Page 39 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

T HERE was nothing out of the ordinary about this particular boat.

As with the majority of tourist vessels, the craft featured an open-air top with plenty of seating and a glassed-in cabin area where passengers could eat a three-course meal, drink overpriced cocktails, and presumably enjoy the King of Rock and Roll’s greatest hits.

The boat’s blue and white livery made it easy to track against the Thames’s muddy-brown water, and judging by the laughter echoing from its deck, the concertgoers seemed to have had a great time.

Ilya did not care about the boat, its amenities, or even Elvis.

He was here for another reason.

His vantage point was a bench on the pedestrian walkway on the south side of the same glass building to which he’d directed the Asian girl.

The bench faced west and offered a lovely view of the Thames, Big Ben, and the Palace of Westminster’s unmistakable silhouette.

A queue of people waiting to buy tickets or board the next cruise snaked across the walkway to his north, while a bored-looking bobby held down the street corner to his east. Though Ilya appreciated the sight line to the Thames, he’d chosen to linger on this bench for a different reason.

The bench was just a few yards from the boat’s disembarking passengers.

Getting to his feet, the former Spetsnaz operative conducted a quick but thorough assessment of his surroundings.

To his left, the Thames flowed placidly by as other tourist boats competed for space with more mundane nautical traffic.

To his right, the multistory County Hall building funneled foot traffic from the south toward the glass building.

On the north side of the building, the pedestrian area broadened into the entrance to Jubilee Gardens—a park that encompassed three acres of valuable riverfront real estate.

The bobby noted his movement with a quick glance, but the police officer didn’t seem inclined to leave his post. Ilya had already walked the park and surveyed the surrounding shops, side streets, and alleys while assessing the area’s police presence.

The beat cops seemed to be focused on deterring criminals through a show of force rather than patrolling the milling crowds.

That was just fine with Ilya.

This was his first time in London, but it was not his first time doing a job such as this one.

Though if he were being honest, the detailed instructions that had accompanied this operation had been a bit disconcerting.

That was saying something considering that his previous assignment had required him to saw off a man’s head and mail it in a hatbox.

Though he wasn’t thrilled with his current tasking, Ilya didn’t question his orders.

If he’d ever harbored the na?ve notion that men limited the depths of their depravity based on some internalized moral code, Afghanistan had cured him of that.

He’d initially recoiled at the idea of seeding the countryside with children’s dolls containing explosive devices.

That disgust had vanished the first time he and his team of commandos had been beaten to a downed Soviet aviator by the mujahideen.

What the Afghans had done to the poor pilot was almost indescribable.

Almost.

Ilya still saw the man’s flayed body when he closed his eyes.

Afghanistan had taught him many things, but there was one lesson he’d internalized above all others: Victory goes to those with the fortitude to do what is required to win. The moral high ground is nice in theory, but in the real world, weakness equals defeat.

Someday he would have to atone for his many sins, but that was fine. To atone, one had to be alive.

Ilya’s gaze settled on the Asian girl.

This was going to be messy.