The ayes had it. Unanimous.
“Here’s to the charter members of Future Flight. And may heaven have mercy on the bad guys.”
The whole second floor of Dreamland’s small detention facility had been turned into a huge high-security area. Guards were posted on the stairways and in every hallway. All personnel were screened and checked any time they came in or out of the building.
Andrei Maraklov was the floor’s only occupant. He had a room to himself in the center of the second floor, guarded inside and out by armed soldiers and undercover CIA operatives. All in all, twenty soldiers and agents were assigned to him round-the-clock.
Even for other agents, it was tough to get near him. From the time he came onto the grounds of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center, Defense Intelligence Agency operative Anthony Scorcelli, Jr., was searched, had his I.D. checked and was electronically scanned for weapons as well as by teams of bomb dogs. He went through one metal detector at the entrance, one before getting into the elevator and one before getting near Maraklov’s room. After the last machine he was carefully pat-searched and sniffed over by an explosives dog as his name and I.D. were checked once again.
“No gun?” the Air Force soldier asked. “Doesn’t the DIA carry guns?”
“I don’t chase bad guys,” Scorcelli told him. “I wait until they’re in custody, surrounded by blue-shirts. What do I need a gun for?”
“He checks,” another guard said. The pat-search revealed a few pens — the guards even pushed the plungers on them and scribbled circles on a sheet of paper to make sure they worked — a small notebook, an appointment book with a credit-card-sized computer inside, wallet with seven dollars in it and a set of car keys from a rental car agency. “He’s okay.”
“What are you doing here this late?” the second guard asked, taking a sip of coffee as Scorcelli retrieved his belongings.
“First opportunity the DIA’s had to interview him,” Scorcelli said. The first guard consulted his log to double-check that fact — he was the first DIA representative here today. “This is the CIA’s and the Air Force’s bailgame. We just want to see what the guy has to say. I understand he wants to make a deal.”
“Go ahead,” the guard said. “Twenty minutes, max. Doctor’s orders.”
Scorcelli entered Maraklov’s room and closed the door — and was immediately grabbed from behind by another guard. “You scared the crap out of me,” Scorcelli said.
“Sorry,” was all the guard said, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Scorcelli then heard two beeps on a walkie-talkie the guard carried on his belt, and the guard replied with two beeps of his own. Finally the guard released him. “Go ahead, sir.”
“Man, with all these searches I forgot what I was going to ask this guy,” Scorcelli said. The guard smiled and walked back to his seat on the far side of the room.
“Where’s our friend?”
“Taking a leak,” the guard said. He got up and knocked on the door to the adjacent bathroom. “Someone to see you.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Maraklov called from inside the bathroom.
“He doesn’t sound like a Russian to me,” Scorcelli said.
“He’s a Russian, all right. He says he’s been trained to act like an American. Can you believe it?”
“Sounds weird.” Scorcelli unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled out the small notebook and a pen. He was about to write something when he looked up at the floor beside a sofa near the wall. “You got rats in here.”
When the guard walked in front of Scorcelli to check for rats, Scorcelli jabbed the point of the pen into his neck. The guard was conscious just long enough to reach up to his neck, then instantly fell asleep. Scorcelli lowered him to the floor, dragged him out of sight, then took his sidearm from his holster. Hiding behind the bathroom door, Scorcelli took the second pen from his shirt pocket, twisted the cap and pressed the pocket-clip.
When Maraklov emerged from the bathroom, Scorcelli reached around behind him, grabbed his chin with his left hand, pulled his head over to the left to expose his neck and pressed in the point of the pen. When he depressed a plunger, a one-inch long needle shot out and injected its contents directly into Maraklov’s carotid artery.
Maraklov managed to push Scorcelli away, but the poison was already starting to take effect. He sagged to his knees, trying but unable to call for help. He strained to focus his eyes on Scorcelli. “What … who are you?”
“Don’t you remember, buddy?” Scorcelli said. “C’mon, you remember.”
Maraklov shook his head.
“You’re a smart guy, Ken. You remember. I’ll give you a hint. We went to school together.” Maraldov’s eyes suddenly opened, and he struggled to get to his feet. Scorcelli put a hand on his shoulder, and in Maraldov’s weakened condition it was easy to hold him steady.
“I’m your old buddy, Tony Scorcelli,” the DIA “agent” said. “Remember? We played softball together. I’ll never forget that last game we played, Ken, the one we played just before you went to Hawaii. You got me busted back after that little scuffle, did you know that? I wanted to go to law school in the United States. But after that fight, Roberts busted me back and I ended up in a nowhere little job in the DIA pushing papers.”
Maraklov tried to rise again but was too weak. “But I got an interesting call from my handler the other day, and guess what? The KGB wants my old buddy Ken James dead. It seems he began spilling his guts to the Americans. Actually wanted to defect or something like that. Fell in love with an airplane; can you beat it? There was word that he was responsible for killing that nympho secretary back at the Academy. When I heard all this, I just had to run right over from Washington, get myself clearance to enter your little condo here … “
Scorcelli pulled Maraklov up and sat him on the chair. “Sorry I can’t stay and shoot the breeze, old buddy, as us Americans say, but you’ve got a date in hell, and I’m on my way back to my Black Sea condo. It’s beautiful there this time of year.”
Just then the door opened behind Scorcelli and McLanahan and Briggs walked in. “Hey,” McLanahan called out when he saw Scorcelli standing over Maraklov. “What the hell are you doing?”
Briggs drew his sidearm just as Scorcelli reached for the gun he had taken from the drugged guard. He pushed McLanahan aside, fired one shot into Scorcelli’s chest, and dropped him. Briggs checked over Scorcelli and the Air Force guard as more security agents ran into the room. McLanahan went over to Maraklov.
“Ammonium cyanide,” Maraklov got out, barley strong enough to draw breath. “Standard KGB issue. Scorcelli’s KGB. Deep cover, like me…”
McLanahan found the doctor’s call button and pressed it. “Easy…”
“No, listen. Wall safe in my apartment … behind the bookcase. Careful … I wired it. Names of KGB handlers and Academy grads. Not many, but it’ll help …” Dying, he looked as if he was falling asleep.