Gentry and Hightower were used as cleanup men to deal with special problems that the CIA couldn’t run the risk of being tied to. Zakharova was being groomed for the same program, although her status as an asset at present remained in serious doubt.

Hightower sat down in the front passenger seat of the Infiniti. “Howdy, Suzanne. Aren’t you looking particularly lovely today?”

Brewer responded to this with “You’re late.”

“And as delightful as ever, too.” He looked at his Luminox watch. “I’m in training. Ninety minutes ago I was rappelling down a twelve-story building in Chantilly when my phone rang. Left the rigging right there and raced over, hoping you’d have something real to do.” He grinned. “Cut me a little slack, it’s eight after.”

“So you’re ready for work, Romantic?”

The man grimaced. “I fucking hate that code name, you do know that, don’t you?”

“I believe you mentioned it. Every time I’ve spoken to you since it was assigned, as a matter of fact.”

“Court gets Violator, I get . . . I get . . . Shit, I can’t even say it.”

“Luck of the draw. Grow up.”

“What about ‘Night Train’? That would be an awesome code name. You’ve got the juice to make that happen, don’t you?”

She ignored him and repeated herself. “Ready for work, Romantic?”

Zack sighed. “Yeah. Always. Where am I off to this time?”

“Tysons Corner.”

Zack cocked his head. “Uh . . . We’re in Tysons Corner, Suzanne.”

In a deadpan voice she said, “Well, would you look at that? You’re doing great so far.”

Zack smiled. Suzanne didn’t have a sense of humor unless she was trying to be insulting. He could tell she was annoyed, perhaps not at him, he hadn’t done anything, but she was annoyed nonetheless.

Brewer said, “There’s a compromise at the Agency, which certainly seems to be stemming from someone at Langley. It’s been narrowed down to four individuals who had relevant knowledge of all the ops that were betrayed. Only four. Matt wants you to put some pressure on these individuals to try to provoke a reaction.” Brewer shrugged. “If they react, if they run, then we have our culprit.”

Hightower raised an eyebrow. “What kind of pressure are we talking about?”

“Psychological.” She turned and pointed a finger at him. “Psychological only. Let them know they are under suspicion. Intimate, by your actions, that you are not constrained by the justice system or CIA counterintel protocol. But do not initiate bodily harm.”

“Scare the fuck out of them, is that it?”

Brewer nodded. “That is it, exactly.”

“No sweat.”

She handed him a packet of papers; he looked inside quickly but didn’t take them out.

“Who do I start with?”

Brewer did not hesitate. “Hanley thinks it’s Renfro, but go after all of them equally. I don’t care where you begin.”

Zack gave a quick nod. “Renfro. Never liked that prick.”

“When have you ever worked with Lucas Renfro?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know him. Just getting into character.” Zack Hightower smiled. “If he’s the traitor, I’ll crack him like an egg.”

“I have no doubt about it, Romantic.”

“Any chance you could just call me Zack?”

“Negative,” she said, and she fired up the engine, giving Hightower the not-so-subtle hint that their clandestine meeting had come to an end.

CHAPTER 18

   Washington Dulles International Airport lies just west of D.C. and flies to all corners of the world. On the northern side of the property, a row of hangars and office buildings off Airport Drive sat quiet now at midday as planes lifted into the sky behind them. Zoya Zakharova leaned against a tree on the landscaped edge of the nearby parking lot, watching a 747 take off behind her target, the last small corporate aviation office in the row.

When the Lufthansa flight banked to the northeast, she returned her gaze to the door of the office. The place looked closed, but she had expected this because she knew the proprietor worked alone, and since it was lunchtime she’d steeled herself to be patient.

To her surprise her wait only lasted ten minutes before a Toyota Camry pulled into the lot and parked by the single metal door next to the hangar bay. Zoya lifted the cheap binoculars she’d bought a half hour earlier and centered them on the man who climbed out.

The man went to the door and unlocked it, entered, then shut it behind him. Zoya considered waiting a few minutes to get a better lay of the land, but she understood that her plan had a higher chance for success if no one else was aware of her presence here, and since she didn’t see anyone around, that meant she had to take advantage of the situation that presented itself now.

She walked across the parking lot and tried to open the door but found it locked.

The same man she’d seen climbing out of the Camry opened it a moment after she knocked, surprise evident on his face at seeing such an attractive woman. In a barely discernible Slavic accent he said, “Well, hello there. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with you about a charter.”

He nodded with a smile. “Come in then, please.”

She followed him inside, up a staircase that overlooked the hangar floor. There, in the center of the space, she saw a Cessna Citation Sovereign, a midrange twin-engine jet. Next to it sat an old and simple Cessna 152 trainer.

They continued on to the office.

The room was small and cramped, full of books, papers, small aircraft parts, and other odds and ends. On the wall were dozens of photos, each one of a different man or woman standing in front of the 152. As he cleared paperwork off a plastic chair so she could sit down, he saw her looking at the pictures. “When I’m not flying charters, I am a flight instructor. Each time one of my students completes their first solo, I take a picture.”

“I see,” she said.

“But you are not here for that, you said. You wish to charter the Sovereign?”

“I do.”

“Where are my manners? I’m Arthur Kravchek.” He stuck out a hand and she shook it.

“Kravchek? That’s Polish, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“My name is Irina.”

A bemused look crossed his face quickly, but then disappeared as they both sat down.