Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9)

did little to endear the man to Carson.
“What do you want?” Carson said, aware that he was slurring his speech a little but doing his best to put plenty of “Fuck off and leave me alone” into his tone, if not his actual words.
Again, the man didn’t seem the least bit bothered. “What I want is to solve all of your problems, or at least all of your money problems.”
Out of nowhere, Carson recognized the man’s accent. He sounded exactly like Boris Badenov, the evil villain of the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons Carson had loved watching on Saturday mornings when he was a kid. Given the fact Carson was well on his way to drinking himself to oblivion, he was proud of himself for making the connection.
“Perhaps you did not hear me,” the man repeated, apparently annoyed by Carson’s lack of an immediate response. “I said—”
“I know what you said,” Carson snapped. “What the hell makes you think I have money problems?”
“My friend, I am here to help you. To offer you a solution to financial issues that may otherwise take years to resolve, assuming it is even possible to do so. If you would kindly drop the hostility and speak to me man to man, there is a very good possibility you will appreciate what I have to say.”
Carson sighed deeply. Drained his drink. Signaled the waitress for another. All he wanted was to get drunk. Was that too goddamned much to ask?
The man showed no inclination to leave, so Carson said, “Fine. Who are you and what’s this big business opportunity? But before you launch into your spiel, you should know that I don’t have two nickels to rub together, so if you’re looking for someone to invest in your get-rich-quick scheme, you should probably stand back up and march your suit-wearing ass right on out of here.”
The man grinned and let Carson vent. Then he said, “No, I am in the right place, and I am talking to the right person. But just to ensure I have your full attention, let me ask you this: how would you like to earn twenty thousand dollars, payable in cash and untraceable by the IRS or anyone else, for what would amount to no more than a couple of hours of real work?”
Carson blinked. Blinked again. He knew he was drunk, but he wasn’t so drunk he might have misheard the man. “I’m not running drugs or guns for you or anyone else,” he said. “I have my problems, I’ll admit that since you already seem to know it. But I’m not going to—”
“I am not asking you to run drugs, and my business proposition has nothing to do with guns, either.”
“Then what?”
“Perhaps we could talk elsewhere. Somewhere a little less…exposed.”
“Like where?”
“Like my car.”
“Forget it,” Carson said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The man chuckled. “I am not a sex fiend,” he said, “and you plainly do not have anything worth stealing, or even kidnapping you for. All I want to do is talk.”
Carson knew he should tell Boris Badenov to get lost, to drag his used-car-salesman-snake-oil-vibe right out the fucking door. Besides, all this talking was taking precious time away from his main objective: getting shit-faced.
He had every intention of doing so, too, right up until the moment he said, “Ah, what the hell.”
***
The man’s car was quiet and clean. Nice, too, a Lincoln Town Car that was not quite brand-new, but definitely no more than a year or two old. Its interior was spotless.
True to his word, the man tried neither to grope Carson nor steal his wallet. All he did was start the engine and pull around the corner to a quiet side street. Then he left the vehicle idling and turned to Carson to continue his sales pitch.
The stranger brushed his long silver mane of hair back with his hand and as he did, Carson caught a half-second glimpse of the man’s right ear. It was hideously misshapen and had obviously been damaged in some kind of accident. The lobe was split in two and reminded Carson exactly of a serpent’s tongue.
He tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed the deformity as Boris Badenov resumed speaking.
“I know most of the work you folks do at Marine Technix is defense department related, highly sensitive research involving submarines and warships.”
“Yeah? So?”
“I also know you have been treated quite unfairly by the Marine Technix corporate office.”
“How do you know—”
The silver-haired man waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “It is my business to know,” he said. “But the point is this: would it not feel good to stick it to the company who has mistreated you, while at the same time earning yourself a large sum of untraceable cash?”
Carson swallowed heavily. He had to admit it would feel damned good. And twenty grand would go a long way toward cleaning up his personal balance sheet.
But even half smashed, Carson Limington wasn’t an idiot. Without coming right out and saying it—yet—his new friend was leaving little doubt that to earn his windfall, Carson would have to do something illegal at the very least, and possibly even treasonous.
For a guy that sounded a lot like he was Russian.
He knew what he had to do. Tell the silver-haired Russian snake oil salesman to pound sand, climb out of the car and get the hell away. Then go to Marine Technix management and call the police, the FBI, or whoever the hell was in charge of investigating this kind of corporate spying shit.
It was the only reasonable response.
But for the second time in less than twenty minutes, Carson Limington found himself saying, “Ah, what the hell.”

2
June 13, 1988
10:45 p.m.
Marine Technix Corporation Research Facility
Norfolk, Virginia
Carson hung around his tiny office following