Page 62 of Denied Access

The kid’s enthusiasm was infectious, but if he was going to have a future as a tycoon, he had a lot to learn, starting with a poker face. “You sure your dad doesn’t own this restaurant?”

“Of course! My uncle does.”

Or maybe not.

CHAPTER 34

THIRTYminutes later, Rapp sat in a white plastic chair sipping coffee.

Though he’d gone to great trouble to ensure that living his cover job as an international computer salesman in Paris hadn’t dulled his edge, Rapp had developed a penchant for Parisian coffee. This was not that. Instead Rapp was drinking the Turkish version that was served boiling hot with the grounds still gathered at the bottom of the cup.

Calling the coffee strong didn’t do the brew justice.

He was happy the mixture was served in small cups because an entire mug’s worth would probably have caused his heart to explode. Rapp took another sip for appearances’ sake while praying that his still-angry stomach could handle the volatile mixture. Fortunately, the waiter had produced sometabouna, and the flatbread went a long way toward soaking up the coffee’s acidity.

“How do you like my city?”

The man asking the question had approached Rapp’s table from inside the restaurant behind him rather than the pedestrian area to the café’s front. It was a smart use of blind spots. Then again, if the man waswho Rapp thought he was, he’d been on the run from the KGB for almost twenty years.

He probably knew a thing or two about blind spots.

“Not bad,” Rapp said. “Kind of a shabby version of Venice.”

The Marsa de Bizerte marina curved in from the sea to the east in a crescent that terminated in a wharf lined with fishing boats. Though the murky water smelled of salt and sea life, the entire length was lined with shops, restaurants, and hotels. Rapp was in the area known as the Bi-zerte Old Harbor and he was sitting on the eastern side of the inlet. The Avenue de Montecarlo it was not, but there was something charming about palm trees paired with cobblestone streets and the hustle and bustle of pedestrians. The storm clouds that Rapp had arrived one step ahead of had dissipated as quickly as they’d come, and cafés were still doing a bustling outdoor business, as evidenced by the multicolored table umbrellas sheltering groups of diners.

The man chuckled as he took the seat across from Rapp. “I hadn’t ever thought of it that way, but you’re right. That’s fine. Shabby is a fair price for anonymity. Besides, I’ll take this over a Moscow winter any day.”

He was speaking French, but his accent put an unusual spin on the language of love.

His Russian accent.

“Mr. Volkov?”

The man paled. “I haven’t used that name in quite some time.”

Rapp compared the weathered face looking back at him with Hurley’s description—bald with overly large ears, a bulbous nose, and eyes that seemed locked in a perpetual squint. Hurley had called the man chunky, but twenty years later, he’d progressed to fat. Jowls framed his mouth and the shirt buttons nearest his waist looked in danger of popping. His age was hard to determine. Vodka, cigarettes, and stress had all taken a toll on his skin. Rapp would have placed the Russian at anywhere from mid-sixties to late seventies but for his eyes. The cunning glittering from their depths belonged to a younger man.

Or perhaps a man still on the run.

The waiter drifted over to the table and Volkov placed a lengthy and detailed order in Arabic that left Rapp wondering if they were expecting company. He wasn’t all that familiar with the local cuisine, but from what he understood, the waiter would be bringing enough food to feed an army.

“Hungry?” Volkov said.

“Nope.”

“Too bad. I just ordered a taste of Tunisia. I hope you enjoy it.”

“You’re not staying?”

The Russian shook his head. “Do you know how many of my countrymen your CIA successfully exfiltrated in the last ten years?”

“No.”

“Three. Do you know how many Russian assets were arrested and executed during this same period?”

“I don’t.”

“Neither do I. I stopped counting at fourteen and that was five years ago. I won’t pretend to know how many Soviets were working for you, but I think you’d agree that losing fourteen agents in ten years is certainly beyond the law of averages. Why am I not staying for dinner? For the same reason that I refused your country’s help when it came time to choose my permanent home—I do not trust the Central Intelligence Agency. Now, enough about me. Stan Hurley asked for a meeting. I’m here. What do you want?”