in, there'll be political hell to pay."

  Murphy remained uncharacteristically silent. Everything in this town was linked somehow to politics, and she had had her fill of politics. Way more than her fill. She was often accused of having too black and white a view, but wrong was wrong and the truth was the truth. But truth could be a gauzy thing in Washington.

  She finally spoke up. "Maybe someone will claim responsibility. That'll be hard to cover up."

  * * *

  10 KRYSTAL, Michael R. Davidson, 2014

  Chapter 37

  Olga welcomed the end of the operation against Shtayn. The mental effort of dealing with the difficult man wearied her more than the physical effort. His words left her disoriented and confused, which only made her angry.

  It was nearing six P.M. and snowing when she emerged from the Metro station a block away from where she lived. It was nothing like a Moscow snowfall, of course, but she would be glad to get back to her cozy little apartment nonetheless. She decided not to cook tonight and ducked into the small pizzeria on the corner of Wilson and Herndon. The New York style pie there was good, and on a chilly evening, pizza sounded like a good idea.

  As she stood at the counter, she sensed as much as heard a deep rumble that rattled the plate glass window and the china on the counter. She turned her head in time to see the ugly black effluvia of an explosion disgorged from the Metro station entrance across the street and stared in incomprehension along with others who had sought temporary refuge from the snow and a slice in the small establishment.

  What the hell was going on?

  The Metro station entrance was a gaping mouth emitting flame-tinged smoke that Olga thought surely must resemble the Gates of Hell. There were people in there, trapped underground where only moments before she had stepped off her train. This was the very station used by Shtayn every morning and evening, and with a start she realized that the traitor might well have been in the station.

  She'd done her job well, she knew, as she went over events in her mind. She'd picked up Shtayn as he left the office building a few blocks west. Careful observation over the course of the past several weeks had confirmed the man's pattern. Olga had ridden the Metrorail several times to the suburban station and watched as the target walked to his car and drove away.

  Through the restaurant's fogged window she could see as people slowly, fearfully began to move toward the blackened Metro entrance. A few, very few tried to go inside but were driven back by roiling, greasy smoke and fumes. Faintly at first, then louder, the wail of sirens came through the glass.

  She realized that long minutes had passed. Police, fire, and emergency vehicles arrived at the scene, and the streets were being blocked off. Witnesses would be sought out, and questions would be asked. It would not do for her to remain.

  She slipped out the door and headed away from the scene toward her apartment. She must talk to Karpov as soon as possible tomorrow.

  Chapter 38

  The snow was tapering off by the time Olga made it to her apartment. It was a short walk from the pizza restaurant, but she was shivering not only from the cold. The subway explosion was the worst thing she had ever seen.

  She took a long, hot shower and curled up on the couch to watch the television news reports as one tense-faced reporter and talking head after another made the logical assumption and intoned solemnly on the latest visitation of jihadist terrorism to America.

  The next day, she made excuses at the 17th Street office and took a taxi to the Russian Embassy.

  Karpov greeted her with a broad grin, an expression so uncharacteristic of the normally dour FSB man that she was taken aback. Perhaps the half-empty bottle of vodka and the shot glass on his desk explained it.

  He led her to the safe room, the bottle and two glasses dangling from one hand. "Have a drink with me, Olenka. You look like you might need one."

  "I was almost killed yesterday," she said, and told him about the subway explosion. "It was terrible. I was right across the street and saw the entire thing."

  His brow furrowed, and he gave her a quizzical look. "You were in the area?"

  How could he not know where she lived?

  "I live only a block away from the Metro station. I use it every day. I almost called you on my cell phone. I left the station only moments before the attack."

  "It's a good thing you didn't call." He placed a finger alongside his nose. "Radio silence. The Americans will undoubtedly check every cell phone call made in the vicinity before and after that explosion."

  If she expected sympathy, she wasn't finding it here.

  Karpov pointed at the bottle. "You really do need a drink."

  Olga leaned away from the table. The chair was wooden with a faux leather seat and back and not particularly comfortable. "The whole damned subway just blew up."

  All the television channels this morning were still filled with images of emergency vehicles and excited reporters at the metro station.

  "Well, I'm happy nothing happened to you," he said in the kindest voice he could muster.

  Olga nodded.

  "It was not intended that you should be anywhere near when the operation came down. You never mentioned you lived so close to the metro Shtayn used. But the really good news is that we can confirm the kill, and that means you did your job well. Molodets!" He unscrewed the cap on the vodka and poured liberal slugs into both glasses. He shoved one toward her. "Drink!"

  Olga stared uncomprehendingly without picking up the small glass. "'… confirm the kill?'" Her voice trailed off.

  Karpov peered at her through slitted eyes before answering. "Think about it this way: our target is just one of many casualties, which means his death will not be particularly suspicious, which means no suspicion will fall on us. That's a good thing."

  He downed his vodka and poured another. The clear, viscous liquid spilled over the rim and puddled on the table. "Have a drink, and calm down." He pointed to the glass he had filled for her before tipping his glassful down his throat.

/>   Karpov's words reached Olga through a swirling fog. She was tempted by the vodka, but she resisted as his words sank in.

  "You're telling me that the explosion was our doing? That it was done in order to assassinate Mark Shtayn?" She was nauseated and struggled not to vomit.

  "Don't give me that shit, Olga Vladimirovna. You know all about handling scum like that. This isn't the first time you've fingered someone for elimination. Don't tell me you're beginning to think like an American with his head full of all that shit about tolerance and love?"

  Olga was seized by terror of a sort she had never in her life experienced – a mindless, paralyzing, inexorable collision with the inevitable. This could not have anything to do with her. In her mind's eye the scene at the Metro played out again, and the demons in the hellish inferno grinned at her complicity. No, I can't have killed anyone.

  Fear whispered in her ear, here is a murderer. An instinct of self-preservation from somewhere deep inside asserted itself, but the quiver in her voice betrayed her emotions. "I'm not sure I like this, Valeriy Eduardovich, "tracking down people so they can be, erm, eliminated."

  Karpov rendered a chuckle that was completely devoid of humor and shook his head in mock dismay. "There's a popular Russian song, by Shevchuk, I think, where he's drinking with an FSB general who says, 'One must believe in something. If our leaders are deceiving us there is no reason to live.' For guys like us, dorogaya, there is only one rule to live by, and that rule is duty. That's what we have. That's all we have. That's what you have to believe in, just like Shevchuk's general. It's not complicated."

  "So we're not supposed to ask any questions?"

  "Never ask a question unless you already know the answer."

  "But I do have one question."

  Karpov raised his eyebrows.

  "What did you mean when you said this wasn't the first time I had 'fingered someone for assassination?"