If Piotr Speransky had taken the bait dangled in front of him by Yuri Ryakhin’s telephone call last night and was even now rushing toward the Arzamas-16 nuclear plant for “treatment” of his mysterious radiation poisoning, he would almost certainly come via this relatively isolated roadway.
To drive any other route from Moscow to Kremlyov would add hours to the trip when Speransky—hopefully—assumed time was of the essence if he was to survive beyond the next couple of weeks.
Also, the volume of traffic into and out of Kremlyov was much lower, thanks to its ZATO status, than would normally be expected for a city of more than eighty thousand. Tracie had angled Ryakhin’s little Lada into its current position on the side of the road almost two hours ago in preparation for this op, and during that time the road had remained mostly deserted.
Tom Petty was right: the waiting was the hardest part.
The waiting was always the hardest part.
Once the action started, Tracie knew she would remain calm under fire, cool and collected, her mind clear and her reasoning sharp. It had always been that way and there was no reason to believe today would be any different.
But sitting here before the action started—alone on the side of a remote Russian road, trying to prepare for every possible eventuality while knowing that doing so was impossible—was a different story. She felt small and helpless, at the mercy of a thousand different random occurrences, any one of which could blow her plans to bits.
And leave her at the mercy of the KGB.
Breathe, goddammit.
Her still-healing hand throbbed and ached, and she flexed it obsessively while trying to remain warm inside the Russian-made car. She’d left the engine idling and cranked the heater all the way up with the fan on high, but still it was no match for the bitter cold of another overcast Russian winter morning.
She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, watching the resulting fog condense on the windshield and then slowly fade away.
Speransky should have been here by now.
Ryakhin had told him to arrive at the Arzamas-16 plant by nine a.m., so it wasn’t like he was late yet. The KGB assassin could pass by this location twenty minutes from now and still make it to the plant with time to spare, but Tracie had set up almost two hours ago because she feared an early arrival.
If he’d taken the bait and truly believed he was suffering from early-onset radiation poisoning, he should be impatient as hell to begin treatment. She had been concerned that he would show up at the gates of the plant at first light, demanding to be allowed in to see Ryakhin.
That’s what she would have done in the same circumstance.
So she’d driven the lonely road hours ago, long before any hint of daybreak, searching for the best location from which to conduct an ambush, determined to be ready should he come by early.
And then she had sat.
And waited.
With no sign of Speransky.
Where the hell was he?
It wasn’t like Tracie to doubt herself. Doubt meant hesitation, and hesitation would get an operative killed.
But now doubts began to creep in. It was inevitable. It was human nature.
Maybe Speransky had smelled a rat and was staying away.
Maybe he’d smelled a rat and really had taken the extra time to circle well north of Kremlyov and enter the ZATO from a different access point.
Maybe he—
Her secure satellite phone burped twice and fell silent.
This was the signal she’d been awaiting for two hours.
It was time.
Speransky was coming.
21
January 22, 1988
8:20 a.m.
Six kilometers northwest of Kremlyov, Russia
Tracie had selected a location just beyond a sweeping curve in the road. The thoroughfare had been hacked out of a steep hill in this area, with land rising up behind her and a steep drop—not quite a cliff, but close enough—directly across the pavement, just beyond a ramshackle guardrail constructed of wooden pylons and rusted cable.
She crouched next to the open driver’s side door of the Lada, using the vehicle to shield her from view of Speransky’s oncoming car.
Hopefully.
Once he cleared the curve off Tracie’s right side, he would only have a couple of seconds response time, and from his perspective the Lada should appear to be nothing more than one more old Russian car that had broken down in the worst possible area at the worst possible time.
She hoped the exhaust curling out the Lada’s tailpipe would be invisible to the KGB operative. She’d backed as far into the underbrush as she was comfortable doing, while still allowing herself time for what would come next.
She counted down in her head, and exactly as she reached “one,” a Russian-made sedan rounded the curve, moving at a relatively high rate of speed for the narrow, icy road and the poor driving conditions.
Good. Speransky would have less reaction time.
Tracie peeked over the dashboard, watching the vehicle’s approach.
Patience. She couldn’t act too soon or this wouldn’t work.
Maybe it won’t work anyway.
She pushed the doubts to the back of her mind and concentrated on the oncoming car.
Speransky had to have seen the Lada by now, but if so he wasn’t about to stop and inquire as to the wellbeing of the stranded car’s driver.
Patience.
Patience.
Now!
Speransky was almost past the Lada when Tracie took a long screwdriver and jammed it onto the accelerator, wedging the tool between the gas pedal and the front seat. The wheels spun, gravel peppering the trees behind the car, and then the car lurched forward into the narrow road.
There was nowhere for Speransky to go. He jerked his car hard right in a reflex action to avoid the impending collision, but then almost immediately jerked it back to the left as he came to the obvious realization: the cars were going to hit, but a collision on the road would be far preferable to crashing through the guardrail and careening down the side of the steep hill.
A split-second later the two vehicles came together to the sound of screeching brakes from Speransky’s car, a whining engine from Ryakhin’s car, and then crumpling sheet metal from both.
Tracie was on her feet and moving forward even before the collision. She held her gun in a two-handed shooter’s grip as she advanced, crouched slightly, moving cautiously. The impact had caused both engines to stall, and the sudden silence in the stark Russian forest after the cacophony of destruction was almost disorienting.
She stopped six feet from Speransky’s car. The vehicles had come to a stop on the shoulder of the road’s southbound side. Both cars had come within inches of striking the guardrail, but neither had quite reached it.
Inside his car, the driver—it was definitely Speransky; he looked identical to the photo she had taken from the file in Yuri Ryakhin’s Arzamas-16 office—shook his head, apparently to clear the cobwebs from the accident.
He appeared unhurt.
It didn’t look as though he had spotted Tracie yet, as she stood slightly behind and to the right of the driver’s door.
Now she edged forward, into Speransky’s peripheral vision. In a half-second he noticed the movement and swiveled his head.
And looked directly down the barrel of Tracie’s Beretta.
His eyes widened and then narrowed. As a veteran KGB operative, he would deduce immediately what had happened. Undoubtedly he was kicking himself right now for letting his guard down and allowing the ambush to occur.
Tracie needed to move fast. Keep Speransky on the defensive.
And there was another factor in play. Even a remote road would have traffic eventually. This situation would take an immediate turn for the worse if another motorist came along at the wrong moment.
She waved the operative out of his car. His eyes narrowed further but after a moment he complied, opening the door and steppin
g onto the pavement. He had removed his heavy winter parka for the drive and had to be freezing in the bitter temperatures, but Tracie was happy to accept that additional advantage. A man shivering violently would be unlikely to hit what he was shooting at, even if he were able to access the gun Tracie knew he had hidden somewhere on his body.
Speransky stood next to his open door, hands held palms-out and shoulder height, eyebrows raised in the obvious question: what now?
“Close your door and turn around. Feet apart. Place your hands on the roof.” Tracie’s voice was clipped and authoritative, and although he moved sluggishly, the man complied with her instructions.
She approached with the utmost care, keeping the Beretta trained on her target. Glanced through the side window into Speransky’s car. Saw a single travel bag placed on the back seat and a blanket tossed on the floor.
“What is this about?” Speransky asked innocently.
“Shut up.”
“I am a businessman, an innocent victim of a traffic accident, as you can plainly see.”
“Shut up.” By now she within arm’s reach of the KGB operative. He was much bigger and stronger than Tracie, and while she trusted fully in her extensive CIA self-defense training, there was also no doubt the man calling himself Piotr Speransky was equally well-trained.
Which meant this was the moment of greatest danger for Tracie.
She jammed the barrel of her gun into the middle of his back and pressed it directly against his spine.
“One squeeze of the trigger,” she said softly, “and you will spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Assuming you survive. Do we understand each other?”
“Your point is crystal clear,” he answered drily. “Don’t worry. I am doing exactly as instructed, but my question stands. What is this about?”
“We have to talk.” She began patting the man down with one hand while keeping the gun pressed firmly into Speransky’s back with the other.
“Is that so? I’m almost positive I haven’t slept with you, since I can’t imagine forgetting someone as stunningly beautiful as you. That being the case, I haven’t the slightest clue what we might have to discuss.”
“Oh, we have plenty to talk about.” The bulge under his sport coat revealed a shoulder holster configured for a right-hand draw, and Tracie removed a Russian-made Makarov pistol. She tossed it across the road, where it skittered on the frozen pavement.
“Well, what do you know?” he said. “I wonder how that got there.”
“Still want to stick to the story that you’re just a businessman?” Searching his lower legs was problematic, but it had to be done.
She slid the gun down Speransky’s back until she was holding it about belt level. Kept it pressed firmly in place as a reminder of the price he would pay should he choose to attempt to kick Tracie in the head.
The results were impressive. The “traveling businessman” was sporting not one, but two ankle holsters, each with a backup gun that she removed and tossed behind her. They bounced across the road and joined the first weapon, well out of harm’s way.
“Guns are a necessity for the savvy businessman,” he said innocently. “Roadside bandits are always a threat in the more remote areas of the country. But of course I do not need to tell you that.”
Tracie had to give him credit. The man seemed unflappable, completely at ease.
So far.
She climbed to her feet and flipped up the back of his sport coat. Lifted a combat knife out of its sheath at the small of Speransky’s back. It glittered in the dull grey morning light, razor-sharp and deadly. A second later it joined the guns on the opposite side of the road.
“You just lost several pounds of unnecessary weight,” she said.
He shrugged. “One cannot be too careful.”
“At last, something we can agree on.”
“What happens now?”
“Now you turn around and we walk away from this car. You move very slowly and unthreateningly, and maybe you survive beyond the next few seconds.”
He shrugged again and moved to his left. He moved carefully, exactly as Tracie had instructed, and she pivoted to the left behind him, maintaining steady pressure against his spine with her gun.
That was when the rear door of Speransky’s car opened and a man pressed a gun into the back of Tracie’s head.
22
January 22, 1988
8:30 a.m.
Six kilometers northwest of Kremlyov, Russia
Tracie froze and a gravelly voice behind her commanded, “Remove your gun from my friend’s back and get down on your knees.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really, Comrade? Get on my knees? We just met. Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first? Or at least introduce yourself?”
Dead silence from behind her.
For a moment nobody moved. She figured the man’s lack of response was half due to confusion and half due to stunned surprise that she hadn’t immediately complied with the order. And didn’t even seem all that shocked at receiving it.
Speransky responded, though. He turned to face Tracie, smiling evilly, and said, “I admire that you can make jokes at a time like this. But soon you will not be laughing. Soon you will wish my friend behind you had pulled the trigger the moment he exited my car. We have a lot to discuss, you and I, and you will find I have a tendency to get…intimate…with my discussion partners.”
Tracie ignored the threat, forcing her face to remain a mask. “Having second thoughts about receiving your radiation treatment, Comrade? You seemed to be in quite a hurry a moment ago, considering your speed on this narrow road.”
Speransky spat on the ground. “This is what I think of your ‘radiation treatment.’ I saw through your ruse immediately. You obviously were holding Comrade Ryakhin at gunpoint, forcing him to tell his lies, but they did not fool me. Not even for a second.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Da, here I am. And here you are, now in custody.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“That is how it is.”
“If you say so.”
“Enough!” The angry operative behind Tracie had apparently regained his composure at least sufficiently to once again participate in the discussion. “Carefully hand your weapon to Comrade Speransky now. Or continue holding it and die. The choice is yours. It makes no difference to me.”
Tracie grasped her gun by the butt between her thumb and forefinger. She swiveled her arm to the side and held it there, waist-high, watching in her peripheral vision for the man holding her at gunpoint to reach out for the Beretta.
A split-second later he did, and just before his hand could grab the gun she dropped it onto the pavement.
“Oops,” she said. “Slipped. Sorry about that.”
The man behind her spat on the ground in response, exactly as Speransky had done. These two seemed to do a lot of spitting.
“Bitch,” he said. “Now, get on your knees. This is the second time I’ve told you. There will not be a third.”
Again Tracie ignored him. She could not afford to drop to her knees. She would soon need every bit of leverage she could muster.
If her plan were to work.
It seemed to be taking too long, but her only option at this point was to try to delay.
She said, “So, it was the blanket?”
“The blanket? What blanket? What are you talking about, bitch?”
“The blanket. You know, the one that was spread out on the floor of Speransky’s car. I assume you were hiding from little old me under that blanket.”
His silence formed his answer.
She smiled. “Not your finest career moment, was it? I guess you won’t be telling the other spooks about this op at next year’s KGB Christmas party.”
Tracie still could not see the second operative, but the rapidly building anger in his tone came through loud and clear. “It was sufficient to fool you. And for what it is worth, at least I will be alive to attend a party
at Christmas. You will be just another forgotten agent, long-dead and decomposing in a shallow grave, missed by no one.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Ivan. And, just to correct the record, I knew you were under that blanket, hiding like a frightened little girl from the moment I saw it.”
The man exploded, shouting, “On your knees, now! My comrade wishes to take you alive, but one more word out of you and I will shoot you where you stand. Nothing would please me more than to—”
The man’s head exploded at the exact instant the crack of a single gunshot sounded from the wooded hillside behind them. A fine spray of blood misted over Tracie’s head and shoulders as a bone fragment from the man’s shattered skull ricocheted off her back.
Piotr Speransky flinched and stumbled backward as the operative behind Tracie dropped like a felled tree, his words cutting off abruptly. Even Tracie, who had been expecting the blast, ducked reflexively.
To Speransky’s credit, he recovered quickly from his shock.
But not as quickly as Tracie.
She stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the much bigger KGB man, folded her right hand into a fist and rabbit-punched Speransky in the throat.
He dropped to the ground, sputtering and hacking, and immediately began scrambling to his feet to fight despite the fact he suddenly could not draw a breath. He was on his hands and knees, about to launch himself at her, when she kicked him in the head, a sidekick with one heavy boot that sent him sprawling to the pavement again.
This time he didn’t rise. He lay on his side moaning, legs and arms twitching, blood trickling from a gash on the side of his head.
Tracie bent and picked up her weapon as Ryan Smith pushed through the underbrush on the far side of the road and trotted toward the bloody scene.
“What took you so long?” Tracie said. “I was beginning to think you had fallen asleep back there.”
He grinned. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t get a clear shot. I was afraid I might miss the target and hit you instead.”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 109