She smiled as she pictured Aaron Stallings sitting in this very chair, sipping whiskey from a cut crystal tumbler as he jetted across the Atlantic to meet with his MI5 counterpart in London. It was easy to visualize. Stallings was intimidating and overbearing, brusque with allies and enemies alike, but he made no secret of his love for the finer things in life. His beautifully appointed home in McLean provided ample evidence of that fact.
Stallings’s estimate of “within the hour” for her agency driver to arrive at her apartment had been accurate, but Tracie hadn’t needed much time to prepare. One of the first things she had learned during her training at The Farm nearly eight years ago was to be ready to depart at a moment’s notice for a destination anywhere in the world. So by the time the driver rolled into her apartment parking lot, she was standing in her front door tapping her foot impatiently.
The agency transport was a silver Dodge Caravan, the very essence of anonymity, and the driver slid the side door open and waited while she ducked into the vehicle. She dropped her duffle on the floor next to her seat and accepted a thick information packet offered by the driver—undoubtedly another agency case officer—before he closed the door and returned behind the wheel.
The trip to Washington National Airport went smoothly—for D.C.—and less than thirty minutes later the Caravan pulled to a stop directly beside the idling Gulfstream. The CIA jet was parked off by itself, outside a hangar located far from the commercial passenger terminals, and far from any other private planes or prying eyes. Tracie climbed aboard, her bag slung over one shoulder, information packet in her hands.
Moments later she was seated and buckled for departure. Almost immediately the high-pitched whine of the G4’s twin engines increased in intensity and the Gulfstream began taxiing. They bumped and bounced along the taxiways at a high rate of speed, much faster than would have been acceptable on a commercial jetliner, and Tracie knew the flight crew had been briefed on the time-critical nature of their passenger’s mission. They wouldn’t know what that mission was, or why it was so important she get to West Germany as quickly as possible, but they were clearly prepared to do everything in their power to fulfill their own mission parameters.
The taxiing plane arrived at the departure runway in what—to Tracie at least—felt like record time, and it never stopped moving. They made a ninety-degree turn onto the runway and then the pilot poured the coals to the engines. The high-pitched whine became a throaty roar, and Tracie was pressed back into her seat as the jet leaped into the sky.
The Gulfstream turned left almost immediately, and then quickly back to the right. Noise abatement departure procedures required every jet leaving D.C. to make turns that, to the uninitiated, might seem random and nonsensical. In reality, the flight paths were carefully scripted and choreographed, not just to minimize noise to the surrounding community, but also for security reasons.
The G4 climbed at a rapid pace, and soon D.C. fell away as the jet turned northeast and continued climbing out over the ocean. Soon they leveled off, and Tracie wasted no time opening her information packet and spreading files and photographs out on a small cocktail table.
Stallings had told her the soon-to-be-disgraced CIA field operative in Wuppertal—“Gruber”—would fill her in on all details relevant to the case when she arrived in Germany, but she wasn’t about to leave anything to chance. The flight would take a little over eight hours, and Tracie was determined to use as that time wisely, to familiarize herself with the particulars of the assignment before touching down on West German soil. If any there was any time left over, after studying her intel and learning all she could from it, she would nap.
Tracie guessed she would not be sleeping on the plane.
***
She was deep in thought, head bent over the table, poring over a thick file when she became aware of the presence of a figure standing a few feet away. The person was at the outside edge of her peripheral vision. She glanced up to see the younger-looking member of the two-man flight crew standing quietly, holding his cap in both hands. It was obvious he wanted to get her attention but was concerned about disturbing her.
She scowled, annoyed that the man had been able to get within ten feet of her without her noticing. Situational awareness was critical for an operative, and the knowledge that she hadn’t seen him leave the flight deck and walk down the aisle grated on her. It was the sort of mistake that could get her killed in the field, and the fact that she had been absorbed in the intelligence packet was no excuse.
The man misinterpreted her annoyance with herself as anger at being interrupted, and he grinned sheepishly and raised his hands in apology. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I’ll get back to the flight deck. The captain said I should leave you the hell alone, but I wanted to welcome you aboard and make sure you were comfortable.”
Tracie blinked. Her attention was still on Russia’s Catherine Castle and three hundred million dollars’ worth of missing treasure, and it took a moment for her to figure out that he thought she was upset with him.
Then she smiled. “No,” she said. “You don’t have to leave. I was just…ah, never mind, it’s not important.”
“That’s a relief. For a second, there, I thought I was about to get shot and tossed out of the airplane at thirty-five thousand feet.”
Tracie raised one eyebrow and the young pilot laughed. “Just kidding,” he said. “Although you did look a little angry. I’ve flown enough missions to know not to ask too many questions, so I’ll simply leave it at this: please don’t hesitate to let the captain or me know if you need anything. We have a mini-fridge with drinks and some light snacks, and there is very little for us to do now that we’re in the en route portion of the flight. There’s no flight attendant on board, so you’ll have to make do with one of us, but we’re more than happy to help with anything you need.”
“That’s very kind, thank you,” she said. “And I’m sure I’ll take you up on your offer in a little while. For now, though, I need to get some more work done.”
The pilot nodded and returned her smile. “Very good,” he said. Then he spun on his heel and returned to the flight deck.
Tracie watched him walk away and smiled again. She decided she liked traveling on her own private CIA jet. The service was friendly and professional—not to mention quite handsome—and discreet. The young airman had made a point to stay far enough away that Tracie didn’t have to worry about protecting the classified material from his gaze. It was obvious he had kept his distance intentionally, so as not to invade her work area.
I could get used to this, she thought, and then laughed out loud, all alone in the passenger cabin. The notion that she might ever see the inside of this plane again was ludicrous. She was here only due to the time-critical nature of the mission, the fact that the Soviet operative who had likely killed Klaus Newmann and stolen the Amber Room key might disappear at any moment.
Still, it was fun to daydream.
7
November 13, 1987
10:40 p.m. local time
Hahn Air Base, Hahn, Federal Republic of Germany
Tracie blinked instantly awake as the Gulfstream touched down with a jolt at Hahn Air Base. She had spent virtually the entire flight engrossed in her intel, stopping to use the lavatory and to eat a small snack, but otherwise determined to use the down time of a transatlantic flight productively.
With a little over an hour left in the trip, however, she had closed her eyes, intending to rest for just a moment. The next thing she knew, the jet was rolling out on the runway, the twin engines’ high-pitched whine returning with a vengeance as the pilot hit the reverse thrusters to aid in braking.
The G4 exited the runway and taxied at such a high rate of speed across the airfield—moving even faster than they had on the ground back in D.C.—that Tracie guessed the pilots could probably get the airplane airborne again if they really wanted to.
But they didn’t want to. What they wanted to do was get their passenger deplaned
and on her way as soon as humanly possible. While the captain taxied the aircradft, the younger crewmember turned around and raised his voice so that Tracie could hear him over the ambient noise of a moving jet.
“We’ll be coming to a stop momentarily, ma’am,” he said. “As soon as we can safely do so, we’ll lower the stairs and escort you to your ride, which I’m told is waiting on the ramp. It’s been a pleasure having you aboard and Captain Stallworth and I hope you enjoyed your flight.”
Tracie flashed once again on the dozens of overseas trips she’d taken over her CIA career. On virtually every one of them she’d been an extra passenger, often on military cargo flights were she was stuffed in among crates, or soldiers, or the plane’s interior was too hot or too cold or noisy as hell or vibrating like the whole damned thing might just come apart at the seams.
One trip in particular had been an airborne scenario she knew she would never forget. She was aboard a C5, acting as courier, delivering a top-secret message from Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev to U.S. President Ronald Reagan. One member of the flight crew was being blackmailed by the KGB and had been instructed to crash the airplane into the ocean in order to destroy that message, and the man had very nearly succeeded.
After a desperate gun battle inside the plane, the crash had occurred, but on land instead of over the water. Tracie was the only survivor, pulled from the burning wreckage by a passerby with whom she’d promptly fallen hopelessly in love.
And who had then been killed just days later.
While saving her life.
Again.
She pushed the memories of Shane Rowley aside and smiled. “I think you can safely say this trip has been the highlight of my aviation experiences. When I get back to the states I’m going to let the brass know just how courteous and professional you were, and how quickly you got me here.”
The young pilot touched his cap and then swiveled back around in his seat. In the distance a massive hangar loomed, doors closed, a single F-16 parked at an angle facing the taxiing Gulfstream. The fighter jet was part of the 50th Tactical Fighter Wing and was based at Hahn, armed and ready to be scrambled at a moment’s notice in the event of Soviet/East German provocation.
The G4 rolled to a stop. A few feet away a nondescript gray automobile sat idling in the shadow of the hangar, its finish dull, bluish-grey exhaust leaking out the tailpipe.
The relentless whine of the engines abruptly ceased as the pilot in command cut the power. A moment later, both men turned and walked back to escort Tracie off the plane. A crewman chocked the wheels and the door opened and was lowered to the tarmac. Tracie had packed her files away while they taxied, and the moment the stairs hit the ground she was exiting the aircraft.
She shook the hands of both members of the flight crew and thanked them again, then hurried to the car. Slouched behind the wheel was a youngish man, maybe early thirties, with slightly shaggy hair and a face overdue for a shave. The man wore a tweed scally cap at a rakish angle, and he looked impatiently at his watch as she approached. She recognized him immediately as her West German contact.
The man made no effort to help her with her bag—not that she would have allowed him to handle it, in any event—and she opened the passenger door and tossed the duffel into the back seat. The files she kept in her arms. Then she dropped into the front seat and stuck her hand out.
“You must be Gruber,” she said, knowing full well that whatever the man‘s real name, it most certainly was not Gruber.
“Indeed I am,” he said, hesitating just a moment before taking her offered hand and giving it a shake. “Matthias Gruber. And you are…”
Tracie knew her contact’s alias because she had studied her intel on the plane, but it was obvious Herr Gruber had not burdened himself with any serious preparation. It was easy to see why this man would soon be called home to Langley.
“Quinn,” she said. “Fiona Quinn.”
“Ah. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Fiona.” He lingered over the pronunciation of her alias and gave her hand a slight but noticeable squeeze before letting go.
Wonderful. The operative whose mission in West Germany was about to come to an abrupt and undistinguished end—even if he didn’t know it yet—not only demonstrated questionable decision-making skills, he fancied himself a ladies’ man as well.
This is the last thing I need, Tracie thought, and stifled the urge to roll her eyes. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat as she withdrew her hand. Debated whether to tell her new friend to stick to business. Decided not to bother.
For the time being.
“How long’s the drive to Wuppertal?” she said evenly.
“All about the mission, eh?” he answered. “Fair enough, I suppose, although I must say that when I received word I would be picking up a second operative, I had no idea it would be someone as…attractive…as you.” He smiled widely for the second time, flashing a mouth full of pearl-white teeth.
“The drive?” she reminded him.
His smile faded away and he shook his head ruefully. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, right Fiona?”
“Listen to me, Gruber. Unless you received a different mission briefing than I did, you know this assignment is important, and it’s time-critical. Put this car in gear and aim it at Wuppertal, or get your ass out and I’ll do it myself.”
He scowled and raised his hands in mock surrender but did as she asked. The engine sputtered and the transmission caught and the car lurched forward. Gruber spun the wheel and headed for a gate in a chain-link fence topped by razor wire and manned by an armed guard wearing a U.S Air Force uniform.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Message received. We’re co-workers, not friends. Got it.”
Tracie was tempted to remind him they weren’t exactly co-workers, either. Her assignment had made it crystal clear that Tracie was in charge and Gruber was to defer to her from the moment she landed in West Germany, and he was to continue to do so until the mission was complete.
She was certain he had received the same briefing. Still, she elected to hold off on that particular reminder.
She wouldn’t hesitate to put pull rank if it came to that. But for all his shortcomings—and it was obvious there were several—the man behind the wheel was someone who had been in country for weeks and so must know the area nearly as well as the local players. He could make or break this mission simply by how forthcoming he chose to be with information. It would be to her benefit to handle Herr Gruber with care.
He mumbled something and she said, “Excuse me?”
“I said, we should be in Wuppertal in a little over two hours, as long as this marvel of German engineering doesn’t let us down.”
This was a perfect opportunity to extend an olive branch, and Tracie decided to take advantage of it. “Yeah, what is this thing? It’s definitely no BMW.”
She didn’t get a laugh out of him, but Gruber did smile. “No, it’s not a BMW. I didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention with something flashy, so I picked out this beauty. It’s called an Opel Kadett, and believe it or not”—he grimaced in distaste as he glanced around the car’s interior—“it’s only three years old.”
By now they had left Hahn Air Base behind, and Tracie glanced out the rear window to see that most—but not all—of the blue smoke had disappeared once the car got under way. It didn’t do much to increase her confidence the Opel would survive a two-hour trip. “Well, I could pick a lot of adjectives to describe this car, but ‘flashy’ would not even have crossed my mind.”
Gruber chuckled this time and said, “Mission accomplished, then.”
He maneuvered the little car to the motorway, and once they were up to speed Tracie said, “Tell me about Klaus Newmann and the Soviet operative.”
Gruber shrugged. “I assume you’ve read the mission reports.” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice. He may not be the best field operative, but he was perceptive enough to know he knew he must be in big trouble back in the sta
tes for the home office to send over a replacement.
He glanced across the front seat at her, a look of bland innocence on his face. She could see why he thought of himself as a ladies’ man. His hair was just long enough to be sexy without crossing the line into unmanageable, and his teeth were as straight as his smile was crooked.
But he was delusional if he thought “Fiona Quinn” was here for any reason other than to complete her assignment and get the hell out of Germany.
“Yes, I’ve read the reports,” she said. “But reports are written for the brass, and sometimes the real story gets lost in translation. I want to know everything that never made it back to Langley.”
He returned his attention to the West German highway. In the left lane, cars passed the Opel in a more or less continuous stream. Tracie knew he was considering her point, trying to decide whether giving her what she asked for would result in even more headaches for him than he already had.
She remained quiet, allowing him his internal argument. She wasn’t worried. Eventually he would give her what she wanted. One way or the other.
Moments later he cleared his throat.
Then he started talking.
8
November 14, 1987
10:50 p.m.
Kaminecke Hotel
Wuppertal, Federal Republic of Germany
Tracie adjusted her dress uncomfortably. It was red and formfitting and short, and it made her look like a hooker.
It was perfect.
The two-hour drive north from Hahn Air Base to Wuppertal last night had yielded little in the way of new intel, even though once “Gruber” started talking, it had been like opening the spigot of a garden hose—the information flowed freely. If he was leaving anything out about the part he had played in the Amber Room key fiasco, Tracie couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Maybe he knew it was only a matter of time—and not very much of it—before he was called on the carpet back at Langley, and he was hoping “Fiona” would put in a good word for him with the handlers.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 78