11:20 p.m.
Jay, Vermont
Piotr was surprised he didn’t feel more tired. He’d slept for a while on his trans-Atlantic flight into Montreal, but air travel through multiple time zones was exhausting, and he’d now been awake for the better part of the last thirty-six hours.
Adrenaline can take the body far, he thought, as can amphetamines. Both were currently racing through Piotr’s body, and while his eyes felt grainy and his eyelids heavy, he was awake and alert and ready to complete the next stage of his mission. He’d been awake for longer time frames and under more dangerous circumstances on other assignments, so he knew he would be fine.
It took less than two hours from the time he recovered his weapons and other supplies in the clearing in northern Vermont to steal a car. Most of that time was spent hiking along Route 243 into the little town of Jay.
Once there, he’d known he would have a wide range of vehicles to choose from, and he was right. Jay was rural and tiny, far off America’s beaten path, and few if any of its residents were wealthy. The vast majority of the houses Piotr knew he would encounter were small and utilitarian, ranch and split-level style homes with gravel driveways. Garages were rare commodities in Jay.
Daylight was still many hours away, so activity was minimal, and the most challenging factor when it came to stealing his transportation was picking out the car that would best suit his needs.
He settled on a small Toyota. It was a few years old, silver, anonymous. During Piotr’s time in the United States he’d seen thousands of cars exactly like it. Once he drove it out of the owner’s yard and swapped license plates with another car, he knew there was almost no chance of being intercepted by the police.
He thought that was very fortunate for the police.
He didn’t even need to break a window to access the car; it had been left unlocked. Piotr shook his head at the foolishness of its owner and in less than thirty seconds had hotwired it. Thirty seconds after that he’d backed out of the owner’s driveway and was on his way toward his ultimate destination.
The distance from Jay, Vermont to Washingon, D.C. was almost exactly six hundred miles, and barring traffic issues—always a possibility in the United States, Piotr knew, no matter the time of the day or day of the week—the drive would take roughly nine and a half hours to complete.
He stopped twice for gas—the damned car’s owner had left its tank nearly dry—and one for food and a quick twenty-minute catnap.
He encountered no traffic issues.
He was in the D.C. area shortly after noon on the seventeenth.
Things were going smoothly.
He would attempt to complete this stage of his mission tonight.
***
May 17, 1988
6:35 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Once he learned the name of the redheaded American CIA operative, getting the rest of the intel he required was a fairly straighforward matter. Piotr had spend years operating in and around the United States, and it still amazed him how easy it was to acquire useful intelligence on just about anyone in this country.
To a man who had grown up inside one of the most closed societies in the history of the world, the concept of readily available information on citizens and business and…well, everything, really…was astonishing. In Russia, the average citizen had no chance of digging up any significant intel on another average citizen, even if they knew that person’s name and address. To even conceive of such an occurrence was simply impossible.
For someone in Piotr’s position it was a different story, of course. If a KGB operative decided he wanted to learn all there was to know about some random Muscovite, doing so would be no more complicated than walking into the records division at Lubyanka and poring over that individual’s files.
But here in America, any interested party could learn nearly as much as they wanted to about anyone else’s life if they were willing to put in a little time and effort. And while Piotr still found that notion foreign and repellant, it had suited his needs perfectly. He spent several weeks tailing his prey, making preparations, and nailing down the little details that would allow him to complete this portion of his mission and successfully escape the U.S afterward.
Once he’d made those preparations and nailed down those details, he had returned to Europe and begun the killing spree that would set his plan in motion.
Now, he felt as comfortable as it was possible to feel driving the back roads of Alexandria, Virginia, stalking his prey and waiting for the proper moment to strike.
And that moment would be soon.
He parked the Toyota along the side of the rural Virginia two-lane road Tracie Tanner’s father drove every day on his way home from work. Jake Tanner was a highly regarded four-star general in the United States Army, a fact that had initially caused Piotr some concern but one that he’d ultimately decided was irrelevant to his plan.
As a career military man, Tanner would have learned self-defense techniques above and beyond those available to most middle-aged men. But an officer who’d risen as far in the ranks as General Tanner would have been sitting behind a desk at the Pentagon for decades. He was likely every bit as soft and easily broken as any other American man in his early fifties.
If not, if Jake Tanner was a fit and formidable opponent, Piotr liked his chances anyway. He would possess the advantage of surprise over his opponent, and that was an advantage not to be taken lightly. Even longtime intelligence operatives could fall victim to confusion if taken by surprise, and an army general, no matter how imposing, was no operative. Even if Tanner were armed—a distinct possibility—the man would be unprepared to actually use his weapon.
Piotr would be prepared.
Piotr would be fine.
He concentrated on maintaining his focus while he awaited the appearance of Tanner’s car, feeling the sense of anticipation build as time passed. Unless the target had been held up at work, he should be along any time. Piotr had discovered Jake Tanner—like many military men—was a creature of habit, highly disciplined, someone who could largely be counted on to follow the same routine day in and day out.
Piotr’s main concern was that when Tanner showed, he would be stuck in the middle of a line of three or more vehicles all traveling the same isolated road at the same time. Such an occurrence would complicate matters, but not so badly he would have to abort the mission for the day as long as none of the vehicles was a police cruiser.
Killing a cop was the one thing that he knew he would have to avoid at all costs. Doing so would cause innumerable problems, not the least of which—
There he was.
Piotr had chosen this particular ambush location for its extended view of the rural road, and more than a quarter mile away, General Jake Tanner’s distinctive red Monte Carlo had just rounded the corner and was motoring straight toward Piotr.
Even better, behind Tanner’s car the road was deserted.
Piotr peered left and saw no one approaching from that direction.
Conditions were perfect.
It was time to strike.
14
May 18, 1988
12:35 a.m.
Hôtel de Crillon, Paris, France
“Something’s wrong,” Tracie said into her secure satellite phone. She didn’t bother with a standard greeting; Aaron Stallings wouldn’t appreciate his time being wasted with such a courtesy, anyway.
A moment of silence followed as the CIA director absorbed her words. Then he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Tanner?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s a little after midnight. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Not there,” came the exasperated reply. “Here. Do you know what time it is here?”
She smiled thinly. She never tired of getting under Stallings’ skin, and given all he had done to her, she felt any aggravation he may experience thanks to her was no more than a tiny portion of the payback he deserved. “I guess that would make i
t six thirty-five p.m. on the seventeenth in D.C.”
“Yes. Yes it is. It’s six thirty-five. I’ve just gotten home after a very long day, Tanner. I haven’t eaten yet, and more importantly, I haven’t even had the chance to pour a scotch. May I ask why you felt the need to interrupt those important tasks with a call?”
“Well I couldn’t call any earlier, sir, I was busy trying to figure out why I’m still alive after parading around in front of the U.S. Embassy building for three days with a bulls-eye painted on my back, waiting to be gunned down.”
“Obviously that didn’t happen,” Stallings said drily. “And since you admitted you’re having trouble sleeping, I can only assume you’re calling me to inform me you’ve failed to apprehend the man who’s been running around executing American ambassadors.”
“That’s exactly right, which is why I started this conversation by saying something’s wrong.”
“So today went no better than the last two days? You haven’t flushed the assassin out?”
“There’s been no sign of him, and if he hasn’t taken a shot at me by now, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t going to.”
“Well, unless our entire theory about those murders is completely off base, they were very specifically designed to bait you and draw you to Paris.”
“Agreed,” Tracie said. “But clearly we were wrong about why he wanted me here.”
“I assume you have a theory you’d like to share?”
“I do.”
“Well then, enlighten me. It’s not getting any earlier over here.”
“It’s simple. He wanted me out of the way.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Out of the way for what? It’s not like the two of you have been bumping into each other on every street corner in Moscow.”
“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “But I have a very bad feeling, and every day I hang around Paris accomplishing nothing, that feeling is getting worse.”
“I’m not sure what else you could be doing, Tanner.”
“Neither am I, sir, but I think it’s time to call off this little wild goose chase. It’s been a failure and a waste of time.”
“You realize most thirty year old women would—”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I’m not thirty, I’m twenty-nine.”
“Whatever, Tanner. My point, if you’d allow me to make it without interruption, is that most young women your age would love the opportunity to hang out in Paris. They wouldn’t be calling their boss at dinner time begging to come home.”
“First of all, I’m not ‘begging to come home.’ But if we’re comparing me to ‘most young women,’ I think it’s safe to say very few of them would have agreed to come to Paris in the first place if it was for the sole purpose of being shot at.”
Another sigh from Stallings. “I know. And I actually agree with your assessment. If our assassin hasn’t slithered out of his snake pit by now, he’s not going to. At least not in Paris. But this isn’t over. I can feel it. This lunatic is up to something, and it involves you.”
“Agreed. I just don’t think whatever comes next is going to happen here.”
Stallings went silent. His silence stretched out for such a long time, Tracie began to wonder if he’d placed the satellite phone down on his desk and wandered off to pour his scotch. “Sir?”
“Okay. Here’s what I’m thinking, Tanner. Pick an embassy city in Europe and get your ass on a flight to it tomorrow morning. Our man has killed three ambassadors on successive Wednesdays. We both agree he’s not finished yet. Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll pick the right city and be in position to stop him when he goes for Number Four, or at the very least, take him down after he succeeds.”
Tracie had been thinking the same thing, which was why she’d made the secure satellite call to Stallings in the first place. She hadn’t contacted him to request a flight home, her intention had been to get permission to fly to Rome. But as usual, the CIA director hadn’t given her the opportunity to make that request.
Now that Stallings had echoed her thoughts, though, the plan sounded more than a little thin. It sounded downright desperate, a grasping at straws that couldn’t help but be doomed to failure.
It sounded like the continuation of a wild goose chase, not the solution to one.
Now it was Tracie’s turn to fall silent.
Patience had never been one of Aaron Stallings’ virtues, and after just a few seconds he said, “What?” The word came out testy and sharp. It was the sound of a man who’d nearly arrived at the end of his rope. It was a sound Tracie had heard many times.
“That’s fine, sir, I’ll be on my way first thing in the morning. I just feel like…”
“I know. Like we’re dogs chasing our own tails. He’s got us playing defense, not offense, and that’s never a good thing.”
“Exactly.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening. But this is the best I can come up with, at least for the time being.”
Tracie shook her head, alone in her room. “No. My idea was the same as yours. But I’ll review everything I can remember about Piotr Speransky tonight. I can’t sleep anyway. I’ll write it all down and maybe something will shake loose.”
They fell silent again. Things were spinning out of control; they could both feel it. It was an uncomfortable sensation and one with which Tracie was mostly unfamiliar. She was used to devising a plan, usually a bold plan, and then aggressively pursuing it to completion.
This was a novel experience, and she didn’t much like it.
“If there’s nothing else, Tanner…”
Tracie blinked. She’d almost forgotten she was still on the phone with her handler. The extreme stress of days spent walking around Paris waiting to be blown off her feet by sniper fire was catching up to her. She was exhausted. “No, sir. That’s it.”
“Then I suggest you get some rest. You sound as tired as I feel.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“Goodbye, Tanner.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
The circuit went dead and Tracie lowered the sat phone’s antenna. She placed the transceiver into its carry bag and zipped the bag closed. Then she padded to the writing desk.
She stared out at the Eiffel Tower in the distance and sighed. She had expected to feel at least marginally better after talking to Aaron Stallings. For all his faults, and he had plenty, the CIA director had been doing his job for decades and was considered by most in the intelligence community to be an expert in his field. He was a spymaster with the emphasis on master.
But rather than feeling better after disconnecting the sat phone, the opposite was true. She felt worse. Much worse. Stallings was as confused as she regarding Piotr Speransky’s intentions, and that was a very bad sign.
The only thing she felt reasonably sure of was that Speransky’s end game was not the murder of three diplomats and three embassy security guards. All those victims were simply collateral damage. He was up to something else, and it involved her, and it was more than a little disconcerting to realize she didn’t have the slightest clue what that something might be.
She gazed out the window without really seeing anything. The scenery was spectacular but her mind was fifteen hundred miles away, inside a small CIA safe house in Moscow. She replayed her interrogation of Piotr Speransky over and over in her head, desperate to recall some small detail that might reveal the man’s intentions.
There was nothing. All her obsessive replay revealed was how foolish she’d been to allow him to live. She’d known that decision might come back to haunt her, but had allowed her heart to overrule her head and now she was paying for it, and the price was a half-dozen dead Americans.
So far.
After a while she shook her head and picked up the hotel’s phone. She still had to reserve a ticket on a flight tomorrow morning for Rome. Flying there was the best plan she could come up with, but she couldn’t escape th
e feeling that she was making another mistake.
A costly one.
15
May 17, 1988
6:36 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Piotr had slewed his stolen car onto the side of the deserted two-lane, hoping it would appear as though he’d suffered a mechanical issue. Given the age of the vehicle and its generally beaten-down appearance, he thought the impression would be an easy sell.
He waited until he was certain General Tanner had gotten a good look at the car as he approached, and then he opened the driver’s side door and walked quickly toward the middle of the road. He raised his arms and waved his hands over his head in the universal signal of a driver in need of assistance.
There was room for Tanner to pass him and keep going, but he knew the man wouldn’t do so. Guys like him—suckers, in other words—couldn’t resist lending a helping hand to a stranger in need. Sure enough, the Monte Carlo began slowing, and Piotr smiled in thanks as the Good Samaritan eased to a stop next to him.
Tanner leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger window. He nodded past Piotr and said, “Cars are more trouble than they’re worth, aren’t they?”
“Definitely,” Piotr said.
“What’s the problem?”
Piotr’s smile widened. “Nothing.”
Tanner blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“There is no problem with my car. It is running perfectly.” Piotr’s English, while passable, was clearly accented with Russian even after all the time he’d spent operating in the states, and while on missions here he had always tried to speak as little in public as he could get away with.
It didn’t matter now, though. His victim was in his sights and would not be escaping.
Suspicion clouded Tanner’s eyes and he shook his head. “Then…how can I help you?”
Piotr reached behind his back. He drew his Makarov and leveled it at the driver. “You can do exactly as I say, or you can die. The choice is yours.”
Tanner shrank back instinctively but Piotr had expected that reaction and was ready for it. He reached through the still-open window and kept his weapon trained on his victim. “Do not try it,” he said.
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