The car skirted the tarmac, paralleling the chain link fence, and then turned left and eased to a stop next to the plane. Its engines were running, and even at idle power the high-pitched whine of the twin turbines sounded deafening from up close.
The soldier stepped out from behind the wheel, clearly intending to open Tracie’s door for her like some kind of military chauffeur, but she beat him to the punch. She leapt out of the car almost before it had stopped moving. She met the driver halfway to the plane and thanked him for the ride even as she felt marginally guilty for having doubted his motives.
Just another day in a career where trusting people can get you killed faster than just about anything else, she thought.
The Gulfstream’s access door stood open, its drop-down stairs extended and a pilot standing next to it. She’d ridden in the jet multiple times by now, including just a few days ago on the flight from Washington to Paris, and every trip had featured the same two-man crew. But this was a different pilot, and for a moment Tracie’s suspicions skyrocketed, just as they had with the ESG marine who’d appeared at her hotel room door.
But then she forced herself to relax. Of course the agency would employ more than one flight crew. Federal aviation regulations enforced strict rest requirements for pilots, and Tracie had no way of knowing where this plane had been since dropping her off at Orly to begin her mission. Undoubtedly the usual crew was enjoying a day off, or was at home in the states with their families, or whatever.
There was a difference between vigilance and paranoia, and Tracie realized she was coming disturbingly close to crossing it. Between having to parade around in public waiting to be shot and knowing that the man she’d spared in Moscow was traveling around Europe executing innocent civilians, her nerves had been working on overdrive the last few days.
She was as safe here as she would be anywhere. If Speransky and/or the KGB had managed to hijack the CIA’s own private jet and was using it as bait to lure one wayward spook, Tracie realized she may as well give up her career, because the battle between the United States and the Soviet Union was over and had been lost.
The man in the captain’s uniform watched her cross in front of the car and then stepped forward. He extended his hand and smiled. “We’re ready to go as soon as you are, Ms. Quinn. Climb aboard and make yourself comfortable, and we’ll be in the air shortly.”
“Thank you,” she said, returning both the smile and the handshake. “What’s the flight time to Rome?”
The pilot’s eyes were hidden behind the clichéd aviation sunglasses preferred by fliers everywhere, but Tracie got the impression he blinked in surprise. “Rome? Why would you think we’re going to Rome?”
“Well, that was the destination I’d been assigned last night by Direct…uh, by my handler.”
“I don’t know anything about that, ma’am, but apparently things have changed. My first officer and I are under strict orders to get you stateside as soon as possible.”
“Stateside?”
“Yes, ma’am. D.C. And we really need to get in the air immediately, so if you don’t mind…”
“Of course.” Tracie hurried up the steps and into the plane, her bag slung over her shoulder. If she’d been confused by the situation before, she truly had no idea what to make of it now. Asking questions of the flight crew would be pointless, because they wouldn’t have been told anything, and even if they had, they would be as miserly with information would any other CIA employee.
She had no choice but to wait.
And wonder.
She strapped herself into a seat, barely noticing the plane’s plush interior.
The feeling that had been lingering over the past few days, the one that said things were careening badly out of control, hadn’t gone away. It had been lurking in the back of her mind and now it was intensifying.
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
And she had no idea what it might be.
20
May 18, 1988
10:10 a.m.
Washington National Airport
Tracie didn’t think she’d ever been so anxious for a transatlantic flight to come to an end. She’d made the journey countless times, having spent the vast majority of her career working in and around Russia and the various Soviet satellites.
It was inevitably long and boring, but this trip was different. She felt like a caged animal. She alternated between pacing inside the Gulfstream’s passenger cabin and sitting with her eyes glued to the window, staring down at the endless expanse of ocean far below. From an altitude of thirty-nine thousand feet, the water passed so slowly beneath the airplane it almost felt like they were standing still, suspended in midair like some sadistic magician’s trick and not rocketing along at more than five hundred miles per hour.
She could only keep still for so long in one of the leather captain’s chairs before her restlessness got the better of her and she once again found herself wearing a pathway in the carpeting.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Typically on these flights, she occupied her time in one of two ways: sleeping or studying intel related to her latest assignment. In this instance, however, she could do neither. She had been awake most of last night but was still too keyed up to sleep. And since she had no clue why she was being flown home, there was obviously no mission briefing to study.
The time passed with excruciating slowness, but it did pass, and eventually Tracie felt the jet begin its long, slow descent for landing. The drop in altitude was a gradual one, and she might well have missed it had she not been so attuned to every aspect of the flight and so anxious to get on the ground. She couldn’t even see the eastern coastline of the United States yet in the hazy distance, but he moment the descent began, Tracie buckled in for landing, willing the airport to come into view.
It took longer than she would have liked for that to happen. The final phase of flight was interminable, but at long last the G4 touched down at Washington National and began taxiing toward the secluded corner of the airfield reserved for cargo flights, quarantined aircraft, and the Central Intelligence Agency.
As they approached, Tracie could see a Chevy Suburban parked in front of the agency’s hangar. It looked brand new, a 1988 model, with an all-black paint job, blackwall tires and smoked-black windows. Despite her tension, Tracie had to smile. The vehicle screamed “CIA,” and she thought if the agency had bought it in an effort to maintain anonymity they had failed mightily, even in a town filled with similar vehicles carrying diplomats and heads of state.
The G4 was still taxiing when she popped out of her seat and approached the exit door. One of the pilots, she thought it was the first officer but wasn’t sure, turned and barked at her to remain buckled in until the engines had been shut down, but she ignored him and after a moment he shrugged and turned back toward the front.
Finally the men opened the door and lowered the stairs. Tracie’s custom was to thank the crew for their hospitality, and she did so today, shaking both men’s hands. But her heart wasn’t really in it. She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, refusing the chauffeur’s offer of assistance, and climbed into the back seat.
Seconds later they were on their way. The moment the young marine embassy security guard had told her back in Paris that Aaron Stallings was sending the agency jet for her, she had known a car would be awaiting her arrival. The car would bring her straight to a briefing with him, and she wanted nothing more.
Traffic was heavy, and if Tracie had felt trapped inside the relatively roomy Gulfstream jet, she felt like she’d been straightjacketed inside the Chevy truck. She gazed out the window and tried to formulate a line of questioning for her handler.
After a while she gave up. Without even a shred of knowledge about what had changed in the Piotr Speransky situation, it was impossible to come up with any questions that might be relevant. She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes and waited for the drive to be over.
***
Aaron Stallings met her at the car door.
She was so surprised to see the CIA director standing in front of her when she climbed out of the Suburban that she froze in her tracks.
This was completely out of character for the man she’d come to know as cold, calculating and brusque. In all the briefings he’d conducted with her at his home—every single one—he had never once stepped foot outside his office. Typically he ignored her even after she entered, forcing her to stand awkwardly in front of his desk while he pretended to examine paperwork, or sign documents, or do whatever the hell the director of the world’s foremost intelligence agency did to occupy his time.
But today he was standing not just outside his office but outside the house, in his driveway, waiting for Tracie.
The little voice that had been yammering inside her head, telling her something was very wrong, intensified. This can’t be good.
She recovered her composure and thanked the driver, who had circled the car to assist her. She shook his hand, never taking her eyes off Stallings. He rarely smiled and never joked with her, but today he looked somehow different.
Somber and uncomfortable.
Something’s very wrong.
The driver returned behind the wheel of the Suburban and started the car. He accelerated slowly away along the circular drive. The vehicle disappeared into the trees and Tracie was alone with her boss.
She still hadn’t moved.
Neither had he.
He offered her a smile and said, “Come on in, Tracie,” as he turned toward his front door.
She felt as though she’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. “What did you say?”
“I said come in.”
“No, after that.” A black dread descended on her, a desolation that made her previous unfocused concern feel like a walk in the park on a sunny spring day. “You called me Tracie.”
“Well, that is your name.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s not right.”
“You’re name’s not Tracie?”
“Of course it is, but you don’t use it. You never call me Tracie. It’s always ‘Tanner’ this, and ‘Tanner’ that. I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my first name. I wasn’t sure you even knew what it was, or cared. So what the hell is going on?”
They’d been walking slowly toward the house as they talked, and now Stallings stopped and waited for Tracie to come next to him. He took her hand and put his arm around her shoulders as he led her up the steps.
“Lets go inside and talk,” he said, and she knew it was bad.
Really bad.
***
“Have a seat,” Stallings said as he closed the door to his home office behind them. He had removed his arm from Tracie’s shoulders as they walked through his front door, but the sensation of dread she felt hadn’t lessened. If anything, it seemed to be increasing, building toward some kind of titanic explosion.
She moved toward his desk and froze in confusion for the second time in a matter of minutes. Every time she’d been inside this office she had been forced to sit in a metal folding chair placed directly in front of Stallings’ massive desk, like a fourth grader who’d been sent to the principal’s office.
There was a chair in front of the desk, all right, but it wasn’t the rickety metal one she expected to see. It was large and comfortable-looking, plush and leather-covered, the sort of chair she imagined a bank president might sit in as he smoked a cigar and denied mortgage applications. It was so big she wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to squeeze it in through the office door.
She looked from the chair to Stallings and then back. “That’s for me?” she said.
“You don’t see anybody else here, do you?” A little of the old Stallings sarcasm resurfaced with the comment, and rather than making Tracie angry or annoyed, she felt a little comforted by that fact. The world hadn’t completely gone off its axis.
Not yet, at least.
“I think I’ll stand for now, if it’s all the same to you.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he moved behind his desk and stood gazing at her.
“What’s going on?” she said quietly. “Why did you change our plan in the middle of the night? And why…all this?” She gestured at the chair, confused. “I assumed you had gotten a line on Speransky, but if that was the case, why pull me all the way back to the states? And now, with you acting so strangely, I’m starting to think this isn’t about Piotr Speransky at all.”
Stallings sighed deeply. “It’s about Speransky,” he said after a long silence. “But it’s also about…something else.”
“What else is it about? Stop beating around the bush and just tell me,” Tracie said.
“It’s also about your father,” Stallings said.
Tracie went numb. Her arms and legs, her fingers and toes and lips, all numb.
Her hair went numb.
She couldn’t breathe.
In one overwhelming rush of insight she knew the truth, but somehow she still managed to mumble, “What about my father?”
“He’s dead, Tracie. I’m sorry.”
21
She felt her legs give way but somehow managed to avoid smashing her face on Stallings’ desk as she toppled to the floor.
He rushed to help her but she raised one hand and said, “I’m okay,” even though she knew she wasn’t. Her ears were ringing and she felt herself begin to hyperventilate so she concentrated on controlling her breathing as she struggled to push herself up into the chair.
It was important to her that she do it herself, and to his credit the CIA director seemed to understand as much. He stood next to her, arms half raised as if to catch her should she fall again, but he never touched her and after a struggle that was much more difficult than it should have been, she found herself slumped in the leather chair, suddenly grateful for the padding.
She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry in front of her boss, although why the hell that mattered at this point she had no earthly idea. With her eyes still closed she said, “What did Speransky do to him?”
“It doesn’t matter. Not to you.”
“Of course it matters.” She opened her eyes and fixed Stallings with a glare. She hadn’t begun sobbing yet, although how long she might manage to continue that magic trick she had no idea. “It matters more than ever.”
“What I mean is this is over, at least for you. I give you my word the agency will find him and deal with him, but you’re too close to this now. It’s too personal. You’re off this assignment.”
“Too personal? It’s always been personal, boss. From the moment Ryan Smith and I kidnapped him off that snowy road in Russia it’s been personal to him. And now it’s personal to me. So I need to know what was done to my father. I need to know everything. I need to.”
“Listen to me,” Stallings said. “That’s not how it works. You just found out your father is gone and you’re going to need time to deal with that. Time to grieve. I know how close you were to him and I will not allow you to put yourself in harm’s way while you’re not thinking clearly.”
“At least tell me what happened to him.”
“You don’t want to know the details, Tracie, trust me.”
“I don’t want to know the details? I have to know the details. I have to know everything. Most importantly, how do you know it was Speransky?”
“Tracie…please just let it g—”
“I can’t just let it go, sir. Don’t you see? I can’t. I feel numb and empty and it’s going to take a long goddamned time to come to grips with the knowledge that my father—the man I grew up idolizing, the person I’ve tried to model my life after—has been ripped away from me and my mother and everyone else who loved him. It would be hard enough to deal with if he died in a car accident, or suffered a heart attack, or even was killed in a mugging, for Christ’s sake. But if Piotr Speransky is responsible, I have to know everything, because I will not let
it stand. So no, I won’t let it go. I can’t let it go. Tell me. Please.”
Stallings continued to stand next to her chair. He looked her up and down and then stared at the floor. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Even lost in her grief and bewilderment, Tracie thought he looked more human than she’d ever seen him.
Finally he wandered back behind his desk and sat, thrumming his fingers on the surface.
“Please,” she repeated, and he nodded tiredly.
“I guess I understand the need to know,” he said softly, and then sighed. “Alexandria police got an anonymous tip by telephone last night alerting them to a murder. The tipster identified the victim by name.”
“The victim being my father.”
“Yes. The person calling in the tip was male, and he spoke with a slight but detectable Russian accent.”
“That doesn’t mean it was Speransky,” Tracie said, although she knew it was, because she knew what was coming next.
“No it doesn’t,” Stallings agreed. “But the details of the crime scene make the connection unmistakable.”
She closed her eyes again. This was her fault. This was all her fault. “He’d been duct-taped to a sturdy wooden chair and tortured, before being shot in the head, exactly like the last of the three ambassadors.”
“Yes.”
“The similarities were intentional. He wanted me to know.”
“Yes.”
“Speransky murdered those three diplomats for one reason: to draw me to Europe, so he could be sure I was out of the way while he tortured and murdered my father.”
“Yes.”
“I need to see the crime scene photos, and don’t tell me you don’t have them. I know you can get them, which means I know you have them.”
“Yes, I have them. But you don’t want to see them, Tracie.”
“No, I don’t want to see them. But I need to, and you’re going to show them to me. You owe me that much.” She thought he would get defensive like he always did, that he would rant and rave about not owing her a goddamned thing, that he would tell her to understand her place in the pecking order, that he would say all the things she had heard dozens of times from him whenever he felt she was questioning his authority.
The Soviet Assassin Page 11
