Page 26 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

B ARCELONA , S PAIN

Five hundred feet below, the Port of Barcelona glittered in the evening sun.

A glance to the right revealed acres of metal cargo containers waiting for transport on one of the several ships docked at the multiple peers.

The gritty, industrial feel of this section of the port was starkly at odds with the view to Rapp’s left.

Dominated by a large traffic circle built around the Placa de les Drassanes, this was the port’s pedestrian area where visiting cruise ships disgorged their passengers.

Shops, eateries, and hotels made this stretch of pier a perfect place for a stroll.

Rapp was not here to stroll.

His vantage point at the eastern corner of the sprawling acreage upon which the more than three-hundred-year-old military fortress sat put him about halfway between the industrial and tourist sections of the port.

The cafés, bars, and pedestrian areas were about a half-mile straight-line distance to his left, while the container yard and the rows of waiting cargo ships were located about the same distance to his right.

He did his best work up close and personal with his silenced Beretta, but he was no slouch with a rifle.

Still, a high-angle shot at a target more than a half mile distant was well beyond his abilities.

Fortunately, Rapp wasn’t here to shoot either.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The question came from the blond woman to his left.

She’d appeared at the railing a minute or two before, and while Rapp had marked her approach, she hadn’t triggered his radar.

The observation area was strategically positioned to catch visitors exiting the castle, and more than a few lingered by the railing to take in the awe-inspiring seascape.

The woman had asked the question in American-accented English, and judging by her stylish designer jeans, tank top, and white leather K-Swiss shoes, she was probably a tourist and thereby harmless.

Probably.

“ Je ne parle pas anglais ,” Rapp said with haughty Parisian indifference.

He’d been proficient in French by the end of college, but living in Paris over the last year or so had done wonders for his accent, and he could now pass as native of the City of Light.

The blonde’s short o ’s and flat a ’s marked her as from the upper Midwest. Northern Minnesota if he had to guess.

Hopefully his rudeness would grate on her Midwestern sensibilities, and she’d take the hint and leave him alone.

He’d baited his trap almost an hour ago.

If his hunch was correct, his quarry should be arriving soon.

“ Très bien ,” the woman said, switching to French. “I never get to practice with a native speaker.”

Rapp sighed.

As Hurley was fond of saying, stereotypes existed for a reason, and the blonde was Exhibit A.

There was no getting around Minnesota nice.

“Your French is very good,” Rapp said, turning toward the woman, “but—”

He intended to say but I’m not much for small talk , but the words died in his throat once he faced Minnesota Nice. It wasn’t just that she was stunning. Her shoulder-length blond hair, athletic build, and Nordic features could have been a twin for Greta’s.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Her laugh lines were a bit deeper, and the first hint of a wrinkle had begun to form on her otherwise smooth forehead. She was Greta ten years from now.

“You were saying?” Minnesota Nice said with a smile.

“ Désolé ,” Rapp said. “You remind me of someone.”

“I’m sure I do,” she said, laughing. “You Frenchmen are all the same. And before you ask, yes, I’m married. My husband is just down there.”

Rapp looked to where the woman was pointing and saw a tall, brown-haired man poking about by one of the fortress’s World War I–era cannons. “He likes guns?”

The woman shrugged. “He’s a writer. Always doing research. I should probably join him. It’s been nice speaking with you, monsieur…”

“Gervais,” Rapp said. “Simon Gervais.”

“Great to meet you, Simon. I’m Lysa. Au revoir .”

After gracing him with a parting smile, Lysa followed the path toward her writer husband. Rapp watched her for a minute, wondering if he and Greta would someday traipse through the ruins of ancient castles together.

He hoped so.

Putting Lysa out of his mind, Rapp lifted the pair of tourist binoculars hanging from a leather strap around his neck to his eyes. Panning across the promenade below and to his left, he focused on an ordinary-looking bench a little over a half mile distant.

His earlier hunch had been correct.

Someone was nibbling at his bait.