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

“His face.”

“That’s right. So hell yes I’d recognize him again.”

It was time to wrap things up. Tracie needed to speak with Aaron Stallings, and the sooner the better.

She’d never sat down in the chair, and now she slid it back against the wall where she’d found it. Picked the manila folder off the table and stood at the end of the bed.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Limington,” she said.

She’d never imagined she could feel sympathy for a traitor to the United States, and wasn’t sure that was what she felt right now, but one thing she knew for certain: Carson Limington was perhaps the saddest sad-sack she’d ever seen. She wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes, and not just because he was suddenly facing a very bleak future.

“Like I said before,” he answered. “I just want to see that son-of-a-bitch get what’s coming to him.”

She nodded, then turned and exited the hospital room.

11

June 21, 1988

7:35 p.m.

McLean, VA

Time seemed to drag as Tracie waited for Aaron Stallings to return her call. She wasn’t welcome at Langley because she was not longer employed by the Central Intelligence Agency, and hadn’t been for most of the past year. Even when she’d been an official agency employee, her time spent at CIA headquarters was minimal, but the current arrangement meant that any communication with her handler had to come during his off-hours.

And Aaron Stallings worked long hours.

Following her jailhouse interview of Carson Limington she’d returned to her apartment and resumed pacing, exactly as she’d been doing barely more than twenty-four hours earlier, but this time for a different reason. The overwhelming sense of depression and sadness she’d felt since being sidelined following her last assignment was gone, replaced with the rush of exhilaration she’d only ever experienced while working.

Finally, around six p.m., her phone rang. She was mildly surprised. Given the CIA director’s hectic schedule, it wouldn’t have surprised her to be waiting until ten o’clock or later for him to get back to her.

She picked up before the first ring had died away and was greeted by the perpetually annoyed voice of her handler. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I’ve been working,” she said, “and we need to talk.”

He sighed deeply. Besides being perpetually annoyed with her, Stallings also seemed perpetually aggrieved by her, despite the fact he’d hired her and reassured her multiple times she was doing important work.

“Fine,” he said. “Give me ninety minutes to have dinner, and then meet me in my study.”

***

“You’re late,” he called through the closed door following her knock.

She rolled her eyes and entered the office. “You said to wait ninety minutes before I came.”

“Yes, and it’s now been…” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Ninety-five minutes.”

“I was giving you time to digest,” she said sarcastically.

“I assume you requested this meeting because you interrogated our friend, Mr. Limington, today, and not solely because you enjoy my company?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You assume correctly.”

“So, what do you need?”

“Most of what Limington gave me was useless. Even given that the shooter had a Russian accent, he could be any one of hundreds of men in the D.C. area. Thousands, probably, considering Washington is one of the diplomatic centers of the world. He wore a suit. He drove a dark-colored car. All very generic stuff.”

“But…”

“But then Limington mentioned that his contact suffered from a physical deformity, one that would make him be pretty recognizable.”

“Well, don’t be a tease.”

“Apparently, our man’s left ear was mangled, either at birth or maybe in some sort of accident. He wears very long hair, presumably to cover the deformity. And since he apparently offered money for a look at the device before double-crossing Limington and shooting him, maybe he’s done this sort of thing before. Maybe this scenario is his trademark. If that’s the case, perhaps somewhere in our files at Langley is some actionable intel on this man.”

It occurred to Tracie that this might be the longest the CIA director had ever let her speak without interrupting or making a snide remark. Now he sat back in his chair, its overstressed metal frame screeching in protest from the sudden shift of his bulk, and regarded her over his glasses, which he’d pushed down his nose.

“What? Tracie said. “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”

“This is exactly what I was talking about when I told you that you had to take some time off,” he said.

She felt her eyebrows furrow in confusion. It was a reflexive action. “What are you talking about?”

“If I were to send you back into Russia, or any of the Soviet-bloc states, the very method you’re using to try to identify this man would quite likely be used to identify you, given the unique nature of that head injury.”

She blew out a breath in frustration. “Boss, I’m not in Russia. I’m thousands of miles away from Russia. I don’t think General Gregorovich is busy trying to hunt me down in suburban Virginia.”

Stallings arched an eyebrow. “I’m not suggesting he is, just acknowledging the irony of our current situation. Life is funny sometimes.”

“Hilarious,” Tracie said, wondering whether her boss had had one too many martinis before dinner. “But I was lead to believe in our conversation this morning that finding this missing communication device was time-critical.”

“It most certainly is,” Stallings agreed.

“Well…” Tracie wasn’t sure how to proceed. She had a habit of inflaming the tension typically present between herself and her handler, and she didn’t want to say the wrong thing and find herself relegated to the bench. Again.

“You’re wondering why I’m not jumping on your intel—good job, by the way, getting something concrete this quickly—and putting someone to