Finally, I found some time away from college to finish this section of the spy side-story—the usual disclaimers apply.
This is actually one of three subsections I had for the original chapter, but I decided to cut it short when this section started to approach 11 pages on OpenOffice.
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Paige was unusually chipper when she came from from school that day: she was even humming “This Land is My Land” when she was doing her homework, something that was patently unusual for someone who was usually silent in focus when studying.
As younger siblings are wont to do, Henry decided this was an opportune moment to try and get a rise out of his older sister. “Hey mom!” He shouted downstairs, “I think Paige got a boyfriend!” Elizabeth (substitute) couldn't quite hear Paige's response, but she did hear a sudden shout of pain followed by the sound of a book falling to the floor. She merely shook her head: someday, perhaps Henry would learn to exercise more discretion in his speech. Still, even she was curious as to the cause of Paige's elevated mood today, and decided to make an issue of it at dinnertime.
The hours came and went, with both children—correction, Elizabeth thought as she sorted through the pile of mail, teenagers now—now occupied with their work (or whatever it was that they were up to; Henry did sometimes have some comic books in suspiciously close proximity to his homework whenever either Elizabeth or Philip went upstairs to check up on them, but Henry was adamant that he had not been distracted at all by them. Rather surprisingly, Paige had also shirked away from incriminating her younger brother, even when pressed by either mother or father. Philip thought it might have just been the typical effects of hormones or teenage rebellion, but Elizabeth secretly suspected that Henry might have been handing off some of the Wonder Woman comics off to Paige.
Oh well, Elizabeth mused as she tore a bit of spam mail into shreds and threw the pieces into a nearby recycling bin. I suppose a bit of rebellion was probably inevitable. Besides, compared to some of the horror stories I've heard some of the other parents talk about, this is nothing. She stopped, then scoffed, lord knows if they let the grades drop too low, not even Philip can save them from the absolute hell I'd rain upon them.
Finally, just as Elizabeth was considering going to the company that had sent this piece of junk mail and shoving everyone in it into an industrial-grade shredder, she heard the oven ding. Standing up, she called upstairs for Paige and Henry to come down for dinner. Just as she had finished yelling, the front door swung open, and Philip walked in. He set down his suitcase and plopped down onto the couch, the cushions audibly deflating as he turned on the television. “You're lucky you got the day off.”
Elizabeth smiled impishly as she took the meatloaf out of the oven, “Perhaps I simply work harder than you.”
She received no response, however. Instead Philip pointed at the television, “hey, look!”
The channel was CNN, and on it, a female anchor was speaking, a small picture of a messy-haired man in an orange jumpsuit being escorted out of his cell.
“Today, Kelly Bristol has been released from his cell in the Varner Unit maximum security prison after more than ten years of incarceration. Two days ago, the federal government conceded defeat in a court of appeals, admitting that the charges that he was a Soviet spy that had netted him a thirty year sentence were unfounded. It is expected that he will be swiftly transferred to a courthouse where he will be released and reunited with his family within the next few hours.”
The screen shifted, the small image expanding to footage of the falsely accused, a small exhausted smile decorating his face, being escorted from a detention cell by prison guards and out towards a waiting van.
“The FBI agents who had made the initial arrest and the prosecutor who had originally convicted him were not available for comment, but the Bureau's spokesperson did issue the following statement:”
“'The Bureau regrets that innocents were caught within its dragnet during its pursuit of justice and rooting out of Soviet spies. It hopes that, with the advances of new technology and new investigative and prosecutorial procedures, such incidents will be avoided in the future. In addition, the Department of Justice has stated that a certain amount of funds will be set for those falsely accused during the war, with claimants decided on a case by case basis.'”
Elizabeth closed the door to the living room and set the meatloaf on the table, as Henry and Paige finally came downstairs.
“Ooh, meatloaf!”
“Don't hog it all!”
Philip continued watching the news, oblivious to the chatter of the two children and his wife in the kitchen, memories of the past flowing back into his mind like water pouring past a dam.
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Ivan Androv watched as Misha and another agent unloaded the two captives from the back of the van. He frowned as his superior, in a rare moment of carelessness, let the head of the female captive smack slightly multiple times against the rear of the vehicle, a bit of blood dripping through the ropes and bandages onto the vehicle.
“Sorry for asking, comrade, but would you mind being a bit more careful with these hostages? I don't wish to have to wipe up more blood from this van than I have to.”
“Hm? Oh, sorry comrade. Must be the hour.”
“No worry, comrade. Even devoted agents of world socialism like us must get some rest at some point!” A few chuckles poorly disguised as coughs followed as Misha and her assistant carried the children into the safe house. The two children didn't resist—after all, how could they, both being blindfolded, gagged, bound, and in a state of general weakness?
As the two other spies closed the door to the safe house, Ivan stepped out of his van to clean off the blood, the red brake lights illuminating him in a hazy glow as he wiped away whatever remaining blood there was on the interior of the car. He silently cursed as he was forced to reach deep into the trunk to get at a drop that had managed to fly into a corner. Someday, when the Soviet Union had triumphed, maybe he wouldn't have to clean his car so much anymore.
Slowly adjusting himself out of the trunk, he scanned his van's interior closely with a flashlight, checking for any drops he may have missed, even scanning inside the box of hippie clothing and the dismantled AK-47 that had remained closed throughout the entire affair. Satisfied, he closed the trunk lid and made his way back to the wheel, spitting on and then rubbing his hands together to wash away a wayward bit of blood that had somehow clung on. The safe house soon became a mere twinkle in the rearview mirror.
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Officer Greg Nyes yawned.
Perhaps he shouldn't have had made a snarky comment during briefing today. Maybe then Chief Sasha Fernandez wouldn't have assigned him to the graveyard shift, but it was too late now. Here he was, sitting in a patrol car at 2 am watching the interstate just outside of an industrial area in front of him for anything he deemed to be “suspicious activity”.
Something that is in very short supply at 2 am, and probably would be for the next four hours I'm supposed to sit here, grumbled the 26 year old mentally. He looked to his left, at least I've got him.
In the passenger seat was his old mentor from the academy days, Police Sergeant Kyle Stark, a greying 51 year-old veteran of the force, and a veteran of Vietnam. Kyle was the only thing that kept Greg motivated at this job, especially after the initial luster of “protect and serve” dimmed after having cuffed countless druggies and their dealers, watching the parents cry whenever their son or daughter suffered a fatal overdose, and then watching every tenth criminal or so walk right out from the courtroom because of anything from a procedural error to a jury that couldn't decide whether one plus one equals two or three.
“Heh, don't get too comfortable, rookie.” Greg rolled his eyes at this jab: Kyle seemed to call everyone at the station younger than him this, even the chief. It was probably only his veteran status plus the fact that he was one of the more experienced members of the force that kept him his job. “Remember, criminals and other troublemakers can be just as detrimental to the nation and the war effort as any Communist spy.”
Greg turned towards his mentor, and responded, “oh?”. His reply dripped with sarcasm.
“Just like that one coming up the road right now!”
The younger officer turned back towards the road and, indeed, along came a brown van which, among other things, was slightly swerving from side to side and possessed unusually tinted windows that could prevent even the powerful lights of the police cruiser from shining through at the distance they were at.
“Might be a drunkard. Best check it out, in any case.”
While Officer Nyes's normal reaction would have been to protest about causing more paperwork for himself, the circumstances he found himself in meant that he was glad to be able to do anything to break the boredom.
Red and blue lights combining with the yellow glare of the headlights to knife through the darkness, Nyes drove the patrol car out from the little alcove it had been hiding in and pulled in behind the still somewhat-weaving van, activating the sirens in an effort to signal the driver to pull over.
Stark frowned as he watched the van straighten its path, head on for a bit while maintaining speed before finally pulling over.
“Hmm...”
“Something wrong, old timer?” asked Nyes as he pulled a flashlight from his belt and moved to open the patrol car door.
“This car...it's hiding something, I can feel it.” Stark's eyes narrowed as he watched the van wait patiently for the officers.
Nyes didn't look at Stark as he made a note of the stop in his car's computer. “Probably the drunk thinks he can trick us into letting him go. Come on.” Flashlight held in a reverse grip, he stepped out of the patrol car and headed towards the van. On the other side, Stark mirrored his movements, only pausing briefly by the van's back door to touch it and try the handle. The younger officer shook his head—Stark did have some peculiar habits, and it had gotten him into trouble before; only the staunch efforts of their local police union had stopped the various attempts at having him dismissed from the force.
The van's window was already down, revealing a slightly bearded caucasian man, traces of exhaustion evident in his face. “Is there a problem, officer?”
Nyes's demeanor changed: evidently, this man was not drunk enough for his speech to be slurred, or for his manners to have vanished. Still, he had a job to do: “Hello sir, I'm Officer Nyes of the Virginia State Patrol. The reason I stopped you is because you were weaving back and forth along the road when I saw you. License and registration please.”
The driver nodded, pulling out his documents and handing them over to Nyes. “Thank you sir, please stay put. We'll be right back.” He walked back to the patrol car, noting the name as he went; Stark joined him a few seconds later.
“Anything you notice?” Nyes inputted the name Issac Amanda into the computer, the screen taking a second before spitting back the relevant information. Stark shook his head.
“Guy seems tired, but not drunk. If he is, he's the most coherent drunk I've ever met.” He turned away from looking at the van to peer at the computer. “Ugh, that's bright. Guy seems clear, eh?”
“Yep. No previous infractions, everything checks out. At this rate, we'll just administer a sobriety test on him, and if he passes, we'll let him off with a warning.”
Nyes stepped back out of the car, heading towards the trunk to get a breathalyzer. Stark moved to clear the computer.
Hmm? The older cop saw something on his hand, illuminated by the computer's light. What's this red thing? He sniffed it, only to be met with an unmistakable metallic smell. Blood? It couldn't have come from me or inside this car. And the only thing I touched recently was...
He got out and briskly intercepted Nyes as the younger cop was walking towards the brown van with the breathalyzer, hand outstretched. “Hey, Nyes!”
“What is it?” Nyes stopped, then noticed the red stain on his hands, lit up by the patrol car's headlights. “Are you hurt?”
“No, this came from under that van's back door handle. Something's up. Keep up your guard.”
“Hmm, alright.”
The two cops strode back to the brown van, Nyes on the driver side and Stark on the passenger side. “Sir, have you been drinking tonight?”
“No, officer.”
“Well, just to be safe, please step out of the car. We'd like to conduct some tests.”
“Is this really necessary?” the driver asked. Nyes rolled his eyes, while Stark swept the interior of the van with his flashlight.
“I'm afraid so, sir. Please cooperate.” Silently, the driver stepped out of the van. “Blow in here,” Nyes commanded. The driver obeyed, and blew a 0.00—all clear. Nyes still wanted further confirmation though.
“Alright sir, please walk in a straight line from the front of your van to the rear and back, arms out, one foot in front of the other.” As the driver was doing the test, Stark moved from the side window to the front of the vehicle.
Nyes asked the driver as he watched the test, “By the way, are you injured?” The driver reached the front end of the van again. “No, why?”
Nyes casually mentioned the blood Stark found. “Huh,” the driver scratched his head, “must have cut my hand while at work or something and forgot to clean up properly.”
Satisfied, Nyes turned away to walk back to the patrol car, just as Stark's voice echoed from the front. “Is that an AK-47?”
Nyes never had the chance to turn back towards the driver, as a single bullet ripped through his stomach. Bloody gushed from the wound as he kneeled over. The driver turned away from him without a second glance and aimed at Stark, who was already on the other side of the van and running back towards the patrol car. Cursing, he ran over to the van's rear.
“S**t!” Stark rushed back to behind the protective wings of his patrol car's open doors, drawing his service weapon as he did. More gunshots rang out from the other side of the van, and Stark could see a few bullets impacting on the ground and on the patrol car door. The driver of the van took cover around the corner of his vehicle, laying down a bristling barrage. The cop did his best to return the favor.
Stark shouted into his radio, “Shots fired, shots fired! This is victor two nine eight! I repeat, shots fired! Officer down! Requesting immediate backup! Suspect is a caucasian male, well built with brown hair and eyes and a slight beard!” He ceased fire to peek at the van's license plate, narrowly avoiding a bullet which ricocheted off the side of the patrol car's door. “Vehicle license plate is as follows: Four! Mary! Henry! Charlie! Eight! Three! Seven!”
The radio crackled back, “10-4, victor two nine eight. Backup dispatched, code three.”
Stark turned away from the radio and pondered his options as bullets whistled over his head and impacted against the car door. It wouldn't last forever though, and if the suspect managed to get that AK-47 he had in his van to bear, his chances would get a lot worse. A few bullets shattered the windshield of the car, glass raining down onto the seats besides him.
I can't go forward on this side, and I can't get a clear shot either. Only one way to go. Continuing to return fire, Stark slowly crept away from the door and made his way around the trunk. If I can surprise him from the other side, then I'll have him.
Abruptly, the firing ceased, and instead Stark heard something metallic drop on the ground. It sounds like he's run out of ammo, but I've seen that trick before. I'll just look under the car and see if he's trying to fake me out. Kneeling down, Stark checked under the patrol car for any sign of a spent clip.
There was something on the ground, alright, but it wasn't an empty clip. Sitting directly under the fuel tank of the patrol car was a Soviet-made grenade.
“Motherf—“ Stark's last words were cut off as the patrol car went up in a tremendous explosion, a few bits denting the back door of the van.
The driver hurriedly got back into the brown van and drove off into the night. The glow of the flaming ruins of the patrol car enhanced the shadows of the two corpses.
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Ivan Androv cursed as he sped around daytime DC traffic.
All because he had forgotten to wipe his hands before he had cleaned the van, all because Misha and the other agents had been less careful than usual with handling the two hostages, all because of his insufficient concealment of the AK-47s, all because he had let his exhaustion get the better of his driving.
And all because of that damn cop.
Not the first one, the one that had so carelessly turned his back on Androv and allowed him to easily shoot him, but the other one. The one that had engaged him, the one that got to cover before he could take him out, the one that had revealed his license plate. His movements marked him as having military training; Androv guessed that he was a discharged soldier. A counterrevolutionary to the end, I suppose.
Oh sure, he had gone as fast as he could to change vehicles and license plates, but radio waves travelled much faster than any vehicle. Another patrol car had stopped him before he made it across state lines, and when those two officers came out of the car with guns drawn right off the bat, Androv knew they had his number. So he fled.
And in the process, picked up not only a long line of patrol cars, sirens blazing and filled with armed officers who were out for revenge for their slain comrades, but even a helicopter that hovered above him like an annoying gnat, all but immune to his gunfire.
If only he had a rocket launcher or something.
Androv knew he didn't stand a chance in a gunfight against this many cops: his only hope was to flee and lose them, at least long enough for him to get a safe distance away from the van without being spotted, and change his appearance later on. He couldn't count on his fellow spies aiding him in any way either: all that would accomplish would be to expose more of the Soviet Union's agents.
In front of him, he saw an officer, car stopped, throw out a spike strip onto the road. So he swerved around the strip, narrowly missing another car coming from the other lane and firing a few shots at his pursuers. Due to the amount of civilian traffic, the police weren't allowed to conduct a pit maneuver, but they certainly weren't giving up the chase on an armed and dangerous suspect.
I need to find a tunnel or something, then get another car. But where? He continued to think as he dodged around a bus. Behind him, a voice boomed from a speaker, “STOP YOUR VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY.”
Wait, I know! There's a tunnel close to the border between here and D.C. If I can just get to there, I can hijack a car inside and get out that way.
Tires shrieking, Androv blew right through a red light, the veritable horde of police cars following him through the intersection without missing a beat. Even though the van wasn't built for speed, the fact that there were civilians around and that the suspect had heavy weaponry was enough to keep the police a decent distance behind him, if not so far off that the cops themselves couldn't return fire occasionally
Androv noticed the traffic starting to increase. Just a few miles out, then I'll be able to slip away unnoticed.
Abruptly, though, as he passed through one of the final intersections before the tunnel, the traffic around him abruptly melted way. The reason became apparent as a solid wall of patrol cars appeared in front of him to form a roadblock, SWAT officers taking aim. One officer shouted into a bullhorn, “STOP OR WE WILL SHOOT.”
There were even a couple of heavily armored vans on the flanks, precluding any possibility of him driving on the sidewalk around the blockade. His only option was a thin corridor in the center that his van could possibly smash through.
So Androv went for it, doing his best to ignore the bullets as they turned the windshield into a spiderweb of impacts—thank Stalin his comrades had installed bulletproof glass. Just a little more...
A sharp pop disrupted his focus, and he suddenly found the van refusing to obey the steering wheel. He had only a second to contemplate this, though, as the van smashed dead-center into one of the police cruisers, spinning around before rolling over and over, broken metal and glass flying everywhere, before finally slamming into a tree.
Androv tried to crawl out from the wreckage, but he found it too painful to do so. The cause was obvious: multiple lacerations and pieces of shrapnel embedded in his body, including one massive fragment lodged in his stomach, and a deep cut on his wrist. He watched as officers cautiously closed in on the driver's side of the van. “Good shot on that tire, Gordon!” he heard one of the officers shout out.
“Long...live...the world revolution...” The Soviet agent managed to grasp out before the light faded from his eyes and darkness replaced it forever.
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Frank Gaad and the two Virginia detectives besides him inspected the evidence with interest.
While at first the case had appeared to be a case of a drunk that took resisting arrest far beyond the average intoxicated person, what the state detectives had found both in the remains of the van and about the suspect proved this to not be the case.
Not a single trace of alcoholic beverages was uncovered—indeed it was doubtful whether the van had ever held alcohol at all. Instead, there were a few boxes in the back of the van. The sealed ones contained the surprisingly undamaged elements of a full hippie's outfit, as well as a few flower wreathes and anti-war signs. Although the outfits adhered more to the style of the 60s and 70s and the signs themselves more widespread in the Vietnam conflict than in the current one, it wasn't particularly unexpected—even during World War 2, there had been a few who would protest the conflict no matter what the general public thought.
The open box proved quite a different story. Although considerably damaged by the wreck, it was still easy to deduce what these broken thin metal bits and wooden pieces had come from: several AK-47s. Judging by the still-visible quality of these firearms, which were fairly distinct from the knockoffs made by the countless guerrilla groups and terrorist organizations across the world, there was only one nation that could have made them.
“There is also the matter of this Issac Amanda, Director Gaad.” Detective Shang opened a file he had in his hands and read it out loud. “He has had no record of any previous arrests, made a modest but fairly comfortable living as a mechanic—including for the vehicles of some members of Congress in the past—and has a fairly mixed voting record. However, there do seem to be certain discrepancies in the information he has provided while traveling across state lines, and other notable areas of suspicion as well.”
“Such as?”
“Well, he has made some trips to Europe in the past which last for several days, but his banking records make no mention of any hotels he has stayed at, and there are mysterious transfusions of cash which are small enough to normally avert suspicion, but enough to pay for several nights at a very good hotel. Certain documentations of his life, such as insurance records and immigration forms also appear to have been falsified.”
Director Gaad nodded, before turning to the other detective. “And what, Detective...” he paused to look at the name tag, “Holland, do you believe this adds up to? Don't overthink it.”
Detective Holland thought for a moment, before replying. “Well, director, given the information from Detective Shang's report, it seems fairly likely that this person is not, in fact, Issac Amanda. Moreover, adding the fact that his identification papers do not hold up on scrutiny and his trips to Europe with suspicious banking records to fact that he has possession of Soviet-made weapons—including grenades, I might add—it is a reasonable assumption that this man was some sort of Soviet agent.”
“Correct, this is my belief as well. Because of this and the national security affairs it involves, the FBI will be taking over this investigation. In addition, I'm imposing a certain layer of confidentiality on this case. You two will act as liaisons in between me and your chief—nobody else is to know the contents of this file or what we discussed. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, dismissed. Oh, and leave your report with me.”
The two detectives left the evidence room, just as another agent entered the room. “Director Gaad, sir, the fingerprint analysis has been completed.”
“And?”
“The fingerprints match that of the records that the KGB defector from South Korea provided us. Specifically, the prints of Issac Amanda match those of a KGB agent whose actual name is Ivan Androv.”
“Hmm. In any case, I doubt that there is just this one Communist agent here, but if we let them know the full details of what we have found, that could alert them to our efforts to find them. Go to the police chief and the local media and ensure that no mention of the hippie clothing, the suspect's true identity, or the AK-47s is made to the general public. I don't want any part of our investigation to be compromised. This is all classified information, understood? The only story allowed out there right now is that a drunk shot two police officers in order to escape a DUI arrest before dying in the ensuing chase.”
“Yes, sir.” With that, the FBI agent left, leaving Gaad to scan the report intently.
So, this Issac Amanda was in fact Ivan Androv, a KGB agent. He had been found in Virginia, instead of Washington DC, where his residence and work records indicated he should have been. His van had been found containing hippie clothing as well as Soviet weapons, including grenades and AK-47s. Considering the clothing and the weapons had been found together, there was very little doubt that he had been planning to use the hippie clothings as cover for some sort of attack, possibly with the other Soviet spies that were doubtless still out there, and possibly also wearing hippie clothing. But for now, that was all Gaad could infer.
The identity of the other agents besides Androv, his objective, and the exact details of how he planned to achieve said objective remained a mystery. The KGB agent himself certainly wouldn't be telling them anything—the body in the morgue was proof of that.
Gaad cursed under his breath. Perhaps if the Soviet agent had remained alive, they could have interrogated him and found out more. But dead men tell no tales.
For now, all he could do was alert local law enforcement and federal agencies to the presence of these hippie-disguised KGB agents, although he doubted it would change much: after Vietnam, hippie clothing was viewed as close to the Communist version of wearing a Swastika armband—always prone to draw negative attention one way or another.
One thing was certain though: Androv hadn't been the only Soviet agent out there, and he doubted one agent's death would stop whatever they were plotting.