TRACIE TANNER THRILLERS
VOLUME 1-7
Allan Leverone
Copyright © 2020 by Allan Leverone
Individual novels Copyright © 2013-2019 by Allan Leverone
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, some of which may be based in part on actual names, characters, places and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
First eBook edition: 2020
PARALLAX VIEW
Allan Leverone
1
May 20, 1987
2:25 a.m.
Nikolayev South Shipyard, Ukraine
Tracie Tanner carefully eased open another drawer in the dented, World War II-era metal filing cabinet wedged behind the general manager’s desk at Shipyard Number 444.
Where’s that damned file?
She’d been searching for nearly half an hour already with no luck, unable to decipher the Soviets’ Byzantine filing system. Her eyes burned from the strain of reading reports typed in Cyrillic on substandard Russian-made typewriters, and she could sense time ticking away—surveillance reports indicated the guards’ patrol patterns included a walk-through of this very office every forty-five minutes or so.
The darkened office smelled sour, its cement block construction retaining the unpleasant fishy stench of the Black Sea combined with old sweat. She clenched a small penlight between her teeth to free up both hands for the search, and she worked methodically, flipping through file after file under the most likely tab headings.
Tracie, a CIA clandestine ops specialist, had been assigned to remove the guidance system software specs for the Soviet aircraft carrier Buka, scheduled for commission later this year, and replace them with bogus specifications. Construction had been completed on Buka years earlier, but bugs in the ship’s sophisticated software had delayed commissioning ever since.
Four years ago, in a successful nighttime operation, another CIA clandestine ops specialist had broken into this same office and replaced the proper specs with useless, CIA-generated data. Now the goal was to repeat the scenario and delay launch of the Buka for several more months, if possible.
Tracie worked quickly but thoroughly. Next to the office door the Soviet bureaucrat in charge had placed a large aquarium filled with exotic fish, and the steady drone of the water filter motor began to lull her into drowsiness. She blinked hard, closed the filing cabinet drawer, and opened another. She had worked her way through nearly two-thirds of the file cabinet and found nothing.
And then, there it was.
The first folder in the new drawer.
It was blue, filled with several dozen sheets of numbers, diagrams and specifications. Tracie lifted out the folder and compared some of the sheets inside it to corresponding sheets of paper in the dummy file she’d brought with her. They appeared identical. The differences in the specifications were so minute it would take a team of engineers months to decipher the problem, and that was after they had discovered there was a problem.
She smiled in the darkness and removed the original specs, sliding the forged documents into the file folder in their place. She rolled the drawer closed, slowly and quietly, and then stood, relieved to be finished. She placed the original software specs into a small briefcase and snapped it shut.
Padded quietly across the office.
And dropped her flashlight. It slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop against the closed door.
Dammit.
Tracie froze, waiting to hear a shouted challenge or footsteps pounding down the hallway.
Nothing.
She waited fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then she breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the flashlight. Be more careful, dummy.
She eased the door open and stepped into the hallway.
And walked straight into a Soviet security guard’s Makarov semiautomatic pistol.
Tracie stepped backward instinctively, calculating the odds of reaching her Beretta 9mm inside the shoulder holster under her jacket. Result: not good.
The guard said, “Stay right where you are,” in Russian, and Tracie moved back another three steps, hoping he would follow her into the office. He did.
She stepped back and he moved forward.
Stepped back again and he followed, still holding the gun on her.
She backed into the manager’s desk, studying the guard. He was barely more than a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and he wore a threadbare Red Army uniform that had probably been handed down from other soldiers two or three times, maybe more.
His hands were shaking, just a little, and he said, “You’re coming with me.”
I don’t think so, Tracie thought, but raised her hands to chest level in submission.
“All right,” she answered in Russian, hoping her slight English accent would be undetectable. “This is a simple misunderstanding. I can explain.”
“Not my problem,” the guard said. “You will explain to my superiors.” He gestured with his head toward the door.
“Go,” he told her, “and do not try anything stupid.” The Makarov stuttered in his hands and Tracie hoped he wouldn’t shoot her by accident.
The guard stepped aside to allow Tracie to pass him into the hallway. He brushed up against the table holding the aquarium, and as she moved past him she pushed hard, a blur of motion in the semi-darkness, and smashed his hands straight down the side wall of the fish tank, gun and all.
The glass shattered and the guard gasped, the sound almost but not quite a scream. He pulled the trigger reflexively and the gun fired, the slug ricocheting wildly and barely missing Tracie. A wave of water and fish flooded out of the tank, soaking Tracie and the guard.
Even in the dim light, she could see the razor-sharp glass had ripped a gash in the guard’s forearm. Had she been sliced, too? No time to worry about that now.
The guard stumbled forward and Tracie ripped the gun out of his hands, slamming it against his temple in one motion. He sank to his knees, stunned. She hit him again and he dropped to the floor. He didn’t move. She prodded him with her foot and he lay still.
He was out cold.
But now she had another problem. The shipyard was patrolled at night by a two-man security team, and if the other guard were anywhere near he would certainly have heard the gunfire. He could be on her in seconds. Tracie unlatched the briefcase and dropped the unconscious guard’s Makarov inside, then snapped it shut and eased out the door again, Beretta drawn, alert for the second security man.
He was nowhere in sight.
She made her way out of the building and through the shipyard, moving between concrete and aluminum structures like a wraith. At the edge of shipyard property, she turned toward the Black Sea shoreline and an inflatable boat that would take her to a U.S. Navy submarine stationed nearby.
She disappeared into the inky Ukrainian night.
2
May 28, 1987
11:15 p.m.
The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR
Mikhail Gorbachev’s residence
Mikhail Gorbachev trudged into his den. He was exhausted and felt like a man carrying the
weight of the world on his shoulders. Raisa had gone to bed hours ago, but sleep would prove elusive for Mikhail tonight. He eased onto his plush leather office chair, selected a sheet of custom stationery, and got to work.
This might be the most important letter he would ever write, and it was imperative he compose it here, at home. Working in his office, filled as it was with cameras and other monitoring equipment, would risk his words being seen by the wrong set of eyes.
KGB eyes.
So he began writing, taking his time despite the fact he had put in a full day already and had another long day planned for tomorrow. He paused every few seconds to rub his chin and think. It was critical every word be phrased to convey the proper sense of urgency. Mikhail knew full well the letter’s recipient would be suspicious, if not outright dismissive, of the veracity of his words and the motives behind them. And that was assuming the letter even reached its intended destination.
Mikhail knew he was probably under surveillance here, too, but working at night in his home office was not an unusual occurrence and should not elicit undue suspicion. More importantly, the quality of the surveillance cameras here was likely a step below those placed inside his executive office. It was a risk, but a calculated one, and worth taking.
He had long-since become accustomed to being watched. Clandestine KGB surveillance was ingrained in the consciousness of Soviet society, accepted as just as much a part of the late-twentieth century Russian experience as exquisite vodka and blisteringly cold winters.
Still, he hunched over his work, shielding the letter to the maximum extent possible with his body. The KGB might not be able to read the specifics of what he was writing, but after several recent heated policy disagreements they could probably guess the subject.
And that made this communiqué one of the most dangerous pieces of paper in the world.
Once he finished crafting the letter, the next step would be to enlist a trustworthy courier to make delivery. That would be a tricky and dangerous proposition, and where his plan could easily fall apart. A contact well versed in espionage techniques would be the obvious choice, and as Soviet Secretary General, Gorbachev could take his pick of the skilled KGB operatives in their considerable arsenal.
But there was a problem. This assignment would require personal loyalty, and a career spy would have no reason to remain loyal to Mikhail Gorbachev. In theory, Russia’s espionage services existed to support the Communist party, of which he was titular head.
The reality, however, was much different. KGB agency chiefs enjoyed tremendous autonomy and were accustomed to wielding power for their own benefit. Mikhail knew if he entrusted this mission to the KGB, the document would not be out of his hands thirty minutes before it would be undergoing intensive scrutiny, with potentially dire consequences.
For him as well as others.
But Mikhail Gorbachev had not risen to power through the cutthroat ranks of the Soviet political system by being timid—or by being stupid. He wielded power and influence too, plenty of it, and his inner circle was filled with men fiercely protective of him. Not only because he was their friend and confidant, but also because their livelihoods depended upon his maintaining power. Were he to be overthrown, the new Russian leader would bring in new lieutenants, disposing of the old power brokers in whatever manner they saw fit.
Including making the most knowledgeable—and thus most dangerous—of them disappear.
Gorbachev knew the courier would have to be a man inside his inner circle, but it could not be someone so close to the general secretary that he was indispensable, because the odds of the man completing the mission successfully and also returning to Moscow alive were slim.
Practically nil, he thought grimly.
The Soviet leader took a break from composing his letter and flipped it face down, then he stretched out in his chair. His eyes were tired, burning from the exhaustion of a full day followed by the stress of tonight’s illicit work. Tomorrow he would have to carry on as though he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. It would not be easy, but then nothing was easy in a world where Mother Russia’s hold over the rest of the Soviet republics was slipping steadily away.
The world was shrinking, and people who at one time were easily controlled via intimidation were beginning to demand freedoms unthinkable just a decade ago under Russian rule. No one inside the Kremlin wanted to admit it, but the burden of repressing the citizens of so many nations, all yearning for freedom and self-determination, was stretching the Soviet Union to the breaking point.
Things had to change, and they had to change soon, but most inside the ruling body of the USSR refused to see it. They buried their heads in the sand and pretended the year was still 1962.
Mikhail Gorbachev knew better. The Soviet Union was headed for disaster. It was inevitable, and would tear his country apart. Some inside the KGB had set a plan in motion that would cause a massive shift in global conditions, allowing them to consolidate power, and he could not allow that to happen. The plan was too extreme. It would trigger World War Three.
So he would do what must be done. But to challenge the KGB hard-liners openly would be foolhardy and likely considered treasonous. He would disappear without a trace in the middle of the night, just as millions of his countrymen had disappeared under Josef Stalin. The KGB could make it happen, his status as Communist Party general secretary notwithstanding, and no one would question a thing. A new leader would be installed and the system would lurch along toward its own demise.
This was why he worked in exhausted solitude at his desk while the rest of Moscow slumbered. This was why he risked everything. For his beloved country.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He whittled down the list of potential couriers in his mind. He chewed on the decision endlessly until he decided on the perfect candidate.
Aleksander Petrovka’s official title was Undersecretary for Presidential Affairs. Aleksander would do as instructed, particularly if properly motivated. He was fairly intelligent for a party apparatchik, maybe even bright enough to pull off what Mikhail required of him.
Tomorrow they would talk, and Mikhail would put his own plan in motion, the one that would, with any luck, negate the KGB’s. He would dispatch Petrovka to East Berlin on the first available plane. The KGB would know something was up but would be unable to stop him, provided Mikhail acted quickly and decisively.
He nodded, alone in his office. Having selected a courier, Mikhail felt a great weight lifting from his shoulders. The plan would either work or it would not, but solidifying things, even if only in his mind, made Mikhail feel better, like he was accomplishing something of great significance.
He straightened in his chair and got back to work.
3
May 29, 1987
10:10 a.m.
The Kremlin
Aleksander Petrovka was suspicious and nervous; Mikhail could see that the moment the man entered his office.
Petrovka worked in the Kremlin as a member of Mikhail Gorbachev’s personal staff, but his status within the general secretary’s inner circle was not so lofty that he’d ever had occasion to take a private meeting with his boss.
“Aleksander,” Mikhail said, rising and extending his hand. It was critical he put his underling at ease.
Petrovka shook his hand uncertainly. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“I did,” Mikhail said, smiling. “Come, let us stroll the grounds.” He knew this development would arouse further concern in Petrovka, but it could not be helped. His office was certainly under surveillance, with listening devices as well as cameras, so broaching a subject as sensitive as Mikhail’s here would get them both arrested for treason before the hour was up.
The men remained silent until they had exited the building. Mikhail could feel Aleksander’s discomfort; it was rolling off him in waves. As they strolled through flower gardens just beginning to bloom in the dank Moscow climate, the secretary spoke in a near-whisper to avoid detection by ubiquitous KGB l
istening devices.
“You are being entrusted with a great honor,” he began. “A patriotic duty. You are being given the opportunity to perform a service to your country far beyond anything you might previously have imagined possible.”
Aleksander remained silent and Mikhail removed an innocent-looking envelope from his suit coat. He held it up for Aleksander’s inspection but kept it close to his body, protecting it as much as possible from view of surveillance cameras.
“You are to leave immediately. We will provide you with a change of clothes for your overnight stay in the GDR. You will be driven straight from here to Tushino Airfield and fly via private plane to East Berlin, where you will turn this envelope over to an operative at the location revealed to you just prior to landing. Please note this envelope has been sealed in wax with my personal insignia, and its contents are classified Top Secret, not for your eyes or anyone else’s except its intended recipient. The consequences of opening it would be severe and immediate. Do you understand?”
Aleksander nodded slowly. Mikhail could see he understood. Severe consequences in Russia meant only one thing.
“How will I recognize the envelope’s recipient?” Aleksander asked.
“I am told he suffered facial disfigurement in an automobile accident years ago. A long scar on his right cheek. But you needn’t worry, I have passed your description along and your contact will be watching for you. He will address you as ‘Dolph’ and you will respond, ‘Hello, Henrik.’”
The secretary continued. “After delivering this envelope to your contact, your mission will be complete. You may enjoy the rest of your evening in East Berlin and then fly home tomorrow. Simple, yes?”
Mikhail knew Aleksander wanted to question him. Hell, he could see the man wanted to refuse the assignment. But he also knew he would do as asked. His place was not to question. He was a bureaucrat and had been given an assignment by the most powerful man in the USSR. What else could he do?
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