Page 52 of Denied Access
“It started when I made a surveillance team in Barcelona,” Rapp said.
In between bites of breakfast and hearty swallows of the frothy beer, Rapp relayed all that had happened from the moment he’d left Greta sitting at the table outside the Barcelona museum to his boarding of the fishing trawler bound for Mallorca per Stan’s instructions. In a strange way, it felt good to get everything off his chest. As if the flimsy table and the abandoned patio were some sort of open-air confessional and Hurley his priest.
Hurley fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket as Rapp’s story wound down. “Want one?”
“No.”
Rapp half expected another lecture on German culinary etiquette, this one emphasizing the importance of the post-breakfast smoke. It didn’t come. Instead Hurley shook loose a cigarette, lit it with a wooden match he struck on the table, and then inhaled deeply. Rapp had never been particularly susceptible to peer pressure, but if Hurley had asked again in that moment, he might have obliged. There was something iconic about watching Hurley exhale smoke through his nostrils with his gaze fixed far beyond the watery horizon.
The espionage equivalent of the Marlboro Man.
“I’ve been expecting this,” Hurley said.
“What? The move against Ohlmeyer?”
“No,” Hurley said, shaking his head. “That’s just a distraction. A skirmish. I’m talking about the real war.”
Rapp resisted the urge to point out that to Ohlmeyer and Greta, it was much more than a distraction. He had a feeling whoever’s head had ended up in the hatbox probably felt much that same way. Instead, he let Hurley’s words tug him in the right direction.
In between bouts of seasickness, Rapp had had plenty of time alone with his thoughts. Ohlmeyer had led him to believe that the killings were the remnants of an old vendetta. Some skeleton in the banker’s closet born of his clandestine past. Though he’d only been part of the cloak-and-dagger world for a handful of years, Rapp had already made enemies. It stood to reason that someone who had been in the game in one fashion or another for more than three decades certainly had his share of adversaries looking to even the score.
But this was more than that.
A rendition team had targeted him twice in Barcelona. A well-financed, well-trained rendition team. With the dissolution of the Soviet Union still fresh and the fledgling Russian experiment in democracy already corrupted by oligarchs and the like, there was no shortage of hard men and women willing to sell their skills to the highest bidder. Except that mercenaries typically didn’t ride around in vehicles sporting diplomatic license plates. What happened in Spain felt very much like a war’s opening salvo, but Rapp was still unsure of his enemy’s identity, never mind his aims.
“War between Russia and the United States?” Rapp said.
“Not yet, but I think that’s where this thing’s going unless we head it off at the pass. You tracking what happened in Moscow?”
Rapp shook his head.
After watching the Russian team zero in on his cell phone lure, he’d deliberately stayed clear of any potential electronic collars. The Spanish fishermen had mostly kept to themselves, and the trawler’s single radio was tuned to music rather than news. A meteor could have struck Washington, DC, and he wouldn’t have known about it.
“Thought not. The short version is this—Russian counterintelligence officers detained a CIA officer’s wife. She’s still in custody.”
“The FSK arrested a spouse?”
Hurley nodded. “Judging by the photographs, the interrogators weren’t too gentle with her either.”
“I thought family was off-limits.”
“They are—unless they’re part of the team. The Russian news agency TASS did a formal press release with still shots. The wife’s hands were covered in spy dust, the dead drop she supposedly unloaded was sitting on the table next to her, and the FSK rolled up one of our most productive assets—a scientist who works for a Russian defense conglomerate. Our ambassador is raising holy hell, but it doesn’t look good. The situation’s pretty hot, and the CIA’s Moscow chief of station has already been declared persona non grata along with his deputy.”
“That the end of it?”
Hurley shook his head. “Normally, but in this case, I’m afraid the Russkies are just getting started. They still haven’t allowed the wife, Kris Henrik, to see anyone from the State Department. The Russian ambassador to DC is making noise about holding a criminal trial.”
“Because she’s an illegal?”
“Exactly.” Hurley used the ember of his already-smoked cigarette to light a fresh one. “The normal rules dictate that they kick out one or two of ours and we return the favor. Then everyone takes a breath and things go back to the status quo. But instead of angling for a concession and jonesing for us to release one of their spies, the Russians seem hell-bent on escalating.”
“Is that the war you’re talking about?” Rapp said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “A squabble between intelligence services?”
“When I saidwar, I meant it. I think the Russians are planning to invade Latvia.”
Rapp felt a tingle go down his spine. “What are you talking about?”
“Irene thinks they’re conducting a false-flag operation to make it look like the Latvian government can’t protect their ethnic Russian citizens from Latvian nationalist domestic terrorists.”
