Page 62 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

W ASHINGTON , DC

D AMIEN Lipovsky loved his job.

Or to be more precise, Damien loved his job while stationed in the United States.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, or MID, like its American Department of State counterpart could be a thankless mistress.

For every posting to London there were ten missions located in backwater third-world countries of dubious strategic importance to the Russian Federation or its predecessor, the Soviet Union.

As a young, single man, Damien had found the assignments to the African subcontinent or Southeast Asia full of adventure and possibilities.

Now, as a middle-aged, married father of three, he thought them considerably less so.

In his fourth decade of life, his taste in adventures ran more toward exquisite restaurants, fine symphonies, engaging theater, and good schools for his children.

He was also partial to cities in which the electricity ran uninterrupted twenty-four hours a day and which one could navigate streets free of protesters or criminal gangs.

In this regard, his posting as the deputy chief of mission to Washington, DC, did not disappoint.

Mostly.

Crime in the District had recently catapulted the city to the top of a rather undesirable list—murder capital of the United States.

While none of the mission’s personnel had experienced this scourge firsthand, Damien had seen the writing on the wall and instituted several administrative changes.

Most of these changes had been made with an eye toward making his staff feel more secure.

Most, but not all.

As the second-highest-ranking Russian diplomat in America, and the person who oversaw the majority of the mission’s day-to-day functions, Damien’s position warranted a driver. Normally, this function was filled by a low-level MID employee.

Normally.

But after the crack cocaine–fueled murder epidemic surfaced in the form of a triple homicide just blocks from the embassy’s Wisconsin Avenue address, Damien had instituted a switch.

His new driver, Bogdan, was a former paratrooper on loan from the SVR.

Bogdan’s almost two-meter height and nearly one-hundred-kilogram mass made for a ready deterrent whenever Damien found himself in a less desirable section of the District.

Fortunately, today was not one of those days.

“When do you think we’ll be done, darling? I have an engagement later today.”

Damien stifled a sigh.

If he’d grown to appreciate the finer things in life, his wife, Irina, had begun to feel entitled to them.

His promotion to deputy chief of mission had come with a slew of social obligations.

As per the norm, the ambassador handled the glitziest of engagements, but Washington, DC, was a nexus for foreign governments, as the almost two hundred missions located within its confines could attest. A diplomatic event of some sort or another occurred almost every day of the week and Irina had become something of a regular fixture on the tony streets of Embassy Row.

His wife spoke English, Russian, French, and German fluently, had a vivacious personality that was the life of any party, and looked stunning in an evening dress.

She was a much-sought-after invitee for boozy brunches, cozy coffees, afternoon teas, and the ever-important formal dinner.

Today was no exception.

“The museum is magnificent,” Damien said. “Truly one of the greatest of its kind in the world. Our visit will last several hours. Minimum.”

Irina sniffed.

Loudly.

Damien didn’t care.

The Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum was the ultimate experience for an aviation buff like Damien.

Until his vision had taken a turn for the worse as a university student, he’d planned on serving as a pilot in the Soviet air force.

Though his dreams of streaking through the sky at the controls of a MiG-29 had long since faded, he still loved aviation in all its forms and had been planning a visit for weeks.

Irina would deal with it.

“Look on the bright side. We won’t have to wait in line.”

Irina tossed her golden curls in response, but Damien knew the reaction was just for show.

She loved the pomp and circumstance that came with her role as wife to the second-most-important man in her nation’s most important diplomatic mission.

While they were entering the museum via the Independence Avenue doors used by the general public, nothing else about their grand arrival was usual.

Bogdan had dropped them curbside just feet from the museum’s glass facade before sliding the black Lincoln Town Car into a makeshift and highly illegal parking spot on the opposite side of the street.

Damien’s staff had of course called ahead with his visit request, and so the chief curator, the head of the visitor services team, and the museum director were all waiting in a tight cluster next to the facility’s open doors.

As a rule, the people who called Washington home weren’t overly impressed with the plethora of black limousines, security details, or VIPs who frequented it.

The same couldn’t be said of the visitors who flocked to the nation’s capital hoping to catch a glimpse of powerful politicians or heads of state in the same manner in which a tourist in Los Angeles looked for a movie star behind every pair of glittering sunglasses.

Knowing Irina as he did, Damien had timed their arrival to coincide with one of the museum’s busiest periods, and he wasn’t disappointed.

The line of patrons waiting for visitor passes snaked down the sidewalk.

Murmurs accompanied their appearance. Irina flashed the tourists a high-wattage smile and added a touch of sway to her walk as she played to her impromptu audience.

She was dressed in a formfitting cocktail dress and heels in anticipation of whatever engagement she’d slotted into her busy social calendar for later.

Hardly typical museum-going attire, but Irina wasn’t a typical museumgoer, and she wanted everyone to know it.

As they drew even with the crowd, a middle-aged woman stepped from the visitor line.

Irina’s smile widened, no doubt anticipating the interaction.

Photographs from her many social appearances often found their way into the lifestyle sections of the local papers.

She was approached by admirers on a regular basis and had been asked for her autograph numerous times.

Even people who didn’t know who she was could sense that there was something special about the exotic woman dressed in the latest fashions.

As he’d told his wife more than once, Irina would have made an excellent diplomat.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, “but aren’t you the Russian ambassador’s wife?”

Irina laughed and the sound echoed down the street like tingling bells. “No, my husband is the deputy chief of mission, but I’m delighted to meet you.”

Damien knew she wasn’t exaggerating. Irina really was delighted to be recognized even if the woman had confused her title. The ambassador’s wife was a troll of a woman with a perpetually sour expression.

No one ever remembered her name.

Irina had offered her hand for the customary American shake. It didn’t happen. Instead, the woman’s features hardened.

“You Russians should be ashamed of yourselves. You’re holding an American diplomat’s wife hostage. Maybe you should go home.”

The murmurs Damien had assumed were the typical fawning that normally greeted Irina took on a more ominous tone as individual words became recognizable.

Russians, thugs , and kidnappers all made an appearance.

Irina’s smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement.

She genuinely couldn’t understand why the Americans weren’t happy to see her.

Damien did.

“Come, darling,” Damien said, grabbing her by the hand. “Let’s go inside.”

“No,” the woman said, planting herself in Damien’s path. “I think you should go home.”

“Go home, Russkie!” someone shouted.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Russkie, go home.”

“Free Kris.”

“Free Kris!”

“FREE KRIS!”

Where the earlier exclamations had come from the visitor line with the randomness of exploding popcorn kernels, the free Kris began to gather momentum as the crowd coalesced around the single phrase.

Damien interposed himself between his wife and the visitor line as he felt the energy shift.

He knew Americans were angry about the decision to detain the CIA officer’s wife, but he’d thought it had been the abstract kind of anger expressed by talking heads and journalists.

Something manufactured by DC’s political class, but not anything the average citizen paid much attention to.

He’d been wrong.

The sharp crack of a slamming car door cut through the crowd’s chants.

Turning, Damien saw Bogdan sprinting toward them.

The former paratrooper bowled over a demonstrator standing in his way without breaking stride.

Catching Irina by the waist, Damien steered her toward the charging paratrooper, thankful he’d insisted on a change to his driver.

The crowd was restless, but they weren’t stupid.

No one would dare stand against the refrigerator-sized bodyguard whose mallet-shaped hands were already clenched into fists.

No one but the three police officers who suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.

“Excuse, are you Mr. Damien Lipovsky?”

“Yes, and this is my wife,” Damien said. “If you could help us to our car, I would appreciate it.”

The presence of the uniformed officers seemed to mollify the crowd. The Free Kris chants continued, but the sense of menace dissipated. The hard looks and angry expressions remained, but the patrons moved back into a rough approximation of their original queue.

Crisis averted.

“Otyebis ot menya!”

Or perhaps not.

Damien turned to see a second set of police officers between him and an enraged Bogdan.

They probably didn’t understand the Russian curse, but they certainly seemed to comprehend the paratrooper’s state of mind.

The biggest of the three officers had his arm outstretched, palm up in the universal gesture for stop , while his partner was fingering the Taser holstered at his belt.

“Bogdan—calm,” Damien said in Russian. “These men are here to help.”

The former paratrooper could be forgiven for not understanding. In Russia, the sight of government officials, uniformed or otherwise, was rarely cause for relief.

“Thank you for verifying your identification,” the officer closest to Damien said. “Now if you’d please come with me.”

In rapid succession, Damien realized several unsettling facts. One, the policeman speaking with him wore a different uniform than the trio corralling Bogdan. Rather than identifying him as a District of Columbia police officer, the man’s uniform featured three letters.

Three unsettling letters.

I-N-S, which Damien knew stood for Immigration and Naturalization Service.

Two, rather than shepherd him and his wife left toward their waiting Lincoln Town Car, the men were angling right. Right toward where an unmarked sedan sat idling.

“I am a member of the Russian Federation’s consulate, and I don’t intend to go anywhere with you,” Damien said, standing his ground. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Of course you do,” the officer said with a smile, “but I wasn’t talking to you. The questions I have are for your wife.”

“What questions?” Damien said.

“Routine ones, I’m sure. We noticed several irregularities on her visa paperwork. I’m certain she’ll be able to clear them up in an hour or so.”

Damien put his arm around Irina’s shoulders. “She’s not going anywhere.”

The officer continued to smile, but as he leaned closer, Damien realized that the gesture was at odds with his cold, hard eyes.

“Listen up, you Russkie son of a bitch. Your wife is coming with us. She can walk over to that car or be carried. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.

If you, or your ape, try to interfere, you’ll both be facedown on the concrete quicker than you can blink. Got it?”

Damien did get it.

All too well.

“Darling,” he said to Irina in Russian, “go with them. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Irina’s face was a mask of rage, but to her credit, she merely nodded. Like all Russians, she was no stranger to the secret police.

“Great choice,” the officer said, pitching his voice so it would carry. “I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Just like the situation with Kris Henrik.”