Page 72 of Denied Access
Another Volga edged from an adjacent side street, blocking their path. A second sedan pulled across from the opposite direction, reinforcing the roadblock. Even with Brett’s expert touch on the steering wheel, there was no way the SUV would be able to force its way through the two-car barrier.
The DSS agent seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion.
Popping the transmission into reverse, he spun in his seat to look out the rear window and hammered the accelerator.
They didn’t get far.
“Shit!”
This time it was Irene who’d uttered the profanity. The entirety of the SUV’s rear window seemed to be occupied by the grille of yet another Volga.
They were trapped.
“Brace,” Fred said.
Irene didn’t understand at first. Then as the engine began to rev, she got it. Brett had dropped the transmission into neutral and was redlining the RPM. He intended to force his way back out of the alley. For a heartbeat, she was inclined to go along. Had this been Beirut and the men behind her Hezbollah thugs, she would have screamed her encouragement. Prior to the escape-and-evasion phase of training, every class of future case officers was shown clips of the torture and interrogation videos shot by Bill Buckley’s terrorist captors. Those horrible excerpts drove home the importance of avoiding capture much better than an instructor ever could. Better to go down swinging than be snatched from the streets of some Middle Eastern back alley.
But she was not in the Middle East.
Irene was on the streets of Moscow in a car bearing the license plates and flags that identified it as a diplomatic vehicle. Even more importantly, she had traveled as an official envoy of the United States of America. An attack on her was an attack against a nuclear-armed sovereign nation.
Even on the streets of Moscow, this designation carried weight.
If she acted the part.
“No,” Irene said, putting more confidence into her voice than she felt. “We’re not going to run. Put it in park and unlock the doors.”
“Ma’am,” Fred said, “our instructions were to—”
“I’m issuing new instructions. I am a duly credentialed representative of the government of the United States of America. Americans don’t run.”
Brett looked to Fred, but Irene suppressed her irritation. DSS agents worked for their State Department principals, but their protectee’s safety was their responsibility. In much the same way that a president’s Secret Service detail quit listening to their principal once an assassination attempt was underway, her two bodyguards would be well withintheir rights to tune her out in favor of keeping her safe. To his credit, Fred showed the sobriety for which DSS agents were known.
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“Positive. If they want to talk, I’m all ears.”
Fred looked from her to the car behind them. Then he slowly nodded. “Put it in gear and unlock the doors, Brett. The lady knows what she’s about.”
Irene sincerely hoped so.
CHAPTER 39
BRETTslammed the transmission into gear and took his foot off the gas, allowing the engine RPMs to spool down to idle. As if on cue, the doors to the trail car opened and three men exited. Two of the suit-clad operatives were what she expected—thick-necked beefeaters.
The third man was something different. He looked to be in his seventies, but his bearing or movements were bereft of the ravages of age. He had a full head of gray hair, and his lined face was kind. He could have played the part of the wise patrician in a film about Rome or perhaps the favorite grandfather on a sitcom.
Irene had a feeling he was neither.
After straightening his suit coat like a politician about to take the stage, the grandfather strode toward her car. He approached her side of the vehicle, stopped, and then rapped a pair of hard knuckles on the tinted glass.
Irene rolled down her window. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Miss Kennedy. Do you have a moment?”
The question that of course wasn’t a question was delivered inslightly accented English. Irene’s childhood spent abroad had helped her develop a fairly accurate ear for languages. Had she encountered the elderly gentlemen standing at her window anywhere else, she would have pegged him as European. Perhaps German or Swiss. Maybe even Dutch.
Up close, his appearance was even more disarming. Unlike the caricature of the Russian hood in an ill-fitting suit with bad teeth and a veiny nose from too many nights spent in a vodka bottle, the man had a genteel air, freshly trimmed hair, and sparkling eyes. Had she been forced to guess an intelligence service just based on his appearance, Irene might have chosen MI6. He was suave and smooth and looked as if he hailed from a more refined era. One in which Rommel and Montgomery broke off their desert fight each day in time for afternoon tea.
