Page 122 of Denied Access
The third time he’d passed the pub’s crowded lot, Zeke had forgotten to even check for an empty space. Instead his attention had been devoted to his radio and the NPR host’s monotone voice. The reporter had been summarizing what was happening in Latvia as if she were reading a grocery list.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to say what wasnothappening in Latvia.
The Russians had apparently loaded up their troop transports and flown home.
Interesting.
A woman exited the pub and made for a black Volvo. Zeke slowed even more and activated his turn signal, much to the irritation of the motorist behind him. An angry horn sounded, but Zeke kept his eye on the prize. The parking lot’s entrance and exit was only wide enough for one vehicle to pass through at a time. The Mercedes behind him was going to have to suck it up for another couple of minutes.
Welcome to the District.
The woman slid into her car, started the engine, and pulled out. Zeke gave her a friendly wave and then took her space. The Mercedes’s driver rolled down his window and extended his middle finger as he rolled past, just in case his earlier horn blast hadn’t been clear. Usually Zeke would have taken the gesture as an invitation to respond in kind.
Today, he didn’t.
He was once again distracted, but not by the radio this time. Instead his attention was focused on the newly painted row house across the street. Or more precisely, the drawn blinds on the row house’s second-floor window.
Zeke turned off the car, his hands functioning on autopilot as he frantically tried to sort through the ramifications of what he’d heard on NPR combined with the request from his Russian handler for more information. Though he’d spied for the Soviets, and now Russians, for years, he’d always done so on his own timeline and with his own safeguards. There had been periods during his espionage career when he’d produced intelligence prodigiously and intervals when he’d gone dormant, but his peaks and valleys had never been driven by his handler.
Zeke considered himself a patriot and he passed information to help his mother country, but he was also a realist. No one was ever going to care as much about his safety as he did. Real or imagined, he’d always let his intuition guide him, and while there was no way to validate the effectiveness of his sixth sense, he felt vindicated in the most important way.
He was still alive and not rotting in a supermax prison.
Zeke took a final look at the row house before arriving at his decision. He’d helped his countrymen as much as he could, but things didn’t feel right at the moment. He was going to lie low for a while and see how things shook out. His handler would be angry, but when he was ready to spy again, he knew the Russians would welcome him back with open arms.
They always did.
CHAPTER 73
THREEWEEKSLATER
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
COLONELZhikin was not accustomed to feeling afraid.
At least not in Vienna.
Next to Moscow, this was where he’d always felt the most at home operationally. For decades the city of music had served as a crossroads for espionage professionals. Austria, both culturally and geographically, was the boundary between East and West and so was the Cold War’s de facto ground zero. But as the drizzle that had been turning the city’s dirty streets into treacherous spans of slick asphalt finally became a full-fledged rain, he couldn’t ignore the prickling at the back of his neck or his clenched stomach. The prideful part of him, the Russian part, wanted to chalk the feeling up to unease.
It was not.
Zhikin was terrified.
“Would you like another?”
Shifting his attention from the bay window that offered an unobstructed view of the busy avenue, Zhikin considered his empty glass. As was befitting a spy, he had arrived at the bar early. He’d consumed the first vodka to ward off the afternoon’s chill and the second to take the edge offhis tension. While he could no doubt fabricate a similar medicinal reason for a third shot, this would not be a good idea. Prime ministers and presidents made much of their fancy summits and photo ops, but everyone knew that the real work between nations took place in quiet alcoves, back alleys, and the occasional dimly lit bars.
Like this one for instance.
“Nyet,” Zhikin said, covering his empty glass with his palm, “but perhaps when my companion arrives.”
The waiter gave a deferential nod before retreating to the far side of the empty room. Empty because Zhikin had switched the sign dangling in the window fromOPENtoCLOSEDthe moment he’d entered the establishment. A quiet word with the proprietor paired with his charge card had done the rest. This might be Vienna, but the bar, like its owner, was Russian. Zhikin’s lips formed a wan smile. Just a handful of years ago, his KGB credentials would have been enough to send the bar owner scurrying to do his bidding. Now that was accomplished with a piece of plastic emblazoned with one of his nation’s many newly formed energy conglomerates.
To paraphrase his favorite American singer,times they were a- changin’.
The bar’s door swung open to the tinkling of the cluster of bells hanging atop the hinge. A blast of cold air swept into the room, bringing with it the man for whom Zhikin was waiting. Though he’d selected the table nearest the window and had been checking the street almost continuously for the last thirty minutes, he still hadn’t seen the man approach.
This shouldn’t have been surprising.
