Page 120 of Denied Access
“You killed a Russian intelligence officer inside the FSK’s headquarters. You just started a war.”
“Wrong,” Rapp said. “I just prevented one. I killed a German thief. No one else. The actions the FSK chooses to take to address a rogue lieutenant general who actively facilitated this thief’s work by paying Vympel operatives to mount a false-flag operation in Lativa do not concern me.” Rapp paused, allowing what he’d said to sink in. “In fact, without his banker, I’m willing to bet the lieutenant general in question will have a hard time accessing the funds he stole. Which means his Vympel units won’t be paid for their work.”
“Which means they’ll be willing to talk,” Zhikin said slowly.
Rapp nodded. “I’m sure the FSK’s crack forensic accountants will get to the bottom of the lieutenant general’s undoubtedly unsanctioned operation once they’ve completed a proper audit of the financial records stored on the German’s computer.”
Zhikin stared at him for a beat. “You may be right, but that doesn’t help me. Letting a jihadi murderer walk away won’t be good for my career. Not to mention my life.”
“I’ve got you covered,” Rapp said, taking a step closer and dropping his coat. Raising the pistol, he aimed it at the Russian’s shoulder. Zhikin turned his head to track the stubby suppressor, and Rapp fired a right cross at the FSK officer’s jaw. His knuckles crunched into Zhikin’s chin exactly where the purple bruising began.
The Russian collapsed.
Picking up his coat, Rapp jogged away from the fallen intelligence officer, turned another corner, and followed a narrow alley that dumped into the street. Since the majority of the building’s occupants were still clustered around the entrance, Rapp turned right, away from the crowd.
The enormity of his situation set in.
Hurley was supposed to have retrieved him after the job and arranged their exfil. Despite what he’d said to Zhikin, he knew the FSK wasn’t going to just sweep an assassination that had occurred in their headquarters building under the rug. As soon as Zhikin recovered, he’d put the full weight and power of the Russian counterintelligence service into finding the rogue Hezbollah shooter. And since Zhikin’s cover story depended on Rapp’s silence, the FSK operatives would undoubtedly be issued instructions to shoot him on sight.
He was in trouble.
Rapp came to a crosswalk and was preparing to dart across when a well-used Lada sedan slid up to the curb next to him. The driver, a woman wearing a hijab, leaned across the seats and shouted through the open window, “Get in!”
While the offer seemed tempting and the woman was speaking American-accented English, Rapp worried this fell into the “too good to be true” category. He could see a hint of brown hair and the woman’s pretty face, but nothing else.
“Shit,” the woman said, “I forgot the first part. Stan Hurley said to ask if you needed a ride.”
Which was word for word what Hurley had said to him on the streets of Paris after the Cooke debacle.
Rapp opened the door and piled inside.
The woman accelerated away from the curb accompanied by blaring horns from angry motorists. She hung a quick right followed by an immediate left, fleeing the scene of the crime at an impressive pace. “Myname is Elysia and I’m with Moscow Station. There’s a bag of clothes in the back seat. You need to change. Now.”
Rapp grabbed the bag and began shucking his shirt and disassembling what was left of his disguise. “What’s the rush?”
“You have a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER 71
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
KRISHenrik wasn’t sentimental.
Much to her husband’s delight, she didn’t swoon over romantic movies or pack away keepsakes in stacks of cardboard boxes. She was a practical Midwestern girl who wasn’t overly given to displays of emotion, but as her vehicle pulled onto the airport’s tarmac, her eyes filled with tears.
It was really there.
A beautiful business jet painted in a familiar blue and white livery with the wordsUNITED STATES OF AMERICAcentered above a row of porthole-style windows. And just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, a stenciled version of Old Glory was affixed to the plane’s tail.
She was going home.
The car stopped and the two men she was sharing the back seat with exited. In a final bit of humiliation, she’d been forced to ride between the Russians as if she were a little girl who’d lost the battle for a window seat to her older brothers.
She didn’t care.
Kris would ride on the car’s hood if that’s what it took to get out of this country.
A biting Moscow wind swept into the car, ruffling her hair. She wasn’t normally one for cold weather, but she wouldn’t have traded the breeze’s icy fingers for anything. There were low points during her captivity. Moments when she began to wonder whether she would ever leave her detention cell.
