Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9)

by Allan Leverone

  “It’s okay! I was just thinking how odd it is to be able to talk about job-related stuff with someone. It threw me for a bit of a loop but it actually feels kind of good. To answer your question, you know how Stallings is. When they invented the word ‘mercurial,’ I’m pretty sure they were picturing him. He just up and changed his mind.” She wasn’t comfortable getting into specifics beyond her very bland statement.

  Marshall laughed. “No, Little Miss Important, I actually don’t know how Director Stallings is, other than what I’ve heard. I’ve only met the man once or twice, and I’ve certainly never had a real conversation with him. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize me if I passed him in the hallway.”

  “You might be surprised,” Tracie said. “He is a major pain in the ass to work for, but Aaron Stallings is one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered. Maybe the sharpest. If he’s met you, I’d be willing to bet he remembers you. Probably even knows your name and what time you take your lunch break. But again, calling him difficult does a disservice to the word.”

  “You have my sympathies, then. On the other hand, I’m sure you just charm the pants off him.”

  She laughed out loud, picturing some of the knock down, drag out confrontations they’d had since she started working for him. “I’m not sure ‘charm’ is a word he would ever use in relation to me.”

  “Good. Because I’ve decided I don’t want you getting anyone else’s pants off.”

  She wrapped her arms around him again and squeezed as tightly as she could. Between that syrupy Southern accent and his sweetness and generosity, she could hardly stand the thought of leaving.

  They stood in her kitchen, locked in their embrace, but as wonderful as it felt to be so close to Marshall, Tracie was acutely aware of the clock ticking and of her promise to Stallings to be inside his home office in one hour.

  At last, she pulled away. “I’m sorry, I have to—”

  “Shhh.” He placed a finger against her lips. “I understand. I’ll be out of here before you’ve finished your shower.”

  Tracie’s heart broke.

  She nodded mutely and padded into her bathroom.

  9

  June 21, 1988

  7:40 a.m.

  McLean, VA

  Typically, a meeting with the CIA director meant being greeted at the front door of the Stallings residence by his wife. In all the time she’d worked directly for Aaron Stallings, only once could she recall him being anywhere but behind his massive desk upon her arrival. That was the day she learned of her father’s murder at the hands of Soviet assassin Pyotr Speranski.

  By Tracie’s way of thinking, she hoped never again to see her boss standing on his front steps as she parked in his circular driveway.

  In this case, no one greeted her at the door. Presumably due to the early hour on a weekend morning, Mrs. Stallings was still asleep, or at least still in bed. Tracie had thought that might be the case, so she’d only knocked twice, rather than ringing the doorbell.

  After the second unanswered knock she began rummaging through her purse to find the key to his home Stallings had given her more than a year ago. That had been at the end of a tense meeting following her firing from the agency for refusal to follow orders.

  He had invited her to his home a week or so after her dismissal, and she’d almost told him to take his meeting and shove it up his ass. What the hell could they possibly discuss? The notion of a terminated operative being rehired into the ranks of the CIA was unthinkable. Tracie had never heard of a single instance where that scenario had occurred.

  But she’d reluctantly agreed to meet with Stallings, mostly out of a sense of curiosity as to what he could possibly want, combined with an eagerness to tell him what she thought of his leadership methods.

  She’d sat in front of his desk in a little metal chair that made her feel like a schoolgirl who’d been sent to the principal’s office, listening in near-disbelief as he laid out his job offer. She would not be welcomed back into the Central Intelligence Agency, at least not officially. Instead, she would continue her career as a covert intelligence operative, but it would be on an unofficial basis, reporting directly to Stallings himself. She would receive the benefit of CIA resources, but would never appear at Langley and would work under cover in some of the most dangerous locations in the world, largely without backup. Her paycheck would be funneled through the General Services Administration.

  It was an audacious offer, insane really, providing the cagey old CIA director with his own personal black ops specialist at virtually no risk to himself. Should Tracie be captured operating inside, say, Moscow, there would be no way for the Soviets tie her in any way to the agency. All official records would show she’d been terminated in early 1988 and had since had no contact with Langley.

  The proposal was as one-sided and unfair as they came, and yet to Tracie Tanner it had felt like a life preserver being thrown to a drowning woman. Intelligence work was her calling. It was the only career she’d ever known and could ever imagine herself doing. It was her reason for getting up in the morning and for putting one foot in front of the other every day.

  She’d accepted the offer without hesitation, and had been working directly for Aaron Stallings ever since.

  Finally she located her key at the very bottom of her purse. She’d never had occasion to use it before and felt uneasy doing so now, like an intruder, despite the fact Stallings had given it to her for this exact situation. After entering the home, she climbed the stairs to the second floor, following the route she’d long ago memorized.

  She paused outside Stallings’ office and raised her hand to knock on the closed door. Before she could, though, he hollered from inside. “You’re late. Stop wasting my time and get in here.”

  Tracie chuckled softly. Working for Stallings was such a treat.

  ***

  “Tell me what you know about nuclear submarines.” Stallings spoke without taking his attention off the usual mountain of paperwork piled atop his desk as Tracie crossed the room.

  The only time he’d ever offered her a comfortable chair was during that awful meeting following her father’s murder, and this morning was no exception. She eased onto the metal seat, crossed her legs and smoothed her hands on her slacks, saying nothing.

  “Well?” He finally looked up in annoyance. “This is where you start speaking. That’s how it works. I say something, and then you say something, and then it becomes my turn again. Like a verbal tennis match.”

  A conversation with you is usually more like a circular firing squad, she thought as she raised her hands and spread them. Instead of verbalizing that thought, she said, “I just told you everything I know about nuclear subs. Would you like me to repeat it?”

  Stallings sighed. Pushed his paperwork to the edge of the desk and plopped his head onto his hands, using his elbows to form a tripod on the surface.

  “I figured that was probably the case,” he said. “Who the hell knows anything about submarines unless you’ve had occasion to work on one, right?”

  It seemed to be the kind of rhetorical question that didn’t require a response, so Tracie remained silent.

  “I like your hair,” he said suddenly, catching Tracie by surprise. “It’s very different. Makes you look younger.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure looking younger is to my advantage in this line of work. Honestly, I thought changing things up might make me feel better, but it didn’t. The only thing that will accomplish that goal is working.”

  She paused for a moment and then said, “I’m so glad to be here. You have no idea.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face and then was gone. “Oh, I think you might be surprised.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “From your question, I gather my assignment somehow involves our nuclear submarine fleet?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes,” Stallings answered. “Since we’ve already established your knowledge on the subject is…limited…”

&
nbsp; “I know nothing. Zero.”

  “As I was saying, since we’ve established your knowledge on the subject is nonexistent, let me give you a quick rundown on submersible radio communications.”

  “Sounds exciting,” she said.

  “Oh yes, it’s every bit as exciting as you might think. Apparently, communicating with ships operating beneath the surface of the ocean is problematic. Since radio waves travel poorly through seawater, early subs were forced to surface and raise an antenna in order to receive orders, subjecting them—obviously—to detection by anti-submarine warfare forces.

  “To combat this problem, most navies for the last twenty-plus years have communicated via what are called Very Low Frequency radio waves. These VLF transmissions penetrate seawater somewhat, and permit limited communications with submerged ships without forcing them to surface.”

  “You weren’t kidding,” Tracie said. “I’m on the edge of my seat here.”

  Stallings grunted in what Tracie took to be a chuckle. “Over the past several years,” he continued, “researchers have been working on a project that would allow communication with our submarines at a much greater depth beneath the surface using what are called Extremely Low Frequency sound waves, known as—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Tracie interrupted. “ELF waves.”

  “You got it. Anyway, the project is nearing completion and our fleet of submarines will soon be fitted with the equipment necessary to receive these new types of communications.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a happy ending to me. So why am I here?”

  “Well, it would be a happy ending except for the fact that the prototype of the new radio receiver necessary to decode the signals was stolen last week from the facility where it was under development.”

  “This facility is in the United States?”

  “Yep. In Norfolk.”

  “Sounds like a case for the police and the FBI.”

  “Indeed,” Stallings agreed. “And both organizations are, in fact, working the case.”

  “But…”

  “But the man who committed the theft, a guy named Carson Limington, who incidentally has to rank among the worst, sloppiest, most haphazard traitors in history, has told investigators that his contact—who double crossed him, stealing the receiver and then shooting him in the head—spoke with a noticeable Russian accent.”

  “Ah. That explains both your traitor comment and the fact that I’m sitting here in your office.”

  “It does.”

  Tracie frowned as she considered Stallings’ words. “This Limington guy survived being shot in the head by a Soviet asset?”

  The CIA director nodded. “It was a combination of a careless first shot, followed by a cop surprising the Russian before he could finish Limington off.”

  She shook her head. “So, what’s my assignment?”

  “Limington is currently being held under guard at Norfolk General Hospital following surgery. He’ll remain there until he’s well enough to be moved to jail while he awaits trial. I want you to interview him, see what you can find out about this potential Russian connection. If we can figure out the identity of the Russian buyer and get to him quickly enough, we might be able to recover the prototype before it’s shipped to the Soviet Union.”

  “The theft occurred last week?”

  “Exactly seven days ago.”

  “Seems like a long shot then. Don’t you think the Soviets would get it out of the country as quickly as possible?”

  Stallings grunted, this time in obvious annoyance. “Of course I do, Tanner. But getting the device to Moscow is going to be a little more complicated than dropping it into the nearest mailbox. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Okay,” Tracie said doubtfully. “But what’s my cover going to be? I can’t just waltz past an armed guard and into this guy’s room as an ordinary citizen and demand to interview a suspected traitor.”

  Stallings smiled. “I’m glad you asked. Do you recall the identity you assumed last September, when you attended the FBI briefing of the task force assigned to locate and rescue kidnapped Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries?”

  Tracie felt her face reddening. The anger came out of nowhere, a fury that became instantly almost uncontrollable.

  She cleared her throat.

  Tried to keep her voice from shaking.

  Chose her words carefully.

  Said, “Do I remember? Do I remember the case where I stuck my neck out only to get fired for insubordination, and then went and rescued Humphries anyway? By myself? Do I remember that case? Yes, boss, I remember it, quite clearly in fact.”

  Stallings waved his hand and grunted dismissively. “Don’t be so dramatic. I hired you back, didn’t I?”

  “Not as an official operative!”

  He scoffed. “So what? You’re still doing what you love, and you get the added benefit of working directly with me. There are hundreds of assets all over the world who would love to be in your shoes.”

  Tracie bit back the sarcastic response that nearly exploded out of her, knowing it might just get her fired.

  Again.

  “To answer your question,” she said, breathing deeply, loathing Aaron Stallings even as she admired him, “of course I remember that identity. I was Candice Clayburgh at that meeting.”

  “Correct,” Stallings said, utterly unperturbed by Tracie’s obvious anger. “And do you recall the job title we gave you?”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the memory, even though she didn’t want to. “Yes, I was ‘special liaison,’ although liaison to whom was never specified. Matt Steinman tried his best to blow my cover on that point the moment I walked into the meeting.”

  “I’m not surprised. The FBI director didn’t exactly rise to his current position on the strength of quick wit and excellence at his job. I suspect he has naked pictures of the right people, to be honest.”

  I’ll bet you do, too, and of just about every politician and bigwig in D.C., Tracie thought.

  “Anyway,” Stallings continued, “for this interrogation you’re going to be Candice Clayburgh, Special Liaison again. But this time, you’ll be special liaison to FBI Director Matt Steinman himself. I took the liberty last night of having our people at Langley construct an official FBI ID and shield for you.” He reached into a desk drawer, removed a billfold, and then tossed it to her.

  Tracie caught it and opened it up to see her own likeness staring back at her, with her FBI title printed beneath the photo in what precisely resembled the real thing.

  She glanced up at Stallings. “How did you know I was even going to agree to this assignment?”

  “This isn’t Mission Impossible, Tanner. When I give you an assignment it doesn’t come with the words, ‘should you choose to accept it.’ You’ll damned well do it or you’ll be looking for work.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she said sheepishly. “Stupid question.”

  “But it wouldn’t have mattered even if that weren’t the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You would never turn down an opportunity to do this job.”

  “You’ve got me on that one.”

  “Of course I do. Now get the hell out of here. As wonderful as it is to see your new hairstyle, I have work to do.”

  10

  June 21, 1988

  1:55 p.m.

  Norfolk General Hospital

  Norfolk, VA

  When Stallings told her she would be impersonating a representative of the FBI director himself, her initial thought had been that it might be a bit of an overreach. Wouldn’t posing as an anonymous FBI special agent get the job done just as well?

  But the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Given the classified nature of the item this Carson Limington character had been charged with stealing and turning over to the Soviet Union—the fact that they’d stolen it from him after he, in turn, stole it from Marine Technix Corporation mattered little to prosecutors at the U.S. Justice
Department—the personal attention of the director to the case would not seem at all unusual.

  Regardless of her feelings about Stallings, she had to admit to herself—for probably the thousandth time in the past year—the man definitely knew what he was doing. Nothing else could explain his decades-long seat at the head of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Unless, of course, he actually did have naked pictures of the past half-dozen or so U.S. presidents, a possibility she could not entirely dismiss.

  She’d called the Norfolk Police Department immediately upon arriving home—Marshall was gone, as he’d said he would be, a fact Tracie appreciated from a professional standpoint but detested from a personal one—and spoke to the duty officer, clearing the way for a visit by Candice Clayburgh with the hospitalized Carson Limington. The police weren’t thrilled with the notion of sharing their prisoner with the feds, but they knew how things worked when the case involved potential treason charges. They decided they would be only too happy to accommodate FBI Director Matt Steinman’s personal representative.

  After arranging a two o’clock meeting with Limington—“Please ensure the officer posted at the prisoner’s hospital room door is made aware of my visit,” she’d said in her coolly professional FBI-boss-bitch voice—Tracie had taken a quick nap, then showered and dressed in one of the few business-type outfits she owned: a plain white button-down blouse over midnight blue slacks, with black flat-soled shoes. Add in her Beretta 92SB in a shoulder rig and the outfit would be complete.

  At ten-thirty she hit the road, arriving in Norfolk a little more than three hours later. She grabbed a quick bite to eat and entered Norfolk Hospital at 1:55. Unwilling to wait for the elevator, Tracie took the stairs to the third floor. Limington was being held in Room 346, and after a moment’s confusion as to the direction, she walked quickly past the nurse’s station to the room with the cop posted outside.

  Flashing a tight, insincere smile, she held her forged credentials up for his inspection and said, “Candice Clayburgh, FBI. I’m here for my two-o’clock interrogation of your prisoner, Carson Limington.”