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scrutinize the documents and Reanna.
    “Um…Yana Dolinsky.”
    “You’re traveling on an international driver’s license. Please hand me your Visa?”
    “Um…I don’t have one, but I can—”
    “Please give me the keys for the trunk.” Reanna pulled the key out of the ignition and handed them to the officer. She observed him in the rearview mirror and felt the car shake as he opened the trunk. After a few moments, he returned to the driver’s door and said, “Get out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them.” Reanna pushed open the door and stood on the pavement. The officer quickly grabbed her wrist and spun her around, slapping handcuffs on both wrists behind her back.
    “What’s going on, why am I being arrested?” pleaded Reanna. “I haven’t done anything wrong. All I need to do is make one phone call and everything will be cleared up.”
    The officer fixated on Reanna and said, “You have an International driver’s license issued by Russia, your name doesn’t match the name on the car registration or insurance documents, and there’s a loaded Browning automatic pistol with an illegal silencer in your trunk. How do you explain all of that, Missy?”
    Reanna winced. Her hands became clammy and she began to stare sightlessly.
    While the officer patted her down he said, “I spent too much time in Europe during the war to put up with someone like you. We don’t need the likes of you around here.”
    He held her arm and escorted her back to the patrol car. Reanna was shoved into the rear seat and the car door slammed shut.
    What a mess, but after she called Mac, the whole matter would be cleared up.
    The officer made some calls on his radio describing his passenger while Reanna sat in the back seat and fumed at her own stupidity.
    Upon their arrival at the police station, the handcuffs were removed. Then she was placed into a cell with two dirty forty-five to fifty-year-old scruffy women with disheveled hair and tattered clothes.
    Reanna stood next to the bars, her eyes flashing at two officers, “I just need to make one telephone call. It will clear this whole mess up.”
    “Listen here, Commie. You’ll get a telephone call when we say you can have a telephone call. Got that? Now sit down and shut up.” The two officers turned and left the area. Reanna sauntered to a bench and plopped down. Two rough looking women of the street glared at her with squinting eyes and said, “Commie bitch.”
    Once she contacted Mac, she’d be out of there in a flash.

Chapter Ten
    That afternoon, a black four-door sedan picked Jim up from the Washington National Airport, and drove him directly to E Street in D.C. Jim signed in at the desk and proceeded to Bob MacDonald’s office. He knocked on the open door frame. Mac looked up, smiled and said, “Come on in, Jim.” Mac got to his feet and shook Jim’s hand. “How was your flight?”
    “Good Mac…uneventful—the best kind,” said Jim. Mac stretched his arm out and pointed to the chair in front of his desk and Jim sat down. Mac settled into his big black leather chair and eased back. He reached under his desk at knee height, pushed a button and the office door closed.
    “What’s up? How is all of this going to work?” asked Jim crossing his arms and his legs in a figure four.
    Mac studied Jim. He looked good for someone who was shot down over the Pacific, survived for nearly a year on a deserted island before being captured and tortured by the Japanese for another year. He may look timid, but he’s strong-willed and strong-minded. He wished he had ten more just like him.
    Mac finally broke his silence. “Come on, the guys are waiting for us in the conference room. They were notified when you checked in downstairs. We’ll get details there.”
    As they proceeded toward the conference room, Mac asked Jim about Reanna and Jim politely responded but he did not mention anything about the Russian shooter.
    Mac and Jim entered the conference room