The Nuclear Option

by Allan Leverone

  Or else.

  But Tracie thought Kuznetsov might feel comfortable ignoring the general’s instructions if he had received conflicting orders from another entity, an entity that he could reasonably consider as having at least as much authority as General Gregorovich.

  An entity like the KGB.

  She thought back to Kuznetsov’s beeline out of the interview room shortly after she’d begun speaking with General Gregorovich, and then his return a few minutes later.

  Then she thought back to Gregorovich’s capitulation to her demand for release, reviewing it step by step in her mind and coming to the conclusion the general was not being deceitful when he told her what his instructions to Kuznetsov were going to be.

  And she knew what she had to do.

  She would have to act fast, because before long they would begin approaching Moscow. When that happened, roads would widen and become filled with traffic. More vehicles meant more witnesses, and more witnesses meant more difficulty escaping, particularly since half her head was shaved and her clothes were drenched in dried blood. At the moment she was as memorable as a mass murderer.

  “Is there anywhere in particular you were instructed to drop me off in Moscow?” Tracie said amiably, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. As if she were just making conversation.

  “Downtown,” the cop said. “Near the Kremlin.” He cast a sideways glance at her. “Unless that is a problem.”

  She shrugged. “Not at all. Why would that location be a problem?”

  “Because,” he said, “we both know you are not what you say you are. You are about as far removed from an ordinary Russian woman as it is possible to get. You are CIA.”

  Tracie snorted. “You’re still on that CIA thing? Your brains are so scrambled it’s as if you suffered the head wound last night, not me.”

  “Say whatever you wish. And I will give you credit for fooling General Gregorovich. That could not have been easy to do. But you have not fooled me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that is so. And even if that story you spun to him about a missing nuclear weapon is true, I know that if I release you there is no way you are going to find the bomb and stop the detonation, as you told Gregorovich. Why would an American spy do something like that? The truth is,” he said, answering his own question, “you would not.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “Maybe not all,” Kuznetsov said. “But enough.”

  The road was narrow and winding, passing through a lightly traveled, heavily forested area. But soon they would reach the on-ramp for the Leninskoye Highway and everything would change.

  Tracie said, “You’re not bringing me to Moscow to release me, are you?”

  Kuznetsov didn’t answer. Tracie noticed his right hand snaking stealthily toward his suit jacket, where his weapon was housed in a shoulder rig. Apparently they were no longer friends or colleagues.

  I wonder if he’s regretting not cuffing me now? she thought.

  Then she acted.

  She sprang at Kuznetsov, reaching up with both hands and shoving his head hard against the driver’s side window, in much the same manner as she’d done last night with the attempted rapist. His skull clunked dully and the car swerved left and then back to the right, hard. He swore once and grunted as Tracie smashed his head against the window a second time.

  He’d managed to draw his weapon in spite of the whirlwind attack and now he pulled it clear of his suit jacket. But he was left handed, meaning the gun had been holstered against his right ribs and he would have to swing it all the way left to get a shot off.

  Tracie punched his arm, following it up with a punch that caught him flush in the face, but Kuznetsov was nothing if not tough, and he continued to bring the weapon around despite the beating he was taking. In half a second he would have a point-blank shot into Tracie’s head or upper body.

  So she kicked out with her foot, scrabbling for the accelerator. She found it and stomped it to the floor and the car shot forward, engine screaming.

  Tracie realized she was screaming, too.

  So was Kuznetsov.

  The car flew off the side of the road and down a small embankment, kicking up dirt and clumps of sod and jarring the gun out of the cop’s hand. It flew into the air and bounced off Tracie’s head before tumbling into the back seat.

  An instant later the car reached the bottom of the embankment, decelerating violently in the brush, throwing Tracie back-first against the dashboard. The sutured side of her head struck the steering wheel and a bright-white lightning bolt of pain flashed through her skull, dark clouds appearing at the edges of her vision, creeping forward, threatening to steal away her consciousness.

  35

  June 14, 1988

  Approximately 8:35 a.m.

  Unidentified country road

  Rostov, Russia, USSR

  She had to stay awake.

  If she passed out it was over. She would wake up in Lubyanka and never taste freedom again.

  She breathed in deeply and blew out a breath but the darkness kept coming.

  Kuznetsov was moaning softly in the driver’s seat and she knew he could come to his senses at any moment. She had to act now to escape, but still the darkness continued to advance. It was like a curtain being lowered slowly over her vision. If the curtain dropped all the way she would be finished.

  So she reached up and held her hand over the stitches in her shaved skull. She would slap them, one sharp swat. The resulting flash of agony would either focus her or cause her to pass out, but she had to try something to stop that damned curtain.

  Her vision was wavering when she acted. The sound of the slap was loud in the silence of the car and instantly the lightning bolt flashed again inside her head. She screamed and cursed—in English, not in Russian—and after a moment the black curtain began pulling away from her vision.

  Her head was pounding, the intensity as great as anything she could remember experiencing since the last time she was shot. But she could feel the darkness receding, consciousness rushing in to take its place. Her desperate strategy was working.

  Kuznetsov moaned again and twitched, his arms and legs quivering as his brain rebooted itself. He would be awake soon and angry.

  Tracie dived into the back of the car, cushioning her fall with her arms as she searched for Kuznetsov’s gun. It had come to rest under the driver’s seat.

  She snaked a hand under the seat and retrieved the weapon—a Makarov, how predictable—and then pushed open the rear door and stumbled out of the car into an area of heavy undergrowth. The massive trees of the forest were still a good six feet from the car’s grille, the snarl of brambles and bushes so heavy it had halted the car’s forward motion all on its own.

  Tracie yanked open the driver’s side door, bruises already forming on her arms, every muscle in her body screaming in complaint. Kuznetsov’s still-unconscious body began sliding out the open door and then stopped, his shoulder wedged against the doorframe as his head lolled to the right. His eyes were blinking rapidly and his moans were turning to grunts of pain. A thin stream of blood flowed down his left cheek from somewhere under his hairline.

  His eyes fluttered open, at first unfocused and staring.

  Tracie waited. Time was of the essence but she wasn’t in such a hurry that she couldn’t wait thirty seconds for him to come to his senses enough to recognize her.

  It didn’t even take that long. After maybe ten seconds of trying to focus, his gaze fell upon Tracie standing next to the car. That seemed to kick-start his senses and he drew in a sharp gasp, reaching for his gun in the empty shoulder holster.

  “Looking for this?” she said, raising the Makarov from behind her thigh.

  He cursed and swung his legs out the door as if to stand.

  Tracie lifted the gun and placed it against his forehead. Said, “You’ve been a very bad boy, disobeying General Gregorovich. When he finds out, he is not goi
ng to be pleased with you.”

  “Fuck you,” he spat.

  “No, thanks. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.”

  “Give me my gun back right now, or you’re going to be—”

  “Sorry?” Tracie interrupted. “I don’t think so.”

  “You are not going to shoot me, so let us not continue playing this game.”

  “Oh, I would if I had to,” Tracie said. “Don’t fool yourself otherwise. But I don’t have to. Because deep down, you know I’ll do it.”

  He cursed again and then said, “So what happens now?”

  She said, “I could have been long gone already, but I wanted to pass along a message.”

  “A message? What message?”

  “That you’re a scumbag for sticking a monster like Chernov in the cell with me last night. That was over the line, no matter what you think of me.”

  “I did what I thought I had to do,” Kuznetsov snapped.

  “Yeah? Me too.” Tracie reached out with both hands and slammed the cop’s skull against the doorframe. His eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped out of the car, landing face down on the forest floor with a soft thump.

  “This is no more than you deserve,” Tracie said softly. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

  She reached into Kuznetsov’s car and yanked the hand mic out of his police radio. She tossed it as far as she could into the trees and then climbed the embankment, slipping Kuznetsov’s gun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back.

  When she reached the road, she considered her next move. Ideally, she should begin walking toward Moscow, putting distance between herself and Kuznetsov—who would not stay unconscious forever—while she could, and figuring out transportation later.

  But her appearance seriously complicated matters. Between her shaved, sutured head and the blood covering her clothing, she was going to draw far too much attention walking along the side of the road. If a police cruiser happened to pass by, she would end up right back where she started, and that would be disastrous.

  She elected to stay where she was, at least for the moment. They weren’t so far from Moscow that the road would stay deserted for long, and Kuznetsov’s damaged vehicle was clearly visible to any motorists approaching from either direction.

  Tracie thought she could work with that and was willing to risk staying put to try. The blood-soaked clothing that would be a liability were she to start hiking should actually work in her favor as long as she remained in plain view of Kuznetsov’s wrecked car.

  She paced back and forth along the sandy verge, splitting her attention between the narrow roadway, peering both ways for oncoming vehicles—of which there had so far been none—and glancing down the embankment toward the car wreck in the event Kuznetsov regained consciousness and was foolish enough to try coming after her.

  She ran a finger lightly along the side of her head, wincing as she made contact with the raised sutures. The blood had stopped leaking out between them by the time she’d left the Rostov Jail, but after slapping herself to avoid losing consciousness it had begun again. It was sluggish and thick, and Tracie guessed it probably completed the picture of her as an unfortunate accident victim as tendrils of it ran down the side of her face.

  She sighed, impatient and frustrated. She’d been standing at the side of the road for probably close to ten minutes now and there hadn’t been a hint of traffic yet. Maybe she’d made the wrong decision by waiting. Maybe it was time to begin hiking south and hope to—

  There! In the distance a car was approaching from the direction of Rostov. Tracie sprang into action, transforming herself from anxious operative into injured, terrified car accident victim. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, and then looked up at the oncoming car, gritting her teeth against pain in what was only partially an act.

  Raising her hand in a feeble wave, Tracie stumbled/limped into the middle of the road and then dropped to one knee, continuing to wave in a plea for the driver to stop.

  Despite the narrowness of the road, there was still enough room for the car to pass her on either side, but she knew that would not happen. Any driver would have to be a heartless monster to motor right past a suffering car accident victim, covered in blood and clearly injured.

  And she was right. The car eased to a stop in front of her. The driver’s door opened and an older woman stepped out. She was heavyset, with silver hair and an open, friendly face. She reminded Tracie of her maternal grandmother, and that resemblance made what Tracie was about to do all the more difficult.

  She would do it anyway.

  The woman rushed around her car and as she was approaching said, “Oh my goodness, that wreck looks awful. How badly are you hurt, dear?”

  Tracie waited for the woman to reach and then stood. “I’ve had worse,” she said conversationally.

  The woman backed up a couple of steps, confused.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you,” Tracie said, “but I’m going to need to borrow your car.”

  “Borrow…I am sorry but I do not understand. If you are injured I will be happy to drive you to the hospital.”

  “You’re very sweet but the hospital is not what I need right now. I promise I will not damage your car, and when I’ve finished with it I will leave it where the police will find it. You’ll have it back within a day or two.”

  The woman continued backpedaling, Tracie following, matching her step for step. The woman’s expression had cycled from concern through confusion before settling on fear, and Tracie realized no amount of explaining would change that now.

  She reached out and took the woman gently by the shoulder. “Just move to the side of the road,” she said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I really do need your car.”

  Tracie had just begun steering her toward the verge when Kuznetsov appeared, stumbling past the wreckage of his car and beginning the climb the embankment toward the road.

  “Goddammit,” Tracie mumbled in Russian. Could this get any worse?

  “Stop right there!” Kuznetsov called. He had both hands pressed to the side of his head, the side Tracie had smashed twice against the driver’s side window and once against the metal doorframe of his car. He had to be in a significant amount of pain, and despite herself Tracie felt a grudging admiration for the man who was rapidly becoming a major thorn in her side.

  The woman stopped moving. She dug her heels in and simply refused to walk any further. “What the hell is going on here?” she said.

  Tracie decided enough was enough. She hadn’t wanted to frighten the woman any more than was absolutely necessary, so she’d tried to do this without showing a weapon. But things were spiraling out of control—again—and every minute she stayed here trying to corral an old lady and an injured cop was one more minute another car could come along and make things exponentially worse.

  So she reached behind her back and drew Kuznetsov’s Makarov. She knew just the sight of it would be enough to cow the old woman, so she ignored the lady and trained the gun on the cop.

  “No,” she said. “You stop right there.”

  The cop kept coming.

  Tracie shook her head, exasperated. She fired over the top of Kuznetsov, and finally the cop stopped. He dived to the ground as the old woman screamed, and Tracie sprinted for the car, limping badly on her injured ankle.

  The motorist had left the car idling, so all Tracie needed to do was shift into gear and hit the gas, and in seconds she’d left the accident scene behind.

  She knew she needed to drive as fast as possible without drawing unnecessary attention to herself. There was no telling how long it would take for another car to come along, and when that happened Kuznetsov would definitely flag it down and either commandeer the vehicle and come after her, or find the nearest phone and put out the Soviet equivalent of an all-points bulletin. And once that happened, every cop—and probably all military personnel as well—would be on the lookout for her.

  The old lad
y’s car would become as radioactive as the nuke she was tracking.

  It was imperative Tracie get somewhere she could acquire another car as soon as possible.

  She reached the Leninskoye Highway within minutes and relaxed slightly. Traffic was moderate, which meant she would stand out a little less once Kuznetsov was able to raise the alarm. Still, it was an uncomfortable feeling, because she doubted there would be many other young women in the Moscow area with half a head of flame-red hair, covered in blood and driving a stolen car.

  And carrying a gun she’d taken off a cop after assaulting him.

  She inhaled deeply and blew out a nervous breath.

  Nibbled on her lower lip as she drove.

  At least she was finally moving forward again.

  36

  June 14, 1988

  9:40 a.m.

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  Tracie wasted no time acquiring another vehicle.

  The moment she hit the outskirts of Moscow she ditched the old woman’s Trabant in the parking lot of a manufacturing complex and began looking for a replacement. In less than fifteen minutes she had liberated a Lada whose owner was so certain no one would steal a ten-year-old piece of shit right out of his place of employment that he’d been thoughtful enough to leave it unlocked, with the keys in the ignition.

  Not that it would have mattered. Breaking in and hot-wiring the Lada would have added, at most, three minutes to the process. But every minute saved was a blessing, given Tracie had no idea how long the Navsegda operatives would wait before detonating their prize. Undoubtedly they were well aware the heat was on them, so she didn’t think they’d want to sit on it for any longer than necessary.

  She took the time to swap license plates between the old woman’s Trabant and another vehicle in the lot, and between her new ride and a fourth car. The process was complicated by the fact she’d left all her tools in the canvas bag that was currently sitting on a shelf somewhere in the Rostov Police evidence storage locker.