Page 61 of Denied Access
The question, delivered in French, was voiced by a skinny kid who didn’t look older than ten or eleven. He was seated on a contraption of uncertain lineage. Part bicycle and part tram, the conveyance wasundoubtedly meant to ferry passengers, but whether the boy’s thin legs were capable of transporting Rapp’s bulk was another question.
“Oui,” Rapp said as he clambered into a carriage of sorts that formed the back end of the elaborate tricycle. “Can you take me to the Old Harbor?”
“But of course.”
Rapp was seated. While the oversize wheels to his right and left seemed sturdy enough to accommodate his weight, Rapp wasn’t as certain that the boy could generate enough torque to get the bike moving.
With a technique that must have been honed from countless passengers, the boy pushed off the ground with his right foot, stood high in the stirrups, and then brought both feet to bear on the left pedal. The uneven application of force caused the bike to list slightly to the left, but the boy expertly steered into the yaw, eking out every last bit of travel. The bike quivered and the boy grunted, but the tires began to turn. The boy placed his feet on each pedal, gave one more monstrous push from the standing position, and then settled onto the well-worn seat.
“First time to Bizerte?”
The question was again rendered in French with the exception ofBizerte. The port’s name had an Arabic flavor to Rapp’s ear, suggesting that the boy was bilingual. His own Arabic was very good but always in need of practice, and as much as he wanted to switch languages, Rapp didn’t. Though he’d only been working as a covert operative for a couple of years, he’d already learned that playing into a person’s preconceived notions was a great way to remain anonymous. The boy had obviously seen the floatplane’s approach and seemed to assume that Rapp was a French tourist; the beautiful port city undoubtedly had many. Better to be thought of as just another wealthy European and forgotten than remembered for his ability to speak Arabic.
“Do you always ask so many questions?” Rapp said.
The boy shrugged narrow shoulders. “Some people just want to go to a place. Other people want to learn about it. I can help with both.”
Rapp leaned forward and ruffled the boy’s hair. “How much is this ride going to cost me?”
“Depends. Do you want the sightseeing tour or just transport to the Old Harbor?”
“How much for each?”
“The sightseeing tour takes about an hour and it costs one hundred and fifty dinar. Transport directly to the Old Harbor takes about fifteen minutes, so fifty.”
The floatplane had dropped him off at the tip of a stone pier that formed part of the man-made protective barrier to the eastern side of the city proper. From the air Rapp had marked the crescent-shaped Old Harbor to the west of the more modern port and guessed that he had around two miles to cover. The math on the sightseeing tour versus the direct ride was a bit suspect, but if the boy really could get him there in fifteen minutes, that would allow Rapp time to conduct a quick reconnaissance of the meeting site before Volkov’s arrival.
In true Hurley fashion, the floatplane had been stocked with one of Rob Ridley’s Orion team kits. Though he still felt like a stranger in a strange land, the Beretta holstered inside his waistband, extra magazine in his pocket, and four-inch combat knife sheathed at the small of his back had gone a long way toward raising Rapp’s spirits. Hurley was a crusty son of a bitch and could be a royal pain in the ass, but he didn’t send his operatives into the field unprepared.
“What’s the best restaurant in the Old Harbor?” Rapp said, reaching into his pocket for a wad of dinars.
“That is easy. I will take you there.”
“Does your dad own it?”
“What? No!”
Rapp had to smother a smile at the boy’s indignant tone. Leaning forward, he stuffed the bills into a leather satchel secured to the boy’s seat. Judging by the assortment of currency, the kid did a brisk business. “Okay, take me. But I want to hire you for an hour after you drop me off.”
“Hire? For what?”
Once again Rapp had to resist the urge to grin at the equal parts excitement and wariness in his chauffeur’s response. The boy could sense the opportunity but also understood all too well that no one gave away money for free. Ten years from now, Rapp expected the boy to be running his own taxi fleet.
“I might need you to take me somewhere else. Do you have a mobile?”
“No.”
The boy’s forlorn tone brought another smile to Rapp’s face. “Do you know where to buy one?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. I’ll give you the money for the phone and also pay for an hour of your time. Call me once you have the phone so I know the number. If I need you to pick me up, I’ll call you and pay you a bonus. How’s that sound?”
“Money first?”
“Half ahead of time. You’ll get the rest at the end of the hour and you can keep the phone. Deal?”
“Deal!”
