After that, Vlad had a telephone call to make.
12
January 31, 1988
10:40 a.m.
Ipatiev Military Research Facility
Mezhgorye, Bashkir
Vladimir Protasov had assumed that by the time he finished transcribing session notes from this morning’s debacle with January 3, the sense of firm determination he felt regarding his upcoming telephone call would have waned. After all, he’d made similar calls in the past year, several of them in fact, all to no avail, and his personality tended toward reasoned caution rather than fiery conflict.
But he was surprised to discover that was not the case. He finished handwriting his notes and then slid the notebook into his top desk drawer, more convinced than ever that the damaged mental state of his subjects was negatively affecting his project.
Every last one of the men who’d been delivered to his lab suffered from mental illness, alcoholism or drug abuse, most a clear combination of the three. Virtually all were homeless and shiftless and suffering from malnutrition. They were untrusting and untrustworthy, the very definition of the dregs of society, and Vlad found the notion that he was expected to glean reliable test results from subjects as damaged as these to be offensive in the extreme.
He’d had enough. He was well into his second year sacrificing precious time with his family and a cushy career in academia, where he was lauded for his achievements and held up as a model scientist, for a life of asceticism and failure in the Ural Mountains.
He deserved better, and he was damned well going to insist on it.
He picked up the office phone and dialed the number for his KGB contact, a man named Kopalev. A series of clicks and beeps and other noises Vlad had never heard a telephone line make before his arrival at this remote facility ensued, and he waited patiently for the call to go through.
Vlad had been born in Moscow and spent his entire life living and working inside the Soviet Union, and while he didn’t think he’d ever been the subject of intense KGB scrutiny prior to his acceptance of the head research position on this project, he’d always known the possibility existed. He was certain he was being closely monitored now, and he amused himself while waiting for the call to be answered by trying to guess how many people, and in how many different locations, might be listening in at this very moment.
He settled on four, give or take.
Eventually an aide to Kopalev answered the line, and Vlad was forced to endure another wait while his request for a telephone audience with the Great Man was considered.
Kopalev was a colonel in the Red Army, but of much greater importance to Vlad was his position as Vlad’s direct supervisor on this project. It meant Colonel Kopalev was KGB, which meant he was as dangerous as an avalanche in a mountain pass, which meant he must be treated with the softest of kid gloves.
Vlad was beyond caring about any of that. He would be judged on the success or failure of this project, and in ways that were extremely uncomfortable to consider, should his psychotronic research be deemed a failure. The KGB was not known for their forgiving attitude.
This, of course, meant it was imperative the project succeed, which meant Vlad might occasionally be forced to take actions he would, in other circumstances, go to great lengths to avoid.
Actions like making this telephone call, and pushing men who in most cases were better off not being pushed.
The line was finally picked up and a gruff voice said, “Good morning, Dr. Protasov. I assume you are calling to report significant progress on your project?”
So much for small talk, Vlad thought. “Good morning, Colonel. The project is proceeding more or less as expected, yes.”
“‘More or less as expected’ does not sound very much like ‘significant progress’ to me, Doctor, although I would be the first to admit my background is not in the sciences. Perhaps ‘more or less as expected’ is worthy of the heartiest congratulations. Perhaps even a celebration is warranted by your joyful announcement of ‘more or less as expected.’”
He was being made fun of. When he answered, his tone was less cordial than it probably should have been. “The scientific process is rarely a straight-line graph, Colonel.”
A note of annoyance crept into Kopalev’s voice. “As I said, I am not a scientist. I am merely a patriot, working to advance the cause of the people in any way I can. Please explain.”
Vlad reminded himself to tread carefully. “Certainly, Colonel. I merely meant that while the general trend of progress on this project is upward, there are of course always setbacks. It is to be expected in the course of any scientific endeavor.”
“Setbacks.”
“Yes, sir. But as I said, the general trend is upward.”
“Are you calling today to report some sort of setback, Doctor?”
“Not exactly.”
“It seems up is down in the scientific world, because that sounds a lot like a yes.”
“Sir, I understand I have made this request in the past, but I really must reinforce it once again: it is critical we do our testing on the highest quality subjects available. When we work with subjects possessing diminished mental capacity, we run the risk of generating inaccurate results. These results may vary wildly from what we would learn from testing on superior subjects. The results could be so inaccurate even as to cause a project to stall entirely.”
“I see. Is this your way of telling me, Doctor Protasov, that you are not making the general upward trend of progress as you claimed just moments ago?” Kopalev’s annoyed tone had changed to one of suspicion, and Vlad swallowed heavily. This was not going the way he had hoped.
He forced a professional blandness into his voice that projected a sense of calm he did not feel. “Oh, no, Colonel, not at all. We are making progress here. Why, just today, I discovered—”
“Doctor Protasov, I am a busy man. I do not wish to know the specifics of your research, nor would I even understand such specifics, in all likelihood. And if I decide I would like to learn those specifics, I can read them in your weekly status reports. Unless, of course, you are not including all relevant information in those reports.”
“No sir. I mean, yes sir. I mean, of course I am including everything in my status reports. They are as accurate and complete as they can possibly be.” Vlad tried to inject a note of righteous anger into his voice but realized he came off sounding exactly the way he felt—terrified.
“Then there is no need to discuss specifics over the telephone. Please, Doctor, let us skip this tiresome dance and get to the point. Why are you calling me?”
“I am calling to reiterate my request for more suitable test subjects. The homeless men and addicts you have been sending me are simply not equipped, physically or mentally, to endure the rigors of the testing process. Their diminished capacity makes acquiring scientifically significant results from brain tissue manipulation extremely difficult to achieve.”
“What would you have me do, Doctor? Enter the homes and businesses of Moscow residents at random and remove the strongest and healthiest of them, shipping them into the mountains for you to drill into their skulls?”
“Well, no sir, but I—”
“Perhaps we could start with your family, Doctor. Would that make you happy? You have a son who is a young adult, do you not? Maybe he would make a suitable test subject for you. Maybe we could even use your wife. I understand that to this point we have limited our testing to males, but perhaps the project would receive a boost from testing on women.”
“No, Colonel, you misunderstand me. I did not mean to suggest you raid people’s homes and remove them forcibly to take part in an experimental procedure.”
“I think what you’re saying,” Kopalev growled, his voice low and soft and dangerous, “is you want to be sure your family is left alone.”
“Well of course, sir. My family, along with others that—”
“I understand your point perfectly, Doctor Protasov. And I have good news for you.”
Vlad had risen in panic at the suggestion that they begin harvesting members of his own family for testing. Now he slumped back into his desk chair. He closed his eyes and ran a hand shakily over his forehead. His heart was beating wildly and adrenaline flooded his system and he almost forgot his boss was awaiting a response.
“Good news?”
“That’s right, Doctor. In fact, given the nature of this telephone call, I believe you will find it wonderful news indeed.”
Vlad realized the man was toying with him, teasing him like a sadistic cat might tease a mouse whose legs he’d broken and who he’d decided to torture for awhile before finishing him off.
He realized it but didn’t have the stomach to challenge the KGB man.
He supposed that was the point.
“What is the good news, Colonel?” He was now unable to disguise the shakiness in his voice.
“We have a subject en route to your laboratory that quite nicely fits the qualifications you seek. He is young and strong, intelligent and quick-witted. He will make a fine addition to the project.”
Vlad’s ears perked up despite his terror. “That is outstanding news, sir, thank you. Where did the subject come from? Where did you get him?”
“That is irrelevant to this telephone call, is it not?”
“Well, yes sir, I suppose. But the more information we have on our test subjects, they more successful I expect testing to be.”
“This subject will be accompanied by a packet outlining all we know about him, exactly as your other subjects have been.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome Doctor. Contrary to what you seem to believe, I have the greatest interest in seeing your project succeed. It is my goal to assist you in any way possible.”
“I appreciate that, Colonel Kopalev. And may I say, I think it’s clear that—”
“Oh, and Doctor?” Kopalev ignored Vlad, interrupting as though he’d not even spoken.
Vlad swallowed his anger, understanding instinctively that he’d just dodged a very large bullet and it would be unwise to tempt fate a second time. “Yes, Colonel?”
“Given what you told me about the importance of mental capacity, and given that I am providing you with a highly qualified subject with which to work…”
Vlad swallowed heavily. He thought he knew where this was going, and would have given almost anything not to answer. But it was obvious Kopalev was awaiting a response, and Vlad knew he had no choice but to offer one.
“Yes, sir?”
“From my perspective, this project seems to be floundering a bit. Lubyanka has invested significantly, in terms of both time and money, in your research and we have thus far received nothing of value in return.”
“But sir, I—”
“Perhaps what you require to be successful is the proper motivation.”
Oh, no. Vlad had thought he knew where Kopalev was going but he’d been wrong. Very wrong. “Oh, no sir, believe me, I am properl—”
“Perhaps giving you so much freedom to run the project in your own way was a mistake. Perhaps you require a more hands-on approach. Do you believe that to be the case, Doctor?”
“No, sir, I am quite confident I can—”
“I thought so. I do appreciate your willingness to take such an honest, unvarnished look at yourself and your shortcomings, Doctor.”
“But Colonel, I—”
“Let me review my schedule and see when I can make it out there. Please hold.”
“What? Make it out here? Sir, you misunderstand, you do not need to—”
The line went dead and Vlad sat frozen in his chair, horrified at the sudden turn the conversation had taken. Colonel Kopalev was a powerful man, Vlad knew that much just based on things he’d heard and read in reports since beginning this project. Vlad’s assistant Yuri was a rock, a stone-faced sociopath as far as Vlad was concerned, and fear radiated out of the man like a black cloud at the mere mention of Kopalev’s name.
And now the KGB man was planning a trip here? To “motivate” Vlad? A chill ran down his spine and he realized he needed the toilet. Badly. Maybe he could—
The line clicked loudly and then Kopalev was back. “Are you still there, Doctor?”
Deep breath. Show no fear. “Yes, Colonel, I am still here, but believe me, you do not need to—”
“I have good news, would you like to hear it?”
“Uh…of course.”
“I have managed to move some things around on my schedule and have freed up a few days to visit with you. I look forward to seeing the progress you have made with my own two eyes, and to helping motivate you to achieve the greatest possible success.”
“Uh…”
“Is that not wonderful news, Doctor?”
“Yes. Of course. Wonderful.”
“My aides will coordinate the specifics of my arrival in the Urals with your base commander, but you can expect to see me very soon. I am truly looking forward to speaking in person. Face to face. Man to man. The personal touch is far preferable to a telephone conversation, don’t you agree, Doctor Protasov?”
Vlad could barely breathe. Could barely think. He had never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted to hang up the phone right now.
“Doctor? Are you still with me?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I am here. I look forward to seeing you.”
“Good. It is settled. I will be there as soon as possible. In the meantime…”
“Yes?”
“In the meantime, given your complaints regarding the quality of test subjects I have provided, and given the fact that—”
“I was not complaining, sir. I was—”
“And given the fact that I am providing you with a highly qualified test subject who will arrive shortly at your facility, I fully expect that when we meet in person, you will have even better, more positive results to share with me.”
“Uh…of course. So do I.”
“I fully expect that, Doctor. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Colonel. Crystal clear. However, I think it is important to remember—”
The line went dead.
Kopalev had hung up on him.
Vlad returned the telephone to its cradle and lowered his head to his hands. Making this telephone call might well have been the worst mistake he had ever made.
He sat at his desk for a long time contemplating that possibility.
Eventually he rose and got back to work. What choice did he have?
13
February 1, 1988
8:35 a.m.
The mountains outside Mezhgorye, Bashkir
After breaking through the tree line yesterday, Tracie had emerged on a lonely road. She wasted no time aiming north and hitting the gas, convinced she would come across a sign sooner rather than later confirming her belief that she was on the correct route to Mezhgorye.
And she was right. Within a mile—during which time she saw exactly zero vehicles on the road and no signs of habitation anywhere along the route—she was rewarded with a road sign indicating Mezhgorye was thirty kilometers ahead.
She smiled and drove twenty of those thirty kilometers before pulling to the side of the deserted road and leaving the truck idling. Mezhgorye was a small village, and more importantly it was located just outside a secret Soviet military facility that had been hidden from U.S. surveillance for who knew how many years. The arrival of a young civilian woman traveling alone would likely not go unnoticed.
The truck was small and cramped, but she would make do. Its interior was warm, which by default made it much more desirable for what she had in mind than the brutal cold outside. She reached into her go bag and rummaged around until finding a CIA-provided Red Army uniform. Then she changed quickly, donning the uniform and packing away the clothing she’d worn on her transatlantic flight.
The extreme isolation of Mezhgorye and its proximity to the Soviet base meant there was virtually no chance a strange
r would enter the town without having some form of business at the base. The safest bet would be to hide in plain sight.
A Russian Army officer—even a female officer, a relative rarity in Soviet society—would engender respect among most citizens, or at least minimize the likelihood of too many people asking intrusive questions. The Soviet society was a closed one, its people paranoid in many ways and anxious to avoid the attention of their government. After more than seventy years of Communist rule, Soviet citizens knew the best course of action in almost every situation was to see nothing, ask no questions, and mind their own business.
Tracie changed in five minutes and then continued on, arriving twenty minutes after that in a small village, picturesque by Soviet standards, seemingly plunked down in this location on the side of the Ural Mountains for no particular reason. The boring, utilitarian square cement cube, so typical of Soviet-era construction, was nowhere to be found. Instead, the village resembled a community in the Swiss Alps, with beautiful A-frame wood structures built to withstand year after year of heavy snowfall.
Tracie drove immediately to what was clearly a family-run inn located on the outskirts of town. She parked the Lada in a small lot containing only one other vehicle and then marched inside with all the confidence befitting an officer of the Soviet Army.
The office was cramped and old, a relic of a bygone era, the 1950s or maybe even earlier. Perhaps predictably, scenic photographs of snow-covered mountain vistas covered the walls, and from a hidden radio came the sound of scratchy big-band music from an American artist Tracie recognized but couldn’t quite identify. Glenn Miller, maybe.
An older woman was busying herself behind a counter the size of the bar in Marshall Fulton’s living room when she entered. A bell jangled above the door, announcing the arrival of a guest on the off chance the innkeeper might not have noticed the blast of freezing cold air.
The woman completed whatever task she’d been occupied with and then raised her eyes to welcome her guest. They widened when she took in the Red Army uniform, but she covered her surprise well and said, “Welcome to Mezhgorye,” in halting Russian.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 129