Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  She had no car key, of course. That was in Gruber’s pocket, buried under the tons of earth now covering whatever was left of the Amber Room. But Tracie didn’t let that minor inconvenience slow her down.

  She picked up a chunk of crumbled pavement and hurled it through the passenger window, shattering the safety glass. Unlocked and opened the door. Swept the glass out onto the parking lot as best she could and then bent down under the steering column, searching for the ignition and battery wires.

  Hotwiring the Opel was a simpler task than she expected. The ignition and battery wires were readily available, and within seconds she had yanked them out of their harnesses. She pressed the leads together and the engine bucked and complained before grumbling to life.

  Less than thirty minutes later Tracie was back inside the safe house, and less than thirty seconds after that she was on the secure satellite phone to CIA Director Aaron Stallings.

  She didn’t bother cleaning up before making the call.

  She still had no idea what time it was.

  She didn’t care.

  The connection crackled and popped, and then Stallings picked up. “You want to explain to me why you always have to call in the middle of the night, Tanner?”

  “It’s nice to talk to you, too, sir.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I have a meeting first thing in the morning with key members of the House Appropriations Committee, and going in there on less than a good night’s sleep is not the recipe for ensuring a healthy budget. And you know what a healthy budget means?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “It means you continue to get paid.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, sir, but a lot has happened in Wuppertal, and I thought an immediate update was warranted. Please accept my apologies if I was wrong about that.”

  The sigh came through the receiver loud and clear. “I’m up now,” Stallings said resignedly. “You may as well hit me with it. I assume the Amber Room is, in fact, contained inside the tunnel beneath the munitions plant northwest of Wuppertal. Even you would know better than to call in the middle of the night if you hadn’t found anything.”

  “It’s under there all right.”

  “Well? Is it secure?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that nobody’s going to get to the Amber Room anytime soon. Not without a backhoe and other heavy construction equipment, anyway. And even if they do, I don’t know that there’d be anything left to excavate.”

  The impatient petulance left Stallings’s tone. “What happened?”

  Tracie ran through an abbreviated version of the events as they had taken place under the abandoned factory. She didn’t bother including her own injuries in the narrative. For one thing, Stallings wouldn’t care, and for another, there were more important issues to discuss.

  She spoke without interruption, and when she finished, the CIA director was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I told you Gruber wasn’t to be trusted.”

  “It was my fault, sir. I should have taken the lock closest the explosives, and I should have placed Gruber at the lock closer to the tunnel entrance.”

  “Obviously.” The comment was brief and acerbic and, Tracie thought, devastatingly accurate.

  In most cases she would have been quick with a sarcastic reply, something to reinforce to the bully of a CIA director that she wasn’t intimidated by him, that she didn’t care what he thought of her, that she was doing her job out of service to her country and respect for the chain of command, not because she valued his opinion in any way.

  But this time there was no sarcasm to be had. No retort to toss out, no put-down, no remark that could lessen the effect of Aaron Stallings’s one word comment.

  It hurts, Tracie thought, probably more than the physical injuries do.

  Good.

  The pain was no more and no less than she deserved. A man had lost his life because of her miscalculation. Her poor judgment. His actions had been rash and had led directly to his death, but she was in charge, and she had had plenty of opportunity to observe firsthand Gruber’s penchant for carelessness.

  And still she had allowed him to stand directly in harm’s way.

  She deserved Aaron Stallings’s scorn and disgust. And it was nothing compared to the scorn and disgust she felt for herself.

  Tracie realized she hadn’t spoken for several seconds. She cleared her throat and wiped the back of her “good” hand across her eyes. Her vision had gotten suddenly blurry, and she could feel the dirt smudging her cheeks as she wiped away the tears that had begun to form.

  “Tanner,” Stallings said before she could speak.

  “Yes, sir?” Here it comes. He’s going to tear into me and I deserve every word.

  “Nobody can anticipate every eventuality in the field. You know that as well as I do. Hell, maybe better than I do, considering I haven’t worked in the field in almost forty years. You made a mistake. It happens. You aren’t responsible for Gruber blowing himself up in that tunnel. Gruber was. Only Gruber. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir.” It was all she trusted herself to say. Any more and she knew there would be no way to keep the pain and guilt out of her voice.

  “Give yourself a break, Tanner. You know how this business works. Gruber was about to be pulled out of the field for the very reasons that led to his death. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But—”

  “That’s enough, Tanner.” The tone coming through the sat phone’s receiver was unlike anything she had ever heard out of Aaron Stallings. It sounded more like the gentle rebuke a grandfather might give, or a kindly uncle, than anything that had ever come from the ruthless manipulator who had ruled the CIA with an iron fist for decades.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, we need to consider the implications of this.”

  “I know, sir. That’s why I called. How are we going to prevent Phoenix from attempting to access the Amber Room treasure despite the explosion, and how are we going to recover Gruber’s body?”

  “Phoenix will not be an issue.”

  “Sir?”

  “West Germany’s Federal Intelligence Service is in the process of rounding up and arresting the surviving members of Phoenix even as we speak. They will be charged with treason against the Federal Republic of Germany and will no longer be capable of anything other than rotting in German prisons.”

  “But…once the bodies of Adolph Hitler Senior and Junior are discovered, this thing is going to explode. It will be immediately clear that they were assassinated, and—”

  “The bodies aren’t going to be discovered, Tanner. Ever. To the rest of the world, Adolph Hitler Junior never existed, and Hitler Senior died in April of 1945, exactly as everyone thought all along.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The first thing I did after your notification that both Hitlers had been eliminated—even before I called my counterpart at FIS and filled him in on the Phoenix camp—was to contact our agency cleanup team in the area. The bodies of both men have been removed and will never be found.”

  “How did they—”

  “They’re very good at what they do, Tanner, just like you are. They were forced to eliminate several Phoenix members in the process of removing the Hitler corpses, but that’s nothing to worry about. The FIS will suspect CIA involvement when they find the dead Phoenix members, of course, given the fact that I tipped them off to the whereabouts of the camp. But they know better than to ask too many questions, especially considering the outcry they will face among West Germany’s political class if word of Phoenix—and its purpose—ever leaks out. I will be sure to stress to the FIS that as long as they play ball with me, they have nothing to worry about on that score. If they don’t, they know what will happen. I’m confident they’ll make the right choice. ”

  Tracie was silent for a moment, and not just out of wonder at the complim
ent Stallings had just off-handedly thrown her way. She had worked with the man closely now on several assignments, and for all his faults, his ability to pull strings and influence global events—even when those events were occurring halfway around the world—never ceased to amaze her.

  Finally she spoke. “What about the second issue, sir? How are we going to recover Gruber’s body without giving away the location of the Amber Room?”

  “We’re not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re not going to recover the body, Tanner. It’s going to remain buried along with the Amber Room, until such time as the United States Government makes a determination on how to proceed with regards to the hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of treasure now buried in that tunnel. Even if the Amber Room panels were blown to bits, they still retain at least some of their value.”

  This was the Aaron Stallings Tracie had grown to know and detest. The shrewd, calculating puppeteer was back. “But sir, Gruber’s family deserves—”

  “No, Tanner, they do not. Gruber’s family understood the risks that accompanied his acceptance of CIA fieldwork assignments, just as yours understands the same. He was not a soldier who perished on the battlefield. He was an intelligence officer working undercover in a foreign land. The situations are dissimilar, and traditional rules of combat do not apply. Is that understood?”

  She bit back the retort that tried to force its way out. She wanted to argue but couldn’t, because for as much as the thought horrified her, she did understand.

  Instead, she changed the subject. “What about the tunnel entrance, sir? Even though the factory is abandoned, and even though it’s located in the middle of nowhere, sooner or later someone’s going to stumble on the hinged door on the floor of the plant manager’s office. There’s no lock on it anymore, and there’s nothing covering it, and—”

  “The flooring is being replaced even as we speak. It will match the rest of the ancient plant exactly, and within a few hours, no one but the agency will know the tunnel entrance was ever there.”

  Once again he’s way ahead of me, she thought.

  “Now,” Stallings said. “We need to get you back to Langley to have your injuries assessed and treated. I’ll send the Gulfstream for you tomorrow. Just get to Hahn Air Base by early afternoon and you’ll be back in the States by late tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, Tanner.”

  “But sir, if you don’t mind me asking…”

  “What is it now? I’ve got to get back to sleep. I already told you I have an important early meeting.”

  “How did you know I was injured? I never mentioned it.”

  The CIA director barked out a laugh. It sounded a lot like a pistol shot. “You always get injured, Tanner. Always. It’s part of what makes you, you. Now get back here and get healthy. We’re going to need you out in the field again sooner rather than later.”

  The line clicked dead and for the first time since the underground explosion, Tracie Tanner fully realized the extent of her exhaustion. She still didn’t know what time it was and still didn’t care. Her safe house bed was calling, and she didn’t have to be at Hahn until tomorrow afternoon.

  She knew she should clean and dress her wounds.

  She knew she should arrange transportation for tomorrow.

  She knew she wasn’t going to do either thing.

  She stumbled to her bed and fell under the covers, fully clothed and filthy. She was asleep in less than a minute.

  THE KREMLYOV INFECTION

  ALLAN LEVERONE

  PART ONE

  SPRING 1984

  1

  March 17, 1984

  8:35 p.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  David Goodell felt fuzzy and disoriented. It wasn’t surprising, given the fact he’d been drinking nonstop since the start of happy hour, which was—he glanced at his watch, struggling to focus on the tiny dial—more than three hours ago.

  He didn’t mind the disorientation.

  Didn’t mind the fuzziness.

  He welcomed them with open arms, in fact. His life had been sliding steadily downhill for nearly a year now and the only respite from near-constant pain and misery had been the anesthetic effects of whiskey and water.

  Or rum and coke.

  Or vodka and…well, just about anything.

  David had long believed there was nothing quite so depressing as unfulfilled potential, and now that he’d had the opportunity to experience the concept firsthand, he realized how right he had been.

  After receiving his graduate degree in Russian History from Georgetown University, David had hired on with the CIA as an analyst specializing in Eurasian Operations.

  Translation: David’s job description consisted exclusively of analyzing data regarding the activities of the Soviet Union: military buildups, troop movements, intelligence capabilities. Anything provided to Langley by the CIA’s team of covert operatives working in the region, or from wiretaps or satellite surveillance.

  David was an agency star almost immediately. He was perfectly suited for his job, possessing an innate ability to sift through the reams of intelligence funneling into Langley daily and determine which items merited immediate routing to his superiors for more thorough analysis, and which were destined to gather dust in a filing cabinet.

  Promotions followed, a succession of them in a short period of time. Before David had celebrated his fortieth birthday he found himself occupying a corner office in the massive CIA complex. “Assistant Director for Eurasian Operations” was his official title. David Goodell had become one of the youngest AD’s in CIA history.

  Even now, more than fifteen years after his hiring, the responsibility of the Eurasian Operations division was the same as it always had been: monitoring the USSR’s activities. This made David Goodell’s job was one of the most critical—and pressure-filled—positions in the entire agency.

  He’d faced stiff competition for the promotion, mostly from intelligence professionals older and far more experienced than he. But David had benefitted from the full and unreserved support of legendary CIA Director Aaron Stallings. That support had made the difference. Now David Goodell oversaw a staff of dozens, working in a wing of CIA headquarters devoted solely to his division.

  The size of his paycheck placed him in the top one-half of one percent of federal employees.

  He reported directly to Director Stallings himself.

  He had the world by the balls.

  Then it all started to fall apart.

  The first fissure in David’s previously uninterrupted run of personal and professional success came in his marriage. His wife Dana began spending more and more time among the well-to-do denizens of D.C., and correspondingly more money on the glamorous trappings of life among the social climbers who tended to congregate around a Washington bigwig like David.

  Parties, plays, charity auctions, it seemed Dana had an event to attend nearly every night. With the events came expensive gowns and even more expensive jewelry. David was expected to attend as well, when all he wanted was to sink into his couch with a drink.

  The problem was twofold. David had no interest in living a life among the Washington elite, but worse, even a man earning a salary that placed him near the very top of the government’s pay scale could not hope to match the truly wealthy, dollar for dollar.

  Both concerns seemed lost on Dana.

  As debt began to pile up, so did the arguments, and before long David and Dana found themselves sleeping in separate bedrooms. They maintained the fiction of a happy marriage in public, at state dinners and other obligations, but away from the bright lights and society gatherings they rarely spoke, other than to bicker and fight.

  Adding to the mounting financial pressures were college bills. Both their children attended Georgetown, one moving on to medical school and the other to dental school.

  The education loans began coming due just about the time David
moved out of the house, and he had absolutely no idea how the hell he was going to pay them.

  Unfulfilled potential.

  David Goodell was truly mystified at how his life had gone so completely off the rails, and how it had happened so quickly.

  He sipped his drink and checked his watch again.

  Nearly nine o’clock.

  He smiled. As badly as things had gone over the past year, there was one bright spot.

  Well, two if you counted the liquor.

  Lisa Porter would soon be joining him for drinks and, with any luck, some bedroom gymnastics immediately afterward.

  Lisa was younger than David by a lot. He’d never asked her age because he didn’t really want to know. He doubted she was much older than his kids. A little voice occasionally whispered in his ear that she might even be younger, and that voice always made him feel guilty and ashamed of himself.

  But not ashamed enough to break off their relationship. How could he consider ending it when she was the only thing keeping him sane?

  Lisa was beautiful, with a tight body of which any Hollywood actress would be proud.

  More importantly—or at least of equal importance to David—was the fact that she actually listened to him. When he unburdened himself about Dana, about her extravagances that were slowly bankrupting him, about the mountain of education loans hanging over his head, about how he feared his life and career had peaked before his fortieth birthday and then begun sliding inexorably backward, she actually listened.

  Without rolling her eyes.

  Without telling him he was being silly, or selfish, or dramatic.

  If he was being truly honest with himself—and he could never bring himself to be honest with himself unless he was drunk, like now—he had to admit that were it not for Lisa Porter he might have considered ending it all by now.

  “Suicide is painless,” the theme song from M*A*S*H went. It was one of David’s favorite shows, and while he didn’t know whether the painless part was true, if nothing else suicide was permanent, and that was starting to look pretty appealing from his perspective.