Murder in the House

by Margaret Truman

He stood. “What are you saying? Men with guns?”

  “Yes.” She looked over her shoulder, then back at the officer. “Someone’s been shot there. Mr. Mondrian, I think.”

  “Slow down,” the officer said. “Who are they?”

  A puff of exasperation came through her lips; she slapped her hands against her thighs. “Call for help,” she said. “Please.”

  The officer took a battery-powered radio from his belt and spoke into it, giving his name and location: “Report of armed individuals in the building. Congressman Latham’s office. Request immediate backup to investigate.”

  A wave of relief caused Marge to relax. Help was on its way. She shut her eyes tight and said a silent prayer that Bob Mondrian was all right—that everyone was all right.

  “Did you see them up close?” the security officer asked.

  “No. I was in the bathroom and—”

  The front doors to the building opened and a half-dozen members of the Capitol police, armed with M-249s, burst through. The building security officer told them the problem had been reported by the young lady standing next to him, and that it had occurred in Congressman Latham’s office, one floor up.

  “How many armed men?” the group’s leader asked Marge.

  “I don’t know. I only saw one, but I think I heard two. Talking. I think there were two different voices.”

  “What sort of weapons?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, wishing they would just go and see for themselves.

  The group leader used his radio to call the communications room, asking for a CERT team to secure the building. That request delivered, he said to the other officers, “Let’s go, but slow.” To Marge: “You’d recognize the one you saw?”

  “I think so.”

  “Stick close. Keep quiet. If you see him, say so.”

  Marge fell in behind as they made their way from the entrance lobby, the stone eyes of former Speaker Sam Rayburn peering down at them.

  Vladimir Donskoi made an instant decision after seeing the woman disappear down the stairs. He ran past Latham’s office door in the direction of stairs on the other side of the building, leaving Yvgeny Fodorov alone. He’d no sooner rounded the corner when Molly Latham approached from the opposite direction, carrying the package Mondrian had asked her to bring.

  She paused to knock at her father’s door, placed her hand on the knob, and opened it.

  “Bob?” she called as the door closed behind her. “Marge?”

  Fodorov appeared from the inner office. The sight of him caused Molly to start. “Where’s—?”

  He pointed his gun at her. “Shud up!” he said in broken English.

  “Where’s Marge—and Mr. Mondrian?”

  The sound of multiple footsteps outside captured Fodorov’s attention. As he listened, Molly backed away and reached for the doorknob. But Fodorov was too quick. He grabbed her arm and pushed her against the door.

  The thud of Molly’s body stopped everyone outside in their tracks; anxious looks were exchanged.

  “Who’s in there?” the officer in charge asked Marge.

  “I don’t know.”

  But then it hit her: Mondrian had said he would try to call Molly. Did he reach her while Marge was in the bathroom? Was Molly Latham in there with a killer?

  “It might be Congressman Latham’s daughter,” Marge said. “She’s a House page. She was coming here tonight.”

  More armed officers arrived. The leader of the second group conferred with the initial force’s leader. They turned to Marge.

  “She knows you?” one asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Call her name.”

  “I—all right.”

  Marge put her mouth close to the door. “Molly,” she said, too softly to penetrate the wood. “Molly,” she repeated, louder this time.

  Two shots splintered the door inches from Marge Edwards’s head, accompanied by an agonized female scream from inside.

  Marge fell to her knees; the officers pressed themselves against the walls. “Jesus,” one said. “Who the hell is in there?”

  “It’s Molly,” Marge said, crawling to where a knot of police congregated. “What are you going to do?”

  “What’s the phone number in there?”

  Marge gave it to him. After ordering another officer to contact headquarters to declare an emergency alert for the entire Capitol, he dialed the number Marge had given him on a cellular phone. They heard it ring in the office. It went unanswered. The officer slid along the wall to the door, checked the position of his fellow officers, then said in an authoritative voice, “This is Lieutenant Shuttee. Capitol police. You can’t leave. There are dozens of armed officers here in the hall. The building is surrounded. Put down your weapons, open the door, and come out with your hands raised.”

  They waited for a reply. There was none.

  The officer repeated his order.

  Seconds that seemed like minutes passed.

  The door slowly opened.

  Molly was the first to be seen. Her eyes, red and wet, were wide with fright. Fodorov stood directly behind her, one hand gripping her blond hair, the other pressing his weapon against her temple. He said something in Russian, then again in fractured English: “Away! Ged away!

  This girl dead if you do not go away.”

  “Molly,” Marge said.

  Molly’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “Back off,” the officer in charge said.

  “I will kill her,” Fodorov said.

  “Who the hell is he?” an officer whispered to Marge.

  “I don’t know. He’s Russian.”

  “His accent. You sure?”

  She thought of Anatoly. “Yes,” she said softly.

  Fodorov slowly maneuvered Molly through the door and into the hall.

  “It’s the congressman’s kid,” an officer said.

  “I know, I know,” the lead officer said. “Everybody stay calm. Calm, cool, and collected.”

  Another officer at the rear of the pack called communications to order a hostage negotiation team be sent to the Rayburn Building. The phone at communications was immediately handed to Capitol Police Chief Henry Folsom.

  “What’s the status?” he asked.

  The officer on the scene gave him a capsule rundown.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Just standing there with a gun to the kid’s head.”

  “Any ID on him?”

  “No. He’s got an accent. He’s Russian, we think.”

  Folsom immediately thought of the meeting going on in House committee room H 139: a dozen official visitor badges issued, most to a group of Russians from Brazier Industries.

  “What’s he doing now?”

  The officer in the hall looked over others blocking his view. “He’s starting to move with her. Down the hall. Real slow.”

  “No chance of getting a clean shot?”

  “No. He’s got her pressed right up against him, walking in lockstep. Got her by the hair, gun up against her head. He’s got a crazy look about him.”

  “Don’t spook him,” Folsom said. “Hostage team’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The now sizable contingent of Capitol police followed Fodorov at a distance as he moved with Molly to stairs leading to the first floor. Two officers entered Latham’s office and found Mondrian dead on the floor. They quickly passed word that the man holding Molly Latham hostage had already killed, and would kill again if cornered.

  “Keep a distance,” everyone was quietly instructed. “Don’t push him.”

  It was assumed that Fodorov would take Molly to the lobby and out into the street.

  Instead, he proceeded to another set of stairs leading down to the subway connecting the building with the Capitol.

  “What’s he going down there for?” an officer asked, not expecting an answer.

  By now, Fodorov’s route was lined with armed police. Their increasing presence visibly unnerved him. His ey
es darted from face to face, blinking rapidly, mouth working as though chewing something. Molly’s face, too, reflected the stress and tension. Her eyes seemed to plead with every other set of eyes to help, to do something for her.

  By the time they arrived at the subway platform, a contingent of Capitol police were there, along with special agents of the FBI. The young black man running the subway that night had been shocked to see members of the CERT team swarm into the area. At first, he thought they’d come for him. “What’d I do?” he asked.

  “Just stay where you are,” he was told.

  Seconds later, Fodorov and Molly appeared.

  “Do what they tell you to do,” the driver was ordered.

  Fodorov, still with a painful grip on Molly’s hair, stopped on the platform. His pinched, pale face mirrored his confusion. He was surrounded by heavily armed men and women wearing flak jackets, a hundred of them, maybe more. If he didn’t have this hostage, he knew, he’d be gunned down. Despite the situation, he felt a certain superiority. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill the girl, and they knew it. He’d take some of them down, too. Any fear he might have been feeling at the moment was tempered by a certain euphoria. They would never accuse him of being a coward. Not Yvgeny Fodorov. The adrenaline pulsing through his body was palpable.

  He maneuvered Molly onto the empty subway car, and, in Russian, ordered the operator to move.

  “Go on, take him,” a senior officer said.

  The operator tentatively activated a control, causing the small train to move away from the platform on a cushion of air. Police lined the pedestrian walkway and watched the car make its short, virtually silent journey to the Capitol. Other police, led by Chief Folsom, waited on the platform beneath the Capitol for its arrival.

  Fodorov forced Molly from the car. Folsom instructed his men to step back and allow them access to the door. They went through it and moved to where two elevators stood with open doors. One had a sign above it indicating it was for the exclusive use of members of the House of Representatives. Fodorov shoved Molly into it. As he did, he created a momentary gap between them, prompting some police officers to raise their weapons. But the moment Fodorov and his hostage were in the elevator, he grabbed her again and pulled her to him. He pushed a button. The door slid closed.

  “He’s going to the floor,” Folsom said. “What’s the status there?”

  “Secure, sir. They’re still in session, but all entrances are secure, heavily guarded.”

  “Which won’t do anybody any good as long as he has the Latham girl,” Folsom said, more to himself. He spoke into his radio: “Suspect and hostage on their way up in members’ elevator. Might be heading for the floor. Do nothing—repeat—do nothing to cause him to injure the hostage.” Folsom headed for the stairs, dozens of officers following on his heels.

  The elevator door opened, and Fodorov peered out at a circle of armed police. “Get back!” he shouted in Russian, then in English. He waved his gun for emphasis. “Back! Get back!” He moved in tandem with Molly from the elevator and in the direction of one of the doors leading to the floor of the House of Representatives.

  “Does he know where he’s going?” an officer asked Chief Folsom.

  Folsom shrugged. Then, he saw the four officers guarding the door brace themselves, and raise their automatic weapons. “Stand down!” Folsom said in a booming voice. To one of his lieutenants: “Get around to another entrance. Clear the floor. Get the members out of there, into cloakrooms, whatever. Now!”

  But it was too late to vacate the floor. Fodorov, who’d paused as though to gather his thoughts, made a sudden lunge toward the doors leading to the House chamber. The officers stepped back as the Russian assassin, Molly still in tow, pushed open the doors and disappeared behind them.

  Folsom got on his radio. “They still there?” he asked an officer assigned to a three-person squad at Room H 139, where the House International Relations Committee met with Brazier Industries’ Warren Brazier.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get Mr. Brazier and put him on.”

  “Get—?”

  “Damn it, just do what I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Those attending the meeting had been told there was an emergency situation in the Capitol, and that they were to remain in the room until it was resolved. Questions of the officer went unanswered. “Orders are for you to remain here,” he said. “That’s the order.”

  “What’s the emergency?” he was asked again.

  “Orders are to remain here,” he repeated. He walked from the room, a buzz of speculation following him.

  Folsom waited until Brazier said, “Hello? Brazier here.”

  “This is Capitol Police Chief Folsom, Mr. Brazier.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, there’s an armed man holding hostage the daughter of Congressman Paul Latham.”

  “Molly Latham?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good God!”

  “Sir, we believe the gunman is Russian. He’s already killed Mr. Latham’s chief of staff, and he’s holding a gun to the girl’s head.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “I know you have a number of Russian executives with you at the meeting.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have any of them left you this evening?”

  “I—I don’t know. Some of my staff is in a separate room. You aren’t suggesting that—?”

  “All I’m suggesting is that I’m trying to save the girl’s life, Mr. Brazier. Has any of your staff left the area?”

  “I’ll see,” Brazier said.

  A minute later he spoke into the radio again. “I’m afraid one of them is gone.”

  “Who?”

  “One of my security men. Fodorov. Yvgeny Fodorov.”

  “Thin, pasty face, thick glasses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Brazier, I’m afraid he’s the one.”

  “I can’t imagine … Why would he? What can I do?”

  “I’d like you to come down here, sir. I’ll have one of my men escort you.”

  “Yes, of course. This is shocking.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Put the officer back on.

  “Bring Brazier down here,” Folsom said. “On the double.”

  At first, those inside the House chamber were unaware of Fodorov and Molly. Congressman J. C. Watts, former football star and second-term representative from Oklahoma, spoke from the well on a bill he’d sponsored that was being debated on the floor. Fifty or so other members milled about, and chatted with one another at their seats. The visitors gallery contained a few onlookers. C-SPAN’s cameras transmitted the debate live; the cable channel was pledged to carry every session of the House of Representatives gavel to gavel.

  The realization that something was amiss started with those nearest Fodorov and Molly Latham, and spread in a ripple. At first, the response was quiet shock, and disbelief. But as it expanded, voices became louder. A woman screamed. A member slid down to the floor in front of his chair. The Speaker pro tempore, Democratic representative from Hawaii Neil Abercrombie, unaware of what had caused the upset, repeatedly rapped his gavel and called for the House to be in order.

  “Get down!” the clerk, seated in front and below Abercrombie, shouted. The Speaker disappeared behind the raised desk, the gavel flying from his hand.

  The C-SPAN camera operator couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Nor could those members of the press who’d stayed late to follow the evening’s debate. They rushed out of the expansive congressional press room to the press gallery, overlooking the House floor. “The guy’s got a gun.” “The kid he’s holding. She’s a page.” “That’s Paul Latham’s kid.” “What the hell is he up to?”

  Fodorov, uncomfortable with the small area to which he was confined just inside the door, moved toward the center of the huge, ornate chamber, 139 feet long and 93 feet wide, one of the largest legislative rooms in the world. Everyone else in the chamber froze, a few peekin
g through spread fingers at what was happening, the way they would watch a violent movie. Others refused to look. Still others were too stunned to do anything but gape open-mouthed.

  Initially, Molly had struggled against Fodorov’s grip. Now, she was like a rag doll, drained, empty, literally being dragged by him from place to place.

  Fodorov reached the well. He looked up to the visitors gallery, where a few people sat with their arms on the railing, their attention focused on the macabre scene playing out below them.

  The setting was not lost on Fodorov. Since being in the United States, he’d seen C-SPAN’s coverage of the House of Representatives. He was scornful of those who spoke: “Windbags,” he said to himself in Russian.

  Still, the majesty of the House chamber was not lost on him. Pomp and officialdom had always impressed Fodorov. The grandiose rituals of the Soviet Union, particularly those involving the military, stirred his blood. And now here he was, center stage in America’s symbol of its arrogant democracy, all eyes on him, fear on the faces of those witnessing Yvgeny Fodorov’s moment.

  Those watching the spectacle in the House chamber included Ruth Latham.

  She’d been in the kitchen, filling the dishwasher after dinner. Martin was in the family room clicking through channels on the television. He went right by C-SPAN, then went back to it. He came forward to the edge of his chair and extended his neck. It couldn’t be. “Mom!”

  Warren Brazier, accompanied by one of his staff and by Capitol Police Chief Henry Folsom, entered the chamber through the Republican cloakroom.

  “That him?” Folsom asked.

  “Yes,” Brazier replied. “He must be insane.”

  “Think he’ll listen to you, Mr. Brazier?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Only if you don’t think it’ll set him off.”

  Brazier turned to his young staff member. “You are his friend. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  When Folsom had asked Brazier why he was bringing the young man with him, Brazier had replied, “He and Fodorov are friends. He might be helpful.”

  Folsom said to the young man, “You want to talk to him?”

  “Yes. I will talk to him.” He looked at Brazier.

  “Go ahead,” Brazier said. To Folsom: “They work together in my security office.”