Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  However, boldness was one thing. Stupidity was something else entirely. Stupidity would get her killed. And the notion that the KGB would poison a Kremlin staff member for sharing Soviet secrets with their bitter enemies, the Americans, and then not bug the offending man’s apartment was impossible to accept.

  They probably would not waste the manpower it would take to maintain twenty-four hour live surveillance on the wife. At least Tracie assumed they wouldn’t, since Fowler had never approached, nor had any contact with, Ekaterina Alenin.

  But the Soviets would almost certainly have installed listening devices in the apartment, probably since well before the assassination attempt on New Year’s Eve.

  All of which meant Tracie needed to corner the woman alone, outside her apartment.

  The surveillance was exhausting. Daybreak had brought little relief from the bitter temperatures, and the opening in the rotted plywood was in a difficult spot—too close to the floor to allow Tracie to stand upright, too high up to allow her to sit.

  She bent at the waist like a shortstop getting ready to field a ground ball.

  She perched on her knees.

  She squatted on her haunches.

  Every position she tried became unbearable after a short time, and she didn’t dare take her eyes off the entrance to Gennadiy Alenin’s building long enough to stand up and stretch, or to walk around and loosen her cramping muscles.

  Finally she spotted her target.

  Small and frail-looking, dark glasses covering her eyes, heavy winter parka zipped all the way to the scarf at her throat, Ekaterina Alenin stepped out the front door of the building across the street. Only a small portion of the woman’s face was visible, but it didn’t matter.

  Tracie knew it was her Alenin.

  Now she had to catch her.

  7

  January 19, 1988

  11:55 a.m.

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  Exiting the abandoned building would involve a certain amount of risk; there would be no way to avoid it. Tracie couldn’t afford to wait until she was certain there were no pedestrians clogging the area, as she had done while breaking in. If she delayed even a few seconds, Ekaterina Alenin would disappear and Tracie would have to waste more time waiting for her to return.

  Tracie raced through the darkened building, relying on the half-light and her recollection of the obstructions to avoid tripping and breaking her neck. She crouched as low as possible while approaching the front entrance and hit the ragged hole at nearly a dead run.

  She burst through the plywood and stumbled onto the sidewalk, dropping to her hands and knees before immediately leaping to her feet. A heavyset woman in a thick ushanka sprang back, surprised at the sudden appearance of a woman where there previously had been only empty space. She glared at Tracie and then waddled away at full speed, arms wrapped protectively around her body.

  If she’d had time to think about it Tracie might have been amused by the woman’s reaction, but her attention lingered on the old lady only long enough to eliminate her as a potential threat. Then she disregarded her entirely and focused on the crowded sidewalk in front of Gennadiy and Ekaterina Alenin’s apartment building.

  Her pulse raced and she began walking quickly south, scanning the crowd on the other side of the street. Dammit. Where the hell could she have—

  Then she saw her.

  Alenin was moving slowly, like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’d barely gotten thirty feet in the time it had taken Tracie to scramble out of her surveillance location. Ironically, Tracie had given the woman too much credit and had been focusing her search too far away from the apartment.

  She moved along the sidewalk in rhythm with the young woman on the other side of the street. It was tempting to keep the traffic between them; doing so meant alleviating risk because there was virtually no possibility of being spotted by her target.

  But it also increased the likelihood of Tracie losing her. Traffic was heavy and if Ekaterina were to suddenly dart down a side street or alley, Tracie might not be able to cross the busy thoroughfare in time to reestablish contact.

  The first opportunity she got, she crossed over, sprinting through traffic and then disappearing into the crowd at least fifty feet behind her target.

  So far, so good.

  Ekaterina was entirely focused on moving forward. Tracie guessed she could have stopped traffic by dancing a jig in the middle of the street and the woman wouldn’t have noticed. I guess having a husband hovering on the brink of death will do that to you.

  Alenin had gone two blocks when Tracie decided to make her move. If the woman was going grocery shopping, as Tracie suspected, it seemed likely she must be close to her destination by now, since she would have to carry her groceries all the way back to her apartment on foot when she was finished.

  Tracie closed the distance between them. It didn’t take long. Alenin was still moving slowly.

  Tracie reached out and touched her lightly on the elbow.

  Said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Alenin.” She hoped her Russian hadn’t gotten too rusty since being yanked out of the field eight months ago.

  The woman jumped noticeably, every bit as startled as the old woman had been when Tracie barreled out of the abandoned building.

  “Yes? What do you want?” Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and under the fur-lined hood of her heavy winter coat she wore what looked like a black kerchief over her hair.

  And Tracie knew. Gennadiy Alenin was already dead. Ekaterina Alenin was a widow. No wonder she seemed preoccupied.

  “May I please have a moment of your time, Mrs. Alenin?”

  “Who are you?” Now the woman’s eyes were not just sad, they were filled with suspicion as well.

  “I’m very sorry about Gennadiy,” Tracie said, maintaining eye contact.

  “If you know Gennadiy is dead, I’m sure you understand I just want to be left alone.”

  “Of course I do, but we have much to discuss regarding your husband. May I buy you a cup of tea, Mrs. Alenin?” Thanks to her years spent operating in the USSR, Tracie knew tea in Russia was as ubiquitous as coffee in the United States. Next to vodka, it was probably the most popular drink among Russians.

  “How do you know my husband?”

  This was taking too long. Tracie felt the weight of eyes on them. Pedestrians would begin to get annoyed by people clogging the sidewalk after thirty seconds or so of non-movement. This would make them memorable. If Ekaterina began causing a scene, they would become even more memorable, and Tracie would have no choice but to abandon her plan and leave before the arrival of the authorities.

  Assuming they hadn’t already been spotted by police.

  Last chance. “I don’t actually know your husband, Mrs. Alenin, but I know someone who suffered the same fate as Gennadiy. Please, sit down with me over tea and if you wish to leave after we’ve begun talking, I’ll walk away in the other direction and you will never see me again.”

  Despite her suspicion, Ekaterina had never pulled away. Tracie still had a light hold on her elbow, and she began steering the woman along the sidewalk.

  Finally the young widow heaved a sigh that was half sob and nodded. “I would love a cup of tea.”

  8

  January 19, 1988

  12:10 p.m.

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  The café was crowded, but Tracie hoped the bustle of customers and buzz of conversation would work to her advantage. As likely as it was that listening devices had been installed inside the Alenins’ apartment, it was that unlikely they were present here.

  But, of course, in Soviet Russia you could never be too sure.

  If nothing else, the cacophony of voices and the rattling of servings and utensils filling the small tearoom would render it nearly impossible for anyone to overhear their conversation. The last thing Tracie wanted was to add to this young woman’s misery, and if the KGB thought in any way Ekaterina Alenin had been involved in her h
usband’s treason against the Soviet state, misery would be exactly what she would get. And plenty of it.

  After a short wait, the women were seated at a table for two in an alcove between two windows facing the street. Black tea was most popular with native Russians, so Tracie ordered it for both of them.

  Moments later their server placed an ornate silver samovar in the middle of the table. Next to the samovar, the man set down a matching silver carafe filled with not-quite boiling water. He then placed a pair of gilded glass holders—made of gold and silver and every bit as ornate as the rest of the tea set—containing clean drinking glasses in front of each of them. He completed the service by removing a basket of freshly baked bread from his tray and setting it on the table next to the samovar.

  He did all of this without speaking or making eye contact with either Tracie or Ekaterina, and then he turned on his heel and whisked away without a word.

  Inside the samovar, which stood on a small four-footed base and featured an ivory-handled spigot, loose tealeaves were steeping in a small amount of water. Age-old tradition Russian tradition called for the samovar to be filled with extremely strong tea, which the drinker would add to her glass via the spigot. The mixture would then be diluted with the hot water to arrive at a glass of tea as weak or as strong as desired.

  Tracie busied herself preparing her tea as Ekaterina did the same. Ekaterina’s movements were fluid and practiced, Tracie’s less so. Sugar and cream were available, but Russians typically drank their tea black, and since the point of this exercise was to put the young Russian widow at ease, Tracie passed on both.

  Finally Ekaterina lifted her glass to her lips and sipped delicately.

  Then she raised her eyes to Tracie’s and said, “You told me someone you know suffered the same fate as my Gennadiy. Explain what you mean, please. Gennadiy died from a severe flu. It is not surprising you might know someone who has had the flu.”

  Tracie shook her head slightly as she sipped her own tea. Ekaterina’s face was pale and her eyes still puffy from grief, but her statement seemed utterly guileless. Either Ekaterina Alenin was one of the finest actresses she had ever met, or she knew nothing about her husband’s involvement with the CIA.

  Had she been aware of it, even the most trusting person in the world wouldn’t have been able to avoid…suspicions…regarding the nature of her husband’s passing.

  “Mrs. Alenin, your husband did not die from the flu.”

  “Of course he did. What else could it be? Moscow winters are harsh. It happens. Of course he died from the flu.”

  She does suspect. Her response had been too quick, and too rote, and delivered too flatly. Tracie guessed the circumstances of her husband’s sudden violent illness and death had been on Ekaterina’s mind almost constantly. Her face was set in an iron mask, her features as bland as their waiter’s had been.

  “Mrs. Alenin, your husband suffered radiation poisoning. He was assassinated. Murdered.”

  “That is ridiculous. Gennadiy died from the flu.” She turned her head toward the street and watched impassively as pedestrians hurried by, bundled up against the bitter chill. Despite her best efforts, though, tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks.

  “Were you aware of your husband’s…extracurricular activities? Did you know he was meeting on a semi-regular basis with a man representing a government whose interests are not aligned with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?”

  Ekaterina’s eyes hardened.

  Her gaze narrowed.

  She turned back toward Tracie. “Are you poisoning me, too? Is that it? Was it not enough to murder my husband, now you must finish me off as well?”

  “I am not here from the KGB, Mrs. Alenin. I’m not here to murder you. You asked me to explain what I meant when I said I knew someone who had suffered the same fate as Gennadiy. May I do that?”

  Ekaterina’s eyes remained flinty, but she held Tracie’s gaze without blinking or flinching. After a moment she nodded slightly.

  “Thank you,” Tracie said softly. She thought about the circumstances of a clandestine meeting scheduled for a bureaucrat on December 31, and realized no wife would agree to watch her husband walk out the door on that night of all nights without a decent explanation of where he was going and what he was doing. Ekaterina may not have known how deeply Gennadiy was involved in espionage, but of course she had some idea.

  Tracie took another sip of tea and continued. “The man I know who suffered the same fate is the man with whom Gennadiy met on New Year’s Eve at the Grand Kremlin Palace.”

  Ekaterina’s eyes widened. “Then you are…”

  “Yes.” Tracie nodded. “I represent those…competing interests.”

  “That man. Is he…?”

  “The last I knew, he was still alive,” Tracie said. “But he was fading rapidly. By now he is certainly gone.”

  “Why are you here? What do you want with me? Haven’t you people ruined my life enough already?”

  “I am not here to ruin your life, Mrs. Alenin. I’m here to investigate and understand the circumstances of your husband’s death. I’m here to ensure something similar is never repeated.”

  Ekaterina stared, saying nothing.

  Tracie could feel her pulse pounding. The tension was palpable. If this didn’t work, she would be back to square one, and without a single idea where to go from here.

  “What do you want to know?” the woman whispered.

  She wasted no time getting started. “Had anything changed for Gennadiy in the days leading up to the New Year’s Eve meeting?”

  “Changed? In what way?”

  “Did he seem worried or nervous? Preoccupied in ways he had not been before?”

  “Gennadiy was always nervous. Always preoccupied. From the moment he started meeting with your friend, he knew he was making himself a target.”

  “Then why…?”

  “My husband’s family has a long history of dissatisfaction with Soviet rule in our country. Gennadiy was no different. But until the last few years, that dissatisfaction never advanced beyond dinner-table grumbling and unhappy discussions during family gatherings. Once he began working at the Kremlin, though, he had the opportunity to observe first-hand the inequity of our political system, a system where peasants are forced to endure long hours standing in line just for the possibility of receiving essential goods and services, while the chosen few are literally showered with riches.”

  The woman’s face flushed with anger, and Tracie realized Gennadiy wasn’t the only member of the Alenin family who had chafed against Soviet rule. His wife seemed to share his feelings on the subject.

  Or course, discovering the powers-that-be had assassinated your spouse might serve to crystallize previously unheld beliefs in a way that nothing else could.

  “So,” Tracie said, “you didn’t notice any changes in your husband’s mood or behavior. No new concerns.”

  Ekaterina shook her head. “No. Nothing. As I said, he was always concerned and always worried. If he was more concerned or worried recently, he kept it to himself.”

  “Did anyone unexpected come to visit Gennadiy during the course of his illness? Anybody who wasn’t a family member? Anyone you didn’t know?”

  She shook her head again, and Tracie’s spirits sank. This was going nowhere fast. “No one visited Gennadiy besides family and friends, either at home or in the hospital as far as I know.”

  “How much time did Gennadiy spend in the hospital?”

  “A couple of weeks. His illness advanced so quickly that after the first few days I was unable to care for him. From that point he did not leave the hospital until the doctors decided there was nothing more they could do. He returned home at the end and was dead within two days. That was three days ago.” The widow’s lips trembled but she maintained her composure.

  “So Gennadiy passed away at home?”

  “That was his desire. He did not want to die in an antiseptic hospital room, sur
rounded by concrete block walls and uncaring strangers. I am glad I was at least able to fulfill that final wish.”

  Gennadiy died at home.

  A dawning realization began to creep through Tracie, the realization that the link she needed was about to be revealed.

  The KGB had poisoned Gennadiy Alenin.

  The KGB would want to dispose of Alenin’s radiation-soaked corpse, if only to protect their secret.

  “Where is Gennadiy’s body now?”

  “At the funeral home. I…I haven’t been allowed to see him since he died. He is being prepared for burial, but the funeral director says it may be another couple of days before he is ready.”

  Bingo.

  The “funeral director” was KGB. He had to be. Soviet intelligence operatives were probably removing Alenin’s organs and scrubbing the body of radiation as best they could.

  “I am not happy with the funeral home,” Ekaterina continued. “I have made that clear to the director.”

  Tracie perked up. “Unhappy? Why?”

  “When they removed my husband’s body from my home, the crew was impudent and disrespectful. They even made an inappropriate joke about the ‘flu’ that killed Gennadiy.”

  “What kind of joke?”

  “They asked me if I knew what strain of flu had killed my husband.”

  “What strain of flu? What did you say?”

  “I said of course I did not know.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “One of them said he had fallen victim to ‘The Kremlyov Infection.’ Then the other chuckled as if sharing an inside joke. It was rude and disrespectful and I told them so.”

  Tracie knew she had what she needed.

  9

  January 21, 1988

  12:35 a.m.

  Kremlyov, Russia, USSR