Page 123 of Denied Access
Stan Hurley had made a career out of sneaking into places he didn’t belong.
Hurley hesitated just inside the bar’s entrance to shake the water from his overcoat. Or at least that was the pretense for his pause. While fat drops of Viennese rain did spill onto the floor, Zhikin wasn’t fooled. The American was surveying his surroundings. Noting the exits and occupants and gaining a sense of the flow and atmosphere.
Watching the man work really was like attending a master class on espionage. Hurley was not some sort of superspy, but he’d been operational for more than three decades. If the admittedly spotty file on the CIA operative was even partially correct, Hurley had spent much of the last half decade or so targeting the rising menace of Islamic terrorism, but he’d cut his teeth in East Berlin.
A good spy never forgot his roots.
After a final shake, Hurley shucked his overcoat and draped it over his forearm. His left forearm. Hurley was right-handed, and while Zhikin was reasonably sure the American wouldn’t risk the current détente by bringing a pistol to this meeting, that did not mean he wasn’t armed with something less ostentatious but every bit as deadly. Though to be fair, even a fountain pen was dangerous in Stan Hurley’s hands.
Zhikin did not rise to meet his guest, but he did signal the waiter with a wave. Had this been a traditional rendezvous with an American operative of Hurley’s reputation, Zhikin would have seeded the bar’s staff with fellow FSK or Alfa Group operatives. In this case, Zhikin was the only representative from his nation’s intelligence service, and the bartender was just a bartender. Still, the bespectacled man approached his table with the rapidity and reverence his position deserved.
Or at least, he tried to approach Zhikin’s table.
Hurley intercepted him before he could complete his journey of fealty. “I’ll take that,” Hurley said, snatching the vodka bottle from the man’s hands. “Now beat it.”
Zhikin didn’t know what annoyed him more: the fact that Hurley gave the order in perfect German, or that the bartender instantly obeyed. On second thought he supposed the young man’s obeisance made sense. Zhikin was the Russian equivalent of a made man. Anyone who could show up to a meeting late with an FSK operative and then commandeer his bottle of vodka was not a person to be trifled with.
After ensuring the screw cap was securely sealed, Hurley flipped the bottle around so that he was holding it by the neck. Then he covered thedistance to the table in a smooth rolling gait. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t smash this into your skull and call it a day.”
Not the greeting he’d imagined, but not such an unforeseen way to begin a conversation with Hurley either. “For starters, that bottle contains a particularly fine vintage, and it would be a shame to see it spilled all over my clothing. Perhaps you could sit so we could share a glass?”
In a motion almost too quick to follow, Hurley slammed the bottle down in a vicious arc and shattered Zhikin’s shot glass.
“You think this is funny, motherfucker?” Hurley said. “Ohlmeyer was my friend.”
“I don’t think anything that occurred is funny. Because of Petrov’s arrogance, we have both lost comrades. Their deaths were needless, but there is nothing either of us can do to bring them back. We do, however, have it within our collective power to decide something else—whether the senseless killings will continue.”
Zhikin’s voice never wavered. He ignored his racing heart, the vodka running down his cheek, and the almost irresistible urge to reach for the pistol he’d Velcroed beneath the table. Instead he locked gazes with the human wrecking ball poised to murder him with a vodka bottle and waited. He supposed that if he did meet his end in the next several seconds, being bludgeoned to death with a Beluga Gold Line was a very Russian way to go. In fact, it might be preferable to what his superior, FSK Director Barannikov, might arrange.
“What then?” Hurley spat, still standing. “You want to make nice?”
Ignoring the American, Zhikin stretched across the table for the second shot glass. The one he’d intended for Hurley. After running his napkin around the interior to make sure it was free of glass fragments, he turned his attention back to his adversary. “If you’re not going to punch me in the jaw again, I’d appreciate it if you filled my glass. It really is a fine blend.”
Hurley glared at him for a moment longer and then slowly shook his head. “That’s a hell of a bruise. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”
Zhikin refrained from explaining that he’d actually been punched in the chin twice. Instead, he smiled tightly and bit his tongue while Hurley unscrewed the bottle and began to pour.
“Thank you,” Zhikin said. “I’d offer you some, but I seem to be a glass short.”
“No problem. I’ll drink from the bottle.Vashe zdoroviye.”
Hurley clicked the bottle against Zhikin’s upraised glass and then took an impressive swallow. Many impressive swallows. Russian blood must flow in the American’s veins.
“How is Miss Kennedy?” Zhikin said after placing his glass on the table.
Hurley eyed him over the bottle’s lip. “With the exception of some bumps and bruises, fine. What about Petrov?”
“Neither the SVR nor the FSK were happy when the full scope of Lieutenant General Petrov’s deeds became known. An inquiry was ordered. Regrettably, Petrov died before he could provide his testimony.”
Hurley snorted. “Natural causes I assume?”
“I am told he took a long fall down a short flight of steps.”
Hurley took another swallow of vodka. “How about Alexander Hughes?”
“Heart attack. Too much red meat I’m afraid.”
Hurley slammed the bottle onto the table. “So what? You think we’re even?”
