Page 110 of Denied Access
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, warding off another shiver. Though traffic still meandered along Rochdelskaya Street, the gas station’s parking lot was devoid of vehicles. This entire exercise had been nothing but a waste of time. Hunching her shoulders against the breeze, Elysia threw open the Explorer’s door and climbed inside.
A scrap of paper lifted from the seat on invisible vortices.
With a display of hand-and-eye coordination completely out of character to her distance-runner self, Elysia snagged the paper as it tried to escape. Slamming the door closed, she started the car, fastened her seat belt, and popped the transmission into drive. She did her best not to rush these actions in case anyone was watching, but she also only had the benefit of one hand.
In no universe was she unclenching the other.
In a feat approaching magic, Elysia managed the five-minute drive to the embassy without hitting a single traffic light. The Marine guarding the vehicular entrance waved her through after a cursory check of her face. Then the security gate was closing behind her. With a breach of protocol that risked incurring lasting damage to her career, she pulled into the first available parking spot, which happened to be reserved for the ambassador. She slammed the gearshift into park before the Explorer was fully stopped, eliciting a groan in protest from the transmission. As the SUV rocked back and forth, Elysia unclenched her fist and then unfolded the paper.
It was from the volunteer.
Moscow Station was back in business.
CHAPTER 62
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
STANHurley sipped with caution.
Rochelt made some of the finest fruit brandies on the planet, and this apricot blend was no exception. The Austrian-brewed beverage also packed quite the punch, and Hurley was at the distinct disadvantage of not knowing how long he would be waiting in the hotel bar until his party arrived. He could have chosen to nurse a beer instead, but as a successful German businessman staying in one of Moscow’s most prestigious hotels, that just wouldn’t do. Besides, he kind of enjoyed the idea of a Langley bean counter stroking out in their cubicle after receiving the receipt for Hurley’s bar tab. It wasn’t often that he partook of cocktails that priced out at close to one hundred dollars per snifter.
“Would you like something to eat,mein Herr?”
“No, thank you,” Hurley said.
The question had been delivered in Russian-accented English. Hurley answered in the same language, but his consonants reflected a harsher, Germanic influence. Even here, in the heart of the old Soviet Union, the staff at the Hotel Peking spoke English. It wasn’t hard to seewho had won the Cold War, but whether or not the victors could keep the peace was a different matter.
The waiter nodded and returned to the far side of the bar, leaving Hurley with his morose thoughts and his increasingly depleted brandy. The Peking was the hotel of choice for many foreign businessmen. It also had been a hotbed of KGB activity during the Cold War. Much of the staff had been paid informants and the hotel rooms were wired for sound. Now that the FSK had assumed responsibility for Russia’s counterintelligence mission, this was presumably still the case. Viewed from this perspective, the Russian volunteer’s request to meet at the Peking was a stroke of genius—the epitome of hiding in plain sight.
Or at least it would be if the son of a bitch ever showed up.
Hurley took another cautious sip as he wondered how much longer he could afford to let this play out. In addition to dinner and more alcohol, he’d already been offered drugs, his choice of female or male companionship, and a tour of Moscow’s hottest nightclubs. The hotel bar was elegant in a distinctly Russian fashion—overstuffed red chairs trimmed in gilded gold flourishes, polished wood tables, and a sparkling marble floor.
Even so, businessmen did not stay at the Peking for the décor.
This was the place to be if you wanted to experienceallthat Moscow had to offer, and while Hurley wasn’t above taking a walk on the wild side for the sake of his legend, the clock was ticking. By now Rapp was in the air bound for Moscow, and the latest update from Daugavpils suggested that the Russian forces were prepared to venture outside the wire on their first peacekeeping patrol.
The mysterious volunteer needed to get this show on the road.
Hurley let his gaze play across the mostly empty room before coming to rest on the newspaper situated next to his brandy. Before boarding his flight in Doha, he’d dialed one of the Orion program’s message services for a final check-in. To his delight, instructions to meet the Russian volunteer had been waiting. In coded language, he was told the time and place to meet along with the recognition signal—a newspaperdivided into two stacks with the half to his right displaying the front page. Stansfield had done as instructed, but the meet time had come and gone thirty minutes ago. Either the volunteer was a no-show, or the entire exercise had been a dangle.
Neither option boded well.
A cold breeze ruffled Hurley’s pant legs.
He turned to see the bellhop holding open the hotel’s door for someone. Several someones, by the sound of multiple voices speaking Russian. A moment later, a phalanx of well-dressed men barreled into view. The point of the wedge, a gentleman in his forties wearing a suit he hadn’t bought in Moscow, paused to survey the bar.
His visual sweep stopped on Stan.
Then he smiled.
CHAPTER 63
THEman’s smile wasn’t what anyone would term pleasant.
Though the gesture was wide enough to show teeth and seemed to convey a genuine sense of merriment, Hurley wasn’t fooled. On more than one occasion, his life had depended on his ability to read body language. This wasn’t the smile of someone who had unexpectedly run into a friend. Instead it brought to mind a hunter who’d just discovered a rabbit in his snare.
Hurley reached for the newspaper.
