by Tom Haase
Then a noise broke the silence. A man sang somewhere in the hall. His footsteps were now discernable. He approached their location.
Yuri signaled Boris to hide behind a stack of boxes near the door. Boris pulled out his combat knife. Yuri held up his hand to signal for the man to wait. Yuri moved with great stealth to a position deeper in the room, but one from which he could see the door and Boris.
“What the hell? Damn staff left the lights on again,” a voice from the outside hallway announced.
Yuri heard and understood the man. He also seemed to be speaking as if he already enjoyed more than a few libations on this day of celebration. The man walked into the light of the room. Yuri could see a uniformed policeman, most likely the Vatican police, standing just inside the door. He looked around as if inspecting the room.
Boris started to step out to confront the man, but that would surely lead to the man’s death. Yuri again violently signaled with an upraised hand held in a fist to hold his position.
The rotund policeman staggered a little as he took two more steps into the room and then turned to find something on the wall. His hand reached for the light switch.
“Damn lazy people. They know they have to turn off the lights when they leave. Shit, what do they think I am, a janitor?” He flipped the switch and slowly moved from the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall as he moved away.
“Let’s go,” ordered Yuri. He moved from his hiding place, passed Boris, who fell in behind him, and they used a flashlight to find their way back up the stairs.
The two Soviet officers quickly retraced their steps, closed the entrance gate behind them, and returned to their bivouac area. When Yuri reached his rest area, he removed his blouse and took out the icons. Even in the soft glow of candlelight, he could see the beauty of these holy images. He had studied a little about the history of icons and this type in particular when he attended school. To the best of his knowledge, these icons resembled the artwork from approximately the tenth century and were extremely valuable.
Yuri believed a master iconist likely made these icons after the Kievian prince married the daughter of the Byzantine Emperor. The Russian people converted to the Orthodox Church when the missionaries from Constantinople arrived. Those missionaries also brought the Cyrillic alphabet to a culture that had none. They were sent to Russia with the daughter of the Emperor when she married a prince of the royal house of Kiev, the oldest continuously existing Russian dynasty. Yuri knew they must be worth a fortune.
How these priceless icons came to be in the Vatican stumped him. As immensely valuable national treasure of Russia these belonged in his homeland. He knew the Vatican contained many treasures, but the presence of these in their possession surprised him. One scenario came to his mind that might have explained the presence of the icons in Rome. He knew it to be pure speculation, but perhaps one of the monks who went to convert the pagans in ancient Russia stayed on for years and eventually brought the icons to Constantinople.
There existed no doubt concerning the historical fact the crusaders sacked that city in the twelfth century and they could have confiscated it. Eventually, it probably made its way back with the knights to the pope who ordered the crusade. The knights could have presented them to him as a token of their gratitude. That made some sense to Yuri, but so what? It served as pure conjecture. But in the end, he accomplished his mission.
The next day he packed the icons into what would be the equivalent of a diplomatic pouch and sent them off to Moscow. Duty performed.
No news appeared of the incident until three months later when Yuri read about a Vatican robbery in a newspaper. The police listed no suspects and no knowledge of the location of the stolen pictures.
1
Present Day
Near Roanoke, Virginia
11:55 PM
The cold began to seep into his bones. Matt Higgins shivered even wearing the down parka jacket zipped up to his neck. He and his partner had watched this farmhouse since early afternoon from a hidden position high up the hillside behind the building. He looked up to see a completely clear sky with the stars and the moon easily visible and they provided enough light to see down into the valley.
"How long are we going to stay here?" FBI Special Agent John Hades asked.
"The Intel said it should go down tonight. Whatever it is. They got that from a source." Matt shifted and put the infrared glasses back up to his eyes. We’re only supposed to see if the intelligence is accurate and report back. I reckon that way they can validate the source of the information. We haven’t seen any movement down there since we got here."
The trees on this Blue Ridge Mountains rustled with the cold wind, part of what the weatherman called the Arctic vortex that descended upon South Western Virginia the day before. The temperature had plummeted a good forty degrees since midafternoon.
Matt looked around their position. He believed it completely hidden from anyone looking up from the valley below or from the road leading to the farmhouse as it meandered up from the end of the valley. No other road led in or out of the small valley. The dilapidated wood-framed house stood by itself with only one other building, a small barn approximately thirty meters away to the north. There did not appear to be any animals on the farm. He felt secure in their observation position.
"Hear that?" John asked.
Matt listened but didn't initially hear anything. Then he slapped John on the shoulder and said, "Yes, they're coming."
John picked up his AR-15 automatic rifle with a telescopic sight and checked to make sure he had a chambered round. Both then checked their revolvers just to be sure. Matt elected to carry a handgun. He glanced at John and regretted he made the earlier decision not to carry a rifle.
Suddenly, lights went on in the farmhouse. They had witnessed no movement inside the building since their arrival in midafternoon when they climbed over the hill from the reverse side to approach their current position unseen. The lights of a vehicle, presumably a truck, from the noise it made on its approach to the house, were now clearly visible.
"God, I can't believe they were in that house the entire time and made no noise, no motion, nothing that we could see," John said.
"I told the SAC we needed more manpower for this operation. He told me to observe and we could do that with only two. This is supposed to be just a meeting between two groups to work out some details. At least, that’s what they think. I'm going to scoot down the hill to get closer and you've got that rifle to cover me." He glanced over at John but couldn’t see his bright red hair in the dark with his short stocky figure almost invisible with his winter clothes covering him.
“No, you’re not. That’s not our mission.”
“I’m technically in charge here and you are the trained FBI sniper so, yes, you cover me. Got it?” He pulled his hood up to cover his head.
"Watch your ass. Turn on your com gear so we’re in communication at all times. My infrared scope may not be as effective if they keep those bright lights on," John said.
"I'm going down because I’m worried this may be a major part of something big and it may take place tonight. If any weapons are involved they might be gone before we can do anything about it. That report said these guys are some type of Jihadists training many homegrown followers. It's too late to call for backup now. Wish me luck," Matt said and then moved off and descended the hill.
When he reached a place at an elevation equal to the top of the farmhouse, he stopped. He held a clear vision of the entire area to his front with open territory between him and the building. This should be easy, he thought.
The noise of the vehicle grew louder as it approached. He could now make out the outline of a truck. To his surprise, it appeared to be an old five-ton army truck. It drove up to within a few feet of the front steps and stopped. The main headlights were extinguished. A porch light on the farmhouse came on and the front door swung open.
Matt cautiously moved to a position where the front porch b
ecame visible. The overhead light provided sufficient illumination for him to make out a tall man of Caucasian stock. The driver of the truck stepped down and surveyed the area. He gave a signal and four men got out of the truck’s rear.
“Are you seeing this?” Matt asked.
“Affirmative,” came the answer over his com link.
“I’m going to move in closer,” Matt said.
“Wait. Don’t do that. Remember we are only on a recon. You’ll get us in trouble,” John insisted. “Hold it. There’s another guy coming out on the porch and he’s armed.”
“See him. Moving down for a closer look. Might be able to get a photo with my iPhone,” Matt said. He didn’t have a good camera, a definite oversight on his part.
He moved down the hill and across the open area in a low crouching position, ensuring no sound emanated from his passage as he carefully watched the men alighting from the truck near the porch. He saw they all carried rifles. They didn’t look around, no doubt assuming they owned all the firepower they needed. Matt reached the near side of the house by tiptoeing. He inched along the plank siding to the corner of the house.
Voices now could be heard. He strained to hear the words. One man spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. From his experience in that area of the world, he initially believed the voice came from an Iranian, but on second thought he realized the man might be Iraqi. He still didn’t believe the men from the truck hadn’t spread out in a perimeter. He would have done that if he were them, but take a gift when offered.
“What the hell are you doing? I see you in my scope. You’re close enough to ask them to dance.” John’s voice came in a low whisper.
“Let’s go inside,” said the Iraqi. Matt could now hear him clearly.
“I prefer to conduct our business out here,” came an answer. The voice exhibited a slight foreign accent. Matt tried to place it. Neither German nor Scandinavian. He didn’t believe it was Italian or Greek but possibly Hungarian or Bulgarian.
“We have the money. We’re here to get our weapons,” said another voice that Matt recognized as definitely Iraqi.
“They are not yours yet. Not until I count the money,” said the Caucasian. The porch light made visible the cloud of steam formed by the man’s breath in front of his mouth when he spoke in the night’s cold air.
Matt could now identify the speaker, a Russian. No doubt about it. The large man sported a full face beard.
“Here is your money. Now I want the surface to air missiles and the AR-15’s. You are supposed to also deliver fifty pounds of C-4. That was the agreement.”
Matt heard the truck start and reverse as it repositioned the tailgate next to the porch. This tactic would make it easier to load the rear of the truck. He took this opportunity to take a few steps back from the edge and pulled his hood completely over his face. This action, plus the noise of the truck, should conceal his voice.
“John, did you hear that? These fuckers are going to start a real war with that firepower,” Matt said. “This is no meeting. It’s a major arms transfer. Where the hell is ATF when you need them? We have to act, not just do a recon.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We have to stop them,” Matt said. “If they get those weapons loaded and get out of here, we have no way to follow. They will disappear without a trace into some garage in the area and we’ll never find them. Our car is clear on the other side of the hill.”
Matt took another two minutes to quietly sneak back to his previous position because the truck engine now turned over at idle. On peeking around the corner, he observed four men carrying crates out of the house and putting them on the truck. He put his iPhone on video and carefully placed it around the corner and on the elevated porch. He used his instincts on how far to elevate it and then propped it against the building. He withdrew out of anyone’s view from the porch.
“We believe the FBI knows something about this,” the Iraqi said. “You had better get out of here quickly.”
“We don’t have a leak. So if they knew, it must be from your people,” intoned the Russian in a loud voice pointing a finger at the Iraqi.
Matt originally wanted only to get pictures but now he switched mode from observer to one of action. He knew they somehow had received a tip on this meeting but never visualized it could be of such importance. The muscles in his neck tightened and he believed they now needed to take the initiative. A plan formed in his mind, but probably not a good one.
“John, can you take out any of them?”
“Yes, I can get two before they react.”
“OK, I’ll take the ones on the porch. You get the ones on the truck before they get anymore loaded.” Matt took off his gloves and retrieved his pistol. The weapon stung his warm fingers with its freezing metal.
“OK, I’m ready,” John said.
“On three. One… two… three,” Matt counted. He hoped this wasn’t a mistake, but knew he must do it. His gut told him this decision offered the right course of action and that he would most likely catch hell for it. No choice remained in his mind. These guys were terrorists of the worst kind, the kind to attack Americans on American soil. No choice remained to him except to prevent that from happening.
“This is the FBI,” boomed John’s voice from the hillside. “Lay down your weapons and raise your hands.”
One of the men near the truck opened fire with an automatic weapon strafing the mountainside. He pointed the rifle up toward the voice and continued to fire at the hill.
Matt swung around the corner. One man, who just jumped onto the porch, raised his pistol toward the hillside. Matt immediately aimed and fired. The man dropped. He quickly repositioned his weapon on the Russian with a rifle pointing at his partner. Matt fired. He hit the man in the head with two rounds. There remained the one who previously had not spoken but only appeared beside the bearded Russian.
His heart pounded as he realized they were still outnumbered. He dove off the porch and rolled on the ground. At that moment, automatic rifle fire tore into the position above where he previously hid. Now the rounds crept closer to Matt on the ground. John’s weapon fired from the hill. The spray of bullets headed toward him stopped.
“Matt, you OK? I got two, but the others are racing for the truck.”
The motor of the truck roared as the vehicle sped away from the killing zone in front of the house.
Matt jumped up. “Keep me covered.”
He rushed to the front door, now came the dangerous part, he realized. No backup and going into a hostile location by himself. Damn, this sucked. He glanced around the doorsill, the room empty except for some crates. Luck favors me went through his mind. Don’t ever think that he reminded himself. The boxes looked like weapon containers and, therefore, he hoped they had prevented the surface to air missiles from being taken to the truck. He heard the crack of a rifle.
“Damn, I’m hit.” Matt heard over his com. “That bastard must have IR. I think he’s near the barn.” Things now went from bad to worse.
Matt heard a loud crashing noise. It sounded like wood being splintered. He rushed outside to see the barn door shatter outward and a Hummer came roaring out. The passenger side window opened and a rifle protruded. The weapon now fired on automatic.
Matt sprang off the porch and splayed on the ground. Sweat rolled from his forehead despite the bitter cold. He rotated his body to a firing position and emptied his weapon into the fleeing Hummer as it roared past him.
“What else could go wrong?” Inwardly, he realized this had turned into a clusterfuck.
Silence again filled the freezing night.
2
Roanoke, Virginia
“John, how bad is it?” Matt asked through the com link.
“I’ve been hit worse by a wet noodle,” came the reply from John. “You’ll have to go get the car, buddy. There is no cell phone coverage up here. I can’t call anyone. I’ll keep watch to make sure they don’t come back. I’ve moved my position so eve
n if they do come back I won’t be where they expect. Besides, it’s only a deep flesh wound at the top of my leg. Feel like I got hit in the gut. Now go.” He grunted. “It will hurt less than the shit storm at the office we’re now in for.”
Matt looked around. He counted five dead. There might be someone still left inside. He decided to check it out before heading off to retrieve their car. John didn’t talk like he was hurt too bad and a minute or two spent now might be profitable to photograph the inside of the house with the weapons present.
He picked up his phone and then entered the building again, gun outstretched before him. After searching the three rooms, he found no one. Then he started taking pictures of the inside. He found seven crates and looked into each. Ground to air missiles, some AR-15s and a crate of C-4, all of which he photographed. Then he took pictures of the entire inside of the house. There were drapes over the windows. No wonder we saw no movement in all those hours we observed the place. He saw a medium-sized religious picture. It stood up against the wall on top of a small dresser. Matt picked it up, sat it on a nearby table, and photo’d it.
He left the house and retrieved the car. He returned in twenty minutes and John climbed in. Matt didn’t think he looked so good. Matter of fact he looked awful.
“You are going to a hospital, right now.”
“No, let’s get a tac team out here and help them collect the goods,” John said.
“I’ll notify headquarters and a team will be on the way, but right now you’re going to the hospital.”
Matt delivered him to Roanoke Memorial Hospital at 3 a.m. Once he saw to his admittance as a federal agent shot in the line of duty, they immediately rushed John into surgery. Matt wanted to return to the farm to secure the scene till the lab guys got there. At least, John rested in capable medical hands and he couldn’t do anything at the hospital. John would understand him leaving.
