“Of course I’ll take the first watch. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. But in the meantime, there’s something we need to talk about.”
“And that is?”
He cut a look at Tracie. “You need to open that letter. I mean, like, right now.”
“That letter is classified.”
“I understand that.”
“It’s Top Secret.”
“I understand that.”
“It’s for the president’s eyes only.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m expressly forbidden to open it, Shane.”
“I understand that, too, and under normal circumstances I would never suggest you disregard protocol. And I’m well aware that you’ve been doing this black ops stuff—”
“—clandestine operations,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“I don’t do ‘black ops,’ I do clandestine operations, missions that by necessity must remain deniable by those in positions of authority all the way up the political and military food chains.”
“Whatever,” Shane said. “And thank you for making my point for me. As I started to say, I understand you’ve been doing these types of things for years and I’ve only been exposed to this shit for a day, but it’s pretty obvious to me you’re just stumbling around in the dark unless you know what you’re up against. If your fears about your handler are anywhere close to being accurate, reading that letter might make the difference between living and dying. More to the point, only one person in the world knows what it contains, and it seems to me becoming the second person to know might be the best way to figure out how to proceed. Hell, it’s probably the only way.”
Shane took a breath, amazed he had not been interrupted, amazed she had not yet shot him down. “I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Opening this little letter”—she patted her pocket lightly—“could get me executed for treason, but I don’t see any way around it. I’ve been sitting here trying to work up the courage to do it.”
She took a deep breath. “I guess now’s the time.” She held up Mikhail Gorbachev’s letter. The envelope was soiled and wrinkled from its travels but even from across the room Shane could see it remained sealed. Tracie ran her fingers over the surface as if trying to divine its contents via osmosis. Finally she tore off one end of the envelope, careful not to damage the contents, then removed two handwritten sheets of paper, which she held up for Shane’s inspection.
He took one look and felt like an idiot. The letter was written in Russian. Of course it was. Mikhail Gorbachev was General Secretary of the Soviet Union; why would Shane have assumed the damned thing would be written in English?
He shook his head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. What do we do now?”
“I can read it,” Tracie said. “You can’t be in my business and work in and around the Soviet Union without demonstrating some proficiency with common Russian dialects.”
She pulled the letter back and squinted down at it, concentrating. “To President Ronald Reagan,” she began, then continued haltingly. “Dear Mr. President. Please accept my apologies for this most unusual method of communication. The contents of this letter are of the utmost importance, critical to the security of both of our countries and, in fact, the entire world. The information I am about to impart to you is so explosive, I am afraid I cannot trust the usual diplomatic channels for delivery. You will soon understand why.”
Tracie lifted her head and looked at Shane. Her face was troubled, her beautiful eyes haunted. She looked back down at the letter and continued reading. “As you know, Mr. President, changes are sweeping the globe. Many inside the Kremlin insist on resisting these changes and are intent on preserving the Soviet Union in its current incarnation at all costs.
“I do not agree with the assessment of these people, but they constitute much of my government, and their plan for assuring the survival of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is one that has a direct impact on you personally.
“Mr. President, a plan to assassinate you has been set in motion by a small but powerful minority at the highest levels of the KGB. Your travel itinerary for June 2 has been acquired and your outdoor speech celebrating the District of Columbia urban renewal has been targeted. An operative placed on the roof of a nearby building and armed with a high-powered sniper rifle has been assigned to assassinate you as you deliver your remarks at ten o’clock.
“Please treat this information with the gravity it deserves, Mr. President. Relations between the world’s two great superpowers have improved steadily during the term of your presidency, and I cannot allow the progress we have made to be nullified by the single-minded fanaticism of those inside my government who refuse to recognize the future, even as it approaches.
“Understand this assassination is being undertaken without my approval, but understand also that my administration does not currently possess the means to put a stop to it. I hope you see now, Mr. President, why I am being forced to contact you via these drastic and unusual measures. I am subject to constant surveillance. There is no other alternative.
“Good luck, Mr. President. Cancel that appearance and avoid a catastrophe that will launch a third World War.
“Sincerely, Mikhail Gorbachev.”
Tracie looked again at Shane. Her face had gone white. “June Second. That’s the day after tomorrow,” she said.
Shane had to remind himself to breathe. He gazed at Tracie, still seated on the bed staring at the letter. The Top Secret document she had risked her career, her freedom, maybe even her life to open. “You have to alert someone,” he said.
“I can’t,” she answered simply. “Not until I know whether Winston Andrews has been compromised. If I’m right about him, I can’t trust him with this information, and if that’s the case, I have no idea who above him in the chain of command I can trust. If he’s been compromised, anyone could be compromised. If I’m wrong, and the night passes quietly, no Russians show up to kill us and gain possession of this”—she held up the letter—“then first thing tomorrow, I’ll tell Winston everything.”
Shane whistled quietly. “Holy shit,” he said. “So what do we do now?”
“Now we wait. Try to get some sleep and see if we get any visitors in the night.” Tracie stood slowly from the bed, wincing as she placed her weight on her injured leg.
Shane said, “I don’t think there’s any way I can sleep right now, not after this. If you’re pretty sure we have some time, why don’t we clean and re-bandage that leg wound of yours? If those guys show up like you think they might—”
“—they will,” she said dejectedly.
“Okay, well, if they do, you already said we’re going to have to move fast. Right now you look like you’re eighty years old.”
“Thanks for the sweet-talk.”
Shane laughed, relieved the black mood permeating the room had been lifted, even if only slightly. “Okay, let me rephrase that. You look fantastic, but you’re moving like you’re eighty years old.”
“Hmph,” she said. “I’ll take what I can get, I suppose. But there’s one problem — we don’t have any bandages.”
“You underestimate me,” he answered. “I found a twenty-four-hour drugstore as well as a home-improvement place while I was out. Stuff stays open late around here. In Bangor everything would have been locked up tight by now. Anyway, I picked up some Ace Bandages and some first aid cream, in addition to the duct tape you wanted. Now, get out of those pants and let me check out — uh, I mean, fix — those legs of yours.”