Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I do not care what you believe or do not believe. I am not soliciting your opinion, nor am I asking your permission for anything. You are merely to act as a messenger, nothing more. You will pass the intelligence to your superiors, exactly as I give it to you. If you do not, you will find your name splashed across every newspaper in your country as the most despicable traitor in American history. Am I making myself clear, Comrade Thornton?”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know that. Am I making myself clear?”

  Now Thornton’s end of the line fell silent as the American considered his possible responses. Vasily didn’t push him. There was only one conclusion Thornton could reach, and Vasily was content to let him take as much time as he needed to reach it.

  “Yes.” The word came through the staticky earpiece loud and clear, and it was obvious it had been uttered through clenched teeth.

  Vasily smiled. “Good,” he said. “Here is what you will tell your superiors.”

  “There’s only one.”

  “I am sorry?”

  “I have only one superior, and it is the CIA director himself.”

  Vasily sipped his vodka and allowed himself another smile, a self-satisfied one. “I am well aware of that, my friend. Now, pay attention. It is important this information gets relayed exactly as it is issued. There can be no mistakes.”

  “Jesus Christ almighty, just get on with it. I know how to do my job.”

  “I hope so,” Vasily replied. “For your sake.”

  He proceeded to spell out the details that would allow him to survive the mess he’d gotten himself into. Hopefully.

  When Vasily finished speaking, Thornton seemed stunned. The entire conversation had clearly thrown him for a loop, and that was just fine with Vasily. A man unmoored and lost was much more likely to do as he was told than a man confident in his standing.

  The conversation drew to a close just as Vasily emptied his tumbler of vodka. He felt warm and fuzzy and optimistic.

  It was now well past three a.m. in Leningrad, but despite the time, he walked to his bar and refilled the glass. It seemed there was every reason to celebrate.

  25

  May 19, 1988

  10:00 a.m.

  Arlington, Virginia

  The morning of the funeral dawned overcast and drizzly. The weather was a perfect match for Tracie’s mood, which she doubted could get any bleaker after first being responsible for the murders of six innocent Americans overseas, and now her own father here in the D.C. area.

  Jake Tanner had seen combat in two separate wars—three if you counted the undeclared “police action” in Korea thirty-plus years ago—and come through it all with no more serious injury than a sprained ankle, only to be shot to death just miles from his home.

  After being tortured for hours.

  Tracie knew she would suffer from the unrelenting horror of her accountability every day for the rest of her life, starting with today. She liked to think she was tough; hell, she knew she was tough. But she dreaded attending her father’s funeral, had no idea how in God’s name she was ever going to get through it.

  She loved and cherished her mother, but was a daddy’s girl through and through. She’d been her father’s daughter as long as she could remember. Some of her earliest memories were of hiking with her dad through the Virginia woods, of learning to disassemble and clean a pistol and then reassemble it, of going to the shooting range on Sunday mornings after church and then following that up with a five-mile run.

  When she was six years old.

  She knew she would have to be strong for her mother but wondered how to accomplish that feat when just thinking about her dad’s fate was enough to make her break out in a cold sweat and begin shaking, as though she might pass out at any moment.

  And what the hell was she supposed to wear to a state funeral? She rarely spent more than a few days in D.C. at a time, and even though it was where she kept her apartment, she had never been one to stockpile clothing. She owned only a handful of dresses, none of which was appropriate for today’s somber occasion.

  She hated shopping with a passion, but sucked it up and did it anyway yesterday, settling on a black knee-length dress with an understated black lace collar and new shoes that were as uncomfortable as they were expensive. Tracie knew she would never wear either item again after today, not because they weren’t pretty but because they would forever be stained with the memory of why she’d bought them in the first place.

  She arose far too early, having slept far too little, showering and dressing in a matter of minutes and then tending to her mother, who seemed utterly adrift. Tracie could tell she’d been crying but said nothing. If her mother wanted to talk, she would do so when she was ready.

  But, really, why would she even consider discussing her husband’s murder with the person who had set the whole thing in motion?

  They ate a tasteless breakfast and the minute Tracie placed the dishes into the dishwasher she couldn’t have said what the hell the meal had been, and she’d cooked it. Then they sat in the living room of her parents’ home—her mother’s home, she corrected herself—and stared at the TV news mostly in silence until it was time to leave for the service.

  Tracie didn’t think her heart could break any further.

  She was wrong about that.

  ***

  Having grown up the only child of a decorated U.S. Army general and highly regarded state department official, Tracie Tanner was thoroughly familiar with the pomp and circumstance with which official Washington approached everything. But nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for the spectacle that was her father’s funeral service.

  The burial of a four-star general, particularly given the circumstances of Jake Tanner’s death, was more than just an occasion. It was An Occasion, and as such, made the time pass even more slowly from Tracie’s perspective than it otherwise would have. And that was saying something.

  From the service conducted inside Washington’s National Cathedral, packed with mourners and covered by television news crews, to the transportation of the casket to Arlington National Cemetery by marine color guard and horse-drawn carriage, the day was a study in misery for Tracie.

  She sat in the front pew fiddling with her imitation-pearl necklace, wishing she were even now hunting down Piotr Speransky.

  She tried to pay attention to the words of the minister but could not.

  She tried counting how many times she broke down and wept but lost track somewhere around ten.

  Finally, a couple of hours or a thousand years after the funeral service had begun, she found herself standing with her mother and the rest of her extended family in front of the gaping hole in the ground that would serve as her father’s eternal resting place.

  The weather hadn’t improved over the course of the morning. If anything the drizzle had intensified and turned into a light but steady rain. Umbrellas sprouted above the mourners like black mushrooms, but although Tracie had brought one she refused to open it. The rain soaked into her overcoat and her dress and flattened her hair to her skull.

  She was miserable.

  It was what she wanted. She should be miserable. She deserved nothing better.

  People whispered and chatted under their breath and the occasional titter made its way to Tracie’s ears. Instead of being upset that someone would find anything funny about her father’s burial, she was glad to hear the suppressed laughter. Despite his lifelong service to his country and lofty position in the military, Jake Tanner had never been one to stand on ceremony. If forced to come up with a one-word description of him, the word “somber” would never have occurred to her.

  Had he been alive, and commemorating the life and death of a fellow soldier instead of lying inside a box waiting to be lowered into the ground, he might well have been the one cracking a joke under his breath. Not to denigrate the dead man or to show disrespect, but to remind everyone around him that life
was for the living, that mourning must be a temporary condition, and that even in the midst of extreme sorrow it is possible—even necessary—to see the potential for happiness.

  Tracie had begun to shiver from the effect of the steady rain when the carriage drawn by a team of white horses rounded a corner and approached the burial site. It came to a stop and a contingent of soldiers, wearing their dress uniforms and intensely white gloves and hats, lifted General Jake Tanner’s casket from the carriage and transported it to the gravesite. They moved slowly, rain dripping from their hats and their uniform coats.

  They paid the weather no more mind than did Tracie.

  They placed the casket onto the bier. A minister read a passage from a bible and Tracie hoped the book didn’t hold any particular meaning to the man, because rain was splattering off its pages as he held it open. She was aware of her mother sniffling softly beside her, supported on one side by Tracie’s uncle and on the other by her aunt.

  The twenty-one-gun salute had just begun when Tracie began shaking again, exactly as she’d been doing on and off since last night, only much more intensely. A thin buzzing noise began in her ears. It started off barely noticeable, like the sound of a faraway train whistle, but it grew louder, quickly, and she didn’t even have time to register surprise that she was about to faint when the darkness closed in and she was gone.

  ***

  She was only out for a moment.

  When she opened her eyes she knew exactly where she was, and exactly what had happened, and assumed that she must be lying flat on her back, staring into the leaden overcast as raindrops pelted her face and horrified spectators muttered to each other about how she’d not only killed her father but had ruined his funeral for good measure.

  But she wasn’t flat on her back.

  She hadn’t fallen at all.

  She was still nearly upright.

  She was being supported by a pair of heavily muscled arms encased in a wet black overcoat, with the cuffs of a navy blue suit peeking out the ends. Two large, dark-skinned hands held her securely around the waist, and she raised her eyes, blinking against the steadily falling rain, to see the concerned gaze of Marshall Fulton staring down at her.

  Marshall Fulton, the agency analyst who had risked his life and his career to help her successfully track down and rescue Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries last year after he’d been kidnapped by a team of Iraqi intelligence operatives.

  Marshall Fulton, the man from Louisiana Bayou country whom Tracie had been sort-of-but-not-exactly, on-and-off romantically involved with for months. The man with a seemingly infinite supply of patience, who understood her reluctance to commit to anyone after the tragic fate that had befallen her last love, Shane Rowley.

  Marshall Fulton, the man with the deepest, softest brown eyes she’d ever seen.

  Those eyes now bored into her own as his arms pulled her into his body, protecting her and sheltering her in an expression of tenderness unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered, and she realized he’d been standing directly behind her, which was why she hadn’t seen him. She had briefly wondered earlier where he was but had been so lost in her grief and guilt she hadn’t expended much energy worrying about it.

  But she had no doubt Marshall had positioned himself close to her intentionally. During one of their many heart-to-heart chats since their relationship deepened, she had shared with him how close she was to her father, how much she felt she owed him in terms of moral compass and work ethic, how much she admired him, not just as a father but as a human being. She was certain Marshall had stood directly behind her because he wanted to be prepared should she become overwhelmed by grief during the burial ceremony.

  And she had done exactly that.

  He moved so quickly as she started to fall that no one in the crowd, save the half-dozen or so people in their immediate vicinity, even knew she’d fainted. Almost no one realized anything was amiss.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed, and pushed herself up to her full height, once again supporting herself on her own two feet. She would be eternally grateful to Marshall for his quick reflexes, and the action he’d taken that had prevented a somber ceremony from turning into a circus sideshow.

  But Tracie Tanner’s default setting was one of independence and self-reliance, and she was determined to finish out this awful day as she’d started it—strong and dignified. Marshall recognized what she wanted and offered one last, lingering hug. Then he released his grip and stepped back, once again just another onlooker here to pay his respects to the life and death of General Jake Tanner.

  The rifles continued firing as the rain continued to fall, twenty-one lonely reminders of a life given in service not just to a nation, but to an ideal.

  When the last piercing shot echoed away into the rain and the mist, Tracie felt her attention begin to turn to the cause that had already begun to consume her: finding her father’s murderer.

  She would not rest until she had tracked down Piotr Speransky.

  And once she located him, she would end him.

  Or she would die trying.

  26

  May 20, 1988

  8:30 a.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Tanner. It’s Director Stallings.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “Yes, well. It was a beautiful service yesterday, aside from the weather, of course.”

  “Of course. Yes. Beautiful.”

  “I spoke with your mother for a few minutes at the grave site. I passed along my condolences, along with those of everyone at the agency. She’s a lovely lady.”

  “Yes, she’s a lovely widow. She’s also in danger. Speransky executed my father, my mother might very well be next.”

  “I highly doubt that. After a crime as high profile as the murder of your father, the greatest probability is that Piotr Speransky fled the country immediately. The murder was intended to get our attention and he would know we would devote every possible resource to tracking him down. He has either already left the states or is making his escape as we speak.”

  “So now we’re discussing probabilities? I agree with your assessment, but what if we’re wrong? What if Speransky doesn’t care about being caught? What if he’s so focused on making me suffer that he’s still hiding under some rock in D.C. waiting to take a crack at my mother? Or what if he’s working with one or more other KGB operatives, and those men or women are even now preparing to murder her?”

  “I understand your concerns, and—”

  “Maybe weighing probabilities is good enough for you, but it’s not good enough for me. I just lost my dad, I have no intention of risking my mom as well.”

  “I understand you’re upset, Tanner, but please let me finish.”

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “I mentioned my assessment of the situational probabilities because I wanted to set your mind at ease, if possible, regarding your mother’s safety. But of course I’m not willing to put her life at risk while the Speransky situation remains unresolved. I put in a personal request with D.C. Police Chief Marvin Harris to place your mother’s home under surveillance and provide round-the-clock security for her while your father’s murder remains under investigation.”

  “But the investigators think it was a gang thing, a random carjacking and murder.”

  “Exactly, and that’s why it took my personal intervention to convince Chief Harris. He was reluctant and would only agree to a few days of protection, but he did commit at least to that much.”

  “A few days won’t be enough.”

  “I know it won’t, and that’s why I wanted to tell you I’ve committed agency resources to protecting your mother as well. It’s a commitment we can’t really afford in terms of manpower, but I’m doing it anyway because I don’t want you to be worrying about your mother’s safety.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say, Director Stallings. It means a l
ot to me that you would do something like that.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. I had great respect for your father, as I do for your mother. While diplomats and intelligence operatives rarely occupy the same turf or have the same priorities, I’ve crossed paths with your mother numerous times over the years and always found her to be of the highest integrity. A true professional and, as I said, a lovely woman.”

  “You’ve met my mother before yesterday?”

  “More than once, yes, typically at official government functions.”

  “I find that…hard to picture.”

  “Part of my job description is to maintain a working relationship with state department officials. In any event, as I mentioned earlier I spoke briefly with your mother at the burial service. If she’s anywhere near as perceptive as you, and I have every reason to believe she is, I felt she might well suspect there is more to the murder of General Tanner than the authorities realize. That being the case, I wanted to assure her we would spare no expense keeping her safe, and for as long as necessary.”

  “Again, I don’t know what to say, other than thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. When we spoke, I told her also how proud I am to be working with you and what a fine job you do serving your country. I told her both she and your father would have been extremely proud if I could share all you’d done to help keep this nation safe and secure.”

  “Aside from the part where my actions resulted directly in my father’s death.”

  “Everyone makes decisions in the heat of the moment that they would change if they could, Tanner. Everyone has regrets.”

  “I know. But most people’s regrets don’t include being responsible for the murder of their own father.”

  The telephone line lapsed into silence. It stretched out, an invisible wall separating two people who rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything.

  Finally Tracie spoke. “If there’s nothing else, I have a lot to—”