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

am quite certain I can handle your KGB facility, no matter how ‘primitive,’ it is.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, Sir. I did not mean to imply—”

“I do not care what you did or did not mean to imply. I will fly to Sevastopol immediately and meet you as soon as possible. I can be there by midafternoon. When I arrive, I intend to interrogate this woman personally. She has much to answer for.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“When I have finished with her, you may transport her to Lubyanka. She is a foreign operative, and our government will want to extract as much intelligence from her as possible before she faces a firing squad.”

“I understand,” Andrei repeated. He assumed that by “interrogate,” Gregorovich meant “torture,” and he hoped he would be permitted to observe. Or maybe even participate.

“Thank you for the notification, Comrade Lukashenko. Your excellent work will not go unrewarded.”

“Thank you, General.”

“I will see you soon. Goodbye, Comrade.”

“Uh, General, I have not given you the address of the facility.”

“That will not be necessary. I have a complete list of KGB interrogation facilities, including the one outside Sevastopol. All you need to do is secure the woman for three or four hours until I arrive.”

“I understand, sir. Goodbye,” he said, but Gregorovich had already hung up.

37

 

June 25, 1988

12:15 p.m.

Abandoned factory north of Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

 

No sooner had The Weasel strutted out of the building than Tracie began examining the handcuffs Lukashenko had used to secure her to the iron equipment arm bolted to the long metal table. They looked identical to cuffs used by law enforcement everywhere, and Tracie knew within seconds of starting her visual examination that there would be no breaking a link, forcing the bracelets open, or otherwise removing them.

Had she had her lock-picking tools, maybe, although it would have been far from a sure thing. Picking locks had not been one of her strong suits during training at The Farm, and her success ratio at that task in the field had been less than stellar.

It certainly wasn’t happening here, today.

She turned her attention to the equipment arm around which Lukashenko had secured the second handcuff bracelet. It was constructed of heavy iron, and a cursory glance revealed it would be impossible to snap in half without benefit of a hydraulic tool like the Jaws of Life, used by rescue crews to extricate car accident victims from their mangled vehicles.

Tracie cursed under her breath and squinted as she considered the method the Soviets had used to secure the arm. Heavy iron L-brackets had been bolted to it on all four sides and then affixed to the table via more bolts inserted through holes drilled into the metal.

The factory had been empty for decades, and had probably been in use for decades before that. Heavy rust flaking off the bolts was a sign of corrosion, and Tracie guessed these were original equipment, probably vintage early 1920s, shortly after the Russian Revolution.

Maybe with the application of sufficient force, she could snap enough of the weakened bolts to allow her to topple the arm.

She placed both hands on the arm, as close to the metal plate on its top as possible, in order to achieve maximum leverage. Then she pushed as hard as she could.

It was no good. She couldn’t manufacture sufficient torque. Her body was positioned at an angle, probably close to forty-five degrees, and the moment she tried to exert any force, her feet slipped out from under her on the smooth concrete floor.

Goddammit.

She wasn’t ready to give up on the idea of snapping the bolts yet, though. She clambered onto the table and then crouched in front of the equipment arm. Lowering her shoulder to the arm, she tried again, shoving against it with as much force as she could generate.

Still nothing. Her feet slipped and slid on the table, exactly as they had done on the floor moments ago.

She backed up on the table as far as she could, given the fact her wrist was secured to the iron arm. Then she lunged forward and rammed into it with her shoulder, grunting from the effort, beginning to sweat from exertion even in the coolness of the massive, shadowy room.

Nothing. There was no indication any of the bolts were even close to snapping, and the arm stood tall and straight, seemingly taunting her with its indestructability. All she had accomplished was to bruise her shoulder, adding that pain to the pair of bruises on her skull from being pistol-whipped, and the steady throbbing of her injured ankle.

She swiped her face on her upper arms, doing her best to clear the sweat, and eased into a sitting position on the table. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. To sit with her legs dangling off the table meant that her right arm was stretched behind her, wrist forced to remain inches away from the equipment arm.

The vantage point offered her a decent view of the room’s interior, though, and Tracie swept it with her eyes, moving left to right as she searched for something, anything, that might offer her the chance for escape. She didn’t know where Lukashenko had gone, thus had no idea how much time it would take for him to return, but she doubted his absence would continue much longer.

Her backup gun and her knife lay within a couple feet of each other, still on the floor where they’d come to rest after Lukashenko tossed them away while he frisked her. They were well out of her reach, at least two-thirds of the way between her position and the building’s front wall.

If I could only get to that damned gun.

She knew her primary weapon was also exactly where she’d dropped it, back in the hallway running the length of the offices and storage rooms. Lukashenko