Page 79 of Denied Access
CHAPTER 42
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
STANHurley swallowed a mouthful of black, bitter coffee.
Though the java was plenty hot and freshly made, it somehow still tasted stale. Or maybe that was just him. Though he wanted to pour the mug down the drain and brew a fresh pot, he didn’t. He was expecting company any minute and they were on the clock. As the shabby safe house’s bare-bones accoutrements attested, this was not about five-star accommodations or gourmet beverages. This was the spy’s equivalent of roughing it, and while the coffee was not good, it served its purpose. After half a mug, Stan could already feel his mental fog lifting, though if he were being honest, the coffee served another purpose beyond just as a source of caffeine.
Penance.
A hard knock rattled the flimsy door against its frame. The sound followed a specific rhythm—a sharp staccato of three quick raps followed by two slow ones. After a pause, the pattern repeated with a slight variation. Instead of two slow ones, the knocking ended with three. Stan set his cup on the grimy table and scooped up the second tool that was integral to this morning’s activities.
A pistol.
Taking a centering breath, Stan got up from the table and covered the short distance to the door with his rolling stride. The pistol was in his right hand and angled at the floor. A Glock wasn’t his preferred carry, but it was the best he was going to do while engaged in a spontaneous operation conducted without the logistical benefits provided by Rob Ridley and his CIA advance team.
Besides, it beat the alternative.
Sliding up to the door, Stan kicked the rubber stopper free from where it was wedged beneath the doorjamb. Positioning his torso behind the wall, he reached up to unhook the chain lock before disengaging the dead bolt. Then he turned the doorknob and yanked, allowing the door to open away from him. The knock pattern confirmed that his visitors were not random guests who’d wandered to the wrong apartment, but the sequence did nothing to validate that the knock was not done under duress, or worse still, been extracted from its intended recipient.
He could have used the filmy peephole to validate who was standing on the stoop, but that would have required positioning his entire body behind the door. Stan had learned many hard-won lessons, but the most basic remained the most important—never do what your adversary expects. Stan brought his pistol up to the high ready position, but kept his left hand free. In an engagement this close, it was better to have a hand ready to deal with a potential physical altercation.
Yet another lesson learned the hard way.
The door swung past the halfway point and Stan waited for the unexpected. Best case, he’d get to assess how his mentee entered an unfamiliar safe house.
Worst case, things were about to get interesting.
The Russian came through the doorway first, not quite a tactical entry, but not a simple stroll either. Dmitri Volkov passed beneath the doorjamb and stepped deep into the apartment, squinting in the darkness. Stan tracked the former KGB officer with his pistol for no more than an instant.
It was an instant too long.
An expertly delivered blow to Stan’s bicep knocked his gun arm offline at the same moment the point of something sharp jabbed against his shirt just under the lowest rib.
“Not bad, kid,” Stan said, feeling a twinge of pride at Rapp’s performance. “Now put the knife away before someone gets hurt.”
A pair of eyes so dark as to be black stared back at him. “You’re the only one in danger of getting hurt.”
“I don’t think so,” Stan said. With a not-so-gentle prod, he pressed the point of the tiny push dagger he’d drawn from his belt into Rapp’s liver. “You’re good, but not ready for a shot at the title just yet. Now, join your Russian friend and pull up a chair at the table. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.”
Rapp’s gaze drifted down to the dagger before refocusing on Stan’s face.
That he had gotten the drop on Rapp was true, but the outcome of their fight was far from certain. At best, he and his apprentice might have given each other dueling terminal wounds. At worst, Rapp could have slid his longer blade into Stan’s vitals before he would have been able to reciprocate with the push dagger. Even if the attack didn’t kill him outright, the shock of a blade entering his heart or lung cavity might have prevented him from pressing home his attack. The most charitable analysis would be to label the engagement a draw with the advantage going to Rapp. A more accurate assessment was that Rapp had gotten the drop on him.
But that wasn’t what Stan saw in the kid’s face.
Instead, the assassin seemed to be replaying everything that had just happened and internalized the lessons learned as if he were watching film from one of his college lacrosse games. Then, with a nod, Rapp squirreled away the knife and stepped past Stan into the apartment. Hurley had no idea what was going through the young man’s mind, but he was fairly certain of one thing—Rapp would never fall for that trick again.
“You did what?” Hurley said, trying to keep his voice even.
The debrief was being held in front of the Russian which was unavoidable but not ideal. Still, it would not do to give the former KGB officer the impression that he thought Rapp had lost his mind.
Even if that was true.
“I took out the Russian direct-action team.”
Rapp delivered his response in the deadpan tone one might use to tell a supervisor that you’d correctly filled out your time card. Stan couldn’t detect even the slightest hint of bravado. Just a clinical statement of the facts.
Perhaps he’d misunderstood Rapp’s update.
