Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9)

by Allan Leverone

  He forced down his mounting panic and tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Hey, Timmy, how are ya?”

  “Great, Carson. Uhh…what’s up?” The guard’s face became visible under the glare of the sodium arc lamps as he approached, and his expression was one of confusion. Or was it suspicion?

  But Cripe’s gun remained holstered at his side—for now—and Carson thanked his lucky stars he’d had the foresight to drape his jacket over the shoebox-sized possession in his arms. For now, the device was hidden from sight and would remain so unless the guard forced him to lift the jacket.

  Cripe stopped maybe six feet away from Carson, and it occurred to Carson that a man with nothing to hide would answer the guard’s question, and without any hesitation.

  He attempted his most sincere smile and hoped desperately it didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “Burning the midnight oil, my friend.”

  Cripe looked unconvinced and Carson added, “Genius never sleeps,” with a staccato laugh.

  “Working late on a Friday night? Who knew you were so dedicated?”

  “That’s me,” Carson said, noting that the wariness in the guard’s posture seemed to have lessened, if not entirely disappeared. “Mr. Dedication.” He made a show of glancing at his watch and then said, “It’s great seeing you, Timmy, but man am I tired. I really need to get home to bed.”

  “Of course,” Cripe said. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.” Carson turned and had almost reached the walking path when the call came from behind him.

  Again.

  “Yo, Carson.”

  For the second time in a matter of sixty seconds he swore to himself and turned. “Yes?”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Oh, that.” Carson thought hard, suddenly wishing he hadn’t had quite so many sips out of his flask while waiting for everyone to exit the facility. “You know, I’m trying to get some exercise.”

  “Turning over a new leaf?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Huh. Okay, take care, Carson.”

  “You too, Tim.” He hit the walking path and to his relief, this time heard no more out of Tim Cripe.

  3

  June 13, 1988

  11:05 p.m.

  Marine Technix Corporation Research Facility parking lot

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Carson sat in his car, dripping sweat and trying not to pass out or puke from the stress. He was already late for his prearranged meeting with the silver-haired Russian, and hanging around in the visitor’s parking lot was an invitation to be seen again by goddamned Tim Cripe, but he needed a minute to get his shit together.

  Or maybe a year.

  He kept replaying the exchange with Cripe in his mind, wondering how suspicious he’d made the guard, and more importantly what the likelihood was that the man would put some kind of notation in his nightly log, or report the unusual incident to his superiors.

  Don’t overthink it, Carson tried to tell himself. As long as he could avoid being seen when he returned to replace the device into the safe—he thought it was doable, the Marine Technix campus was huge and the company was too fucking cheap to pay two guards to work the overnight shift—he should be okay.

  Even if the guard reported Carson for being at work after hours, as long as the device ended up back in the safe and nobody found out he’d taken it for a little road trip, what could they do to him? What had he even done wrong? Was it suddenly impermissible for an employee to do a little extra work on his own time?

  I should put in for overtime as a way of bolstering my alibi, he thought, and snickered nervously. Hot stomach acid worked its way up his gullet when he did, and he choked it back down.

  His breathing gradually returned to normal and the sweat stopped pouring off him like Niagara Falls. He’d had a close call, a really close call if he was being honest with himself, but that was all. He would be fine, but it was time to get moving or risk Boris Badenov leaving their meeting place and driving away with Carson’s fifteen grand in his pocket. Carson had demanded half his twenty thousand dollar bounty up front, but Andrei The Smooth-Talking Russian Capitalist had countered him down to a quarter, and he really wanted—no, he really needed—the rest.

  He started his car and drove out of the lot, moving as fast as he dared.

  ***

  Their agreed-upon meeting place was a Park and Ride carpool lot hard by Interstate 264. It was southeast of Norfolk, partway to Virginia Beach, and a pain in the ass to get to for Carson, since Marine Technix Corporation was located on the north side of the city, not far from the naval station.

  But Andrei had assured Carson this particular parking lot was perfect for their little illicit photo session, quiet and out of the way, rarely patrolled by police. “It is the kind of place no one will pay attention to two cars parked together in the middle of the night,” he’d said, and how could Carson argue? This was all uncharted territory for him, and as long as he left the Park and Ride with the rest of the twenty grand in his pocket, he wasn’t too particular about where they did the dirty deed.

  He just wanted to get it over with.

  It was almost 11:30 when Carson entered the lot, and he could see immediately why Boris had chosen it. Large, secluded and poorly lit, it was mostly empty save for a dozen or so cars scattered across the pavement.

  The Russian had backed his Town Car into the rear of the lot, farthest from the entrance, the dark vehicle almost invisible in the gloom. Carson nosed in next to it, parking driver’s side to driver’s side, and rolled down his window.

  Andrei did the same. “Shut off your engine and get in,” he said gruffly.

  “Can’t I just hand you the package and sit here while you take your pictures? When you’ve finished you can pass it back to me along with the money, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

  The Russian stared through the two open windows at Carson, his long silver hair seeming to shimmer in the weak illumination of the parking lot. He looked pissed off about something, his demeanor a far cry from the friendly, salesman-like attitude he’d exhibited the previous times Carson had spoken with him.

  The silence dragged on so long, Carson thought maybe the man hadn’t heard the question, although given their close proximity to each other, he had no idea how that could be the case. Maybe the old guy was hard of hearing. He was about to repeat his question, his unease rising—this place really was isolated—when the Russian spoke.

  “I said shut off your engine and get into my car.” He spoke quietly but with a menace in his tone that was impossible to misinterpret.

  Carson swallowed heavily and opened his door. He’d parked so close to the Lincoln he had to squeeze through the narrow opening. He crossed in front of the Russian’s car and slipped into the passenger seat, the object of this twenty thousand dollar photo op held in two hands.

  Without a word, Boris flicked on the interior lighting and took the box from Carson. He examined it from all angles, turning it this way and that, looking like a kid who was about to open a Christmas present but wanted to extend the anticipation.

  Carson glanced down into the foot well and then took a long look in the back seat. “Where’s your camera?” he said. “I’d really like to finish this and get the hell out of here.”

  The Russian didn’t answer. He just continued examining the box.

  Carson realized he’d begun sweating again. His breath tasted sour and the acid was trying to force its way up his gullet again. This whole meeting seemed off; it wasn’t going anything like he’d expected.

  He gathered his courage and spoke with what he hoped was something like steely resolve. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said. “It’s well past time to end this.”

  “I agree,” the Russian said, his tone cold and dismissive. “So I suggest you climb out of the car and be on your way.”

  “What about your photographs?”

  “There will be no photographs, at least not right now and n
ot in this car.”

  “I don’t understand. What was the point of all this if you’re not going to…” The sweat that had formed impressive pools under his arms and most of the way down his back turned suddenly cold as realization began to dawn.

  He forced himself to ignore his sudden dread certainty about what was happening here and said, “Fine. If you’ve changed your mind, hand over my property and I’ll be on my way.”

  He’d turned and looked out the passenger side window as he spoke, unable to meet the Russian’s contemptuous gaze. The statement was met with silence, and eventually Carson knew he would have to face the Russian. He was starting to think he might even have to fight the older man, and he’d never been involved in an actual fistfight in his life.

  He spun in his seat and said forcefully, “I told you I want my…” and his strong, confident voice trailed away to nothing.

  Because he was staring straight down the barrel of a handgun.

  Carson knew nothing about guns. He’d never owned one. Never fired one. Never even held a real gun in his hands.

  For all he knew, Boris Badenov’s gun might be a fake. But it sure looked real. Heavy and deadly and real. And the unwavering steadiness of the man’s hand as he held it made Carson think—to the extent he could think at all, which was not much—that Andrei The Backstabbing Russian meant business, that he was not fooling around, that he would be more than happy to fire his very real-looking gun point-blank into Carson’s very real—and very exposed—face.

  He tried to swallow and discovered he couldn’t, because no saliva currently occupied his mouth. Then he realized he needed to pee, quite badly, all of a sudden.

  “What are you doing?” he croaked.

  “I told you once already. Get out of my car and be on your way.”

  “But I have to return the—”

  “You are returning nothing. This item belongs to me now, exactly as we agreed.”

  “I didn’t agree to—”

  “Of course you did,” the Russian said. “You sold it to me for the very fair sum of five thousand American dollars.”

  Oh God I’m screwed oh God I’m screwed oh God I’m screwed. The words played on a continuous loop through Carson’s mind as he pulled on the handle and shoved the door open with his foot. It took every bit of willpower he could muster to tear his gaze away from the Russian’s gun, certain that the second he turned his back, the man would pull the trigger and blow Carson’s skull into a million bloody pieces.

  He stepped out of the car, skull intact, at least for the time being, and plodded around the front of the Town Car, his hands numb from shock and terror. Hell, his entire body was numb. His teeth were numb.

  At least now you don’t have to try to sneak past Cripe into the lab, he thought, just before puking up the remains of the chicken sandwich he’d eaten hours ago for dinner, as well as some undigested whiskey and plenty of that fucking stomach acid that had been trying to escape for the last two hours.

  The mess splattered the side of his car and Carson moaned. His eyes had teared up, either from tossing chunks or from the knowledge he was utterly, completely, spectacularly screwed, or maybe from both. He had bent down as he threw up, and now he straightened, more or less, and glanced through the Russian’s closed front window to see the man staring back at him, his eyes dark and dead, like a shark’s.

  Somewhere in the midst of his fear and hopelessness, Carson noticed with something resembling satisfaction that while most of the vomit had come to rest on his own car, he’d sprayed a wide area, and plenty was even now sticking to the side of the Town Car.

  He opened the door to squeeze into his little Toyota, ignoring the almost overwhelming urge to smash his door into the Lincoln, knowing without a doubt that if he did so, some early-morning commuter would find his cooling corpse lying in his own puke next to his car.

  From the open window of the Lincoln came a clearing of the Russian’s throat, followed by the words, “Oh, and one more thing.”

  Carson raised his head, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve as he did to remove a stray bit of puke. “What more could there possibly be to say…”

  For the second time in a matter of moments the words trailed away, as Carson once again found himself staring down the barrel of that damned big black gun.

  “Only this,” the Russian replied. “Goodbye, Comrade.”

  Fear and adrenaline exploded inside Carson and he reacted without conscious thought, jerking himself backward as somewhere in the far reaches of his brain he registered the sound of a sharp, staccato roar and a flash of intense yellow light.

  But only for a split second.

  Then everything disappeared.

  4

  June 13, 1988

  11:50 p.m.

  I-264 Commuter Park and Ride lot

  Southeast of Norfolk, Virginia

  Andrei Lukashenko hadn’t been blessed with an abundance of patience. He had many good qualities—or at least he thought he did, and his opinion was the only one besides that of his KGB bosses he cared about—but his tendency to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation had cost him more than his share of friends over the years.

  So when that pasty-faced American neudachnik lost his dinner all over the side of the Lincoln, Andrei went from calculating and coldly professional to furious and homicidal in near-record time. There hadn’t been the slightest possibility of Limington leaving this parking lot alive from the moment Andrei had taken possession of the Marine Technix prototype device, but executing him instantly morphed into a highly satisfying personal moment, whereas until ten seconds ago would have represented nothing more than the predictable end of this business transaction.

  He couldn’t deny, though, a touch of grudging admiration for Carson Limington, once he got past the teary eyes and the whiny insistence Andrei return the device he’d worked so hard to get his hands on. And the puke, of course. The moment he’d caught sight of Andrei’s gun for the second time, he’d reacted much more quickly than Andrei would have predicted, nearly escaping the head shot entirely.

  Not that it would have mattered. Even if the shot had whizzed harmlessly past Limington, the kid would have had nowhere to go. He wouldn’t have had time to climb into his car and drive away, so his only option would have been to run. And even given the parking lot’s poor lighting, Andrei knew he could have centered his next shot right between Limington’s shoulder blades.

  Andrei guessed he’d put the kid’s lights out for good, despite his impressive reaction to seeing the gun. He wasn’t about to take any chances, though. If there was one thing in this world Andrei Lukashenko prided himself on, it was his professionalism. He’d executed more Westerners than he could count over the years—mostly Americans and Brits, although he’d done a couple Frenchmen and the odd Italian as well—and he had never left a victim behind without a double-tap to the cranium, followed by two fingers to the jugular to ensure the subject had moved on to whatever awaited him—or her—in the next world.

  The pasty-faced scientist would get the same treatment.

  With the momentum he’d established from his desperate surge backward, Limington had been kind enough drop to the ground in the vicinity of the Town Car’s rear wheels. This offered Andrei plenty of room to exit his car without having to climb over the motionless—and now bleeding—body.

  He gave a brief glance at his driver’s side door and shook his head in disgust. The evidence of Limington’s intestinal distress was splattered all over the paint, tiny chunks of unrecognizable material even now beginning to dry to a sticky, nasty mess. There was blood spatter, too, of course, but Andrei didn’t concern himself with that. It would disappear once he washed the vehicle, which he would do the instant he returned to the Soviet Embassy following the successful conclusion of tonight’s mission.

  The real reason he’d climbed out of his car was to finish off Limington, and now he turned his attention to the figure sprawled on the narrow strip of pavement between the t
wo cars. He’d fallen backward, but had spun in a kind of half-twist as he dropped to the ground. Whether from the impact of the 9mm slug or as an extension of his panic-induced attempt at escape, Andrei did not know, or care.

  The end result had been a scientist lying on his side in a modified fetal position. If you ignored the thin river of blood dribbling down the side of the man’s skull, he almost appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

  Andrei considered climbing back inside his car to screw his suppressor onto the Makarov’s barrel, but after a moment’s inner debate decided not to bother. Despite its proximity to the freeway, the commuter lot felt remote and lonely, and Andrei hadn’t seen a single vehicle come or go since his arrival. If the sound of his initial shot into Limington’s skull hadn’t brought anyone running to investigate, he couldn’t imagine a second blast would, either.

  Besides, once he squeezed the trigger, it would take approximately ten seconds to bend down and check for a pulse, then climb back inside the Town Car and accelerate away. Even if the second shot drew the wrong kind of attention, Andrei would be long gone before anyone realized what was happening.

  Decision made, he took up a position over, and slightly to the side, of his latest victim. There wasn’t much room between the two vehicles, so he found himself leaning heavily against his Lincoln. He bent down until the business end of the gun hovered maybe ten centimeters above Limington’s skull, then took one last glance toward the parking lot’s entrance.

  And froze.

  He’d actually begun squeezing the trigger, but now he eased his finger back as he watched a Virginia State Police patrol car drive slowly into the lot. As part of his preparation for this assignment, Andrei had learned everything he could about law enforcement in the local area, and he knew immediately this vehicle was brand-new. It featured a light-bar configuration on its roof—just being phased in this year by the VSP—as opposed to the single bubble-style emergency light.