Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  29

  January 25, 1988

  12:10 a.m.

  CIA safe house

  Moscow, Russia

  “Marinov!” Speransky shouted. “Marinov! Slava Marinov!”

  Tracie pulled back, her heart hammering in her chest. She stared at Speransky for two seconds. Three.

  “Bullshit,” she said. “You just made up a name to delay the inevitable.” She leaned over the KGB operative again, returning the spray bottle to his nose.

  “No, it is true.” Speransky was panting, breathing so hard Tracie thought he might hyperventilate and pass out. “I swear it is true. That is the name of the man you want. But it doesn’t matter, you will never—”

  “Shut up.”

  Speransky slammed his mouth shut and tried to shake his head. All he could manage were tiny lateral movements.

  Tracie removed her left hand from Speransky’s forehead and stepped back. He blew out a deep, shaky breath and his head dropped forward onto his collarbone. “I swear it is true. God help me.”

  “You know what’s going to happen to you if you lie to me, Piotr?”

  No response. His chin remained on his chest.

  Tracie stared at the top of his head for a moment before continuing. “If you lie to me, even God won’t be able to help you. If you lie to me, I’m going to do what I threatened before. I’m going to pull out the rest of your fingernails, Piotr. One after the other. Then I’m going to pull out your toenails. Then I’m going to shoot you in the kneecaps. Then your elbows.”

  She bent down and whispered into his ear. “And only then, Piotr, only after I have put you through unimaginable pain, will I spray this solution down your throat. Then I will leave you here to die in this filthy Moscow tenement, alone and forgotten.”

  She pulled away again. “Do you understand me, Piotr?”

  “I understand.” His voice was muffled and weak, and she thought she might have heard a brief sob between the two words.

  She walked to the table holding her backpack and pulled a second chair across the floor with a screech.

  Speransky jumped at the sound and lifted his head. He watched as Tracie placed the chair directly in front of his own and sat in it.

  “Tell me about Slava Marinov and the plan to poison American CIA officers with radiation.”

  Speransky sighed deeply. His eyes were bloodshot and wet and his face pale. He looked exhausted.

  Tracie knew how he felt.

  After a long moment, Speransky started talking. He spoke slowly and haltingly. But at least he was talking. “The mission was code-named ‘Project Kremlyov Infection,’ for obvious reasons. Marinov has been in charge since its inception in early 1984. To the best of my knowledge, it was conceived and developed by Slava.”

  “Where in God’s name did this man come up with the notion of radiation poisoning as a method of assassination?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I cannot say specifically, but study your history, cyka, and you will learn that the KGB has a long history of developing poisons and other methods of eliminating enemies that appear natural, or at least that do not immediately suggest the likelihood of assassination.”

  He raised his eyes and met Tracie’s gaze, the first time he had done so since breaking under her interrogation. “I must add, my cold-hearted friend, that your CIA has a long history of doing exactly the same thing.”

  “Let’s not get off-track. We’re not discussing the CIA. Get back to the subject of Project Kremlyov Infection.”

  “My point, cyka, is that when an organization has long searched for methods of quietly assassinating its enemies, the prospect of doing so using nuclear radiation will probably not be rejected by the men in charge if it seems to be feasible from a practical standpoint. I do not doubt that was the case with Comrade Marinov and Project Kremlyov Infection.”

  “Thank you for clarifying,” Tracie said drily. “Let’s get specific, shall we?”

  Speransky raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

  “How were your targets identified for elimination?”

  “I do not know that. I was merely the hammer in this construction project. The blunt instrument. The blueprints were drawn up by Marinov, and Slava Marinov is far above me in my organization’s chain of command. Comrade Marinov was not in the habit of discussing strategy—or anything else, for that matter—with me.”

  “How did Marinov learn the identities of the American operatives who were targeted for assassination? Where did he get his information?”

  “I told you already, I do not know.”

  Tracie shook her head sadly. “You know, Piotr, you’re going to have to do better than this if you want to remain useful to me. I’m sure you can guess what will happen to you if you do not remain useful.”

  “You know already I do not wish to die. Ask me a question I can answer and I will.”

  “Okay. How do I get at Marinov?”

  “I told you already, you do not ‘get at’ a man like Slava Marinov. His office is buried so deeply inside KGB headquarters that it would take forty minutes of walking to reach him in the unlikely even you were ever able to infiltrate the facility. And then once you reached his office, you would encounter layers of armed security. It cannot be done.”

  “So Marinov lives at KGB headquarters then?”

  Speransky’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What?”

  “Well, I assume by the way you’re speaking that the man must live inside the fortress that is KGB headquarters. Come on, Piotr, cut the crap. You’re really trying my patience. I may radiate your ass just on general principles.”

  He closed his eyes and Tracie said, “You’re going to have to try a little harder. Where does Marinov live?”

  “I do not know where Slava Marinov lives. Why would I know that?”

  “I think you know a lot more than you’ve been willing to admit to so far. Even if you don’t know his specific address, can you verify he lives in Moscow?”

  “Da, Comrade Marinov lives in Moscow.”

  “How does he get to work in the morning? And I swear to God, Piotr, if you say ‘by armored car,’ I’m done with you. If you say you don’t know, I’m done with you. Give me some goddamned intel and do it now.”

  “Why should I tell you any more?” he whispered. “You are only going to kill me when you’ve gotten what you need.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is true. We are in the same line of work, remember? You have nothing to gain by allowing me to live and everything to lose. If our positions were reversed, I would kill you the moment I no longer needed you.”

  “Well, I guess that’s the difference between you and me. I have no desire to commit cold-blooded murder. Don’t get me wrong, if you cross me I’ll cut you down before you even know what hit you, but if you give up Marinov, and I’m able to complete my mission, I will allow you to live. I give you my word.”

  Tracie could see Speransky didn’t believe her. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t believe her. The fact of the matter was that eliminating the operative doing the actual poisoning was just as much a part of her assignment as eliminating the man who’d ordered the poisoning.

  Which meant Speranski would not survive when all was said and done.

  But if it would take a little white lie—or even a gigantic black mushroom cloud of a lie—to finish this damned mission when she was so close to doing so, then a lie it would be.

  “Now,” she said. “I’ve given you my word. It’s time for you to give me what I need.”

  Speransky sighed. It was obvious he didn’t believe her, but what choice did he have? Give her what she needed and probably die later, or keep his mouth closed and definitely die now.

  “Slava Marinov takes the train to work. His schedule never varies. He is as punctual as is humanly possible, given the variables associated with Moscow public transportation.”

  “What station? Which train?”

  “He arrives at B
elorussky Station every morning on the 7:10 local. The 7:10 is, of course, almost always late, but if you are looking to intercept Comrade Marinov during his morning commute, that would be the way to do it. He exits the train and moves immediately to a limousine awaiting his arrival in a secure location outside the station. The car then drives him directly to headquarters.”

  Tracie gazed thoughtfully at Speransky. He had nothing to gain by lying and everything to lose. Her Polonium-210 radiation threat was a lie, but he didn’t know that, and at this point it didn’t even matter. He knew she could put two 9mm slugs in his head any time she wanted.

  She thought her silence might unnerve the KGB man after all she had done to him, but that didn’t seem to be the case. He appeared perfectly willing to sit quietly in the lengthening silence.

  Maybe he thought silence was preferable to the sound of a gunshot or of nuclear radiation being sprayed into his system.

  Maybe he actually believed her assurance that she would let him live if he provided actionable intelligence regarding his handler.

  Or maybe he was just so goddamned exhausted and injured and beaten down that he didn’t have it in him to worry.

  Finally she nodded.

  Glanced at her watch.

  “Okay Piotr. I believe you. But we still have a long night ahead of us. You’re going to tell me every last thing you know about Slava Marinov: his personal history, his schedule, his family situation, his favorite goddamned color. And when you’ve finished, we’re going to start over and do it all again.”

  He closed his eyes and his head sank back down to his chest.

  “Do you have a problem with that, Piotr?”

  For a long time he didn’t move. Then he slowly shook his head.

  30

  January 25, 1988

  7:40 a.m.

  Belorussky Station, Moscow

  Tracie had been standing on the platform outside Moscow’s Belorussky Railway Station for close to an hour now. She was tired and wired. She hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, but adrenaline pounded through her system as the interminable wait for Slava Marinov’s train stretched on.

  The station had seen better days. It looked as though renovations had been begun and then abandoned. The windows Tracie could see were filthy and a long, serpentine crack ran through one of them. The cobblestones that made up the passenger platform were warped and cracked and had needed to be replaced for probably at least a decade.

  And the platform provided little shelter from the bitter Moscow cold. Wind whipped seemingly in all directions, stinging exposed skin and ruffling the great tufts of fur surrounding the hoods nearly everyone had drawn around their heads and faces.

  Tracie had purchased a large cup of tea en route to the station, arriving well before Marinov’s scheduled 7:10 arrival but determined not to miss the KGB murderer should Speransky’s statement about the train’s chronic lateness be inaccurate.

  Her intention had been to observe the station from a distance before entering, and she had done so, but the surveillance had been perfunctory due to the cold. She was able to plan out a potential escape route and verify the absence of law enforcement or Red Army soldiers—at least for the time being—but that was all.

  By the time she entered the station, her tea had been stone cold, and she dumped it into a trash bin with a disappointed frown after having consumed barely one-third of the contents.

  It was probably just as well. She already felt jittery from nerves and lack of sleep. Adding caffeine to the mix would be a mistake.

  She had found over the course of her career that the tension she inevitably experienced while waiting for the action to begin always melted away once things started happening. At that point she would feel calm and strong and in control. In the meantime, a family of butterflies circled inside her stomach, and her hands felt shaky and foreign.

  And cold.

  She had of course worn heavy, fur-lined gloves, but upon arrival at the station had removed them and stuffed them into the deep pockets of her parka. For what she was planning, gloves would be impractical, and even though she knew Marinov would likely not arrive for quite some time she didn’t want to be stuck trying to yank off her gloves at the last possible moment, when quick action would be critical.

  So she kept her hands mostly buried inside the same pockets holding her gloves and tried her best to appear unmemorable. Avoid drawing unwanted attention to herself.

  The weather conditions were helpful in that regard. Inside the station, which might have seen better days but at least was warm and toasty, passengers removed their coats and hats while awaiting their trains. But outside, men and women were forced to bundle up. This would make identification by witnesses problematic, even in the unlikely event Tracie was observed.

  That was the positive.

  The negative was that Marinov would undoubtedly be bundled up every bit as much as she was when he stepped off the train.

  As would every other disembarking passenger.

  Identifying her target would not be easy.

  Speransky had provided a unique identifying characteristic during the long hours of overnight interrogation, which Tracie hoped to use to her advantage. Assuming the KGB assassin had been telling the truth, which was of course a questionable assumption.

  And even if he had, the number of passengers getting off the train at a Moscow station concerned Tracie. If the crowd was too big and too unwieldy, it might simply be impossible to check every male before the passengers swarmed across the platform and down onto the city streets. They would be moving quickly with these low temperatures and high winds.

  There was nothing she could do about any of that now except worry. She gnawed on her lower lip while stomping her boot-clad feet on the platform in an attempt to keep the blood flowing. A few other hardy souls stood outside, but the majority of people—the sane ones, Tracie thought—had chosen to remain inside, in the warmth and out of the wind, until the train’s arrival.

  Tracie checked her watch as she had been doing obsessively for the last half hour. It was not an easy process, since she had to remove her hands from her pockets and then push up the heavy left sleeve of her parka with her bare right hand, but she guessed she must have done exactly that at least ten times in thirty minutes.

  Seven forty-five.

  Speransky wasn’t kidding about the train always arriving late. Tracie shook her head impatiently. I thought the supposed benefit of an authoritarian government was that at least they got the trains to run on time.

  Apparently that wasn’t even true.

  She had begun shivering and was considering returning inside the station to warm up, just for a couple of minutes, when the decision was abruptly taken out of her hands and rendered moot.

  Because the train was coming.

  It rounded a corner a quarter-mile from the station and then brakes squealed loudly as the heavy engine and the line of cars behind it began to slow. The ground under the platform rumbled, and moments later the engine crawled past the platform and screeched to a halt.

  It had turned out Piotr Speransky was considerably more knowledgeable about his handler’s routine than he had initially admitted. So much so that Tracie suspected Speransky had been gathering intel on Marinov in an effort to protect himself. To find something incriminating he could hold over the man’s head in the event Marinov ever decided Speransky had become expendable.

  One of the things Speransky had told her was that Marinov had a superiority complex a mile wide. He was an important cog in the KGB machine and he expected to be treated as such, and not just by people aware of his status. He wanted and expected ordinary citizens to bow and scrape.

  “He will be on the first passenger car,” Speransky had said confidently. “The one closest to the engine and thus closest to the station upon arrival. He would no sooner arrive at Belorussky Station on a rear car than he would steep his own tea at the office.”

  Tracie said a quick prayer and began to move. Alrea
dy she could feel her nerves calming, the familiar clarifying focus of concentration narrowing her field of vision.

  Everything melted away except the mission.

  Tracie Tanner had come to realize she lived for these moments. Colors brightened when she was working an active mission. Sounds became more acute. Odors were stronger. Sensations magnified.

  She positioned herself on the platform halfway between the station entrance and the steps leading to the city sidewalks. Speransky had said the limo waiting to drive Marinov the rest of the way to KGB headquarters would be parked behind a barricade on the street just north of the station, and she prayed he was telling the truth.

  If the target exited the train and turned south, she might never catch him in the dense crowd of passengers.

  The situation was less than ideal, but without backup, Tracie had no choice but to play the odds.

  Passengers began streaming from the front and rear of the cars and Tracie narrowed her eyes, studying each as they climbed down onto the platform.

  The women she ignored.

  A few children exited and she ignored them as well.

  The men she locked onto, examining each as closely as possible and then eliminating them one-by-one when it became clear they were not her target. Fur-lined hoods snugged up against woolen-masked faces rendered most of the disembarking passengers virtually unidentifiable.

  But none of that should matter. Tracie wasn’t concerned about identifying her target facially. There would be another way. Speransky claimed Slava Marinov had started his KGB career as a field operative, performing for the Soviet Union the kinds of dirty and thankless missions Tracie had been performing for the United States over her nearly eight-year career.

  Marinov’s time in the field had come to an immediate and permanent end when he took a bullet in the spine fired by a West German FSB officer during a mission gone sideways. The KGB officer had been badly injured, and for a time doctors had said he would never walk again.

  But the doctors had been wrong.