Page 42 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

T HIRTY minutes later, Rapp sat in a white plastic chair sipping coffee.

Though he’d gone to great trouble to ensure that living his cover job as an international computer salesman in Paris hadn’t dulled his edge, Rapp had developed a penchant for Parisian coffee.

This was not that. Instead Rapp was drinking the Turkish version that was served boiling hot with the grounds still gathered at the bottom of the cup.

Calling the coffee strong didn’t do the brew justice.

He was happy the mixture was served in small cups because an entire mug’s worth would probably have caused his heart to explode.

Rapp took another sip for appearances’ sake while praying that his still-angry stomach could handle the volatile mixture.

Fortunately, the waiter had produced some tabouna , and the flatbread went a long way toward soaking up the coffee’s acidity.

“How do you like my city?”

The man asking the question had approached Rapp’s table from inside the restaurant behind him rather than the pedestrian area to the café’s front. It was a smart use of blind spots. Then again, if the man was who Rapp thought he was, he’d been on the run from the KGB for almost twenty years.

He probably knew a thing or two about blind spots.

“Not bad,” Rapp said. “Kind of a shabby version of Venice.”

The Marsa de Bizerte marina curved in from the sea to the east in a crescent that terminated in a wharf lined with fishing boats.

Though the murky water smelled of salt and sea life, the entire length was lined with shops, restaurants, and hotels.

Rapp was in the area known as the Bi-zerte Old Harbor and he was sitting on the eastern side of the inlet.

The Avenue de Montecarlo it was not, but there was something charming about palm trees paired with cobblestone streets and the hustle and bustle of pedestrians.

The storm clouds that Rapp had arrived one step ahead of had dissipated as quickly as they’d come, and cafés were still doing a bustling outdoor business, as evidenced by the multicolored table umbrellas sheltering groups of diners.

The man chuckled as he took the seat across from Rapp. “I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, but you’re right. That’s fine. Shabby is a fair price for anonymity. Besides, I’ll take this over a Moscow winter any day.”

He was speaking French, but his accent put an unusual spin on the language of love.

His Russian accent.

“Mr. Volkov?”

The man paled. “I haven’t used that name in quite some time.”

Rapp compared the weathered face looking back at him with Hurley’s description—bald with overly large ears, a bulbous nose, and eyes that seemed locked in a perpetual squint.

Hurley had called the man chunky, but twenty years later, he’d progressed to fat.

Jowls framed his mouth and the shirt buttons nearest his waist looked in danger of popping.

His age was hard to determine. Vodka, cigarettes, and stress had all taken a toll on his skin.

Rapp would have placed the Russian at anywhere from mid-sixties to late seventies but for his eyes.

The cunning glittering from their depths belonged to a younger man.

Or perhaps a man still on the run.

The waiter drifted over to the table and Volkov placed a lengthy and detailed order in Arabic that left Rapp wondering if they were expecting company. He wasn’t all that familiar with the local cuisine, but from what he understood, the waiter would be bringing enough food to feed an army.

“Hungry?” Volkov said.

“Nope.”

“Too bad. I just ordered a taste of Tunisia. I hope you enjoy it.”

“You’re not staying?”

The Russian shook his head. “Do you know how many of my countrymen your CIA successfully exfiltrated in the last ten years?”

“No.”

“Three. Do you know how many Russian assets were arrested and executed during this same period?”

“I don’t.”

“Neither do I. I stopped counting at fourteen and that was five years ago. I won’t pretend to know how many Soviets were working for you, but I think you’d agree that losing fourteen agents in ten years is certainly beyond the law of averages.

Why am I not staying for dinner? For the same reason that I refused your country’s help when it came time to choose my permanent home—I do not trust the Central Intelligence Agency.

Now, enough about me. Stan Hurley asked for a meeting. I’m here. What do you want?”

That was an excellent question.

Rapp was not an agent runner like Irene or Stan, but it wasn’t difficult to put himself in the Russian’s shoes.

Regardless of what the former KGB officer had communicated to Hurley, Rapp had figured that he wouldn’t stick around long.

As the old saying went, it’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you.

The Soviet intelligence service had a long memory, and Rapp had no doubt that when it came to Volkov, someone still was out to get him.

“Grigoriy Petrov,” Rapp said.

Volkov exhaled a deep, rattling sigh. As if his lungs were as weatherbeaten as his face. Judging by the yellow stains between his fingers, this was probably true.

“I’d hoped for a different name.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Another sigh. “I told Hurley everything during my initial debrief. I don’t have anything more to add.”

“Since Hurley is the one who sent me, I don’t think that’s true.”

Volkov’s gray-streaked eyebrows came together, and his eyes narrowed. Before he could respond, the waiter appeared with a bowl of hummus and a heaping platter of warm bread. Volkov looked longingly at the steaming bread, but didn’t touch it.

“What is my former comrade doing these days?”

The question irritated Rapp.

Volkov had been one of Hurley’s most prized assets.

A founding member of the Boys from Berlin.

Not only that, but when offered the opportunity to relocate to America, the Russian had declined in favor of setting up his own identity and reinventing himself.

These were not the actions of a man who intended to spend his retirement drinking strong coffee and watching the tide roll in.

Rapp had a feeling that Volkov knew full well what Petrov was doing these days.

Still, this wasn’t his area of expertise.

He didn’t know how to “handle” assets, so maybe this back-and-forth was how the game was played.

“He’s a lieutenant general in the FSK. Does that jog your memory?”

“You misunderstand me,” Volkov said, his earlier levity gone.

“I haven’t forgotten about Petrov. The opposite in fact.

I didn’t choose shabby Venice over the Virginia horse country because I loved the smell of rotting fish.

Vanishing to a third-world backwater was my best chance to stay alive.

Petrov has a long memory and his list of wrongs dates back to the Great Patriotic War.

He’s an old man now with an old man’s view of the world.

My guess is that his time is waning, and he’s decided to balance the ledger.

I want no part of what you and Hurley are working. ”

Volkov made to leave.

Rapp had other ideas.

“I think you’re the one who has misunderstood,” Rapp said, snaring Volkov’s arm and jerking him back to his seat.

“I don’t know what arrangement you had with whatever weak-kneed case officer you negotiated with for this deal, and I don’t care.

I’m not the guy they send to convince some morally bankrupt jerk-off to spy against his own country.

The Colombian cartels have a saying— plato o pluma . You know it?”

The Russian shook his head.

“It means silver or lead.”

“I take it you’re not the silver,” Volkov said, prying his arm free.

“Smart man.”

“I guess that’s good because we’re both going to need your services.”

“What do you mean?”

“That apartment building to your right—the multistory tower. See it?”

Rapp knew exactly which structure the Russian was referencing.

The odd construction reminded him of a layered cake made to look like an accordion.

Strange design aside, there was another reason Rapp had marked the building on his mental map—it towered over the single- and double-story buildings lining the waterfront.

Its whitewashed exterior made for an excellent landmark while navigating the maze of winding side streets and alleys that made up the city proper to his west.

“Yep,” Rapp said, never taking his eyes off Volkov.

“There’s a red blanket draped across the railing on the top-floor apartment’s balcony. It wasn’t there a moment ago.”

Rapp looked over his shoulder. A crimson blanket flapped in the breeze. “So?”

“For the past day or two, I’ve suspected that I’ve been under surveillance. I used this meeting to test my instincts. The person in that apartment is conducting countersurveillance for me. The blanket means he’s detected a team. I suggest we bring this meeting to a close.”

Once again, the Russian got to his feet.

Once again, Rapp jerked him back to his seat. “Aren’t you tired of running?”

“Maybe. But I’m not tired of living.”

“Then sit down and stay awhile.”

“Do I have a choice?”

Rapp smiled.