Parallax View (20 page)

She flicked her
gun toward a small chair at a writing desk next to the TV stand. “Go sit down,”
she said, wondering how she was going to immobilize the assassin without giving
the lookout an opportunity to jump her or go for her gun.

“I’m right behind
you,” a voice said, and she jumped, resisting the impulse to pull the triggers
on both weapons. She realized it was Shane’s voice and wondered briefly how he
had made it to the doorway without her noticing.

The Russian
assassin was a cool character—he was facing Tracie and must have seen Shane
standing in the doorway behind her, but he had given nothing away with his
cold, calculating eyes. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to take advantage
of the unexpected visitor to make an escape attempt. Now it was too late.

Tracie spoke to
Shane, still talking quietly. “You were supposed to wait in the other room.”
She didn’t know whether to be glad he was there or angry he had ignored her
instructions.

“I thought you
might need help and I was right.”

She nodded
reluctantly. “Okay, the duct tape is in my right jacket pocket. Take it and secure
our friend here,” she nodded in the direction of the assassin, “to the chair.
Tape his wrists to the arms of the chair first, then his ankles to the legs.
Use plenty of tape and wrap it as tightly as you can.”

Shane eased past.
She kicked the door closed and shuffled forward, prodding the lookout with her
weapon. Her arms were beginning to tire from the strain of keeping both guns
raised and trained on their targets. The pair moved forward, locked in a
bizarre dance, and finally she stopped when they had moved to within a few feet
of Shane and the other Russian. She watched closely as Shane slid the chair out
from the desk and turned it around. The Russian reluctantly sat and he got to
work.

It took only a
couple of minutes to immobilize the man. Finally, Tracie felt comfortable
lowering the weapon in her right hand. She told Shane, “Tape his mouth shut.”

He wrapped the
duct tape around the man’s head, and when he had finished, Tracie said, “We’re
going to split these two up and I’m going to get the information I need. This
guy’s not going anywhere. Come with me and help me tape down this one,” she
nodded toward the lookout, “then come back here and babysit our murderous
friend. It won’t take me long.”

She shoved her gun
into the ribs of her captive and moved to the parking lot. Shane picked the
third gun up off the floor and walked out behind her, closing and locking the
door. Then they hustled across the lot to the second room. Within seconds,
Shane had taped the man to the chair while Tracie held her weapon on him.

“I need a little
private time with this guy,” she said to Shane. “The safety is off on the
weapon you’re holding. If Mr. KGB over there,” she nodded at room across the
lot, “does anything other than sit quietly, shoot him, and don’t stop shooting
until the clip’s empty.”

 Shane hesitated
for just a moment and then nodded without a word. He pulled the door closed
quietly as he left, and Tracie was alone with her captive. She stared at him
without speaking. He returned her gaze, trying to look defiant but only
managing uncertain.

She smiled thinly.
“What do you say we get to know each other?”

33

June 1, 1987

3:55 a.m.

New Haven, Connecticut

The iron was ancient, two decades
old if it was a day, a cheap model with just a few heat settings and a long,
fraying power cord. Tracie could see a hint of bare copper wire nestled behind
the rubber plug and wondered how long it would be before the damned thing
sparked and burned the entire wooden motel structure to the ground.

It appeared today
would not be that day, however. She plugged in the iron and held it by its
cracked handle as she stood directly in front of her captive. She said nothing,
drawing out the moment.

The Russian wasn’t
speaking, either. He was making an effort to control his fear but was failing.
His shaking gave him away. His eyes darted around the room, doorway to Tracie
to iron and then back to doorway, starting the cycle again.

Tracie raised her
hand to her lips and licked her index finger, then tapped it against the
business end of the iron. It emitted a short, sharp hiss. In the silence of the
motel room it sounded like a staccato laugh. The lookout tried to remain
impassive but she saw his eyes widen in fear.

She nodded. “Let’s
begin, shall we? I’m sure you can guess what’s about to go down here. I’m not
anxious to hurt anyone, but I need answers and I’m going to get them. One way
or the other.”

The Russian was
quiet, his jaws clamped shut. Tracie could see the muscles working behind his
cheeks as he ground his teeth together. The tension in the air was electric.
“You know,” she said, “it seems only fair I should start with you. It’s thanks
to your sloppy surveillance that you and your buddy across the way are in this
situation. He’s probably pretty unhappy with you right now, don’t you think?”

The lookout
remained silent. He was stocky and muscular, like a football lineman, but his
eyes gave away his terror. Tracie continued, “It doesn’t really matter, anyway.
The only way I can be sure I’m getting the truth is to interrogate both of you,
so if it makes you feel any better, your buddy will get his turn, too.”

Again the man
refused to respond. Tracie shrugged and then snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost
forgot. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally bite your tongue off, at least not
before giving me the information I need. It’s so hard to understand someone
when he’s trying to talk with no tongue, especially when he’s not speaking his
native language. Know what I mean?”

She walked into
the bathroom and pulled the roll of toilet paper out of its ceramic holder. She
removed the roll and took the metal cylinder out of the bathroom. She stood
directly in front of her captive, moving close, invading his personal space.
She held the cylinder out in front of him. “Last chance. You’re going to talk
to me either way. The only question is how much pain you’re going to endure
before you do.”

The man hesitated.
“I…” Then he closed his mouth again.

Tracie shrugged.
“All the same to me,” she said conversationally. “To be perfectly honest, after
what you two did to the cop and the accident investigators up there in Bangor,
I kind of prefer it this way.”

She leaned toward
the lookout. “Open up.” The conversational tone had disappeared, replaced with
an ice-cold, deadly menace.

He closed his eyes
and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Tracie slammed the butt of her gun
against the side of his head. He grunted in pain, stunned, and his jaw flopped
open. She shoved the cylinder into place between his upper and lower teeth,
then quickly slapped the base of the iron against the right side of his face,
holding it there for one beat, then two, then three. It sizzled and the smell
of burning flesh filled the room.

The man bit down
hard on the toilet paper holder, convulsing against his duct-tape bindings like
an electric current was pulsing through his body. He tried to lean away from
the burning pain but she kept the iron pressed tightly to his head. An agonized
sound, something between a groan and a wordless scream, issued from deep in the
man’s chest, and when Tracie removed the iron, an angry red mark had been
seared into his cheek, its curved triangular outline clearly visible.

He panted and
moaned and shook his head. Tracie was unmoved. “Ready to talk?” she asked.

The man refused to
respond and she lifted the iron to slap it back into place. He moaned in panic
and began nodding enthusiastically. She removed the toilet paper holder from
between his jaws and said, “I know about the plot to assassinate President
Reagan. I know when the shooting will occur and that it will happen in D.C.
What I don’t know is which rooftop your operative will shoot from. You’re going
to tell me.”

The lookout raised
his head, resignation in his eyes, and said, “Nyet…I cannot…” and Tracie
cursed. “We don’t have time for this,” she spat, and forced the toilet paper
holder back into the man’s mouth, and he mewled like an injured kitten. She
slapped the iron against the left side of his face, but this time left it in
place for twice as long.

When she finally
removed it, the man sat in a puddle of his own urine, his bladder having
released while he struggled. Tracie slapped the side of his face and the man
opened his mouth to scream and she neatly plucked the holder out of his mouth
once more. “One more time. Which rooftop?”

“The Minuteman Mutual
Insurance Company building,” the man mumbled, his Russian accent magnified by
the pain. Tears rolled down his crimson cheeks. A thin line of drool ran from
the corner of his mouth. The smell of burning flesh filled the room and Tracie
tried not to gag.

“Are you telling
me the truth? Because if I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll burn your skin
right down to the jaw bone. Do you understand me?”

The man was
panting and shaking. Sweat poured down his face. “I understand,” he said weakly.

Tracie thought about
Winston Andrews and about his betrayal of her, and another question occurred to
her, one that didn’t bear any direct relation to the KGB assassination plot but
one she could not help asking. “Was killing us part of the assignment?”

The man hesitated,
but only momentarily. Tracie passed the iron in front of his right cheek and
the man spoke quickly. “Yes…I mean, no…I mean it did not matter. Once it was
learned you were still alive, the mission was to retrieve the letter at all
costs.”

“And once you
gained possession of the letter, what were you to do?”

“Take it to
someone.”

“Take it to who?”
She prodded him again.

“Mister Andrews,”
he said.

She paused,
thinking. “How many of your other operatives will visit this motel tonight?”

“None,” the man
said, shaking his head in resignation. “There is a two-man team driving north
from Atlanta, but they will not arrive in the area until tomorrow. They are
meant only to provide backup.”

“Okay,” she said.
“One last thing and then I’ll leave you alone. What’s the procedure for
reporting in after you secure the letter?”

“After we retrieve
the letter we are to phone our contact.”

“Comrade Andrews.”

“Da. We are to
advise him of mission status and then begin driving back to Washington to
deliver the letter to him in person.”

Tracie reached for
the telephone on the writing desk. It was an ancient black rotary model,
attached to the wall with a long cord so guests could use it without getting
out of bed. “You’re going to make that call right now,” she said, holding the
phone in front of him.

He recited the
number and she dialed. It was different from the one she used to call Andrews,
which made sense, she thought. The traitor down in D.C. would need to know
which side of the fence he was talking to before he picked up any ringing
telephone. Before she spun the plastic rotary dial on the final digit, she
leaned down and got in the Russian’s face, moving closer and closer until she
could smell his sour sweat and his rancid breath.

“One warning,” she
said, her voice soft and deadly. “If I so much as suspect you are trying to
pass a message to Winston Andrews—and I’ll know, I’ve worked with Andrews a
hell of a lot longer than you have—getting burned by an iron will be the least
of your problems. I’ll shoot you in the face and then dump your worthless corpse
in the Atlantic Ocean. Do you understand me?”

The Russian paled
and nodded. “I understand,” he said in his heavily accented English.

Tracie dialed the
last digit and held the handset between her own head and the Russian’s, angled
so he could speak into it but so she could still hear everything that was being
said.

The call was
answered on the first ring, as if Andrews had been sitting right next to the
telephone. Undoubtedly he had. “Go,” he said without preamble.

“We have retrieved
the letter.”

“Very good.
Casualties?”

“Your CIA asset
and the young man are both dead.”

There was a short
silence and then Andrews said. “Dispose of the bodies and then get back here
with the letter. Do not let it out of your sight.”

“We will be there
as soon as possible.”

The line went dead
and Tracie replaced the telephone on the bedside table. A numb sense of shock
filled her body. Her handler, a man she had worked with for years, had just
spoken of her murder with no more emotion than if he were discussing a change
in the weather.

She turned back to
the Russian. “I’m going to go and ask your comrade the same questions I just
asked you. Do you understand what will happen to you if I find out you’ve been
lying to me about any of this?” Tracie said.

“I understand,” he
said, defeated.

“Is there any part
of your story you would like to change? If so, now’s the time.”

He shook his head.
She nodded once and then walked out the door.

***

Tracie was gone longer than Shane
had expected her to be, and when she returned, her face was pale and drawn. She
stepped through the door and he asked, “Are you all right?”

She ignored the question. “Did this
one give you any trouble?” she asked.

“No, he never said
a word. We just sat here.”

“Good,” she said,
and her face softened just a bit. “Nice job. Do me a favor now, and go keep an
eye on the lookout. Our talk was very fruitful. It required a little persuasion
to convince him to open up, but eventually we reached an understanding.”

Shane stared at
Tracie. Her voice was hard and cold and bore little resemblance to the one he
had heard moaning and gasping in pleasure just a couple of hours before.
“Okay,” he said. “What are you going to do?”