Maybe he wouldn’t be home and she could slink quietly away.
This is silly. What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish by coming here? They barely knew each other, despite having been acquaintances for years. An intelligence analyst at Langley, Marshall had been at the CIA since before Tracie was recruited.
He’d helped her immensely last summer after she was fired by Aaron Stallings, putting his own career on the line by sharing valuable intel that led to her rescue of kidnapped Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries. That rescue had resulted in her rehiring, albeit on an unofficial basis, by Stallings as his personal Black Ops specialist.
Tracie had been pleasantly surprised at how well she and Marshall had worked together on that operation. As a bonus, his attraction to her had been obvious.
She had felt the tug of attraction as well, despite their many differences.
Marshall was a massive black man from inner city New Orleans, an analyst who had never worked in the field but who possessed a sharp mind and a keen intellect. He was handsome and outgoing and warm, with a dazzling smile that took little to summon.
Tracie was a petite redheaded white woman from suburban D.C., the daughter of a military father and a diplomat mother who’d had every advantage growing up. She had never worked anywhere but in the field. She was reserved and suspicious and cynical, a young woman who had found it harder and harder to smile under the weight of all she had seen as a CIA operative.
And all she had done.
Now she stood outside Marshall Fulton’s front door, nervous and drunk. She realized she needed to pee and ignored it.
She forced herself to ring the bell, torn between hoping desperately he was home and praying fervently he was not. The hand she had injured deep inside a tunnel under an old Nazi munitions factory in Wuppertal, West Germany last fall throbbed, and she distractedly stroked it with her good hand.
And then the door swung open.
This was the right apartment.
Marshall was dressed casually, in ragged jeans and a bulky Tulane University sweatshirt, and his brows knitted together in confusion at the unannounced appearance on his doorstep of a woman he hadn’t seen in weeks.
For a second.
Then Marshall’s familiar warm smile broke through, prompting a return smile from Tracie and the thought that maybe she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking and realized she’d been more at ease facing down trained Soviet assassins than she was right now.
Marshall spoke first, which was fortunate because Tracie had no earthly idea what to say. “Tracie Tanner, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Did I fall asleep early and I’m having the best dream ever or are you actually standing on my doorstep?”
“If you’re that excited to see me,” she mumbled, “I have to question your judgment. But, yes, I’m actually here. And you don’t look like you’re asleep.” She realized her face had colored at the enthusiasm of his greeting and she hoped it was dark enough in the doorway that he wouldn’t notice.
Marshall stepped back. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said. “Come on in and get out of the cold.” He stepped aside and waved her in.
Yeah, it’s cold out. That’s why I’m shaking. Get a grip on yourself, Tracie commanded. For some unfathomable reason, this guy likes you. Don’t ruin it by acting like a twelve-year-old girl talking to the cute guy in class.
She stepped into a tastefully decorated living room that reinforced just how badly she’d dropped the ball when it came to furnishing her own apartment.
Marshall grinned as her gaze swept the room and he said, “You like it? I’ve added stuff here and there as I could afford it, and it’s finally to the point where I’m not embarrassed to have anyone see it. And not a moment too soon, apparently.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. He reached out to take her coat and she shrugged it off and handed it over. “This place makes me realize my decorating skills suck. My apartment redefines the term ‘minimalist.’”
Marshall laughed. “Well, unlike some world travelers I could name,” he said with a wink, “I actually spend most of my time in my apartment. It wouldn’t look like this if I were in your situation.”
He was obviously trying to put her at ease instead of demanding to know what the hell she was doing showing up at his door like a stray dog. Her tears had pulled back for a while, but they hadn’t retreated very far, and Marshall’s small kindness brought them a little closer to reappearing.
She blinked them back and smiled. “Thanks for the lie, but I doubt your place looked very much like mine even on the day you moved in.”
She swayed on her feet and Marshall grabbed her by the elbow. “Have you been drinking, Tracie Tanner?”
He said it with a smile and a teasing tone in his voice, but his concern was clear.
And embarrassing.
Tracie tried to recall if she had told him, on the one dinner date they’d shared months ago, that she rarely drank alcohol—and why—but she guessed the subject must have come up based on his question.
Her face flushed again and she scuffed her toe on his carpet. “I may have had a drink or two.”
His big hand felt good on her small elbow, warm and strong and reassuring, and she wished he would leave it there forever. He didn’t leave it there forever, but he did use it to lead her across the room and ease her onto his couch.
“I’ll be right back,” he said with another of those heart-melting smiles. He walked into what she guessed was the kitchen, and a moment later her suspicions were confirmed as the smell of coffee began wafting through the apartment.
She had already begun to feel a little more relaxed. Talking to Marshall was unlike talking to anyone else she knew, probably thanks to his innate ability to put people at ease.
But with him puttering around in his kitchen, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and doubts—she began once again to question her decision to come here. The temptation to bolt out the front door began to build, but she couldn’t do that to poor Marshall, especially given how kindly he was treating her.
But it was still tempting.
After a couple of minutes he reappeared, carrying two mugs of coffee. He placed one on the table in front of her and kept the other for himself.
He moved to a stuffed chair situated directly across the table from her and sat. “A splash of cream and one-and-a-half sugars, correct?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your coffee,” he said. “When we ate at the Congressional Steak House, that was how you ordered it.”
The tears made another run for her eyes and she swallowed hard, touched that he would remember something so trivial from a date that had taken place so long ago.
He noticed her hesitation and said, “Am I misremembering? I don’t go on that many dates, but I suppose it could have been some other sexy redheaded spy I took out, and that girl drinks her coffee with a splash of cream and one-and-a-half sugars.”
Tracie laughed. “I might have to dispute the sexy part,” she said, “but that was definitely me.”
She lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip. It was delicious.
“Thanks for remembering,” she said quietly.
Another smile from Marshall, this one wistful. “I’m pretty sure I’ve committed every minute of that night to memory, especially the way you kicked ass on those two Neanderthals outside the restaurant and then were pissed off because you broke a nail.”
They broke out laughing. “I’d forgotten about that,” she said.
“I told you, I remember every bit of that night like it was yesterday.”
They shared a warm glance and then Marshall said, “What’s wrong, Tracie?”
Another sip of coffee, this time to avoid the question as much as to enjoy the flavor. Then she shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s see. You show up at my front door—not that I’m complaining, mind you—half drunk, when I know for a fact
you almost never drink at all. I don’t know you particularly well, but I’ve seen you in and out of Langley for a long time, and right now it’s obvious that you’re about as down and upset as I’ve ever seen you.”
A tear forced its way out of Tracie’s right eye and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. She hoped Marshall didn’t notice but doubted there was much chance of that.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What’s really bothering you?”
45
January 27, 1988
10:40 p.m.
Marshall Fulton’s apartment
Washington, D.C.
She sighed and sipped her coffee. Tried to make sense of the thoughts and fears and emotions swirling inside her overstressed, exhausted brain.
“I can’t give you a lot of specifics,” she said finally. “Classified assignment and all that.”
“Okay. Then be non-specific. Be as non-specific as necessary. But it’s clear you need to get something off your chest.”
“Aaron Stallings used me as bait today to flush out a Soviet assassin. He didn’t warn me, didn’t give me a chance to prepare for a sniper’s ambush. He just sent me out to face possible execution the very same day I returned from completing a risky and dangerous assignment overseas.”
She realized she was shaking again and she breathed deeply, choking back another round of tears.
She tried to settle herself and more or less succeeded.
Took another sip of coffee.
Realized Marshall hadn’t responded. He sat motionless across the table, staring at her over his coffee mug, not saying a word.
At last he cleared his throat and came back with the last thing she would have expected to hear. “So?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘so?’”
Anger sizzled through her. “’So?’ That’s all you have to say? The man treats me like a disposable razor and that’s your response? He’s nothing but an amoral, manipulating bastard who treats human lives like they exist solely for his own purposes, to use and abuse as he wishes, and all you can say is, ‘so?’”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Marshall said. His gaze was direct and penetrating and oddly arousing. “I don’t blame you in the least for being angry at how you were treated. It was plainly unprofessional, not to mention dangerous. You should be angry. You should be royally pissed.”
“Thank you,” she said. His response to her flare-up was—again—the last thing she would have expected, and she was left feeling vulnerable and unsure of herself. “But if that’s how you feel, then why did you answer the way you did?”
“Because I don’t believe that’s what’s really bothering you. Yes, you should be angry with Stallings. Yes, the way he treated you was inexcusable. But unless I’m missing something, you haven’t told me a damned thing you didn’t already know about our fearless leader. That being the case, I seriously doubt what you’ve said to this point is responsible for what I saw shivering outside my front door.”
Tracie blinked, stunned.
He was right.
She’d thought Stallings’s treatment of her had thrown her off-balance, had been responsible for the giant ball of radiation waiting to explode in her belly, but it couldn’t be that. She’d been treated just as cavalierly by the CIA chief a dozen times in the past, in ways large and small, and while every instance had served to remind her that he was only trustworthy as long as their interests aligned, never had he affected her the way she felt right now.
Not even close.
It had to be something else.
And then she knew. Just like that. Out of nowhere she realized what had affected her so deeply, and what she’d gone to great psychological lengths to ignore.
The realization struck her with the force of a speeding ZiL-157, and once again the tears tried to come. It was getting harder and harder to stop them, and now she knew why.
She was a monster. She was a goddamned monster.
Marshall waited while she worked through it. He sipped his coffee and gazed levelly at her.
Then he said, “What’s really bothering you, Tracie?”
He spoke softly, almost as if to himself, and the words came at the exact moment her devastating self-revelation blasted into her mind. It was like he could see straight through her skull and into her brain.
She raised her head to meet his eyes and the tears began to flow silently down her face. Stopping them now would be impossible. There were no wrenching sobs, no gasping histrionics. Just a pair of salty tracks running down her cheeks and dripping into her lap.
And Marshall waited.
“I executed an unarmed man yesterday,” she whispered, shame burning in her face until she thought the heat in her cheeks would evaporate her tears the moment they left her eyes.
“I’m sure you did only what was necessary for national security.”
“And he wasn’t just unarmed,” she continued, lost in her self-loathing and self-recrimination. “He was elderly and unarmed. He was seventy if he was a day, and do you want to know what I did?”
Marshall held her teary gaze without answering.
“I walked up behind him and I pumped four slugs into him. He never knew what hit him. He died without ever knowing.”
“You’ve killed people before in the line of duty.”
“Of course. But every time the other operative was armed and taking action to directly harm the United States.”
“Are you telling me the target wasn’t a danger to this country?”
Tracie looked down through the tears at her shoes. “He was directly responsible for the deaths of six CIA covert operatives, plus at least one Soviet dissident that we know of.”
“Well then, there you go. Sounds justified to me. It’s an unfortunate part of the intelligence business, you know that.”
“But this time was different. He couldn’t have harmed me if he’d tried. I walked up behind him and filled him full of 9mm lead and walked away. I’m a—”
“You’re an operative. A damned good one. And you were doing your job. No more and no less.”
“But—”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Tracie. Do you feel those six agency men who died somehow had it coming? Maybe they weren’t quite vigilant enough? Maybe their deaths didn’t deserve a response?”
“Of course not!” Tracie’s anger surged and she glared at Marshall.
“Then your point about executing an unarmed and thus harmless man is invalid. Maybe he couldn’t have turned around and harmed you in that precise moment, but if he was able to eliminate a half-dozen highly trained, professional intelligence field officers, the assertion that he was harmless, or that he somehow didn’t experience the fate he so richly deserved, is simply not supported by the facts.”
She wanted desperately to believe him. In her head she knew he was right. Slava Marinov was an enemy of the United States and had more than proven it by developing and implementing the monstrous plan to use nuclear radiation to burn through the bodies of good men before finally, mercifully, allowing them to die.
Slava Marinov had deserved his fate.
But all she could think of was Piotr Speransky, the KGB assassin who had made a career out of spraying a lethal radioactive concoction into the drinks of every one of the CIA victims.
Speransky was cold and hard and unrepentant, a killer, an animal without a conscience who would eliminate Americans again without hesitation if given the chance. Tracie had allowed him to live, a spur-of-the-moment decision she knew she might well end up regretting.
In some ways, she already did.
But more importantly, when she pictured Speransky she also pictured herself. Their ideologies were opposed, obviously, as were the ideologies of their governments.
But their job descriptions were essentially the same. They performed similar duties, both being sent into the world by behind-the-scenes manipulators for the purposes of advancing their government’s objectives by implementing their handlers�
� instructions.
When people looked into her eyes, did they see the same cold hard emptiness that had so shocked her in Speransky’s? Was Marshall Fulton even now shrinking back in his chair at the emptiness within Tracie’s leaking eyes? Trying to hide his disgust at the bare shell of a human being sitting in his living room?
“You’re a good person, Tracie.” He continued to speak softly, his voice a rich baritone, the soft southern drawl blunted but not eliminated by years of living in D.C. “The fact that you’re so devastated by ending someone whose disappearance from this earth results in a net gain for humanity proves as much.”
She shook her head. “But I don’t know if—”
“I told you already, there are no ‘buts.’ You’re a good, moral, decent human being working in a brutal profession. Don’t let your job description make you question your essential goodness or your humanity. Nothing is worth that kind of loss.”
Marshall rose from his chair and walked around the table, coming to a stop in front of Tracie. His eyes were kind and empathetic, and there was no indication he wanted to shrink away from her.
And she definitely didn’t want to shrink away from him.
He reached out and took one of her hands in his, and then she was standing and he was pulling her into a tight embrace, and his body was warm, and it was soft and hard at the same time, and she lifted her head and his lips were there, and they were soft and warm too, and she was melting away, and suddenly Piotr Speransky no longer existed, and neither did Slava Marinov or Aaron Stallings or anyone else in the world.
It was just Marshall Fulton and Tracie Tanner.
46
January 28, 1988
3:40 a.m.
Marshall Fulton’s apartment
Washington, D.C.
Tracie’s eyes flew open and she came instantly awake.
She knew right away where she was, a relatively unusual occurrence for a young woman who traveled the world on dangerous assignments and who was just as likely to awaken in East Germany as D.C., or on an airplane rocketing over the Atlantic Ocean as her apartment bedroom.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 121