Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9) by Allan Leverone (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

“Something like that,” he mumbled, staring at his cuffed wrist.

“But when it came time to return the device, the Russian just kept it.”

“That’s right. And he stuck a gun in my face to boot. I about pissed myself, and I did puke.” He offered a trembling smile. “That was when he shot me. But I got plenty of puke on that son-of-a-bitch’s car. I hope it hardens on there and never comes off.”

Tracie pushed back in her chair.

Ran her fingers through the hair on the left side of her head.

Said, “Did you really think the Soviets were going to pay you twenty thousand dollars in cash just for a few pictures? That’s a little hard to swallow.”

“I know I’m stupid,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re not the first one to imply that. Your fellow investigators have said as much, too. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not well-enough versed in treason.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Mr. Limington. I think you made a really big error in judgment, one you may never be able to recover from. But I never said you were stupid.”

“Everyone else has said it enough for both of us.”

It was time to refocus him. This was interesting—fascinating, really—but was doing little in terms of helping Tracie accomplish her assignment.

“Let’s return to the events of that night. You said you vomited on his car?”

He chuckled bitterly. “I vomited pretty much everywhere. I was terrified. Most of it went on my car and the pavement, but there was plenty left over to splatter onto the side of his car as well.”

“Do you recall the make and model of the car?”

“Sure. It was a Lincoln Town Car, either black or dark blue. I couldn’t tell you the year, but if it wasn’t brand-new, it couldn’t have been more than a year or two old.”

“Did you notice the license plate?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t look for it when I drove up next to him, and I wasn’t in any condition to see it when he drove away.”

“Okay. Did the Russian ever give you a name? Even a first name? A nickname? Anything?”

He nodded. “He told me his name once. Andrei.”

“Okay,” she said, writing it down in a small notebook. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So you called him Andrei.”

“Not really.”

She put her pen down and stared at him. “You just told me his name was Andrei. Is that true or false?”

“It’s true, but that’s not what I called him.”

“What did you call him?”

“Sir.”

She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Limington said, “but this was one scary dude.”

And yet you took him at his word.

She sat for a moment, considering how to proceed. Getting information out of a subject without the threat of force or any kind of implied violence was not something she’d ever attempted before, and was turning out to be much more difficult than she’d expected. “Can you describe him to me? Be as precise as possible, and leave nothing out.”

“I’ve described him to every single person I’ve talked to. Can’t you get the description from one of them?”

“Like I said before, Mr. Limington, sometimes going over your story multiple times will cause memories to shake loose. Humor me.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “He was a big guy, tall and muscular, although some of the muscle looked like it was in the process of turning to fat as he aged. Long silver hair hanging almost to his shoulders. And he wore a suit every time I saw him. I’m no fashion expert, but the suits struck me as expensive. I couldn’t tell you why, just a feeling I got.”

“His age?”

“Maybe late fifties or early sixties would be my best guess.”

“A guy that age with long hair? Seems a little unlikely.”

“I thought so, too,” he said. “But it was long and straight, almost like…” His eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you’re right.”

“I’m right? About what?”

“What you said about repeating my story shaking something loose. Talking to you just now, picturing his long hair, it brought something back, something I only saw once and had forgotten about until just now.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, his whole aura was conservative. The dark suits, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke was like, I don’t know, an insurance salesman or something.”

“Except for the Russian accent.”

“Well, yes. But the conservative persona was why his long hair seemed so out of place. Then, one of the times I was talking to him, he brushed his hair back, just for a second, and I got a glimpse of his ear.”

Tracie leaned forward. “What about his ear?”

“It was mangled. Hideous, even. His earlobe had been split in two and the ear looked…I don’t know…like it had been in an accident and doctors hadn’t really been able to repair it properly.”

“Bad enough that a man would grow his hair out to cover it?”

“I wouldn’t want anybody to see it.” Limington had mostly been staring down at the blankets, but as he spoke he lifted his head and gave a long, searching glance at the right side of Tracie’s skull.

“Car accident,” she said simply.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first. I’m guessing you won’t be the last. But back to this Russian. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Absolutely. You’ve probably never had a gun shoved in your face, but—”

“You might be surprised,” Tracie said.

“Well, I don’t know what it was like for you, but for me, time more or less stood still. I felt like I stared down the barrel of that gun for an hour, even though it was probably only a couple of seconds. And