“I’m not going anywhere,” he answered. “This car will be right in this spot when you get back. You don’t have to worry about that.” She reached for his hand and he picked it up and squeezed it.
She squeezed back, hard. “I…I’ve never said this before, not to anyone other than my mom and dad,” she said. “I’m not sure I even know how to do it. Um, I think, I uh…”
“I know,” he said. “I love you, too. I have from the minute you introduced yourself by sticking a gun in my face.”
She hugged him fiercely, then stepped out of the car and began walking briskly toward the Minuteman Insurance building.
***
June 2, 1987
9:45 a.m.
Columbia Road, Washington, D.C.
Shane squinted and watched her go. The sun streaming through the dirty passenger-side window ratcheted up the pain in his already pounding head, but it was worth it. Tracie looked fantastic in her new suit, and he tracked her with his eyes until she disappeared in the crowd.
He waited thirty seconds, then shut down the car and placed the key on the driver’s side floor. It would be out of sight to anyone passing by unless they stopped at the window and examined the interior. He stepped out of the car and closed the door, leaving the vehicle unlocked. He couldn’t take the chance of her returning, needing to access the car and finding it locked, especially since he was supposed to be sitting here, ready to leave. Hopefully any potential car thieves would be reluctant to ply their trade, given the police and Secret Service presence in the area.
Shane stepped onto the sidewalk and followed in Tracie’s footsteps. He had no real strategy in mind other than to trail behind and try to help her if he could. He knew he was being foolish, knew his presence on the scene would likely cause more problems for her than it would solve, but the thought of the beautiful young woman he had pulled from the burning wreckage of a plane just a couple of nights ago—the woman he had fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with—taking on a professional KGB assassin with no backup and only the vaguest sense of a plan herself was unthinkable.
Who was to say there was only one man perched up on that roof waiting to put a bullet through Ronald Reagan’s heart? Shane was no expert on covert operations, but he had read enough spy novels to know that military sniper units often consisted of two men—one to pull the trigger, and one to calculate wind direction, velocity, and distances, and to act as a spotter. Maybe that wasn’t how the Russians were going to do it, but if it was, Shane doubted Tracie would ever get close enough to the shooter to take him down.
So he followed, struggling to keep up.
He was far enough behind Tracie that she wouldn’t see him unless she backtracked or stopped and turned around for some reason. Neither action seemed likely because they were almost out of time. The President’s appearance was scheduled for ten o’clock and it was now after nine forty-five.
Shane picked up his pace. He felt light-headed and shaky, his headache blasting like a jackhammer inside his head. The Minuteman Insurance building was still a little more than halfway down the block. He wanted to break into a run but didn’t dare. If the cops saw a young man sprinting toward the location where the president would be speaking in just a few minutes, he would likely be rewarded with a bullet in the back.
The ironic thing was that Shane didn’t even care that much about getting shot, but he wouldn’t be any help to Tracie lying dead on the sidewalk, although the thought ran through his mind that if that scenario were to take place, the president’s appearance would certainly be cancelled and at least the leader of the free world would still be alive. He had to trust Tracie, though. She was a pro and she knew what she was doing. He chanted it as a mantra as he went.
He hustled along Columbia Road, moving as fast as he dared, feeling time slipping away. Finally he reached the wide marble steps leading to the Minuteman Building’s front entrance and hustled up them two at a time. He looked for Tracie but she was nowhere to be seen. He dodged a cluster of men in suits and overcoats moving in the other direction, pushed open the door and stepped into the building.
46
June 2, 1987
9:50 a.m.
Minuteman Insurance Building
There was no time to waste. Tracie marched quickly across the lobby—an authoritative woman walking with a purpose—and stopped at a small reception area two-thirds of the way across the floor. A young woman was in the middle of a conversation with the receptionist, a hefty older lady with silver-blue hair wearing an old but clean business suit.
Tracie stepped directly in front of the desk, cutting in front of the customer. The young woman sputtered, beginning to complain, and Tracie turned and flashed her FBI ID, first at the customer and then at the receptionist. “I’m FBI Special Agent James,” she said. “Please excuse the interruption, but I’m here on critical, time-sensitive government business.” The woman took a quick look at the card and backed off a step. She raised her hands and turned away.
“How may I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“I need to speak with your supervisor,” Tracie said.
“That would be Mr. Foley, but he is in a meeting and currently unavailable. Did you have an appointment?”
“No appointment,” Tracie said, “but it’s critical I speak to him now. Get him.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Pull him out of his meeting and get him out here now. It’s the last time I’m going to ask.”
“Or what?”
“Or I go get him myself. This is literally a matter of life and death.” Of course, it was a bluff. Tracie didn’t have a clue where to begin looking for the receptionist’s supervisor, but time was short and getting shorter, and she was desperate to light a fire under this bureaucratic battle axe.
It worked. The receptionist took one last frosty look at Tracie’s ID, now back in her breast pocket with the photo facing outward, and then punched a button on her telephone with a look on her face that suggested she would rather be eating bugs. She spoke quietly into the handset for a few seconds, listened, said something else, her face wrinkled in distaste, and then hung up.
“Mr. Foley is on his way,” she said, refusing to look at Tracie.
“Thank you for all your help,” she replied sweetly, doing her best to look earnest and sound sincere. “Thank you, also,” she said to the customer she had interrupted, this time hoping she actually did seem earnest and sincere.
She turned on her heel and moved to the center of the lobby, conscious of the seconds ticking away. Moments later, a middle-aged man with perfectly coiffed silver hair and an air of authority stepped out of an elevator and walked hurriedly toward the receptionist’s desk, glancing around the lobby as he did so. Halfway to the desk he spotted Tracie and turned toward her like a guided missile. The man had impatience written all over his face—that makes two of us, Tracie thought—and was dressed in a suit that Tracie guessed cost more than her monthly salary.
As he approached, Tracie flashed her FBI ID and the man waved it away, fluttering his fingers as if shooing away a pesky mosquito. “FBI Special Agent Madison James,” she said, doing her best to sound clipped and officious, guessing that tone would appeal to a man who struck her as the very definition of the word “officious.”
“Doug Foley,” he answered, taking her hand reluctantly, giving it one moist pump and then dropping it as if perhaps he feared he might catch something contagious. “Would you mind telling me why I had to interrupt my weekly meeting with the claims department? We’re very busy here and I don’t have time to hold the FBI’s hand.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she shot back. “It’s about President Reagan’s appearance, which is due to begin down the block in just,” she glanced at her watch, “nine minutes.”
“Yes,” he said exasperatedly, “what about it? You folks were a major disruption yesterday, disturbing my employees and poking around my building. Last night I was promised these disruptions were over with.
So, what is it now?”
“We’ve had a report of a man acting suspiciously in the area. The report stated the man may have entered this building. I need to take a walk through to check it out. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be here for the next few minutes. Oh, and I’ll need a key for the roof access. Preferably a master, if you have one.”
The manager huffed and looked at his watch distractedly. “Fine, look around, just try not to disturb my people too much this time.” He didn’t specify whether he considered the employees or the customers—or maybe both—to be “his people.” He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and fussed with it, finally removing one, which he handed to Tracie.
Tracie took it. “I’ll return the key to your receptionist when I’ve finished. Thank you for your time.”
The bank manager had begun striding away before she finished talking, barreling back toward the bank of elevators on the far wall. She lowered the hand she had begun to offer him and followed, moving quickly. She didn’t trust the speed of the elevators, so her goal was the fire stairs, the doorway to which was in the same corner of the lobby as the elevators.
When Foley stopped suddenly and turned, she almost plowed him over. He blinked in surprise at finding her right behind him. “You say there may be someone inside the building who’s been acting strangely?” he said.
“That was the report,” she answered brusquely, anxious to get to the roof.
“You know, there was one odd incident this morning,” he said, cupping his chin with one hand.
“Yes?”
“That’s right. We employ a security staff of one during overnight hours. Break-ins are not uncommon in this neighborhood, and it just seems prudent.” He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Tracie nodded impatiently and he continued. “Well, the guard on duty last night, Sean Sullivan, never clocked out at the end of his shift and he was nowhere to be found when we opened up this morning. Nothing is missing and the janitorial staff reported that he was here to let them into the building at midnight last night.”
“Maybe he simply forgot to sign out before he went home,” Tracie said.
“I don’t think so. Sean has been with us for over five years and has never forgotten to sign out before. He is ex-police and very professional. Anyway, with the report of a suspicious person, I thought you should know. We’ve been trying to get in touch with our man at home, but so far, no luck.”
“Hm,” Tracie said, thinking. “What time do the rest of the employees usually show up for work?”
“The managers and supervisors around eight, and the rest of the staff just before nine.”
“Okay, thank you,” Tracie began, but the man had once again dismissed her. He turned and punched an elevator button. Tracie pushed through the door to the stairs, and began sprinting up them two at a time.
The guard was dead, Tracie was certain of it. There was no doubt in her mind what had happened—the KGB’s man had overpowered the guard sometime between midnight and eight this morning.
Her calves began to tighten as she rushed up the stairs. She tried to tell herself maybe she was wrong, that the assassin might simply have neutralized the guard and then tied him up somewhere. But it didn’t feel right. There would be nothing for the KGB to gain by leaving a witness alive. The guard was dead, his body dumped somewhere out of the way. He would be discovered in the next day or two.
The floor numbers were posted in the stairwell next to the doors. Tracie passed the fifth floor and pushed herself harder. Two more to go. She was beginning to breathe heavily. A few seconds later she arrived at the seventh floor landing, surprised to see the stairway suddenly end. There was no roof access.
She paused, taking a moment to get her breathing under control and to think. There had to be a way to access the roof from inside the building. If it wasn’t via this stairway, then there would be another one somewhere. Maybe at the opposite end of the hallway.
She drew her weapon and eased the door open a crack. Peered into the hallway. Empty. Nothing out of place. A third of the way down the length of the corridor she could see a sign on a closed metal door that read ROOF – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She slipped into the hallway, eased the door closed quietly behind her, and began walking rapidly toward the roof access.
47
June 2, 1987
9:52 a.m.
Minuteman Mutual Insurance Building
Nikolai was hot. He had been huddled on the roof for two hours on a sunny day in early June. If there was one thing Nikolai Primakov hated, it was heat. Cold he knew. Cold he could deal with. In seventeen years growing up in Yakutsk, and then years of service to the Soviet government, Nikolai had lived and worked in some of the most frigid, forbidding places on earth.
But here, today, the sun caused the heat to radiate off the asphalt roofing gravel, making the temperature skyrocket. He was thankful the mission would soon be complete and he could climb down off this roof and out of the damned sunshine.
Nikolai had burned a lot of nervous energy simply waiting. After killing the guard and dumping his body next to the roof’s access door, he had lugged his cart up the stairs and then hustled down to the seventh floor entrance. There he removed the belt sander he had been using to prop the door open and placed it on the stairs while he used a strip of duct tape to seal the latch open. Then he eased the door closed and retreated back up the stairs to the roof.
With the door’s one-way locking system, if the tape were to fail and the latch were to operate as designed, the door would open only from the interior and Nikolai would be trapped on the roof, unable to escape after shooting Reagan. There was a metal ladder fastened to the rear of the building to be used as a fire escape, but Nikolai fully expected that escape route to be blocked within seconds after the U.S. president fell.
After ensuring the viability of his escape route, Nikolai returned to the roof and rolled his cart toward the front of the building, struggling to pull it through the asphalt. He stopped next to a gigantic air conditioning unit that rose out of the roof like a monstrous tumor. He snugged the cart up against the west side of the unit, using the massive structure to shield him and his equipment from prying eyes in the closest buildings.
To counteract the possibility of being seen by a worker on the east side of the Minuteman Insurance Building, Nikolai dug through his cart, pulling out two signs attached to portable metal stands. He unfolded the signs and placed one six feet away from each corner of the air conditioning unit, facing the adjoining building. The signs read, CAUTION, CONSTRUCTION ZONE — HARD HATS REQUIRED!
After erecting the signs, Nikolai pulled off the heavy canvas tarpaulin he had used to conceal his guns and other equipment. A large clamp had been affixed to two of the corners, and after unfolding the tarp, he lifted one corner up to the edge of the air conditioning housing and clamped it home, as he had planned on his reconnoitering visit, then repeated the process on the other side. He pulled the remaining two edges as far away from the unit as he could manage, then anchored them to the roof with the belt sander on one side and a heavy portable jigsaw on the other.
By the time he had finished, Nikolai had transformed the east side of the air conditioning unit into a portable work area. Stamped on the side of the tarp, in bright red letters, were the words DC HVAC INC — INSTALLATION AND SERVICE — AVAILABLE 24 HRS A DAY. The KGB’s theory was that hiding in plain sight would be the most effective way to avoid detection on the roof of a Washington building. Residents of large cities were so accustomed to construction sites and repair work on infrastructure that eventually the workers became almost invisible. It was simple human nature. People saw what they wanted to see.
Once he had placed his signs and set up the tarp, Nikolai finalized his preparations and then ducked his head and disappeared out of sight under the canvas lean-to. He had stayed there ever since, munching on his candy bars and sipping on his water, not even leaving the protection of the tarp to take a leak. When nature called, he simply unzipped
and pissed into one of his empty water bottles.
To pass the time once day had broken, he disassembled and reassembled the Dragunov, working methodically, then checked the magazine on his Makarov pistol and sharpened his combat knife. None of it needed to be done, but he did it anyway. Checked his watch and discovered it was barely past nine. Did everything again.
Out on Columbia Road, eight stories below in front of the Minuteman Mutual Insurance building, Nikolai could hear the city as it groaned and creaked through another late spring morning, the nonstop rumble of cars and trucks, horns and voices floating through the air, and the occasional far-off scream of a siren. Early in the morning, the sounds of the police cars and fire trucks had caused Nikolai to tense up and become instantly wary, but he quickly concluded there must be no shortage of crime in America’s capitol city because the sirens seemed at times to come almost nonstop.
The time passed slowly, although Nikolai was well acquainted with the prospect of lying in wait for his prey. He had hunkered down much longer than this plenty of times, spending one memorable mission shivering for three days inside the hollowed-out trunk of a massive downed oak tree on the outskirts of Moscow waiting for a local party commissar who had become a little too fond of the wife of a Red Army general.
The general had commissioned Nikolai privately, paying him out of his own pocket, not that Nikolai cared. Somehow the guilty party had been tipped off that the general was gunning for him. The man had holed up inside his house like a scared rabbit, refusing to move. Eventually he had, though, peeking out the back door—who knew why?—and Nikolai had put a bullet through the center of his forehead.
Black Ops Bundle: Volume One Page 69