She moved slowly through the woods, angling toward the old hostel, using as much of the sparse beachfront vegetation as possible as a screen. More often than not, she found herself combat-crawling on her belly, dragging her heavy equipment bag along with one hand. When she’d made it far enough that the ruined building provided cover, she pushed to her feet and moved to one of the broken-out windows at the rear of the structure. She tossed her bag inside, and then clambered through the window and dropped to the floor.
The damage the Black Sea climate had inflicted on the interior was every bit was extensive as Tracie had expected. On the bright side, though, someone had left a ruined desk inside what Tracie guessed had at one time been the hostel’s office. With a little effort she was able to position the desk in front of a window, but also far enough back in the shadows that she would be invisible to anyone outside.
Hopefully.
One of the desk’s legs had broken off, meaning it canted drunkenly to one side, making it an uncomfortable perch. Still, it was marginally better than having to stand for hours at a time in order to conduct her surveillance. Thanks to the height of the now-nonexistent windows, that would have been Tracie’s only option absent the desk.
For the remainder of the morning and into early afternoon, she kept eyes on the admin building and surrounding area. A sentry’s post similar in size and design to the one she’d snuck past on the outskirts of Objekt 825 had been constructed at the east side of the parking lot, closest the building.
Since she began her surveillance, everyone entering the office complex, without fail, had checked in with the armed guard inside the sentry’s post. They’d displayed what Tracie assumed to be identification badges before being waved on. Based on what she’d seen, sneaking past the guard would be virtually impossible, as the length of walkway between the parking lot and the building’s entrance offered nothing in the way of cover.
That’s a problem, she thought, flexing her right foot absently. The concussion and severe gash to the side of her head weren’t the only injuries she’d suffered last month during her desperate attempt to stop the radicals bent on detonating a Russian tactical nuclear device. She’d also sprained her ankle badly.
That particular injury had been healing nicely in the time since, but all the hiking she’d done to get to this point, most of it through loose, sandy terrain, had come at a price. Now the joint throbbed painfully. It was nothing more than an annoyance—so far—but Tracie feared that if she were forced to run, her weakened ankle might not hold up to the strain.
Inside the canvas equipment bag she’d worked so hard to carry were some protein bars and water bottles, and Tracie munched on one of the bars without taking her eyes off the building. She considered whether it would be worth the effort of changing locations tonight under cover of darkness, trying to find a spot behind the complex from which she could observe it and maybe locate a second access point, one not quite so well-protected.
But that possibility seemed unlikely in the extreme, and not just because it would make no sense for the Soviets to post an armed guard outside one entrance while leaving a second unprotected. The administration building seemed to have been built almost flush against the side of the steep hill covering the operational portion of the submarine base.
Tracie doubted there was even enough room for a rear entrance.
She was considering alternative methods of entry—there didn’t seem to be many—when a Volga motored down the road from the direction of Sevastopol, moving quickly, and then entered the lot. Over the course of the morning, multiple automobiles had come and gone, and Tracie paid particular attention to each, hoping to learn whatever she could about the facility from every new arrival.
The car nosed into a parking space and a large man climbed out.
A man wearing a suit.
A man with long silver hair, reaching almost to his shoulders.
And he was holding an object in his arms roughly the size and dimensions of a shoebox, if the man buying the shoes wore about a size 21.
Lukashenko, Tracie thought. I’ll be damned, Stallings, you’re right again.
She knew she should long ago have ceased being amazed by the insight and sheer intelligence savvy of the wily old CIA Director, but at times like this he almost seemed to have a sixth sense. He’d known exactly where to send Tracie, and been right on the money as to when The Weasel would show up.
She shook her head and smiled, and waited to see what would happen next.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Before Lukashenko had made it halfway to the sentry’s post, a man exited the administration building at a fast walk and hurried to meet him. Tracie guessed the man was in his mid-fifties, and was dressed in a Soviet naval uniform. From a distance she couldn’t be positive of the man’s rank, even with the binoculars, but her most likely guess was captain.
Which made him most likely the base commander.
Well, aren’t you important for a Weasel, Comrade Lukashenko, she thought as she watched the officer stride past the guard shack without a glance in the sentry’s direction. The officer extended his hand and Lukashenko pumped it vigorously, a wide smile creasing his face.
Tracie thought about Aaron Stallings’ description of the cold-blooded killer as salesman-like when he wanted to be, and it looked like that description was spot-on.
The two men stood in the parking lot and appeared to be chatting amiably. Then the base commander—as Tracie was by now almost certain that’s who he was—gestured toward the admin building like the lord of the manor greeting his dinner guests.
Lukashenko nodded, and as they moved across the parking lot, the base commander veered toward one of the parked vehicles. He shrugged out of his uniform coat and tossed it onto the passenger’s seat before continuing toward the office complex.
The two men strolled past the guard shack without Lukashenko or the commander showing any identification—first time that’s happened today, Tracie noted—and a moment later they disappeared inside the building.
And the first tiny seeds of a plan began growing inside Tracie’s mind.
18
June 24, 1988
2:00 p.m.
Objekt 825
“Welcome to Objekt 825,” the commander said as he extended his hand. “I am Aleksander Morozov.”
Andrei shook it firmly while introducing himself. He had committed Morozov’s name to memory immediately upon receiving this delivery assignment from his handler, although he saw no need to mention that fact to the commander.
The most enjoyable part of his job was convincing—or better yet, forcing—men and women to share state secrets and commit treasonous acts against their countries, but that great pleasure accounted for but a small percentage of his time on the job. The vast majority of his working hours were spent chatting up potential marks, earning their trust, wheedling his way into their lives, and so he had long ago learned the importance of remembering names and faces.
His recall for such details was unmatched.
“So,” Commander Morozov said as they stood in the parking lot. “This is the device that is causing all the excitement with my engineers?” The sun had broken through the mostly overcast cloud cover and was beating down on them, causing Andrei’s underarms to perspire so severely he could feel his undershirt becoming soaked with his own sweat.
“Da,” Andrei answered, doing his best to hide his impatience and annoyance. He choked back what he really wanted to say, which was that he didn’t give a damn what was inside the goddamned box. It could contain the severed head of Karl Marx and he would still want nothing more than to climb inside his piece of shit Volga and hit the road for Sevastopol and all the pretty young women sunning themselves on the beach.
The more time he wasted in pointless conversation with this naval officer, the longer it would take before he was drunk on vodka.
And he really wanted to be drunk on vodka.
“Excellent,” the base command
er said. “Please, come this way.” He indicated the administration building. “I am sure you would love a tour of our facility. It is quite impressive, if I do say so myself. Let us go inside and secure this precious cargo, and then we will have a look around.”
Andrei smiled politely back at Morozov while sighing deeply inside. He welcomed the opportunity to get out of the heat and humidity, but had hoped to hand off the “precious cargo” and then be on his way.
“I am sure much of this impressive facility is classified, and thus off-limits to someone in my position,” he said to Morozov’s back as the man opened his car door and tossed his uniform jacket inside, then moved toward the building’s double glass doors.
“Oh, of course. And do not worry. I would never consider taking you into the secure areas. But there is still plenty to see.”
Andrei rolled his eyes and sighed again, this time out loud.
***
He had to admit the submarine base was damned interesting. The first thing Morozov had done after entering the building was to pass the electronic communication thing off to one of his junior officers.
“Bring this to the lab immediately,” he’d said, and the man had scurried off like his shoes were on fire.
The second thing he’d done was to escort Andrei to his office and offer a glass of vodka. Suddenly the prospect of spending some as-yet unknown amount of time inside this facility seemed a lot less daunting.
They sat in Morozov’s office and shared their vodka and passed the time—Morozov was actually fairly interesting, for a naval officer—and when they’d each drained their second glass, the commander said, “What do you say we show you around, eh?”
By that point it had seemed like an outstanding idea.
The lab, where he’d instructed his lackey to bring the object of that American idiot Carson Limington’s treason, was apparently one of the portions of the base that was off-limits. But the commander hadn’t been kidding when he’d said there were plenty of things Andrei could see that he might enjoy.
The first was the descent into the working portion of the base. After leaving Morozov’s office, the commander led Andrei on a trek through a maze of hallways that felt much more complicated than it should have, given the size of the admin building.
Of course, he thought, the vodka might have something to do with that.
Finally they arrived at an elevator. Sleek and shiny, the thing looked out of place in such an industrial setting, like it would be more at home inside Moscow’s plush Rossiya Hotel. Not that Andrei would know for certain; a grunt undercover intelligence operative like him would never be permitted inside the Rossiya. That notion was laughable.
In any event, Morozov pressed a button and a moment later the elevator car arrived with a crisp Ding! They entered and Morozov pressed another button, and this time the car descended. Andrei had no way of knowing how far underground they traveled, because there was no way of estimating how fast they were descending the elevator shaft. But the ride took longer than he would have expected.
Finally the car jerked to a stop and the door slid open, and Andrei found himself stepping into a wide tunnel featuring a walkway along one side. The walkway curved in a long, gradual turn to the right.
His eyes roamed over the tile walls and ceiling and Morozov chuckled. “It resembles a subway tunnel without the train, does it not?”
Andrei nodded. “That is exactly what it looks like.”
“There is a reason for that. When this base was in the planning stages, much of the architectural work—and later the actual construction—was done by subway engineers that were conscripted into the project. The theory was that tunneling under millions of tons of earth to dock submarines was not markedly different from tunneling under city streets to run underground trains.”
Andrei nodded as he followed Morozov along the gently curving walkway. Before long an iron railing appeared off their right side, and shortly after that the tunnel widened even more. Water filled the space between the iron railing and the tunnel wall on the other side.
Far off in the distance, Andrei could see a Soviet submarine on the surface. It had been lashed to the railing with chains, and a major repair or maintenance job was taking place, with welders wielding torches as a crane lifted something that looked like a long horizontal tube into place on the sub’s deck.
As they approached the submarine, Andrei asked, “How deep inside the mountain does the facility go?”
“I cannot tell you that, specifically. It is classified information. But I can tell you this: if need be, we can dock twelve full-sized submarines here at Objekt 825 simultaneously. We typically do not have that many here, and do not now, but we do have that capability.”
“I assume the Americans and British are unaware of this facility?”
Morozov smiled. “I would imagine they strongly suspect such a facility is in existence. But I am quite certain they are unaware of its location. Were there any indications to the contrary, your comrades inside the KGB would brief me immediately.”
Andrei whistled softly. Despite his earlier reluctance to accompany the base commander, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d been as fascinated by something work-related as he was right now. His free-time interests typically ran more toward getting drunk and getting laid, not necessarily in that order. And, in fact, those were precisely his plans for later tonight. But this was undeniably time well spent.
In the distance, Andrei could see what looked at first like a concrete wall, a dead-end. As they approached, it became clear that he was looking at a massive door. Secured to the wall next to the door was an alphanumeric keypad. The commander stopped next to the keypad, shielding it from Andrei’s view with his body, and punched in a series of numbers.
Instantly a loud siren wailed, echoing throughout the chamber, and the door began to open, swinging slowly sideways until grinding to a stop abeam the far wall.
“There are a series of security doors identical to this one,” Morozov said, “running the length of the facility. They allow us to section off the portions of the facility we are using for repairs and maintenance from the portions we are using simply to dock submarines.”
“I would not want to have a migraine headache while the doors are opening or closing,” Andrei said, and Morozov laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
When he’d stopped laughing, the commander said, “I would very much love to show you more of the facility, but I am afraid I have more work to do this afternoon. However, if you would like, I can instruct one of my men to escort you further.”
“You are very kind, and I have enjoyed my tour,” Andrei said. “But, like you, I have further business to attend to today. I must be on my way soon.”
“Then we will wrap this up.” Morozov pressed more buttons, and the siren began wailing again, and the big concrete door started its slow journey back to its original position.
They had retraced their steps at least fifty meters when the door closed with a heavy-sounding thunk that Andrei could hear even over the siren.
19
June 24, 1988
2:10 p.m.
Objekt 825
Indecision had never been a problem for Tracie Tanner, either professionally or personally.
She’d been taught when confronted with a choice, to identify the correct option and begin working to make that option a reality. Her father, whom she had idolized even as a teen, when other girls her age were rebelling and pushing their parents away, had told her time after time, “Identifying the right path is easy. It’s usually the hard path.”
Tact and discretion had never been major facets of her personality, either, and Tracie had at times paid dearly for their absence. But her father’s words had stood her in good stead over the years, and rarely had she been confronted with a situation where she simply could not decide what to do.
At this moment, though, she felt as though she simply did not have enough
information to make the right call on the question of whether to stay here, relatively safe inside this abandoned building, or break cover and take action.
All things being equal, action was preferable to inaction, and while she couldn’t quite convince herself things were exactly equal in this situation, she knew also that staying here long-term was no option. Her food and water were limited, and now that the object of her mission had been delivered, the longer it stayed inside this secret facility the less likely she was ever to recover it.
So it was time to move.
She slid off the desk and bent over her equipment bag. Unzipped it and began rummaging through the items inside. After a moment she removed a small electronic device roughly the size and shape of a baseball that had been sliced in half. She placed it on the floor and continued searching until lifting out a second device that looked identical to the first.
GPS technology had been available to military and intelligence professionals since the early 1960s, but Tracie had never had occasion to utilize it in the field until last month while on the hunt for the Russian radicals who’d stolen a tactical nuclear device.
She’d been skeptical of what to her felt like smoke and mirrors masquerading as science, not convinced a tiny electronic device could actually allow her to monitor the radicals’ position without keeping them in sight. But the tracker had performed magnificently, and she had been able to follow the men from a greater distance than she’d expected.
The ability to maintain surveillance on a subject without actually keeping him in sight had been a game-changer last month, and she was hoping to put it to use again now.
Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9) Page 10
