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 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 she had already decided that when it happened she would go. She knew nothing else, possessed no skills other than espionage, and the prospect of walking away from the CIA and service to her country, moving to a menial 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 that only the birds in the trees would hear. Speaking them instead of just thinking them served to make them real for her, to give them the permanence they deserved.
Shane had given his life willingly 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, even though no one knew she was there. The service ended and a couple of mourners began to help Katherine Rowley to a waiting vehicle.
Tracie turned toward the wrought iron gates of the cemetery and walked away, shivering even in the heat.
ALL ENEMIES
Allan Leverone
1
Sunday, September 6, 1987
2:00 p.m.
Baghdad, Iraq
The leader sat at the head of a long table. Smoked-black sunglasses covered his eyes although the conference room was dimly lit. The level of lighting was irrelevant to the leader; the glasses were a necessary part of his carefully crafted image. He sat ramrod-still as the room began to fill with his top advisers and military men.
Saddam Hussein stifled a grin as he watched the familiar dynamic play out. It was always the same. The early arrivals hurried to take the seats farthest away from him—Iraq’s president and revolutionary command council chairman. As places at the table became scarce, the latest-arriving council members were forced to occupy the seats closest to their leader.
The men always pretended not to mind, always did their best to act casual and relaxed, but Saddam never failed to note their underlying uneasiness at being so close to him. He never failed to enjoy their discomfort.
When the last man had seated himself and opened his briefcase, Saddam wasted no time bringing the meeting to order. The tension was palpable, as most inside this room were already aware of the grand plan being considered by their country’s bold and aggressive—and some would say unstable, although they would never say it aloud—leader.
“It is time,” Saddam intoned gravely. “I have been informed that our operatives are in place and awaiting the ‘go’ order.”
He eased his sunglasses down his nose and gazed over the top of the frames at one of his most senior military men, Revolutionary Guard General Kareef Fakhouri. “Are we prepared to strike when the time is right?”
The general did his best to hold Saddam’s stare. A career officer and high-ranking member of the Revolutionary Guard, Fakhouri was typically strong and confident, but dealing with Iraq’s unpredictable leader had a way of making him feel uncertain and even a little afraid. After a moment he was forced to drop his eyes. “Yes, Your Excellency. We have massed our available troops as close to the attack area as we dare without arousing the suspicions of the West. We will be ready.”
Saddam nodded and replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Good.”
The man cleared his throat unhappily. It was clear he wanted to say more but did not know how to begin.
Saddam glared. Unanticipated questions were always unwelcome, especially in front of his innermost circle. “What is it?” he grunted, his voice a short staccato bark.
“Your Excellency, our conflict with the government of Iran has been militarily and financially draining. The fighting has dragged on for years, and while there have been dozens of treaties and cease-fires proposed, they rarely materialize, and the ones that do never seem to last. Mr. President, while we fight an active war on one front, I am concerned that engaging another foe on a separate front might spread our resources too thin.”
Tentative nods and murmurs of muted assent followed the statement, and Saddam concentrated on controlling a flash of anger. He slid his sunglasses down his nose again. It never failed to be an effective gesture of intimidation. “You are concerned,” he repeated.
Fakhoury cleared his throat and nodded uncertainly. “Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Your ‘concern’ is irrelevant. You are here for one reason, and one reason only: to execute the tactical decisions made by others. Is that clear?”
“Of course, sir. I merely thought that our use of finite troop resources should be a factor in our calculations before beginning—”
Saddam held up a hand and General Fakhoury stopped speaking instantly.
The Iraqi leader turned to a man sitting across the table. The man was wrinkled and stooped, elderly, with thinning white hair combed messily across his forehead. Ghalib Bishara had been a mentor and advisor to Saddam since his early days in the Baath Party. He had accompanied Saddam to Syria and Egypt after Hussein’s unsuccessful assassination attempt on Iraq’s then-president in 1959, and was one of only a handful of people—perhaps the only one—to hold the Iraqi president’s complete trust. “Please,” Saddam said to the old man, “for the benefit of those who do not seem to have faith in their president, would you repeat what you told me a few weeks ago?”
The old man looked up. His eyes were rheumy and tired, but when he spoke, his voice was strong and his words clear. “The end is nearing in the long conflict with the Iranians. A negotiated settlement is nigh, and when it is finalized, the full force of our military—one of the finest in the world, as all at this table know—will be available to us. Moving forward with our annexation plan at this time, as President Hussein suggests, will not be a problem. Quite the opposite, in fact. There will never be a better time to proceed.”
Bishara lowered his eyes to the table once more, dropping his head and remaining still. The room was hushed. No one coughed. No papers were shuffled. Saddam let the portentous silence stretch out, feeling the tension rise inside the room, playing the moment like a musical instrument.
Finally he drilled a gaze into General Fakhoury’s eyes. “Does that address your ‘concerns,’ General? Or should I find someone with a little more faith in his superiors to fill your position?”
Fakhoury swallowed hard. “I-I was not aware of—”
“Thank you for making my point. You were not aware.” Saddam stared down the flustered general a moment longer and then swept the room with his icy gaze, making eye contact one by one with every man at the table. “Are there any other questions?” he said coldly.
No one spoke. No one moved.
“Good.” He turned to a man sitting at the far end of the table. The man was dressed all in black and had not spoken since his arrival. “Tell our people to begin the operation immediately.”
The man nodded once. Then he rose and exited the room.
2
Monday, September 7, 1987
7:20 a.m.
Leningrad, Russia
Tracie Tanner lowered her head and concentrated on sweeping the crumbling sidewalk south of Leninskiy Prospekt. Her nerves were humming. She knew her quarry—a Soviet diplomat named Boris Rogaev—would soon leave his apartment on Leninskiy Prospekt and walk to a cabstand a hundred feet south of her position
. From there he would ride the short distance to Pulkovo Airport to catch his 8:00 a.m. flight to Moscow and his job at the Kremlin as Undersecretary for Military Acquisitions.
It was Rogaev’s Monday routine. He had made the trip hundreds of times before.
Today he would not reach the airport.
Tracie had chosen to conduct her surveillance from the sidewalk in front of an abandoned ice cream shop. The small wood-frame building was run-down, like much of Soviet Russia, but it featured a plate glass window that, miraculously, had not yet been smashed out or boarded up. Her goal was to blend in with the early-morning activity, to look like a typical Russian shopkeeper preparing for another business day.
Residents who had been paying attention would know the shop had been closed down, but Tracie’s experience operating in the Soviet Union had taught her one thing without question: Russian peasants tended to mind their own business. They had long since learned that interfering in the affairs of those outside their own, carefully controlled circle of family and friends was never a good thing. Few, if any, would question her sudden appearance. Besides, if her timing was right, she should only have to maintain the ruse for a few minutes.
Tracie surreptitiously checked her watch. Rogaev should be along soon.
Dressed in a shapeless plaid shift reaching well below her knees, she knew the drab rust-and-tan colored wool dress would make her as good as invisible. She completed her harried shopkeeper illusion by stuffing her long, lustrous mane of flame-red hair into a fur Cossack hat pulled low on her forehead. The overall effect—she hoped—was that of a young Russian woman struggling to survive in the faltering Soviet economy. Tracie’s goal was to look like any of ten thousand similar women in Leningrad.
She kept a sharp eye to the north as she swept, peering out from under her hat for any sign of Rogaev as she tirelessly swept the same section of cracked concrete over and over. After being turned by the CIA with offers of cash, Boris Rogaev had been a valuable source of information regarding Soviet military hardware and specifications for the past five years. But, recently, the KGB had become suspicious of him. The Soviets had been amassing proof of Rogaev’s disloyalty for months.
Last Friday, an intercepted communiqué had convinced those at the highest levels of the CIA that it was time to extract their asset. It had become apparent that the KGB intended to arrest Rogaev Monday morning—today—upon his arrival at the Kremlin.
There had been no consideration given within the agency to abandoning Rogaev. Rescuing him would serve two purposes: it would permit the CIA to continue mining intelligence from the informant, and would clearly demonstrate to other undercover assets of the United States that they would not be abandoned if and when their covers were blown.
The operation had been hastily planned, with Tracie flying in just yesterday. This was her first op since being medically cleared to return to work after she suffered injuries thwarting an assassination attempt on President Reagan last June, so she felt more butterflies than she had in years.
Now that she was actually on the ground and working, she felt more of the old confidence returning with each passing minute. She was in her element. Her mind briefly flitted to Shane Rowley, as it still did dozens of times a day, and her heart ached for a moment, again as it did dozens of times a day. Then she pushed away all emotion and refocused on the job before her.
Tracie glanced in the direction of Lenisnkiy Prospekt again. Still no sign of Rogaev. He would have to appear soon or he would miss his flight to Moscow, and the first vague thread of worry began to worm through her. What if the intel they had received was inaccurate and the KGB had already taken Rogaev, removing him from his apartment over the weekend?
She continued to sweep, glancing casually to the south, and froze at the sight of a handsome young Red Army soldier striding purposefully along the sidewalk, heading straight for her. He locked eyes with her, no trace of a smile on his chiseled face.
Tracie looked away, continuing her work, developing a plan to deal with the worst-case scenario: that Rogaev had been interrogated by the KGB already and had somehow set her up. It didn’t seem likely, the bureaucrat shouldn’t have known Tracie was even in Leningrad, but after the bizarre events of last May and June, events that revealed numerous leaks and betrayals inside the CIA, she wasn’t prepared to take anything on faith.
She quickly considered her options. She was unarmed, which could pose a problem if the soldier was smart enough to stay out of reach.
Loosening her grip on the broomstick, Tracie prepared to strike at the soldier’s throat. She would crush his Adam’s apple and take his gun, then spin and prepare to defend herself against the second soldier who she knew would already be approaching from the other direction if she had, in fact, been set up.
Seconds passed. The soldier was nearly upon her. She forced herself not to look, waiting instead for a gruff voice to challenge her in Russian.
Nothing.
Finally she glanced up. The soldier was almost next to her, but he didn’t seem intent on capturing her. He was still watching her, but now the trace of a smile played on the corners of his mouth. Just as he was passing, he veered directly into her, knocking her to the sidewalk.
She felt a flare of pain in her elbow as it took the brunt of the fall on the concrete. She glared up at the Russian soldier, who grinned coldly and said, “Idiot bitch, look what you’ve done to my boot. It’s scuffed now. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
It wasn’t a setup after all. He was just an arrogant bully used to throwing his weight around against intimidated Russian peasants. Tracie fought the urge to kick out with her heel and shatter his kneecap, or to clench her fists into a hammer and crush his balls. As satisfactory as either option would be, acting on either one would draw unnecessary attention and probably force the mission to be scrubbed.
Already she was conscious of passersby staring in sympathy, although she was not surprised that no one stepped up to help her. She swallowed her pride and shot the soldier a shame-faced look. “I am so sorry,” she said, aware of the rustiness of her Russian and hoping it would go unnoticed. “Please excuse my clumsiness.”
She reached into the pocket of her shift and pulled out a small handkerchief, then licked the fingers of her right hand, wetting a nearly indistinct smudge on the soldier’s boot and buffing it out.
The gesture seemed to satisfy him, and when she finished, he said imperiously, “Yes, well, you must learn to be more careful.” Then he strutted away, leaving a frustrated Tracie Tanner on her knees in his wake.
She cursed to herself and climbed to her feet.
Dusted off her dress.
And spotted Rogaev.
She shook her head, angry with herself. She had become distracted by the Red Army officer and had damned near missed seeing her target. He wore an ill-fitting suit, the material worn at the elbows and seat of the pants. It had to be at least fifteen years old. He had placed a faded maroon tie loosely around his neck, to be tightened when he arrived in Moscow, but not, apparently, a moment before.
He was moving fast in her direction, passing the Russian soldier who had assaulted Tracie. She bent to pick up her broom but then thought better of it. She straightened quickly, leaving it on the sidewalk where it had fallen. She paid no attention to the target until he swept by, eyes focused straight ahead, utterly unaware of her presence. Then she waited two seconds and fell in behind him, scanning the crowd to ensure she wasn’t being observed.
After a moment she picked up her pace and soon had taken up a position slightly to the side and just behind Rogaev’s right elbow. She leaned forward and said quietly, in Russian, “Comrade, it is a shame that the price of vodka has risen so sharply.” It was the phrase Rogaev had been taught to expect any CIA contact to use.
The bureaucrat stiffened and slowed, and for a moment Tracie thought he would stop walking entirely. Then he regained some of his composure and continued on. He gave the proper response: “Da, I may have
to switch to coffee.”
They shared an awkward laugh and then the man said under his breath, “This is highly improper. Are you trying to get us killed?” His anger was plain.
Still smarting after the incident with the arrogant Russian officer, Tracie was in no mood to coddle the man. She replied coldly, “I’m trying to save you from being killed.”
Now the man did stop walking. He turned to face her on the busy sidewalk. “What are you talking about?”
She smiled and took his arm, instantly playing the role of the adoring girlfriend. She coaxed him forward. To continue loitering would be to encourage the wrong kind of attention. A public sidewalk in Leningrad was the worst place to be having this conversation, but it was clear Rogaev had no intention of following her without at least some idea what was happening. She supposed she didn’t blame him.
Glancing around furtively, Tracie kept the smile on her face. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “The KGB is waiting for you in Moscow, where they will arrest you the moment you step off your plane. You’re to be charged with treason. We both know what that means: a show trial followed by your immediate public execution.”
Rogaev went ghost-white as the blood drained from his face. Tracie felt a stab of sympathy for him. More gently she added, “Don’t worry, you’re not getting on that airplane. You’re not going anywhere near Moscow. Your plans have changed.”
“Wh—Where am I going?”
“You’re leaving this country forever. You will be transported to the West, where you’ll start a new life.” It was a lot to put on the unsuspecting bureaucrat’s shoulders, but there was no way to avoid it. Time was at a premium.
To his credit, and to Tracie’s surprise, Rogaev didn’t fall apart. His panic was clear, though. “I’ll never get out of Russia alive,” he whispered bitterly. “The minute I don’t show up at the Kremlin, the authorities will put out an alert. They’ll blanket every airport. Search every plane. I don’t stand a chance.”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 26
