Page 73 of Denied Access
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Irene said, “but I’d be glad to have my secretary work you in sometime tomorrow. Mr…?”
“Petrov. Lieutenant General Grigoriy Petrov.”
The man paused as if to let his name and title register.
For the first time since Stansfield had handed her this live grenade of an assignment, Irene was grateful that she was not a Russia hand. While she understood the significance of his rank, his name washed over her, making her indifference all that much easier to fake. “Great, Lieutenant General Petrov. My office will be in touch with yours very soon. Now, if you could please move your cars, I’d appreciate it. They seem to have inadvertently blocked my path.”
Irene had geared her response toward a reaction, but not the one she received. Instead of anger or indifference, Petrov responded with something unexpected. Laughter. Truth be told, it was a nice sound. No trace of cynicism or snark. Just a genuine chuckle shared between friends.
They weren’t friends.
“How is it that I’ve never heard of you, Miss Kennedy?” Petrov said, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes. “You’re good. Very good. No, I’m afraid tomorrow just won’t do. Regrettably for your very importantschedule, I must insist we have our talk now. Right now. Would you be so kind as to unlock your door so that I might join you?”
“Certainly,” Irene said. “It’s already unlocked.” She rolled up the window before he could reply and made no move to make room for the Russian intelligence officer. It took Petrov a moment to realize what she’d done and sort through the potential options.
Option one meant opening the door and attempting to push Irene to the far side of the car. This was the most direct course of action, but it would mean ending the charade that this was just an amicable conversation between two government officials. Option two required Petrov to walk around the car and enter from the driver’s side. This would give lie to the notion that the Russian was in complete control of the situation and potentially cause him to lose face in front of his men.
Neither scenario would likely engender further goodwill.
“Hope you know what you’re doing, boss,” Fred whispered.
So did Irene. Part of her was tempted to respond to the head of her protective detail, but she didn’t. Petrov was still standing just outside her window, and she didn’t know how far her voice would carry. Instead she opened the newspaper on the seat next to her and began to read, doing her best to demonstrate that she hadn’t a care in the world. The Russian probably wasn’t buying her act, but that was fine. She considered it a win that her fingers didn’t tremble. She was halfway through the lead article, which happened to be a rather interesting review of Nelson DeMille’s latest book, when the light at her window shifted.
Petrov was moving.
A heartbeat later, the driver’s-side door opened and the Russian slid into the seat next to her. “You are most interesting, Miss Kennedy. I would love to get to know you better. It’s unfortunate that we find ourselves in an adversarial situation.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow,” Irene said. “As I said, I’m a foreign service officer with the Department of State and—”
“Stop.”
Petrov’s command crackled through the air. The intensity behind the single word was palpable. Fred’s shoulders bunched, but he didn’t turn toward the Russian.
Good man.
“Neither of us has time for such nonsense,” Petrov said. “I need you to communicate something directly to your boss. Word for word.”
“I’ll be happy to relay a message to the ambassador—”
“Enough! If you persist in this charade, I will have no choice but to communicate through less competent channels. Like Miss Henrik for instance. Do you understand?”
Irene did understand. The person sitting beside her no longer resembled a well-dressed elderly grandfather. Though his visage was no more familiar than it had been before, his eyes were a different story. She’d seen eyes like those earlier.
They were the eyes of a killer.
Fred turned toward the Russian. The burly DSS agent made to reach across the seat, but he was brought up short. By a gun. Irene had been watching Petrov the entire time and she still couldn’t say exactly how he’d done it. One moment his hand had been empty. The next, it held a compact, semiautomatic pistol. The muzzle was centered on Fred’s forehead.
“You are in my country. Mine. If I wanted you dead, your corpse would already be cooling in the street. I don’t want to kill you, but if that is what is required, I won’t devote any more thought to pulling this trigger than I would swatting a fly.”
Irene believed him. She knew how to spot bluster, and whatever else Petrov was, the Russian wasn’t a braggart. If provoked, he would shoot Fred in the face without hesitation.
“Okay,” Irene said, slowly reaching for Fred’s shoulder. She gave the big man a squeeze and felt hard muscle beneath her fingertips. “You’d like me to deliver a message?”
“To your boss. Thomas Stansfield. Tell my old friend, ‘Oranienburg 1945.’ Say it back to me.”
“Oranienburg 1945,” Irene said.
“That’s correct. Make sure you relay that message. And if I were you, Miss Kennedy, I would do so quickly.”
