She cut south one block and pounded along the pavement, making only a minimal effort to conceal herself from view, willing to sacrifice stealth for speed. By now she knew there was no one here to see her.
Moments later, Tracie burst from behind the abandoned tenement buildings not far from her Toyota, her Beretta held ready in two hands. She searched desperately for an idling Lincoln Town Car or similar vehicle.
She was too late. Either the Iraqis had parked somewhere else or they had managed to hustle the prisoner into their car and take off before she could get here. Now they were gone and she had no way of knowing where.
She had lost Secretary of State Humphries.
“Dammit!” She slapped her hands together in frustration and turned toward her car. She would have to find a phone and alert Stallings to the situation. There was now no alternative.
After that, she didn’t know what she was going to do. She had been fired, after all, and she was quite sure Aaron Stallings wasn’t about to let her tag along in the search for the kidnapped secretary of state like some pathetic unpaid volunteer.
She reached her Toyota in seconds and had the door half open when the throaty growl of a revving engine caught her attention. She looked up in surprise as a pair of headlights flashed on and a familiar-looking Buick sedan barreled around a corner half a block down. The beat-up car accelerated straight at her and then squealed to a stop.
She had her Beretta trained on the closed passenger side window, certain she recognized the car but unable to recall from where. The weak moonlight and reflection off the glass made it impossible to see inside.
The window rolled down and Marshall Fulton said, “Get in, they just left! If we hurry we can catch them!”
Tracie froze for half a second, flabbergasted at Marshall’s arrival. Then she ripped open the door and flung herself inside. “Go!” she said, slamming the door closed and tumbling sideways onto the seat. She immediately had questions for Marshall, but they would have to wait.
He punched the gas and the Buick surged forward. Tracie’s momentum carried her across the bench seat, where she slammed into the bulk of the man’s much bigger body. He barely flinched and didn’t slow.
“How long have they been gone?” she asked, pushing herself upright and buckling her seat belt.
“You missed them literally by seconds. I was trying to decide what to do when you came charging around the corner.”
“Was Humphries walking on his own?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘walking.’ He was upright, but he didn’t look too steady. I think the guys who took him were mostly carrying him.”
“Thank God,” Tracie said fervently. “If not for that, they would have been long gone before I was able to escape.”
“Escape?” Marshall took his eyes off the road for half a second, glancing across the front seat before returning his attention to navigating the twists and turns of the run-down neighborhood. “What the hell was going on back there?”
“Never mind that. It’s a story for another time. How do you know where to go?”
“I don’t. I was waiting for you to give me some direction. All I know is that big, fancy car took off like a bat out of hell in this direction just a couple of seconds before you came along.”
“So we’re not far behind them.”
“Not at all. At least not until we take a wrong turn.”
Tracie was silent for a moment, thinking hard. “Okay. While I was listening, one of those goons let slip to Humphries that their plan was to rendezvous with a helicopter outside Ocean City for the first leg of a trip that will eventually take him to Iraq. It’s been years since I spent much time in the D.C. area, but to my recollection, there’s no easy way to get across the Chesapeake Bay than via the—”
“Chesapeake Bay Bridge,” Marshall interrupted excitedly. He had slowed the car when they had approached Malcom X Avenue, uncertain which direction to turn, but now he stomped on the gas again and the old Buick Regal leapt forward. He hooked a left and a half-mile later they were merging onto I-295 North.
Tracie stared out the windshield, paying no attention to Anacostia Park, which flashed past on the left. “They’re not going to want to take the chance of being pulled over with the missing U.S. secretary of state in the backseat, so they’ll drive like Grandma on her way to church. But they also aren’t likely to stop anywhere between here and their rendezvous point, either, and for exactly the same reason—it’s too risky with Humphries in the car.”
She looked over at Marshall. “I haven’t been to Ocean City since I was a kid. I’m guessing the trip takes about two and a half hours. Does that sound right to you?”
She waited patiently while he considered the question. “Two and a half hours,” he agreed. “Give or take.”
She was silent for a moment and Marshall said, “Well? What do you think, should I speed up, try to catch them?”
Tracie shook her head. “Not yet. Drive the speed limit for now. If they actually took off just a few seconds before I showed up—”
“They did.”
Tracie smiled. “I wasn’t doubting you, Marshall. I’m just trying to figure out what might be my best play.”
“You mean our best play.”
She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him that it was too dangerous, that there was no way in the world she was letting him get involved, that she would handle it herself. Then she glanced over and saw the hard set of his jaw and the determined look in his eyes and realized, for better or for worse, that he was already involved, that he had been from the moment he put his job and his freedom on the line by sharing classified information with her.
“Okay,” she agreed, “our best play.”
He grinned triumphantly, like a little boy celebrating a successful practical joke, and she laughed in spite of the stress.
“Anyway,” she continued. “We know where they’re heading, approximately, and we know the only reasonable route they can take to get there. We know they’re probably not going to stop. Since they left just before I arrived at the car, we can’t be more than a minute behind them. Maybe less. Maybe a lot less.”
She looked over at Marshall again. “Will you recognize the car again when you see it?”
“Hell, yeah, I’ll recognize it. A big, dark Lincoln Town Car with diplomatic plates. Pretty tough to miss.”
“That’s the same car they used last night,” Tracie said. “Or at least a similar one. In that case I’ll recognize it, too. I say let’s keep to the speed limit, which we can be sure they’re doing as well, and maintain our distance. The last thing we want is for them to know they’re being followed. As we get closer to Ocean City, we’ll pick up the pace until spotting the car, because by then we’ll have to tail them to their rendezvous spot.”
“So for now we just drive?”
“Looks that way,” Tracie agreed. “Please tell me you’re not going to have to stop for gas. Do you have enough to make it the hundred-thirty miles or so from here to Ocean City?”
Marshall grinned again, his white teeth highlighted against his black skin in the darkness of the car’s interior. “I was never a Boy Scout,” he said. “But I could have been.”
* * *
Thursday, September 10, 1987
4:20 a.m.
Central Maryland
After taking I-295 through northeast Washington along the Anacostia River, they merged onto U.S. Route 50 toward Annapolis and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Tracie was mostly silent, watching the landscape roll past as Marshall maintained a steady speed.
At last, he said, “So it’s the Iraqis.”
She nodded. “It’s the Iraqis. None of this has anything to do with the Soviet Union. Saddam Hussein is using the Soviets as a distraction. He wants to take over Saudi Arabia in order to gain control of their oil fields. Once he does that, he figures he’ll have the West right where he wants us.”
Marshall whistled softly. “Jesus. The Russians and the Americans start blowing
each other up, meanwhile he grabs the means with which to destroy our economy whenever the mood strikes him.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“It’s a pretty good plan,” Marshall said, “from a strategic standpoint.”
“If you don’t mind the idea of two nations lobbing nuclear devices at each other.”
“I don’t think Hussein minds that one bit,” Marshall said drily. “In fact, he’d probably like nothing better.”
They were silent again for a while, but as the rusty old Buick approached the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Marshall said, “I’ve been wondering something.”
“Why we haven’t called in the cavalry?”
“Exactly. If we know where they’re going and what their plan is, why don’t we just stop and find a phone, let our bosses know what’s going on, and wait for help to arrive?”
“Excellent question. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure Aaron Stallings would even talk to me. And if he did, there wouldn’t be enough time for the CIA to mobilize the manpower required to have a reasonable chance of finding the Iraqi helicopter, especially at night if it’s flying low-level with no lights. They’d barely get started and the Iraqis would be long gone. We can’t afford to take the chance of losing them in order to make a call that would likely not help.”
Marshall pursed his lips in frustration. “There must be something we can do. What about calling the state police? We know their car is on this highway, not very far in front of us; we could describe it and tell the cops there’s a kidnap victim inside. Then they’d have to stop it.”
Tracie shook her head stubbornly. “It’s not worth the risk, Marshall. The diplomatic plates on their vehicle would ensure the Iraqis would be handled much differently than you or I would be.”
“But if there’s a reported kidnapping, they’d have to do something!”
“Sure they would. But that’s the problem: we don’t know what they would do. And more to the point, we don’t know what the Iraqis would do if they get pulled over. If they feel cornered, they might very well pump Humphries full of holes. The idea is to get him back alive, not zipped into a body bag.”
Marshall took a long look across the seat at her, his brown eyes boring into her blue ones. It was obvious he disagreed with her, but he said nothing. After a moment, he returned his focus to the highway and the sparse early morning traffic. The Buick Regal droned along, the speedometer pegged on the speed limit.
“So, how do you plan to stop them?”
“I’m still working on that,” Tracie admitted. “But I do know this: it’s about time we moved up on them and got a visual. Now that we’ve crossed the bridge I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in where they might decide to get off the highway.”
“But we’ve still got a ways to go before we get to Ocean City, and this is still the only route that makes sense.”
“True,” Tracie said. “But when I overheard them talking to Humphries, the exact words they used when they referred to their helicopter rendezvous point were, ‘not far from Ocean City.’ There’s no way to know exactly what that means. It could be anything from ‘just outside downtown’ to ‘fifty miles from the city,’ and in any direction. I don’t want to lose them, so it’s time to make our move.”
“Makes sense to me,” Marshall said, and eased down on the gas. The Regal surged forward, its speedometer needle creeping past fifty-five and hovering around sixty.
Tracie shook her head. “No, don’t speed up. In fact, I need you to pull off at the next exit. It’s time I took the wheel. You’ve done a great job, Marshall, but I have a little more experience at field operations than you do. No offense.”
He laughed. “None taken. In fact, the only way you have a little more experience in field ops is if you only have a little experience. Otherwise, you have a lot more. I’ve been waiting for you to take the wheel ever since we left D.C., to be honest.”
A roadside sign appeared in the headlights, indicating an exit a mile ahead. “Get off there,” Tracie said.
“Why don’t I just pull onto the shoulder and we can switch positions? It would save time, and obviously you don’t want to fall any farther behind the Iraqis.”
“It would save time, but I’m not worried about falling farther behind. Their car is big and recognizable, and barring this beast suffering a mechanical issue, I have plenty of time to make up the distance I’ll lose by taking the exit.”
Marshall glanced over, his lips turned down in a frown. “I can’t help but notice you using the word ‘I,’ rather than ‘we.’”
Tracie was impressed. This guy was sharp. “I’m sorry, Marshall, but we’re going to have to split up. That’s why we’re getting off the highway. I’m going to drop you somewhere with a phone, and I want you to call Sean Rafferty. Get him out of bed and let him know what’s going on. Tell him to alert Aaron Stallings and call out the cavalry.”
“But you just said there’s no point notifying the CIA.”
“Not exactly. I said they would have virtually no chance of assembling enough help to find the chopper at night, and I still believe that. But maybe the Iraqis will get delayed, or for some reason won’t depart until after daybreak. If that happens and if Rafferty and Stallings can coordinate the launch of a few Navy P3 sub-hunter aircraft, maybe they’ll get lucky and locate the chopper before it ever reaches the Learjet they have waiting to depart for Baghdad. It’s a long shot but it’s worth a try.
“Also, Stallings can work with the FBI to mobilize the FAA and local law enforcement. Lock down as many uncontrolled airports in North Carolina as possible that are large enough to handle a Lear. Establish surveillance and maybe nab the Iraqis as they transfer Humphries from the helicopter to the jet.
“But most importantly,” she said, “they need to know what’s really going on here. Everyone except us still thinks the Soviet Union is behind this kidnapping. The country could be mobilizing for war even as we speak.”
* * *
Marshall pulled under the covered portico outside a Holiday Inn located less than a quarter mile off the highway. The old Buick Regal rocked on its springs, squeaking and squealing in protest as they slid to a stop. He had driven as fast as he dared after exiting the highway, risking getting pulled over in order to cost Tracie as little time as possible with the detour.
“I’m not happy about you going off on your own,” he said. He felt silly saying it—she was a longtime, experienced field operative; it wasn’t like she needed a career desk jockey to keep her safe—but felt compelled to say it anyway. He needed to let her know he was worried about her. She could laugh at him if she wanted; he didn’t care.
Tracie flashed a smile. She was beautiful. Even with her hair a rumpled mess, her t-shirt and jeans torn and dirty and stinking to high heaven of old whiskey, his heart skipped a beat as she trained her high-wattage smile and impossibly bright blue eyes up at him.
“I’ll be fine, Marshall, thank you,” she said quietly. He appreciated that she didn’t ridicule him or minimize his concern.
He opened the door and prepared to climb out. “Wait a second,” she said.
He looked at her quizzically and she continued. “I think you missed your calling by taking a data analyst position,” she said. “You’re a natural at covert ops. You’ve handled yourself like a real pro, and except maybe for that first try at tailing me, everything you’ve done tonight has been just about perfect.”
He smiled, touched. “Beginner’s luck,” he said.
“I don’t think so. But in any event, thank you. You’ve done so much more than I can ever repay you for.”
“When this is over, let me take you out for a drink and we’ll call it even.” It was out before he could stop himself. It was out before he even really thought about what he was saying.
Tracie froze, her body half in and half out of the idling Buick’s passenger side. She ducked her head and looked across the front seat at him, her face an unreadable mask.
Then sh
e said, “I’d love that. You’re on, and thank you.” Marshall thought he saw tears in her eyes, but it was dark and he couldn’t be sure.
Then she got out, slammed the door, and sprinted around the front of the car. He heaved himself out of the driver’s side and she barreled into him, squeezed him tightly in a bear hug that was about as fine a thing as he ever felt, then slipped past him and behind the wheel.
“Remember,” she told him one last time. “Do whatever you have to do to convince Rafferty to drag Stallings’s fat ass out of bed. The White House needs to know what’s happening, and the military has to get some birds in the air and find that helicopter before it’s too late!”
“Got it,” Marshall said. Then she was gone, leaving a trail of parallel black marks on the pavement and the acrid smell of burnt rubber in the air.
35
Thursday, September 10, 1987
4:30 a.m.
The White House - Situation Room
Aaron Stallings had long since reached the conclusion that he would not be getting any sleep tonight. The initial details of the proposed United States attack on the Soviet destroyer Smetlivy, currently cruising the Mediterranean Sea, had taken a couple of hours to hammer out, and General Matheson only now seemed to be running out of steam.
Debate had been spirited, and Aaron could sense the president’s extreme reluctance to undertake military action against the regime he had once famously termed “The Evil Empire” without further—and indisputable—proof of their culpability in J. Robert Humphries’s kidnapping.
Aaron had had plenty of time for reflection during the interminable meeting, and had spent most of it thinking about Tracie Tanner. About her insistence that responsibility for the crime was being fixed in the wrong place, that all of the evidence implicating the Russians was nothing more than very clever misdirection. He considered the bizarre Iraqi troop movements and Tanner’s theory that Saddam Hussein had engineered the disappearance of the U.S. secretary of state—as if they could actually pull off such a complicated operation inside the boundaries of the United States—for some as-yet unknown purpose.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 44