For a long moment the standoff continued as the two men regarded each other. The assassin could see the secretary of state considering the odds of survival should he make a play for the Makarov’s barrel and try to divert it long enough for him to duck away.
The assassin let him go through the mental exercise. He had left no more than an inch of sound-suppressed barrel poking through the hole in the glass, not nearly enough for Humphries to grab hold of without losing most of a hand—or more—to a 9 mm slug.
Humphries finally realized what the assassin had known all along—he had no reasonable options. He glared at the assassin in an attempt at defiance and then reached down and lifted the steel bar out of the door’s track.
“Good. Now take two steps back and then stand perfectly still,” the assassin instructed in his heavily accented English.
Humphries did as he was told.
The assassin slid the door open, keeping his weapon trained on his prey as he did so. When the door had opened far enough to provide access, the assassin moved with a practiced fluidity, pulling his Makarov back through the hole and then stepping to the left and into the townhouse.
The moment the assassin started moving, Humphries took one quick step backward. His next move would be to turn and run through the house in an attempt to reach the front door, but there was no time. The assassin entered so quickly that he was inside before Humphries could even turn. The secretary of state froze without being told. “Now what?” he said with just the slightest quaver in his voice.
“Now we take a little trip,” the assassin answered. Humphries hadn’t changed for bed yet and was still wearing a fitted off-white dress shirt and charcoal-grey slacks. His coat and tie were nowhere to be seen, but the assassin appreciated the fact that he wouldn’t have to waste time waiting for his prey to get dressed. The dead protective agent out at the street would be expected to check in with his office soon, if he hadn’t been already. When his superiors were unable to contact him via radio, they would send more agents out, and the assassin knew he had to be long gone before that happened. Time was running short.
“There’s no way you’ll get away with kidnapping me,” Humphries said flatly. “There are agents watching this place even as we speak.”
The assassin smiled icily and shook his head. “Not anymore, there aren’t. There was only one man, and he will not be watching anything ever again.”
Humphries’s face, already pale, turned stark white. “You didn’t—”
“Shut up,” the assassin said, and gestured with his gun. “Put your shoes on.” While the United States secretary of state did as he was told, the assassin used his shirt to wipe the Makarov clean, then he tossed it onto the floor behind the desk chair. He immediately drew a second weapon from an ankle holster. This gun was identical to the first but without the sound suppressor.
By now Humphries was ready, and the two men strolled through the townhouse and out the front door. In the unlikely event anyone looked out a window at the wrong moment, the killer knew the pair would look no more sinister than a couple of old friends reconnecting.
When they had walked halfway to the street, a dark blue sedan rolled to the curb. It stopped directly behind the K-Car holding the dead agent. The assassin opened the rear door and with a gesture that was almost formal in its stiffness, waved Humphries into the car.
He hesitated and the killer whispered. “Open your mouth to scream and you will die right on this curb. Then I will get in this car and disappear. Your death will never be anything more than an unexplained mystery.”
Humphries glared at the killer, but seemed to recognize the futility of his situation. A moment later he lowered his head and slid into the back seat, his lips set in a grim line.
The assassin followed him inside and the vehicle accelerated smoothly away.
4
Tuesday, September 8, 1987
7:40 a.m.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
The mood inside the Oval Office was grim.
President Ronald Reagan half sat on the edge of his desk, tie loosened, looking every bit like a man in his seventies. Sitting somberly in a ragged circle around a highly polished walnut table was a small group of the president’s most trusted advisers.
Minus one.
The meeting started with bluntness from the president. “Let’s get right to the heart of the matter. What the hell happened to our secretary of state?”
There was a moment of utter silence during which no one seemed to want to be the first to speak. CIA Director Aaron Stallings decided to get the ball rolling. “Well, Mr. President, as far as we can tell, he was working alone in his townhouse last night when an intruder or intruders accessed his home and removed him.”
“Who took him? There must be ransom demands; what are they?”
Stallings shrugged and shook his head, his massive jowls wobbling as he did. “The answer to both questions, sir, is nobody knows. There has thus far been no contact from the kidnappers.”
Reagan glared at the floor as he digested this information. Then he lifted his head wearily. “Who knows the secretary of state is missing?”
“Only Humphries’s family,” Stallings said after a short pause. “No one else. The media’s been told the secretary is slightly under the weather and is recovering at his home in North Dakota. Even the D.C. police are unaware. As far as they know, it was nothing more than a break-in at Secretary Humphries’s local residence. The police are, of course, investigating the murder of the diplomatic security agent.”
“Does the agent have a name?” Reagan asked.
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. Find it and use it. That’s a real human being who gave his life protecting J.R. Humphries.”
“Yes, sir. It’s, uh…” Stallings paused as he shuffled through a sheaf of papers stacked on the table. He felt his face flush bright red from the dressing-down. He prided himself on being unflappable and coolly analytical, and forced himself to regain his composure. “Ah, here we are. Special Agent Philip Hughes.”
The president said, “Don’t the police want to know what a Bureau of Diplomatic Security agent was doing outside an empty house?”
“Of course, sir, but we told them the agent was there as part of a routine drill. They don’t believe us, but they’re accepting it. For now. This isn’t the first time we’ve stonewalled them. They’re used to it.”
FBI Director Matt Steinman cleared his throat, and Stallings felt a stab of relief when Reagan turned his gaze away from him to look at the other man. “Yes, Matt?”
Steinman was rail-thin, relatively young but severe-looking, like a banker with indigestion. He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and said, “Sir, the Bureau is in the process of taking over the investigation. Once we’ve secured the scene and taken possession of all the evidence, we’ll freeze the D.C. cops out. We’ll cite national security concerns, which certainly won’t be an exaggeration. That should buy us a little more time before word of the kidnapping is inevitably leaked.”
“Unless the kidnappers choose to alert the media themselves.”
Another uncomfortable silence.
Reagan’s Chief of Staff Fulton Moore said, “There is that possibility, Mr. President. Obviously, it’s entirely out of our control. We should consider whether to alert the press to the kidnapping ourselves, if only to control the flow of information and get ahead of the issue politically.”
Reagan shook his head. “Get ahead of the issue politically? What are you talking about?”
“Well, sir, if the kidnappers spring it on the world in some dramatic way, say with a newspaper photo of the murdered U.S. secretary of state, and the world learns we knew Humphries was missing beforehand but said and did nothing, it makes you look weak and indecisive. If you release the information yourself, in the time and manner of your choosing, you can spin it, make yourself look better.”
Reagan stared at his chief of staff, the intensity of his gaze
unnerving even to Aaron Stallings, seated all the way across the Oval Office. “Spin it. Make myself look better.”
“Yes, sir.”
Aaron knew what was coming, and while he appreciated the fact that his own gaffe would now be forgotten, he still felt some sympathy for Moore. The president said, “Let’s get something straight. I don’t give a damn about how this makes me look politically. I don’t care if I look weak or strong or anything in-between. What I care about is finding out what happened to the United States secretary of state and getting him back. I’ve known John Robert Humphries for thirty years. I consider him a close friend. I do not want to have to explain to his widow—another close friend, by the way—how he was taken right from under our noses and murdered. That’s what I care about. That is all I care about. Am I making myself clear?”
Fulton Moore had gone chalk-white. “Yes, Mr. President. Of course. I didn’t mean to infer…” His voice faded away.
Reagan stood up and began pacing in front of his desk, deep in thought. “Okay,” he said, ignoring Moore. “I want all your best guesses. Who took J. Robert Humphries and for what purpose?”
FBI Director Steinman spoke up again. “A weapon was recovered from the scene, sir.”
“And?”
“And while it had been wiped clean of fingerprints, we’re certain it didn’t belong to Secretary of State Humphries. It was a Russian-made Makarov 9mm semi-automatic pistol, Mr. President. That model is popular with both the KGB and Russian Special Forces.”
“Are you telling me the Soviets kidnapped my secretary of state? To what end?”
“It would appear so, Mr. President,” Assistant Secretary of State Joseph Malone said. “We don’t know why yet, and the Soviets have yet to respond to our official inquiries regarding the matter.”
Reagan stopped pacing and glared at the men. “They have yet to respond? I’ll call Gorbachev myself. I’ll have a response within the hour. It may not be one we want, but they’ll damned well talk to us.”
The president leaned against his desk, concentrating hard. Aaron Stallings thought he looked considerably older than he had at the start of the meeting. “All right,” Reagan said. “Everybody get back to work. I want hourly updates from everyone, whether you have anything to report or not. And I don’t mean from your flunkies, I want to hear from each of you personally. Understood?”
Everyone murmured their assent as they rose en masse and began filing out of the Oval Office. “Aaron,” the president said.
He turned. “Yes?”
“I’d like to talk to you alone if you can spare a moment.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” he said, utterly unsurprised.
* * *
“Bureaucracies,” Ronald Reagan said, “operate slowly. They’re ponderous and unwieldy, and while I have no doubt the mechanism of the federal government, in the form of all our various departments and agencies, will ultimately get to the bottom of who kidnapped J.R. Humphries and why, I’m afraid it will take much too long. I fear we’ll be too late. Aaron, I do not want to bring my friend back to Washington in a body bag.”
The CIA director waited for the president to finish. He was clearly leading up to something, and while Aaron Stallings had a pretty good idea what that something might be, he didn’t think that talking over his boss would be a smart move, career-wise.
Reagan shut his mouth and stared expectantly and he knew it was now his turn. “Mr. President,” he said, “I’m sure you realize Secretary of State Humphries may already be dead. The fact that we haven’t heard a word from the kidnappers since the secretary disappeared, a span of…” he glanced at his watch, “…more than eight hours, means that, in fact, is the most likely possibility.”
“I do understand that,” Reagan answered. “But if the goal was to kill Humphries in order to advance some political cause or to publicize some fanatic’s agenda, why not just shoot him in his home? Why go to all the trouble of removing him? Why take that added risk? And where could they have removed him to?”
Stallings started to answer, but the president raised a hand to cut him off.
“In any event,” Reagan continued, “all of that is beside the point. Yes, I recognize the possibility that J.R. may be dead. But I refuse to accept that he’s been murdered until I see clear, incontrovertible proof. In the meantime, I intend to operate as though he is alive. And I expect everyone else to do the same. Which brings me to why I asked you to meet with me alone.”
Stallings waited, saying nothing.
“I want you to choose one of your agents to conduct a parallel investigation. Alone. Undercover. A lone operative working outside the constraints of the bureaucracy stands the best chance of success. It may be our only chance of success, given the time pressure we’re operating under. Obviously, this would have to be someone who has demonstrated the ability to work solo, under intense pressure, with little or no organizational backup.”
“An off-books op.”
“If that’s what you choose to call it.”
Stallings cleared his throat. “Mr. President, what you’re asking me to do is—”
“Yes, I know what it is. It’s illegal.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why aren’t you having this conversation with Steinman? Surely the FBI has agents who could handle the job, and they’re tasked with operating within the boundaries of the United States, which the CIA is not.”
“It’s very simple,” Reagan said, holding Aaron Stallings’s eyes with his steady, intense gaze. “The FBI is intrinsically embedded in the unwieldy bureaucracy I just referenced. I don’t trust that any Bureau special agent would be given the freedom operationally to do what will likely have to be done.”
“Sir, the CIA is just as much a part of the bureaucracy.”
“Granted. But here’s the difference: I’m asking this of you as a personal favor. No official request. No paper trail. Just you and me alone in this room. I’m asking you to assign one agent, someone you feel is up to the task of tracking down whoever kidnapped the United States secretary of state, and bringing him back alive. That’s the favor. What do you say, Aaron?”
Stallings paused for effect. He had suspected from the moment Reagan asked him to stay in the Oval Office what was going to be asked of him. Of the CIA. While he had no particular affection for the president, Aaron Stallings was well aware of the close personal relationship between the old man and J. Robert Humphries. After a second or two, he said, “Of course, sir. How could I refuse?”
Having gotten the answer he wanted, the president smiled. Even in his seventies, after nearly two full terms holding down the most pressure-filled job in the world, he still possessed those matinee-idol good looks and the commanding Hollywood leading-man presence that he used to such political advantage. “Good man,” he said, clapping Stallings on the back. “Do you have a man in mind for the job?”
Now it was Aaron Stallings’s turn to smile. “Oh, yes sir, I do. Except . . .”
“Except what?”
“She’s not a man.”
5
Tuesday, September 8, 1987
9:35 a.m.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Tracie Tanner rapped her knuckles once against the frosted pebbled glass of CIA Director Aaron Stallings’s office door. She waited a half-second and then entered without invitation. After cooling her heels for nearly an hour in an anteroom waiting for the Great Man to see her, she had lost all patience by the time Stallings’s personal secretary—a blocky woman somewhere between the ages of fifty and eighty-five, with the bluest hair and most severe face Tracie had ever seen—glanced up from a mountain of paperwork and smiled acidly, telling her, “Director Stallings will see you now.”
The door was already half open before Stallings looked up from his paperwork. He stared unblinking, not bothering to hide his expression of extreme distaste, as she crossed the room and sat in a chair permanently positioned in front of his desk.
It w
as almost unheard-of for a lowly field agent to be invited inside the plush confines of Aaron Stallings’s office, and this was the second time in a matter of months Tracie had been. She knew she was supposed to feel honored, or special, or something, but couldn’t manage to summon up the requisite emotion.
The last time she had been inside this office had been an unmitigated disaster. Stallings admitted straight-out that if he had his way, she would be brought up on charges of treason for opening a Top Secret document entrusted to her for delivery only. President Reagan had personally interceded on her behalf—justifiably so, Tracie thought, given the fact she had saved him from assassination—but Stallings had made a not-so-veiled threat about what would happen to her career once her protector was out of office.
It had not been pretty.
This time, an urgent call had come in while she was accompanying the reluctant Soviet defector Boris Rogaev to West Germany aboard the Gulfstream G-4. She had been instructed to release Rogaev into the custody of another agent when the plane touched down at Ramstein and was then to immediately continue on to Washington where she would meet with Stallings.
No details were given as to why Tracie was being summoned to D.C., but a one-on-one meeting with the agency’s head man was such a rarity that her interest had been piqued from the start. She doubted the meeting would consist of good news, though. Based on personal experience, she knew she should be ready for anything.
She sat quietly in Stallings’s office, hands folded in her lap, waiting for him to talk. As was typical for the man legendary in Washington political circles for his bluntness, he didn’t bother wasting time on greetings or congratulations on her successful return to the company. He simply glared at her for a moment like he suspected her of committing some heinous but unspecified crime, and then began his pitch.
“We’ve got a situation,” he said.
“I assumed as much,” she answered coolly.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 28