“We are referring to the young woman who tortured our man inside a CIA safe house over the winter and then assassinated one of Russia’s preeminent scientists on the streets of Moscow.”
Thornton had hemmed and hawed and sputtered and complained, but in the end he had promised to “see what I can do.”
He came through much more quickly than I would have expected, too, Vasily thought with a smile. Within days, Thornton had gotten back to Vasily with not just the name of the operative, but with a fair amount of associated biographical information as well.
Shortly afterward, Vasily’s net worth had increased dramatically. It was the single biggest score of his illicit career trading in information. Because he had held Piotr Speransky up for a small fortune in exchange for that name.
As KGB station chief, Vasily was well aware of Speransky’s humiliation last winter at the hands of a CIA operative in Moscow. When he combined that knowledge with a familiarity of just how unstable and prideful Speransky was, Vasily concluded—correctly, as it turned out—that Speransky would be willing to pay a king’s ransom to learn the name of the woman he needed to kill in order to regain his reputation and save his career.
But that gain in net worth was a double-edged sword. It also placed Vasily squarely in Piotr Speransky’s crosshairs. Vasily knew that if Speransky survived his mission and was successful in eliminating the American, his next move would be to return to Leningrad to recover the fortune in cash he’d been required to pay Vasily.
And that scenario could not be permitted to occur.
Speransky was cold-blooded and remorseless. He would execute Vasily and take every last American dime of his money back, along with whatever else of value he could get his hands on. He would never stop until Vasily was lying dead in a pool of his own blood.
The notion that he could find himself the target of a man like Piotr Speransky was terrifying. But he wasn’t dead yet, and he wasn’t out of ideas yet, either. Vasily Labochev hadn’t risen to a top post inside the Soviet Union’s premier intelligence service without being able to deal effectively with risky contingencies.
He had a plan, and if successful, his plan would preserve his life, not to mention his fortune. This was why he was sitting behind his desk at two-thirty in the morning and not cavorting in his bed with one of the many prostitutes he single-handedly kept in business.
Because two-thirty a.m. on May nineteenth in Leningrad was six-thirty p.m. on May eighteenth in Washington, D.C. and he very much needed to speak to someone in Washington.
Someone very specific.
He took a long sip from his tumbler of vodka and smiled into the telephone handset. “Hello, Comrade Thornton, and how are you this fine evening?”
24
A long silence followed Vasily’s greeting.
It was exactly what he had expected.
When Thornton responded, it was with obvious reluctance. “Uh…what do you…I mean, I didn’t expect to hear from you again for a very long time.”
“What do you mean? It has been several months. The last time we spoke was, what? Late January? Early February?”
“Something like that, yes. I was hoping for longer.”
“Understandable, given the lengthy delay between our previous communications. But I so enjoy speaking with you, I decided to…what do you Americans say…chat you up again.”
“Nobody I know says that.”
“Nevertheless, I do enjoy our conversations.”
“You want something else from me. You always want something else.”
“So cynical, my friend. You do not believe I might simply wish to pass the time with you?”
Thornton had been speaking quietly, but now he lowered his voice further. When he spoke, though, it was with barely contained fury. “I most certainly do not believe that. And this is not the time to be talking. The murder of General Tanner is all over the news here. We shouldn’t speak for a very long time. We certainly shouldn’t be speaking right now.”
“And yet we are. And we will, as often and for as long as I wish.”
“What do you want, goddammit?”
“As pleasing as it always is to chat with you, I am calling for a specific purpose.”
“That’s a shock.”
“I need a favor.”
Thornton chuckled bitterly. “And the surprises keep coming.”
Vasily couldn’t help smiling. “Obviously you have made the connection between the intelligence you provided me last January and the breaking news in your country.”
“Made the connection? Of course I made the connection! How stupid do you think I am?”
“I do not think you are stupid at all, my friend, which is why I know you will do exactly as you are told.”
“For the last time, what do you want?”
“I need you to make a piece of intelligence available to your operational assets.”
Another long silence followed, as Thornton tried to decipher what he’d just heard. Then he said, “You want to pass information along to our operatives? As in, the CIA?”
“See?” Vasily said. “I told you I did not think you were stupid.”
“Why would you want to provide intel to our side? To set up our operatives so you can murder more innocent Americans? No. I will not be a party to any more killing of my countrymen, Vasily. I don’t care what you threaten me with, I won’t do it.”
“Slow down, my friend. I am afraid you misinterpret the nature of this call. I am not interested in passing along false intelligence. I am not interested in setting up American operatives to be killed. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Then why would you voluntarily provide intel to the CIA that would be damaging to your side?”
“Because I believe this information would not be damaging to my side.”
“I don’t follow.”
“This is one of those very rare instances where one event can be beneficial to both sides.”
“Keep going.”
“You see, the man who committed the murder of which you spoke a moment ago, the killer of General Tanner, has—”
“It’s not ‘the man,’” Thornton interrupted. “It’s your agent. A KGB operative. Just to be clear.”
“Da,” Vasily agreed. “The KGB agent. This man has gone…how do you say…off the rails. He has taken the intelligence you so graciously provided and run with it in a direction entirely unanticipated—and unapproved—by his KGB handlers. We have thus reached the determination that this man is no longer capable of following orders and confining himself to strict mission protocols.”
“And? I’m supposed to care about this because?”
“We have decided it is necessary to end him.”
“Then why don’t you get off the phone with me and just do it? That seems to be the sort of thing you people are exceedingly good at.”
Vasily laughed. “Why, thank you, my friend, I’ll take that as a compliment.” He sipped his vodka before continuing. “We understand the execution of General Tanner has caused untold headaches for your agency, and would like to offer up our man as some small measure of…fence-mending, as you Americans would say.”
“Nobody I know says that, either.”
“Still.”
“Let me get this straight,” Thornton said incredulously. “You blackmail me into giving you the name of the agency operative who executed Slava Marinov, and then claim to be surprised when one of your men murders our operative’s father in a clear case of revenge? That’s the biggest pile of steaming bullshit I’ve ever heard, and I’ve spent my entire adult life working with some of the most deceitful people in the world.”
“That may be so,” Vasily said calmly, “but, still, it is the truth. I give you my word as a gentleman and fellow career intelligence professional that the information I am going to pass along is not meant to entrap any of your people, or even to put them in any danger whatsoever, beyond the risk they will take completing the assassination of our man.”
> “I don’t believe you,” Thornton said simply.
Another sip of vodka. It was smooth and slightly spicy and made Vasily’s belly feel as though a small, cozy campfire was burning inside it. He’d anticipated Thornton’s response; the conversation really couldn’t have gone any other way. What Vasily was proposing was antithetical to the philosophy not just of the KGB, but of America’s CIA as well. There was no greater sin for any intelligence professional than to reveal the identity of another operative to the enemy, and after Vasily had forced Thornton to do just that the last time they spoke, he was now offering to do the same thing? Expecting nothing in return?
It made no rational sense. So Vasily understood Thornton’s reaction.
He also didn’t care about it. Thornton wasn’t the person whose opinion mattered. When he had forced Thornton to reveal the identity of Marinov’s killer, he hadn’t just passed that intel along to Piotr Sperasky. He’d also done a little research into the CIA covert operative known as Tracie Tanner.
What he’d learned was that Tanner, in addition to being petite and beautiful, was one of the most deadly and resourceful agents in the Central Intelligence Agency’s arsenal. She must be, because she no longer had any official ties to the agency, and yet Vasily knew for a fact she had accomplished multiple missions inside the Soviet Union, including, of course, the infamous—and brazen—assassination of Slava Marinov mere blocks from the Kremlin.
Based on what he’d uncovered in his research, Vasily would have bet his life that this Tracie Tanner person would never rest until she hunted down and eliminated the man who murdered her father. In fact, he was betting his life on it, because he knew that if Speransky survived, he, Vasily, was the next target on Speransky’s list.
And since the upper echelon of KGB management had decided to offer reinstatement to the assassin, Vasily couldn’t very well countermand their orders and use another Soviet assassin to take out Speransky. His choice was stark and terrifying: offer Speransky up to the CIA or wait to be murdered by the most deadly and unstable man in the KGB’s arsenal.
The decision was a simple one.
But in order for the American operative known as Tracie Tanner to do Vasily the great favor of saving his life by eliminating his murderer, she would need to know where to find the man.
Vasily had that base covered as well: it would be right here in Leningrad. Speransky had emptied out almost all the hidden caches of funds he’d stashed away over the course of his career, but there was one he had left untouched.
The one he kept in Leningrad.
Vasily knew it hadn’t been touched because he’d known about Speransky’s Leningrad safe house for years. Nothing that went on inside his city escaped Vasily’s attention, and he had been aware of Speransky’s cache almost from the day the assassin established it. One thing Vasily didn’t know was how much money had been stuffed inside the small, square concrete-block building located inside a dying industrial park on the outskirts of the city, but he knew it was a lot.
Vasily had paid a small fortune to a low-level KGB operative to tail Speransky around Eurasia from the moment Vasily advised him of Tracie Tanner’s identity until the moment the assassin had departed for the United States, and at no time had the man come within shouting distance of his Leningrad safe house.
There could be only one reason Speransky would have left this particular cache untouched: he planned to return to Leningrad and transfer the money he would reacquire after killing Vasily—along with much of the remainder of Vasily’s personal fortune—to his hidden storage area right here in the city.
This meant Vasily’s time was running out.
Quickly.
“Are…are you still there?” Thornton’s voice was half fearful and half hopeful that Vasily had suddenly dropped dead, and Vasily realized he had gone silent for at least half a minute as he mentally reviewed his plan. He shook his head in disgust at himself; it was a measure of how badly Speransky had shaken him that he’d allowed such a show of weakness when dealing with his American mole.
“Of course I am still here,” he answered gruffly. “But our connection is bad, and I missed your last comment. What did you say?”
“I said I don’t believe for one second you are offering General Tanner’s killer to us as some kind of olive branch between our two agencies. That’s patently absurd.” Thornton’s voice was stronger and more forceful than it had been at any time during their conversation and Vasily mentally cursed himself for allowing the man to believe he may have gained the upper hand.
Or any hand.
No matter. He would put the American in his place right now. “I do not care,” he said curtly.
“Excuse me?”
“I said I do not care what you believe or do not believe. I am not soliciting your opinion, nor am I asking your permission for anything. You are merely to act as a messenger, nothing more. You will pass the intelligence to your superiors, exactly as I give it to you. If you do not, you will find your name splashed across every newspaper in your country as the most despicable traitor in American history. Am I making myself clear, Comrade Thornton?”
“I hate you.”
“I know that. Am I making myself clear?”
Now Thornton’s end of the line fell silent as the American considered his possible responses. Vasily didn’t push him. There was only one conclusion Thornton could reach, and Vasily was content to let him take as much time as he needed to reach it.
“Yes.” The word came through the staticky earpiece loud and clear, and it was obvious it had been uttered through clenched teeth.
Vasily smiled. “Good,” he said. “Here is what you will tell your superiors.”
“There’s only one.”
“I am sorry?”
“I have only one superior, and it is the CIA director himself.”
Vasily sipped his vodka and allowed himself another smile, a self-satisfied one. “I am well aware of that, my friend. Now, pay attention. It is important this information gets relayed exactly as it is issued. There can be no mistakes.”
“Jesus Christ almighty, just get on with it. I know how to do my job.”
“I hope so,” Vasily replied. “For your sake.”
He proceeded to spell out the details that would allow him to survive the mess he’d gotten himself into. Hopefully.
When Vasily finished speaking, Thornton seemed stunned. The entire conversation had clearly thrown him for a loop, and that was just fine with Vasily. A man unmoored and lost was much more likely to do as he was told than a man confident in his standing.
The conversation drew to a close just as Vasily emptied his tumbler of vodka. He felt warm and fuzzy and optimistic.
It was now well past three a.m. in Leningrad, but despite the time, he walked to his bar and refilled the glass. It seemed there was every reason to celebrate.
25
May 19, 1988
10:00 a.m.
Arlington, Virginia
The morning of the funeral dawned overcast and drizzly. The weather was a perfect match for Tracie’s mood, which she doubted could get any bleaker after first being responsible for the murders of six innocent Americans overseas, and now her own father here in the D.C. area.
Jake Tanner had seen combat in two separate wars—three if you counted the undeclared “police action” in Korea thirty-plus years ago—and come through it all with no more serious injury than a sprained ankle, only to be shot to death just miles from his home.
After being tortured for hours.
Tracie knew she would suffer from the unrelenting horror of her accountability every day for the rest of her life, starting with today. She liked to think she was tough; hell, she knew she was tough. But she dreaded attending her father’s funeral, had no idea how in God’s name she was ever going to get through it.
She loved and cherished her mother, but was a daddy’s girl through and through. She’s been her father’s daughter as long as she could remember. Some of her ear
liest memories were of hiking with her dad through the Virginia woods, of learning to disassemble and clean a pistol and then reassemble it, of going to the shooting range on Sunday mornings after church and then following that up with a five-mile run.
When she was six years old.
She knew she would have to be strong for her mother but wondered how to accomplish that feat when just thinking about her dad’s fate was enough to make her break out in a cold sweat and begin shaking, as though she might pass out at any moment.
And what the hell was she supposed to wear to a state funeral? She rarely spent more than a few days in D.C. at a time, and even though it was where she kept her apartment, she had never been one to stockpile clothing. She owned only a handful of dresses, none of which was appropriate for today’s somber occasion.
She hated shopping with a passion, but sucked it up and did it anyway yesterday, settling on a black knee-length dress with an understated black lace collar and new shoes that were as uncomfortable as they were expensive. Tracie knew she would never wear either item again after today, not because they weren’t pretty but because they would forever be stained with the memory of why she’d bought them in the first place.
She arose far too early, having slept far too little, showering and dressing in a matter of minutes and then tending to her mother, who seemed utterly adrift. Tracie could tell she’d been crying but said nothing. If her mother wanted to talk, she would do so when she was ready.
But, really, why would she even consider discussing her husband’s murder with the person who had set the whole thing in motion?
They ate a tasteless breakfast and the minute Tracie placed the dishes into the dishwasher she couldn’t have said what the hell the meal had been, and she’d cooked it. Then they sat in the living room of her parents’ home—her mother’s home, she corrected herself—and stared at the TV news mostly in silence until it was time to leave for the service.
Tracie didn’t think her heart could break any further.
She was wrong about that.
The Soviet Assassin Page 13