Page 85 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

T HREE WEEKS LATER

V IENNA , A USTRIA

C OLONEL Zhikin was not accustomed to feeling afraid.

At least not in Vienna.

Next to Moscow, this was where he’d always felt the most at home operationally.

For decades the city of music had served as a crossroads for espionage professionals.

Austria, both culturally and geographically, was the boundary between East and West and so was the Cold War’s de facto ground zero.

But as the drizzle that had been turning the city’s dirty streets into treacherous spans of slick asphalt finally became a full-fledged rain, he couldn’t ignore the prickling at the back of his neck or his clenched stomach.

The prideful part of him, the Russian part, wanted to chalk the feeling up to unease.

It was not.

Zhikin was terrified.

“Would you like another?”

Shifting his attention from the bay window that offered an unobstructed view of the busy avenue, Zhikin considered his empty glass.

As was befitting a spy, he had arrived at the bar early.

He’d consumed the first vodka to ward off the afternoon’s chill and the second to take the edge off his tension.

While he could no doubt fabricate a similar medicinal reason for a third shot, this would not be a good idea.

Prime ministers and presidents made much of their fancy summits and photo ops, but everyone knew that the real work between nations took place in quiet alcoves, back alleys, and the occasional dimly lit bars.

Like this one for instance.

“ Nyet ,” Zhikin said, covering his empty glass with his palm, “but perhaps when my companion arrives.”

The waiter gave a deferential nod before retreating to the far side of the empty room.

Empty because Zhikin had switched the sign dangling in the window from OPEN to CLOSED the moment he’d entered the establishment.

A quiet word with the proprietor paired with his charge card had done the rest. This might be Vienna, but the bar, like its owner, was Russian.

Zhikin’s lips formed a wan smile. Just a handful of years ago, his KGB credentials would have been enough to send the bar owner scurrying to do his bidding.

Now that was accomplished with a piece of plastic emblazoned with one of his nation’s many newly formed energy conglomerates.

To paraphrase his favorite American singer, times they were a- changin’ .

The bar’s door swung open to the tinkling of the cluster of bells hanging atop the hinge.

A blast of cold air swept into the room, bringing with it the man for whom Zhikin was waiting.

Though he’d selected the table nearest the window and had been checking the street almost continuously for the last thirty minutes, he still hadn’t seen the man approach.

This shouldn’t have been surprising.

Stan Hurley had made a career out of sneaking into places he didn’t belong.

Hurley hesitated just inside the bar’s entrance to shake the water from his overcoat.

Or at least that was the pretense for his pause.

While fat drops of Viennese rain did spill onto the floor, Zhikin wasn’t fooled.

The American was surveying his surroundings.

Noting the exits and occupants and gaining a sense of the flow and atmosphere.

Watching the man work really was like attending a master class on espionage.

Hurley was not some sort of superspy, but he’d been operational for more than three decades.

If the admittedly spotty file on the CIA operative was even partially correct, Hurley had spent much of the last half decade or so targeting the rising menace of Islamic terrorism, but he’d cut his teeth in East Berlin.

A good spy never forgot his roots.

After a final shake, Hurley shucked his overcoat and draped it over his forearm.

His left forearm. Hurley was right-handed, and while Zhikin was reasonably sure the American wouldn’t risk the current détente by bringing a pistol to this meeting, that did not mean he wasn’t armed with something less ostentatious but every bit as deadly.

Though to be fair, even a fountain pen was dangerous in Stan Hurley’s hands.

Zhikin did not rise to meet his guest, but he did signal the waiter with a wave.

Had this been a traditional rendezvous with an American operative of Hurley’s reputation, Zhikin would have seeded the bar’s staff with fellow FSK or Alfa Group operatives.

In this case, Zhikin was the only representative from his nation’s intelligence service, and the bartender was just a bartender.

Still, the bespectacled man approached his table with the rapidity and reverence his position deserved.

Or at least, he tried to approach Zhikin’s table.

Hurley intercepted him before he could complete his journey of fealty. “I’ll take that,” Hurley said, snatching the vodka bottle from the man’s hands. “Now beat it.”

Zhikin didn’t know what annoyed him more: the fact that Hurley gave the order in perfect German, or that the bartender instantly obeyed.

On second thought he supposed the young man’s obeisance made sense.

Zhikin was the Russian equivalent of a made man.

Anyone who could show up to a meeting late with an FSK operative and then commandeer his bottle of vodka was not a person to be trifled with.

After ensuring the screw cap was securely sealed, Hurley flipped the bottle around so that he was holding it by the neck. Then he covered the distance to the table in a smooth rolling gait. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t smash this into your skull and call it a day.”

Not the greeting he’d imagined, but not such an unforeseen way to begin a conversation with Hurley either. “For starters, that bottle contains a particularly fine vintage, and it would be a shame to see it spilled all over my clothing. Perhaps you could sit so we could share a glass?”

In a motion almost too quick to follow, Hurley slammed the bottle down in a vicious arc and shattered Zhikin’s shot glass.

“You think this is funny, motherfucker?” Hurley said. “Ohlmeyer was my friend.”

“I don’t think anything that occurred is funny.

Because of Petrov’s arrogance, we have both lost comrades.

Their deaths were needless, but there is nothing either of us can do to bring them back.

We do, however, have it within our collective power to decide something else—whether the senseless killings will continue. ”

Zhikin’s voice never wavered. He ignored his racing heart, the vodka running down his cheek, and the almost irresistible urge to reach for the pistol he’d Velcroed beneath the table.

Instead he locked gazes with the human wrecking ball poised to murder him with a vodka bottle and waited.

He supposed that if he did meet his end in the next several seconds, being bludgeoned to death with a Beluga Gold Line was a very Russian way to go.

In fact, it might be preferable to what his superior, FSK Director Barannikov, might arrange.

“What then?” Hurley spat, still standing. “You want to make nice?”

Ignoring the American, Zhikin stretched across the table for the second shot glass.

The one he’d intended for Hurley. After running his napkin around the interior to make sure it was free of glass fragments, he turned his attention back to his adversary.

“If you’re not going to punch me in the jaw again, I’d appreciate it if you filled my glass. It really is a fine blend.”

Hurley glared at him for a moment longer and then slowly shook his head. “That’s a hell of a bruise. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”

Zhikin refrained from explaining that he’d actually been punched in the chin twice. Instead, he smiled tightly and bit his tongue while Hurley unscrewed the bottle and began to pour.

“Thank you,” Zhikin said. “I’d offer you some, but I seem to be a glass short.”

“No problem. I’ll drink from the bottle. Vashe zdoroviye .”

Hurley clicked the bottle against Zhikin’s upraised glass and then took an impressive swallow. Many impressive swallows. Russian blood must flow in the American’s veins.

“How is Miss Kennedy?” Zhikin said after placing his glass on the table.

Hurley eyed him over the bottle’s lip. “With the exception of some bumps and bruises, fine. What about Petrov?”

“Neither the SVR nor the FSK were happy when the full scope of Lieutenant General Petrov’s deeds became known. An inquiry was ordered. Regrettably, Petrov died before he could provide his testimony.”

Hurley snorted. “Natural causes I assume?”

“I am told he took a long fall down a short flight of steps.”

Hurley took another swallow of vodka. “How about Alexander Hughes?”

“Heart attack. Too much red meat I’m afraid.”

Hurley slammed the bottle onto the table. “So what? You think we’re even?”

“Here is what we propose,” Zhikin said as he refilled his glass. “Our nations may never be friends, but we needn’t be active combatants. Let us return to the old way of doing things.”

“Moscow Rules?” Hurley said.

Zhikin nodded. “Our intelligence services will look for ways to work together when we can. When we cannot, we will behave as adversaries, not enemies. Intelligence officers will do what intelligence officers must, but families and civilians will remain off-limits. Agreed?”

Hurley stood. “You’re right—this was a good vintage. Enjoy.”

“Do we have an understanding?”

The question came out harsher than Zhikin had intended.

Not desperate perhaps, but certainly urgent.

Barannikov had agreed to let Zhikin handle negotiations with Hurley on the premise that the two men would be able to engage in the type of candid conversation that often eluded the directors of rival intelligence services.

But he’d also made clear that more than just Zhikin’s future depended on the outcome of this unofficial summit.

Zhikin might have convinced Barannikov that he hadn’t been privy to Petrov’s plans, but as the lieutenant general’s deputy, he hadn’t completely escaped the stain of his predecessor’s actions either.

“No,” Hurley said, “we don’t have an understanding. Thomas Stansfield had the same bullshit heart-to-heart talk with the SVR director awhile back. As you can see, it got us nowhere. Besides, this Moscow Rules horseshit has always been too one-sided for my liking. You heard of the Chicago Way?”

Zhikin shook his head.

“Don’t you people have movies in Russia? Fine, I’ll summarize the terms of our new rules of engagement this way: You don’t fuck with my guys, and I won’t fuck with yours. But if your guys start with the rough shit again, my response will be exponential not incremental. Capisce?”

Zhikin did not capisce, but he still nodded.

“Good,” Hurley said, shrugging into his overcoat.

“Oh, and one more thing, this arrangement doesn’t apply to those Vympel fucks who worked off-the-books for Petrov.

I won’t actively hunt them, but if I catch one of those sons of bitches in a dark alley, I will stick a knife in their brainpan and stir.

Make sure you pass that along. Have a great evening. ”

Hurley strode out of the bar without waiting for a reply.

For that Zhikin was grateful, because he didn’t have one.