Tracie backed silently away from the window and bent over the bed. She gently shook the slumbering Shane.
“It’s going down,” she whispered. “Stay here and keep quiet. If things go bad, get the hell out of here. Find a police station and turn yourself in.”
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and nodded once.
Tracie crossed the tiny room in a few steps and slipped into the bathroom. Built into the rear wall was a window just large enough for her to wriggle through. She had cut the screen away earlier and the window stood open for easy access, the cool early-June night air filling the room with the tang of ocean salt.
She stepped onto the closed toilet seat cover, braced an arm on either side of the window frame, and boosted herself through. She dropped to the ground noiselessly, the long wooden motel building shielding her from sight of the parking lot. Three steps took her to the back end of the structure. Less than thirty seconds had elapsed since she had moved away from the picture window.
She peeked around the corner. Sixty feet away, shrouded in shadow, the two Russians had arrived at the front of the dummy motel room. One of the men was bent over the doorknob working on the lock, while the other stood facing outward, keeping watch.
The lock was cheap and Tracie knew if the Russian had any experience at lockpicking—and there was little doubt he did—the two men would be inside the room in a matter of seconds. She had to hurry.
A string of ornamental shrubs, brownish-yellow and dying, lined the rear of the parking lot, forming a barrier between the motel property and the trash-strewn alley behind it. Tracie ducked down below the tops of the shrubs and raced behind them, using them for cover, limping only slightly. She melted into the darkness at the rear of the dummy room and then made her way back along the side until she reached the corner. She bent down, hands on her knees, and worked to quiet her breathing.
A couple of seconds later she heard a muffled grunt of satisfaction and eased her head around the corner just in time to see the lock-picker begin easing the door open, He worked slowly, clearly concerned a squeaky hinge might awaken the occupants.
She waited patiently, just out of sight, as the two men stood in the doorway. The first man faced into the room, unmoving, door partly open, and she became concerned she had not done a good enough job of disguising the blankets on the bed to look like sleeping people. Then she realized the Russian was letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in the room before proceeding.
It made sense. It was what she would have done.
At last the first man disappeared inside, while the second man maintained his position at the door, facing outward with his back to the room. He held his silenced weapon against the side of his leg. The gun would be invisible should a car happen to drive into the lot, but Tracie could see it clearly, its black matte finish muted by the dirty half-light.
Within seconds the assassin inside the room would discover they had been duped. Tracie had to make her move before that happened or she would lose the advantage of surprise.
Still she waited. She would get an opportunity soon. The Russian hit team was being sloppy, careless because their intel had come directly from their high-ranking CIA connection. They were confident that their targets would not suspect a thing, that the doomed man and woman would feel safe and secure inside their anonymous New Haven motel room.
Instead of maintaining an active scan, the Russian at the door stared impassively into space, clearly bored, occasionally glancing left and then right. The third time he looked in the direction of the motel office, Tracie moved.
She broke from the cover of the motel building, moving silently but speedily. Before the guard could react, Tracie grabbed his gun with one hand. She used her other to place her own gun against his head, nestling the barrel in the soft tissue between the skull and jawbone. She pushed hard.
“Don’t move,” she said softly.
The man didn’t move.
Tracie ripped the Russian’s weapon out of his hand. He would have a backup, probably in an ankle holster, but she didn’t have time to worry about that.
“Move into the room as quietly as you can,” she whispered.
The man pivoted slowly and eased through the open door, Tracie right on his heels. The first Russian had arrived at the bed and stood next to it, his back to the doorway. The lookout cleared his throat and the first Russian froze for just a second and then whirled, sensing danger.
He wasn’t quick enough. Tracie trained the lookout’s gun on the assassin’s chest, her hand unwavering, her Beretta still pressed against the first man’s head.
“Drop your weapon,” she said quietly. “Do it now or you die, and so does your friend. I won’t say it again.”
For a long moment nothing happened, as if the Russian was calculating his odds of survival should he attempt to shoot his way out of the room.
Tracie let him do it. His gun was pointed at the floor. Hers was pointed at his chest. He would inevitably reach the same conclusion she had: that he was out of options.
A moment later the gun dropped with a muffled thud to the thinly carpeted floor.
“Now kick it over to me,” she said, and he did, undisguised malice in his hooded eyes. The gun skidded to a stop a couple of feet to her left. For now she ignored it. She didn’t have a free hand to hold the third gun and it was far enough away from either of her captives that they would not be able to make a play for it without catching a bullet in the head.
She flicked her gun toward a small chair at a writing desk next to the TV stand. “Go sit down,” she said, wondering how she was going to immobilize the assassin without giving the lookout an opportunity to jump her or go for her gun.
“I’m right behind you,” a voice said and she jumped, barely resisting the impulse to squeeze the triggers on both weapons. She recognized it as Shane’s voice and wondered briefly how he had made it to the doorway without her noticing.
The Russian assassin was a cool character—he was facing Tracie and must have seen Shane standing in the doorway behind her, but he had given nothing away with his cold, calculating eyes. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of the unexpected visitor to make an escape attempt. Now it was too late.
Tracie spoke to Shane, still talking quietly. “You were supposed to wait in the other room.” She couldn’t decide whether to be glad he was there or angry he had ignored her instructions.
“I thought you might need help and I was right.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Okay, the duct tape is in my right jacket pocket. Take it and secure our friend here,” she nodded in the direction of the assassin, “to the chair. Tape his wrists to the arms of the chair first, then his ankles to the legs. Use plenty of tape and wrap it as tightly as you can. When you do his ankles, be sure to remove the gun in his ankle holster.”
Shane eased past. Tracie kicked the door closed and shuffled forward, prodding the lookout with her weapon. Her arms were beginning to tire from the strain of keeping both guns raised and trained on their targets. The pair moved forward, locked in a bizarre dance, and finally she stopped when they had moved to within a few feet of Shane and the other Russian.
She watched closely as Shane slid the chair out from behind the desk and turned it around. The Russian sat and Shane got to work.
It took only a couple of minutes to immobilize the man and finish disarming him. Finally Tracie felt comfortable lowering the weapon in her right hand.
She told Shane, “Tape his mouth shut.”
He wrapped the duct tape around the man’s head and when he’d finished, Tracie said, “We’re going to split these two up and I’m going to get the information I need. This guy’s not going anywhere. Come with me and help me tape down this one,” she nodded toward the lookout, “and then come back here and babysit our murderous friend. It won’t take me long to get what I need.”
She shoved her gun into the ribs of her captive and moved to the parking lot. Shane picked the third and fourt
h guns up off the floor and walked out behind her, closing and locking the door. Then they hustled across the lot to the second room.
Within seconds, Shane had dropped the guns onto the bed and taped the man to the chair while Tracie held her weapon on him.
“I need a little private time with this guy,” she said to Shane. “If Mr. KGB over there,” she nodded at the room across the parking lot, “does anything other than sit quietly, shoot him.”
Shane hesitated for just a moment and then nodded without a word. He pulled the door closed quietly as he left and Tracie was alone with her captive. She stared at him without speaking. He returned her gaze, trying to look defiant but only managing uncertain.
She smiled thinly. “What do you say we get to know each other?”
33
June 1, 1987
3:55 a.m.
New Haven, Connecticut
The iron was ancient, two decades old if it was a day, a cheap model with just a dew heat settings and a long, fraying power cord. Tracie could see a hint of bare copper wire nestled behind the rubber plug and wondered how long it would be before the damned thing sparked and burned the entire wooden motel structure to the ground.
It appeared today would not be that day, however. She plugged in the iron and held it by its cracked handle as she stood directly in front of her captive. She said nothing, drawing out the moment.
The Russian wasn’t speaking, either. He was making an effort to control his fear but was failing. His shaking hands gave him away. His eyes darted around the room, doorway to Tracie to iron and then back to doorway, starting the cycle all over again.
Tracie raised her hand to her lips and licked her index finger, then tapped it against the business end of the iron. It emitted a short, sharp hiss. In the silence of the motel room it sounded like a staccato laugh. The lookout tried to remain impassive but she saw his eyes widen in fear.
She nodded. “Let’s begin, shall we? I’m sure you can guess what’s about to go down here. I’m not anxious to hurt anyone but I need answers and I’m going to get them. One way or the other.”
The Russian remained quiet, his jaws clamped shut. Tracie could see the muscles working behind his cheeks as he ground his teeth together. The tension in the air was electric.
“You know,” she said, “it seems only fair I should start with you. It’s thanks to your sloppy surveillance that you and your buddy across the way are in this situation. He’s probably pretty unhappy with you right now, don’t you think?”
The lookout remained silent. He was stocky and muscular, like a football lineman, but his eyes gave away his terror.
Tracie continued, “It doesn’t really matter, anyway. The only way I can be sure I’m getting the truth is to interrogate both of you, so if it makes you feel any better your buddy will get his turn, too.”
Again the man refused to respond. It didn’t seem to make him feel any better.
Tracie shrugged and then snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally bite your tongue off, at least not before giving me the information I need. It’s so hard to understand someone when he’s trying to talk with no tongue, especially when he’s not speaking his native language. Know what I mean?”
She walked into the bathroom and pulled out the roll of toilet paper. She removed the roll from the metal cylinder and took the cylinder back with her. She stood directly in front of her captive, moving close, invading his personal space. He smelled like stale sweat and onions.
She held the cylinder out in front of him. “Last chance. You’re going to talk to me either way. The only question is how much pain you’re going to endure before you do.”
The man hesitated. “I…”
Then he closed his mouth again.
Tracie shrugged. “All the same to me,” she said conversationally. “To be perfectly honest, after what you two did to the cop and the accident investigators up there in Bangor, I kind of prefer it this way.”
She leaned toward the lookout. “Open up.” The conversational tone had disappeared, replaced with an ice-cold, deadly menace.
He closed his eyes and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Tracie slammed the butt of her gun against the side of his head. He grunted in pain, stunned, and opened his mouth to moan. She shoved the cylinder into place between his upper and lower teeth, then quickly slapped the base of the iron against the right side of his face, holding it there for one beat, then two, and then three. It sizzled and the smell of burning flesh filled the room.
The man bit down hard on the toilet paper holder, convulsing against his duct-tape bindings like an electric current was pulsing through his body. He tried to lean away from the burning pain but she kept the iron pressed tightly to his head. An agonized sound, something between a groan and a wordless scream, issued from deep inside the man’s chest, and when Tracie removed the iron, an angry red mark had been seared into his cheek, its curved triangular outline clearly visible.
He panted and moaned and shook his head.
Tracie was unmoved. “Ready to talk?” she asked.
The man refused to respond and she lifted the iron to slap it back into place. He moaned in panic and began nodding enthusiastically.
She removed the toilet paper holder from between his jaws and said, “I know about the plot to assassinate President Reagan. I know where and when the shooting will occur. What I don’t know is which D.C. rooftop your operative will shoot from. You’re going to tell me.”
The lookout raised his head, resignation in his eyes, and said, “Nyet…I cannot…”
Tracie cursed. “We don’t have time for this,” she spat, and forced the toilet paper holder back into the man’s mouth. He mewled like an injured kitten.
She slapped the iron against the left side of his face and left it in place for twice as long as she had the first time.
When she finally removed it, the man sat in a puddle of his own urine, his bladder having released while he struggled. Trace slapped the side of his face with an open palm and the man opened his mouth to scream and she neatly plucked the holder out of his mouth once more.
“Let’s try this again. Which rooftop?”
“The Minuteman Mutual Insurance Company building,” the man mumbled, his Russian accent magnified by the pain. Tears rolled down his crimson cheeks. A thin line of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. The smell of burning flesh filled the room and Tracie tried not to gag.
“Are you telling me the truth? Because if I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll burn your skin right down to the jawbone. Do you understand me?
The man was panting and shaking. Sweat poured down his face. “I understand,” he said.
Tracie thought about Winston Andrews and about his betrayal, and another question occurred to her, one that didn’t bear any direct relation to the KGB assassination plot but one she could not help asking.
“Was killing us part of the assignment?”
The man hesitated but only momentarily. Tracie passed the iron in front of his right cheek and the man spoke quickly. “Yes…I mean, no…I mean it did not matter. Once it was learned you were still alive, the mission was to retrieve the letter at all costs.”
“And once you gained possession of the letter, what were you to do?”
“Take it to someone.”
“Take it to whom?” She prodded him again.
“Mister Andrews,” he said.
She paused, thinking. “How many of your other operatives will visit this motel tonight?”
“None,” the man said, shaking his head in resignation. “There is a two-man team driving north from Atlanta, but they will not arrive in the area until tomorrow. They are meant only to provide backup.”
“Okay,” she said. “One last thing and then I’ll leave you alone. What’s the procedure for reporting in after you secure the letter?”
“After we retrieve the letter we are to phone our contact.”
“Comrade Andr
ews.”
“Da. We are to advise him of mission status and then begin driving back to Washington to deliver the letter to him in person.”
Tracie reached for the telephone on the writing desk. It was an ancient black rotary model, attached to the wall with a long cord so guests could use it without getting out of bed if they wished.
“You’re going to make that call right now,” she said, holding the phone in front of him.
He recited the number and she dialed. It was different from the one she used to call Andrews, which made sense, she thought. The traitor down in D.C. would need to know which side of the fence he was talking to before he picked up any ringing telephone.
Before she spun the plastic rotary dial on the final digit, she leaned down and got in the Russian’s face, moving once again closer and closer until she could smell his sour sweat and his rancid breath.
“One warning,” she said, her voice soft and deadly. “If I so much as suspect you are trying to pass a message to Winston Andrews—and I’ll know, I’ve worked with Andrews a hell of a lot longer than you have—getting burned by an iron will be the least of your problems. I’ll shoot you in the face and then dump your worthless corpse in the Atlantic Ocean. Do you understand me?”
The Russian paled and nodded. “I understand,” he said in his heavily accented English.
Tracie dialed the last digit and held the handset between her own head and the Russian’s angled so he could speak into it but so she could still hear everything that was being said.
The call was answered on the first ring, as if Andrews had been sitting right next to the telephone. Undoubtedly he had.
“Go,” he said without preamble.
“We have retrieved the letter.”
“Very good. Casualties?”
“Your CIA asset and the young man are both dead.”
There was a brief silence and then Andrews said, “Dispose of the bodies and then get back here with the letter. Do not let it out of your sight.”
“We will be there as soon as possible.”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 16
