It was Marshall Fulton.
He stumbled back, eyes wide open in half-shock, half-confusion.
“Jesus, Marshall,” Tracie said, exasperated. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?”
He shrugged, regaining a little of his poise. “I was always too big to sneak up on anyone. I guess she figured it would never be an issue.”
Tracie laughed, her exhaustion tempered by the adrenaline shooting through her system. “Ah, don’t worry about it. It’s my fault, anyway. I should never have been so unaware of my surroundings that you were able to do it. If we had been in Russia, that never would have happened, no matter how tired I was. Actually, I should thank you. This was a great wake-up call, both literally and figuratively.”
“You’re welcome, then,” Marshall answered, his faltering smile making it clear he wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about but was glad that he no longer seemed to be in imminent danger of a trip to the emergency room.
By now they had arrived at Tracie’s apartment door, and she turned to him with a frown. “What are you doing here, anyway? How did you happen to arrive at my place just as I was driving in at,” she looked at her watch, “six a.m.?”
“I didn’t just get here. I’ve been waiting in my car for you.”
“Waiting in your car? For how long?”
It was Marshall’s turn to glance at his watch. “Close to three hours.”
Tracie shook her head. “Why in the world would you do that?”
“Because I was worried about you,” he answered as if it should have been obvious.
“I feel like we’re going around in circles here. But why would you be worried about me?”
“Let’s see,” Marshall said, ticking things off on his fingers. “You lost your job yesterday, and then you went out in the middle of the night, all by yourself, to follow God knows who while they were doing God knows what, and then when I showed up at your home at three o’clock in the morning you were nowhere to be found. How could I not be worried?”
Trace slid her key into the lock and turned the knob. “Jeez, Marshall, that’s very sweet, but what I did last night was no different than what I’ve been doing for the last seven years, with the possible exception that I was on my home turf instead of in some foreign land. What I did last night is my job!”
“Not anymore,” he said quietly. “What you did last night used to be your job, remember? And it bothered me that you were out there, alone, probably in danger, possibly getting hurt, doing something based on information I gave you that I had no right sharing.”
Tracie had taken two steps into her living room, and now she turned and gazed into Marshall Fulton’s face. His chestnut-brown eyes were big and soft and concerned, and just like that she felt a lump forming in her throat and her eyes beginning to tear up. With the notable exception of Shane Rowley a few months ago, not a single living soul besides her mother and father had shown the kind of caring and concern for her well-being over the last seven years that this man, practically a stranger, was exhibiting right now.
She realized her lower lip had started to quiver and clamped her jaw shut angrily. You didn’t work for long in CIA covert ops without developing the ability to compartmentalize, and now Tracie compartmentalized like never before, forcing those feelings of loss and sadness and regret deep down inside her. She could break down later.
She cleared her throat. “”That was so…thoughtful of you.” She knew how ridiculous the statement sounded but couldn’t think of anything else to say. “What about work?”
“I have about an hour before I have to leave.”
“You were up half the night, sitting in your car in my parking lot, and now you’re going to go to work?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t up half the night. I was up all night. I’ll survive.”
“Come on in, I’ll make you a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do.”
* * *
“Your intel was right on,” Tracie said. The pair was seated at her tiny kitchen table that was wedged into a corner of her tiny studio apartment, a cup of coffee in front of each of them. Drinking coffee was a mistake, given that she intended to try to get some sleep as soon as Marshall left. But she did it anyway.
“Somebody inside the Iraqi embassy is going to great lengths to hide something,” she said. She outlined the night’s events and then continued, “The two guys that entered the school weren’t out for a nighttime stroll.”
“Did you follow them when they left?”
“Didn’t need to. I know where they went.”
“So, what’s the verdict? Is Humphries being held there?”
Tracie shrugged. “No way of knowing until I can get inside.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
She smiled. “It’s what I do.”
Marshall shook his head. “With no backup.”
“I don’t have a choice. I no longer work for the people who have the resources to provide backup, as you so thoughtfully reminded me a few minutes ago.”
She was trying to lighten the mood, but Marshall was having none of it. “What can I do to help?” he asked, his face grim.
“Try again to bring the information about the Iraqi troop movements to the attention of the big shots at Langley. Something’s not right about that, even if it’s completely unrelated to Humphries’s kidnapping. Who moves men and equipment away from the fighting when they’re in the middle of a war?”
“It sure seems like a radical new theory on warfare.”
“Yeah. And everybody they’re moving seems to be headed toward one of the most strategically important countries in the region.”
“Saudi Arabia.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t think Saddam Hussein’s considering attacking Saudi Arabia…” Marshall’s voice drifted off as he considered the possibility.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “But there’s nothing else down there, and we are talking about Saddam Hussein. You’re the expert on Middle Eastern affairs, what do you think of the guy?”
He considered the question for a moment. A very short moment. “He’s a wild card,” he admitted.
“Exactly. And one thing I’ve learned in the field is that coincidences are rare.”
“They don’t happen.”
“Oh, they happen. Sometimes. But it’s a rare enough occurrence that when I see two significant events that seem unrelated, it makes me look for a connection.”
“The Humphries kidnapping and the bizarre Iraqi troop movements?”
“That’s right. Something doesn’t smell right.”
“It might just be me. I’ve been sitting in your parking lot most of the night.”
Tracie laughed as Marshall yawned and finished his coffee. “Holy shit,” he said. “I don’t know how you do this clandestine stuff. One night without sleep and I feel like I’m about a hundred years old. You, on the other hand,” he eyed her up and down appreciatively, “look like you’re ready for a night on the town.”
“I’m ready for a few hours of sleep. The town will have to wait.”
The pair rose from the table and Marshall stretched and yawned once again. “You look exhausted,” she said. “Let me make you a coffee for the road.”
24
Wednesday, September 9, 1987
10:30 a.m.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Marshall was surprised when his request for a meeting with Middle Eastern Analysis Branch Director Sean Rafferty was approved almost immediately. Face-to-face meetings with a branch director inside Langley just didn’t happen, at least not with lowly analysts and not without good reason.
He thought back to his two conversations with Tracie inside the building yesterday, one before her firing and one after. Both had been conducted in plain view of agency surveillance equipment, which was ubiquitous around the Langley complex, for obvious reasons. Had that played any part in the swiftness with which his
request had been approved? He would never know the answer to that question, and supposed it didn’t matter anyway. At least he was getting the opportunity to do what Tracie had asked of him.
He stifled a yawn as he sat uncomfortably in a hard-backed wooden chair in the anteroom outside Rafferty’s office. A young woman paid him no attention, typing industriously until a console telephone buzzed on her desk. She picked up the handset, listened for a moment, and then turned to Marshall with a patently fake smile that she did little to disguise. “Mr. Rafferty is ready for you,” she said, turning in her chair and resuming her typing before she had finished the statement.
Marshall crossed the room and knocked on the closed door before entering. He had never been inside Sean Rafferty’s office and took the opportunity to check it out as he crossed to Rafferty’s desk. The floor was institutional tile, the desk government-issue steel. A set of gunmetal-grey filing cabinets that looked as though they had been beaten with a baseball bat took up most of the wall behind Rafferty’s desk. A couple of pictures hung on the side wall: one of Rafferty with a harried-looking woman Marshall assumed was the man’s wife, and a second showing a youngish Rafferty romping in a park with two children.
“Have a seat,” the director said without lifting his gaze from a report he was studying on his desk. Marshall eased into a chair that was just as uncomfortable as the one in the outer office and waited for Rafferty to finish reading.
After a moment, the man looked up in apparent annoyance. “Well?” he said. “What can I do for you, Marshall?”
“Sir, it’s about the intel regarding the unexplained movement of Iraqi troops toward the Saudi border.”
“Okay. What about it? Has the situation changed?”
“No, sir. At least, not that I’m aware.”
“Then why are we having this discussion?”
“Sir, I’m just wondering. It seems quite significant. Is any action being taken to follow up on this intel?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is anything being done about the apparent massing of troops close to the Saudi Arabian border?”
“Marshall, the same thing was done with that information that is done with everything that’s flagged. It’s reviewed further and then passed up the line. What you’re asking is not something I can readily answer, nor is it any of your concern.” He stared hard at Marshall. “Is there anything else?”
“I just…no sir, there’s nothing else.”
“Then I suggest you get back to work.”
25
Wednesday, September 9, 1987
12:30 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
After the coffee, and with adrenaline from her nocturnal activities still pounding through her system, Tracie was certain she would not be able to sleep. She was wrong. Within five minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she had dropped into a deep slumber, and seven hours later—an inconceivable interval for a covert ops specialist running a mission—she awoke feeling refreshed and ready to go.
She showered and ate and tried to pass the time. It was too early to go back to the abandoned school building; that would have to be done under cover of darkness. And until she knew exactly what was inside it that was so important to the Iraqis, she would not know how to proceed.
She sipped coffee and picked at junk food as afternoon turned into early evening. The sun was low in the Washington sky when she rose from her kitchen table, rinsed out her mug, and dropped it into the sink. Then she fished a backpack out of her bedroom closet—it looked similar in style and color to the one the two Iraqis had carried last night—and moved around her apartment, filling it with items while she ticked them off a mental checklist.
By the time she finished, dusk had long since given way to night, and it was time to get to work.
* * *
Thursday, September 10, 1987
12:40 a.m.
Washington, D.C.
This time, when Marshall Fulton approached her in the parking lot, Tracie’s senses weren’t dulled from lack of sleep. She scanned the area as she walked, and she spotted him almost the moment he stepped out of his car, a 1979 Buick Regal. When he got close, she smiled and said, “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting in my parking lot again, like some lovesick teenager or deranged stalker!”
Marshall grinned, taking the teasing like a man, and said, “Nah. This time it’s coincidence. I had just driven up when your front door opened and out you came.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Tracie asked. “You must be exhausted.”
“Not as much as you might think. I went home sick after my meeting with Rafferty. Spent the afternoon in bed. I still feel a little logy, but I’m fresh as a daisy compared to when you saw me this morning.”
“Huh,” Tracie said, eying him up and down. He was a very large man, muscular and fit. “More like a mountain of daisies.”
This time Marshall laughed out loud. Tracie said, “So, what are you doing here, besides making my neighbors afraid to come out of their apartments?”
“Thought you’d want to know about my meeting with Rafferty.”
“I do have a phone, you know. You could have called me.”
“Didn’t want to wake you up if you were still asleep.”
Though Tracie guessed that the real reason was something else, she didn’t argue. She shrugged and said, “I was an agency employee long enough to have a pretty good idea already, but since you went to the trouble of coming all the way over here, why don’t you fill me in?”
“You want the complete rundown or the Cliff’s Notes version?”
“Well, as you can see, I’m heading out for a night on the town, so why don’t you just hit the high points?”
“They don’t give a shit about Saddam Hussein moving his troops around.”
Tracie raised her eyebrows. “Those are the high points?”
“Basically. Rafferty told me to mind my own business, said the intel had been moved up the chain just like procedure says to do.”
“Where it will disappear into someone’s filing cabinet or desk drawer until it’s too late. Then it’ll be resurrected, just so the bureaucrats can figure out who to blame.”
Marshall raised his hands in a What can you do? gesture. “You had to know it was a long shot. The powers-that-be aren’t interested in taking policy advice from a lowly data analyst.”
“I know,” Tracie said. “Like I said, I already had a pretty good idea what you were going to say before you even started talking. I just wouldn’t have felt right if we hadn’t at least given it a shot. Thanks for trying.”
“Not a problem. If I won’t put my career on the line for a friend, what kind of man would I be?”
Tracie laughed. “Don’t go getting yourself fired on my account, Marshall. I don’t know where I’m going to find the money to feed myself, let alone anyone else.”
They shared a moment’s awkward silence, and then Tracie said, “Well, I don’t want to keep my date waiting, so I really should be going.”
“Date, huh?” Marshall took in her faded jeans, frayed at the bottom, and her ancient Washington Redskins T-shirt and said, “Isn’t it kind of late? And who’s the lucky guy, a skid row bum?”
Tracie winked at him. “You never know what the night will bring, my observant friend.” Then she unlocked her car, tossed her backpack into the front passenger seat, and slid in next to it.
She closed the door and rolled down the window. “Seriously, Marshall, thanks for the help. You’re a sweetheart and it’s nice to know someone cares. Now, go home and get a good night’s sleep and forget about all of this. Don’t put your career at risk on my account.”
* * *
Tracie drove to a liquor store she knew stayed open until two a.m. She stepped out of her car and waved to Marshall, who was rolling slowly down the street a hundred yards back, trying unsuccessfully to tail her without being seen.
He pulled to the curb and rolled down his window, looking abashed. “Marshall, what ar
e you doing?” she said. “I thought I told you to go home.”
“I know,” he said, refusing to look her in the eye. He gazed at the empty sidewalk like it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You’re all alone, trying to do God only knows what, and—”
She lifted a hand to cut him off. “This is what I’m trained to do, remember? It’s my job, or at least it used to be. You don’t have to worry about me. And there’s nothing you can do to help me in any event. Just go home. It’ll be better for everyone, trust me.”
“I understand,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I appreciate your concern. It’s very sweet, but it’s unnecessary.”
“Okay,” he said, still refusing to meet her eye. “Got it. See ya later.” He rolled the window up and accelerated away.
Tracie watched his car until the taillights flashed briefly and he hooked a left at a cross street a couple of blocks down. She wondered whether he would actually listen to her this time. Then she put Marshall Fulton and his sweet gesture of concern out of her mind and walked into the liquor store.
Three minutes later she was back in her car, a fifth of Jack Daniel’s nestled inside a plain brown bag on the passenger seat. She sat for a moment and considered her next move.
It was dangerous.
Foolhardy.
She was going to do it anyway.
She pulled away from the curb and retraced as much of the path the Town Car had taken last night as she could remember, purposely approaching the abandoned school using the same route. One thing that had struck her at the time was how little activity there had been within the couple of blocks immediately surrounding the school.
The District of Columbia contained a significant homeless population, much of it confined to a ten- or twelve-block zone in and around this neighborhood, so although it had been the middle of the night when she drove through yesterday, there should have been plenty of evidence of that population.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 39