She tightened up her coat at the neck and looked at the dirty picnic table.

Won had suffered her entire life with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Each evening she laid out every bit of her clothing, her shoes, and all her accessories on a table or sofa or chair in a perfect representation of how she would wear them the next day. She impulsively washed her hands, and washed all utensils and flatware twice before meals and twice more after meals.

Even with her OCD, eating out here was better than eating in the cafeteria with all the Westerners.

Won had grown up with icy winters in North Korea, and more often than not there was no fuel for the tiny coal-fired furnace in her home. Sweden’s bitter cold reminded her of her past in this one regard, but the two nations had nothing in common when comparing North Korea with Sweden’s opulence, and its calm, happy people of diverse ethnicities.

No, other than the seasonal chill, Pyongyang and Stockholm were as different as two worlds could be.

As she bit into her sandwich she thought about her life here. Won excelled in her work. She studied Western preparedness for a biological outbreak of a size and scope she knew she had the power to deliver. The Russians wanted this information, ditto the North Koreans, and Won was perfectly trained and placed to provide it for them.

She sent in her periodic reports, kept at her job, and served her masters.

But Won had another goal. Not under orders from Russia or the DPRK, no, this was a quest of her own making. She wasn’t here to collect data to give to Russia or North Korea.

No, she wanted to act.

She wanted—she needed—to release bacteria in the West to punish them for their crimes against her homeland.

And this was why she was particularly distraught today. The North Koreans had recalled her a week earlier; she’d remain here in the West for only another three weeks, and then she would make her way back to Pyongyang, where she was all but certain she would spend the rest of her life in a laboratory working on theoretical schemes that would never come to fruition.

She normally had the picnic table to herself for lunch in winter, so she was surprised when a man sat down next to her and crossed his legs, gazing out into the street. She gave him a quick sideways glance and found him handsome and exceedingly well dressed, but somewhat severe looking. He wore fine Western clothing under his fur coat, but she pegged him as Slavic; two years living in Russia had taught her certain characteristics.

The man turned and looked at her while Won bit into her sandwich.

“How are you today?”

He spoke English; it sounded like a British accent to her, and he seemed relaxed.

But Won did not like small talk with strangers. “Fine, thank you,” she said, and took another bite of her sandwich.

“You are Dr. Won, are you not?”

Her heart began to pound. This stranger was initiating contact, and she’d been trained to report this to her control immediately. She quickly went on guard, told herself she had to remember everything the man said as well as his appearance. This was the first time in her travels through the West that any suspicious unknown Westerner had initiated a conversation.

She put down her sandwich and swiveled to face him. “How can I help you?”

He extended a hand. “My name is Roger Fox. I am an engineer working at the aerospace center up the street.”

She did not believe this for a second. When the hand remained in the air in front of her, she took it with a slight grimace, because of her loathing of human touch.

“And how do you know my name?”

“I believe you and I have a mutual friend.”

“Oh?”

“Alexi Filotov.”

Won remained on guard, but at least she thought she understood what was going on now. Filotov was Russian GRU, military intelligence; this she had determined after the day she showed him the video of the pneumonic plague strain trials conducted at the prison in the DPRK.

She had the common sense to know that this man in front of her was telling her he was affiliated with Russian intelligence in some capacity.

Guardedly, she said, “I have not seen Filotov for some time.”

“He sends his regards.”

“Fox,” Won said. “That’s not a Russian name.”

The man in the goatee smiled. “And Janice is not a Korean name, but it helps you fit in.”

“Why do you need a pseudonym?”

He smiled more broadly now. “Necessary for my purposes, Janice.”

“And what are these purposes? Nothing to do with the aerospace center, I imagine.”

“You are perceptive. The truth is I have been sent to extend to you an invitation for a short trip.”

Won returned to her lunch. “I’ve seen enough of Russia, but thank you.”

“Not Russia. London. Ever been?”

Won turned away from the sandwich inches from her mouth and stared at him for several seconds. “I suppose if you know Filotov it would be easy for you to know where I have and have not been.”

Fox gave an apologetic bow. “Yes. I’ve seen your file with FSB. Sweden is the only Western nation you’ve visited.”

“You have me at a loss. Perhaps I should speak with Filotov before—”

Fox said, “Talk to him, certainly. But hear my offer first.”

* * *

• • •

Won did speak with the FSB officer back in Russia via encrypted messaging, and even though Filotov claimed to have no clue who this Roger Fox was, he said he would check with his higher-ups. He reported back that Fox was, indeed, known to Russian intelligence. He lived in London, and Filotov suggested she go there to hear him out.

This was something she could not do without North Korean approval; in fact, she had a responsibility to report this contact with the Russian agent, even though the North Koreans knew she was on a joint mission set up by Moscow. But Pyongyang had ordered her home and she was certain the Russians would only want to talk to her in London if they had some sort of need of her talents.

She decided then and there not to seek approval from her handler in Pyongyang. She would go on the trip, and then report what she’d learned.

The following morning she was picked up by Fox in a Mercedes, along with a giant of a man, who seemed to Janice to be Fox’s personal security officer. Soon the three boarded a private jet and flew to Farnborough Airport, thirty-five miles southwest of London. Here a black Mercedes SUV with a driver picked them up and drove them out of the airport grounds.

As soon as they pulled onto the highway, the huge blond in the front passenger seat turned around and handed something to Fox. The Russian turned to his guest.