Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  But the file did contain a photograph of Speransky. Tracie studied it closely while glancing up every few seconds. She wanted to ensure Yuri Ryakhin didn’t become emboldened by her lack of attention to him and do something foolish, like scream for help or reach for the telephone on his desk.

  Her immediate instinct upon entering Ryakhin’s office had been to yank the phone’s cord out of the wall, disabling it. But she hadn’t done so, because she hadn’t been convinced she wouldn’t need it. Besides, it would take the old man several precious seconds to pick up the handset and activate even one number using the telephone’s old rotary dial, and that would be more time than she would need to convince him of the error of his ways.

  She examined Piotr Speransky’s photo carefully. It was a headshot and thus included nothing below his shoulders. This factor, and the lack of anything in the photo’s background to provide perspective, made estimating the man’s size difficult. He appeared middle-aged and big-boned but lean, a large man whose chiseled face and hard expression radiated toughness.

  Brutality.

  The willingness to carry out orders, even if doing so meant sentencing other men to a vicious and brutal death.

  It was the face of an executioner.

  Tracie committed every aspect of the photo to memory. If all went according to plan, she would soon find herself face-to-face with the KGB killer who was calling himself Piotr Speransky, and she wanted to take no chances of misidentifying him. No one else, not even another KGB operative, deserved the fate she had planned for Speransky.

  Other than the name and photo, the file contained little of use. Pen-and-ink initials—Ryakhin’s own, Tracie assumed—jotted down next to each entry in a descending column of dates indicated exactly when delivery of the Polonium had taken place in each instance.

  The latest dose had been manufactured and then handed over just a few weeks ago.

  December 26, 1987.

  Five days before the CIA covert operative known as Charles Fowler and his Russian informant, Gennadiy Alenin, had been dosed with Polonium-210, effectively ending their lives.

  Tracie focused on the date and thought back to her first and only meeting with Fowler, sick in his hospital bed, tubes running into and out of his body, unable to keep food down, unable to walk, unable to care for himself, now almost certainly dead. Charles Fowler, with a now-widowed spouse and two now-fatherless young children.

  The smoldering sense of fury she had felt walking out of Fowler’s quarantined room inside the Langley infirmary began to return and she relished it. She allowed the anger to seep through every pore in her body, to settle in her bones and fuel her determination, to spur her forward. She would need every last ounce of resolve she could muster if she were to complete her mission.

  Tracie Tanner had done much in service to her country that many would not understand. That more than a few would condemn. And she had always done it with the certainty she was advancing her nation’s agenda, an agenda of freedom and democracy.

  But she had never done what this mission required.

  She felt Ryakhin watching her, his curiosity evident. He, of course, knew the file contained little information that would be useful to an American spy, and he was clearly wondering what in the hell she was doing staring at the same page in the thin file for so long.

  Fine. Let him wonder. Yuri Ryakhin was nothing but a link in a chain, and if he were to escape this encounter with his life he should consider himself supremely fortunate.

  Tracie continued to monitor Ryakhin while she allowed her mind to wander, considering options moving forward. She had hoped for more usable intel from this file, but would have been lying to herself if she said she’d actually expected it. Her hopes had been based on the fact that the information was housed inside a security-protected facility, which was itself inside a closed city protected by Red Army soldiers armed with automatic weapons.

  Still, she had learned enough to puzzle out a next move. It was risky and dangerous, but what about this mission hadn’t been? For that matter, what about her nearly eight-year CIA career hadn’t been risky and dangerous?

  Yuri Ryakhin decided to speak. “I told you we had no address for Comrade Speransky. He has taken delivery of the Polonium inside the gates of this facility without exception. I have no idea where he goes when he leaves here and frankly, I do not want to know.”

  “I believe you,” Tracie said. “I believed you when you said it the first time. But that doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter that you can’t find him? You said yourself you’ve gone to a lot of trouble and considerable risk to occupy a seat inside this office, and now you find yourself at a dead end. I, of course, do not mind, but—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Tracie interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not at a dead end.”

  “I do not understand. All you have is a name, which is undoubtedly an alias. You have no idea where Speransky is, nor how to find him.”

  “It doesn’t matter where he is. And I don’t have to find him, because he’s going to come to me.”

  “How are you going to get him to come to you?”

  “I’m not going to. You are.”

  * * *

  There was only one other useable piece of intel inside the file, but it was as valuable to Tracie as gold: a telephone number.

  For a covert KGB operative to provide a method by which a civilian—even a civilian as powerful and influential as Yuri Ryakhin—to initiate contact was extremely unusual. From an operational perspective, it would have made much more sense for Speransky to contact Ryakhin at the times and in the places he deemed appropriate. After all, the KGB had become a semi-regular customer at the Arzamas-16 plant.

  But years of working with lethal radioactive poisons undoubtedly changed things from Speransky’s perspective. He had been walking around with instruments of death far more powerful than the plague in his pocket for well over three years, blunt instruments that, if released accidentally or in the wrong circumstance, would be just as deadly to him or to those around him as they would be to the KGB’s intended targets.

  So Speransky was trying to protect himself. By giving Yuri Ryakhin a means of contact, he was hoping to provide himself with at least the possibility of an out—a chance for survival should the Arzamas-16 plant manager determine Speransky had been exposed to radiation during one of the transfers of the deadly material.

  And that perfectly natural desire for self-preservation would prove to be his undoing.

  Tracie plopped the file onto the desk in front of Ryakhin. She placed her index finger over the telephone number and said, “You’re going to call this number.”

  “You want me to telephone the KGB? You’ll be signing your own death warrant, young lady, not that the prospect particularly concerns me.”

  “You let me worry about that. Just do as you’re told.”

  Tracie was almost certain the number would go to Speransky himself, not to a KGB station somewhere. The KGB wouldn’t have allowed Speransky to provide a contact number to Yuri Ryakhin, because the KGB wouldn’t be the least bit concerned about the possibility of the accidental exposure of one of their operatives to lethal radiation. They would be entirely mission-oriented.

  If Speransky went down, they would replace him with another operative.

  If that operative went down, they would replace him with a third.

  It was a brutal business. It was brutal on the CIA end, and Tracie guessed it was even more so on the KGB end.

  She would use knowledge that to her advantage.

  Ryakhin sputtered and shook his head. “What am I supposed to say on the off chance I am even able to get in touch with Comrade Speransky?”

  “We’ll go over all that, don’t worry. We will go over it and over it until you are prepared to say exactly what I tell you to say. Exactly.”

  15

  January 21, 1988

  8:15 p.m.

&nbs
p; Moscow, Russia, USSR

  Evgeny Domashev had just finished pouring his third glass of vodka and was settling back down on the couch when the telephone rang.

  This was unusual. He wasn’t due back at work for days, although it was always possible his KGB handler had an assignment for him that would not wait.

  It certainly wasn’t a friend calling. Evgeny had no friends. He had partners during working hours, and lovers on occasion, but there was not one person in the world he would consider a “friend” in the commonly accepted usage of the word.

  That was how Evgeny wanted it. He had been killing and maiming men and women in the name of Soviet intelligence for as long as he could remember, and when he wasn’t busy killing and maiming, he wanted his time to be his own.

  He telephone continued to ring and Evgeny stared it, glass halfway to his lips, as though perhaps the damned thing would come to life and explain itself.

  It didn’t, so after a moment Evgeny placed his glass carefully on the table and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

  “Da?” It was a rude way to answer, but he didn’t care. In fact, he wanted to convey his displeasure with whoever had been foolish enough to call. He spit the word curtly into the phone.

  “Comrade Speransky?”

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar but Evgeny couldn’t place it. Maybe if he hadn’t already polished off two tall glasses of premium vodka it wouldn’t have been such a mystery.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Who is this?”

  “Comrade Speransky, this is Yuri Ryakhin.”

  Everything clicked. Ryakhin was head man at the Arzamas-16 nuclear plant, where Evgeny had taken delivery of the goddamn radioactive poison the KGB had seen fit to use as their newfound favorite assassination tool. No wonder he’d had trouble recognizing the voice. They’d spoken less than two dozen times in the last four years.

  A telephone call from Ryakhin could not be a positive development.

  “You should not be calling here, Comrade Ryakhin. Not ever. Not unless there is some kind of emergency.”

  “That’s just it. This is an emergency.” Ryakhin sounded tense, upset.

  Perhaps the man’s tension had something to do with the emergency. Considering the type of emergency the director of the Arzamas-16 Nuclear Plant was likely calling about, perhaps Evgeny would soon be tense and upset as well.

  “What is the matter, Comrade Ryakhin?”

  “There was a problem with one of the lead-lined bottles we use to transfer the Polonium to you.”

  A sick feeling wormed its way through Evgeny’s belly. The vodka he’d drunk felt as though it might be planning a revolution. A violent one. “What kind of problem?”

  “A crack. It was a very small crack, a hairline crack, not nearly large enough to allow the suspension to leak out of the bottle.”

  “But large enough to allow radiation to escape? Is that what you are telling me, Comrade Ryakhin?” He realized his voice was increasing in volume and he worked to moderate it. The vodka revolution in his belly gained momentum.

  “I am afraid that is correct.”

  Unreasoning panic ripped through Evgeny. His extremities turned cold and suddenly he felt a strong need for the toilet. He could barely think, could barely—

  Wait a second. Get ahold of yourself. “That shipment of Polonium was transferred nearly a month ago. Why are you only now realizing there was a radiation leak? How would you even know?”

  A short pause. “Our in-house radiation sensors picked up the leak. It took some time to narrow down the source of the radiation, but our nuclear engineers assure me—and I believe them—that the radiation came from your shipment.”

  “But I feel fine. Not ill at all. I’ve never felt better or stronger. Why am I not sick if the bottle leaked radiation? Alenin is in the grave, as I am sure the American is as well. Why have I not fallen ill?”

  “You will, Comrade. The dosage you received was small enough that it will take the Polonium some time to achieve lethality. But it will. If you are not feeling sick now, you will begin to soon. Very soon.”

  Evgeny realized he was shaking. He tried to stop but could not. In his stomach, the vodka revolution seemed to be nearing critical mass.

  Maybe the illness was setting in now. He had tried to banish what he knew about the effects of Polonium-210 poisoning to a remote corner of his mind in order to allow him to best perform his duties, but there was only so much banishing a man could manage. He knew it was a brutal and vicious way to die.

  He realized Ryakhin was still talking. “Excuse me? I missed that. Say it again.”

  “I said there may still be time to reverse the effects of the radiation, but it must begin immediately.”

  “Reverse the effects?”

  “There is a possibility, yes.”

  “What must begin immediately?”

  “The treatment, of course.”

  A ray of hope. “So I must get to a hospital, then.”

  “No. Not a hospital. No hospital in Moscow—or anywhere in Russia, for that matter—will be equipped to deal with this type of radiation.”

  “Then where do I go?” Evgeny felt his anger rising. This was Ryakhin’s fault. Ryakhin and the goddamned Arzamas-16 plant. The old bastard had better start providing some answers, right now, or Evgeny would make it his mission with whatever life he had left to send the old man straight to Hell before he died.

  “You must come here, Comrade Domashev.”

  “What do you mean, ‘here’?”

  “Arzamas-16. The facility. You must come here. Right away. First thing in the morning. Our infirmary is equipped to deal with exactly this type of medical situation. We may be able to cleanse the radiation from your system before you suffer too much internal damage.”

  Evgeny shook his head. This was all happening too fast. His stomach continued to roil, but so far the revolution remained contained. “Why wait until tomorrow? If I leave now, I can be in Kremlyov by—” he glanced at his watch, which seemed to be dancing a samba on his wrist—“three a.m. Maybe sooner.”

  “No, Comrade Speransky. There is nothing we can do for you until tomorrow. It will take me that much time to set up the infirmary with the equipment and medications your treatment will require.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “That is correct. If you can, plan to arrive at the facility around nine a.m. That should permit thorough preparation while still allowing treatment to begin in a timely manner.”

  “Nine a.m.,” Evgeny repeated. “I’ll be there.”

  “Very good.”

  “And Comrade?” Evgeny’s voice was cold and hard.

  “Yes?”

  “This treatment had better work, or I won’t be the only one facing an untimely death.”

  16

  January 21, 1988

  9:05 p.m.

  Arzamas-16 Nuclear Plant

  Kremlyov, Russia, USSR

  Yuri Ryakhin was drenched in sweat when he hung up the telephone. He looked pale and his hands were shaking and Tracie almost—but not quite—felt sorry for him.

  He ran the back of his hand across his forehead and said, “I don’t think you have any idea what you have gotten yourself into.”

  “I would say, from the looks of things, you’re more concerned about what I’ve gotten you into.”

  “Perhaps, young lady, perhaps. But Piotr Speransky is no ordinary man. Not even close. He is a dangerous man, a killer, the kind of man who would end your life without a second thought. He is not someone to be trifled with.”

  “Is that so? Well, neither am I.” Her voice was flat. “Did you ever once consider what Speransky was doing with that death cocktail you’ve been manufacturing for him? Just once?”

  He stiffened in his chair. “That is not my concern. It has never been my concern. We all have our jobs to do, and as director of a nuclear facility, mine is to provide Polonium-210 if my government requests Polonium-210. It is not my position to question its purpose.” />
  “How convenient for you. Well, I’ve given it plenty of thought. I’ve seen first-hand the kind of damage you and the Soviet government have done with the Polonium you’re only too happy to provide.”

  Ryakhin gazed at her impassively.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” she continued. “Piotr Speransky might well be every bit as dangerous as you claim. After all, we know he’s a killer. But he is not the most dangerous person you’ve ever met. That person is sitting right in front of you. And she’s angry. And that does not bode well for you.”

  The room fell deathly silent, Ryakhin dropping his head and goggling at his desk blotter as if suddenly becoming aware of its existence for the first time. “I am just an ordinary man, trying to do his job the best I can.”

  “There’s one problem with that. People are getting killed because you’re doing your job.”

  “What happens now?” Ryakhin’s previous cool composure had vanished. In its place was the dread certainty that Tracie was going to execute him where he sat. His hands were shaking and all the color had drained from his sweaty face.

  Tracie ignored him. She sat motionless as she considered her next steps. Then a thought occurred to her and she gazed at Ryakhin in intense concentration. “You told Speransky the container of Polonium must have contained a hairline crack.”

  “You told me to say whatever it took to get the man here as soon as possible. I thought that would accomplish your goal most effectively.”

  “And it did,” Tracie said, “which is one reason why you’re still breathing. Do you always transfer the Polonium in the same type of container?”

  “Da,” the old man answered. “We fabricated special spray bottles that allow Comrade Speransky to disperse the liquid suspension when he is ready, but which contain a thin lining of lead to protect him, and those around him, from radiation while the mixture is in his possession. I believed a crack in that lead lining would sound perfectly plausible, and as you observed, Comrade Speransky seems to have accepted my words, God help us.”