Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9), Allan Leverone [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

“And that is?”

“What changed? A few days ago you were dead set against sending me back into the field. ‘You’ll be too recognizable, it’s too dangerous,’ and blah, blah, blah.”

“Glad to hear you give my words the weight they deserve,” he said drily.

“Always. So what changed?”

“Events, Tanner. They have a way of happening. And given our current…shorthanded situation in the Soviet Union thanks to them poisoning so many of our assets a few months ago, I have no choice but to send you back into the lion’s den. Maybe. But I’ve already said more than I should over an unsecured landline. Get in here as quickly as you can and we’ll talk.”

“I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“Good,” Stallings said, and the line went dead.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tracie said as she placed the handset into its cradle on the wall. “I did not see that coming.”

She turned around and ran into the rock wall that was Marshall Fulton, who’d come up behind her while she spoke to Stallings.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear,” he said, as he wrapped his big arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I just snuck up behind you so I could hear what was going on.”

“Wise ass.”

“My momma always said I was an ass. The wise part she might take issue with, though.”

“Smart woman.”

“The smartest,” he said with a grin. “Anyway, that was my way of saying that based on hearing your end of the conversation, I’m guessing the weather’s gotten a lot better since last night.”

“The weather?”

“Yeah. As in I think it’s time for me to take my leave because you’ve got things to do.”

She grimaced. “It’s work. I’m so sorry, Marshall. I would love nothing better than to cuddle on the couch all day and watch old movies, but I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait.”

“Of course. I understand, although I am curious what changed. Last night you told me Stallings had put you on the shelf for some undetermined amount of time. You said you were going stir crazy because he wouldn’t allow you to work, and now he’s begging you to come in?”

Tracie blinked in surprise. Between her classified work as the most secret of black ops specialists in the CIA’s arsenal, so secret she didn’t even officially work for the agency, and her own natural reticence about opening up to people, it seemed almost sacrilegious for Marshall to be asking the question.

But as a CIA employee himself, an analyst at Langley, he was one of the two people in the world—one, now that Dad is dead, she thought bitterly—with whom she actually could share some small amount of information. Nothing classified, of course, no details of assignments or locations, nothing like that.

Marshall, though, misunderstood her momentary silence. He stepped back and raised his hands, palms out. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Forget I asked the question.”

“It’s okay! I was just thinking how odd it is to be able to talk about job-related stuff with someone. It threw me for a bit of a loop but it actually feels kind of good. To answer your question, you know how Stallings is. When they invented the word ‘mercurial,’ I’m pretty sure they were picturing him. He just up and changed his mind.” She wasn’t comfortable getting into specifics beyond her very bland statement.

Marshall laughed. “No, Little Miss Important, I actually don’t know how Director Stallings is, other than what I’ve heard. I’ve only met the man once or twice, and I’ve certainly never had a real conversation with him. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize me if I passed him in the hallway.”

“You might be surprised,” Tracie said. “He is a major pain in the ass to work for, but Aaron Stallings is one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered. Maybe the sharpest. If he’s met you, I’d be willing to bet he remembers you. Probably even knows your name and what time you take your lunch break. But again, calling him difficult does a disservice to the word.”

“You have my sympathies, then. On the other hand, I’m sure you just charm the pants off him.”

She laughed out loud, picturing some of the knock down, drag out confrontations they’d had since she started working for him. “I’m not sure ‘charm’ is a word he would ever use in relation to me.”

“Good. Because I’ve decided I don’t want you getting anyone else’s pants off.”

She wrapped her arms around him again and squeezed as tightly as she could. Between that syrupy Southern accent and his sweetness and generosity, she could hardly stand the thought of leaving.

They stood in her kitchen, locked in their embrace, but as wonderful as it felt to be so close to Marshall, Tracie was acutely aware of the clock ticking and of her promise to Stallings to be inside his home office in one hour.

At last, she pulled away. “I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Shhh.” He placed a finger against her lips. “I understand. I’ll be out of here before you’ve finished your shower.”

Tracie’s heart broke.

She nodded mutely and padded into her bathroom.

9

June 21, 1988

7:40 a.m.

McLean, VA

Typically, a meeting with the CIA director meant being greeted at the front door of the Stallings residence by his wife. In all the time she’d worked directly for Aaron Stallings, only once could she recall him being anywhere but behind his massive desk upon her arrival. That was the day she learned of her father’s murder at the hands of Soviet assassin Pyotr Speranski.

By Tracie’s way of thinking, she hoped never again to see her boss standing on his front steps as she parked in his circular driveway.

In this case, no one greeted her at the door. Presumably due to the early hour