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

should have been the ones to hunt down the Navsegda radicals and eliminate the threat, not some representative of the hated American enemy.

Just thinking about it, Ivan could feel his blood pressure rising, and a mild headache began to throb at the base of his skull. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, forcing himself to relax, to breathe deeply, to slow his racing heartbeat.

After a moment he opened his eyes. He felt marginally better but could not stop himself from continuing to relive what he considered the worst failure of his career. Following the debacle, he had printed out hundreds of bulletins featuring the likeness of the little American cyka, distributing them to KGB stations throughout not just Russia, but all the Soviet satellite states as well.

His assumption had been that once the operative escaped Russia, she would never again return. She could not possibly be stupid enough to think she would not be hunted like the dog she was, and even if she were that stupid, her CIA handlers certainly would not be. For all his hatred of the Americans and everything they stood for, he wasn’t too blind to acknowledge the competence of the Central Intelligence Agency and its people.

But on that point he had apparently been wrong. Not only was the American bitch back on Soviet soil, she was back just weeks later. Perhaps she had not even left the country at all.

He recognized that he was taking a leap of faith by dropping everything and flying to Sevastopol. If Comrade Lukashenko was mistaken as to the identity of his captive, Ivan would once again look foolish and weak, and foolishness and weakness were two things the top brass in the Red Army would only put up with for so long.

Still, it had been Andre Lukashenko on the other end of the telephone line this morning, not just some KGB nobody. Ivan was well familiar with Lukashenko’s work; as the man in charge of acquisitions for the Soviet military, Ivan had spent millions upon millions of rubles on equipment and armaments made possible by The Weasel’s skill at stealing or purchasing state secrets and classified materials of the USSR’s enemies.

If Andrei Lukashenko said he’d apprehended the American CIA agent who had so humiliated Ivan, he was willing to cancel a few appointments and miss a few meetings in order to check it out. The worst-case scenario was that Lukashenko was mistaken, in which case Ivan would berate the KGB man and send him on his way, chastened.

But the best-case scenario, oh, that would be heavenly. In the best-case scenario, Ivan would torture the redhead viciously. He would take his time and make her scream. She would regret ever stepping foot on Soviet soil, much less invading Ivan’s home and making a fool out of him.

He glanced out the window to see the car pulling to a stop outside a set of hangars constructed in a secluded corner of Vnukovo Airport. This was where some of the aircraft reserved for use by high-ranking Soviet military personnel were kept, and idling outside the closest hangar was a brand-new Yakovlev Yak-48 business jet.

The Yak-48 was a prototype, not even in production yet, a twin-engine business jet capable of seating up to eight passengers. It was small and fast, and the flight from Moscow to Sevastopol would not come close to pushing its potential range.

The whine of Yak-48’s engines was high-pitched and annoying, and Ivan felt his burgeoning headache ratchet up a notch. He grimaced and walked up the Yak’s retractable stairs, pausing just a moment to salute the two-man flight crew standing at attention. The pair of men Ivan had selected as a security detail followed him into the aircraft.

Once inside, he turned and told the two soldiers, “Make yourselves comfortable, but please allow me some privacy. I must spend our limited flight time doing some strategic planning.”

“Yes, Sir,” the men responded in unison, moving to the first two passenger seats and dropping into them.

Ivan walked to the rear seat, putting as much room between himself and the soldiers as he could. There really wasn’t much “strategic planning” that needed to be done, but Ivan was keyed-up and strangely nervous, and just wanted a little peace and quiet.

He buckled himself in and closed his eyes as he waited for departure. Ivan had not allowed himself to hope he would ever get the chance for vengeance, despite all the work and expense it had taken to dispatch his bulletin.

Now that the moment he’d been waiting for was almost here, the anticipation was palpable. He could not wait to arrive at the Sevastopol safe house and get to work on his CIA antagonist.

39

 

June 25, 1988

12:50 p.m.

Abandoned factory north of Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

 

The Weasel was returning. Tracie couldn’t see his car but she could hear the sound of its engine as he approached and then parked.

She slipped off the table and waited. She thought she knew why he’d left right after securing her, and if her suspicions were on the money it would represent more bad news for her.

 He entered the factory whistling a Russian folk tune and then stopped just inside the door, feigning surprise at seeing her.

“Well, what do we have here?” he said as a greasy grin slid across his face. “It appears someone has left a little girl sad and all alone. Do not worry, darling, I will be happy to pass the time with you until our company arrives.”

“Not necessary,” Tracie said, putting as much venom into her voice as she could manage. “I was perfectly happy while you were gone. Feel free to leave again.”

“I think I will stay.”

“In that case, feel free to go fuck yourself.”

Lukashenko’s smile evaporated, as did his seemingly jovial mood. Tracie knew it was a mistake to push his