Parallax View (32 page)

Tracie had told
herself she was not going to give Stallings the satisfaction of a response, no
matter how vicious or unreasonable the attack, but she couldn’t help herself.
She shot back, “Really? And what about the
real
treason—the activity of
Winston Andrews? What about that?”

“That is all
hearsay, unprovable charges made by an unreliable witness against a dead man
who served his country honorably for more than four decades and is not here to
defend himself.”

Tracie barked a
bitter laugh and Stallings said, “But in any event, let’s not get off track
here. The subject is
your
malfeasance.”

“Malfeasance? Is
that what you’re calling it? The president is alive right now
because
I
opened that envelope.”

“Yes, well, you
could argue that, I suppose—”

“It’s not an
argument, it’s a fact.”

“Just the same,”
Stallings said. He was a large, jowly man, with fleshy pouches below his jaw
that jiggled when he talked. “There’s another fact to consider, one of the
utmost importance: we cannot set the precedent of allowing operatives to handle
classified information in any manner they see fit during a mission. Were it up
to me, and many others, you would become an object example to every agent, now
and into the future, of that concept.

“This scenario was
not typical,” she said angrily. “It was one in a million, not likely to be
repeated in our lifetimes, if ever.”

“However,” he
continued, talking over her as if she hadn’t even spoken, “President Reagan
refused to allow the issue to drop. He threatened to replace the entire
management team at CIA if we took any action against you. The upshot,” he said
reluctantly, bitterness creeping into his voice, “is that your job is safe.
You’re welcome back to the operations branch as soon as you are physically able
to return.” He scowled, looking as though he had just gotten a whiff of rotting
meat.

“What about
Andrews?” Tracie asked, pressing the issue, refusing to allow Stallings the
satisfaction of seeing any relief on her face. She wasn’t sure she felt any.

Stallings spread
his hands in exasperation. “What about him?”

“Come on,” Tracie
snapped. “You know damned well he couldn’t have been the only one at CIA who
was working with the Soviets. What is being done to flush out the rest of them,
to ensure nothing like this fiasco ever happens again?”

“There’s no
evidence to indicate
anyone
besides Winston was involved, at CIA or
elsewhere.” Stallings smiled thinly, his eyes cold and predatory. “In fact, as
I already mentioned, there’s not even any evidence Winston was involved. There
is no reason to pursue the matter further.”

And just like
that, Tracie realized the potential involvement of other high-level members of
the United States government in the attempted assassination of a sitting president
would be swept under the rug, just like the full story of the incident, just
like the true identity of the Soviet assassin. She flashed back to Winston
Andrews’ words as he sat in his home office just before committing suicide.
There
aren’t many KGB collaborators in positions of power above mine, but there are a
few
. A wave of nausea washed over her that had nothing to do with her
injuries.

“How are we using
this fiasco?” Her voice had dropped nearly to a whisper.

“I don’t know what
you mean,” Stallings said innocently.

“Come on,
goddammit. I was almost killed, got accused of treason, saw my mentor take his
own life, saw the man I lov…saw a close friend die to save me. I served up two
Soviet agents on a silver platter in New Haven that you’re probably grilling
for information even as we speak. Stop beating around the bush. You know
exactly what I mean, and I want an answer. You owe me that much. The United
States is in possession of irrefutable proof that the KGB was behind an
assassination attempt on President Reagan. How are we using that information to
our benefit? There has to be a plan.”

The CIA Director’s
eyes darkened. He was unused to being questioned, especially by a lowly field
operative who had been called on the carpet, and clearly didn’t appreciate it
now. Tracie didn’t care; she had had enough, and was about three seconds from
quitting and walking out.

“First of all,”
Stallings thundered, “I owe you nothing. This agency owes you nothing. If the
president hadn’t learned the details of this disaster before we could contain
them, you would be on your way to Fort Leavenworth right now, Agent Tanner. You
would never again see the light of day if I had anything to say about it. It
just so happens the right person is in your corner, so my hands are tied. For
now,” he added ominously. “But don’t you dare get in my face with ridiculous
demands because you feel we are in any way indebted to you. Is that clear?” His
face had bypassed bright crimson and continued straight on to purple, and
Tracie wondered who she would be dealing with when Stallings fell to the floor
with the stroke that seemed suddenly inevitable.

“Are you going to
answer the question, or are we done here?” she asked evenly.

Stallings took a
moment to compose himself and then surprised her. His thin lips curled into a
tight smile that stopped well south of his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “Of
course we’re using Gorbachev’s letter for leverage. We have already
communicated our appreciation to Mr. Gorbachev for the extreme risk, both political
and personal, he took in warning us about the KGB’s highly irregular operation.
We have agreed that during Mr. Reagan’s upcoming trip to Europe, the president
will call for the removal of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of Germany.”

Stallings paused
and Tracie whistled softly, impressed despite herself.

Stallings’
self-satisfied smile widened and he continued. “The Soviet Union is
disintegrating. Gorbachev knows it and we know it. Even the KGB knows it—their
highest-ranking officials just refuse to acknowledge it. Gorbachev does not
possess the clout internally to risk the wrath of the KGB by stating the
obvious: that the Soviet Union must be dissolved as the only way to save Russia
from being destroyed from within.

“But with
incontrovertible proof of a KGB-sanctioned assassination attempt of a sitting
president to hold over the KGB’s head,
we
have the clout. Reagan calls
publically for the destruction of the wall, the KGB is neutralized, and
Gorbachev tightens his grip on the reins in Russia. Everyone wins, including
the Soviet satellites, which are able to escape out from under the heel of Communist
oppression.”

Tracie closed her
eyes and saw Shane sailing over the edge of the roof, his head twisting in what
she wanted desperately to believe was one last look back at her. She saw the
same scene whenever she closed her eyes and knew she would for a very long
time. “Everyone wins,” she repeated, her stomach in knots. Then, “Are we
finished here?”

Stallings stared
at her without speaking. She opened her eyes and met his gaze straight on.
“Everything I’ve just told you is classified,” he said. “If one word of it
leaks out, I will make it my mission in life to see that you rot in prison, I
don’t care if that old fool Reagan
is
protecting you. I don’t care if
God himself is protecting you. Is that clear?”

“I’ll take that as
a yes,” Tracie said. She rose and walked to the door.

“We’ll expect you
back on active duty as soon as the medical people give the go-ahead,” Stallings
said to her back, his voice rising, rushing to get the words out before she
left his office.

“I’ll let you know
what I decide,” Tracie answered without turning. She bent and opened the door
awkwardly, turning the knob with her right arm inside the sling, and continued
through without another word.

53

June 8, 1987

11:00 a.m.

Shady Oaks Cemetery, Bangor,
Maine

The day was bright and hot, a brisk
wind helping to make the temperature almost bearable. Tracie stood on a shallow
hillside dressed in a conservative business suit not unlike the one she had
worn days ago atop the Minuteman Insurance Building in Washington, D.C. She
tried to fan herself and failed miserably, her hands still mostly immobilized
inside the slings. Smoked-black sunglasses covered her eyes.

Far across a
field, a crowd of mourners had gathered to bury Shane Rowley. He had been part
of a small family, just himself and his mother. He had never spoken to Tracie
of his father, and the one time she asked about him, Shane had said bitterly
that the man wasn’t worth wasting his breath on. Aside from Shane’s mother, who
was easy to pick out, bent and broken by grief, there were probably a couple of
dozen other people. Co-workers, neighbors, friends from high school.

The world had
begun to move on following the initial firestorm of media fascination with
Shane Rowley, the news cycles continuing their relentless, grinding pace even
after just a few days. A small phalanx of television trucks and print reporters
crowded the street just outside the gates of Shady Oaks Cemetery, and local
police kept the media representatives a respectful distance from the
proceedings. Shane’s mother had requested privacy and Tracie thought Shane
would have appreciated that fact.

Tracie stood alone
among small patches of overgrown grass in need of mowing, removed from the rest
of the mourners despite having been invited to the service by Shane’s mother.
Tracie had met with the grieving woman twice. The first time had been while
still in the hospital following the surgery on her shoulders. All the media had
been told was that Tracie was involved with the president’s protective detail,
but Shane’s mother had insisted on seeing her.

The second time
was earlier this morning.

Her name was
Katherine, and she had been shattered by the events on the roof of the seven-story
office building in Washington. Katherine Rowley was kind during both meetings,
respectful of Tracie’s silence on the subject of Tracie’s relationship with her
dead son, but nevertheless Tracie could feel a kind of desperate desire for
answers radiating off her, none of which Tracie was at liberty to provide. So,
when it came time for the service, she made the decision not to add any more
grief to a woman already overwhelmed by it.

She rotated her
shoulders, shrugging in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to remove the stiffness
brought on by the beginning of the healing process. Her range of motion would
return to one hundred percent, according to the agency doctors, and Tracie had
no reason to doubt them. She was young and healthy and already beginning to
feel stronger.

At least
physically.

The doctors would
clear her to return to work eventually, and when that happened, she had already
decided she would go. She knew nothing else, and the prospect of walking away
from the CIA and service to her country, returning to an unimportant job and a
life filled with emptiness, held no appeal.

But she would
never forget Shane Rowley. She uttered the words aloud, despite the fact they
would be heard only by the birds in the trees. Speaking them instead of just
thinking them served to make them real for her, to give them permanence. Shane
had willingly given his life to save hers and even though she knew nothing she
could ever accomplish would make that sacrifice worthwhile, she vowed she would
honor it—and Shane—by giving everything she had every day for the rest of her
life in support of freedom.

It was all she had
to offer.

Down the hillside
and across the field, the figures dressed in black clustered around the lone
coffin. Tracie watched, thankful for the dark sunglasses covering her eyes,
even though no one could see her; no one even knew she was there. The service
ended and a couple of mourners began to help Katherine Rowley to a vehicle.

Tracie watched a
moment longer, then turned toward the wrought iron gates of the cemetery and
walked away, shivering even in the heat.

Acknowledgments

When it comes to inspiration, I
need look no further than across the room to decide where to begin. From the
moment I first decided I wanted to make stuff up and write it down, I’ve had no
bigger or more enthusiastic supporter of me in this foolish endeavor than my
wife, Sue. Her relentless optimism forms the perfect counterpoint to my
outlook, which is typically, shall we say, less so. My bride has stuck with me
for nearly thirty years, a source of constant amazement on my part and proof
positive of the old adage, “There’s no accounting for taste.”

Editor Jodie
Renner deserves much of the credit for anything you may have liked about this
book, and none of the blame for what you didn’t. She is to thrillers what Vivaldi
was to violins, and not a day goes by I don’t thank my lucky stars for finding
her. Jodie’s hard work, keen insight, and refusal to settle for anything less
than the best possible product sets her—and her work—apart from the crowd, at
least in my book, which this is.

A couple of my
air-traffic controller cohorts are always available to me to answer my often
ignorant and sometimes downright silly questions. Dan Gravelle is a long-time
coworker and licensed EMT and the first person I turn to when I need a medical
point clarified. Joe Serafino, another long-time coworker, is my personal
weapons expert and has, for years now, helped keep me from looking overly
ignorant about a subject in which my knowledge is somewhat—some would say
woefully—inadequate.

One of my oldest
and closest air-traffic controller friends is a guy named Steve Henrich. We
attended the initial FAA employee screen together in Oklahoma City way back in
1982, and thank goodness he didn’t cover his test answers too well, or I might
never have managed the air-traffic control career I’ve had since I was
twenty-two years old. Anyway, I was having some trouble coming up with a
compelling name for this book and Steve saved my ass, suggesting the title you
see splashed across the cover.