Or whether he’d been fully unconscious at all. On the few occasions he felt himself drifting off, his mind had immediately wandered to the terrifying conversation earlier in the day with the Russian base commander and the doctor who’d spoken of experimenting on him using techniques straight out of a Grade B horror movie.
Drilling through his skull and into his brain.
Inserting wires and using electrical currents to manipulate his thoughts and actions.
Making him compliant and suggestible, a pawn the Soviets would then use to conduct political propaganda, assuming he survived the procedure.
Could they really do that?
Either way, how the hell was he supposed to sleep after hearing it?
So maybe he’d just lain in bed in a semi-conscious daze, nightmare scenarios flashing over and over through his head like a movie running on a continuous loop.
One wrist had been cuffed to a heavy metal railing bolted to the side of Ryan’s bed. The railing looked similar to what might be found on an American hospital bed, except it was much heavier and seemed affixed permanently to the bed frame. It didn’t appear to be removable or adjustable in any way. This meant his range of motion was severely limited. He could lie on his back or on his right side.
More or less.
And every time he turned, the rattle of handcuff on iron was like a goddamned alarm clock clanging away.
Time had dragged. It might have been three hours or three days. After being chained to the bed by an unsmiling Russian man who’d wrinkled his nose in distaste at the prospect of dealing with Ryan, he’d been left by himself for what felt like a very long time, during which it was all he could do to avoid a panicked meltdown.
He’d never felt so alone, so isolated, in his life.
Or so afraid.
He was lying on his back with his eyes closed in a futile effort to stop his mind from spinning when the door opened and the Russian doctor entered. The room was completely windowless, so without his watch Ryan had no idea whether it was day or night.
Ryan’s eyes flew open and he came instantly alert.
Protasov was toting a small leather satchel. It looked like something an American doctor might have carried back in the days when medical professionals still made house calls.
Ryan tracked the man’s progress as he crossed the room, doing his best to remain calm, or, lacking that, at least to project an air of serene defiance. The effort was wasted, however, as Protasov had yet to even acknowledge Ryan’s presence in the room.
A small table on wheels sat in the corner, and the Russian moved to it and rolled it to the foot of Ryan’s bed. He placed his bag on the bed next to Ryan’s feet and unzipped it, then began removing items and placing them on the table. His back was turned to Ryan and his body mostly blocked Ryan’s view, so it was impossible to see what sorts of medical instruments he might be unpacking.
Ryan assumed this was done intentionally, to force his racing imagination to fill in the blanks produced by the lack of visual information.
It worked like a charm.
Ryan could feel his pulse skyrocket and he began to sweat as badly as he’d done yesterday—or whenever it had been—in the base commander’s office. Maybe worse.
Finally Doctor Protasov turned and faced Ryan. A patently insincere smile flitted across his face and then vanished.
He said, “I trust you are comfortable in your new home?”
When Ryan didn’t answer he continued, “These are not the finest accommodations, I know, but very soon you will not care. Very soon you will discover your opinion as to the quality of your surroundings—or your opinion on any subject, for that matter—will be whatever I want it to be. Whatever I dictate to you.”
Ryan stared at the man, forcing himself not to react. It took a supreme act of will.
Protasov didn’t seem to notice. He smiled for half a second and said, “Your situation will be very freeing in many ways, I believe.”
“If you’re so sure about that, how about we trade places,” Ryan said. He’d sworn he would not respond to his captors, no matter what was said or done to him. Sworn he would remain stoic and impassive to the best of his abilities for as long as possible. But the man’s comment was so infuriating he just couldn’t help himself.
Another smile crossed the doctor’s face this time, but it disappeared just as quickly as had the previous one. “I think we will leave things the way they are for the time being.”
He lifted something from the wheeled table and moved next to Ryan. The object was trailing an electrical cord and after a moment of confusion, everything snapped into place and Ryan understood.
Of course.
It was an electric razor.
Protasov was going to shave his head as the first step toward taking the Russian equivalent of a goddamn Black and Decker and drilling a goddamn hole into the side of his goddamn head.
For a moment, sheer unreasoning panic caused Ryan to forget every word of Russian he’d learned and he lay in his bed, head shaking vigorously.
Then he regained at least a bit of composure and he said, “Forget it. You’re not touching me with that thing. It’s not happening. No way.”
Protasov waited patiently until he stopped talking. When the Russian spoke, it was with an exaggerated calm. “We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It makes no difference to me. You can lie still while I prepare you for surgery, or I can have you restrained, with your head placed into an uncomfortable metal and leather harness. Or I can simply sedate you. I have a multitude of options at my disposal.”
“Don’t do this,” Ryan said. He knew the words were pointless before they ever left his mouth but he blurted them out anyway.
“You need not be afraid,” Protasov said. “The procedure is relatively painless.”
“Says who? The other victims? The ones you’ve buried in shallow graves?”
Again Protasov ignored him. He reached down and plugged the razor into an electrical outlet in the wall next to the bed.
“Last chance,” the doctor said. “Are you going to cooperate, or must I call my assistant?”
“Shouldn’t your assistant be doing this, anyway? Taking care of your light work?” Ryan Smith couldn’t have cared less about the division of labor inside this insane asylum, but if he could get the doctor talking maybe he could slow the inevitable, and even a momentary delay would be preferable to the alternative.
Protasov met his eyes and Ryan knew instantly he understood what Ryan was attempting to do. Still, he answered the question. “Quite honestly, I do not trust the man. He was provided to me by the KGB, more to keep an eye on me and my work than to ‘assist,’ I am certain.”
“That’s reassuring,” Ryan mumbled.
“Exactly,” the doctor agreed amiably. “And you are far too valuable to me to risk the kind of damage Yuri could do out of inexperience or lack of attention to detail. So I intend to handle every aspect of this project personally where you are concerned.”
“I’m honored,” Ryan said drily, trying to quell the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
“Back to my original question,” Protasov said. “Are you going to keep still?”
Ryan sucked in a shuddering breath and blew it out forcefully. “I’m going to look ridiculous as a bald guy.”
No response. Apparently the causal conversation was over.
“Fine,” Ryan finally said. “Do what you have to do, it’s not like I can stop you.”
Protasov flicked a switch and the razor began buzzing, the noise harsh and loud. To Ryan it was the sound of utter hopelessness.
21
Date unknown
Time unknown
Unidentified Soviet military installation
This time when Doctor Protasov entered his room, Ryan was dozing fitfully. It was an uneasy sleep, and his eyes flew open and he was instantly awake and alert—or as alert as someone can be who’d been drugged within the last twenty-four hours—at the
rattle of the doorknob and the flapping of the man’s lab coat upon his entry.
“How are we doing today?” Protasov said brightly.
A little too brightly, Ryan thought. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning looking forward to playing with his new toy.
“We’d be doing a lot better if we were uncuffed and allowed to leave this house of horrors,” Ryan snapped. “I don’t appreciate being held illegally and without cause.”
“Oh, please,” Protasov said. “You might just as well drop the ‘poor, innocent me’ act. You’re not going anywhere, at least not until this process has been successfully completed. And as far as your claim that you are being held illegally is concerned, we both know that is preposterous.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course that is so. You are an unsanctioned agent of espionage, operating inside the Soviet Union for the express purpose of undermining the stability of our government and our very way of life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ryan scoffed as the creeping sensation of terror inside him began ratcheting up again.
“It is not ridiculous, it is true. And as an enemy of the Soviet State I am certain you fully understand you are subject to whatever form of punishment my government sees fit to apply to your situation.”
“I don’t thi—”
“And as an enemy of the Soviet State,” Protasov continued, steamrolling right over Ryan’s attempted objection, “I am certain you fully understand that no one is coming to save you. No one from your country will even acknowledge your existence inside Russia, much less admit you have gone missing. We can treat you in any manner we see fit and there is not a single thing you, or anyone else, will do about it.”
Ryan clamped his mouth shut and glared at the doctor, attempting to maintain a brave front, but it wasn’t easy. Everything Protasov had just said was true, right down to the fact that he was helpless in the face of their twisted intentions.
“However,” Protasov said, “you should be thanking me instead of lying in that bed spouting self-righteous nonsense.”
“How in the hell do you figure that? I’m chained to a bed, head shaved, with the knowledge you’re going to drill an extra hole into my skull, and I should be thanking you?”
“Yes, because, you see, once we’ve finished here and you’ve had time to complete your recovery, you will leave the facility and begin your new life.”
“Wonderful,” Ryan muttered.
“Oh, it will be. It will be a life where you are free to extol the virtues of the Soviet system to all who will listen throughout the world.”
“Free to extol the virtues of the Soviet system.”
“That is correct. “
“By my way of thinking, the words ‘free’ and ‘Soviet system’ really don’t fit.”
Again Protasov ignored him. “And as a former American spy, your words will be given a weight and significance far beyond those that might have been uttered by almost anyone else. It will be an honor for you, really. One you do not deserve.”
“You’re going to brainwash me into becoming a mind-numbed robot parroting the words of some Communist propagandist, and I’m supposed to consider that an ‘honor?’ I guess the Russian definition of that word is a little different than my own.”
Another smile from the doctor. Each one struck Ryan as a little creepier than the last. “You will come around to our way of thinking, do not worry.”
“Can’t wait,” Ryan said drily, his stomach heaving. He swallowed back the bile trying to force its way up his windpipe.
“In the meantime,” the doctor said, his previous odd giddiness returning, “let us begin. You cannot move on to your new life if we do not first take the necessary steps.”
“Don’t do this. Don’t drill into my head and start playing games with my brain. That’s inhumane. It’s indecent. It goes against every treaty signed by every civilized nation regarding the treatment of prisoners of war.”
“Our nations are not at war, my friend.”
“Of course they are. You know, I know it, and everybody on the planet knows it. So if I am, as you claim, an agent of the United States, that by definition makes me a prisoner of war, and you are honor-bound to treat me as such.”
“Honor-bound,” Protasov repeated. The words rolled off his tongue reluctantly, as if he’d never heard them before. He stood for a moment and then shook his head. “There is no such thing as honor in this world. Certainly not in the modern world, and probably not in the past, either.”
“I’m sorry you think that.”
“It is a fact. For example, you speak of honor like it is a one-way street. Like it applies only to the Soviet Union. But if you truly valued honor, you would acknowledge your role in attempting to destabilize the government of nations that are not your own, sovereign nations inside which you do not belong. And yet you lie there making denial after denial when we both know the truth. Where is the ‘honor’ in that?”
Ryan shook his head. “There’s no point having a political or sociological debate. It’s obvious neither one of us is going to change the mind of the other.”
This time, Protasov’s smile was so wide his lips seemed to stretch out until Ryan thought they might curve around the sides of his head. “That is where you are wrong, my misguided American friend. I will change your mind, and very, very soon.”
22
February 3, 1988
7:25 a.m.
Mezhgorye, Bashkir
Narodnaya Revolyutsiya Apartment Complex
Tracie sat in an isolated portion of the apartment parking lot, waiting for her target to exit the building. She’d been here for almost an hour, sipping tea in the darkness, eyes riveted to the front door.
She assumed the young woman would leave for work sometime around seven-thirty, based on her previous two days’ surveillance and the distance from the apartment to the base, but wasn’t willing to risk missing the woman in the event her guess was wrong. So she rose at five a.m., packed her supplies and then ate a quick breakfast of protein bars and black tea.
She left the inn long before anyone else was up and about, and that was fine with her. The less she was observed, the better.
After completing surveillance last night, she’d driven immediately through town in an attempt to duplicate the secretary’s drive and locate her home. Fortunately for Tracie the village was small and the route fairly direct, and she managed well, making just one wrong turn toward the end of the route.
A quarter-mile backtrack corrected her error, and five minutes later the Lada SUV chugged into the correct lot. Tracie spotted the woman’s hideous yellow Volga and smiled.
She’d then driven straight to her boarding house, timing the trip.
Fifteen minutes, door to door.
Preparations complete, or at least as complete as possible given the fact she was making her plan up on the fly, Tracie had tumbled into bed and slept without dreaming.
This morning she slipped into the lot just after six and parked in a spot offering an unobstructed view of the apartment building’s front entrance. Then she waited, her adrenaline slowly building until now, just after seven-thirty, her nerves were thrumming, her senses hyper-aware, as was always the case while operational.
Across the parking lot the front door opened and Tracie sat up straight. She reached for the Lada’s handle and prepared to step out of the vehicle.
False alarm. She slumped back down in the seat in disappointment.
The departing resident was a different person, a young man who descended the three steps to the lot and hurried to his car. He started it up and drove away, white exhaust trailing the vehicle.
And then she was there. Tracie fixed her eyes on the front of the apartment just as the door swung open again and the secretary from last night stepped out.
Tracie grabbed the door handle and cursed under her breath as a second woman exited the building at the same time. She could take both if necessary but preferred to avoid needless com
plications, and involving a second innocent person in what she had in mind would define the term “complication.”
She sat in the front seat, prepared to spring out of the car, watching and waiting for the right moment. The two women moved down the steps, chatting easily, and when they split up at the front of the lot, Tracie made her move.
She climbed out of her vehicle, backpack slung over one shoulder, and was halfway across the lot before either woman noticed her. The target’s companion had parked closer to the building than the target, so the companion slipped into her car and pulled the door closed while the target continued toward her Volga.
Tracie stepped behind the target as the woman’s companion backed out of her spot, smiling widely for the benefit of the other driver.
“Excuse me,” she said, speaking while still a good ten feet away from the target. The last thing she wanted was to startle the woman and have her scream for help.
The target turned in surprise. “Yes?”
The target’s companion stopped backing up and shifted into first gear, but then she sat for a moment, the car idling as she watched closely through the side window. She had obviously seen Tracie and wanted to be sure her friend was in no danger before driving away and leaving her alone.
Tracie smiled in the woman’s direction and offered a friendly wave. Nothing to see here, just a silly ditzy woman.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Tracie said, “but I’ve forgotten my key and locked myself out of the building.”
“This building?”
“Yes.”
“I…I don’t recognize you.”
“Ah. I am Marina.” Tracie moved to the woman and stuck her hand out hesitantly. “I just moved into the empty unit, and this is my first day of working my new job and I’m locked out and now I’m going to be late, and…this day is just a disaster already and it has only just begun!”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 134