Because that was what the situation had turned into: a job to complete, a mission to accomplish. The self-recrimination, the breakdown Tracie knew to be inevitable, would have to wait.
Ryan continued to smile at her, his eyes never leaving her own.
“Thank you,” he whispered without the slightest trace of a stutter.
One of the first things Tracie had learned during her long-ago agency training was how to shoot a gun accurately. She’d learned the trigger was to be squeezed. Not pulled, and certainly not yanked.
Squeezed. Like a lover’s caress.
She’d never forgotten that training and every time she’d fired a weapon since, the voice of her instructor had flashed through her head with the reminder to squeeze the trigger like a lover.
Every single time.
That was what she did now. She squeezed the trigger more gently than she’d ever done, and a split-second later Ryan Smith’s suffering ended without his eyes ever leaving Tracie’s face.
Then they were blank and she was alone.
She hadn’t even lowered the gun when the door opened behind her and there was a rustling of clothing and a shuffling of feet on the floor.
And a stunned voice said in Russian, “What is going on here?”
33
February 3, 1988
12:20 p.m.
Ipatiev Military Research Facility
Vladimir Protasov didn’t think he’d ever been quite as nervous in his entire life as he found himself at this very moment.
He hadn’t had the chance to monitor the American CIA agent’s recovery from surgery, thanks to Colonel Kopalev’s arrival and Major Stepanov’s insistence Vlad greet the colonel personally. Vlad was certain he’d been forced to attend that meeting because Stepanov knew Vlad had been overstating his project’s progress on his monthly reports to Lubyanka. The base commander wanted to ensure the KGB’s attention was directed squarely toward the guilty party—Professor Vladimir Protasov—and not at Commander Stepanov himself.
And as far as that went, Vlad couldn’t really blame the major. It was every man for himself when it came to insulating one’s career from the scrutiny of men like Colonel Kopalev.
But since Vlad had not been able to monitor the subject’s recovery, he had no way of knowing just how badly he’d screwed the pooch during surgery. The situation was grim, he knew that much after dozens of operations on dozens of other test subjects, but he could not begin to ascertain just how grim until the sedatives wore off and the subject regained consciousness.
Unless, of course…
No.
No.
Do not even consider the possibility that the man has not survived, that you will walk into the subject’s room in the company of the highest-ranking member of the KGB you will ever meet, only to discover the American CIA agent dead, still chained to his hospital bed.
Vlad swallowed heavily as his extremities turned semi-numb and he realized that once again he’d not been paying the slightest attention to the conversation of the other two men. Major Stepanov had insisted on giving Kopalev a brief tour of the rest of the facility before moving to Vlad’s research tunnel, but while the KGB man agreed, the tour had been conducted mostly in a frosty silence, with Kopalev chafing visibly at the delay.
Finally, while observing scientists engaged in the miniaturization of nuclear devices designed to operate as weapons, Kopalev had said, “This is all well and good, and I commend you, Major, on keeping Ipatiev operating smoothly.”
Stepanov beamed, his chest puffing out slightly.
“But this is not the reason I left Moscow and traveled all the way to Bashkir,” the KGB man continued. “Let us move along. I am a busy man and I would like to see Professor Protasov’s work for myself. I look forward to gazing into our American friend’s eyes while he rhapsodizes about the glories of the Soviet system.”
“Of course, Colonel,” Major Stepanov said immediately, and the three men turned and left the nuclear weapons research area behind.
As unhappy as Vlad was to begin moving toward his research suite—it was no exaggeration to say the trip felt like a slog toward his own execution—he still breathed a little easier knowing they were leaving the nuclear lab behind. A lifelong scientist, Vlad was well aware how shoddy the camp’s radiation-monitoring equipment really was. And his fellow researchers were doing some extremely risky work deep inside their tunnels.
“Please try to remember,” Vlad heard himself saying as the three men crunched along the concrete pathways, “the subject’s surgery was completed only a few hours ago. It is often not possible to begin assessing the extent of recovery from such an invasive procedure for days. Only then are we truly able to measure the subject’s suggestibility and begin the first steps of the reprogramming process.”
“It is almost as though you are preparing me for disappointment,” Kopalev said coldly. “Is that the case, Professor? Are you attempting to lower my expectations?”
“No, Colonel, of course not. I am merely suggesting there may not be anything of value to see today, in terms of reprogramming. Still, the visit can be a productive one. You will have the opportunity to view the surgical area, receive a briefing regarding the process of reprogramming and the equipment used to accomplish it, and see for yourself how much—”
“What I want to see, Professor,” Kopalev interrupted, “is an American CIA operative smiling into a television camera and warning the world of the dangers of the United States of America’s imperialist policies. I want to see an American CIA operative taking responsibility for his government’s unprovoked aggression in foreign lands. That is what I want to see, Professor.”
“But, Colonel, surely you understand these things take time.”
“It has already taken ‘time,’ Professor. You have been working at this facility for well over a year. Over the course of that ‘time,’ you have sent me glowing reports of your progress every month, while simultaneously demanding more and better test subjects. I would say the time for patience is past and the time for results has arrived.”
An uneasy silence descended on the group.
Kopalev added, “Or do you disagree?”
“No, sir. Of course not.” Vlad was miserable. He wondered whether his response sounded as ineffectual to the colonel as it did to him. For the thousandth time he cursed his decision to come to this damned research facility in the middle of nowhere.
It occurred to Vlad as they crossed the quadrangle that the crunching of their boots on the frozen ground sounded uncomfortably like gunshots.
The gunshots that would be fired at his execution.
The execution that would surely follow if they descended into his research lab and found the CIA agent dead in his hospital bed.
Maybe the damage would wind up being relatively minor, blurred vision or something along those lines, something a non-scientist like Kopalev would miss. The colonel was a lifelong military man and intelligence officer, not a trained scientist, so his powers of observation might be less than keen when it came to surgical/medical matters.
By now they had entered the base building, the silence of the walk every bit as chilly as the temperatures outside. Vlad glanced to the colonel’s face to find the man staring back at him unblinkingly, and he realized his hopes that the damage he’d done to the CIA agent would go unnoticed were based on nothing more than the rosiest sort of unfounded optimism.
Vlad doubted Kopalev missed much of anything, ever, on any subject.
The silence continued on the elevator ride down to the Psychotronics Suite, Kopalev’s intimidating, Vlad’s nervous. Major Stepanov just seemed relieved someone besides himself was suffering under the white-hot spotlight of Colonel Kopalev’s glare.
They stepped out of the elevator and Vlad briefly considered asking Yuri to join them. He discarded the notion immediately, though. There was no doubt the man was a KGB plant, stationed at the facility to report back to Kopalev. This situation was frightening enough with o
ne KGB man peering over his shoulder, why add a second and make it worse?
Vlad turned left into the hallway and then stopped in front of the door to the CIA man’s room. His palms were sweaty and he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
Maybe Kopalev couldn’t tell.
He turned the handle and entered first. His plan was to walk far enough into the room to allow the other two men inside, then he would stop and launch into a briefing regarding the project before the colonel could ask any questions. He would attempt to gauge the subject’s status as he spoke and would adjust his briefing as necessary, based on what he observed.
It was risky, but what choice did he have?
He took one step into the room and stopped short. Kopalev rammed into him and cursed and Vlad barely noticed in his confusion.
An intruder sat on the edge of February 1’s bed holding a silenced weapon to the subject’s head. As Vlad watched, the intruder—at first Vlad thought it was a small man but his eyes widened as he realized it was actually a woman—pulled the trigger on her weapon and February 1’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brain and pulverized bone.
Vlad blinked, unable to process the scene fully.
He said the first thing that popped into his head: “What is going on here?”
34
February 3, 1988
12:25 p.m.
Ipatiev Military Research Facility
Ryan Smith’s room
Tracie never hesitated.
At the sound of the incredulous voice she lifted her gun from Ryan Smith’s now-lifeless head and turned to face the threat, assessing the danger.
Three men. The first had stopped unexpectedly in front of the other two and been shoved from behind. He was older, dressed in civilian clothing and sporting a thick salt-and-pepper beard. He seemed frozen in shock and/or fear. He was likely no more than a minimal threat.
The greater threat would come from behind the first man. Stepping past him on one side was the base commander—Tracie recognized him from her surveillance—and rounding the other side was a second man she did not recognize, dressed in the uniform of a Red Army colonel.
Both men were reaching for their holstered weapons.
Tracie reacted in a split second. She swung her weapon toward the base commander and squeezed off a shot that struck him in the upper body and sent him spinning to the floor.
Instantly she turned her weapon toward the second man and barked, “Don’t do it.”
The Soviet colonel froze with his pistol hovering maybe six inches above his holster.
The first man still hadn’t moved.
For a moment time stood still.
Everything had happened so quickly Tracie could feel the last of Ryan’s blood showering the back of her gun hand even as she held her weapon on the three intruders.
She glanced to her left and saw that the base commander’s weapon had fallen from his hand and skittered to a stop against the wall. It wasn’t within his immediate reach but it was close enough where he could still be dangerous, depending on the severity of his gunshot wound.
At the moment he was sprawled on the floor, moaning.
Tracie returned her attention to the Red Army colonel. He’d raised his weapon slightly during the half-second she spent analyzing the situation with the base commander.
He was clearly the most dangerous of the three.
She said, “Drop your weapon and kick it across the floor to me,” in Russian.
The man scowled and hesitated.
She aimed at the brass buttons in the middle of his dress overcoat and said quietly, “Do it now or die. Your choice.”
Another brief hesitation and then the man did as instructed. The Makarov semiautomatic pistol dropped to the tile with a metallic clank. He nudged it with his foot and it spun to a stop in front of Tracie.
“Now, reach back and ease the door closed. Do not slam it. I want you to close it so quietly it wouldn’t awaken a newborn baby.”
More scowling from the colonel, but again he followed his instructions. The door closed with a nearly silent snick of the latch.
Tracie returned her attention to the first man, the older one with the beard. He had to be Vladimir Protasov. He still didn’t seem to have moved.
She said, “Did you see what the colonel just did with his weapon?”
He nodded, his eyes glazed and unfocused, aimed more or less in the direction of the now-dead Ryan Smith.
“Good,” Tracie said. “I want you to step over your base commander and kick his gun toward me, exactly as the colonel just did. Can you do that?”
The man she assumed was Protasov nodded and moved to do as Tracie asked. The Red Army colonel hissed something Tracie could not make out and the man flinched but kept going.
A moment later that gun slid to a stop next to the first.
Tracie crouched, keeping her weapon trained on the colonel, and lifted the guns off the floor, one by one. She slipped them into the waistband of her trousers at the small of her back and then rose to her feet.
“Everybody move up against the wall,” she said, gesturing with her gun. She wanted to get the three men away from the entry door. She could stand to the side and be more or less out of view through the tiny windows, but she knew if someone should pass by and see three men clustered where they were currently standing, she would likely have a fourth captive to deal with.
And the situation was already dire with three.
The base commander had rolled onto his side, and now he staggered to his feet. Tracie could see that her bullet had struck the man in his upper left arm, and it hung limply at his side. He and the civilian complied, shuffling to the side wall and standing motionless against it.
The colonel didn’t move. Instead, he said, “I do not know where you came from or why you just killed an unarmed man, but I am sure you understand you will never make it out of this facility alive.”
“Thanks for your perspective,” Tracie said coldly. “But if you don’t do exactly as your two friends just did and move against that wall, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart and you’ll never have the opportunity to see how wrong you were about what you just said.”
The man began moving, albeit slowly, presumably to make a point. But at least he was moving.
Tracie continued, “And spare me your false concern about the prisoner lying chained to the bed next to me. You people turned a healthy young man into a near invalid in a matter of days. Before he died, he told me exactly what you were doing to him and it makes me sick. Feigning concern for his welfare now means nothing.”
The colonel’s eyes darkened and he turned his attention to the civilian. “A near invalid? Is she telling the truth? What did you do to the shiny new subject I provided you, Doctor?”
Protasov swallowed heavily. “I-I don’t know what she’s talking ab—”
“That’s enough,” Tracie snapped. She stepped toward the colonel. “You say you provided the ‘subject’ to the doctor? So you’re in charge of this shit show you call a project?”
The colonel nodded toward the civilian in disgust. “He is the one who apparently destroyed your now-dead friend’s brain in record time.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Tracie said. “But thank you for clarifying everyone’s role in this brutality.”
The base commander stumbled forward a half step. Tracie swung her weapon in his direction as he dropped to one knee and said, “I have been shot. I need medical attention.”
“I’ve been in your shoes,” she said. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”
“I need a doctor.”
“There’s one standing right next to you,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Although, given his track record I can’t say I blame you for wanting a second opinion.”
“Please,” he said. “I am bleeding.”
Tracie pursed her lips and considered the situation. The Red Army colonel was not just the most dangerous man in the room, he was also the most important;
that much was obvious. The civilian doctor—Protasov—was just another researcher, one of dozens she’d seen during her surveillance and her time on the base, and the commander was the Soviet equivalent of a bureaucratic pencil pusher. If he’d ever fired his weapon in anger it was undoubtedly years ago, maybe decades.
But the colonel was another story.
He was a bigshot.
His status was obvious just from Tracie’s brief observance of both the deference the other two men offered him and the way he’d naturally taken charge when confronted with this unexpected situation. He was a man comfortable with giving orders, and someone who fully expected those orders to be obeyed.
And he was almost certainly KGB. The kind of mind control efforts Ryan described before his death would fall under their purview. Therefore, if the colonel scowling at Tracie from halfway across the room was in charge of this abomination, he was a KGB officer. It was as simple as that.
She considered the man’s rank, considered the KGB in general and how its structure was remarkably similar to that of the CIA, once you got past the differing political/governmental philosophies. Both organizations featured hierarchies that required virtually blind obedience to orders that often seemed difficult to understand—and even occasionally downright nonsensical—to the operative on the receiving end.
Tracie’s own professional history had made her acutely aware of that particular CIA policy. She’d nearly lost her career more than once for questioning it.
Since the KGB operated in a similar manner, maybe there was a way to use that knowledge to her benefit. The death of Ryan Smith—he didn’t just die, you killed him flashed through her head and then disappeared, but she knew the accusation was accurate, and knew also it would return to haunt her again soon enough—had changed her focus from rescuing a colleague to simply escaping with her life.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 140