Page 73 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)
M OSCOW , R USSIA
E LYSIA Nicolas pulled her Ford Explorer up to the service station, expertly navigating the confined space between the gas pumps and curb.
Moscow, as was the case much of Europe, hadn’t been constructed with American gas-guzzlers in mind.
If nothing else, her parallel-parking game had taken an exponential leap forward over the last three months.
If only she could say the same thing about her espionage skills.
Stifling a yawn, Elysia put the SUV in park, unfastened her seat belt, and grabbed her purse.
The Explorer’s massive fuel tank was still half full, but she wasn’t here just to top off.
In spite of everything else that had gone wrong, the desk lamp in the chief of station’s office had remained illuminated.
Now it was time to see if the price Irene had paid was worth it.
Elysia’s shiver as she exited the SUV was only partially due to the morning’s brisk temperatures.
She hadn’t learned about the chief’s accident until returning to her apartment at close to midnight.
Her SDR had lasted for five hours and encompassed much of the northern section of Moscow.
A trip through a museum, dinner, some light shopping, and a nightcap might not have been such an unpleasant way to spend an evening had she not been continuously on the lookout for surveillance.
She’d glimpsed watchers at least once, but hadn’t made any effort to shake them.
The exercise’s purpose had been to determine if she was being followed, and if so, stretch the FSK team assigned to keep track of her.
All in all, she’d been satisfied with the way she’d worked her shadows and had come back to her flat tired, but content.
That feeling vanished the moment she’d seen her answering machine’s flashing red light.
The news about Irene’s accident and subsequent hospitalization had been delivered in the no-nonsense, slightly bored tone of an embassy administrative worker.
Someone who didn’t know the fledgling chief of station and certainly didn’t comprehend the significance of her hit-and-run car accident.
Elysia understood both.
After imagining the woman she’d come to admire lying alone in a hospital bed surrounded by strangers, she had rushed to the medical center to show her support.
This had been a mistake. For one thing, Irene’s room had been bristling with DSS agents.
For another, the sight of the unconscious woman’s bandages, tubes, and bloodstained clothing drove home a rather uncomfortable truth—the Russians were still playing for keeps.
Even after being assured by Irene’s protective detail that the chief’s injuries looked worse than they were, Elysia camped in the hospital’s waiting room until 2:00 a.m., when exhaustion won out.
After dragging herself home, she’d tumbled into bed and tossed and turned until her alarm sounded, unable to escape the image on her boss’s broken body.
But exhausted or not, nothing was going to keep her from filling up at the exclusive gas station reserved for foreign diplomats just blocks from the US embassy.
The same gas station the Russian volunteer had used to pass his initial message.
After pumping the gas, Elysia replaced the nozzle and went into the station to pay.
She tried to catch a glimpse of her car in the glass door’s reflection, but the early light wasn’t cooperating.
She wasn’t much for fishing, but imagined that this is how it must feel to throw a lure into the water and hope for the best.
After handing the cashier her government credit card, Elysia poured herself a cup of coffee from the aged pot and added cream and sugar. She thought the acid might be too much for her already sour stomach, but she took a cautious sip anyway.
“Good, yes?”
The man behind the register asked his question with a wide grin, and his English, while heavily accented, was understandable. Elysia graced him with a smile she didn’t feel, added a bit more cream, and took another swallow. The java wasn’t any more tolerable, but that hadn’t been the point.
It was hard to catch a fish if your bait didn’t spend any time in the water.
“ Spasibo ,” Elysia said.
The man nodded, ran her card, and then handed the plastic back across the counter.
Elysia replaced it in her purse and stepped outside.
The biting wind rose goose bumps on her arms. Her Explorer sat at the pump looking exactly as she’d left it.
As bobbers went, the SUV was probably a bit unsuited for the job.
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, warding off another shiver.
Though traffic still meandered along Rochdelskaya Street, the gas station’s parking lot was devoid of vehicles.
This entire exercise had been nothing but a waste of time.
Hunching her shoulders against the breeze, Elysia threw open the Explorer’s door and climbed inside.
A scrap of paper lifted from the seat on invisible vortices.
With a display of hand-and-eye coordination completely out of character to her distance-runner self, Elysia snagged the paper as it tried to escape.
Slamming the door closed, she started the car, fastened her seat belt, and popped the transmission into drive.
She did her best not to rush these actions in case anyone was watching, but she also only had the benefit of one hand.
In no universe was she unclenching the other.
In a feat approaching magic, Elysia managed the five-minute drive to the embassy without hitting a single traffic light.
The Marine guarding the vehicular entrance waved her through after a cursory check of her face.
Then the security gate was closing behind her.
With a breach of protocol that risked incurring lasting damage to her career, she pulled into the first available parking spot, which happened to be reserved for the ambassador.
She slammed the gearshift into park before the Explorer was fully stopped, eliciting a groan in protest from the transmission.
As the SUV rocked back and forth, Elysia unclenched her fist and then unfolded the paper.
It was from the volunteer.
Moscow Station was back in business.