Page 92 of Denied Access
Loudly.
Damien didn’t care.
The Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum was the ultimate experience for an aviation buff like Damien. Until his vision had taken a turn for the worse as a university student, he’d planned on serving as a pilot in the Soviet air force. Though his dreams of streaking through the sky at the controls of a MiG-29 had long since faded, he still loved aviation in all its forms and had been planning a visit for weeks.
Irina would deal with it.
“Look on the bright side. We won’t have to wait in line.”
Irina tossed her golden curls in response, but Damien knew the reaction was just for show. She loved the pomp and circumstance that came with her role as wife to the second-most-important man in her nation’s most important diplomatic mission. While they were entering the museum via the Independence Avenue doors used by the general public, nothing else about their grand arrival was usual.
Bogdan had dropped them curbside just feet from the museum’s glass façade before sliding the black Lincoln Town Car into a makeshift and highly illegal parking spot on the opposite side of the street. Damien’s staff had of course called ahead with his visit request, and so the chief curator, the head of the visitor services team, and the museum director were all waiting in a tight cluster next to the facility’s open doors.
As a rule, the people who called Washington home weren’t overly impressed with the plethora of black limousines, security details, or VIPs who frequented it. The same couldn’t be said of the visitors who flockedto the nation’s capital hoping to catch a glimpse of powerful politicians or heads of state in the same manner in which a tourist in Los Angeles looked for a movie star behind every pair of glittering sunglasses.
Knowing Irina as he did, Damien had timed their arrival to coincide with one of the museum’s busiest periods, and he wasn’t disappointed. The line of patrons waiting for visitor passes snaked down the sidewalk. Murmurs accompanied their appearance. Irina flashed the tourists a high-wattage smile and added a touch of sway to her walk as she played to her impromptu audience. She was dressed in a formfitting cocktail dress and heels in anticipation of whateverengagementshe’d slotted into her busy social calendar for later. Hardly typical museum-going attire, but Irina wasn’t a typical museumgoer, and she wanted everyone to know it.
As they drew even with the crowd, a middle-aged woman stepped from the visitor line. Irina’s smile widened, no doubt anticipating the interaction. Photographs from her many social appearances often found their way into the lifestyle sections of the local papers. She was approached by admirers on a regular basis and had been asked for her autograph numerous times. Even people who didn’t know who she was could sense that there was something special about the exotic woman dressed in the latest fashions. As he’d told his wife more than once, Irina would have made an excellent diplomat.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, “but aren’t you the Russian ambassador’s wife?”
Irina laughed and the sound echoed down the street like tingling bells. “No, my husband is the deputy chief of mission, but I’m delighted to meet you.”
Damien knew she wasn’t exaggerating. Irina really was delighted to be recognized even if the woman had confused her title. The ambassador’s wife was a troll of a woman with a perpetually sour expression.
No one ever remembered her name.
Irina had offered her hand for the customary American shake. It didn’t happen. Instead, the woman’s features hardened.
“You Russians should be ashamed of yourselves. You’re holding an American diplomat’s wife hostage. Maybe you should go home.”
The murmurs Damien had assumed were the typical fawning that normally greeted Irina took on a more ominous tone as individual words became recognizable.Russians, thugs, andkidnappersall made an appearance. Irina’s smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement. She genuinely couldn’t understand why the Americans weren’t happy to see her.
Damien did.
“Come, darling,” Damien said, grabbing her by the hand. “Let’s go inside.”
“No,” the woman said, planting herself in Damien’s path. “I think you should go home.”
“Go home, Russkie!” someone shouted.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Russkie, go home.”
“Free Kris.”
“Free Kris!”
“FREE KRIS!”
Where the earlier exclamations had come from the visitor line with the randomness of exploding popcorn kernels, thefree Krisbegan to gather momentum as the crowd coalesced around the single phrase. Damien interposed himself between his wife and the visitor line as he felt the energy shift. He knew Americans were angry about the decision to detain the CIA officer’s wife, but he’d thought it had been the abstract kind of anger expressed by talking heads and journalists. Something manufactured by DC’s political class, but not anything the average citizen paid much attention to.
He’d been wrong.
The sharpcrackof a slamming car door cut through the crowd’s chants. Turning, Damien saw Bogdan sprinting toward them. The former paratrooper bowled over a demonstrator standing in his way without breaking stride. Catching Irina by the waist, Damien steered hertoward the charging paratrooper, thankful he’d insisted on a change to his driver. The crowd was restless, but they weren’t stupid. No one would dare stand against the refrigerator-sized bodyguard whose mallet-shaped hands were already clenched into fists.
No one but the three police officers who suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.
