Send in the Clowns (part 3 of 5)
"Damn it. How the hell could something like this happen?" Billy Melrose demanded, glaring out into the Agency bullpen as if this would somehow conjure up an answer.
"Maybe it's not as bad as it looks," Francine said unconvincingly. "Maybe it's a joke. You know Lee – always the class clown."
"Well I'm not laughing. And the Intelligence Oversight Committee is going to want a hell of a lot more to go on than a can of fish food before they even consider trading back the most important Russian operative we've captured in the last two years.
Walter Reilly appeared at the door. "Lopez and Shane just called from Lee's apartment. They found the front door wide open and the apartment empty. One of the other tenants discovered the doorman an hour ago tied up in a storage room."
"So it looks like this is on the level." Francine frowned.
"Apparently the doorman was pretty shook up but they're getting a sketch artist over there anyway."
"I'd better inform Dirk." Billy's scowl deepened. "Thanks, Humbug."
"I'd offer to help but since being a messenger boy seems like all I'm good for this close to retirement, I'll be heading back to my desk." Reilly heaved a theatrical sigh before closing the door.
Billy reached for his phone but it rang before he could pick up the receiver. "Melrose here," he growled. "Lee," he continued in surprise. "Are you okay?" He punched the button to put the call on speaker.
"I'm fine," Lee said. "Billy, I need your help. I'm at a call box just on the Virginia side of the Woodrow Wilson bridge."
Francine broke in, "Lee, what can you tell us about the people who abducted you?"
"Abducted me? Francine, what are you talking about?"
"A package with a tape arrived thirty minutes ago. Just listen to this." She pressed play on the tape player sitting on Billy's desk. "We've got the Scarecrow," a heavily accented voice said. "You have Rostov. We want to trade. Please understand, if you don't make this trade in twenty four hours, Scarecrow will die."
"Dammit, this is even worse than I thought."
"What is it? Lee, if they don't have you, who do they have?" Billy demanded.
"Amanda." Lee's frustration came through loud and clear.
"What did you say?" Billy asked in disbelief.
"They've got Amanda. They grabbed her at my apartment while I was in the shower. Listen, Billy, they're in a dark blue panel van with a logo saying 'Antiques' on the side, DC license C848F9. I've been following them since my place but this is the first time I've been able to make a call. They've had to wait at the bridge since the drawbridge is up but it won't be much longer."
"Okay," Billy took charge, "We'll have the local police put out an APB on their vehicle. Bolling Air Force Base is just on the other side of the Potomac from you. We'll get a chopper in the air on the lookout for the van and your Porsche."
Lee interrupted, "I'm not actually in my Porsche. I'm in a lavender Lincoln Continental with vanity plate LIPSTCK."
There was silence in the room for a few seconds. "You're in a what?" Billy echoed in shock.
"A lavender Lincoln Continental. I borrowed it from one of my neighbours. Listen, the drawbridge is starting to close; I've got to get back to the car. Just get that chopper in the air, asap. Oh, and can you bring me some pants."
Francine and Billy stared at each other in the silence after the connection was broken. "Bring him what?" Francine finally got out.
*** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK ***
"I like my bike; I like my room; I even like my brother.
But most of all, in all the world, I really like my mother."
Amanda's eyes stung with unshed tears as she clutched the piece of paper and read aloud the poem Jamie had so proudly given her. Was there any chance at all that she would see her boys again? If only she could convince the men holding her captive that she wasn't a top spy but rather a victim of mistaken identity.
She had a sudden inspiration. "Oh here, now this will do it." She dug into her wallet again. "This is my cheque cashing card from the Zippy Market. Now they're very difficult to get."
Zinoviev, the man who seemed to be the one in charge, gave a short burst of laughter. She glanced up to find him looking at her in frank admiration. "Agency covers are improving. Who would believe that one of America's biggest agents is a bourgeois suburban housewife. Quite convincing."
He stood up and walked over to the bar. "Would you care for a drink?" he asked as if she was a guest at a cocktail party he was hosting and not someone who was being held against her will. "We may have a bit of a wait."
"Why may we have a bit of a wait?" Amanda was pretty sure she didn't want to know the answer to the question but asked anyway.
"I have arranged to trade you for one of our agents, Rostov. So far your people have not responded. But they still have time left before the deadline." Zinoviev poured himself a drink and took a sip.
"What if they won't make the trade?" This time she was positive she didn't want to know the answer.
"Scarecrow, do I have to tell you?" He looked disappointed in her.
"Yes," she managed to choke out.
"Obviously to maintain my credibility in my community, I may have to terminate you." The casual tone of his voice was almost as frightening as his words.
"Oh."
"Stimulating as our work is, it also takes one down a peg or two to realize we are all disposable. Don't you agree?"
He pulled on one of the books on the shelf and the entire middle section of the wall unit pivoted so that the bar could no longer be seen.
Jameson, one of the other men spoke up. "Mr. Ricardi, Mr. Zinoviev, we've got to get going." The three of them moved towards the door, leaving only one man to guard her.
"Wait a minute." Amanda called after them.
They turned and looked at her in expectation. "The place is surrounded," she said feebly.
Zinoviev raised his eyebrows and replied in all seriousness, "Oh, then I shall be very careful." He followed the other men out of the room.
Amanda looked over at Delong, her remaining guard. He sat stiffly upright in the chair opposite her, keeping his gun in plain sight, as if daring her to try something.
Okay, so they thought she was Lee. Then what she needed to do was to start thinking like him. What he would do if he had been kidnapped? She glanced slowly around the room, trying to figure out what if anything she could use as a weapon.
The vase of flowers? The Wedgewood candlesticks from the china cabinet? The plaster bust on the table between the windows? There was that secret room behind the bar - maybe she could use that to her advantage. Of course with the way her luck was going she'd pull the wrong book and not be able to get it open in time.
She wondered what Lee was doing at that moment. Maybe he was at the Agency, helping deal with Zinoviev's request to trade her for Rostov. A line from one of those action movies Jamie and Philip loved came to mind. Something about how the government never negotiated with terrorists.
At the sound of a sudden commotion out in the hallway Delong jumped up and grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragging her out of her chair. "If you make one move, I'll kill you," he hissed.
*** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK *** SMK ***
Lee carefully crept up to a window and peered in. Amanda was sitting on a couch, with an older man sitting opposite her. Three other men stood around the room. Four against one, well two if he counted Amanda. And her hands were tied. Not good odds.
As Amanda awkwardly dug through her wallet and held up several pieces of identification he realized in alarm what she was doing - trying to convince them that they'd abducted the wrong person.
This was one time when her lack of experience could land her in serious trouble – she didn't seem to realize that their misidentification of her was the only thing keeping her alive. If they believed she wasn't part of the Agency, they would have no use for her and would undoubtedly dispose of her in short order.
He watched as three of the men left the room. A few minutes later the van pulled out of the driveway and headed down the street.
This was it – with some of the men gone, this would be his best chance to rescue Amanda. He quietly crept around the house, not really expecting to find any open windows on the ground floor.
There was a flat topped garage on the other side of the house, which afforded more possibilities. Lee carefully climbed up a trellis conveniently leaning against the rear of the garage. Once on the roof he fastened his towel securely and moved towards a second floor window. It was also shut but there was a much greater likelihood that it would be unlocked.
The sound of a low growl caused him to freeze in his tracks. Looking down at the ground he saw a German Shepard staring at him with a menacing gaze.
"Good dog; nice dog," Lee said in a tone he only hoped the dog would find soothing.
The dog though apparently was in no mood to be soothed. It growled again before bursting into a series of loud barks. A face appeared at one of the ground floor windows.
Clutching the towel around his waist Lee ran for the back of the garage, judged the distance to the ground and leapt, the soft ground of the lawn helping to cushion his fall. He rolled over once, got to his feet and prepared to run.
"Stop right where you are," a voice came from behind him, "and turn around. Slowly."
He put his hands in the air and turned. An older woman stood there holding a gun on him. She stood no higher than his shoulder, but what she lacked in stature she more than made up in attitude. "Don't move or I'll be more than happy to shoot you."
"Roscoe," she yelled over her shoulder, "I've got him." An older man hurried around the side of the garage, also brandishing a gun. "Take him inside and put him in the root cellar," the woman instructed. "I'll call Zinoviev and tell him to get back here. He can deal with this mess."
TBC . . .