by C. W. Saari
Bannister felt bad dictating orders to Doug, but knew this situation could turn chaotic within the hour.
“Kuznetsov stalked Lisa Jessup and came to her townhouse. She was his next victim. I think he injected her with the same drugs he used on the others.”
“Is she alive?”
“She’s got a pulse, but I don’t know how much time she has. That’s up to God and her doctors. Call Kaminsky and fill her in. Roger Bell’s at the Operations Center waiting for a call from me. Give him a heads up. Call Otis Huggins and see if he can use his connections to get Detective Alvin Weber of the Arlington PD assigned as the primary for this thing. Weber handled the Lillian Wells disappearance.” Bannister stopped to catch his breath again and glanced up at Robin. “Talk to me, Doug. You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. My hand’s cramping up. For a guy who’s been shot, you’re spitting out details faster than a copy machine.”
“The adrenaline’s still working. A couple of other things. The surveillance team’s still sitting on the subject’s car at the shopping center. The search warrant for the car is still good so we ought to get it towed to Quantico for processing.” Bannister looked up at Robin again. Just seeing her face gave him strength. Some of the color was returning to her cheeks.
“Good idea,” Doug said.
“Send a forensic team right away to Kuznetsov’s apartment. Give it the ‘full Monty.’ He won’t be using it again. You have the search plan with all the players. Just tell everybody the timetable’s moved up. One more thing. Better have Kaminsky call Lisa’s husband, Dwight Jessup. He’s on assignment somewhere in Los Angeles.”
“Can we hold off saying anything about Kuznetsov’s identity?” Doug asked.
“I’m the only one who can ID him right now.” Bannister paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “I believe it’s best to level with the locals, but I’ll ask them to hold off with the identity of the intruder . . . hopefully, it’ll be long enough for Kaminsky to coordinate with headquarters and State Department . . . I’m sure the Russians will go ape shit over this when they find out . . . and go into damage control.” Bannister was getting winded and forced himself to take slow deep breaths. “Questions?”
“You don’t sound too good right now. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You owe me an explanation. I don’t know how both you and Kuznetsov ended up at the Jessup’s, but we can sort that out later,” Doug said. “I hear sirens in the background. I’m going to make a call and see if I can get them to take you and Lisa to George Washington University Hospital. Their ER is a Level One shock trauma center. They’re used to handling the District’s drug overdoses and gunshot victims. Good work, Ty. I’m glad you’re not hurt bad.”
“Ah . . . me, too.” The sirens stopped. Bannister hung up as a team of emergency medical technicians and two uniformed officers mounted the steps. Robin ran to let them in.
The last time Bannister hurt like this was on a hill in Grenada when he’d taken two rounds. Maybe ten seconds after the bullets slammed through his body, hot bolts of pain had seared his back and legs. Back then, the physical exertion and adrenaline surge had forced him to concentrate on the Marine Corps’ mission. He saw what needed to be done. The colors of the jungle became brilliantly defined hues, as if he were looking through a giant, slow-turning kaleidoscope, his targets clear images silhouetted on a lime-green hillside. Time clipped forward in gradual movements. He did what he had to do, and then it was over. Enemies were dead and Marines were safe.
Bannister’s mind snapped back to the present when an Arlington EMT hooked him up to a plasma IV for the ride to the ER. The EMT’s partner, a bald-headed short guy, snugged up the Velcro straps on the yellow backboard on which Bannister was stretched out. He turned his head to the left and saw the motionless Lisa Jessup lying there with an oxygen mask over her face. Bannister was thinking, it’s winter . . . why isn’t she wearing any socks or shoes?
The EMT driver slammed the rear door shut. Bannister overheard him tell the short guy the ride to George Washington University Hospital should take four minutes—enough time for him to enjoy the Whopper he’d picked up at the Burger King drive-through.
“Well, how you feeling?”
Bannister opened his eyes after recognizing Doug Gordon’s voice, but it still took a few seconds before his vision adjusted to the light. He saw the lost look on his colleague’s face.
“You’re in recovery,” Gordon said.
Bannister looked at the white band on his left wrist. “They took my watch. What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“How’s Lisa?” Bannister asked. His throat was raw and his mouth was dry.
“She’s fine. Damn lucky you got there when you did. They had to give her a blood transfusion to get the drugs out of her system. The doctors don’t expect her to wake up until tomorrow. When she comes around she’ll definitely be well-rested. Sort of like Snow White after a long sleep.”
“Where’s Robin?”
“At our office. Quattrone’s bringing her here. She insists on seeing you. She seems to think you two have a thing going.”
“We do,” Bannister said. He didn’t care who knew it.
“A uniformed officer and Detective Weber interviewed her and the PD’s tech guy took photos. After that I had one of the female agents take Robin to the office so she could shower. We gave her a sweatshirt and raid jacket to wear back to Quantico. I’ll handle getting her stuff cleaned.”
“Thanks. What have I missed?”
“Jessup’s husband is on a red-eye flight from L.A. The doctors gave you a tetanus shot, a pint of blood, and forty stitches on your front and back to repair the entry and exit holes. You also got a few stitches on the back of your right leg.”
“My leg?” Bannister looked bewildered.
“I told you George Washington’s ER room was great. They did a complete scan of you to make sure some bullet fragments didn’t get scattered around. They found a bone chip next to your femoral nerve and removed it. The doctor was curious to know if you’ve had any recent leg pain.”
“Yeah, matter of fact I have.”
“The doctor believes it might have been left over from one of your prior wounds,” Gordon said.
“You know, I was worried about my leg. I definitely owe him a drink.”
“It’s a her,” Gordon said. “You can thank her yourself when she checks in on you later.”
“What about Kuznetsov?” Bannister asked.
“The investigation at the townhouse is wrapped up. Since it was an end unit, the Arlington PD was able to keep the press and ‘looky Lous’ on the other side of the tape. Detective Weber has the ticket on the case and everything’s going smoothly. Your lady friend and a florist are the only people interviewed so far.”
“Did you search Kuznetsov or have a chance to toss his apartment?”
“Yes to both. His backpack had a couple of filled syringes, which we’re analyzing now. We found a hat, extra clothing, and a stun gun in the pack. He was carrying ID in the name of Andre Neff. We lifted prints off the wallet and cards and are doing a trace on his gun.”
“My throat’s scratchy. Could you get me some water?”
Gordon filled a glass with ice water from a small plastic pitcher on a tray. He handed it to Bannister along with a straw.
“His apartment had a couple items of interest. We found a cell phone intercept device. Our techs are going through it tonight to see if it was programmed to record the victims’ calls. And Kuznetsov kept some trophies.”
“Like what?”
“Quattrone handled the search. He was thorough. He found a photo of Kuznetsov’s brother. You know, the one who was shot down. Steve took the photo out of the frame and hit pay dirt. Our guy had hidden drivers’ licenses for Wells, Williamson, and Gillespie behind the backing. He also had a newspaper clipping of DiMatteo’s obituary.”
“That sonofabitch
.”
“Trooper Bell and Otis Huggins went to the storage locker. The Russian painting is now in our valuable evidence vault. We might be able to use it as a trump card if the Russians start playing nasty.”
“What about the press?”
“Kaminsky is meeting them at noon tomorrow. First though, she and the Director are going to the State Department at 9:00 a.m. to meet with the Russian ambassador. I wasn’t invited.” Gordon grinned.
“It’ll be interesting to see how they backstroke on this,” Bannister said.
After Gordon left, Bannister took calls from two bosses—Ellen Kaminsky at WFO and Leon Brennan in Atlanta. Both expressed their concern for him and assured him everything was under control.
The pain medication they’d given Bannister was working. He felt mellow. He didn’t have anything to read and wasn’t interested in watching the television, which was on but muted.
Robin walked into the room. For a moment, they just smiled at each other. She walked around the side of his bed, careful not to trip over any of the cords, leaned over, and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Doug told me you’re in great shape and should be released in the morning.”
“That’s what they told me, too.” Bannister observed her standing there, looking like a trainee. Damp hair pulled back severely into a ponytail, gray sweatshirt covered by a blue nylon windbreaker.
“I know,” she said. “I look like hell.”
“You always look beautiful to me.”
Robin’s lips started quivering. She began to cry and shake.
“Come here,” Bannister said. He pulled some Kleenex for her from a box on the table attached to the side of the bed.
“I’m sorry. You could have been killed. I could have been killed. And I didn’t even know what he’d done to Lisa Jessup.” Robin’s voice was rising as she blew her nose a couple of times.
“I know. But it’s over now. You going to be all right?”
“I guess.”
“Give me your hand.” Bannister extended his right hand, and Robin pressed it between both of hers. He looked into her eyes.
“We don’t make a bad team, do we?” he asked.
Her smile returned. “No, we don’t.”
Bannister spent another week in DC. A headquarters inspector assigned to the shooting inquiry questioned him at the field office for two hours Monday morning. He finished in time for Bannister to join the task force guys and watch the press conference.
Kaminsky appeared on a local DC news station. She looked professional in a dark blue suit accented by a multi-colored silk scarf as she stepped behind a lectern arrayed with microphones from the major wire services. Instead of holding a press conference, however, she read a prepared statement.
“The task force investigating four serial murders has identified the killer. On Saturday afternoon in Arlington, Virginia, Andre Kuznetsov was shot and killed by a member of our task force. Kuznetsov, a reporter for the Russian news agency TASS, was intercepted at the residence of an FBI agent by another FBI agent investigating the murders. Kuznetsov had already gained access to the home and had drugged the first agent when he was surprised by the task force agent. Kuznetsov shot and wounded the FBI agent who returned fire, killing Kuznetsov instantly. Overwhelming evidence links Kuznetsov to all four murders. He was a suspect and was under investigation at the time. His actions had nothing to do with his journalistic duties and were not connected to the Russian Government. The Russian Ambassador deplores this unfortunate incident and expresses his government’s condolences to the families of the victims. The Russian Embassy is assisting the FBI in this investigation.
“Preliminary indications are that Kuznetsov had an incurable illness and that self-administered doses of dangerous medications caused him to be delusional. He was obsessed with the idea the United States was responsible for his brother’s death in Afghanistan and that our Government was trying to kill him.
“We are still analyzing evidence and the investigation is ongoing. We will issue a more detailed statement in the future.”
Reporters shouted questions at Kaminsky, who ignored them as she turned on her heel and left the podium.
Bannister spent the next couple of days writing up statements and his report. He referred a couple dozen phone calls from reporters to the media coordinator at the Washington Field Office. His last call Thursday was to Robin, who invited him to her graduation from the Academy. That was something he definitely wouldn’t miss. On Friday, Kaminsky addressed the task force at its final meeting.
“The Director of the FBI informed the Russian ambassador the United States suspected Kuznetsov of being with Russian intelligence. But he emphasized the murders, as well as Kuznetsov’s own death, appeared to have nothing to do with any intelligence operation. The Director requested the ambassador give Russian intelligence a report of our murder investigation outlining the evidence against Kuznetsov.”
Doug Gordon raised his hand.
“I’m anticipating your question, Doug. The report will be sanitized, and leave out our surveillance and other sensitive items.”
Gordon nodded, and Kaminsky continued. “As a good faith gesture from the US Government, the icon from Kuznetsov’s storage locker was turned over to the ambassador. We didn’t attach any conditions. Our government’s not going to say anything about this artwork’s recovery. The Russians can say anything they want or nothing at all.”
Kaminsky answered questions before thanking all the task force members for their efforts.
As he checked out of the Watergate, Bannister arranged through the concierge to have two boxes of Godiva chocolates delivered to the emergency room staff of the George Washington Hospital.
He had two more things to do before leaving DC.
He drove to Dulles Airport, not to catch a flight, but to watch one take off. A Russian Aeroflot Illushin lifted off the runway right on time. On board was the body of Andre Kuznetsov, returning to the Motherland for burial. Bannister watched the plane until it disappeared into the folds of the slate gray sky.
As he was walking back to the terminal, he saw Doug Gordon.
“The office said you were coming out here. I’m glad I caught you before you left. I have a copy of a letter Kaminsky opened after getting back from the TV station. She’s already notified your boss in Atlanta,” Gordon said, handing him an envelope. “The original was sent via DHL courier service from London.”
Bannister opened the letter and read it.
Dear SAC,
I’m sending this to you because I know you will make sure the message is delivered to Agent Bannister. I heard about the shooting in Virginia. Too bad the Russian was such a bad shot. Bannister and the FBI have wrecked my life. Tell Bannister that when it’s my chance, I won’t miss!
It was unsigned. It didn’t need to be. Bannister knew who’d sent it.
“It’s been great working with you, Ty,” Gordon said as they shook hands. “Be careful, okay?”
Bannister had one more stop before driving back to Atlanta. At the National Memorial Park cemetery, he parked along one of the narrow pathways bisecting the graveyard. He had to walk past two rows of headstones before finding the black granite marker for Cal Williamson. It wasn’t much to commemorate a man’s life. It didn’t have an epitaph. Just his name chiseled in stone along with the date he was born and the date of his death. There was no one else in the cemetery. Bannister would have spoken out loud but didn’t want to hear his own voice cracking. So in his mind he told Cal they all missed him, that he missed him.
Though it hadn’t brought his friend back, it was good his death had been avenged.
With his head bowed, Bannister thanked Cal for their friendship, turned, and walked away.
IF YOU ENJOYED …
The Mile Marker Murders, don’t miss Prime Impact
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Fugitive Terry Hines, suspected of involvement with terrorists, has been on FBI Agent Tyler Bannister’s rada
r for some time when Federal prosecutor Kendall Briggs is murdered, a microbiologist at the CDC is stabbed to death, and a biotoxin is missing. Bannister suspects the crimes are all related.
The investigation takes a personal turn when Bannister’s daughter is kidnapped and he is in a race against time to save his daughter and neutralize a biological attack.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.W. Saari is a graduate of Whittier College, Willamette University Law School, and the National War College. He served his country in the US Marine Corps, then spent twenty-seven years as an FBI Special Agent where he supervised undercover operations and espionage investigations. C.W. is currently a private investigator in Lexington, South Carolina, where he resides with his wife, Carol.
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