27 November 20–
Cameras flashed as Ivan Rose was gruffly forced into the back of the van. Three letters were emblazoned upon the side of the black vehicle: FBI. One of the agents ‘escorting’ him to the van held a manila folder in front of Ivan’s face to obscure him from the cameras. Ivan’s head moved quickly from left to right with disturbing abruptness. He smirked at one of the Associated Press photographers who had made his way around the other side of the van, producing a photo that would grace the front page of most major newspapers the following day. Otto Lowell was speaking from a podium across the courtyard to reporters. As soon as Ivan was enclosed in the van, the cameras turn on Lowell.
“It was a great disgrace to the Bureau to uncover the treachery of Mr. Rose,” he was saying, “He is to face charges of fraud, espionage, and interagency conspiracy.”
The news broadcaster at the other end of the plaza was reporting to the viewers across the nation. The balding reporter who seemed to be daily closer to retirement explained, “On this day, November 27 20–, Ivan Rose has been dismissed from service in the FBI,” he paused to allow the news network to hear snippets from Lowell’s account of the events. He continued to his audience, “It was Otto Lowell who is credited with revealing the plot within the agency.”
The image of Ivan Rose’s face taken by the Associated Press photographer appeared next to the reporter’s head on the screens at homes all around the country. His eyes were piercing blue, his hair had become unkempt, and the smile on his face was one of malice and unbridled contempt. The image changed to footage of the conspirator being shoved into the back of the FBI van before returning to Otto Lowell’s speech. He concluded, “It is a sad day, indeed, when one can no longer trust those that he thinks he knows best.”
1 December 20–
The sweat on his brow ran down his face in small drops. One fell from his chin and slowly hit the ground. He could almost hear it because it was so quiet. The sun was setting as the team of FBI agents surrounded the door to a warehouse in the inner city of Chicago. Otto Lowell stood next to the door staring across the abandoned lot to where his sniper could see him. He nodded a brief affirmation.
If one could hear the radio transmissions from agent to agent, one would have heard the order to cut the power to the warehouse. Otto Lowell remained outside the door with five other of his men. He held up three fingers and counted down. The team burst through the door as several other precision teams infiltrated the building through other manners (all of them not so subtle). They brought their guns to bear on the group of men and women in the warehouse after the command to stand down was ignored and shots had been fired.
The warehouse lit up with muzzle flashes as FBI agents ran for cover. Several of the insurgents were shot before they set their guns on the floor and raised their hands. Clark Anderson left Lowell’s side and began, along with several other men, to use zip ties to contain the terrorists. Lowell had been using connections to infiltrate this terrorist cell for months. He gave Anderson a pat on the back before squatting down before the man who looked like the ringleader of the group. He wore all black and his hair was equally that. His lengthy beard and hair suggested he had not seen much of civilized society for a while.
“There are two ways this can go, Mr. Ferris,” Lowell explained. He had read the man’s file and knew he was not known for cooperating, “You can talk and go to prison for life,” he said and then smirked, “or you can just go to prison for life. It’s your choice really.”
Ferris spat on the ground in front of Lowell as the FBI agent stood and walked away. Vans pulled up in front of the warehouse as he ordered the terrorists loaded into them. He stood by the door as they were led out, one by one. His mind was already on his next assignment, however. He hoped it would be more challenging. He enjoyed that.
As Lowell stood by the door, much higher in the rafters of the warehouse, one enemy had remained undiscovered. He had wrapped his limbs around the beams so that he would not be seen in the receding light of the sunset. A pair of binoculars was held in one hand, peering down at Otto Lowell and the smug expression he bore as he reveled in his success. It would not last. Ivan Rose smiled. It would not last.
Suddenly, a stack of metal barrels collapsed on one end of the vast warehouse. Lowell brought his sights onto the spot as he saw one of the suspects he had not cuffed make a run for an unguarded exit. None of the other agents remained in the building but Lowell who dropped his submachine gun in favor of the pistol at his side. The terrorist had a gun of his own, however, and fired back at Lowell. A shot grazed his shoulder but did not harm. The suspect was out the door by the time Lowell had made it to the other side of the warehouse. He raised a hand to his ear to cover the ear bud there.
“Where’s he going, Robert?”
Robert Smith was situated down the street in the surveillance van. He was the resident technological guru for the team. He was always itching for action, however, as he was typically behind the computer screen for every assignment.
“He’s headed east,” Smith said over the communications channel, “I’m on him.”
` “No!” Otto yelled into his microphone as he tried to sprint faster after the suspect, “Hold position!”
He let the microphone fall out of his ear and dangle off his shoulder as he ran. A few pedestrians, mostly the homeless, noted him as he ran past with curious glances. He heard the van coming up behind him with Robert, bearing down on the suspect who was about a block ahead of Lowell. Smith mashed the pedal to the floor and the FBI van sped past him. He whipped the van into a drifting turn that almost made it roll, and, before it had stopped, Smith had jumped out of it with his gun pointed at the suspect. The conspirator tried to skid to a stop but before he could raise his hands and put his gun down, Smith shot him in the chest.
Lowell stopped nearly dead in his tracks, chest heaving. He straightened up and began to walk toward Smith who began to come toward him, as well. Lowell grabbed him by the collar and threw him up against the wall. Pressing him against the rough brick façade of an old meatpacking building, he remained silent for a moment.
Composing himself, Lowell said simply, “That was not your order.”
“I acted in the best interests of the mission, sir,” Smith answered. He was serious. So was Lowell.
“You act in what I define as the best interest,” Lowell said, not relaxing his grip on the younger man’s collar, “Do you understand me?”
Smith’s focus left Lowell’s face to the other agents who were now standing at the street corner and the civilians across the street who were also watching. He sighed, “Yes, sir.”
Ivan Rose, somewhere, smiled.
10 December 20–
Director Montano was seated at the head of the table. She was a woman determined to make a name for herself in the business of intelligence in Washington. She was only in the Chicago headquarters because of the plot that had been uncovered. Since the capture of the terrorists the previous day, the FBI had learned that a significant attack had been planned in the city. Materials already in place under Navy Pier and the Congress Plaza Hotel, as well as in numerous locations along Michigan Avenue, had been removed and brought back to the FBI headquarters for analysis.
“This was homegrown,” Montano was saying to Lowell who was accompanied by Clark Anderson and Robert Smith, “we have become sure of that much. There were no connections to any Al-Qaeda or to other global groups, or nations,” she said in a veiled reference to a belligerent European power, “Cyrus Isla gave us the tip to burst the plot open, Lowell. I want your team to ensure his survival until we can bring the leaders of the cell to trial.”
“They need trial?” Smith asked.
“We still live in the United States,” Lowell answered dismissingly of Smith, “Where are we keeping him?”
“A safe house downtown should do,” Montano replied, shuffling papers in front of her, “Can you handle this assignment? I understand not everything went according to plan last time?” She refrained from looking at Smith as she said this.
Lowell grimaced, “Clark Anderson is the perfect man for the job, ma’am.”
Montano focused her gaze on Anderson, “Everything must go according to the plan this time, Mr. Anderson. Are Mr. Lowell and I being clear?”
Anderson nodded.
As they had this conversation in a conference room in the regional FBI headquarters, someone watched from a distance. Ivan Rose leaned against the railing of a neighboring, taller building with his binoculars, himself hidden from sight in shadows during the early hours of the morning. He focused his field of vision on Otto Lowell who was shaking hands with the director as she left.
“His demise I plot,” Rose said aloud.
“Great care must be taken,” Ivan replied to himself, “We cannot move too quickly.”
“I will hold nothing back,” Rose shook his head, “He doesn’t deserve it.”
“Nothing will be accomplished if we move to kill him publically and brutally,” Ivan retorted, “Nothing will be achieved then.”
“I care not for anything but his untimely demise,” Rose smiled, “Of this we are in agreement.”
“Revenge is sweeter than flowing honey,” Ivan answered slowly.
“The Iliad,” Rose recognized the reference, “How appropriate a statement.”
Ivan Rose remained silent as he left the balcony of the skyscraper for his home.
11 December 20–
Robert Smith was in a small eating establishment on the north side of town. It certainly advertized as some of the best food on the planet, but he was not sure he agreed. He took a sip from his coffee while watching the door. Only half the lights or so were working in the building, so he sat in shadows in the back of the restaurant. He watched as people moved in and out of the establishment, each greeting the other with great congeniality. He did not understand them.
After several more minutes, the man for whom he was waiting entered the building. He wore a dark leather jacket with a hooded sweatshirt underneath. It was not exactly an inconspicuous outfit, but it was to be expected in the middle of winter in Chicago, he assumed. The man came and sat across from Smith and lowered the hood, revealing his piercing blue eyes.
“How have you been, Ivan?” Smith said, unalarmed.
“Since I left Guantanamo?” Ivan asked, and Rose muttered under his breath, “Just great,” but Ivan replied with an audible, “I’ve seen better days.”
The conversation moved from there to less sinister terms. They spoke of family and friends as if they had known each other for many years, which was indeed the case. To any observer who was unacquainted with either fellow, they seemed as normal as could be. Their discussion took a different turn when the matter of Otto Lowell was set on the table.
“Such is how Lowell rules,” Ivan said after he was told of Smith’s altercation with his superior two days before, “He will not allow anyone their potential.”
“You have experienced the same?”
I have experienced worse at his hand! Ivan screamed inside his head, but a simple, “yes,” sufficed as an answer for Smith.
“He is a harsh man,” Smith allowed.
“He is not worthy of his position,” Ivan agreed, adding in his head, he is not worthy of his breath. He added this aloud instead, “You would make a better man than he.”
There was a pause as Ivan allowed the insinuation to become clear. Smith did not meet his eyes for a moment before asking, “What are you saying?”
Ivan rose from his seat and walked to stand behind Smith, “To gain power over a man,” he said, “you must gain a very certain advantage over him,” When Smith inquired as to how he might come to such an advantage, Rose replied, “Take what is most dear to him.”
“He has no family,” Smith protested, “no love.”
“Pride in his record has he,” Ivan smiled, “Never has a man failed him.”
The realization suddenly struck Robert Smith. The way to harm Lowell was to injure his pride, his confidence. He would destroy the very career that Lowell had taken so much time to build. His house would crumble under the pressures of failure. But how? How could he go about this?
Cyrus Isla was the heart of Lowell’s operations. Clark Anderson, his most trusted friend, was tasked with guarding him. This was how he would destroy him.
Across the table, Ivan Rose smiled.
12 December 20–
Clark Anderson had been on Otto Lowell’s FBI team for several years. He had stood alongside his friend as he climbed the intelligence agency ladder to his current position, supporting him every step of the way. In many cases, observers assumed that Anderson was doing such because he planned to use Lowell’s connections for his own benefit. Ironically, Anderson was perhaps the most honest agent ever to come through the Bureau. He trusted Lowell to a great extent and had received reciprocal confidence through the years. That was why his friend had told Director Montano that he would be perfect for the job. Guarding Cyrus Isla was no small task. He was an important informant.
Ivan Rose watched from a distance as two of the suspects who had mysteriously ‘escaped’ from the FBI holding facility made their way down the street to the safe house. This part of the Logan Square area was mostly empty at this time of night. They were stealthy enough, however, not to be noticed despite the silence.
“I would be his hangman,” Rose said softly. He frowned.
“Shakespeare,” Ivan noted with a chuckle, “Othello?”
“Indeed.”
“You have moved hastily toward Lowell’s demise.”
“Subtly, though.”
“Killing Isla?” Ivan asked, “Subtle?”
“Connecting it to me would be difficult.” Rose answered.
“If Smith blew the whistle…” Ivan let this hang in the air.
“He would do no such thing,” Rose assured himself, “Even if he did, Lowell is still damaged.”
“Let us see.” Ivan said, raising the binoculars to his eyes.
The door did not even creak as the assassins passed over the threshold and into the safe house. Cyrus Isla was staying the basement that only had a single exit. The difficulty would be arriving at the door to the basement. It was in the center of the house, so Anderson had to be avoided. The pair split up, one going to the right and one to the left. The man who moved to the right had the door in sight. He moved forward slowly. The woman who had gone left was spotted by Anderson.
Clark Anderson spun on his heel while brining his gun out of his holster. He had to dive to one side as the woman opened fire, spraying the wall with bullets. The man on the other side of the house made a dash for the basement while the firefight ensued. He grabs the doorknob to find that it was locked. He stepped back and knocked it down with his shoulder as Clark traded shots with the other assassin. He called for backup on his radio.
The woman finally took a fatal shot from Anderson. He ran past her around the house searching for another assailant. He noticed the door to the basement had flung open. He stumbled down the stairs as the assailant advanced toward Cyrus who had backed himself into a corner. He raised his pistol with a shout.
Ivan Rose was hiding behind some dumpsters on the other side of the street by now. He had heard the numerous gunshots coming from inside the house. He checked his watch. The cavalry should be coming soon.
Inside, Clark fired three shots quickly and finished descending the stairs. He slowed when he saw the assassin fall to the ground with a bloodied chest. He had dropped his gun, fallen to his knees, and now his lifeless body rested on the ground in front of Anderson. The only thing was, so did Cyrus. The assassin had not fired a shot. One of the bullets must have gone through him and into Cyrus. He was dead. This had not happened. It could not happen.
The sound of footsteps and the breaking down of the door to the house came from upstairs. Anderson let his gun fall to the ground. He felt sick. His head was light. Otto Lowell came running down the stairs. He stood next to his friend.
“Sir…” Anderson attempted to say something, anything. Instead, Lowell grabbed him and shoved him against the wall.
“He got past you,” he said. When Anderson offered a feeble objection, Lowell repeated, “He got past you.”
Anderson could not grasp the situation. His head was spinning. His stomach was doing back flips. He tasted something sinister in his mouth. His vision blurred. He heard something from Lowell. His friend repeated it in a louder, more unforgiving voice. For the first time, Anderson noticed Robert Smith standing behind Lowell. The other man was emotionless. He looked over Cyrus and then back at Anderson.
“Give me your badge, Anderson,” Lowell said. He had always used ‘Clark.’ He never called him by his surname. That was reserved for others who were not in his confidence. Anderson was no longer a member of that exclusive club of Lowell’s trust. He had failed. He gave him his badge.
As he often did in these days, Ivan Rose smiled.
13 December 20–
It was a Friday. It was early morning. It was that gray period of the day in which Ivan Rose thrived. His existence was in the margins of the world, not in its center. He had been approached by Robert Smith the night before. He was not satisfied. Anderson had been dismissed. Otto Lowell’s reputation was tarnished. Smith was not satisfied. This was fortunate, however, because Ivan Rose was not satisfied either. The end would come today. The final act of the final play. Today it would end.
Smith had told Lowell that a source had contacted the agency about the killing of Cyrus Isla. He claimed that the source had failed to mention his name. The source, this ever-elusive source, would meet Lowell on the edge of Navy Pier. This was where Ivan Rose now stood, looking out onto Lake Michigan. He admired the vast expanse of water as the seagulls flew overhead. He heard a voice from behind him.
“Rose.”
Ivan smiled. He seemed to have more than enough to smile about over the last few days. He turned to see Lowell standing a few feet away from him. His hand was on his gun. Ivan shook his head and Lowell removed his hand from it.
“You cannot lay a hand on a source,” Ivan said, “I read the manual.”
“You’re scum, Rose,” Lowell answered, “I hope you’ve figure that out by now.”
“I’m scum!” Rose shouted, but Ivan replied in a softer tone, “You have slandered and disowned me when I did nothing to deserve it.”
“You did everything to deserve it,” Lowell replied.
“What are a few million dollars between government agencies?” Ivan queried, “What’s a little espionage going to do for the country,” Rose shouted, “Not much!” before Ivan calmed himself and smirked, “‘Interagency-conspiracy’ is what they called it, wasn’t it?”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been watching your current predicament,” Ivan said. Rose added softly, “closer than you know.”
“And?”
“Your friend Anderson is not a safe one.”
“And you are?”
“Let’s forget my ethos, friend,” Ivan said smoothly, “and consider the facts at hand.”
“I have dealt with him.”
“A threat to the country remains,” Rose insisted.
“And what threat is that?” Lowell was only humoring him now. He was barely humoring him. He wanted nothing more than to point his gun to Ivan’s head and blast him to kingdom come.
“How do you think those…people got into the safe house under his watch?” Ivan asked, “On their own?”
“What are you saying?”
“Clark Anderson is one of the best—the best. What if he…allowed them into the home?”
“But—”
“Did Anderson not have his gun when Cyrus was killed?”
Lowell was silent.
“Was it not his bullet embedded in Cyrus’s chest?”
“He—”
“Can you risk it?” Rose asked quickly.
13 December 20–
Snow was falling around Clark Anderson’s home as he stepped onto the balcony of the apartment. He looked out at the city from the twelfth story of the apartment complex. He held a warm cup of coffee in his hand. The steam wafted a pleasant smell into his nostrils. He had nothing to do except enjoy the drink. Needless to say, he was out of a job.
While he though, Otto Lowell was inside his apartment. He was moving briskly, but silently, through the small abode until he was almost directly behind Anderson. Anderson turned slowly to face him. He frowned and set his cup of coffee on the edge of the balcony.
“Are you aiding the terrorists?” Lowell asked.
“Excuse me?” Anderson had expected, and even understood, his dismissal, but charges of conspiracy were incomprehensible. What had he done in the last twenty-four hours to shatter nearly twenty-four years of trust?
“Are,” Lowell punctuated every word, “you aiding the terrorists?”
“No.”
During this interchange, Ivan Rose found himself on the balcony of an apartment building to the east on the fourteenth story balcony of an abandoned apartment building. He relaxed his hand on the trigger of a sniper rifle aimed at Otto Lowell. Aim for the heart, he thought, aim true. The conversation had elevated to yelling at this point.
“You killed Cyrus!”
“Who told you this?” Anderson asked. For some indiscernible reason, he suspected Robert Smith. Lowell’s pause did nothing to calm Anderson. He repeated his question in a louder, more demanding fashion that elicited a surprising answer.
“Ivan Rose.”
There was a pause that seemed like an eternity. Ivan Rose laughed and had to resettle his aim.
Clark Anderson could not believe this. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Something was wrong. He spun around. Nothing stood out at first, but the glint of a sniper rifle caught his eye. He did not even think as he moved. Ivan Rose pulled the trigger when he noticed that Anderson had seen him. What he did not anticipate was Anderson diving in front of Lowell, taking the bullet.
Oh, well, he thought as he fled the scene, someone died today. Anderson is just as good.
1 January 20–
The only thing wrong with Ivan Rose’s thoughts on that day was that Clark Anderson did not die. He took the bullet, which penetrated but missed any vital organs. He walked away and was back on duty within a few weeks. However, the same could not be said for Otto Lowell. Rose’s goal was accomplished, just not in the way that he had expected. When Ivan’s conspiracy with Robert Smith was uncovered, Lowell resigned his position after arresting Smith. Anderson took charge of the team after this.
Ivan was forced to flee from Chicago’s downtown into the inner city. He had moved at night through the less desirable neighborhoods. By January, he had almost seen them all. Now, he sat in a closet, hiding from the world outside.
“Ultimate victory has been achieved,” Rose asserted in the dim light of dusk.
“Revenge, like victory, is sweet,” Ivan agreed, “Lowell is gone, as I am gone. Not to live the life he knew or to even live much of life at all.”
“Forever his pain will be as he walks this earth,” Rose continued.
“…or should he choose to leave it,” Ivan suggested.
“My ultimate goal has been achieved,” Rose began again when suddenly the door swung open, casting the light from flashlights attached to the barrels of several guns. He was blinded by the light, but he was able to focus on the man holding the pistol to his face.
“Ivan Rose, you are under arrest,” Clark Anderson said.
Ivan Rose did not smile this time.
Wes Spears
Merry Ellen Kirk
Devin White
