Page 41 of Denied Access
“Did you get that?” Petrov said.
The camera operator answered with a guttural but decipherable “Da.”
“Excellent,” Petrov said. Then he turned back to her. “Now, please say your name for the camera.”
She considered refusing, but didn’t want her silence to be taken as evidence of guilt.
She wasn’t a spy, and she wouldn’t behave like one.
Staring into the lens, Kris wet her lips and began to speak.
CHAPTER 19
BARCELONA, SPAIN
RAPPpressed his hands against the scarred wooden railing as he breathed in a lungful of sea air. Barcelona really was a remarkable city, and the sight line from Castell de Montjuïc was especially stunning. The tourist attraction sat atop Montjuïc Mountain and offered a 360-degree view of Barcelona’s port. The scrub brush on the far side of the railing concealed a steep drop-off, and though the cliff’s edge had too much litter for Rapp’s taste, the vista it revealed was still breathtaking.
Five hundred feet below, the Port of Barcelona glittered in the evening sun. A glance to the right revealed acres of metal cargo containers waiting for transport on one of the several ships docked at the multiple peers. The gritty, industrial feel of this section of the port was starkly at odds with the view to Rapp’s left. Dominated by a large traffic circle built around the Plaça de les Drassanes, this was the port’s pedestrian area where visiting cruise ships disgorged their passengers. Shops, eateries, and hotels made this stretch of pier a perfect place for a stroll.
Rapp was not here to stroll.
His vantage point at the eastern corner of the sprawling acreage upon which the more than three-hundred-year-old military fortress sat put him about halfway between the industrial and tourist sections of the port. The cafés, bars, and pedestrian areas were about a half-mile straight-line distance to his left, while the container yard and the rows of waiting cargo ships were located about the same distance to his right. He did his best work up close and personal with his silenced Beretta, but he was no slouch with a rifle. Still, a high-angle shot at a target more than a half mile distant was well beyond his abilities.
Fortunately, Rapp wasn’t here to shoot either.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The question came from the blond woman to his left.
She’d appeared at the railing a minute or two before, and while Rapp had marked her approach, she hadn’t triggered his radar. The observation area was strategically positioned to catch visitors exiting the castle, and more than a few lingered by the railing to take in the awe-inspiring seascape. The woman had asked the question in American-accented English, and judging by her stylish designer jeans, tank top, and white leather K-Swiss shoes, she was probably a tourist and thereby harmless.
Probably.
“Je ne parle pas anglais,” Rapp said with haughty Parisian indifference.
He’d been proficient in French by the end of college, but living in Paris over the last year or so had done wonders for his accent, and he could now pass as native of the City of Light. The blonde’s shorto’s and flata’s marked her as from the upper Midwest. Northern Minnesota if he had to guess. Hopefully his rudeness would grate on her Midwestern sensibilities, and she’d take the hint and leave him alone.
He’d baited his trap almost an hour ago.
If his hunch was correct, his quarry should be arriving soon.
“Très bien,” the woman said, switching to French. “I never get to practice with a native speaker.”
Rapp sighed.
As Hurley was fond of saying, stereotypes existed for a reason, and the blonde was Exhibit A.
There was no getting around Minnesota nice.
“Your French is very good,” Rapp said, turning toward the woman, “but—”
He intended to saybut I’m not much for small talk, but the words died in his throat once he faced Minnesota Nice. It wasn’t just that she was stunning. Her shoulder-length blond hair, athletic build, and Nordic features could have been a twin for Greta’s.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
Her laugh lines were a bit deeper, and the first hint of a wrinkle had begun to form on her otherwise smooth forehead. She was Greta ten years from now.
“You were saying?” Minnesota Nice said with a smile.
