Running With The Big Dogs: Sybil Norcroft Book Six (10 page)

There was only a moment’s hesitation by the mafia torturer and murderer who knew that he was helpless.

“Basement,” he hissed, “but they are locked up in secure cells and guarded by a dozen well trained and disciplined men.”

Steffan, Mac, and Sybil had a hurried discussion in the corner of the bedroom, then Steffan returned to his stance over the helpless mafia chieftain.

“You are going to call down to the chief guard and tell him to ready the girls for transport to another safe house. To prevent alerting the neighbors, he is to reduce the number of guards to himself and one other trusted man. The other guards are to be sent to their quarters. Do you understand? You are aware that I understand Russian perfectly, do you not, Leonid Aleksandrovich?”

“I understand, but I know you will kill me or blind me as soon as I give such an order. If I get on the line with them, I will order that the girls all be killed immediately.”

“No, Leonid Aleksandrovich, you will not do that,” Steffan said with finality.

He signaled two of the CIA agents standing aside in their black face masks and all black ninja suits. They hoisted Leonid’s limp wife, Christiane to a standing position and ripped off her nightgown. Steffan signaled two of the other agents to step up to him. He whispered briefly, and the two men left the room. In a moment they re-entered the bedroom carrying Leonid’s unconscious daughter.

“Strip her,” Steffan ordered.

Sybil recoiled but remained silent. She kept Cerisse’s name and face in her mind, knowing that she had to do anything necessary to save her daughter.

One man holding a wicked looking combat knife stepped beside each of the two females, mother and daughter and poised the point on the woman’s exposed belly.

“Now, Leonid Aleksandrovich, you will make the call. Should you say the wrong thing, say it in the wrong way, or should your voice quaver, my associates will eviscerate your wife and untouched daughter and leave them to die over the next two or three days on the floor. Now, do you understand what you must do?”

Zavlavsky looked at Steffan with the purest of hatred.

“All right. Don’t touch my daughter. Somehow, I will get to you; and you will die for six weeks if you do.”

It was an idle and impotent threat; and both men knew it; but somehow venting his spleen made it easier for Zavlavsky to make the call.

When he had given Steffan’s orders word-for-word, he added, “and call me when they are ready, and the two of you are alone with them.”

“Good,” Steffan said, “we will take care of our business, and if we are successful, we will return and take you and your wife and little daughter to a safe place unharmed. Pray for us,
brat
[brother].”

Sybil saw the light of defiance fade from Zavlavsky’s eyes. Four of the CIA agents stayed in the bedroom with the three members of the Zavlavsky family while the other five—including Sybil—slipped out and made their way through the dark halls to the basement.

The area where the five American girls were being kept was a solid and unrelenting concrete dungeon. Two guards stood stiffly by the girls, one in front, and one behind them. The girls were blindfolded and had duct tape over their eyes. All of them were handcuffed with their hands behind their backs except for little Cerisse who was holding the toddler, Jane Coombs-Hartvig who was softly weeping in fear. Cerisse was cooing a quiet Congolese lullaby to the frightened girl.

In the next two seconds, three things happened: two flashbang grenades went off filling the concrete hallway with smoke, blinding light, and a momentarily deafening noise; two men were shot dead with silenced 9 mm handguns; and five CIA agents swept in and gathered up the terrified and traumatized American girls. Cerisse was still clutching Jane Coombs-Hartvig with all the protectiveness her little body could afford. Sybil ran to the two little girls and swept them up in her strong arms and carried them out of the dungeon as fast as she could move, softly purring love and comfort to them as she went.

It took several minutes for the girls to regain enough sight, hearing, and cognition to be able to appreciate that they were in friendly hands. The girls who had only been weeping softly in fear before the flash-bangs went off, now gave full vent to their relief and cried with emotionally relieving gusto. Even several of the hardened CIA veteran dark-ops agents shed a tear or two. Sybil wept unashamedly as she clutched her girls to her body.

Mac and Steffan recovered their senses first and ordered the girls to be freed from their restraints and duct tape. It was heaven to be free and able to see and speak, and the American girls were effusive in expressing their deep gratitude for their saviors.

“The fat lady hasn’t sung yet,” Mac said. “We still have to get out of here. So, everybody, listen up and do exactly as I say.”

The agents and the girls did not meet any resistance as they made their way swiftly back to the Zavlavsky’s bedroom. Two agents slung the still unconscious Zavlavsky women over their shoulders, and the rest took positions to protect the American girls and to herd the former
vory v zakone
down the stairs and out of the house. As soon as they exited the front door, they were met by the four agents who had been outside in the cold guarding against interference. Those three men and one woman were instrumental in hurrying the CIA entourage along because they knew that they would be back where it was warm sooner if they did.

Sybil, Mac, and Vera Ystremski, one of the female agents—and a Russian speaker—got into the back of the van with the former American hostages, and the Zavlavskys; and the rest of the agents and the Judas Mafioso divided up in the other vehicles. The heaters were turned up to maximum, and the convoy moved out cautiously. Sybil did a quick examination of the girls and found them to be somewhat in emotional shock, but otherwise intact. She checked to be sure that the two Zavlavsky women were able to breathe and that the circulation in their hands and feet was intact. Leonid Zavlavsky called her several filthy names, thinking that she was only a woman, and not a Russian speaker; and he could get away with it. She slapped duct tape over his eyes and mouth and around his ankles as an unspoken indicator that she was not “only a woman,” and he could not get away with anything.

She spoke politely to him in Russian to let him know that he was not the only educated person in the van, “Я с нетерпением жду говорить родной язык с Вами” [“I look forward to speaking the mother tongue with you.”].

After that, she left him to his own thoughts all the way back to the United States CIA prison where he would spend the rest of his life singing about the labyrinthine world of the
russkaya mafiya
and its complex interrelationship with the officials of the Russian Federation. His wife and daughter would join in the chorus, but separate from their evil father.

Chapter Twelve

EPILOGUE

Oval Office, White House, Washington D. C., November 1, 2020, 1000 hrs
Present: POTUS; VPOTUS; SecHHS; DCIA; DFBI; DUSSS [Director, United States Secret Service]; DUSCYBERCOM; SENATE MAJORITY LEADER, COPMPDDC [Chief of Police, Metropolitan Police Department, District of Columbia]; Businessman Charles Daniels; University Student, Cerisse Daniels and Drake Farrer, her fiance; Jane Coombs-Hartvig, Grand-daughter of the SENATE MAJORITY LEADER; Gretchen Farnsworth, Daughter of the DUSCYBERCOM; Abigail and Susan Margoles, Daughters of the Secretary of HHS
Re: Commendations for recent intelligence operation

E
very attendee had had to sign an oath of secrecy regarding what was to take place in the Oval Office that day except for two-and-a-half year old, Jane Coombs-Hartvig. Everyone recognized the crucial need to keep the secret they all shared only among themselves however tempting it might ever be to applaud for the men and women who had saved the daughters of several of the most influential people in the United States. There was an air of excited anticipation as President Willets began to speak.

“My friends,” he said, “this is the last quarter of my presidency, and it is with profound happiness and gratitude that I am able to share with you, my fellow Americans, my joy at the results of the mission that brought our beloved daughters back to us and saved our country from suffering severe injury to boot. I regret that I cannot elaborate on the details of the operation, but I am sure that you understand. Perhaps in thirty years—when the secrecy limitations are lifted—you will be able to read about what happened. You know about the part that involved you personally, and you can carry that much in your hearts.

“It is my pleasure to give the highest award an intelligence agent can receive to a most deserving special agent of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. I have to tell you that when I first heard of her caper—conceived and executed entirely by her own volition and in violation of every law and policy of the agency—I was inclined—like Truman with MacArthur—to fire her outright and to cancel her pension. Now, my only regret is that I can’t trumpet the success of that mission to the whole world. DCIA Sybil Norcroft, M.D., Ph.D., F.A.C.S. is about to receive her second Intelligence Star, the highest award for an intelligence agent—one that is entirely comparable to the Congressional Medal of Honor. She is only the second individual and the first woman ever to win that remarkable award. As she so modestly puts the truth, she receives it on behalf of the men and women who work in the shadows and do rough things in the night; so, we citizens can rest safely in our beds.

“Our financial crisis is well on its way to being relegated to history in large part owing to the services—which cannot be made public—of this one remarkable woman. Our National Health Service will hopefully one day soon become a reality because of what she did along with her government health official co-workers. I personally—along with all of the citizens of our great country—owe Sybil Norcroft a great debt of gratitude.

“Dr. Norcroft, please stand beside me, if you will.”

Sybil blushed and walked up to the president. He put the blue ribbon holding the gold medal around her neck.

“Thank you,” the President of the United States said to the former neurosurgeon turned government official—the senior officer among spies.

When the guests were escorted from the Oval Office and to a small reception luncheon, President Willets caught Sybil’s attention and asked her to stay with him for a minute.

“Sybil, I am all but certain that Randall Broome will be the next president and Dick Harris his vice-president. I have two secrets to share with you since you are my most trusted mistress of the vault of secrets and chief of the puzzle palace.”

She smiled at his characterization of herself and her agency.

“What I have to tell you must never be repeated. I know that you know that, but I thought I should say so. Harris is very ill, and no one but Governor Broome knows it. They just found out two weeks ago, and it is too late to get a new V-P at this juncture. The best estimate is that Harris will have to resign for health reasons—real health reasons—before the end of his first year as the vice-president. Governor Broome has mild congestive heart failure—that’s another secret—and his prognosis is not that good. He is a real American patriot with the good of the nation foremost in his mind in everything he does. He and I have discussed the possibility of him appointing you to succeed Harris when the time comes.”

“That is something of a shock. I guess I can’t really say that I have never had a political job; but at least, it is correct that I have never had an elective position. I would be proud to serve if asked. Mr. President, I would do anything for you.”

“Thank you for that, Sybil. You know that—if you become the vice-president—you will be the first woman ever to do so, just like you became the first woman DCIA. Who knows? You are very unlikely to become the First Lady, but maybe you will be the First Among Ladies—the President of the United States. I don’t think your career is over, yet, my friend.”

“Who knows?” Sybil said, “who knows?”

-The End-

Carl Douglass,

Famous American Writer and Media Personality