Running With The Big Dogs: Sybil Norcroft Book Six by Carl Douglass
Authors: Carl Douglass
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visualize the fleas and lice crawling around in the man’s unruly scalp hair.
“I have a message for the FBI agent,” the man said, his voice mildly slurred.
“I am the FBI agent,” the duty officer told him.
“All right, then. I got to give you this.”
He pulled a slightly crinkled envelope from his coat pocket. His hands were filthy, and they trembled as he held the envelope out to the agent across the desk. A crumpled hundred dollar bill fell out on the floor as he did so. The agent glanced at the bill, then took the envelope.
“What’s in it?”
“Dunno. The man what give it ta me said I was not to look inside, just do what he says and give it to the FBI man. He told me he would know if I looked at it, and he would come and take back the money and give me a whuppin’. So I never took even a peek.”
“Can you tell me what the man looked like?”
“Nope. He had one of them hoodie sweatshirts on and a big heavy beard. So big, maybe it was fake. I dunno. He talked kinda funny.”
After a few more questions, the agent let him go, convinced that there was no more information available from the man. He had building security take the envelope for evaluation before anyone touched it or opened it. The article cycled through the system for eight hours before it finally got to the addressee, “SAC, Washington Field Office”.
It was five minutes short of quitting time when the envelope landed on the SAC’s desk. He wanted to put in the “in” box for tomorrow—or even the “out” box—so, he would not have to deal with another piece of junk mail from some homeless junkie. But, he loved a clean desk and as often as possible obeyed the late, great, J. Edgar Hoover’s dictum to clear off your desk at the end of every day. He sighed and opened the envelope.
The message was simple: To DCIA, Majority Leader of the Senate, DUSCYBERCOM, SecHHS.
The SAC might have ignored it as another crank message, but the sender had to know about the exact government officials whose children had been abducted. The impression that this was more than a crank letter was verified when he pulled out five 3 × 5 glossy photographs of children. Each child was seated on a chair holding a sign with his or her name and the date of his or her abduction. Every child looked terrified. Little Jane Coombs-Hartvig sat on Cerisse Daniels’s lap. Cerisse was barely larger than the two-year-old, but the little girl clung to Cerisse as if her life depended on it. There was no writing and no indication of where the letter came from or where the pictures were taken.
“ This is the real thing ,” he said to himself, and then he roused himself to action, the torpor of the day having evaporated.
Within minutes he had calls put through to each of the parents or grandparents of the children and to the heads of the law enforcement agencies charged with getting them back. Sybil and Charles Daniels were just finishing breakfast when they got the news.
“She’s alive!!!” they said almost in the same breath.
A similar scene played out in all of the other homes and offices. But, the same sobering questions followed: Where is my child? What do the kidnappers want? How can I get him or her back and when?
Sybil said to Charles, “I am more than ever convinced that this comes from the Russians, but through so many cut-outs that the envelope will not be of any real use to us. I am going to send Mac Young and his deep-cover covert action team to every Mafioso house and hangout in Moscow. Ed Simonsen can mind the shop. I am going to Moscow as well. I am going to use my training and will be so disguised and have such a good cover that no one—not even you—would recognize me. I am going to find our daughter if I die trying.”
Charles said, “Sybil, the president will never approve that. If you were to fall into the hands of the KGB or whatever they call themselves now, it would be a diplomatic and intelligence disaster. Think about what you know
“I have a message for the FBI agent,” the man said, his voice mildly slurred.
“I am the FBI agent,” the duty officer told him.
“All right, then. I got to give you this.”
He pulled a slightly crinkled envelope from his coat pocket. His hands were filthy, and they trembled as he held the envelope out to the agent across the desk. A crumpled hundred dollar bill fell out on the floor as he did so. The agent glanced at the bill, then took the envelope.
“What’s in it?”
“Dunno. The man what give it ta me said I was not to look inside, just do what he says and give it to the FBI man. He told me he would know if I looked at it, and he would come and take back the money and give me a whuppin’. So I never took even a peek.”
“Can you tell me what the man looked like?”
“Nope. He had one of them hoodie sweatshirts on and a big heavy beard. So big, maybe it was fake. I dunno. He talked kinda funny.”
After a few more questions, the agent let him go, convinced that there was no more information available from the man. He had building security take the envelope for evaluation before anyone touched it or opened it. The article cycled through the system for eight hours before it finally got to the addressee, “SAC, Washington Field Office”.
It was five minutes short of quitting time when the envelope landed on the SAC’s desk. He wanted to put in the “in” box for tomorrow—or even the “out” box—so, he would not have to deal with another piece of junk mail from some homeless junkie. But, he loved a clean desk and as often as possible obeyed the late, great, J. Edgar Hoover’s dictum to clear off your desk at the end of every day. He sighed and opened the envelope.
The message was simple: To DCIA, Majority Leader of the Senate, DUSCYBERCOM, SecHHS.
The SAC might have ignored it as another crank message, but the sender had to know about the exact government officials whose children had been abducted. The impression that this was more than a crank letter was verified when he pulled out five 3 × 5 glossy photographs of children. Each child was seated on a chair holding a sign with his or her name and the date of his or her abduction. Every child looked terrified. Little Jane Coombs-Hartvig sat on Cerisse Daniels’s lap. Cerisse was barely larger than the two-year-old, but the little girl clung to Cerisse as if her life depended on it. There was no writing and no indication of where the letter came from or where the pictures were taken.
“ This is the real thing ,” he said to himself, and then he roused himself to action, the torpor of the day having evaporated.
Within minutes he had calls put through to each of the parents or grandparents of the children and to the heads of the law enforcement agencies charged with getting them back. Sybil and Charles Daniels were just finishing breakfast when they got the news.
“She’s alive!!!” they said almost in the same breath.
A similar scene played out in all of the other homes and offices. But, the same sobering questions followed: Where is my child? What do the kidnappers want? How can I get him or her back and when?
Sybil said to Charles, “I am more than ever convinced that this comes from the Russians, but through so many cut-outs that the envelope will not be of any real use to us. I am going to send Mac Young and his deep-cover covert action team to every Mafioso house and hangout in Moscow. Ed Simonsen can mind the shop. I am going to Moscow as well. I am going to use my training and will be so disguised and have such a good cover that no one—not even you—would recognize me. I am going to find our daughter if I die trying.”
Charles said, “Sybil, the president will never approve that. If you were to fall into the hands of the KGB or whatever they call themselves now, it would be a diplomatic and intelligence disaster. Think about what you know
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