Page 41 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

B IZERTE , T UNISIA

R APP wasn’t sure how he intended to return home from Tunisia, but he knew which modes of travel he couldn’t be using.

Boats or planes.

While free of the stomach-churning swells that had made his trip from Barcelona to Mallorca so unpleasant, the flight across the Mediterranean Sea hadn’t been much better.

The little floatplane seemed to be one step ahead of the storm clouds that had been gathering since Rapp had begun his escape from Spain.

Several times during the bouncy trip, he’d turned in his seat to watch as the weather system gathered behind him.

Ominous swaths of gray and purple glared back at him as jagged bolts of lightning flickered across the horizon.

He didn’t know what a flight in a light plane should feel like, but judging by his pilot, this one had been a doozy.

The Hawaiian-shirt-wearing aviator had begun the trip with an almost unbroken streaming commentary that wavered across a half a dozen languages.

Once he understood that he wasn’t expected to contribute to the pilot’s monologue, Rapp had nodded when it seemed appropriate and done his best to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged.

About ten minutes prior to landing, a particularly vicious downdraft had put the floatplane’s pontoons a bit too close to the frothing sea for Rapp’s taste.

The pilot seemed to share his sentiment. The verbal diatribe changed in cadence and intonation until the words became something Rapp did recognize.

A prayer.

To his credit, the pilot settled the plane onto a stretch of relatively calm ocean and then taxied to a floating dock without incident.

Rapp already had his seat belt unbuckled and was out of the cockpit before the propeller stopped turning.

Though judging by his actions, perhaps the pilot never intended to kill the engine.

No sooner were Rapp’s feet on the dock than the pilot spun the aircraft back toward open sea and turned his taxi into a takeoff run.

Rapp watched as the little floatplane clawed its way skyward and then banked to the south.

While he was glad to have his feet firmly planted on terra firma, Rapp felt the enormity of his situation settle on his shoulders before the aircraft’s engine noise faded.

He was here to meet with a Soviet spy.

And not just any spy.

Rapp took a moment to get his bearings as he reviewed Hurley’s hurried instructions.

He’d delivered them in a staccato burst that somehow managed to convey both seriousness and urgency in just a handful of clipped sentences.

There was no doubt in Hurley’s mind that Petrov was running an intelligence operation against the United States and they were behind the eight ball.

Rapp needed to make contact with Petrov’s former deputy, Dmitri Volkov, and begin picking his brain as soon as possible.

Despite the unpleasantness of the flight, traveling to the Tunisian city had been the easy part.

Now the real work began.

“Pardon, sir, would you like a ride?”

The question, delivered in French, was voiced by a skinny kid who didn’t look older than ten or eleven.

He was seated on a contraption of uncertain lineage.

Part bicycle and part tram, the conveyance was undoubtedly meant to ferry passengers, but whether the boy’s thin legs were capable of transporting Rapp’s bulk was another question.

“ Oui ,” Rapp said as he clambered into a carriage of sorts that formed the back end of the elaborate tricycle. “Can you take me to the Old Harbor?”

“But of course.”

Rapp was seated. While the oversize wheels to his right and left seemed sturdy enough to accommodate his weight, Rapp wasn’t as certain that the boy could generate enough torque to get the bike moving.

With a technique that must have been honed from countless passengers, the boy pushed off the ground with his right foot, stood high in the stirrups, and then brought both feet to bear on the left pedal.

The uneven application of force caused the bike to list slightly to the left, but the boy expertly steered into the yaw, eking out every last bit of travel.

The bike quivered and the boy grunted, but the tires began to turn.

The boy placed his feet on each pedal, gave one more monstrous push from the standing position, and then settled onto the well-worn seat.

“First time to Bizerte?”

The question was again rendered in French with the exception of Bizerte .

The port’s name had an Arabic flavor to Rapp’s ear, suggesting that the boy was bilingual.

His own Arabic was very good but always in need of practice, and as much as he wanted to switch languages, Rapp didn’t.

Though he’d only been working as a covert operative for a couple of years, he’d already learned that playing into a person’s preconceived notions was a great way to remain anonymous.

The boy had obviously seen the floatplane’s approach and seemed to assume that Rapp was a French tourist; the beautiful port city undoubtedly had many.

Better to be thought of as just another wealthy European and forgotten than remembered for his ability to speak Arabic.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Rapp said.

The boy shrugged narrow shoulders. “Some people just want to go to a place. Other people want to learn about it. I can help with both.”

Rapp leaned forward and ruffled the boy’s hair. “How much is this ride going to cost me?”

“Depends. Do you want the sightseeing tour or just transport to the Old Harbor?”

“How much for each?”

“The sightseeing tour takes about an hour and it costs one hundred and fifty dinar. Transport directly to the Old Harbor takes about fifteen minutes, so fifty.”

The floatplane had dropped him off at the tip of a stone pier that formed part of the man-made protective barrier to the eastern side of the city proper.

From the air Rapp had marked the crescent-shaped Old Harbor to the west of the more modern port and guessed that he had around two miles to cover.

The math on the sightseeing tour versus the direct ride was a bit suspect, but if the boy really could get him there in fifteen minutes, that would allow Rapp time to conduct a quick reconnaissance of the meeting site before Volkov’s arrival.

In true Hurley fashion, the floatplane had been stocked with one of Rob Ridley’s Orion team kits.

Though he still felt like a stranger in a strange land, the Beretta holstered inside his waistband, extra magazine in his pocket, and four-inch combat knife sheathed at the small of his back had gone a long way toward raising Rapp’s spirits.

Hurley was a crusty son of a bitch and could be a royal pain in the ass, but he didn’t send his operatives into the field unprepared.

“What’s the best restaurant in the Old Harbor?” Rapp said, reaching into his pocket for a wad of dinars.

“That is easy. I will take you there.”

“Does your dad own it?”

“What? No!”

Rapp had to smother a smile at the boy’s indignant tone. Leaning forward, he stuffed the bills into a leather satchel secured to the boy’s seat. Judging by the assortment of currency, the kid did a brisk business. “Okay, take me. But I want to hire you for an hour after you drop me off.”

“Hire? For what?”

Once again Rapp had to resist the urge to grin at the equal parts excitement and wariness in his chauffeur’s response.

The boy could sense the opportunity but also understood all too well that no one gave away money for free.

Ten years from now, Rapp expected the boy to be running his own taxi fleet.

“I might need you to take me somewhere else. Do you have a mobile?”

“No.”

The boy’s forlorn tone brought another smile to Rapp’s face. “Do you know where to buy one?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. I’ll give you the money for the phone and also pay for an hour of your time. Call me once you have the phone so I know the number. If I need you to pick me up, I’ll call you and pay you a bonus. How’s that sound?”

“Money first?”

“Half ahead of time. You’ll get the rest at the end of the hour and you can keep the phone. Deal?”

“Deal!”

The kid’s enthusiasm was infectious, but if he was going to have a future as a tycoon, he had a lot to learn, starting with a poker face. “You sure your dad doesn’t own this restaurant?”

“Of course! My uncle does.”

Or maybe not.