“Move toward me, now!” The security guard’s voice had risen an octave. His stress was obvious. If they waited any longer, Tracie feared he might begin randomly peppering the storage area with bullets.
Ryakhin sighed shakily and nodded, and together they retraced their steps. Ryakhin turned the corner at the end of the narrow row between shelves, Tracie right on his heels.
The security guard stood just inside the open doorway, weapon held in both hands. It was currently pointed at the floor. His eyes widened in a disbelief that was almost comical at the recognition of his boss. Yuri Ryakhin was clearly the last person he had expected to see in this location at this time of night.
“Comrade Ryakhin,” he said. “What…what are you…?”
Then he saw Tracie and his eyes narrowed. His reaction was very similar to the one the gate guard had shown upon their arrival at the plant. “What is going on here, Comrade?”
Tracie placed her hands on her hips, waiting for Ryakhin’s response. She hoped the motion wouldn’t appear too unnatural or suspicious but she wanted her right hand as close as possible to her Beretta should she need to slip it out of her waistband and take down the guard.
Her hanging blouse worried her. It served to hide the weapon from view but offered the very real possibility of a snag should she need to move quickly.
Her threat to kill Ryakhin had been a bluff, but she hoped that with all the stress he wouldn’t recognize that fact. She would shoot this security officer if she had to, but she needed the scientist/administrator alive in order to avoid raising the suspicions of the guard at the front gate on their way out. He already suspected something was wrong. Leaving without her “uncle” would only serve to crystallize those suspicions.
Ryakhin said, “Comrade, thank you for your sharp eyes and quick action. I apologize for any concern I may have caused with this unexpected visit.”
“It is no problem. But…Comrade Ryakhin…who is the young lady? What are you doing here at this time of night?”
The Soviet nuclear scientist launched into his “visiting niece” spiel as Tracie stood demurely behind him and slightly to the side. She wanted a clear shot at the guard in the event things started to go south. Bitter experience had taught her that events had a tendency to change quickly, especially when they were changing for the worse.
The guard was skeptical. “But…why bring her here after hours? And why did we not receive notification that a visitor would be inside the facility this evening?”
“Comrade, I am far too busy to take time out of my day to give facility tours. But since the visitor in this case is my niece, I wanted to be the one to show her around. Thus, the reasoning for the nighttime visit.”
“And the lack of notification?”
“I apologize for that. I simply forgot to advise the security team of tonight’s visit.” He chuckled softly and Tracie hoped the strain in his voice wasn’t as clear to the guard as it was to her. “I had this very same conversation with Dmitri out at the guard shack just a couple of hours ago. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll not make this mistake again, I assure you.”
Tracie’s stomach sank at the mention of the timing. She hoped the guard wouldn’t notice, but he was too sharp. “A couple of hours ago? How long does a facility tour take, Comrade? And why would the tour include the storage area?”
Dammit. Tracie’s hand crept closer to her weapon as the guard began raising his gun. She though it was an unconscious maneuver on his part but it provided a good indication as to the level of his suspicion.
Her adrenaline level, already high, skyrocketed. She sensed things slipping away.
But Yurin Ryakhin, the old Soviet scientist and administrator, pulled things together. He smiled broadly and put the tone of a proud uncle into his voice.
“Ah,” he said. “My niece here wants to follow in my footsteps! She is studying to be a nuclear engineer, working very hard. So I wanted this tour to be as in-depth as possible, which is another reason why I didn’t wish to use up valuable time during business hours.”
“But, Comrade, the storage area?” The guard shook his head in confusion but Tracie sensed that the danger had passed. He lowered his gun again and this time his question seemed to be one of genuine confusion rather than suspicion.
Ryakhin put a conspiratorial tone in his voice and said, “Studying nuclear physics requires notebooks and paper. A lot of notebooks and paper. These things are expensive, eh? No one will notice a notebook or two disappearing from storage at Arzamas-16, eh?”
The old man reached up and slapped the guard on the shoulder, a gesture of bonhomie the young man must never have expected. In the modern Soviet Union, important men like the director of a prestigious nuclear facility did not treat lowly security guards as their equal. Or anything approaching their equal.
The man started in surprise. He was uncomfortable, unsure how to react, but he said, “Of course, Comrade. I’m certain no one will notice.”
He began edging backward and smiled briefly. Tracie could see he was still uneasy with the situation, but the combination of Ryakhin’s status as plant manager and semi-plausible explanation was keeping him in line.
For the moment.
“I have taken up enough of your time, Comrade Ryakhin,” he said. “I must resume my rounds. Have a pleasant evening.” He spun on his heel and marched through the door, then turned and disappeared down the hallway toward the operational side of the plant.
For all his obvious suspicion, the guard had never once addressed Tracie directly. It was easy to be overlooked when you were a petite woman in a patriarchal, authoritarian society. In this instance that had been a lucky break.
For the guard.
The man’s concern had been obvious, and he’d allowed himself to be influenced by Ryakhin. But that influence had clearly gone against his better judgment, and Tracie had a strong suspicion the man would begin to second-guess his actions—or inaction—soon. He might just decide to return and investigate further.
Tracie had always been impulsive and hotheaded, quick to action. But despite those character traits, she had long believed the best kind of conflict was a conflict avoided, particularly when in hostile territory and outnumbered by men with guns.
It was time to leave.
It was well past time to leave.
“Move it,” Tracie said. They stepped through the door and she flicked off the light.
Ryakhin pulled the door closed and said wearily, “What now?”
“I’ll be out of your hair soon, Comrade Ryakhin. Let’s get back to your office so I can grab that file and my coat. Then all you have to do is get us out of this snake pit and you just might escape with your life.”
He didn’t say a word; he simply began trudging in the direction of his office.
They encountered no one along the way.
Ten minutes later they were back in Ryakhin’s Lada. Tracie had the urge to wave at the glowering gate guard on the way out, but she stifled it.
Fifteen minutes after that, Ryakhin had turned into his small driveway.
He killed the engine and turned to Tracie. “I don’t suppose you’re ready to get out of my car and my life now, are you?”
19
January 21, 1988
10:10 p.m.
Yuri Ryakhin’s home
Kremlyov, Russia
Tracie smiled. “Why, Uncle, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were growing tired of my company.”
“Young lady, I grew tired of your company the moment you out a gun to my head inside my own home. I grew more tired every time you threatened me or one of my people.”
“Yeah, well, sorry about that, Comrade, but I’m not going to count tonight among my most pleasant memories, either. If your government hadn’t insisted upon assassinating my countrymen with your radioactive poison, I would never have had to put a gun to your head in the first place.”
The old man’s face turned instantly red. Tracie could see it flush darkly even
in the muted light cast by the single streetlamp next to Ryakhin’s driveway. “Maybe if your government didn’t insist on meddling in the affairs of—”
He snapped his jaws shut with great effort as it seemed to occur to him that provoking the woman holding a loaded gun was not the best way to prolong his life.
He breathed deeply. Then in a calm voice he said, “What do you want from me now? Will it ever be enough, or were you lying about allowing me to live?”
“Whether you live or die depends entirely upon your actions moving forward, Comrade, just as they have since you first walked through your front door. Nothing has changed. You’ve done well to this point. Don’t change your fate now.”
“Fine.” He mumbled something else under his breath.
Tracie couldn’t make out what he was saying but didn’t bother pursuing the issue. She didn’t really blame the man for being angry. Undoubtedly all he had wanted at the end of a long workweek was to pour a drink and browse his extensive collection of American porn magazines.
Instead, he’d been hijacked at gunpoint and forced to betray one of his nation’s covert operatives. A man who, from his perspective, was helping protect his country and keep him safe.
“Now,” she said, “let’s go inside your home and make you comfortable.”
“Make me comfortable? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just get moving, and you’ll find out.” She waved her gun at the man’s front door and he reluctantly climbed out of his little car and shuffled toward the house. He looked tired and defeated.
Good.
Inside, Tracie walked directly into Yuri Ryakhin’s kitchen. She selected one of the two chairs nestled against his small round kitchen table and slid it to the middle of the floor. Its metal frame had been chromed, and must have been garish and shiny when new but over the years had become dull and smudged. Uncared-for. The seat and seatback consisted of worn padding covered by cracked vinyl.
The chairs looked like something that might have graced an American kitchen around the time Tracie was born. They were relatively sturdy, certainly heavy enough to handle a tired old scientist who had to be nearing eighty.
Tracie pointed to the chair and said, “Sit.”
She would have preferred to move it to the living room, where the carpeting would serve to soak up any noise the old man would inevitably try to make, but doing so would place him only a few feet from the front door. Better to position him farther away from potential visitors, even if the area was acoustically deficient.
Ryakhin huffed angrily. “You are not going to tie me up and leave me here.”
“I can’t have you notifying the authorities. Would you prefer I put a bullet in your head instead?”
“But…but…no one will know I am trapped here! If you do this, you will be sentencing me to death just as surely as if you had pulled the trigger. It will be slower and more painful, but the end result will be the same.”
“Come now, Comrade, don’t be so dramatic. It will be uncomfortable, sure. Unpleasant. You’ll get hungry and thirsty, and sitting in your own waste won’t be too enjoyable. But when you don’t show up at the plant Monday morning and don’t call anyone to explain your absence, someone will come looking for you. My guess is a helpful security guard will be dispatched to check on you by noontime, midafternoon at the latest. They’ll find you, and when they do you can tell your tale of woe.”
Ryakhin glared at her and she shrugged. “But at least you won’t be dead. Now come over here and sit in this chair or I’ll force you into it. You won’t like it if I do.”
He grumbled and cursed under his breath but did as she asked. She slipped her roll of duct tape out of the backpack and began securing him. Ninety seconds later he was bound, arms and legs to chair arms and chair legs, unable to move.
Next she stuffed a clean dishtowel into his mouth and secured it with more tape.
She examined her handiwork.
It looked secure.
Take nothing for granted. She bent and pulled at Ryakhin’s wrists, one after the other, then repeated the action with his bound feet.
She couldn’t move any of his limbs, not even slightly.
Yuri Ryakhin wasn’t going anywhere.
Next she rummaged around in the scientist’s cabinets. Selected the largest bowl she could find and filled it with water. Dragged the kitchen table next to Ryakhin and placed the bowl on it, positioning it so the man could bend his head and drop his face into the bowl.
“Might not be ideal,” she said, “but a large section of towel is hanging out of your mouth like a panting dog’s tongue. When you get thirsty, soak that portion of towel in the bowl. The water will absorb into the cotton in your mouth and hydrate you. You’ll be okay for a couple of days. You’ll be damned tired and hungry by Monday, but you’ll survive, which is more than can be said for the men you helped poison.”
Tracie shrugged her backpack onto her shoulder and moved down the hallway to Ryakhin’s home office. Closed the door and rummaged through her backpack until she found what she was looking for: her secure satellite phone.
She needed to make a call.
* * *
January 21, 1988
10:45 p.m.
Yuri Ryakhin’s home
Kremlyov, Russia
Tracie packed her sat phone away and zipped her backpack. Her work here was complete, but there was still plenty to do before tomorrow morning.
She would have preferred more prep time—another day at the very least—but her plan had been set in motion, and building in more time wasn’t an option. Piotr Speransky had to believe he’d been dosed with Polonium-210 in order to force him to come to Tracie, and the only way to convince him to buy the fiction was to make him think it was critical he get to the Arzamas-16 plant for his “treatment” immediately.
After all, who would consider waiting even twenty-four hours if they truly believed they faced the agonizing death awaiting a victim of Polonium-210 poisoning?
Making Ryakhin tell him to wait even a few hours before starting from Moscow to Kremlyov was risky, but it had to be done. Tracie at least needed that much time to prepare.
She reentered Ryakhin’s kitchen to check on the Russian nuclear scientist. His bindings were rock-solid and she knew the prospect of him escaping on his own was virtually nil. The time was nearly eleven p.m., so it seemed highly unlikely a man his age would receive any visitors for the rest of tonight, certainly none who might have a key to his home.
The weekend would be a crapshoot. There was no way of knowing whether Yuri Ryakhin was expecting company tomorrow or Sunday, and asking him would be pointless since he would undoubtedly lie.
And then by Monday he would almost certainly be found.
That would complicate matters immeasurably.
The smart thing to do would be to eliminate him. Put him down, and even if his corpse were discovered, he would at least be unable to tell the authorities why he’d been killed.
It was the smartest and safest option for Tracie. The moment he was found alive, he would start talking. He would describe the young, red-haired CIA operative who’d kidnapped him and forced him to reveal the identity of Piotr Speransky. Once that information came out it would take little time for the KGB to piece together Tracie’s mission.
Leaving Ryakhin alive would be a mistake.
It was exactly what Tracie was going to do.
She’d done plenty of things over the course of her career that could legitimately be second-guessed, but for the most part she was comfortable with the operational decisions she’d made. She could look herself in the mirror. She rarely had trouble sleeping at night, at least where her performance during CIA missions was concerned.
But that would all change if she were to place a gun to Yuri Ryakhin’s skull and pull the trigger. The man was a foe in the decades-long geopolitical cat-and-mouse game the United States had been playing with the Soviet Union; that much could not be denied.
And his
knowledge and skill set had been directly responsible for providing the KGB with Polonium-210, allowing them to carry out their horrifying and cowardly mission to dose American operatives with radiation, sentencing them to death.
But ultimately, the man was nothing more than a scientist who had done his job. Had he refused to do that job, the Soviets would have executed him and installed someone more pliable into his office. Everything else would have proceeded exactly as it had.
So Tracie simply did not have it in her to murder him in cold blood.
If she had to deal with the repercussions of that decision down the line, so be it.
She flashed a smile at the old man, who gazed back at her with cold contempt.
“It’s been fun, Uncle,” she said. “But all good things must come to an end. See ya in the bread line.”
She picked up his keys and walked out the front door for the last time.
She locked the door and checked it, then checked it again.
Then she hurried to his little Lada, started the engine and drove into the Kremlyov night.
20
January 22, 1988
8:10 a.m.
Six kilometers northwest of Kremlyov, Russia
Tracie didn’t know if she’d ever felt this unprepared before an op. Working in Soviet-bloc countries for most of her career as a CIA field operative had steeled her to the realities of dealing with minimal backup, and her assignments since being rehired as Aaron Stallings’s personal one-woman Black Ops team had reinforced that sense of professional solitude.
But what she was about to attempt, on a public road in Russia during daylight hours, could be reasonably classified as nearly suicidal.
In fact, this entire mission—to infiltrate Soviet Russia, then determine from whom inside the KGB the Polonium-210 assassination plot had originated, and then eliminate that person—undoubtedly fit that description.
Still, here she sat, gun in hand, waiting, senses on high alert and nerves thrumming.
One minor blessing to this insanity was that thanks to its status as a ZATO—a secretive, closed city inside a secretive, closed Soviet society—access into and out of Kremlyov was extremely limited.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 108