The Witness

A young professionally dressed woman with an attaché case exits her eighteenth floor condo, turns to lock the door, then heads for the elevator. After a typically long ride down to the main lobby, she exchanges waves with the security guard while heading towards the massive double glass doors.

“Hello Ms. Sonberg. How are you this morning? Hope you stay warm, it’s chilly out there.”

“I’m excellent, Sam, thanks. Keep warm as well!”

Someone holds the door open for her.

“Thank you. Have a good day” she says.

As Amy Sonberg wades through the snow and slush covering the New York sidewalk, her mind is on the new securities law passed just last week that angered some of the VIPs in her company. This morning’s presentation will ease their minds, pad their bank accounts a bit more, and possibly boost this year’s holiday bonus for the company, making her everyone’s hero. At least for this week. The entrance to the subway stop is just up ahead, but first she detours into her usual coffee shop for a latte and scone. No one in the lineup talks; some are reading the headlines on the marquis above the main counter; others are playing with their smartphones. Once up to order, the server asks -

“The usual?”

“Yes, thanks.” replies Amy. In this large city of anonymous everything, a little friendliness and familiarity go a long way. She tips generously.

“Wow, thanks! See you tomorrow morning.”

“Sure thing.” Back outside, Amy’s breath is taken away by a damp and chilly gust of wind as she descends the stairs to the subway station. I’ll be glad to get to Bermuda next week with Mom. I’ve had enough of this crap weather.

The subway platform is slightly less crowded than usual, as Christmas holidays have started and families leave town to visit this and that relative, or perhaps head west to ski, or head south to the equator. Amy can’t wait to join them. But for now, she remains focused on this morning’s presentation. Her admin assistant put a few final touches on her PowerPoint slides, and has prepped the boardroom; Amy will walk in and shine like a star.

Bump.

Her daydreaming is interrupted by a knock from someone’s knapsack that almost causes her to lose her coffee. Hey! They lock eyes for a split second, but the young man avoids any further personal contact.

Ignorant prick. That hurt. Amy rubs her shoulder. What’s he got in there? A ton of bricks?

He looks quite nervous to Amy, who likes to study people’s faces when they’re not looking. It’s cold down here; I wonder why he’s sweating so much. Just then, their subway train pulls in, and everyone waits for the passengers to disembark. That is, except for the nervous young man with the heavy knapsack, who pushes himself to the thickest part of the crowd. Amy simply waits for the throng to subside somewhat, then makes it almost to the edge of the platform. What she sees in the next few seconds turns her face immediately white, and her knees into rubber.

Oh God, not like this…

The young man turns around, unzips his winter jacket, and swiftly pulls out an odd looking electrical device with a wired tether that hangs out of his knapsack. His thumb is over what appears to be some kind of triggering switch. Others see this as well, and someone in the crowd screams “BOMB!!! HE HAS A BOMB!!!” The last thing in their lives a hundred and forty two people will hear is...

“PRAISE BE TO ALLAH!”

Emergency calls flood the 9-1-1 dispatchers as they gather names and locations. John McInnis, the shift supervisor, quickly realizes what has happened and makes the judgment call to pre-declare a state of emergency. The words bomb and terrorist attack on his computer screen sends chills down his spine as he follows disaster preparedness protocol: he dials the number of a phone bridge that will ring the emergency lines of the mayor, the heads of the fire department, police, local military, the subway commission, the FAA, and finally, the White House. As he waits for each representative to answer, he prepares the stats to email each meeting attendee:

- First call came in at 8:05 AM

- Calls started to drop off at 8:015 AM

- 331 calls in ten minutes.

As he types the location info, all seven dialed parties quickly acknowledge their presence. John starts immediately.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is shift supervisor John McInnis from New York City’s 9-1-1 Dispatch. Moments ago our city suffered an orchestrated attack in the subway system at three distinct locations. Witnesses calling in claim hundreds dead; all describe an explosion. Locations to dispatch emergency personnel are: Futton Street, Steinway Street, and 49th Street – Grand Concourse. Send everything you have.”

The headlines in the following morning’s New York Times confirm what the world has been hearing for the last twenty four hours on the radio and television:

Hundreds Dead in Coordinated Subway Terrorist Bombing.

Six Months Ago

A Russian guard plays nervously with the safety lever on his semi-automatic weapon. He’s wondering if his boss noticed how nervous he was when starting his midnight shift. Once completing this morning’s mission, his payoff will allow him to say goodbye to this meaningless life as a low-paid employee of the government, and finally retire in comfort. He has his eye on a little cottage just outside of Derbent, on the Caspian Sea, where his brother still lives.

“You boys have an easy night – only one truck coming in. Stay awake!”

“Yes sir.”

At 3:15 AM the guard house radio crackles with an announcement. A government delivery truck is on its way to the warehouse facility, less than one kilometer away. A guard picks up the microphone to acknowledge.

“Right on time. We are ready for you.”

“I must show the new driver the way down to Warehouse Three. He will get lost if I do not.”

“Dimitri, you know the rules. You do not have the necessary clearances. I understand how confusing it can be, with all the buildings connected by those old gravel roads, but he can find his own way.”

To placate his colleague, Dimitri responds -

“George, remember that time we talked about being part of something? Well, I have found it. I will explain later”

A month previous, Dimitri and George were alone in the guard house for an entire shift with no traffic coming or going, so they filled their time with the usual card games, conversation, and their favorite brand of vodka. As they talked, George noticed that Dimitri’s usual pessimism was not evident, so he inquired.

“Well George, I have been approached by my brother-in-law to become part of something. Something big. Something very important.”

“Who, that criminal scoundrel? He’s never up to any good, according to you anyways...”

“He has changed George, I can assure you of that.”

“So, you have me curious – what is this ‘thing’ that is so important?”

“George, I cannot divulge details, but suffice to say that you will be part of this too. You will know when it happens.”

Dimitri reminds him of the conversation, and hands him an envelope he pulled out of his uniform jacket. “Here George, this is why I will be escorting the delivery truck to Warehouse Three.”

George takes the envelope reluctantly, then opens it to see the large amount of paper bills. After a cursory count, his eyes begin to bulge. The amount in the envelope is one million rubles, roughly equivalent to thirty thousand American dollars. He comments.

“Dimitri my friend, this is enough for a new automobile.”

“You can finally buy that new Polo you have been lusting over. Or is it one of those Kias? Whatever – after tonight George, you and I can say that we are truly blessed!” Dimitri’s portion will be twenty times the amount he has given his colleague.

“You must tell me what we are part of, this grand thing you talk about.”

“George, it’s time for me to go. We will chat about this later.”

With the government delivery truck in sight, Dimitri dons his winter coat, grabs his firearm, and heads to his truck. The starter motor grinds against the cold, but successfully starts the engine. With the gate up, Dimitri makes his way down the hill to Warehouse Three after waving the delivery driver to follow him. Their headlights pierce the darkness, illuminating the light snow hanging in the air. Snow. Always so much snow. Not so in Derbent! In the ten minutes it takes the two vehicles to reach their destination, Dimitri dreams about every gleeful way he is going to spend his money. Cottage, car, clothes. Perhaps get myself another woman, although his last experience with the fairer sex left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Perhaps someone not so intelligent.

With both vehicles’ engines running, the two men make introductions, then Dimitri asks - “You have the sequences?”

“Yes, in here.” The delivery driver has a metal briefcase on the hood of his truck, and is nervously fumbling with the combination lock. Once opened, he picks up a very official-looking plastic envelope. The driver winks at Dimitri and says “Sorry, first time. I’m a little nervous.”

Dimitri slaps his back and says “No problem! We have good vodka at the guard house. You can relax with us a little once we are done here.”

With that, Dimitri walks over to the main doors of Warehouse Three and flips an electrical breaker, which turns on three large floodlights. The delivery driver sees the panel, and with the plastic envelope opened, enters a sequence of sixteen digits and letters, then hits a green button. Clunk. An electrical motor first draws six eight-inch steel cylinders out of the concrete floor, then slides the massive door to the right, eventually creating enough of an opening for the two vehicles to make their way indoors. Dimitri finds the light switch inside, and the entire warehouse is bathed in light.

“I did not realize I would have an escort tonight.” claims the driver.

“You’re new. You would have likely not found the warehouse until sunrise! I like to get out of that stuffy guard house and stretch my legs. Besides, I need to tinker with my carburetor. The mixture is too rich I suspect!”

“Ah, work on your vehicle in a warm warehouse. Smart thinking. I’ll be about ten minutes unloading.”

Dimitri intentionally parks his truck by section K; the delivery truck is parked at the opposite end of the large building, near section A.

“That’s fine, I’ll just be over there.” he says, waving in the general direction of his truck. On a small desk by the door sits a transistor radio. Dimitri turns it on, finds a station, and cranks the volume.

The Russian government’s nuclear armament management program was created to keep their stock in various storage facilities around the country in remote locations such as this. One aspect of the program is meant to confuse any curious onlookers by rotating that stock from place to place, much like a shell game. Dimitri’s brother-in-law had gained privileged knowledge of the current stock at this facility, and convinced him that a buyer was willing to spend a small fortune on obtaining a specific armed missile that was easily transported. One that would fit quite nicely into the back of Dimitri’s truck.

While the delivery driver was busy unloading two W45 warheads with a forklift, Dimitry swiftly – and easily – loaded a long gray fiberglass case into the rear of his own truck. This had been practiced with a mock-up box himself and his cousin constructed from plywood a week ago.

“See” his brother-in-law said - “Just fold down the passenger seat and it will slide in.”

“I have a better idea” Dimitri announced. “Let us take the passenger seat out, and make a shelf that the crate can be hidden under.”

“I see vodka makes you think clearly!”

With the crate loaded, the forklift parked exactly where he found it, and the back doors slammed shut, he moved his vehicle towards the large open door. With sweat beading on his forehead again, he nervously walked over to the other vehicle, and gave the driver a hand unloading the second warhead.

“Just think what these can do to a city!” the driver exclaimed.

Indeed thinks Dimitri. Indeed.

The six hour drive to St. Petersburg was nerve-wracking for this old Russian guard. He cursed the hard seats as his lower back started to spasm like every other time he’s driven more than thirty minutes. After a stop just outside of the city for gas and a washroom break, Dimitri stretches before climbing back into the driver’s seat. Just then a police vehicle pulls in behind him and the two officers exit the car, walking towards his truck. With his hand on the ignition key, his feels his breathing speed up. Am I just being paranoid? he wonders. Just then one of the officers yells something to the other, but their words are muffled... they start walking back to their car. Dimitri takes a big sigh, bows his head, and turns the ignition.

“I will be so glad to have you out of my truck” he says, patting the plywood shelf that hides his cargo from view. “Now let’s find this container yard.”

With that, he exits the gas station parking lot and heads west towards Neva Bay on the M18. In thirty minutes he’s through an industrial section and heading towards the water when he sees the cranes. Ah, that must be the container yard. He breathes another sigh of relief. He follows the parking signs and finds a spot out in the open, clearly visible from all angles. He kills the engine, exits the vehicle, and tests all the doors to ensure they are locked. He does a three-sixty to make sure he isn’t being watched or followed, then heads to the long warehouse with the sign “Office”. Walking towards the door, he pulls out the piece of paper with the name, location, and time of his rendezvous just to read it one more time. Mr. Polichev he rehearses – pleased to make your... Just as his hand is about to touch the door latch, it opens up swiftly from the inside. He’s met by a rather large man in a dirty jacket, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“Dimitri Maksudov?”

“Yes sir” he responds, attempting to shake his hand. He’s nervous, so he tries to be friendly. It is not reciprocated.

“Mister Maksudov? May I see some identification?” Dimitri quickly fishes his wallet out of his rear pocket while the man closes the door. He views Dimitri’s driver’s license. Satisfied, he grunts “Follow me.”

They pass a collection of desks and head to a set of wooden stairs, where they ascend to the second level of this old, run down part of the warehouse. They make their way around various obstacles - broken crates, hanging chains - Dimitri is led to what appears to be some kind of communications center, with old rotary telephones on the desks, walkie talkies in their chargers, and various clipboards hanging on one wall. Three men are busy with various admin tasks, when one of them holding a clipboard looks up at Dimitri’s escort. The two have a very short non-verbal exchange, then the man with the clipboard barks some orders to the rest of them; they all exit the room. He asks Dimitri to have a seat at his desk after closing the office door.

“So, Mister Maksudov, I understand you have a special delivery? One that you have very stealthfully managed to slip under the noses of our beloved government? Did you deliver the cash to your work partner? I understand he needed some convincing.”

“Yes sir, I have the cargo, and yes, my friend has been taken care of. May I presume the same will happen with me today?”

“Yes you may Dimitri. May I call you Dimitri? Where are you parked?”

He points out the window - “In that parking lot just below. The black cargo truck at the end.” His host steps over to the window and calls out his license number. “That it?”

“Yes sir.”

With his back still to Dimitri, the man has removed something from his jacket, and is – doing something – Dimitri can’t quite figure out. His host begins to speak.

“Sir, your life is about to change. Drastically.” As he says this, he is turning around slowly, revealing that he has been screwing a silencer onto a small handgun. The blood rushes from Dimitri’s face; his jaw drops open... What the...

Two days later, Dimitri Maksudov’s body was discovered at the north end of Neva Bay, at the Sankt Peterburga Park, with two to the chest. The investigating officer exclaimed “I suppose we can rule out drowning.” It took almost a month, but the news of his death finally reached his brother and sister. His brother-in-law also went missing around the same time, causing the police to treat his disappearance with suspicion as well.