Page 111 of Denied Access

He needn’t have bothered.

No sooner had his fingers touched the newsprint than the hunter was standing in front of his table.

“What are you drinking?”

The question was delivered in Russian-accented English.

“Rochelt,” Hurley said.

“Fine selection.”

Turning over his shoulder, the man snapped his fingers and delivered an authoritative-sounding stream of Russian to the bartender. The man didn’t salute, but he might as well have. His earlier languidmannerisms were a thing of the past, replaced with a precise economy of motion that would have been at home on a military parade field. He poured the brandy but was intercepted before he could bring over the drink. Instead, one of the Russian’s entourage, a thin man with a long face and a sharp nose, took the glass and carried it to the table. After depositing the snifter on the shiny wood, he and his companions withdrew out of earshot. One of them stood in front of the hotel’s entrance, while the others took up positions at the elevator bank, front desk, and hallway leading to the ground-floor rooms.

Apparently, the Peking was no longer open for business.

Hurley’s tablemate pretended not to notice. Instead he downed the brandy in a single swallow before slamming the glass onto the table. “Austrians. Not much for fighting, but they make damn fine liquor.”

“Can I help you?” Hurley said.

The Russian smiled. The gesture didn’t look any friendlier. “My name is Colonel Zhikin from the Federal Counterintelligence Service. You and I have five minutes to avert a war and stop my country’s descent into chaos.”

Many responses leapt to mind, but Hurley discarded most of them.

Ordinarily, he would live his legend until an interrogator beat the truth from him. Not tonight. As he’d told Rapp in Doha, there were instances in which Russian KGB officers had used their status as spies to their advantage. Under the guise of meeting with American diplomats or the CIA officers they professed to be targeting for recruitment, Russian turncoats had instead passed along vital intelligence. Hurley wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he did know two things: A supposed Russian volunteer had called this meeting, and Zhikin’s minions wouldn’t be able to hear their discussion.

“I’m listening,” Hurley said.

“I am Petrov’s deputy. He’s instigated the situation in Latvia using Vympel operatives without the knowledge of the FSK director or the Russian president.”

Hurley reached for his snifter and took a swallow, deliberately at odds with the Russian’s sense of urgency. “That makes for a compelling, not to mention convenient, story, but I’m not hearing anything that would remotely qualify as proof.”

“Then shut up and remember these words—Allied Solutions. Did you get that? Allied Solutions.”

“I got it.”

“That is the name of the front company through which Petrov is funneling the Vympel operatives’ payments. Have your forensic accountants follow the money and you’ll see that it points back to Petrov. Then have your president call mine. It’s the only way to stop a war in Europe and the return of the hard-liners here. Now, we’re done.”

“Not quite,” Hurley said, snaring the Russian’s sleeve as Zhikin tried to stand. “A friend from the Middle East is coming to see your boss tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp. I need you to help him get to the correct office.”

“You are not in a place to make demands.”

“The hell I’m not. You think the situation in Latvia is bad now? Wait until NATO gets involved. You ensure my friend gets to where he needs to go, and I’ll make sure your information does the same. Deal?”

In a surprising show of strength, Zhikin ripped his forearm free from Hurley’s grasp. “Deal. Now I need you to do something regrettable.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to arrest you. You’ll be transported under guard to the airport and put on a flight to Berlin that departs in forty minutes. You’ll see a bank of public phones next to the departure gate. I suggest you use the third one from the left to make a call before you board the plane. Now, get on with it.”

“Gladly,” Hurley said. Grabbing his snifter, he tossed the brandy into Zhikin’s face.

The FSK officer sputtered and rubbed his burning eyes, which made Hurley think of Irene lying in a hospital bed. Standing, he leanedacross the table and snapped a right hook into the Russian’s jaw. Hurley had almost two complete seconds to enjoy the stunned look on Zhikin’s face. Then he was tackled by several members of the colonel’s entourage. As a Russian fist slammed into his cheekbone, Hurley savored a single thought.

It was worth it.

CHAPTER 64

MOSCOW, RUSSIA