Authors: John Strauchs
Sami fell asleep in his chair right after the 11 o’clock news. An almost empty
vodka bottle was cradled in his lap. It was basically the same information as in the earlier
broadcast.
Jenny was silently sobbing all evening.
She couldn’t bear the thought that
Jared was gone. She felt remorse for not being more honest with him. She did love him.
She loved him so much. Her chest ached more than she could bear. The sadness drained
her of all energy. She knew that she was going to be killed soon. How old was he? He
was fat and old. Could she fight back? She thought he must be in his seventies and perhaps his eighties. But then again, he didn’t carry himself like an old man. He was like a
bull. He smelled horribly. He fondled her, but she hadn’t been raped.
The pig hadn’t
even tried. The humiliation of being naked in front of him had worn off. Now Jenny was
just cold.
She thought about the time she and Krissy ran into Sami outside of Krissy’s
apartment.
He could have kidnapped Krissy.
Jared would have done the same if it was
Krissy.
She was glad that Sami took her and not Krissy. Krissy wasn’t as strong as her.
Krissy couldn’t survive this.
She could.
And Krissy was going to be a mother soon.
Jenny vowed to herself to survive…somehow.
He took all of the sheets and blankets.
She glanced at Sami.
He was snoring
hard. He wore a very heavy dark grey wool L.L. Bean shirt. It made him look like a walrus. She quietly pulled the mattress pad up and wrapped it around her as best she could.
The dog chain made it difficult, but it was better than it was. She thought about the temperature. It was summer but she guessed it was in the fifties. They were pretty far north.
There was no heat in the camper.
The pig was probably used to this.
She was so cold.
She huddled up to preserve body heat. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to die. She
thought about how he might do it.
She didn’t want to think about that but she couldn’t
help it. It kept coming up in her thoughts. She shuddered as much from grief and fear as
from the cold. She hoped her death would be quick.
It was midnight and the sky was clearing.
Moonlight suddenly streamed in
through the tattered curtain on the small window above her bed. It was beautiful and
calming. She didn’t intend to fall asleep, but she was up all night last night and now the
second night was approaching. Emotional fatigue takes a heavier toll than does hard labor. She nodded off.
Jenny dreamt of being at the private little lake that she and Jared enjoyed so
much. She saw a mother loon carrying her chicks on her back. The bright July moon was
shimmering across the water.
The pines and birches swayed in the night breeze forming
dark shadows against a darker sky.
It was cold.
It shouldn’t be this cold at the lake in
July, but still, it was all so beautiful. Jared had his hand in her hair and was teasing a few
blond strands with his fingers.
“I love you with all my heart, Jenny,” said Jared.
“I love you too, darling.” said Jenny.
“PRETTY LADY,” said Jared.
Jenny smiles, but Jared’s voice suddenly becomes deep and raspy.
She glances
back at him and Jared slowly changes into a Jared who is short and fat. He’s Jared but
now he’s so hideous. He smells horribly. She pulls away from him in disgust. She wants
to run from him. Jared lunges forward and grabs her ankle as she jumps to her feet. She
runs and she runs, dragging Jared behind her.
Suddenly her clothes are gone. She can’t
break free. Her movements are slower and slower. She drags him with her into the lake.
The cold water revives her but his hold on her foot is unyielding. Now is has both of her
ankles in his grasp. He pulls her down into the water. It is so black and it is so cold. She
can’t stop trembling. She can feel each bubble of air leave her mouth as water rushes into
her lungs.
She tries to hold her breath but her lungs are burning.
He pulls her down,
down into the frigid water. Her blond hair is floating around her face, blinding her. She
turns her face up to the surface of the water as she is slipping deeper and deeper. She
looks down and sees nothing but black…nothing but the spinning void. She feels dizzy. If
she could only break free from Jared’s hold. She looks up. She can see the moonlight
bouncing on the ripples at the surface. She is drowning.
Suddenly, two strong feminine hands pull her from the water.
old. She didn’t understand what was happening but it is so clear now.
saved her.
Her grandmother stands her up in front of the fireplace.
She is nine years
Her grandmother
She is naked but
wrapped in a very large, fluffy cotton towel. The rug beneath her feet has been warmed
by the fire. Her strength is coming back to her. Her grandmother is drying her hair with
another towel. Mormor is humming a Swedish nursery song. She hugs Jenny and whispers in her ear.
“You are such a good girl, my child,” whispers Mormor.
“I love you Mormor,” says Jenny.
“Do not worry my little one.
Do not worry.
God takes special care of sweet
children like my Jenny. God will watch over you,” says Mormor. She hums again.
“I love you Mormor and I love God,” says little Jenny. “I love God very much.”
Little Jenny glances at the large bay window in their living room.
The sun is
coming up. It is early morning. It is a wonderful warm morning.
“Wake up Pretty Lady,” says Sami.
He pokes hard into her side with a stubby
finger. “WAKE UP. WE GO NOW.”
Jenny is shaken awake. For a moment she panics.
“MORMOR,” she yells out.
Sami yanks hard on the dog chain, pulling her half off the bed.
“What you talk? GET UP.”
He throws a pile of dirty work clothes on the floor at her feet. The reality of the
moment sinks in.
“Put clothes on,” says Sami.
He drags her off the bed with the chain. Her ankles are bleeding.
“Put clothes on NOW,” says Sami.
“OK, I will. I can’t get dressed with the chain on,” says Jenny.
Sami kneels down and opens the padlocks on each foot.
“Dress.”
Jenny pulled on the heavy overalls.
They were rank and grease stained, but at
least she was clothed. She put on a heavy red wool shirt that bristled against her skin.
These were men’s clothes. They felt scratchy on her bare skin.
“Shoes.” He threw shoes at her that were many sizes too large.
“It OK. We not walk much,” said Sami.
“Do you have socks?” asked Jenny. “The shoes hurt.”
Sami slapped her across her face, knocking her down to the floor.
He jerked her
up again by her hair. He hit her again. Her lips were bruised and bleeding. She made no
sound.
“PUT ON SHOES. WE LEAVE NOW.”
He chained her feet again, taking care to wrap the dog chain tightly around both
of her feet well above the shoes.
It was tighter than before. She could only take half
strides as she stood and attempted a few steps.
“We not walk much.”
She hated to ask, but it was becoming painful. She braced for another slap.
“Can I use the bathroom?” asked Jenny.
“Yes. Use bathroom. There!” He pointed.
“No windows. Keep door open.”
She was startled by that command.
“Go. Sami not look. Sami not interested in dirty thing. GO. GO. Not make truck
dirty. GO. GO.”
Jenny opened the door into the small bathroom. She kept the door open, but only
a few inches. He didn’t say anything. Good.
The bathroom was filthy and smelled of urine and feces. There were dark yellow
stains all over the toilet seat. Her hands were free so she could manage using the commode. She didn’t want the stream to hit the water. She slid forward as much as possible
so she would make the least amount of noise. She couldn’t see him, so he couldn’t see
her. That helped, but he could hear her. She used this rare moment of privacy to search
the small room for a weapon…anything that she could use against him. There was nothing.
Her heart sank. She was being taken somewhere to be killed and she was defenseless.
There was a filthy water glass. She could break it and use one of the shards as a
weapon.
No.
He would hear that.
She looked around again. She was frantic.
Nothing
would work as a weapon.
There was no toilet tissue. She pulled her clothes back on and shuffled back into
the kitchen.
He pulled a stocking cap on her head and poked her blond hair up into the
cap.
She didn’t look like a woman from a distance.
She supposed that was what he
wanted.
Using the end of the long chain as a leash, he led her out of the cabin to a black
Land Rover parked behind RV.
It had a very large bass boat strapped to the roof and a
red tarp was draped under the boat. When had he switched vehicles?
She couldn’t remember if she had dozed off. The last day…or was it two days…it was all a blur.
Sami opened the passenger side door of the Land Rover.
“IN,” said Sami.
The step was higher than her stride would allow. Her chained feet wouldn’t allow
her to climb.
Sami grabbed her roughly by the crotch and heaved her up into the seat.
He was very strong.
That was troubling to Jenny.
He didn’t act like an old man. She
couldn’t count on him being an old man. She had hoped he would be feeble. He wasn’t.
He slammed the door shut but the red tarp was caught in the door. He jammed the part of
the tarp that was hanging down back under the boat and slammed the door shut again.
This time it closed.
She only heard a few cars all night. There had been two, maybe three. She wasn’t
sure. Now there was another car. She heard a hum from tires with heavy treads.
She
glanced to her side and saw a very large pickup coming down the road.
Should she run
for it? It might be her last chance. She edged her hand slowly toward the door handle.
“Do not be clever Pretty Lady,” said Sami. He pushed a large knife into her side
until she was certain that the sharp tip had broken skin. She gasped.
Sami smiled and waved to the truck as it roared past the cabin.
After the truck
was well out of sight, he pulled out and headed north.
Jenny knew that she was being driven to her execution.
Jared couldn’t save her.
Jared was dead. He could do so many amazing…almost superhuman…things, but he
couldn’t rise from the dead.
She began to quietly sob again.
She was frightened.
She
was so frightened. How would he kill her?
It wouldn’t be a quick death.
It would be a
horrible death.
No one could save sweet young Jenny. She was so frightened.
John Anderson was pacing the floor in tight spiraling circles.
His tie was loosened around his neck and his shirt collar was unbuttoned.
His expensive Hickey Freeman jacket was on the sofa, hanging down to the floor.
He had his thumbs hooked into
his red suspenders.
Reisinger noted the change.
He had a habit of paying attention to
small details.
It was an occupational asset.
He had never seen John so disheveled.
It
was evident that JC was becoming a major liability.
“Nice suit John. A little tight around the collar?” asked Reisinger.
“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm Franklin,” said Anderson.
Reisinger lit a cigarette.
“You know you can’t smoke in here,” said Anderson.
“So what did Sharon Stone say John…Oh yea…so arrest me for smoking,” said
Reisinger. He flicked an ash into the white rug.
“You’re in the clear…so far.
They don’t even know of your involvement with
Siemels. I’m the one on the hot seat,” said Anderson.
“I understand. We’ll work something out.”
“What are we going to work out? What? Exactly what do I tell Weller or Obama?
I don’t like being summoned to the White House like a dog being called by its master. I
don’t like it,” said Anderson.
“You tell him that you had no idea that Siemels was going to kill himself. That
might even be the truth. You knew about the kidnapping of his lady friend, but your subordinates failed to brief immediately about suicide.
You were involved in making sure
that the Bureau was doing everything it could to find the girl.”
“That won’t wash.
They know that I’ve been dogging Siemels for the past two
years. Weller even knew something about my feelings about Siemels being some kind of
hideous Soviet genetic experiment. Where did they get that information?”
“Beats me,” said Reisinger.
“Obama is a good Christian.
He has to feel the same way about Siemels.
Only
God can create man. When we start tampering with genetics we are working for Satan.”
“I would keep this stuff to yourself, John.
You don’t want to sound like some
kind of religious nut case. I suggest that…..” Anderson ignored the comment and talked
over him.
“…and furthermore, there are five special agents who submitted reports about the
suicide.
They had surveillance on the site.
Who is going to believe that the FBI would
fail to brief a Deputy Attorney General, particularly when they know I had an interest in
Siemels.”
“Deny. Deny. Deny. That is the way it works inside the Beltway, John.”
“YOU FOOL,” yelled Anderson.
“Now its name calling. That’s not helping.”
“What I don’t understand is why they’re so interested in this human abomination.”
“What I was told was that Weller got it directly from Obama. Siemels had some
kind of invention that could remotely detect explosives, weapons and other kinds of contraband. The President was convinced it was vital to national security and might even
save his legacy.
Obama is furious that the FBI sat around and allowed Siemels to blow
his brains out. Evidently the secret died with Siemels. If Obama is furious, you can count
on Weller being volcanic,” said Reisinger.
“And what about this Special Agent Cabet.
Why didn’t I know that he knew
Siemels…that they were evidently friends?
Damn it Franklin.
The Bureau is supposed
to be working for ME.”
“YOU IDIOT! You’re the one who told ME about Cabet. He’s the one who sent
you that PeopleSoft memo that you ignored,” yelled Reisinger.
“AND YOU NEVER INFORMED ME THAT ABOUT THIS PATENT THING
AND THAT IT WAS ACTUALLY IMPORTANT. I THOUGHT IT WAS ALL GARBAGE,” yelled Anderson. He pounded the desk with his hand.
It left a wet mark on the
glass top. His hands and brow were moist.
“I DID TELL YOU, DAMN IT. You’re so hot-headed. I knew you’d blow your
top, just like you’re doing now. We are watching Cabet now,” said Reisinger.
He lit
another cigarette. This time Anderson said nothing. He walked over to the credenza and
took out an ash tray and put it on the coffee table in front of Reisinger.
“How are we doing on finding the girl? Are you talking with the RCMP?” asked
Anderson.
“I’m stalling until the girl is dead.
Trust me.
It’s much better that way. She is
probably dead now so we’ll pick it up a bit.”
“I’m not a happy camper, Franklin. Not at all. Siemels certainly deserved elimination but not an innocent woman. You should have been doing everything you could to
find her…alive.”
“I can’t figure you out sometimes John. That’s water over the dam.
What we
should really be concerned about is Sami Zhidov.
The case officer handling him is almost certain that Sami went into Canada. Now that Rubio Matos…you know, Sami’s hit
man…the Colombian…is out of the picture, our people think that Sami is the one who
kidnapped the girl and used her to force Siemels to commit suicide. Cabet confirmed it in
his report.”
“Are the Russians insane?
This will put us both in a federal penitentiary if he’s
caught,” said Anderson.
“Something is terribly wrong. Someone’s been flipped,” said Reisinger. “Sami is
too stupid so it could be Penkovskiy. We’re trying to sort it out but someone over there
has his own agenda and his working against us. The only good news is that making sure
that Siemels was eliminated was on everyone’s song sheet.
I never bought the BS the
Russians were spewing that they wanted to wack Siemels because they were afraid the
U.S. would be breeding superhuman clones. At the time knowing why wasn’t that relevant, but now we need to find out what their real agenda is. I assume it’s all about Siemels’ weapons detection invention.”
“We have the resources of the CIA and the FBI at our disposal.
Surely, we can
ensure that Zhidov is eliminated before he has a chance to implicate us,” said Anderson.
“That’s not a problem as long as we get to him before the RCMP does. It is not a
coincidence that fucking Dudley Doright was a Mountie.”
“
You crude idiot
,” thought Anderson.
“You don’t seem to be bothered that much about breaking one of the Ten Commandments about killing.
Don’t let the girl die. Kill the Russian.
What is it with you
John?” asked Reisinger.
“The 6
th
Commandment, ‘thou shalt not murder’.
It does not say kill. We have
not murdered. The Lord God does not murder. We are doing God’s Work. I will pray for
the souls that are lost.”
“Right! Wasn’t it Al Capone who supposedly said that you can accomplish more
with a prayer and a gun than you can with a prayer?”
“Don’t blaspheme, Franklin. Don’t you blaspheme!”
Reisinger was concerned. John was getting really screwy. It was all the pressure.
Reisinger was built to handle it. John was not. Soon he would crack under the strain.
“When are you supposed to be at the White House?” asked Reisinger.
“Right now. My driver should be waiting for me on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Keep your cool John,” He stubbed out his cigarette and walked out of Anderson’s office without looking back.
Reisinger always prided himself on being an Ops
Man who worked his way up from the bottom. He missed the cowboy days at the Agency when guns were fairly common, or at least in the field.
Today, unless you were in a
conflict area like Afghanistan, guns were very rare. At Langley they were absolutely forbidden. Anderson was definitely not an Ops Man. He was a Today Man.
Reisinger left the building and flagged down a taxi, but then waved him off. He
changed his mind. He needed to walk and clear his head.
He missed the old days.
He
started to walk to Northwest.
Nostalgia wafted over him as he walked. He remembered
when Justice seized a property near the old FBI building and then ran it for almost two
years. It was a topless and bottomless club. It was God damned bottomless. If you went
in there almost any lunch time half the guys watching the girls were Bureau and the other
half were Agency. You could smoke, right there in the club. Then there was Good Guys
on Wisconsin right across from the Soviet Embassy. That was a great place and the Russians were fun to watch. The Vice President’s residence was right there. If you went out
on the fire escape with one of the girls, you often could see the Vice President jogging by
or playing tennis.
There were no Jersey barriers.
No one worried about car bombs.
It
was great.
Archibald’s on K Street was grand too.
They had the best looking girls.
Then
there was the place on Connecticut…or was it on Delaware…where the girls weren’t ever
naked.
They only wore underwear.
What was the name of that place?
He couldn’t remember.
Maybe it was the Board Room?
Or was it the Conference Room? He wasn’t
sure. Classy place. Heck, 14
th
Street south of K was all a fun place back then. Now it’s
boring.
He did a lot of his training as a newly minted CIA case officer in that part of
town—before they finally sent him to the Farm.
He practiced agent meetings, discrete
surveillance, dead drops, quick passes, and unloads under the watchful and suspicious
eyes of pimps, whores, and derelicts in that part of town. It was great. It was so great.
There was one place that even had a girl on a swing, but this time he couldn’t remember
what the name of the bar was. It was too long ago.
He was required to break into a building without leaving a sign that he had been
there and he had to provide proof he did it before he could graduate from the Farm.
He
shoplifted all over Northern Virginia for practice.
Usually it was small, inexpensive
stuff, like a package of bacon, or something.
They even gave him a get-out-of-jail-free
telephone number in case he was ever picked up.
He never needed it.
Reisinger was
very good at being a spy. Above all, he considered himself to be a patriot. He was a true
patriot.
It was no accident that the statue they have at Langley isn’t of Dulles or Donovan, but of Nathan Hale. Reisinger was Nathan Hale. If he had to die for his country, he
would. He was confident that he would.
He thought about his favorite hang out, O’Toole’s in McLean. There weren’t any
girls in O’Toole’s. Almost all of the patrons were men.
Women weren’t welcomed by
the CIA back then. They were there, sure enough, but they sat in the back of the bus.
O’Toole’s was an honest-to-God male drinking bar. It was one of only three or four standup drinking bars left in all of Virginia. O’Toole had grandfathered his bar when Virginia passed all kind of laws to close down the neighborhood bars. Virginia was a holy roller
state back then.
It was the favorite hangout of CIA people for years until they finally
closed it too. Reisinger knew that he was an anachronism as well. It was only a matter of
time when the righteous ass holes like Anderson closed ol’ Reisinger down just like they
did O’Toole’s.
Only a matter of time. He wasn’t going to stand around like an ass hole
waiting for it to happen. If it was going to happen, he was going to fucking do it himself.
He pushed open the doors of Red Lips on L Street.
It took a few minutes for his
eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were only about five or six nervous looking guys in
cheap suits and white shirts sitting around the stage. A few had chains around their necks
and some kind of badge tucked into their breast pockets. One was eating a hamburger.
Some guys needed that option as an excuse for coming into a titty bar. Reisinger slid into
a booth next to the small stage.
How sad, he thought.
Back in the seventies you would
probably have to stand, it was that packed.
A tired waitress came by and he ordered a
beer.
He glanced at the girl on the stage.
She looked tired too.
She also looked bored
but wore a forced smile. She wasn’t beautiful. Not at all! Her tits were very small. Reisinger was trained to pay attention to details.
He could never shut it off.
It was now a
part of his DNA.
It was pathetic.
Reisinger paid for his drink but left the beer untouched. He
walked out.
The old days were gone and would never return no matter how much he
wished they would.
Anderson would crack.
He had no doubt about that.
He wasn’t old school.
It
was only a matter of time. Reisinger never cared a whit about Anderson or his psychotic
obsession with Siemels.
Many things changed after 9/11.
Homeland Security grabbed
up agencies by the truckload. The Director of Central Intelligence was no longer the director of central intelligence.
Now the DCI worked for someone higher up who was the
director of central intelligence.
He guessed Congress never bothered to read the CIA’s
charter. Many of the top guys were military now. He hated that.
Yes, so many things have changed but one immutable truth still remained.
The
CIA and the FBI could not work together.
Those rivalries persisted despite all the new
bureaucracy.
Reisinger needed someone to back him up whenever there was a problem
with the Bureau and who better to do that than a Deputy U.S. Attorney General.
If that
meant offing this guy Siemels, that would have been a small thing. But Siemels was dead
and, suddenly, John was a liability. He had to slough this albatross off somehow.
These walks always cleared his head. He now understood that Anderson was the
problem…the only problem.
He was close to retirement and he was not going to let a
Bible-thumping moron like John ruin it for him. He bled in the trenches for his country.
He would have died for it. He was owed.
He knew he made the right decision in not telling Anderson everything he knew
about Siemels.
He had been truthful in telling Anderson that someone had been flipped,
but the moron would never guess that he was the one who flipped. Cute!
Reisinger
pulled out his cell phone and called his secretary to get him a seat on the next flight to
Portland. It was imperative. His survival depended on it.