Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9)

by Allan Leverone

  The doorbell rang.

  For most people, a ringing doorbell wouldn’t represent a particularly noteworthy occurrence, but Tracie Tanner was hardly most people. She was rarely home, spending most of her time abroad on assignments, and almost never received visitors.

  Friends her own age were virtually nonexistent.

  Her mother had only been to Tracie’s apartment a handful of times in nearly ten years.

  In fact, now that her father was dead, Tracie couldn’t think of a single person who might plausibly be standing at her front door. She almost ignored the buzzer, assuming the visitor must be a bible-thumper or political operative working for either George Bush or Michael Dukakis, looking to secure her vote for their candidate of choice in this November’s presidential election. Neither party’s national convention would occur until later in the summer, but everyone already knew who the nominees for both parties were going to be.

  In any event, she had no desire to answer the door.

  But the visitor was persistent, pressing the bell multiple times, refusing to believe Tracie wasn’t home and refusing to respect her obvious desire to be left alone if she was home.

  Finally she could take it no more. She stomped to the door and flung it open, prepared to offer the bothersome intruder a profanity-laden piece of her mind.

  Then she stepped back, stunned.

  Marshall Fulton grinned broadly at her reaction.

  “Well?” he said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  7

  June 20, 1988

  6:30 p.m.

  Washington, D.C

  “What…what are you doing here?” Tracie shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “How did you even know I was back in town?”

  Marshall’s grin widened. His teeth looked impossibly white against his rich chocolate skin, and Tracie’s heart skipped a beat. She and her sometimes/occasional/on-and-off boyfriend were polar opposites in so many ways: he was a massive black Louisiana ex-college football player, outgoing and friendly, whereas she was petite and typically reserved, with flame-red hair and porcelain skin. Their looks and personalities were so wildly divergent they were perfect for each other, and his mere presence made Tracie’s darkest moments more bearable.

  Instead of waiting for him to answer, she launched herself at him, pressing into his barrel chest and wrapping her arms as much as possible around his muscled back, feeling his strong arms envelop her and lift her easily into the air. The stitches in her skull burned where they were being pressed tightly against his shirt but she didn’t care. He smelled of lemon and cinnamon and Tracie thought she’d never received a Christmas or birthday present in her life that meant more to her than Marshall Fulton’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep this evening.

  They stood at the entrance to Tracie’s apartment, door flung wide open, locked in an embrace Tracie was only now beginning to realize she’d desperately needed. For most of her adult life, her emotional support had come from her father, and with him gone she’d felt unbearably alone.

  “So,” Marshall said, his voice partially muffled as he spoke into her hair, his lips pressed to the top of her head. “Are we going to stand here all night, or do you think the neighbors have gotten enough gossip material to keep them busy for the next few weeks?”

  Tracie laughed. “Who cares about them?”

  She pushed out of Marshall’s arms and then stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss. Before it ended she found herself pressed into his body again as if trying to mold her small form into his much larger one.

  “This is heaven,” she mumbled, and it was his turn to laugh.

  “You won’t get any argument from me,” he answered, holding her even more tightly.

  After a period of time that was simultaneously everlong and instantaneous, she said, “I suppose I should probably invite you in, since you went to the trouble of coming all the way over here and interrupting me while I was in the middle of accomplishing a bunch of important stuff.”

  He snorted. “Thanks for clearing your busy schedule for me. Now, not only am I going to come in, I expect you to make me a drink.”

  They finally moved inside, and Tracie eased the door closed. She stared at his retreating form as he moved into the living room, remaining inside the small foyer while he lowered himself onto her couch. She realized she was standing unmoving, with a loopy smile on her face, and decided he probably thought she’d suffered brain damage in her car wreck.

  That thought reminded her of the shaved side of her head, and the ugly stitches that were going to leave an even uglier scar, and without thinking she turned to face the front door, reflexively removing the damaged side of her head from Marshall’s line of sight.

  She’d never been vain, had certainly never given a second thought to anyone else’s opinion of her looks. Or her personality, for that matter. But right now, it felt critically important Marshall not see her in her current condition. The physical damage represented a vulnerability she did not want to reveal.

  Not to him.

  Not to anyone.

  She tossed a sidelong glance across the room and saw Marshall watching her, arms folded, a fond smile on his face.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, speaking slowly, drawing the words out. “Good enough to eat.”

  Her hand flew to the side of her head, almost of its own volition, and she cursed inwardly and lowered it to her side.

  Then she shook her head. “Well, I know that’s not true.”

  “I love the new hairstyle, too,” he said, ignoring her words. “I didn’t think it would be possible for you to look any cuter, but you’ve managed to pull it off.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Marshall. I know you got a good look at the side of my head when I opened the door.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I can think of a million descriptions for the mess that is the right side of my skull, but ‘cute’ wouldn’t be included in any of them, and ‘beautiful’ wouldn’t even reside in the same zip code.”

  “So you presume to know what I find attractive then?” Marshall’s Louisiana drawl always did something to Tracie, and she found her insides slowly melting. Still, she’d studied her injury in the mirror and knew just how hideous it looked.

  “Well,” she said, “I think it’s safe to say only Dr. Frankenstein would find this attractive.” She whirled and pointed at her shaved skull.

  He smiled again and shook his head. “Did you know you’re one of the most intelligent and intuitive people I’ve ever met?”

  Tracie blinked. “Uh…thank you, I guess. But what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just this: for such a sharp cookie, you sure can be dumb sometimes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” he said, standing and moving next to her, “that this little area,” he indicated her shaved head, “represents no more than the tiniest portion of you. And we’re just talking about the physical portion. The young lady I care about is so much more than this little area.” He traced his index finger lightly in a circle around the sutures, being careful not to touch them.

  She started to answer and he shushed her, moving his finger to her lips. “I’m not finished,” he said gently. “You’re so much more than one side of your head. This injury is irrelevant to my feelings for you, and if you think otherwise, you’re being extremely unfair to me.”

  There was that drawl again, doing its thing to her insides.

  And he was right, of course. Tracie felt the tears gathering in her eyes. How could a physical presence as massive as Marshall possibly be so…gentle? That paradox was one of the things she loved about Marshall Fulton, even though she knew she would never quite understand it.

  “And there’s something else,” he continued.

  “Of course there is,” she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze.

  �
��Whether there’s a scar there or not doesn’t matter, because before long that magnificent hair will grow back out and cover it, and no one will ever have to know about it unless you choose to tell them. Your problem is that you’re too damned impatient for your own good.”

  “Thanks for pointing out my problems,” she said, scuffing at the worn carpet with the toe of her shoe.

  “Now, now, no need to thank me. It’s all part of the service.” He laughed and began backing up, knowing what was coming.

  Tracie punched his arm as his calves struck the couch and sent him tumbling onto the cushions. Then she leapt into his lap and kissed his forehead before saying, “So you acknowledge it, then.”

  “Acknowledge what?” he said warily.

  “That I’m the most intelligent and intuitive person you’ve ever met. You said it, there’s no taking it back now.”

  “I said one of the most intelligent and intuitive people. One of. I’m not that discerning, so it’s actually quite a large subset.” He started laughing as she punched him again. “Hold on there, Mighty Mouse. I seem to recall you promising me a drink.”

  “I don’t recall that at all. I do remember you demanding one.”

  “Tomato, tomahto,” Marshall said.

  “Fine.” Tracie climbed off his lap and turned toward her tiny kitchen. “I suppose you’ll be expecting the good stuff, too.”

  “Well, I am worth it.”

  You sure are, she thought, before answering, “The joke’s on you. I don’t have any good stuff. It’s all rotgut.”

  “No, the joke’s on you,” he shot back instantly. “I wouldn’t know good stuff from rotgut, anyway, so just bring whatever you have as quickly as you can, and then get back in this seat.” He patted his lap with his hand, flashing a wicked grin.

  “Oh, no,” Tracie said, glancing out the window toward the parking lot.

  “What?”

  “The weather’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  Marshall craned his neck to look outside. “What are you talking about? It looks beautiful out there.”

  “No, it’s bad. I don’t think you should risk driving home until it clears. Looks like you’ll have to spend the night here. Maybe several nights.”

  “Ohhhh,” he said. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Whatever are we going to do with all this time on our hands?”

  8

  June 21, 1988

  6:30 a.m.

  Washington, D.C

  The phone won’t stop ringing. The phone won’t stop ringing. The phone won’t stop ringing.

  The words kept repeating themselves, over and over, running through Tracie’s head on a continuous loop as she morphed gradually from fully asleep to reluctantly awake. Marshall lay still and apparently asleep next to her, unfazed by the racket coming from her kitchen.

  She blinked, yawned, and then blinked again, making no move to answer the call. She’d been sidelined indefinitely by Aaron Stallings, and the only other person she could think of who might plausibly be calling was lying next to her in bed, so her plan was to ignore the damned phone and wait for whoever was on the other end of the line to realize the call wasn’t going to be answered and hang up.

  So far, the plan wasn’t working. The ringing continued unabated, the only change being the steady increase in her annoyance level. As Marshall had so helpfully pointed out last night, she hadn’t been blessed with an abundance of patience even under the best of circumstances. And 6:30 in the morning, after being awake most of the night “passing the time” with Marshall, definitely did not constitute the best of circumstances.

  Still unmoving, his face pressed into a pillow, Marshall mumbled something that sounded like, “Your phone won’t stop ringing. You should probably answer it.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “You could always get up and answer it, you know.”

  “Not my apartment, not my phone. If we were at my place, I would already have answered it, so as not to disturb my favorite girl’s sleep.”

  Tracie snickered, her annoyance evaporating. Nobody else could handle her like Marshall; he seemed to have an innate sense of exactly what to say to smooth out the edges, no matter her mood. With the possible exception of her whirlwind relationship with Shane Rowley, she’d never been in love—not for real, not romantic love at least—so she had little against which to compare her feelings for Marshall.

  I might just be falling in love with you, she thought to herself, simultaneously intrigued and horrified by the possibility. She said nothing of the kind to Marshall.

  Instead, she said, “Favorite girl? I think you mean only girl.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Only girl. That’s definitely what I meant.”

  Tracie smiled and slipped out of bed. The phone had stopped ringing during their short exchange, but only for a matter of seconds. The caller had clearly begun redialing immediately after hanging up, the persistent jangle again immediately getting under Tracie’s skin. She supposed that was the unknown caller’s intention.

  “Be right back,” she said, and stomped out of the bedroom.

  Marshall, face still pressed firmly into his pillow, may or may not have responded, “Don’t be too mean when you answer.”

  She turned the corner into the kitchen and snatched the phone off its cradle. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” she barked into the handset.

  “Of course I do,” CIA Director Aaron Stallings said calmly. “I had plenty of time to examine my watch while waiting for you to answer your goddamned phone.”

  “I was trying to get some rest,” she shot back. “My boss told me to, and I always do exactly as he says.”

  He snorted. “Give me his number, I’d love to interrogate him and find out how he does it.”

  Despite herself, Tracie smiled for the second time since being awakened. “Why are you up so early on a Saturday morning?”

  “It’s called work, Tanner. Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”

  “I’m not allowed to work, remember?”

  “Touché.”

  “What can I do for you, boss? I’d really like to get back to bed, I didn’t sleep well last night.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Stallings didn’t need to know she’d very much enjoyed not sleeping last night.

  “Well, gee Tanner, sorry to disturb your beauty sleep. I was going to ask you to meet me in order to discuss an assignment, but never mind, then. You just go back to bed and forget all about the simmering shithole that is the world, ready to explode in about a dozen different places.”

  Tracie rolled her eyes, wishing Stallings could see her do it.

  “Just to be clear,” she said, “you sidelined me, remember?”

  “Ancient history, Tanner.” She pictured him waving his hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “Do you think you can work, or not?”

  “Of course I can work. Give me twenty minutes to shower and dress and I’ll be out the door.”

  “I thought you might see things my way.”

  “Damned right,” she said. “But I am curious about something.”

  “And that is?”

  “What changed? A few days ago you were dead set against sending me back into the field. ‘You’ll be too recognizable, it’s too dangerous,’ and blah, blah, blah.”

  “Glad to hear you give my words the weight they deserve,” he said drily.

  “Always. So what changed?”

  “Events, Tanner. They have a way of happening. And given our current…shorthanded situation in the Soviet Union thanks to them poisoning so many of our assets a few months ago, I have no choice but to send you back into the lion’s den. Maybe. But I’ve already said more than I should over an unsecured landline. Get in here as quickly as you can and we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Good,” Stallings said, and the line went dead.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tracie said as she placed the handset into its cradle on
the wall. “I did not see that coming.”

  She turned around and ran into the rock wall that was Marshall Fulton, who’d come up behind her while she spoke to Stallings.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear,” he said, as he wrapped his big arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I just snuck up behind you so I could hear what was going on.”

  “Wise ass.”

  “My momma always said I was an ass. The wise part she might take issue with, though.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “The smartest,” he said with a grin. “Anyway, that was my way of saying that based on hearing your end of the conversation, I’m guessing the weather’s gotten a lot better since last night.”

  “The weather?”

  “Yeah. As in I think it’s time for me to take my leave because you’ve got things to do.”

  She grimaced. “It’s work. I’m so sorry, Marshall. I would love nothing better than to cuddle on the couch all day and watch old movies, but I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”

  “Of course. I understand, although I am curious what changed. Last night you told me Stallings had put you on the shelf for some undetermined amount of time. You said you were going stir crazy because he wouldn’t allow you to work, and now he’s begging you to come in?”

  Tracie blinked in surprise. Between her classified work as the most secret of black ops specialists in the CIA’s arsenal, so secret she didn’t even officially work for the agency, and her own natural reticence about opening up to people, it seemed almost sacrilegious for Marshall to be asking the question.

  But as a CIA employee himself, an analyst at Langley, he was one of the two people in the world—one, now that Dad is dead, she thought bitterly—with whom she actually could share some small amount of information. Nothing classified, of course, no details of assignments or locations, nothing like that.

  Marshall, though, misunderstood her momentary silence. He stepped back and raised his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Forget I asked the question.”