“I said you’re KGB. Well I’ve got news for you, Lisa Porter. Or whatever your name is. I’m calling the authorities. I’ve given you nothing of value, so I have nothing to fear from you.”
“Are you certain about that? What makes you think I’ve gotten nothing of value from you?”
“I couldn’t have given away any secrets because I’ve told you nothing about my job. You know I work for the CIA, so what? That information by itself is of no value whatsoever.”
“You don’t believe there is any chance you may have left something damaging in your briefcase? The briefcase I have become adept at breaking into?”
She didn’t think it would be possible for him to turn any paler, but she was wrong. Still, he gamely attempted to maintain resistance. “I would never have brought anything damaging home from the office.”
Lisa smiled evilly. “Does this look familiar to you, Mr. Assistant CIA Director for Eurasian Operations?”
She removed a photograph from the back pocket of her jeans and unfolded it with a flourish. Set it down on the coffee table and smoothed it out.
Depicted in the photo was the list of CIA operatives working in Russia. Next to the list—which Anna had photographed on this very table—was a copy of the Washington Post front page, dated March 17.
It was the day Lisa had changed David Goodell’s life forever, although he could not have known it at the time.
“Oh, God,” Goodell muttered. “How did you get ahold of that? Where did you find it?”
“I already told you. You really should be more careful what you put into your briefcase.”
He crumpled at the waist, his body folding in on itself until his forehead crashed down on the living room carpet with a loud thunk.
Lisa let him suffer a little longer. She’d waited a long time for this moment and was determined to enjoy every last second of it. The satisfaction was exquisite. She hadn’t thought anything could top the feeling of great sex—not that she’d experienced any of that in the last three months—but she realized now she’d been wrong.
This was the best sensation ever.
But all good things must come to an end, and eventually it was time to move on. “I know this comes as a tremendous shock, David. But there is an upside for you.”
“Upside?”
She realized he’d begun crying and the thought sent a thrill like a lightning bolt through her body. Great sex, indeed.
“What possible upside could there be? My career is over and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison. That’s assuming I’m not executed for treason.”
“You are not looking at the big picture, David. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and consider this situation for what it truly represents: an opportunity.”
“Are you insane? What kind of opportunity could this possibly represent?”
“No one in the CIA knows you took that list of operatives’ identities out of Langley, correct?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know. What difference does that make?”
“It makes all the difference in the world, David. Because as long as you do as instructed, I’m not going to tell anyone about this little slip-up.”
“That’s the upside? You won’t rat me out?”
“You didn’t let me finish. I am well aware of your financial difficulties. You’ve done nothing but cry on my shoulder about your free-spending wife and all the college tuition you owe, as well as the fact you have no idea how you’re going to pay off those debts.”
“Yeah. My life sucked before and it’s even worse now. Thanks for the reminder.”
“No, David. Your life doesn’t have to suck. I’ve already told you what I expect from you. Now let me tell you what you will receive in return. Not only will your career continue largely unchanged, with the exception of those relatively rare times I need you to provide intel to me, but Moscow is willing to offer compensation for your continued cooperation.”
“Compensation?” Now she had his attention. His face remained a ghostly white, but his eyes locked onto hers as he waited for her to continue.
“That’s right. My superiors wish to be very fair to you, David. The opportunity to avoid a firing squad should be sufficient motivation for you to work with us—” he winced and she had to suppress a smile—“but as long as you continue to provide valuable and actionable intelligence on those occasions we request it, you will earn a salary paid in tax-free American dollars that will dwarf your current CIA paycheck.”
He stared at her in stunned silence. His lips moved but no words came out.
“So, what do you say, David? It seems like a very simple decision to me. A no-brainer.”
She’d tightened the noose expertly around Goodell’s neck until he truly had no legitimate options.
He sat for a moment, a broken man, on his hands and knees on the living room floor of his cheap apartment. Then he nodded slowly, as Lisa had known he would.
After all, the decision really was a no-brainer.
PART TWO
LATE 1987
1
December 31, 1987
11:35 p.m.
Georgievsky Hall, Grand Kremlin Palace
Moscow
Evgeni Domashev stood in the shadows of the Grand Kremlin Palace’s Georgievsky Hall. Standing in the shadows was nothing new for Evgeni. He had spent a lifetime in the shadows. Tonight he watched revelers ringing in the New Year, a scowl of distaste etched onto his face.
Evgeni was a hard man who had lived a hard life, and as such, the scowl of distaste was his more-or-less default expression.
Tonight, however, he had more reason than usual to feel grim.
Because a traitor was in attendance.
Here, on the banks of the Mockba River, a stone’s throw—and not even a long throw, at that—from the Kremlin, sat men working actively to destroy Mother Russia and the grand Soviet alliance.
The temerity was enough to make his blood boil. He wanted to reach out and strangle the traitor and his American accomplice, to march across the ballroom and choke the life out of both tuxedo-wearing menaces. He would start with the American, of course, but would save his greatest wrath for the Russian, who as a fellow countryman should know better than to do business with the sworn enemy of the Russian state.
Evgeni realized he had wrapped his hands into tight fists, knuckles white, tendons stretched to their limit, and he forced himself to relax. He closed his eyes and stretched. Took a deep, calming breath. He was not a man accustomed to subtlety. His handlers were, however, and they had chosen a punishment less straightforward than what Evgeni would have selected, but ultimately every bit as severe.
And every bit as justified.
The ballroom at Georgievsky Hall was opulent and, to Evgeni, more than a bit intimidating. It featured soaring columns and a vaulted ceiling from which hung the most massive gold chandeliers he had ever seen. Banquet tables covered in brilliant white linens dazzled the eyes, and the artificial light spilling from the chandeliers reflected off the heavily varnished wooden floor like noontime on a cloudless summer day.
It was an awe-inspiring sight and one, he knew, he was likely never to see again. Men like Evgeni were not often invited to gather in places like this. In fact he had not been invited tonight, at least not officially. His name was included on no guest list, and although he wore the sharpest-looking tuxedo he’d ever seen, the nametag fastened to the breast pocket was not his.
It was not anyone’s.
But the suit matched perfectly the suits of the men serving tonight’s guests, and that was what mattered. Because when the time came to act—and that time was rapidly approaching—he should not cause an eyebrow to be raised in concern. Not from the men whose lives he was charged with ending, and not from anyone else in attendance.
If humor had been part of Evgeni’s psychological makeup, he would have been amused at the transformation the majority of the evening’s guests had undergone over the course of the last several hours. Vodka fl
owed freely all night, seemingly enough vodka to fill the banks of the Mockba, and guests who had begun the evening stoic and stiff with formality, were now loosey-goosey, flushed and drunk, laughing heartily and dancing the night away as they toasted the arrival of 1988.
There were only a few exceptions to the near-universal revelry.
Those exceptions were Evgeni’s targets. The targets were not so foolish as to allow themselves the loss of control that copious amounts of alcohol provided. Tonight’s business was rife with risks for them, and even the most foolhardy of men knew better than to tempt fate by drinking to excess. The targets nursed their drinks carefully, smiling and maintaining a façade of carefree enjoyment while their eyes never stopped scanning for danger.
Not that it would matter.
Evgeni wondered what state secrets the Russian thought he was sharing with the American, and how many real Soviet secrets he’d shared in the past, before his malfeasance had come to the attention of the KGB. Evgeni knew his superiors had discussed long and hard—and heatedly—what action to take regarding Gennadiy Alenin’s treachery, with a significant number of men arguing for using Alenin to feed false information to the Americans.
Intellectually the argument made a lot of sense. But the KGB had other dupes feeding false information to other Americans. They had no use for one more. Eventually it had been determined that sending a message to Russians handling sensitive information was important, too. A harsh reminder was in order, a reminder that disloyalty would not be tolerated.
Rather, it would be dealt with severely.
Permanently.
The band situated at one end of the long ballroom played on as the clock ticked toward midnight. The noise and chaos had increased steadily over the course of the evening, and Evgeni knew his decision to wait, rather than acting immediately, had been a good one. The frenetic activity inside the massive banquet hall would provide the perfect cover for what he was about to do.
The targets had finally finished their first drink, several hours after being served.
Evgeni snorted his contempt. If the men were trying to blend in with their surroundings, they had failed miserably by staying sober while all around them people were getting blessedly, mind-numbingly drunk.
Keeping their wits about them was one thing, looking ridiculously out of place was another thing entirely.
He knew they would have to order a second drink, if only to maintain their cover.
A moment later they did. The Russian traitor waved over a waiter and placed the drink order, and when the tuxedoed server disappeared along the service corridor toward the bar—which had been set up in the kitchen for the evening—Evgeni followed. He waited just outside the kitchen for the man to return.
A moment later he did. The waiter stepped through the swinging door, moving quickly, a pair of vodka glasses balanced on his tray. He stepped nimbly to the side to pass Evgeni and his surprise was evident when Evgeni stepped to the side to block him.
“Excuse me,” the waiter said, his irritation clear. “Coming through.”
“I don’t think so, Comrade,” Evgeni said. He rabbit-punched the waiter in the throat with his right hand as he smoothly inserted his left under the drink tray.
The waiter crumpled to the floor, gagging and coughing, the noise of the attack drowned out by the band and the general mayhem echoing through Georgievsky Hall.
At that moment, the swinging door opened again and Evgeni’s partner for tonight’s assignment stepped into the service corridor. He slipped his forearms under the still-sputtering waiter’s armpits and dragged the man through the doors and out of sight.
Evgeni glanced down the hallway in the direction of the ballroom and cursed. The confrontation had taken just seconds but had not gone unobserved. Another waiter had entered the hallway and was even now approaching. He had slowed his pace at the sight of the brief confrontation but continued walking.
Evgeni prepared to take him down quickly, before the man could sound an alarm, but his concern turned out to be unwarranted. In true stoic Russian fashion—and showing the experience and sound judgment of a longtime Kremlin employee—the waiter said nothing.
He didn’t even register surprise.
He simply stepped around Evgeni as the other waiter had attempted to do and disappeared through the doors, where he would cease to be a problem. Evgeni’s partner would detain him in the kitchen for the next few minutes.
After that it wouldn’t matter.
Evgeni reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo and withdrew what appeared at first glance to be a small plastic spray bottle. It was slightly larger than the size and shape of a spritzer of eyeglass cleaning fluid.
But it was not a spritzer of eyeglass cleaning fluid.
He peered down in the murky lighting, trying to determine the direction in which the spray nozzle pointed. Then he rotated the nozzle, opening the head, and aimed it directly away from him. Once he was certain he had gotten it right he double-checked his work. His actions were a matter of life and death, and if he got them wrong, well, his death would be…unpleasant.
Finally satisfied, Evgeni tilted the little plastic spray bottle toward the two vodka glasses on his tray. He delicately spritzed a thin film of liquid into the first glass, pumping three times, determined to expend enough of the bottle’s contents to ensure success.
Then he repeated the procedure with the second glass.
Then he twisted the spray nozzle tightly closed. He double-checked his work—again—and then slipped the spray bottle back into his breast pocket, realizing only now that his hands were shaking slightly and his heart was racing.
Evgeni sighed softly and straightened his bow tie. He calmed himself and then placed what he hoped was a look of bored subservience on his dour face.
Then he walked down the poorly lit service hallway and entered the Georgievsky Hall ballroom. He moved smoothly, mimicking the real waiters, navigating tables and sidestepping drunken partiers. In seconds he found himself at his targets’ table.
“Comrades,” he said in a tone he hoped was sufficiently deferential as he placed a glass in front of each man.
The American was immediately suspicious. “You are not our waiter,” he said in nearly perfect Russian. If Evgeni had not known the man to be a foreigner he might not have guessed.
Evgeni smiled. It was not easy, and probably not convincing. Still, the smile was genuine, because he had elected to tell the truth. Sort of. “Your waiter fell and injured himself. He needed someone to take his place and I was available.”
Evgeni folded a hand under his tray and bowed slightly at the waist. “Enjoy, gentlemen. Toast the incoming year!”
He walked away and felt the heavy stares of the two men boring holes into his back as they wrestled their uncertainties. Evgeni didn’t care. He had completed his mission as assigned and he was relatively certain the targets would relax and drink their vodka.
If not it would be no great loss as far as Evgeni Domashev was concerned. He could always move on to Plan B if the targets left their drinks untouched. Two bullets to the skull of each man as they exited the Grand Kremlin Palace would be less subtle than the KGB’s preferred method but equally effective.
And from Evgeni’s perspective, much more satisfying.
He walked up the service hallway far enough to disappear from sight of the targets, then pivoted and peered into the ballroom. The band had stopped playing as the clock ticked toward midnight, and the revelers were counting down drunkenly, a ragged, atonal serenade to the final seconds of 1987.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!...”
The targets stared at each other, heads together, as they held an impromptu discussion Evgeni knew had nothing to do with the dawn of a new year.
“Six! Five! Four!...”
The Russian traitor, Gennadiy Alenin, was gesturing decisively at his glass as he spoke. It was an obvious attempt to reassure the American. Evgeni could imagine the monologue: “There is nothing to w
orry about, Comrade. No one is aware of our…arrangement…I promise you.”
“Three! Two! One!”
Georgievsky Hall erupted in cheers. The sound of glasses clinking together was nearly deafening. At the targets’ table, Alenin lifted his glass high and nodded at the American, smiling from ear to ear.
The reluctant American gazed back at Alenin unblinkingly.
And unsmilingly.
The grimness in his features reminded Evgeni of his own reflection in the mirror every morning when he shaved.
A couple of seconds passed and the din inside the ballroom began to fade when the American finally sealed his fate. He lifted his glass, still without a trace of a smile, and toasted 1988. Then both men drank down their vodka in one long swallow.
Evgeni turned away for the final time. He exited the Grand Kremlin Palace with his partner and never looked back.
2
January 18, 1988
7:30 a.m.
McLean, Virginia, USA
Riding in a chauffeured limousine with her boss was even more uncomfortable for Tracie Tanner than being summoned to his home. She wouldn’t have thought anything could be worse than that, but it turned out she had been wrong.
Technically, she was summoned to his sprawling McLean property this morning, but there hadn’t been time to go inside. She’d no sooner pulled to a stop in the driveway than CIA Director Aaron Stallings burst out his front door and marched to the rear of an idling black car that had been shined to a mirror finish.
In typical fashion, Stallings hadn’t told her what to expect upon arrival. In the past she’d always been forced to wait, once at the front door and then usually a second time at his closed office door.
She’d never driven anywhere with him.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 99