There wouldn’t be enough food for four days, not even close. But getting by for a relatively short period of time without food was doable. It involved nothing more than pushing through the hunger, willing herself to continue while not operating at an optimal level. It was no different than continuing a mission while injured. She’d done both before, and for longer periods than four days.
But water was a different story. Dehydration would incapacitate a human body much faster than would hunger, and given the warmth and high humidity present along the Back Sea coast at this time of year, running out of water was a real possibility.
And doing so could be deadly.
Four days was realistic, and in all probability four days was three more than she would need. She would begin putting her plan for recovering the communication decoder into action before sunrise, meaning that in less than twenty-four hours she would have accomplished her mission and escaped.
Or she would be sitting inside a Russian jail awaiting interrogation by the KGB.
Or she would be dead.
In neither the second nor the third scenario would a lack of water be her major problem.
She reloaded her supplies into her bag and examined her surroundings, checking out the floor of the large room she’d been using as a base of operations for most of the day. She’d had plenty of time to familiarize herself with it, but by giving it a closer examination had hoped to find a spot that might offer a little comfort for the next few hours.
No such luck. The floor was littered with dust, dirt, damage from the elements, and chunks of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling.
The graffiti and drug paraphernalia she would have expected to find inside an abandoned building at home was missing—vandals were just as prevalent in the USSR as the United States, but the sterilization of the area by the Soviet military had eliminated that issue here—however, the condition of the interior was poor enough that Tracie suspected any sleep she might manage would be uncomfortable and unpleasant.
Still, she had to try. Remaining sharp-witted and fully aware of her surroundings during the op tomorrow might spell the difference between success and failure.
She sighed softly and moved to the northwest corner of the room, as far from the window that looked out on Objekt 825 as possible. Using her shoe as a makeshift broom, she cleared the debris from roughly a six-foot by eight-foot section of floor. Then she placed her equipment bag at one end and used it as a pillow, stretching out along the rear wall.
The sun wouldn’t set for more than three hours, but Tracie had long ago become accustomed to getting needed rest on an assignment whenever the opportunity presented itself. She didn’t think the lack of darkness would be a problem any more than was the lingering heat and humidity.
She was right. Within fifteen minutes, she’d fallen into an uneasy slumber.
***
June 25, 1988
3:05 a.m.
Objekt 825
There had never been any danger of Tracie sleeping past three a.m., the time she’d decided it was necessary to get up and get moving. For one thing, the floor was hard and uncomfortable, meaning she didn’t sleep soundly as much as doze fitfully.
But the real reason she’d had no concerns about oversleeping when it was critical she arise in the middle of the night was that over the course of nearly a decade’s worth of covert operations, her body had developed a finely-tuned interior alarm clock. If her intention was to awaken at three o’clock in the morning—and it was—she knew she would do exactly that within a window of just a few minutes either way.
She rose to a sitting position at 2:55, turned and unzipped her bag. Breakfasted on a protein bar and three sips of water. Then she pushed to her feet and brushed the dirt and grime from her clothing.
From out of her bag she lifted her Red Army uniform and held it up for inspection. In the nighttime gloom of the abandoned building it was impossible to tell whether wrinkling might be an issue or not. She shrugged and began peeling off her dirty clothes. The condition of the uniform was irrelevant, really; it wasn’t as though she had any other choices if she were to execute her plan.
After changing into her uniform she squatted down on her haunches next to the equipment bag, eying it and thinking. Now that she had developed a concrete strategy, she thought the big bag—and most of the materials inside it—had become unnecessary, serving no purpose other than to slow her down. It was heavy and unwieldy, and worst of all, it magnified the effects of her sprained ankle on her mobility.
She nodded to herself as she reached a decision. She turned the open bag upside down and emptied it onto the floor. One of the items contained inside was a neatly folded backpack. She unfolded the pack and opened its pockets, then began filling them with only the items she deemed necessary for the successful completion of her mission. Everything else she would leave scattered on the dirty floor of this abandoned hostel.
With any luck, the clothing, empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers would remain here, unseen, for weeks or even months, although Tracie doubted that would be the case. Her activities inside Objekt 825 would be impossible to conceal for long, and whether she was ultimately successful retrieving the electronic device or not, she knew the Soviets would launch a massive search of the area surrounding the facility.
They would quickly discover the detritus.
But its discovery wouldn’t matter. There was nothing here that could lead the Soviets to her or reveal her identity, and by the time the materials were found, she would either be far away from here, dead, or in the hands of the KGB.
The most important item she stashed away in the backpack was the GPS tracker receiver. She hadn’t given up on attempting to locate Andrei Lukashenko if she survived this assignment. He was probably hundreds of kilometers away from here by now, and likely would be hundreds more by the time she departed Objekt 825—again, assuming she ever did—but if there were even the slightest chance she could eliminate the man who’d forced or convinced dozens of westerners to commit treason against their countries, she wanted to take it.
After stashing the receiver away in the bottom of the backpack, Tracie added a half-dozen protein bars, a couple of water bottles, and one remaining change of clothes.
She zipped up the pack and shrugged it over her shoulders. By three-fifteen, she’d slipped out the rear window and begun hiking through the forest until out of sight of the sentry’s shack outside the office complex.
Once satisfied she could not be seen, she exited the woods and walked along the lonely road in the direction she’d seen Objekt 825’s employees traveling yesterday after leaving work. The night was cloud-covered and dark, and the Russian forest was close enough to the verge that Tracie knew she would have plenty of time to disappear into the trees should the headlights of an oncoming car begin glowing in the distance.
If it became necessary, she would remover the GPS receiver from her backpack and use it to follow the signal of the transmitter she’d placed on the underside of the commander’s car yesterday. But he’d driven off on what Tracie believed to be the only access road serving the base, so unless she encountered a crossroad, she knew she had to be on the right track. There was no reason to risk the receiver’s blinking red light being seen by a patrolling soldier.
It quickly became apparent that using the GPS tracker would not be necessary. Any roads that had once existed in the now-defunct town of Balaklava that were no longer required for the functioning of the secret base had apparently been torn up and removed by Red Army engineers during construction.
Tracie assumed removal of the excess roads had been undertaken as a security measure, but it had the effect of leading her directly to Objekt 825’s housing bloc. By 3:50, she could see a series of large, concrete-block apartment buildings looming in the distance. They had been constructed side-by-side and were clearly meant to function as residences for the soldiers, scientists and civilians staffing the secret facility.
She knew as she g
ot closer to the complex she would see individual homes reserved for the base commander and probably his two or three highest-ranking aides.
Not a single vehicle had passed moving in either direction along the road during the forty minutes she’d now been walking. Her intention was to locate the base commander’s home by identifying his car parked outside it. Once she had done so, she would retreat into the cover of the forest and wait for daybreak.
She passed the three hulking apartment buildings one by one, each standing silent and still. Their windows were mostly dark. A little farther along the road she could see a trio of identical-looking single-family houses clustered together. That was her destination. One of them would belong to the base commander.
As she emerged from the shadows of the final apartment building, a voice coming from somewhere behind her commanded, “Stop right there.”
The voice was Russian and insistent.
Tracie knew the owner of the voice would be carrying a Makarov semi-automatic pistol and, in all probably, a rifle slung over his shoulder as well.
She stopped right there.
23
June 25, 1988
3:55 a.m.
Objekt 825
“Raise your hands to shoulder height and spread your fingers,” the voice commanded.
Tracie complied without speaking.
“Now turn around and face me.”
She spun slowly on her heels, and for a moment could see no one. Then a figure materialized out of the darkness between the two closest apartment buildings. It was a young man wearing a Red Army uniform and holding, as Tracie had expected, a semi-auto rifle at the ready.
The night was overcast and the lighting outside the housing complex poor, so she couldn’t tell whether or not the rifle was shaking, but the voice of the soldier holding it sounded young. She assumed if the sentry had been given the assignment of patrolling the inside of a secure closed settlement in the middle of the night, he probably wasn’t high on the seniority list.
Or maybe it was a duty all the soldiers shared. Either way, she wasn’t taking any chances of spooking the kid and getting her head blown off as a result.
She spoke softly, keeping her tone unthreatening. She hoped. “Please lower your weapon. I am no threat to you.”
Her words had no effect. The rifle didn’t move. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”
She shrugged. “Taking a walk. I could not sleep, so I thought I would stretch my legs.”
“At four o’clock in the morning?”
“As I said, I could not sleep.”
“I do not recognize you. What is your name?”
Tracie took a step forward and then stopped in her tracks as the soldier raised his weapon and sighted through it.
She raised her hands a little higher.
“Easy,” she said. “You asked my name and I was simply going to show you my identification.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t lower the rifle, either.
“May I show you my identification?”
“Take it out and hold it up. Do not come any closer.”
She almost shook her head in exasperation. Security was one thing—she would expect it to be tight around a secret military installation—but this seemed a little over the top. Doesn’t anyone ever go for a nighttime stroll around here?
“Okay,” she said. “I am going to reach into the breast pocket of my jacket.”
No answer. She eased her right hand across her body and slipped it inside the blazer, hoping for the best. She didn’t get shot when she removed the billfold containing her Red Army credentials, so she considered that a win.
The problem was, in the dark and at this distance—the kid was at least ten feet away—it would be impossible for him to see anything beyond the fact she was holding something that may or may not be an ID in her hand.
“Tell me your name,” he said when she raised her hand.
“I am Lieutenant Olga Koruskaya.”
“What is your business here at Objekt 825?”
“I am an auditor for the KGB, and I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow with your base commander.”
She was making it up as she went, and almost didn’t mention the KGB part. The CIA employed some of the best forgers in the world, so she knew her military ID would pass muster with a Red Army private, but nothing on the credentials suggested any connection between Olga Koruskaya and the feared Soviet Committee for State Security. But she knew she needed to gain the upper hand in this little mini-drama and guessed referencing the KGB would be the best way to do so, at least without killing him and dumping his body in the woods, something she wanted very much to avoid.
If that kind of drastic action became necessary, everything would change instantly. And not for the better.
Her gamble had the precise effect she was hoping for. The soldier straightened noticeably, his surprise obvious. “KGB? Why is the KGB sending an auditor to meet with Commander Morozov?”
Tracie smiled tightly. “I am afraid I cannot share that information. I am sure you understand.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “Forgive me. I was just thinking out loud. But…”
“Yes?”
“What is that on your back?”
“Well…it is a backpack, of course.”
“You went for a walk at four o’clock in the morning and decided to bring a backpack? Why would you do that?” The soldier’s voice had taken on an added note of suspicion, and Tracie knew she needed to regain control of the encounter.
“Because,” she answered, her tone cool and dismissive. “The subjects I need to discuss with Commander Morozov are of a singularly sensitive nature. And from what I have seen of the unfortunately lax security measures in place at this facility, I did not feel it would be safe to leave my notes in my room.”
She offered another tight smile. “I assume you have no problem with my decision?”
“Of-of course not,” the kid stammered.
“And now,” she continued, ‘I would like to continue my walk, if I may. Just a few hours remain until the meeting with Commander Morozov and I want to use that time to determine how best to approach our conversation.”
“I understand,” he said. His entire demeanor had changed upon hearing those three little letters—KGB—followed by Tracie adopting her intimidating persona. His posture had become subservient after starting out threatening, his tone had become deferential, and after his moment of suspicion when asking about her backpack, he seemed eager to focus her attention anywhere but upon himself.
He had lowered his weapon as they spoke, and now he extended his arm, apparently indicating she was free to walk away. “Please, forgive me for startling you.”
“It is not a problem. When I speak with Commander Morozov later this morning, I will be sure to let him know what a fine job at least one of his sentries is doing among the otherwise general sloth of the security staff.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I am just trying to do my job.”
“And doing it very well. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Lieutenant.”
Her observation about the lax security present in and around Objekt 825 had been made in an attempt to head off the soldier’s suspicions, but it occurred to her now that the words she’d spoken to the kid were all true. Over the decades since the construction of Objekt 825, the base’s command staff had allowed security to become dangerously ineffective.
And thank God for that.
Tracie turned in the direction of the single-family dwellings off in the distance, for the simple reason she had no other alternative. She didn’t want to risk being seen by Morozov on the off chance the commander was up and roaming around his home at this time of night, but on the other hand, returning in the direction of Objekt 825 would do nothing in the way of moving her mission forward.
She thought she would be okay as long as the sentry didn’t trail along behind her. She guessed he would want to put as much distanc
e between himself and this KGB representative as he could, and after a couple dozen steps she risked a glance behind her.
He was striding quickly in the opposite direction, disappearing between the apartment buildings.
She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. It had been a close call, but she’d gained valuable intel from the encounter: she now knew the base commander’s name.
She slowed her walking pace. She’d covered roughly half the distance between the apartment complex and the small cluster of houses, inside one of which was Objekt 825’s commanding officer. Taking another long look in the direction from which she’d just come, she still could see no one.
She veered toward the forest. Getting off the road would slow her progress considerably, particularly in the dark, but one near-disaster was one too many, and she still had plenty of time in which to cover a relatively small amount of ground. It was just past four a.m., and even the most dedicated of officers wouldn’t report to work before six at the earliest.
As she moved, keeping a sharp eye out to avoid stepping on and snapping any branches, she considered the likelihood of the sentry she’d just encountered checking with his superiors about KGB Lieutenant Olga Koruskaya’s supposed appointment with the base commander.
Obviously, if the security staff had access to Morozov’s schedule and decided to check it, they would find no such appointment.
But she didn’t think it would be a problem. The kid she’d just encountered had seemed more intimidated than suspicious by the end of their conversation. And even if Tracie had misread him and he reported the incident to his superiors, she thought there was a good chance the officer in charge of security for Objekt 825 would consider the KGB connection and decide that perhaps this audit of Commander Morozov’s operation was an unscheduled one.
For that reason, even if Olga Koruskaya’s presence were reported up the security chain, Tracie doubted any call would be made to the commander. Nobody would want to draw the wrong kind of attention from the KGB, and being known as the idiot who had blown a surprise audit would do exactly that.
Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9) Page 12