Page 46 of Denied Access

Then, he did.

She was applauding.

Turning, the Queen strode back to her sedan, settled into the rear seat, and closed the door. The vehicle pulled a U-turn and departed the same way it had arrived. As the car drove away, Rapp noticed a detail he’d overlooked earlier.

The sedan had diplomatic license plates.

Russian diplomatic license plates.

CHAPTER 23

NINETYminutes later, Rapp was descending into the bowels of the Metro de Barcelona. The subway system was easy to use, reliable, and convenient, but this was not why he was following the stairs into the Paral-lel Metro station. Moving to his right to allow room for the riders in a hurry to flow past him, he followed the winding staircase onto the subway platform. But instead of trailing the crowd to the left and the waiting car, Rapp turned right.

Right toward the bank of public phones.

Selecting a handset equidistant from both the foot traffic and the crowd milling around the boards displaying maps of the Metro and the train schedule, Rapp used his knuckle to punch a set of digits on the phone’s keypad.

After three rings, a voice echoed across the line.

An annoyed voice.

“I thought I told you to take a vacation?”

“Had to cut it short,” Rapp said. “A new work project landed on my plate.”

Rapp heard only silence for a beat. Presumably this was because theperson on the other end of the line required a moment to work through the deeper meaning hidden in his deliberately vague answer.

At least he hoped that was the source of the pause.

“Okay. What do you need?”

An excellent question.

After watching the Russian diplomatic convoy depart the pier, Rapp had kept his vigil at the railing long enough to verify that they weren’t heading toward the second dead drop at the cargo yard’s entrance. Fifteen more minutes of watching nothing happen to the cell phone tucked away in a cardboard box next to the garbage can had been enough to convince him that his phone was the only one that had been compromised. This realization, combined with his experience with the airport, could only mean one thing—the Russians had thoroughly penetrated his legend. He didn’t know how or why, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d already been lucky twice.

There was no reason to believe his luck would hold a third time.

His next decision had been easy.

He’d hiked down from Montjuïc Mountain, located a phone booth, and dialed a number that had connected him to one of the answering services reserved for the Orion team. He’d left what sounded like a generic voice message but in reality had been a set of very specific instructions detailing whom he wanted to speak with and when. He’d then ended the connection, killed time by playing tourist, and at the appropriate hour descended into the subway for his second call.

The one he was on right now.

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” Rapp said. “My flight home was canceled and someone stole my wallet. I need help rebooking my travel.”

“Got it. Give me thirty minutes and then ring admin. They’ll have your new itinerary. Anything else?”

Rapp hesitated. This was the part of the conversation that would really hurt. “My new project is a doozy. I could use another pair of hands.”

“Whose?”

Rapp sighed. “Yours.”

Another beat of silence.

“You want help from me?”

“Yes.”