Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  Researchers everywhere understood the correlation between the relative health of a scientific test subject and the accuracy of test results. It was a straight-line cause and effect relationship: the healthier the subject, the more reliable the results. Vladimir had emphasized that point repeatedly to Colonel Kopalev, imploring him for more suitable subjects, and yet the colonel continued to provide him with damaged ones like the man currently strapped to this table.

  Vlad sighed and stroked the terrified man’s arm distractedly. He twisted a thumbscrew opening the valve that controlled the intravenous flow of Thiamylal, noting with satisfaction the subject’s almost immediate loss of consciousness.

  Achieving the desired anesthetic state in his subjects had been an early stumbling block for Vlad. He’d come to Ipatiev with little experience in that area and had lost a number of subjects early on by overdosing them, killing them before ever getting them into surgery. But as an academician and a scientist, Vlad was well used to trial and error, and he could now reliably anesthetize a subject simply by gauging the man’s body type and weight.

  Vladimir’s “research assistant” was a dour-looking man of perhaps forty, with thinning hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. The man’s name was Yuri, and he’d been stationed here at the lab since before Vlad’s arrival. His lack of medical training was obvious, and something he made little effort to disguise.

  Vlad was certain his assistant was a KGB plant whose main purpose was not to assist in the research at all, but rather to monitor Vlad and report back to Lubyanka on the state of the researcher.

  And that was fine with Vlad, to a point. He believed progress was being made, despite the mounting death toll and the fact the project was a long, slow slog. Whether the KGB concurred with his assessment was anyone’s guess, but either way he knew he must be very careful around Yuri, because the man potentially could make Vlad or break him in the eyes of Lubyanka.

  In the meantime, Vlad was stuck with him, for better or for worse. He had taught Yuri enough over the course of his time at the lab to make the man at least marginally useful, and one of the tasks Yuri had learned was to prepare Vlad’s subjects for testing.

  It seemed Yuri had done his job in an adequate manner with the current test subject. The subject’s arms and legs were secured to the table with sturdy leather straps. A thicker strap encircled the subject’s waist over his medical gown, and a similar strap had been used to secure the subject’s chest to the table, just under his armpits.

  A combination leather/metal harness used screws and buckles to hold the subject’s head in place, turned to the side in what had to be an uncomfortable position while the subject was conscious. But the goal of the project was knowledge that could be utilized by the KGB, not subject comfort, and in any event, the positioning was necessary to conduct the upcoming procedure.

  A proper harness fit, however, would be critical for successful completion of surgery. Vlad took his time checking his “assistant’s” work, as he always did, pulling and prodding at the buckles, attempting to slip his fingers between the restraint and the man’s skull. Eventually he satisfied himself there would be no slippage.

  He was ready to proceed.

  Vlad felt the familiar flash of annoyance that he would be forced to perform the surgery alone, but Yuri had made it clear immediately upon Vlad’s arrival at the lab that his assistance ended at the moment surgery began. Vlad had initially been dumbstruck—what was the point of having a helper who refused to help during the most critical stages of a project?—but Yuri had been adamant as to the limits of his job description, and no further assistants seemed to be forthcoming from KGB headquarters.

  So Vlad did the only thing he could: he adapted.

  He lifted the surgical drill and thumbed it on, muttering again at the inadequacy of the lighting. He leaned over the table and examined the subject’s skull. The man’s head had been shaved and Vlad himself had marked a small red “X” on the skin.

  This was where he would bore the hole.

  He tested the drill with a short squeeze of the trigger, and a high-pitched whine filled the lab and then faded away. Vlad nodded to himself and eased the surgical drill bit directly onto the mark he’d made on the side of the subject’s head. Then he squeezed the trigger again and began punching a small hole through the unconscious man’s skull.

  Seconds later the sudden lack of resistance told Vlad he had broken through the cranium. He backed the drill out of the hole and placed it on the tray next to the surgical table. A small amount of blood trickled out of the hole and Vlad soaked it up with a wad of surgical gauze, then gazed at the tiny portion of brain now visible.

  He turned to the surgical tray and picked up a pair of electrical wires. They were approximately ten centimeters in length and had been wound together into a single strand. One end of each wire consisted of a flat copper electrode, and at the other end was a small, spring-loaded alligator-jaw copper connector.

  Vlad returned his attention to the test subject and began threading the wires through the hole with an instrument that resembled extra-long-nosed pliers. It was close work, and delicate, and Vlad took his time, carefully implanting the electrodes into the man’s hypothalamus.

  Sweat trickled out from under the high-intensity light secured to Vlad’s forehead with straps. The straps holding the lamp in place reminded Vlad uncomfortably of the ones securing the subject’s skull to the surgical table. He breathed deeply and wiped the sweat away as best he could, once again cursing Yuri’s absence from the operating room.

  When he felt satisfied he’d positioned the electrodes properly, Vlad withdrew the implantation instrument and placed it on the surgical tray next to the drill. He mopped up the blood that had accumulated around the incision, and then placed a thick square of gauze over the hole, leaving the wires trailing out from under the bandage toward the back of the man’s head.

  Next he began unbuckling the series of straps that had held the subject’s skull motionless during surgery. He lifted them up and away until they lay flat on the table directly above the subject’s head.

  Finally he lifted a roll of surgical gauze and began wrapping it around the subject’s skull, being careful to ensure a firm fit of the gauze pad to the surgical site while leaving the alligator-jaw connectors exposed for later use.

  At last Vlad stepped away from the table. He removed the headlamp from his skull and wiped away the perspiration that had accumulated under the straps, feeling the familiar excitement begin to build. Perhaps this subject would yield the breakthrough that would eventually permit Vlad to report full success and project completion to Moscow.

  He stepped to a small rotary telephone hanging on the wall next to a row of cabinets containing surgical supplies. Dialed “0” and waited for Yuri to pick up. Cursed under his breath when it seemed the call would go unanswered. The man has little responsibility and even less to occupy his time, and still he cannot be ready when I need him?

  He was about to hang up, to slam the handset onto the cradle in disgust, when Yuri answered, his voice typically gruff. “What is it?” he said, his tone impatient, as if perhaps Vlad had interrupted him in the middle of an important business meeting.

  Vladimir bit back his annoyance. He was an academic, a professional, and he would conduct himself in a dignified manner even if Yuri would not.

  “Yes,” Vlad said, doing his best to sound unperturbed. “The surgery is finished. Please come to the lab to clean and sterilize the equipment. I’ll need you to maintain observation of the subject, and I wish to be notified immediately when he begins to regain consciousness. It should take less than an hour. When that happens, I want you to—”

  It took a moment for Vlad to realize his “research assistant” had just hung up on him. He stood next to the desk, telephone clutched in his hand, staring at it in stunned surprise, eyes wide and veins throbbing in his temple.

  This time he did slam the receiver onto the cradle, and with such force he was s
urprised somewhere in the back of his mind that he hadn’t cracked the plastic.

  He cursed under his breath and stalked out of the lab.

  4

  January 30, 1988

  7:35 a.m.

  McLean, Virginia

  “I see you’ve decided to return, after all.” Aaron Stallings looked up from the mountain of paperwork that seemed permanently fused to his desk. Although barely past seven-thirty in the morning, to Tracie it looked as though he’d been sitting in his chair for hours.

  Hell, maybe he had.

  “Was there really any doubt?” She tried to lace her comment with sarcasm, with no apparent success. The CIA director smiled widely, his fleshy jowls jiggling, and she shook her head in disgust. “Calling my father to get me to come back? Really? Is there no line you won’t cross?”

  “Come on, Tanner, have you learned nothing in your time at this agency? It’s all about results. I will take any action necessary to generate the results I want, and you’re so valuable precisely because you do the same. So if you think I should feel somehow ashamed that I asked a man you respect and admire to remind you what’s important in this world, you’re going to be sadly disappointed.”

  She sighed. “Obviously.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, more being said in the silence than had thus far been spoken aloud.

  Tracie shrugged. “Well, you wanted to see me. Here I am. Can we get on with it?”

  “Sit down,” he said.

  She dropped into the chair centered in front of the mammoth desk in his home office, feeling like an errant schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office. Stallings must have realized by now that his obvious attempt at using the chair placement for intimidation purposes wouldn’t work on her, but he didn’t seem inclined to stop trying.

  It occurred to Tracie that this was the first time in as long as she could remember that she’d entered this room uninjured. Unless you consider injuries to the spirit, she thought glumly.

  She shook herself inwardly. Set aside the fear festering in her soul that she was becoming an amoral killer, placing it into a secure niche deep inside her mind, locking it away and saving it for later contemplation.

  It was important she not allow her boss to see any weakness, ever. The best way to accomplish that was to regain control of the moment. And she knew exactly how to do it.

  “I appreciate your apology and your admission of wrongdoing in sending me out to face that Soviet sniper alone and without warning. I understand why you had to pass it along through an intermediary, and I’m sure you’re happy to hear the apology is accepted.”

  Stallings’ jaw dropped almost comically and his face colored, morphing from the pasty greyish-white of a decades-long bureaucrat to the shiny crimson of a man suffering a severe case of scarlet fever. The transformation took roughly half a second. “I most certainly did nothing of the—”

  “Now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way,” Tracie interrupted, “what did you want to see me about?”

  “I…you…now listen here, Tanner, you can’t just…” Then he stopped. He seemed to realize she was baiting him and he pushed himself back from his desk and clamped his jaws shut. To Tracie it looked exactly like documentary footage she had seen once of a shark chomping down on its latest meal.

  She thought he was going to explode into a furious rant, as he’d done so often in the past. But to his credit, he took a moment to compose himself, sitting silently and locking eyes with Tracie as the blood slowly drained from his face.

  He cleared his throat.

  Sighed.

  Coughed into his fist.

  Said, “Do you feel better now, Tanner?”

  “Immensely,” she answered with a grin. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

  “Well, don’t get used to it. I don’t tolerate insubordination. Under the circumstances I’m willing to overlook it. This time. But we need to get serious and focus on your next assignment, since I’m assuming from your presence here you’ve decided to remain in my employ.”

  “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

  “We’ve recently become aware of the existence of a secret Soviet military base located in the Ural Mountains.”

  “Recently become aware?”

  “Yes. Intel generated from the two Russian operatives captured last May led us to—”

  “Russian operatives? Last May?”

  “That’s right, Tanner. Try and keep up.”

  “Are you referring to the two KGB killers I served up on a silver platter, right before stopping the assassination of President Reagan and then being threatened with termination, a threat you later made good on?”

  This time Stallings’ face darkened. He leaned over his desk, elbows plopped on the surface, and said, “Don’t push me, Tanner. The fact that you’re sitting here means you still have a job. Don’t force me to reconsider.”

  “Just trying to put your information into historical perspective. I think I understand it now. Please continue.”

  “Honest to God, Tanner, you’re going to put me in the grave one of these days.”

  She sat primly, hands folded in her lap, a pleasant smile on her face. You deserve every bit of aggravation I can give you and more, she thought.

  After a long pause, Stallings continued. “Anyway, under intense questioning, one of the operatives let slip the existence of a secret base nestled in the Ural Mountains. It’s called the ‘Ipatiev Research Facility,’ and of its existence we’d previously known nothing.”

  “We were completely in the dark about its existence? Seems unlikely.”

  “That was what we thought at first. But—”

  “But you immediately went to the second operative and verified the information.”

  Stallings’ obvious annoyance at being interrupted seemed offset by his appreciation of her tactical awareness, and he nodded. “That’s right. Apparently, construction of the base was begun, and mostly completed, during the 1970s, although expansion has occurred on a more or less regular basis in the intervening years.”

  Tracie cupped a hand under her chin. “I assume we’ve stepped up aerial surveillance in the Urals.”

  “Of course. We’ve flown hundreds of surveillance missions since the intel came to light, employing both the U-2 and the SR-71.”

  “But the fact that we’re having this discussion means there’s a problem.”

  “Yes. That’s putting it mildly. All of those missions have accomplished next to nothing, besides verifying that there is, in fact, a facility inside the Bashkir Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic that was previously unknown to us.”

  Tracie raised her eyebrows. “I’ve run missions in most of the Soviet republics at one time or another over the past seven years, but never there.”

  Stallings nodded. “And that makes sense. No intel we’ve ever developed has led us to believe anything of strategic significance was happening inside Bashkir.”

  “And hundreds of missions using the most sophisticated aerial surveillance aircraft ever developed have revealed nothing of value?”

  He shook his head. “We believe the vast majority of the base has been constructed underground, that the Soviets have burrowed into the Urals like little Communist rabbits. Our theory is that they’ve developed a vast system of tunnels and subterranean work areas meaning, of course, that we can run surveillance from above for the rest of eternity and will never come any closer than we are right now to learning the significance of this base.”

  “And if the USSR has gone to such great lengths to keep the base a secret, there must be something important happening there.”

  “One would think.”

  Tracie felt a rising sense of anticipation. It was like a low-voltage electrical current thrumming through her body, just under the skin. She thought she knew the answer to her next question but she asked it anyway. “Where do I come in?”

  “You’re going to conduct surveillance on that base. You will
extract its secrets. And then you’ll going to come home and divulge them all.”

  5

  January 30, 1988

  1:15 p.m.

  Ipatiev Military Research Facility

  Mezhgorye, Bashkir Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic

  The test subject was sitting up in bed when Vladimir Protasov entered his room.

  Each subject was accompanied upon his arrival at the facility by a file consisting of all known facts relating to the man that might bear relevance to the testing protocol. Given most subjects’ status as homeless, addicted, mentally ill or some combination of all three, the sizes of their attendant files varied significantly, but in almost all cases the subject’s name was known.

  And in almost all cases Vlad was careful to ignore that information.

  He had discovered shortly after his arrival at Ipatiev that knowing the test subject’s name did nothing to contribute to the success of the project. All it accomplished was to make a good night’s sleep even more difficult for Vlad when something inevitably went wrong and the subject died.

  Obviously, however, conducting research would be impossible without somehow identifying the test subjects, so Vlad developed his own classification system. It was simple but workable, consisting of the month of the subject’s arrival at the facility, followed by a number indicating the order of the subject’s testing for that particular month.

  This subject was thus known as January 3.

  Vlad knew it was silly of him to waste time worrying about developing an identification system for the test subjects when it would be so much easier just to use their given names—particularly when there was so much of greater import to be concerned with—but the dead men haunted his sleep persistently enough when they were dehumanized prior to surgery. Knowing he’d ended the life of a “Sergei” or an “Ivan” or a “Georgi” would have been too much to bear, even if—as was the case—their deaths were justified in the name of scientific progress.