Parallax View (31 page)

He willed the pain
to the back of his mind, pushing through the darkness threatening to overtake
him. Took the steps two at a time. Noticed bloodstains on the concrete. Didn’t
slow. The stains were dry, so they weren’t Tracie’s, and that was all that
mattered.

Shane reached the
top and paused. In just the time it had taken to climb the steps, three more
shots had been fired, one of them from Tracie’s gun. That gunshot had sounded
loud and clear, a sharp
crack,
but from far below, Shane could still
hear the president speaking. The gun battle raging on a rooftop just a couple
of buildings away had not yet been heard, or had been heard but its significance
not yet understood.

He eased his head
around the edge of a rusted metal bulkhead, toward the sound of the gunfire,
and his blood ran cold. Tracie lay on her back, blood leaking through her
clothes from a shoulder wound. Her gun lay on the roof a few feet away and a
man in a baseball cap was walking slowly in her direction, pistol pointed at
her. A long, black sound suppressor protruded from the barrel.

Tracie was
helpless.

She had seconds to
live.

And Shane acted.

He forgot about
the pain, forgot about the tumor eating his brain away from the inside, forgot
about Ronald Reagan and about the CIA and Soviet assassination plots. Forgot
about everything. Only one thing mattered, and that was saving the woman he had
fallen so unexpectedly and completely in love with.

Shane rounded the
corner of the bulkhead, at full speed in just two steps. He had been an
undersized linebacker on the Bangor High football team, the guy on the defense
who was considered too small and too slow to be successful, but who had shown
the doubters up by being named to the All-Maine defensive team two years
running.

Just as the
Russian shooter looked up in surprise, he squared his shoulders and lowered his
head and hit the assassin in the chest with everything he had. He hadn’t laced
on pads since the final game of his senior year a decade ago, but the muscle
memory was still there, and he wrapped the shooter up with his arms and churned
with his legs and knocked the man down like he was the unluckiest running back
ever.

The shooter hit
the deck and Shane’s one hundred eighty pounds fell on top of him and Shane
heard the “oof” of air being forced out of lungs, a sound he had heard hundreds
of times during his football days, and he felt a surge of savage glee, an
elation he had never before experienced.

And then the man
used Shane’s momentum against him, rolling backward and kicking upward with his
legs, and Shane felt himself tumbling head first, feet flying over his head,
and he landed on his back with a thud, and then the shooter was on top of him.

The man had
dropped his gun when Shane hit him, and now Shane spotted it out of the corner
of his eye, on the roof right next to them. Shane grabbed for it and missed,
scattering roofing gravel. Grabbed again and watched as the shooter’s hand reached
it first, seeing the struggle almost in slow motion.

Shane wrapped his
hands together and drove them upward. He was unable to get much force behind
the blow, but connected solidly under the shooter’s jaw and felt as much as
heard the man’s teeth clatter together. The shooter’s head was knocked backward
and he slumped sideways, and Shane bulled his way onto his hands and knees,
scrabbling to his feet.

And found himself
staring directly into the silenced barrel of the Russian’s gun.

51

June 2, 1987

10:02 a.m.

Minuteman Insurance Building

Tracie watched helplessly as Shane
struggled with the assassin for control of his gun. He had it in his hand for a
split second and then he lost it, and in that moment she knew with dread
certainty that the KGB agent was about to put a bullet in Shane’s skull.

She turned and
scrambled on her knees to her own gun, her right arm numb from shoulder to
fingers. She ignored her useless right hand and picked up the weapon in her
left and then turned, amazed to see that somehow Shane had fought off the
Russian and gotten to his feet.

But so had the
assassin. And his weapon was still in his hand.

She raised the
Beretta but was powerless to take a shot. Shane stood directly between her and
the Russian. If she fired now, she’d put a slug in Shane’s back. Even if he
were to move suddenly, with the gun in her unfamiliar left hand, she had no
confidence she could hit the assassin.

The Russian raised
the gun, angling it at Shane, but then Shane feinted left and surged straight
forward, swatting the weapon upward, gaining himself a split-second reprieve.
The assassin countered by kicking Shane in the shin, and then pistol-whipping
him, slashing the butt of the gun across the side of his face.

Shane went down in
a heap and the moment he did, Tracie fired, her weapon trained on the Russian’s
chest.

But her target was
no longer there. The instant he hit Shane, he leapt back, either in
anticipation of Tracie’s move or to get a better angle on the shot he would
take to eliminate Shane.

Tracie didn’t know
which it was and didn’t care. What mattered was that she had missed, and now
the Russian fired, striking Shane, who had hit the deck and rolled, knowing
what was coming, but the Russian anticipated that, too, and fired not at the
spot where Shane fell, but at the spot he would move to.

Shane took a slug
in the chest and lay still.

The Russian moved
again and turned his weapon on her.

Tracie pulled
herself together and raised her gun again, but too late—the Russian fired.
Tracie felt a stab of white-hot pain in her left shoulder and dropped to the
roof one last time. Her gun fell next to her but it was useless now. She had no
feeling in either arm. She couldn’t move her fingers. She squeezed her eyes
closed and waited for the final shot, the one that would end everything.

She could hear
chaotic screaming and sirens, and the sound of people running far below. They
had heard the gunshots. By now Reagan would be halfway to his armored limo. She
would die knowing she had prevented the assassination of the president, but it
would be small consolation. Shane Rowley was dead, or would be soon. Shane,
whose only sin was to pull her from the wreckage of a burning airplane. Shane,
the man who had done much more for her than she could ever repay. Shane, the
man she had fallen in love with.

A second that felt
like a lifetime passed and when nothing happened, Tracie opened her eyes. She
lifted her head toward the KGB assassin and blinked, stunned. Shane had risen
to his feet and was barreling across the rooftop at the Russian.

The man turned
away from Tracie in surprise and squeezed off a hurried shot. The slug struck
Shane somewhere on the right side of his body, but he kept coming, slowing only
slightly. He had started out about fifteen feet away from the Russian and had
now closed the half the distance. He stumbled, placed a hand on the roof and
pushed himself upright and kept coming.

The Russian fired
again and this time the bullet hit Shane square in the chest, the second time
he had been shot in the same spot. He stopped and staggered and, then,
unbelievably, kept coming. He hit the Russian like a freight train and drove
him backward. The man windmilled his arms in a desperate attempt to maintain
his balance and the gun flew out of his hand, arcing high into the air, then
dropping to the roof with a metallic
clank
.

Shane kept driving
with his legs, shoulder planted squarely in the Russian’s chest, moving him
backward but unable to take him down. They were running out of room quickly,
and Tracie could see what was about to happen. She shouted,
“Nooo!”
as
the pair of fighting men struck the roof’s two-foot-high retaining wall.

They were moving
fast, but to Tracie’s horrified eyes the events played out in slow motion, like
some awful sports clip being shown on the evening news. The Russian’s legs
struck the retaining wall just above the knees and he reached for the wall with
both hands in an attempt to avoid tumbling over backward. Shane pumped his legs
one last time, churning relentlessly, and the Russian dropped over the edge.

And so did Shane.

He swiveled his
head and locked eyes with her, and then he disappeared.

A second later,
the screaming intensified on Columbia Road far below.

52

June 5, 1987

1:00 p.m.

Langley, Virginia

 The office of CIA Director Aaron
Stallings was spacious and infused with an old-money, country-club stuffiness.
Leather-bound volumes filled oak bookshelves lining the walls from floor to
ceiling. A small television set mounted in one corner of the office had been
tuned to CNN, volume muted, and was broadcasting three-day-old footage of the
events at the Minuteman Insurance Building in a continuous silent loop. A
massive walnut desk dominated the room, and the carpeting was plush and thick,
serving to deaden sound so completely that voices seemed to struggle into the
air and then vanish.

The overall theme
of the office seemed to be one of stern intimidation, Stallings making the
pecking order clear to visitors: he was important and they were not. The effect
was wasted on Tracie. Her future with the agency would be determined by this
meeting, but she wasn’t at all certain she wanted to continue, anyway.

She had been
overcome by depression since watching Shane Rowley tumble over the roof of the
Minuteman Building three days ago, an ennui that seemed to have clamped onto
her heart. She wondered if it would ever ease. Shane had sacrificed his own
life to save hers, somehow struggling to his feet after being shot in the
chest, then still managing to pack enough of a punch to overcome a trained and
armed professional assassin, despite being weaponless and suffering numerous
bullet wounds.

Shane was being
hailed as a hero, lauded on television and in the worldwide press as an
ordinary man who had stumbled onto a plot to assassinate the president of the
United States, and then foiled that plot at the expense of his own life.

All of which was
true, of course, as far as it went. But the authorities were releasing few
details of
how
this “ordinary citizen” had single-handedly taken down
the lone gunman, or even how he had managed to uncover the plot while working
as an air traffic controller and living his life far off the beaten path in
Bangor, Maine. His escape from the massacre at the Bangor Airport was receiving
airtime as well, its link to the assassination attempt still unclear.

For now, the
compelling human interest angle was dominating the news cycles, and Tracie knew
that by the time it occurred to the networks and reporters to dig below the
surface, a bland cover story would have been concocted, one which would satisfy
the public while simultaneously avoiding any possibility that embarrassing
details might be leaked involving potentially treasonous activity by long-time
CIA officials.

No doubt a team of
agency psychologists and spin-doctors was hard at work right now, doing exactly
that. Just another day at the company.

Of the assassin
Shane had thwarted, little was known, officially or otherwise. His broken body
had been found on the sidewalk outside the Minuteman Insurance Building bearing
no identification, and Tracie knew the few details that would eventually emerge
regarding the man would bear little more than a passing resemblance to the
truth. They certainly would not include the fact that the gunman was working
for the KGB with the tacit approval of at least one high-ranking CIA
official—that information would be buried so deep it would never see the light
of day. She pictured Winston Andrews smiling in approval.

Tracie sat up as
straight as she could, no easy feat with both shoulders wrapped heavily in
gauze and surgical bandages. Her arms were immobilized in slings, crossed over
her chest, making her look like an angry housewife confronting an errant
husband. The wounds throbbed incessantly, and doctors had told her to expect
more of the same for the foreseeable future, although a full recovery was
expected.

Stallings gazed at
her, saying nothing. He had been silent since summoning her into his office and
gruffly instructing her to take a seat in a chair placed directly in front of
his desk. Tracie knew he was using silence as a weapon, an obvious attempt to
draw her out, to encourage her to try and fill the emptiness with words.

She wasn’t having
any of it. She was very familiar with the tactic—had used it herself many times
in interrogations. She knew she could outwait him and assumed he would reach the
same conclusion eventually.

Besides, she was
used to silence, comfortable with solitude. She sat quietly.

Finally Stallings
gave up and cleared his throat officiously. “So,” he said, “regarding the
Gorbachev communique…,” and waited.

She said nothing.
No question had been asked so there was no reason to speak.

She had been
rescued by a Secret Service agent, who sprinted to the roof of the Minuteman
Building just seconds after the bodies of Shane and the assassin crashed to the
sidewalk below it.

Upon her arrival
at the hospital, a young CIA operative she didn’t know took possession of the
wrinkled envelope containing Gorbachev’s letter, shortly before Tracie was
rolled into surgery to repair the damage done by the two 9mm slugs. The letter
had disappeared into the massive chasm that was CIA officialdom, and she knew
she would never see it again. She didn’t care.

Stallings
continued, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Some in positions of
authority in the administration—myself included, if you’re curious—believe you
should be placed under arrest and charged with treason for opening that
envelope. Its contents were classified Top Secret and, as you know, opening the
letter is antithetical to every single operating principle at this agency.”