“This is the problem.” Tracie picked the telephone’s black plastic handset off its cradle and brandished it in front of him, dropping it back onto the receiver with a thud.
“The telephone connection in his home office is secure. It’s a dedicated CIA line, encrypted, nearly impossible to hack into. But this—” she pointed again at the offending motel phone—“is anything but secure. Anyone could have been listening in. Andrews violated Rule Number One of covert operations. He should never have asked me to reveal our location on an unsecured connection when there’s a Russian hit team chasing us all over the East Coast.”
“Maybe…” Shane’s voice trailed off as he struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation, knowing he was wasting his time. Tracie would already have found one if it existed.
“No,” she said grimly. “He’s involved. It’s the only thing that makes sense, the only reason he would care where we were. Obviously the KGB is up to something big, something potentially game-changing, or else they never would have risked exposing so many of their U.S. assets in such a desperate manner for one simple op.”
Her eyebrows knitted together in concentration. “This letter I’m tasked with bringing to Washington—no one besides Gorbachev himself knows what’s in it. I think he’s trying to send a warning directly to the president.”
Shane was skeptical. “I don’t know,” he said. “It sounds pretty farfetched, like something out of a Hollywood movie. The Manchurian Candidate or something.”
“It sounds farfetched, I’ll give you that. But I can’t imagine what else could have the KGB this spooked.”
“But they’ve only thrown three guys at us. I mean, it’s pretty daunting from our perspective, but what are three guys to the KGB in the grand scheme of things?”
“Three guys is a lot,” Tracie said, her face burning with intensity. Shane was amazed. She barely resembled the All-American-looking girl he had gotten used to riding with.
She paused, thinking something over, and Shane wondered if he had just been dismissed. Then she said, “How much of your American History do you remember from high school?”
“I don’t know. Some, I guess. I mean, it was interesting so I mostly paid attention.”
“You’ve heard of the McCarthy hearings?”
“Of course. Joe McCarthy was a U.S. Senator back in the 1950s who started a big Communist scare, claiming the commies had gained influence in all levels of U.S. society, governmental and otherwise.”
“Exactly,” Tracie said, nodding, still intense. “McCarthy had a lot of people running scared, but eventually it was determined there was no way the Soviets could possibly have infiltrated our government to the extent McCarthy was claiming. He was discredited.”
Her laser stare bored in on him as if willing him to understand. He didn’t.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “There weren’t a huge number of Soviet Communists in the United States, at least not such a large number they could do any real damage. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t any. The Soviets probably have an agent or two in many of our major cities, enough operatives to pass along whatever intel they can gather, but not the numbers to really accomplish much. Maybe a few dozen people total, similar to the number of assets we have in Russia. The numbers just aren’t that great.
“So when they expose three of those few dozen people in such an obvious and risky way, it’s significant. It means something if you’re paying attention. And like I told you before, attention to detail is what keeps me alive.”
“So what are we going to do?” Shane asked.
“Well, if what I believe is true, we’ve probably got a minimum of, say, two hours before anything happens. The goons chasing us will have expected us to head toward D.C., but they had no way of knowing how far we would have gotten. They’re probably ahead of us because they’ll assume we wouldn’t stop—”
“Which we wouldn’t have,” Shane interrupted, “if you didn’t need to get at your cash.”
“Exactly. So they’ll have to double back once Andrews relays our location to the Russians. That’s why I say we should split the night into two-hour shifts. One of us keeps watch while the other sleeps. If it’s alright with you, you can start with the first watch, since I really don’t think anything will happen for awhile.”
“Of course I’ll take the first watch. I’ll do whatever you want. But in the meantime, there’s something else we need to talk about.”
“And that is?”
He cut a look at Tracie. “You need to open that letter. I mean, like right now.”
“The letter is classified.”
“I understand that.”
“It’s Top Secret.”
“I understand that.”
“It’s for the president’s eyes only.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m expressly forbidden to open it, Shane.”
“I understand that, too, and under normal circumstances I would never suggest you disregard protocol. And I’m well aware that you’ve been doing this black ops stuff—”
“Clandestine operations,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“I don’t do ‘black ops.’ I do clandestine operations, missions that by necessity must remain deniable by those in positions of authority all the way up the political and military food chains.”
“Whatever,” Shane said. “And thank you for making my point for me. As I started to say, I understand you’ve been doing these types for things for years and I’ve only been exposed to this shit for a day, but it’s pretty obvious to me you’re just stumbling around in the dark unless you know what you’re up against. If your fears about your handler are anywhere close to being accurate, reading that letter might make the difference between living and dying. More to the point, only one person in the world knows what it contains, and it seems to me becoming the second person to know might be the best way to figure out how to proceed. Hell, it’s probably the only way.”
Shane took a breath, amazed he hadn’t been interrupted, amazed she had not yet shot him down.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Opening this little time bomb”—she patted her pocket lightly—“could get me executed for treason, but I don’t see any way around it. I’ve been sitting here trying to work up the courage to do it.”
She took a deep breath. “I guess now’s the time.”
She held up Mikhail Gorbachev’s correspondence. The envelope was soiled and wrinkled from its travels but even from across the room Shane could see it remained sealed. Tracie ran her fingers over the surface as if trying to divine its contents via osmosis.
Finally she tore one end off the envelope, careful not to damage the contents, then removed two handwritten sheets of paper, which she held up for Shane’s inspection.
He took one look and felt like an idiot. The letter was written in Russian. Of course it was. Mikhail Gorbachev was General Secretary of the Soviet Union; why would Shane have assumed the damned thing would be written in English?
He shook his head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. What do we do now?”
“I can read it,” Tracie said. “You can’t be in my business and work in and around the Soviet Union without demonstrating some proficiency with common Russian dialects.
She pulled the letter back and squinted down at it, concentrating.
“To President Reagan,” she began, and then continued haltingly.
“Dear Mr. President. Please accept my apologies for this most unusual method of communication. The contents of this letter are of the utmost importance, critical to the security of both of our countries and, in fact, the entire world. The information I am about to impart to you is so explosive, I am afraid I cannot trust the usual diplomatic channels for delivery. You will soon understand why.”
Tracie lifted her head and looked at Shane. He face was troubled, her beautiful eyes haunted. She looked back down at the letter and continued reading.
&
nbsp; “As you know, Mr. President, changes are sweeping the globe. Many inside the Kremlin insist on resisting these changes and are intent on preserving the Soviet Union in its current incarnation at all costs.
“I do not agree with the assessment of these people, but they form much of my government, and their plan for assuring the continued survival of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is one that has a direct impact on you personally.
“Mr. President, a plan to assassinate you has been set in motion by a powerful minority at the highest levels of the KGB. Your travel itinerary for June 2 has been acquired and your outdoor speech celebrating the District of Columbia urban renewal has been targeted. An operative placed on top of a nearby building and armed with a high-powered sniper rifle has been assigned to assassinate you as you deliver your remarks at ten o’clock.
“Please treat this information with the gravity it deserves, Mr. President. Relations between the word’s two great superpowers have improved during the terms of your presidency, and I cannot allow the progress we have made to be nullified by the single-minded fanaticism of those inside my government who refuse to recognize the future, even as it approaches.
“Understand this assassination is being undertaken without my approval. But understand also that my administration does not currently possess the means to stop it. I hope you see now, Mr. President, why I am being forced to contact you via these drastic and unprecedented measures. I am subject to constant surveillance. There is no other alternative.
“Good luck, Mr. President. Cancel that appearance and avoid a catastrophe that will launch a third world war.
“Sincerely, Mikhail Gorbachev”
Tracie looked again at Shane. Her face had gone white. “June second. That’s the day after tomorrow,” she said.
***
Shane had to remind himself to breathe. He gazed at Tracie, still seated on the bed staring at the letter. The Top Secret document she’d risked her career, her freedom, maybe even her life to open.
“You have to alert someone,” he said.
“I can’t,” she answered simply. “Not until I know whether Winston Andrews has been compromised. If I’m right about him, I can’t trust him with this information, and if that’s the case, I have no idea who above him in the chain of command I can trust. If I’m wrong, and the night passes quietly, no Russians show up to kill us and gain possession of this”—she held up the letter—“then first thing tomorrow I’ll tell Winston everything.”
Shane whistled quietly. “Holy shit,” he said. “So what do we do now?”
“Now we wait. Try to get some sleep and see if we get any visitors in the night.” Tracie stood slowly from the bed, wincing as she placed her weight on her injured leg.
Shane said, “I don’t think there’s any way I can sleep right now, not after this. If you’re pretty sure we have some time, why don’t we clean and re-bandage that leg wound of yours? If those guys show up like you think they might—”
“They will,” she said dejectedly.
“Okay, well, if they do, you already said we’re going to have to move fast. Right now you look like you’re eighty years old.”
“Thanks for the sweet-talk.”
Shane laughed, relieved the black mood permeating the room had been lifted, even if only slightly. “Okay, let me rephrase that. You look fantastic, but you’re moving like you’re eighty years old.”
“Hmph,” she said. “I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. But there’s one problem. We don’t have any bandages.”
“You underestimate me,” he answered. “I found a twenty-four hour drugstore as well as a home-improvement place while I was out. I picked up some Ace bandages as well as first aid cream in addition to the tape you wanted. Now, get out of those pants and let me check out—uh, I mean fix—those legs of yours.”
Tracie smiled and limped to the bathroom while Shane reached into the paper bag, removing the first-aid supplies. A moment later the bathroom door creaked open and she returned, carrying her jeans. A motel towel that at one time had been white and was now the color of dirty dishwater was wrapped around her slim waist.
She eased onto the bed, primly covering herself, looking more like a shy young girl than the kick-ass CIA spook Shane now knew her to be. He wanted to crack a joke but decided she seemed uncomfortable enough without him making things worse, so he bit his tongue and began unwrapping the bandage covering her wound. Blood had seeped into the gauzy material before clotting, more or less, and the bandage felt stiff, stuck to the wound.
He stepped into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a washcloth soaked in warm, soapy water. He dampened the soiled bandage, working carefully to remove it. Then the cleaned around the puncture wound in much the same way he had done last night, dabbing and probing, doing his best to ignore the lacy pink panties he could see under the insufficient cover of the towel. Tracie squeezed her eyes shut, teeth gritted against the pain, muscles tensed.
There was no sign of infection, and when he had cleaned the injury to his satisfaction, Shane patted the area dry with a second towel. Then he began wrapping the fresh Ace bandage around her thigh, trying to make it tight enough to provide support and prevent the wound from bleeding again, but loose enough for some semblance of comfort.
He concentrated on his work and when he had finished, he looked up to find Tracie’s eyes open, unblinking, staring into his. She eased up off the cheap headboard bolted to the wall and leaned forward, moving slowly, deliberately, and then they were kissing, and Shane thought about those pink panties and reached down and pulled off her towel, throwing it to the floor while she fumbled with his belt buckle and the snap on his jeans, and then they were together.
32
June 1, 1987
3:30 a.m.
New Haven, Connecticut
Tracie sat perched on a rickety chair, watching the mostly-empty parking lot through a slit in the drapes while Shane dozed. He had fallen asleep despite his protestations he wouldn’t be able to, and now he lay sprawled across the bed, covers tangled around his waist, snoring lightly.
Tracie wondered if she should feel guilty for sleeping with him in the middle of this insanity. After all, they had been thrown together by chance, and when this was all over—assuming they survived; assuming the president survived—Shane would go back to his air traffic control job in Maine and she would return to Langley for another assignment. She had no way of knowing where that assignment might take her, but she was pretty certain it would not be Bangor, Maine.
So, yes, she thought, she probably should feel guilty. But she didn’t. Her life for the last seven years had consisted of training, work, and more work, most of it clandestine and dangerous, and over the course of those seven years she could count her sexual relationships on the fingers of one hand. And she wouldn’t need most of her fingers.
Then along came what at first glance appeared to be a simple job, a piece of cake once she had escaped East Germany. All she needed to do was babysit an envelope, deliver it to Washington, and then move on to her next assignment.
Somewhere along the line, though, things had become immeasurably more complicated, and in the middle of everything, here was this solid, earnest, well-meaning guy who was gorgeous to look at, self-deprecatingly modest, and who had, oh by the way, crawled inside a burning airplane to save her life.
The attraction she felt for Shane Rowley was immediate and consuming, and she simply hadn’t been able to stop herself from coming on to him when he finished bandaging her leg.
She hadn’t planned what happened between them, not exactly, but her injury certainly wasn’t something she couldn’t have dealt with on her own, either. She had handled much more severe wounds by herself, out of necessity, and could easily have waved Shane off when he insisted on cleaning and bandaging her leg.
So maybe what happened hadn’t quite been spontaneous. Maybe somewhere deep in her subconscious, Tracie had intended to seduce him all along, but either way he
didn’t seem to mind. She smiled, thinking about the frenzied lovemaking of their initial encounter, and then a slower, more sensual round just a few minutes later.
She glanced across the room at Shane’s sleeping form, and when she looked back out at the parking lot, the smile froze on her face before turning into a frown of concentration. A late-model Chevrolet Impala was creeping past the motel office, lights off.
From this distance and in the poor lighting, she couldn’t make out the color, but the vehicle looked black or dark blue, or maybe green. It wasn’t the car the Russians had used earlier—she had scanned all of the cars in the Bangor Tower lot by force of habit even as she had been rescuing Shane, and this Impala had not been among them—but that didn’t mean anything. They would undoubtedly have changed cars by now, just as Tracie and Shane had.
She glanced at her watch. It was 3:45 a.m.
The Impala eased into a parking space several slots away from their Granada. Its driver killed the engine. For several long moments nothing happened. The car’s occupants were being cautious, eyeing the surrounding environment, alert for any movement or anything out of the ordinary.
Tracie knew they couldn’t see her in the darkened room. She waited, tense, weapon held in her right hand, ready to move.
Finally, both front doors on the Impala opened at the same time and two men stepped out. The car’s interior lighting had been disabled. The men were dressed entirely in dark clothing, identical watch caps covering their heads, grease paint tamping down any sheen from their white faces.
Tracie’s heart dropped, and the sadness she had felt earlier returned with a vengeance. Winston Andrews, her mentor and father figure, had betrayed her.
She forced herself to push her feelings aside. She needed to focus. She could come back to them and mourn her lost relationship with the traitor Winston Andrews later.
If she survived.
The two men outside moved slowly, scanning the parking lot while moving steadily toward the dummy motel room with the Granada parked nose-in toward the door.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 15