Page 113 of Denied Access

He curled his lips into a sneer and spat at the bus’s grille.

The driver’s face reddened, but the bus didn’t move. Maybe his restraint was a function of Rapp’s intimidating appearance or maybe it was because the man thought that anyone heading for the Lubyanka’s entrance of his own accord was best left alone.

Either answer was fine.

Crossing the remaining feet in three quick strides, Rapp paused in front of the door’s polished handle and withdrew his cell phone. He was preparing to dial when the device did something unexpected.

Ring.

CHAPTER 65

RAPPstared at the handset.

Only two people had this number. Hurley wouldn’t be calling, which meant the person on the other end of the line had to be Greta. He took a deep breath and thumbed the answer button.

“Alo?”

“Can you talk?”

It was Greta.

Her voice was calm, and she was speaking in French. Both of these were good signs. French was spoken widely in Lebanon, meaning that Rapp could answer and still remain in character. Additionally, Greta’s calm tone meant that she probably wasn’t in immediate danger. On the not-so-positive side, she wasn’t calling to chat about the weather.

“Non,” Rapp said, “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Then I’ll make this quick. I’ve been doing some work and—”

Strains of music drifted through the air. For a moment, Rapp thought he was imagining the melody. Then he realized the song’s origin—the Kremlin Clock was chiming in nearby Red Square.

He was late.

“Ma chérie, I must go—”

“What they did to my grandfather and grandmother—” Greta’s voice broke and her stifled sob tore his heart in two. “It was for money. They needed the accounts’ information. It was a robbery. Do you understand?”

He did understand.

Carl and his Alzheimer-stricken wife had been tied to chairs and made to face each other. At the time, Rapp had attributed the actions to wrath. A white-hot rage that had manifested as a sadistic enjoyment taken from forcing a man to watch as the love of his life was tortured to death. He’d been on the right track, but he’d picked the wrong entry on the list of Seven Deadly Sins. It wasn’t wrath that had motivated Petrov.

It was greed.

Herr Carl Ohlmeyer was more than just a banker. He and his family owned or had controlling interest in multiple banks. Ohlmeyer also managed a number of large accounts used to finance the Central Intelligence Agency’s clandestine activities along with smaller “retirement” accounts for the operatives themselves. In this regard, Hurley and Rapp were both beneficiaries of Ohlmeyer’s largesse.

“How badly was the family business damaged?” Rapp said.

“Not as bad as it could have been. We’ve lost ten or so million, but my grandfather held back the most important accounts. Even in the face of—”

Another muffled sob.

Rapp didn’t know the total worth of Ohlmeyer’s portfolio, but $10 million was a drop in the bucket. If Ohlmeyer had given up all the account numbers, Petrov could have looted ten times that much, but the old German had hung on despite the horror visited upon his wife.

There could only be one reason for that level of grit.

“He knew,” Rapp said, as gently as he was able. “He knew they would kill Elsa no matter what. Your grandfather loved your grandmother with all his being. If he’d believed that money could have boughther life, he would have given away everything without a second thought. But he knew.”

Greta was weeping openly now, but still forced words past the sobs. “Make them pay. Do you hear me? Make the men who did this pay!”

“I hear you,chérie,and I will. I swear it.”