Tracie had arrived at her surveillance location just as the first hints of light were brightening the skies behind the mountains to the east. Daybreak was an extended affair, as the sun seemed to climb only with extreme reluctance. Eventually it cast sufficient light for her to see through her binocs and she got down to business.
Her initial impression as she scanned the facility was that the place didn’t seem big enough. It appeared somehow incomplete. A large sign erected out by the road read:
IPATIEV RESEARCH FACILITY
NO PUBLIC ACCESS
ARMED GUARDS – KEEP OUT!
The words were posted in Cyrillic block letters large enough for her to see clearly through her binoculars, even from this distance, and while no mention was made about the facility being under military control, none was necessary. The guard towers looming over the property and the twin rows of barbed wire fencing were enough to pass that message loud and clear.
Clusters of barracks dotted the landscape, built in the traditional Soviet style: long, low and drab. But the thing that struck Tracie most forcefully as she watched the workers pouring out of the housing complex to begin the day was that there were far too many of them than would be required to staff the facility based on the number of other structures dotting the landscape inside the security fence. There just weren’t that many buildings.
Something was off with this place, and the most likely explanation was that Aaron Stallings’ theory was correct: any significant work being done here was taking place underground. So how the hell was she supposed to learn any of its secrets through a pair of binoculars from a half-mile away?
Tracie shelved that concern for the moment and examined the remainder of the facility. It was an odd feeling knowing she was the first American ever to lay eyes on it.
The base had been hacked out of the heavy mountain wilderness surrounding Mezhgorye. Viewed from a distance, it resembled a small bald spot made all the more noticeable by the long hair on the remainder of an aging hippie’s head. The buildings had been constructed relatively recently but were not brand-new. The signs of weathering from the vicious mountain winters were plain, and the intel extracted from the pair of Soviet assassins back at Langley—that the base had undergone initial construction in the 1970s—seemed accurate for the condition of the structures.
A pair of chain-link fences encircled the installation. Gauging the height of the fences was difficult from a distance, but Tracie estimated each at better than ten feet. Both were topped with rolls of razor wire.
The area between the pair of fences was literally a dead zone: a fifty-foot-wide no-man’s land, similar to what she had encountered last month entering the closed Russian city of Kremlyov. She knew that buried beneath the barren ground separating the fences would be a series of sensors designed to detect the vibration produced by footfalls. The sensors would alert sentries to the approach of any unexpected visitors.
Not that it would even be possible for anyone to slip through or scale the outer set of fencing undetected. A series of guard towers, large and high and intimidating, had been constructed at regular intervals surrounding the camp. The towers were positioned just inside the inner ring of fencing and from Tracie’s position it seemed clear that every square foot of space inside the facility was within view of at least one guard tower. In most cases two or more towers offered coverage from multiple perspectives.
The setup was similar to what would be seen at a maximum-security prison, and the feeling of strangeness Tracie had experienced earlier returned. There was clearly more to this place than met the eye. What could be going on inside this facility that would justify such stringent security measures? The above ground portion of the base looked like nothing more imposing than a drab, dreary Russian office complex.
Tracie nibbled protein bars and sipped water she’d stored inside a small cooler—not to keep it cold but rather to prevent it from freezing solid in the near-zero-degree Fahrenheit temperatures—as she observed the activities of the camp.
Most of the workers leaving the housing complex had moved to one of three separate structures dotting the base, buildings that appeared as bland and anonymous as the rest. They resembled warehouses in the shape of oversized Quonset huts, rusting metallic buildings with curved roofs and few windows.
The workers entered the buildings, clustering around the narrow doorways and then funneling inside. The three Quonset hut-like buildings drew most of Tracie’s attention for two reasons: first, they were the locations into which the majority of the workers disappeared, and second, virtually all the other structures inside the facility were readily identifiable.
There was a mess hall located a short distance from the housing units. A PX, or Post Exchange, basically a small store at which the base’s residents could shop, had been constructed directly across a quadrangle from the dining hall, both buildings nestled amidst the residence units. A recreation center had been constructed next to a small movie theatre.
Occupying a separate area of the base but within walking distance of the residence units was what Tracie took to be the administrative complex. This would be where the Soviet base commander and his staff would operate. It was also easily identifiable because virtually everyone entering those buildings wore Red Army uniforms of various ranks, while the people who trekked the longer distance to the big Quonset-type structures appeared to be dressed mostly in civilian clothing beneath their heavy winter coats.
The number of people entering the administrative zone equated roughly to what Tracie guessed would be required to ensure the continuing operation of a base consisting of the number of workers she had observed. But assuming those workers were civilians, what would they be doing on a secure military base constructed in the middle of nowhere?
They had to be researchers. Scientists of some sort. And given the proper support, she supposed scientific research could be conducted anywhere. But wouldn’t it be prohibitively expensive to ship that support via a small rural road to the middle of the Ural Mountains as opposed to, say, utilizing a research facility in Moscow or Leningrad or Stalingrad?
She shook her head and set down her binoculars. Removed her gloves to unwrap a protein bar and then quickly slipped her hands back inside them as she munched on her snack, lost in thought. This first day of surveillance seemed to be raising more questions than it answered. She pictured Aaron Stallings thrumming his fingers on his desk impatiently and she smiled.
The day had warmed nicely—relatively speaking—with the bright sun beating down on the six thousand foot elevation, raising the temperature almost to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. But it wasn’t even midafternoon yet and the sun had already started its long slide toward the horizon. Soon darkness would fall, arriving with shocking swiftness compared to the lengthy struggle it had taken the sun to rise in the morning.
And once that happened, the temperatures would plummet. Even dressed as she was in highly insulated survival gear, Tracie knew she would become extremely uncomfortable should she remain exposed to the elements. She decided she would do some nighttime surveillance within twenty-four to forty-eight hours if daytime work revealed as little in terms of generating useful intel as today’s had.
But it would not take place tonight.
She swallowed the last of her protein bar and sighed softly. She had well under a week in the Urals to gather intel before meeting her extraction team in the C-130, and nearly two full days had already slipped away. She wasn’t the slightest bit closer to completing her mission than she had been when she stepped out of the airplane and onto the frozen surface of the lake yesterday. That kind of performance wasn’t going to cut it.
The mountain shadows were lengthening as she lifted the binocs to her eyes and resumed surveillance. Instantly she perked up, grateful she’d chosen this moment to return her attention to the base.
Because a truck was approaching the front gate.
This was noteworthy. In nearly eight hours spent camped on the side of a mountain peering down at th
e secret Soviet installation, not a single vehicle had entered or departed. Not one. Cars had driven around inside the base, and a few had passed the facility on their way into or out of Mezhgorye, but the facility had maintained an unbroken isolation from the village.
Until now.
Tracie watched with interest as the cargo truck turned off the main road and crept along the paved drive leading to a sophisticated-looking guard shack placed at the front gate. The vehicle was slightly larger than a full-sized American pickup truck. The interior of the cargo bed was invisible, concealed by a dirty canvas covering, so there was no way to know what might be inside.
A sentry stepped out of the guardhouse as the truck eased to a stop. The driver rolled down his window and handed a clipboard to the soldier, who glanced at it for approximately three-tenths of a second and then returned it. He made a comment to the driver and both men shared a laugh.
The sentry started walking back toward the guardhouse but then he stopped and asked the driver a question. The driver answered and the guard nodded his head and then walked to the rear of the truck. He lifted the canvas flap and peered inside, standing motionless for maybe thirty seconds as he gazed at…something. Tracie couldn’t imagine what might be inside that cargo bed that was so fascinating.
Eventually the man dropped the flap and marched to the guardhouse.
A moment later the first gate began to trundle open. The truck rolled slowly through and stopped again in front of the inner entrance. The first gate closed fully before the second began to open. Finally the truck accelerated onto the base and turned toward the administrative zone.
It pulled into a space directly outside what Tracie had come to believe was the main admin building. Both cab doors opened and a soldier stepped down out of each at the same time three men dressed in Red Army uniforms exited the building.
One was a major and Tracie suspected she was looking at the base commander. The other two approached the now-stationary vehicle with sidearms drawn, further piquing Tracie’s interest. What the hell could the truck be carrying that would require an officer’s appearance, along with a pair of armed escorts?
The base representatives spoke to the two men who had gotten out of the truck and then all five men moved to the rear of the cargo bed. The soldier who’d exited the truck’s passenger side opened the canvas flap and tied it back, then pulled a key ring out of his pocket and searched through it for a moment. When he found what he was looking for, he disappeared through the flap and climbed into the back of the truck.
He returned a moment later and when he did, Tracie’s eyes widened in shock. She felt her jaw drop. She pulled the binoculars away from her face and blinked, then replaced them and once again looked down on the secret military installation.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Being led out of the cargo bed in chains was the CIA operative who’d helped her escape Russia not two weeks ago inside a hidden compartment built into a truck remarkably similar to the one she was looking at right now.
This was impossible, but the evidence was right there in front of her.
The man being delivered to the secret facility was Ryan Smith.
16
February 1, 1988
Time unknown
Location unknown
Ryan stumbled out the rear of the truck. Literally. Were it not for one of the guards grabbing him by the elbow, he would have fallen on his face when his feet hit the ground.
With the exception of the rare stops for fuel and to piss, the truck had driven through the evening and well into the next day. Even huddled inside the blanket it was the longest night of his life. Ryan had no way of knowing the temperature, but he shivered incessantly and his toes felt like small blocks of wood inside his socks. He imagined if he took off his shoes and struck his feet with something hard the toes would shear off and scatter around the cargo bed like so many marbles.
After daybreak, the outside temperatures had gradually moderated with the rising of the sun. Ryan discovered that the sheet of canvas covering the truck bed captured the sunlight and helped trap some small amount of warmth inside, but his core body temperature was by then so low he continued to shiver, his teeth rattling inside his skull. It got to the point he wondered whether the men sitting in the warmth of the cab could hear it.
Between the chill permeating his body and the constant bouncing of the truck over the subpar Soviet roads he could not sleep, and the exhaustion settled over him like a blanket much thicker than the one he’d been provided.
He was miserable.
And this was only the beginning of his suffering; the end was not in sight. In fact, there would be no end. This was now his existence. He belonged to the KGB. He was at the mercy of an organization that had no mercy, and his destiny would be determined entirely by his ruthless overlords.
The hours passed slowly, particularly during the interminable night. But even after daybreak, Ryan discovered it had become impossible to gauge the passage of time. He occupied himself for a little while trying to determine where the KGB might be taking him and for what purpose, but dwelling on those subjects chilled him even worse than did the temperature.
One thing he knew was that he was being taken farther and farther off the beaten path. They were moving steadily east, he could gauge their direction by the positioning of the sun, but that in itself didn’t tell him much. The Soviet Union was vast, much of it mountainous and unexplored, even in the late-twentieth century, and knowing the direction of travel was not much more helpful than knowing he should never have set foot inside that damned Moscow tavern four nights ago.
Or was it three? Five? He couldn’t quite recall.
The canvas-covered opening in the rear of the cargo bed continued to flap in the breeze, and it had offered him enough of a view to know that the truck was nowhere near a city. It was nowhere near anything. The terrain was bumpy and hilly, and Ryan came to realize they seemed to be following a gradual upward incline. Over time the incline became more noticeable.
Where the hell are they taking me?
He’d fallen into a partial slumber—feet jammed against the iron strut, back pushed up against the rear of the cab, head slumped painfully on his shoulders—when his rolling prison began the now-familiar process of slowing to turn off the road. The air brakes squealed and the driver ground the gears and Ryan’s skull slammed painfully against the sheet metal.
He blinked fully awake and shook his head to try to clear away the confusion. His immediate assumption was that it was once again time to refuel the truck. His captors had given him a snack during the last pit stop, but it hadn’t been nearly enough, and Ryan’s stomach growled and cramped. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten an actual meal and not just whatever scraps the Soviets tossed his way.
He forced his thoughts from his gnawing hunger and it occurred to him that it was too soon to be refueling. Exhaustion and fear had undoubtedly dulled his perceptions, but he was certain they’d gotten gas no more than three hours ago. That amounted to less than half the time between the previous stops, and the Soviets had shown no inclination to pull off the road any more often than they absolutely had to.
Something else was happening.
Another stop at a guard shack, and then the truck entered a military installation, exactly as it had done several times over the course of Ryan’s captivity. But this time when they squealed to a stop inside the base, there was diesel fuel stench. No unscrewing of a gas cap. No liquid being pumped into the truck’s tank.
Nothing at all happened for at least a minute, and then the flap was pulled aside and the man who’d supplied Ryan with the blanket last night entered the cargo bed. He unlocked Ryan’s chain and helped him out of the truck, keeping him upright when Ryan stumbled. The brightness of the sun was jarring after the muted light inside the truck bed, and he blinked hard and squinted.
“Take the prisoner to my office,” a man in a Red Army major’s uniform said, befor
e turning and walking briskly up a set of stairs and then disappearing into a building.
Ryan found himself being pulled along behind the officer, flanked on either side by the men who’d driven him here. A pair of Russian soldiers with their handguns drawn followed behind, apparently concerned Ryan might overpower his captors and make a break for freedom, all while dizzy from hunger and lack of sleep, shivering uncontrollably, and without a clue where the hell he might go even if he could escape.
The reality, at least for the moment, was that Ryan was so relieved to be out of that damned truck, and so happy to be going inside a building that was presumably warm and comfortable, that he wasn’t about to cause anyone any trouble. He was perfectly happy to follow the commander into his office, where he would undoubtedly be interrogated. Again.
Once inside the building he moved past a young woman seated at a desk, clearly some sort of secretary or administrative assistant. She stared at him with wide, wary eyes, and it occurred to Ryan she was probably seeing an Evil American in the flesh for the first time in her life.
Then he was whisked past the woman and seconds later found himself inside an office that looked more comfortable than anyplace he’d been since he was captured. Hell, it looked nicer than anyplace he’d been since he left the States.
The men escorting him seemed to have no idea what to do next. They stopped just inside the office doorway, so of course Ryan stopped as well, and everyone waited as the major moved to his desk and sat.
A second man had been awaiting their arrival inside the office, and he was seated next to the major’s desk, looking almost as uncomfortable as Ryan felt. Unlike the officer, he was dressed in civilian clothes beneath a white lab coat.
The major crossed his hands on his desk and met Ryan’s gaze. His eyes were cold and hard. He said, “You look uncomfortable, my friend,” although there was nothing friendly about his tone.
Ryan didn’t see any point in agreeing, but he wasn’t about to argue, either, so he kept his mouth shut and waited to see what would happen next. An empty chair had been placed in front of the desk facing the major and the man in the lab coat, and while Ryan would have bet his life’s savings the chair was meant for him, he knew better than to sit in it—or even to take one step in its direction—without being instructed to.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 131
