“Betraying your country under the orders of a fellow traitor is no excuse, Comrade Petrovka. So I ask you again, and for the last time: what was the item you delivered to your contact?”
Terror flooded through Aleksander’s body. The terror overwhelmed the pain so his throbbing shin ceased to exist. The terror overwhelmed his queasy stomach so he no longer felt he was about to puke. The terror was everything.
These men were Russians, but it did not matter. They were Russians, but the word of Mikhail Gorbachev meant nothing to them. They were accusing him of treason, but they were traitors. The irony struck him like another kick to the shin.
Aleksander realized he was breathing heavily, forcing air in and out through his mouth like a panting dog. He was hyperventilating but could not stop himself.
This was bad.
This was worse than bad.
This was a nightmare come to life.
“WHAT WAS THE ITEM YOU DELIVERED TO YOUR CONTACT?” the bald man screamed in Aleksander’s face. Spittle sprayed from the man’s mouth as if from a fire hose. A fat gob of saliva splattered the side of Aleksander’s nose and dripped slowly into his mouth.
Aleksander sobbed. “I don’t know! Secretary Gorbachev gave me a sealed envelope. Inside was some kind of document, I do not know what. He forbade me to look at it.”
His tormentor stepped back and looked at his comrade. He seemed genuinely shocked. “You risked your life to deliver a document and…you don’t even know what it was?”
Aleksander hung his head and shook it miserably. He would never see Tatiana or his children again. He would never see the sun rise over the Moscow skyline. He was going to die here in this dirty, dark torture chamber at the hands of two people he had never seen, two people who believed him a traitor to his country. And there was nothing he could do about it.
A wrenching sob shook his body and pain flared in his shin. “The envelope was sealed. I could not have opened it even if I wanted to.”
His two captors shared a laugh as though he had said something funny.
Then his interrogator switched gears. “Your contact. He was a German, was he not?”
“Yes, that is what Secretary Gorbachev told me, and I don’t know why he would lie about it.”
The two men grunted and his interrogator spit on the floor. “Yes, why would he lie?” the bald man said. “He is destroying his ancestral homeland, the land Russians have spilled blood to protect for generations, but surely he would not lie.
“Now, getting back to the document the traitor Gorbachev asked you to pass along to the German, What was it?”
“I already told you, I do not know.”
The man waved a hand like he was brushing a fly away from his face. “Do not take me for a fool, please, Comrade. There is no one alive who would not look inside the envelope the first chance he got. What was it?”
Aleksander raised his head and looked at the man beseechingly but said nothing. What could he say that he had not already tried? It was clear another denial would be ignored.
And then, out of nowhere, inspiration. His contact! “If you were watching me, you must have been watching my contact, too,” he said, speaking quickly, enthusiastically. “If you can find him, you can take the envelope from him and see for yourselves what it contains.”
“Thank you for your very helpful advice,” his tormentor replied with exaggerated politeness. “Your German collaborator claims to know nothing as well, and he passed the envelope off before we were able to intercept him.”
The man shook his head in disgust and spit again on the floor. “We are getting nowhere and time is passing quickly.”
He smiled at Aleksander, his lips a thin bloodless slash. “I would like to say I am sorry for what is to come next, but alas, I cannot. I have little patience for traitors, but would gladly have ended you quickly had you only given me the information I require. Now, I am afraid you are in for a rather unpleasant little while. I can’t be more specific because, you see, I don’t know how long it will take you to die. One can never predict these things, but the elapsed time will probably seem much longer to you than it actually is.”
The other man walked away and began dragging equipment across the concrete floor, placing it next to Aleksander’s chair. He didn’t seem sorry, either.
He whistled a tuneless ditty as he expertly clamped a set of booster cables to a series of automobile batteries stacked atop a wooden pallet on wheels. A cable ran from the batteries to a small box fitted with dials, switches and a couple of grimy meters.
To Aleksander the box resembled the transformer from the small electric train set he and Tatiana had given their son, Aleksander Junior, for his fourth birthday last year. It had taken months to save up enough money to buy the toy, but the look on his son’s face when he opened the gift had been worth every bit of sacrifice.
Tears spilled down Aleksander’s cheek at the memory and mixed with the spittle drying on his face.
The quiet man continued working and whistling. Two cables extended from one side of the transformer-like box, snaking across the floor and terminating at Aleksander’s shackled feet. At the end of each cable was a shiny copper connector, spring-loaded and fitted with sharp teeth.
A feeling of dread wormed its way through Aleksander’s gut and he no longer suspected he was going to throw up again. He knew it.
The quiet man unbuckled Aleksander’s belt and pulled it free of his trousers. He unsnapped Aleksander’s pants and unzipped the fly and motioned impatiently for him to lift his ass off the seat.
Numbly, Aleksander did as he was instructed, and the man yanked his trousers and underwear down to his ankles.
And Aleksander puked, barfing up the acidy-tasting remnants of the East German vodka, not caring this time that it splattered all over the quiet man. He began babbling, begging for his life, begging for mercy. Begging.
The quiet man continued, unaffected. He attached the copper ends of the two cables to Aleksander’s bare scrotum, tugging lightly on each one to ensure it was fastened securely. Then he walked behind Aleksander’s chair, returning seconds later with a bucket of foul-looking water. He splashed some on Aleksander and the cables.
He looked at Aleksander, his eyes hard and remorseless. “Goodbye, Comrade,” he said. They were the first and last words Aleksander ever heard him say.
Then he walked to the small table on wheels upon which the transformer-like box was placed, and he flipped a switch.
Then he turned a dial.
Then Aleksander’s situation changed for the worse.
It took a long time for him to die.
9
May 30, 1987
12:15 a.m.
Ramstein Air Base, West Germany
“Hello?”
“Is this Mitchell?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Kopalev.”
“Yes, it’s Mitchell.”
“You are alone, yes? You can speak freely?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because we have a job for you.”
“Go ahead.”
”An item has been taken out of Russia through the GDR and is being flown to America from your air base.”
“So? Stuff flies out of here to the States all the time.”
“Not ‘stuff’ like this. It is critical this item not reach its intended destination. You will ensure that it does not.”
“What is the item?”
“An envelope addressed to your President Reagan. We believe the envelope contains a handwritten letter from Mikhail Gorbachev betraying his country.”
“I’m supposed to intercept a letter? In one small envelope? I don’t know anything abut mail delivery. It’s not possible.”
“It is possible, Major. And it will be done. We have been paying you good money for many years and you have provided little return on our investment. Now it is time for you to earn those tens of thousands of American dollars we have deposited into your bank account.”
/> “But…how?”
“The item is far too valuable to be left unguarded. It will be placed on the first available military flight leaving Ramstein for the U.S. and will be carried personally by a member of your CIA. We believe that representative will be a young woman, red-haired and beautiful.”
“A beautiful, red-haired CIA spook?”
“That is correct. We have two witnesses who saw such a young woman execute one of our men in cold blood. We are certain she is in possession of the item. The airplane she boards for the United States is the airplane the envelope will be on. You are to ensure that airplane never reaches its destination.”
“Crash a U.S. Air Force jet? Are you out of your mind? Why can’t I just steal the letter and deliver it to you through a contact?”
“You propose stealing a Top Secret document from a CIA professional? It would never happen. You would be dead before you got within three feet of her.”
“But if I can?”
“You do not understand. This item could conceivably change the entire balance of world power. It is imperative it be destroyed. We cannot risk you being caught trying to steal it. You will crash the airplane and thus destroy the letter. Those are your orders. They will be followed. Period.”
“I already told you, it’s impossible. It can’t be done.”
“You will find a way, Major.”
“You’re a fucking crackpot. Forget it. I’m out. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Major, you will never guess the report I received today.”
“Report? What are you talking about?”
“One of our operatives followed Roberta as she drove little Sarah to dance class this afternoon. He tells me, Major, that your daughter is getting quite beautiful. Growing like a weed, as you Americans like to say.”
“He what? Roberta and Sarah? Listen here, you psychotic bastard, you leave my family out of this, do you understand?”
“The roads, Major, they are so dangerous in your country. Automobile accidents are a daily occurrence, often fiery crashes where the victims, sometimes mothers with their young children in the back seat, they crash their cars and burn to death in the aftermath. They may survive the initial accident but then literally cook to death inside the burning vehicle. So sad, Major. So painful for the victims. So avoidable.”
Silence.
“Are you still with me, Major? Are you paying attention?”
“I’m here, you sick son of a bitch.”
“Good. You will ensure the airplane carrying the item of which we spoke never reaches your country. If you do not, well, let us just say I hope you have many photographs of your beautiful little family to keep their memory alive.”
“I—”
“Do not think about alerting the authorities, either. We will get to your wife and child if you do not follow your instructions to the letter. Please believe that.”
Silence.
“Do you believe that, Major?”
“Yes, God help me. I believe that.”
“Then get started planning. You have a lot of work to do and very little time. The item is either already on base or will be soon. It won’t be long before the plane carrying it will be lifting off, likely with the CIA operative as the sole passenger.”
“Damn you.”
“Oh, and Major? One more thing.”
“What?”
“Good luck. And goodbye.”
10
May 30, 1987
2:35 p.m.
Ramstein Air Base, West Germany
The back of the envelope was sweat-stained to an off brown from being plastered to Tracie’s skin in the stifling heat of the East German dance club. The front, where was scrawled, “President Ronald Reagan,” by Mikhail Gorbachev, if her handler was to be believed—and Tracie believed him—remained undisturbed.
After fighting her way out of the dance club, Tracie had snuck out of East Berlin uneventfully—it was never a problem if you had the right contacts—and driven as fast as she dared back to Ramstein Air Base in West Germany in a waiting CIA-supplied car.
By the time she arrived at Ramstein it was approaching six a.m. She napped, exhausted, in an empty apartment maintained just outside the base by the CIA. After just a few short hours of sleep she was awakened by telephone and advised that her flight to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland would depart at eleven p.m.
Tracie showered and dressed, reveling in the luxury of a little time to herself and the added bonus of an unlimited hot water supply. In many of the locations she had worked as a CIA field operative there had been no water at all, much less hot water.
During her shower, Tracie placed Gorbachev’s envelope atop the ceramic toilet tank cover, less than four feet from where she stood soaping and rinsing. Her assignment had been to retrieve the letter, spirit it out of East Germany, and then accompany it to Washington, never allowing it out of her sight until its delivery to the president, and that was what she intended to do.
She had slept with one hand curled around the letter, cradling it like a tiny baby. She slept fitfully, but then she always slept fitfully, awakened by the slightest hint of a sound, a disruption in the room’s air currents, a barely perceptible noise outside her window. Her supersensitive sense of perception, even while asleep, had kept her alive in some of the most dangerous locations on the globe.
Tracie had performed missions in Asian and Middle Eastern countries where being female meant you had no rights, possessed no intrinsic value other than what the men around you were willing to bestow upon you. You could disappear without warning at any time and for any reason, and no one would ever question why.
The United States government would be no help, either, as her missions were almost always off the books and so highly sensitive that if she were captured, rather than fighting or negotiating for her release, the government would deny her very presence in country, all the way up the official channels.
This was the life of a CIA Directorate of Operations agent. It was Tracie Tanner’s life, and a career she had never once regretted pursuing. It was a solitary, often lonely life, but as the daughter of a four-star U.S. Army general and a career State Department diplomat, Tracie had been groomed for it right from the start.
After graduating Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, with a degree in linguistics, Tracie had been recruited into the ranks of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had trained for three grueling years, initially at The Farm and then in the field, under a crusty old badass veteran of a quarter-century of covert operations whose real name she still did not know.
Then she began working solo missions under her mentor and direct CIA supervisor, Winston Andrews. Despite her inability to share even the broadest of details about her career with her parents, she knew they were proud of her decision to devote her life to the cause of freedom and service to her country.
But right now, all Tracie cared about was the steaming hot water blasting out of the shower in the small apartment. She washed the sweat and grime of the mission off every inch of her body, then rinsed off and started again, scrubbing until she felt completely refreshed, regenerated and ready to begin the second half—the easy half—of her assignment. She would accompany Gorbachev’s letter to the White House, bypassing all official and diplomatic channels before hand-delivering it to its recipient, President Ronald Reagan.
The mission would then end with an official debrief at Langley. Tracie hoped she might be fortunate enough to wrangle a few days off afterward to visit her folks in suburban D.C., but knew that was probably a pipe dream. Too many things were happening in too many hot spots around the globe for the agency to allow one of their most valuable assets to hang out like a normal twenty-seven year old single woman.
In any event, the rest of the trip should be a cakewalk. Tracie calculated the length of the flight and the time difference between West Germany and Washington, D.C. Eight hours in the air, more or less, and a six-hour time difference meant they would touch
down at Andrews around 2:00 a.m. local time.
The 11:00 p.m. departure time was not exactly a typical flight schedule, but then Tracie had long ago adjusted to the unusual hours the job of a CIA spook entailed. After being advised of the critical nature of the mission, the Air Force would have needed time to prep an airplane and get a flight crew together.
Then the flight would depart. The time was irrelevant to that schedule.
Tracie stepped directly under the shower nozzle, rinsing shampoo from her luxurious mane of red hair, enjoying the warmth of the water, always keeping one eye on the innocent-looking envelope propped against the wall on the toilet tank.
Finally, reluctantly, she twisted the faucets, sighing as the blast of water slowed to a trickle and then disappeared entirely. She stepped from the shower, dried off and dressed, and then quickly blow-dried her hair.
With the extravagance of the hot shower out of the way, she wandered the apartment, the time passing slowly as she waited to leave Europe behind.
***
May 30, 1987
10:10 p.m.
Ramstein Air Base
Tracie woke with a start and checked her watch. She had drifted off to sleep stretched out on a small couch while watching a soccer match on the apartment’s black and white television, and now feared she may have slept through her flight.
Ten-ten. Shit. She’d have to hurry but would probably make it. If she timed it right, she might even manage coffee. Dinner she could take or leave, but the thought of departing Ramstein for a long flight to the States without an invigorating jolt of caffeine was unacceptable.
She threw her clothing into a small canvas bag—traveling light was second nature to Tracie Tanner after seven years of CIA service—and slid Mikhail Gorbachev’s letter into the interior breast pocket of her light jacket. Then she rushed out of the apartment, jumped into her car, and drove onto the base.
She dumped the CIA car outside a small commissary adjacent to the airfield, hid the keys under the front seat, and hustled inside. She passed a pair of young airmen who made no attempt to hide their admiration of her running figure.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 4
