Page 67 of Denied Access
The driver let loose a stream of angry Arabic, but Fyodor paid the man no mind. He was entirely focused on the intersection of Rue Bourguiba just ahead. With a burst of speed, Fyodor turned right and barreled down the street. He dodged a man seated on a four-legged stool and ignored a throng of shouting children. A cluster of silky oak trees to the right marked the Y-intersection between Rue Bourguiba and Rue Garibaldi. The tiny bit of cover would allow Fyodor to peer around the corner against the flood of one-way traffic to try to determine what had befallen his men.
He halted his headlong rush.
The clump of trees created a perfect hide site. A trio of empty folding chairs sat in the shade offered by the green canopy and the adjacent video-game store was already closed for the evening. He drew the Makarov pistol from the concealed holster at the small of his back and held the weapon along his right leg to shield it from onlookers. He thought about screwing on the suppressor concealed in his left pocket but didn’t. Threading the metal cylinder onto the pistol’s muzzle might attract attention. Instead, Fyodor concentrated on calming his breathing as he formulated a plan.
Alexei and his team had been approaching the intersection from the south, or right, in anticipation of intercepting the target traveling west down Rue Bourguiba. Since Fyodor could see no sign of the target or his men, it stood to reason that whatever had befallen them had occurred on Rue Garibaldi to his right. With this in mind, he decided to take a peek down the one-way street while using the trees as cover.
As he drew even with the oak trees, Fyodor’s predatory gaze caught his reflection in a pair of rare storefront windows on the far side of the street. The glass panes were enormous and ran the length of the entire store. The clothing inside was surprisingly high-end for this run-down section of town, but Fyodor didn’t devote much time to the brightly colored Western-style outfits adorning an assortment of mannequins. He was more concerned with the reflection in the glass. The storefront window presented a glimpse of the one-way Rue Garibaldi as well as the opposite side of Rue Bourguiba.
The narrower Rue Garibaldi was packed with vehicular traffic. Cars were parked on both sides of the thoroughfare, while an assortment of sedans and motor scooters turned the space that was undoubtedly meant for a single lane into at least three. Garibaldi terminated into Bourguiba with a stop sign, but this did not deter drivers from merging with the two-way traffic.
Horns blared, brakes squealed, and motorists yelled.
Fyodor could barely think over the pandemonium and theoverwhelming chaos brought with it a smidgen of hope. Perhaps there was a benign explanation for Alexei’s silence. Maybe the team sergeant quit transmitting because he couldn’t hear over the cacophony.
Motion beckoned from his peripheral vision. Glancing left, Fyodor saw a blue gate on the opposite side of the street shivering in the wind. The gate marked the entrance to a walled courtyard ringing a large structure whose purpose Fyodor couldn’t discern. White Arabic script flowed across a blue sign mounted above the gate, but Fyodor’s eyes were drawn to the entrance’s metal bars. A length of twine ran from the bars to an adjacent concrete pillar, preventing the gate from fully opening or closing. Instead it wagged back and forth, continuously testing the twine’s strength.
At first, Fyodor didn’t get it.
Then he did.
Gripping the Makarov in both hands, he leaned around the largest oak tree’s trunk, pointing the muzzle right as he looked south down Rue Garibaldi. The gate was a diversion meant to make him focus left. Therefore, logic dictated that the assault would come from his right.
Fyodor’s first glimpse didn’t reveal much more than what he’d seen in the reflection from the clothing store’s windows. Trees in concrete planter boxes interspersed with gates leading inside walled courtyards dominated the far side of Rue Garibaldi. His side of the street appeared to be more dedicated to commerce. An assortment of cafés and metal racks displaying clothes, handbags, and the like occupied most of the cracked sidewalk. A pair of women hobbling toward him did a double take before braving the traffic to cross to the far side of the street, but most of the pedestrians either didn’t notice him among the trees or didn’t care.
That was the good news.
The not-so-good news lurked about a block farther south. A small crowd clumped around something. Fyodor couldn’t make out what had attracted their attention, but the dark liquid draining from the sidewalk into the street offered a clue.
A body.
Probably more than one, judging by the amount of blood.
Cold sweat popped out along Fyodor’s hairline, and he blinked the moisture away, not daring to release his grip on the pistol. He was no longer part of a wolf pack running down prey.
Now he was alone and surrounded by dead men.
Fyodor studied the crowd, trying to get a feel for its energy. It was possible that his team had been caught up in a riot or domestic disturbance. Possible, but not likely. The pedestrians ebbing and flowing around the still-widening pool of blood appeared to be more curious than agitated. Judging a crowd’s intent wasn’t an exact science, but Fyodor had once seen demonstrators riot outside the Soviet Union’s embassy in Kabul, Afghanistan. This gathering looked more like curious bystanders than a mob.
He was in the process of edging around the tree for a better view when a high-pitched chime sounded. Glancing left toward the sound, Fyodor froze. A colorful wagon drawn by two horses was rolling east down Rue Bourguiba toward his intersection. Neither the horses nor the pair of men seated in the wagon gave ground to the stream of trucks, cars, and scooters heading in the opposite direction on the narrow street, though a motorbike passed within touching distance of the lead horse’s heaving flank. Traffic behind the wagon had become a snarl of vehicles whose blaring horns did nothing to speed up the plodding animals. One driver rectified the jam by pulling onto the sidewalk while sounding a chime.
The driver of a three-wheeled bike carriage.
Fyodor swallowed, not sure if the tricycle was real or the remnants of a fever dream. Though the number of such conveyances he’d seen today numbered exactly one, he still held his breath as he jostled for a better look into the passenger bench, which was shaded by a flimsy canopy. At first he couldn’t see past the boy standing on the bike’s pedals. His skinny legs pumped up and down to add a burst of speed as the tricycle pulled even with the wagon. Then the driver sat down, giving a clear view of the passenger bench.
And Volkov.
The bike surged past the wagon and then swung into the road, barely clearing the horses. The maneuver earned a tongue-lashing from the wagon’s driver as the mares balked, but the boy paid him no heed. Fyodor watched the tricycle approach for another half second before reaching a decision. His team might be compromised, but he was still in play.
He would complete the mission.
Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. His team’s mission brief had envisioned capturing and then renditioning Volkov. Fyodor’s commander hadn’t explained the rationale behind this decision, but he could guess. Putting a traitor on trial made for great press while sending an unambiguous message—the KGB’s memory was long and its operational reach longer still. Spying for the Americans might bring wealth and a chance at relocation in the short term, but all traitors eventually paid for their transgressions.
That said, Fyodor’s orders had come with a caveat. Capture was the preferable, but not the only acceptable, course of action. An assassination cost the government political capital and was absent the elegance of a TASS news release, but a dead body still told a story. News of the killing would circle among the KGB elite and trickle down to the rank-and-file officers.
Deterrence would be reestablished.
After looking over his shoulder, Fyodor removed the suppressor from his pocket and screwed the cylindrical tube onto the pistol’s muzzle with quick, practiced motions. While the clump of oak trees didn’t completely hide him, the brown trunks broke up his silhouette and served as a natural obstruction to the ebb and flow of pedestrian traffic. Most walkers crossed to the opposite side of the street rather than attempt to navigate the leaf-strewn stretch of cracked sidewalk that passed between the trees.
