Page 33 of Denied Access
A very good job.
Her jeans and blouse were gone, replaced by a long but formfitting dress that hugged her hips and flattered her breasts. The front wasn’t overly revealing, but it scooped low enough to catch the eye.
The male eye anyway.
The woman’s previous outfit had been chosen for anonymity. A wardrobe meant to render her just another face in the crowd. Her new dress served the opposite purpose. Her hair was now shoulder-length and chestnut brown instead of collar-length and dirty blond. Her features were masked behind stylish glasses with oversize black frames and her shoulder bag was gone, replaced by a large purse.
She even moved differently.
Where before the woman had displayed the hurried stride of a frazzled traveler, this time she swayed with each step. The movement was understated, but the motion still caused the dress’s fabric to hug her hips with every stride and accentuate her curves. The transformationwas so strikingly complete, Rapp wasn’t sure that he would have made her if not for a single oversight.
Her shoes.
Her flowing dress almost obscured the same pair of flats she’d worn with her previous outfit. Almost. Like most people, the woman’s stride wasn’t perfectly symmetrical, and a brown scuffed toe peeked from beneath her dress’s hem each time she led with her right leg. The scuff and hint of brown shoe was barely noticeable, but the profession of espionage often turned on barely noticeable details.
Had she been facing him, the woman probably would have favored Rapp with a smile. Since he was watching her reflection, she continued by without so much as a glance. Her performance was magnificent.
Captivating even.
Which meant that the woman was not where he should be looking.
Turning away from the window and stepping out from the alcove, Rapp began a systematic survey of his surroundings. In the concourse to his left, a deli sold sandwiches, croissants, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and an abundance of thejamón ibéricofor which Barcelona was famous. Three of the six tables were empty. One held haggard-looking parents who were seemingly at their wits’ end with a screaming baby. A man sipping from a ceramic espresso cup as he paged through the newspaper sat at the other. The man’s sport coat, slacks, and dress shirt suggested he was a business traveler waiting for his connection.
He was not.
Aside from the broad back and heavy shoulders that were somewhat at odds with his businessman persona, it was the man’s choice of tables that confirmed Rapp’s suspicions. No member of the male species would voluntarily sit in such proximity to a fussy child. The half dozen vacant chairs scattered throughout the deli suggested there was a reason the pseudo-businessman had chosen that particular table. Rapp was betting it had something to do with the sight line from the table to the mirror that hung behind the deli’s counter.
A mirror that offered an unobstructed view of Rapp’s terminal.
With a sigh, Rapp completed his scan. While he hadn’t been as vigilant as he could have been during his phone call with Greta, he knew the table next to the still-howling infant had been empty the last time he’d conducted a visual sweep. The man’s presence coincided with the woman’s reappearance. Turning, Rapp saw that the woman was now seated by gate 7 on the opposite side of the terminal. This would allow her to surveil the entire zone, thereby negating the need for a second member of the surveillance team to penetrate the confined area.
Unless what he was seeing wasn’t a surveillance team.
Rapp resumed his visual sweep, this time focusing on the terminal’s exterior. The gates with scheduled departures, 7 and 8, located at the far end of the terminal, featured the activity he expected to see on the tarmac—baggage carts driving to and fro, men and women in brightly colored vests directing vehicular traffic, and the occasional worker squatting in the shade. Of the two remaining gates, 6 was on his side of the pedestrian area, while 5 was directly across from him. Six sported an unusual concentration of carts and condiment trucks parked circularly in front of the airbridge. Baggage handlers and ground crew members sprawled across the vehicles or squatted in the building’s shade.
Gate 5 was also empty.
But it wouldn’t be for long.
In the window adjacent to the gate, Rapp could just make out the sleek form of a taxiing business jet.
CHAPTER 16
THEtwin-engine Cessna Citation was painted an off-white with a multicolored racing stripe that ran down the fuselage just below the passenger windows. Other than the required tail number, the aircraft bore no markings. No logos suggesting it belonged to an airline or charter jet company and no seal or flag that pointed toward a national entity.
Rapp was not fooled.
The Citation might be one of the most common business jets in use, but private planes did not just taxi up to open gates at a commercial terminal. Rock stars, A-list actors, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries all followed the same protocol when flying private. They boarded and disembarked at the general aviation fixed-base operator, a separate building kept far from the busy traffic and confined space that had to accommodate wide-body passenger jets. Obtaining the necessary permission to occupy the passenger terminal’s prime real estate with a business jet would require an act of God.
Or a shit ton of cash.
Either way, determining who greased the administrative skids inpreparation for the jet’s arrival would have to wait for later. The plane was here, and Rapp could think of only one reason for its presence.
Him.
As if it could hear his thoughts, the Citation turned to the left and pointed its cigar-shaped nose at gate 5.
He had a handful of minutes.
