“This scenario was not typical,” she said angrily. “It was one in a million, not likely to be repeated in our lifetimes, if ever.”
“However,” he continued, talking over her as if she hadn’t even spoken, “President Reagan refused to allow the issue to drop. He threatened to replace the entire management team at CIA if we took any action against you. The upshot,” he said reluctantly, bitterness creeping into his voice, “is that your job is safe. You’re welcome back to the operations branch as soon as you are physically able to return.” He scowled, looking as though he had just gotten a whiff of rotting meat.
“What about Andrews?” Tracie asked, pressing the issue, refusing to allow Stallings the satisfaction of seeing any relief on her face. She wasn’t sure she felt any.
Stallings spread his hands in exasperation. “What about him?”
“Come on,” Tracie snapped. “You know damned well he couldn’t have been the only one at CIA who was working with the Soviets. What is being done to flush out the rest of them, to ensure nothing like this fiasco ever happens again?”
“There’s no evidence to indicate anyone besides Winston was involved, at CIA or elsewhere.” Stallings smiled thinly, his eyes cold and predatory. “In fact, as I already mentioned, there’s not even any evidence Winston was involved. There is no reason to pursue the matter further.”
And just like that, Tracie realized the potential involvement of other high-level members of the United States government in the attempted assassination of a sitting president would be swept under the rug, just like the full story of the incident, just like the true identity of the Soviet assassin. She flashed back to Winston Andrews’ words as he sat in his home office just before committing suicide. There aren’t many KGB collaborators in positions of power above mine, but there are a few. A wave of nausea washed over her that had nothing to do with her injuries.
“How are we using this fiasco?” Her voice had dropped nearly to a whisper.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stallings said innocently.
“Come on, goddammit. I was almost killed, got accused of treason, saw my mentor take his own life, saw the man I lov…saw a close friend die to save me. I served up two Soviet agents on a silver platter in New Haven that you’re probably grilling for information even as we speak. Stop beating around the bush. You know exactly what I mean, and I want an answer. You owe me that much. The United States is in possession of irrefutable proof that the KGB was behind an assassination attempt on President Reagan. How are we using that information to our benefit? There has to be a plan.”
The CIA Director’s eyes darkened. He was unused to being questioned, especially by a lowly field operative who had been called on the carpet, and clearly didn’t appreciate it now. Tracie didn’t care; she had had enough, and was about three seconds from quitting and walking out.
“First of all,” Stallings thundered, “I owe you nothing. This agency owes you nothing. If the president hadn’t learned the details of this disaster before we could contain them, you would be on your way to Fort Leavenworth right now, Agent Tanner. You would never again see the light of day if I had anything to say about it. It just so happens the right person is in your corner, so my hands are tied. For now,” he added ominously. “But don’t you dare get in my face with ridiculous demands because you feel we are in any way indebted to you. Is that clear?” His face had bypassed bright crimson and continued straight on to purple, and Tracie wondered who she would be dealing with when Stallings fell to the floor with the stroke that seemed suddenly inevitable.
“Are you going to answer the question, or are we done here?” she asked evenly.
Stallings took a moment to compose himself and then surprised her. His thin lips curled into a tight smile that stopped well south of his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “Of course we’re using Gorbachev’s letter for leverage. We have already communicated our appreciation to Mr. Gorbachev for the extreme risk, both political and personal, he took in warning us about the KGB’s highly irregular operation. We have agreed that during Mr. Reagan’s upcoming trip to Europe, the president will call for the removal of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of Germany.”
Stallings paused and Tracie whistled softly, impressed despite herself.
Stallings’ self-satisfied smile widened and he continued. “The Soviet Union is disintegrating. Gorbachev knows it and we know it. Even the KGB knows it—their highest-ranking officials just refuse to acknowledge it. Gorbachev does not possess the clout internally to risk the wrath of the KGB by stating the obvious: that the Soviet Union must be dissolved as the only way to save Russia from being destroyed from within.
“But with incontrovertible proof of a KGB-sanctioned assassination attempt of a sitting president to hold over the KGB’s head, we have the clout. Reagan calls publically for the destruction of the wall, the KGB is neutralized, and Gorbachev tightens his grip on the reins in Russia. Everyone wins, including the Soviet satellites, which are able to escape out from under the heel of Communist oppression.”
Tracie closed her eyes and saw Shane sailing over the edge of the roof, his head twisting in what she wanted desperately to believe was one last look back at her. She saw the same scene whenever she closed her eyes and knew she would for a very long time. “Everyone wins,” she repeated, her stomach in knots. Then, “Are we finished here?”
Stallings stared at her without speaking. She opened her eyes and met his gaze straight on. “Everything I’ve just told you is classified,” he said. “If one word of it leaks out, I will make it my mission in life to see that you rot in prison, I don’t care if that old fool Reagan is protecting you. I don’t care if God himself is protecting you. Is that clear?”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tracie said. She rose and walked to the door.
“We’ll expect you back on active duty as soon as the medical people give the go-ahead,” Stallings said to her back, his voice rising, rushing to get the words out before she left his office.
“I’ll let you know what I decide,” Tracie answered without turning. She bent and opened the door awkwardly, turning the knob with her right arm inside the sling, and continued through without another word.
53
June 8, 1987
11:00 a.m.
Shady Oaks Cemetery, Bangor, Maine
The day was bright and hot, a brisk wind helping to make the temperature almost bearable. Tracie stood on a shallow hillside dressed in a conservative business suit not unlike the one she had worn days ago atop the Minuteman Insurance Building in Washington, D.C. She tried to fan herself and failed miserably, her hands still mostly immobilized inside the slings. Smoked-black sunglasses covered her eyes.
Far across a field, a crowd of mourners had gathered to bury Shane Rowley. He had been part of a small family, just himself and his mother. He had never spoken to Tracie of his father, and the one time she asked about him, Shane had said bitterly that the man wasn’t worth wasting his breath on. Aside from Shane’s mother, who was easy to pick out, bent and broken by grief, there were probably a couple of dozen other people. Co-workers, neighbors, friends from high school.
The world had begun to move on following the initial firestorm of media fascination with Shane Rowley, the news cycles continuing their relentless, grinding pace even after just a few days. A small phalanx of television trucks and print reporters crowded the street just outside the gates of Shady Oaks Cemetery, and local police kept the media representatives a respectful distance from the proceedings. Shane’s mother had requested privacy and Tracie thought Shane would have appreciated that fact.
Tracie stood alone among small patches of overgrown grass in need of mowing, removed from the rest of the mourners despite having been invited to the service by Shane’s mother. Tracie had met with the grieving woman twice. The first time had been while still in the hospital following the surgery on her shoulders. All the media had been told was that Tracie was involved with the president’s protecti
ve detail, but Shane’s mother had insisted on seeing her.
The second time was earlier this morning.
Her name was Katherine, and she had been shattered by the events on the roof of the seven-story office building in Washington. Katherine Rowley was kind during both meetings, respectful of Tracie’s silence on the subject of Tracie’s relationship with her dead son, but nevertheless Tracie could feel a kind of desperate desire for answers radiating off her, none of which Tracie was at liberty to provide. So, when it came time for the service, she made the decision not to add any more grief to a woman already overwhelmed by it.
She rotated her shoulders, shrugging in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to remove the stiffness brought on by the beginning of the healing process. Her range of motion would return to one hundred percent, according to the agency doctors, and Tracie had no reason to doubt them. She was young and healthy and already beginning to feel stronger.
At least physically.
The doctors would clear her to return to work eventually, and when that happened, she had already decided she would go. She knew nothing else, and the prospect of walking away from the CIA and service to her country, returning to an unimportant job and a life filled with emptiness, held no appeal.
But she would never forget Shane Rowley. She uttered the words aloud, despite the fact they would be heard only by the birds in the trees. Speaking them instead of just thinking them served to make them real for her, to give them permanence. Shane had willingly given his life to save hers and even though she knew nothing she could ever accomplish would make that sacrifice worthwhile, she vowed she would honor it—and Shane—by giving everything she had every day for the rest of her life in support of freedom.
It was all she had to offer.
Down the hillside and across the field, the figures dressed in black clustered around the lone coffin. Tracie watched, thankful for the dark sunglasses covering her eyes, even though no one could see her; no one even knew she was there. The service ended and a couple of mourners began to help Katherine Rowley to a vehicle.
Tracie watched a moment longer, then turned toward the wrought iron gates of the cemetery and walked away, shivering even in the heat.
Acknowledgments
When it comes to inspiration, I need look no further than across the room to decide where to begin. From the moment I first decided I wanted to make stuff up and write it down, I’ve had no bigger or more enthusiastic supporter of me in this foolish endeavor than my wife, Sue. Her relentless optimism forms the perfect counterpoint to my outlook, which is typically, shall we say, less so. My bride has stuck with me for nearly thirty years, a source of constant amazement on my part and proof positive of the old adage, “There’s no accounting for taste.”
Editor Jodie Renner deserves much of the credit for anything you may have liked about this book, and none of the blame for what you didn’t. She is to thrillers what Vivaldi was to violins, and not a day goes by I don’t thank my lucky stars for finding her. Jodie’s hard work, keen insight, and refusal to settle for anything less than the best possible product sets her—and her work—apart from the crowd, at least in my book, which this is.
A couple of my air-traffic controller cohorts are always available to me to answer my often ignorant and sometimes downright silly questions. Dan Gravelle is a long-time coworker and licensed EMT and the first person I turn to when I need a medical point clarified. Joe Serafino, another long-time coworker, is my personal weapons expert and has, for years now, helped keep me from looking overly ignorant about a subject in which my knowledge is somewhat—some would say woefully—inadequate.
One of my oldest and closest air-traffic controller friends is a guy named Steve Henrich. We attended the initial FAA employee screen together in Oklahoma City way back in 1982, and thank goodness he didn’t cover his test answers too well, or I might never have managed the air-traffic control career I’ve had since I was twenty-two years old. Anyway, I was having some trouble coming up with a compelling name for this book and Steve saved my ass, suggesting the title you see splashed across the cover.
Speaking of covers, thanks to Scott Carpenter for taking the amorphous concept I gave him to work with and rendering visually stunning cover art that just screams “Exciting Thriller!” at the top of its lungs. I only hope the words behind the cover did justice to the art at the front of the book.
Plenty of other people have helped in plenty of other ways, including some who have provided inspiration, whether they know it or not. They include Ian Graham, Robert Bidinotto, CJ West, Vincent Zandri, Robert Gregory Browne and J. Carson Black, outstanding writers all, as well as Jeff Zarella, Joe Leonard, Tony Serino and many others. Thanks to you all.
Last, but definitely not least, I want to thank you, the reader, for plunking down your hard-earned cash on my work. Whether you’ve read all of my stuff and have been waiting anxiously for something new, or you never heard of me (much more likely) and decided to take a chance on an author you didn’t know, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to entertain you for just a little while. I hope I succeeded. If not, I can tell you it wasn’t for lack of trying. I can honestly say, and in all sincerity, you’re never far from my thoughts when I’m writing.
***
Allan Leverone is a 2012 Derringer Award winner and the author of five novels, including the Amazon bestselling thriller, The Lonely Mile. He lives in Londonderry, New Hampshire with his wife of nearly thirty years, three children, one beautiful granddaughter and a cat who has used up eight lives. Learn more at www.allanleverone.com, on Facebook or Twitter, @AllanLeverone.
Other thrillers from Allan Leverone:
Final Vector (2011, Medallion Press)
The Lonely Mile (2011, StoneHouse Ink)
Horror/supernatural suspense novels in the Paskagankee series:
Paskagankee (2012, StoneHouse Ink)
Revenant (2012, Rock Bottom Books)
Horror novellas from Allan Leverone:
Darkness Falls (2011, DarkFuse)
Heartless (2012, DarkFuse)
The Becoming (2012, Rock Bottom Books)
Collections:
Postcards from the Apocalypse (2010, Rock Bottom Books)
Uncle Brick and the Four Novelettes (2012, Rock Bottom Books)
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