Page 93 of Denied Access

“Excuse, are you Mr. Damien Lipovsky?”

“Yes, and this is my wife,” Damien said. “If you could help us to our car, I would appreciate it.”

The presence of the uniformed officers seemed to mollify the crowd. TheFree Krischants continued, but the sense of menace dissipated. The hard looks and angry expressions remained, but the patrons moved back into a rough approximation of their original queue.

Crisis averted.

“Otyebis ot menya!”

Or perhaps not.

Damien turned to see a second set of police officers between him and an enraged Bogdan. They probably didn’t understand the Russian curse, but they certainly seemed to comprehend the paratrooper’s state of mind. The biggest of the three officers had his arm outstretched, palm up in the universal gesture forstop, while his partner was fingering the Taser holstered at his belt.

“Bogdan—calm,” Damien said in Russian. “These men are here to help.”

The former paratrooper could be forgiven for not understanding. In Russia, the sight of government officials, uniformed or otherwise, was rarely cause for relief.

“Thank you for verifying your identification,” the officer closest to Damien said. “Now if you’d please come with me.”

In rapid succession, Damien realized several unsettling facts. One, the policeman speaking with him wore a different uniform than the trio corralling Bogdan. Rather than identifying him as a District of Columbia police officer, the man’s uniform featured three letters.

Three unsettling letters.

I-N-S, which Damien knew stood for Immigration and Naturalization Service.

Two, rather than shepherd him and his wife left toward their waiting Lincoln Town Car, the men were angling right. Right toward where an unmarked sedan sat idling.

“I am a member of the Russian Federation’s consulate, and I don’t intend to go anywhere with you,” Damien said, standing his ground. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

“Of course you do,” the officer said with a smile, “but I wasn’t talking to you. The questions I have are for your wife.”

“What questions?” Damien said.

“Routine ones, I’m sure. We noticed several irregularities on her visa paperwork. I’m certain she’ll be able to clear them up in an hour or so.”

Damien put his arm around Irina’s shoulders. “She’s not going anywhere.”

The officer continued to smile, but as he leaned closer, Damien realized that the gesture was at odds with his cold, hard eyes. “Listen up, you Russkie son of a bitch. Your wife is coming with us. She can walk over to that car or be carried. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me. If you, or your ape, try to interfere, you’ll both be facedown on the concrete quicker than you can blink. Got it?”

Damien did get it.

All too well.

“Darling,” he said to Irina in Russian, “go with them. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Irina’s face was a mask of rage, but to her credit, she merely nodded. Like all Russians, she was no stranger to the secret police.

“Great choice,” the officer said, pitching his voice so it would carry. “I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Just like the situation with Kris Henrik.”

CHAPTER 51

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

ONCEagain, Irene Kennedy found herself sitting alone in the yellow submarine massaging her temples. While the room’s meager three hundred square feet had felt homey when she first began to work in the space, she would now use a different word to describe her feelings.

Claustrophobic.

To be fair, this adjective might better describe her state of mind than her surroundings. The meeting with her clandestine team had not gone well. Between legitimate concerns about their individual heat states, worry about family members still in Russia, the drain on morale driven by Kris Henrik’s continued imprisonment, and the operational churn that had resulted from the almost one hundred percent leadership turnover in the last couple of days, Moscow Station’s contingent of case officers was not in a great headspace. Irene had serious doubts about her team’s ability to pass the Farm’s final training exercise at the moment, to say nothing of working a complex approach to a high-level Russian intelligence officer in a denied-access environment.