Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  “Acquire, steal. Tomato, tomahto.”

  He shook his head. “‘Acquire a vehicle’? ‘Formulate a plan’? Who the hell are you? And what kind of trouble are you in? Because that was a goddamned bloodbath back at the airport. There are dead people lying all over the inside of the tower base building. I’m almost certain I’m the only one who wasn’t killed.”

  When she didn’t answer, Shane pressed the issue. “Come on, Tracie, I know I owe you for saving my life, but the way I see it, my life wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t hauled your ass out of that burning airplane last night, so I think you owe me, too. How about some answers?”

  She chewed her lip as she drove, clearly conflicted about what—or how much—to share. He kept quiet, letting her fight her inner battle. Finally she spoke, but it wasn’t to shed any light on the situation. “You can’t go home until this is over,” she said reluctantly. “Thanks to the news media, those guys know your name, which means they can find out where you live. They probably already have. They want to use you to find me. They may well be searching your apartment right now if they have the manpower.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve gotten mixed up in something big, something that I don’t even understand completely, and you won’t be truly safe until it’s over.”

  “All the more reason, then, to answer my questions.”

  Tracie nodded. “I know,” she said. “But let’s find a new car first and get something to eat. Once we get started southbound we’re going to have a long drive ahead of us and I’ll try to fill you in on as much as I can, then.” An exit ramp was approaching rapidly and she flicked the turn signal and exited the highway.

  “Fair enough,” Shane said. “So let’s do it. What are we looking for?”

  “An All-American strip mall.

  ***

  May 31, 1987

  9:45 a.m.

  Old Town, Maine

  They found one within a quarter-mile of leaving the interstate, a long, low, L-shaped cluster of concrete-block buildings that could have been stamped out of a cookie-cutter mold and dropped into any city, town or suburb in the United States. Probably a couple of decades old, the businesses looked tired, not quite defeated but struggling to survive. There was a Laundromat, a mom and pop convenience store, a drugstore, a Chinese restaurant, and a half-dozen other businesses, with two or three empty storefronts scattered among them.

  “Perfect,” Tracie muttered after looking it over for a few seconds. She drove into the complex and parked the Datsun roughly in the center of the lot, alongside a group of cars clustered in front of the Laundromat.

  “I thought we were going to get some food,” Shane said. “The Chinese joint is all the way down at the other end of the mall.”

  “That’s true, and we are,” Tracie said. “But once we’re done eating, we’re going to ‘acquire’ a car, remember? Too many customers do take-out at your typical Chinese joint. We wouldn’t want to be in the middle of hot-wiring Suzy Homemaker’s station wagon and have Suzy walk out of China Lucky with her Kung Pao special, catching us right in the act, would we?”

  “Us?”

  “Okay, me. But you’d go to jail, too. The point is we’re less likely to be caught in the act by someone who’s fluffing and folding inside the Laundromat than by someone picking up their takeout order.”

  “What if they throw their laundry in the washer and then go out for a drive, or to get a cup of coffee or something?”

  Tracie shrugged. “Then I guess we’re screwed. There are no guarantees in life, right? But it’s clouding up out here and there’s a cold breeze. Hopefully most people would want to stay inside the warmth of the Laundromat, rather than go out and freeze their butts off.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Yep. Anyway, that’s my theory, so unless you have a better one, let’s hike across the lot and share a meal, shall we? And speaking of freezing, you probably noticed that driving at highway speeds in Bangor, Maine in a car with a smashed window makes you a lot colder than you might have imagined, even in late May. It’ll feel good to warm up a little.”

  Shane hesitated. “Uh, well, I hate to seem unchivalrous, especially since you just ran over a guy holding a gun to my head, but I’ve only got a few bucks in my pocket. I’m not sure I can afford a meal, and it might be kind of hard to keep a low profile with an angry Oriental restaurant owner chasing us into the parking lot.”

  Tracie smiled. “I’ve got enough cash to last for a while, and I can get more. Come on, it’s my treat.”

  They shared a combination platter, Tracie skillfully and consistently deflecting any questions about her background and about why she had been aboard the doomed B-52 and why men with guns were chasing her around Maine. “You promised you’d answer my questions,” Shane reminded her, surprised but pleased to be eating Teriyaki Steak at this time of the morning, only now realizing how hungry he was.

  Tracie nodded. “I can’t tell you everything. I just can’t. But I’ll fill you in on what I can, I promise. Not here, though. We’ll have that conversation in the car, away from potentially prying ears.”

  Shane looked around the dining room. It was dark and mostly empty. “Who’s going to hear us in here?”

  Tracie shook her head. “Later,” she said, and that was that.

  ***

  May 31, 1987

  10:30 a.m.

  She paid the check and they strolled back into the parking lot. The clouds had continued to gather and there was a chilly bite to the air, more like March than May. Shane watched as Tracie’s sharp eyes scanned the parking lot. She was obviously looking for trouble. “I thought you said those guys would go south,” he said.

  “I’m sure they did,” she answered. “But if they hauled ass for ten or twelve miles, pushing hard, and didn’t catch up to us, I think it’s at least a possibility they would have doubled back and maybe started prowling the areas surrounding the Bangor exits, looking for the Datsun.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he said as they walked back toward the knot of cars parked outside the Laundromat.

  She shook her head. “Everything looks fine. I don’t see anything strange, do you?”

  He glanced around and shrugged. “Guess not. So what do we do now?”

  “Now we try to pass for a normal young couple as we look for a car with unlocked doors. I really don’t want to drive around in this Arctic air again with a broken window.” She took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. They wandered across the parking lot, keeping several rows of cars between them and the Laundromat windows.

  “What if everyone’s cars are locked?” Shane asked.

  “Yeah, right,” Tracie said, grinning. “Sooner or later, we’ll find an unlocked vehicle, and I’m betting on sooner. When we do, we’ll ‘acquire’ it.”

  She was right. The words had barely left Tracie’s mouth when Shane spotted a white Ford Granada, unlocked and empty. Tracie took a casual look around, and when she found no one paying the slightest attention to them, she said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  She hurried around to the driver’s side door. She slid into the car and pried the plastic cowling away from the lower portion of the steering column almost before her body had even stopped moving.

  Shane watched in amazement as she pulled a pair of wires free and then touched the ends together. There was a spark and the Granada started up, running roughly for a second or two and then settling into a contented purr. “I always wondered how they did that,” he said.

  Tracie turned to him with a dazzling smile. “I’ve picked up a few skills,” she said. “But it’s time to go.” She wheeled the Ford toward the exit and freedom. Shane twisted in his seat and looked out the rear window, certain the car’s angry owner would be sprinting across the lot in hot pursuit. But there was no one, the lot was quiet, and then they were on the road. Three minutes later they were back on Interstate 95, this time headed south.

  Shane s
lumped in his seat. “That was nerve-wracking,” he said. “I’m really not comfortable with stealing a car. What if we get pulled over? We’ll get busted for Grand Theft Auto.”

  “We’re not going to get pulled over,” Tracie said. “I’m going to be the most careful little driver you ever saw, and once we get a few exits south of Bangor, we’ll stop somewhere and exchange plates with another car. The police will have no reason to stop us.”

  “Okay, fine, but why can’t we just go to the police and tell them someone’s after you? That way we stay on the right side of the law, instead of becoming wanted car thieves.”

  “We’re not thieves,” Tracie said, exasperation evident in her tone. “The owner will get his car back in short order, good as new. Probably. And in the meantime, we stay alive. I can’t go to the police because…well, I just can’t.”

  “Not good enough,” Shane said. “You promised you’d give me some answers. Well, we ate, we ‘acquired’ another vehicle, and we’re on our way south, maybe driving into some kind of ambush around the next corner. It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on.”

  So she did.

  27

  May 31, 1987

  4:55 p.m.

  Portland, Maine

  After leaving the Bangor area behind, Shane and Tracie drove for a long time without seeing much beyond the occasional small town, appearing isolated and lonely in the distance. They passed Waterville and then the state capital of Augusta, eventually reaching Portland, where they stopped for gas, to use the restrooms, and to grab another bite to eat, then continued on.

  Shane spent most of the drive in silent contemplation of the incredible turn his life had taken in less than a day. A fiery plane crash. A secret document. A beautiful CIA operative. KGB spies. Murder.

  The whole scenario was outlandish. It was like something out of a Tom Clancy novel. Twenty-four hours ago, Shane would have dismissed it as a nonsensical nightmare. But that was before he had seen a room full of professional investigators gunned down in cold blood, had a silenced pistol shoved between his eyes, helped steal a car, and gone on the run.

  He shook his head. He realized with a start he hadn’t given a single thought to the deadly diagnosis he had received yesterday, the one that had shaken him up so badly, since seeing the airplane burning in the forest.

  Until now.

  The miles continued to melt away under the tires of the Granada. Shane found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. He blinked a few times, stifling a yawn. They had spent the entire afternoon in the car, with just the short break in Portland at midday to gas up and stretch their legs, and it was now late-afternoon. The skies had cleared as they moved south and the sun blazed high in the sky, but Shane felt like he could drop into a deep sleep at any moment.

  “Go ahead and relax,” Tracie told him, amused. “Once the adrenaline from the conflict melts away, that high is replaced with a feeling of lethargy. It’s your body’s way of coping. It’s not every day you have to fight off psycho gunmen. At least I assume it’s not.”

  “You assume right,” Shane agreed. He chuckled, then sobered, thinking about the slaughter that had taken place back at the Bangor Airport. “You don’t think the cops believe we killed everyone back in Bangor, do you?”

  Tracie was silent for a moment. “Right now, I doubt they know what to believe. Witnesses saw us leave the airport, undoubtedly followed immediately by the gorillas chasing us, but that doesn’t mean much one way or the other. Unless there is someone still alive who can describe exactly what happened—”

  “—and I don’t think there is,” Shane interrupted. “As far as I know, the only people they didn’t kill were the controllers in the radar room working airplanes, and those guys wouldn’t have seen anything, because they were inside a dark room in a separate part of the building.”

  “If that’s the case, then it would be in our best interest not to get picked up by the police. They would eventually have to release you, but it would take a long time to verify your story, and they wouldn’t be in a very forgiving mood, not with a half-dozen or more murdered people—one of them a cop—on their hands.”

  Shane rubbed both hands over his face, still just as tired but now nervous as hell, too. He exhaled forcefully and looked across the front seat at Tracie. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Where are we going? What do we do now?”

  “Well,” she said, looking at her watch. “For the rest of today, we’ll have to maintain a holding pattern. I’ve got some cash and a few goodies stashed away inside a safe-deposit box in a bank just outside New York City. The first priority is to retrieve that, but since today is Sunday, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get at it. We’ll have to find an anonymous motel somewhere between here and New York and hole up for the night. I’ll call my boss and fill him in on what’s going on, and then tomorrow we get up bright and early, make a little bank withdrawal, and then continue toward D.C.”

  Shane stared hard at Tracie, who gazed straight out the windshield, pretending not to notice him watching her. “A little bank withdrawal,” he said.

  She glanced over, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. “That’s right,” she said.

  “What could you possibly have stored in a safe deposit box that will help us out of this jam?”

  “I told you, I have some cash.”

  “You told me. You also said, and I quote, ‘a few goodies.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that.”

  “You’re talking about weapons.”

  “Well, maybe. You know, a girl has to be prepared for anything.”

  She returned her attention to the highway and Shane watched the scenery roll by as the Granada continued churning south. What sort of girl just happens to keep a cache of weapons and money handy? What else might she have stored in that safe-deposit box?

  He thought about the events of last night, about her insistence on avoiding the hospital despite being injured in a deadly plane crash. About her stoic toughness as he cleaned and dressed her deep thigh wound, dressed in his gym shorts and little else. About those long legs, slim and smooth and sexy. Then he started thinking about things that had nothing to do with secret communiques or spies or airplane crashes.

  He daydreamed about sexy secret agents for a while, and eventually he fell asleep.

  28

  May 31, 1987

  8:10 p.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  Winston Andrews was well into his third gin and tonic when he realized he was gulping rather than sipping. He pondered that realization for a moment and eventually concluded he didn’t care. His Georgetown condominium felt cold, empty and lonely since Emily had died—was it really almost three years ago?—and he could no longer come up with a single reason to sip rather than gulp.

  The endgame was coming, Winston could sense it, and he was surprised to discover he didn’t mind all that much. He and Emily had never had children, so when she succumbed to lung cancer—the ultimate irony, Winston thought, given her status as a nonsmoker and lifelong health nut—the only thing left to occupy the long hours in the day was work.

  And that was fine, as far as it went. Winston had always been nearly fanatical about his work. But now, push was coming to shove, and Winston was no longer particularly interested in dealing with the shove. Approaching seventy, he had devoted his life to United States intelligence services since playing a critical role in the U.S.–Soviet collaboration to defeat the Nazis in World War II.

  Winston had spent virtually that entire war on the ground in Russia, making and cultivating contacts with the Soviets while they were suffering horrific losses of life, more than twenty million people dying before the defeat of Hitler had been accomplished. By 1945, when the Axis nations finally surrendered, Winston Andrews—genteel, Ivy League-educated Winston Andrews—had emerged as the most knowledgeable American alive regarding the affairs of the Soviet Union, both political and military.

  W
inston had served in the CIA for the next four decades, keeping his contacts inside Moscow active and even, to the utter astonishment of his superiors at the agency, developing new contacts as the older ones died, retired, disappeared, or faded away.

  During the darkest days of the Cold War in the 1950s and 60s, Winston was considered a star, funneling to the highest levels of the United States government classified intel regarding Soviet military buildups, aggression in foreign countries, KGB activity, and the Russian space program. You name it, Winston Andrews knew about it. His information helped shape the foreign policy decisions of an unbroken string of eight presidents from Truman to Reagan. He wasn’t a Democrat or a Republican—although if pushed, Winston might reluctantly admit toward a liberal bias—he was simply an intelligence gatherer.

  But Winston Andrews harbored a secret. While funneling all of that sensitive information regarding the Soviets to the U.S., he was simultaneously funneling information regarding the United States intelligence services to the Soviets.

  This was Winston’s secret. This was how he had developed the deep connections in Moscow that others had never been able to accomplish. This was how he was able to retrieve sensitive information regarding the Soviets almost in real time. He knew there had been the occasional whisper questioning his loyalty over the course of the last forty years, suspicions muttered, his work examined with narrowed eyes. But the intelligence he delivered was so consistently valuable, so up-to-the-minute, so sensitive, that the whispers and suspicions never developed into anything more. They invariably died away, often for years at a time.

  Winston supposed—hell, with the clarity provided by gulping three gin and tonics, he more than supposed, he knew—that most people would consider him a traitor to his country if they learned his secret, but he didn’t see it that way. Above all, Winston Andrews was a pragmatist. The more information the two countries with opposing political philosophies and mutual suspicion possessed about each other, the less likely they were to blow each other up.