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

Bashkir with Smith when you found him. Complete this assignment successfully, and you’ll be honoring his memory.”

Tracie nodded, blinking back the tears that were trying to form in her eyes. “When do I leave?” she said.

13

 

June 21, 1988

9:40 p.m.

Washington, D.C.

 

Tracie was exhausted. She’d gotten precious little sleep before being awakened at zero-dark-thirty this morning by Aaron Stallings’ phone call, and couldn’t wait to get aboard the CIA’s Gulfstream IV private jet. Her plan was to sleep the entire duration of the flight from D.C. to Helsinki, from whence she would be smuggled across the Gulf of Finland into northwestern Russia.

But there was one more task she needed to attend to before driving to Washington National Airport and falling asleep in the G4.

She drove directly from Stallings’ home to her apartment, stopping only long enough to grab her go-bag. She’d kept the bag ready despite being officially sidelined by the director, having learned long ago that scenarios tended to change quickly in the intelligence business. It took only a matter of minutes to customize the bag with some items she thought she might need during this mission.

Then she was on the road again. The drive to Marshall Fulton’s apartment took less than twenty minutes. She’d considered calling him before leaving her place, because she had no idea whether he would be home or not. Being a Saturday night, there was every possibility he may have gone out for the evening.

After a moment’s hesitation she’d elected not to. She had the vague notion that if he actually answered his phone, she might wimp out and decide not to visit at all. Make up some stupid excuse for the call, get off the line as quickly as possible, and then forget about it.

She forced herself to follow through with Marshall because she felt it was vitally important she see him before leaving for the Soviet Union. She wasn’t sure why, she’d gone overseas many times since beginning to sort-of date him and had never before felt the slightest need to say goodbye.

But something was bothering her about this assignment. Despite the reassurance she’d given Stallings, Tracie had to admit that the combination of events that had taken place during her last assignment were problematic for her. Between assaulting Soviet General Ivan Gregorovich in the process of acquiring intel, and the vicious head wound she’d suffered in her car wreck while racing to recover a rogue nuclear device, Stallings’ point about her being far too recognizable inside Russia was a valid one.

I’m radioactive, Tracie thought. Pun definitely intended. In the world of undercover intelligence, being anonymous was the recipe for staying alive. The last thing an operative wanted was to be in any way memorable. And as various people all over D.C. had reminded Tracie just today, she was currently quite memorable.

She’d gone into every assignment she had ever been given with the certainty she was the right person for the job, and that she would complete the mission successfully and safely. Tonight, she realized with something resembling trepidation, that certainty was nowhere to be found.

So she needed to see Marshall.

She needed to say goodbye. Just in case.

She owed him that much.

***

He was home.

He answered the door in a pair of Louisiana State University gym shorts and a Tulane University t-shirt. Tracie had seen Marshall Fulton in a suit and tie nearly every time she’d been inside Langley back when she was an official CIA employee, and she thought he’d never looked as delectable as he did right now.

She gave a little wave and a crooked smile, feeling silly.

He blinked in surprise. “Tracie? Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, suddenly wanting nothing more than to turn tail and head to the airport. But of course it was too late for that now.

“Come on in,” he said, opening the door fully and stepping aside. “Let me get you a drink.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I can’t stay. I only have a minute.” She pointed at his t-shirt and then his shorts. “What’s the matter, can’t decide who to root for?”

He grinned. “I just want to support my home state, is all.”

There was that damned syrupy accent again.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” he continued, “and say you’re on your way out of the country again. It’s about this morning’s phone call from Director Stallings, isn’t it?”

“I’d almost forgotten you were there for that call. It feels like it’s been a lot longer than, what, fifteen hours since then?”

“More or less,” Marshall agreed. He stepped closer, concern in his big brown eyes. Gazed at her for a moment and then said, “You seem somehow…different. I’m going to ask again, is everything alright, Tracie?”

She nodded. Scuffed her shoe on the carpet. “I’m okay. Honestly. I just wanted to…I don’t know…I think…never mind, this was stupid. I’ve gotta go.”

She turned to exit the still-open front door but Marshall grabbed her from behind, one beefy hand on her shoulder. He turned her around gently and enveloped her in a hug. As was the case this morning, her head injury hurt like hell from being crushed against his chest, and just like this morning she didn’t care.

“I have something I want to say to you,” she mumbled.

“I’m listening.”

“I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you always being there for me,” she said, “even when I go months without seeing you, or even checking in. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I don’t think I’ve ever told you, and—”

“Don’t worry, I know,” he whispered, that sweet, syrupy accent coming through again. “I know. And I love you, too.”

That was when Tracie realized she had begun crying again, soaking Tulane’s crest with her tears. It felt like all she’d done since the