Page 112 of Denied Access
RAPPhad done some dumb things in his life.
Voluntarily walking into FSK headquarters might just rank among the dumbest.
He examined the Lubyanka building from where he was standing just west of the structure on the corner of Pushechnaya Ulista. Though he wasn’t much for architecture, he had to admit that the building’s exterior exuded a certain charm. The structure’s first two levels were constructed of stone that was colored a bland shade of gray, but the remaining stories were built from yellow bricks. The trimming and windowpanes were done in a rust-colored paint vaguely reminiscent of a Moscow sunset. Taken in whole, the Lubyanka was an island of color in a sea of drab slate and uninspiring construction.
Not bad for one of Moscow’s most notorious prisons.
“Prostite menya.”
Rapp shifted to allow someone to move past him on the sidewalk. For reasons known only to the Russian psyche, Lubyanka Square was somewhat of a tourist attraction and a steady stream of passersby meandered along the broad, tree-lined pedestrian walkway that bordered thebuilding. While no one was stopping to take pictures, more than a few families strolled hand in hand past the coral-colored double doors leading to the building’s interior.
Rapp couldn’t easily come up with a Western equivalent to the Lubyanka’s dark history. The number of political prisoners who’d been dragged through the entrance only to be dispatched via a bullet to the back of the head in the infamous ground-floor prison were too numerous to count. He didn’t know if Muscovites viewed meandering by the Lubyanka as an act of bravery similar to whistling past the graveyard or if perhaps the general populace simply refused to believe that the stories of what transpired inside the cheerful building were true. Either way, Russians didn’t seem to feel the dread that radiated from Lubyanka’s cold stones.
But he did.
Rapp glanced at the clock mounted on the Lubyanka’s top story and confirmed what he already knew. It was time. According to Russian dark humor, the Lubyanka was once referred to as the nation’s tallest building because Siberia was visible from its basement detention cells. Rapp thought this bit of lore was too optimistic. Most Russians unfortunate enough to be guests in the Lubyanka didn’t live long enough to see Siberia.
Rapp planned to be the exception.
When he and Hurley had constructed this plan, it had seemed possible. Not easy by any stretch of the imagination, but doable. Once again, Volkov’s help had been enlisted, this time to provide an overview of the Lubyanka building and what he remembered of its layout and security. Much was still up in the air, but the operation’s broad strokes had been addressed to Rapp’s satisfaction.
A Hezbollah asset would broker Rapp’s introduction to Petrov. As befitting a groveling terrorist financier, Rapp would arrange his own transportation from the airport to the Lubyanka building, where he would supplicate himself on bended knee before his soon-to-be Russian patron.
And then he would kill him.
Which left the issue of how to escape the building.
Here again, Volkov earned his CIA stipend.
The former KGB officer suggested that they take a page from the mysterious bombings in eastern Latvia with one of their own. Or at least the threat of a bombing. Someone claiming to be a member of a Latvian nationalist group would phone the building’s switchboard and deliver the warning. Volkov assured Rapp that in its long and ignoble history, the KGB’s headquarters had been subject to many bomb threats, and while the actions had never materialized, standard operating procedure for this contingency was ironclad—evacuate the building so that Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) techs could conduct a floor-by-floor sweep.
Before entering FSK headquarters, Rapp would phone the Orion answering service from his cell. This would trigger a countdown. Exactly ten minutes later, the bomb threat would be delivered. Hurley, who would arrive in-country well before Rapp, would be responsible for any operational logistics and for coordinating their joint exfil from Russia. During the operation itself, he would loiter close to the building and retrieve Rapp in the ensuing chaos as the workers evacuated.
Simple.
Or at least as simple as a job this audacious could be.
Except that now there was one very large problem—Stan Hurley had gotten himself declared persona non grata. Rapp had learned the bad news by checking in with the Orion answering service shortly after landing in Moscow. The coded update had been vague on the reasons why Hurley had been tossed out of Russia but specific on the fact that Rapp would be met by an FSK colonel named Zhikin, who would just happen to be waiting in the Lubyanka’s lobby.
Zhikin would then convey him to Petrov’s office.
The recorded message was also specific on one more item—operational execution was now at his discretion. As per Hurley’s earliest guidance, Orion team members were not suicide bombers. If anassassination could not be conducted without a reasonable expectation that the operative would escape, then it should not be conducted at all. Without Stan to assist Rapp, Petrov’s killing had now reached that threshold. Execution authority was now vested in the man on the ground.
Rapp.
Pressing forward had been a pretty easy decision when he’d still been in the phone booth’s sterile confines.
It was considerably harder now.
The enormity of the task seemed to mirror the Lubyanka building’s stalwart construction. A structure that had weathered the rise and fall of empires while serving as the backdrop for death on an industrial scale. If he went into that building, there was a good chance he would not come out. Pushing away the thought, Rapp squared his shoulders and made for the crosswalk separating him from his destiny. Put in the correct context, his decision was simple.
If he went after Petrov, he might die.
But if he didn’t, Greta most certainly would.
A horn blared from the far side of the street as an eggshell-blue bus tried to hustle him along. Rapp locked gazes with the driver as he reached the crosswalk’s midpoint, refusing to alter his pace. The puffy-faced man touched his thumb and index finger together as he glared through the windshield.
The gesture didn’t mean “okay” here like it did in the West, but Rapp didn’t take the bait. The bus hadn’t encroached any farther into the crosswalk and he was almost to the opposite street. Besides, he wanted to see whether the changes to his appearance were having the desired effect. His olive skin, dark complexion, and almost black eyes provided a great start, but the wig, fake beard, and a prosthetic nose from Hurley’s disguise kit completed his transformation. He was an Arab of Lebanese descent. In a city as homogeneous as Moscow, he would stick out like a sore thumb. Rapp let his eyes reflect a freedom fighter’s rage, while his posture and stride exuded menace. The busdriver was a sample size of one, but judging by the man’s restraint, Rapp was achieving the desired effect.
