Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  “OK,” said Casey, still unconvinced. “Who and why?”

  The cab drove around Hyde Park at Speakers Corner, a famous London landmark. Every Sunday morning people gather there to speak freely, condemn the Queen, the Royal family, the British government, or any other target of concern. On clear days, large crowds often gathered to hear the speakers, but today, Speakers Corner was mostly empty. Even if it had been crowded and boisterous, however, Casey and Vladimir would not have noticed.

  “The man originally behind all this is named Michael Devskoy,” said Vladimir. “He is a low level former KGB operative who transitioned to the FSB which replaced the KGB.”

  “So this is a Russian operation then,” Casey said bluntly.

  “No, it is not a sanctioned operation, but yes, you are correct it is being carried about by a former agent using FSB assets.” He needed Casey as an ally and did not want to argue any point with her too strongly.

  “So this man, Devskoy, why is he doing this?”

  Vladimir paused for a moment trying to collect his thoughts and speak clearly before the opportunity to speak with Casey alone was lost.

  “I don’t know the exact reason but as I said earlier he is probably working for another party or group to create terror.”

  “Why, I mean for what purpose?”

  Vladimir shrugged and replied simply, “Money.” He paused briefly and then added, “and because he probably likes doing it.”

  “What?”

  “Devskoy had a special talent for extraction, the use of torture to gather information. He developed a reputation in the KGB for his success in getting good information despite the often unsavory way in which he did it.”

  Kosnar paused for a moment before continuing. “His main predilection seems to have been abusing and torturing women. He found any excuse to be involved in the interrogation of female prisoners. I am told he often interrogated women who needed no interrogation, if you know what I mean.”

  The Russian shook his head and grimaced slightly before he continued. “Until recently he was a fall down drunk just filling space in a small office until retirement when by some terrible mistake the entire classified folder on this assassination program was delivered to him. A few days later he disappeared completely. That was about nine months ago.”

  The taxi slowed in traffic and Vladimir looked up and out the back window of the cab. He could still hear the sound of sirens in the background and he knew the patrons at the cafe and other bystanders would have reported his and Casey’s presence to the authorities. Their disappearance from the crime scene would be viewed as suspicious; the British Police would be frantically looking for him and Casey. Also, the FBI would be equally frantic about the well being of their agent after the death of Agent Green. Somebody had probably seen them get into a cab together and a manhunt would be underway. He would have to tell his story quickly. He looked back at Casey’s bloodstained face.

  “If he was, as you say, a fall down drunk, why wasn’t he let go? It doesn’t make any sense,” she said.

  Vladimir nodded as he glanced down at his hands. “Normally you would be correct. He was no longer useful in intelligence and probably a liability but he was protected by a few senior officers in the FSB.”

  “But why?” Casey asked. She had finally begun to use the handkerchief to wipe the blood off her hands and face.

  “In the early nineteen eighties Devskoy became something of a hero in KGB. For a while he was quite notorious in the service.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Do you remember in 1983, a number of Russians operating in Beirut were kidnapped and taken hostage?”

  “Vaguely,” said Casey. “As I recall, unlike the American hostages, the Russians were quickly released or rescued.”

  “Correct,” Vladimir continued. “Soon after they were kidnapped, Devskoy was sent in to assist in his capacity as interrogator, although I have a feeling he arranged for himself to be sent. As it turns out, his skills came in very handy.”

  Vladimir paused for a moment as he again looked back through the rear window. The road behind them was full of the usual London traffic. He could not tell if they were being followed. He turned back to Casey.

  “When Devskoy arrived in Beirut, he went directly to the Russian embassy. We had a large number of operatives already working there and our people put out the word that if our hostages were not returned alive and well very soon, all hell would break loose. We assumed the kidnappers were smart enough to know we would not be constrained from violence in the same way the Europeans and Americans were.”

  “What happened?”

  “When Devskoy arrived, there were two young Muslim women who had just been picked up and brought in. Apparently, an informant had fingered them as being associated with the kidnappers. One of the women was quite attractive, and Devskoy took a fancy to her, in his own brutal way.”

  Casey sighed and lowered her eyes. She could easily imagine the rest of the story.

  Vladimir continued speaking, his voice urgent but measured. “Devskoy had the two women put in adjoining rooms in the embassy basement. He made the good looking one undress in front of her jailers, a terrible humiliation, especially for a Muslim woman. Then, for the next couple of hours while she sat naked in this room, he put the word out on the street she was a captured Israeli spy, a Jew, and any of the young armed hoodlums who roamed Beirut in those days could come and see her.”

  Vladimir paused again and then looked directly at Casey. “For the next six days, the woman was raped repeatedly. We estimated later she was raped at least one hundred times that week.”

  Casey briefly closed her eyes for a moment but quickly reopened them as the Russian continued speaking.

  “Devskoy watched every rape. Every few hours they would hose her down and clean her up and then more young men would come in, it would start again. Finally after six days, it stopped.”

  “Who stopped it?” asked Casey.

  “The other Muslim woman in the next door room heard what was happening to her friend. After six days she broke down and asked to speak to Devskoy. She told him where the hostages were being held. Within two hours they were rescued.”

  “What happened to the two women?” Casey asked.

  “After abusing them as we did, we could not return them to the street. Admittedly we had a reputation for being ruthless, but the gang rape of a Muslim woman would have made it more difficult for us to operate in Beirut.”

  “You have not answered my question,” said Casey. “What happened to the two women?”

  “They were killed and buried in the embassy grounds that night. Devskoy shot them himself.”

  Casey sat quietly for a few moments staring at the back of the driver’s seat and then turned to look at Vladimir. “You were there, weren’t you?” she said. “You were in Beirut.”

  “Yes,” said Vladimir quietly.

  For a few long seconds neither of them spoke. The only sound was the noise of the cab and the traffic. Finally, Vladimir turned to Casey and said: “I needed to tell you this story so you would know who you were dealing with.”

  “I do understand,” said Casey. “I was at the coroner’s office today; I think I understand something about this,” Casey mumbled, her voice trailing off as she said it. She stared out of the window for a moment.

  “Why are you here?” Casey asked as she turned back to face him. “My understanding is you’re retired from the FSB.”

  “I am retired,” Vladimir replied. “I was reactivated for this mission.” He paused before continuing. “I’m here because it is personal.”

  “What do you mean personal?” Casey responded heatedly. “Is this some vendetta between you and Devskoy? Is that why he tried to kill you today and instead killed David?

  “No,” Vladimir replied quietly. “It is personal because of the identity of one of the assassins.”

  “What about her?” Casey asked, shaking her head.

  Vladimir looked at
Casey, paused for a moment and replied, “One of the assassins is my sister.”

  CHAPTER 18

  CASEY SAID NOTHING but just stared at the Russian sitting next to her in the taxi. She was too tired, stunned, overwhelmed by the day’s events to respond properly.

  “What… Who’s your sister?” she asked in a half whisper.

  “Her name is Myda Konitska,” he replied simply, not inclined to embellish his answer at this moment.

  Casey sat forward in the cab, closed her eyes, and with the tips of her fingers, rubbed her temples. She was trying to organize her thoughts, put everything into context. She was an expert analyst, normally able to absorb and organize huge amounts of information, but now with everything that had just happened and what she had just heard made her head hurt. Fatigue swept over her again as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus. This latest piece of information from the retired, but now activated, FSB officer was almost more than she could comprehend.

  Kosnar sat quietly next to Casey, just watching her. After a few moments Casey put her hands down and looked up at him, all hostility and reserve she had displayed up to now, dissipated. Until that moment Casey had been quietly seething about the assassination program, upset at the injustice of it, the murderous abuse of women for financial and political purposes. But also up to that moment, the women had been faceless, unknown players in a long forgotten war. They had not been real in the sense connected them to families, children or brothers.

  “How?” she asked. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t have time to explain to you now,” Vladimir replied, “but it is the reason I am here, the reason I was asked to come. He made an inflection on the word ‘asked’ indicating it really was not optional. “You can see I am personally motivated to stop it.”

  He was interrupted as the taxi suddenly swerved sharply out of traffic, the front wheel bouncing off the road and up onto the curb as the driver slammed on the brakes. Even before the car stopped moving, the driver shoved the gear stick into park throwing his passengers off their seats and into the partition separating them from the driver. The driver quickly opened his door and took off running, leaving the door open.

  Picking themselves off the floor of the cab, the two agents glanced at each other for a second and then looked out the window. Two police cars had pulled in directly behind them and as Kosnar and Jennings peered out of the windows, two additional police cars squealed to a stop in front of them, lights flashing, sirens wailing. At each police car, officers took up defensive positions behind their open car doors, weapons pointed directly at the taxi. Two motorcycle mounted police roared up at high speed and quickly stopped all traffic passing in both directions past the awkwardly parked taxi.

  The two agents sat immobile in back of the taxi waiting for instructions. They understood instinctively that climbing out of the car would probably make the police react violently, potentially with deadly force. They did not have to wait long for instructions.

  “Passengers,” an urgent and uncompromising male voice boomed out of a nearby loudspeaker. “Exit the vehicle from the right side door, hands in the air, one at a time. Do it slowly and do it now!”

  Vladimir leaned forward to open the door but Casey quickly reached up to his jacket and pulled him back into his seat. She looked at him a bit ruefully and said, “I think its best that I get out first. They are less likely to shoot a woman than a man and it might defuse the situation if they see I am alright.”

  Vladimir nodded and sat back in his seat but as Casey slipped past him in the back of the cab he grabbed her arm.

  “Please, what I have just told you. Please keep it secret for now,” he said urgently.

  Casey stared at the Russian for a moment, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She could quickly think of many reasons why keeping this information secret was a bad idea but after a brief pause, she nodded sharply once and as he released his grip on her arm she opened the right side door and slowly stepped out in a crouched position, hands extended in front of her. As she straightened up she saw three policemen standing a few feet away in full urban combat gear pointing their rifles directly at her head. She was surprised to feel a light rain coming down; her last recollection was that it was a bright and sunny day.

  A disembodied voice barked at her loudly. “Turn around and kneel down.” Casey did as she was instructed feeling the damp sidewalk soak into her pants at the knees.

  “Now place your hands behind your head and lock your fingers together.”

  Casey slowly lowered her arms placing her hands behind her head and interlocked her fingers as instructed.

  “Next passenger,” the voice ordered again. “Step out of the vehicle, arms raised high above your head.”

  Vladimir did as instructed except he was ordered to lay face down on the ground, arms extended straight from his sides. As soon as he was in the prescribed position, two officers rushed forward and pinned him roughly to the ground, quickly pulling his arms back and securing his wrists in handcuffs. Then the officers stepped back leaving him in the prone position on the wet ground and they turned their attention back to Casey. One officer pointed his weapon directly at her head while two others pulled her hands from behind her head and quickly snapped handcuffs on to her as well. As soon as she was cuffed, she was quickly pulled to her feet by two officers standing at her sides and half carried away from the taxi.

  Despite the drama of the moment, Casey was calm and unafraid. Her stoicism was partly due to her complete exhaustion from the long flight, the trauma of the bombing and David Green’s death in her arms and because she understood that the police probably had a report of her and Kosnar leaving the scene of the bombing. She was almost relieved to be physically supported by the two policemen and for a moment felt like she might pass out but quickly steadied herself.

  Just then she heard shouting and glanced around to see Inspector Campbell running up and pushing himself through the cordon of police surrounding them and shouting out his identity. As he skidded to a stop on the wet sidewalk in front of Casey his eyes widened at her wet and bloody appearance, his breathing heavy as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Jesus Christ Casey, are you alright?” he panted.

  Before she could reply he noticed she was handcuffed.

  “What the fuck?” He turned to one of the uniformed officers and barked out an order to remove the cuffs. The officer did not move but looked over at another more senior uniformed officer who was striding purposefully towards them.

  Spotting the senior officer, Campbell demanded from him that the handcuffs be removed from Casey’s arms.

  “This woman is with me. She is in my..uh..custody,” he said almost shouting.

  The senior office ignored Campbell for a moment, glanced over the still prone prisoner on the ground and then looked directly at Casey.

  “Madam, what is your name?”

  “My name is Casey Jennings,” she replied deliberately.

  Campbell stepped forward again, trying to get between Casey and the police officer. “She is an American FBI agent and she is in my custody. Now take off these fucking handcuffs.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment and then the senior office nodded to one of the men holding Casey to un-cuff her. Then he cocked his head in the direction of Vladimir Kosnar who was still lying prone on the ground.

  “Do you know this man?”

  Casey nodded. “His name is Vladimir Kosnar.” She did not want to embellish her answer at this time.

  “Was he involved in the bombing on Kensington Street? He was seen pushing you into this taxi. Did he kidnap you?

  Casey quickly shook her head. “Can we discuss this somewhere else please? Mr. Kosnar did not cause the bombing and he did not kidnap me. In fact I think he is our best resource to stop the next bombing which might actually be imminent.” She glanced around uncomfortably as she spoke.

  “What do you mean? Why do you think another attack could be imminent?” the s
enior uniformed officer demanded quickly.

  Casey looked around at the wide street, traffic backed up all around, crowds gathered nearby on the sidewalk to watch the action.

  “They could be watching us right now, sending another bomber into the crowd over here or there,” she indicated with her head. “The attack on Mr. Kosnar was not a coincidence. He was targeted.” She paused for a second before continuing. “The longer we stand around here in the open, the more likely it is they will try to hit him again.”

  CHAPTER 19

  WALKING AWAY FROM the chaotic bombing scene, Devskoy was in a foul mood. He was alternately demonstrative, shouting out expletives in Russian or despondent, walking with shoulders hunched forward, heels of his shoes scuffing the sidewalk at each step and muttering under his breath. Al Rahman walked beside him, growing increasingly worried about the man’s state of mind, his ability to function. Despite his earlier concerns about Devskoy’s constant consumption of alcohol, he steered the Russian away from the busy street to a quieter side street, in to a small but busy pub and quickly ordered him two vodkas. Devskoy drank them both in one quick swallow and the alcohol calmed him down somewhat.

  Al Rahman was concerned about their situation as well. The failed attack on Kosnar was a serious problem. Worse yet, their eyes had met briefly right after the bomb blast and he had immediately recognized the man who had hunted him down, denying him his martyrdom so many years before. He was almost certain Kosnar had recognized him as well.

  A television was playing in the bar and providing live coverage of the bomb blast they had just orchestrated. Devskoy’s mouth curled into a happy sneer as the commentator relayed the deaths of four people and injury to a dozen more, some quite serious. Al Rahman was more interested to hear the comments from one police officer who stated in quite confident terms the bomb was probably planted in one of the flower boxes that rimmed the seating area of the restaurant or perhaps in a small satchel that had been planted close by. Asked about possible suspects he replied that while no suspects had been arrested, CCTV recordings were being carefully reviewed to see who might have planted the bomb.