Midnight in moscow, p.1
Midnight in Moscow, page 1
Midnight In
Moscow
Book Two of
THE ISIS PROJECT
M. D. Johnson
Copyright © 2021 by M. D. Johnson.
ISBN: Softcover 978-1-6641-7608-9
eBook 978-1-6641-7607-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Rev. date: 05/19/2021
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
828075
CONTENTS
Author’s Notes
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Chapter Sixty Three
Epilogue
Afterword
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The ISIS Project is historically inspired fiction. The characters in this, the second of an intended five part series are wholly the product of my imagination. The newspapers and features cited in this work are also fictional, any non-fictional references are cited by source.
It is alleged by various and sundry criminologists that there are over thirty Russian Crime Syndicates in the United States centered in every major city including Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, Dallas, Miami, New York, Philadelphia, Portland, San Francisco and Seattle. As crime festers in an environment where individual freedom is suppressed, only time will tell to what extent the Russian Mafyia will influence the American lifestyle and economy.
“For the average Russian, the consequence of honesty, as always, is deprivation.”
- Lydia S. Rossner – Preface to “Organized Crime, The Russian Connection, Contemporary Criminal Justice”
This book simply could not have been written without the background sounds of Maurice Jarre, Red Elvises, Bruno Coulais, The Karelian Folk Music Ensemble, Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares, Clannad, Swampcandy, The Alan Parsons Project, ‘1964...The Tribute’, Mr. Acker Bilk, and Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, all of whom put me in an excellent frame of mind during my daily toil at the keyboard. I am also indebted to the following people who have always given me food for thought; Det. Sgt. Jay Kelly, Detective Ed Kornacki (Ret.) and Col. S. O. “Neil” Franklin (Ret), three of Maryland’s finest law enforcement professionals who could themselves write volumes about their own experiences within law enforcement. Also to David R. Fowler, M.D. Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Maryland, an utterly brilliant man who kindly has always taken time to answer my questions. My daughters-in-law Amanda Martinez Johnson and Jacki Stoner Johnson, cousins Julie and Bob Ainsworth, Tommy, Irene and David Wilkinson, and Karen Wormald, my teacher and mentor Derek Nimmo, old school chums Carol “The Prim” Sayle, Arthur Gorton and Ben Ralston, Pam Neubert and the designer of the face pin mentioned in this book Linda Rosshirt of Georgia, along with Janis Christie brilliant designer at Skullz of London, Tails of Hope in Mt. Airy, Maryland, a worthy animal rescue organization who matched me up with Magical Max, and Cats R Us who found Mousey Tongue, my cat of cats. I would also like to honor the memories of Hildegard Koiwai, who knew the spirit of Amina Desai in 1970, Celeste and the family of Debbie Flores Narvaez, Gary Grimes of ‘1964…The Tribute’, Paul F. Florentino, M.D., Malcolm Lester Carr LL.B, the Rev. Fr. Thomas Delaney, Theodore and Ida Jennings, John Heider and Patrick D’Atri, and my very dear cousins Harold Wormald, James Winston Wormald and Joseph Anthony Cosgrove all of whom left this life much too soon.
Finally, thanks go to Russian journalist Yaraslova Tankova, whose expose’ fueled my research, to Pam Cichon, Leigh Gruber and of all the ladies of a book club meeting in Annapolis, Maryland who invited me into their hearts to discuss “Circle Around The Sun” a few years ago and whose enthusiasm and support makes writing books for them to read so much fun. All writers should have such support!
Dedicated to my husband, Pete and his shadows Laika, Max and Chloe; also to Anna Politskovkaya, the uncompromising Russian journalist and special correspondent for ”Noveya Gazeta”, who was, during her career, incarcerated, intimidated, poisoned and finally shot to death in her apartment building because she chose to write the truth. She remains even in death, a beacon for us all.
PROLOGUE
An autopsy will be performed to determine the identity of a person found Saturday night in a blazing automobile near Baltimore Washington International Airport.
Anne Arundel County Police are investigating the accident as a suspicious death. The body was discovered at about 10.00 p.m. inside a 2001 Mercury Cougar two door sports car on Science Drive near Telegraph Road. When firefighters and police arrived at the scene the car was already engulfed in flames. Rescue workers discovered the charred remains once the fire was under control. The victim’s sex and age have not yet been determined as the body was, according to police spokesman Michael Hennessey, burned beyond recognition. There is no indication that the vehicle had been involved in an accident that could have caused the fire. Officials at North County Fire department are investigating the cause of the blaze.
June 3rd, 2005 The Baltimore Star-Gazette
The body local authorities recently discovered in a blazing automobile on Science Drive near BWI Airport has been identified as European financier Hans Jurgen Freitag, 56, a resident of the Persimmon Acres Community of Kent Island, Maryland. Police are investigating his death as a probable homicide. Freitag’s badly charred body was found about 10 p.m. yesterday after firefighters extinguished his burning Mercury Cougar. A spokesperson for The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore said earlier today that an autopsy was being performed to determine cause of death.
June 6th 2005, The Allegany Courier
Tri-County Task Force Officials continue to investigate the identity of a woman whose body was found on Route 68 between Breezewood, Pennsylvania and Hancock, Maryland. TCTF Spokesman Rudy Eichmann said earlier today that the body is now being autopsied in Fulton County, Pennsylvania. A criminal investigation into the victim’s death is being conducted by the Fulton County Pennsylvania Police Department. The involvement of the Tri-County Task Force is based on a missing persons report filed in Berkleigh, Maryland and an abandoned vehicle alleged to belong to the victim found in Fort Ashby, West Virginia. The vehicle is registered to Anastasia Markova, a Russian immigrant whose last known address was Fort Ashby, West Virginia.
An unidentified source close to the police department confirmed that a missing persons report was filed by Leonid Markov of Berkleigh, Maryland two days ago relating to his daughter.
June 12th, 2005 The Allegany Courier
Tri-County Task Force Police Spokesman Maj. Rudy Eichmann confirmed this morning that the body found on Route 68 between Breezewood, Pennsylvania and Hancock, Maryland has been positively identified as An
June 13th 2005, The Allegany Courier
OBITUARY
ANASTASIA LARISSA MARKOVA
Anastasia “Stacy Marx” Markova, born March 27th, 1972 in Ulyanovsk, Central Russia, died as a result of homicide earlier this month. The daughter of local businessman Leonid Markov and his wife Zinaida of Berkleigh, Maryland, Ms. Markova emigrated with her parents to the United States in 1975. She graduated from Hillside High School in 1990 and attended Baltimore School of Massage, receiving her certification in Therapeutic Body and Cranial Massage in 1992. Ms. Markova, a successful business entrepreneur, was also owner of “The Silver Chalice Book and Gift Store” in Vale, Maryland. Ms. Markova remained an active member of The Russian Orthodox Church of St. Matrona, in Baltimore, Maryland. In addition to her parents, she is survived by one brother, Valery, and two sons, Vasily and Jacov.
A private Russian Orthodox funeral will take place in the church of St. Matrona in Baltimore on July 9th, followed by a forty day Panchida memorial service of supplication. Burial following the funeral will be private. In lieu of flowers, friends and associates are asked to send memorial contributions to the charities of their choice.
CHAPTER ONE
Cape St. Andrew, Maryland
“Harrison, get the bloody phone will you? I’m still in the bathtub!” Emily Cowan shouted, the infernal ringing disturbing one of her daily pleasures. “Tell whoever it is that I’m asleep or something.”
“Yes Madam. Of course, Madam. Anything you say,” her husband responded sarcastically, leaving what he referred to as his midmorning deliverance, a glass of Scotch on the bathroom sink as he padded down the hallway into the living room of their beachfront home.
Life in Cape St. Andrew was pure joy at any time of year and the dinner party the previous evening had allowed their guests to take in all of its splendor. The island that was the main view from the house had been surrounded by fog and rendered barely visible, save for the tips of the pine trees eerily poking out of the mist in the moonlight. The sight prompted their Eastern European guests to take turns entertaining the party with dark, sinister Russian folk tales and before they realized it, it was after two in the morning, leaving Emily and her husband Harrison bereft of sleep, their normal daily routine irrevocably broken.
Emily enjoyed having dinner guests as the informal gatherings made a welcome change from the daily routine of her semi-retirement and life with Harrison. Everything turned out as planned, from the simple, rustic fare to the good music and excellent conversation. Her guests had raved about the food she served and Emily, who had been depressed of late, thrived on the appreciation. She’d labored over a mushroom stew, served it with a tangy homemade fruit and nut bread, cheeses, and for the non-vegetarians a Maryland stuffed ham with sweet potatoes and kale. Her penchant for warm chocolate raspberry tart with a crème fraiche as a finale kept her basking in the sunshine of compliments from her guests, who filled themselves to capacity. Emily Cowan rested safe in the knowledge that even at the ripe old age of (Oh bugger, was she 56 or 57?) she could still pull off an informal dinner party without dropping from fatigue half way through the event.
Now, eight hours later, the same fifty-six year old Emily, sinking deeper into the silky green bath foam laden with horse chestnut and sea salt, reminisced on all that was left of her youth. In earlier days she entertained constantly. “The smell of this bath stuff,” she reflected aloud to no one in particular, “always reminds me of Heidelberg.” Life was altogether different then. Tempted by the acoustics in the only bathroom she’d ever had with a fireplace, she began singing a medley of old German pop songs. Moments later, much to her displeasure, the ringing of the telephone disturbed her reverie.
“So who was it, Harrison?” Emily yelled to her husband ten minutes later over the sound of the hair dryer she was using in a reckless attempt to bring order to the masses of her natural, albeit dye enhanced curls. She slathered styling gel onto her rebellious locks, each now resembling shiny, fat sausages. “Christ, this hair still grows like wild mint,” she said mindlessly, grabbing a coated rubber band, scrunching the unruly locks into a short ponytail and promising herself a visit to Ashley, her stylist, by the end of the week.
She entered the library to find her husband seated in a large overstuffed chair, writing with one hand and cradling the phone with the other. “God, this is a terrible shock! Aye lass, I don’t know what to tell you, I mean, we weren’t that close but it’s a terrible thing nonetheless. The funeral is when now?” he asked, carefully writing down the information then ending the call.
“Do you remember Hans Jurgen Freitag?” Harrison began, moving slowly towards his wife. “I met with him earlier this year. We may have even taken him to lunch at ‘Olivia’s.’
“I’ve never been to the place. Perhaps you’re confusing me with someone else,” Emily replied sharply. “But I do remember him rather well from years ago. He’s the same chap, is he not, that we knew as ‘The Orchid’ in Germany?” she asked carelessly, without much regard to his thoughtful stare. “What’s happened?” Emily, noticing his look asked him once again, more out of habit than interest in what had actually taken place, while she poured herself a Glen Livet, her favorite scotch.
“That was Alison,” Harrison replied, referring to one of his colleagues, Alison Hunter. “It seems that Freitag’s body was found in a blazing car near the airport a few days ago. What’s left of him is at the Medical Examiner’s office in Baltimore and his widow has contacted Alison to see if she can hurry them up so she can make burial arrangements.”
Alison Hunter, attorney, thirty two years old, a brilliant risk management consultant and expert in international security, spearheaded Harrison Cowan’s new company, ‘Deep Creek Security Systems’ and like many other women of a certain type, married or single, she freely basked in Harrison’s sunshine. Harrison’s resemblance to an aging Scottish film star best known for his roles in spy movies several decades ago was a frequent irritation to Emily. Unfortunately, to her current way of thinking, that certain type, pro-gun, athletic, almost Amazon in body and mindset seemed to be getting younger and younger.
Emily pondered what Harrison had said, still trying to head off her more resentful cumulative instincts. “Wait a mo! Allison Hunter?” then adding caustically, “Allison, the wanton and the fair, has telephoned here to tell you that someone WE knew thirty years ago has been found dead at BWI? Forgive me on this one, Harry dearest, but exactly how did Allison know you had any connection to Freitag?”
With perhaps too much caution in his voice, a beleaguered Harrison Cowan answered his wife. “She knew his son, probably heard me talk about him as well and we did go out to lunch quite recently. Surely my dear, the issue is that the man is no more and expired, so to speak, under very strange circumstances.”
“The issue is Harrison, Allison probably knows more about you than is good for either of us!” Emily did not add the phrase, “particularly me”, but thought it nonetheless and was now feeling almost enflamed with resentment.
“Surely, my dear, you don’t begrudge me some semblance of camaraderie. I’m not an emotional captive you know. In point of fact Allison only called to see if we can find out what’s going on.”
Harrison’s sarcasm irked his wife further and he was unknowingly digging his own grave as their marital communication sank to an all time low.
“My point, Harrison! Just my bloody point! How would she know we had any connections at the OCME?” referring to her friendship with the Chief Medical Examiner. “I can’t just contact Penn Street and ask for information. If it’s a suspicious death then it’s an ongoing investigation and still a police matter.”
“Emily, exactly what is wrong with you? You’d be on the phone very quickly indeed if one of your pals from the Embassy or some Middle Eastern wanker rang with the same request.” Harrison’s Scottish burr became more pronounced and his cheeks a little pinker as his blood pressure visibly began to rise. “Do you have a problem with Allison? She’s my partner, for heaven sakes.”
