by Gary Ponzo
Kalinikov pushed a green button on the control panel and heard the creaking of the anchor ascending into the side of the hull. He maneuvered the boat sideways to allow the RPG’s backblast to avoid the cabin. The FBI agent on the pier outside the restaurant pretended to be on his cell phone, pacing back and forth, while examining the customers as they arrived for meals. Half the time he opened the door for them, a reason to get an even closer look.
Now the agent seemed to pick up the new movement and gained interest in Kalinikov’s boat. It was time for the distraction.
Kalinikov reached into his pocket and removed the remote control. He placed it in his fingers and carefully scanned his surroundings one more time. Then he pushed the red button.
From the parking lot on the opposite side of the restaurant an explosion pierced through the still night loud enough to alert even the casual diner. It was nothing more than an abandoned car Kalinikov had left there for his diversion. The FBI agent guarding the pier immediately sprinted around the restaurant and out of view.
Kalinikov mounted the Russian-made RPG to his shoulder and steadied it on his torso. The exact Russian translation for an RPG is hand-held anti-tank grenade launcher. It had enough power to take out the entire restaurant with one launch. The only problem with the device was its range, so Kalinikov had to risk coming to within eighty yards of the front window before he stepped out into the cool bay breeze. He’d thought about using his rifle, but the boats movement made the shot too risky even for him. This was the correct choice.
Carl Rutherford had grabbed his wife while she gathered her purse and jacket from the back of her chair. The inside agents moved quickly to usher their colleague away from danger.
That’s when Kalinikov pulled the trigger.
• • •
FBI agent Mark Renton was on his knees in the restaurant parking lot tending to a burned valet driver when he heard the familiar sound from behind him. It was a sound he’d heard in Afghanistan many years earlier, but once you’ve heard it, it never leaves your brain. It was the distinct hiss of an RPG heading his direction. Self-preservation kicked in. He instinctively ducked and covered his head. Seconds later the impact of the grenade hitting the restaurant blasted throughout the bay and a giant fireball expelled its energy into the night sky.
The heat swept over Renton as he protected the injured valet from shards of debris. Renton knew instantly it was the Russian assassin. Carl Rutherford and his wife were dead along with two other FBI agents and lots of other innocent people.
His ears were ringing as he scrambled to his feet and saw pedestrians calling 911 on their cell phones. He quickly scrambled around the side of the restaurant, his body slanted to his left as if he’d just come off an amusement park ride and couldn’t gain his balance yet. His equilibrium was shot from the pounding on his eardrums. He saw a yacht going full throttle away from the shoreline, cutting through the bay in a straight line for the Atlantic.
Renton had had a bad feeling about the boat floating so close to the pier, but couldn’t see inside the cabin to quantify his concerns. A police boat was in high pursuit of the fleeing yacht, its lights flashing and reflecting off the water as it gave chase.
Renton needed to get out there. His friends were just murdered and the killer couldn’t get away with it. Not while he was still alive.
He saw a man by the dock checking out his boat. Renton ran over and flashed his FBI shield. “You the owner?” he asked.
The man seemed unsure of Renton’s motive. He looked like he was being accused of something.
“I desperately need your help,” Renton said. “Can you take me out to that police boat?
The man stood there and didn’t answer. Then it dawned on Renton. The man was wearing a button down shirt and nice, creased jeans. His face turned toward the ball of flames. He must’ve had family inside the restaurant. He was in shock.
Renton’s blood was flying through his body, his pulse pounding at his temples. He saw the yacht getting farther out into the bay and had nothing but revenge on his mind.
Renton pulled the man’s shoulders to face him. “Can I use your boat? Please.”
The man absently fished out a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to him.
Renton untied the ropes and jumped on board. He had nothing more than a rudimentary understanding of how to drive a boat. It was a cabin cruiser around thirty feet in length. He hunched down to get inside the cabin and found the control panel. As the engine coughed to life he pushed the throttle and headed out. From behind him he heard sirens. He looked over his shoulder and saw people gathering outside the restaurant. Some were hugging each other. Some stood in shock. The man whose boat he borrowed stood in the exact same spot and stared at the sight.
Renton felt a sense of loss, but there were professionals just minutes away and those precious minutes could allow The Russian to escape. And if he escaped, even more people would be in danger. More FBI agents. Renton couldn’t allow that to happen.
The cabin cruiser had reached top speed and the boat skipped over the water like a dolphin. He found the spotlights and was able to see thirty yards ahead of him. The police boat was close to the assassin’s yacht. Renton felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and said, “Renton.”
“What the fuck’s going on?” It was Lynn Harding, the assistant special agent in charge of the Baltimore field office. The ASAC was taking over while Walt Jackson was in L.A. She’d been at the Bureau for nearly twenty years, most of those as a field agent, so she wasn’t your typical administrator. She was well respected.
“The Russian,” Renton said, his hearing just coming back. “He fired an RPG at Sylvio’s.” Renton glanced over his shoulder, the pier now a dim shadow in the glow of the flames.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“I’m in pursuit in the Chesapeake. We need the Coast Guard out here immediately. I don’t see this guy going down easy. He’s got an RPG. Who knows how much ammo he has.”
“Don’t get too close,” Harding said. “Let’s keep him in sight. I don’t want you becoming another victim.”
Renton heard the warning but had no intention of listening.
“Mark?”
“Yeah,” Renton said.
“What about the rest of the crew?”
Renton was forced to think about his teammates. Not something he could afford to do right now. Not while he was gaining on the yacht.
“They’re gone,” Renton said.
The line was silent for a moment. The roar of the inboard engines was all Renton could hear.
“Mark,” Harding said. “The Coast Guard is on the way. Tell me what else you need.”
“I need eyes in the sky. If he’s a pro, he’ll have an escape plan.”
“Got it,” Harding said.
“Also get some shoes working the shoreline. I don’t trust this guy.”
“Done.”
Renton finished the call, then slipped the phone into his pocket as the yacht came into view less than a hundred yards away. The police boat was alongside the yacht now; spotlights illuminated the vessel like a night baseball game. Three officers lined the deck with rifles to their shoulders. Renton was close enough to see the shadow inside the cabin. The Russian was standing behind the wheel swiveling his head around between the police boat and the water ahead of him. He waved his free hand in the air frantically, trying to show he didn’t have a weapon. No, it was something else. He was shouting and waving and attempting communication, but he didn’t slow the boat down.
One of the policemen used a megaphone to command him to stop. This caused The Russian to wave even more fervently, shaking his head and motioning to something inside the cabin. Something told Renton to get away from the yacht, but he pressed on, moving to the starboard side until he was exactly even with the vessel. The yacht had slowed slightly, but not much. It was probably still forging ahead at thirty knots. The police boat kept veering into the yacht forcing it to turn i
nto Renton’s path. He was bumping hulls with the yacht which was a bit higher and had more mass. His cruiser was becoming unstable. He opened the door to his cabin and steered with his right hand while gauging the distance to the yacht. He needed to time it just right if he was going to jump.
It was a bad choice. Not something a rational human being would ever consider attempting at night. Not at thirty knots, with an assassin waiting for you in the next vessel. But Renton had just lost some close friends and the only thought running through his head was revenge.
The port side of his boat dipped low enough to take on bay water, then raised high enough to be two feet above the yacht’s deck. He waited three dips before making his move. On the way up, he ran out and jumped. It was only four feet away, but it was clearly the scariest thing he’d ever done. Halfway over, the wind caught him and held him back, keeping him suspended in midair. His momentum got him as far as the railing and he slammed into the brass rails so hard he could feel his ribs cave in. He hung onto the railing, and tried to breathe. His eyes watered from the wind and lack of oxygen. The Russian didn’t move, however. He remained behind the wheel yelling something to the police about a tong. A tong? Renton felt like he was losing consciousness. A tong? He was able to get his knee onto the deck and remove the pressure from his ribcage. He finally took a long breath and gained a better grasp of the railing. The Russian was still yelling at the same time the police ordered him to stop.
A tong? Then it occurred to Renton what The Russian was saying. A bomb.
Renton needed to act. He swung his foot over the rail and pulled himself onto the deck. The Russian paid no attention to him. He was beginning to wonder why the assassin stayed behind the wheel, oblivious to Renton’s presence. He acted as if he was still going to outrun the police. Renton could see a helicopter approaching, nose down, spotlight lighting up the choppy bay water.
Renton scrambled to his feet and pulled out his gun. The Russian had his back to him yelling at the police, one hand on the wheel. Renton entered the cabin with his gun out. The police spotlights illuminated the cabin and he could see the man was handcuffed to the wheel. He seemed to sense Renton and turned to face him. The man was older than he’d suspected. Maybe sixty-five. He wore a Hawaiian tee shirt, jeans and sandals.
“Stay still,” Renton ordered.
A policeman hopped onto the port deck and entered the cabin with his rifle out front and looked Renton over.
“FBI,” Renton exclaimed, pulling out his shield for the man to examine.
The officer nodded.
Once Renton put away his shield, he reached for the throttle. That’s when the man handcuffed to the wheel screamed, “No!”
Renton froze. “What’s the matter?”
“You don’t understand,” the man said exasperated. “There’s a bomb on board. It will explode if this boat goes under twenty knots. We have to keep up our speed.”
“Why do you say that?” Renton said.
“That’s what the man told me.”
“What man?”
“The man who blew up Sylvio’s.”
Renton looked around the cabin. “Where is he?”
“He’s long gone,” the man’s voice now urgent, lifting his handcuffed hand. “Can you please release me? We need to get out of here.”
Renton looked the man over. He had a southern accent. He wasn’t The Russian, that was for sure.
“Is this your yacht?” Renton asked.
“Yes.”
“How long was he on the boat?”
“Maybe an hour before he blew up the place.”
Renton put his gun away. “Where’s this bomb?”
The man pointed to a plastic container below the front windshield, just out of his reach. There were no wires coming from the container.
He looked at the man. “How long did he work on attaching the bomb?”
“A couple of minutes,” the man said, his eyes darting from Renton then to the bomb.
The police officer said, “Let’s get out of here and call the bomb squad.”
Renton looked at the man’s face, scarred from fear. Renton knew a little about boats; however, he knew a lot more about bombs. He pulled the plastic container from the wall. It was attached with double adhesive tape.
The man yelled, “No, don’t!”
Renton yanked open the small container. As he suspected, it was empty. He showed it to the old man.
“You’ve been watching too many movies,” Renton said.
“But …” the man seemed incredulous. It was no act. The assassin had him completely convinced. Especially after firing an RPG at Sylvio’s. The man was simply a decoy to give him time to escape.
Renton looked back toward the shore. The flames from the restaurant were down to embers. He could see four or five Coast Guard vessels speeding toward them, while a helicopter hovered overhead. Suddenly it dawned on him. The pieces fit together perfectly. The Russian saw Renton watching the yacht. He used a remote to detonate the car bomb in the parking lot to draw attention away from him. He must’ve leapt off the boat immediately after the restaurant explosion.
Renton knew they were going to scour the shoreline for hours and he also knew they weren’t going to find a thing. The Russian had a thirty minute head start. He was long gone.
Chapter 12
President Merrick was reading “Goodnight Moon” to his daughter Emily when her bedroom door opened and his wife’s face came into view. Her blank expression told him everything. Whenever she didn’t have her patented smile, something was wrong. She approached the bed and took the book from Merrick. The smile made a forced return.
“I’d like to finish reading this if I could,” his wife said to Emily.
“Aw.” Emily pouted as her dad lifted himself from the edge of her bed and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.
“But Daddy never gets to read to me anymore,” the young girl cried.
“Now, Sweetie,” Merrick said. “I’ll be reading that same book to you tomorrow night. I promise.”
Merrick closed the bedroom door and found a male aide anxiously waiting for him, holding out a cell phone.
“There’s been an explosion, sir,” the aide said.
Merrick put the phone to his ear.
“We need to talk,” Samuel Fisk said.
• • •
The FBI’s Baltimore field office held the most extensive antiterrorist war room in the nation. It was fifty feet below the building and required an iris scan and an elevator to get there. The room was lined with slim computer monitors ranging from forty to ninety inches long. Each screen displayed a satellite image from different parts of the globe and was monitored twenty-four hours a day by thirty-five information technicians. These technicians sat behind a long, narrow tabletop which extended continuously throughout the entire perimeter of the rectangle room. Each technician had their own laptop computer and moved around the room constantly searching for answers to data received from different field agents.
These technicians worked long hours and sometimes got so lost in their assignments, they would lose track of time and even become disoriented. That’s why the war room was designed to emulate the outdoors. The ceiling displayed a real time image of the sky, piped in from a camera on the roof. When it was raining, the employees saw the rain coming down, when it was sunny out, it was sunny inside the war room. Now it was nighttime and there were stars up above, with a few scattered clouds.
In the center of the room was a round mahogany table with over twenty leather chairs available. Right now the tension in the room had escalated to a new level. Sitting around the table were FBI Director Louis Dutton, CIA Director Kenneth Morris, Defense Secretary Martin Riggs, Secretary of State Samuel Fisk and ASAC Lynn Harding.
Lynn Harding had just finished her brief on the bombing of Sylvio’s. Most people around the table had been in the war room since breakfast so the conversations were becoming more spirited as fatigue set in and patience wore down.
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“So tell me what you know about The Russian?” FBI Director Louis Dutton asked the ASAC.
Harding crossed her legs, her pant suit was solemn black and her demeanor even darker. She fished through some notes she’d scribbled down while getting briefed from a European colleague with the MI-6 in London.
“His name is Anton Kalinikov,” she said, scanning her chicken-scratch shorthand. “He’s ex-KGB. Tall. Left-handed.” She looked up. “He’s very capable. No one has ever taken a surveillance image of him while he operated. His last known photo was taken almost twenty years ago.”
“That’s it?” Defense Secretary Martin Riggs asked. “That’s all you have on the guy?”
Harding understood Riggs’s frustration. He was an ex-marine and saw most things as black and white. She looked down at her notepad. “That’s all we know for sure. Everything else is conjecture.”
Harding looked over at CIA Director Ken Morris. The FBI dealt mostly with domestic terrorism while the CIA handled much of the collection of global information. Morris pulled down on his tie and unbuttoned his first shirt button.
“Shit,” Morris said. “I’m still not sure how we came up with The Russian for this stuff. My sources tell me he’s still in the Ukraine.”
Morris looked back to Harding, lobbing the question of shared information into Harding’s lap.
Harding was fine with the volley. Her boss, Walt Jackson, had given her the name without providing a source, which was code for, “Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answers to.”
She took in Morris with an even expression. “Your intelligence is quality-challenged.”
Morris seemed ready to enter attack mode when the chime announcing the elevator’s arrival rang. The doors opened and two secret service agents with navy blue suits entered the room and separated to allow President Merrick to pass between them. He was followed by his press secretary, Fredrick Himes.
Everyone at the table stood up while Merrick immediately waved them down. Himes found a seat on the far end of the table, while Merrick took the chair between Lynn Harding and Louis Dutton. He was the ultimate diplomat, knowing all too well the acrimony between the FBI and CIA when it came to domestic terrorism. The FBI was the leading agency, yet the CIA had most of the overseas resources which could and should anticipate some of the events.