In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  They followed the dog inside. The fire still glowed. A few moments and some additional logs later, it was blazing again, and the girl stared into the flames.

  She was startled when the old man shoved a glass of whiskey toward her and settled onto the sofa beside her.

  "Drink this. It'll help," he rasped.

  A tentative sniff told her the glass contained alcohol, strong alcohol, and she hesitated, eliciting a snort from the old man.

  "You need something to warm you up and calm you down. Then you can tell me what the hell is going on. First, you can tell me your name."

  She stared at him as though he had asked an incredibly difficult question and had to think hard about the answer.

  After several seconds she said, "Olga. My name is Olga Polyanskaya."

  Chapter 47

  How much time? It was unlikely that trouble would not follow quickly on the girl's heels.

  The problem was that he didn't know how much time he had before one or both of the men from the turkey farm would be knocking at his door, led there by the woman's tracks. They would have to come soon if they were to follow the tracks through the fast accumulating snow. If they were Chechens they were familiar with mountain terrain.

  He told her to stay where she was and concentrate on keeping warm. "Don't be alarmed if you hear some loud noises."

  She was not reassured when he opened his weapons cabinet to select what he would carry outside. He wasn't happy, but he was ready. He was always ready.

  A short-barreled, suppressed M-4 fitted with night sights and his M&K .45 with extra magazines would serve, he decided. He pulled on fur-lined boots and a camo cover-all, shooting gloves, and shoved a cap with ear flaps onto his head before heading for the back door of the cabin.

  If the men followed the woman's tracks they would not necessarily cover the rear of the cabin, and they had no idea who lived there. There was nothing in their experience that could have prepared them to meet the old man.

  He slipped out the door and moved to the cover of the trees before circling to a position where he could observe the approach. Selecting a large oak tree, he settled behind the trunk to wait, his eye to the reticule of the night sight. Not as limber as he once had been, he realized he would be unable to move quickly once the shooting started -- if there was to be shooting.

  There were two of them, just as the girl had said. They struggled up the slope through the snow following the tracks with a powerful flashlight. When they spotted the cabin both dropped to their knees and watched. There could be no doubt in their minds that this was the girl's destination.

  Their manner suggested that these were experienced fighters, and after studying the cabin for several minutes they did what experienced fighters would do. They split up, one covering the back while the other cautiously made his way toward the front door. Whether the route the first man took would bring him across the old man's tracks was a crap shoot. He was approaching from a different direction than the old man had taken, and it was likely he would establish a position some distance from the house to guarantee a wide field of fire. The old man watched until he was out of sight. He automatically catalogued possible solutions to taking out the second man. Stalking a trained mountain fighter in the dark in the woods was a formidable task. Deception might be the better option.

  The first man was now within a few steps of the front door moving stealthily. He held his weapon, the ubiquitous AK-47, at the ready. The Chechens were planning a down and dirty home invasion. Smash the front door, and if anyone tried to escape out the rear, the second guy would take them out. Simple.

  The old man cherished his front door.

  The Chechen mounted the front steps, his rifle at the ready. From inside Sadie's furious barking was audible. The Chechen raised his leg to kick the door in.

  His leg never completed the action. The old man’s hands did not tremble. His breathing was calm, his aim was true, his trigger pull smooth, born of a life-time of experience. A .223 round from the M-4 penetrated the Chechen’s skull and rattled around inside his brain pan, turning the contents to mush. The man dropped instantly, his AK dropping silently from dead hands into the snow.

  The question now was whether the second man would become curious enough about the lack of action that he would come to the front of the house to check on his companion. That would suit the old man, and the sooner the better. His knees were on fire from holding the cramped position behind the trunk of the oak.

  The M-4's suppressor reduced the volume of its report to a sharp cough. The sound nonetheless would carry in the stillness of the forest, hopefully to be absorbed somewhat by the fallen snow. The old man decided not to move. He was not sure his knees would permit it in any case. He would wait it out. If the second man entered the house from the rear and found the girl, so be it. The Chechen would be faced with the decision of whether to kill her or try to return her to the turkey farm. Either eventuality was controllable. It was cold-blooded, but it was his only choice.

  He cursed the girl for finding her way to his door.

  The killing had only just begun. He waited as he scanned his field of fire through the night sight.

  In the past adrenalin would be surging through his veins, energizing his body, bringing increased acuity to his vision and thought processes. The old man found it curious that on this occasion he experienced none of these things -- only the cold and the desire to get it over with, one way or another. Had he become so jaded that killing no longer elicited the same responses? He was about as excited as a carpenter preparing to drive another nail. This was dangerous. What was the old adage among spies? When you no longer feel fear or trepidation going into a clandestine operation, it's time to quit. There was no such thing as luck.

  He got lucky.

  The second man appeared around the side of the cabin, moving stealthily, rifle at the ready. When he saw his companion sprawled on the front stoop, he flattened himself to the ground and began to back pedal into the deeper shadow. The old man's first shot caught him in the shoulder, driving down through his clavicle, and he screamed in pain and rage. With his good arm he pointed his weapon toward the woods and sprayed bullets through the trees on full auto, shattering the night with the AK’s distinctive chatter.

  It's hard to control a weapon like the AK with one hand. The shots will march skyward with each recoil. The old man was not worried. He knew the man was firing blind. There was plenty of time to aim and fire a second time with the M-4. The bullet found his mark and scrambled a second Chechen brain to jelly.

  And still he did not move. There could be another one out there somewhere in the woods, waiting for his chance.

  But after twenty minutes his aching body no longer could tolerate the cramped position. When he tried to stand he found that his knees were locked, and he had to grasp the tree trunk with both hands to pull himself painfully to a standing position. Long ago, someone had told him that age would catch up, that it was time to retire and enjoy life. Well, damn it, he had retired, and just see what it had brought him now.

  He slogged toward the cabin with short, old man steps, struggling against the snow until his joints warmed and locomotion became easier. The Lab was still barking and apparently doing his best to tear the door down from inside, and the old man spoke a few words to calm him. He rolled the Chechen's body down the steps from the stoop, cursing his diminished strength.

  He found the girl huddled in the bathroom, her features distorted by fear and panic. She'd grabbed a kitchen knife which she held before her defensively, and it took her a moment to realize that he was not one of her pursuers. When she at last recognized him, she breathed "Slava Bogu" over and over as she grasped the old man around his aching knees.

  He led her back to the living room and instructed her not to move. He had to go back outside for a while, but would be back shortly. The dog jumped onto the couch and settled herself against the visitor.

  The first task was to hide the bodies. Fortunately, the s
now made it easier to drag them behind the garage and heap some snow over them. The weather being what it was, the cadavers would freeze in short order.

  Before covering them, he searched the Chechens but found no documents or other items that would identify them.

  He thought they were safe for now. The girl assured him that no one other than the two dead men had been at the turkey farm.

  After she had calmed down sufficiently, she was able to tell him her story. It had been a long time since he had heard anything that surprised him when it came to human depravity, but he needed a long drink when she finished.

  He hoped the telephone lines were not down. He knew exactly who to call.

  Chapter 48

  The storm attacked Washington overnight and dumped over a foot snow on the capital. Krystal Murphy contemplated the view through her apartment window and cursed as a truck with a snow blade crawled down the street. She cursed because her parking lot had not been touched. She would have to call the office to send a squad car to pick her up.

  It was ten A.M. by the time she reached headquarters, and her cellphone rang before she reached her desk. The caller ID told her it was an old friend, Bob Strachey. He had once worked for the CIA but was now a lobbyist in DC.

  "Bob," she said, "how did you know I was back in town?"

  "We saw you on TV. Amy says hi."

  Amy was Strachey's wife. They probably wanted to invite her to dinner so they could hear all about her and Velazquez. She wondered what she would tell them.

  "It's great to hear from you, but I'm afraid it'll be a while before we can get together. My plate is suddenly pretty full."

  His tone switched from social to serious. "I can only guess, but that's what I'm calling about. I need to see you right away."

  "What is it?"

  "It's nothing I can talk about over the phone, but you'll want to hear it, believe me."

  Strachey, she thought, would never outgrow the spookery of his former life.

  "Bob," she said, "I really can't get away right now."

  "Dammit, Krystal, I wouldn't call you if it weren't important." He paused for a beat before adding, "I have information pertinent to what you're working on, and it's pretty urgent."

  "Can you come to my office?"

  "I don't think that would be a good idea. Listen, just meet me. I'll tell you what I know, and then it'll be up to you to take the next step."

  "Sorry, Bob, it'll have to wait."

  She was startled when Strachey raised his voice. "Murphy, drop your goddamned bullheadedness and get your Irish ass to the bar at the Mayflower at twelve noon. I'll be waiting for you. And I assure you that if you don't come, you'll regret it."

  He closed the connection.

  What the fuck? Who had put the wind up his ass? He had never spoken to her that way before. Murphy decided she'd better make the meeting at the Mayflower, although it would take her a solid hour or more to fight her way into DC and find a place to park. She decided to call Ferguson over at the FBI.

  "Nothing has come in from Quantico yet, has it?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Only that they've identified the explosive as C-3, pretty common stuff, but it's more confirmation that we're dealing with terrorists. The lab is working 24/7. At best, we might learn something more late today."

  "I'll be in town this afternoon," she said, "Can I stop by the Hoover Building to catch up?"

  He agreed, and she headed for the parking lot and commandeered a heavy police cruiser for the drive downtown.

  The few people who had ventured onto the roads were driving like demented Italian taxi drivers, and there was no place to park on streets piled high with plowed snow. Therefore, by the time she made it to the Mayflower after leaving the cruiser in a public garage and trudging four blocks through slush and falling snow, Murphy was in a black mood.

  She found her friend sitting in the venerable hotel bar nursing a martini. Just shy of fifty, Strachey retained a rugged athleticism. His fashionably cut brown hair was just beginning to show some gray, and he was dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, the standard uniform of the well-heeled "K" Street lobbyist.

  He raised his glass to her. "Want one? You look like you need it."

  She shrugged out of her Arlington Police parka and took a stool next to him. "A little early in the day, isn't it, Bob?"

  His lips twisted into a wry smile. "It's after six o'clock somewhere. Can I buy you lunch?"

  "That would be small repayment for making me come here, but I'll take you up on it."

  They ordered sandwiches from the barman and headed to banquette along the wall in the back.

  "I don't have time for small talk, Bob. What's this big deal you couldn't tell me on the phone?" Recalling his earlier outburst, she added, "And it better be good."

  Strachey lowered his head in appropriate contrition. "Sorry about that, Krystal, but old habits die hard. I received a call this morning from an old friend.

  Krystal allowed her impatience to show. "What's has this got to do with what I'm working on now?"

  "I'm coming to that. It's about the Russians. I think I have a lead to the person who made those anonymous calls to the news services. If everything my friend told me is true, there is a definite Russian connection to your case, and probably a lot more."

  That got her attention. "That doesn't make any sense."

  "It wouldn't be the first time they've killed people outside of Russia. Remember Litvinenko."

  "Yes, but this was mass murder, random violence. I don't see a Russian connection."

  "Technically, the Litvinenko assassination was a Russian nuclear attack on British soil. That didn't make much sense either. I think they've gone completely off their nut in the Lubyanka. My friend isn't prone to fantasy or exaggeration. You need to talk to him."

  Despite her doubts, Krystal was all too aware that every lead, however tenuous, had to be followed.

  "When can I see your friend?" she asked.

  "It'll take some doing. He's a long way from Washington, and there's the snow to contend with. But now that I have your attention, let me tell you the whole story."

  Their sandwiches forgotten, Krystal listened in fascinated silence to the tale of a Russian girl and a gun battle at an isolated cabin in the Shenandoah Valley. When he was finished, she said, "That's simply unbelievable."

  "Yeah, I know, but the old guy isn't a nutcase. His name is only whispered in the halls of Langley. You need to find a way to get to him and the girl before anything else happens."

  She was still dubious, but Strachey was as serious as a heart attack. She said, "The Bureau has the lead on this case. I'll have to bring them in."

  Strachey made a sour face. Old habits die hard, and his generation of Agency officers had not enjoyed particularly good relations with the feebies. "The feds might not have enough imagination to take this seriously."

  "No choice. And I know someone who will listen. But I'm surprised you didn't go straight to the Agency with this."

  "Hells bells, Krystal, the way they're running that place now I doubt they'd know what to do any more than the feebies. And if even half of the story is true, this is nothing you want spread over half of Washington, and Langley leaks like a sieve."

  "I'll do what I can."

  Chapter 49

  Krystal called Nick Ferguson from her car. She told him she would be at the Hoover Building in fifteen minutes.

  She knew Ferguson would hate the idea, but the potential involvement of the Russians meant that Executive Assistant Director Enoch Whitehall should be brought into the case. She trusted Whitehall.

  Ferguson met her in the lobby. "What's up? Do you have something solid?"

  "Erm, maybe. But you might not like what I want to do with it."

  Ferguson's winter pallor went a bit whiter at the mention of Whitehall's name.

  "This is something he will have to decide," she concluded

  "Nobody just walks in on Enoch Whitehall," he said.
"It'll take hours even to get a request through to him. And you're supposed to be working for me and the JTTF, remember."

  "That's not exactly correct. I'm in charge of liaison with the FBI on behalf of the Arlington County Police. That means I get to decide what part of the FBI I talk to."

  That's right, she thought, vintage Krystal Murphy, adept at making enemies. She was almost sorry for Ferguson. The Special Agent was staring at her with a mixture of anger and astonishment.

  She grabbed her cell phone from her belt and scrolled for a number Whitehall had given her a long time ago. She hoped it was still viable.

  Ferguson continued to stare as the wise-ass Arlington cop spoke her name into the phone, listened for a moment, mentioned Ferguson's name, nodded and ended the call. She flashed what might have been a triumphant smile and said, "We have an appointment on the third floor. Follow me."

  A short elevator ride and a walk down a corridor via a route with which Murphy appeared familiar, brought them to a door with a brass plaque bearing the name of Enoch Whitehall, Executive Assistant Director for Counterintelligence.

  Ferguson numbly followed Murphy through the door. This was a sacrosanct precinct that he had never before entered. The office belonged to a legend at the Bureau, a man about whom much was whispered, but few had seen. And now this local cop was leading him to meet the man behind the legend.

  They entered an anteroom presided over by a dragon in the form of a woman of indeterminate age, and undeniable hostility that hinted at hidden super powers. She eyed them suspiciously from behind an enormous desk. Krystal knew that the woman's name was Jeanne. The hostility subsided when she recognized Krystal. But she lifted an eyebrow at Ferguson.

  "It's OK," said Krystal, "he's with me."

  He's with me? Wasn't this HIS headquarters building? Suddenly he was like a new kid on the first day of school, and he didn't like it one bit.