She drank her tea and gazed at the Eiffel Tower and wracked her brain in an effort to develop an alternative to wandering the city aimlessly looking for a KGB agent she was clearly never going to find until he was ready to show himself.
The tea was delicious.
The view was spectacular.
Her life was falling apart.
7
May 15, 1988
12:30 a.m.
Hôtel de Crillon, Paris, France
Sleep came grudgingly for Tracie, and when it arrived it didn’t stay long.
For more than two hours after crawling under the covers she tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling. Finally she dropped into a troubled slumber and then jerked awake, sweaty and shaking, after maybe twenty minutes. Calmed herself and tried again, eventually falling asleep only to have the same thing happen forty minutes later.
She slipped out of bed and wandered to the window and spent nearly half an hour gazing across the city at the Eiffel Tower. The time was after three a.m. so the city was mostly—but not entirely—deserted. Occasional groups of tourists wandered the streets, undoubtedly sacrificing rest to get the most out of their Paris experience.
After a while her eyes began to droop, so she gave sleep one more try. She wandered back to her bed and dropped off almost immediately, lasting nearly a full hour before again awakening, this time shaking from the aftereffects of a nightmare, and with the strong suspicion she may have screamed herself awake.
It was four-thirty a.m.
Resigned to the fact that she would get no more sleep tonight—which meant possibly ever—Tracie rose one last time and padded to the bathroom. She stepped out of her pajamas and into the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water was as cold as she could stand it. The chilly water allowed for clarity of thought unlike anything else she’d ever experienced.
The inability to sleep came as an unexpected and unpleasant surprise. Tracie had long since learned to recognize the sense of anticipation that accompanied the beginning of a new mission. Butterflies in her stomach, the slow build of adrenaline, the hyper-awareness resulting from extreme focus on a situation.
That was all very familiar.
But this was different.
This was something akin to terror. She wasn’t afraid to die; she’d never feared losing her life in defense of her country. But she’d never considered the possibility she might be murdered while acting solely as a target, either, being gunned down by a disgruntled KGB agent extracting revenge on her for the sin of allowing him to live when she should have pulled the trigger on the murderous bastard the minute he’d surrendered the intel she needed.
Tracie eased off the cold water, gradually warming her now-shivering body. She would face the day with courage and determination, just like she faced every other day, no matter her fate. It was what her father and mother would expect of her and, more importantly, what she expected of herself.
If her fate was to die, she would do so with dignity.
She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, dressing slowly and then making another cup of tea, which she brought to her now-familiar spot at the window. The Eiffel Tower still rose in the distance, immutable. It had been standing long before Tracie’s birth and would remain so long after she was gone, whether that day was today or in seventy years.
***
The knock came at her hotel room door at precisely seven a.m.
Tracie had been told to expect a visit from Deputy Chief of Mission Henry Gatlin, now the ranking American diplomat in France with Ambassador Clayton Leavell lying on a slab in a French morgue. Gatlin would brief her on what to expect during her upcoming tour of the embassy.
Tracie thought she already had a pretty good idea what to expect.
She hurried across the hotel room and said, “Yes?” raising her voice to be heard through the closed door. There was no reason to believe her early-morning visitor was anyone but Henry Gatlin, because there was no reason to believe anyone else knew she was even in France yet, but bitter experience had taught her to take nothing for granted, ever.
“Deputy Chief of Mission Henry Gatlin to see Ms. Fiona Quinn, ma’am.” It was a man’s voice, and it was muffled as the speaker in the hallway did his best not to disturb any sleeping guests.
Tracie pressed her eye to the peephole in the door and saw two men standing on the other side. The man closest the door was armed and wore the uniform of a U.S. Marine. On his uniform was a patch bearing the logo of the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, the Marine detachment charged with providing security at American embassies, consulates and other official U.S. government installations.
Standing behind the armed marine was a tall, skeletal-looking middle-aged man dressed impeccably in a gray suit and blue tie under an unbuttoned black full-length overcoat. On his head was a fedora. He stood patiently, arms hanging in front of his body and clasped at the hands.
It had to be Gatlin. Tracie had spent many hours face-to-face with Piotr Speransky, torturing and interrogating him back in Moscow, and neither one of these men remotely resembled the Russian assassin.
She swung the door open and stood to the side, indicating the interior of the room. “Please come in, gentlemen.”
“I’ll wait out here, ma’am, thank you.” The marine stood to the side to allow his boss to pass and then placed himself directly in front of the door, facing the hallway, without another word as the skeletal man in the suit entered.
She closed the door and the man turned and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Quinn.”
“Likewise, Chief Gatlin,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “Although I wish the meeting was under better circumstances.”
She wondered whether he was aware of how much responsibility she bore for the current unpleasant circumstances. If he knew, he was doing a good job hiding it. He seemed pleasant and professional, if somewhat somber. Tracie supposed having your boss gunned down in his own office and then taking over the top spot while the killer remained on the loose would have a sobering effect on just about anyone.
“Call me Henry,” he said. He had removed his fedora upon entering her room and now stood fingering the brim nervously as he faced her.
“Please have a seat, Henry,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, no. And I’ll stand. I’m far too upset to sit, and as far as tea is concerned, I haven’t been eating or sleeping since Ambassador Leavell’s body was discovered. The last thing I need is caffeine.”
I know a little bit about insomnia myself, Tracie thought, but said only, “I understand.”
“So,” Gatlin said after a deep breath. “The purpose of my visit this morning is to prepare you for your embassy tour.” He continued to meet her gaze only with extreme reluctance, locking eyes for a moment only to slide them away, focusing on something over her shoulder.
It was unnerving and unexpected, particularly given the man’s status as a professional diplomat. For a moment Tracie was thrown off, and then the likely explanation for the man’s excessive nervousness occurred to her.
“How many people know about the note found on Ambassador Leavell’s body?” she said, speaking quietly but focusing on the man’s eyes, willing him to meet her gaze.
“Only a few. Me, of course, given the fact I am—was—second in command at the embassy as well as the person who found the body. French officials, the lead law enforcement investigator, and also the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group.”
“So then, you are aware the note was left for me.”
“I wasn’t, until I entered your room and saw your hair. Then it became…”
“Self-evident,” Tracie suggested.
“Yes.”
“Let me make something clear, Mr. Gatlin. I don’t expect you, or anyone else for that matter, to accompany me outside the embassy complex. Once we get inside—” if I make it that far, she thought but did not say—“we can meet up to continue the tour.”
“Of course not,” Tracie said. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger unnecessarily, particularly you. You’re critical to maintaining the integrity of our diplomatic mission, now that Ambassador Leavell is gone.”
They stood staring at each other for a moment, neither speaking, and then Tracie said, “So you’re here to brief me on the locations and tactics of law enforcement and intelligence personnel surrounding the embassy. What do you say we get started?”
Gatlin dithered a moment longer. The man was clearly shaken. Finally he nodded. He turned toward the writing desk next to Tracie’s window and on it, unfolded a map of the embassy complex and surrounding area. The map was dotted with marks made in red pen.
Tracie listened carefully as he began speaking, although from her perspective his explanation was hardly necessary. The meaning of the red marks was clear from the moment she looked at them, and they had nothing to do with protecting Tracie. They were the places the good guys would lie in wait to capture the KGB assassin after he’d dropped Tracie with sniper fire.
8
May 15, 1988
7:50 a.m.
Hôtel de Crillon
She waited fifteen minutes after Gatlin and his escort departed before leaving her hotel room.
The U.S. deputy chief of mission to France—now, Tracie supposed, the acting U.S. ambassador to France—could not have been more clear in his desire to be as far away from the prospective murder victim as possible. That was her wish as well, so she gave him plenty of time to return to the relative security of the embassy complex before proceeding.
She wanted to feel anger or disgust at Gatlin for his cowardice but couldn’t quite manage it. His boss had been gunned down execution style in his own office for the express purpose of luring Tracie here, and then he was given the unenviable task of meeting with her? With the assassin still on the loose and presumably still in Paris?
Tracie and Henry Gatlin had no connection other than the dead ambassador, so Gatlin had no personal stake in trying to protect her. And he was obviously bright enough to know his odds of survival took a dramatic turn for the worse in her presence, so his desire to get the hell away made perfect sense.
It didn’t make Tracie feel any better, but it was understandable.
To make matters worse, there was no guarantee Piotr Speransky was holed up in some sniper blind waiting to gun Tracie down outside the embassy. That was the working theory, and why Aaron Stallings had felt comfortable instructing Gatlin to meet her here in her hotel room.
But Tracie felt it was just as likely Speransky was remaining mobile in order to avoid being discovered by French authorities and trapped before he could escape. And if that were the case, and he’d seen Gatlin and the guard leaving the embassy, it would be a simple matter for the professional operative to tail the two men here.
And if that were the case, she might never even make it as far as the embassy. She could be ambushed the moment she stepped into the hotel’s hallway, or shot as she crossed the first floor lobby, or murdered anywhere between her hotel room and the embassy.
She’d mentioned her misgivings to Stallings as they spoke via secure satellite connection inside the CIA’s Gulfstream after departing Washington National, but he’d disregarded them entirely. “The Marine Embassy Security Group is aware of the need for secrecy, so Chief Gatlin will leave the embassy complex through a little-used tunnel. No one watching the embassy will see him, and the detachment in charge of security at our Paris facility is among the best in the world. You’ll be fine.”
“Really?” she’d said. “If the embassy security group is so good, how did Speransky manage to access the complex and murder a sitting ambassador in his own office, and then escape undetected? Sounds like real quality protective work, there.”
“Knock it off, Tanner,” Stallings had said, his annoyance clear. “You know as well as I do that with proper planning a professional can access virtually any location. You could do it. Hell, you have done it, many times. So I don’t want to hear your crap. Meeting Gatlin inside your room is much safer than meeting him anywhere in public, so that’s the way it’s going to be.”
She’d bitten her tongue, having dealt with Stallings long enough to know she had a better chance of winning the lottery and getting hit by lightning on the same day than changing his mind once he’d made it up. But that didn’t mean she felt good about it.
Especially now, pacing her room, checking her watch every thirty seconds, waiting for enough time to go by so she could go out and meet her fate. She’d never been particularly good at waiting, unless the prospective payoff at the end of the wait was going to be something worthwhile.
Getting shot in the street didn’t seem to fit the definition.
She adjusted the Kevlar vest under her blouse, wishing she could leave it behind and knowing that wearing it would almost certainly be pointless. Speransky would anticipate body armor, so he would have taken up a position that would allow for a headshot instead. Any high-powered Soviet sniper rifle would pulverize her skull to the point where a closed-casket funeral would be necessary, lest mourners become sick to their stomachs.
She was starting to feel a little queasy herself just thinking about it. Death would be instantaneous, meaning there would be no pain, yet the thought of one or more rounds blasting her skull into gravel was causing her gorge to rise.
Think about something else, dammit, this isn’t productive.
She paced the room a few more times and then muttered, “Okay Gatlin, ready or not, here I come.” She figured she’d given the man plenty of time to lock himself out of harm’s way, but more importantly she didn’t think she could handle one more minute in this tiny space, alone with her thoughts.
She pulled on a light jacket, more to cover her vest and the shoulder holster housing her Beretta than because she thought she would need one, and walked to the hotel room door.
Paused with her hand on the knob and took a deep breath.
Opened the door and stepped into the hallway, bracing for the worst, one hand inside her unzipped jacket on the butt of her gun.
Nothing happened.
There was no bright flash of light, followed by a loss of consciousness.
No bullets ripped into her body.
No one attacked her.
The hallway was deserted. Tracie glanced in both directions and then began moving toward the stairway that opened onto the lobby. It was not the route she would normally have chosen with an assassin lying in wait, and it was almost certainly not the route Deputy Chief of Mission Gatlin had used, but her role in this little drama was solely to act as a target.
So she would take the stairs, and hope Speransky wasn’t waiting for her in one of the stairwells. She kept her hand on her gun as she walked, determined to give him a little something to remember her by in the event he was bold—or careless—enough to allow himself to be seen.
Nothing.
She descended the stairs and crossed the lobby, a little surprised to still be breathing by the time she exited the hotel.
The morning was overcast but warm and humid, with low grey clouds threatening deluge at any moment. Tracie would have liked to wear a hat or at least use an umbrella, but the plan was to allow Speransky to identify her by her flame red hair, and to do so, he had to be able to see her flame red hair. She thought the only thing worse than dying by an assassin’s bullet would be getting soaked to the bone first.
Her nerves were strung as tightly as she could ever recall as she turned toward the embassy. It would be a short walk, with the embassy complex located just across a narrow alley from the Hôtel de Crillon. Not for the first time, Tracie considered the possibility that she and her killer had spent the night within a few hundred yards of each other.
She walked slowly, balancing her desire to not get killed with
the need to complete her mission. She couldn’t imagine ever receiving an assignment that would be more distasteful than serving as a human bulls-eye, but it was her fault Piotr Speransky was still alive to target her—not to mention a half-dozen innocent Americans—so she would complete this mission to the best of her ability.
After crossing Rue Boissy d’Anglas, Tracie approached a group of a half-dozen or so men dressed in long black trench coats loitering just outside the embassy’s front gate. Their status as investigators, law enforcement or intelligence personnel could not have been more obvious, and she knew they could only be there for one purpose: to meet with her.
To their credit, none of the men shied away as she approached. They must be aware of the situation and that bullets could begin flying at any moment, but unlike Henry Gatlin, they seemed accustomed to dealing with dangerous situations.
One of the men said something to the others, nodding in Tracie’s direction, and then all heads turned toward her and watched her approach. When she was maybe eight feet away, one man, presumably in charge, stepped away from the others and extended his hand.
“Fiona Quinn?” he said in understandable if heavily French-accented English.
“That’s right,” she answered, and shook his hand. “You are?”
“I am Chief Inspector Jacques Guillard, and this is my team. We are here investigating the murder of Ambassador Leavell and were asked to escort you on your tour of the crime scene. I wish to assure you that we take your safety very seriously, and will do everything in our power to ensure your safety as we proceed.”
His grip was strong and confident and despite her tension, Tracie immediately liked the man. He had to know he could be splattered with blood and bone and human tissue at any moment—hell, he might get taken out himself—but if he was feeling any fear, nothing in his demeanor gave it away.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 150