Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9) by Allan Leverone (year 7 reading list txt) 📗

the KGB site came into view—where Andrei had left his car conspicuously parked out front—it slowed further, creeping along as its lone occupant studied Andrei’s building with an intensity he could see even from a distance.

Then it accelerated away.

The moment it rounded the corner and drove out of sight, Andrei hurried down the stairs to the first floor. He was now certain a foreign government had decided he was interesting enough to tail, and while he couldn’t imagine how any of the Soviet Union’s enemies could have located his car inside Russia to place a tracker on it—or even why they would do so, given he wasn’t currently working an assignment—he didn’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about it, either.

An operative was coming for him, and he would make his career by taking that man down.

The first floor of the old factory had consisted of a large, open manufacturing space on the north side of the building, with the south side broken up into a series of smaller offices and storage rooms. It was inside the office located directly off the manufacturing floor that Andrei moved into to await the foreign agent’s arrival.

Presumably the operative would enter through the south side suite of offices, since there would be nowhere to conceal himself if he used the main entrance or any of the windows ringing the manufacturing floor. But after doing so, he would eventually have to move along the hallway leading to the open space.

That hallway would take the operative directly past Andrei.

It was inevitable.

All Andrei would need to bag the agent was a little patience, and if there was one skill Andrei Lukashenko had perfected over a career spent manipulating people into betraying their countries, it was patience.

The air was heavy but cool, and after an hour and a half spent baking on the roof, Andrei felt as though he’d stepped into a freezer. He held his gun in his right hand, rubbing his arms briskly to generate some warmth while also trying to remain silent so he could hear the operative’s approach.

He wondered how long he would have to wait. Cat and mouse games were nothing new to him, but this particular kind of field work was, and he felt a nervousness fluttering through his system unlike anything he experienced working one of his usual assignments.

The time seemed to drag, elongating until every passing minute felt like an hour. Despite the tension it was difficult to maintain focus.

Then the operative passed the doorway behind which he was standing.

And Andrei moved. He slipped into the hallway and placed his weapon against the side of the man’s neck and said, “Stop right there and drop your weapon. Do it now or die.”

The operative froze for a moment, and then turned slowly to look at Andrei.

It wasn’t a man at all.

It was a woman.

And it wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman he recognized. He had known capturing an enemy agent would provide an incredible boost to his career, but he hadn’t expected this. This was a prize far beyond anything he could imagine.

“Last warning,” he said. “Drop your weapon or I will put a bullet in your head.”

Finally she did as she was told, meeting his gaze and glaring at him as she complied. The metallic clatter of the gun hitting the concrete floor sounded surprisingly loud.

He smiled. “Good girl. Now, walk slowly straight ahead.”

35

 

June 25, 1988

11:50 a.m.

Abandoned factory north of Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

 

Tracie cursed inside but tried to prevent her frustration—and, she had to admit, her fear—from showing. The moment she turned she recognized The Weasel, and the frustration of being this close to completing her assignment only to find the tables turned on her was almost overwhelming.

So was the fear.

She had been so focused on finding and eliminating Andrei Lukashenko that she now realized she hadn’t given proper consideration to the possibility he’d discovered her tracker on his car and was setting her up by coming here.

Now it was too late.

“Walk straight ahead?” she said calmly. “Could you be more specific? There’s a wall straight ahead.”

“Do not be a wise-ass,” he said. “The wall is at least thirty meters away, we will be stopping long before you have to worry about striking it.”

“Eh, I’ll pass, thanks. I’m happy right here.”

“MOVE,” he thundered, tapping his gun against the side of her skull—fortunately, the uninjured side—to emphasize his point.

Tracie started walking. Her head throbbed from the blow and she could feel the beginning of what was going to be a decent-sized egg swelling under her hair. Still, she forced her hands to remain at her sides, determined not to give the KGB man the satisfaction of knowing he’d caused her pain.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “this is a rude way to treat someone who just stopped to ask for directions.”

He chuckled, the sound originating deep in his chest. It reminded Tracie of the rumble of thunder on a humid D.C. summer night and she felt an intense stab of terror. Andrei Lukashenko was a man to whom killing was second nature, and the realization that she may never make it out of this shithole alive froze her blood in her veins.

They entered a massive room that had clearly at one time been the factory’s production floor. A wide metal table featuring a crumbling conveyor belt ran the length of the room off to Tracie’s right, with iron arms of varying sizes and heights bolted to it at irregular intervals. She guessed the arms had supported saws, drill presses, and other tools that had been disassembled and removed upon the factory’s decommissioning. The remainder of the room was mostly empty but for a series of support posts running floor to ceiling, and trash strewn about the floor.

Lukashenko shoved