“Maybe so,” the voice continued, “but this problem is bigger than most.”
“Get on with it, then. Are you going to make me guess?”
“The airplane carrying Gorbachev’s letter has crashed, and—”
“That was the plan, remember?”
“No, you do not understand. The plane did not disappear over the ocean. It crash-landed near an airport here in the U.S. In Bangor, Maine.”
“What?”
“That is not the worst of it.”
“Of course not,” Kopalev muttered. Suddenly his Lucky Strike tasted bitter. He sucked down a deep drag anyway—he was going to need it.
“Tell me,” he sighed, exhaling cigarette smoke.
“All of the crewmembers are dead, except the woman.”
“Except the woman.”
“That’s right. The CIA operative has vanished. Virtually the entire B-52 was destroyed in a massive fire following the accident, so it is of course possible the letter burned up in the blaze, but given the fact the agent has disappeared, it would seem likely the letter survived and disappeared with her.”
“Yes, it would seem likely,” Vasiliy agreed. He was silent for a moment, thinking. “We cannot be certain what is contained in that letter, but I have a pretty good idea.”
The man on the other end of the line waited patiently. Vasiliy knew he didn’t care what was in the letter. It was not his job to care what was in the letter. His job was to carry out Vasiliy’s instructions, thus his words were irrelevant until they contained those instructions.
“You are stationed in Boston, correct?”
“Da.”
“And you have two comrades also stationed in Boston, correct?”
“Da.”
“And what is the distance from Boston to Bangor, Maine?” Kopalev leaned back in his chair and consulted a map of the United States posted behind his desk. The map was enormous and took up one entire wall. Vasiliy did the calculations along with the agent. He knew the answer before the man spoke.
“It is roughly a three hour drive.”
“Very good. Take your two comrades and get up there immediately. Recover that letter. The agent was involved in a plane crash. Even if she escaped, she must have suffered injuries. She probably wandered away from the wreckage and is even now lying dead somewhere near. If that is the case, find her and relieve her of that letter before someone else does. It is not enough to keep the communiqué from President Reagan. It must be kept from anyone who would have the ability to publicize its contents.”
“And if she somehow survived?”
“Your mission remains unchanged. Get that letter. Whether the CIA operative lives or dies is of no concern.”
21
May 31, 1987
7:30 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
The ringing of the telephone worked its way into Shane’s consciousness gradually, pulling him out of a deep sleep. He had been dreaming about a young red-haired woman, mysterious and sexy. In his dream they were sharing his bed, and he was doing things with her he had not done with anyone since the breakup of his marriage more than a year ago.
He burst into wakefulness like a swimmer surfacing, the dream already fading, Shane reluctant to let it go. He glanced at the clock on the living room wall as he crossed to the kitchen. Seven thirty. He had gotten barely five hours of sleep and felt exhausted and weak. His entire body ached, leg muscles complaining, back stiff, joints popping. And he needed coffee.
He picked up the phone and snarled, “What?” into the receiver. It came out harsher than he intended but he didn’t much care.
“Shane, this is Marty Hall. I understand you had quite an adventure last night.” Marty was the air traffic manager at Bangor Tower, an older man with a mop of thick white hair and a heavily lined face who had spent his entire adult life working his way up the FAA ladder. Shane barely knew Marty because they rarely had the opportunity for interaction beyond the occasional nod and smile as they passed in the hallway of the facility’s base building stationed next to the control tower.
“Hi, Marty. Yeah, you could say that.” Shane remembered Chuck McNally’s statement that he would have to come in and talk to the NTSB accident investigators and cursed under his breath. He wanted nothing more than to lie back down on his couch and sleep for another couple of hours. Or days.
“Listen, Shane, I know this is your weekend, but the crash team is going to be here at nine and would like to talk with you as soon as possible. Think you can get in here by then?
He sighed. This was not unexpected. “I’ll be there,” he said. Then he hung up the phone and cursed out loud. There would be no going back to sleep today.
He padded past his bedroom on the way to take a shower and saw the door ajar, as he’d left it. He eased it open and peeked in at his injured guest. She was lying on her side in the fetal position. He took two steps into the room and saw her breathing deeply and steadily. She looked impossibly small and helpless.
Her back was to him, so it was difficult to see how the bandage on her leg was holding up. Shane thought for a moment about trying to take a quick look at it while she slept, then imagined her waking up to see him bent over the bed, staring at her bare legs.
He recalled the feeling of looking down a gun barrel last night and decided the bandage was probably holding just fine. He eased the door closed and continued to the shower.
22
May 31, 1987
7:40 a.m.
Hampden, Maine
The early morning air was cool and crisp, and the slanting sunlight reflected off the windshields of dozens of vehicles parked in the truck stop lot. Anatoli Simonov stepped out of the rented Chevy Caprice and shaded his eyes against the glare. The relative warmth reminded Anatoli how far he’d come from his childhood in Siberia, where the bitter cold was so overwhelming it was like being stabbed in the lungs if you tried to breathe too deeply.
But the desolation felt familiar. Dysart’s Truck Stop was located south of Bangor, Maine on Interstate 95, and apart from the cluster of buildings at the truck stop and the big paved parking lot, he was surrounded by a massive expanse of mostly unpopulated landscape, the city of Bangor still just a rumor to the north.
“Come on,” Bogdan Fedorov urged, climbing out of the back seat along with a second KGB operative. “We have much to do, and standing around admiring the view is accomplishing nothing.”
The three men hurried across the tarmac and into the truck stop for breakfast.
***
They ate mostly in silence, preferring to interact with the locals as little as possible. It was easy to blend in with the Americans visually, much more difficult when you spoke in heavily Russian-accented English, as Anatoli’s two companions did.
Anatoli had long ago achieved a certain familiarity with the language, so he ordered for everyone, and their conversation ground to a halt whenever their waitress—a heavy-set middle-aged woman with rust-colored hair and an aggrieved demeanor—approached to refill their coffee.
An ancient black-and-white television suspended in one corner of the dining room was tuned to a local channel, the volume cranked to a decibel level roughly approximating that of an air raid siren. Local programming had been pre-empted to carry continuous coverage of a breaking news story: last night’s crash of an Air Force B-52 jet.
The men ate their omelets, drank their coffee, and paid close attention as a female reporter gazed solemnly into the camera and said, “It appears as though there was at least one survivor of last night’s fiery airplane crash in a heavily wooded area north of Bangor International Airport. Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that a passing motorist witnessed the crash and braved an out-of-control fire to pull a young woman from the wreckage.”
Anatoli lowered his coffee cup to the table, unable to believe his good fortune as a graphic was superimposed on the lower right hand corner of the screen. The graphic depicted a head shot photo of a youngish man, perhaps late tw
enties. The television’s distance from the table and the small size of the picture made it impossible to distinguish any details of the man’s facial features.
The reporter continued. “Sources tell us this man, Shane Rowley, an air traffic controller living in Bangor, was on his way to work at the time of the crash and managed to rescue the as-yet unidentified woman. Her condition and whereabouts, as well as the whereabouts of Rowley, are at this time unknown, but News 9 has learned Mr. Rowley is scheduled to meet with NTSB investigators as well as Air Force representatives at nine a.m. inside the control tower building at BIA to assist in the investigation. More on this story as it develops. Jane Finneran, WBGR News 9.”
Anatoli tried to keep from smiling but just couldn’t do it. He tore his eyes from the television for the first time since the news report had begun and saw his fellow operatives smiling as well.
“This would be considered good news, yes?” Fedorov said softly between bites of omelet, flecks of cheese peppering his black beard.
“It most certainly would,” Anatoli agreed.
“What is next? Find out where this Shane Rowley lives and force him to reveal the girl’s location?”
“We could do that,” Anatoli said, “but why wait to take him at his home? This is a matter of no small importance and, according to Colonel Kopalev, extremely time-critical. We know where Mr. Rowley will be spending his morning. Our instructions are to retrieve the letter absolutely as soon as possible. Since we don’t know when Shane Rowley will be alone again, I suggest we pay these investigators a visit and remove Mr. Rowley from the meeting. Once we have secured Rowley, we can find a nice, secluded location—that shouldn’t be difficult, there is nothing much in this wasteland but trees—and extract the information we require.”
He met his companions’ eyes and awaited argument.
When he received none, he said, “Now, let us finish our delicious breakfast. It seems this will be a busy day.”
23
May 31, 1987
8:20 a.m.
Bangor, Maine
Tracie’s eyes fluttered open and she felt a rush of intense panic. She saw no one. Recognized nothing. Had no idea where she was or how she had gotten here.
She sat bolt upright in a strange bed, stiff and sore, and then the memories came rushing back: Major Mitchell shooting his fellow B-52 crewmembers. Tracie returning fire and putting Mitchell down. The desperate attempt by a dying Major Wilczynski to land the big jet in Bangor, Maine. The subsequent plane crash and her rescue by air traffic controller Shane Rowley.
Rowley.
She had fallen asleep in Rowley’s bed.
She started to panic again as she looked for the letter from Mikhail Gorbachev she had been charged with delivering to President Reagan. She snatched up her pillow and there it was, right where she’d stuffed it, crumpled and sweat-stained, flecks of blood splattered across it.
She grabbed it with a sigh of relief and then looked around, wondering about the time. A digital clock radio on a dresser across the room said eight-twenty. Tracie tried to recall the last time she’d slept this late and couldn’t.
Stretching, she eased off the side of the bed and gingerly placed a little weight on her injured leg. Her thigh throbbed but the pain was tolerable. She leaned more firmly and finally took a couple of shuffling steps toward the bedroom door.
Painful but not overwhelmingly so. Same thing with her headache.
She poked her head into the short hallway and looked around, seeing no one. She smelled fresh coffee and her stomach rumbled. Shane must be in the kitchen.
She decided to take advantage of the opportunity for a shower and slipped into the bathroom. Splotches of dried blood covered her arms and she could feel more blood flaking off her face. Her hair was matted and stringy. She felt as though she had crawled through a mud puddle the size of a football field.
She closed the bathroom door and placed the letter on top of the toilet seat tank, exactly as she had done inside the CIA safe house at Ramstein. Then she undressed, casting a critical eye at the makeshift patch job Shane Rowley had done on her leg last night. She was pleased to note only a slight discoloration of the Ace bandage at the site of the injury. There was no oozing or seeping of blood.
She knew she should remove the bandage and clean the wound again, but didn’t want to take the time now. She’d do it later.
Tracie eased into the shower, holding her injured leg awkwardly out of the tub in an effort to keep the bandage dry. It was an uncomfortable position to maintain, hard to stay balanced, but she turned the hot water up as high as she could stand and then showered quickly. She washed her hair with some shampoo she found in a hanging shower caddy and then got out, dripping water all over her host’s floor while she searched for a clean towel.
She found one in a stack of them inside a cabinet under the sink. She dried off quickly and wrapped the towel around her body, now clean and pink from the hot shower. She wasn’t looking forward to getting back into her filthy clothes, but didn’t have much choice—her travel bag had been lost in the crash. She decided to delay the inevitable, instead picking the precious envelope up off the toilet tank, opening the bathroom door and limping down the hallway in search of the coffee.
And, she had to admit, Shane Rowley.
The kitchen was empty. So was the living room. A couple of blankets had been thrown carelessly to one side of the couch and a pillow lay on the far end. It was obvious Rowley had slept here, but Tracie’s assumption that her rescuer was somewhere inside the apartment had been off the mark.
She turned and wandered into the kitchen, finding a pile of neatly folded women’s clothing on the counter. A handwritten note had been placed atop the clothes.
Tracie furrowed her brow and unfolded the note. Good morning, Tracie, it read. I hope you’re feeling a little better. Sorry I’m not here, but I got called in to work. I have to talk to the NTSB investigators about the crash. They’re going to want to talk to you, too, but you looked so exhausted last night that I didn’t have the heart to wake you up before I left. The bureaucrats can wait.
The coffee is fresh and the water is hot if you’d like to take a shower. I made the assumption you’ll want clean clothes, so I dug out some of the stuff my ex-wife left behind in her rush to escape her boring husband and the backwoods of Bangor. You’re probably not exactly the same size, but I’m guessing it will fit okay. I have a feeling you could wear just about anything and look stunning.
Make yourself at home, and if you’re so inclined, I would love to help you figure out your next move when I get back. If you decide to hit the road before I return, good luck to you, and thanks for my most interesting Saturday night ever.
Shane
Tracie finished reading and then rummaged around in the cupboard above the counter until she found a mug. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee and stood at the counter sipping it as she read the note a second time. I have a feeling you could wear just about anything and look stunning.
She found herself smiling as she thought about the handsome young air traffic controller, then she shook her head at her foolishness. Something explosive was contained in the envelope she held in her hand, something someone was willing to go to great lengths to destroy.
She sat down at Shane Rowley’s tiny kitchen table, thinking about secret communications and international diplomacy and who might have the desire—and more importantly, the ability—to commit murder in the interest of squelching a communiqué only a handful of people in the world even knew existed.
There seemed to be only one possibility, and if her assumption was right, that possibility was terrifying.
Tracie knew she needed to contact her handler, and she needed to do it before speaking to anyone at the NTSB, or even anyone from the Air Force. A U.S. military officer had brought down that jet last night and had murdered two fellow officers in cold blood, and the only entity Tracie could think of possessing the kind of reach necessary to accomplish that—a
nd the desire to do so—was the KGB.
She wandered back into the living room and flipped on Shane’s television. A local news reporter was doing a live broadcast from Bangor International Airport on last night’s B-52 crash, and in the lower right corner of the screen was a picture of Shane.
“Sources tell us this man, Shane Rowley, an air traffic controller living in Bangor, was on his way to work at the time of the crash and managed to rescue the as-yet unidentified woman. Her condition and whereabouts, as well as the whereabouts of Rowley, are at this time unknown, but News 9 has learned Mr. Rowley is scheduled to meet with NTSB investigators as well as Air Force representatives at nine a.m. inside the control tower building at BIA to assist in the investigation. More on this story as it develops. Jane Finneran, WBGR News 9.”
Tracie stared, her heart sinking. Shane had called a supervisor last night to explain why he wasn’t at work and that person, or someone close to that person, must have leaked details to the press.
This was bad. She looked from the television to the letter still clutched in her hand. Whether it was the KGB or some other entity determined to prevent the communiqué from reaching President Reagan, they would have no reason to stop until they accomplished their goal, not after committing multiple murders and destroying an airplane worth tens of millions of dollars.
A chill ran down her spine. She glanced at a wall clock hanging over the TV. 8:50 a.m.
She limped to the pile of clothing in the kitchen, dropped her towel to the floor, and strapped her backup weapon—now the only gun she had left—to her ankle in its holster. Then she stepped into the underwear, jeans and sweater as quickly as she could manage. They were a little loose but would have to do for now.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 10