The Nuclear Option

by Allan Leverone

  She picked her way around the two bodies. There was no time to photograph the papers and she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave without taking evidence of what she’d found. She thought it might be possible to conceal three sheets of paper under her dress, so she grabbed the top three, folded them in half and then folded them again.

  Then she shoved them into her bra, pausing only long enough to ensure none of the sheaves were visible over the top of her dress.

  She gathered up her lock picking tools and re-strapped them to her thigh before stepping into the hallway. Hopefully both men would stay incapacitated long enough for her to make her escape, but who the hell knew at this point?

  There was nowhere left in her outfit to hide the sentry’s Makarov so she ejected the magazine and tossed it to the far end of the hallway. She cleared the chambered round and threw it down the hallway as well. Then she leaned back into the office and pitched the now-empty weapon into the far corner.

  She pulled the door closed and turned toward the staircase.

  Tracie prepared to resume her drunk party girl routine with the sentry at the front door. It would be a hard sell since she’d fooled him into leaving his post earlier, but she was running out of options—as well as time—and had little alternative but to try. Worst-case scenario, she would stumble in his direction and hopefully distract him long enough to pull her combat knife. Then she would put him down with it and disappear out the front door.

  It wasn’t the best escape plan she’d ever formulated, but this mission had gone sideways in a hurry. She was now strictly in survival mode.

  She rounded the corner and began staggering/weaving like she’d done a few minutes ago, only moving considerably faster. She stopped the moment she got a good look at the front door, though. A different sentry was standing there. Apparently Gregorovich had been angry enough with the first kid for leaving his post that he’d replaced him.

  The guard lifted his eyes and did a double take at the sight of a woman in a party dress descending the stairs instead of his commanding officer.

  “Where is General Gregorovich?” the man said. “And who are you?”

  Instantly she changed her plan. Her walk became saucy and she winked at the sentry. “The general will be down in a few minutes. He needs a little time to…recover.”

  The man’s eyes widened comically. He opened his mouth to answer, but clearly had no idea what to say. Bewildered, he moved aside without further comment to allow Tracie to pass.

  She stepped into the mammoth closet and grabbed her coat, shrugging it on quickly. Then she stepped to the front door, the astonished soldier still eyeing her closely.

  She winked again and blew him a kiss, then exited the home and began strolling leisurely in the direction of the driveway.

  7

  June 11, 1988

  10:05 p.m.

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  A number of guests had parked their cars along the edge of the driveway in the area beyond the roundabout, facing the street. Tracie set out in their direction, certain the guard was suspicious and watching her closely.

  She hoped he would lose interest or get distracted before she arrived at the vehicles and had to pick one to pretend to get into. They were likely all locked, and she guessed the odds of being able to pull her lock picking tools out from under her dress and pick a car’s door lock in the dark while making it look like she was using a key were roughly equivalent to the odds of winning the lottery and getting struck by lightning.

  On the same day.

  The driveway was paved and smooth, the polar opposite of the condition of most of Moscow’s roads, and Tracie took her time approaching the parked cars. Every instinct was telling her to run, that she had just seconds left before the groggy soldier or General Gregorovich regained consciousness enough in the upstairs office to raise an alarm.

  But the damned front door sentry was still watching her. She spun in a lazy circle, pretending to look at the stars and enjoy the cool but beautiful spring evening, and as she did she observed the man leaning against the side of the house, smoking a cigarette and tracking her progress.

  She smiled and waved and kept walking.

  She couldn’t tell whether he smiled in return or not, but she doubted it because he most definitely did not wave.

  Goddammit.

  By now she had nearly reached the rear bumper of the car parked nearest the house. Her plan, although calling it a “plan” represented what she felt was a gross exaggeration, was to continue walking as slowly as she could reasonably get away with, moving along the row of cars until arriving at the first one in the line. Once there she would crouch in front of the vehicle, pretending to examine a flat tire. As soon as she was out of sight of the guard she would continue as far toward the road as possible before emerging from behind the vehicles’ cover.

  Then she would pull off her heels and run like hell.

  Not a great escape plan. Not even a lousy escape plan, really, particularly given the distance she would have to cover just to reach the street. But it was the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

  Halfway along the length of cars now. Another spin would only raise the guard’s suspicions more, so this time Tracie simply turned her head and glanced back.

  He was still watching, and had even begun walking in her direction. Not a lot, he’d only gone ten or so feet into the yard, but it didn’t strike Tracie as a positive development.

  She kept moving, the number of remaining cars shrinking rapidly. By the time she reached the rear bumper of the front car, a voice from in front of the house called, “Excuse me, miss, what exactly are you doing out here?”

  Tracie reached down and removed her shoes, one after the other. She pretended not to hear the man and picked up her pace.

  She reached the front of the lead car a second or two later. Bent down as if to examine the tire, aware the guard was still coming, ready to sprint for the street, unsure what the hell she was going to do once she got there if a Red Army soldier with a gun was hot on her heels.

  From inside the house came the sound of screams and shouted cries of alarm. One of the men Tracie had cold-cocked had obviously recovered enough to stagger down to the first floor.

  All hell was about to break loose.

  She lifted her head just enough to see over the car. The sentry had turned his back on her and was hurrying toward the house to investigate the source of the commotion.

  It was now or never.

  Tracie moved to the grass and sprinted along the edge of the driveway, feeling ridiculous, heels clutched in her right hand, unable to take full running strides thanks to the restrictive length of the gown.

  She lifted the dress with her left hand until its hem was above her knees. That allowed her to move a little faster. She’d been a standout athlete in high school and college and by the time she’d made it halfway to the road, knew nobody was going to catch her on foot.

  But of course, once the pandemonium died down inside Gregorovich’s home—which would only take a matter of seconds—soldiers wouldn’t be coming after her on foot. They would be in vehicles, guns at the ready, in no mood to play games.

  She burst through the decorative shrubbery lining the road at the front of Gregorovich’s property and turned right, slowing to a fast walk. The nearest bus stop was two blocks away and that became her goal. A young woman in a slinky dress with fiery red hair would be memorable to witnesses but there was nothing she could do about that. Speed was more important than stealth at this point, so she decided not to bother trying to stay out of sight of the street.

  If she couldn’t get on a bus before Gregorovich sent troops out after her, they would take her, and once that happened she would never be heard from again. She would be far from the first CIA officer to disappear without a trace inside the Soviet Union.

  A siren sounded in the distance. It was coming toward Tracie but she ignored it. Gregorovich might eventually get the police involved in the
search for her, but it wouldn’t have happened this quickly, and he would want his own people to capture her anyway, if at all possible. After what she’d done to him, he would want to interrogate her himself without having to share her with another agency.

  The bus stop came into view, a shabby little wood-and-Plexiglas shelter illuminated by one ancient streetlight, whose weak yellow glow did little but accentuate the surrounding darkness. Nothing had ever looked so welcoming to Tracie.

  From behind her came the diesel roar of a Moscow city bus. It was moving slowly and Tracie knew if she hurried she would make it.

  She hurried.

  The bus arrived at the shelter the same time she did. There were no other passengers waiting to board, so she moved straight to its open door. She reached under the right side of her bra as she approached, praying her change purse hadn’t fallen out when she stuffed Gregorovich’s paperwork under the left side.

  Or when she’d been clubbing two Russians with the butt of a gun.

  Or when she’d been running for her life along Gregorovich’s driveway.

  It hadn’t. The tiny purse was still there, money tucked safely inside. It was a testament to how badly this night had fallen apart that she was actually surprised one small portion of her plan remained intact.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and handed the money to the driver, then took a seat and willed the damned bus to pull away from the curb.

  After maybe thirty seconds it did. In a roar of grinding gears and an extended trail of smoke, the bus pulled into the Moscow city traffic, putting more distance between Tracie and her pursuers, who she guessed would begin hitting the streets any second now if they hadn’t already.

  She had no idea where this bus was heading and didn’t really care. She would need to abandon public transportation as soon as possible, anyway, since the Soviets very soon would begin stopping and searching all the city buses. Passengers would be inconvenienced and schedules disrupted, but Gregorovich and his men wouldn’t care about any of that. Their sole focus would be on finding and capturing the woman who had broken into his office and attacked him.

  The bus began slowing and easing to the side of the road. Ahead was another shelter that could have been a carbon copy of the ramshackle one at which Tracie had boarded just minutes ago. The doors opened and Tracie exited, relieved the bus had been mostly empty but well aware that at least some of the passengers would remember her distinctive flame-red hair when the authorities started asking questions.

  After a moment’s hesitation she turned left, selecting that direction partly because it would take her away from Gregorovich’s home, but mostly because the city looked darker and shabbier to her left than to her right. The bus pulled away and she began walking. She passed a trash barrel and dropped her shoes inside.

  Half a block later was a large municipal parking lot. It was mostly empty thanks to the time of night, but all she needed was one car and there were several in the lot. The occasional pedestrian passed by on both sides of the street, and vehicular traffic was moderate, but the lot was illuminated almost as poorly as the bus stops had been, and it was set far enough back from the road that Tracie felt relatively comfortable breaking into one of the cars.

  In any case, the risk was acceptable when contrasted with the danger inherent in staying on the streets. The longer she wandered Moscow on foot, the more likely it became that she would be caught; it was just that simple.

  Toward the rear of the lot sat a VAZ Zhiguli. Lime green, compact and at least fifteen years old, the Russian car was pocked with rust and dented on every side.

  It was perfect.

  Tracie got to work and in less than a minute had not only broken into the vehicle, but had succeeded in hot-wiring it and was driving toward the street. She’d spent enough time working in and around Moscow that while she wasn’t entirely certain of her exact location, she knew roughly the direction to drive to become certain.

  Five minutes later she reached an area she was familiar with, grateful it had happened quickly because she could feel the time ticking away. She didn’t know whether Gregorovich would be organized enough to order roadblocks throughout Moscow this quickly, but she guessed he probably would.

  She didn’t want to find out.

  In another fifteen minutes she pulled to the side of the street and ditched the car. She was close enough to her safe house to walk, and confident enough by now that she had eluded her pursuers to approach the home in a roundabout manner.

  She stepped through the door at 10:55, exhausted.

  There was no time to rest, though. She needed to get in touch with Aaron Stallings, right now.

  8

  June 11, 1988

  11:05 p.m.

  CIA Safe House

  Moscow, Russia, USSR

  Tracie paced the tiny kitchen of her safe house restlessly, drinking coffee and willing the clock to move faster.

  It was nearly midnight in Moscow, but only late afternoon in D.C., and that was a problem. Since her handler was the CIA director himself, and nobody else inside the agency was aware of her continued employment as a covert operative, contacting Stallings during his workday at Langley was impossible. She had to wait until he’d returned home to call him, utilizing a secure connection on their encrypted satellite phones.

  Typically the difficulties contacting her handler didn’t represent a major problem. Tracie was a loner, comfortable working without backup and loathe to call her boss looking for guidance every time an op took an unexpected turn. And since no one had as yet invented a reliable crystal ball, unforeseen circumstances accompanied every covert mission. It was unavoidable, as inevitable as the sun rising in the east, and almost as predictable.

  But this case was different. The communiqué she had removed from General Gregorovich’s home was so explosive, even Tracie could not justify proceeding without clear instructions from Director Stallings.

  She had known he wouldn’t be home yet when she walked through her door just before eleven. That would make the time a little before three p.m. in D.C., and in all the time she’d known Stallings, she could not ever recall him leaving work that early.

  She’d tried calling anyway, and as expected had gotten nowhere. That was when she started a pot of coffee brewing and began pacing. She had vowed to try calling every thirty minutes until contacting her boss, a vow she’d broken precisely fifteen minutes later when she tried again.

  Nothing.

  The time dragged, but now it had been another fifteen minutes. Time for another try.

  Still nothing.

  She cursed under her breath and poured another cup of coffee.

  ***

  It was three a.m. when she finally got in touch with Stallings. That made it seven p.m. in D.C., which meant it had been roughly an average-length workday for the man in charge of the U.S. intelligence community if he was just getting home.

  And it became immediately clear he was in a dour mood. “What do you want, Tanner? Excited to gossip about the party? Are we going to discuss the birthday girl’s outfit? It’s been a busy day and I’m hungry and tired. And I need a drink.”

  “I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important, sir.”

  He sighed deeply. “Okay. Fine. What did you learn about the portable radar system?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me? Nothing? That’s your definition of important? Nothing? Jesus Christ, Tanner, you’re not filling me with confidence that I made the right decision in putting you back out in the field. What the hell were you doing at that party? Did you at least get a piece of birthday cake?”

  “Sir, the Soviets have lost a tactical nuke.”

  The receiver fell silent. Tracie waited for a response, as patient now as she had been impatient over the last four hours.

  Finally Stallings spoke. “I don’t understand. Make me understand, Tanner.”

  “Sir, I found an urgent communication addressed to General Gregorovich from the director of the Krasno
yarsk Mining and Chemical Combine. Are you familiar with that facility?”

  “Of course. It’s the location where much of the Soviets’ plutonium is mined, and where plutonium and uranium are enriched to make both elements suitable for use in nuclear weaponry. Our strong suspicion, although we have not yet been able to verify that suspicion, is that various nuclear weapons are then manufactured on-site using the enriched elements. I can only assume from your previous statement that we may now consider that suspicion verified.”

  “I think that’s a safe assumption, sir.”

  “Tell me about the letter.” All trace of Stallings’ previous anger and frustration had disappeared as the CIA director became locked in to the conversation.

  “It was under lock and key inside the general’s office. I removed it from Gregorovich’s home and have it in my possession. Obviously I’ll get it to you as soon as possible so our analysts can examine it top to bottom, but the major takeaway is that just over a month ago—May tenth, to be precise—a security guard was assassinated at the Krasnoryarsk plant and a uranium-enriched tactical nuclear device was stolen in a middle-of-the-night raid on the facility.”

  “Navsegda,” Stallings muttered, not quite under his breath.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “It’s the name of a Russian revolutionary group. Their full name is Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda.”

  “Soviet Union Forever,” Tracie translated.

  “Yes. I’m sure you recall the situation last spring, when Soviet assassins attempted to prevent you from delivering the communiqué from Secretary Gorbachev to President Reagan?”

  “Do I recall it? I still have nightmares about it.” She’d discovered her mentor and handler, Winston Andrews III, had been compromised by the Soviets. Eventually she’d also seen her lover, Shane Rowley, shot to death trying to protect her in a showdown with a Russian sniper on the roof of a D.C. office building.