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

Tracie in the direction of the long table and said, “Please do not insult my intelligence by saying you actually expect me to believe that you entered this abandoned structure, not through a door but a window, because you thought someone inside might give you directions.”

She shrugged. “Believe what you want, but it’s the truth. I was driving out of Sevastopol and found myself lost. I saw your car, so I knew someone was in here. I had no idea I would find myself held captive at gunpoint. And I came through the window because I was afraid that whoever was inside the building might be dangerous. Obviously my fears were well-founded.” The story sounded ludicrous even to Tracie, and she cursed inwardly at her inability to come up with something better.

They arrived at the table. Lukashenko hadn’t given any further instructions so Tracie stopped, half expecting another Makarov love tap.

It didn’t come. Instead The Weasel remained behind her and said, “That is the silliest story I have ever heard. Thank you for revealing yourself as a liar, as well as a foreign intelligence operative.”

“Foreign intelligence operative?” Tracie tried to put the appropriate note of confusion in her voice. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Let us stop playing games. I do not suspect you are a foreign operative, I know you are.”

“How could you possibly know something that is not true?”

“Are you aware of what I have been doing for the past week?”

Tracie shrugged. “How am I supposed to know that when we just met five minutes ago?” Tracie considered extending the conversation to be a win. If Lukashenko had wanted to shoot her in the head, he could have done so back in the office hallway, but she didn’t feel terribly confident he hadn’t brought her to this portion of the factory to do exactly that.

He said, “I have been cooling my heels, as you westerners like to say, at Lubyanka.”

“What’s a Lubyanka?”

That thunder-rumble chuckle erupted from somewhere deep inside Lukashenko’s chest again, and it was every bit as disconcerting now as it had been last time.

“You know perfectly well Lubyanka is KGB headquarters.”

She shrugged again, determine to ride her attempted deception to its end despite the fact The Weasel clearly wasn’t having any of it.

“And,” he continued, “would you like to know what was plastered all over the facility while I was there, so much so that I saw it practically everywhere I turned?”

A sick feeling rolled through her intestines. She had a sudden suspicion she knew exactly where this conversation was going, and if she was right it didn’t bode well for her. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to give him the satisfaction of answering in the affirmative.

“Not particularly,” she said.

Another rumble of thunder. “I am not surprised. It cannot make you feel comfortable to know I saw your photograph posted all over Lubyanka.”

“You’re lying,” she said, although she knew he was not. The asshole that had thrown her into a Rostov jail cell to face a sexual predator just weeks ago, Detective Kuznetsov, had never taken a booking photograph of her, so she could only assume he’d taken her picture while she lay unconscious in Semashko Hospital following her car accident. Then, after she escaped, he’d forwarded the photo to the KGB. It was the only thing that made any sense.

And if that were the case, it was a minor miracle she’d made it anywhere near Objekt 825, never mind infiltrated the facility and recovered the submersible communication decoder.

Which she had now just returned to the Soviets via her capture. The device was—for the moment—still safely stored inside her Lada, but it would take the Soviets no more than thirty minutes of searching to find it once they started looking.

She groaned out loud and realized Lukashenko was watching her with a look of smug amusement creasing his face. The temptation to spit into it was almost overwhelming, but Tracie guessed doing so would not improve her immediate situation, so she tamped down on the desire.

“So,” he said, “do you still wish to continue with your absurd story?”

Tracie sighed deeply. Her frustration and fear had both ratcheted up to new heights, but she worked hard to avoid showing either one to The Weasel. Under the circumstances she thought she succeeded pretty well.

Instead of acknowledging his question, she said, “What happens now?”

“Now you place your right arm on the table and hold perfectly still.”

“And why would I do that?”

“I assume avoiding a fatal bullet wound to the head is motivation enough?”

She grimaced and did as she was told. From somewhere inside his sport coat Lukashenko produced a set of metal handcuffs, deftly slapping one side of the bracelets around her right wrist and the other around one of the iron support arms bolted to the table. He did it with a dexterity that led Tracie to believe he’d had some sort of Russian law enforcement background before turning to international espionage.

As he stretched out to cuff her, Tracie got a full dose of the sour body odor she’d been noticing while they talked.

She wrinkled her nose and said, “I don’t suppose your next move is to take a shower, is it?”

He swung the gun at her again, this time with a little more force behind it. She saw it coming and managed to jerk her head back in time to take some of the sting out of the blow.

It still hurt like hell, though.

For the second time she forced herself to avoid rubbing the injury with her left hand, but she couldn’t prevent her eyes from watering thanks to the pain.

“You should consider yourself lucky,” he spat.

“I don’t feel particularly lucky at the moment.”

“Well you are, whether you know it or not.”

“Fine, I’ll give you the satisfaction of