J.R. was by now shaking so badly he could barely write. The words on the page were spidery and erratic, as if written by a seven year old, and it was becoming harder and harder for him to concentrate as the man sitting across from him calmly dictated his intention to continue J.R.’s dismemberment.
“Please . . .” J.R. said, with absolutely no idea what he was going to say next.
“KEEP WRITING!” his captor shouted, causing J.R. to jump. “We are almost finished,” he said, more quietly.
Do not doubt the resolve of my friends to achieve what decades of useless diplomacy have failed to accomplish. Once disarmament has been finalized, both great superpowers will realize how worthwhile the process was, if painful at the time.
I look forward to meeting, in person, to discuss our greatest achievement. But understand responsibility for progress on this issue lies with you. If my friends see no indication within the next twenty-four hours that you are acting on their simple demands, you will receive another of my fingers shortly thereafter.
Sincerely,
J. Robert Humphries
The butcher who had snipped J.R.’s finger off his hand like a twig now snatched up the paper and examined it critically. He scowled, as if J.R. must have attempted to insert some kind of secret message into the text. Finally, apparently satisfied, he thrust it at J.R.
By now, the exhausted secretary of state had a pretty good idea what was to come next. He held the letter chin-level, just below his face, and waited while his captor stood and fished an instant camera out of his pocket.
The man snapped a picture and then retrieved the letter. He placed both items on his seat. Bent and secured J.R.’s right wrist to the arm of his chair. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Humphries’s head slumped onto his chest. The effort of holding it upright suddenly seemed too much to bear. He had never before felt as physically exhausted and emotionally drained as he did right now.
He tried to imagine, for perhaps the one-hundredth time over the last couple of days, exactly who these lunatics were that had kidnapped him. They claimed to represent the Soviet Union, and the content of the letter just dictated would indicate they were Russian. But J.R. Humphries had dealt with the Soviet Union extensively during his tenure on the president’s cabinet, and he was as certain as he had ever been about anything in his life that these people were not Russians.
He found his thoughts beginning to wander and forced himself to concentrate. Their demands were ludicrous. They couldn’t possibly believe that President Ronald Reagan would ever consider dismantling Western Europe’s missile defense systems.
They could send his head in a box to the White House and it wouldn’t change that fact. The action might start a third World War—probably would, in fact, given J.R.’s close relationship with Reagan and the requirement the United States would then have to show the rest of the world that kidnapping and murdering a high-ranking U.S. diplomat would not stand—but it would not force Reagan even to consider leaving America’s European allies at risk.
Their demand was a non-starter, and the Soviets—or whoever these people were—had to know that.
But something else was going on here, something totally apart from a fringe element within the Soviet Union attempting to accomplish by hostage-taking what they could not accomplish through diplomacy. J.R. wished he wasn’t so goddamned tired. If only he could think clearly, he might be able to puzzle through the issue.
But he could barely think at all, never mind clearly.
He was exhausted. Afraid. The contents of the letter were terrifying, especially the section that spelled out what would happen when—not if, but when, J.R. knew—the president ignored the deadline for action regarding the missile defense systems.
He would lose another finger.
And then another.
And perhaps other body parts.
Despite his best efforts at forcing himself not to think about the man returning to this room with his bucket, and his bandages, and his goddamn hedge clippers, it was all J.R. Humphries could think about.
He began to shake uncontrollably as the terror overwhelmed him. He knew there had to be at least one camera mounted somewhere in this room, even though he could not see any, and for that reason he had tried to be strong at all times, even when alone.
But now, the effort of maintaining his composure was just too great. He was too tired and too afraid. And if he was being honest with himself, the situation was too hopeless. It was obvious no one had a clue where he was being held; if anyone had been able to figure it out, he would have been rescued by now.
Despite himself he began to cry silently, tears rolling down his cheeks as he sat alone and dirty inside this room. He sniffled for a little while, grateful the president could not see his weakness, and then he fell into an uneasy sleep.
22
Wednesday, September 9, 1987
2:15 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
The big Lincoln Town Car wound its way around the slumbering D.C. metropolis, driving in a seemingly aimless pattern. For one awful moment Tracie thought she had been made, that the Lincoln’s driver had seen her turn the corner onto Massachusetts Avenue and would continue driving to nowhere until she got tired of following and gave up.
Then she realized the situation was just the opposite. The driver of the car she was tailing didn’t know he was being followed, rather, he was doing what anyone involved in illicit activity would do—checking for a tail.
This realization caused a spike in Tracie’s pulse. Whoever was inside the car, the people who had left the Iraqi embassy under cover of darkness, were going to great lengths to keep their destination a secret. There was no guarantee, of course, that any of this was related to the Humphries kidnapping, but at least she knew that it could be. That in itself represented progress.
She had been careful to leave plenty of room between herself and the Town Car and now she backed off a little more. The roads at this time of night were practically deserted, which made it easier for the occupants of the Lincoln to spot the tail, but also made it easier for Tracie to track her prey.
The Town Car followed Massachusetts Avenue into Bethesda, Maryland, eventually turning onto Goldsboro and then making another immediate right turn onto River Road and reversing course back into D.C.
Once Tracie realized what the driver was up to, she relaxed a bit and allowed the Iraqis to dictate the pace. As long as she exercised appropriate caution and didn’t allow herself to be spotted, eventually the driver would turn toward his ultimate destination. When the Lincoln turned north onto Georgia Avenue, Tracie paralleled its course, utilizing Thirteenth Street for a few blocks and eventually hooking a right on Longfellow to once again fall in behind the target.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, and then twenty. Tracie was becoming more and more intrigued. Unless the passenger inside the vehicle ahead was suffering from a severe case of insomnia and had directed his driver to take a random course around the city, something big was happening. It was just not typical for a driver to put this much time and effort into losing a tail, no matter the time of day.
A few more lefts and rights and soon Tracie began to realize Act One of this strange drama being played out in the middle of the night to an audience of zero was approaching its end. The Washington surroundings had gradually became bleaker the longer the Lincoln drove. Now it was prowling through a neighborhood that would never adorn a tourist’s postcard.
Urban blight was everywhere. The devastation was easy to see even at this time in the early morning. Brightly colored graffiti was scrawled across brick-sided abandoned buildings like an anarchist’s wet dream. Windows not boarded over had long-since been smashed out. Poorly maintained sidewalks crumbled, the cement pocked with potholes big enough to snap an ankle. Scraggly looking men whose dreams had disappeared decades ago crowded around rusted trash barrels inside which flames burned brightly, l
icking their way toward the darkened sky.
Far ahead, brake lights flared as the Town Car pulled to the curb. Tracie immediately hung a right, drove down a trash-littered alley, and then pulled a quick K-turn.
She killed her headlights and eased back to the intersection.
Peered right.
Saw the Lincoln’s doors swing open and two men climb out of the back.
Bingo.
She kept the lights off and turned the corner, parking at the curb far behind the Town Car in a location that would afford her a clear view of the car.
She reached into the backseat and grabbed her binoculars, lifting them to her eyes and expertly spinning the focusing knob. In seconds she had a razor-sharp view of the activity taking place several hundred feet north of her position.
The men glanced left and right. Once again, Tracie had to resist the urge to slide down in her seat. She had parked far enough away that there was no chance the men could see through her windshield. Their body language and the casual way they looked up and down the street made it clear they did not suspect they had been followed.
To Tracie it looked like they were putting on a show, feigning vigilance. Was someone besides the driver still inside the car? Someone important?
After a moment, the men put their backs to Tracie and began walking. One of them had a backpack slung over his shoulder, and while neither was openly displaying a weapon, she had no doubt they were both armed. They moved to the corner and turned right, walking along the side of a building and disappearing from view.
Tracie immediately opened her door. She had disabled the interior dome light before leaving her apartment, so there was no telltale flash that might have alerted any occupants still inside the Town Car to her presence. She slid out of her car and eased the door shut, then hurried along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, keeping to the shadows of the decrepit buildings lining the street.
The area seemed to be deserted. It struck Tracie as odd that the homeless derelicts, so prevalent in the blocks leading up to this area, were nowhere to be seen. She wondered if the men inside the Town Car had something to do with that.
Had they sterilized the area?
She made a mental note to return in the light of day and do a little unobtrusive reconnaissance. Right now, though, she had to move fast or she stood the chance of losing the men she was trying to follow. She turned at the first corner and hugged the side of the building, breaking into a full-fledged sprint the moment she was out of sight of anyone still inside the Town Car.
She raced along the narrow alleyway until arriving at the cross street located one block east. She slowed to a fast walk as she reached the corner of the building, which appeared to be a long-abandoned three-story tenement house. Peering left, she spotted the two men just before they disappeared again behind another building.
Based on the angle at which they had crossed the street Tracie guessed they were not planning to continue another full block, so she turned left and moved as quickly as she dared in their direction. If the men doubled-back in an effort to ensure they weren’t being followed—a distinct possibility and something Tracie herself would have done—she risked running right into them.
That kind of risk was unavoidable in a one-person op. There was no partner to cover her back and no one to help if she got into trouble. But Tracie wasn’t concerned. She barely noticed. She was used to working alone.
When she reached the corner where she had lost sight of her quarry, she slowed and peered left. The neighborhood had been constructed in such a way that the streets, rather than being placed at ninety-degree angles, were slightly asymmetrical. This meant that she was not visible to the driver and any other occupants of the Lincoln Town Car, presumably still idling in the darkness one block to the west.
“Small favors,” she muttered, and again turned her attention to locating her two targets. They were easy to spot. Certain they had not been followed, arrogant almost to the point of irrationality, the men marched straight toward another abandoned structure, this one an old, faded, two-story brick building that would be recognizable to anyone who had grown up in the United States.
A school.
Carved into a granite slab above the front entrance was what undoubtedly had once been the school’s name, but in the 2:50 a.m. darkness and the shadows of the surrounding buildings it was impossible to read.
Without so much as a glance behind them, the men climbed the wide stairway. They knocked at the big wooden double-doors and waited. Then one of the doors swung open and they disappeared into the building. No lights went on behind the few windows that had not been boarded up providing further indication—as if Tracie needed any by now—that whatever was happening inside that ancient building was not legitimate.
Curiouser and curiouser.
She retreated a few steps, pressing her back against the side of an empty building—the entire neighborhood appeared to have been abandoned like an afterthought—and considered how to proceed.
She was dressed in dark clothing, her vibrant red hair stuffed up under a black Oakland Raiders baseball cap. She had unrolled the neck portion of her black turtleneck sweater so that the lower half of her face was covered. Between the bill of the cap and the cotton material covering her jaw and mouth, only a thin slash of her pearl-white skin would be visible to anyone keeping watch out the old school building.
Still, she hesitated, not sure how far she should push her luck. Not a single soul knew she was here. To her knowledge, no one in the U.S. intelligence community was even aware of this building, let alone whatever was going on inside it.
If she were to be caught by the men in the Lincoln Town Car, no one would come to save her. Now that she had been relieved of her CIA duties, no one would even know she was missing for days. Weeks, maybe. It wasn’t like she had so many friends that people would become suspicious when she stopped showing up.
Tracie sighed and checked her watch and wondered how soon the men who had entered the building would return. Could they simply be relieving two other men who had been standing guard duty? Or were they here for something else, something that would take more time?
There was nothing to gain by standing in the shadows waiting for the men to return. She knew where they had come from, and had a pretty good idea where they would go when they left. Of much greater importance was conducting surveillance of the school’s exterior. She had to learn more about this mysterious abandoned building.
23
Wednesday, September 9, 1987
5:50 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
It was still dark as Tracie drove back to her apartment, but the sky was beginning to brighten on the horizon. Skies had mostly cleared overnight and before long day would break on a beautiful fall morning in the nation’s capital.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes with one hand as she turned into the parking lot, considering her next move. The accumulation of evidence, taken separately, proved nothing. But when viewed as a whole, Tracie believed there was at least a chance J. Robert Humphries was being held inside that abandoned brick and concrete structure not far from the White House: Professor Brickley’s belief that the ransom note and proof-of-life newspaper had been written by someone with a Middle Eastern background, most likely an Iraqi. Saddam Hussein’s strange Middle Eastern troop movements. The furtive nature of the men Tracie had followed from the Iraqi Embassy. Her conviction that Humphries was likely being held in the area.
It all added up to at least a glimmer of hope.
But one thing was clear. Time was of the essence. The longer Humphries was gone, the less chance there was of him ever coming home alive, and the greater the chance the United States would find itself at war with the Soviet Union. And if the secretary of state was not being held in that abandoned D.C. school, if Tracie’s hunch was wrong, she needed to know immediately so she could begin looking elsewhere in the haystack for the needle that was J. Robert Humphries.
Where else that might b
e, she had no idea.
But for now, that was irrelevant. Her immediate priority was to get inside that school building and find out what it contained that was of such paramount importance the Iraqis needed to enter and exit under cover of darkness.
Her reconnaissance had revealed no exterior mounted surveillance cameras, which came as a relief. Security cameras could be circumvented, but the process could be time-consuming and risky, especially without backup, and their absence would make a fast entry much easier.
There was always the possibility cameras were installed inside the building, making them impossible to detect from Tracie’s outside vantage point, but she doubted that was the case. For one thing, the vast majority of the old school’s windows had long since been smashed out and boarded up, meaning that interior-mounted cameras would not provide three-hundred-sixty degree coverage. And for another, the resolution of cameras mounted inside the building and pointed through windows would be lower, making them much less useful.
No, Tracie felt confident there were no cameras. Which left only one possibility: the Iraqis had decided to rely on the presence of patrolling guards to provide security.
She rubbed her eyes again, shifting her little Toyota into neutral and shutting down the engine. Any further planning would have to wait until she had grabbed a few hours of sleep. She was exhausted.
She climbed out of the car and was walking toward her apartment when a massive figure moved up next to her, approaching from her blind spot. The figure was walking fast, looming into her personal space, and she reacted instinctively, based on training that had been ingrained into her consciousness from her earliest days in the agency.
She ducked and spun left, kicking out at the figure’s left kneecap, barely managing to stop herself before shattering the fragile bone when she recognized the arrival at the last possible moment.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 38