Page 84 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

W ASHINGTON , DC

Z EKE Williams pulled into the side street leading to his favorite pub at a crawl.

This was his second time frequenting the establishment in the same week.

If this pace continued, he might have to ask the owner about getting his own parking spot.

As things stood, he’d already done four loops around the block while waiting for something to open.

Normally, the wasted time would have sent his blood pressure spiking.

Not today.

The third time he’d passed the pub’s crowded lot, Zeke had forgotten to even check for an empty space. Instead his attention had been devoted to his radio and the NPR host’s monotone voice. The reporter had been summarizing what was happening in Latvia as if she were reading a grocery list.

Or perhaps it was more accurate to say what was not happening in Latvia.

The Russians had apparently loaded up their troop transports and flown home.

Interesting.

A woman exited the pub and made for a black Volvo.

Zeke slowed even more and activated his turn signal, much to the irritation of the motorist behind him.

An angry horn sounded, but Zeke kept his eye on the prize.

The parking lot’s entrance and exit was only wide enough for one vehicle to pass through at a time.

The Mercedes behind him was going to have to suck it up for another couple of minutes.

Welcome to the District.

The woman slid into her car, started the engine, and pulled out.

Zeke gave her a friendly wave and then took her space.

The Mercedes’s driver rolled down his window and extended his middle finger as he rolled past, just in case his earlier horn blast hadn’t been clear.

Usually Zeke would have taken the gesture as an invitation to respond in kind.

Today, he didn’t.

He was once again distracted, but not by the radio this time. Instead his attention was focused on the newly painted row house across the street. Or more precisely, the drawn blinds on the row house’s second-floor window.

Zeke turned off the car, his hands functioning on autopilot as he frantically tried to sort through the ramifications of what he’d heard on NPR combined with the request from his Russian handler for more information.

Though he’d spied for the Soviets, and now Russians, for years, he’d always done so on his own timeline and with his own safeguards.

There had been periods during his espionage career when he’d produced intelligence prodigiously and intervals when he’d gone dormant, but his peaks and valleys had never been driven by his handler.

Zeke considered himself a patriot and he passed information to help his mother country, but he was also a realist. No one was ever going to care as much about his safety as he did.

Real or imagined, he’d always let his intuition guide him, and while there was no way to validate the effectiveness of his sixth sense, he felt vindicated in the most important way.

He was still alive and not rotting in a supermax prison.

Zeke took a final look at the row house before arriving at his decision.

He’d helped his countrymen as much as he could, but things didn’t feel right at the moment.

He was going to lie low for a while and see how things shook out.

His handler would be angry, but when he was ready to spy again, he knew the Russians would welcome him back with open arms.

They always did.