Page 68 of Denied Access
The chime sounded again as Fyodor finished the final turn. The long metal tube changed the pistol’s balance, but he’d spent countlesshours firing a suppressed firearm. He knew how to adjust his aimpoint. He would have to shoot across traffic, but in this regard, the tricycle’s strange design helped. Rather than traditional bicycle tires, the bike sported oversize knobby wheels meant to more easily navigate city streets and the rougher terrain closer to the harbor. The tires’ larger circumference meant that the passenger compartment sat higher than the surrounding vehicular traffic. He would still be shooting at a moving target, but he wouldn’t have to worry about timing the shot around motorists. The distance would be less than ten yards, and he could brace against the tree trunk to steady his aim if necessary.
The shot wasn’t simple, but it was doable.
A final check over his shoulder yielded nothing new. The windows in the garment store across the street still showed the same flow of pedestrians and motorists limping toward him down the one-way street. The sidewalk behind him was empty and the blue gate on the opposite side of the street continued to sway impotently in the breeze.
He was clear.
The tricycle edged closer and Fyodor saw Volkov’s face. The traitor’s features were pinched and his lips drawn into a frown. He looked… worried. Fyodor shifted his focus from his target to the pistol’s front sight post. He centered the metal sliver on the traitor’s chest and then brought the rear sights into alignment. The bicycle’s chime sounded repeatedly as they reached the intersection. Fyodor didn’t care. He was focused on the pistol’s sights and the slow, steady rearward pressure he was applying to the Makarov’s trigger.
Any moment now, the shot would break.
Any moment.
Amid the near-constant chiming, Fyodor registered a second sound. The metallicclickof a door latch engaging.
The video-game store behind him might be closed, but it was not empty.
Whirling, Fyodor brought the pistol to bear while squeezing the trigger.
A blow to his forearm knocked the weapon offline as the pistol spat, sending a round harmlessly into the storefront’s stucco wall. Fyodor tried to fight, but a sharp pain radiating from his side stole his breath. Looking down, he noticed the hilt of a knife protruding from his ribs. Then he saw the man who’d stabbed him—thick, uncombed black hair, a beard, and bronzed-olive skin.
And eyes.
Eyes so dark that they were almost black.
The blade turned in his chest and that blackness swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER 37
WASHINGTON, DC
THOMASStansfield was not easily impressed.
He’d seen the very best the European continent had to offer. The magnificent architecture, breathtaking museums, and awe-inspiring cathedrals. There were not many places that still inspired a sense of awe in him.
The Oval Office was an exception.
While the president’s workspace was relatively small compared to other heads of state, there was something uniquely American about its simplicity. From the giant Presidential Seal embroidered into the royal-blue carpeting, to the Resolute desk’s air of stoicism, to the sculptures and artwork that were selected based on the current president’s preferences, there was no question that this office was home to the nation’s chief executive. But marble busts, oil paintings, and the other trappings of office were only part of the reason why Stansfield always felt a sense of reverence in this place. The ghosts of his predecessors still inspired awe in a heart that was not yet jaded despite all that he had endured on behalf of that nation he loved.
Thomas Stansfield understood realpolitik not as a diplomat,journalist, or politician, but he had experienced the visceral evil that humankind was capable of unleashing firsthand. More times than he could count, he had been asked to influence the government of a remote country that most Americans couldn’t find on a map. And when the political warriors who’d demanded this action lost their nerve, he was left to tally the butcher’s bill. The Bay of Pigs was not the only instance in which political cowards had left good men to die on a battlefield of their making.
And yet.
And yet, Stansfield’s heart remained optimistic and his spirit unbent. This was not because he believed in the perfection of his nation or its leaders. Far from it. But he did believe in his fellow citizenry and the nobility of America’s founding principles even though the men who enshrined those principles had been flawed human beings. As with Lincoln, Stansfield agreed that the better angels of our nature existed, but in this moment, the heavenly cherubs seemed to have taken a back seat to something else.
The devils of politics.
“The president will see you now.”
The president’s long-serving administrative assistant delivered the news with an even cadence, but Stansfield wasn’t fooled. Though he had held a variety of roles during his many years of government service, he was first and foremost a spy. Deciphering a conversation’s subtext was part and parcel of the job. The woman was on edge and the source of her anxiety waited on the other side of the still-closed door. Feeling like Daniel about to be cast into the lion’s den, Stansfield got to his feet and brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his trousers. “Thank you. If we don’t get a chance to speak later, I hope you have a wonderful day.”
Stansfield delivered his rejoinder with genuine sincerity. Though she didn’t have his nearly five decades of government service, the president’s assistant had been guarding the Oval Office for as long as he could remember. She was pleasant to talk with and competent at her job. Stansfield was fond of the woman and truly did wish her a good day.
But that was not why he’d spoken.
The president’s secretary was a reliable barometer of his mood, if one knew how to read her. The assistant excelled at keeping tension from her voice and maintaining neutral facial expressions, but there was a single tell to her otherwise ironclad façade. If the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was in any mood but one, Stansfield’s greeting would elicit athank youor at the very least a smile. On the rare occasions when the president was truly angry, the waves of emotion emanating from the Oval Office buffeted even his steadfast secretary. If this was the case, she might nod, but there would be no smile and certainly no spoken reply.
Today she stared at him wearing an expression he’d never seen before. It brought to mind the look a prison guard might give an inmate on death row.
