While he hated utilizing that cash for anything besides its intended purpose—his retirement—Piotr had known he would stand no chance of learning his tormentor’s identity without sacrificing a large chunk of it.
Given the importance of learning her identity, he accepted as the cost of doing business that the money must be spent. He had a plan for replacing it, if his superiors kept their word and allowed him to live.
But that was a concern for the future.
He had known exactly who to bribe. Vasily Labochev had been station chief at the KGB’s Leningrad facility for decades. Labochev was legendary among operatives for two things: his love of hookers and his rumored ability to procure any information on any subject.
For the right price, of course.
Supposedly, Labochev’s connections were so extensive he could wrangle a copy of the ignition key to Ronald Reagan’s presidential limousine, or the banking information—including account numbers—for any sitting or ex-United States senator.
Anything.
But the price had to be right. Ordinary Josefs or Sergeis could not hope to obtain the kind of financing required even to approach Vasily Labochev, much less to purchase his cooperation.
Piotr was no ordinary Josef or Sergei. He raided a half-dozen of his hiding places, emptying them out until he decided he’d collected enough to make a favorable impression even on someone as powerful as Vasily Labochev.
Then he emptied out two more, leaving just one untouched.
Over the course of an exhausting nine days of continent hopping, Piotr wiped out eighty percent of the fortune it had taken him nearly twenty years to build.
But he didn’t care. He still had his most lucrative hiding place. The one he left untouched still contained enough money with which to finance his disappearance, assuming the KGB didn’t eliminate him before he could do so. And if it was going to cost him three million United States dollars to extract revenge on the redheaded cyka who had humiliated him and caused him to lose his career and his reputation, well, in Piotr’s opinion that was money well spent.
He had collected all the money and approached Labochev.
And been summarily dismissed.
Until lining up the three gym bags on Labochev’s living room floor and unzipping them with a flourish, bags filled to the brim with stacks of unmarked U.S. dollars.
Suddenly Vasily Labochev’s demeanor changed, so much so that Piotr was thankful he’d approached Labochev armed to the teeth.
Ten days after that, Labochev provided Piotr with the information he required, in exchange for all those liquid assets. Piotr had no idea how Labochev had gotten the intel, and he didn’t care.
He supposed it was technically possible Labochev’s information was inaccurate, that the longtime KGB station chief had simply made something up to mollify Piotr and get his hands on that mountain of cash. But he didn’t think so. Piotr’s reputation was sufficiently well known to KGB insiders. Labochev would understand the consequences he would suffer for lying to Piotr, particularly given the amount of money involved in the transaction.
That being the case, Piotr felt as confident as he could reasonably be that he’d gotten what he paid for: the identity of his American inquisitor.
Her name was Tracie Tanner. She’d been a CIA operative until a little more than a year ago, when she’d lost her job, fired from the agency for insubordination. That was the official version.
Obviously, the official version was inaccurate. Obviously, her firing had been nothing more than a cover allowing the U.S. intelligence service to place her inside the most dangerous and risky locations across the Soviet Union.
The torture of Piotr Speransky and the ensuing assassination of Slava Marinov on the streets of Moscow would have been just such an assignment. Had it gone wrong, and Tanner been apprehended or killed, the United States government would have distanced itself from the operation, feigning innocence and claiming Tanner had gone rogue.
The trace of a smile flitted across Piotr Speransky’s face, all alone and crouched in a small wooded clearing in extreme northern United States. Then it was gone as Piotr’s now-familiar rage and humiliation resurfaced.
The CIA should never have made this Tracie Tanner the blackest of black ops agents, but she bore even more responsibility than the spy agency for the fate she would soon suffer. Had she only killed Piotr after torturing Marinov’s name and location out of him, she would have been home free right now.
He’d never expected her to allow him to live, even after she agreed to do so.
It simply made no sense from a strategic standpoint. Piotr would never have made such a nonsensical mistake. He’d been in similar situations, many times, as the one holding the power of life or death over another, and he had always made the proper decision. It was an easy one to make.
But no matter. Tracie Tanner was the agent’s name.
Tracie Tanner had made a grave error in judgment in allowing Piotr to live.
And soon Tracie Tanner would pay.
13
May 16, 1988
11:20 p.m.
Jay, Vermont
Piotr was surprised he didn’t feel more tired. He’d slept for a while on his trans-Atlantic flight into Montreal, but air travel through multiple time zones was exhausting, and he’d now been awake for the better part of the last thirty-six hours.
Adrenaline can take the body far, he thought, as can amphetamines. Both were currently racing through Piotr’s body, and while his eyes felt grainy and his eyelids heavy, he was awake and alert and ready to complete the next stage of his mission. He’d been awake for longer time frames and under more dangerous circumstances on other assignments, so he knew he would be fine.
It took less than two hours from the time he recovered his weapons and other supplies in the clearing in northern Vermont to steal a car. Most of that time was spent hiking along Route 243 into the little town of Jay.
Once there, he’d known he would have a wide range of vehicles to choose from, and he was right. Jay was rural and tiny, far off America’s beaten path, and few if any of its residents were wealthy. The vast majority of the houses Piotr knew he would encounter were small and utilitarian, ranch and split-level style homes with gravel driveways. Garages were rare commodities in Jay.
Daylight was still many hours away, so activity was minimal, and the most challenging factor when it came to stealing his transportation was picking out the car that would best suit his needs.
He settled on a small Toyota. It was a few years old, silver, anonymous. During Piotr’s time in the United States he’d seen thousands of cars exactly like it. Once he drove it out of the owner’s yard and swapped license plates with another car, he knew there was almost no chance of being intercepted by the police.
He thought that was very fortunate for the police.
He didn’t even need to break a window to access the car; it had been left unlocked. Piotr shook his head at the foolishness of its owner and in less than thirty seconds had hotwired it. Thirty seconds after that he’d backed out of the owner’s driveway and was on his way toward his ultimate destination.
The distance from Jay, Vermont to Washingon, D.C. was almost exactly six hundred miles, and barring traffic issues—always a possibility in the United States, Piotr knew, no matter the time of the day or day of the week—the drive would take roughly nine and a half hours to complete.
He stopped twice for gas—the damned car’s owner had left its tank nearly dry—and one for food and a quick twenty-minute catnap.
He encountered no traffic issues.
He was in the D.C. area shortly after noon on the seventeenth.
Things were going smoothly.
He would attempt to complete this stage of his mission tonight.
***
May 17, 1988
6:35 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Once he learned the name of the redheaded American CIA operative, getting the rest of the intel he require
d was a fairly straightforward matter. Piotr had spent years operating in and around the United States, and it still amazed him how easy it was to acquire useful intelligence on just about anyone in this country.
To a man who had grown up inside one of the most closed societies in the history of the world, the concept of readily available information on citizens and business and…well, everything, really…was astonishing. In Russia, the average citizen had no chance of digging up any significant intel on another average citizen, even if they knew that person’s name and address. To even conceive of such an occurrence was simply impossible.
For someone in Piotr’s position it was a different story, of course. If a KGB operative decided he wanted to learn all there was to know about some random Muscovite, doing so would be no more complicated than walking into the records division at Lubyanka and poring over that individual’s files.
But here in America, any interested party could learn nearly as much as they wanted to about anyone else’s life if they were willing to put in a little time and effort. And while Piotr still found that notion foreign and repellant, it had suited his needs perfectly. He spent several weeks tailing his prey, making preparations, and nailing down the little details that would allow him to complete this portion of his mission and successfully escape the U.S afterward.
Once he’d made those preparations and nailed down those details, he had returned to Europe and begun the killing spree that would set his plan in motion.
Now, he felt as comfortable as it was possible to feel driving the back roads of Alexandria, Virginia, stalking his prey and waiting for the proper moment to strike.
And that moment would be soon.
He parked the Toyota along the side of the rural Virginia two-lane road Tracie Tanner’s father drove every day on his way home from work. Jake Tanner was a highly regarded four-star general in the United States Army, a fact that had initially caused Piotr some concern but one that he’d ultimately decided was irrelevant to his plan.
As a career military man, Tanner would have learned self-defense techniques above and beyond those available to most middle-aged men. But an officer who’d risen as far in the ranks as General Tanner would have been sitting behind a desk at the Pentagon for decades. He was likely every bit as soft and easily broken as any other American man in his early fifties.
If not, if Jake Tanner was a fit and formidable opponent, Piotr liked his chances anyway. He would possess the advantage of surprise over his opponent, and that was an advantage not to be taken lightly. Even longtime intelligence operatives could fall victim to confusion if taken by surprise, and an army general, no matter how imposing, was no operative. Even if Tanner were armed—a distinct possibility—the man would be unprepared to actually use his weapon.
Piotr would be prepared.
Piotr would be fine.
He concentrated on maintaining his focus while he awaited the appearance of Tanner’s car, feeling the sense of anticipation build as time passed. Unless the target had been held up at work, he should be along any time. Piotr had discovered Jake Tanner—like many military men—was a creature of habit, highly disciplined, someone who could largely be counted on to follow the same routine day in and day out.
Piotr’s main concern was that when Tanner showed, he would be stuck in the middle of a line of three or more vehicles all traveling the same isolated road at the same time. Such an occurrence would complicate matters, but not so badly he would have to abort the mission for the day as long as none of the vehicles was a police cruiser.
Killing a cop was the one thing that he knew he would have to avoid at all costs. Doing so would cause innumerable problems, not the least of which—
There he was.
Piotr had chosen this particular ambush location for its extended view of the rural road, and more than a quarter mile away, General Jake Tanner’s distinctive red Monte Carlo had just rounded the corner and was motoring straight toward Piotr.
Even better, behind Tanner’s car the road was deserted.
Piotr peered left and saw no one approaching from that direction.
Conditions were perfect.
It was time to strike.
14
May 18, 1988
12:35 a.m.
Hôtel de Crillon, Paris, France
“Something’s wrong,” Tracie said into her secure satellite phone. She didn’t bother with a standard greeting; Aaron Stallings wouldn’t appreciate his time being wasted with such a courtesy, anyway.
A moment of silence followed as the CIA director absorbed her words. Then he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Tanner?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s a little after midnight. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Not there,” came the exasperated reply. “Here. Do you know what time it is here?”
She smiled thinly. She never tired of getting under Stallings’ skin, and given all he had done to her, she felt any aggravation he may experience thanks to her was no more than a tiny portion of the payback he deserved. “I guess that would make it six thirty-five p.m. on the seventeenth in D.C.”
“Yes. Yes it is. It’s six thirty-five. I’ve just gotten home after a very long day, Tanner. I haven’t eaten yet, and more importantly, I haven’t even had the chance to pour a scotch. May I ask why you felt the need to interrupt those important tasks with a call?”
“Well I couldn’t call any earlier, sir, I was busy trying to figure out why I’m still alive after parading around in front of the U.S. Embassy building for three days with a bulls-eye painted on my back, waiting to be gunned down.”
“Obviously that didn’t happen,” Stallings said drily. “And since you admitted you’re having trouble sleeping, I can only assume you’re calling me to inform me you’ve failed to apprehend the man who’s been running around executing American ambassadors.”
“That’s exactly right, which is why I started this conversation by saying something’s wrong.”
“So today went no better than the last two days? You haven’t flushed the assassin out?”
“There’s been no sign of him, and if he hasn’t taken a shot at me by now, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t going to.”
“Well, unless our entire theory about those murders is completely off base, they were very specifically designed to bait you and draw you to Paris.”
“Agreed,” Tracie said. “But clearly we were wrong about why he wanted me here.”
“I assume you have a theory you’d like to share?”
“I do.”
“Well then, enlighten me. It’s not getting any earlier over here.”
“It’s simple. He wanted me out of the way.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Out of the way for what? It’s not like the two of you have been bumping into each other on every street corner in Moscow.”
“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “But I have a very bad feeling, and every day I hang around Paris accomplishing nothing, that feeling is getting worse.”
“I’m not sure what else you could be doing, Tanner.”
“Neither am I, sir, but I think it’s time to call off this little wild goose chase. It’s been a failure and a waste of time.”
“You realize most thirty year old women would—”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I’m not thirty, I’m twenty-nine.”
“Whatever, Tanner. My point, if you’d allow me to make it without interruption, is that most young women your age would love the opportunity to hang out in Paris. They wouldn’t be calling their boss at dinner time begging to come home.”
“First of all, I’m not ‘begging to come home.’ But if we’re comparing me to ‘most young women,’ I think it’s safe to say very few of them would have agreed to come to Paris in the first place if it was for the sole purpose of being shot at.”
Another sigh from Stallings. “I know. And I actually agree with your assessment. If our assassin hasn
’t slithered out of his snake pit by now, he’s not going to. At least not in Paris. But this isn’t over. I can feel it. This lunatic is up to something, and it involves you.”
“Agreed. I just don’t think whatever comes next is going to happen here.”
Stallings went silent. His silence stretched out for such a long time, Tracie began to wonder if he’d placed the satellite phone down on his desk and wandered off to pour his scotch. “Sir?”
“Okay. Here’s what I’m thinking, Tanner. Pick an embassy city in Europe and get your ass on a flight to it tomorrow morning. Our man has killed three ambassadors on successive Wednesdays. We both agree he’s not finished yet. Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll pick the right city and be in position to stop him when he goes for Number Four, or at the very least, take him down after he succeeds.”
Tracie had been thinking the same thing, which was why she’d made the secure satellite call to Stallings in the first place. She hadn’t contacted him to request a flight home, her intention had been to get permission to fly to Rome. But as usual, the CIA director hadn’t given her the opportunity to make that request.
Now that Stallings had echoed her thoughts, though, the plan sounded more than a little thin. It sounded downright desperate, a grasping at straws that couldn’t help but be doomed to failure.
It sounded like the continuation of a wild goose chase, not the solution to one.
Now it was Tracie’s turn to fall silent.
Patience had never been one of Aaron Stallings’ virtues, and after just a few seconds he said, “What?” The word came out testy and sharp. It was the sound of a man who’d nearly arrived at the end of his rope. It was a sound Tracie had heard many times.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 153