“That’s fine, sir, I’ll be on my way first thing in the morning. I just feel like…”
“I know. Like we’re dogs chasing our own tails. He’s got us playing defense, not offense, and that’s never a good thing.”
“Exactly.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening. But this is the best I can come up with, at least for the time being.”
Tracie shook her head, alone in her room. “No. My idea was the same as yours. But I’ll review everything I can remember about Piotr Speransky tonight. I can’t sleep anyway. I’ll write it all down and maybe something will shake loose.”
They fell silent again. Things were spinning out of control; they could both feel it. It was an uncomfortable sensation and one with which Tracie was mostly unfamiliar. She was used to devising a plan, usually a bold plan, and then aggressively pursuing it to completion.
This was a novel experience, and she didn’t much like it.
“If there’s nothing else, Tanner…”
Tracie blinked. She’d almost forgotten she was still on the phone with her handler. The extreme stress of days spent walking around Paris waiting to be blown off her feet by sniper fire was catching up to her. She was exhausted. “No, sir. That’s it.”
“Then I suggest you get some rest. You sound as tired as I feel.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
“Goodbye, Tanner.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
The circuit went dead and Tracie lowered the sat phone’s antenna. She placed the transceiver into its carry bag and zipped the bag closed. Then she padded to the writing desk.
She stared out at the Eiffel Tower in the distance and sighed. She had expected to feel at least marginally better after talking to Aaron Stallings. For all his faults, and he had plenty, the CIA director had been doing his job for decades and was considered by most in the intelligence community to be an expert in his field. He was a spymaster with the emphasis on master.
But rather than feeling better after disconnecting the sat phone, the opposite was true. She felt worse. Much worse. Stallings was as confused as she regarding Piotr Speransky’s intentions, and that was a very bad sign.
The only thing she felt reasonably sure of was that Speransky’s end game was not the murder of three diplomats and three embassy security guards. All those victims were simply collateral damage. He was up to something else, and it involved her, and it was more than a little disconcerting to realize she didn’t have the slightest clue what that something might be.
She gazed out the window without really seeing anything. The scenery was spectacular but her mind was fifteen hundred miles away, inside a small CIA safe house in Moscow. She replayed her interrogation of Piotr Speransky over and over in her head, desperate to recall some small detail that might reveal the man’s intentions.
There was nothing. All her obsessive replay revealed was how foolish she’d been to allow him to live. She’d known that decision might come back to haunt her, but had allowed her heart to overrule her head and now she was paying for it, and the price was a half-dozen dead Americans.
So far.
After a while she shook her head and picked up the hotel’s phone. She still had to reserve a ticket on a flight tomorrow morning for Rome. Flying there was the best plan she could come up with, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was making another mistake.
A costly one.
15
May 17, 1988
6:36 p.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Piotr had slewed his stolen car onto the side of the deserted two-lane, hoping it would appear as though he’d suffered a mechanical issue. Given the age of the vehicle and its generally beaten-down appearance, he thought the impression would be an easy sell.
He waited until he was certain General Tanner had gotten a good look at the car as he approached, and then he opened the driver’s side door and walked quickly toward the middle of the road. He raised his arms and waved his hands over his head in the universal signal of a driver in need of assistance.
There was room for Tanner to pass him and keep going, but he knew the man wouldn’t do so. Guys like him—suckers, in other words—couldn’t resist lending a helping hand to a stranger in need. Sure enough, the Monte Carlo began slowing, and Piotr smiled in thanks as the Good Samaritan eased to a stop next to him.
Tanner leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger window. He nodded past Piotr and said, “Cars are more trouble than they’re worth, aren’t they?”
“Definitely,” Piotr said.
“What’s the problem?”
Piotr’s smile widened. “Nothing.”
Tanner blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“There is no problem with my car. It is running perfectly.” Piotr’s English, while passable, was clearly accented with Russian even after all the time he’d spent operating in the states, and while on missions here he had always tried to speak as little in public as he could get away with.
It didn’t matter now, though. His victim was in his sights and would not be escaping.
Suspicion clouded Tanner’s eyes and he shook his head. “Then…how can I help you?”
Piotr reached behind his back. He drew his Makarov and leveled it at the driver. “You can do exactly as I say, or you can die. The choice is yours.”
Tanner shrank back instinctively but Piotr had expected that reaction and was ready for it. He reached through the still-open window and kept his weapon trained on his victim. “Do not try it,” he said.
“Try what?”
“I know you are considering hitting the gas and attempting to escape. If you do so, you will die.”
Tanner looked out the windshield and then across at Piotr. The road was still empty. “What do you want?” the general said.
“You,” Piotr said simply.
“I don’t understand.”
“You do not need to.” Far off in the distance a vehicle had rounded the corner and was approaching. Piotr had hoped to finished this business without interruption, but even though this particular road was sparsely traveled, the location was still less than thirty miles from the urban sprawl of Washington, D.C. He’d known there was every chance they would be interrupted and was prepared for just such an occurrence.
He leaned into the car and flicked his weapon in the direction of the oncoming vehicle. “If that motorist stops, you will get rid of him immediately or everybody dies.”
Tanner nodded. His eyes hardened and he held Piotr’s gaze for a long moment before turning his attention to the approaching car. Sure enough, it began slowing.
The car stopped in the opposite travel lane and Piotr felt himself tensing. He tightened his grip on the Makarov and lowered it slightly to ensure it remained below the intruder’s field of vision. It would still be a simple matter to fire into Jake Tanner’s chest from this position and he hoped that fact remained foremost in the general’s mind.
The other driver lowered his window. It was a middle-aged man. He said, “Everything alright here, fellas?”
For a moment no one spoke and Piotr thought he was going to have to end the general before he wanted to. Doing so would alter his plan for vengeance against the redheaded cyka, but would not eliminate it.
Finally, Jake Tanner spoke. “We’re good,” he said across the open windows. “Ran into an old friend and we’re doing a little catching up.”
“In the middle of the road?”
Tanner chuckled uneasily. “Yeah, I guess we should probably move our reunion to a bar or something, shouldn’t we?”
The other driver shook his head angrily. “Jesus, could you be any more selfish? Blocking a public road to chat with an old friend? You’re lucky somebody doesn’t come by and shoot your self-absorbed asses.”
The man rolled up his window and raised his middle finger at the two of them. He leaned forward to be sure Piotr could see it as well. Piotr smiled widely at the man, who hit the gas
and roared away.
“Yes,” Piotr said. “You are very lucky somebody doesn’t come by and shoot you.”
Tanner ignored his comment. “What now? I did as you asked.”
Piotr kept his weapon trained on Tanner as he fumbled for the door handle. He yanked the door open and slid into the car. It was well past time to get out of here. There was nothing to be gained by risking another interaction with a passing motorist. The next one would likely not end as well.
“Drive,” he said.
“Drive?”
“You heard me.”
“Drive where?”
Piotr leaned across the seat and pressed his weapon to the side of Jake Tanner’s head. “I know what you are doing. You are stalling because you think the longer you sit out here in the middle of the road, the less likely you are to die. You are mistaken. Put your foot on the accelerator and press down or I will blow your brains all over the inside of this car. Do not test me.”
The car began to inch forward, picking up speed slowly. Piotr waited a moment and then removed the gun from Tanner’s skull.
“Satisfied?” Tanner said tersely.
“For now.”
“My question remains unchanged. Where am I supposed to be driving?”
“I will give you directions as needed,” Piotr said. “For now, just continue along this route.” He made a mental note to maintain the utmost situational awareness at all times until Jake Tanner was properly secured. Piotr had kidnapped countless men and women over the course of a long career, both in his official position as a KGB operative, and in his unofficial one as a killer for hire. Virtually all of his victims responded in the same way: with shock and terror that rendered them unable to defend themselves in any meaningful way.
This man was different. He was fearful—who wouldn’t be afraid with the barrel of a Makarov 9mm pistol shoved into his ear?—but rather than being rendered helpless by his situation, Piotr could see a grim determination in his expression.
And that sort of reaction made him extremely dangerous. Piotr was holding the gun, and it appeared Tanner was unarmed, so that left Piotr clearly in charge. But he would take nothing for granted. It had become clear just in the five minutes they’d interacted that General Jake Tanner could be a dangerous adversary.
Piotr supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, given the resourcefulness the redheaded CIA cyka had shown in capturing him and then extracting vital information from him. The fact that he hated her and wanted nothing more out of whatever life he had remaining than to make her suffer as much as humanly possible didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize—and even grudgingly appreciate—her abilities as a covert intelligence specialist. And he was now sitting a meter away from her father, from whom she had probably inherited the traits that made her such a dangerous adversary.
But Piotr hadn’t come this far to be outsmarted or overpowered because he let his guard down. This man might be as resourceful as his daughter, but Piotr had dealt with plenty of dangerous men in his life, and on missions that meant far less to him personally than did this one.
They drove for a while, the silence interrupted only by Piotr’s muttered, “Turn left here,” or “Turn right there.”
Eventually Jake Tanner broke the silence. He said, “What exactly is it you want?”
“I already told you. I want you to drive where I tell you to drive.”
“And that’s what I’m doing. What I’m asking is why am I driving exactly where you tell me to drive?”
“Because I have the gun and you do not.”
“This wasn’t a random kidnapping, was it?”
Piotr smiled despite the tension; he couldn’t help himself. “Oh no,” he agreed, “this was most certainly not random.”
“And to what do I owe the honor of being hijacked at gunpoint and forced to drive to some mysterious destination for some unknown purpose?”
“Vengeance,” Piotr said simply.
“I see,” Tanner said, although it was clear he did not. “May I ask what was done to you that requires this sort of extreme vengeance?”
Piotr turned in the seat. He faced Jake Tanner and realized he’d begun lifting his Makarov and pointing it again at Tanner’s head. “My life was destroyed.”
Tanner glanced over at Piotr before returning his attention to the road. “What could I possibly have done to you that warrants this response? I don’t even recognize you.”
“It was not you who ruined my life.”
“And yet it is me who is being kidnapped.”
“Yes it is.”
“Who was it?”
“You know who it was. You just do not want to say it.”
Tanner shook his head. “I’m quite sure I don’t—”
“It was your daughter. And that is all you need to know on the subject.”
“My daughter?”
“Shut up.”
“How could you have learned the identity of—”
“SHUT UP OR DIE!” Piotr shouted.
The car fell silent again.
“Turn left here,” Piotr said.
Before long they had arrived.
16
May 17, 1988
7:10 p.m.
Somewhere near Alexandria, Virginia
The minute the asshole stuck a gun in his face, Jake Tanner knew he’d made a mistake with his split-second decision to stop for the stranded motorist. The road was a remote country two-lane, but there had still been plenty of room to drive by if he’d decided just to mind his own business and let the unlucky bastard with the broken-down car fend for himself.
But of course, he’d never been one to let people in need fend for themselves, not even strangers. The concept of service to others was a thread running through the Tanner family, and the thought of driving past the man had never even occurred to him.
Until the ungrateful prick stuck a gun in his face.
At first, Jake assumed this was a random occurrence. A man who’d committed some kind of serious crime and then experienced a breakdown as he was making his escape. A criminal who had panicked and flagged down the first poor sap to drive by, resorting to Plan B: an armed carjacking.
But that assumption had begun to fade almost immediately, replaced by a cold dread that told him he’d been targeted specifically. His kidnapper was far too calm and calculated to be a criminal whose car had died at an inopportune moment. And it took a little time to place the man’s accent because it was so unexpected. And having a gun thrust into his face wasn’t helping him think clearly, either.
Then it came to him, and when it did his blood ran cold.
The accent was Russian. And his immediate thought was, This has something to do with Tracie.
Not a day had gone by since his only child told him she’d hired on with the Central Intelligence Agency as a covert operative that he didn’t worry about what she might be doing and where she might be doing it. She was able to share almost nothing about her career with him—as a U.S. Army general, he well understood the concepts of classified information and top secret clearances—but given the fact the United States had only one major geopolitical rival in the world, it didn’t take much imagination to assume her work regularly brought her in contact with representatives of the Soviet Union.
Representatives like the man sitting a couple of feet away in the front passenger seat of his car, calmly holding a gun on him and tossing out directions like an old hand at public kidnappings.
But even if his assumption was correct, what the hell was a Russian operative doing in rural Virginia kidnapping a four-star general in his own car?
And where were they going?
And most importantly, what was going to happen when they got there?
Jake didn’t know the answer to any of those questions and he doubted very much he wanted to find out. But he was going to, because after maybe thirty minutes of driving, following left and right turns dictated by the kidnapper that seemed random but were not, they finally turned into a
long gravel driveway that was choked with weeds and strewn with potholes.
At the far end of the driveway stood the remains of what at one time had been a single family home but was now nothing more than an abandoned wreck, a shell of a building that even from a distance and approaching nightfall Jake could see had not been occupied in a very long time.
Shutters sagged, torn partially away from siding that featured faded, peeling paint. Every window Jake could see had been smashed out, and what he assumed were gang symbols had been spray-painted across virtually the entire front of the house.
The man sitting in the passenger seat with the trace of a Russian accent and the calm, threatening demeanor didn’t strike Jake as a Washington gang member, so he assumed this choice of destinations had been selected for its ease of accessibility and the remoteness of its location.
Jake moved slowly up the driveway, the car practically at idle, not anxious to hurry things along. Whatever was going to happen here, he knew it would not be healthy for him. The longer he could delay the man’s endgame, the greater his chances of figuring a way out, either by making a play for the Russian’s gun or making a break for freedom under the cover of darkness.
For his part, the Russian seemed perfectly happy to allow Jake to move as slowly as he wanted. He’d been tense and nervous back at the ambush point, but now that they’d escaped, he seemed relaxed, almost jovial, a man without a care in the world.
They reached the end of the long driveway and Jake eased to a stop. It was either that or drive into the side of the house, an option he actually considered doing for the briefest of moments. It seemed increasingly obvious the man’s intentions were deadly, and if Jake were doomed to die, he certainly wouldn’t be opposed to taking his captor along with him. Dropping a house onto the asshole’s head would be no more than he deserved.
But he pulled to a stop instead. All things being equal, he preferred attempting escape over dying in his own car next to the man with the gun.
He left the engine running and said, “Okay. What now?”
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 154
