Wings of the Morning
Chapter 7
Disclaimers: I don't own any of the JAG/NCIS characters. I don't own any product or label mentioned for the purposes of telling this story. Any similarities to situations or persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
A/N: We will be 'walking through' NCIS from time to time, but the focus will be the JAG characters.
1630
June 7, 2003
Capital Beltway
Washington, DC
Harm was driving back to his apartment, deep in thought about his conversation with Special Agent Gibbs and DiNosso. He'd also been able to interview the arresting agents for his client, Petty Officer Petit. In Harm's own interview with the Petty Officer, he was adamant that all of his former shipmates had not been spoken to by NCIS and that they would back him up in his claim of friendship with the victim, Petty Officer Collins. He was sure they would attest to the fact that he wasn't capable of killing anyone. He mentioned a girl, Shelley Griffin, that they'd both 'hung out' with, saying she had also been involved with the victim at the time of his death. He was sure that she would also affirm that Collins was his best friend and that he could never have killed him.
Harm hadn't been able to contact the girl, but he was able to contact a reservist who had already finished his tour and had returned to his home in Ohio. The interview did raise some questions about this situation; this man, Petty Officer 2nd Class David Michaels, informed him that Collins was at odds with a number of people aboard ship and that Petit and Collins had never been known to have a cross word.
Harm had a strong distaste for his client's behavior, in that he had worn ribbons that he hadn't earned. However, the more he learned about the case and based on what he'd uncovered in his interview with his client; one thing had become abundantly clear. There were other players in this situation, players that NCIS, apparently, wasn't aware of, at least not until today.
He was blocks away from his apartment when he got a call from Mac.
"Hey, you."
It was so great to hear her voice, after an afternoon dealing with the dark subject of murder, in addition to the ever present need to establish living proof that his father had been taken to Russia. Sergei was living proof.
"Hey…what's for dinner?" Mac was still at work, just finishing up.
"What do you want?"
"You."
"Oh...sweet talk, I like it."
"Feed me and you'll get more." Her laughter floated through the phone and lifted his spirits, immediately. She continued,
"Let's go out...nothing fancy, just you and me and…Japanese...maybe? Then let's just stay out…the Mall, Rock Creek Park, I don't care, I just want to be outside, let's stay out 'til dark."
"Until the street lights come on, Mackenzie?" He teased her.
"Yeah…even later than that." She laughed and played along.
"No kidding, I feel as though I've been in court for days; it's suffocating sometimes." The beautiful late spring day was getting to her. She had spring fever; there was no doubt about it.
"I know what you mean. This could be just what the doctor ordered; give me about an hour… I'll see you at your place."
"And Harm?"
"Yeees." He feigned irritation, teasing her.
"This is definitely a night for the Corvette… not the Lexus."
"Is that right?" This was sounding better all the time.
"Yes it is, with the top down, Mister."
"Yes, ma'am."
They ended their call and later, much to Mac's surprise, Harm was actually early. They settled on Japanese carry out and had their dinner in Rock Creek Park.
They sat next to each other on the table top of a picnic table that was not quite off of the beaten path.
The late afternoon sun was shining green gold through the trees. The breeze was soft and warm and smelled of newly mown grass. There was no sound of mowers just now, just the sound of the trees rustling in the breeze high above them, along with the birds chirping, perched in the branches of the trees.
As they finished up Mac asked him, "You're going to make me ask you how it went at NCIS today, aren't you?" She knew he'd gone there after his appointment with Captain Miles.
He knew that she was as anxious as he was to know what he'd been able to accomplish.
Harm gave her a sidelong glance. "I was getting around to it…Patience is a virtue, Mackenzie."
"Spill it, Harmon." She playfully nudged him with her shoulder.
"I don't really have a lot to tell, not as far as my father's DNA is concerned. I talked to Special Agent DiNosso about Petty Officer Petit. He didn't have any record of an interview with two of the reservists who served with Petit in his last deployment. I'm going to follow up with it; I've got a few questions about the interview with the girlfriend too."
"Did you ask for a continuance?"
"Yeah, I've got another week; Judge Blakely gave me a break. I wasn't sure I was going to get it at first. He's not an easy person to read."
"That's probably what makes him a good officer and a good Marine."
Harm gave her an easy smile, "You would know."
"Don't you forget it, flyboy…what about the DNA testing? Gibbs didn't have any objections to your using his staff?"
Harm slipped down off of the table top and gathered the now empty containers from their dinner.
"While I was talking with DiNosso, Special Agent Gibbs…inquired…as to why I was there; that I could have handled this situation with a phone call, in that 'what the hell are you doing here?' tone of voice."
"Friendly guy, huh?"
"Not really, though its hard to dislike him…his testimony and the fact that he continued his investigation, even after my trial began, pulled my butt out of the fire...didn't it?"
"I suppose so…but I don't think it would hurt him to be a bit more…what is the word?"
"Likeable?" Harm smirked. He had a hunch that Gibbs had probably never been easy, he had a reputation as a real hardass, and as far as Harm could tell, he was living up to it.
"That wasn't the word…but it will have to do." She supposed it was a nice way of saying he didn't have to act like such a jerk.
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth… that I had an appointment at Bethesda…it was just as easy to come there and talk to DiNosso, get a look at their file on Petty Officer Petit."
"And…"
"And I just asked him…if I could talk to his Forensics Specialist about identifying my Dad's DNA. He said he didn't have a problem with it, but that she wasn't to work on it on NCIS time."
"Hmm, that's reasonable…and surprising."
"Yeah, I was surprised too."
"He didn't ask any for any details?"
Harm had been standing, while Mac still sat on the picnic table. He reached for her hand, "No, apparently… because of the investigation they conducted on me." He waited a few seconds before he continued; remembering that he'd nearly lost it all, just a couple of months ago. Then he continued, "He already knew about my sponsorship of Sergei…everything." Harm's mind went back to Gibbs' question to him, the night of his arrest.
'You'd do just about anything for your brother, wouldn't you, Commander?'
It occurred to Harm that he still would.
Mac could see that he was remembering that terrible time, and thinking they needed to move on. She slipped down from the table and gave his hand a tug. "C'mon, let's walk for awhile."
Later that evening….
NCIS Headquarters
Washington Navy Yard
Forensic Specialist Abby Sciutto was just beginning the process of a new and experimental technique for testing DNA for identification.
Gibbs entered the lab, one of a skeleton crew of NCIS personnel still in the building.
He brought with him Abby's favorite, a Double Caf Pow in its trademark red and white cup, it would be fuel for the long night in the lab she had planned for herself. On nights like this she ran on a cocktail of caffeine, sugar and really, really bad carbs.
"Are you starting already?"
Abby looked back at him over her shoulder, "Yeah…this is pretty cutting edge stuff…and this is the perfect way to test it out."
"Cutting edge? He sat the quart size cup beside the keyboard of her computer.
"Thanks…but, yeah…there have been some pretty awesome advances in DNA matching using different phenotypes, in the past few years….for instance…the conventional wisdom is that since the hair follicle is the only part that contains the live cells…you know, the way your hair grows…anyway, there are some labs out there separating coding DNA and non-coding DNA."
Gibbs silently looked over her shoulder at her computer screen and Abby took a long pull from her straw, then she continued…
"See…the DNA is checked for VNTR…that's...variable number of tandem repeats…that is, they are repeats of a specific DNA sequence…you know… that is repeated after each other."
Gibbs interrupted for brevity's sake. "Abbs…you don't have to break it down."
Abby smiled broadly, "Okay…but if you don't mind….can I… um, ask you something?"
Gibbs pretended to ponder the question, "Depends on the question."
"It's nothing personal….I just wanted to know….why did you let me do this? I didn't think you liked Commander Rabb."
"I never said I liked him."
"Then why are you letting me use the lab, to work on his Dad's DNA…so that it will prove that some Russian guy is his brother."
Gibbs shrugged and looked over at Abby and smiled, "Maybe I'm curious…"
Abby waited for him to continue…but he didn't. So she followed up with another question, since Gibbs seemed to be feeling generous.
"How would the Commander's father have been in Russia anyway?"
Gibbs would only answer, "That's a good question."
"And you're not going to tell me what you think about this, are you?"
"I don't really know that much about it, Abby." Gibbs went back into his 'boss' mode. "As I told you before I don't want you working on this on NCIS time, remember that."
"Oh I won't...I just wanted a chance to try this…on my own."
Gibbs turned to leave but before he left the lab, he turned again and left her with a warning. "Don't talk to anyone about this, Abby…"
She frowned, "I haven't yet…but why?"
"Just do as I say, the circumstances of Commander Rabb's father being in Russia are still in question…and officially…it's not acknowledged by the Russian government or ours"
"Officially? Wow…that sucks." This story was getting more intriguing by the minute and it was showing on her face.
"Abby…" He admonished her.
"Okay…right...yes, sir…I'll keep it to myself."
"Not even McGee." He said as he turned around to leave.
"Gibbs!" That wasn't fair; she wanted to at least tell McGee that she was working on some state of the art testing.
"I mean it." He continued walking as the glass doors that secured the lab opened and then closed.
When he turned in the still open doors of the elevator, he caught Abby's eye through the glass partition that separated the lab from the rest of the floor. She understood his glare was a silent reinforcement of what he'd just ordered her to do. She wouldn't talk to anyone about it….not even McGee.
After the elevator doors closed, Gibbs began to wonder how the senior Rabb had survived his escape, if; in fact, he had been taken to Russia. Siberia was a frozen wasteland….
February 1980
Vorkuta, Siberia
As soon as his picture was taken along with Major Viktor Lushov and the rest of his 'escort', prisoner S394652 was loaded onto the train, under heavy guard. The KGB officers who accompanied him went to the more comfortable cars of the train, at least the part of the train that was heated. The car in which he and his guards rode was isolated from the general fare. A few rows of wooden seats were bolted to the floor of the dimly lit car; however, prisoner S394652 was instructed to sit on the floor. It was no easy task given the condition of his left leg, which thanks to these two fine gentlemen, was throbbing painfully.
He folded his arms and rested them on one of his bent knees. Bending the injured leg was nearly impossible. He rested his head down on his arms, but listened carefully to the two officers who accompanied him. He still did not understand the language, but he'd heard enough over the years, to understand certain words. At least those words with one syllable. Stop, go, yes and no…kill, dead, it was hard to tell the difference between the last two… and some words he'd learned the hard way. He'd learned to be an expert at body language and to read the faces of the guards, as they became familiar to him.
Ever since he'd known that he was being transferred north, he'd known he had to escape. What Colonel Parlovsky had shown him had nearly broken him, during his last interrogation. The vision of Trish and little Harm that had always sustained him, was shattered by the picture of his wife on the arm of her new husband, and his young son's troubled expression. It had taken away his hope, or at least his hope of returning to anything that resembled the life he had before his aircraft went down in Vietnam. For the first time, he didn't think he could survive another year of captivity, mentally or physically. It was escape now or succumb to the hopelessness and death that had been all around him for years.
When he'd asked Viktor to get word to his family that he was alive, though he was the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend since his imprisonment here…Harmon understood how slim the chance was that it would ever happen. That knowledge made him see the truth of his situation and it filled him with a desperation that he had never felt before.
As the train traveled north, he listened as his guards laughed and joked with each other; they were drinking, they had been since long before they reached the train station. They were by no means drunk, at least not by Russian standards; they were just getting louder, and no doubt, about to get meaner. Harmon had developed a sense about these things; he always knew.
Harmon did not look up, but he heard one of the guards approaching him, and before he had a chance to brace himself, a boot slammed into his injured leg. He did not cry out, but the sound was that of a man who had been hit hard and had his breath knocked out of him.
He heard the second guard coming toward them, Harmon braced himself again, but this time the guard held back the man who had kicked him. Harmon looked up at the men, they both had undisguised contempt for him on their faces. Through a haze of pain, Harmon heard their voices sharp and urgent, laced with alcohol.
There was no mercy in the eyes of the guard who held the other back. Harmon didn't understand the words he was saying, he had only warned his comrade that if they further injured his American dog's leg, they'd have to carry him off the train...better they kept him on his feet, so they wouldn't have to soil their hands with him.
When they backed away from him, they continued to talk to each other, looking back at him from time to time. Harmon decided it would be better to keep his head up from then on, so that he could watch them in his peripheral vision. One of the guards might change his mind and try to pick up where he left off. As he straightened his back and repositioned himself on the floor of the train car, an indescribable feeling came over him. He didn't think he could take another boot from either of them without retaliation, even if they killed him for it.
This time he was going to be ready for them.
After an hour the train began to slow down and then came to a stop. One of his guards exited the train, while the other kept his watch over him.
As Harmon watched the guard leave, he knew this was his opportunity. This was the moment. If he was going to escape, now was the time. Viktor's warning about the miles of frozen wasteland was of no consequence to him now. When the guard opened the door to exit the train, Harmon saw that another train was very near theirs, heading in the opposite direction. He hadn't thought any further than getting off of this train and onto the next one; his desperation had made him reckless. He had to get off this train now. He might never have the chance or the strength again…
His guard saw that he had been straining to see out the door of the car from where he was sitting on the floor. He barked out an order to stop and was standing over him in a matter of seconds. Instinct and an innate human need to free himself took over Harmon's entire being; fear and any sense of reason was completely gone. He caught the guard behind his knees with his bound hands and pressed his forearm across his neck, pressing down, until he had pressed the life out of him. It did not occur to him that he had just killed a man with his bare hands or that he had watched him die, face to face. He only wanted to live, to survive and get free of this place, that alone drove him, like nothing else could. He found the key to the chains they'd laced over his wrists and around his ankles. He made quick work of it. He could only think of getting off of this train, never being chained or kicked again by anyone.
Harmon stayed down and crawled, flat on his stomach, using his forearms to pull his body forward, to the connecting door at the end of the car. He slid the door open and used his arms to pull himself the rest of the way out, into the breezeway between the cars. He opened the door on the side that was nearest the train he'd seen going in the opposite direction and flung himself out into the darkness. His feet came down together, the pain shooting up his left leg was nearly blinding, but he held his stance. One track over was the train he thought he'd seen through the window, it was slowing, and had nearly come to a stop. He saw a cargo car with the door open and stumbled awkwardly toward it, looking around him wildly, seeing no one as he neared the train car.
Just as he braced his hands on the inside of the car and pulled himself in, he heard the voice of the other guard, calling out. Harmon was sure he'd been found out and that this escape was going to be over before it started. He pulled himself the rest of the way in and peered around the open door. He saw the guard through the windows looking around the car…but not in his direction, so Harmon turned back into the car, pressing himself against the wall, looking around the inside of the car for the first time and thanking God it was empty. Another train was pulling into the station, between the two trains; Harm could see the snow reflecting in the huge light mounted on the front of the train. Great blasts of steam blew from beneath the train as it applied its clanging brakes. Now he was completely hidden from his captors. The train to which he'd escaped, after a few interminable minutes, began moving slowly and as they left the station, it began to pick up speed and taking him to what… he did not know, but it didn't matter, he was free.
Harmon had pushed the door of the car so that he had only the width of a door opening to the car. The winter cold gusted much more icily, when it blew in through the door as the train traveled south. He knew he risked dying of hypothermia in the cold train car, but better to die trying to be free, than living like a dog on a leash, in this forgotten wasteland. He'd always been able to stand it, always striving to stay alive, with the hope of returning to his family somehow, but now with all he had endured at the hands of Parlovsky, he could not take another day.
After he'd pushed the door of the train car as far as he dared, he took some of the straw that lay on the floor of the car and pulled it up around him. From the smell of the straw, this car was probably used to transport livestock…but he didn't care it would keep him warm until they reached another station, maybe he could beat Parlovsky's KGB guards. He did not know, he would live moment to moment, hour to hour, but somehow, he would escape them…. somehow.
Two hours later….
The train had stopped and Harmon was jolted awake by the sound of loud voices, the barking of orders in a language he didn't understand. Among the voices, he heard voices he recognized perfectly. Colonel Parlovsky and the two KGB officers who had boarded the train with Harmon earlier that day. They were looking for him. Harmon stood awkwardly and peered around the open door. He saw that about ten cars up, Russian soldiers were searching every car. Standing a couple of yards away from them was the Colonel, observing their search, arms folded in front of his chest. The Colonel looked furious…and Harmon knew…he was probably in a hell of a lot of trouble. 'Good,' he thought, if he died trying to escape, at least his nemesis would pay for what he'd done to him and countless others, who would never be heard from again.
The wind had begun to pick up, heavy with snow; it was the only cover Harmon had as he jumped down out of the train car. Once again, the pain in his leg as he hit the ground nearly undid him. He staggered and grabbed the inside of the train car to steady himself. He'd closed his eyes for a second and then moving on pure instinct; Harmon bent down awkwardly and crawled beneath the car to the other side of the train. There was an open field, and a copse of barren trees was jutting out of the frozen and snow covered ground. Harmon ran toward it, with everything he had. The wind was picking up and Harmon could only hope it would cover his tracks in the snow. The snowflakes were tiny and felt like tiny flecks of ice blowing into his face. He knew all that anyone on the train had to do, as he ran, was to look out the window in his direction and he would be lost. He strained to hear whether or not they had discovered him, as he ran toward the trees, dragging his leg along behind him.
Time seemed to crawl as he struggled across the open field, when finally; he made it to the trees. Once there, he was able to hide in the gathering of their grey and snow covered branches. It was then that he allowed himself to look back at the train. Cars were still being searched, and mercifully, the snow in the open field was blowing across his unusual but very distinct tracks.
Harmon's breath was coming in quick gasps, as he tried to recover from his run across the field. The cold gripped him suddenly, making him shiver violently. He blew on his hands, and pulled the overcoat more tightly around him. He watched as the soldiers went from car to car, until they had finished their search. The train once again to began to move south, this time without him. After it had begun to pass out of sight, Harmon squinted, trying to see what had become of Colonel Parlovsky and the others who had searched the train. Panic rose up inside him. He couldn't see anyone through the blowing snow; had they gone in the opposite direction? Had they boarded the train and gone south? Had they doubled back on him…were they waiting for him to walk into their trap?
He turned away from the retreating train and tried to organize his thoughts, to think of what his next move might be. He began to calm after a few moments then he looked again in the direction of the train. As he watched it get further and further away, the realization dawned on him that he was alone, in this barren and frozen place. There wasn't a sign of life anywhere, as far as he could see. No one was waiting to recapture him, it was time to get moving, before the storm worsened and it became completely dark.
He looked all around him, and decided to walk toward the hills behind him. Maybe there was a farm or something on the other side of that hill. He turned and walked, pulling his collar up and his hat down, to shield his eyes from the snow that was still swirling up from the ground and down from the dark leaden sky.
He began to walk, a sharp pain shooting up his left leg every time he took a step, the freezing wind blowing against him as he walked up the small incline. As he neared the top of it, he saw yet another hill, and what he could have sworn was light; it was dim and far away but hopefully from a home or a small town. He began to walk faster, up and then down the hill, then another and yet another. He was sure the next hill would bring him to some kind of shelter. It was getting late and the sky was becoming darker, but Harmon kept walking; his limbs were beginning to feel numb, but he had to keep moving, to find a place to get in from the biting cold.
After he had ascended yet another hill he saw a small farm in the distance. Maybe it was a place he could hide in the barn until first light. The wind blew harder against him, and the snow became almost blinding. He leaned into the wind, and pushed toward what appeared to be a light in a window of one of the buildings.
The strong winter winds made it difficult to get to the barn that sat on the edge of the fenced property, but it's howling also covered any sound the animals would make when a half frozen man stumbled into the back of the barn. When he finally got inside, Harmon turned and fell back against the door, closing it against what was shaping up to be a terrible snow storm.
Harmon's legs felt like brittle sticks, his hands felt as though they were covered with sharp pins and needles. He had to get them warm, or he'd loose them to frostbite.
He was leaning against one of the stalls, when a cow raised her head and gave him a disinterested look. There was no real heat inside the barn, but the animals were generating enough heat to make the barn seem vastly warmer than the outside.
Harmon opened the stall, and stepped inside, meaning to stay inside the large stall, to cover himself with the straw on its floor and rest while he could. He stepped carefully and patted the old milking cow, and said
"Take it easy old girl, I just need a corner of this stall, for a couple of hours." Thankfully the animal wasn't skiddish and allowed Harmon inside. He slid down the wall of the old stall and tucked his hands under his arms and settled in for the long night ahead of him.
Almost as soon as he sat down, in spite of the cold and the racking pain he felt in his leg, his mind began to wander….Being there, on the farm…. caused his mind to turn to his childhood… to his home when he was a little boy. He remembered doing the daily chores, taking care of the animals with his grandfather. He seemed to slip into a memory dream, in which he could picture his home as it was on any February morning, when he was growing up.
The old farmhouse sat at the top of a hill on land that had been in his family for generations. A day in his life that had never really seemed anything special to him, was now so beautiful in his memory. The colors were vivid in his dream, the yellow of the house, the red of the barn, even the white snow contrasting the still dark predawn sky. There was nothing that resembled the powdery ice that blew over they frozen ground in this place. In his minds eye he saw the large snowflakes falling, able to discern their shape as they seemed to fall in slow motion to the ground. The sound of the wind and the animals, where he now slept had folded into his dream. The little boy of eight saw his grandfather turn back toward him and smile; he heard his grandfather's voice chiding him to come along, that it would soon be daylight. He heard his little boy's voice answer that he was coming; he felt his grandfather tussle his hair as he caught up with him.
The memory dream pulled him more deeply in and he began to rest in it, falling into a deep sleep. Hours passed, as Harmon slept propped against the wall with the winter storm blowing against the barn. Just before dawn, Harmon's consciousness took him to another pleasant dream, to another ordinary day in his adult life. He dreamed of waking up with Trish, her face turned away from him, but her hair spread out on the pillow. He reached out and touched the thick locks, golden blonde and soft, smelling of Chantilly. He heard the sound of a baby crying and Trish turned to him sleepily and said, 'your turn….please?' Harmon kissed her lightly on her forehead and headed for little Harm's room. As he walked down the darkened hallway of their tiny apartment and into little Harm's room, he felt the contentment and safety of that moment…he walked up to the crib and saw his son peering over the rail. He heard his own voice, 'Come on, little guy' he reached down to lift his six month old son out of his crib. With that gesture, reaching down to his son, he returned to the hell that had been his life for over a decade. Suddenly, he was back in Parlovsky's interrogation room, his eyes riveted on a picture of his wife in a wedding gown on another man's arm, his son's troubled face in the background. A mocking voice said 'Your son...so much like you…so much for a young man to endure…maybe we could arrange for a cell…next to yours.'
Harmon woke with a jolt, torn away from his dream by the reality of his life now. The sharp edge in Parlovsky's taunting voice, his veiled threat to capture his son and make him suffer the same fate he had for all these years, cut into his consciousness like a knife. It was time to get moving again.
He struggled to stand stiffly, feeling feverish and unstable on his feet. He stumbled toward the door of the barn and once again out into the elements. The cold air blasted into his open coat as he tried to hurry away from the farm, and out of sight of its owner. It was still dark, but Harmon still feared discovery, though he was still exhausted, he pushed himself on. He had a tight feeling in his chest, and felt short of breath. All he needed was to become sick now, and as if his own body was answering his concerns, he began to cough.
After he maneuvered around the fence surrounding the farm, he ducked down between the barbed wire. Dragging his leg along, every step was painful, but he thought that he could walk the worst of it off. Just as he thought he'd begun to get his bearings, he lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell down awkwardly, his injured leg twisted painfully. It was all he could do not to give voice to his pain, but this morning was quiet and still, compared to the sound of the storm last night.
He tried to stand, but between the instability of his leg, his shortness of breath and almost overwhelming fatigue, he could not do it. He tried over and over again, but to no avail. In his struggling he heard something in the distance. It had to be someone at the farm, he thought. Now the people he had feared would discover him on the farm, were his only hope of survival. He hoped someone would see him, help him get out of this snow and the elements, let him get inside. He had to survive, to live to get home to his son; silence came again and he strained to hear something, anything. Unreasonably, he hoped there would be someone on that farm that would help him. If he could avoid talking maybe they might take him in, give him time to recover…he couldn't help it, he still could not give up hope. He prayed for just one more day, 'Please don't let me die here'…this couldn't be how his life would end.
As he lay there, his pain, the cold and his fevered mind, seemed to make one moment slide into another. Harmon didn't really know how long he had lain there in the snow, but then he heard footsteps coming toward him. He opened his eyes and saw a man and woman walking toward him, their heavy coats hiding everything but their faces. He tried to look up at the man and then the woman. The man began talking and then the woman, her voice was kind but then they both stopped abruptly, both their faces showed fear, especially the woman. She took one step backward and then started to turn away, but then Harmon called out to her, in a rasping raw voice, that he didn't recognize as his own. She turned back to look at him. Their eyes met and with them he begged her to help him and silently, she complied. In seconds she was on her knees before him, brushing the snow from his face, caressing it and murmuring to him as though he were child. Harmon had almost forgotten what it was like to receive even the slightest gesture of affection. He looked again into her eyes, thanking her, and then felt himself begin to lose consciousness; he wasn't afraid anymore, he was safe. He knew with that one look, that this woman had promised him that she would take care of him, and that he could trust her.
June 8, 2003
Lobianka prison
Moscow, Russia
Mark Sokol sat in his office which was still housed in the Lobianka prison complex. He held a phone to his ear, listening to a report from a contact who had just supplied him with information that caused him great concern. Sergei Zhukov was rumored to have found the burial place of his father. Sokol had made it his business to know the activities of Sergei Zhukov, especially since his return to Russia after living in the United States. He was already well aware that Zhukov would soon be married and that Commander Rabb would be attending his wedding in July. It was only a matter of time now, Sokol was sure, until Rabb found his father's grave. Rabb would insist on taking his body home, and in the process, would reveal to the world what he believed about other American POW's from the Vietnam era being transferred to Russia.
The relationship between the US and Russia, in fact, the relationship Russia had with the rest of the world had been much better than in the days of the Cold War. However, recently, due to some concerns expressed by the US and the EU about perceived Russian human rights violations, those warm feelings had begun to cool.
Rabb could not be allowed to jeopardize things further by opening that proverbial can of worms, too much was at stake.
Sokol ended his call and made another. He set up a meeting with a contact he felt sure would help him keep Parklovsky's nearly 40 year old rogue blunder, from the knowledge of the world.
There was much to do.
TBC
A/N: Just so you know, the information I referenced about DNA is only theory. I was able to extrapolate the DNA theories from an article and discussion on the Science Daily website from September, 2002. No copyright infringement is intended.
The practice of using coding vs. non coding DNA for identification is not yet used as common practice. Great advances have been made using different phenotypes for DNA identification. Unfortunately, many strides have been made out of necessity, as a result of the difficulty of identifying the victims of 9/11 terrorist attacks at the world trade center, a crime scene that was anything but conventional and left very little tissue to identify.
