The Seraphs Call - Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

2:00 PM March 3, 2049 - Scott Family Private Cemetery - Independence, Iowa

Joshua Scott was dead, destroyed by an enemy that his own grandson had been unable to defeat.  Amid this living nightmare, Gabriel felt desolate.  He bowed his head over the mahogany black coffin; his face, reddened by days of tears, unable to shed in grief a single tear for the man he loved most in the world.  The gray overcast sky suited the mood, the light rain further dampening his spirits.  He watched the others stoically, the tearful mourners parading past, unable of empathizing even remotely.

There was a lump in his throat, the painful and constant reminder of the past two weeks, the feelings of remorse and regret spewing forth after Joshua's death.  He responded in a murmur, as the attendees filed by, offering their staid and ill-conceived condolences.  He wished the endless tide of consolers to dry up like a desert flood under the blistering heat of a high Sierra sun. 

Not faraway under the shade of a giant elm tree, hidden in the shadows on which he’d relied all his life, stood a thin, dark-haired man clad in a tailored business suit.  He wore the studied expression of a lost tourist seeking a spectacle, a mask to what his true intents in the viewing the procession. 

He was here for Gabriel and like most times during the young man’s life, would stay in the shadows watching his charge from their depths.  He was the same man known to Gabriel as the Angel.  Damien Demoir watched, measuring his grandson’s strength and resolve with a mere look, but a look that bored into the young man’s soul from this distance.  He was all but alone, but still solid in his presence.  The young brilliant doctor Gabriel Scott would survive.  Damien nodded in silent knowing, and turned to the long black limousine that waited beyond the elm.  Driving away, he rolled the window down a fraction and watched the fading scene, the setting sun forming a red halo about Gabriel amid the sea of black clad devils.

 

June 2049 - U.S. Army Proving Grounds - Aberdeen, Maryland

The recent months had been difficult for Shelby Holiday.  He accepted the new position as lead research scientist for the United States Army at Aberdeen, and was now in over his head.  The man who recruited him, Roger Janus, had made many promises, keeping most, but there was one thing that Janus failed to mention, his near maniacal-like need to control everything within his grasp.  At first, Shelby ignored Roger's constant demand for information on every step of his work.  A month passed, and day after day Roger harangued him for information.  Shelby had gone as far as reporting Roger, but this resulted in more problems and an increase in Roger's controlling behavior.  Shelby had reached his breaking point.  Either he would confront Roger hoping to stop it himself, or he would tender his resignation, ruining his career. 

Approaching the brownstone building in his vintage model 1990 Ferrari, Roger Janus surveyed the result of his hard work.  It took him a long time to get to this point.  He was Director of the United States’ most Top Secret project, reporting directly to the President of the United States.  No Colonels, Generals, or Civilian leaders stood in his way.  He was working for the main man, but he was far from done. 

Ten long hard years of playing the game, politicking his way through the maze of government bureaucracy and red tape during which he had made friends and enemies, removing or neutralizing most of them through subversive and underhanded means.  With his friends, he had managed to build an array of control and manipulation, which provided him with the means to work his way to the top.  He would use his friends until they were no longer useful when they would become his enemies no longer serving a valid purpose in his search for supreme power.  As had happened to so many before, those who no longer served a purpose in Janus’ world, would become discredited, or ruined. 

Roger had never dirtied his hands, keeping a safe distance from any malfeasance and any association with less than honorable people.  Rarely did he know the outcome or the details associated with the disposition of his problems, allowing the vast network of contacts at his call to handle them.  Most who knew Roger Janus either feared him or outright loathed him.  Few but the most powerful dared to cross him, and they had reason to fear.  Roger Janus had made a name for himself in the annals of government circles, noticed for his accomplishments and rebuked in secret circles for his behavior.  One thing remained; Roger Janus was a dangerous man. 

As Director of Operations, Roger Janus had little patience for usurpation of his authority, and every little bit provoked him.  Someone had taken his parking space.  The project personnel knew that Janus’ parking spot was off-limits to everyone, including the base commander.  The assistant director’s slot was available, and he parked, storming into the lobby of the building, flashing his badge to the guard.  His passage through the security detector resulted in the alarm sounding, but he continued down the hall, ignoring the guard chasing him, demanding he stop.  Only when the guard removed the weapon from his side holster, and Janus heard the click of a round chambered did he stop and turn around. 

“Son, do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Sir.  I do.  You are Dr. Janus, Director of this project, but I am in charge of security for this building and I will allow no one to break the rules, not even you.  I am under direct order from the base commander to check identification of ALL personnel who enter and verify that they are not bringing in or leaving with unauthorized materials.”

“Good.  I am glad to see that you are doing your job, but I don’t report to you, your base commander, or anyone else on this base.  I work for the President of the United States and as I recall, he IS your boss.  My recommendation would be that you holster that sidearm and return to your post, or you might find yourself guarding some outpost in the deepest coldest parts of Alaska.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.  I will not stand by and listen to your threats.  You have 30 seconds to return to main lobby, otherwise I will call the MPs, and have you removed from the building.”

“As you wish, what’s your Rank?  Sergeant, is it?  Yes.  Sergeant, but not for long, I’m afraid.”

Janus walked back to the lobby, mindful of the guard with the drawn weapon walking behind him.  As he reentered the lobby, he retrieved his identification badge from his suit coat pocket, chucking it to the floor next to the guard desk. 

“There is my identification, Sergeant.  If you will recover it for me, I would be most grateful.  As you do not want me to make any sudden moves, I would not want to give you the impression that I am doing so.”

The Sergeant realized the Director was toying with him, pushing his patience to the limits, testing how far he would take this.  This was a game, working with these government civilians, who believed they didn’t have to answer to anyone other than their civilian supervisor.  In Dr. Janus’ case, it was the President, and this Sergeant knew it was a dangerous game to play and worse yet, to lose.  Without a moment’s hesitation, he bent down and viewed the ID, though he was familiar with Janus, he would make him wait.  “Dr. Janus.  No offense Sir, but I will have to verify your identification.  It will take a moment.”  The look of pure contempt turned to anger as Janus realized the Sergeant was not going to allow himself to become upset at Janus’ pronounced arrogance, “Sergeant, unlike you I have important duties.  Please make it quick.”

“Yes, Sir.  I will go as fast as I can.  Considering that I’m not as intelligent as you, or have as many responsibilities, it may take me a little longer.”

Damn, this kid is good.  He may be worth keeping around after all, Roger thought.

“Very well, Sergeant.  I await your confirmation.”

Roger allowed a look of boredom to show on his face, hiding that he would like nothing better than to use the Sergeant’s own weapon and bludgeon him senseless.

Thirty seconds passed and the Sergeant stepped from the office where he had verified the ID on the PIDVS (Pass and ID Verification System).  With a normal militaristic composure, all signs of the events which occurred absent from his posture and presentation, the Sergeant returned the ID to Janus and spoke, “Your ID has been verified, Dr. Janus.  You may go.”

“Thank you, Sergeant” was Janus’ response as he turned, pausing, “oh by the way, Sergeant.  Someone is parked in my space outside.  Please call base security and have the car ticketed and towed.  I think you can handle that little task.”  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned and walked down the hall to his awaiting office.

The indicator on Janus’ videophone continued to flash as the call to the base commander went unanswered.  This was not the first time he’d failed to accept Roger’s calls and wouldn’t be the last.  Disconnecting, Roger selected the number for the Pentagon, Chief of Staff, U.S. Army and was greeted with the standard, “You have reached the office of the U.S. Army Chief of Staff.  You may leave a message and a response will be returned to you.  This circuit is considered not secure.  Classified information scanning is in place.  Any attempt to discuss classified information on this circuit will result in termination of the call and reporting to the proper federal authorities.  Have a nice day” The message was followed by a beep, and with a forced smile on his face, Janus began his message, “General Hathaway, Roger Janus.  I want to discuss a couple of issues with you: the first being the incompetence of your base commander at Aberdeen, and the piss poor management of the base facilities.  I believe that this needs your attention as the base commander has seen fit to ignore any messages that I've left for him.  I will be speaking with the President this evening and should the problem not be resolved, I may feel it necessary to bring it to the President’s attention.  Have a nice day.”

Roger knew General Hathaway would receive this message, after his secretary, aides and subordinates had a chance to review it.  If they chose to ignore it, General Hathaway would hear something from his boss, The General of the Army, who reported to the Secretary of Defense, who in turn reported to the President.  If Hathaway did respond, he would give him an earful, mindful to give the General leeway enough to fix the situation, but not too much to allow him to think he was off the hook.  Roger never let anyone off the hook, when he knew he could use it to his advantage later.

 

Shelby slammed the vial to the floor.  Damn you, Janus.  You have been a thorn in my side since I started and I’ve had enough of your bullshit.  The experiment data was inconclusive.  He had reworked these processes at least a hundred times and still nothing.  The genome-mapping project had come to a stand still and yet Janus pressed him for progress reports.  Shelby had never in his career, manufactured false data, but he was compromising his morals to get Janus off his back.  Janus was much smarter than he appeared and recognized that Shelby was trying to deceive him.  That would spell the end, the final death nail in Shelby’s career.  He needed a break and the way to get was to walk away from the lab.

Removing the lab coat, the food, coffee and chemical stains resembling a depiction of some twisted Rorschach exam, he tossed it into the clothing bin.  As he reached the exit, he glanced back and saw the results of his temper strewn across the tabletop and floor, the shards of glass mixing with the chemicals in their scattered pools.  A mess he would have to clean it up when he returned, that was, if he returned.  If Janus saw this mess, he’d be furious. F**k him, Shelby thought.  Just f**k him.  With a renewed vigor, he slammed the lab open, causing it to rebound off the doorstop, bouncing back with enough force to knock Shelby out had he not been ready.  Raising his arm to shield himself from the impending impact, he caught the heavy metal door with the flat of his forearm.  Wincing from the pain, the impact issued forth a resounding thud as he was pushed back against the door jam.  The curses that followed echoed in the hall as Shelby pushed the door back and raised his right foot, lashing out and denting it, causing the door to shudder.  He avoided the second swing of the door as it slammed shut against its stop, the safety glass spider webbing from the sheer impact.  Janus isn’t going to like this either and that’s too bad.

With a renewed vigor, Shelby made his way down the hall towards the exit, his sole purpose to remove himself from Roger Janus’ vicinity.  He wasn’t supposed to leave in the middle of the day, but at this point, he didn’t care.  The more he thought, the more upset he became for allowing himself to fall prey to Janus, the master of the con as Shelby had come think of him.  As he approached the lobby, he heard voices…one of them that of one Dr. Roger Janus.  Shelby’s temper flared more at the mere sound of Janus’ voice.  He was going to give him a piece of his mind and to hell with everything else.

Another voice rose above Janus’, deep, bellowing, and defiant.  “We have not tested all the safeties on the project.  There is no predicting how certain protocols will react in the field Dr. Janus…I will not be responsible for you rushing this test beyond the veil of safety.”

What was this?  Shelby had not known that a test was scheduled for the project.  It was “the project” because the entire facility on this side of the proving ground was dedicated to the most secret prototype development in the history of the United States Military—development of human weapons known as “Longreach.”

“The chameleon fields are not tested much less perfected.  If they fail in the field under any circumstance it will compromise the team in the mission that you are proposing.”  Shelby could hear the other man’s hard breathing as he tried to contain his anger, “This is not a game we are playing.  These are human lives.  This operation belongs in the hands of combat experienced, and might I add field-tested agents, not a bunch of kids, no matter how much of super soldiers they are supposed to be.”

“The idea of this project is to develop operatives that can perform missions too dangerous for our regular agents.”  Janus’ voice was dismissive in tone.

“We don’t know if all the implants we’ve given them are online and functional, not including the experimental urban camouflage devices.  We have no way to predict how the change, in something as simple as barometric pressure, could affect them.  We need to start this slow…I don’t care how high a mark they got when they trained with Delta Force at Fort Brag, that’s still simulation and training, not reality.”

“And that is why the scientists who developed them will be watching the project from a safe distance to make sure nothing goes wrong.”  Janus sounded as pleased as a giant cat with its prey trapped beneath his sharp claws.  “We are hopping a plane with the team and you will get to see them in action.”

“Are you insane, neither one of us is field trained.  The project will be worthless if both of us get killed in this stupid stunt.”  The man let out an exasperated huff and Shelby heard something that sounded like a fist hitting a wall.

“We will be not in danger…I doubt that as enterprising as the Chinese are these days, they could have developed a missile to reach us high as we will be perched.  We will drop the team in international waters where they can swim in to the coastline nearest their objective.  We will climb to a suborbital altitude, and watch as Longreach wipes out the first in a series of obstacles.”  Janus was calm, speaking with a matter-of-fact tone.  He appeared as unconcerned as if he were reading his grocery list to a friend; not describing a plan that could give the term “international incident” a new meaning.

“I am filing a protest as Assistant Director and Lead Scientist on this project stating that I am against these field tests with non-validated subjects, Janus.  The results of this fiasco will rest on your shoulders.”  The other retorted.

“File all the protests you wish, and when I pull this off without a hitch; you will be left out in the cold.  President Porter’s displeasure is icy indeed.”  As Shelby peered around the corner, he noticed that Janus had gotten very close to the face of the man to whom he was speaking. 

The scientist was a middle-aged blond haired man with pale features, dressed in rumpled black slacks and a white lab coat that was in less then clean condition.  He did not cow like many of those that Janus dealt with.  That irritates the hell out of you doesn’t it Roger?  Either the man doesn’t know of Janus’ reputation or he’s a brave soul.  He didn’t recognize the man, must be from a different part of the project, but his nametag, pinned halfway askew on his shirt pocket, read Kovax.

“I hope I’m wrong…the most dangerous part of this entire situation comes if “Longreach” fails.  The experimental protocol that you developed in the event of their capture could cause collateral damage that would be disastrous on a global level.”  Kovax looked like he wanted to grab a hold of Janus to put some physical emphasis in the statement but restrained himself with obvious effort.

“Ridiculous, it will do what it’s designed to do.  Prevent anyone from extracting information from the agent, leaving no evidence which our enemies could use.”  Janus showed open contempt for the man, but still Kovax held his ground, toe-to-toe with the Director.

Kovax continued, “You know as well as I do, the likelihood of them being captured intact is slim.  They are designed to be unstoppable by nothing short of a small tank.  The reason you want those protocols in place is to cover your a*s in case they are caught.  God forbid the great Roger Janus get found out.”  Kovax’ lips, pressed together were invisible in the tense line of his mouth.  “You have wanted Longreach on a leash since the project inception and you have them.  Congratulations Dr. Janus, you get to play your little god game with the lives of 14 men, possibly millions.  Does it give you a thrill?”

 “We will be administering the implants to the team as a failsafe.  You fail to realize that if one of these men is captured the information that he can leak, alive or dead, is incalculable.  That is why the body must be destroyed, if the agent dies or is captured.”  Janus sounded like he was lecturing down to a child.

“And you fail to realize that if something goes wrong with the Lucifer Protocol, a pathogen developed from an RNA base, making it a virus, all hell is going to break loose.”  Kovax retorted.

“It is programmed to self-terminate once it destroys the agent and every proof down to the genetic level the enemy could gain.  There is no danger.”  Janus turned dismissively and began to walk away.

The last words from Kovax sent a chill through Shelby’s spine as he made his way towards the service exit to avoid any chance of Janus spotting him.

“We are toying with something that we shouldn’t…better to give them old fashioned cyanide…if this gets out of hand, and I think it will…the result will make hell a more pleasant place to live.”  Kovax defeated for now, turned to go back to his labs and his work, salvaging what little control he had left.

 

Shelby flashed his I.D. badge to the guard at the service gate and scurried through the dark to find his car.  There has to be someone who I can tell, who’ll listen to me before it’s too late.  Must hurry, don’t know how far up Janus has moved his timetable…don’t know how late is too late.  His Buick Riviera roared to life with the turnover of the big block 400 and sped toward the gate, the night providing solace, the harbor in which to find safety, 'until his course was plotted and his final destination secure.

 

Colonel Isaak Morikov fidgeted in the first-class section of the airliner.  He had not yet become used to the finer aspects of Western Civilization, having spent most of his life mired in the politics of the New Russian Republic, seldom venturing outside its borders.  This was his third trip to the United States and though not afraid, he was nervous about his nomination at Security Chief for the United Nations.  Since his appointment to Head of Security for Russian Intelligence, he reduced to the lowest level in decades, corruption within the intelligence community.  He became known throughout the criminal society as someone to be reckoned with, his record of finding and bringing the criminal element to justice, if they made it that far, was remarkable.  He had directed the infiltration and dismantling of the large element of the Russian Mafia, responsible for the capture and imprisonment of over 250 criminals.  He was revered by his men, reviled by his enemies, and respected by the international community for his role in the near destruction of every major criminal organization in New Russia and her old provinces.  He was called on many times by outside law enforcement and intelligence agencies for training, recommendations, and consulting, fetching huge sums of money for his expertise.  In a few short years, he amassed a small fortune by Russian standards, swelling his lifestyle and his reputation in the international arena.  He was being called on by the most powerful international organization; The United Nations, numbering 400 member countries, having the most extensive intelligence organization in the world, and he was being named to run it.  There could be no mistakes at this point.  No Skeletons could be revealed.

As the plane began its descent, falling into the approach pattern for New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport, Isaak glanced to his right, catching a glimpse of the vast city laid out before him.  He was amazed at the size and density, mile on mile of buildings creating the vast network of crowded boroughs, the population scurrying like insects performing their mundane tasks.  He had heard of this before, the overwhelming metropolis, sprawled out before him; how it could take a person and devour them.  Another decadent aspect of the west he knew he would enjoy.

The landing was uneventful and the plane taxied to the passenger loading bridge, the fasten seat belt light turned off by the pilot as he felt the bump of the passenger bridge engaging with the aircraft.  Flying in first-class had its advantages.  He had been first to board, and would be first to disembark.  Without waiting for the announcement, he stood, reaching into the overhead compartment and retrieved his briefcase.  He had taken two steps toward the exit, when the flight attendant stepped in his path, holding out her hand palm facing him as if to stop him. 

“I’m sorry, Sir.  We haven’t announced that we are ready to disembark the aircraft.  Please return to your seat and we will call you when we are ready.”  Isaak couldn’t believe that his actions were being questioned by someone so insignificant.  Does she not realize who I am?  He wondered.  In heavily accented English, he voiced his reply.  “Excuse me, Miss, but I have a very important appointment with United Nations.”  Pulling his diplomatic passport from the inner breast pocket of his suit coat, he continued. “I am Colonel Isaak Morikov, a member of the Russian Government and wish to leave the aircraft immediately.”

This one’s going to be trouble, she thought.  “Sir, I understand the importance of your leaving the aircraft, but the aircraft has not connected to the bridge, and it would be unsafe to disembark.  Please return to your seat, and we will announce when everything is ready.  I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“That was much better,” Isaak thought, “she knows her place.”  Instead of making a further scene, Isaak returned to his seat, voicing his discontent in a whispered voice.

Two minutes elapsed and Isaak welcomed the announcement to leave the aircraft.  He moved quickly from his seat, pushing two other passengers from the aisle back into their seats as he made his way out of the aircraft, arrogantly ignoring the cordial departure greetings he received from the crew.  Within seconds, he had reached the end of the bridge and stepped in the waiting area for the gate.  The site overwhelmed him.  Hundreds of passengers milled around like cattle to the slaughter. 

No one from the United Nations greeted him and he had to infiltrate the masses as if one of their own.  He could feel his blood begin to boil at this blatant lack of respect.  He was no longer in Mother Russia and no longer commanded respect from everyone that he met.  No one knew him, nor did they care.  Isaak had received his first dose of reality in the big city, a dose that left a bad taste in his mouth. 

 

As he walked down the concourse, following the signs to the baggage claim area, Isaak felt a slight prickling on the back of his neck.  A sensation he’d come to trust, a sensation that had saved his life on many occasions.  Turning, he looked in the direction from which he came, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, the hundreds of people moving along as if herded to their destination.  Someone was watching him, but in this confusion, it was impossible to identify his pursuers.  He would wait.  Habitually slipping into the mind-set, which had guaranteed his survival over the years, he found the nearest bathroom and stepped inside.  His first appointment with the Undersecretary was still two days away, giving him plenty of time to discover who was following and why.  He would change the rules and they would play his game.  A game at which he was very good. 

Five minutes elapsed.  There was still no sign of anyone tailing him.  He had waited in the open area in the men’s rest room, performing superficial tasks; washing his hands, straightening his clothing, combing his hair and still no one out of the ordinary revealed themselves. 

The variances he faced were extreme.  He would not have seen these types of rogues in the Moscow airports the security police performing their roles as his orders had demanded, keeping the airport clean of the riffraff that populated a good portion of the Moscow slums.  No, not in his airport.

Maybe he’d been wrong.  His overzealous attention to detail and exacerbated distrust of everyone excepting himself had in the past, produced a false paranoia, but he was sure this wasn’t the case.  Quickly opening the door, he turned and continued along the concourse towards the main terminal and without notice or forewarning; he crouched, melding into the crowd, his head no longer visible to anyone beyond five feet.  In a duck walk like fashion, he stepped into the cigar shop, moving quickly behind the wall that shielded the view from the crowded passersby. 

He didn’t have to wait long.  Two men wearing Russian-made overcoats stopped parallel with the entrance to the shop and began conversing.  The noise in the thoroughfare prevented him from picking up their words, but he could tell immediately that they were looking for him.  He used the glass-covered displays within the shop in a mirror-like fashion, their faces reflected faintly.  He tracked their every move.  They had lost him.  It was time to become the hunter, in this game of cat and mouse.

As they strayed from his view, Isaak moved cautiously from the confines of the cigar, blending into the steady stream of traffic headed to the main terminal.  He regained visual contact with his subjects, the taller of the two standing out, his Russian-style crew cut illuminating him as if a beacon.  The shorter of the two was less obtrusive, a near western haircut dominating his strong Slavic features. 

He would go after the shorter one, less of stature and not in charge.  He would cut him from the herd, an expression he’d picked up watching reruns of old western movies.  His pace, quickened by the thrill of the pursuit, brought him to within fifteen feet of the short man. 

Both of them, busily searching the crowd for Isaak, had failed to notice his approach.  He stayed back, keeping his distance using a much taller man as a visual shield, glancing occasionally around him to keep contact with the two he hunted.  The concourse came to an intersection; incisive as they didn’t know which way their prey had taken. 

They will separate, Isaak smirked. 

As if on command, the two pursuers briefly exchanged words, the taller one taking the concourse to the left, and the shorter, the concourse to the right.  Isaak had familiarized himself with the layout of the airport and followed the shorter man, heading in the same direction of his baggage claim location.  The situation had presented itself better than he’d expected and he would take the advantage. 

The shorter man continued his path, frantically scanning the stream of passengers in front of him, hoping he might catch a glimpse of the elusive Colonel.  Slipping to the left and engaging the flow of oncoming traffic, Isaak walked briskly to the left wall of the walkway.  He scurried to a point twenty feet to the left and front of his tracker, walking with an exaggerated gate in an attempt to purposely draw attention to himself.  Within seconds, he had succeeded.  The short man, during one of his crowd sweeps, caught sight of Isaak and smiled; unaware that he had been baited and would be caught in a trap he had set himself.

Isaak glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder and noticed the short man eyeing him cautiously, trying not to draw attention to himself in the crowd.  Without another look, Isaak focused ahead and picked up his pace, weaving in and out of the oncoming traffic until he was in the normal flow on the right side of the walkway.  His pace hastened by the aggressiveness of the crowd, his step fully extended, he began to lose his pursuer. 

Ahead he noticed a side passage, which by the sign read it led to one of the many executive lounges in the airport.  Though he was not a member, his years of experience would gain him entrance.  Holding a U.N. diplomatic passport helped. 

As he approached the entrance to the lounge, he again glanced into the glass, using its reflective qualities to view the passage behind him.  The shorter man had stopped, as he’d expected and slowly followed Isaak. 

The only two people in the hallway, the shorter man risked exposure, but was compelled to continue.  Isaak speculated, knowing how his people worked, this man would have no other choice than to follow him until he no longer could or if he lost him.  Either way, it would not be good for him.

The greeter at the entrance to the lounge nodded to Isaak as he approached and asked him for his club membership card. 

Feigning a search for his card in his breast pocket, Isaak quickly apologized and stated that he had left his card in his other briefcase. 

The attendant quickly but respectfully told him that he could not enter without it.  Isaak, mentally swift and trained in such situations, quickly produced his U.N. Diplomatic passport, which often opened more doors than any club membership ever could.  The attendant would still not grant access, which prompted Isaak to flex his political muscle, “Excuse me, but we are having some problems.  Since you are unable to aid me, I would prefer to speak to the individual in charge of this club.  Please notify him that I am here and wish to enter.”  The maitre d’ acknowledged his request, as if routine, and placed a call.  Within a minute, a man wearing a black formal suit, white shirt and tie approached the station. 

“What seems to be the problem, Sir?”

Isaak responded fiercely, “I was told on my departure from Moscow, that I would be welcome in this establishment.  The U.N. Undersecretary specifically recommended this place, however I am beginning to question its truth.  I was told this club was the most elite in the airport and that I would be granted access and exceptional service on my arrival.  If I am mistaken, I will gladly leave and tell the necessary parties at the U.N. of this establishment’s lack of class and etiquette.”

A worried look spread across the manager’s face as he quickly pondered the implications of Isaak’s actions.  All of his customers were extremely powerful individuals, coincidentally a few them powerful political figures.  If word got out that this club was sub par, he would lose clientele and much money.  “I’m sorry, Mr. …I didn’t catch your name.”

“I am Colonel Isaak Morikov, Russian Intelligence now with the United Nations.”

“Yes, Colonel Morikov.  Clearly, there has been some confusion on our part and I will find out what went wrong.  You are more than welcome in our club and we hope you enjoy your visit.”  Turning to the Maitre d' the manager spoke, “Ensure that Colonel Morikov has everything he needs, and the drinks are of no charge to the Colonel today.”

“ Yes, Sir!” Responded the maitre d' and looked at Isaak and spoke, this time with a lofty respect in his tone, “Colonel Morikov, anything you need, please let me know.  I will show you to your table.”

“Thank you very much,” came Isaak’s reply, “and the gentleman at the end of the hallway.  You see him?”

“Yes, Sir.  I do,” the maitre d’ replied.

“When he comes to the door, do not attempt to stop him.  He is with me and provides my security.  Usher him in and seat him at the bar.”

“Yes Sir.  Anything else?”

“No, but not a word to that man, no one is suppose to know we are together.  Government business.”

The maitre d’ nodded his head in silent acknowledgment and escorted Isaak to a booth in the far corner of the room, conveniently providing him with a full view of the room and the approaching hall.  Within minutes, the short man had approached the door and looked in, searching for Isaak.  As if on cue, and much to the man’s surprise, the maitre d’ ushered him in, not asking for identification, and seated him at the bar.  Removing the plastic polymer dagger hidden in his boot, Isaak stood and approached the man from the rear.  The man quickly noticed Isaak’s approach and spun in his chair, but not before Isaak was on him, the tip of the steel-like dagger pressed firmly into the rib cage of the man, not three inches from his heart.  Isaak shielded the crowd’s view of the dagger with his body, moving closely to the man, wrapping his right arm around the man’s shoulder as if greeting a friend.  His words were anything but friendly as his tone indicated imminent danger for the man should he decide to do anything rash.  The one-sided conversation in rapid-fire Russian from Isaak quickly followed, “Who are you and why are you following me?” 

The man was visibly nervous, the beads of sweat quickly forming on his forehead. Isaak wedged the sharp tip of the dagger between the man’s ribs, the pain beginning to ripple up his spine as the razor sharp tip began to penetrate his skin.

“I was sent to keep an eye on you while you are in the United States.”

Isaak pushed the dagger a little harder, causing the man to wince and spoke again, “Apparently, you are hard-of-hearing, Comrade.  I asked you who you are and why you are following me.”

The man stammered his reply, “My name is Boris Stravinsky.  Alexi Kreschenko sent us to follow you and keep track of your movements.  Mr. Kreschenko is very concerned and wants us to keep him informed.”

Increasing the pressure on the dagger causing the man to let out a little yelp, Isaak spoke, “Boris.  Anymore noise from you and I will kill you where you sit.  I want you to give your boss a little message from me.  My business is none of his business.  I am not interfering with his operations and he WILL NOT interfere with mine.  Do you understand, Comrade?”

“Yes, I understand” was the man’s response, as hr tried but failed to fight back the tears, which had begun to stream down his face.

Isaak eased the tension on the blade, seeing Boris visibly relax as the pain began to subside, “Boris.  If you make the mistake of letting me see you again, it will be your last mistake.  Have I made myself perfectly clear?

The short man nodded his head, understanding the implication.  Doubt of Isaak’s words never once invaded his mind.  If he erred again, it would cost him his life.

Slipping the weapon to within the breast pocket of his coat, Isaak exited the club. The Colonel turned briefly and staring at Boris, pointing his hand in the shape of a pistol and squeezing the mock trigger, the mocking smile of one upsmanship passing across his lips in victory.

One man remained, the gangly man, and if Isaak had predicted correctly, the man would be looking on the other side of the airport for him, but it would be to no avail.  Isaak had felt the phone in the shorter man’s jacket on his approach, and knew that as soon as the man left the club, he would begin making his calls.  The first call to partner in the airport, and the second to Alexi, if he was smart.  Alexi was not a man to be threatened nor toyed with as Isaak was well aware, but international grounds were Isaak’s territory and he would not be intimidated by the likes of Alexi Kreschenko.  They had stepped into his arena, a place he mastered and made the rules.

The baggage claim area was quiet, most of the passengers left from the airport, allowing Isaak to recover his bags without interference.  He stepped into the chilly late afternoon air, the temperature a mere 30 degrees f., but mild compared with the brutal harshness of the northern Russian winters.  The multitude of taxis allowed him to select his transport with ease.  The ride to the hotel was relaxing, but still stayed aware for any signs of pursuit. 

The Peabody Hotel, located in downtown Manhattan was monumentally more extravagant than any Russian hotel.  He was amazed at the size of the entrance, the fineness of the décor and the vast expanse that it covered.  The posh surroundings reminded him of pictures of the Imperialist Russian Family, the Czars, who had been the ruin of Russia as a nation.  His views, rooted in communism had been transformed with the coming of Free Enterprise, but his deepest beliefs still followed the old party line.  The check-in went smoothly.  The porter escorted him to his room on the 20^th floor.

This United Nations position would have more benefits that he could have imagined.  All the power as he had before, except on a global scale.  He pursed his lips in delight as the thought of control and domination invaded his psyche, bringing an evil smile to his lips.  Without wasting time, he placed his bags on the floor, sat on the bed, and lifted the receiver.  He extracted a small piece of paper from his right coat pocket, and dialed the number written.  The phone rang six times and he was rewarded with the voice of a longtime acquaintance.  Hello.

Illyana awoke to the berating sound of the ringing phone.  She had slept most of the day away, the night spent working on important research material.  She answered the phone, the caller speaking in a voice she had not heard in a long time. 

“Comrade Andropov.  So nice to hear your voice again.”  There was a long silence as he waited for a reply.  “Illyana, do you not recognize my voice.  Has it been that long?” Still there was no reply.  

When the first words came out, she could feel her stomach tighten, the feelings of dread invading her being, the headache making its presence known by the telltale sign of the throbbing artery in her temples. 

She had divested herself of her past and it had come back to haunt her.  A past she had wanted to forget.  A past that could destroy her.