Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

In the pocket of her coat she wrapped her fingers around the triggering device that would detonate the explosives strapped to her body. She need but to push the button and the misery of her life would be transformed instantly into the joys of Paradise.

Just before she pressed the detonator she intended to say, “ Allahu Akhbar ,” but Instead, she only whispered, “Oy!” as though she were shocked by what she was doing.

When the investigators later found what was left of her body, they remarked on how her face was untouched, long dark hair spread beneath, blue eyes still open as if in surprise at the havoc her action had left, her lips half open as if about to speak. “ Oy.”

In the F-150 half a block away on North Highland Street Arbi Basaev blinked as the whump of the explosion was felt more than heard before black smoke and flame vomited from the Metro station entrance, cascaded against the Plexiglas shelter and spread out over the street in a malevolent cloud.

“I was afraid she wouldn’t do it,” he said as he put the truck into gear.

The bearded older man beside him smiled thinly as Arbi drove carefully south toward 10 thStreet. The area would soon be congested with fire trucks, police, media, and lookiloos.

The older man with his narrow, ascetic face, white beard and dark eyes could have been Iranian or even Arab. In fact he was a Chechen named Bolat Zakayev, and he possessed a doctorate in chemical engineering from the Bauman State Technical University in Moscow. He patted Arbi affectionately on the shoulder as he maneuvered the van into the slow-moving traffic heading toward Route 50. “She did well, Arbi, your little ‘bride.’ We didn’t have to use the remote detonator.” They could trust their suicide bombers only so far .

The girl’s name was Esila. She was a young, widow from Dagestan, where her in-laws, having no use for a childless daughter-in-law, sold her to Arbi. They took her to a safehouse in Baku where Zakayev put her on a steady diet of psychotropic drugs that left her pliable with no will of her own. The operation was meticulously planned: a ship from Baku to Havana, transfer to a smaller fishing vessel that carried them to Nicaragua. And then northward, guided by a well-paid coyote into the United States where the old, but reliable truck waited as promised at a truck stop in Arizona.

“The remote signal might not have reached her so far underground.” worried Arbi.

The older man stared straight ahead as the snow increased and obscured the windshield. “You should have more confidence, Arbi.”

It would be best to avoid main roads until they were completely out of the metropolitan area. The truck was equipped with a GPS unit, and Arbi had spent many days becoming familiar with the tangle of roads that surrounded Washington.

By the time they fought the traffic onto Route 50, which would take them west out of the metro area into Virginia, the snow had begun to taper off, but true to their reputation Washington area drivers were in a state of panic, abetted by reports of a possible terrorist attack that spilled from every radio.

As always, it was the unanticipated that changed plans. The snow was falling more heavily now and turning the roads into slushy toboggan runs. To make matters worse, darkness was falling fast. Cars were losing traction, sliding off the roadside or crashing into one another as panicked drivers failed to maintain safe distances.

“We cannot afford to be involved in an accident,” said the older man. His brow furrowed in thought. “We must find a place where we can stay the night until this passes and the roads are clear. We’ll never make it all the way back to base tonight in this.”

“It could be dangerous,” said Arbi with a sidelong glance at his companion.

Zakayev replied. “The greater risk is to be involved in an accident and questioned by the police. We have no choice.” He waved his hand in the direction of the road ahead. “Look at the way these idiots are driving. It’s as though they’ve never seen snow before in their lives.”

Ahead they spotted the neon sign of a motel blinking redly through the falling snow. “Pull in there,” said Zakayev. “We can take a room for the night. I’ll remain in the van.”

Arbi, with his youthful good looks and winning smile, won an admiring glance from the young woman manning the desk. It was a modest establishment near the Seven Corners shopping center, but the room was clean and comfortable with two beds.

Women were never a problem. Arbi was darkly handsome and magnetic, so much so that women fell in love with him on sight. All he need do was gaze into their eyes, squeeze their hand, whisper something, and they were his.

Behind the warm façade he was cold as ice and calculating. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the women were little more for him than transitory entertainment before they were initiated into the ways of martyrdom. There were always plenty of women.

Once in the room with Zakayev, Arbi punched a number into his cell phone. The call was answered immediately.

Arbi told Valeriy Karpov that the snow prevented them from clearing the metro area as planned and that they would have to wait out the storm.

Karpov was displeased. “Make sure you’re out of town in the morning.

Snow. Welcome back to Northern Virginia.

The sharp chill hit Krystal Murphy as soon as she ducked out into the Jetway at Reagan National Airport. The warmth of the Florida sun abandoned her like the fleeting memories of a daydream. The heavy clothing of the crowd milling inside the brightly lit, vaulted expanse of the airport bespoke of the cold waiting for her outside.

She shivered at the unwelcome thermal difference between Washington and Miami and hoped the Miami memories would keep her warm. The most lingering of those were of Dade County Police detective Ray Velazquez.

Several months earlier, when the heat had not yet abandoned Washington, Velazquez had been nearly killed by a .45 caliber slug from a serial killer’s gun. [10] KRYSTAL, Michael R. Davidson, 2014 This was followed by weeks in the hospital as his lungs and bones healed, and then a long convalescence in Krystal’s small Arlington apartment. Chief Everett Fogerty of the Arlington County Police Department where Krystal was a Detective Lieutenant gave her “as much time as it takes,” and had been only too happy to stand before the cameras to describe the investigation that led to the bloody denouement of the murderers Krystal had brought to justice. She was content to remain out of the media spotlight.

She had flown south with Velazquez when he was sufficiently recovered to return to Miami.

In the queue for a taxi outside the terminal a frigid, snow-laden wind quickly dispelled memories of the Miami nights and replaced them with a single-minded desire to return to her apartment, turn up the heat, down a slug of scotch, and flop on the couch in front of the television. An evening of mindless entertainment, she told herself, would prepare her for the return to the office the following day. Or maybe it wouldn’t. She had no idea what to expect.

A long tedious cab ride later, she surveyed her small apartment from the vantage point of the galley kitchen as she poured herself a generous dollop of ten-year-old Laphroaig single malt.

During his convalescence Ray had slept in her bed, which would more than have delighted the Cuban lothario had the circumstances been different, and she took the couch. Fortunately, the building was wheelchair friendly, so she had been able to take him for short outings as he regained strength. Even after they returned to Miami, the doctors said it would be at least two more weeks before he could begin a modified work schedule, and possibly a couple of months before he would be fully recovered.