“Try what?”
“I know you are considering hitting the gas and attempting to escape. If you do so, you will die.”
Tanner looked out the windshield and then across at Piotr. The road was still empty. “What do you want?” the general said.
“You,” Piotr said simply.
“I don’t understand.”
“You do not need to.” Far off in the distance a vehicle had rounded the corner and was approaching. Piotr had hoped to finished this business without interruption, but even though this particular road was sparsely traveled, the location was still less than thirty miles from the urban sprawl of Washington, D.C. He’d known there was every chance they would be interrupted and was prepared for just such an occurrence.
He leaned into the car and flicked his weapon in the direction of the oncoming vehicle. “If that motorist stops, you will get rid of him immediately or everybody dies.”
Tanner nodded. His eyes hardened and he held Piotr’s gaze for a long moment before turning his attention to the approaching car. Sure enough, it began slowing.
The car stopped in the opposite travel lane and Piotr felt himself tensing. He tightened his grip on the Makarov and lowered it slightly to ensure it remained below the intruder’s field of vision. It would still be a simple matter to fire into Jake Tanner’s chest from this position and he hoped that fact remained foremost in the general’s mind.
The other driver lowered his window. It was a middle-aged man. He said, “Everything alright here, fellas?”
For a moment no one spoke and Piotr thought he was going to have to end the general before he wanted to. Doing so would alter his plan for vengeance against the redheaded cyka, but would not eliminate it.
Finally, Jake Tanner spoke. “We’re good,” he said across the open windows. “Ran into an old friend and we’re doing a little catching up.”
“In the middle of the road?”
Tanner chuckled uneasily. “Yeah, I guess we should probably move our reunion to a bar or something, shouldn’t we?”
The other driver shook his head angrily. “Jesus, could you be any more selfish? Blocking a public road to chat with an old friend? You’re lucky somebody doesn’t come by and shoot your self-absorbed asses.”
The man rolled up his window and raised his middle finger at the two of them. He leaned forward to be sure Piotr could see it as well. Piotr smiled widely at the man, who hit the gas and roared away.
“Yes,” Piotr said. “You are very lucky somebody doesn’t come by and shoot you.”
Tanner ignored his comment. “What now? I did as you asked.”
Piotr kept his weapon trained on Tanner as he fumbled for the door handle. He yanked the door open and slid into the car. It was well past time to get out of here. There was nothing to be gained by risking another interaction with a passing motorist. The next one would likely not end as well.
“Drive,” he said.
“Drive?”
“You heard me.”
“Drive where?”
Piotr leaned across the seat and pressed his weapon to the side of Jake Tanner’s head. “I know what you are doing. You are stalling because you think the longer you sit out here in the middle of the road, the less likely you are to die. You are mistaken. Put your foot on the accelerator and press down or I will blow your brains all over the inside of this car. Do not test me.”
The car began to inch forward, picking up speed slowly. Piotr waited a moment and then removed the gun from Tanner’s skull.
“Satisfied?” Tanner said tersely.
“For now.”
“My question remains unchanged. Where am I supposed to be driving?”
“I will give you directions as needed,” Piotr said. “For now, just continue along this route.” He made a mental note to maintain the utmost situational awareness at all times until Jake Tanner was properly secured. Piotr had kidnapped countless men and women over the course of a long career, both in his official position as a KGB operative, and in his unofficial one as a killer for hire. Virtually all of his victims responded in the same way: with shock and terror that rendered them unable to defend themselves in any meaningful way.
This man was different. He was fearful—who wouldn’t be afraid with the barrel of a Makarov 9mm pistol shoved into his ear?—but rather than being rendered helpless by his situation, Piotr could see a grim determination in his expression.
And that sort of reaction made him extremely dangerous. Piotr was holding the gun, and it appeared Tanner was unarmed, so that left Piotr clearly in charge. But he would take nothing for granted. It had become clear just in the five minutes they’d interacted that General Jake Tanner could be a dangerous adversary.
Piotr supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, given the resourcefulness the redheaded CIA cyka had shown in capturing him and then extracting vital information from him. The fact that he hated her and wanted nothing more out of whatever life he had remaining than to make her suffer as much as humanly possible didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize—and even grudgingly appreciate—her abilities as a covert intelligence specialist. And he was now sitting a meter away from her father, from whom she had probably inherited the traits that made her such a dangerous adversary.
But Piotr hadn’t come this far to be outsmarted or overpowered because he let his guard down. This man might be as resourceful as his daughter, but Piotr had dealt with plenty of dangerous men in his life, and on missions that meant far less to him personally than did this one.
They drove for a while, the silence interrupted only by Piotr’s muttered, “Turn left here,” or “Turn right there.”
Eventually Jake Tanner broke the silence. He said, “What exactly is it you want?”
“I already told you. I want you to drive where I tell you to drive.”
“And that’s what I’m doing. What I’m asking is why am I driving exactly where you tell me to drive?”
“Because I have the gun and you do not.”
“This wasn’t a random kidnapping, was it?”
Piotr smiled despite the tension; he couldn’t help himself. “Oh no,” he agreed, “this was most certainly not random.”
“And to what do I owe the honor of being hijacked at gunpoint and forced to drive to some mysterious destination for some unknown purpose?”
“Vengeance,” Piotr said simply.
“I see,” Tanner said, although it was clear he did not. “May I ask what was done to you that requires this sort of extreme vengeance?”
Piotr turned in the seat. He faced Jake Tanner and realized he’d begun lifting his Makarov and pointing it again at Tanner’s head. “My life was destroyed.”
Tanner glanced over at Piotr before returning his attention to the road. “What could I possibly have done to you that warrants this response? I don’t even recognize you.”
“It was not you who ruined my life.”
“And yet it is me who is being kidnapped.”
“Yes it is.”
“Who was it?”
“You know who it was. You just do not want to say it.”
Tanner shook his head. “I’m quite sure I don’t—”
“It was your daughter. And that is all you need to know on the subject.”
“My daughter?”
“Shut up.”
“How could you have learned the identity of—”
“SHUT UP OR DIE!” Piotr shouted.
The car fell silent again.
“Turn left here,” Piotr said.
Before long they had arrived.
16
May 17, 1988
7:10 p.m.
Somewhere near Alexandria, Virginia
The minute the asshole stuck a gun in his face, Jake Tanner knew he’d made a mistake with his split-second decision to stop for the stranded motorist. The road was a remote country two-lane, but there had still been plenty of room to drive by if he’d decided just to mind his own business and let the unlucky bastard with the brok
en-down car fend for himself.
But of course, he’d never been one to let people in need fend for themselves, not even strangers. The concept of service to others was a thread running through the Tanner family, and the thought of driving past the man had never even occurred to him.
Until the ungrateful prick stuck a gun in his face.
At first, Jake assumed this was a random occurrence. A man who’d committed some kind of serious crime and then experienced a breakdown as he was making his escape. A criminal who had panicked and flagged down the first poor sap to drive by, resorting to Plan B: an armed carjacking.
But that assumption had begun to fade almost immediately, replaced by a cold dread that told him he’d been targeted specifically. His kidnapper was far too calm and calculated to be a criminal whose car had died at an inopportune moment. And it took a little time to place the man’s accent because it was so unexpected. And having a gun thrust into his face wasn’t helping him think clearly, either.
Then it came to him, and when it did his blood ran cold.
The accent was Russian. And his immediate thought was, This has something to do with Tracie.
Not a day had gone by since his only child told him she’d hired on with the Central Intelligence Agency as a covert operative that he didn’t worry about what she might be doing and where she might be doing it. She was able to share almost nothing about her career with him—as a U.S. Army general, he well understood the concepts of classified information and top secret clearances—but given the fact the United States had only one major geopolitical rival in the world, it didn’t take much imagination to assume her work regularly brought her in contact with representatives of the Soviet Union.
Representatives like the man sitting a couple of feet away in the front passenger seat of his car, calmly holding a gun on him and tossing out directions like an old hand at public kidnappings.
But even if his assumption was correct, what the hell was a Russian operative doing in rural Virginia kidnapping a four-star general in his own car?
And where were they going?
And most importantly, what was going to happen when they got there?
Jake didn’t know the answer to any of those questions and he doubted very much he wanted to find out. But he was going to, because after maybe thirty minutes of driving, following left and right turns dictated by the kidnapper that seemed random but were not, they finally turned into a long gravel driveway that was choked with weeds and strewn with potholes.
At the far end of the driveway stood the remains of what at one time had been a single family home but was now nothing more than an abandoned wreck, a shell of a building that even from a distance and approaching nightfall Jake could see had not been occupied in a very long time.
Shutters sagged, torn partially away from siding that featured faded, peeling paint. Every window Jake could see had been smashed out, and what he assumed were gang symbols had been spray-painted across virtually the entire front of the house.
The man sitting in the passenger seat with the trace of a Russian accent and the calm, threatening demeanor didn’t strike Jake as a Washington gang member, so he assumed this choice of destinations had been selected for its ease of accessibility and the remoteness of its location.
Jake moved slowly up the driveway, the car practically at idle, not anxious to hurry things along. Whatever was going to happen here, he knew it would not be healthy for him. The longer he could delay the man’s endgame, the greater his chances of figuring a way out, either by making a play for the Russian’s gun or making a break for freedom under the cover of darkness.
For his part, the Russian seemed perfectly happy to allow Jake to move as slowly as he wanted. He’d been tense and nervous back at the ambush point, but now that they’d escaped, he seemed relaxed, almost jovial, a man without a care in the world.
They reached the end of the long driveway and Jake eased to a stop. It was either that or drive into the side of the house, an option he actually considered doing for the briefest of moments. It seemed increasingly obvious the man’s intentions were deadly, and if Jake were doomed to die, he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to taking his captor along with him. Dropping a house onto the asshole’s head would be no more than he deserved.
But he pulled to a stop instead. All things being equal, he preferred attempting escape over dying in his own car next to the man with the gun.
He left the engine running and said, “Okay. What now?”
“Now we go inside.”
“How about you go inside and do what you need to do, and I’ll wait for you out here? I’ll keep the car warm for you.”
The Russian had been holding his weapon in his lap but now he raised it and trained it on Jake. He held it close to his body, being careful to give himself enough time to squeeze off at least one shot should Jake make a play for it. “Let me warn you. Do not mistake my good humor for weakness, General Tanner. I will not hesitate to put you down like a rabid dog.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said. He worked hard to keep his voice steady, determined not to give this asshole the satisfaction of sensing fear in his captive. “But now it’s my turn. Do not mistake my good humor for weakness, either. The first chance I get, I’m going to take that gun away from you and shove it up your ass. Then I’m going to snap your neck and leave you inside this wreck of a house, which is a better fate than you deserve.”
The Russian gazed at Jake, his expression flat. Jake knew immediately he’d made a mistake in speaking to the man the way he had, but he just couldn’t stop himself. Passivity and victimhood were every bit as foreign to him as the Soviet system of government, and every bit as repugnant.
“Perhaps I should protect myself then, and just shoot you where you sit.”
“Maybe you should,” Jake said, meeting the Russian’s gaze with a steely one of his own and refusing to look away until his kidnapper had.
For a moment nothing happened and then the Russian said, “Having met you, General, I now understand your daughter much more clearly.”
“My daughter is a better operative than you’ll ever be, and a better person, not that the bar is set too high on that one. If you think you’ll ever get the drop on her, you’re kidding yourself.”
The Russian ignored his comment and said, “You will roll down your window, and then open the door and step out of the car. Once you are outside you will stand perfectly still until I tell you to move. If you get the bright idea to slam the door and run, I will shoot you before you make it three feet in any direction.”
Jake did as he was told. He couldn’t see any reasonable alternative. This man was a professional. If there had been any doubt up until now, his instructions eliminated it. By forcing Jake to roll down the window before stepping out of the car, the Russian minimized the possibility of a gunshot being deflected by the glass and giving Jake a few precious seconds to escape.
He stepped out of the car and then stood next to it as his captor slid across the bench seat and stopped behind the wheel. “Now step back six feet,” the man said, and Jake did as instructed.
Then the man climbed out of the car and indicated the house with his gun. “Get moving,” he said.
So Jake did.
It wasn’t like he had much choice.
He crossed the front yard and climbed the crumbling concrete front steps, stopping in front of the closed front door.
“Do not be shy,” the Russian said. “Please, walk right in.”
Jake turned the knob and pushed on the door and it swung open with a creak that belonged in a horror movie, a Grade B drive-in feature where a chainsaw-wielding maniac terrorized a slew of teens. He stepped inside and considered trying to slam the door on the Russian, trapping him outside, but the man was too quick, slipping a foot into the doorway to block just such an attempt.
Besides, even if he managed to trap himself inside the wreck of a house and leave his captor standing outside, what then? He couldn’t exactly outwait the Ru
ssian, and the other man was holding a deadly weapon while Jake was unarmed.
He took three steps inside and the man behind him said, “That is far enough,” so he stopped. From behind, the Russian produced a flashlight that illuminated the interior of what at one time must have been a living room. The hardwood floors were filthy and water-stained from years of rain and snow blowing through the shattered windows and leaking through the porous roof.
And the room was empty, save for a single wooden chair placed squarely in the center. The chair was heavy, hewn out of what looked like white oak, with a sturdy back and blocky arms and legs that would be perfectly suited to securing, say, a two hundred pound kidnapping victim.
A few feet away from the chair a canvas bag lay on its side. It was a good-sized bag that had been zipped shut but appeared filled with…again, Jake didn’t know but doubted he wanted to find out.
Again, he was going to.
“Take a seat, General Tanner.”
He turned to face the Russian. “You first.”
The man lifted his gun and trained it right between Jake’s eyes. It seemed unlikely he would shoot yet, because he had gone to a lot of trouble to get Jake here and if all he wanted to do was blow Jake’s head off he could have done that way back at the ambush site. Still, it was all he could do not to flinch at the sight of that black barrel pointing directly into his face.
“I insist,” the Russian said. All traces of his previous good humor had vanished. His voice was cold and his face was hard and Jake knew that whatever his plan was for an endgame, it had already begun.
17
“I will not tell you again,” the Russian said.
Jake nodded tiredly. He walked to the center of the room and turned to face his kidnapper, who had trailed him as he moved and now stood just out of arm’s reach, his weapon still aimed at Jake.
“Tell me why you’re doing this,” he said, standing in front of the chair. “I want to know what it has to do with my daughter.” He’d been careful not to mention Tracie’s name on the off chance the KGB man was bluffing and didn’t know for certain who she was. That seemed a remote possibility, but he wasn’t taking the slightest chance of putting his own child in even more danger than she clearly already was.
The Soviet Assassin Page 9