It was a Russian-made Makarov 9mm semiautomatic pistol.
* * *
Tuesday, September 8, 1987
12:00 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Precisely at noon Tracie walked into a plushly appointed conference room located on the third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters Building. Milling around the table were roughly a dozen bureaucratic types, all dressed in nearly identical Brooks Brothers—or maybe knockoff—suits. Tracie had the absurd thought that all of the men must shop at the same clothing store.
Every other occupant of the conference room was male, and all of their heads turned as if on swivels to check out the new arrival. Tracie was used to being ogled. Unless she intentionally dressed for anonymity, as she had done in Leningrad while waiting to ambush Boris Rogaev, she was fully aware of her stunning good looks and their effect on men. She had taken advantage of those good looks many times in the field.
Now, however, she would face the opposite problem. A woman’s ability to be taken seriously by men seemed inversely proportional to her beauty. She knew instinctively, based on long experience, that at some point she would have to demonstrate that she was more than just a pretty face—she was someone to be taken seriously.
A man with unevenly dyed black hair and an officious bureaucratic bearing stood at the head of the table. Tracie recognized him as FBI Director Matt Steinman. Upon Tracie’s arrival, Steinman cleared his throat and said loudly, “All right, everyone is finally here, so please take a seat and let’s get started.”
Tracie knew every eye was on her. She made a show of checking her watch and then said, just as loudly but with a chill to her voice, “Unless my watch is off, I’m right on time. Keep your editorial comments to yourself.” She stared down Steinman, pulled out a chair, and sat at the table.
The FBI director’s face reddened and Tracie wondered whether he’d blow up or get himself under control. It didn’t matter to her. Either way, she’d just established control. Steinman couldn’t come close to intimidating her after some of the things she’d seen—and done—in the field. Plus, she’d stood up to CIA Director Aaron Stallings, a man renowned in political circles for his explosive temper, more than once.
“Excuse me, miss?” Steinman finally ventured.
“You heard me. I’m precisely on time, so I’ll thank you to keep your unnecessary and unproductive comments to yourself. Or am I wrong in assuming we have more important things to do than measure each other’s dicks?”
Nervous laughter came from around the table. From everyone except Matt Steinman, who fixed her with a glare she steadfastly returned. Apparently stumped for a response to her challenge, he dropped his gaze and continued on as if nothing had happened. “All right everyone,” he said. “Quick introductions and then we’ll begin.”
The men went around the table introducing themselves and their government agency or law enforcement connection. When it was Tracie’s turn, she said simply, “Candice Clayburgh, special liaison.”
“Liaison to who?” Steinman demanded.
Jesus, Tracie thought. Wasn’t he advised of the confidential nature of my mission? “I’m not at liberty to say,” she answered coolly after a short pause. “Weren’t you informed I would be attending this meeting?”
“Of course.”
“And I assume you’re aware of who informed you?” Tracie hoped even an entrenched, decades-long bureaucrat like Matt Steinman would have enough sense and operational awareness to recognize and understand the concept of plausible deniability. It was critical her White House/CIA connection remain private.
The room became so quiet Tracie was sure she could have heard a pin drop, even on the carpet.
Comprehension dawned on Steinman’s face. He glared at her but said, “Welcome aboard, Candice,” making it perfectly clear he meant no such thing. Then, “We have a lot to do. Let’s get started.”
Every official sitting at this table knew, or at least could reasonably guess, that she was there clandestinely. The sharper ones would likely even be able to deduce for whom she was working. But their deductions were irrelevant. Nothing could be proven, and thus everyone above her in the food chain was protected.
It was comforting for everyone but her.
* * *
The meeting droned on. Evidence analysis was followed by a discussion of various theories regarding the secretary of state’s abduction. Tracie fully understood why the president had asked Aaron Stallings to take action outside normal bureaucratic and law enforcement channels: utilizing those channels would be slow and cumbersome.
But the meeting did prove helpful in some ways. She learned that President Reagan had personally contacted Soviet General Secretary Mikhael Gorbachev to protest in the strongest possible manner Humphries’s kidnapping. The Soviet leader had responded unequivocally that the U.S.S.R. was not in any way involved in the secretary’s disappearance, and that furthermore they resented the implication of impropriety. Tensions were skyrocketing, with rumors of war preparations already flying.
She also learned that in a matter of hours State Department representatives would accompany FBI investigators to the Russian embassy to discuss the kidnapping with Soviet representatives in an attempt to gauge the truthfulness of their denials. No one doubted they would deny involvement, echoing the statement of their leader, despite the Russian-made weapon that had been found at the scene.
“The fact of the matter is,” intoned FBI Director Steinman, “that the Makarov recovered at Humphries’s residence demonstrates virtually without question that if a Russian wasn’t involved, another Soviet bloc state almost certainly was. None of those Soviet satellites operate independent of Moscow, and Gorbachev is full of crap if he expects us to buy the whole ignorance schtick he’s trying to sell.”
Tracie listened, as she had for most of the afternoon, without speaking. Her reason for attending was to gather information, not to speculate wildly, though wild speculation seemed to be the order of the day. Having spent much of her career operating in and around Soviet bloc states, it was obvious to her that Steinman was speaking as a bureaucrat rather than an investigator.
But finally she couldn’t take it anymore. She said, “Explain to me again why we’re so certain Humphries was kidnapped by the Soviets?”
At the head of the table, Steinman rolled his eyes. Tracie sensed annoyance from the men around the table, even from those who had been solidly in her corner after she smacked down the FBI director.
She didn’t care.
Steinman sighed theatrically and then said, “Have you even been paying attention Miss…”
“Clayburgh,” she reminded him helpfully.
“Yes, Miss Clayburgh. Have you been listening? A Makarov semiautomatic handgun was found on the floor of the room from which we believe the secretary of state was taken. You’re obviously unaware of the significance of that fact, so I’ll spell it out for you, and I’ll speak slowly so you might be able to keep up. A Makarov is a Russian gun. Its presence in the home, when we know with certainty that J. Robert Humphries owns no guns, indicates almost beyond all doubt that a Russian, or at the very least, a Soviet-bloc representative, was responsible for Humphries’s disappearance.” He shook his head in exasperation when he had finished speaking.
“Why?” Tracie said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, why does the fact that a Russian gun was found at the scene demonstrate that Humphries was taken by a Russian?”
“It’s a Russian gun! How many Americans do you think own Makarov pistols?”
“I don’t know, probably not many. But you’re missing the point.”
“Jesus, lady, I understand we’re not supposed to know why you’re here, but I feel confident in saying whoever you’re working for wouldn’t want you impeding the investigation and slowing things down. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. So why don’t you just sit back and keep your mouth shut and let the professionals handle this?”<
br />
Tracie nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be sure to let my superiors know you weren’t interested in hearing what I had to say. I’ll make my point to them and they can determine its value for themselves.”
Steinman exhaled explosively, his face reddening just as it had at the beginning of the meeting. “Fine. What’s your goddamn point?”
“Good decision,” she said sweetly, “and I’ll be as quick and concise as I can, so you professionals can get back to work. Has anyone determined exactly how that Makarov ended up on the floor behind the secretary of state’s chair?”
“The kidnapper obviously dropped it in his haste to escort Secretary of State Humphries out of the home.”
“Shouldn’t we assume that the Soviets would send their best men on such an audacious mission, to kidnap the United States secretary of state out of his own home, right under the noses of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, in Washington, D.C., of all places?”
“I think that would be a fair assumption,” Steinman conceded reluctantly. “So what?”
“Well, doesn’t it strike any of you professionals as a little . . . I don’t know . . . unlikely that one of the Soviets’ finest covert ops teams would execute such a bold and complicated plan nearly to perfection, only to accidentally forget one of their weapons as they’re exiting the house? Does anyone at this table really believe they’d be that sloppy, particularly when the most difficult part of the mission has been accomplished?”
Tracie saw thoughtful expressions on the faces of the men ringing the table. But Steinman simply shook his head in disgust. When he replied, his voice was scornful. “It’s not your fault that you don’t understand how these things work,” he said. “But agents with operational experience know that things go wrong on every mission. Events happen that just can’t be planned for. That’s obviously the circumstance here. One of the Soviet agents got a little too overconfident and screwed up. It’s a lucky break for us, and one we will most certainly take advantage of. If you had any real-world experience,” he added bitingly, “you would have realized that.”
“I see,” Tracie said. “Thank you for helping me understand how things work in the real world.” She struggled to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She had probably seen more fieldwork in her seven-year career than all these men put together, and she figured Steinman’s real-world experience had likely been limited to a year or two as an FBI special agent before beginning his climb up the bureaucratic ladder.
“But,” she continued before anyone could cut her off, “has anyone given any consideration to the possibility that we were supposed to find that weapon, that the kidnappers used Makarovs specifically so that they could throw one down at the crime scene and implicate the Soviets?”
“What?” Steinman’s already red face was turning purple now. “Are you trying to tell me this kidnapping is a setup?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just asking a question.”
“What purpose would anyone have in setting up the Soviets in this manner? And furthermore, who would do such a thing?”
“All good questions,” Tracie answered with a shrug.
“That theory is preposterous,” Steinman said. “We have to conduct this investigation on the basis of the evidence uncovered, not on some wild flight of fancy concocted out of thin air.”
“So your answer is no, then. No one has given my scenario any consideration.”
“My answer,” Steinman said, his voice rising, “is that there’s no reason to assume this kidnapping is anything but a Soviet operation, their official denials be damned. Now, if no one has any other unsupported theories to toss out, I suggest we wrap this up and go find one missing secretary of state.”
No one spoke and Steinman nodded, lowering himself into his chair at the same time everyone else at the conference table began to stand. Tracie was relieved to note that his complexion seemed to be returning to normal. She had needed to put him in his place, but sending him to the hospital wasn’t part of the plan.
Papers were being shuffled into briefcases and the buzz of a half-dozen individual conversations filled the room when there was an impatient knock at the closed door.
Steinman looked up, puzzled, and said, “Yes, come in,” just as the door burst open and a harried young man in a suit similar to those worn by nearly everyone else in the conference room hurried in. In his hand he held a manila envelope. He ignored the agents and law enforcement representatives milling about and walked briskly to Steinman, handing over the envelope without a word.
Tracie—along with everyone else in the room—watched with interest as the FBI director unsealed the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. He stared at it for a moment before lifting his head to gaze directly into Tracie’s eyes. He held the sheet of paper up and turned it outward so those gathered in the room could see it.
“Still think the Soviets are being set up?” he asked acidly.
On the paper was a reproduction of a photograph of United States Secretary of State J. Robert Humphries. His right wrist was manacled to a chair. His left hand was free, and in it he clutched a newspaper, holding the front page just under his chin. The newspaper was printed in Cyrillic.
Russian.
8
Tuesday, September 8, 1987
7:15 p.m.
Washington, D.C.
Before leaving FBI headquarters, Tracie received a mimeographed copy of the Humphries photo, which she tucked into her briefcase along with copies of all the other related evidence. There was no question the dramatic picture had once again convinced most, if not all, of the investigators that the Soviets were behind the kidnapping.
Tracie, however, remained skeptical. Something about the Russian newspaper in the photo bothered her, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. But more to the point, why would the KGB be so up-front about advertising their involvement in a kidnapping plot just hours after denying it at the highest levels?
And why send the chilling photograph along to the Department of State—which had forwarded a copy immediately to the FBI—without any written communication attached?
Why would the Soviet Union risk such a dangerous undertaking without a clear objective in mind, and if they had such an objective, why not state it?
The last question bothered Tracie the most, and she chewed on it as she exited the building. The more she considered the issue, the more she came to the conclusion that there was a clear objective. And it was exactly what she had voiced at the meeting: to throw the weight of suspicion onto the Soviets and away from whatever country had actually kidnapped the secretary of state.
It was the only option that made sense, at least to Tracie. But before she was willing to place all her eggs in that particular basket, she would have to convince herself beyond all doubt of the truthfulness of the Soviets’ assertion that neither they, nor any of their allies, had kidnapped Humphries.
She knew tense discussions had been taking place all day at the Soviet embassy between State Department officials and Russian diplomats regarding the Humphries situation. She knew also that those discussions would yield nothing of value. Experience had taught her that there was no way on God’s green earth the Russian ambassador was going to counter Gorbachev’s personal denial to President Reagan about the kidnapping.
Not unless that diplomat had a desire to be recalled to Moscow and hanged.
But Tracie had an advantage. She was no State Department official. No bureaucrat. The diplomatic niceties and official protocols the diplomats were expected to adhere to meant nothing to her. She wasn’t bound to any code of conduct when it came to extracting the truth.
And she knew just where to find the man she needed now.
* * *
The Heart of Moscow Café was located less than a block south of the massive, heavily secured Soviet Embassy complex on Wisconsin Avenue in northwest D.C. Tracie drove past the restaurant and then pulled her CIA car to the curb ro
ughly halfway between the Heart of Moscow and the embassy grounds.
She locked the vehicle—a plain, beautifully anonymous white Chrysler K-Car—then began walking briskly south along Wisconsin. She was thankful for the sharp-looking business suit she had worn to the briefing at the Hoover Building. With a little imagination, she could easily transform her professional attire into something more appropriate for what she had in mind.
Although the Heart of Moscow billed itself as a “café,” in reality it was an upscale Washington dining establishment catering to the area’s Soviet diplomatic presence. Its interior featured rich walnut wood tones, plush carpeting, and gleaming brass accents that offset the dark wood. Tracie had eaten at the Heart of Moscow once or twice while in D.C. for mission debriefs, and it reminded her of nothing more than an old-fashioned men’s club. The only thing missing were buffalo heads hanging on the walls.
All of Tracie’s CIA fieldwork, prior to June’s run-in with the Soviet sniper attempting to assassinate President Reagan, had taken place off U.S. soil. Nevertheless, she was well aware of Soviet Ambassador to the United States Anatoly Grinkov’s love for the Heart of Moscow. Part of her responsibility as a field agent specializing in Eastern European affairs was to familiarize herself with all of the Soviet Union’s major players in the world of politics as well as espionage, as the two were inextricably linked.
Thus, she knew a number of key facts about Grinkov: he was inaccessible behind the high walls and iron gates of the Soviet Embassy, and he preferred to eat most of his evening meals at the Russian-themed restaurant. Although security was heavy while he dined, Grinkov was known to enjoy the authentic Russian vodka served at the Heart of Moscow—often too much of it—and U.S. intelligence officials had verified numerous incidents of Grinkov sneaking away from the restaurant in the company of top-tier prostitutes.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 30
