It was worth the risk.
She watched the two men saunter down the corridor. They weren’t soldiers, and even though they were still dressed in their heavy winter overcoats Tracie took them to be researchers, or scientists, or academics of some kind, much like the man she’d tricked to gain entrance to the subway station. They appeared unarmed.
They moved slightly more than two-thirds of the way down the hall and then disappeared into a room on the right side.
Tracie leaned out a little farther and counted the doors. She didn’t want to discover the hard way that she had been mistaken about where those two men had gone.
This portion of the facility was once again silent and empty.
It seemed there should be more activity given the size of the base and the number of rooms lining the hallway.
How many other corridors like this one had been built in this underground labyrinth?
What might the Soviets be doing down here?
And most importantly, where was Ryan Smith being held and what was being done to him?
So far, more questions were being raised than answered.
27
February 3, 1988
8:30 a.m.
Ipatiev Military Research Facility
Tracie eased the door closed after the two men disappeared into the room down the long hallway.
She was conscious of the time ticking away and the need to keep moving if she were to have any chance whatsoever of rescuing Ryan Smith before she had to escape the base and make her way to the extraction point. The tunnels crisscrossing the ground below this base were extensive, she could see that already, and there was no way of knowing how many she would have to slog through before locating Smith.
Or if it were even possible.
But she’d been sent to the Ural Mountains on a mission that had nothing to do with rescuing a captured operative: to learn all she could about this newly discovered secret facility. And while her top priority had shifted the moment she saw Ryan exit that cargo truck in chains and under armed guard, she still had a responsibility to accomplish her assignment to the best of her ability.
Which meant she should take a couple of minutes to examine this storeroom before continuing on.
The room was shaped in what appeared to be a near-perfect square. Rows of metal shelving lined the interior, all covered with crates and cartons and boxes. Some were sealed, others had been opened or had their tops removed.
A quick walk-through was all it took for a chill to run down Tracie’s spine. There were gas masks of endless shapes and sizes. Tanks that resembled fire extinguishers, some as tall as Tracie and others so small they would fit in the palm of her hand. There were nozzles and hoses and gauges and clear masks without gas filters built in, as well as standard scientific gear, such as beakers and Bunsen burners and cleaning materials.
And there were biohazard suits. Two rows of shelving were dedicated solely to various sizes of full-body coveralls that resembled what an astronaut might wear to conduct a moonwalk. Varying thicknesses suggested differing uses, as well as graduated levels of protection from a variety of substances.
Everything inside this storage area seemed related to one endeavor: the production and testing of toxic chemical materials or hazardous gases.
That in itself was not particularly surprising. U.S. intelligence services had long been aware of Soviet chemical and biological weapons manufacturing programs. Specifics of the programs were nebulous, due to the limited number of operatives working inside the Soviet Union and the sheer vastness of the area throughout which the manufacturing plants were located, but its existence was undisputed.
Tracie was certain that similar programs were being vigorously pursued inside the United States and elsewhere in the world. They were an unfortunate component of modern foreign policy.
But the fact that this research was being conducted deep underground, inside a military base that had only recently come to the attention of the United States, was more problematic than the knowledge the Soviets had opened a new chemical/biological research facility. Was it because this program was dedicated to the most deadly of gases, chemicals and nerve agents, or was there some other reason?
Tracie chewed on her lower lip as she considered the implications. It was clear she wouldn’t be able to reach any conclusions based on the inspection of one small storage room, and it wasn’t her job to reach those conclusions, anyway. That task would be left to teams of men and women who would analyze reams of data, and high-level intelligence specialists who would interpret that data.
Her job was to continue on.
She snapped a few pictures, then stashed her mini-camera and crept to the door, where she pressed her eye to the tiny window and scanned what she could of the outside hallway. It appeared deserted.
She turned the handle and cracked the door just far enough to check the length of the hallway.
Empty.
Then she pushed the door open a little farther, eased through and began walking down the long corridor toward the exit in the distance. Her concern about being seen by someone inside one of the rooms lining the hallway was minimal, thanks to the size of the windows. Anyone who happened to glance out would see only a small slice of corridor, and if Tracie happened to be walking past at that exact moment, the observer would see nothing more than a split-second flash of movement.
It would be impossible for anyone inside one of the rooms, no matter how sharp-eyed, to recognize the person roaming the tunnels outside as an interloper.
The situation would change in an instant, of course, if one of the doors should open and someone step into the hallway. But Tracie guessed she should be okay for a while in that regard. The workday had only begun ninety minutes ago, and she doubted the Soviet researchers’ routines included a liberal break schedule.
She took her time, peering as closely into the rooms as reasonably possible without stopping and pressing her eyes to the glass. The same situation that made it relatively safe for her to roam the hallway—the tiny windows—was a major drawback in terms of allowing her to examine the rooms on her way by, but most of them appeared to be laboratories or research areas.
A few of the spaces appeared empty, although there was no way to know for sure without entering them, and Tracie didn’t dare take that step. But inside most of them men in lab coats or wearing protective gear were hard at work, peering into microscopes or measuring unknown substances in test tubes or heating liquids in glass containers.
No one paid the slightest attention to the hallway, where an increasingly concerned Tracie Tanner slowed at each door and glanced inside.
Before long she had reached the end of the hallway and the reinforced metal door. Without knowing what might be on the other side of the door she had no idea how to proceed, but she supposed there wasn’t much choice involved. It wasn’t like she had any intention of turning around.
She eased the exit door open as quietly as possible and pushed through.
On the other side, a system of concrete tunnels branched off in three directions. The tunnels were slightly wider than the shafts containing the stairs Tracie had descended earlier, but just as poorly lit and the sound of the metal door closing echoed off in all directions despite the fact she’d tried to be as quiet as possible. Narrow rivulets of water meandered down the tunnel walls in various locations, frozen in place by the bitter Ural winter cold.
Tracie pondered her three options, trying to decide which way to proceed, when the sound of echoing footsteps floated through one of the tunnels.
She stood motionless, listening closely. It was impossible to tell which tunnel contained the person or persons she could hear. The footfalls were everywhere and nowhere, initially little more than a vague rumor but slowly increasing in volume. Someone was definitely approaching.
Tracie remained directly in the center of the small concrete vestibule, determined not to charge randomly down one of the tunnels and potentially straight into a Russian sol
dier. Each tunnel curved out of sight within twenty feet of her current location, so as long as she chose one of the two empty tunnels to follow, the approaching person would never know she was there.
The heavy clop-clop-clop of footfalls on concrete told her it was definitely a man. That came as little surprise, since with the exception of the half-dozen female administrative staff members, Tracie had seen only a handful of women inside the base. But as the man came closer and the sound gained clarity, she became convinced it was a soldier and not a researcher. The footfalls screamed “combat boots,” not winter boots like a scientist would wear.
As was the case with the men descending the stairs behind her a little while ago, Tracie had no doubt she could handle one Russian soldier, particularly given the advantage of surprise. But there was nowhere convenient inside these drab and dirty tunnels to stash a body. The incapacitated soldier would be discovered quickly and once that happened, the nature of Tracie’s mission would change dramatically.
It was critical she avoid confrontation as long as possible.
The footsteps continued to get louder, which meant the soldier continued to get closer, and soon Tracie became convinced the man was inside the tunnel to her right.
She hesitated a moment longer to be sure, and then began moving quietly along the tunnel to the left. Silence came from that direction, and the tunnel would place her as far from the approaching soldier as possible, provided he didn’t immediately follow. If he was on routine patrol she guessed he would reach the vestibule and turn down the middle tunnel. It would make the most sense from a security perspective.
She moved quickly but quietly, alert for any sign of danger. After the initial curve of almost ninety degrees to the left, Tracie saw that the tunnel straightened and continued for a long distance.
There would be no way to outrun the soldier if he chose her tunnel to patrol, so she stopped just beyond the curved portion and waited, hidden in the shadows. If he rounded the corner she would have no choice but to disable him and worry later about the negative consequences that would follow.
She flexed her fingers and developed a quick strategy to deal with the soldier should it become necessary. Pulling her Beretta was the last option, because a gunshot would sound about as loud as a thunderbolt given the acoustics. She resolved to throat-punch him the moment he rounded the corner. That would put him down, and once he fell she would use the crook of her arm to cut off the air supply through his windpipe.
He would be unconscious within seconds.
Then she would disarm him and continue moving.
She leaned against the cold concrete and listened carefully. The footfalls were loud and well defined, and Tracie thought if she could reach around the curved tunnel wall right now she would likely be able to punch the man in the jaw.
Just seconds to go. The sentry would either appear around the corner or the sound of the footsteps would begin to fade away. Tracie’s hands were shaking slightly, not from fear but from adrenaline. She’d been in similar situations before, many times, and she faced them with a confidence born of training combined with experience.
Time slowed as she waited for the soldier to make his decision and unwittingly choose his fate. The footsteps had stopped entirely and for a moment Tracie thought she’d been discovered and that the soldier was now somehow stalking her.
Then the sound of a match scraping against a striker was followed by a flare of light from around the corner and the smell of cigarette smoke. The soldier had chosen this moment to take a smoke break.
Tracie cursed inwardly. She couldn’t afford to stand here idle while some twenty-two year old Russian kid sneaked a smoke, but she didn’t have much choice, either. If she eased down the tunnel and the kid chose that moment to snuff out his cigarette and continue his patrol in her direction she would be a sitting duck.
So she waited.
One minute passed, and then two became three, and then she heard the scraping of boot on cement that told her the soldier had finished his break.
She tensed up again as the sound of footsteps began anew.
A moment later they began to fade. The soldier had chosen the middle tunnel in which to continue his patrol.
You have no idea how lucky you are. The thought flashed through Tracie’s head, and it occurred to her she wasn’t sure whether it was directed at the anonymous soldier or herself.
Not that it really mattered.
She took a deep breath and continued moving down the tunnel she’d chosen, silent and undetected, a lonely wraith surrounded by enemies.
28
February 3, 1988
11:05 a.m.
Ipatiev Military Research Facility
Administration Building
“Colonel Kopalev, I am thrilled you have chosen to travel all the way to Bashkir for a personal update on our project,” Vladimir Protasov heard himself say. He hoped the lie wasn’t as obvious to the KGB man as it sounded to himself.
Kopalev smiled. To Vlad, the look was utterly devoid of warmth. It more closely resembled the expression of a cat toying with a mouse just before breaking its back.
“This trip is long overdue,” Kopalev said. “Given the fact that you have yet to offer any tangible return on the KGB’s investment of time and money, I felt perhaps a little personal…motivation, shall we say…might be appropriate. As we discussed on the telephone.”
“Of course,” Vlad answered. The words rang hollow in his ears. It was as if they were being spoken by someone else. A stranger. It was hard to concentrate over the rising sense of panic he’d felt ever since learning Kopalev would be coming to Ipatiev for no other reason than to review Vlad’s work.
For a time after beginning this project, Vlad had felt insulated from the expectation of results, Kopalev’s near-constant hectoring notwithstanding. Vlad had anticipated a situation similar to what he’d experienced throughout his career in academia: once a year the university administration would request an accounting of Vlad’s research, and once a year Vlad would claim progress.
He would back up his claim via a scholarly research paper, often authored by an assistant, and despite the paper being virtually devoid of any evidence of the progress he claimed, everyone would go away happy until the following year, when the process would be repeated.
It was only recently that Vlad had begun to realize doing research for the KGB was far different from doing research for a mostly disinterested university chancellor. Colonel Kopalev expected real results, and Vlad was learning that producing those results was far more difficult than simply claiming them.
For what was likely the first time in his adult life—certainly for the first time since he’d begun this damned project—Vladimir Protasov yearned for the innumerable layers of bureaucracy infused into the Soviet academic world. Those layers had allowed him to develop a sterling reputation and relatively high standard of living without ever actually producing anything of value.
Even worse, the intensity of Kopalev’s interest in his project was frightening.
The colonel had recruited Vlad by making it clear that human behavioral modification through electrical brain stimulation was a top KGB priority, and while signing on to such a high-profile project was a good thing in terms of receiving funding, it also came with an unanticipated negative: Colonel Kopalev expected far more dramatic results far more quickly than was reasonable by any scientific measure.
And the colonel was extremely hands-on.
And he was here at Ipatiev.
And Vlad had precious little good news to report.
His surgery on the prized test subject, the American CIA officer delivered to the camp by Kopalev himself, had not gone well. He’d begun work early, practically in the middle of the night, rushing the job in anticipation of Kopalev’s pending arrival, desperate for a positive result to show off to the colonel.
But the operation had not gone as anticipated. Vlad hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks, and last night’s insomnia had bee
n the worst. He doubted he’d dozed for more than an hour, and when he finally arose at four a.m., bleary-eyed and shaky, he downed two cups of strong black tea just to get his blood pumping.
Then he stumbled across the camp, deserted at such an early hour, and down the elevator to the operating room in the center of his research suite.
The operation had begun well before sunrise, and with Vlad sloppy from nerves and lack of sleep the mistakes came almost immediately, one after the other. There was no way of knowing how badly he’d botched things until the subject’s anesthesia wore off fully and Vlad could begin assessing the man’s condition, but he knew better than to hope for much.
In particular, the depth of the burr hole was a cause for major concern. Vlad had drilled too far, and to top things off he suspected he’d done so at the wrong angle as well. Precision was critical, and even a slight error could cause unexpected—and drastic—negative results, including strokes, seizures, paralysis and occasionally death.
Thus far the subject was alive—or at least he had been when Vlad last checked on him prior to coming aboveground for this meeting—but that was all he knew for certain.
And that would not be nearly enough to satisfy Colonel Kopalev.
The best-case scenario was that the damage Vlad had caused would not be readily apparent at this early stage of the subject’s recovery process. Maybe he could hide that damage from the colonel during this visit. Then, once the man returned to Moscow, Vlad would come up with a reasonable explanation for the subject’s demise, one that would not arouse the colonel’s suspicion.
It would not be easy, but Vlad could only worry about one thing at a time, and his current concern was simply with getting through today alive. Tomorrow’s concerns would have to wait.
Vlad looked up at Colonel Kopalev and then across the desk at Major Antonin Kuznetsov, Ipatiev’s Base Commander. He realized with a sinking feeling that he’d been so deep in thought regarding how he might survive the next few hours that he had retreated entirely from the conversation. It was obvious from the looks on the men’s faces that one of them had asked him a question, and he had no idea what that question might be.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 137