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

Before complying with the officer’s request, she jammed the handcuff still hanging on her right wrist as far up her arm as she could, pretending to scratch her forearm. She said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t loosen and slide down while she sat talking to the cop. The length of handcuff chain she’d blown apart with Andrei Lukashenko’s gun hung nearly to her wrist, tickling the skin just north of her jacket sleeve and reminding her how tenuous her continued freedom hung.

She rolled down the window and met the cop’s glare with one of her own.

“Yes?” she said, wanting to take control of the conversation before he could speak. “What is the meaning of this? I need to get to Lubyanka as soon as possible, and I am already late, thanks to these endless, confusing roads.”

She was betting everything on the theory that Objekt 825 Commander Aleksander Morozov hadn’t reported the murder of his soldier to the Sevastopol Militsiya yet; that personal humiliation and professional embarrassment had caused him to launch a search for Tracie using his own soldiers instead of the police.

If she was wrong, and the cops were on the lookout for the young woman with the half-shaved head and the jagged scar on her skull, Tracie knew she would have to move to Plan B very quickly.

Or her freedom would come to an abrupt end.

Again.

The cop raised his eyebrows in surprise. He clearly was not accustomed to being regarded with anything other then humble obeisance by the public he was being paid to protect.

He recovered quickly, though, and said, “What is your business in Sevastopol, Miss?”

She regarded him coldly. “I am not at liberty to share that information.”

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrowed.

She said, “I assume you are aware of the existence of the restricted area along the coastline south of Sevastopol?”

“Of course. It is a classified military facility.”

She noted that his tone had softened slightly. The arrogance and suspicion were still there, but his hand had strayed from his weapon and with her mention of Objekt 825 he seemed to regard her in a slightly different light.

“I cannot comment on that,” she said. “But my business was related to that location,” not even a lie, she thought ironically, “and now it is critical I return to Moscow as soon as possible. Unfortunately these roads have gotten the better of me and I am lost.”

He nodded, gazing at her critically. Then he said, “You say you have business at Lubyanka. I am just supposed to take your word for that?”

“Of course not,” Tracie answered immediately. “If I may reach into the pocket of my blazer, I will show you my identification.”

The cop nodded and Tracie removed her Olga Koruskaya ID, moving slowly and deliberately, both to avoid spooking the cop and to be sure she didn’t accidentally expose her shoulder holster or the handcuff she’d jammed onto her forearm. It was like trying to juggle chainsaw, a bowling ball and a baby and she hoped she’d managed to disguise the stress she was feeling.

She lifted the card and held it out the window facing the cop.

He examined it for a moment and then said, “Are you aware we have had a report of a military officer involved in a shooting not far from here?”

Traci furrowed her eyebrows as she replaced the ID into her pocket. “A shooting? No, I was not aware of that.”

“Yes. And the report came from a woman.”

She shrugged and spread her hands. “So? I do not understand what…”

She paused as she pretended to connect the dots. “You think I made such a call?”

A quick chuckle at the absurdity of such a suggestion, and then she continued speaking before he could answer. “I am sorry, Officer, but I am not in the habit of calling the police about shootings I did not witness. All I wish to do is get out of this snarl of confusing roads and on the highway north to Moscow.”

He nodded again. It was make-or-break time. He would either accept her story at face value and allow her to pass, or he would decide he needed to detain her while he checked it out.

And if that were the case, things were about to get violent, perhaps even deadly.

She worked at keeping her face bland and unconcerned as he considered her words. She’d begun to sweat as she spoke with the officer, partly from nerves but mostly because it was damned warm and humid, and her jacket did little to promote comfort.

In any event, the perspiration was causing the handcuff she pushed up toward her elbow to loosen. It threatened to slide down to her wrist, an occurrence that Tracie thought would change the entire dynamic of this encounter.

She pretended to scratch her right arm again, forcing the loosened cuff back toward her elbow. Just stay up there a little longer, she thought. One way or another, this meeting was about to end.

“Okay,” the cop said, nodding one more time. “You may pass, Lieutenant. Have a nice drive to Moscow.”

With all the nodding, Tracie had the absurd thought that he resembled one of the bobble-head animals people used to place in the rear windows of their cars when she was a kid, and she had to swallow back a relieved giggle.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said as the cop turned to walk back to his cruiser.

“Excuse me,” she called through the window, thinking she might just as well get something positive out of this delay. “Could you direct me to the highway?”

Five minutes later she was on her way to her Moscow safe house.

There wasn’t a cop in sight.

49

June 28, 1988

3:15 a.m.

CIA safe house, Moscow, Russia, USSR

“So, how the hell did you do it?” In