Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9)

by Allan Leverone

  For a moment she considered giving up on The Weasel and getting out of Sevastopol while she still could. No one would ever know she’d bailed out of the second half of her assignment. She could tell Aaron Stallings Lukashenko had driven out of Objekt 825 after dropping off the electronic device and disappeared, and he would find that explanation perfectly plausible.

  And her odds of escaping successfully would be much greater.

  The notion flitted through her mind for a half-second, maybe less, before she disregarded it, feeling a sense of shame even to have entertained the possibility. She’d failed on assignments before, of course she had. It was the nature of covert intelligence work; the victories were few and far between while the losses seemed to mount continuously.

  But one thing she had never done was to abandon an assignment. She’d put her heart and soul into every mission, in ways that had cost her immeasurably, both physically and emotionally.

  That wasn’t going to change now.

  One more turn brought one more ancient Russian factory into view, crumbling, ghostly and almost certainly abandoned. But parked in front of the structure was a car she recognized from her surveillance yesterday.

  Andrei Lukashenko’s car.

  She slowed almost to a crawl, concerned the speed reduction would make her memorable to any potential witnesses, although not a soul seemed to be around for kilometers in any direction. The Lada crept forward along the rutted road and Tracie examined the parked vehicle as closely as she could from a distance, wanting to be one hundred percent certain.

  The longer she looked, the more convinced she became.

  It was definitely The Weasel’s.

  Tracie took one last long look and then accelerated away. The roads providing access to the series of old industrial buildings were winding and narrow, and had been set up in more or less a checkerboard pattern. After leaving the factory and Lukashenko’s car behind, Tracie turned right at the first cross road and pulled her vehicle to a stop in front of another of the seemingly endless factories and warehouses, all sitting empty and forgotten.

  She checked her primary Beretta and then her backup, moving quickly but efficiently. Then she unsheathed her combat knife and examined its readiness, knowing she would find its cutting/stabbing surfaces honed to a razor-sharp edge but doing it anyway.

  Preparation was critical. It was also second nature.

  Then Tracie was out of the car and moving, taking a direct route back toward Lukashenko by moving through a stand of trees that had been left by whoever had designed the complex decades ago.

  Her plan was simple: a direct assault. She would enter the building, which presumably contained her target, from either the rear or the side.

  She would move silently through the structure until locating the man.

  Then she would eliminate him.

  It wasn’t the best plan. In fact, it was barely a plan at all. At the very least, Tracie should take the time to surveil the factory, determine Lukashenko’s precise location inside it and, more importantly, whether he was alone or accompanied by one or more KGB operatives before taking any action that would put her in harm’s way.

  But she simply could not afford to take the time to do any of that. Every minute that passed without her leaving Sevastopol and Objekt 825 far behind was a minute that brought her closer to capture, as the Soviets fanned out to search for the brazen operative who’d infiltrated their secret base, killed a soldier and recovered their stolen intelligence prize.

  Capture meant interrogation and torture, pain and, eventually, death.

  She slowed her approach as the structure housing Lukashenko came into view through the vegetation. She lingered at the tree line, attempting to determine the route to use to approach the building that would keep her at least somewhat concealed.

  There was none.

  The factory was surrounded on all four sides by a parking lot that had once been paved but was now mostly dirt-covered, with the occasional chunk of old blocky tar. Had the lot been filled with cars, Tracie thought she could have made it almost the entire way to the building while remaining unseen.

  But of course there were no cars besides Lukashenko’s, and even that was on the other side of the manufacturing plant.

  She picked her way through the trees until reaching a point opposite the southeastern corner of the building. Based on her brief observation of the factory, this location seemed to offer the fewest number of grimy windows through which her approach could be observed, if anyone inside the building happened to be looking out one.

  Maybe.

  She took a deep breath and then broke cover, not running but moving quickly. Her injured ankle throbbed with each step.

  In twenty seconds, Tracie had arrived at the corner of the factory. She flattened herself against the concrete, pressing so closely to the surface that she could feel the rough material scratching her shoulders and back. Then she began edging along the side wall.

  Surprisingly, most of the windows were still intact. But she’d observed a couple along the side of the building that had been smashed out and thus might offer access without requiring Tracie to expose herself too greatly.

  When she reached the first of the broken windows, she eased up onto her tiptoes and peered through. The inside of the building, at least the portion she could see, was shadowy. At one time it appeared to have been a storage area, but now the room sat empty and still.

  No Lukashenko.

  No other KGB operatives.

  Nobody at all.

  Tracie had no desire to slice herself to ribbons before taking on The Weasel, so she ran her hand lightly over the rusted windowsill, checking for any jagged glass fragments that might still remain. There were none.

  She placed her palms on the frame and leapt, lifting herself to a sitting position on the sill before dropping silently to the concrete floor on the other side.

  She was in.

  Now to locate Lukashenko and eliminate him.

  34

  June 25, 1988

  11:15 a.m.

  KGB interrogation facility, Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

  Upon his arrival at the old KGB safe house, Andrei had moved immediately to the roof, where he could observe three hundred-sixty degrees around the building. It was an overcast day but warm and humid, and before long he’d found himself—again—sweaty and miserable, soaking through first his undershirt and then his dress shirt.

  Still, a little sweat and misery would be well worthwhile if he could bag a CIA or MI6 operative working inside Russia. Worst case, he would remain sweaty and miserable for the rest of the day, and then if no one showed up he would find a motel nearby and shower, then drink the night away.

  Best case, his career would get a major boost.

  He didn’t have to wait long. He’d been on the roof barely ninety minutes when an anonymous-looking Lada chugged along the access road serving this and many other industrial relics that had been abandoned following World War II.

  The car had been moving slowly to begin with, but the moment it turned the corner and the KGB site came into view—where Andrei had left his car conspicuously parked out front—it slowed further, creeping along as its lone occupant studied Andrei’s building with an intensity he could see even from a distance.

  Then it accelerated away.

  The moment it rounded the corner and drove out of sight, Andrei hurried down the stairs to the first floor. He was now certain a foreign government had decided he was interesting enough to tail, and while he couldn’t imagine how any of the Soviet Union’s enemies could have located his car inside Russia to place a tracker on it—or even why they would do so, given he wasn’t currently working an assignment—he didn’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about it, either.

  An operative was coming for him, and he would make his career by taking that man down.

  The first floor of the old factory had consisted of a large, open manufacturing space on the north side of the building, with th
e south side broken up into a series of smaller offices and storage rooms. It was inside the office located directly off the manufacturing floor that Andrei moved into to await the foreign agent’s arrival.

  Presumably the operative would enter through the south side suite of offices, since there would be nowhere to conceal himself if he used the main entrance or any of the windows ringing the manufacturing floor. But after doing so, he would eventually have to move along the hallway leading to the open space.

  That hallway would take the operative directly past Andrei.

  It was inevitable.

  All Andrei would need to bag the agent was a little patience, and if there was one skill Andrei Lukashenko had perfected over a career spent manipulating people into betraying their countries, it was patience.

  The air was heavy but cool, and after an hour and a half spent baking on the roof, Andrei felt as though he’d stepped into a freezer. He held his gun in his right hand, rubbing his arms briskly to generate some warmth while also trying to remain silent so he could hear the operative’s approach.

  He wondered how long he would have to wait. Cat and mouse games were nothing new to him, but this particular kind of field work was, and he felt a nervousness fluttering through his system unlike anything he experienced working one of his usual assignments.

  The time seemed to drag, elongating until every passing minute felt like an hour. Despite the tension it was difficult to maintain focus.

  Then the operative passed the doorway behind which he was standing.

  And Andrei moved. He slipped into the hallway and placed his weapon against the side of the man’s neck and said, “Stop right there and drop your weapon. Do it now or die.”

  The operative froze for a moment, and then turned slowly to look at Andrei.

  It wasn’t a man at all.

  It was a woman.

  And it wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman he recognized. He had known capturing an enemy agent would provide an incredible boost to his career, but he hadn’t expected this. This was a prize far beyond anything he could imagine.

  “Last warning,” he said. “Drop your weapon or I will put a bullet in your head.”

  Finally she did as she was told, meeting his gaze and glaring at him as she complied. The metallic clatter of the gun hitting the concrete floor sounded surprisingly loud.

  He smiled. “Good girl. Now, walk slowly straight ahead.”

  35

  June 25, 1988

  11:50 a.m.

  Abandoned factory north of Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

  Tracie cursed inside but tried to prevent her frustration—and, she had to admit, her fear—from showing. The moment she turned she recognized The Weasel, and the frustration of being this close to completing her assignment only to find the tables turned on her was almost overwhelming.

  So was the fear.

  She had been so focused on finding and eliminating Andrei Lukashenko that she now realized she hadn’t given proper consideration to the possibility he’d discovered her tracker on his car and was setting her up by coming here.

  Now it was too late.

  “Walk straight ahead?” she said calmly. “Could you be more specific? There’s a wall straight ahead.”

  “Do not be a wise-ass,” he said. “The wall is at least thirty meters away, we will be stopping long before you have to worry about striking it.”

  “Eh, I’ll pass, thanks. I’m happy right here.”

  “MOVE,” he thundered, tapping his gun against the side of her skull—fortunately, the uninjured side—to emphasize his point.

  Tracie started walking. Her head throbbed from the blow and she could feel the beginning of what was going to be a decent-sized egg swelling under her hair. Still, she forced her hands to remain at her sides, determined not to give the KGB man the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused her pain.

  “You know,” she said conversationally, “this is a rude way to treat someone who just stopped to ask for directions.”

  He chuckled, the sound originating deep in his chest. It reminded Tracie of the rumble of thunder on a humid D.C. summer night and she felt an intense stab of terror. Andrei Lukashenko was a man to whom killing was second nature, and the realization that she may never make it out of this shithole alive froze her blood in her veins.

  They entered a massive room that had clearly at one time been the factory’s production floor. A wide metal table featuring a crumbling conveyor belt ran the length of the room off to Tracie’s right, with iron arms of varying sizes and heights bolted to it at irregular intervals. She guessed the arms had supported saws, drill presses, and other tools that had been disassembled and removed upon the factory’s decommissioning. The remainder of the room was mostly empty but for a series of support posts running floor to ceiling, and trash strewn about the floor.

  Lukashenko shoved Tracie in the direction of the long table and said, “Please do not insult my intelligence by saying you actually expect me to believe that you entered this abandoned structure, not through a door but a window, because you thought someone inside might give you directions.”

  She shrugged. “Believe what you want, but it’s the truth. I was driving out of Sevastopol and found myself lost. I saw your car, so I knew someone was in here. I had no idea I would find myself held captive at gunpoint. And I came through the window because I was afraid that whoever was inside the building might be dangerous. Obviously my fears were well-founded.” The story sounded ludicrous even to Tracie, and she cursed inwardly at her inability to come up with something better.

  They arrived at the table. Lukashenko hadn’t given any further instructions so Tracie stopped, half expecting another Makarov love tap.

  It didn’t come. Instead The Weasel remained behind her and said, “That is the silliest story I have ever heard. Thank you for revealing yourself as a liar, as well as a foreign intelligence operative.”

  “Foreign intelligence operative?” Tracie tried to put the appropriate note of confusion in her voice. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

  “Let us stop playing games. I do not suspect you are a foreign operative, I know you are.”

  “How could you possibly know something that is not true?”

  “Are you aware of what I have been doing for the past week?”

  Tracie shrugged. “How am I supposed to know that when we just met five minutes ago?” Tracie considered extending the conversation to be a win. If Lukashenko had wanted to shoot her in the head, he could have done so back in the office hallway, but she didn’t feel terribly confident he hadn’t brought her to this portion of the factory to do exactly that.

  He said, “I have been cooling my heels, as you westerners like to say, at Lubyanka.”

  “What’s a Lubyanka?”

  That thunder-rumble chuckle erupted from somewhere deep inside Lukashenko’s chest again, and it was every bit as disconcerting now as it had been last time.

  “You know perfectly well Lubyanka is KGB headquarters.”

  She shrugged again, determine to ride her attempted deception to its end despite the fact The Weasel clearly wasn’t having any of it.

  “And,” he continued, “would you like to know what was plastered all over the facility while I was there, so much so that I saw it practically everywhere I turned?”

  A sick feeling rolled through her intestines. She had a sudden suspicion she knew exactly where this conversation was going, and if she was right it didn’t bode well for her. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to give him the satisfaction of answering in the affirmative.

  “Not particularly,” she said.

  Another rumble of thunder. “I am not surprised. It cannot make you feel comfortable to know I saw your photograph posted all over Lubyanka.”

  “You’re lying,” she said, although she knew he was not. The asshole that had thrown her into a Rostov jail cell to face a sexual predator just weeks ago, Detective Kuznetsov, had never taken a booking photograph of her, so s
he could only assume he’d taken her picture while she lay unconscious in Semashko Hospital following her car accident. Then, after she escaped, he’d forwarded the photo to the KGB. It was the only thing that made any sense.

  And if that were the case, it was a minor miracle she’d made it anywhere near Objekt 825, never mind infiltrated the facility and recovered the submersible communication decoder.

  Which she had now just returned to the Soviets via her capture. The device was—for the moment—still safely stored inside her Lada, but it would take the Soviets no more than thirty minutes of searching to find it once they started looking.

  She groaned out loud and realized Lukashenko was watching her with a look of smug amusement creasing his face. The temptation to spit into it was almost overwhelming, but Tracie guessed doing so would not improve her immediate situation, so she tamped down on the desire.

  “So,” he said, “do you still wish to continue with your absurd story?”

  Tracie sighed deeply. Her frustration and fear had both ratcheted up to new heights, but she worked hard to avoid showing either one to The Weasel. Under the circumstances she thought she succeeded pretty well.

  Instead of acknowledging his question, she said, “What happens now?”

  “Now you place your right arm on the table and hold perfectly still.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “I assume avoiding a fatal bullet wound to the head is motivation enough?”

  She grimaced and did as she was told. From somewhere inside his sport coat Lukashenko produced a set of metal handcuffs, deftly slapping one side of the bracelets around her right wrist and the other around one of the iron support arms bolted to the table. He did it with a dexterity that led Tracie to believe he’d had some sort of Russian law enforcement background before turning to international espionage.

  As he stretched out to cuff her, Tracie got a full dose of the sour body odor she’d been noticing while they talked.

  She wrinkled her nose and said, “I don’t suppose your next move is to take a shower, is it?”