He thrummed his fingers on the paperwork he’d been studying upon her arrival.
The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, even to Tracie, who had thought she’d seen everything her boss had to offer, intimidation-wise. Her reflexive reaction was to return his stare with a steely one of her own, to give away nothing, but it wasn’t easy.
For what felt like a very long time, nobody spoke.
Finally Stallings did, and what he said caught Tracie completely off guard. “I wasn’t always old and fat, you know.”
She blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”
He removed his glasses and tossed them on the desk, then ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Over the decades, I’ve grown old at Langley. But I didn’t always sit behind a desk pushing papers around and manning a telephone. Once upon a time I was a young man, an operative just like you, putting my life on the line in the field.”
“I…I’d heard that sir.” Tracie felt off-stride. Discombobulated. She hadn’t expected the conversation to veer off in this direction and had no idea where Stallings was going with his remarks. The uncertainty made her uncomfortable, much more so than getting yelled at.
More silence and another contemplative stare from the CIA director.
“I’m telling you this,” he finally continued, “because I want you to know I understand what it’s like to be in a position where you have to make snap judgments, where you have to do things in the heat of a mission that might seem abhorrent in any other context. It’s been more than forty years, but I’ve been in your shoes, Tanner, and I still remember the feeling.”
“Sir, I—”
“You did what you had to do when you decided to override the original mission objective in an attempt to rescue Smith, and you did what you had to do a second time given Smith’s condition and the situation you encountered under that military base. I don’t blame you or judge you for either choice you made. Quite the contrary, in fact. I think in both cases you took exactly the appropriate actions.”
Stallings paused again and the room fell deathly silent. From somewhere far away came the chiming of a grandfather clock.
“Sometimes things go sideways and missions fail, Tanner. It sucks, but that’s just the way it is in this business. It’s a constant. It might be the only constant.”
She nodded. “But I don’t know how I could ever face Ryan Smith’s family.”
“First of all, you’ll never have to, because you will never know who or where they are. But in the hypothetical situation where you did encounter his grieving parents, you could hold your head high. You saved their doomed son from enduring further torture by a government willing to go to any lengths to learn what he knew of his country’s secrets.”
“But—”
“I’m not finished yet. By taking the action you did, you also allowed a good man to die with dignity, under his own terms, rather than those imposed on him by the very people he dedicated his life to opposing.”
Tracie wondered where the dignity was in being shot in the head by a silenced Beretta and realized she’d again been staring at the floor. When she lifted her eyes, she discovered the director’s were locked onto hers.
“I’m telling you this,” he said, “for a reason, and not because I like to hear myself talk. I’ve been where you’re sitting. Faced a similar scenario. Not exactly the same, mind you, but close enough. I resolved the situation in a similar manner and then began to doubt myself, to question every move I made. You know what happens when an operative acts hesitantly in the field, Tanner?”
“You put yourself at risk.”
“Damn right. By second-guessing your actions you take what is already a dangerous, often nearly impossible job and make it even riskier. There is nothing wrong with a healthy dose of introspection, Tanner, but not while you’re on an assignment. When you’re alone and thousands of miles from home, decisive action is imperative. You took the kind of decisive action you deemed necessary at the time. You were right to do so and now that it’s over and done, you need to move on. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The response was almost automatic. Tracie spit it out despite the fact she wasn’t sure she could ever “move on.” She appreciated Aaron Stallings’ highly uncharacteristic attempt to raise her spirits, but wanted nothing more at the moment than to wrap up this debrief and get the hell out of Stallings’ office.
The director stared at her a moment longer and then sighed. “You’re not listening to a thing I’m saying, are you?”
“I am, sir. It’s just going to take some time, I guess.” And about a million nightmares.
Stallings nodded.
Leaned forward and slipped his glasses back on.
Said, “I wish I could tell you to take few weeks off.”
“Sir, I don’t want or need—”
He raised a hand to stop her. “I said I wished I could give you a vacation, not that you were getting one. Think about what I’ve said this morning and get your head straight over the next few days, but don’t stray too far from your phone. I’m guessing you’ll be hearing from me sooner rather than later because there are some things going on in the world we may need your skillset to deal with.”
She rose from the chair and flashed a tired smile. “There are always some things going on in the world.”
“That there are, Tanner, that there are.”
The walk from his office to her car took forever, and the drive home took even longer. She entered her apartment and fell into bed fully clothed.
The nightmares began almost immediately.
THE SOVIET ASSASSIN
Allan Leverone
© 2019 by Allan Leverone
Cover design by Elderlemon Design
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, some of which may be based in part on actual names, characters, places and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
First eBook edition: 2019
Prologue
January 27, 1988
9:25 a.m.
KGB Headquarters
Lubyanka Square, Moscow
Russia, USSR
KGB Foreign Operations Director Fedya Ilyich crushed his cigar into a brass ashtray with one ham-fisted swipe and glared at his counterpart, Internal Security Director Slava Yakovich.
“There is something I feel you are not understanding, Slava.” Ilyich was trying his best to keep his voice calm but could feel his blood pressure rising.
“And what might that be?”
“It is not as easy as you seem to believe to recruit and train assassins. When we have one we believe in, we like to keep him and utilize him to the utmost extent possible.”
“But there is—”
“I have not finished speaking, Slava,” Ilyich interrupted. He pause to light another cigar as Yakovich waited, closed-mouthed but clearly impatient to speak.
Too bad for you, Ilyich thought. I am your superior, and you will speak when I tell you to speak. He’d considered simply implementing his plan without consulting the internal security director, but knew that to do so would be to invite trouble down the road.
And Fedya Ilyitch was not interested in courting trouble, down the road or anywhere else.
“As I was saying,” Ilyich continued, “the man you know as Piotr Speransky is the best assassin we have in our stable at the current time.”
“I understand he is a competent killer.”
Yakovich spoke drily, in the tone of a man who considered himself above discussions regarding people who murdered other people for a living.
“No, Slava, I do not think you understand. Speransky is not just a ‘competent killer.’ He is the finest assassin in our arsenal at present and, I believe, one of the best in the long history of the Soviet intelligence services. I am not interested in losing a man such as this over one mistake.”
“But it was not just one mistake,” Yakovich said. “Speranksy revealed intelligence that permitted a lone CIA operative to execute one of our most accomplished chemical and biological weapons scientists. And not only was Comrade Marinov murdered, he was shot down right here on the streets of Moscow!”
“I am well aware of Speransky’s transgression, Slava.”
“Then you know I simply cannot overlook it in my role as director of internal security. Our people must be held accountable to a standard of excellence. If they are not held accountable when they fail, we inevitably start down a slippery slope.”
“Explain your slippery slope.”
“It is simple. If we do not hold Comrade Speransky accountable, we risk devolving into an organization where covert operatives are free to perform sloppy assignments with impunity. This cannot be allowed to happen. There must be consequences for failure, Fedya, and they must be severe.”
“Of course there must be consequences,” Ilyich agreed. “I am not suggesting a sweeping overhaul of internal policy. I am suggesting nothing of the sort. A typical operative who fails in the manner Speransky did will still face either a lifetime in prison or a pair of Makarov slugs in the skull as punishment. All I am saying is that we must make an exception in Speransky’s case. That is all. One exception. No more and no less.”
Yakovich huffed. “I do not like it. Our program of poisoning American operatives was stopped in its tracks with Comrade Marinov’s execution. What was once a shining success is now in a shambles, probably irretrievably so, all thanks to Comrade Speransky.”
“Again, I am well aware of that, Slava.”
“Then I am sure you understand I cannot abide Speransky getting off scot-free.”
“He will not get off scot-free. I intend to make it crystal clear to Comrade Speransky that he will get one chance at redemption, and one chance only. He will be offered a single assignment in which to restore his position within the organization. If he fails at that assignment, I will not stand in the way of your administering the severest punishment available.”
Yakovich sat back in his chair. He sighed and stroked his beard, lost in thought. “You really like Piotr Speranksy that much?”
“Oh no,” Ilyich answered immediately. “I cannot stand Speransky. He is arrogant and cruel, and worse, he is difficult to work with. He displays a near total disregard for the chain of command and is nearly impossible to control. In fact, I will go one step farther and say I rather fear the man. He exhibits signs of instability, and the less time I must spend in Piotr Speransky’s vicinity, the happier I am.”
“Then, why…?”
“It is simple, Slava. And I already told you why I would go out of my way for Speransky. He is exactly that good at what he does. His value to the KGB makes putting up with his…quirks…worthwhile.”
Yakovich shook his head. “I am still not convinced.”
Ilyich sat silently, smoking his cigar and allowing the truth of the situation to sink into Yakovich’s sometimes obstinate skull: It doesn’t matter if you are convinced, Slava, because I do not need your permission to execute my plan. This meeting is informational only.
Finally Yakovich grunted. “What is this assignment you are proposing? What could possibly be difficult enough—and valuable enough to the KGB—to make up for Speransky’s failure this past week, a failure that occurred practically right under our noses?”
Ilyich smiled. He blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Let us play a little guessing game, Slava.”
Yakovich blinked in surprise. “A guessing game? I have known you a long time, Fedya, and I have never known you to be a man who enjoyed games.”
“Very true.”
“Then…”
“Humor me.”
“Fine. I will play your guessing game.”
Ilyich’s smile widened. “Alright, then. Say you were a covert assassin, and you had been kidnapped, tortured and humiliated by an American CIA agent, and a female agent at that, practically in the shadow of your own home. What do you suppose would be the one thing you would want more than anything else in the world?”
Yakovich answered instantly. “Vengeance, of course.”
“Of course,” Ilyich said, and fell silent.
Yakovich’s eyes widened. “You are not suggesting…”
“Oh yes I am, Slava. Piotr Speransky will find and execute his tormentor, or he will face the fate you seem to so vehemently desire for him.”
“But how on earth will he find her? She could not possibly still be in Moscow. Undoubtedly the CIA will never allow her near Russia or anywhere else in the Soviet Union, ever again. She is almost certainly sitting behind a desk at Langley in the United States. She will likely never return to the field after an operation as brazen as the one she performed here in Moscow, because the CIA knows how badly we would like to get our hands on her.”
“None of that is our problem, is it?”
“But…it is an impossible assignment!”
“Again, not our problem. And if your assessment is correct, you may put two bullets into Speransky’s head yourself when he fails, if that is your wish. But I am telling you, Speransky will be highly motivated. And he will either succeed and thereby justify my faith in him, or he will fail and become just another operative never to be heard from again.”
Yakovich stared at his superior. “That is either the craziest or the most brilliant plan I have ever heard. But either way, it is simply impossible.”
“Again,” Ilyich said. “It is not—”
“I know, I know. It is not our problem.”
The smile never left Fedya Ilyich’s face.
1
May 12, 1988
11:35 p.m.
U.S. Embassy
Paris, France
Clayton Leavell bent over his desk, peering at a briefing document prepared by an anonymous U.S. State Department analyst somewhere in the bowels of the Harry S. Truman Building in Washington, D.C.
The information contained within the document was dry and uninteresting, even to a career diplomat like Clayton: a summary of amendments to the intelligence-sharing protocols between the governments of the United States and France. The changes were being proposed by the lame-duck Reagan administration in advance of this November’s upcoming presidential election. The current Republican administration was tightening the rules in the event a Democrat were to win the election and thus occupy the White House at this time next year.
Clayton had seen it all before, every eight years like clockwork. A sitting president was rarely defeated at the end of his first term—although Jimmy Carter had managed to make himself the exception that proved the rule less than ten years ago—but following his second term, when the chances of the rival political party taking the reins of power were much greater, the flurry of changes to diplomatic protocols began.
Whether the party in power was Republican or Democrat made little difference; both approached the potential loss of influence in exactly the same way: by making it as difficult as possible for their opponent to change policy direction after assuming control.
Should a Republican win the 1988 presidential election rather than a Democrat, Clayton knew he would find himself sitting at this very desk in early 1989, poring over a summary briefing reversing many of the very changes he was being instructed to implement now.
He sipped his cognac and sighed. So much of the political process was a game; a chess match designed not so much to advance the interests of the United States as to stymie the opposing political party. And for an ambassador, the w
hole point of diplomacy was to gain as much intelligence as possible from the host nation while simultaneously giving up as little as possible to them.
It was nothing more than a massive shell game. Even when dealing with France, which along with Great Britain had been among the United States’ most trusted allies for more than a century, Clayton found himself more often than not attempting to trick the French government, dealing in subterfuge and misdirection rather than cooperation.
It was the nature of diplomacy, and he knew the government of France was playing the game in exactly the same way when it came to dealing with him.
Most of the time Clayton relished the challenge.
Sometimes, though—and this was one of those times—it was simply exhausting. Clayton was a family man, and with Rebecca and the kids back in the states he felt unmoored. His wife and children’s impromptu vacation was for the best, given the current situation: two U.S. diplomats killed in the past two weeks under circumstances that were unrelated as far as the world knew.
Clayton knew differently.
Arlene Nevin had been struck and killed by a car two weeks ago. A hit-and-run “accident” on a deserted West German road in which the vehicle that struck Arlene had never been found. Additionally, authorities could come up with no plausible explanation as to what the United States ambassador to West Germany had been doing on a lonely road fifteen kilometers outside West Berlin at three a.m. on a Wednesday night.
It was baffling, and the Reagan administration had voiced its suspicions—that the “accident” may not have been entirely accidental—almost immediately.
Then last week Eldon Wickheiser’s administrative assistant had found the U.S. ambassador to Spain dead inside his own car in the early-morning hours one week to the day after Arlene Nevin’s unexplained death. As with the Nevin situation, there were unanswered questions surrounding Wickheiser’s fatality, not the least of which was what Wickheiser was doing sitting inside his car in the embassy garage in the middle of a weeknight.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 146
