“Do not test me, Comrade Ryakhin. I will not hesitate to execute you.”
“What kind of information do you want?” he asked again, although he seemed to begin to realize how much trouble he was in. His voice had lost most of its initial bluster and Tracie thought she could hear the trace of a quiver.
Good.
“I want the kind of information that can only be accessed in your office.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
He turned to begin trudging down the short hallway.
“Not your home office, Comrade.”
“Then what…?” His voice trailed away as her implication struck home. “You mean you want to access my office inside the plant?”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
“But…you expect to march me into the facility at gunpoint and not immediately be apprehended by security? Do you not understand the plant is protected by armed guards?”
“I do understand that, Comrade. I understand exactly what I am asking you to do. It is you who does not understand. Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen. We will drive to the plant. We will enter exactly as you just said, with you at gunpoint. But my gun will be hidden. No one will know I have it except you, and you need only remember one important fact: if you do not get us inside the building, you will die. You will never see or hear the bullet coming, but you will die. Do you understand me, Comrade Ryakhin?”
“But…but…if you shoot me you will never escape. You will die, too!”
Tracie nodded. “Probably. But you will still be dead. Is that a trade-off you wish to make?”
He stood silently.
Tracie said, “I didn’t think so. Now, are you ready to march back out to that Lada sitting in your driveway and be on our way?”
This time, Tracie took his silence as assent.
* * *
The drive across the city was a short one, less than fifteen minutes. But the tension hanging in the air made it feel much longer.
Darkness came early this time of year in western Russia and the twinkling lights of Kremlyov made the city look like any other. Ryakhin drove in silence, still maintaining his composure better than Tracie would have expected.
They followed the Mockba River for a few minutes and when Tracie suspected they might be getting close, she said, “How much further?”
“We are almost there.”
“Good. Don’t forget what I told you before. I don’t care what you have to say to get us past security, but whatever you tell them, make it good. Make it believable. Otherwise you will be dead before you even know what’s happening.”
“I understand,” he said gruffly.
Despite his status as a pornography-obsessed Communist nuclear bigwig, Tracie couldn’t help liking the guy. He had more guts than a lot of professionals she’d met in this line of work, including many Americans.
But it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference if she had to kill him.
* * *
To say the guard seemed suspicious would be to shortchange the word. Tracie could tell immediately that Yuri Ryakhin returning to work after he’d gone home for the day was extremely unusual.
They drove up to a security checkpoint at the front gate that she guessed was only slightly less sophisticated than the one they’d snuck through to enter the ZATO. As the guard approached the little car, his eyes were narrowed and his body language screamed apprehension. He relaxed a little when he got close enough to make out the identity of the driver, but then he stiffened again when he spotted Tracie in the passenger seat.
Ryakhin cranked down his window and the guard said, “Good evening, Comrade. What brings you back here when you should be sitting down to dinner?”
“It will be a late dinner tonight, my friend. My niece is visiting from Moscow where she is attending school. Nuclear physics. We are all very proud of her.” He turned to offer a quick smile at Tracie before returning his attention to the guard.
She was amazed at how relaxed he seemed. She’d placed her gun in the pocket of her parka, but her hand remained on the grip and Ryakhin knew full well the business end was trained on him.
“But…Comrade.” The security guard was visibly uncomfortable and Tracie knew exactly why. This was a secure nuclear facility and strict procedures undoubtedly covered visits like this one.
Procedures that obviously had not been followed.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he continued. “Comrade Ryakhin, all visitors are required to obtain pre-approval in writing prior to their tour.”
“Yes they are. That is correct. And I admire your diligence, Comrade. But do you know whose job it is to approve or disapprove those tours?”
“Of course, sir. It is your job.”
“Exactly. And you may consider this my approval notice.”
“Uhhh…” The man was perplexed. And he seemed to be regaining some of his initial suspicion. The longer they sat here the more dangerous this little excursion became.
The worst part was that none of this was within Tracie’s power to control. Anything she tried to do, any move she made or words she said, would serve only to destabilize the situation. She was a college student visiting her uncle. As such, she would have absolutely nothing to say at a moment like this.
“Comrade.” Ryakhin spoke with stern disapproval. “This is my facility and I just told you my niece is approved to visit. We will of course remain clear of all classified areas, but she will enter with me and she will tour the plant. Am I making myself clear?”
The young man cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. He dropped his eyes. “Of course, Comrade. Of course.”
“Good. Feel free to make a notation on the security log, and I will be sure to clarify the visitor policy at the next staff meeting. Right now, though, it is cold and I am getting tired, and I would like to show my niece through the facility and get home. So if you don’t mind stepping aside…”
The security guard nodded and stepped back.
Reluctantly.
Ryakhin cranked his window closed and eased down on the gas pedal and the little Lada sputtered forward.
The guard bent and gazed intently at Tracie as they passed, and she arranged her features in what she hoped was an innocent expression, willing herself to look like a Russian college student. She’d always been petite and looked younger than her age, but she guessed she must rapidly be approaching the point in her life where “college student” would cease to be a believable disguise.
Then the man was behind them and Tracie felt herself relaxing.
Ryakhin shook his head. “You are very fortunate, young lady. I did not think that was going to work. I will have some serious explaining to do Monday, probably to Moscow, if that young man does what I suspect he will do and informs my superiors.”
“No,” Tracie said. This old guy was getting a little too comfortable and it was time to reestablish her dominance.
“No,” she repeated. “You are very fortunate. If that hadn’t worked you would be lying in a pool of your own blood right now.”
“I am aware of the stakes, believe me. If I did not fully understand that my life was hanging by a thread, we would not be inside these fences right now.”
“Just keep that in mind and you’ll have no problems.”
Ryakhin nodded tiredly and pulled the Lada into a spot near the plant’s front entrance. “Where are we going, specifically?”
“Where are your most sensitive records kept?”
He hesitated and Tracie removed her gun from her pocket. She held it below the dash and out of sight in the event anyone were to pass by, but the place seemed more or less deserted.
“Where?” she hissed.
“My office.”
“Then we’re going to your office. Lead the way, Uncle.”
13
January 21, 1988
6:05 p.m.
Arzamas-16 Nuclear Plant
Kremlyov, Russia, USSR
The interior of the plan
t was dingy and poorly lit. Like seemingly everything else constructed in Soviet Russia over the last seventy years, the plant was utilitarian in nature, a blocky concrete mass devoid of anything resembling artistic creativity. Of course, a nuclear plant wasn’t the sort of building that lent itself to flights of architectural fancy, but Tracie had thought the administrative wing might at least be dressed up a little.
She was wrong. They moved through narrow corridors, encountering few workers along the way, a factor that puzzled her at first. Then it occurred to her that Russia was identical to the United States in at least one way: administrative personnel worked administrative hours, and once the workday was over the admin wing turned into a ghost town until the beginning of the next workday.
Yuri Ryakhin stopped outside a closed wooden door. It was equipped with a frosted pebbled glass window designed to prevent passersby from seeing inside the office when the door was closed. He fumbled with a set of keys and Tracie could see his hands shaking.
She didn’t know whether it was from nerves or age.
Didn’t care much, either. He should be nervous. It meant he hadn’t forgotten the revised command structure.
Ryakhin selected a key and unlocked the door and a moment later the pair entered what was clearly a reception area. The receptionist’s desk—currently unmanned, of course—stood sentry outside a door that opened into Ryakhin’s office. A bank of grey metal filing cabinets filled the wall to Tracie’s left.
The plant manager crossed the office, selecting a second key as he did so. He stopped in front of his own door and unlocked it, Tracie right on his heels in case he got the bright idea to try and slam the door in her face and lock himself inside.
He didn’t try it.
They stepped into an office that was every bit as dismal as the rest of the building. It was a decent size but featured the ubiquitous concrete block walls and olive-green linoleum floors that seemed to grow like bacteria inside every Soviet-built structure. The desk was decades old, its metal finish scarred and dented.
Tracie tried to imagine a big-shot nuclear facility manager back in the States working in this office and couldn’t do it.
Ryakhin turned and spread his hands. “What now?”
She realized she’d allowed her mind to wander, a situation that could have proven deadly in other circumstances. Get your act together, dammit.
Her expression revealed none of her inner turmoil. She narrowed her eyes and said, “Where do you keep the classified material? I’m sure it’s not in the outer office.”
“No,” he agreed. “The classified records are stored in the filing cabinets behind my desk.”
“Get back there,” Tracie said, gesturing with her weapon. Her tension was rising, her respiration coming in abbreviated breaths that might be more accurately described as quiet pants. She’d risked her life sneaking into the closed ZATO to reach this point. If what she needed was not here, she would have to go back to Square One, with a major additional stumbling block: after tonight it would be next to impossible to hide her presence in Kremlyov from the Soviet authorities.
She might already be past that point. The security guard had seen her in Ryakhin’s car and even the plant manager had admitted that the guard might well notify the breach in security protocols to his superiors.
Plus, Ryakhin was now a major loose end. The “visiting niece” routine would only work once. She would never get inside this building again. And whether she killed Ryakhin after they left here or merely secured him inside his home, his absence would not go unnoticed. It was a Friday night, which meant she probably had until Monday, but eventually someone would come looking for a bigshot like Yuri Ryakhin when he didn’t show up at work.
And when they did, Tracie had better be far away from here or she would never escape alive.
Now that the time had come to access classified information, Ryakhin was becoming less cooperative. He moved slowly, pretending to search for the key to the locked filing cabinet. He shook his head and muttered something Tracie missed, but his act was transparently obvious: I’m trying, I really am, but I can’t seem to find my key. We might not be able to access this material, after all.
“You have three seconds.” Tracie spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. She’d learned a long time ago that if you truly wanted to command someone’s attention, you should lower your voice. “If that cabinet is not open by the time I count to three, I will put a bullet in your back, Comrade.”
He froze for a moment and then moved more quickly once again.
“One.”
Ryakhin selected a key and bent over the cabinet.
“Two.”
He slid the key into the locked and turned it, and then swiveled to face Tracie. “All right, the cabinet is open.”
“Tell me what you know about Polonium-210.”
Ryakhin’s face went sheet-white and he stumbled backward into the filing cabinets as if Tracie had shoved him.
“Sit down,” she said, “before you fall down.”
“Thank you.” He dropped into his desk chair and wiped a palm across his face. He’d begun sweating heavily. “May I remove my coat?”
She nodded, keeping her weapon trained on him. When he’d pulled off his parka and dropped it onto the floor she said, “No more stalling, Comrade Ryakhin. Polonium-210.”
He cleared his throat as if preparing to launch into a symposium speech. “Polonium-210 is a radioactive element. It is naturally occurring, and in small amounts is harmless to humans. There are approximately thirty Polonium isotopes, each differing from the other only in their number of neutrons. Polonium is quick to decay and decompose, so it changes rapidly—”
“That’s enough, Comrade.”
The nuclear expert continued speak for several seconds after being interrupted, then blinked in surprise as if only now understanding Tracie’s words. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to know about Polonium-210.”
“Do you honestly believe I kidnapped you at gunpoint and forced you to smuggle me inside this secret nuclear facility so you could give me a scholarly treatise on Polonium?”
“But I thought you said—”
“I told you once to stop stalling and I’m not going to say it again. You nearly passed out from fear when I mentioned Polonium-210 a moment ago. I think you know exactly why I’m here. I don’t even think you’re particularly surprised that I—or someone like me—have finally shown up.
“But just in case I’m giving you too much credit, let me spell it out: your facility has been producing small quantities of Polonium-210, a radioactive substance far deadlier than cyanide, for the last several years. I want to know the name of your KGB contact, the man who is receiving the Polonium, and I want to know where I can find him. You’re going to tell me.”
Ryakhin started shaking his head as if perplexed. Tracie still thought he was a cool customer for a civilian, but his acting skills suddenly left a lot to be desired.
She said, “I’m not asking whether the Polonium was produced here, Comrade. I know that it was. That radioactive material has killed several good men, men who suffered agonizing deaths no one deserves to go through. So do not bury your head in the sand and hope this all goes away. It’s not going away until I get what I came for.”
Ryakhin dropped his head and sighed deeply. “I can tell you the name of my Polonium-210 contact. But I do not know how to find him. He finds me. He tells me what he needs and when he needs it, and then he takes delivery of the product here at the facility.”
“Get the name.”
The physicist/administrator turned in his chair and bent over the filing cabinet. He mumbled to himself again but this time Tracie got the impression it was in concentration and not a delaying tactic. He pulled open a drawer with a screech and began thumbing through the contents.
A moment later he lifted a file out of the drawer and placed it on his desk. “Here we are,” he said.
“Hand the file to me.”
“But it’s
…” His voice trailed away and he smiled sheepishly. It was trembling and nervous but seemed genuine. “I was about to say—”
“I know. You were going to remind me the information is classified. But we both know that already, don’t we, Comrade?”
He passed the file across his desk. Tracie took it from him with her left hand while holding the gun on him with her right. She seriously doubted the old man had a weapon hidden inside his desk, but she’d been wrong before and this wasn’t the time or the place to find out she was wrong again.
“Sit back in your chair, Comrade Ryakhin, and get comfortable. I have some reading to do and you’re not going to move one muscle until I’ve finished. Do we understand each other?”
He nodded, and Tracie got down to business.
14
January 21, 1987
7:20 p.m.
Arzamas-16 Nuclear Plant
Kremlyov, Russia, USSR
The KGB operative’s name—or at least his alias—was Piotr Speransky.
According to Ryakhin’s records, there had been seven instances since July 1984 when the Arzamas-16 nuclear plant had produced a tiny amount of Poloium-210 per KGB instructions, and in every instance the receiving party had been Speransky.
Further intelligence on the agent was minimal. The file was thin and conspicuously short on specifics regarding Arzamas-16’s most secretive customer. Tracie wasn’t surprised. The notion that the Soviet Union’s ruthless intelligence service would offer more than the bare minimum information necessary to complete the transactions was laughable.
But even inside the KGB there was clearly at least a modicum of concern that the radioactive poison—lethal and nearly untraceable as it was—not end up in the wrong hands. Were that scenario to occur, the resulting disaster could be dramatic. Hundreds of Russians—or more—could conceivably suffer the agonizing deaths the KGB had reserved for American intelligence operatives and at least one Soviet citizen deemed a traitor.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 105
