June 2, 1987
12:20 a.m.
Minuteman Mutual Insurance building
The seventh floor of the Minuteman Mutual Insurance building was used for storage—cleaning and maintenance supplies, reams of paper, cast-off typewriters, word processors, office furniture, boxes and boxes of pens. Everything necessary for the operation of an American insurance company in the late twentieth century.
Nikolai assumed the janitors had already armed themselves with whatever materials they needed to begin their shift, so his only real concern was of the guard becoming suspicious and checking on the progress of the “floor refinishing” project. He pulled his cart quickly down the hallway, stopping in front of a door with a red-lettered sign that warned, ROOF – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
He had disabled the alarm on a previous visit, so there was no way anyone would realize the door had been breached. Picking the lock was easy. Within thirty seconds of removing his lock-picking tools from the cart, he was tugging open the metal door. He removed a heavy electric belt sander from the cart and set it on the floor, using it to prop the door open.
Roof access was accomplished via a cement stairway slicing like an artery between reinforced cinderblock construction walls. The building had been erected close to a century ago, but the Victorian-era elegance of its interior did not extend to the portions the public would never see, and Nikolai knew it would take no small effort to muscle the cart up those narrow stairs.
He stepped through the doorway and then turned and grabbed the cart by its metal frame. He lifted the front and pulled. The angle was all wrong. It was hard to get any leverage, he was straining, but after a moment he was rewarded by the sound of the cart’s front wheels clattering onto the first step.
He lifted and pulled and gained the second step.
Lifted and pulled. Third step. The rear wheels squeaked and complained and then slid onto the first step.
Nikolai breathed deeply while maintaining a grip on the cart. As he began pulling again, a disembodied voice from somewhere down the seventh-floor hallway said, “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing up there?”
Nikolai froze. Cursed softly in Russian.
He released his grip on the cart, hoping it wouldn’t lurch back down the stairs and nullify his hard-earned progress. It didn’t.
He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and reached down to his ankle, slipping his combat knife out of its sheath under his pant leg. He positioned it in his right hand, blade resting against his inner forearm, handle nestled in his palm. He turned his arm so the knife would be invisible to whoever was in the hallway, then placed what he hoped was a look of innocent confusion on his face.
He squeezed past the cart and descended the stairs, then walked through the doorway. Approaching briskly along the hallway was the guard who had examined his forged work order.
Nikolai had known the man was suspicious of him but hadn’t really thought he would pursue him.
He had been wrong.
The guard’s face was dark, his eyes hooded, and his hand rested on the butt of his weapon as he challenged Nikolai again. “What are you doing, boy? What business does a floor cleaner have on the roof?”
Nikolai walked forward slowly, non-threateningly, smiling and nodding to placate the guard even as the man moved to intercept him. He was still at least eight meters away. Too far for Nikolai’s purposes.
“I am sorry,” Nikolai said meekly.
Six meters.
He continued, “I do not know where…”
Four meters. Still too far.
The guard slowed, confused. “Do not know where…what?” He spread his hands in a show of frustration.
“I do not know where…” The man was now directly in front of Nikolai, and although his hand still rested on the butt of his gun, it was as useless to him as if Nikolai had taken it away and thrown it off the roof.
He was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, Nikolai dropped the knife into his hand, spinning it effortlessly so the blade faced outward. The guard recognized the danger much too late and took one stumbling step backward just as Nikolai attacked, his arm a blur. He plunged the knife into the guard’s ample belly and slashed upward between the bones of the rib cage.
The guard gasped.
Drew in a shuddering breath as if to scream.
Didn’t.
Half-coughed and half-gasped.
Stared to scream again.
Nikolai covered the man’s mouth with his right hand as he used his left to shove the guard’s hand away from his gun. He clubbed the guard behind the ear with the butt of his combat knife and the man dropped to the floor like a felled tree.
Nikolai swore again, angry and annoyed. The man would be dead within minutes, if he wasn’t already, but he was bleeding all over the place.
There was suddenly a lot to do. If he didn’t get this mess cleaned up, it would be the first thing the employees noticed when they showed up for work tomorrow morning. The only positive Nikolai could think of was that the janitorial crew should be focusing their efforts on the portions of the building accessible to the public. The likelihood was slim that anyone else would appear on this floor before morning.
Still muttering, Nikolai reached under the guard’s armpits and dragged him the short distance to the roof access door. A trail of blood marked the journey. He dropped the guard to the floor and grabbed his cart with both hands. The stairway was too narrow to haul the guard up in without first moving the cart, so Nikolai would be forced to forfeit his progress after all. He yanked the cart angrily back down to the seventh floor hallway where it wobbled dangerously and nearly tipped over.
Chert voz’mi. Things were not going according to plan.
Okay, take it easy. Relax. You have plenty of time to get this situation under control.
Nikolai composed himself, slowing his breathing, clearing his mind. Finally, still muttering but now refocused, he hooked his arms once more under the guard’s armpits and dragged the man up the stairs to the roof.
He emerged, breathing heavily, through a dented steel bulkhead that had once been painted grey but was now pocked with rust and faded almost down to the bare metal. The roof was flat as a flood plain and covered with gravel. Various protuberances—vents and air-conditioning units and pipes whose purposed were unknown to Nikolai—jutted up out of the surface, combining with the gauzy moonlight to make the surface appear stark and menacing.
Nikolai ignored it all. He had seen the roof in surveillance photographs and even picked the lock and climbed up here himself during two of the three trips he had made into the building to familiarize himself with its layout in preparation for this mission. He pulled the guard through the entrance and turned toward the rear of the building. Once clear of the bulkhead he placed the body alongside as close as possible to the base, concealing the cooling corpse as much as possible.
He hurried down to the seventh floor. In the hallway he examined closed storage closets until finding one with a sign that said, JANITORIAL SUPPLIES. He opened the door and found a wheeled plastic cart in one corner. It was shaped like an oversized bucket with a wringer built into the side. A mop had been placed in the wringer, its handle reaching almost all the way to the ceiling. The bucket was half filled with dirty water.
Nikolai thanked his lucky stars for the innate laziness of American workers.
He stuck his head out the door and glanced down the hallway. No one there. How likely was it the janitorial workers would notice the guard was missing?
Not terribly likely, Nikolai decided.
He rolled the cart down the hallway and stopped at the spot where he had gutted the unfortunate guard. The man was big, the spillage substantial. There was plenty of evidence to clean. Nikolai dipped the mop into the dirty water and got to work, swishing it through the blood, smearing some around the floor but removing the heaviest of the stain, which had only just begun to dry at the edges.
> Nikolai examined the floor and decided the stain was still too obvious. He rolled the cart into the restroom at the far end of the hallway. Dumped the dirty water and watched it disappear down the sink. Refilled the bucket with fresh, hot water and some hand soap, then rolled back to the murder scene.
Tried again.
Much better.
One more pass and the evidence of the slaughter was now no more than a light brown stain that could have been the remains of a coffee spill. Nikolai wrung out the mop and moved quickly along the hallway toward the roof access door, erasing from the tiles most of the blood trail he had created when he dragged the guard up to the roof.
He stopped when he reached the door. There was no reason to waste time mopping the stairway. The door would be closed soon—barring any further interruptions—and no one would see the evidence until it was much too late to matter.
He examined the hallway with a critical eye.
Not perfect but it would do.
He hurriedly returned the mop and bucket to the janitor’s closet. Stepped out and closed the door.
Still no unwanted visitors.
He turned and sprinted to the roof access and once more began the laborious process of pulling the tools of his murderous trade up to the roof.
This time he was uninterrupted.
43
June 2, 1987
7:00 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
Shane’s head hurt, that was the first thing he noticed. His eyes were closed and he lay on his side and it felt as though someone was shining a flashlight squarely into his face. He opened his eyes slightly, two tiny slits.
No flashlight. Nobody shining anything into his face. The motel room curtain was half-drawn, holding the morning sun partially at bay. From behind he could hear the sounds of furtive movement.
He rolled over and sat up, moving slowly until he could gauge the extent of the throbbing inside his skull. From in front of the bathroom door Tracie flashed a tight-lipped smile in his direction, and just like that he didn’t give a damn about his headache. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, and he wouldn’t have thought that possible.
“You’re a heavy sleeper,” she said. She was dressed in an outfit he didn’t recognize, a business suit. It looked like the sort of thing a young female executive might wear.
He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand across his face. He wondered what the hell time it was.
“What the hell time is it?” he asked.
“It’s seven o’clock,” she said. “I knew you were exhausted so I tried to be quiet. We’re not far from the Minuteman Mutual building so I wanted to let you get as much rest as possible.”
“Quiet? You were quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Last thing I remember is that noise you make when…well, you know.”
“I know,” she agreed with a smile.
“Where’d you get the outfit?” he asked. “You look terrific.”
“Went shopping last night after you zonked out. Hit the store just before closing. I went out this morning and got breakfast. There’s coffee and a croissant for you.” She nodded at a brown bag and paper coffee cup on top of the small bedside table.
“Thanks for the grub,” he said gratefully, reaching for the coffee.
“No problem.” She looked at him closely. “I brought you something for the pain, too. How are you feeling?”
“Never better,” he lied. He didn’t know exactly how Tracie was planning to stop the assassination but he knew she needed help. The only way she might even consider letting him ride along was if she thought his headache had disappeared.
“Liar,” she said mildly.
“So,” he said, changing the subject as quickly as he could. “What’s the plan for today?”
“Well, let’s see,” Tracie answered, cupping her chin in her hand and pretending to think. “Dress up in my new outfit, have breakfast and, oh, I don’t know, maybe foil an assassination plot. You know, the usual.”
She was keeping things light but Shane could sense her tension. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You know where the shooter is going to be—on the roof of that insurance building—but how in the world are you going to access it? The building will be locked down tight as a drum, won’t it? And for that matter, how is the Russian going to get into position? Won’t he be spotted?”
“All good questions,” Tracie answered. “Undoubtedly the buildings will have been swept in anticipation of the president’s visit, but the sweep will have been accomplished yesterday. It will have been routine, matter-of-fact. As far as we know there’s no reason for the Secret Service to suspect anything might be wrong. And don’t forget, this is D.C.—presidential movements are routine here.
“Once the sweep has been completed,” she continued, “it will be a relatively easy thing for the shooter to access the building’s roof. This hit has been in the works for while, so either someone will have been paid off—say, a maintenance man or a janitor—or a master key will have been bought or made. The guy dresses like he belongs, nobody notices him. It will be pretty easy, really.”
Shane sipped his coffee and thought about it. Made sense. “But what about you? How are you going to get at him?”
“Exactly the same way,” she said. “I’m going to look like I belong. That’s where this new outfit comes in.” She twirled. She was a natural at modeling and Shane wondered if there were things in her past she night have glossed over.
He wolf-whistled and beckoned her closer and she smiled. “Sorry, big boy, we don’t have time for what you want. I’ll have to take a rain check.”
“I can guarantee it would be quick,” he said with a smirk. “But I understand.”
Then, “So you’re going to pretend to be an insurance exec or something? Won’t it be obvious to everyone who works there that you don’t belong? That nobody knows you?”
“You’re on the right track,” she said. “But I’m not going to be an insurance employee. I’m FBI. That way it’s perfectly natural no one knows me. Meet Special Agent Maddee James,” she said with a demure curtsey.
Shane nodded. “Brilliant. But how are you going to get around the fact that you have no ID? Isn’t that the first thing the insurance big shots are going to ask for when you walk in there?”
“Who says I don’t have any ID? This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.” She reached into the backpack filled with the items she’d liberated from the safe-deposit box outside New York City and rummaged around for a moment.
“Ah,” she said, and lifted out a laminated plastic card.
“Let’s see,” he said.
She strutted over to the bed, all business now, stern FBI persona in place.
He examined the card. “Federal Bureau of Investigation” was stamped across the top in gold lettering set against a blue background. A small headshot of Tracie appeared on the right side, unsmiling, staring directly into the camera. Her hair was pulled back from her face and she looked ready to step out of the picture and arrest someone. On the left side of the card was the FBI seal, with identifying information, including her “name,” Special Agent Madison James, inscribed in the space between the photo and the seal.
Shane examined it for a moment and then handed it back, shaking his head. “Planning a second career?” he asked doubtfully.
“This ID, along with some other stuff I retrieved, was my backup plan. All operatives have them—at least they do if they’re smart. It’s the first thing you learn: if things fall apart, you’d better be prepared to disappear.”
“Except you’re not using your ID to disappear.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s not my only one, and Maddee James is not my only identity.”
He stared at her, amazed, trying to determine whether he was more attracted to her or creeped out by her. It’s not even close, he thought. Attracted wins in a landslide.
“You’re definitely the most unusual date I’ve ever had,” he finally said.
Tracie
smiled and placed the ID card into a small plastic flip-holder with the identifying information facing out, then slid the holder into the breast pocket of her suit. She was now FBI Special Agent Maddee James.
“That’s what all the boys say,” she answered and walked away, hips swaying. She turned her head and winked.
“I’m coming with you,” he said to her retreating figure, and she stopped.
After a moment she turned to face him. “You can drive,” she said, surprising him with her lack of resistance. “But you’ll drop me off a block from the insurance building and then stay with the car. No matter what happens. You’ll wait for me and then drive us away when the job is done.”
Shane grinned and she said, “Do you understand me? You stay with the car no matter what happens.”
“You can count on me, babe,” he said.
“I want to hear you say it. Repeat after me: I give my word I will stay with the car, no matter what.
Shane said, “I give my word I will stay with the car, no matter what.” He had no intention whatsoever of doing so.
Tracie’s eyes narrowed and she looked at him critically. “Hurry up and get dressed, then. It’s time to go.”
He slid off the bed and began throwing on his clothes. His head pounded and throbbed and he tried not to wince.
44
June 2, 1987
8:15 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
The traffic was moving fitfully, about what Shane would have expected for drive time in the nation’s capital. He followed Tracie’s directions, turning rights and lefts, and glanced at his watch. Two minutes after the last time he’d looked.
“How far is it?” he asked.
“We’ll be there in plenty of time,” Tracie said.
“How do you know where this place is?”
“I grew up in this area. The Minuteman building is pretty distinctive, even in a city filled with landmarks and historic structures.”
Shane nodded. The pounding in his head had leveled off, the pain distracting but bearable, at least for the time being.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 21