Page 48 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

M OSCOW , R USSIA

D O you need help?”

Irene Kennedy did not need help with her bag.

Though she’d just flown across eight time zones and almost five thousand miles, she’d traveled with a single roller bag and her laptop case.

This was not so much a reflection of Irene’s status as a light packer as it was the urgency with which her boss had dispatched her.

After her meeting with Stansfield, she’d rushed home, left a message on her husband’s office answering machine, grabbed what she’d found in her closet, and bolted.

Her luggage barely weighed twenty pounds.

She didn’t need help with her bag, but she could use a coffee.

Flying on an agency business jet was far superior to traveling commercial, but it was now early morning Moscow time and her internal clock was hopelessly off.

But she didn’t say that to the pleasant young man holding open the door to her black SUV.

Instead, she smiled and said, “Yes, thank you very much.”

The man took her bags, waited for her to climb inside the SUV, and gently closed the door.

This might be the first time she’d traveled to Moscow on behalf of the DCI, acting or otherwise, but this was not her first time in a crisis.

Nothing kept the feeling of helplessness away like being given something to do.

Even if that something was as simple as stowing a woman’s bags and helping her into the car.

“Great to meet you, Miss Kennedy.”

This sentiment came from the husky man who’d just clambered into the front passenger seat.

While the driver had met her as she’d descended the Gulfstream’s air steps, his companion had taken up a position at the vehicle’s hood.

Though the wind whipping across the tarmac of Vnukovo International Airport promised that winter was near, he had not buttoned up his suit jacket.

Instead, he’d kept his hands at chest level as he scanned his surroundings.

Irene knew what the bodyguard was watching for.

Russian counterintelligence officers.

“Please call me Irene. And what’s your name?”

“I’m Fred Burton, and your driver is Brett Maryott. Will you be heading to the hotel?”

“Thank you, but no. The embassy, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The State’s Diplomatic Security Service, or DSS, agents were among the world’s best close-protection officers.

From the slums of Beirut to the crime-ridden streets of South Africa, the men and women who wore the gold and blue DSS badge proudly kept their diplomat principals safe from threats ranging from criminals, to terrorists, to African warlords.

But even America’s bodyguards had limits.

Guarding against a Hezbollah cell in Beirut was tough but doable.

Thwarting Russian counterintelligence officers on their home turf was in another league altogether.

“When’s the last time this car was swept?” Irene said.

“Thirty minutes before we left the embassy for the airport,” Fred said, “but I’d still play it safe if I were you.”

“Why?” Irene said. Officially, she was here to coordinate the intelligence effort in Latvia, but unofficially, Stansfield had asked her to be his eyes and ears.

She had her own theories as to what might be afflicting Moscow Station, but she needed to fact-find, not confirm her biases.

As a case officer, she’d been trained to elicit intelligence from assets with access.

Nothing said access like the DSS agents who went toe-to-toe with the FSK on a daily basis.

“Because they’re eating our lunch, and we still don’t know how. Unless you’re sitting in the SCIF, I’d treat every conversation as monitored.”

Fred gave his assessment in a matter-of-fact manner as if discussing the chance for rain tomorrow rather than the glaring shortfalls of American operational security.

If he was worried about disclosing something politically embarrassing, he didn’t show it.

Instead he kept his head on a swivel, checking side streets, alleys, and passersby with an intensity mirrored by the still-silent Brett.

Irene settled a bit deeper into her seat, happy to be among professionals.

“Understood,” Irene said. “Any new developments with Miss Henrik?” Irene had monitored the situation as best as she could during the twelve-hour flight, but updates were hard to come by.

Other than the original TASS news release, the Russians weren’t saying anything publicly, which was just as well.

During tense situations, the most important communication was often conducted informally via long-established back channels.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Fred said. “The ambassador—Left, Brett! Now!”

At first Irene didn’t understand the change in Fred’s unflappable demeanor.

Leaning forward, she saw what had demanded the DSS agent’s attention.

Two GAZ Volga sedans were parked across the road, nose to nose.

The vehicles had no identifying markings, but the luxury cars were synonymous with the KGB and now the SVR and FSK.

Even so, Irene wasn’t worried. She had a competent security detail and was traveling under diplomatic cover.

Under Moscow Rules, she should be untouchable.

Irene slammed against her seat belt as Brett braked and cut the wheel left.

She’d attended the CIA’s tactical driving course before embarking on her first denied-access assignment, but it had been a while since she’d put a Crown Vic through a J-turn.

Even when her skills were still fresh, she would have considered the side street Brett was angling for out of reach.

Not the DSS agent.

Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible a heartbeat earlier, the seat belt cut even deeper into her chest as Brett cranked the steering wheel and accelerated.

If the young agent ever grew tired of his employment with the State Department, Irene thought he had a bright future as a fighter pilot.

With a final squeal of rubber on concrete, Brett did the impossible.

The SUV rocketed down the alley, leaving the roadblock behind.

“Shit!”

In contrast to her uncle Stan, Irene usually subscribed to her father’s belief that the use of profanity was the by-product of a mind too lazy to think of more suitable adjectives.

Not this time. Had the seat belt’s nylon webbing not compressed the breath from her lungs, she might have added an expletive of her own to the mix.

Her relief was short-lived.

Another Volga edged from an adjacent side street, blocking their path. A second sedan pulled across from the opposite direction, reinforcing the roadblock. Even with Brett’s expert touch on the steering wheel, there was no way the SUV would be able to force its way through the two-car barrier.

The DSS agent seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion.

Popping the transmission into reverse, he spun in his seat to look out the rear window and hammered the accelerator.

They didn’t get far.

“Shit!”

This time it was Irene who’d uttered the profanity. The entirety of the SUV’s rear window seemed to be occupied by the grille of yet another Volga.

They were trapped.

“Brace,” Fred said.

Irene didn’t understand at first. Then as the engine began to rev, she got it.

Brett had dropped the transmission into neutral and was redlining the RPM.

He intended to force his way back out of the alley.

For a heartbeat, she was inclined to go along.

Had this been Beirut and the men behind her Hezbollah thugs, she would have screamed her encouragement.

Prior to the escape-and-evasion phase of training, every class of future case officers was shown clips of the torture and interrogation videos shot by Bill Buckley’s terrorist captors.

Those horrible excerpts drove home the importance of avoiding capture much better than an instructor ever could.

Better to go down swinging than be snatched from the streets of some Middle Eastern back alley.

But she was not in the Middle East.

Irene was on the streets of Moscow in a car bearing the license plates and flags that identified it as a diplomatic vehicle. Even more importantly, she had traveled as an official envoy of the United States of America. An attack on her was an attack against a nuclear-armed sovereign nation.

Even on the streets of Moscow, this designation carried weight.

If she acted the part.

“No,” Irene said, putting more confidence into her voice than she felt. “We’re not going to run. Put it in park and unlock the doors.”

“Ma’am,” Fred said, “our instructions were to—”

“I’m issuing new instructions. I am a duly credentialed representative of the government of the United States of America. Americans don’t run.”

Brett looked to Fred, but Irene suppressed her irritation.

DSS agents worked for their State Department principals, but their protectee’s safety was their responsibility.

In much the same way that a president’s Secret Service detail quit listening to their principal once an assassination attempt was underway, her two bodyguards would be well within their rights to tune her out in favor of keeping her safe.

To his credit, Fred showed the sobriety for which DSS agents were known.

“Are you sure, ma’am?”

“Positive. If they want to talk, I’m all ears.”

Fred looked from her to the car behind them. Then he slowly nodded. “Put it in gear and unlock the doors, Brett. The lady knows what she’s about.”

Irene sincerely hoped so.